[ His loyalty. What a joke. Aventurine laughs, a quiet, hollow sound he stoppers with a press of his knuckles to his mouth. What the IPC and Preservation and Diamond all have is his service, his skillset, and only so long as allying himself to them is advantageous. Just as soon as the right pieces are in play and the right moves have been made, he can get what he really wants, life, the universe, everything be damned.
He hates himself for it, for being nothing but a wisp of vengeance in the rough shape of a man.
Sunday speaks of usurping Ena, and Aventurine has to hide a growing grin. He leans heavily against his hand, chin dipping, but gemstone eyes tipped up to peer at Sunday through the spill of blonde hair. Had his gambit on Penacony failed, had Sunday ascended truly and not squashed him on the spot, he knows where loyalty would've gone -- out the window, delivered to Domination's doorstep. He's always known, but hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. In his mind, the Bronze Melodia and Oswaldo Schneider were two cut from the same cloth, everything Aventurine hates. Coming to know him better now, even though they seem constantly at odds, Aventurine cannot deny how easy the choice would've been.
He might've even enjoyed it for a bit, destroying another old Order to make room for the new, cutting down one corruption of Trailblaze to uplift another. He certainly would've been good at it.
But that didn't happen. They are two mortal men, playing a dangerous game of chess on the frontlines of a not-yet-declared war. Knight and bishop with no loyalty to either side, wishing to put both kings in check.
His free hand drifts down and presses the power button on his phone. He waits for the pleasant IPC jingle that plays before their electronics shut down. A silence settles, heavy, long, until finally he works up the nerve to murmur aloud what he has so long held to his chest: ]
I'm not loyal to the IPC.
[ Aventurine swallows, sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. To say more than that... it would loop Sunday into something he needn't be involved with, something too dangerous for a bird with injured wings just learning to fly again. ]
I can't promise we won't both have regrets, Mister Sunday. [ he says, wry. ] But I won't let Harmony erase happiness. And I won't let what matters to you be put at risk. Preservation isn't Permanence, you know, so... it's the better option, hm?
Aren't you loyal to them? The last thing I recall before I was torn from the heavens was a unified cry of "All for the Amber Lord!"
[His voice thickens, but he doesn't begrudge Aventurine's role in his Fall. If he had succeeded in dominating the Asdana Starsystem, his paradise would not look the way he wanted it to. It would not be a paradise at all; it would be a brightly lit hell of his own making, reflecting his anguish into the universe.
Aventurine had saved the cosmos, saved Robin, and saved him.
The IPC had helped, but he knows whose schemes had actually been the new Ena's undoing.
He shakes his head slowly.]
If you are not loyal to them, then why attach yourself to their ambitions? You are clever enough to survive without them.
[ Honestly what Aventurine finds most surprising about all this is Sunday's surprise. All that work done to cast himself as the soulless corporate mercenary, and Mister Law and Order, himself, is shocked to learn that Aventurine's devotion to Preservation does not extend beyond the benefits package. It's sort of cute, but now isn't the time. Sunday brings up what Aventurine has taken care to dance around, himself, certain it would simply devolve into getting his neck wrung.
Not that he isn't constantly inviting that sort of thing with Sunday, already, anyway.
He sighs. ]
It wasn't company loyalty or religious fervor. Or, at least... not mine. [ Aventurine looks away. ] At the risk of sounding blasphemously arrogant... Qlipoth was simply a convenient tool to stop you from changing the meaning of Order in the universe. If you took away pain and doubt and choice, then what're we left with? Not happiness, I'm afraid. And-
[ That's not what he asked. Aventurine lowers his head, scrubs his palm over the back of his neck. ]
-I told you, I have work to do. Your ambitions interfered with that work. I- hm.
[ Here he stops, stands, abruptly, and scoops up his phone. He crosses the little room, opens the door, and wings his phone down the long, empty hall. It'll be fine. Or, it should be, he paid a small fortune for it and its fancy case. He can fetch the thing after this part, but he doesn't want anything that could listen within earshot.
Aventurine shuts the door and seats himself on the bed, two bodies worth of space between the two of them. His hands ball to fists against his legs. For just a few seconds, he is Kakavasha. ]
Diamond's Stonehearts are hand chosen. All of us, ambitious. All of us... missing something that only Diamond can possibly provide. We're all buying something, and paying for it with unerring service in the coming Aeon war. I... [ This is exactly what he didn't want happening. Shit. He turns to look at Sunday, that everpresent smile nowhere to be found. ] ...if I tell you, it's going to... it'll embroil you in a mess I'm not sure you want anything to do with.
[Sunday watches Aventurine pitch his phone out the door and cross back to the bed. Whatever he has to say, it is something he is afraid of the IPC hearing. It is personal, important, and Sunday has trouble imagining what it could be.
Aventurine sits on the bed, creating a dip that would angle them together if they were sitting any closer.]
You released me from a prison cell and are escorting me across the cosmos [Sunday regards the earnest face that turns to him. There is no charming smile there, so he makes one of his own.]
Our fates are already entangled. Please do not worry about me. If something is bothering you, I would like to know. After all, listening has always been my job.
Fates entangled? [ Aventurine can't help the huff of laughter that rushes out of him. ] Sunday.
[ This ridiculous, persnickety bird. Aventurine spends so much time making himself easy to leave behind, to disentangle from, and Sunday leaps so thoughtlessly into his web wearing a smile that feels like a mild summer sun. Looking at him, something fiercely protective burns to life in Aventurine's chest. Not merely from greater danger, but from himself. He is not worthy of such kindness. Does Sunday not see that he offers warmth to a snake? A murderer? A monster?
Aventurine shuts his eyes. He cannot let Sunday entertain the foolish idea that the man sat before him is worthy of understanding, of light. ]
Through Diamond, I get vengeance for my people.
[ Even that can be misconstrued. He has to clarify. ]
I'll destroy the man who lured the Avgin to slaughter and left them to die. His work, his legacy, everything he's touched, everything he loves. Oswaldo Schneider. The Marketing Development Department. The... IPC itself, if I have to.
[ He breathes a shuddered sigh, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye. ]
[Sunday averts his gaze and looks at the carpeted floor.]
I understand.
[He says softly, and knows Aventurine won't believe him.
The Oak Family Head was the model of moral virtue in Penacony. Few knew his true nature. Few know that he stalked the bars of his self-made cage like a cornered predator: powerful, dangerous, and unpredictable. When he thought Robin had been murdered, he himself became murderous.
Aventurine had seen that, at least, but even then he didn't know the fire in the Bronze Melodia's heart. Sunday still remembers that feeling. He would have done anything to avenge Robin's death. He would have killed for her. His thoughts had been tangled into one single goal at the time.
Revenge. Revenge. REVENGE.
Looking back on it, he thinks it is a small miracle he didn't spiral worse than he did. Only Aventurine took the sharp end of his wrath.]
I know it may not seem so, but I have had fantasies of divine vengeance for my entire life. When I thought Robin died, it nearly broke me. I was one step away from madness in every direction. I felt I had to execute her killer with my own hands or be haunted by her death forever...
[His brow furrows as he focuses on a moat of dust drifting across the floor in the slanted beams of sunlight.]
She was my tipping point. I was already wroth. I was angry at the gods for never answering the prayers of my people...And... Angry at the universe--no, the Stellarons--for taking my family, my entire world.
[One hand drops from his lap to clench sheets into a fist and squeeze until he feels the emotion threatening to pour out of him start to ebb.]
I mention all of this to illustrate a point, not to gain your sympathy.
I've been vengeful, so I know what it is like. I know, also, what it is like to focus your entire being on one single ambition. So I hope you understand that I speak from experience when I say revenge makes a poor foundation for a life without other motivations besides it.
[Now, finally, he lifts his gaze to meet Aventurine's once more. His golden eyes are bright.]
I will not help you kill Oswaldo Schneider, but I will not stand in your way either, nor will I stay your hand if you get your opportunity...
What I will do is help you find those other motivations for living. That is, if you will permit me to do so.
[ Aventurine does not doubt that Sunday understands at least some part of the yawning hunger in him. He may still have his sister, but there is little else the former Bronze Melodia has not lost. He has ample reason to boil over with rage, with despair -- and he has, Aventurine is intimately familiar with that scorching flame. It will never not be odd, he thinks, to find him so gentle, now. Those gloved fingers curling into the sheet speak to feeling far more familiar. Aventurine stares at Sunday's clenched hand and the wrinkles of fabric between each finger, feels the patter of his heart redouble. He cannot look away.
What he thinks Sunday cannot possibly understand is that he is already dead. Beneath the veneer, it's just smoke and mirrors. His is not a life, but a mission with an end point, and an aurora on the other side. ]
I wouldn't ask you to-
[ Aventurine starts to interrupt him, but Sunday manages to finish his thought. It is... not what he expects.
Aventurine lives in a world of double and triple meanings, plans that twist and turn with roots as deep as the Imaginary Tree. Not getting involved, turning a blind eye -- it's practically the first paragraph of the Stoneheart handbook. Leave each Liquidation Specialist to their own business. He has taken such care to cultivate a persona non grata, to be the sort of man that even close allies would hesitate to call friend.
Sunday will not meddle in his work, no. What he asks for is more.
Finally, he tears his gaze away from the fist grabbing fabric, meets Sunday's morning light eyes, and immediately looks away. A heavy rush of air escapes him, a thousand responses vying for first place right away. The smart thing, the right thing to do is forbid him from anything so foolish. Sunday is meant to walk the Path of Trailblaze, to prove that its course, once corrupted, can be righted again -- he has no business bothering with ghosts.
But Aventurine can't bring himself to say no. Not here, not now, not when confronted with such direct kindness for the first time in longer than he can recall. No conditions, no buts, no reservations, Sunday just cares. And Aventurine wants that care, aeons he would never allow himself to have it, but he is greedy enough to desire it, in whatever form it takes.
A sudden dizzy spell makes him realize he's been holding his breath. Finally, he turns to look at Sunday again, jewel eyes appraising, a little tired. He should say no. He should tell Sunday it's a foolish, pointless idea. He should kick Sunday out of the room until his own heart has slowed its racing and his face stops feeling warm. ]
If that's really what you want to try, Feathers, I won't stop you.
[Sunday watches a flurry of emotions, or maybe thoughts, cross Aventurine's face. He is noticing things about his companion now; the dip of eyelashes when he isn't sure what to say, how he turns his back whenever he feels vulnerable, the way he rests his chin in his hand, his wrists, his mouth, the way he walks, things Sunday never noticed about anyone else.
He hopes his attention isn't too obvious.]
It is what I want.
[The Harmony teaches that the strong must uplift the weak. Far too often, they do not. So two broken men may need to uplift each other.]
If you require a selfish reason for my efforts, then, well...
I shattered when I fell from the heavens. Not just physically, but spiritually. I am...still attempting to gather the fragments of myself and shape them into something resembling a life. Maybe I am hoping that by helping you do the same, I can gain some insight.
[He shifts sideways and reaches for Aventurine's hand to give a reassuring squeeze, but thinks better of it. His fingers pause in the space between them, grasping at nothing.]
Loss doesn't need to be an end, right? With effort, it can become growth. Why not find out if we can still grow? Or if we are salted earth.
[A gentle grin settles on his features, then thins into a thoughtful frown.]
[ Silly bird, calling his own kindness selfish; ready to muddy himself in the disastrous mess of Aventurine's half-life while denying himself proper, enjoyable pleasures like music and (disgusting) caramel coffee.
If he did not know the man better, he would think Sunday a terrible romantic. Aventurine sighs, fond, gaze lingering on the hand hanging between them.
Here is another thing Sunday wants but will not take. Though this is one Aventurine does not really understand, he is not about to let Sunday deny himself more comfort while eagerly shouldering so much trouble. Someone must make sure Sunday secures a little happiness for himself; Aventurine doesn't mind taking on the responsibility half as much as he thinks he should. ]
Gardening, huh? We can give it a shot. No promises.
[ All the same, he lifts his own hand, slides fingers up Sunday's palm and takes his hand with a squeeze. His pulse roars, frantic, stuck between fear and something else. He ignores it, lets his grin return, slanted, and angles himself to face Sunday, letting their joined hands fall to the bed. ]
But there's gotta be one nickname you'll let me have. What about Sunny?
[Sunday's wings slowly flare out when Aventurine takes his hand. The touch is surprising, but not unwelcome.]
I would rather not be Sunny either. Is Sunday such a fuss to say?
[He asks, staring at their joined fingers.
How long has he wanted this? This gentle acknowledgement of mutual affection for each other?
A long time.
Magazines from around the stars came through Penacony's tourism-filled streets, and the Stonehearts were a frequent topic of gossip. Somehow, the IPC's Strategic Investment Department had become celebrities in their own right, doing photoshoots and interviews as if they were film stars and not people who brought civilizations to their knees in the name of profit.
Sunday hadn't understood the fascination save with one: Aventurine. He'd kept articles about the man in his desk, and looked through every photoshoot he saw. Here was someone who had been through so much and yet felt comfortable leaving his life up to the whims of fate. Someone who had been through loss like him, yet had grown to be the embodiment of a part of Sunday that had been buried deep and smothered by Order.
He couldn't help his admiration. He still can't.
He thinks again about pulling the Stoneheart into his embrace and holding him in the protective cage of his arms, keeping him safe from a world that has been far too cruel to him. And the thought shames him.
Aventurine is a celebrity, he reminds himself. One with many friends in high places. He has, and deserves, better friends than the fallen Bronze Melodia. Sunday still wants to help him, but it would be foolish to think Aventurine would ever truly desire a connection.
Slowly, he turns away, feeling a flush of pink creep across his cheeks. His wings flutter forward to hide the blush from Aventurine's eyes.]
If you start calling me Sunny, I may need to call you Churin. Can you live with that?
[He gently withdraws his hand and places it in his lap, his gaze still fixed to the floor.]
Sunday curls away so abruptly, closing up like a flower at day's end. But this is not the familiar disgust that surfaces when Aventurine makes himself too much on purpose. And, more pressing, Aventurine is glad that this is something else, that he is not driving Sunday away.
Not a romantic, he'd thought. It seems a bit of recalculating is in order.
He has a lot to think about, just now. Harmony's presence and the origins of Stellarons and the rot within the IPC and his phone out in the hall and three cups of wasted coffee and- ]
Churin?
[ Aventurine whispers it, wide-eyed, pupils dilating. Not Gambler, not Peacock, not Sigonian. Just now, getting a closer look at the rosy color he knows is splashed across that fair face moves to the top of the priority list.
He swallows, scoots a few inches closer, but leaving ample space between the two of them. Yes, he could very much live with the sort of nickname that does not carry the loathsome weight of negative implications. Yes, he wants it, so much. Terribly. But what he wants doesn't matter half as much as- ]
Would you like that? [ Cool, but curious, he asks his question like his heart isn't trying to climb out of his throat. Aventurine lifts a hand, wanting to grasp Sunday's face and get himself a better look at that lovely flush of warmth, but he won't touch those wings without permission. This will have to suffice, getting closer, savoring the way Sunday squirms. Oh, he is a terrible person. ] Calling me Churin, Sunny?
[Sunday stiffens when Aventurine scoots closer. He is unsure of what the other man wants, though he gets the impression he is being teased.
Silver feathers part just enough to reveal one eye, staring out with a mixture of suspicion and incredulity.]
You are mocking me, Mister Aventurine.
[He scolds, then notices the dilated pupils, turning Aventurine's jewel-like eyes into dusky pools of twilight. The sight makes his heart leap and flutter like a wounded Charmony Dove. And, judging by the warmth he feels rising within him, is also making his blush worse.
He feels foolish. A man his age should not blush like a schoolgirl or one of Veritas Ratio's breathless fans.]
Would you like to be called Churin?
[There is a light and airy note to his question that he struggles to maintain. Otherwise, he is sure his voice will turn thick and heavy in a way he doesn't want to explain. Not to Aventurine or to himself.]
It is a simple desire, if so, and one I'm happy to fulfill.
[ Endlessly frustrating, how he pulls himself to heel, how tight-fisted he is with the very idea that he might want something, turning everything back on Aventurine. Sunday works so hard to hide what he truly feels, who he truly is, but no amount of willpower can conceal what blood and feathers so quickly reveal. Maddening man. It only makes Aventurine want to wedge fingers into the gaps he's made in that armor and peel them back further. ]
I'm not mocking. I'm teasing. There's a very subtle but artful difference, you know.
[ Aventurine looks every bit the fox who's found the chicken coop as he moves closer still.
That glimpse of rosy skin afforded by parting feathers is astoundingly satisfying. When the faintest hint of that same heat touches just a few frayed edges of Sunday's voice, it becomes exponentially harder to be happy with just this much.
The kindest thing would be to allow Sunday his dignity. Hadn't he just gotten done calling the idea of a shared drink unsanitary? Aventurine reminds himself of why there are three undrunk coffees sitting in this room with them, a desperate, last ditch effort to keep from creating a bigger mess. ]
I'd like very much if you called me Churin, though, yeah.
[ That could be enough. That should be enough. It needs to be enough.
But this is the sort of gamble Aventurine most loves to make, the kind he'll probably lose.
With hunger plain in his eyes now, he brings his gloved hand up to just beneath Sunday's chin, mindful of his wings. ]
May I touch you? I'd also very much like to see your face.
That is what Aventurine's face reminds him of. Bright, hungry, and far too satisfied with itself. A firm swat would surely strike that grin away. It is no less than what this frustrating, wicked, fascinating man deserves.
But Sunday remains still when fingers reach for his chin. Aventurine asks permission before daring to close the distance.
He can say no. He probably should say no, shove the Stoneheart away, and leave the room. The Family is here, and he is a fugitive. Even if they are currently unaware of his presence, he and Aventurine are in danger. There is a lot for them to discuss, a need for them to strategize...
If they were smart, they would leave now, together, to alert the IPC and follow The Family's envoys from the shadows.
He doesn't say no. Nor does he say yes.
His face turns to Aventurine, and his wings lift away, revealing the embarrassing pink spilled across his cheeks.]
Ah. My sincerest apologies, Churin. You are teasing me. Please forgive my careless mistake.
[It's a joke, though his flat tone doesn't quite convey it.]
[ That smile is crescent moon wide, now. He snickers. Churin, what a thrill. It's almost like a pet name. ]
Oh Sunny, think nothing of it. All is forgiven.
[ Somehow, Sunday's wings parting to reveal a face flush with color feels just as lurid, just as rewarding, as peeling a partner out of their clothes to get at the body hidden beneath. Better, Aventurine realizes, as he slips knuckles beneath Sunday's chin, tips it up for a better angle.
Aeons, he really is lovely like this, obstinate but embarrassed, clinging so desperately to that nigh otherworldly composure while his own face gives him away. Aventurine runs a thumb gently along the perfect line of Sunday's cheek, and even that feels like taking far too much. ]
Look at you...
[ It'd be easy to blurt the obvious, that he really is the most handsome man in Belobog, just as he'd been the most handsome man in Penacony. A foregone conclusion, that he will always be the most handsome man wherever he goes. It won't do to say so little. Not when the real treat cuts far deeper, when the man who'd ascended to godhood now seems a delicate spring flower in his hand, that one so unyielding would grant someone so unworthy even this much access.
Sunday gives him far more than he deserves. The gravity of that fact is not lost on Aventurine. Neither is the feeling low in his stomach, a tightening, tugging coil; not totally alien, but not something he's used to, either. When was the last time he'd wanted... anything but revenge? When was the last time he'd felt a connection?
He can't recall. It's terrifying. He wants to keep it. He wants to thread it with napalm and burn it to cinders. ]
Keep blushing for me like that and... I'll try- I'll try to be more than salted earth for you.
[ Aventurine leans in closer still, meaning to take what he wants -- just a terrible, unsanitary taste -- and end this before it's even begun, but he can't. He won't. Not without permission. ]
He must look absurd, all ruffled feathers and pink cheeks, trying to retain his composure through all the fluster. And yet Aventurine stares with narrow, hungry eyes, his focus so intense that Sunday feels his heart squirm beneath it.
There is so much happening and so quickly, whatever thin thread of control he'd had over the situation is quickly spinning out and drawing taut, near unraveling. When he'd fallen, he'd hoped that a loss of control would be a thrilling feeling, no longer terrifying when he had no people to rule over.
It is still terrifying.
His squirming heart starts hammering when Aventurine leans forward, so loudly he is sure the sound must be filling the room. What Aventurine wants is obvious, so many have wanted it from him. A few had dared to steal it from him. Memories of his faithful daring to kiss him before he could leave their presence sour his stomach. Of course, he'd existed for them, he always had, but he'd existed for their salvation, not their pleasure. He braces himself to receive the same treatment from Aventurine, but the Stoneheart pauses and asks.
He always asks.
As much as Aventurine likes to push his boundaries, he is cautious about never pushing them too far. Sunday likes that about him. Sunday likes him.
His lips part to consent, but the words never pass them. He needs a moment to collect himself, gather his thoughts. Regain control.
Quietly, he grasps Aventurine's wrist, guides his hand from his chin, then turns away, though he never releases his grip.]
[ What a gamble, setting the shockingly ravenous desire to see Penacony's former prince unravel further under his touch against his wish to see Sunday want it, too, ask for it, or stars forbid, even beg. It's a losing bet. Aventurine knows it. That does not stop his face from growing hot as Sunday's lips part, almost as though in welcome.
Aventurine's breath catches. Sunday turns away.
Unsanitary. Of course.
His heart sinks, but he fixes a smile on his face, anyway. Better that they got this out of the way over something as excusable as a kiss in a moment of high stress. Aventurine sits back, giving Sunday what feels like much needed room to breathe. Easy enough to find satisfaction in this much. Now, it's just a matter of keeping this from blowing up in his face entirely before the Astral Express reappears.
His gaze lingers on the fingers wrapped around his wrist, not yet releasing him. Hm. This could be challenging. ]
Thanks for the peek, Sunny. [ Softly, fond, careful to walk a line between teasing and heartsick. ] You are quite the charmer.
[Sunday gazes out the window at the swirling gray of chilled air and ignores Aventurine's words. He is too busy thinking about the hand still clasped on the bed, about the lips that had quested toward his.
Had he wanted it? Had the once Head of the Oak Family, the model of virtue and self-control, wanted a kiss from the mad gambler of the Stonehearts? Surely not. He's not supposed to want such things; he is not supposed to want at all. When he'd aimed his life at the Charmony Festival, he'd hollowed himself. He is barely a person anymore; he is a purpose, and a purpose has no other desire than to be fulfilled. Sunday exists to absolve mankind and forge paradise. Anything else is just a distraction. Hedonistic pleasures are a distraction.
So why can't he cast the image of Aventurine's mouth from his mind? He wants the kiss. By the stars he does. He wants to be wanted by someone who has had the patience to spend more than a few minutes around him. He wants. He wants.
He wants, but he is not a bauble to be grabbed at anyone's fancy. He is Sunday, once Bronze Melodia, nearly a god. God of what, he isn't sure, but he remembers the aggressive determination that had raced through him like Path energy, so intense it had nearly replaced his purpose with a new one. There had been an urge to spread, to rule as the King of Humankind. To dominate. That urge is gone. He no longer yearns to see anyone kneel at his feet. But he is still the man who was nearly Domination incarnate. He is never taken; he takes.
Golden eyes cut back to Aventurine, bright and hungry. It is the same look he'd worn that day in the cargo bay, the look that had sent Aventurine fleeing and searching for a weapon.
He tugs Aventurine closer and leans in, intent on pressing their lips together, though he moves slowly to give the other man time to pull away.]
[ Well. There is that look again, not a request, but pure wild intent. The fussy dove folds its wings for a glimpse of the greedy raven hiding beneath, and Aventurine stiffens, but goes where guided. Fear floods his chest, lungs flattened and emptied by the thundering of his heart. He does not look away, though. Cannot look anywhere but those golden eyes, those still flushed cheeks, that perfect pink mouth. They are so close, and Sunday demands they be closer. This is exactly what he wants.
Something at the base of his stomach gives a firm tug, and suddenly all that fear is transmuted entirely.
In Dewlight Pavilion, Aventurine had encountered a monster. On his own ship, he'd thought he'd glimpsed it again, hungrier still than the last time. But here and now, with the risk of tuning so soundly put to bed, there is no monster save Aventurine, himself. And no denying that this hot feeling curling up every nerve is entirely his own.
Hm. This certainly puts some of those nightmares in an awkward new light.
A faint laugh escapes Aventurine as Sunday pulls him closer. The raven wants him, and Aventurine allows him to take, not diving in -- letting Sunday set their tempo -- but lips parted in welcome of what they both want. ]
[Sunday reels Aventurine in slowly, gently, expecting the Stoneheart to come to his senses and refuse him. But he doesn't. Handsome lips part in anticipation, and the sight makes Sunday's heart spin.
He moves in, cautious, worried that Aventurine will flinch if he goes too fast, and brushes their mouths past each other.
Growing up, Sunday had never felt the spark or had the thoughts other young men seemed to have. There were pretty girls and handsome boys he could acknowledge as lovely, but he never felt desire for them. He never fantasized. Oh, he knew the biology of how things worked. Growing up in Penacony, he knew a great deal about that. But aside from fleeting curiosity, he never thought about it. Always, his thoughts revolved around salvation and scripture.
Now, touching his lips to those of his first friend, he feels a spark and senses a door open into a whole new dimension of experiences he's never dared to imagine. His fingers curl more tightly around Aventurine's, and he tips his face to the side, allowing their mouths to properly fit together when he finally moves in for a proper kiss.
Young men were rhapsodic about all the wonders that happened between the sheets. Why did so few sing the praises of a kiss? He wishes he'd experienced sooner all the things lips and hands could do other than pray. Though maybe this, too, is prayer. It is, after all, a display of faith, but faith in something far more deserving of devotion than an uncaring Aeon.
One arm snakes around Aventurine's shoulder and tugs him closer still as Sunday deepens the kiss. His hunger quickly subsides into tenderness. Like most first kisses, his is sloppy and awkward. Aventurine has much more experience in these things, he's sure, and his own lack of it must be obvious. That thought does not prevent him from parting only long enough to breathe before pressing for a second time. There is, after all, only one way to gain such experience.]
[ Over the years, Aventurine has dutifully endured clacking teeth and too wet mouths, licks, nips, and bites that draw blood; a parade of demanding, over-eager partners and bad kissers to get the job done, All for the Amber Lord.
This, though. Absolutely no part of this gentle thing exists in the same universe as bad.
Sunday is clumsy from inexperience, (confirming a suspicion Aventurine had long held) but so slow, so careful as to make his efforts taste sweet. Aventurine enjoys his halting explorations and does not hesitate to lift a hand and run a thumb along his jaw, applying gentle pressure to steer each crooked landing to a better fit. What had been startlingly ravenous burns low now, banked to warm embers that Aventurine frankly finds ten times more frightening. This is no mere itch being satisfied, he realizes; he is not even sure that Sunday is indulging in some quiet, long-held craving. That'd be easier. It'd make sense. But, no. This is different.
Sunday is tasting something new and realizing how he likes it. Not merely laying the groundwork for future itches, future cravings, but... Aeons, it's so tentative, so warm. He leans where he is pulled, not merely obedient but eager to please.
Aventurine's heart flutters, not the urgent pounding of desire needing sated, but something far more delicate. He has never experienced anything quite like this. A soft, happy sound slips from the back of his throat, breathed against Sunday's lips.
Oh. This might just break him. How exciting.
Still unsure how welcome his own forward momentum is, he gentles a hand at the dip of Sunday's waist, slipping it around his back with care to pull him into an embrace. Here is the real challenge, trying to manage his own sparking fire and keep it a match for Sunday's gentle warmth. When they part for breath a third time, he swallows so hard the apple in his throat bobs. ]
[Sunday drinks in Aventurine's wine-sweet taste. Does he taste different on different days, he wonders? He wouldn't mind finding out.
There are so many things to discover with the Stoneheart. Lips are nice. Tongues are, too, he is finding, when their delicate tips touch. There are other places to kiss than lips, as well. Ears, necks, necks must be wonderful... Even the imagined sensation makes him shudder.
Aventurine hooks an arm around him and asks him a question that rouses him from his dreamy trance and makes him sit back, though only slightly, only enough that they can look each other in the eyes.]
You're fine. I'm fine. [A smile quirks the edge of his kiss-stained mouth.] I have thought about doing that for a long time. I admire you, Mister Aven- [He laughs softly]--Churin. I have for a while, actually, since before the day we first met.
[Maybe that admiration has made him over-eager. His golden eyes widen and sweep across Aventurine's face, searching for any signs of discomfort.]
My apologies if I am moving too quickly. I was caught up in the moment, I... foolishly forgot that I am your lion. [Not a true friend, but a dangerous roommate. A predator. A deadly, fanged creature who savages the mind and hunts in nightmares.] Please forgive me.
[ Sunday's attentions fill Aventurine's head with honey, thoughts going sweet and slow. He has not forgotten Harmony's incursion or their own specific need to stay on the move and out of the Family's way. But this is a matter most pressing, too; one he sure will go to pieces eventually. Whether the Express reappears or Aventurine inevitably ruins this, himself, they will necessarily be forced apart. So, he wants to carve out as much time as he can.
You're fine. I'm fine. What soft words, and chased by that nickname. Churin, he says, like Aventurine is something kinder than a gambler and a menace. He does not deserve to be treated so gently, but he is too wicked, too greedy, to tell Sunday to stop. Sunday, who knows the darkness in people's hearts better than most, looks at him and sees something fascinating, not revolting. As desperately as he clings to sobriety normally, Aventurine cannot deny glimpsing himself through Sunday's eyes is wildly intoxicating.
The hand not curled around Sunday's back to hold him greedily close lifts to cup Sunday's cheek as he admits to his fascination, his desire. He almost wishes he weren't wearing gloves, wants to feel how soft, how warm his still flushed skin is. Goddess, with kiss swollen lips and hair windswept by Belobog's cold breezes, he is the loveliest thing Aventurine has ever seen. ]
Don't apologize.
[ They are both still fully clothed. Gloved and booted, even. Too fast. What a silly bird. Aventurine cannot help but laugh, the sound all breath. ]
It was a pleasure, going toe-to-toe in Penacony, you know. I'd looked forward to challenging you. [ It was more than that, even, wasn't it? The most handsome man in Penacony, indeed. ] What happened... what you did to me, what I did to you...
[ Aventurine pauses, gaze drifting down to stare at their coats pressed together. ]
Duty drove each of us be unkind to each other, mm? [ That's putting it mildly, and he grins, close-mouthed and crooked. ] My fear is not your problem anymore, but... I wouldn't mind working through it with you. If you'd like.
[ He drifts closer again, presses his lips to that perfect mouth for another taste. ]
At whatever pace you'd like. Whatever you want to do, however you want to do it. You need only say the word, and I'm yours, Sunny.
[Sunday laughs softly against Aventurine's indulgent kisses. Oh, stars, he wouldn't mind staying here a while.
The Family is on this planet, and he is a fugitive; they need to keep moving. They need to discuss the Stellaron. They need to retrieve Aventurine's phone from the hallway. But surely that can wait a while. A few minutes at least. He needs to steal away more time with the man who has fascinated him for so long.]
You are too good to me, Churin.
[He murmurs and leans in to nuzzle against Aventurine's forehead.]
More than I deserve.
Even so, I would very much like for us to work past your fear. If we are to travel together, it would be to both our benefit if you were comfortable around me.
[Which is a silly thing to say when they are searching out each other's lips.]
I...do not know what will become of us, I admit. Maybe I am not a man who is destined for a happy ending.
[He certainly doesn't deserve one.]
What I do know is I intend to live every moment I have left to its fullest.
[In itself, not a comment about their pacing, but he leans in to slowly, gently graze his lips against the sliver of of Aventurine's neck peeking out of his winter clothes.]
[ Ah, accursed, pretty thing. Hearing his own thoughts echoed aloud by Sunday, as though his fussy bird is the unworthy one, aches and sours his thoughts. Difficult to think Sunday absurd for saying such things and not shine the light on his own dark thoughts as well. Blessedly, a problem easily ignored for now when Sunday is within reach, eager and promising more. Aventurine can show him all the ways he is deserving. Aventurine will teach him, spoil him, at least until...
Well. Destiny is never kind. Maybe they are doomed. Certainly, in some ways they are, but Aventurine has no interest in dampening the still burning flame under his skin, and so he does not comment. He does not make promises he cannot keep.
He hums, a sound that is meant to be thoughtful, but threads thin and eager when Sunday's mouth steals a taste of his neck. Aventurine nudges fingers beneath Sunday's chin to guide their faces together again. ]
Don't worry about deserving. [ His words are as firm as the kiss that chases them, open-mouthed and unchaste, hungry. He unwinds himself from Sunday as they kiss, leaning back enough to undo the buttons on his jacket. ] Just enjoy me, and understand that I want you to. I want you. For however long we have. If not for a happy ending, then... a content journey, okay? I'll follow you for that.
[ In fast order, almost urgent, he removes his scarf, shrugs out of his heavy coat and lets it fall to the bed behind him. There's still a vest, a fine green shirt with rolled sleeves, gloves and slacks and all the rest, but he is much less confined. It does not make his body feel any less hot.
Another kiss, hasty, almost smeared in its excitement. Aeons, he smells and tastes sweeter than anything Aventurine has had the pleasure of indulging in. He shuts his eyes, trying to master this growing want. There is, he realizes, one thing that must be brought up, and quiets his fire at once. ]
Just- just don't touch the... product code.
[ Those last two words escape him so small. Try as he might, he cannot help the sadness that threads in when he draws attention to the brand on his neck.
He pushes past it, lifts hands to the collar of Sunday's coat. ]
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He hates himself for it, for being nothing but a wisp of vengeance in the rough shape of a man.
Sunday speaks of usurping Ena, and Aventurine has to hide a growing grin. He leans heavily against his hand, chin dipping, but gemstone eyes tipped up to peer at Sunday through the spill of blonde hair. Had his gambit on Penacony failed, had Sunday ascended truly and not squashed him on the spot, he knows where loyalty would've gone -- out the window, delivered to Domination's doorstep. He's always known, but hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. In his mind, the Bronze Melodia and Oswaldo Schneider were two cut from the same cloth, everything Aventurine hates. Coming to know him better now, even though they seem constantly at odds, Aventurine cannot deny how easy the choice would've been.
He might've even enjoyed it for a bit, destroying another old Order to make room for the new, cutting down one corruption of Trailblaze to uplift another. He certainly would've been good at it.
But that didn't happen. They are two mortal men, playing a dangerous game of chess on the frontlines of a not-yet-declared war. Knight and bishop with no loyalty to either side, wishing to put both kings in check.
His free hand drifts down and presses the power button on his phone. He waits for the pleasant IPC jingle that plays before their electronics shut down. A silence settles, heavy, long, until finally he works up the nerve to murmur aloud what he has so long held to his chest: ]
I'm not loyal to the IPC.
[ Aventurine swallows, sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. To say more than that... it would loop Sunday into something he needn't be involved with, something too dangerous for a bird with injured wings just learning to fly again. ]
I can't promise we won't both have regrets, Mister Sunday. [ he says, wry. ] But I won't let Harmony erase happiness. And I won't let what matters to you be put at risk. Preservation isn't Permanence, you know, so... it's the better option, hm?
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Aren't you loyal to them? The last thing I recall before I was torn from the heavens was a unified cry of "All for the Amber Lord!"
[His voice thickens, but he doesn't begrudge Aventurine's role in his Fall. If he had succeeded in dominating the Asdana Starsystem, his paradise would not look the way he wanted it to. It would not be a paradise at all; it would be a brightly lit hell of his own making, reflecting his anguish into the universe.
Aventurine had saved the cosmos, saved Robin, and saved him.
The IPC had helped, but he knows whose schemes had actually been the new Ena's undoing.
He shakes his head slowly.]
If you are not loyal to them, then why attach yourself to their ambitions? You are clever enough to survive without them.
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Not that he isn't constantly inviting that sort of thing with Sunday, already, anyway.
He sighs. ]
It wasn't company loyalty or religious fervor. Or, at least... not mine. [ Aventurine looks away. ] At the risk of sounding blasphemously arrogant... Qlipoth was simply a convenient tool to stop you from changing the meaning of Order in the universe. If you took away pain and doubt and choice, then what're we left with? Not happiness, I'm afraid. And-
[ That's not what he asked. Aventurine lowers his head, scrubs his palm over the back of his neck. ]
-I told you, I have work to do. Your ambitions interfered with that work. I- hm.
[ Here he stops, stands, abruptly, and scoops up his phone. He crosses the little room, opens the door, and wings his phone down the long, empty hall. It'll be fine. Or, it should be, he paid a small fortune for it and its fancy case. He can fetch the thing after this part, but he doesn't want anything that could listen within earshot.
Aventurine shuts the door and seats himself on the bed, two bodies worth of space between the two of them. His hands ball to fists against his legs. For just a few seconds, he is Kakavasha. ]
Diamond's Stonehearts are hand chosen. All of us, ambitious. All of us... missing something that only Diamond can possibly provide. We're all buying something, and paying for it with unerring service in the coming Aeon war. I... [ This is exactly what he didn't want happening. Shit. He turns to look at Sunday, that everpresent smile nowhere to be found. ] ...if I tell you, it's going to... it'll embroil you in a mess I'm not sure you want anything to do with.
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Aventurine sits on the bed, creating a dip that would angle them together if they were sitting any closer.]
You released me from a prison cell and are escorting me across the cosmos [Sunday regards the earnest face that turns to him. There is no charming smile there, so he makes one of his own.]
Our fates are already entangled. Please do not worry about me. If something is bothering you, I would like to know. After all, listening has always been my job.
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[ This ridiculous, persnickety bird. Aventurine spends so much time making himself easy to leave behind, to disentangle from, and Sunday leaps so thoughtlessly into his web wearing a smile that feels like a mild summer sun. Looking at him, something fiercely protective burns to life in Aventurine's chest. Not merely from greater danger, but from himself. He is not worthy of such kindness. Does Sunday not see that he offers warmth to a snake? A murderer? A monster?
Aventurine shuts his eyes. He cannot let Sunday entertain the foolish idea that the man sat before him is worthy of understanding, of light. ]
Through Diamond, I get vengeance for my people.
[ Even that can be misconstrued. He has to clarify. ]
I'll destroy the man who lured the Avgin to slaughter and left them to die. His work, his legacy, everything he's touched, everything he loves. Oswaldo Schneider. The Marketing Development Department. The... IPC itself, if I have to.
[ He breathes a shuddered sigh, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye. ]
Non-performing assets to be liquidated.
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I understand.
[He says softly, and knows Aventurine won't believe him.
The Oak Family Head was the model of moral virtue in Penacony. Few knew his true nature. Few know that he stalked the bars of his self-made cage like a cornered predator: powerful, dangerous, and unpredictable. When he thought Robin had been murdered, he himself became murderous.
Aventurine had seen that, at least, but even then he didn't know the fire in the Bronze Melodia's heart. Sunday still remembers that feeling. He would have done anything to avenge Robin's death. He would have killed for her. His thoughts had been tangled into one single goal at the time.
Revenge. Revenge. REVENGE.
Looking back on it, he thinks it is a small miracle he didn't spiral worse than he did. Only Aventurine took the sharp end of his wrath.]
I know it may not seem so, but I have had fantasies of divine vengeance for my entire life. When I thought Robin died, it nearly broke me. I was one step away from madness in every direction. I felt I had to execute her killer with my own hands or be haunted by her death forever...
[His brow furrows as he focuses on a moat of dust drifting across the floor in the slanted beams of sunlight.]
She was my tipping point. I was already wroth. I was angry at the gods for never answering the prayers of my people...And... Angry at the universe--no, the Stellarons--for taking my family, my entire world.
[One hand drops from his lap to clench sheets into a fist and squeeze until he feels the emotion threatening to pour out of him start to ebb.]
I mention all of this to illustrate a point, not to gain your sympathy.
I've been vengeful, so I know what it is like. I know, also, what it is like to focus your entire being on one single ambition. So I hope you understand that I speak from experience when I say revenge makes a poor foundation for a life without other motivations besides it.
[Now, finally, he lifts his gaze to meet Aventurine's once more. His golden eyes are bright.]
I will not help you kill Oswaldo Schneider, but I will not stand in your way either, nor will I stay your hand if you get your opportunity...
What I will do is help you find those other motivations for living. That is, if you will permit me to do so.
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What he thinks Sunday cannot possibly understand is that he is already dead. Beneath the veneer, it's just smoke and mirrors. His is not a life, but a mission with an end point, and an aurora on the other side. ]
I wouldn't ask you to-
[ Aventurine starts to interrupt him, but Sunday manages to finish his thought. It is... not what he expects.
Aventurine lives in a world of double and triple meanings, plans that twist and turn with roots as deep as the Imaginary Tree. Not getting involved, turning a blind eye -- it's practically the first paragraph of the Stoneheart handbook. Leave each Liquidation Specialist to their own business. He has taken such care to cultivate a persona non grata, to be the sort of man that even close allies would hesitate to call friend.
Sunday will not meddle in his work, no. What he asks for is more.
Finally, he tears his gaze away from the fist grabbing fabric, meets Sunday's morning light eyes, and immediately looks away. A heavy rush of air escapes him, a thousand responses vying for first place right away. The smart thing, the right thing to do is forbid him from anything so foolish. Sunday is meant to walk the Path of Trailblaze, to prove that its course, once corrupted, can be righted again -- he has no business bothering with ghosts.
But Aventurine can't bring himself to say no. Not here, not now, not when confronted with such direct kindness for the first time in longer than he can recall. No conditions, no buts, no reservations, Sunday just cares. And Aventurine wants that care, aeons he would never allow himself to have it, but he is greedy enough to desire it, in whatever form it takes.
A sudden dizzy spell makes him realize he's been holding his breath. Finally, he turns to look at Sunday again, jewel eyes appraising, a little tired. He should say no. He should tell Sunday it's a foolish, pointless idea. He should kick Sunday out of the room until his own heart has slowed its racing and his face stops feeling warm. ]
If that's really what you want to try, Feathers, I won't stop you.
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He hopes his attention isn't too obvious.]
It is what I want.
[The Harmony teaches that the strong must uplift the weak. Far too often, they do not. So two broken men may need to uplift each other.]
If you require a selfish reason for my efforts, then, well...
I shattered when I fell from the heavens. Not just physically, but spiritually. I am...still attempting to gather the fragments of myself and shape them into something resembling a life. Maybe I am hoping that by helping you do the same, I can gain some insight.
[He shifts sideways and reaches for Aventurine's hand to give a reassuring squeeze, but thinks better of it. His fingers pause in the space between them, grasping at nothing.]
Loss doesn't need to be an end, right? With effort, it can become growth. Why not find out if we can still grow? Or if we are salted earth.
[A gentle grin settles on his features, then thins into a thoughtful frown.]
...But, please stop calling me Feathers.
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If he did not know the man better, he would think Sunday a terrible romantic. Aventurine sighs, fond, gaze lingering on the hand hanging between them.
Here is another thing Sunday wants but will not take. Though this is one Aventurine does not really understand, he is not about to let Sunday deny himself more comfort while eagerly shouldering so much trouble. Someone must make sure Sunday secures a little happiness for himself; Aventurine doesn't mind taking on the responsibility half as much as he thinks he should. ]
Gardening, huh? We can give it a shot. No promises.
[ All the same, he lifts his own hand, slides fingers up Sunday's palm and takes his hand with a squeeze. His pulse roars, frantic, stuck between fear and something else. He ignores it, lets his grin return, slanted, and angles himself to face Sunday, letting their joined hands fall to the bed. ]
But there's gotta be one nickname you'll let me have. What about Sunny?
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I would rather not be Sunny either. Is Sunday such a fuss to say?
[He asks, staring at their joined fingers.
How long has he wanted this? This gentle acknowledgement of mutual affection for each other?
A long time.
Magazines from around the stars came through Penacony's tourism-filled streets, and the Stonehearts were a frequent topic of gossip. Somehow, the IPC's Strategic Investment Department had become celebrities in their own right, doing photoshoots and interviews as if they were film stars and not people who brought civilizations to their knees in the name of profit.
Sunday hadn't understood the fascination save with one: Aventurine. He'd kept articles about the man in his desk, and looked through every photoshoot he saw. Here was someone who had been through so much and yet felt comfortable leaving his life up to the whims of fate. Someone who had been through loss like him, yet had grown to be the embodiment of a part of Sunday that had been buried deep and smothered by Order.
He couldn't help his admiration. He still can't.
He thinks again about pulling the Stoneheart into his embrace and holding him in the protective cage of his arms, keeping him safe from a world that has been far too cruel to him. And the thought shames him.
Aventurine is a celebrity, he reminds himself. One with many friends in high places. He has, and deserves, better friends than the fallen Bronze Melodia. Sunday still wants to help him, but it would be foolish to think Aventurine would ever truly desire a connection.
Slowly, he turns away, feeling a flush of pink creep across his cheeks. His wings flutter forward to hide the blush from Aventurine's eyes.]
If you start calling me Sunny, I may need to call you Churin. Can you live with that?
[He gently withdraws his hand and places it in his lap, his gaze still fixed to the floor.]
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Oh.
Sunday curls away so abruptly, closing up like a flower at day's end. But this is not the familiar disgust that surfaces when Aventurine makes himself too much on purpose. And, more pressing, Aventurine is glad that this is something else, that he is not driving Sunday away.
Not a romantic, he'd thought. It seems a bit of recalculating is in order.
He has a lot to think about, just now. Harmony's presence and the origins of Stellarons and the rot within the IPC and his phone out in the hall and three cups of wasted coffee and- ]
Churin?
[ Aventurine whispers it, wide-eyed, pupils dilating. Not Gambler, not Peacock, not Sigonian. Just now, getting a closer look at the rosy color he knows is splashed across that fair face moves to the top of the priority list.
He swallows, scoots a few inches closer, but leaving ample space between the two of them. Yes, he could very much live with the sort of nickname that does not carry the loathsome weight of negative implications. Yes, he wants it, so much. Terribly. But what he wants doesn't matter half as much as- ]
Would you like that? [ Cool, but curious, he asks his question like his heart isn't trying to climb out of his throat. Aventurine lifts a hand, wanting to grasp Sunday's face and get himself a better look at that lovely flush of warmth, but he won't touch those wings without permission. This will have to suffice, getting closer, savoring the way Sunday squirms. Oh, he is a terrible person. ] Calling me Churin, Sunny?
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Silver feathers part just enough to reveal one eye, staring out with a mixture of suspicion and incredulity.]
You are mocking me, Mister Aventurine.
[He scolds, then notices the dilated pupils, turning Aventurine's jewel-like eyes into dusky pools of twilight. The sight makes his heart leap and flutter like a wounded Charmony Dove. And, judging by the warmth he feels rising within him, is also making his blush worse.
He feels foolish. A man his age should not blush like a schoolgirl or one of Veritas Ratio's breathless fans.]
Would you like to be called Churin?
[There is a light and airy note to his question that he struggles to maintain. Otherwise, he is sure his voice will turn thick and heavy in a way he doesn't want to explain. Not to Aventurine or to himself.]
It is a simple desire, if so, and one I'm happy to fulfill.
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I'm not mocking. I'm teasing. There's a very subtle but artful difference, you know.
[ Aventurine looks every bit the fox who's found the chicken coop as he moves closer still.
That glimpse of rosy skin afforded by parting feathers is astoundingly satisfying. When the faintest hint of that same heat touches just a few frayed edges of Sunday's voice, it becomes exponentially harder to be happy with just this much.
The kindest thing would be to allow Sunday his dignity. Hadn't he just gotten done calling the idea of a shared drink unsanitary? Aventurine reminds himself of why there are three undrunk coffees sitting in this room with them, a desperate, last ditch effort to keep from creating a bigger mess. ]
I'd like very much if you called me Churin, though, yeah.
[ That could be enough. That should be enough. It needs to be enough.
But this is the sort of gamble Aventurine most loves to make, the kind he'll probably lose.
With hunger plain in his eyes now, he brings his gloved hand up to just beneath Sunday's chin, mindful of his wings. ]
May I touch you? I'd also very much like to see your face.
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[Hunter's eyes.
That is what Aventurine's face reminds him of. Bright, hungry, and far too satisfied with itself. A firm swat would surely strike that grin away. It is no less than what this frustrating, wicked, fascinating man deserves.
But Sunday remains still when fingers reach for his chin. Aventurine asks permission before daring to close the distance.
He can say no. He probably should say no, shove the Stoneheart away, and leave the room. The Family is here, and he is a fugitive. Even if they are currently unaware of his presence, he and Aventurine are in danger. There is a lot for them to discuss, a need for them to strategize...
If they were smart, they would leave now, together, to alert the IPC and follow The Family's envoys from the shadows.
He doesn't say no. Nor does he say yes.
His face turns to Aventurine, and his wings lift away, revealing the embarrassing pink spilled across his cheeks.]
Ah. My sincerest apologies, Churin. You are teasing me. Please forgive my careless mistake.
[It's a joke, though his flat tone doesn't quite convey it.]
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Oh Sunny, think nothing of it. All is forgiven.
[ Somehow, Sunday's wings parting to reveal a face flush with color feels just as lurid, just as rewarding, as peeling a partner out of their clothes to get at the body hidden beneath. Better, Aventurine realizes, as he slips knuckles beneath Sunday's chin, tips it up for a better angle.
Aeons, he really is lovely like this, obstinate but embarrassed, clinging so desperately to that nigh otherworldly composure while his own face gives him away. Aventurine runs a thumb gently along the perfect line of Sunday's cheek, and even that feels like taking far too much. ]
Look at you...
[ It'd be easy to blurt the obvious, that he really is the most handsome man in Belobog, just as he'd been the most handsome man in Penacony. A foregone conclusion, that he will always be the most handsome man wherever he goes. It won't do to say so little. Not when the real treat cuts far deeper, when the man who'd ascended to godhood now seems a delicate spring flower in his hand, that one so unyielding would grant someone so unworthy even this much access.
Sunday gives him far more than he deserves. The gravity of that fact is not lost on Aventurine. Neither is the feeling low in his stomach, a tightening, tugging coil; not totally alien, but not something he's used to, either. When was the last time he'd wanted... anything but revenge? When was the last time he'd felt a connection?
He can't recall. It's terrifying. He wants to keep it. He wants to thread it with napalm and burn it to cinders. ]
Keep blushing for me like that and... I'll try- I'll try to be more than salted earth for you.
[ Aventurine leans in closer still, meaning to take what he wants -- just a terrible, unsanitary taste -- and end this before it's even begun, but he can't. He won't. Not without permission. ]
May I...?
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He must look absurd, all ruffled feathers and pink cheeks, trying to retain his composure through all the fluster. And yet Aventurine stares with narrow, hungry eyes, his focus so intense that Sunday feels his heart squirm beneath it.
There is so much happening and so quickly, whatever thin thread of control he'd had over the situation is quickly spinning out and drawing taut, near unraveling. When he'd fallen, he'd hoped that a loss of control would be a thrilling feeling, no longer terrifying when he had no people to rule over.
It is still terrifying.
His squirming heart starts hammering when Aventurine leans forward, so loudly he is sure the sound must be filling the room. What Aventurine wants is obvious, so many have wanted it from him. A few had dared to steal it from him. Memories of his faithful daring to kiss him before he could leave their presence sour his stomach. Of course, he'd existed for them, he always had, but he'd existed for their salvation, not their pleasure. He braces himself to receive the same treatment from Aventurine, but the Stoneheart pauses and asks.
He always asks.
As much as Aventurine likes to push his boundaries, he is cautious about never pushing them too far. Sunday likes that about him. Sunday likes him.
His lips part to consent, but the words never pass them. He needs a moment to collect himself, gather his thoughts. Regain control.
Quietly, he grasps Aventurine's wrist, guides his hand from his chin, then turns away, though he never releases his grip.]
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Aventurine's breath catches. Sunday turns away.
Unsanitary. Of course.
His heart sinks, but he fixes a smile on his face, anyway. Better that they got this out of the way over something as excusable as a kiss in a moment of high stress. Aventurine sits back, giving Sunday what feels like much needed room to breathe. Easy enough to find satisfaction in this much. Now, it's just a matter of keeping this from blowing up in his face entirely before the Astral Express reappears.
His gaze lingers on the fingers wrapped around his wrist, not yet releasing him. Hm. This could be challenging. ]
Thanks for the peek, Sunny. [ Softly, fond, careful to walk a line between teasing and heartsick. ] You are quite the charmer.
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Had he wanted it? Had the once Head of the Oak Family, the model of virtue and self-control, wanted a kiss from the mad gambler of the Stonehearts? Surely not. He's not supposed to want such things; he is not supposed to want at all. When he'd aimed his life at the Charmony Festival, he'd hollowed himself. He is barely a person anymore; he is a purpose, and a purpose has no other desire than to be fulfilled. Sunday exists to absolve mankind and forge paradise. Anything else is just a distraction. Hedonistic pleasures are a distraction.
So why can't he cast the image of Aventurine's mouth from his mind? He wants the kiss. By the stars he does. He wants to be wanted by someone who has had the patience to spend more than a few minutes around him. He wants. He wants.
He wants, but he is not a bauble to be grabbed at anyone's fancy. He is Sunday, once Bronze Melodia, nearly a god. God of what, he isn't sure, but he remembers the aggressive determination that had raced through him like Path energy, so intense it had nearly replaced his purpose with a new one. There had been an urge to spread, to rule as the King of Humankind. To dominate. That urge is gone. He no longer yearns to see anyone kneel at his feet. But he is still the man who was nearly Domination incarnate. He is never taken; he takes.
Golden eyes cut back to Aventurine, bright and hungry. It is the same look he'd worn that day in the cargo bay, the look that had sent Aventurine fleeing and searching for a weapon.
He tugs Aventurine closer and leans in, intent on pressing their lips together, though he moves slowly to give the other man time to pull away.]
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Something at the base of his stomach gives a firm tug, and suddenly all that fear is transmuted entirely.
In Dewlight Pavilion, Aventurine had encountered a monster. On his own ship, he'd thought he'd glimpsed it again, hungrier still than the last time. But here and now, with the risk of tuning so soundly put to bed, there is no monster save Aventurine, himself. And no denying that this hot feeling curling up every nerve is entirely his own.
Hm. This certainly puts some of those nightmares in an awkward new light.
A faint laugh escapes Aventurine as Sunday pulls him closer. The raven wants him, and Aventurine allows him to take, not diving in -- letting Sunday set their tempo -- but lips parted in welcome of what they both want. ]
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He moves in, cautious, worried that Aventurine will flinch if he goes too fast, and brushes their mouths past each other.
Growing up, Sunday had never felt the spark or had the thoughts other young men seemed to have. There were pretty girls and handsome boys he could acknowledge as lovely, but he never felt desire for them. He never fantasized. Oh, he knew the biology of how things worked. Growing up in Penacony, he knew a great deal about that. But aside from fleeting curiosity, he never thought about it. Always, his thoughts revolved around salvation and scripture.
Now, touching his lips to those of his first friend, he feels a spark and senses a door open into a whole new dimension of experiences he's never dared to imagine. His fingers curl more tightly around Aventurine's, and he tips his face to the side, allowing their mouths to properly fit together when he finally moves in for a proper kiss.
Young men were rhapsodic about all the wonders that happened between the sheets. Why did so few sing the praises of a kiss? He wishes he'd experienced sooner all the things lips and hands could do other than pray. Though maybe this, too, is prayer. It is, after all, a display of faith, but faith in something far more deserving of devotion than an uncaring Aeon.
One arm snakes around Aventurine's shoulder and tugs him closer still as Sunday deepens the kiss. His hunger quickly subsides into tenderness. Like most first kisses, his is sloppy and awkward. Aventurine has much more experience in these things, he's sure, and his own lack of it must be obvious. That thought does not prevent him from parting only long enough to breathe before pressing for a second time. There is, after all, only one way to gain such experience.]
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This, though. Absolutely no part of this gentle thing exists in the same universe as bad.
Sunday is clumsy from inexperience, (confirming a suspicion Aventurine had long held) but so slow, so careful as to make his efforts taste sweet. Aventurine enjoys his halting explorations and does not hesitate to lift a hand and run a thumb along his jaw, applying gentle pressure to steer each crooked landing to a better fit. What had been startlingly ravenous burns low now, banked to warm embers that Aventurine frankly finds ten times more frightening. This is no mere itch being satisfied, he realizes; he is not even sure that Sunday is indulging in some quiet, long-held craving. That'd be easier. It'd make sense. But, no. This is different.
Sunday is tasting something new and realizing how he likes it. Not merely laying the groundwork for future itches, future cravings, but... Aeons, it's so tentative, so warm. He leans where he is pulled, not merely obedient but eager to please.
Aventurine's heart flutters, not the urgent pounding of desire needing sated, but something far more delicate. He has never experienced anything quite like this. A soft, happy sound slips from the back of his throat, breathed against Sunday's lips.
Oh. This might just break him. How exciting.
Still unsure how welcome his own forward momentum is, he gentles a hand at the dip of Sunday's waist, slipping it around his back with care to pull him into an embrace. Here is the real challenge, trying to manage his own sparking fire and keep it a match for Sunday's gentle warmth. When they part for breath a third time, he swallows so hard the apple in his throat bobs. ]
It's not too much, is it?
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There are so many things to discover with the Stoneheart. Lips are nice. Tongues are, too, he is finding, when their delicate tips touch. There are other places to kiss than lips, as well. Ears, necks, necks must be wonderful... Even the imagined sensation makes him shudder.
Aventurine hooks an arm around him and asks him a question that rouses him from his dreamy trance and makes him sit back, though only slightly, only enough that they can look each other in the eyes.]
You're fine. I'm fine. [A smile quirks the edge of his kiss-stained mouth.] I have thought about doing that for a long time. I admire you, Mister Aven- [He laughs softly]--Churin. I have for a while, actually, since before the day we first met.
[Maybe that admiration has made him over-eager. His golden eyes widen and sweep across Aventurine's face, searching for any signs of discomfort.]
My apologies if I am moving too quickly. I was caught up in the moment, I... foolishly forgot that I am your lion. [Not a true friend, but a dangerous roommate. A predator. A deadly, fanged creature who savages the mind and hunts in nightmares.] Please forgive me.
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You're fine. I'm fine. What soft words, and chased by that nickname. Churin, he says, like Aventurine is something kinder than a gambler and a menace. He does not deserve to be treated so gently, but he is too wicked, too greedy, to tell Sunday to stop. Sunday, who knows the darkness in people's hearts better than most, looks at him and sees something fascinating, not revolting. As desperately as he clings to sobriety normally, Aventurine cannot deny glimpsing himself through Sunday's eyes is wildly intoxicating.
The hand not curled around Sunday's back to hold him greedily close lifts to cup Sunday's cheek as he admits to his fascination, his desire. He almost wishes he weren't wearing gloves, wants to feel how soft, how warm his still flushed skin is. Goddess, with kiss swollen lips and hair windswept by Belobog's cold breezes, he is the loveliest thing Aventurine has ever seen. ]
Don't apologize.
[ They are both still fully clothed. Gloved and booted, even. Too fast. What a silly bird. Aventurine cannot help but laugh, the sound all breath. ]
It was a pleasure, going toe-to-toe in Penacony, you know. I'd looked forward to challenging you. [ It was more than that, even, wasn't it? The most handsome man in Penacony, indeed. ] What happened... what you did to me, what I did to you...
[ Aventurine pauses, gaze drifting down to stare at their coats pressed together. ]
Duty drove each of us be unkind to each other, mm? [ That's putting it mildly, and he grins, close-mouthed and crooked. ] My fear is not your problem anymore, but... I wouldn't mind working through it with you. If you'd like.
[ He drifts closer again, presses his lips to that perfect mouth for another taste. ]
At whatever pace you'd like. Whatever you want to do, however you want to do it. You need only say the word, and I'm yours, Sunny.
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The Family is on this planet, and he is a fugitive; they need to keep moving. They need to discuss the Stellaron. They need to retrieve Aventurine's phone from the hallway. But surely that can wait a while. A few minutes at least. He needs to steal away more time with the man who has fascinated him for so long.]
You are too good to me, Churin.
[He murmurs and leans in to nuzzle against Aventurine's forehead.]
More than I deserve.
Even so, I would very much like for us to work past your fear. If we are to travel together, it would be to both our benefit if you were comfortable around me.
[Which is a silly thing to say when they are searching out each other's lips.]
I...do not know what will become of us, I admit. Maybe I am not a man who is destined for a happy ending.
[He certainly doesn't deserve one.]
What I do know is I intend to live every moment I have left to its fullest.
[In itself, not a comment about their pacing, but he leans in to slowly, gently graze his lips against the sliver of of Aventurine's neck peeking out of his winter clothes.]
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Well. Destiny is never kind. Maybe they are doomed. Certainly, in some ways they are, but Aventurine has no interest in dampening the still burning flame under his skin, and so he does not comment. He does not make promises he cannot keep.
He hums, a sound that is meant to be thoughtful, but threads thin and eager when Sunday's mouth steals a taste of his neck. Aventurine nudges fingers beneath Sunday's chin to guide their faces together again. ]
Don't worry about deserving. [ His words are as firm as the kiss that chases them, open-mouthed and unchaste, hungry. He unwinds himself from Sunday as they kiss, leaning back enough to undo the buttons on his jacket. ] Just enjoy me, and understand that I want you to. I want you. For however long we have. If not for a happy ending, then... a content journey, okay? I'll follow you for that.
[ In fast order, almost urgent, he removes his scarf, shrugs out of his heavy coat and lets it fall to the bed behind him. There's still a vest, a fine green shirt with rolled sleeves, gloves and slacks and all the rest, but he is much less confined. It does not make his body feel any less hot.
Another kiss, hasty, almost smeared in its excitement. Aeons, he smells and tastes sweeter than anything Aventurine has had the pleasure of indulging in. He shuts his eyes, trying to master this growing want. There is, he realizes, one thing that must be brought up, and quiets his fire at once. ]
Just- just don't touch the... product code.
[ Those last two words escape him so small. Try as he might, he cannot help the sadness that threads in when he draws attention to the brand on his neck.
He pushes past it, lifts hands to the collar of Sunday's coat. ]
Can I help you with 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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