[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.
[ Those handsome smiles never reach his eyes. Maybe when he is with his sister they do, the way Aventurine imagines himself smiling when he finally finds himself beneath Gaiathra Triclops's auroras once more. Aventurine cannot give Sunday his sister, but maybe, when he finds the family he needs in the Express, he can have a chance at those sorts of smiles again. In the meantime, Aventurine will do his best not to make it hard for Sunday to smile at all. ]
A deal then.
[ His voice and smile, silk smooth both, do not betray his thoughts.
Aventurine slips his hands into his pockets, steps up to the booth and orders two three-day passes for the trolleys for himself and his lovely wife. No telling how much they'll actually need to hop around the city while they're here, but it won't hurt to have the freedom to go where they please, when they please. It sounds like an awful long time since Sunday's gotten to ride a streetcar, after all.
He mentions that he is IPC, watches as the price increases by half with a grin, and makes small talk about the city with the attendant as he hands over their passes and an IPC-made paper brochure outlining Topaz's guidelines, local eateries, and the two lone hotels in the city.
With the transaction done, Aventurine offers Sunday a ticket and the glossy brochure. Then, wryly, a little sing-song: ]
Paper tourism brochure? That's probably a collector's item~
[ He levels one of his faint grins at Sunday, then glances over his shoulder, eyes widening. The trolley conductor, an old man with a robust mustache, is beckoning for them impatiently. ]
Looks like we're holding the bus up!
[ He hoofs it over to the trolley first, but like any besotted gentleman, waits for his wife before boarding. Aventurine even holds a glove hand out, there for "her" to take if she needs the balance while stepping up into the open air car. ]
[A lovely Foxian woman sways up to Aventurine and takes his hand with a serene smile, eyes sparkling with adoration. Sunday's eyes sparkle with humor, relieved that his companion doesn't take offense at the glamour and his role in it.
Once they've boarded, Sunday makes his way to the back of the trolley, away from the small handful of tourists here to visit an icy, recently reopened world. Sportsmen and theater goers mostly, he notes. People here for an adventure, not a luxury vacation.
It is cold in the open-air car, but small lamp-like heaters lining the ceiling keep it comfortable. He picks a seat below one and waits for Aventurine.
The Foxian lady waves a paper fan in front of her face flirtatiously. Sunday lifts the brochure against his lips.]
I'm impressed that they have a tourism industry at all. [He says softly.]
But I'm sure the people of Belobog must still suffer from many hardships. I want to help them, Mister Aventurine. If I am able.
[ Once, Sunday himself had been the target of a long string of risky bluffs, sat at a blackjack table with the greatest counter of cards in IPC space. Despite the horrors, there had been, in the moment, an indulgent sort of thrill in nudging pieces perfectly into place beneath the Bronze Melodia's nose, meeting him toe-to-toe, besting and being bested in different ways. Back then, Aventurine's victory had been inevitable. And now, the fallen Oak sets the tone for his own improvisation game. This time, just as before, Aventurine cannot deny his love of risk, of fun.
He wonders whether Sunday will win this time, and what that will mean.
The heaters are warm enough, though the moving air still has a chill. Aventurine slides into place beside Sunday, close enough to pass for intimate, but careful not to touch. There is space between them, an inch or so, and the arm he drapes around the back of their seat does not nudge shoulders, wings, or even catch stray strands of hair.
When he notices one of the passengers staring, he angles himself to block their line of sight with his shoulder. Better they stare at him than the man currently masquerading as a Foxian beauty with magic. It's all natural movement. Aventurine sells the doting husband act well. ]
You and Topaz both.
[ He sounds almost fond. Perhaps because he is. Difficult to be anything else when presented with a pretty bird who wants two wholly incongruous things -- happiness for all and total control. Someday, he'll learn. ]
Always working. [ As though he, himself, isn't. ] Your first step should be getting to know their world. So...
[ The trolley rumbles to a start, metal squealing against metal. Aventurine tips his chin up, nodding toward the city outside. ]
Take it in. [ Aventurine does not believe in paradise, in granted wishes or perpetual happiness. Still... ] And if you see anything, let me know. I'll throw in with you.
[Sunday looks out the windows at the city looming beyond the pale scrim of drifting snow. Towers and domes that once must have reflected the sunlight shine gray in the eternal winter light.
But the people on the streets, bustling about in their cloaks, smile and wave at the trolley as it passes. This is a city reborn, with citizens looking forward to a future full of new opportunities. Aventurine, he thinks, must feel a kinship with Belobog.
As the trolley slows to a stop, a small, child-like figure emerges from a cafe with a steaming coffee. She bows, causing a fluff ball on her head to sway like a dandelion's seed head in the breeze.
Before Sunday can wonder about the presence of a Pepeshi, he feels a sudden pressure in his head, as if something vast with a thousand eyes were looking upon him, then past him... Then gone. Gone for the moment at least. Search lights always turn back.
Without thinking, he reaches out and, desperate to anchor himself, seizes Aventurine's hand in his own. His other hand flies up to press against his brow, trying to smother the song he can feel humming behind his eyes.]
[ Aventurine is watching Sunday; the line of his neck as he tips his chin up to stare out the window, long dark lashes framing bright gold eyes, that bewilderingly serene expression. He doesn't even notice he's staring until Sunday's hand finds his, latching on in a vice grip, and then he starts, face filling with mortifying warmth. Except, he hasn't been caught at all.
Sunday seems to lurch in pain and Aventurine closes the space between the two of them, protective. The arm draped over the back of their seat curls around his shoulders, angling the Halovian close to hide his face in case his glamour has slipped.
Calm as he can, Aventurine tips his chin up, gaze sweeping the trolley car. Though a few passengers spare glances their way, most are too busy with their own lives, standing and shuffling toward the exits. There's not much here to assess, and too many unknowns to start spinning theories. He leans in close, gives Sunday's hand a reassuring squeeze. ]
Sunday. [ Soft, barely more than a whisper, but urgent. ] Are you okay? What's the matter?
[The music swells within him, drowning out the sounds of the world beyond. Everything outside his consciousness vanishes into a golden haze of serenity. Belobog is no longer there, the cold is distant, the grinding of the trolley beneath him is silent. Only the song is real, chanting a warm, inviting hymn. If he opened his arms, he feels like he could fall into it and be swept away into the stars.
His lips curl against impossibly white teeth as he bares down on the music with a melody of his own. Time passes in heartbeats, then, finally, the pressure subsides, and he exhales a sharp breath.]
Ha!
[The world slowly slips back into focus. Sounds first, then the vibrations of the trolley. The cold comes last but is kept away from his skin by the suddenly very real, very warm arm curled around him.
As awareness returns to him, so does a sense of righteous indignation. The Head of the Oak Family should never be seen in pain and certainly never writhing in the arms of the IPC. It is a good thing, he decides, that the Head of the Oak Family isn't here because there are more important things to worry about than dignity.
The Foxian turns in her seat and presses a kiss against Aventurine's lips. Sunday leans past Aventurine's cheek to whisper in his ear.]
[ What an unhappy coincidence. Unless Terminus THEMSELF had a hand in it, there is simply no way those interested in Sunday's whereabouts could've anticipated his arrival on Jarilo-VI that far in advance. The Family, likely here to sow seeds in a world already dominated by Preservation, has brushed up against their missing sour note without even looking for him. ]
Well, that's inconvenient.
[ Aventurine's voice is light. He resists the foolish desire to offer comfort, no time to stroke fingers through Sunday's hair. The man seems fine now. More important to plan an escape.
The illusory kiss between husband and wife lingers long. Aventurine does not move. ]
Judging by that headache, I'm guessing they know you're here, now, too? Do we have time to hide? We still need fuel and supplies, and for that we need to get to the Underworld.
[ He probably needs to notify Topaz, too, that her beloved pet project is being infringed upon by another Aeon. ]
[Sunday draws a steadying breath and tries to ignore the sweet smell of Aventurine's cologne that hangs in the air around him and, he is certain, now hangs off him too.
It is a cloying, overstimulating smell, and yet part of him wants to drown himself in it. He wants to hide away in the safety of Preservation before the music returns.]
They don't know I am here.
[He says, his voice barely above a whisper. He risks a glance out the window. The Pepeshi woman is gone. She must have wandered off somewhere, but Sunday thinks there is a chance she was never there at all.]
They do know that Jarilo-VI is rejoining the galaxy, so they're singing. And the song is loud.
Which means some are here...
[And it makes sense they would be, in a way so obvious he feels ashamed for not anticipating it. The IPC has already descended, wrapping their greedy fingers around the planet in the name of their Amber Lord.... But the Stellaron that had laid waste to the world was here first. The Harmony was here first. And The Family is unlikely to give up the Jarilo-VI's melody without a fight.]
We're in the middle of a silent war for the planet's future, Mister Aventurine.
[ Opal had said it, hadn't he? The Stonehearts will need to be at their strongest, all their pieces set in place, if the IPC is to persevere in the coming war between Aeons. Aventurine had foolishly held onto the hope that it was a fight he would not live to see; that amid all the stage setting and strategy, he might die in some pointless way -- a bar fight, a deal gone bad, a ship malfunction. The ultimate luck, losing his life before war can return again to his doorstep.
Why had he allowed himself thoughts so frivolous? There is little Aventurine wants less than this, to be drawn into conflict between masters who care nothing for their soldiers, to watch innocent people, innocent worlds burn in the name of something as insoluble as ideals. To
He deflates, shoulders sagging. Sunday speaks as though the two of them have already been pressed into service, and all he wants to do is run. ]
We can still leave... [ he murmurs, knowing they can't. Not when this is a place Topaz has worked so hard for, when the people here have survived so much, when this is as much a war for Sunday's soul as for this world.
Aventurine huffs, annoyed with the whole situation. It'd be so much easier to just go if not for this bird.
Against his better judgment, he takes a little something for himself, lifting his hand to brush a few strands of soft white hair out of Sunday's golden eyes. Staring into that gilded lantern light, he doesn't know what he feels... but stealing a glance does make what he says next come a little easier. ]
Let's weigh the dice in our favor before it gets too loud, then. Can you stand?
[They could still leave. The ship is parked near the trolley station. They can head back, board, and flee this world.
But Sunday had nearly doomed Penacony in blind hubris. He is not about to doom Jarilo-VI in cowardice.
He's about to say as much, but Aventurine cuts him off with a low sigh. Somehow, the Stoneheart has reached the same decision.
They must stay.
A hand, feather-soft, rises and pushes hair from Sunday's eyes, and their gazes meet in the cold silence. Sunday feels a frisson of something deep in his heart that makes his pulse run at a warp trotter's pace. One wing flexes in bewilderment.]
Yes, I can stand.
[And he does so, then says what they are doubtlessly both thinking.]
We can't leave.
[Not shouldn't, can't. For so many reasons, they can't.]
[ It's certainly an odd angle, seeing Sunday's unyielding will and not being the one cast in its fires. By the way his pulse skips and races, Aventurine is certain he has not yet shed his fear of the Bronze Melodia entirely. He busies his mind, scolding himself for being so weak, because that is easier than considering any other possible reasons for his heart to beat into the base of his throat right now.
Aventurine rises, fans out the tails of his coat, and shoves his gloved hands into his pockets; the very picture of unconcerned calm, while in his head he accounts for all avenues laid out before them. They could seek an audience with the Supreme Guardian, but that time may be better spent simply notifying Topaz, who must surely have a direct line to her. There is at least one Masked Fool here who, Aventurine strongly suspects, will take issue with other cults brewing conflict in Belobog. He will be worth meeting...
He glances at Sunday, all resolute steel, taking his first steps away from Order and toward a new Path. It isn't easy, letting someone else set the stage. Aventurine soothes himself with the knowledge that he knows Sunday well enough to tug the reins and right the carriage if he senses things are going off course. What's more important than total control, right now, is giving Xipe's former favored son the chance to prove he is free of the shackles of both Harmony and Order. ]
Then, darling wife... [ A smug grin. ] ...I'll defer to your expertise here. Lead the way.
[Sunday says with a huff and considers admonishing the other man somehow. But he doesn't.
The last of the tourists and travelers have disembarked from the trolley, leaving them alone together in the back of the car. For a strange moment, Sunday considers staying here, with Aventurine. Alone with him.
He likes being alone with him. Maybe he is too used to having only his own company back on Penacony. Loneliness is not a proper way to get a sense of the world. But immersing himself in the clamor of crowds, as one of them, not the figurehead standing above them, would be overwhelming.
One friend is a first step. A good first step. He is already growing as a person.
That, he decides, is why he wishes he could stay here, in the cold, alone with Aventurine.
His first, and only, friend.]
I know The Family, but I'm afraid I know very little of Belobog, so I hope your contacts do.
[The motorman peeks in through the door at them and says nothing, but Sunday can tell she is waiting for them to leave. He folds his hands in his lap and glances expectantly up at Aventurine.]
[ The most handsome man in Penacony, indeed. And perhaps in Belobog, as well, just now, the way he stares, quiet, as if waiting for something. Aventurine cannot fathom what's on his mind, and though he does wonder, briefly -- because when someone looks at you like that, it's usually precursor to something more -- he doesn't worry. As far as he's concerned, it's simply nice to have a bit of banter without tempers flaring.
A huff escapes him, amused, as he frees one hand from its hiding place in his pockets and holds it out, expectant, to Sunday. It does not occur to him that he hadn't hesitated, that there'd been no need for a split-second steeling of nerves before contact. ]
Let's not hold the trolley up, darling. I've got a few friends I need to speak with in the IPC outpost below the city.
[Sunday reaches out and wraps his fingers around Aventurine's. There is a sudden urge to tug and pull the Stoneheart into his lap to be wrapped in arms and wings. Within his coat and feathers, they can remain tightly curled together, warm, and safe from the eyes of The Family.
What an absurd idea!
He blows out a small laugh as he stands. The Foxian woman leans on Aventurine, grins against his cheek, and waves her tail happily. Sunday releases Aventurine's hand, but stands close enough to sell the illusion.]
Well, we shouldn't keep your friends waiting! Let's make haste, I want to see the city.
[Sunday's lilt and cadence suggest he is speaking as the Foxian, even if the message behind the words is his own.]
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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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A deal then.
[ His voice and smile, silk smooth both, do not betray his thoughts.
Aventurine slips his hands into his pockets, steps up to the booth and orders two three-day passes for the trolleys for himself and his lovely wife. No telling how much they'll actually need to hop around the city while they're here, but it won't hurt to have the freedom to go where they please, when they please. It sounds like an awful long time since Sunday's gotten to ride a streetcar, after all.
He mentions that he is IPC, watches as the price increases by half with a grin, and makes small talk about the city with the attendant as he hands over their passes and an IPC-made paper brochure outlining Topaz's guidelines, local eateries, and the two lone hotels in the city.
With the transaction done, Aventurine offers Sunday a ticket and the glossy brochure. Then, wryly, a little sing-song: ]
Paper tourism brochure? That's probably a collector's item~
[ He levels one of his faint grins at Sunday, then glances over his shoulder, eyes widening. The trolley conductor, an old man with a robust mustache, is beckoning for them impatiently. ]
Looks like we're holding the bus up!
[ He hoofs it over to the trolley first, but like any besotted gentleman, waits for his wife before boarding. Aventurine even holds a glove hand out, there for "her" to take if she needs the balance while stepping up into the open air car. ]
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Once they've boarded, Sunday makes his way to the back of the trolley, away from the small handful of tourists here to visit an icy, recently reopened world. Sportsmen and theater goers mostly, he notes. People here for an adventure, not a luxury vacation.
It is cold in the open-air car, but small lamp-like heaters lining the ceiling keep it comfortable. He picks a seat below one and waits for Aventurine.
The Foxian lady waves a paper fan in front of her face flirtatiously. Sunday lifts the brochure against his lips.]
I'm impressed that they have a tourism industry at all. [He says softly.]
But I'm sure the people of Belobog must still suffer from many hardships. I want to help them, Mister Aventurine. If I am able.
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He wonders whether Sunday will win this time, and what that will mean.
The heaters are warm enough, though the moving air still has a chill. Aventurine slides into place beside Sunday, close enough to pass for intimate, but careful not to touch. There is space between them, an inch or so, and the arm he drapes around the back of their seat does not nudge shoulders, wings, or even catch stray strands of hair.
When he notices one of the passengers staring, he angles himself to block their line of sight with his shoulder. Better they stare at him than the man currently masquerading as a Foxian beauty with magic. It's all natural movement. Aventurine sells the doting husband act well. ]
You and Topaz both.
[ He sounds almost fond. Perhaps because he is. Difficult to be anything else when presented with a pretty bird who wants two wholly incongruous things -- happiness for all and total control. Someday, he'll learn. ]
Always working. [ As though he, himself, isn't. ] Your first step should be getting to know their world. So...
[ The trolley rumbles to a start, metal squealing against metal. Aventurine tips his chin up, nodding toward the city outside. ]
Take it in. [ Aventurine does not believe in paradise, in granted wishes or perpetual happiness. Still... ] And if you see anything, let me know. I'll throw in with you.
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But the people on the streets, bustling about in their cloaks, smile and wave at the trolley as it passes. This is a city reborn, with citizens looking forward to a future full of new opportunities. Aventurine, he thinks, must feel a kinship with Belobog.
As the trolley slows to a stop, a small, child-like figure emerges from a cafe with a steaming coffee. She bows, causing a fluff ball on her head to sway like a dandelion's seed head in the breeze.
Before Sunday can wonder about the presence of a Pepeshi, he feels a sudden pressure in his head, as if something vast with a thousand eyes were looking upon him, then past him... Then gone. Gone for the moment at least. Search lights always turn back.
Without thinking, he reaches out and, desperate to anchor himself, seizes Aventurine's hand in his own. His other hand flies up to press against his brow, trying to smother the song he can feel humming behind his eyes.]
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Sunday seems to lurch in pain and Aventurine closes the space between the two of them, protective. The arm draped over the back of their seat curls around his shoulders, angling the Halovian close to hide his face in case his glamour has slipped.
Calm as he can, Aventurine tips his chin up, gaze sweeping the trolley car. Though a few passengers spare glances their way, most are too busy with their own lives, standing and shuffling toward the exits. There's not much here to assess, and too many unknowns to start spinning theories. He leans in close, gives Sunday's hand a reassuring squeeze. ]
Sunday. [ Soft, barely more than a whisper, but urgent. ] Are you okay? What's the matter?
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His lips curl against impossibly white teeth as he bares down on the music with a melody of his own. Time passes in heartbeats, then, finally, the pressure subsides, and he exhales a sharp breath.]
Ha!
[The world slowly slips back into focus. Sounds first, then the vibrations of the trolley. The cold comes last but is kept away from his skin by the suddenly very real, very warm arm curled around him.
As awareness returns to him, so does a sense of righteous indignation. The Head of the Oak Family should never be seen in pain and certainly never writhing in the arms of the IPC. It is a good thing, he decides, that the Head of the Oak Family isn't here because there are more important things to worry about than dignity.
The Foxian turns in her seat and presses a kiss against Aventurine's lips. Sunday leans past Aventurine's cheek to whisper in his ear.]
...It's The Family. They're here.
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Well, that's inconvenient.
[ Aventurine's voice is light. He resists the foolish desire to offer comfort, no time to stroke fingers through Sunday's hair. The man seems fine now. More important to plan an escape.
The illusory kiss between husband and wife lingers long. Aventurine does not move. ]
Judging by that headache, I'm guessing they know you're here, now, too? Do we have time to hide? We still need fuel and supplies, and for that we need to get to the Underworld.
[ He probably needs to notify Topaz, too, that her beloved pet project is being infringed upon by another Aeon. ]
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[Sunday draws a steadying breath and tries to ignore the sweet smell of Aventurine's cologne that hangs in the air around him and, he is certain, now hangs off him too.
It is a cloying, overstimulating smell, and yet part of him wants to drown himself in it. He wants to hide away in the safety of Preservation before the music returns.]
They don't know I am here.
[He says, his voice barely above a whisper. He risks a glance out the window. The Pepeshi woman is gone. She must have wandered off somewhere, but Sunday thinks there is a chance she was never there at all.]
They do know that Jarilo-VI is rejoining the galaxy, so they're singing. And the song is loud.
Which means some are here...
[And it makes sense they would be, in a way so obvious he feels ashamed for not anticipating it. The IPC has already descended, wrapping their greedy fingers around the planet in the name of their Amber Lord.... But the Stellaron that had laid waste to the world was here first. The Harmony was here first. And The Family is unlikely to give up the Jarilo-VI's melody without a fight.]
We're in the middle of a silent war for the planet's future, Mister Aventurine.
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Why had he allowed himself thoughts so frivolous? There is little Aventurine wants less than this, to be drawn into conflict between masters who care nothing for their soldiers, to watch innocent people, innocent worlds burn in the name of something as insoluble as ideals. To
He deflates, shoulders sagging. Sunday speaks as though the two of them have already been pressed into service, and all he wants to do is run. ]
We can still leave... [ he murmurs, knowing they can't. Not when this is a place Topaz has worked so hard for, when the people here have survived so much, when this is as much a war for Sunday's soul as for this world.
Aventurine huffs, annoyed with the whole situation. It'd be so much easier to just go if not for this bird.
Against his better judgment, he takes a little something for himself, lifting his hand to brush a few strands of soft white hair out of Sunday's golden eyes. Staring into that gilded lantern light, he doesn't know what he feels... but stealing a glance does make what he says next come a little easier. ]
Let's weigh the dice in our favor before it gets too loud, then. Can you stand?
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But Sunday had nearly doomed Penacony in blind hubris. He is not about to doom Jarilo-VI in cowardice.
He's about to say as much, but Aventurine cuts him off with a low sigh. Somehow, the Stoneheart has reached the same decision.
They must stay.
A hand, feather-soft, rises and pushes hair from Sunday's eyes, and their gazes meet in the cold silence. Sunday feels a frisson of something deep in his heart that makes his pulse run at a warp trotter's pace. One wing flexes in bewilderment.]
Yes, I can stand.
[And he does so, then says what they are doubtlessly both thinking.]
We can't leave.
[Not shouldn't, can't. For so many reasons, they can't.]
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Aventurine rises, fans out the tails of his coat, and shoves his gloved hands into his pockets; the very picture of unconcerned calm, while in his head he accounts for all avenues laid out before them. They could seek an audience with the Supreme Guardian, but that time may be better spent simply notifying Topaz, who must surely have a direct line to her. There is at least one Masked Fool here who, Aventurine strongly suspects, will take issue with other cults brewing conflict in Belobog. He will be worth meeting...
He glances at Sunday, all resolute steel, taking his first steps away from Order and toward a new Path. It isn't easy, letting someone else set the stage. Aventurine soothes himself with the knowledge that he knows Sunday well enough to tug the reins and right the carriage if he senses things are going off course. What's more important than total control, right now, is giving Xipe's former favored son the chance to prove he is free of the shackles of both Harmony and Order. ]
Then, darling wife... [ A smug grin. ] ...I'll defer to your expertise here. Lead the way.
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[Sunday says with a huff and considers admonishing the other man somehow. But he doesn't.
The last of the tourists and travelers have disembarked from the trolley, leaving them alone together in the back of the car. For a strange moment, Sunday considers staying here, with Aventurine. Alone with him.
He likes being alone with him. Maybe he is too used to having only his own company back on Penacony. Loneliness is not a proper way to get a sense of the world. But immersing himself in the clamor of crowds, as one of them, not the figurehead standing above them, would be overwhelming.
One friend is a first step. A good first step. He is already growing as a person.
That, he decides, is why he wishes he could stay here, in the cold, alone with Aventurine.
His first, and only, friend.]
I know The Family, but I'm afraid I know very little of Belobog, so I hope your contacts do.
[The motorman peeks in through the door at them and says nothing, but Sunday can tell she is waiting for them to leave. He folds his hands in his lap and glances expectantly up at Aventurine.]
Well? Won't you help a lady to her feet?
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A huff escapes him, amused, as he frees one hand from its hiding place in his pockets and holds it out, expectant, to Sunday. It does not occur to him that he hadn't hesitated, that there'd been no need for a split-second steeling of nerves before contact. ]
Let's not hold the trolley up, darling. I've got a few friends I need to speak with in the IPC outpost below the city.
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What an absurd idea!
He blows out a small laugh as he stands. The Foxian woman leans on Aventurine, grins against his cheek, and waves her tail happily. Sunday releases Aventurine's hand, but stands close enough to sell the illusion.]
Well, we shouldn't keep your friends waiting! Let's make haste, I want to see the city.
[Sunday's lilt and cadence suggest he is speaking as the Foxian, even if the message behind the words is his own.]
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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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