[Sunday stiffens when Aventurine dares to reach out and purposefully touch him, but quickly relaxes as he rises to his feet.]
Mister Aventurine, I...
[He begins as he stiffens again, this time to provide firm support for the other man to lean on. He wants to ask if Aventurine will consent to a much-needed tuning, but it feels like a poorly timed question, after watching the Stoneheart writhe on the floor in fear of that very thing.
Another question comes to him, one he's sure he won't like the answer to. But if he doesn't ask, neither of them will sleep tonight. They will both be too twisted up by anxiety.]
How long have you had these nightmares?
[A heavy question couched in a simpler one. He wants to know if this started at Dewlight Pavilion.]
[ Aventurine's hand slips from Sunday's shoulder just as soon as he's hoisted himself up. A murmured 'thank you' escapes him, and he puts his attention on smoothing the ruched fabric of his vest and trousers. A comb of his fingers through disheveled waves does little to tame them, but he's never been in the habit of being perfectly coiffed. It's all about looking as unbothered as possible, anyway, building momentum so that it's less obvious when he finally drags the back of his hand across his face to swipe the tears from his cheeks.
Sunday grasps for something to say, and Aventurine acts like he doesn't hear. He can guess at what's coming, and none of the options are ones he's particularly eager to talk about. When the question finally comes, Aventurine lifts his gaze, offering a soft-eyed look that says enough, you know. ]
The IPC has me under the care of a Doctor of Chaos who believes my usual trouble sleeping has been exacerbated by my experiences on Penacony. [ It's easier to clinicize it, to recite what he's had to explain to administrators a dozen times now. ] It's more likely a result of walking through Nihility than carrying Harmony's brand, so...
[ Aventurine clears his throat. Even he is not sure that that's true, not when the Harmony figures so neatly into the worst of his nightmares. Still, Sunday hardly needs to feel guilty for something he cannot help, something Aventurine did bring upon himself. ]
[Sunday's wings fluff as he listens to Aventurine dodge around the answer, though the knowing glance says enough. Guilt hardens like ice in his chest, stilling his heart for a moment.]
Mister Aventurine, I'm...
["Sorry," he nearly says, but instead turns away. That day in Dewlight, he was convinced of his own righteousness. Yet the more he looks back on it, the more he regrets. What had he actually accomplished? The Hounds were driven toward him as he planned, and he was treated to a grand show at the Theater rivaled only by his own performance later. And he learned Robin had never been in real danger. All he had done was torture an innocent man.
He has done an unspeakable amount of damage.
Damage that he realizes he needs to heal. Earlier, he'd cleansed Penacony of the Order. Now, he must do the same for Aventurine. He cannot avoid his original question.]
Forgive me, the timing of this offer truly could not be worse, but... Would you consent to a tuning?
[Golden eyes dart up to meet Aventurine's gaze and one bare hand settles against his chest, though only briefly before he catches himself and hides in it his sleeve once more.]
I can quiet the nightmares. Please allow me to rectify the damage I've caused.
See, this is the problem with preconceived notions about others. Give a man an inch, and he'll unravel every mystery about himself. Aventurine is, admittedly, a little sour that Sunday seems so set on revealing himself to be closer to his pop star sister's version of himself than the horrid monster Aventurine himself remembers, but perhaps it became inevitable the moment the albatross failed to board that train.
Despite an instant and urgent desire to cut the former Bronze Melodia off, Aventurine catches his breath and holds the words back. Better to hold his tongue than spur another argument, exhausted as he is. Aventurine stares, looking a little like he's got a frog stuck in his mouth as Sunday treads carefully over his next words.
It sort of beggars belief, that offer.
The corner of his mouth twitches. His brows knit up high. He really does try to keep his composure, but then Sunday looks at him with those earnest sunset eyes, all pure and honest intent. A soft snrk slips past Aventurine's lips, despite his best effort. Then the bird goes squirrels his hands away like they really are something lewd, and Aventurine cannot help the laughter that spills out of him.
He turns away, pressing a knuckle to his eye as wave after wave of pained giggles bubble out of him. Oh, what a day it has been. What an achingly sincere man, the fallen Oak. ]
Mother Goddess. [ There is too much fondness in those two words, mumbled on an exhale. ] Are you...?
[ Of course he's serious. Aventurine still hasn't figured out whether Sunday even tells jokes.
Aventurine turns and looks Sunday over while rubbing his temple to alleviating pressure. Meditation, exercise, warm herbal tea, time away from work, from screens, journaling, the dreaded talk therapy sessions -- none of them have worked to stop the nightmares. Medication and drink put him to sleep, certainly, but it's hardly ever completely restful.
Subjecting himself to tuning feels almost unthinkable. And yet, what but shuffling and stacking the whole deck could possible set his thoughts in proper order? Sunday has given his word. His mind will not be consecrated. There will be no violence. And, meeting that dour, golden gaze, pupils the color of a deep ocean, Aventurine can believe him.
[Sunday watches Aventurine's handsome fast twist from the effort of not laughing out loud at the sheer lunacy of their situation. It lights a spark of humor in Sunday's eyes to see it. Better laughter than outrage.]
Heh. Now, I hope you will forgive this next part as well. [His eyes shine.]
When I am done, you are likely to feel very tired. So, it is best if we do this in your bed.
[Hearing how that must sound immediately after saying it, he draws a breath, flexes his wings, ...and says nothing. Best, maybe, not to address it. He hopes the sincerity in his voice shows he is neither joking nor seeking to take advantage of Aventurine's pain.]
I won't leave you to collapse on the floor again. We both should get some adequate sleep. The last thing we need is to awaken unrested later and have more reasons to be hostile with each other.
[Though he knows it won't be easy, he yearns for peace between them. Some men thrive in conflict and war, but it has never been comfortable for him. Even the Nameless, who had fought his divine form and cast him from the sky, had only done so after he'd tried to find a peaceful resolution to their disagreements. He'd failed then. He doesn't want to fail again now, with Aventurine.]
[ Aventurine resists the urge to comment on Sunday trying to get him into bed, well aware of how badly those sorts of jokes go. Instead, he strolls back to the console, navigates away from windows with work and news and pulls up the autopilot menu. An eight hour snooze timer on notifications that aren't emergent frankly feels excessive -- Aventurine cannot remember the last time he slept more than five in one go -- but it's not like there is anything between Lushaka and Jarilo-VI but star rail and warp points.
Once it's all set, he slides fingers beneath the strap of one of his gloves, loosening it. ]
Well, I guess you're invited to my bedroom.
[ He cannot help feeling a little incredulous at how quickly Sunday has turned the tables on him. The man did say he liked being in in control, though. If this helps alleviate the desire to tear his own feathers out, Aventurine supposes he can permit a bit of leeway. ]
Just give me a minute. I need to change, first.
[ Aventurine strolls past Sunday like he hasn't just recovered from a panick attack, like Sunday is not aware of half the wretched weights settled on him for the sins of greed and uselessness. He is terribly good at pretending, even fooling himself into thinking he's totally fine as he slips into his bedroom and fetches clean pajamas from a dresser drawer.
He changes in the bathroom. Deposits the clothes he'd worn to Lushaka, still smelling faintly of sea salt, in the wall hamper before washing his face and brushing his teeth. The pajamas he puts on aren't as obviously luxe as the black silk satin number he'd worn for the Penacony photoshoot, but they are fine linen in powder blue, embroidered on the lapels. He stares into the mirror a moment, adjusting the collar until no scars are visible.
Easier to focus on his appearance than the very real and climbing fear of Sunday climbing into his head again. He breathes through it before finally leaving the restroom. ]
Alright! Let's get to it.
[ He does not pause on his way from bath to bed, walking straight through and swiping his arm as he enters his room so that the sliding door stays open. Still trying to convince himself and Sunday both that he is perfectly resilient, he tosses himself on the bed Sunday had earlier so politely remade. Arms tucked behind his head, he does his best impression of inviting, relaxed calm, but when he tries to think of something smart to say, nothing comes to mind. So, he reclines, trying not to press his fingernails too firmly into his wrists as he waits. ]
[Sunday stands still in the hallway, lost in thought, waiting for Aventurine to get ready. His thoughts feel scattered, feverish, and dreamlike, as if he were the one who had just been jarred out of a hallucinatory nightmare and not his companion. Images of Penacony leap through his mind in a discontinuous cavalcade. The Golden Hour, Dreamflux Reef, the infinite seas of memoria, the stars and all creation seen, briefly, through the eyes of a god. If not for Aventurine, he would still see the world through those eyes.
Sunday should hate the Stoneheart for causing his fall. He doesn't.
The man did what he felt he had to; they both had. And neither should continue suffering for it.
Aventurine emerges from the bath, and Sunday wordlessly follows him to the bedroom. The Stoneheart reclines on the bed, a picture of relaxed calm so perfect that it is clearly staged.]
Try to actually relax.
[Sunday says and walks up to the bed's side.]
This may take a while if you are tense.
[That said, he lifts his bare and graceful hand, forgetting for a moment about Aventurine finding the sight of it unpleasantly lewd. Elegant fingers curl forward into the air as Sunday reaches into Aventurine with his mind.
The tuning begins as it always does: with the strange feeling of breaching someone else's consciousness. Normally, the sea of the soul is bright and vibrant with shimmering strings of notes. All a skilled tuner needs to do is find the right string and tighten or loosen it until the notes are adjusted to suit their whims.
The sea within Aventurine is vast and dark; the strings are black, cold, and frozen. When Sunday reaches for them, he feels himself pass through them like a wind through a valley.
His fingers clench, and he stares down at Aventurine with wide, haunted eyes. A terror swells within him not over what he's seen, but over what he hasn't. This, he thinks, is what it feels like to gaze past the event horizon of a black hole.]
I...cannot tune you.
[Sunday tries to keep his voice calm but his already pale face has gone ashen, his feathers are splayed in distress.]
Your soul is silent.
No. More than that. It's...more silent than silence. I do not feel a quiet where the melody should be, I feel nothing. I feel...a void. [He draws a shuddering breath] There is nothing in your soul. No music that can be tuned.
[The extended hand starts to tremble, and he slowly lowers it to his side.]
I can't help you. [His voice softens, barely above a whisper]. I'm sorry.
[ Once, during one of countless spats hashed out before parting ways, Dr. Ratio had accused Aventurine of becoming a philosophical zombie. He'd never heard the term before, and after everything that had transpired on Penacony, found it rather funny - until he'd done the reading. After poking through a few dense academic articles, he'd put the whole matter away, unwilling to dwell on it or the doctor's apparently dire opinion of how he handles himself. And preoccupied with mapping Sunday's escape after Robin secured his freedom, Aventurine had nearly forgotten about it entirely.
He doesn't move when Sunday chides him, but he does shut his eyes. There's no way he'll be able to relax properly if he has to stare into that face while the man pokes and prods his brain back into shape. He thinks he can tell when Sunday makes his attempt, a faint, muffled feeling, not at all the searing pain of the consecration. But then... nothing more happens, and Aventurine grits his teeth, half-expecting some attack.
There is an initial rush of relief at those words, I cannot tune you. For half a second, he is well and truly safe from the one thing that frightens him as much as Diamond's own wrath.
Aventurine opens one eye, catches a glimpse of an expression that does not match the calm in Sunday's voice, and slowly opens the other.
He thinks of philosophical zombies. ]
Oh.
[ What else is there to say? Sunday has just said to his face what all of his associates are whispering behind his back: he is empty, a yawning void where a person should be. At least the bird has the courtesy not to avoid the topic entirely where he can hear.
A part of him wishes he felt something about this news, about the way it was delivered, about the horror on Sunday's face. He doesn't.
Maybe this is why his emotions feel like they barely reach him, blocked by brick and drywall. He scoots himself up to sitting and moves to the edge of the bed, smoothing down his pajamas with steady hands. Once there are no wrinkles or rolled fabric, he lets his arms settle around his midsection, not quite hugging himself. Aventurine stares at the wrapped parcel of Sigonian textiles he'd removed from the smuggler's compartment earlier.
It occurs to him that his shattered cornerstone had spared him a true death in IX and the fate of a Sin Thirster. Though the IPC and the Doctors of Chaos had fussed, Aventurine thought it foolish. He has a purpose, a very clear one, and keeps finding himself with more responsibility in pursuit of his one real goal. He cannot fathom becoming a Self-Annihilator.
It's not possible. It's just not.
He has been quiet for far too long. ]
Well, I don't want to keep you up any longer than I already have, Feathers. You should go get some sleep.
[ He finally glances up at Sunday, no smile, no jolly indifference. Just, nothing. ]
["Feathers". His eyes narrow at yet another unrequisted nickname, but it's not important enough to scold Aventurine over.
The man is barely reacting, which is concerning. For a moment Sunday swears he sees something move across the other man's face that is more than just blank. Not a lack of emotion, but the antithesis of it.
He does not leave when he is dismissed. There is no place other place he should be right now. Even if he retreated to his bed, he knows he would not sleep. He would remain awake, haunted by the silent darkness of the room around him and the memory of a soul with no music. Briefly, he wonders if Aventurine fully grasps what that implies, but he doesn't ask.
Instead, he gently seats himself on the bed at Aventurine's side.]
[ Aventurine thinks he should make a ribald joke about sleepovers. A surefire way to drive Sunday off, certainly, which he's fairly sure he would prefer at the moment -- even under ordinary circumstances, Aventurine dislikes bringing anyone to his own bed -- but the words don't come. So, he just sits, swaying a little when the bed gives under Sunday's added weight, dimly aware that something inside of him hurts.
Sunday asks a question that has no simple answer. Aventurine stares at the carefully wrapped textiles again, tracing the gold paisley lines embroidered into turquoise fabric. ]
Didn't get a chance to read one of the many, many reports about it? [ A huff escapes him, not quite a laugh. ] I gambled.
[ He lets his hands fall to the bed, fingers pressed into his familiar, downy comforter. ]
To prove that the Family wasn't fit to manage Penacony alone, I needed the Express to release their little Stellaron, or that Emanator to unsheathe her blade. If you'd believe it, the Emanator's blade, leveled right at me and no one else, was the safest option. So, I made her do it. And she cut right through the Dream... and me.
[ One hand drifts up to the collar of his pajamas. He pulls it down just far enough to show off part of the diagonal welt cut up the left side of his chest. Just a glimpse, before he releases it and smooths the fabric back down again, careful not to expose any of his other scars. ]
Just a bruise in the waking world, thankfully. But, her blade severed the strings of Harmony's consecration while also... casting IX's shadow. I was caught in it. So, instead of waking or wandering the primordial Memory Zone, I wound up in a sort of... dream version of Nihility's endless sea.
[ Aventurine looks at Sunday again. Hard not to draw some rather dire conclusions from that description alone. ]
What was left of my cornerstone saved me from IX's... [ It is not a gaze. Not a will. ] pressure. Radiation. [ He smirsk faintly. ] The Propogation wasn't going to let me go that easily, you know.
[ No one ever does. He has only ever moved from one master to the next with violence, never free, never able to hope for more. ]
The Emanator and I spoke of many things. I read a note from a friend that gave me what I needed to wake from your dream. And then I... walked through it. I walked through Nihility. [ Aventurine swallows. ] Because I still have work to do.
[Sunday listens quietly, completely still except for the flutter of his wings when he sees the scar.]
You did it to purposefully cause a calamity and cast The Family in a bad light? [He asks around a sigh when the story ends.] That is what I'd read.
I was hoping maybe there was more to it. Some...detail we could use to help you.
[What that detail could be, he isn't sure. His lifetime of scholarly studies had been focused on Xipe and Ena. IX was rarely mentioned. Maybe it makes sense that the biggest hole in his knowledge of Aeons is also the biggest hole in the known cosmos. That observation nearly pulls a stressed laugh from his throat.]
...If you said you had subjected yourself to the Emanator's blade to escape my tuning, I was prepared to scold you. But you did it to line your handlers' pockets with more coin. I'm sure I do not need to point out the madness of that.
[A small, comforting grin tugs at his lips and shines in his eyes as he glances sideways at Aventurine.]
Could you tell me what work compelled you to walk through Nihility?
[He folds his hands in his lap then adds, with much a much heavier note in his voice...]
I understand that may be asking a lot. You do not need to tell me if you don't want to.
[ Aventurine levels back softly. There is curiosity in his eyes, if not their usual sharp, playful gleam.
It's not a surprise that Sunday believes it had wholly been for his masters. Perception is everything, and Aventurine works very hard to project a certain image, perpetually aware that he is being watched, judged -- it is, after all, the first step to most of his schemes, knowing what people expect of him. That he is convincing, playing the cog in the machine, is to his benefit. It does not make those perceptions feel any less odd when they do clash against his own limited sense of self. ]
Hm. Maybe it was all for profit.
[ Undeniably, the Strategic Investment Department's success is crucial to his goals. Diamond's happiness will be his happiness, Jade's approval his power, whether he likes it or not. His is a game far bigger than business goals. So, maybe it's good that he is little more than a shade without music. Perhaps this is the Mother Goddess closing her eyes for him. Perhaps this is how his schemes are concealed -- by being nothing to anyone.
Cold comfort, being alone. ]
I won't pretend I didn't think at the time that it might sever all of my ties, but as you can see, I am still very much Aventurine, Stoneheart of Stratagems. [ It aches faintly, saying it. Remembering what he'd left behind in the sea. But to explain further would tangle Sunday into a web he is not equipped to navigate. ] It's fine. It'll be easier this way. My work, I mean. As for what it is...
[ Aventurine slides his hands back, supporting himself on flattened palms. ]
For now, let's just say I intend to make my family proud.
I don't always know what to think of you, Mister Aventurine.
[Sunday says, his voice warm.]
All I know is what I learned when I researched you. I read old records, you know. Details and facts about your life. What captivated me was how those facts told a story about a man who was much more complicated than he let anyone know.
So, when you say you did it all for profit, I believe you. [He pauses, folds his wings back, and looks at Aventurine through sincere, sunlit eyes.] I also believe the reason it was for profit is a deep, intricate, personal one. So I won't pry.
[That's a promise, even though his heart races with curiosity.
Sunday remembers, in a distant and dreamlike way, playing on his home planet during his youth. Even then, he'd been known as the more sensitive sibling, prone to upset and tears. He'd also been the more imaginative. Every night, he read books by lamplight in his bed. Every day, he plunged into the underbrush, waving a stick around as if it were a sword, pretending to be a hero from those books. Most days, he was an adventurer who traveled from start to star, slaying monsters, saving maidens, and leaving every world he visited a little better than it had been when he'd arrived. He returned at dinner time to a light, playful scolding as a wild thing with leaves in his feathers.
Then, one day, he and Robin saw the shooting stars descend from the firmament. The Stellaron Disaster came and went, and took their mother with it. Gopher Wood had been kind to the two of them. He sheltered them, gave them an education, and encouraged Robin to pursue her dreams of becoming a songstress. She was taught how to fly. Sunday, he kept at his side, and his reading was limited to holy text. As he grew older, Sunday learned to be meticulous about his appearance, how to walk, how to speak, how to present himself as nothing less than perfect. The wildness in him seemed to vanish over time.
It has only been recently, as he scrapes against his thirties, that he's had enough wisdom for introspection. The wildness never left; it went deeper, forming a fiery drive within him that even Gopher Wood had not been prepared for.
And that, he thinks, must be why his studies of Aventurine had resonated with him. In Aventurine, he can see a man with a similarly quick mind and a similar inherent wildness. Except Aventurine's wildness carries him from one exciting story to the next, while Sunday's still remains buried. Maybe that is the real reason he delighted in tuning him. He wanted to punish the man who represented a side of himself that he'd long repressed. He wanted to make Aventurine like him; reckless passion forcefully folded into the shape of Order.
Golden eyes soften as he considers Aventurine's words.
For now, let's just say I intend to make my family proud.
...He should help this man. After everything he's done, he owes him that much. And who doesn't want to make their family proud?]
I want the same.
I hope, someday, she can look up into the stars, see some sign of me, and feel...proud of her big brother. For the first time since our childhood.
[One hand rises to rest against his heart.]
I want to help you make your family proud, Mister Aventurine. I think I owe it to you.
[ As though he, himself, hadn't pored over news articles and IPC profiles for Penacony's Halovian prince. But his teasing tone has returned. However little it means, he thinks he is starting to feel like himself again, a fact he is not ready to entirely attribute to Sunday's insistence that they speak on it more.
Aventurine thinks with no small amount of annoyance that the albatross really is every bit the sun he thinks himself, though perhaps not in exactly the ways he hopes. By turns ferociously unforgiving and a source of gentle warmth, he is difficult to look at long, but impossible to ignore. Crazy, just maddening, to sit on his own bed beside the man who had nearly outsmarted him and think not of how wickedly he'd grinned while placing Harmony's brand on him, but of how kind his eyes seem now.
He wants to help. Of course he does, the fool. Aventurine can perfectly understand the desire, however misguided and surely couched in the trauma of his escape it might be.
What Aventurine cannot understand is his own sudden impulse to grasp the bird by the collar and reel him in for a kiss. As he sits there, momentarily baffled by his own mind, he decides it must be twofold: first, a surefire way to send the bird off for the night immediately, and second, a chance at being warm, if only for a few seconds, at feeling something, anything, other than tired and empty and aching.
He clears his throat, staying right where he is. It's an easy enough feeling to fold up and put away. ]
If I had to guess, I'd say she's already watching. Leaving, that's a big first step. As for helping me...
[ Aventurine looks Sunday over. He belongs with better people, with a family who can show him patience, proper kindness, and the right Path. He belongs with the Express. Maybe getting him there, ensuring he has a future, can be part of Aventurine's penance. ]
[Sunday sees a spark of something in Aventurine's eye, and isn't sure what it is. He only knows he likes seeing it; some flicker of life in a gaze that's been dead for the last hour.]
Heh. I hope so, Mister Aventurine. I truly hope for both of those things.
[The hand resting against his chest rises, reaches for Aventurine, then pauses. Many people like a gentle caress to their face, they find it comforting. But Aventurine is like him and averse to touch. So, he stands from the bead and offers another grin instead.]
Well...
I should get some sleep. I think rest in my own bed will do me good.
[A fresh bed for him alone, that doesn't smell like someone else or is surrounded by someone else's belongings.]
These last twenty-four system hours have been exhausting. I hope to feel more myself when I wake.
Please...you try to get some sleep as well. As much as you can.
I am sorry I could not help you.
[His voice sinks an octave, heavy with regret, then he glides from the room.]
[ As the door slides shut behind Sunday, Aventurine flops back into his own bed. A heavy sigh rushes out of him, eyes tracing the pale diamond patterns in the ceiling as he thinks over what's just happened. The nightmare that had stirred him now sits as little more than a faintly bitter feeling on the edge of his awareness. Far bigger and more a nuisance is this new view on the albatross, who is not half as monstrous as Aventurine has painted him in his mind. Even that does not occupy him long before the unthinkable happens...
Aventurine falls asleep. He does not wake, he does not even stir, for many hours.
Three days cooped up in solitude would be nothing for Aventurine on his own, but his companion complicates matters. All the same, each morning, he fixes a simple breakfast for the both of them before settling in to stare at a holographic screen. For better or worse, there is, truly, a mountain of work for him to see to, and the messages and projects from superiors seem to pile on without end. A full debrief to Jade, a report for Opal and Diamond, that same report redacted and massaged for other departmental heads, each time he finishes one task, there is another just as pressing. There are direct reports in need of instructions, near-due projects in need of review, and news stories to monitor. The Family makes no mention of Sunday's escape -- if they are after him, it is in secret.
While he does not quite seek Sunday's company out, neither does he avoid him. He is pleasant, free with suggestions for things to do and try, and patient with requests. Each day, at noon, Aventurine sets aside time to put the kettle on to boil and prepares two mugs. He leaves the tea, honey, and hot water out for Sunday to find before settling in somewhere quiet to untangle his mind: his bed, the tub, the booth in the kitchen with the screen window that simulates sunlight. Every evening, he fixes a simple dinner that, by day two, he feels compelled to apologize for -- busy as he is, convenience takes precedent over exciting flavors when he's traveling for work. All the same, the soups and wraps he prepares are tasty and filling.
On the second evening, he meanders into the cargo bay and swipes through the omni-synthesizer catalogue until he finds what he's looking for: a simple, portable, waterproof speaker, which he pairs with one of the ship's many tablets. Aventurine leaves that at the top of the ladder leading down into Sunday's room before returning to the bridge to finish out work.
They make good time, and Jarilo-VI has made itself a massive, cloudy marble in the main viewport by the time he climbs out of the shower on the third day. He's read up on the planet in the intervening days and though the people of Belobog have taken their first steps back toward the stars, he suspects he and Sunday will be met with some suspicion. Just another day in paradise, he supposes, as he leans down to press the button to activate the ship's comms. ]
Time to put on that new winter coat, Mister Sunday. I'll meet you in the cargo bay. Why don't we grab brunch on world? I'm sure there's got to be something more exciting than what I keep in the fridge.
[Over the course of days, Sunday opens like a pin feather. With Aventurine no longer avoiding him, he walks the halls of the ship with more ease, though no less poise. His wings and shoulders loosen, giving his movements a casual grace. He had been so frayed and pressured before that he hadn't noticed how stressful it was living close to someone who feared him and startled whenever he moved too quickly or too slowly or looked around with a furrowed brow.
While he never seeks out Aventurine, as Aventurine never seeks him, he engages in light conversation whenever they find themselves together in the kitchen tending to tea. The conversations never last long, nor do they go much deeper than the topic of the ship's current coordinates, the distance to Jarilo-VI, or what sort of tea leaves they should search for after they land.
Sunday spends most of his time in his assigned room. It's a cramped space, but not uncomfortable. He thinks that if the room were vast, it would make him anxious. His little bed and the surrounding walls become a personal nest despite the lack of decorations. All he has is a poster, purchased on Lushaka, hanging near his bed from his sister's latest concert. When Aventurine leaves him a tablet and speakers, those, too, are set up near his bed to play Robin's songs intermixed in a playlist with classical melodies.
He feels as relaxed as he knows he can be on the day they arrive in Jarilo-VI's orbit. He dresses himself in his fur-lined blue and white coat, heavy boots, and warm—but not bulky—gloves. The coat embraces his frame, accentuating the handsome lines of his body. When he checks himself over in the bathroom mirror, he decides he looks dashing. Gopher Wood would say the outfit is befitting the Head of the Oak Family, even if it should have less blue and more white.
Aventurine calls him, and he starts to head toward the cargo bay when something catches his eye. It may be a trick of the light, he knows, but he swears he sees a faint golden spark swirling behind his head.
...It would be rude to keep Aventurine waiting yet again, so he makes his way down the hall.]
I would not mind something other than rice and beans [He says lightly as he adjusts his gloves under the furred cuff of his coat. For comfort, not for appearance.]
Do they have coffee on this planet? [This he says with a desperate laugh. It's hard to imagine a frozen planet would cultivate any coffee beans, and with them only recently trading with other places, any beans they have would be prohibitively expensive.]
[ Aventurine leans against the shuttle's pilot side door, phone in hand and a little red and gold gift bag for Topaz under his arm. He huffs a laugh at Sunday's comment, lifts his gaze and grins, a curious gleam in his eye.
Something is different. Certainly, Sunday has come far in three days, still every bit the exotic little plant, but no longer wilting at every imperfection about his circumstances. That is not what Aventurine notices, though. There seems to be a new glow about him, something that hadn't been there, before. It's almost a pity to bring so pretty a flower to so cold and desolate a planet, which is a terribly silly thought to have at all. Aventurine sets it aside, the way he did the image of Sunday almost reaching for him while they'd sat on his bed. ]
Well, if they have coffee, rest assured, we are going to find it.
[ From his reading, corrosion from a Stellaron had been extensive. The people of Belobog are only just reclaiming many of their recently lost luxuries thanks to the efforts of the Nameless. If the grow houses where coffee beans are cultivated haven't yet been restored, then certainly the IPC encampment Topaz established will have a company shop that sells freeze dried crystals.
Aventurine slides into the pilot seat, buckles up and waits until Sunday is settled to zip off for the planet's surface. Jarilo-VI does not yet have a proper station for extraterrestrial visitors, but they do have comms. Again, Aventurine spends the flight greasing the wheels for their entry -- IPC representatives not here on official business, only badly in need of a restock and refuel, happy to spend at least the 1.5x rate on all goods that Topaz had established.
It's a quick flight, barely five minutes, but he does not land until receiving the all clear from the Belobog native manning the IPC's comms. Aventurine brings the shuttle down in the snow plains, near the gates of Belobog. ]
We should stock up while we're here. Food and fuel. Jarilo-VI's known food culture is... unique. Lots of bread, fish, and canned goods. [ Aventurine explains as he unbuckles his harness. It still feels necessary, unsure as he is that Sunday is ready to believe everything he says. ] If you see any foods you'd like, just say the word. I'd like to spend some time in the under-city, too. [ A pause, Aventurine speaks his next words carefully. ] But there's a concert hall topside. If you'd like to catch a show.
[Looking out the windows, Jarilo-VI seems small, even as they approach it. Sunday tries not to think about how easy it would once have been to lift the frosted marble against his body and thaw its ice with his warmth. Stars no longer dance to his melody, and his divine form is gone, replaced by the small, feathered thing that should have died.
Should have. But didn't.
He is glad it didn't.
When they land, he steps from the shuttle and stretches prettily.]
...Concert?
[His eyes gleam in curiosity. It's not his sister performing. He's memorized her entire tour. Or he thinks he has, at least. In the months leading up to the Charmony Festival, he'd lost track of so many things that he'd decided would soon no longer matter.]
I admit, I would rather see a performance than visit an undercity, but if I must choose one, then I will choose the undercity for the sake of my ascetic journey.
[He draws his breath to explain his journey's purpose but is cut off by a low, snarling sound that he realizes, with a slight flush of embarrassment, is coming from his gut.]
...Heh. On the other hand, maybe I should eat something before I make any critical decisions.
[ Still subscribed to character building through suffering, it seems. Aventurine thinks it odd -- his own punishments are almost always well-deserved, but he holds no illusions about becoming better through them -- but he's starting to get used to the bird's focus in austerity and contemplation.
Unfortunately for Sunday, Aventurine's own tolerance for hermitage begins and ends with being left alone. He smiles faintly as he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
The convenient thing about being on the lam is that there are no tight schedules to adhere to, excepting of course when one has to run away expeditiously. I'm sure we can fit in both.
[ Jarilo-VI is blisteringly cold, and when Aventurine speaks it sends a puff of steam up into the air. Thankfully, Belobog's gate is a few paces off. The two guards stationed at the entrance near a glowing red heater peers at them curiously. ]
Whew! Food first, though. [ He claps his gloved hands together, then pulls his fur-lined coat more snug around his neck. ] And a warm drink. Whatever they have? I'll take it.
[Sunday nods agreement, then swings his eyes toward the stationed guards curiously staring at him. He wonders if gossip ever follows where he and Aventurine travel. Do the people they pass on the street ever chatter about the strikingly handsome man with the jewel eyes and his feathered companion who looks like music sounds?
Does the chatter ever reach The Family? Maybe not yet, but it easily could.
His gaze shifts, becoming at once distant and intensely focused as he reaches out of himself and into the two guards. Their distraction leaves their minds open to him, making it easy to play a few notes within them, altering their melodies.]
Well, [His voice is light, pleasant.]
Let's go.
[The guards perk up as they approach and look Sunday over, then shuffle awkwardly and glance away when they realize they are staring. He can't blame them for staring at such alluring beauty. Not his beauty, but the beauty of a foxian woman in silks and furs.
He lifts a hand, she lifts hers, gesturing at Aventurine.]
Greetings. My husband and I are here for the concert.
[ Inside, Aventurine is silent. His strings are stilled, perhaps stuck somewhere between Preservation and Nihility, and so when Sunday strums, he hears no music and senses no change. And the guards' intense interest in Sunday is no great surprise. Even on Lushaka, there were locals stealing glances at the handsome Halovian stranger. Here, on a planet isolated for centuries, it's only natural that Sunday, all pretty angles and august presence, would be captivating.
What is surprising, after days of the injured bird making himself meek and small, is how readily Sunday now takes point. Aventurine is happy to enjoy the show, smirking faintly as he studies a cluster of ice crystals jutting out of the rock nearby, right up until he hears the word husband.
Well, that's... an odd choice.
He has trained himself too well to visibly react, though he does toss a lazy glance Sunday's way, trying to appraise the situation, his intent. Whatever Sunday's plan, Aventurine has been given a role, and he slides into it easily enough, swaying closer and settling a palm at the small of Sunday's back, possessive. ]
I know. I'm a very lucky man. You boys can stop staring, now.
[ Startled at being called out, the guards turn to confer with each other, then with a communication device near their post. It seems their perceived faux pas rushes them along a little, and after a minute, the gates open with a metal whine, and Aventurine and Sunday are permitted to pass through.
Snow and earth give way to paved cobblestone streets. The air warms with the presence of more red glowing heaters. It's actually sort of pleasant, chilly enough to warrant the layers, but not painfully cold. The first building they pass is a large trolley station, busy mostly with workers and soldiers this close to the snow plains.
Aventurine keeps his hand on Sunday until the gates have closed behind them. There, it drops back to his side, fingers flexing. ]
Husband, huh? [ No judgement, no disdain. Just curiosity. ] Want to hop a trolley into the Administrative District, or walk?
[Aventurine's hand settles on his back and Sunday's wings flap wide, feathers splayed in silent warning. He does not shake loose, but continues, rigid, through the gates.
It isn't just the unanticipated touch that alarms him, but the strange warmth he feels radiating through his back where gloved fingers lightly caress his spine. When the gates close, he feels a sudden, horrible urge to pull Aventurine into his arms and kiss him gently. Not a kiss to make an illusion seem more real to passersby, but a hidden kiss just for them.
The desire is so alien, so unwelcome, that Sunday feels his cheeks flush and his feathers arc forward to hide his face. Like the horrible impulse that had possessed him that night in the cargo bay, he knows this is nothing. It is a gnawing need to escape from the stress of his life. Whoever his Foxian lady is, visiting worlds and attending concerts with her lover, her life is simpler and sweeter than his. It would be nice to live it, if only for a little while.
And maybe it would do Aventurine some good to live in it, too.
...But that cannot happen. They are two men hopelessly caught up in a cosmic tangle. Sunday knows he will never live like his Foxian lady. Robin bargained to give him freedom so that he might one day find fulfillment. He never will. His life is aimed at the creation of paradise, and beyond that, he fears it may never be complete.]
I could have called you my manservant, would that have been preferable?
[He asks, avoiding eye contact.]
...I tuned them. Their thoughts were left unmolested, so please do not worry about that. All I did was change their perception of me. They saw me as a Foxian woman in lavish silks.
[That is where he wants to leave it, but Aventurine has asked a question. Trolley? Or walk?
It is a trivial thing to decide he would rather take the trolley.]
...I do not mind walking if that's your preference, Mister Aventurine. Nor do I mind the trolley. It is up to you.
[ Right up until the moment that Sunday reveals he's tuned the guards, Aventurine is sure that they're about to be found out. Those ridiculous ruffled feathers, their delicate movements giving every inkling of emotion away, are going to get them both tossed in some backwater jail cell. He clenches his jaw, annoyance climbing as Sunday makes plain how revolting he finds being touched. Isn't he the one who said husband to begin with? Annoying bird. And now he won't even look at him.
Aventurine is about to level a snide remark when Sunday's explanation cuts him off at the knees. A heavy sigh escapes him instead, all of his own building fire spent. There is relief, knowing the little show of disgusted panic isn't going to cause an incident, but he's still somehow... askew. It's a feeling he does not care for, one that worsens when he notices the rosy bloom painting Sunday's sharp features. Now Aventurine is the one looking away, gloved hands slipping into his pockets. ]
I'd rather you not call me a servant, but I'm willing to be whatever you need.
[ Still feeling faintly restless, he swans off, bound for the trolley station. ]
I've never ridden on a trolley. Seems quaint. Let's do that.
[Sunday lifts his proud head to agree, but Aventurine is already veering away from him toward the trolley station, hunched as if someone had just harshly admonished him.
The Halovian's wings flutter back in confusion. Somehow, he is sure, this is his fault.
He hurries after Aventurine and falls into pace beside him.]
We used to have trolleys in Penaconey. Not just the ones that sell food, but actual streetcars. Mister Gopher Wood used to let me ride them around the Moment of Sol.
Eventually, the Afalfa family closed the trolley routes. They said there were more lucrative methods of public transportation.
[They draw closer to the station and he slows to a stop.]
...I have offended you, Mister Aventurine. [It's an observation, not a question. Guilt weighs his melodic voice down into a whisper.] My apologies. [Though he isn't sure what he is apologizing for, which makes the guilt all the more painful and confusing.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Mister Aventurine, I...
[He begins as he stiffens again, this time to provide firm support for the other man to lean on. He wants to ask if Aventurine will consent to a much-needed tuning, but it feels like a poorly timed question, after watching the Stoneheart writhe on the floor in fear of that very thing.
Another question comes to him, one he's sure he won't like the answer to. But if he doesn't ask, neither of them will sleep tonight. They will both be too twisted up by anxiety.]
How long have you had these nightmares?
[A heavy question couched in a simpler one. He wants to know if this started at Dewlight Pavilion.]
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Sunday grasps for something to say, and Aventurine acts like he doesn't hear. He can guess at what's coming, and none of the options are ones he's particularly eager to talk about. When the question finally comes, Aventurine lifts his gaze, offering a soft-eyed look that says enough, you know. ]
The IPC has me under the care of a Doctor of Chaos who believes my usual trouble sleeping has been exacerbated by my experiences on Penacony. [ It's easier to clinicize it, to recite what he's had to explain to administrators a dozen times now. ] It's more likely a result of walking through Nihility than carrying Harmony's brand, so...
[ Aventurine clears his throat. Even he is not sure that that's true, not when the Harmony figures so neatly into the worst of his nightmares. Still, Sunday hardly needs to feel guilty for something he cannot help, something Aventurine did bring upon himself. ]
Don't worry about it.
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Mister Aventurine, I'm...
["Sorry," he nearly says, but instead turns away. That day in Dewlight, he was convinced of his own righteousness. Yet the more he looks back on it, the more he regrets. What had he actually accomplished? The Hounds were driven toward him as he planned, and he was treated to a grand show at the Theater rivaled only by his own performance later. And he learned Robin had never been in real danger. All he had done was torture an innocent man.
He has done an unspeakable amount of damage.
Damage that he realizes he needs to heal. Earlier, he'd cleansed Penacony of the Order. Now, he must do the same for Aventurine. He cannot avoid his original question.]
Forgive me, the timing of this offer truly could not be worse, but... Would you consent to a tuning?
[Golden eyes dart up to meet Aventurine's gaze and one bare hand settles against his chest, though only briefly before he catches himself and hides in it his sleeve once more.]
I can quiet the nightmares. Please allow me to rectify the damage I've caused.
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He's definitely worrying about it.
See, this is the problem with preconceived notions about others. Give a man an inch, and he'll unravel every mystery about himself. Aventurine is, admittedly, a little sour that Sunday seems so set on revealing himself to be closer to his pop star sister's version of himself than the horrid monster Aventurine himself remembers, but perhaps it became inevitable the moment the albatross failed to board that train.
Despite an instant and urgent desire to cut the former Bronze Melodia off, Aventurine catches his breath and holds the words back. Better to hold his tongue than spur another argument, exhausted as he is. Aventurine stares, looking a little like he's got a frog stuck in his mouth as Sunday treads carefully over his next words.
It sort of beggars belief, that offer.
The corner of his mouth twitches. His brows knit up high. He really does try to keep his composure, but then Sunday looks at him with those earnest sunset eyes, all pure and honest intent. A soft snrk slips past Aventurine's lips, despite his best effort. Then the bird goes squirrels his hands away like they really are something lewd, and Aventurine cannot help the laughter that spills out of him.
He turns away, pressing a knuckle to his eye as wave after wave of pained giggles bubble out of him. Oh, what a day it has been. What an achingly sincere man, the fallen Oak. ]
Mother Goddess. [ There is too much fondness in those two words, mumbled on an exhale. ] Are you...?
[ Of course he's serious. Aventurine still hasn't figured out whether Sunday even tells jokes.
Aventurine turns and looks Sunday over while rubbing his temple to alleviating pressure. Meditation, exercise, warm herbal tea, time away from work, from screens, journaling, the dreaded talk therapy sessions -- none of them have worked to stop the nightmares. Medication and drink put him to sleep, certainly, but it's hardly ever completely restful.
Subjecting himself to tuning feels almost unthinkable. And yet, what but shuffling and stacking the whole deck could possible set his thoughts in proper order? Sunday has given his word. His mind will not be consecrated. There will be no violence. And, meeting that dour, golden gaze, pupils the color of a deep ocean, Aventurine can believe him.
He sighs. ]
Sure. Why not.
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Heh. Now, I hope you will forgive this next part as well. [His eyes shine.]
When I am done, you are likely to feel very tired. So, it is best if we do this in your bed.
[Hearing how that must sound immediately after saying it, he draws a breath, flexes his wings, ...and says nothing. Best, maybe, not to address it. He hopes the sincerity in his voice shows he is neither joking nor seeking to take advantage of Aventurine's pain.]
I won't leave you to collapse on the floor again. We both should get some adequate sleep. The last thing we need is to awaken unrested later and have more reasons to be hostile with each other.
[Though he knows it won't be easy, he yearns for peace between them. Some men thrive in conflict and war, but it has never been comfortable for him. Even the Nameless, who had fought his divine form and cast him from the sky, had only done so after he'd tried to find a peaceful resolution to their disagreements. He'd failed then. He doesn't want to fail again now, with Aventurine.]
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Once it's all set, he slides fingers beneath the strap of one of his gloves, loosening it. ]
Well, I guess you're invited to my bedroom.
[ He cannot help feeling a little incredulous at how quickly Sunday has turned the tables on him. The man did say he liked being in in control, though. If this helps alleviate the desire to tear his own feathers out, Aventurine supposes he can permit a bit of leeway. ]
Just give me a minute. I need to change, first.
[ Aventurine strolls past Sunday like he hasn't just recovered from a panick attack, like Sunday is not aware of half the wretched weights settled on him for the sins of greed and uselessness. He is terribly good at pretending, even fooling himself into thinking he's totally fine as he slips into his bedroom and fetches clean pajamas from a dresser drawer.
He changes in the bathroom. Deposits the clothes he'd worn to Lushaka, still smelling faintly of sea salt, in the wall hamper before washing his face and brushing his teeth. The pajamas he puts on aren't as obviously luxe as the black silk satin number he'd worn for the Penacony photoshoot, but they are fine linen in powder blue, embroidered on the lapels. He stares into the mirror a moment, adjusting the collar until no scars are visible.
Easier to focus on his appearance than the very real and climbing fear of Sunday climbing into his head again. He breathes through it before finally leaving the restroom. ]
Alright! Let's get to it.
[ He does not pause on his way from bath to bed, walking straight through and swiping his arm as he enters his room so that the sliding door stays open. Still trying to convince himself and Sunday both that he is perfectly resilient, he tosses himself on the bed Sunday had earlier so politely remade. Arms tucked behind his head, he does his best impression of inviting, relaxed calm, but when he tries to think of something smart to say, nothing comes to mind. So, he reclines, trying not to press his fingernails too firmly into his wrists as he waits. ]
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Sunday should hate the Stoneheart for causing his fall. He doesn't.
The man did what he felt he had to; they both had. And neither should continue suffering for it.
Aventurine emerges from the bath, and Sunday wordlessly follows him to the bedroom. The Stoneheart reclines on the bed, a picture of relaxed calm so perfect that it is clearly staged.]
Try to actually relax.
[Sunday says and walks up to the bed's side.]
This may take a while if you are tense.
[That said, he lifts his bare and graceful hand, forgetting for a moment about Aventurine finding the sight of it unpleasantly lewd. Elegant fingers curl forward into the air as Sunday reaches into Aventurine with his mind.
The tuning begins as it always does: with the strange feeling of breaching someone else's consciousness. Normally, the sea of the soul is bright and vibrant with shimmering strings of notes. All a skilled tuner needs to do is find the right string and tighten or loosen it until the notes are adjusted to suit their whims.
The sea within Aventurine is vast and dark; the strings are black, cold, and frozen. When Sunday reaches for them, he feels himself pass through them like a wind through a valley.
His fingers clench, and he stares down at Aventurine with wide, haunted eyes. A terror swells within him not over what he's seen, but over what he hasn't. This, he thinks, is what it feels like to gaze past the event horizon of a black hole.]
I...cannot tune you.
[Sunday tries to keep his voice calm but his already pale face has gone ashen, his feathers are splayed in distress.]
Your soul is silent.
No. More than that. It's...more silent than silence. I do not feel a quiet where the melody should be, I feel nothing. I feel...a void. [He draws a shuddering breath] There is nothing in your soul. No music that can be tuned.
[The extended hand starts to tremble, and he slowly lowers it to his side.]
I can't help you. [His voice softens, barely above a whisper]. I'm sorry.
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He doesn't move when Sunday chides him, but he does shut his eyes. There's no way he'll be able to relax properly if he has to stare into that face while the man pokes and prods his brain back into shape. He thinks he can tell when Sunday makes his attempt, a faint, muffled feeling, not at all the searing pain of the consecration. But then... nothing more happens, and Aventurine grits his teeth, half-expecting some attack.
There is an initial rush of relief at those words, I cannot tune you. For half a second, he is well and truly safe from the one thing that frightens him as much as Diamond's own wrath.
Aventurine opens one eye, catches a glimpse of an expression that does not match the calm in Sunday's voice, and slowly opens the other.
He thinks of philosophical zombies. ]
Oh.
[ What else is there to say? Sunday has just said to his face what all of his associates are whispering behind his back: he is empty, a yawning void where a person should be. At least the bird has the courtesy not to avoid the topic entirely where he can hear.
A part of him wishes he felt something about this news, about the way it was delivered, about the horror on Sunday's face. He doesn't.
Maybe this is why his emotions feel like they barely reach him, blocked by brick and drywall. He scoots himself up to sitting and moves to the edge of the bed, smoothing down his pajamas with steady hands. Once there are no wrinkles or rolled fabric, he lets his arms settle around his midsection, not quite hugging himself. Aventurine stares at the wrapped parcel of Sigonian textiles he'd removed from the smuggler's compartment earlier.
It occurs to him that his shattered cornerstone had spared him a true death in IX and the fate of a Sin Thirster. Though the IPC and the Doctors of Chaos had fussed, Aventurine thought it foolish. He has a purpose, a very clear one, and keeps finding himself with more responsibility in pursuit of his one real goal. He cannot fathom becoming a Self-Annihilator.
It's not possible. It's just not.
He has been quiet for far too long. ]
Well, I don't want to keep you up any longer than I already have, Feathers. You should go get some sleep.
[ He finally glances up at Sunday, no smile, no jolly indifference. Just, nothing. ]
Good effort, though.
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The man is barely reacting, which is concerning. For a moment Sunday swears he sees something move across the other man's face that is more than just blank. Not a lack of emotion, but the antithesis of it.
He does not leave when he is dismissed. There is no place other place he should be right now. Even if he retreated to his bed, he knows he would not sleep. He would remain awake, haunted by the silent darkness of the room around him and the memory of a soul with no music. Briefly, he wonders if Aventurine fully grasps what that implies, but he doesn't ask.
Instead, he gently seats himself on the bed at Aventurine's side.]
...What happened that day at the theater?
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Sunday asks a question that has no simple answer. Aventurine stares at the carefully wrapped textiles again, tracing the gold paisley lines embroidered into turquoise fabric. ]
Didn't get a chance to read one of the many, many reports about it? [ A huff escapes him, not quite a laugh. ] I gambled.
[ He lets his hands fall to the bed, fingers pressed into his familiar, downy comforter. ]
To prove that the Family wasn't fit to manage Penacony alone, I needed the Express to release their little Stellaron, or that Emanator to unsheathe her blade. If you'd believe it, the Emanator's blade, leveled right at me and no one else, was the safest option. So, I made her do it. And she cut right through the Dream... and me.
[ One hand drifts up to the collar of his pajamas. He pulls it down just far enough to show off part of the diagonal welt cut up the left side of his chest. Just a glimpse, before he releases it and smooths the fabric back down again, careful not to expose any of his other scars. ]
Just a bruise in the waking world, thankfully. But, her blade severed the strings of Harmony's consecration while also... casting IX's shadow. I was caught in it. So, instead of waking or wandering the primordial Memory Zone, I wound up in a sort of... dream version of Nihility's endless sea.
[ Aventurine looks at Sunday again. Hard not to draw some rather dire conclusions from that description alone. ]
What was left of my cornerstone saved me from IX's... [ It is not a gaze. Not a will. ] pressure. Radiation. [ He smirsk faintly. ] The Propogation wasn't going to let me go that easily, you know.
[ No one ever does. He has only ever moved from one master to the next with violence, never free, never able to hope for more. ]
The Emanator and I spoke of many things. I read a note from a friend that gave me what I needed to wake from your dream. And then I... walked through it. I walked through Nihility. [ Aventurine swallows. ] Because I still have work to do.
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You did it to purposefully cause a calamity and cast The Family in a bad light? [He asks around a sigh when the story ends.] That is what I'd read.
I was hoping maybe there was more to it. Some...detail we could use to help you.
[What that detail could be, he isn't sure. His lifetime of scholarly studies had been focused on Xipe and Ena. IX was rarely mentioned. Maybe it makes sense that the biggest hole in his knowledge of Aeons is also the biggest hole in the known cosmos. That observation nearly pulls a stressed laugh from his throat.]
...If you said you had subjected yourself to the Emanator's blade to escape my tuning, I was prepared to scold you. But you did it to line your handlers' pockets with more coin. I'm sure I do not need to point out the madness of that.
[A small, comforting grin tugs at his lips and shines in his eyes as he glances sideways at Aventurine.]
Could you tell me what work compelled you to walk through Nihility?
[He folds his hands in his lap then adds, with much a much heavier note in his voice...]
I understand that may be asking a lot. You do not need to tell me if you don't want to.
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[ Aventurine levels back softly. There is curiosity in his eyes, if not their usual sharp, playful gleam.
It's not a surprise that Sunday believes it had wholly been for his masters. Perception is everything, and Aventurine works very hard to project a certain image, perpetually aware that he is being watched, judged -- it is, after all, the first step to most of his schemes, knowing what people expect of him. That he is convincing, playing the cog in the machine, is to his benefit. It does not make those perceptions feel any less odd when they do clash against his own limited sense of self. ]
Hm. Maybe it was all for profit.
[ Undeniably, the Strategic Investment Department's success is crucial to his goals. Diamond's happiness will be his happiness, Jade's approval his power, whether he likes it or not. His is a game far bigger than business goals. So, maybe it's good that he is little more than a shade without music. Perhaps this is the Mother Goddess closing her eyes for him. Perhaps this is how his schemes are concealed -- by being nothing to anyone.
Cold comfort, being alone. ]
I won't pretend I didn't think at the time that it might sever all of my ties, but as you can see, I am still very much Aventurine, Stoneheart of Stratagems. [ It aches faintly, saying it. Remembering what he'd left behind in the sea. But to explain further would tangle Sunday into a web he is not equipped to navigate. ] It's fine. It'll be easier this way. My work, I mean. As for what it is...
[ Aventurine slides his hands back, supporting himself on flattened palms. ]
For now, let's just say I intend to make my family proud.
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[Sunday says, his voice warm.]
All I know is what I learned when I researched you. I read old records, you know. Details and facts about your life. What captivated me was how those facts told a story about a man who was much more complicated than he let anyone know.
So, when you say you did it all for profit, I believe you. [He pauses, folds his wings back, and looks at Aventurine through sincere, sunlit eyes.] I also believe the reason it was for profit is a deep, intricate, personal one. So I won't pry.
[That's a promise, even though his heart races with curiosity.
Sunday remembers, in a distant and dreamlike way, playing on his home planet during his youth. Even then, he'd been known as the more sensitive sibling, prone to upset and tears. He'd also been the more imaginative. Every night, he read books by lamplight in his bed. Every day, he plunged into the underbrush, waving a stick around as if it were a sword, pretending to be a hero from those books. Most days, he was an adventurer who traveled from start to star, slaying monsters, saving maidens, and leaving every world he visited a little better than it had been when he'd arrived. He returned at dinner time to a light, playful scolding as a wild thing with leaves in his feathers.
Then, one day, he and Robin saw the shooting stars descend from the firmament. The Stellaron Disaster came and went, and took their mother with it. Gopher Wood had been kind to the two of them. He sheltered them, gave them an education, and encouraged Robin to pursue her dreams of becoming a songstress. She was taught how to fly. Sunday, he kept at his side, and his reading was limited to holy text. As he grew older, Sunday learned to be meticulous about his appearance, how to walk, how to speak, how to present himself as nothing less than perfect. The wildness in him seemed to vanish over time.
It has only been recently, as he scrapes against his thirties, that he's had enough wisdom for introspection. The wildness never left; it went deeper, forming a fiery drive within him that even Gopher Wood had not been prepared for.
And that, he thinks, must be why his studies of Aventurine had resonated with him. In Aventurine, he can see a man with a similarly quick mind and a similar inherent wildness. Except Aventurine's wildness carries him from one exciting story to the next, while Sunday's still remains buried. Maybe that is the real reason he delighted in tuning him. He wanted to punish the man who represented a side of himself that he'd long repressed. He wanted to make Aventurine like him; reckless passion forcefully folded into the shape of Order.
Golden eyes soften as he considers Aventurine's words.
For now, let's just say I intend to make my family proud.
...He should help this man. After everything he's done, he owes him that much. And who doesn't want to make their family proud?]
I want the same.
I hope, someday, she can look up into the stars, see some sign of me, and feel...proud of her big brother. For the first time since our childhood.
[One hand rises to rest against his heart.]
I want to help you make your family proud, Mister Aventurine. I think I owe it to you.
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[ As though he, himself, hadn't pored over news articles and IPC profiles for Penacony's Halovian prince. But his teasing tone has returned. However little it means, he thinks he is starting to feel like himself again, a fact he is not ready to entirely attribute to Sunday's insistence that they speak on it more.
Aventurine thinks with no small amount of annoyance that the albatross really is every bit the sun he thinks himself, though perhaps not in exactly the ways he hopes. By turns ferociously unforgiving and a source of gentle warmth, he is difficult to look at long, but impossible to ignore. Crazy, just maddening, to sit on his own bed beside the man who had nearly outsmarted him and think not of how wickedly he'd grinned while placing Harmony's brand on him, but of how kind his eyes seem now.
He wants to help. Of course he does, the fool. Aventurine can perfectly understand the desire, however misguided and surely couched in the trauma of his escape it might be.
What Aventurine cannot understand is his own sudden impulse to grasp the bird by the collar and reel him in for a kiss. As he sits there, momentarily baffled by his own mind, he decides it must be twofold: first, a surefire way to send the bird off for the night immediately, and second, a chance at being warm, if only for a few seconds, at feeling something, anything, other than tired and empty and aching.
He clears his throat, staying right where he is. It's an easy enough feeling to fold up and put away. ]
If I had to guess, I'd say she's already watching. Leaving, that's a big first step. As for helping me...
[ Aventurine looks Sunday over. He belongs with better people, with a family who can show him patience, proper kindness, and the right Path. He belongs with the Express. Maybe getting him there, ensuring he has a future, can be part of Aventurine's penance. ]
...Maybe you will, Mister Sunday.
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Heh. I hope so, Mister Aventurine. I truly hope for both of those things.
[The hand resting against his chest rises, reaches for Aventurine, then pauses. Many people like a gentle caress to their face, they find it comforting. But Aventurine is like him and averse to touch. So, he stands from the bead and offers another grin instead.]
Well...
I should get some sleep. I think rest in my own bed will do me good.
[A fresh bed for him alone, that doesn't smell like someone else or is surrounded by someone else's belongings.]
These last twenty-four system hours have been exhausting. I hope to feel more myself when I wake.
Please...you try to get some sleep as well. As much as you can.
I am sorry I could not help you.
[His voice sinks an octave, heavy with regret, then he glides from the room.]
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Aventurine falls asleep. He does not wake, he does not even stir, for many hours.
Three days cooped up in solitude would be nothing for Aventurine on his own, but his companion complicates matters. All the same, each morning, he fixes a simple breakfast for the both of them before settling in to stare at a holographic screen. For better or worse, there is, truly, a mountain of work for him to see to, and the messages and projects from superiors seem to pile on without end. A full debrief to Jade, a report for Opal and Diamond, that same report redacted and massaged for other departmental heads, each time he finishes one task, there is another just as pressing. There are direct reports in need of instructions, near-due projects in need of review, and news stories to monitor. The Family makes no mention of Sunday's escape -- if they are after him, it is in secret.
While he does not quite seek Sunday's company out, neither does he avoid him. He is pleasant, free with suggestions for things to do and try, and patient with requests. Each day, at noon, Aventurine sets aside time to put the kettle on to boil and prepares two mugs. He leaves the tea, honey, and hot water out for Sunday to find before settling in somewhere quiet to untangle his mind: his bed, the tub, the booth in the kitchen with the screen window that simulates sunlight. Every evening, he fixes a simple dinner that, by day two, he feels compelled to apologize for -- busy as he is, convenience takes precedent over exciting flavors when he's traveling for work. All the same, the soups and wraps he prepares are tasty and filling.
On the second evening, he meanders into the cargo bay and swipes through the omni-synthesizer catalogue until he finds what he's looking for: a simple, portable, waterproof speaker, which he pairs with one of the ship's many tablets. Aventurine leaves that at the top of the ladder leading down into Sunday's room before returning to the bridge to finish out work.
They make good time, and Jarilo-VI has made itself a massive, cloudy marble in the main viewport by the time he climbs out of the shower on the third day. He's read up on the planet in the intervening days and though the people of Belobog have taken their first steps back toward the stars, he suspects he and Sunday will be met with some suspicion. Just another day in paradise, he supposes, as he leans down to press the button to activate the ship's comms. ]
Time to put on that new winter coat, Mister Sunday. I'll meet you in the cargo bay. Why don't we grab brunch on world? I'm sure there's got to be something more exciting than what I keep in the fridge.
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While he never seeks out Aventurine, as Aventurine never seeks him, he engages in light conversation whenever they find themselves together in the kitchen tending to tea. The conversations never last long, nor do they go much deeper than the topic of the ship's current coordinates, the distance to Jarilo-VI, or what sort of tea leaves they should search for after they land.
Sunday spends most of his time in his assigned room. It's a cramped space, but not uncomfortable. He thinks that if the room were vast, it would make him anxious. His little bed and the surrounding walls become a personal nest despite the lack of decorations. All he has is a poster, purchased on Lushaka, hanging near his bed from his sister's latest concert. When Aventurine leaves him a tablet and speakers, those, too, are set up near his bed to play Robin's songs intermixed in a playlist with classical melodies.
He feels as relaxed as he knows he can be on the day they arrive in Jarilo-VI's orbit. He dresses himself in his fur-lined blue and white coat, heavy boots, and warm—but not bulky—gloves. The coat embraces his frame, accentuating the handsome lines of his body. When he checks himself over in the bathroom mirror, he decides he looks dashing. Gopher Wood would say the outfit is befitting the Head of the Oak Family, even if it should have less blue and more white.
Aventurine calls him, and he starts to head toward the cargo bay when something catches his eye. It may be a trick of the light, he knows, but he swears he sees a faint golden spark swirling behind his head.
...It would be rude to keep Aventurine waiting yet again, so he makes his way down the hall.]
I would not mind something other than rice and beans [He says lightly as he adjusts his gloves under the furred cuff of his coat. For comfort, not for appearance.]
Do they have coffee on this planet? [This he says with a desperate laugh. It's hard to imagine a frozen planet would cultivate any coffee beans, and with them only recently trading with other places, any beans they have would be prohibitively expensive.]
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Something is different. Certainly, Sunday has come far in three days, still every bit the exotic little plant, but no longer wilting at every imperfection about his circumstances. That is not what Aventurine notices, though. There seems to be a new glow about him, something that hadn't been there, before. It's almost a pity to bring so pretty a flower to so cold and desolate a planet, which is a terribly silly thought to have at all. Aventurine sets it aside, the way he did the image of Sunday almost reaching for him while they'd sat on his bed. ]
Well, if they have coffee, rest assured, we are going to find it.
[ From his reading, corrosion from a Stellaron had been extensive. The people of Belobog are only just reclaiming many of their recently lost luxuries thanks to the efforts of the Nameless. If the grow houses where coffee beans are cultivated haven't yet been restored, then certainly the IPC encampment Topaz established will have a company shop that sells freeze dried crystals.
Aventurine slides into the pilot seat, buckles up and waits until Sunday is settled to zip off for the planet's surface. Jarilo-VI does not yet have a proper station for extraterrestrial visitors, but they do have comms. Again, Aventurine spends the flight greasing the wheels for their entry -- IPC representatives not here on official business, only badly in need of a restock and refuel, happy to spend at least the 1.5x rate on all goods that Topaz had established.
It's a quick flight, barely five minutes, but he does not land until receiving the all clear from the Belobog native manning the IPC's comms. Aventurine brings the shuttle down in the snow plains, near the gates of Belobog. ]
We should stock up while we're here. Food and fuel. Jarilo-VI's known food culture is... unique. Lots of bread, fish, and canned goods. [ Aventurine explains as he unbuckles his harness. It still feels necessary, unsure as he is that Sunday is ready to believe everything he says. ] If you see any foods you'd like, just say the word. I'd like to spend some time in the under-city, too. [ A pause, Aventurine speaks his next words carefully. ] But there's a concert hall topside. If you'd like to catch a show.
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Should have. But didn't.
He is glad it didn't.
When they land, he steps from the shuttle and stretches prettily.]
...Concert?
[His eyes gleam in curiosity. It's not his sister performing. He's memorized her entire tour. Or he thinks he has, at least. In the months leading up to the Charmony Festival, he'd lost track of so many things that he'd decided would soon no longer matter.]
I admit, I would rather see a performance than visit an undercity, but if I must choose one, then I will choose the undercity for the sake of my ascetic journey.
[He draws his breath to explain his journey's purpose but is cut off by a low, snarling sound that he realizes, with a slight flush of embarrassment, is coming from his gut.]
...Heh. On the other hand, maybe I should eat something before I make any critical decisions.
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Unfortunately for Sunday, Aventurine's own tolerance for hermitage begins and ends with being left alone. He smiles faintly as he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
The convenient thing about being on the lam is that there are no tight schedules to adhere to, excepting of course when one has to run away expeditiously. I'm sure we can fit in both.
[ Jarilo-VI is blisteringly cold, and when Aventurine speaks it sends a puff of steam up into the air. Thankfully, Belobog's gate is a few paces off. The two guards stationed at the entrance near a glowing red heater peers at them curiously. ]
Whew! Food first, though. [ He claps his gloved hands together, then pulls his fur-lined coat more snug around his neck. ] And a warm drink. Whatever they have? I'll take it.
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Does the chatter ever reach The Family? Maybe not yet, but it easily could.
His gaze shifts, becoming at once distant and intensely focused as he reaches out of himself and into the two guards. Their distraction leaves their minds open to him, making it easy to play a few notes within them, altering their melodies.]
Well, [His voice is light, pleasant.]
Let's go.
[The guards perk up as they approach and look Sunday over, then shuffle awkwardly and glance away when they realize they are staring. He can't blame them for staring at such alluring beauty. Not his beauty, but the beauty of a foxian woman in silks and furs.
He lifts a hand, she lifts hers, gesturing at Aventurine.]
Greetings. My husband and I are here for the concert.
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What is surprising, after days of the injured bird making himself meek and small, is how readily Sunday now takes point. Aventurine is happy to enjoy the show, smirking faintly as he studies a cluster of ice crystals jutting out of the rock nearby, right up until he hears the word husband.
Well, that's... an odd choice.
He has trained himself too well to visibly react, though he does toss a lazy glance Sunday's way, trying to appraise the situation, his intent. Whatever Sunday's plan, Aventurine has been given a role, and he slides into it easily enough, swaying closer and settling a palm at the small of Sunday's back, possessive. ]
I know. I'm a very lucky man. You boys can stop staring, now.
[ Startled at being called out, the guards turn to confer with each other, then with a communication device near their post. It seems their perceived faux pas rushes them along a little, and after a minute, the gates open with a metal whine, and Aventurine and Sunday are permitted to pass through.
Snow and earth give way to paved cobblestone streets. The air warms with the presence of more red glowing heaters. It's actually sort of pleasant, chilly enough to warrant the layers, but not painfully cold. The first building they pass is a large trolley station, busy mostly with workers and soldiers this close to the snow plains.
Aventurine keeps his hand on Sunday until the gates have closed behind them. There, it drops back to his side, fingers flexing. ]
Husband, huh? [ No judgement, no disdain. Just curiosity. ] Want to hop a trolley into the Administrative District, or walk?
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It isn't just the unanticipated touch that alarms him, but the strange warmth he feels radiating through his back where gloved fingers lightly caress his spine. When the gates close, he feels a sudden, horrible urge to pull Aventurine into his arms and kiss him gently. Not a kiss to make an illusion seem more real to passersby, but a hidden kiss just for them.
The desire is so alien, so unwelcome, that Sunday feels his cheeks flush and his feathers arc forward to hide his face. Like the horrible impulse that had possessed him that night in the cargo bay, he knows this is nothing. It is a gnawing need to escape from the stress of his life. Whoever his Foxian lady is, visiting worlds and attending concerts with her lover, her life is simpler and sweeter than his. It would be nice to live it, if only for a little while.
And maybe it would do Aventurine some good to live in it, too.
...But that cannot happen. They are two men hopelessly caught up in a cosmic tangle. Sunday knows he will never live like his Foxian lady. Robin bargained to give him freedom so that he might one day find fulfillment. He never will. His life is aimed at the creation of paradise, and beyond that, he fears it may never be complete.]
I could have called you my manservant, would that have been preferable?
[He asks, avoiding eye contact.]
...I tuned them. Their thoughts were left unmolested, so please do not worry about that. All I did was change their perception of me. They saw me as a Foxian woman in lavish silks.
[That is where he wants to leave it, but Aventurine has asked a question. Trolley? Or walk?
It is a trivial thing to decide he would rather take the trolley.]
...I do not mind walking if that's your preference, Mister Aventurine. Nor do I mind the trolley. It is up to you.
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Aventurine is about to level a snide remark when Sunday's explanation cuts him off at the knees. A heavy sigh escapes him instead, all of his own building fire spent. There is relief, knowing the little show of disgusted panic isn't going to cause an incident, but he's still somehow... askew. It's a feeling he does not care for, one that worsens when he notices the rosy bloom painting Sunday's sharp features. Now Aventurine is the one looking away, gloved hands slipping into his pockets. ]
I'd rather you not call me a servant, but I'm willing to be whatever you need.
[ Still feeling faintly restless, he swans off, bound for the trolley station. ]
I've never ridden on a trolley. Seems quaint. Let's do that.
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The Halovian's wings flutter back in confusion. Somehow, he is sure, this is his fault.
He hurries after Aventurine and falls into pace beside him.]
We used to have trolleys in Penaconey. Not just the ones that sell food, but actual streetcars. Mister Gopher Wood used to let me ride them around the Moment of Sol.
Eventually, the Afalfa family closed the trolley routes. They said there were more lucrative methods of public transportation.
[They draw closer to the station and he slows to a stop.]
...I have offended you, Mister Aventurine. [It's an observation, not a question. Guilt weighs his melodic voice down into a whisper.] My apologies. [Though he isn't sure what he is apologizing for, which makes the guilt all the more painful and confusing.]
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not entirely worksafe
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nsfw a bit
also a tiny bit nsfw but also mostly just sad
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yeah this is nsfw lmao
still nsfw
still nsfw
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nsfw
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nsfw a bit
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