[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?
[Sunday's wings pin back against his shoulders at Aventurine's clipped tone. Somehow, he's clearly stepped out of line in his eagerness to help.]
Sorry.
[He mutters, averting his gaze to the ground with a furrowed brow. Tensed feathers visibly wilt as he pushes forward to lead the silent walk to the hotel.
By the time they reach the lobby, he still has not spoken to Aventurine, worried that doing so would only further irritate the other man.
His golden eyes lift to stare up at the towering heaters. They are a remarkable feat of engineering. Aesthetically, they are pleasant and blend into the local architecture. The warmth they cast off is equally impressive. If he spends too long here, he will need to remove his coat.
He is so lost in thought that it takes a moment for him to realize the receptionist is talking to him when she asks, "Can I help you, miss?"
He approaches the desk with a proud stride. The foxian woman sways her hips.]
Hello, my husband and I would like a room.
[His voice rises from his throat with a musical lilt. The foxian waves her tail at the receptionist, who grins and says something about checking the bottom drawer of the nightstand if they need anything before handing over a key card.]
[ Ah, and there goes all that vinegar. The pretty winter flower wilts before his eyes, warm smile going cold and blank, and Aventurine bites down on his cheeks. Anything to keep from reacting outwardly, anything to distract himself from how painfully tight everything in his chest winds.
This is so... foolish. They have bigger things to worry about than coffee and hurt feelings.
Aventurine tastes copper, and still does not relax.
He follows a pace behind, coffees in hand, total silence at odds with his otherwise easy stride. He does not speak until he's stepped up beside Sunday, set one of his coffees on the counter, and produced a black credit card. And even then, it's only to make a sugary joke as he slides the card across the counter to pay for the room. ]
We love our caffeine at the IPC.
[ Somehow, he manages to cast an affectionate glance at his lovely foxian wife, imply he may need the extra energy for other things, without betraying the way his heart sinks at the sight of Sunday's dour expression. Foolish, foolish, foolish.
Card put on file and returned, they are directed to the elevator. It's a short, quiet ride up and walk down a hall to their room- to one of their rooms. (It's not like they'll be sharing one.) By the time they arrive at the door, Aventurine is no longer pretending not to frown. He lets Sunday open the door, follows in behind, and sets the caramel drink on the bed stand. In an effort to distract himself from this wretched spiral he's found himself in, he immediately opens that nightstand drawer for a peek at what's inside.
Ah, yes. That makes sense. In a world where there's just one city, and that city spent centuries steadily shrinking, the only way a hotel like this operates for as long as this one has is by providing... exciting services to couples of all stripes. A soft, thoughtful hum escapes him before he slides the drawer shut again and slides into a chair at the room's lone table. Finally, he takes a drink of black coffee, and levels a gaze that can only really be described as apologetic at Sunday. ]
Thank you for the coffee. [ He says, a little softer, a little more genuine this time. ] So, Stellarons...?
[Sunday watches Aventurine peruse the contents of the drawer. He doesn't ask what is in it; he can guess with some certainty what a couple might "need" in a hotel room. Aventurine's lack of surprise is all the confirmation he requires.]
So, Stellarons...
[He echoes as Aventurine sits at a table near a window overlooking the Administrative District. Sunday doesn't follow, deciding the Stoneheart might still need some space. He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap.
Where to even start with Stellarons? The truth of them feels like a heavy, terrible secret, but it is slowly occurring to him that it might not be that much of a shock to anyone outside The Family. They weren't raised on a lie. ]
The ruin they leave in their wake has convinced the public that they are creations of Nanook. Stellarons, however, grant the desires of the people they commune with, albeit in terrible ways. That is not something the Destruction would do, is it? Since when does Nanook bother with wishes?
[He draws a breath.]
Stellarons were created by Xipe. What you call the Cancer of All Worlds is the Harmonic Cancer. [Which brings him to his real point, he lifts his gaze to meet the Stoneheart's prismatic eyes.]
Mister Aventurine, this world was taken by the Harmony centuries ago. That is why The Family is here: to secure their conquest. They are not likely to let the IPC reclaim Jarilo-VI without a fight.
[ When Sunday does not join him at the table, Aventurine realizes with no small amount of guilt that he has put himself squarely in the dog house. And so soon after he'd promised to be better behaved. This is why he does not have friends.
Resigned, he sits and waits for Sunday explain, struck by how he seems to hesitate. Very quickly, he realizes why, reaffirmed in the knowledge that it'd been stupid to cause a fuss over coffee. He sits up a little straighter at that -- Harmonic Cancer.
In their extensive research into Penacony, Aventurine and his team had turned up a few theories tying Celenova and even the Family to the existence of Stellarons, but theories about Stellaron origins are as many and varied as stars in the sky. Harmony's connection to them had been a thread he'd been willing to leave dangling. A rip cord to pull in case of emergency, not knowing what would happen when he did, half expecting nothing at all.
To hear the man who'd been powerful enough to serve as Chordmaster admit to it, well... he supposes the conspiracy theory has become simply conspiracy. Without his notice, a soft breath escapes him, almost a sigh. His gaze falls. ]
Mm.
[ Aventurine pulls out his phone. First, a message to Topaz. He composes and deletes several versions, trying to think his way around warning her -- and by extension, those in charge of Belobog -- without tangling Sunday or Robin too heavily in the IPC's business by association. What he settles on is two messages:
You owe me a drink for this one... In your favorite town to drop off a surprise for you and, wouldn't you know it, it seems a new family is trying to move into your old place.
She'll figure out what to do from there. So, he sets his phone face down on the table and lifts his attention to Sunday's sunset eyes once more. ]
That secret's a hell of a weight to bear, Mister Sunday.
[ He has no loyalty to Aeons, but Sunday still has ties to the people that align themselves with them. For Aventurine, it's an easy matter. All for the Amber Lord, always. But for Sunday... ]
Knowing that, I have to act here, but... Belobog falls into the grip of one faction or another, either way. You're alright with that being the IPC? With being complicit in upending the Family's interests?
Your loyalty to your people is commendable, Mister Aventurine.
[Sunday says with a dark huff and isn't sure if he is being bitter or sarcastic. Loyalty is a fine attribute to have. He'd demanded it from his underlings and faithful on Penacony.
Yet he's never felt it himself. He isn't loyal to The Family, or the shattered remnants of the Beyond the Sky Choir who called themselves Oak. He is loyal only to himself, his younger sister, and the happiness of a people he once believed would never find peace without guidance.]
I severed myself from The Family years ago, the day I committed my life to usurping the power of Ena. What I want is only for the people of this planet to live in peace...and be free.
[He lifts a hand to his chest.]
Many of them may currently hate the IPC, but if The Family takes this world, that may be the last opinion they ever have. I cannot allow that to happen, so I am willing to consider the IPC the lesser of two evils.
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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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Sorry.
[He mutters, averting his gaze to the ground with a furrowed brow. Tensed feathers visibly wilt as he pushes forward to lead the silent walk to the hotel.
By the time they reach the lobby, he still has not spoken to Aventurine, worried that doing so would only further irritate the other man.
His golden eyes lift to stare up at the towering heaters. They are a remarkable feat of engineering. Aesthetically, they are pleasant and blend into the local architecture. The warmth they cast off is equally impressive. If he spends too long here, he will need to remove his coat.
He is so lost in thought that it takes a moment for him to realize the receptionist is talking to him when she asks, "Can I help you, miss?"
He approaches the desk with a proud stride. The foxian woman sways her hips.]
Hello, my husband and I would like a room.
[His voice rises from his throat with a musical lilt. The foxian waves her tail at the receptionist, who grins and says something about checking the bottom drawer of the nightstand if they need anything before handing over a key card.]
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This is so... foolish. They have bigger things to worry about than coffee and hurt feelings.
Aventurine tastes copper, and still does not relax.
He follows a pace behind, coffees in hand, total silence at odds with his otherwise easy stride. He does not speak until he's stepped up beside Sunday, set one of his coffees on the counter, and produced a black credit card. And even then, it's only to make a sugary joke as he slides the card across the counter to pay for the room. ]
We love our caffeine at the IPC.
[ Somehow, he manages to cast an affectionate glance at his lovely foxian wife, imply he may need the extra energy for other things, without betraying the way his heart sinks at the sight of Sunday's dour expression. Foolish, foolish, foolish.
Card put on file and returned, they are directed to the elevator. It's a short, quiet ride up and walk down a hall to their room- to one of their rooms. (It's not like they'll be sharing one.) By the time they arrive at the door, Aventurine is no longer pretending not to frown. He lets Sunday open the door, follows in behind, and sets the caramel drink on the bed stand. In an effort to distract himself from this wretched spiral he's found himself in, he immediately opens that nightstand drawer for a peek at what's inside.
Ah, yes. That makes sense. In a world where there's just one city, and that city spent centuries steadily shrinking, the only way a hotel like this operates for as long as this one has is by providing... exciting services to couples of all stripes. A soft, thoughtful hum escapes him before he slides the drawer shut again and slides into a chair at the room's lone table. Finally, he takes a drink of black coffee, and levels a gaze that can only really be described as apologetic at Sunday. ]
Thank you for the coffee. [ He says, a little softer, a little more genuine this time. ] So, Stellarons...?
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So, Stellarons...
[He echoes as Aventurine sits at a table near a window overlooking the Administrative District. Sunday doesn't follow, deciding the Stoneheart might still need some space. He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap.
Where to even start with Stellarons? The truth of them feels like a heavy, terrible secret, but it is slowly occurring to him that it might not be that much of a shock to anyone outside The Family. They weren't raised on a lie. ]
The ruin they leave in their wake has convinced the public that they are creations of Nanook. Stellarons, however, grant the desires of the people they commune with, albeit in terrible ways. That is not something the Destruction would do, is it? Since when does Nanook bother with wishes?
[He draws a breath.]
Stellarons were created by Xipe. What you call the Cancer of All Worlds is the Harmonic Cancer. [Which brings him to his real point, he lifts his gaze to meet the Stoneheart's prismatic eyes.]
Mister Aventurine, this world was taken by the Harmony centuries ago. That is why The Family is here: to secure their conquest. They are not likely to let the IPC reclaim Jarilo-VI without a fight.
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Resigned, he sits and waits for Sunday explain, struck by how he seems to hesitate. Very quickly, he realizes why, reaffirmed in the knowledge that it'd been stupid to cause a fuss over coffee. He sits up a little straighter at that -- Harmonic Cancer.
In their extensive research into Penacony, Aventurine and his team had turned up a few theories tying Celenova and even the Family to the existence of Stellarons, but theories about Stellaron origins are as many and varied as stars in the sky. Harmony's connection to them had been a thread he'd been willing to leave dangling. A rip cord to pull in case of emergency, not knowing what would happen when he did, half expecting nothing at all.
To hear the man who'd been powerful enough to serve as Chordmaster admit to it, well... he supposes the conspiracy theory has become simply conspiracy. Without his notice, a soft breath escapes him, almost a sigh. His gaze falls. ]
Mm.
[ Aventurine pulls out his phone. First, a message to Topaz. He composes and deletes several versions, trying to think his way around warning her -- and by extension, those in charge of Belobog -- without tangling Sunday or Robin too heavily in the IPC's business by association. What he settles on is two messages:
You owe me a drink for this one...
In your favorite town to drop off a surprise for you and, wouldn't you know it, it seems a new family is trying to move into your old place.
She'll figure out what to do from there. So, he sets his phone face down on the table and lifts his attention to Sunday's sunset eyes once more. ]
That secret's a hell of a weight to bear, Mister Sunday.
[ He has no loyalty to Aeons, but Sunday still has ties to the people that align themselves with them. For Aventurine, it's an easy matter. All for the Amber Lord, always. But for Sunday... ]
Knowing that, I have to act here, but... Belobog falls into the grip of one faction or another, either way. You're alright with that being the IPC? With being complicit in upending the Family's interests?
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[Sunday says with a dark huff and isn't sure if he is being bitter or sarcastic. Loyalty is a fine attribute to have. He'd demanded it from his underlings and faithful on Penacony.
Yet he's never felt it himself. He isn't loyal to The Family, or the shattered remnants of the Beyond the Sky Choir who called themselves Oak. He is loyal only to himself, his younger sister, and the happiness of a people he once believed would never find peace without guidance.]
I severed myself from The Family years ago, the day I committed my life to usurping the power of Ena. What I want is only for the people of this planet to live in peace...and be free.
[He lifts a hand to his chest.]
Many of them may currently hate the IPC, but if The Family takes this world, that may be the last opinion they ever have. I cannot allow that to happen, so I am willing to consider the IPC the lesser of two evils.
Please, do not make me regret this.
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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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