[Sunday says, embarrassed, when Aventurine scolds him. He doesn't have time to say more. Hands roam his sides, and lips press against his, inhaling the breath from his lungs. And when those lips take a sojourn to the sensitive skin of his neck, his wings flap wide and vibrate. So this is why people kiss necks.
A soft, bird-like trill purls from his well-adored throat. His hands slide up Aventurine's back, then pull him in more closely and wrap him in a tight embrace. Earlier, he'd thought they would share the briefest kiss, a simple expression of a bond. Things have escalated from there so quickly that he feels dizzy. Aventurine is suddenly holding and touching and drinking him in as if he were a chalice of cool, crystalline water found in the middle of a desert. How long has the Stoneheart wanted this? Such daring hunger should bother Sunday, but it doesn't.
Here, now, in this moment, he is not the Oak Family Head, the Bronze Melodia, or a fallen sun. He is just the man in Aventurine's arms. That man is no less sacred than the Melodia, however. The words spoken low against his throat are a prayer, the hands feeling him through the dense fabric of his shirt are as reverent as they are eager. On Penacony, his faithful had run to him in their desperation. A similar desperation races through Aventurine. Sunday can feel it in every touch.
Kisses, licks, hands, beating hearts, pleas.
His next kiss to Aventurine's lips is slow, gentle, soothing.]
I am already in danger, so it is too late for that. You are my friend, and I want to protect you. I want you to be happy.
[Another lingering kiss. Sunday's kisses are less ravenous than Aventurine's but no less passionate. He wants to savor his friend, enjoy his company, and make him happy. How can he do any of that if he is also devouring the poor man?.]
I apologize for removing my coat. Would you like to remove my gloves? [If he'd asked Aventurine to unbutton his trousers, he doubts the blush that spills anew across his cheeks would be any worse.]
[ How certain Aventurine had been that he could unravel the former Bronze Melodia. And how very, very wrong he'd been. It seems no matter what he tries, Sunday will always find a way to match him, even if on accident. Somewhere between the trembling of those wings and that strange, lovely fluttering sound from his throat, Aventurine's want burns into need. And need is not something he knows. His grip tightens, breath hitching, as he tries and fails to master himself.
Clumsily, he kicks his shoes off, brings both feet up onto the bed, and does his best to hide his arousal, half-believing Sunday might be too scandalized by the sight to even stay in the room with him. He leans in, chasing another taste, one hand flattening against the bed behind Sunday's back to keep himself stable. Mortifying that this is immediately followed by Sunday calling him friend. It almost feels like Aha's work. ]
Happy. [ A little incredulous.
A rush of air escapes him between kisses, half a laugh. It helps. Cools this too hot fire that has him leaning hungrily into every kiss. Coming back to his senses, he might've been discouraged, except that Sunday is still flush with warmth, still holding him close, still meeting every kiss with his own gentle enthusiasm.
That apology, though, it earns a genuine laugh, all bright, delighted sound. Giggling still, Aventurine sits back, stares at Sunday with beetled brows. Even knowing that Sunday has made three times a mess of him with less than half the effort, Aventurine still savors the satisfaction of watching Sunday's face flood with color anew over the suggestion.
Oh, this ridiculous, infuriating bird. He likes him so much. ]
I would. Yeah. Very much. [ He says, taking one of Sunday's hands in both of his own, running thumbs along his palm, then with careful, curious fingers and wickedly deliberate slowness, working his rings off, one at a time. All the while, he stares into Sunday's eyes, hunger only just held at bay. ] It's nice, isn't it?
[Is it? He is not so sure. Yielding even this much power to someone else borders on uncomfortable. What is nice is how much Aventurine is enjoying it. His eyes are bright and focused, as if he were unwrapping a wonderful gift bound in gold leaf. His skin is warm, his kisses more so.
And his body is enjoying it too. Sunday notices it from the corner of his vision, notices Aventurine shuffling to hide it, and does not comment. They are evolved from animals, after all. Even his own body is teetering close to the edge of making itself known and would have tumbled over it long ago if not for his rigid self-control. His biology yields to his will. It has too. It was a necessary thing to master when he was still a teenager. Experiencing arousal at the salacious stories he heard come through the lattice of his confessional would have ended his term as Melodia.
But even he has his limits, and Aventurine is testing them. Biology can only be contained for so long.]
I suppose it is.
[He lies, though only partially.
He leans forward to kiss Aventurine's smiling mouth again.]
I do like that you like it, Mister--
[Losing the formalities will take some getting used to. He sighs, then, with a warm smile....]
[ Sunday is effluent with kind, gentle words affirming fondness that still shocks Aventurine. Were it not for the way he keeps dipping in for tastes that Aventurine is all too happy to provide, he might think the overtures entirely platonic. It'd be silly, except... when Sunday asserts that it is him he likes, Aventurine can no longer hide his embarrassment. His gaze dips, and for a few seconds he has to fight plainly with his own self-loathing, fingers moving to undo the clasp holding Sunday's glove secure.
People do not like Aventurine. Aventurine is a loathsome scoundrel, an untrustworthy corporate dog, a danger to all around him. He is tolerated at best, for his skills, his status, his wealth. Aventurine's own desires have never mattered, just the work, just the results, just the aurora at the end of his path.
Sweet Sunday, who is warm in every way Aventurine can think of, calls him pet names, praises him, promises to protect him, and guiltily Aventurine finds himself wondering -- what's the catch? What is it Sunday needs from him? Is this repayment for his escape? For the escort across the cosmos? How could he be so stupid? So careless?
Oh, he'd been right after all. This is going to smash him to pieces.
He forces a laugh, light, soldiers on like his own head isn't at war with the rest of him. The fine silver rings are deposited with care on the bedside table, and he returns to his work, slipping his fingers beneath the lip of Sunday's glove. It's not skin to skin, not when he is still in gloves, so why does his own face fill with rosy color?
He stills, just a moment, then glances up, gaze far too adoring. ]
[Sunday watches Aventurine's face and frowns when the blissful smile turns briefly pensive. He can tell Aventurine is trying to hide a deep pain, but there is no hiding from the gaze of the Bronze Melodia, who spent over a decade hearing the pleas of the suffering.]
Have I not been taking?
[He asks at the unexpected request. He had gone in for the first kiss and taste of Aventurine's neck. But maybe he has been too passive in his desire to see his friend happy. He likes giving. It is not the same as being taken; it is freely offering morsels of himself, and he wants Aventurine to enjoy those morsels. He wants to see Aventurine enjoy them. The bliss in Aventurine's eyes, the adoration in his smile, the way he, until now, seemed looser than he had been since they started their journey. Sunday loves all of it and loves being loved.
It is in his nature. He does not exist for anyone's pleasure, but he can choose to. After all, what he exists for is the creation of paradise. If he can carve out a small sliver of it for Aventurine using his own body, he will gladly do it. He will give his lips and hands, and skin, and feel rapture in every moment if he can cast light upon the darkness that still plainly infects his dear friend's heart.
As for taking, well...]
My apologies...
I had intended to take more, but I think, maybe, I was worried about frightening you.
[The still gloved hand drifts upward to settle over the golden eye of Ena still emblazoned on the front of his shirt.]
I will try my best to be more proactive, but...
[Golden eyes search lusty jeweled ones.]
Something is on your mind. Please, tell me what it is.
[ Goddess, he deserves so much more than this, than hiding in a tiny ship, aimlessly wandering until he stumbles on the very thing he should've avoided. Sunday belongs with the Nameless, better people better equipped to show him how to achieve that dream of his. More patient, more caring, more a family than Aventurine could ever hope to be. Were he aboard that train, he would not fall back into old habits so readily.
But here, Sunday makes himself the holy vessel again, empty and eager to be filled with others' pain. Aventurine stares, hungry for him, for his body, for his heart, for the sacred thing he tries to be. It's shameful, this desire. Given the chance to escape that destiny, Sunday runs back toward it, and Aventurine's awful mind enables him.
No. He won't allow it. ]
You're making yourself high confessor again. [ A little warning song touches his voice as his gaze falls to the gloved hand still in his clutches.
Gently, he gets back to ruching fabric, pressing up until its loose enough to easily pull the glove away. On Lushaka, the sight of his ungloved hand had felt improper. Now, he can't look away. Sunday has the fingers of a pianist, elegant and strong. Less than a week ago, he'd used that hand to choke him in the dream. Now, Aventurine lifts it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the center of his palm, guides his hand to cup his cheek. Finally, his gaze lifts and levels at Sunday.
Though there is an undeniable appeal in supplicating before something holy, Aventurine will not poison a garden he'd only just professed a desire to see grow. All he can offer is honesty. ]
I feel unworthy. And I don't know how to trust that you are as good as you... [ There is pain in the gap between words as he struggles with himself, with total honesty and the truth. His heartbeat roars anew, and he urges Sunday's bare hand up into his hair. ] ...as I know you are.
Can we leave it at that? It's not the sort of thing fixed by talking, anyway. I'd rather just-
[ His fingers flutter, slip forward and grasp Sunday's shoulders. Aventurine leans in, but this time does not wholly close the distance, afraid that he has again ruined something good. Mere inches from Sunday's face, from another kiss, he mutters, ]
I'd rather just lose myself in you, Sunny, if that's okay.
[It is strange, being scolded for being what Aventurine so clearly wants and needs him to be.
Sunday will always be High Confessor. Until the day he dies, a part of his soul will remain in that booth, hearing the lamentation of others. Aventurine knows this, knows that no matter how far they travel from Penacony and no matter how much Sunday's faith fades, he will always be a priest. He must know that. He kisses Sunday's hands and nuzzles into them like a repentant sinner seeking absolution from a divine touch.
Sunday yearns to grant that absolution. His fingers reach out to reel Aventurine into another slow, sweet kiss...
Then the Stoneheart admits what he truly wants, and Sunday's feathers droop. He will be a priest, and he will offer soothing touches and blessings with his lips. He wants to give his friend much-needed moments of joy. But allowing Aventurine to be lost within him...
Aventurine seeks escape and wants to escape into Sunday's body. Everyone seeks escape sometimes, and Sunday knows this better than anyone. He had once offered humanity a chance to hide from the cruel whims of reality in a false paradise. That is the past he is ashamed of, not his time as a confessor.
Guilt floods his heart. His affection isn't enough to light up the darkness in Aventurine. Maybe no light ever will be. Maybe the yawning nothingness in Aventurine's soul will always swallow the light. And Sunday will never be enough.
He slowly turns away and rises from the bed.]
I don't think there is anything wrong with escapism, Mister Aventurine. [Not Churin] But I do not want to be the man who provides it. Not anymore. Please, do not ask that of me.
[They need to confront life with their heads held high. Together, they will endure hardships, and somewhere on the other side of pain, where relief and laughter lie, there they will find the road to paradise. Sunday wants to guide them there.
He crouches down and removes his boots, then gently places them by the nightstand, side by side.]
Besides, I do not want to see you lose yourself at all. I like you right where you are.
[Slowly, he crawls onto the bed, kisses Aventurine, takes his hand, and lies back until he is supine with the Stoneheart lying atop him. Only now does his burgeoning desire finally break free from his will. It is shameful timing. He shifts his hips so they are not spearing each other. That's better. More than better. Pressed against the inside of Aventurine's thigh like this---
No.
One elegant finger dances up along Aventurine's spine, then traces slow circles between his shoulder blades.]
You have committed misdeeds and made mistakes, and for this, you think you are a monster. Mistakes do not make you a monster; they make you human. If humanity were flawless, I wouldn't have done what I did.
[ An unreadable stillness settles on Aventurine's still flushed features. The barest reaction slips out, an impotent tightening of fingers as Sunday slips from his grip, but even that is faint resistance to what was always inevitable. He does not outwardly react when physical distance becomes emotional, too; Churin traded in for Mister Aventurine once again. A deserved consequence. It had indeed been cruel of him to ask such a thing of Sunday, in particular, and it feels too late now to apologize.
But Sunday stops short of leaving the room. Owlish, Aventurine stares as he tugs off his boots and sets them aside. His lips part, but no sound, no breath escapes. Before he can make sense of what's happening, Sunday is in bed again, pressing a kiss to his lips so soft and so sweet that it leaves him seeing stars. Where would he go? What could he possibly do but follow when Sunday guides him?
He has not earned this kindness. He does not deserve this care, and yet Sunday invites him to take more. Sunday wants him to take more. (Aventurine can feel it when their thighs meet, just how much he wants, and it's maddening in an entirely new way.) Oh, how desperately he wants, too. Wants him, wants this. Not just the beautiful body, supple beneath him and still waiting to be unwrapped, but the kindness, the care -- Aeons, the patience. Sunday is so patient with him, in spite of everything. ]
I-
[ Even with a vest and shirt between them, the drag of Sunday's fingertip still sends sparks up Aventurine's spine. He shuts his eyes and exhales a shuddered breath, mortified by how sensitive he feels, how easily Sunday earns a reaction. It takes him a moment to compose himself, hands pressed into the bed on either side of Sunday's face to keep steady.
He hadn't wanted this to be a confessional, but he fears it must be in some small way. If he is to indulge in this, to allow himself to enjoy it, to enjoy Sunday. He must be better first. Honest.
On the tails of another sigh, Aventurine sits up on his knees to straddle Sunday's thigh. Such a pretty tableau, the man who'd once sought to topple gods, spread beneath him. Aventurine drinks him in, carding fingers through the mess of his blonde hair, then flattens a palm against Sunday's stomach. Oh, how he aches to devour him. ]
You like me as I am. [ Such intoxicatingly lovely words. Undeserved. So very undeserved. ] I'm a killer, Sunday. To save my own life, to escape slavery, hell, to complete jobs for the IPC, I've taken... too many lives. And I've told you I intend to take at least one more.
I don't want absolution. [ He does. But. Not like this. Not yet. ] I just... want you to understand, to have all the information you need to decide, as a man, not a priest, whether I am worth all this care.
[He reaches for Aventurine when he sits back to straddle his thigh, but his fingers grasp only air. The bed is truly a confessional now, and Aventurine confesses to his sins with a solemn expression. Again, the Stoneheart thinks he is undeserving, and again, Sunday worries he will not be enough to convince him otherwise. Like the Charmony Dove, Aventurine is dashing his body against the ground again and again, and Sunday cannot stop him. Soon, he will break.]
I know, Churin.
[He pushes himself up on his elbows and tilts his face to meet the jeweled gaze, still so lovely despite the distant emptiness behind it.]
You have done terrible things, mostly to escape people who would have done worse to you. I researched you before you came to Penacony. I found your story so devastating, yet more proof that humanity needed protection from itself.
And when we met...
[Here he trails off, unsure if he should continue. Terrible things happened when they met. But if Aventurine is laying his heart bare, Sunday should too.]
...The sweet dream was a world of indolent people. They drifted about their days, their only ambition being to seek pleasure wherever they could find it. To me, you were a beacon amongst them. You were more alive than anyone else. Watching you was exhilarating.
[He draws a breath and folds one hand against his heart.]
Sill, I tortured you. I hurt you in the name of righteousness, then nearly destroyed the entire cosmos. Am I... [The question is terribly painful to ask when he knows the answer] am I worth your care?
[ Stars, after everything, to have him admit to this, to have him ask forgiveness in this way...
It sits strange. He thinks himself so unworthy, and there is Sunday, reminding him of what he'd done.
A little wry, Aventurine thinks to himself that anyone would be lucky to have a rival half as tenacious as the former Bronze Melodia. Truly, few so thoroughly match his own exhaustive need for information and control. Few are so willing to commit insanity for their cause, to take pleasure in destroying what stands in their way.
Aventurine hadn't wanted this, had laughed when Jade told him all of Robin's breathless praise. The Bronze Melodia was an easy monster to hate, all his complexities ignorable when set against the reality of what the consecration had done — and might have managed had Aventurine not thrown himself upon the sword.
Despite his best efforts, his own fury has already slipped through his fingers. Robin had been right about her brother's heart. (Of course she was. Sisters always are.) He is only something good, bent to particular shape by circumstance and bad intention, driven to madness by loss. Aventurine himself had only been an effective and deserving target of rage. Whatever Harmony did to his mind on Penacony, he can look at Sunday now without fear.
And he does, gazing into golden eyes.
Aventurine brings his left hand to his lips, nips a fingertip and tugs, freeing his hand from its glove, palm all mottled, scarred flesh beneath. Wordless still, he leans in, slides his shaking fingers against Sunday's cheek. He is so warm, so soft. ]
Why would I bet on someone I didn't believe in?
[ He closes the distance suddenly, crashing against Sunday for one more desperately hungry kiss. ]
[Aventurine's empty eyes fill suddenly with fire so hot that Sunday is sure the trembling hand that reaches to caress his cheek will burn him. Many have wanted him over the years, but none as viciously as Aventurine, who follows the caress with a hungry kiss.
Sunday's lips part in a breathy moan to receive the kiss. He barely recognizes his own voice, it is so smoky with desire.]
Then...can we just be good? Good to each other.
[Before Aventurine can answer, Sunday threads his fingers into sandy blond hair and pulls the Stoneheart in closer, until he can feel their racing hearts beating against each other's chests.
Had he fantasized about this? In his office in Dewlight Pavilion, had the living icon of virtue and self-control thought about the IPC's ambassador in confused, lustful ways? He cannot remember. But it feels like he must have. Here, entwined in the other man's arms, he feels like he is fulfilling a long-held dream. One forgotten, as dreams often are, in the cruel daylight.
Sunday kisses a trail down the side of Aventurine's neck, stops before reaching the brand, and lets his mouth wander up the underside of Aventurine's jaw, stopping just above his throat.]
...Heh... I must admit I am not sure what I am doing, or what I want.
[He murmurs against warm skin. His fingers drift up to grasp Aventurine's hands and massage his palm's scars, more to release tense energy than anything else.]
If we reach a threshold I am unwilling to cross, then...
[Aventurine will honor it, of that he is certain. That isn't his concern.]
...Then you will wait for me, I hope.
["I hope."
It is still so strange to admit to his own feelings. On Penacony, he would never dare. Admitting to feelings meant making himself vulnerable. The Oak Family Head was never vulnerable.
...He isn't sure what he means by "wait for me." Aventurine could find a hot house here in Belobog and Sunday would not mind. They are good friends, but they are not wed or sworn to each other. Aventurine can do what he wants...
But Sunday knows he will feel hurt if his newly found friend left him behind somewhere after losing patience.]
[ Everything Sunday does is fuel for a fire that Aventurine struggles to keep banked. That sound breathed into his open mouth, asking him to be good -- it stokes his blood to boiling. Aventurine forces himself to move twice as slow as he'd like, throat clicking against a stifled groan as Sunday pulls his hair to reel him in. Were it not for the fumbling half-stops, it'd be hard to believe that Sunday doesn't know exactly what he does to him.
Aventurine curls his arms around Sunday's back, busies his hands counting the tines of his spine with light brushes of fingertips. As Sunday's explorations take him to Aventurine's neck, his inexperience becomes more obvious, but Aventurine still buries his face in Sunday's hair, breathes in the rich scent of him. Anything to keep from moving faster than his raven will allow.
He is still clenching his jaw against a too-close brush with the brand on his neck when Sunday asks a question that makes his already dizzy senses spin faster.
I hope, he says, and it makes Aventurine's heart flip.
With fervent groping and kissing paused, Aventurine pulls back enough to study Sunday's expression. What a question. Waiting -- what does that even mean? Exclusivity is no matter. Half the time, Aventurine prefers spreadsheets and statistics to cozying up to strangers in bars. To want anything even half as much as he wants the man in his arms is a rarity, but is that what Sunday means? He should as for clarification. It'd be stupid to give a straight answer. This is something that needs consideration, given who they are, Aventurine's work and Sunday's present status. Feelings cannot factor in, no matter how certain Aventurine is that someone must protect this fussy bird, no matter how much he wants that protector to be him.
Aventurine's lips part. ]
Of course. Of course I'd wait.
[ He hangs, surprise flickering across his features. Oops. ]
Er- Hm.
[ Of course he'd wait. ]
As long as you need, whatever you want.
[ Aventurine curls bare knuckles against the underside of Sunday's chin, runs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip. Aeons, he could stay just like this for an Amber Era if he had to. ]
If we're going to be throwing ourselves into terrible danger all the time, at least we can spend the minutes inbetween having fun figuring out what you like, huh?
[Aventurine hesitates and Sunday braces for rejection. Already, he is imagining life alone in Belobog. Finding work, changing his name, hiding from The Family by erasing everything he once was or could have been.
But, to his surprise, Aventurine says he'll wait. He'll wait and help Sunday discover what he likes. That door they opened with their first kiss is now open wider, and through it, Sunday can see wonders. Carnal, yes, but spiritual as well. Wonders that can only be experienced with a dear friend....Friend.
That is what Aventurine is, right? The hands roaming Sunday's body are mapping him, not greedily pawing at him. The mouth that crashes passionately against his own is full of fondness, not just lust...right?
The last few minutes feel suddenly much darker. Sunday's wings twitch, flutter, then wilt in concern.]
Thank you for waiting....
[He sits back, reluctantly leaving the rough thumb grazing his lip.]
I want to continue. [He wants.] I do. I want to learn what I like...What we like...[One hand flutters to his chest.] But I need to ask you something first.
[His heart pounds and his head spins with a need to stop talking and busy his lips with a much more interesting activity. With Aventurine.
Many have wanted him. Aventurine has him.
So he has to know.... He has to.]
We are friends, right? You like me?
[Realizing this question might seem incredibly rude in the moment, he tries to explain.]
Many people have pursued me over the years, you understand. My own faithful have thrown themselves at me. As their spiritual leader, I never reciprocated their advances. I never even acknowledged them if I could help it.
Yet with you I've said "Yes".
[He leans back again on his palms, wings tense.]
Sorry, I'm rambling. I'll try to get to the point.
On Penacony, there is a phrase people use when they finally couple with someone they've had eyes on: "Getting lucky". And you are...well...you.
I just need to know you really want this, and I am not a casualty of your luck. If I go down in history as yet another of your career's many successes, I'm not sure I can bear it.
[ For once, Aventurine is completely baffled. He cannot begin to fathom how his answer had been the wrong one, but it is. Those silvery wings wilt and give away the game. For a few seconds, the only thing he feels is curios, like an unexpectedly mediocre performance review dropped in his lap. When Sunday pulls away, he eases back, gloved fingers toying thoughtfully with his own lower lip as he listens.
A hand at the face draws more attention to the mouth, yes, but Aventurine is adept at schooling his reactions. Sunday asks his question, then elaborates, and Aventurine's expression remains still.
So, Sunday wants... this, but just a friend, as well. He has such an odd way of seeing the world. Aventurine finds it frustrating and fascinating in equal measure, but he is fond of it. In the middle of trying to untangle exactly what Sunday is asking for, he says those words. Getting lucky. ]
And I'm me.
[ Aventurine echoes, hands falling into his lap, like it's the most interesting statement in the world. He hides his hurt well enough behind a faint smile. ]
I do... I like you, Sunday, yeah. I like your drive and your tenacity, how you see the world, how you want to fix it, bring people happiness. Even if I don't... think it's possible. You... make it seem worth trying, at least. I like that you frustrate and challenge me. I like this. Um.
[ Though he tries, his carefully held smile falls, weighed too much by a growing ache in his chest. It was foolish to do this, to be anything more than the bird's custodian, to let Sunday in. He scoots back, fighting with the pain threading through his words, trying to shut it out. ]
But... I'm me, right? The scoundrel Aventurine, a tricky gambler. Carved my heart out and replaced it with stone, right? [ A breath exhaled, a mirthless laugh. ] So, how can you trust anything I say?
[Sunday watches Aventurine steel his features in an attempt not to appear hurt. Aventurine, he is finding, is incredibly sensitive beneath all of his flamboyant banter. Part of him is always alert for any reason to wallow in self-hatred.
It is hard not to feel humbled by the opportunity to see this side of the Stoneheart, but he hadn't intended to bring it out.
He hadn't intended to hurt anyone.]
That's--that's not what I mean. [Sunday is Bronze Melodia again, trying to help people and making everything worse in the process. He rubs the side of his head, then reaches for Aventurine again when he scoots back. This has to stop. His poor friend cannot be allowed to wallow so.]
It isn't you I am worried about, please believe me. [One hand trails up along Aventurine's shoulder and neck to gently cup his cheek.]
Rather, it is your preternatural luck. I just need to know it isn't your luck doing this but you. Because your gift isn't what I want. You are.
[ Sunday's touch soothes the impulse to pull away further, but does not wipe the uncertainty from Aventurine's features. ]
I'm not sure I understand. My luck... Sunday, my "luck" is a knack for games of chance. It doesn't change minds. It doesn't... alter destiny. Goddess, I wish it could, but it's not like that. Everything else- every plan, every success, this, you, it's all very intentional.
[ His gaze falls, head shaking faintly. ]
I wouldn't just let this, here, now, happen if I didn't want it.
Your luck doesn't alter destiny, yet it tore a god from the heavens?
[Sunday says, incredulous.
Part of him, he realizes, wants to believe the luck is magical, that it has cast a spell over him which he can shake off with enough focused effort. Then, knowing none of this is real, he can walk away. Better to find a reason to leave than face the rejection he knows is coming.
The Bronze Melodia is loved. The Oak Family Head is feared. Nobody feels anything for his most authentic self. What is there to like about a sensitive, weak man who is full of sin?
Aventurine will notice there is nothing there. That he smothered himself thoroughly in Penacony, and very little of him survived. Aventurine is clever...
Yet...
When Sunday meets his eyes, he sees genuine emotion. Want.
Maybe, this once, he can leave himself to the whims of fate and see where the currents take him. Who knows? The two of them might even be happy, in the end.]
...I'm sorry, Churin. Forgive me... I believe you.
I think part of me is afraid and wants to sabotage this...this rare moment of happiness. Let's not allow it to take this from us.
[He grips Aventurine and eagerly pulls him in closer to press their lips together.]
Kiss me some more.
[If the strings of Aventurine's soul were not silent, the room would briefly resonate with a tuner's playful chime. His words are not a request, they are a command.]
[ At the convergence of Nihility, of Harmony, of Order, and Preservation, Aventurine lost his song. Whether a war wages within him, within that permeating silence, is beside the point right now. He needn't have his strings plucked to hear the force in Sunday's voice, to know it is an order his pretty raven gives. Even without tuning, it still buzzes across his skin, turns his blood hot with want renewed. It's a little delicious, seeing Sunday seizing the reins of authority once again.
But, for one achingly long moment, Aventurine resists, because he can. He hangs back, gazes with eyes blessed by Gaiathra Triclops, takes in Sunday's hungry expression, his apology, his incredulity, and smiles.
Sunday wants to know this has nothing to do with luck, that this is willful, that Aventurine wants him. He'll have his proof.
Aventurine slots their mouths together slowly, bare hand curling into Sunday's soft hair to hold him close. He moves in bodily, gentle but eager, to climb atop Sunday again and push him down against the bed. With hot breath, pawing palms, and an eager, curious tongue, Aventurine submits -- willingly, this time -- to Sunday's authority.
He kisses him until they trade breath, until they necessarily must come up for air, and then, sits up, a bright and triumphant smile spreads across his face. ]
I tore a god from the heavens. The IPC couldn't be bothered to move for the Avgin when we needed them most, so I moved their Aeon to save Penacony from the Dream.
[ His chest rises and falls dramatically with each breath. He had toppled the god of Domination, the path of Philosphy at its inception, and he is proud. ]
[Sunday entwines his arms around Aventurine's shoulders as he's eased onto his back. In such a vulnerable position, he should feel nervous, but Aventurine goes where Sunday's hands and lips guide him, yielding control to him. Tension quickly fades, driven out by a warm, foggy bliss. Every kiss is met with passionate yet gentle enthusiasm.
When Aventurine sits back, Sunday is flushed, panting, feathers splayed. Needing to leave pleasure to surface for air is such an unfair quirk of biology. The moments they are not pressed together feel too long and too cold now.]
That god never went anywhere, you know. [He says around gasps for air, and grins.] I'm right here.
[Fallen, much smaller, far weaker, no less determined. He shouldn't think about his ascension. It was a mistake, it was terrible, it needs to stay in the past so he can move forward. But Aventurine says, "I'm yours," and it brings back memories. Memories of power, of dominance. Sunday's pupils dilate until they've made eclipses of his normally sunlit eyes. If only Aventurine could be tuned, Sunday would fill his mind with a delighted melody.
His hands glide up Aventurine's thighs, then slide down to his knees. His toes curl, and his calves tighten in a vain attempt to draw blood back to his extremities. ]
[ The fallen Aeon of Dominance is gorgeous laid out beneath him, flush with want, wings open in invitation. Aventurine drinks him in, running hands up the length of him from stomach to chest. He hesitates, shuts his eyes and pulls in a breath, forcing himself not to rush through this, to respond first to whatever Sunday asks for, whether the order comes from his lips or those lovely wings. Then, in control once more, slender fingers lift to work the first buttons at the high point of Sunday's collar. ]
However you'd like. [ he says, because it's part of their game, but it's also true.
There is an electric sort of satisfaction in knowing that he gives himself willingly. Not taken, bought, or traded, but earned, and not by some unfathomably powerful aeon, but his gentle, fussy bird. His lovely Foxian wife. His raven. Devotion is not something Aventurine typically entertains, not when his heart and soul are pulled in so many directions, but he dances with the concept as he dips down to kiss Sunday's neck.
There is little he would not do to see Sunday continue to bloom as he has in these last few days. There is little he would not do to make those wings tremble with pleasure. ]
On my knees, maybe. Between your thighs.
[ He spoils the skin where Sunday's pulse roars, attentive but mindful not to leave any marks. Attentive of any sudden shifts or movements, he nudges the collar of Sunday's shirt open and moves onto the next set of buttons. ]
Slowly. Sweetly. Until you're satisfied. Until you tell me to stop.
[Aventurine speaks of adoration on his knees. Slow, and sweet, warm as avgin. He is already so slow, so sweet. Slow enough that it's almost agonizing, but Sunday's heart would burst free of his ribcage if they went any faster. Slow is good, he reasons. Slow gives him time to think and consider his wants.
If only he could think with a worshipful mouth against his throat, drifting downward to a freshly exposed clavicle. Already, Sunday feels naked. This is more skin than anyone has ever seen from him.
They should stop, now, before this goes too far. Before they do something they will regret.
They should continue. The feral yearning Sunday had that day in the cargo bay is back, worse now. Every inch of him aches in desire, and the one thing that will satisfy it is Aventurine. But a quick, passionless release of physical stress on a cold floor will not do, not after they've tasted each other.]
I don't have to--ugh. [A slow kiss pressed to his jugular vein scatters his thoughts into the growing red fog of his mind. He takes a moment to find them again.]
I don't have to get my own room, you know. Maybe we can find--ah a way to make it work.
[Make it work. As if the issue of them sharing a room was a simple matter of logistics, not boundaries or, in Sunday's case, propriety.
Aventurine reaches lower to unfasten more buttons and expose his chest. Fear sends Sunday's heart leaping.
His whole adult life, he's been obsessed with perfection in all things, including himself. Especially himself. Every suit had to be perfectly tailored, every strand of hair brushed, feathers preened to a shine. Body toned and handsome. Nobody was ever intended to see his body, of course. Impressing others wasn't the point. He saw it whenever he looked in the mirror. Every imperfection needed to be eradicated until he was perfect.
Is he still perfect?
Aventurine may see imperfections Sunday had never been aware of with all his time spent dreaming. Then this will end with Aventurine finding him suddenly ugly.
One hand reaches up and gently grips the Stoneheart's wrist before any more buttons can be undone.]
No.
[He sits up on his elbow and tries to ignore the irate screaming in his body, telling him to let the worshipful attention lavished upon his throat continue.]
Please.
[The hand on Aventurine's wrist tugs to the side as he tries to coax Aventurine onto his back.]
[ Halfway to making a game of interrupting Sunday's thoughts and earning sweet little sounds, Sunday makes a suggestion that well and truly robs his brain of its last bit of blood. His stomach clenches with new need at the thought of sharing a warm bed and a long, cold night with his lovely bird.
But Sunday's mood shifts before he can respond properly. He tastes it in the growing tension in his muscles before Sunday even makes it clear. He slows more, fingers stilling by the time Sunday takes his wrist. Aventurine lifts his head, ready with a joke to smooth over what he imagines will otherwise become an awkward stop as Sunday grapples with his newfound limit.
But a please chases that no, and Aventurine's head spins.
They should stop here, he thinks, because the alternative surrenders more control than Aventurine is willing to give. He stares, half-drunk, at the sun beneath him, beautiful, gentle, stern. The puzzle pieces fall in place far too easily. Sunday needs this, needs all factors accounted for, needs control of the situation. With a faintly crooked smile crossing his features, Aventurine notes how not-so-dissimilar this is from their disastrous meeting in Dewlight Pavilion.
This time, though, he is not motivated by duty or obligation, but genuine care. There is no growing terror, only a fire that burns steadily, so hot that wearing clothes any longer feels almost unbearable. Sunday needs this, and he wants it, slipping onto his back where guided, obedient, besotted. In the midst of his desperate haze, he realizes he hardly recognizes himself.
A part of him wants Sunday to leave him in ruins. ]
You're welcome in my bed, Sunny. [ He tries for playful, but there is a heavy, hungry weight to them. ] If you change your mind, I'll leave my card on the table.
[ He swallows the urge to give direction, and instead asks, light: ] Are you going to touch me?
[Only a few days ago, Aventurine had gravely warned Sunday never to enter his room without permission. Now, he offers his bed. They have come a long way in such a short time. Sunday parts his lips to say as much, but Aventurine cuts him off with a question that makes him go pale.
Are you going to touch me?.
Is that an invitation? Yes, he had told Sunday to take more, but hearing it asked so clearly is different. It is...exquisite.]
I am. If you do not mind.
[Sunday positions his knees on either side of Aventurine's hips, then leans forward in a crouch, not fully sitting atop him.
Aventurine continues to yield to his desires, his body like clay in Sunday's hands, ready to be moulded. He is so gentle, so understanding of Sunday's needs, one would think they'd been together before. After so much time spent studying each other even before they officially met, maybe they have been. Just not physically. Not like this.
Sunday grazes a gentle knuckle down the side of his honey sweet friend's face.]
I should apologize. You only asked if you could kiss me; I may have taken that request too far.
[His fingers feather downward across Aventurine's throat to settle against his chest.]
...The truth is, I've thought about this for a long time. Touching you, I mean.
[Back in Dewlight Pavilion, a fantasy struck him, so wicked and wrong he barely recognized it as his own. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought it the work of a capricious tuner. With Aventurine standing before him, he'd wanted to slip a hand into the spade-shaped opening in his garments and caress the bare skin there. He didn't act on the fantasy then, but it haunted him for a long time afterward.
Aventurine isn't wearing the ludicrous peacock outfit, not in this weather, so Sunday instead decides to slip two fingers between the buttons of his shirt and finally, finally, touch the warm, soft flesh of his chest. It feels more wonderful than he imagined it would. And there is more waiting for him.
Beneath the folds of green fabric lies an entire body waiting to be explored. And he wants to explore it. He wants to explore it, name it, and claim it as territory that is entirely his own. Others may have been there before, but they no doubt left it in ruin. He will nurture it, and care for it, and...and love it.]
I thought about it in detail.
So, if you are finally willing to admit that you are worthy of my touch, then... Yes. I would like very much to touch you.
[ Over the years, Aventurine has taken all manner of bodies to bed. For work, out of boredom, and in foolish, frivolous, ill-advised dances with concepts like love, he has tumbled into beds, bathtubs, empty board rooms, and other places beyond counting. He is well versed in squeezing some amount of satisfaction from even the most selfish and inexperienced of lovers, and though he wants, desperately, to classify and compartmentalize this within the categories he has so carefully created, there is one glaring problem: no one has ever made him feel this way.
Were Sunday more experienced, more confident in the role he assumes looming over Aventurine, the Stoneheart would say with certainty that he is teasing -- edging, even, if he felt like being crude. Instead, he knows it's just the opposite. Sunday, for some reason that Aventurine cannot begin to understand, means to inspect every inch of him, counting folds in fabric in buttons not as obstacles, but welcome parts of the process. This errs dangerously close to the dense, intense sort of feelings Aventurine swore off in his youth, but each time he aims to make a joke, Sunday says something that steals his breath.
And then, just when he's about to crack a joke about getting carried away with kisses, Sunday slips fingers under ruches of fabric between buttons and Aventurine sucks in a breath, lets a soft, needy sound slip from his parted lips. Aeons, it's just a touch. He should not be this sensitive, but Sunday is so careful, so deliberate in his ministrations, Aventurine can almost recall what it is to be touched for the first time again.
He squirms, ticklish. A soft snicker slips past his lips, uncontrolled. His face fills with color, despite efforts to remain composed. Sunday has him at a clear disadvantage. The only thing he can think to do is settle his hand son those slim, bony hips, gripping him for purchase, for any sort of stability. ]
You can tell me about it sometime...
[ It's a joke, but he wants to hear. Wants Sunday to paint his fantasies in bright colors for him to enjoy, wants to fulfill them. He could, he would, almost certainly... except...
Worthy.
Aventurine blinks. He sobers, staring. If he wants this, and he does, more than he's wanted anything in a long, long time, then he must at least play with the idea that he might not be some foul, reprehensible thing. It is... harder than he expects, and largely because he doesn't like the idea of lying to Sunday.
This is part of it, though, isn't it? The nascent Aeon of Domination would not find fascination with just anyone. Aventurine dithers, staring up into golden eyes, hungry, adoring. He would do anything to earn that touch, that trust. ]
I... I think I might be worth touching, yeah. [ He wants this so badly. Not just satisfaction of a physical need, but Sunday, his attention, his affection, whatever he's willing to give. If he is not, already, then Aventurine will do the work, will make himself worthy. ] I- I've earned it, haven't I?
[His hands drift upward and slowly unfasten the top button of Aventurine's shirt.]
You are worthy, Mister Aventurine. [Not "Churin", though this time Sunday invites a playful note into his voice.]
You're a good man. I know you don't believe that, but I've seen true wickedness, and it doesn't look like you.
[It looks like men who lie their way into power to oppress others. It looks like people who abuse each other in their worst moments. It looks like tyrants.
It does not look like a man trapped in a bad situation, trying his best to draw luck from an unlucky hand.]
If you were as awful as you think you are, you would not have torn me from my divine throne. You may say that it was your duty to your employers that made you do that... But such immense feats can only truly be achieved by good intent. You were worried about people.
So you saved everyone. Penacony, my sister... [Here, he pauses and looks up from his focused work on Aventurine's buttons.]. Me. And though I never asked to be saved, I am glad I was. Thank you, my friend, for granting me this opportunity to reconsider my actions.
[He leans forward and presses a tender kiss to Aventurine's mouth, then sits back to gaze into the jeweled eyes that have bewitched him for so long.]
Heh... You have THEIR eyes. Ena's eyes.
[Which means something, something terribly important, but Sunday cannot imagine what it is. Thinking is increasingly difficult through his nearly painful arousal. Arousal he still tries to ignore, despite it making itself very apparent. Art cannot be rushed.
Through the smoky haze of his mind, one amusing thought comes to him.]
Which means I had your eyes when your god struck me with THEIR hammer.
[He looks down at the Stoneheart spilled beneath him, framed in the pale light beaming in from the windows. Aventurine is so impossibly lovely. The sight entices Sunday to lean forward again and place a single, drawn-out kiss against the apple of Aventurine's throat.]
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[Sunday says, embarrassed, when Aventurine scolds him. He doesn't have time to say more. Hands roam his sides, and lips press against his, inhaling the breath from his lungs. And when those lips take a sojourn to the sensitive skin of his neck, his wings flap wide and vibrate. So this is why people kiss necks.
A soft, bird-like trill purls from his well-adored throat. His hands slide up Aventurine's back, then pull him in more closely and wrap him in a tight embrace. Earlier, he'd thought they would share the briefest kiss, a simple expression of a bond. Things have escalated from there so quickly that he feels dizzy. Aventurine is suddenly holding and touching and drinking him in as if he were a chalice of cool, crystalline water found in the middle of a desert. How long has the Stoneheart wanted this? Such daring hunger should bother Sunday, but it doesn't.
Here, now, in this moment, he is not the Oak Family Head, the Bronze Melodia, or a fallen sun. He is just the man in Aventurine's arms. That man is no less sacred than the Melodia, however. The words spoken low against his throat are a prayer, the hands feeling him through the dense fabric of his shirt are as reverent as they are eager. On Penacony, his faithful had run to him in their desperation. A similar desperation races through Aventurine. Sunday can feel it in every touch.
Kisses, licks, hands, beating hearts, pleas.
His next kiss to Aventurine's lips is slow, gentle, soothing.]
I am already in danger, so it is too late for that. You are my friend, and I want to protect you. I want you to be happy.
[Another lingering kiss. Sunday's kisses are less ravenous than Aventurine's but no less passionate. He wants to savor his friend, enjoy his company, and make him happy. How can he do any of that if he is also devouring the poor man?.]
I apologize for removing my coat. Would you like to remove my gloves? [If he'd asked Aventurine to unbutton his trousers, he doubts the blush that spills anew across his cheeks would be any worse.]
no subject
Clumsily, he kicks his shoes off, brings both feet up onto the bed, and does his best to hide his arousal, half-believing Sunday might be too scandalized by the sight to even stay in the room with him. He leans in, chasing another taste, one hand flattening against the bed behind Sunday's back to keep himself stable. Mortifying that this is immediately followed by Sunday calling him friend. It almost feels like Aha's work. ]
Happy. [ A little incredulous.
A rush of air escapes him between kisses, half a laugh. It helps. Cools this too hot fire that has him leaning hungrily into every kiss. Coming back to his senses, he might've been discouraged, except that Sunday is still flush with warmth, still holding him close, still meeting every kiss with his own gentle enthusiasm.
That apology, though, it earns a genuine laugh, all bright, delighted sound. Giggling still, Aventurine sits back, stares at Sunday with beetled brows. Even knowing that Sunday has made three times a mess of him with less than half the effort, Aventurine still savors the satisfaction of watching Sunday's face flood with color anew over the suggestion.
Oh, this ridiculous, infuriating bird. He likes him so much. ]
I would. Yeah. Very much. [ He says, taking one of Sunday's hands in both of his own, running thumbs along his palm, then with careful, curious fingers and wickedly deliberate slowness, working his rings off, one at a time. All the while, he stares into Sunday's eyes, hunger only just held at bay. ] It's nice, isn't it?
not entirely worksafe
And his body is enjoying it too. Sunday notices it from the corner of his vision, notices Aventurine shuffling to hide it, and does not comment. They are evolved from animals, after all. Even his own body is teetering close to the edge of making itself known and would have tumbled over it long ago if not for his rigid self-control. His biology yields to his will. It has too. It was a necessary thing to master when he was still a teenager. Experiencing arousal at the salacious stories he heard come through the lattice of his confessional would have ended his term as Melodia.
But even he has his limits, and Aventurine is testing them. Biology can only be contained for so long.]
I suppose it is.
[He lies, though only partially.
He leans forward to kiss Aventurine's smiling mouth again.]
I do like that you like it, Mister--
[Losing the formalities will take some getting used to. He sighs, then, with a warm smile....]
My dear Churin. I like you.
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People do not like Aventurine. Aventurine is a loathsome scoundrel, an untrustworthy corporate dog, a danger to all around him. He is tolerated at best, for his skills, his status, his wealth. Aventurine's own desires have never mattered, just the work, just the results, just the aurora at the end of his path.
Sweet Sunday, who is warm in every way Aventurine can think of, calls him pet names, praises him, promises to protect him, and guiltily Aventurine finds himself wondering -- what's the catch? What is it Sunday needs from him? Is this repayment for his escape? For the escort across the cosmos? How could he be so stupid? So careless?
Oh, he'd been right after all. This is going to smash him to pieces.
He forces a laugh, light, soldiers on like his own head isn't at war with the rest of him. The fine silver rings are deposited with care on the bedside table, and he returns to his work, slipping his fingers beneath the lip of Sunday's glove. It's not skin to skin, not when he is still in gloves, so why does his own face fill with rosy color?
He stills, just a moment, then glances up, gaze far too adoring. ]
Sunny, don't just give. Take a little, too.
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Have I not been taking?
[He asks at the unexpected request. He had gone in for the first kiss and taste of Aventurine's neck. But maybe he has been too passive in his desire to see his friend happy. He likes giving. It is not the same as being taken; it is freely offering morsels of himself, and he wants Aventurine to enjoy those morsels. He wants to see Aventurine enjoy them. The bliss in Aventurine's eyes, the adoration in his smile, the way he, until now, seemed looser than he had been since they started their journey. Sunday loves all of it and loves being loved.
It is in his nature. He does not exist for anyone's pleasure, but he can choose to. After all, what he exists for is the creation of paradise. If he can carve out a small sliver of it for Aventurine using his own body, he will gladly do it. He will give his lips and hands, and skin, and feel rapture in every moment if he can cast light upon the darkness that still plainly infects his dear friend's heart.
As for taking, well...]
My apologies...
I had intended to take more, but I think, maybe, I was worried about frightening you.
[The still gloved hand drifts upward to settle over the golden eye of Ena still emblazoned on the front of his shirt.]
I will try my best to be more proactive, but...
[Golden eyes search lusty jeweled ones.]
Something is on your mind. Please, tell me what it is.
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[ Goddess, he deserves so much more than this, than hiding in a tiny ship, aimlessly wandering until he stumbles on the very thing he should've avoided. Sunday belongs with the Nameless, better people better equipped to show him how to achieve that dream of his. More patient, more caring, more a family than Aventurine could ever hope to be. Were he aboard that train, he would not fall back into old habits so readily.
But here, Sunday makes himself the holy vessel again, empty and eager to be filled with others' pain. Aventurine stares, hungry for him, for his body, for his heart, for the sacred thing he tries to be. It's shameful, this desire. Given the chance to escape that destiny, Sunday runs back toward it, and Aventurine's awful mind enables him.
No. He won't allow it. ]
You're making yourself high confessor again. [ A little warning song touches his voice as his gaze falls to the gloved hand still in his clutches.
Gently, he gets back to ruching fabric, pressing up until its loose enough to easily pull the glove away. On Lushaka, the sight of his ungloved hand had felt improper. Now, he can't look away. Sunday has the fingers of a pianist, elegant and strong. Less than a week ago, he'd used that hand to choke him in the dream. Now, Aventurine lifts it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the center of his palm, guides his hand to cup his cheek. Finally, his gaze lifts and levels at Sunday.
Though there is an undeniable appeal in supplicating before something holy, Aventurine will not poison a garden he'd only just professed a desire to see grow. All he can offer is honesty. ]
I feel unworthy. And I don't know how to trust that you are as good as you... [ There is pain in the gap between words as he struggles with himself, with total honesty and the truth. His heartbeat roars anew, and he urges Sunday's bare hand up into his hair. ] ...as I know you are.
Can we leave it at that? It's not the sort of thing fixed by talking, anyway. I'd rather just-
[ His fingers flutter, slip forward and grasp Sunday's shoulders. Aventurine leans in, but this time does not wholly close the distance, afraid that he has again ruined something good. Mere inches from Sunday's face, from another kiss, he mutters, ]
I'd rather just lose myself in you, Sunny, if that's okay.
nsfw a bit
Sunday will always be High Confessor. Until the day he dies, a part of his soul will remain in that booth, hearing the lamentation of others. Aventurine knows this, knows that no matter how far they travel from Penacony and no matter how much Sunday's faith fades, he will always be a priest. He must know that. He kisses Sunday's hands and nuzzles into them like a repentant sinner seeking absolution from a divine touch.
Sunday yearns to grant that absolution. His fingers reach out to reel Aventurine into another slow, sweet kiss...
Then the Stoneheart admits what he truly wants, and Sunday's feathers droop. He will be a priest, and he will offer soothing touches and blessings with his lips. He wants to give his friend much-needed moments of joy. But allowing Aventurine to be lost within him...
Aventurine seeks escape and wants to escape into Sunday's body. Everyone seeks escape sometimes, and Sunday knows this better than anyone. He had once offered humanity a chance to hide from the cruel whims of reality in a false paradise. That is the past he is ashamed of, not his time as a confessor.
Guilt floods his heart. His affection isn't enough to light up the darkness in Aventurine. Maybe no light ever will be. Maybe the yawning nothingness in Aventurine's soul will always swallow the light. And Sunday will never be enough.
He slowly turns away and rises from the bed.]
I don't think there is anything wrong with escapism, Mister Aventurine. [Not Churin] But I do not want to be the man who provides it. Not anymore. Please, do not ask that of me.
[They need to confront life with their heads held high. Together, they will endure hardships, and somewhere on the other side of pain, where relief and laughter lie, there they will find the road to paradise. Sunday wants to guide them there.
He crouches down and removes his boots, then gently places them by the nightstand, side by side.]
Besides, I do not want to see you lose yourself at all. I like you right where you are.
[Slowly, he crawls onto the bed, kisses Aventurine, takes his hand, and lies back until he is supine with the Stoneheart lying atop him. Only now does his burgeoning desire finally break free from his will. It is shameful timing. He shifts his hips so they are not spearing each other. That's better. More than better. Pressed against the inside of Aventurine's thigh like this---
No.
One elegant finger dances up along Aventurine's spine, then traces slow circles between his shoulder blades.]
You have committed misdeeds and made mistakes, and for this, you think you are a monster. Mistakes do not make you a monster; they make you human. If humanity were flawless, I wouldn't have done what I did.
also a tiny bit nsfw but also mostly just sad
But Sunday stops short of leaving the room. Owlish, Aventurine stares as he tugs off his boots and sets them aside. His lips part, but no sound, no breath escapes. Before he can make sense of what's happening, Sunday is in bed again, pressing a kiss to his lips so soft and so sweet that it leaves him seeing stars. Where would he go? What could he possibly do but follow when Sunday guides him?
He has not earned this kindness. He does not deserve this care, and yet Sunday invites him to take more. Sunday wants him to take more. (Aventurine can feel it when their thighs meet, just how much he wants, and it's maddening in an entirely new way.) Oh, how desperately he wants, too. Wants him, wants this. Not just the beautiful body, supple beneath him and still waiting to be unwrapped, but the kindness, the care -- Aeons, the patience. Sunday is so patient with him, in spite of everything. ]
I-
[ Even with a vest and shirt between them, the drag of Sunday's fingertip still sends sparks up Aventurine's spine. He shuts his eyes and exhales a shuddered breath, mortified by how sensitive he feels, how easily Sunday earns a reaction. It takes him a moment to compose himself, hands pressed into the bed on either side of Sunday's face to keep steady.
He hadn't wanted this to be a confessional, but he fears it must be in some small way. If he is to indulge in this, to allow himself to enjoy it, to enjoy Sunday. He must be better first. Honest.
On the tails of another sigh, Aventurine sits up on his knees to straddle Sunday's thigh. Such a pretty tableau, the man who'd once sought to topple gods, spread beneath him. Aventurine drinks him in, carding fingers through the mess of his blonde hair, then flattens a palm against Sunday's stomach. Oh, how he aches to devour him. ]
You like me as I am. [ Such intoxicatingly lovely words. Undeserved. So very undeserved. ] I'm a killer, Sunday. To save my own life, to escape slavery, hell, to complete jobs for the IPC, I've taken... too many lives. And I've told you I intend to take at least one more.
I don't want absolution. [ He does. But. Not like this. Not yet. ] I just... want you to understand, to have all the information you need to decide, as a man, not a priest, whether I am worth all this care.
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I know, Churin.
[He pushes himself up on his elbows and tilts his face to meet the jeweled gaze, still so lovely despite the distant emptiness behind it.]
You have done terrible things, mostly to escape people who would have done worse to you. I researched you before you came to Penacony. I found your story so devastating, yet more proof that humanity needed protection from itself.
And when we met...
[Here he trails off, unsure if he should continue. Terrible things happened when they met. But if Aventurine is laying his heart bare, Sunday should too.]
...The sweet dream was a world of indolent people. They drifted about their days, their only ambition being to seek pleasure wherever they could find it. To me, you were a beacon amongst them. You were more alive than anyone else. Watching you was exhilarating.
[He draws a breath and folds one hand against his heart.]
Sill, I tortured you. I hurt you in the name of righteousness, then nearly destroyed the entire cosmos. Am I... [The question is terribly painful to ask when he knows the answer] am I worth your care?
[Of course he isn't.]
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It sits strange. He thinks himself so unworthy, and there is Sunday, reminding him of what he'd done.
A little wry, Aventurine thinks to himself that anyone would be lucky to have a rival half as tenacious as the former Bronze Melodia. Truly, few so thoroughly match his own exhaustive need for information and control. Few are so willing to commit insanity for their cause, to take pleasure in destroying what stands in their way.
Aventurine hadn't wanted this, had laughed when Jade told him all of Robin's breathless praise. The Bronze Melodia was an easy monster to hate, all his complexities ignorable when set against the reality of what the consecration had done — and might have managed had Aventurine not thrown himself upon the sword.
Despite his best efforts, his own fury has already slipped through his fingers. Robin had been right about her brother's heart. (Of course she was. Sisters always are.) He is only something good, bent to particular shape by circumstance and bad intention, driven to madness by loss. Aventurine himself had only been an effective and deserving target of rage. Whatever Harmony did to his mind on Penacony, he can look at Sunday now without fear.
And he does, gazing into golden eyes.
Aventurine brings his left hand to his lips, nips a fingertip and tugs, freeing his hand from its glove, palm all mottled, scarred flesh beneath. Wordless still, he leans in, slides his shaking fingers against Sunday's cheek. He is so warm, so soft. ]
Why would I bet on someone I didn't believe in?
[ He closes the distance suddenly, crashing against Sunday for one more desperately hungry kiss. ]
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Sunday's lips part in a breathy moan to receive the kiss. He barely recognizes his own voice, it is so smoky with desire.]
Then...can we just be good? Good to each other.
[Before Aventurine can answer, Sunday threads his fingers into sandy blond hair and pulls the Stoneheart in closer, until he can feel their racing hearts beating against each other's chests.
Had he fantasized about this? In his office in Dewlight Pavilion, had the living icon of virtue and self-control thought about the IPC's ambassador in confused, lustful ways? He cannot remember. But it feels like he must have. Here, entwined in the other man's arms, he feels like he is fulfilling a long-held dream. One forgotten, as dreams often are, in the cruel daylight.
Sunday kisses a trail down the side of Aventurine's neck, stops before reaching the brand, and lets his mouth wander up the underside of Aventurine's jaw, stopping just above his throat.]
...Heh... I must admit I am not sure what I am doing, or what I want.
[He murmurs against warm skin. His fingers drift up to grasp Aventurine's hands and massage his palm's scars, more to release tense energy than anything else.]
If we reach a threshold I am unwilling to cross, then...
[Aventurine will honor it, of that he is certain. That isn't his concern.]
...Then you will wait for me, I hope.
["I hope."
It is still so strange to admit to his own feelings. On Penacony, he would never dare. Admitting to feelings meant making himself vulnerable. The Oak Family Head was never vulnerable.
...He isn't sure what he means by "wait for me." Aventurine could find a hot house here in Belobog and Sunday would not mind. They are good friends, but they are not wed or sworn to each other. Aventurine can do what he wants...
But Sunday knows he will feel hurt if his newly found friend left him behind somewhere after losing patience.]
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Aventurine curls his arms around Sunday's back, busies his hands counting the tines of his spine with light brushes of fingertips. As Sunday's explorations take him to Aventurine's neck, his inexperience becomes more obvious, but Aventurine still buries his face in Sunday's hair, breathes in the rich scent of him. Anything to keep from moving faster than his raven will allow.
He is still clenching his jaw against a too-close brush with the brand on his neck when Sunday asks a question that makes his already dizzy senses spin faster.
I hope, he says, and it makes Aventurine's heart flip.
With fervent groping and kissing paused, Aventurine pulls back enough to study Sunday's expression. What a question. Waiting -- what does that even mean? Exclusivity is no matter. Half the time, Aventurine prefers spreadsheets and statistics to cozying up to strangers in bars. To want anything even half as much as he wants the man in his arms is a rarity, but is that what Sunday means? He should as for clarification. It'd be stupid to give a straight answer. This is something that needs consideration, given who they are, Aventurine's work and Sunday's present status. Feelings cannot factor in, no matter how certain Aventurine is that someone must protect this fussy bird, no matter how much he wants that protector to be him.
Aventurine's lips part. ]
Of course. Of course I'd wait.
[ He hangs, surprise flickering across his features. Oops. ]
Er- Hm.
[ Of course he'd wait. ]
As long as you need, whatever you want.
[ Aventurine curls bare knuckles against the underside of Sunday's chin, runs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip. Aeons, he could stay just like this for an Amber Era if he had to. ]
If we're going to be throwing ourselves into terrible danger all the time, at least we can spend the minutes inbetween having fun figuring out what you like, huh?
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But, to his surprise, Aventurine says he'll wait. He'll wait and help Sunday discover what he likes. That door they opened with their first kiss is now open wider, and through it, Sunday can see wonders. Carnal, yes, but spiritual as well. Wonders that can only be experienced with a dear friend....Friend.
That is what Aventurine is, right? The hands roaming Sunday's body are mapping him, not greedily pawing at him. The mouth that crashes passionately against his own is full of fondness, not just lust...right?
The last few minutes feel suddenly much darker. Sunday's wings twitch, flutter, then wilt in concern.]
Thank you for waiting....
[He sits back, reluctantly leaving the rough thumb grazing his lip.]
I want to continue. [He wants.] I do. I want to learn what I like...What we like...[One hand flutters to his chest.] But I need to ask you something first.
[His heart pounds and his head spins with a need to stop talking and busy his lips with a much more interesting activity. With Aventurine.
Many have wanted him. Aventurine has him.
So he has to know.... He has to.]
We are friends, right? You like me?
[Realizing this question might seem incredibly rude in the moment, he tries to explain.]
Many people have pursued me over the years, you understand. My own faithful have thrown themselves at me. As their spiritual leader, I never reciprocated their advances. I never even acknowledged them if I could help it.
Yet with you I've said "Yes".
[He leans back again on his palms, wings tense.]
Sorry, I'm rambling. I'll try to get to the point.
On Penacony, there is a phrase people use when they finally couple with someone they've had eyes on: "Getting lucky". And you are...well...you.
I just need to know you really want this, and I am not a casualty of your luck. If I go down in history as yet another of your career's many successes, I'm not sure I can bear it.
So, please... Allay my concerns.
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A hand at the face draws more attention to the mouth, yes, but Aventurine is adept at schooling his reactions. Sunday asks his question, then elaborates, and Aventurine's expression remains still.
So, Sunday wants... this, but just a friend, as well. He has such an odd way of seeing the world. Aventurine finds it frustrating and fascinating in equal measure, but he is fond of it. In the middle of trying to untangle exactly what Sunday is asking for, he says those words. Getting lucky. ]
And I'm me.
[ Aventurine echoes, hands falling into his lap, like it's the most interesting statement in the world. He hides his hurt well enough behind a faint smile. ]
I do... I like you, Sunday, yeah. I like your drive and your tenacity, how you see the world, how you want to fix it, bring people happiness. Even if I don't... think it's possible. You... make it seem worth trying, at least. I like that you frustrate and challenge me. I like this. Um.
[ Though he tries, his carefully held smile falls, weighed too much by a growing ache in his chest. It was foolish to do this, to be anything more than the bird's custodian, to let Sunday in. He scoots back, fighting with the pain threading through his words, trying to shut it out. ]
But... I'm me, right? The scoundrel Aventurine, a tricky gambler. Carved my heart out and replaced it with stone, right? [ A breath exhaled, a mirthless laugh. ] So, how can you trust anything I say?
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It is hard not to feel humbled by the opportunity to see this side of the Stoneheart, but he hadn't intended to bring it out.
He hadn't intended to hurt anyone.]
That's--that's not what I mean. [Sunday is Bronze Melodia again, trying to help people and making everything worse in the process. He rubs the side of his head, then reaches for Aventurine again when he scoots back. This has to stop. His poor friend cannot be allowed to wallow so.]
It isn't you I am worried about, please believe me. [One hand trails up along Aventurine's shoulder and neck to gently cup his cheek.]
Rather, it is your preternatural luck. I just need to know it isn't your luck doing this but you. Because your gift isn't what I want. You are.
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I'm not sure I understand. My luck... Sunday, my "luck" is a knack for games of chance. It doesn't change minds. It doesn't... alter destiny. Goddess, I wish it could, but it's not like that. Everything else- every plan, every success, this, you, it's all very intentional.
[ His gaze falls, head shaking faintly. ]
I wouldn't just let this, here, now, happen if I didn't want it.
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[Sunday says, incredulous.
Part of him, he realizes, wants to believe the luck is magical, that it has cast a spell over him which he can shake off with enough focused effort. Then, knowing none of this is real, he can walk away. Better to find a reason to leave than face the rejection he knows is coming.
The Bronze Melodia is loved. The Oak Family Head is feared. Nobody feels anything for his most authentic self. What is there to like about a sensitive, weak man who is full of sin?
Aventurine will notice there is nothing there. That he smothered himself thoroughly in Penacony, and very little of him survived. Aventurine is clever...
Yet...
When Sunday meets his eyes, he sees genuine emotion. Want.
Maybe, this once, he can leave himself to the whims of fate and see where the currents take him. Who knows? The two of them might even be happy, in the end.]
...I'm sorry, Churin. Forgive me... I believe you.
I think part of me is afraid and wants to sabotage this...this rare moment of happiness. Let's not allow it to take this from us.
[He grips Aventurine and eagerly pulls him in closer to press their lips together.]
Kiss me some more.
[If the strings of Aventurine's soul were not silent, the room would briefly resonate with a tuner's playful chime. His words are not a request, they are a command.]
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But, for one achingly long moment, Aventurine resists, because he can. He hangs back, gazes with eyes blessed by Gaiathra Triclops, takes in Sunday's hungry expression, his apology, his incredulity, and smiles.
Sunday wants to know this has nothing to do with luck, that this is willful, that Aventurine wants him. He'll have his proof.
Aventurine slots their mouths together slowly, bare hand curling into Sunday's soft hair to hold him close. He moves in bodily, gentle but eager, to climb atop Sunday again and push him down against the bed. With hot breath, pawing palms, and an eager, curious tongue, Aventurine submits -- willingly, this time -- to Sunday's authority.
He kisses him until they trade breath, until they necessarily must come up for air, and then, sits up, a bright and triumphant smile spreads across his face. ]
I tore a god from the heavens. The IPC couldn't be bothered to move for the Avgin when we needed them most, so I moved their Aeon to save Penacony from the Dream.
[ His chest rises and falls dramatically with each breath. He had toppled the god of Domination, the path of Philosphy at its inception, and he is proud. ]
And now, I'm yours, Sunday. Eagerly.
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When Aventurine sits back, Sunday is flushed, panting, feathers splayed. Needing to leave pleasure to surface for air is such an unfair quirk of biology. The moments they are not pressed together feel too long and too cold now.]
That god never went anywhere, you know. [He says around gasps for air, and grins.] I'm right here.
[Fallen, much smaller, far weaker, no less determined. He shouldn't think about his ascension. It was a mistake, it was terrible, it needs to stay in the past so he can move forward. But Aventurine says, "I'm yours," and it brings back memories. Memories of power, of dominance. Sunday's pupils dilate until they've made eclipses of his normally sunlit eyes. If only Aventurine could be tuned, Sunday would fill his mind with a delighted melody.
His hands glide up Aventurine's thighs, then slide down to his knees. His toes curl, and his calves tighten in a vain attempt to draw blood back to his extremities. ]
If I were your god, how would you worship me?
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However you'd like. [ he says, because it's part of their game, but it's also true.
There is an electric sort of satisfaction in knowing that he gives himself willingly. Not taken, bought, or traded, but earned, and not by some unfathomably powerful aeon, but his gentle, fussy bird. His lovely Foxian wife. His raven. Devotion is not something Aventurine typically entertains, not when his heart and soul are pulled in so many directions, but he dances with the concept as he dips down to kiss Sunday's neck.
There is little he would not do to see Sunday continue to bloom as he has in these last few days. There is little he would not do to make those wings tremble with pleasure. ]
On my knees, maybe. Between your thighs.
[ He spoils the skin where Sunday's pulse roars, attentive but mindful not to leave any marks. Attentive of any sudden shifts or movements, he nudges the collar of Sunday's shirt open and moves onto the next set of buttons. ]
Slowly. Sweetly. Until you're satisfied. Until you tell me to stop.
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If only he could think with a worshipful mouth against his throat, drifting downward to a freshly exposed clavicle. Already, Sunday feels naked. This is more skin than anyone has ever seen from him.
They should stop, now, before this goes too far. Before they do something they will regret.
They should continue. The feral yearning Sunday had that day in the cargo bay is back, worse now. Every inch of him aches in desire, and the one thing that will satisfy it is Aventurine. But a quick, passionless release of physical stress on a cold floor will not do, not after they've tasted each other.]
I don't have to--ugh. [A slow kiss pressed to his jugular vein scatters his thoughts into the growing red fog of his mind. He takes a moment to find them again.]
I don't have to get my own room, you know. Maybe we can find--ah a way to make it work.
[Make it work. As if the issue of them sharing a room was a simple matter of logistics, not boundaries or, in Sunday's case, propriety.
Aventurine reaches lower to unfasten more buttons and expose his chest. Fear sends Sunday's heart leaping.
His whole adult life, he's been obsessed with perfection in all things, including himself. Especially himself. Every suit had to be perfectly tailored, every strand of hair brushed, feathers preened to a shine. Body toned and handsome. Nobody was ever intended to see his body, of course. Impressing others wasn't the point. He saw it whenever he looked in the mirror. Every imperfection needed to be eradicated until he was perfect.
Is he still perfect?
Aventurine may see imperfections Sunday had never been aware of with all his time spent dreaming. Then this will end with Aventurine finding him suddenly ugly.
One hand reaches up and gently grips the Stoneheart's wrist before any more buttons can be undone.]
No.
[He sits up on his elbow and tries to ignore the irate screaming in his body, telling him to let the worshipful attention lavished upon his throat continue.]
Please.
[The hand on Aventurine's wrist tugs to the side as he tries to coax Aventurine onto his back.]
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But Sunday's mood shifts before he can respond properly. He tastes it in the growing tension in his muscles before Sunday even makes it clear. He slows more, fingers stilling by the time Sunday takes his wrist. Aventurine lifts his head, ready with a joke to smooth over what he imagines will otherwise become an awkward stop as Sunday grapples with his newfound limit.
But a please chases that no, and Aventurine's head spins.
They should stop here, he thinks, because the alternative surrenders more control than Aventurine is willing to give. He stares, half-drunk, at the sun beneath him, beautiful, gentle, stern. The puzzle pieces fall in place far too easily. Sunday needs this, needs all factors accounted for, needs control of the situation. With a faintly crooked smile crossing his features, Aventurine notes how not-so-dissimilar this is from their disastrous meeting in Dewlight Pavilion.
This time, though, he is not motivated by duty or obligation, but genuine care. There is no growing terror, only a fire that burns steadily, so hot that wearing clothes any longer feels almost unbearable. Sunday needs this, and he wants it, slipping onto his back where guided, obedient, besotted. In the midst of his desperate haze, he realizes he hardly recognizes himself.
A part of him wants Sunday to leave him in ruins. ]
You're welcome in my bed, Sunny. [ He tries for playful, but there is a heavy, hungry weight to them. ] If you change your mind, I'll leave my card on the table.
[ He swallows the urge to give direction, and instead asks, light: ] Are you going to touch me?
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Are you going to touch me?.
Is that an invitation? Yes, he had told Sunday to take more, but hearing it asked so clearly is different. It is...exquisite.]
I am. If you do not mind.
[Sunday positions his knees on either side of Aventurine's hips, then leans forward in a crouch, not fully sitting atop him.
Aventurine continues to yield to his desires, his body like clay in Sunday's hands, ready to be moulded. He is so gentle, so understanding of Sunday's needs, one would think they'd been together before. After so much time spent studying each other even before they officially met, maybe they have been. Just not physically. Not like this.
Sunday grazes a gentle knuckle down the side of his honey sweet friend's face.]
I should apologize. You only asked if you could kiss me; I may have taken that request too far.
[His fingers feather downward across Aventurine's throat to settle against his chest.]
...The truth is, I've thought about this for a long time. Touching you, I mean.
[Back in Dewlight Pavilion, a fantasy struck him, so wicked and wrong he barely recognized it as his own. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought it the work of a capricious tuner. With Aventurine standing before him, he'd wanted to slip a hand into the spade-shaped opening in his garments and caress the bare skin there. He didn't act on the fantasy then, but it haunted him for a long time afterward.
Aventurine isn't wearing the ludicrous peacock outfit, not in this weather, so Sunday instead decides to slip two fingers between the buttons of his shirt and finally, finally, touch the warm, soft flesh of his chest. It feels more wonderful than he imagined it would. And there is more waiting for him.
Beneath the folds of green fabric lies an entire body waiting to be explored. And he wants to explore it. He wants to explore it, name it, and claim it as territory that is entirely his own. Others may have been there before, but they no doubt left it in ruin. He will nurture it, and care for it, and...and love it.]
I thought about it in detail.
So, if you are finally willing to admit that you are worthy of my touch, then... Yes. I would like very much to touch you.
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Were Sunday more experienced, more confident in the role he assumes looming over Aventurine, the Stoneheart would say with certainty that he is teasing -- edging, even, if he felt like being crude. Instead, he knows it's just the opposite. Sunday, for some reason that Aventurine cannot begin to understand, means to inspect every inch of him, counting folds in fabric in buttons not as obstacles, but welcome parts of the process. This errs dangerously close to the dense, intense sort of feelings Aventurine swore off in his youth, but each time he aims to make a joke, Sunday says something that steals his breath.
And then, just when he's about to crack a joke about getting carried away with kisses, Sunday slips fingers under ruches of fabric between buttons and Aventurine sucks in a breath, lets a soft, needy sound slip from his parted lips. Aeons, it's just a touch. He should not be this sensitive, but Sunday is so careful, so deliberate in his ministrations, Aventurine can almost recall what it is to be touched for the first time again.
He squirms, ticklish. A soft snicker slips past his lips, uncontrolled. His face fills with color, despite efforts to remain composed. Sunday has him at a clear disadvantage. The only thing he can think to do is settle his hand son those slim, bony hips, gripping him for purchase, for any sort of stability. ]
You can tell me about it sometime...
[ It's a joke, but he wants to hear. Wants Sunday to paint his fantasies in bright colors for him to enjoy, wants to fulfill them. He could, he would, almost certainly... except...
Worthy.
Aventurine blinks. He sobers, staring. If he wants this, and he does, more than he's wanted anything in a long, long time, then he must at least play with the idea that he might not be some foul, reprehensible thing. It is... harder than he expects, and largely because he doesn't like the idea of lying to Sunday.
This is part of it, though, isn't it? The nascent Aeon of Domination would not find fascination with just anyone. Aventurine dithers, staring up into golden eyes, hungry, adoring. He would do anything to earn that touch, that trust. ]
I... I think I might be worth touching, yeah. [ He wants this so badly. Not just satisfaction of a physical need, but Sunday, his attention, his affection, whatever he's willing to give. If he is not, already, then Aventurine will do the work, will make himself worthy. ] I- I've earned it, haven't I?
nsfw
[His hands drift upward and slowly unfasten the top button of Aventurine's shirt.]
You are worthy, Mister Aventurine. [Not "Churin", though this time Sunday invites a playful note into his voice.]
You're a good man. I know you don't believe that, but I've seen true wickedness, and it doesn't look like you.
[It looks like men who lie their way into power to oppress others. It looks like people who abuse each other in their worst moments. It looks like tyrants.
It does not look like a man trapped in a bad situation, trying his best to draw luck from an unlucky hand.]
If you were as awful as you think you are, you would not have torn me from my divine throne. You may say that it was your duty to your employers that made you do that... But such immense feats can only truly be achieved by good intent. You were worried about people.
So you saved everyone. Penacony, my sister... [Here, he pauses and looks up from his focused work on Aventurine's buttons.]. Me. And though I never asked to be saved, I am glad I was. Thank you, my friend, for granting me this opportunity to reconsider my actions.
[He leans forward and presses a tender kiss to Aventurine's mouth, then sits back to gaze into the jeweled eyes that have bewitched him for so long.]
Heh... You have THEIR eyes. Ena's eyes.
[Which means something, something terribly important, but Sunday cannot imagine what it is. Thinking is increasingly difficult through his nearly painful arousal. Arousal he still tries to ignore, despite it making itself very apparent. Art cannot be rushed.
Through the smoky haze of his mind, one amusing thought comes to him.]
Which means I had your eyes when your god struck me with THEIR hammer.
[He looks down at the Stoneheart spilled beneath him, framed in the pale light beaming in from the windows. Aventurine is so impossibly lovely. The sight entices Sunday to lean forward again and place a single, drawn-out kiss against the apple of Aventurine's throat.]
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nsfw a bit
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