[ 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.]
[ Well, he is certainly getting into character, isn't he? Aventurine cannot deny his own surprise, surprised as he is to feel it. Though Sunday's flair for theatrics is absolutely no secret, Aventurine himself had pinned it more in the vein of phantoms hiding beneath opera houses or religious zealots belting firebrand songs about damnation. A lovely Foxian enamored of her doting husband had not numbered among the roles Aventurine thought Sunday capable of playing.
That look makes more sense now. The guy has range, that's for sure.
With a clipped hm of agreement, Aventurine leads the way from the trolley to the Administrative District's main street. He waits for Sunday to disembark, hands back in his pockets, and takes in the sights. ]
Kinda sad we have to delay that lunch.
[ But there are now more pressing matters, certainly. Not that you'd know it by looking at him. He strolls at a leisurely pace toward the incline railway that'll take them down into the Underworld.
Belobog isn't quaint, but when you've spent so much time in fantastical places like Pier Point and Penacony, it feels antique. Still, it's a pleasant walk. Heaters cut the biting cold, a crier shouts about the local news, people hurry to and fro on important business. There is a girl playing guitar on a bench. The music is nice.
There is no sign at all of brewing conflict. It is just a city, living, breathing, in spite of the cold that bears down on it. ]
They say the Eternal Freeze is ending since the Stellaron was sealed. On its own, Jarilo-VI might see its climate stabilize in a few centuries. There're talks to speed things along, but the folks here are... [ He trails off for just a moment. There is a company-approved way to end that statement, and it's right there on the tip of his tongue. But he looks Sunday over, and decides for honesty, instead. Honesty is easiest with Sunday, even if he does not believe it. ] ...understandably reluctant to indebt themselves much further with the IPC, given how we'd brought them into the fold to begin with.
[ What he means is, neither Aeon nor their factions has Belobog's best interests in mind. But, then again, not a one of THEM ever does. ]
[Whatever giddy warmth had possessed Sunday on the trolley dissolves as he listens to Aventurine speak. That gentle touch of his hair forgotten in the fire that fills his mind at the word "Stellaron".]
Yes... People are strong.
[He says steadily.]
Even under the weight of unbearable odds, they will band together to accomplish the impossible.
[His voice grows heavy. This is a lesson he has learned, not by watching the incredible feats of humankind, but by becoming the unbearable odds himself. He remembers seeing the desperation in the dreamers as they scrambled to awaken themselves and escape the Swarm... Seeing the determination in the Nameless and their allies as they took up arms against him. They clashed against a fledgling god. And they won. They accomplished the impossible.
His wings droop to his shoulders, then flutter up again.]
What do you know about Stellarons, Mister Aventurine?
[ Aventurine does not have friends, as a rule. Sure, he tosses the term around, grease for the squeaky wheel, but he is not even all that close to those to whom he is closest, Topaz and Veritas Ratio -- neither one of them is terribly fond of him, after all. So, friend is just another tool in the belt, a switch blade wielded with particular effectiveness against certain types of people.
He'd told Sunday they might be friends. Now, as he watches the steel in him bend and rust before his eyes, he wonders how he'd even meant it. Sunday is doubtless a valuable asset, and if he thinks the two of them friends, it makes both of their lives so much easier, but... is that how he'd intended it?
Aventurine is, admittedly, unsure.
All he knows is, it aches a little, watching Sunday's fire dwindle down to embers, wings sagging.
So, as a friend would, he provides a bit of distraction, slinging an arm around Sunday's shoulders. It's a decidedly chummy gesture, dragging him in closer.
Aventurine only knows as much about Stellarons as is necessary for work, which, thanks to a certain Trailblazer's involvement in Penacony, recently became a great deal more than he'd known before. Still, even with P45 clearance, he is not privy to all the universe's secrets. ]
Stellarons, hm? Well, the Marketing Department has us calling them "The Cancer of All Worlds." Really want us to drive home how scary they are. They're Imaginary energy disruptors, right? Supposedly, they can grant wishes, but at the cost of warping people, destroying ecosystems, creating Fragmentum, making interstellar travel itself choppy and unsafe...
[ And even with all the terrors the IPC's official channels assure are part and parcel of a Stellaron's existence, he would still probably use one, anyway, given the chance. ]
[An arm curls around his shoulders, and he is suddenly tugged in close against Aventurine. His wings ruffle then flap frantically, knocking the Stoneheart in the face with silvery white pinions.]
...That is all true, however...
[Should he explain the history of Stellarons? Somehow, it feels like violating Gopher Wood's trust, though he isn't sure why.]
There is a bit more to them. Perhaps we should grab some coffee somewhere so I can explain?
[ Ah, well, a wing to the face isn't half as bad as a threat or a hand around the throat. Aventurine sputters, draws away by an inch, but he'll take it without comment.
The hand not draped over Sunday's shoulder swipes across his face, pushing his bangs back into place. He steals a glance around the administrative district. They've drawn a few glances – or, Aventurine suspects, his lovely Foxian wife has drawn a few glances – but nothing seems an outward threat.
If Sunday thinks there's time for coffee, then... ]
There-
[ He points down the street, past the vertical rail station, to a sign hanging over a storefront. A little cafe.
Aventurine glances at Sunday, to see whether he approves. ]
[Sunday turns to look where Aventurine is pointing. A quaint little cafe, its storefront is warm and welcoming in this bitter cold.
Yet he can't help but feel they should take their conversation somewhere more private. If the truth of the Stellaron upsets Aventurine at all, he won't want anyone seeing his reaction. That is the reason they should duck away somewhere. Or, at least, it is the only reason Sunday allows himself to acknowledge.]
Somewhere more private, I think.
But let's purchase some coffee first. We both could use the warmth.
[ Ah, so this is no mere history lesson. This must be what Ratio bartered for when he'd sold him out on Penacony; all part of the plan in the end, that messy business, but goodness he'd been quite smug about what he'd gotten.
Aventurine breathes a wry huff, gaze sweeping the street for a place that might be private enough. There are dark, narrow alleys aplenty, but those look positively miserable. If he'd had his druthers, it'd be somewhere inside, away from the cold. No guarantee of privacy in any shops or the museum, and no chance of entry into the administrative building, itself.
Really, there's just one place that fits the bill. Ridiculous.
Aventurine lets his hand slip from Sunday's shoulder, thoughtless fingertips faintly brushing the small of his back before he gestures straight ahead, where the road splits again, the Goethe Hotel. ]
Well! We'll be needing rooms anyway, won't we? We'll get one, for husband and wifey. Then you can do some of your mind control magic- [ He wiggles his fingers, pantomiming casting a spell, knowing full and intimately well that that is not how Tuning works. ] -and use my card to get yourself another one, later.
[Sunday's feathers splay and his body tenses when he feels Aventurine touch his back. There is an urge to hiss and jerk violently away, but he lets it pass out of him in a low breath.
How casually Aventurine touches him now. Only a few days earlier, he'd been terrified at the idea of just being in a room together.]
The Hotel, then. [A husband and wife would be expected to room together and share a bed. He is grateful that Aventurine quickly offers him a way of getting his own room later.] Very well.
[It's a plan, or at least the beginning of one. The rest, he hopes, will crystallize after they've warmed up and Aventurine is armed with knowledge that might soon be terribly relevant.
But first, coffee.
The interior of the cafe is cozy, and almost quaint when compared to the cafes of Penacony with their neon lights and moving signs. Sunday decides he prefers Belobog's version of a cafe. Penacony would be overstimulating if he hadn't grown up there.
When he looks at the menu board, his gaze lingers on the description of a caramel latte with a sweet cream topping. He orders a black coffee.]
[ Aventurine pretends not to notice Sunday's discomfort. It's good to test, he supposes, how much their boundaries have begun to bend and shift (not much, apparently), to study and learn how the bird reacts to this or that now that they aren't perpetually on the verge of a scuffle. All the better to create a more comfortable experience for him in the long run, right? This fussy, exotic bird of his. Aventurine tells himself that even as he finds he must bite down on his cheeks to keep a smile from growing at that panicked flick of feathers.
This time, he won't lie in his own head. With Sunday seeming less terrible and terrifying to behold, those flinching, fluttering, curling wings are an undeniable delight.
He leaves well enough alone, though. For now.
In the shop, he follows Sunday's eyes, watches his hesitation, and his final order. When he steps up himself, he banters with the girl behind the counter about the city, the cold, his lovely wife before ordering a caramel latte with sweet cream topping.
They are idle for only a few minutes before both cups come up, unlidded paper cups. The latte is quite the sight, cream piled up and drizzled with gold sugar. Well, it certainly matches his aesthetics, but-
Aventurine snaps a lid on it, gives it a stir and every impression that he intends to drink it, but does not take his first sip until they are back out in the cold, on the street. He does not need to pretend to find the thing distastefully sugary, wincing at the taste. ]
Mm, oh. This is entirely too much for me. My bad for being adventurous, huh?
[ As he speaks, he shuffles the drinks, shoving his own into Sunday's empty hand and trying to steal his black coffee. ]
You don't mind if we trade? I think that'll upset my stomach.
[The caramel latte looks intriguing, its golden shine reminding him of butterscotch pudding tarts he'd eaten as a child. But his intrigue evaporates when he sees Aventurine sip from it, then wince. When the Stoneheart reaches for his coffee, Sunday pulls backward, wings flapping in alarm.]
No.
[He gasps in incredulity as he covers the lid of his cup with a protective hand.
A heartbeat passes, then he deflates slightly.]
...Trading beverages after drinking from them is unsanitary, Mister Aventurine. Why not ask for something else?
[Sunday's golden eyes swing back to the cafe door.]
[ For several long seconds, Aventurine is left well and truly speechless. He watches those wings flutter and fall, watches Sunday grasp his composure like it's a wet and slippery thing, and all the while takes care not to let either beverage spill.
What a rebuke. Aventurine takes it with a grin, mouth hanging open in disbelief. ]
You think I have cooties!
[ He sounds almost delighted, teasing. Whether he is or not is beside the point. His body is primed to react a certain way to reprimand, insult, and criticism -- water on duck feathers, and a joke to distract.
Aventurine takes the overly sugary coffee in hand, and as Sunday's attention swivels back to the coffee shop, he flounces, bound for the opposite direction -- toward the hotel. He can acknowledge, at least, that he is annoyed with himself and his ill-thought scheme, stuck now with a drink that he will not let himself throw away, but will not enjoy. ]
And there's no need to waste time or food, either. Come on. I'll survive.
[Sunday is not at Aventurine's side when he turns toward the hotel. A couple of minutes later, he elegantly steps from the door of the cafe holding a second cup of coffee.]
It is not a waste, you should not--
[Aventurine is gone.
He blinks slowly and scans the crowd until he sees the well-dressed peacock of a man standing several paces away. Even now, in a freezing environment, the Stoneheart has a better fashion sense than anyone else around.]
Here.
[Sunday lifts the second cup of coffee and smiles gently as he walks forward, steps so smooth he nearly glides.]
[ Losing track of the bird is bad enough, but once Aventurine realizes where he's gone, that brief bright flash of panic gives way to grave annoyance. He refuses to return to the coffee shop, but positions himself by a street heater, clear view of the cafe and anyone exiting or entering.
When Sunday finally emerges, two coffees in hand, Aventurine is sure he has never hated anyone more in his life. (That is hyperbole, obviously he hates Oswaldo Schneider more, but...) Hates that he doesn't listen. Hates that he's wanders off on his own. Hates that he goes out of his way over such silly, pointless things. Hates his grace and the way his soft hair frames his face. Hates the gentle pink that splashes across his fair nose and cheeks in the cold. Aeons he hates that infuriating handsome smile and his own heart for leaping and racing.
Aventurine fixes one of his inscrutable smiles on his face as he accepts this second cup, but does not relinquish the caramel drink. Now he's really going to get a stomach ache. ]
Thanks. [ He manages, a little clipped. Passive aggressively, he takes another sip of caramel latte. ] Let's get ourselves a room, hm?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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That look makes more sense now. The guy has range, that's for sure.
With a clipped hm of agreement, Aventurine leads the way from the trolley to the Administrative District's main street. He waits for Sunday to disembark, hands back in his pockets, and takes in the sights. ]
Kinda sad we have to delay that lunch.
[ But there are now more pressing matters, certainly. Not that you'd know it by looking at him. He strolls at a leisurely pace toward the incline railway that'll take them down into the Underworld.
Belobog isn't quaint, but when you've spent so much time in fantastical places like Pier Point and Penacony, it feels antique. Still, it's a pleasant walk. Heaters cut the biting cold, a crier shouts about the local news, people hurry to and fro on important business. There is a girl playing guitar on a bench. The music is nice.
There is no sign at all of brewing conflict. It is just a city, living, breathing, in spite of the cold that bears down on it. ]
They say the Eternal Freeze is ending since the Stellaron was sealed. On its own, Jarilo-VI might see its climate stabilize in a few centuries. There're talks to speed things along, but the folks here are... [ He trails off for just a moment. There is a company-approved way to end that statement, and it's right there on the tip of his tongue. But he looks Sunday over, and decides for honesty, instead. Honesty is easiest with Sunday, even if he does not believe it. ] ...understandably reluctant to indebt themselves much further with the IPC, given how we'd brought them into the fold to begin with.
[ What he means is, neither Aeon nor their factions has Belobog's best interests in mind. But, then again, not a one of THEM ever does. ]
Admirable, how well they're doing, honestly.
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Yes... People are strong.
[He says steadily.]
Even under the weight of unbearable odds, they will band together to accomplish the impossible.
[His voice grows heavy. This is a lesson he has learned, not by watching the incredible feats of humankind, but by becoming the unbearable odds himself. He remembers seeing the desperation in the dreamers as they scrambled to awaken themselves and escape the Swarm... Seeing the determination in the Nameless and their allies as they took up arms against him. They clashed against a fledgling god. And they won. They accomplished the impossible.
His wings droop to his shoulders, then flutter up again.]
What do you know about Stellarons, Mister Aventurine?
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He'd told Sunday they might be friends. Now, as he watches the steel in him bend and rust before his eyes, he wonders how he'd even meant it. Sunday is doubtless a valuable asset, and if he thinks the two of them friends, it makes both of their lives so much easier, but... is that how he'd intended it?
Aventurine is, admittedly, unsure.
All he knows is, it aches a little, watching Sunday's fire dwindle down to embers, wings sagging.
So, as a friend would, he provides a bit of distraction, slinging an arm around Sunday's shoulders. It's a decidedly chummy gesture, dragging him in closer.
Aventurine only knows as much about Stellarons as is necessary for work, which, thanks to a certain Trailblazer's involvement in Penacony, recently became a great deal more than he'd known before. Still, even with P45 clearance, he is not privy to all the universe's secrets. ]
Stellarons, hm? Well, the Marketing Department has us calling them "The Cancer of All Worlds." Really want us to drive home how scary they are. They're Imaginary energy disruptors, right? Supposedly, they can grant wishes, but at the cost of warping people, destroying ecosystems, creating Fragmentum, making interstellar travel itself choppy and unsafe...
[ And even with all the terrors the IPC's official channels assure are part and parcel of a Stellaron's existence, he would still probably use one, anyway, given the chance. ]
Lots of... rumors about their origins.
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...That is all true, however...
[Should he explain the history of Stellarons? Somehow, it feels like violating Gopher Wood's trust, though he isn't sure why.]
There is a bit more to them. Perhaps we should grab some coffee somewhere so I can explain?
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The hand not draped over Sunday's shoulder swipes across his face, pushing his bangs back into place. He steals a glance around the administrative district. They've drawn a few glances – or, Aventurine suspects, his lovely Foxian wife has drawn a few glances – but nothing seems an outward threat.
If Sunday thinks there's time for coffee, then... ]
There-
[ He points down the street, past the vertical rail station, to a sign hanging over a storefront. A little cafe.
Aventurine glances at Sunday, to see whether he approves. ]
Or somewhere more private?
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Yet he can't help but feel they should take their conversation somewhere more private. If the truth of the Stellaron upsets Aventurine at all, he won't want anyone seeing his reaction. That is the reason they should duck away somewhere. Or, at least, it is the only reason Sunday allows himself to acknowledge.]
Somewhere more private, I think.
But let's purchase some coffee first. We both could use the warmth.
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[ Ah, so this is no mere history lesson. This must be what Ratio bartered for when he'd sold him out on Penacony; all part of the plan in the end, that messy business, but goodness he'd been quite smug about what he'd gotten.
Aventurine breathes a wry huff, gaze sweeping the street for a place that might be private enough. There are dark, narrow alleys aplenty, but those look positively miserable. If he'd had his druthers, it'd be somewhere inside, away from the cold. No guarantee of privacy in any shops or the museum, and no chance of entry into the administrative building, itself.
Really, there's just one place that fits the bill. Ridiculous.
Aventurine lets his hand slip from Sunday's shoulder, thoughtless fingertips faintly brushing the small of his back before he gestures straight ahead, where the road splits again, the Goethe Hotel. ]
Well! We'll be needing rooms anyway, won't we? We'll get one, for husband and wifey. Then you can do some of your mind control magic- [ He wiggles his fingers, pantomiming casting a spell, knowing full and intimately well that that is not how Tuning works. ] -and use my card to get yourself another one, later.
[ Most of a plan. But first, coffee. ]
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How casually Aventurine touches him now. Only a few days earlier, he'd been terrified at the idea of just being in a room together.]
The Hotel, then. [A husband and wife would be expected to room together and share a bed. He is grateful that Aventurine quickly offers him a way of getting his own room later.] Very well.
[It's a plan, or at least the beginning of one. The rest, he hopes, will crystallize after they've warmed up and Aventurine is armed with knowledge that might soon be terribly relevant.
But first, coffee.
The interior of the cafe is cozy, and almost quaint when compared to the cafes of Penacony with their neon lights and moving signs. Sunday decides he prefers Belobog's version of a cafe. Penacony would be overstimulating if he hadn't grown up there.
When he looks at the menu board, his gaze lingers on the description of a caramel latte with a sweet cream topping. He orders a black coffee.]
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This time, he won't lie in his own head. With Sunday seeming less terrible and terrifying to behold, those flinching, fluttering, curling wings are an undeniable delight.
He leaves well enough alone, though. For now.
In the shop, he follows Sunday's eyes, watches his hesitation, and his final order. When he steps up himself, he banters with the girl behind the counter about the city, the cold, his lovely wife before ordering a caramel latte with sweet cream topping.
They are idle for only a few minutes before both cups come up, unlidded paper cups. The latte is quite the sight, cream piled up and drizzled with gold sugar. Well, it certainly matches his aesthetics, but-
Aventurine snaps a lid on it, gives it a stir and every impression that he intends to drink it, but does not take his first sip until they are back out in the cold, on the street. He does not need to pretend to find the thing distastefully sugary, wincing at the taste. ]
Mm, oh. This is entirely too much for me. My bad for being adventurous, huh?
[ As he speaks, he shuffles the drinks, shoving his own into Sunday's empty hand and trying to steal his black coffee. ]
You don't mind if we trade? I think that'll upset my stomach.
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No.
[He gasps in incredulity as he covers the lid of his cup with a protective hand.
A heartbeat passes, then he deflates slightly.]
...Trading beverages after drinking from them is unsanitary, Mister Aventurine. Why not ask for something else?
[Sunday's golden eyes swing back to the cafe door.]
I don't mind waiting. There is no need to rush.
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What a rebuke. Aventurine takes it with a grin, mouth hanging open in disbelief. ]
You think I have cooties!
[ He sounds almost delighted, teasing. Whether he is or not is beside the point. His body is primed to react a certain way to reprimand, insult, and criticism -- water on duck feathers, and a joke to distract.
Aventurine takes the overly sugary coffee in hand, and as Sunday's attention swivels back to the coffee shop, he flounces, bound for the opposite direction -- toward the hotel. He can acknowledge, at least, that he is annoyed with himself and his ill-thought scheme, stuck now with a drink that he will not let himself throw away, but will not enjoy. ]
And there's no need to waste time or food, either. Come on. I'll survive.
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It is not a waste, you should not--
[Aventurine is gone.
He blinks slowly and scans the crowd until he sees the well-dressed peacock of a man standing several paces away. Even now, in a freezing environment, the Stoneheart has a better fashion sense than anyone else around.]
Here.
[Sunday lifts the second cup of coffee and smiles gently as he walks forward, steps so smooth he nearly glides.]
No sense in making yourself ill.
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When Sunday finally emerges, two coffees in hand, Aventurine is sure he has never hated anyone more in his life. (That is hyperbole, obviously he hates Oswaldo Schneider more, but...) Hates that he doesn't listen. Hates that he's wanders off on his own. Hates that he goes out of his way over such silly, pointless things. Hates his grace and the way his soft hair frames his face. Hates the gentle pink that splashes across his fair nose and cheeks in the cold. Aeons he hates that infuriating handsome smile and his own heart for leaping and racing.
Aventurine fixes one of his inscrutable smiles on his face as he accepts this second cup, but does not relinquish the caramel drink. Now he's really going to get a stomach ache. ]
Thanks. [ He manages, a little clipped. Passive aggressively, he takes another sip of caramel latte. ] Let's get ourselves a room, hm?
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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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