[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.]
[ Profit is the force by which the cosmos moves. The Alfalfa family knows that as well as the IPC does. Lucrative trades made, keeping everything in motion. It's the reason a young Sunday lost his street cars. It is also the reason he now walks free at all.
Though Aventurine does not acknowledge Sunday rejoining him at his side, he does stop when Sunday's footsteps slow. For a few seconds, he stares at the trolley station, so near and so far. If he had just waited a few paces more, Aventurine could've pretended not to hear him. He could be buying their tickets right now. They could be moving. But, no. Even when he can't adjust the strings of Aventurine's mind, Sunday still insists upon finding new ways to poke and prod until he's dug something out.
Sunday's apology feels a little like a pile of bricks settled on his chest. The man is confused, and the problem is, Aventurine is not even certain why he finds himself so... whatever this feeling is. He knows where it began, though. ]
Don't- Mm. I'm the one who owes you an apology. [ He turns his head back, looks Sunday up and down, and feels still worse for how dour Sunday now seems. ] I shouldn't have touched you. I don't know... why I did it. It wasn't necessary to play the role. I'm sorry. I'll respect your space.
[Sunday draws a breath to prevent himself from exclaiming that Aventurine has it wrong, that he wants to be touched more and in other places. That he wants to know if the same warmth blossoms if his face or hands are caressed.
Which is a strange thought to have. Many people have touched him in his life, and it has always been unwelcome. The day he became Bronze Melodia and was pronounced sacred was the day Penacony's fondness for the young Halovian in their midst turned into a feral hunger. If anyone could find an excuse to touch him, they took it, and their touch lingered.
Why is it different from Aventurine? Why is that touch...wanted?
Stress. Loneliness. High scale tuners of the Family were never truly alone. They could easily share thoughts and emotions with each other, even across galactic distances. Sunday had been of the Oak Family, however. The Oak Family is gone, and his blessings of Order were discarded when he threw away his halo. Any connection he once had to the other tuners is forever severed. Maybe he's been feeling that. Maybe there is a longing for connection to someone, misinterpreted by his body. There are, he reasons, logical explanations for it that have nothing to do with real lust or romantic longing. Within the span of just a few days, they have been through so much, so many moments of frightfully heightened emotion. Is it any wonder that a scattered mind, frazzled senses, and an off-rhythm internal melody are sending confusing signals to his brain?
No.
And that's all it is.
Which is nothing for Aventurine to feel sorry for.]
No, you are mistaken.
I was not expecting it, that's all.
Only a few days ago, you would have preferred not to stand near me, let alone touch me. [He still remembers Aventurine looking at him with the eyes of a cornered prey animal, scanning their surroundings for escape or a weapon.]
Thank you for promising to respect my space, but please do not feel guilty about it.
[His wings fold in close to his ears as he starts walking again in the direction of the ticket booth.]
[ Guilt. That's what it is, isn't it? Because he keeps sending mixed messages, and they keep coalescing into the exact results he expects: chaos, upset, walking on eggshells. Some part of him is hell bent on tormenting the both of them for sins it cannot let go. It isn't fair. And more importantly, it isn't tenable. ]
Wait.
[ Aventurine follows after, reaching for Sunday and then pulling away just as fingertips dust his fine winter coat. He stops. ]
For the foreseeable future, we're going to be living in close quarters, right? Working together.
[ Sunday had wanted this, after all. Mobility, protection, as much freedom as can be afforded to one in his position. ]
The nature of such arrangements means that, from time to time, we will be in each others' spaces. From time to time that won't sit well with one or the other. And, I'm... not making that easy for either one of us right now. I can't promise that I won't startle. I'm not accustomed to having company. But, I'll do my best to curb it, and not... react so poorly when you are startled, too.
[ He crosses his hands over his chest, gaze dipping for the briefest of moments as he commits to his next words. ]
We don't need to be chummy. But... I don't think we need to avoid friendship, either.
[ Not after their talk three nights ago. The way Sunday had seemed to ache at the knowledge that he was now soundless. How he'd looked at him, spoken to him. Aventurine does not want to let go of the monster he remembers, but he must, if this is to work. And Sunday, in each moment he lets his feathers unfurl, becomes harder to see as anything other than just a complicated, clever, prideful man. ]
[Sunday stares at Aventurine. The word sounds almost surreal coming from the Stoneheart who has said, with steel in his voice, that they are not friends. There had been so much certainty in that statement that it fell like a great blade in Terminus's path, severing them from any future where they were comfortable around each other, let alone happy.
But Sunday wants to believe it's possible.
The Oak Family Head was smiling, affable, and friendly in a way that never invited actual friendship. Nobody was close to him. Nobody was allowed to be. Why make friends when his purpose was to hollow himself out until he became a cosmic concept or died in the attempt?
He didn't die, nor did he ascend. Despite his years of planning, he passed through a nearly apocalyptic ordeal and emerged on the other side still himself. Maybe it would be nice to have a friend now. And for the priest who nearly destroyed himself to envelop the world in a sweet lie, who better as a friend than the liar who nearly destroyed himself to expose the world to the truth?
A small grin tugs at his lips, though his golden eyes are mournful.]
...Yes.
I would like that, Mister Aventurine. Our journey together will be much simpler if we can learn to be friends.
[A promise to Aventurine and to himself. He's been as much an obstacle to friendship as Aventurine's fear. The uncertainty with which he now sees himself and his life has made his emotions erratic.]
Please forgive me for my role in our discomfort. I admit, things have been... complicated since I gained my freedom. I don't doubt that I have been an unreasonably mercurial guest.
[In one moment smiling and in the next demanding his own death so the world makes sense again.]
I promise to do my best to remain calm and embrace this opportunity you and my sister have given me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Though Aventurine does not acknowledge Sunday rejoining him at his side, he does stop when Sunday's footsteps slow. For a few seconds, he stares at the trolley station, so near and so far. If he had just waited a few paces more, Aventurine could've pretended not to hear him. He could be buying their tickets right now. They could be moving. But, no. Even when he can't adjust the strings of Aventurine's mind, Sunday still insists upon finding new ways to poke and prod until he's dug something out.
Sunday's apology feels a little like a pile of bricks settled on his chest. The man is confused, and the problem is, Aventurine is not even certain why he finds himself so... whatever this feeling is. He knows where it began, though. ]
Don't- Mm. I'm the one who owes you an apology. [ He turns his head back, looks Sunday up and down, and feels still worse for how dour Sunday now seems. ] I shouldn't have touched you. I don't know... why I did it. It wasn't necessary to play the role. I'm sorry. I'll respect your space.
[ He glances at the ticket booth. ]
How about that trolley ride?
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Which is a strange thought to have. Many people have touched him in his life, and it has always been unwelcome. The day he became Bronze Melodia and was pronounced sacred was the day Penacony's fondness for the young Halovian in their midst turned into a feral hunger. If anyone could find an excuse to touch him, they took it, and their touch lingered.
Why is it different from Aventurine? Why is that touch...wanted?
Stress. Loneliness. High scale tuners of the Family were never truly alone. They could easily share thoughts and emotions with each other, even across galactic distances. Sunday had been of the Oak Family, however. The Oak Family is gone, and his blessings of Order were discarded when he threw away his halo. Any connection he once had to the other tuners is forever severed. Maybe he's been feeling that. Maybe there is a longing for connection to someone, misinterpreted by his body. There are, he reasons, logical explanations for it that have nothing to do with real lust or romantic longing. Within the span of just a few days, they have been through so much, so many moments of frightfully heightened emotion. Is it any wonder that a scattered mind, frazzled senses, and an off-rhythm internal melody are sending confusing signals to his brain?
No.
And that's all it is.
Which is nothing for Aventurine to feel sorry for.]
No, you are mistaken.
I was not expecting it, that's all.
Only a few days ago, you would have preferred not to stand near me, let alone touch me. [He still remembers Aventurine looking at him with the eyes of a cornered prey animal, scanning their surroundings for escape or a weapon.]
Thank you for promising to respect my space, but please do not feel guilty about it.
[His wings fold in close to his ears as he starts walking again in the direction of the ticket booth.]
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Wait.
[ Aventurine follows after, reaching for Sunday and then pulling away just as fingertips dust his fine winter coat. He stops. ]
For the foreseeable future, we're going to be living in close quarters, right? Working together.
[ Sunday had wanted this, after all. Mobility, protection, as much freedom as can be afforded to one in his position. ]
The nature of such arrangements means that, from time to time, we will be in each others' spaces. From time to time that won't sit well with one or the other. And, I'm... not making that easy for either one of us right now. I can't promise that I won't startle. I'm not accustomed to having company. But, I'll do my best to curb it, and not... react so poorly when you are startled, too.
[ He crosses his hands over his chest, gaze dipping for the briefest of moments as he commits to his next words. ]
We don't need to be chummy. But... I don't think we need to avoid friendship, either.
[ Not after their talk three nights ago. The way Sunday had seemed to ache at the knowledge that he was now soundless. How he'd looked at him, spoken to him. Aventurine does not want to let go of the monster he remembers, but he must, if this is to work. And Sunday, in each moment he lets his feathers unfurl, becomes harder to see as anything other than just a complicated, clever, prideful man. ]
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[Sunday stares at Aventurine. The word sounds almost surreal coming from the Stoneheart who has said, with steel in his voice, that they are not friends. There had been so much certainty in that statement that it fell like a great blade in Terminus's path, severing them from any future where they were comfortable around each other, let alone happy.
But Sunday wants to believe it's possible.
The Oak Family Head was smiling, affable, and friendly in a way that never invited actual friendship. Nobody was close to him. Nobody was allowed to be. Why make friends when his purpose was to hollow himself out until he became a cosmic concept or died in the attempt?
He didn't die, nor did he ascend. Despite his years of planning, he passed through a nearly apocalyptic ordeal and emerged on the other side still himself. Maybe it would be nice to have a friend now. And for the priest who nearly destroyed himself to envelop the world in a sweet lie, who better as a friend than the liar who nearly destroyed himself to expose the world to the truth?
A small grin tugs at his lips, though his golden eyes are mournful.]
...Yes.
I would like that, Mister Aventurine. Our journey together will be much simpler if we can learn to be friends.
[A promise to Aventurine and to himself. He's been as much an obstacle to friendship as Aventurine's fear. The uncertainty with which he now sees himself and his life has made his emotions erratic.]
Please forgive me for my role in our discomfort. I admit, things have been... complicated since I gained my freedom. I don't doubt that I have been an unreasonably mercurial guest.
[In one moment smiling and in the next demanding his own death so the world makes sense again.]
I promise to do my best to remain calm and embrace this opportunity you and my sister have given me.
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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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