[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.]
[ Friend, Sunday says again, while lavishing praise that makes Aventurine feel half-mad. Sweet words wash over him as fingers fiddle achingly slow with the buttons of his shirt. He wants to balk, to snarl, to close his fingers around Sunday's throat and squeeze until he stops. More than that, though, he wants to hear more, wants Sunday to make him believe that he is what Sunday sees, to deserve such slow, attentive ministrations.
The lightning zinging up every nerve as Sunday takes his time has him moving his hands move up Sunday's trunk and back down again, pressing to the shape of him, savoring the slender curve of his body. He had expected something softer, but is not so surprised to find the body beneath his palms is fit and firm. When their lips meet and part again, Aventurine tries to give chase, to catch that mouth for more, but Sunday sits too far back for him to reach. ]
Sunday...
[ He murmurs, needy, but stops short of letting himself say please.
Aventurine stares, lips parted, confused at Sunday drawing the line between his eyes and the eye of Ena. ]
Gaiathra. Gaiathra Triclops's eyes. Her blessing.
[ He corrects with a thoughtful furrow of his brow. He's not sure why it matters. He is the last of the Avgin, his Mother Goddess as much a figment as that foolish Knight of Beauty's aeon. Before he can consider it, Sunday scatters his thoughts with expert application of his mouth. Aventurine's heartbeat hammers against his skin, throat buzzing as Sunday finally earns a low, almost musical moan.
He thread fingers into silver hair, drags nails over his scalp, unable to resist offering encouragement. A breathy laugh rushes out of him. ]
Is this your way of taking revenge for that little knock on the noggin?
[The sound of his name, spoken with such need, makes him growl against Aventurine's throat.]
Gaiathra, then...
[Goddess of the Avgin, of course. Could she be Ena? Could the Avgin have--
Aventurine moans. The vibration tickles Sunday's lips. What a pretty sound. He wonders if he can coax it forth again and lifts his chin slightly to search for another pleasurable spot on the underside of Aventurine's jaw. In his reckless enthusiasm, he mouths the Stoneheart's chin instead.
Awkward, yes, but nothing he cannot recover from. His lips travel south again, then Aventurine...scolds him? He is familiar with the idea of teasing and tormenting, even if he isn't sure how to go about either. Aventurine may be tormented. Or else, Sunday is doing too much.
[ Chill finds him just as soon as Sunday slips free of his arms. Aventurine blinks, brows bending, trying to make sense of what's just happened, but a smile chases the look right after. Oh, what a funny bird. Knows the evil that lies within the hearts of men, but isn't sure what to do when he manages to push one of them to the brink while still clothed. ]
I'm teasing.
[ He sits up, reaches out, and catches Sunday's face in his hands. A kiss, soft and quick and reassuring, not charged with fire. ]
Since you're moving so slow, y'know. Not a criticism.
[ Another press of lips, a little firmer, punctuates the thought. Sunday's inexperience bleeds through in the most awkwardly charming ways. Aventurine can't remember the last time he'd shared a bed filled with this much care, this much joy. Instruction, that's easy to do. Fun, even. ]
I want you to keep touching me, exploring, enjoying yourself...
[ His chin dips, gaze falling, suddenly bashful. ]
I want you to keep telling me I'm a good person, too.
[Sunday leans forward, grasps Aventurine's chin, and ducks in for a third kiss, confirming his acknowledgement of the Stoneheart's words.]
Thank you for agreeing to go at my pace. I'm sure it must be frustrating for you.
[Another kiss, longer and deeper this time, then he sits back and scoots up to the head of the bed. Near his feet, he sees his coat lying in a discarded heap. So messy. It will get wrinkles just lying there like.]
This may be unusual for a man, but I do not want to rush into anything, not with you.
[He looks back at Aventurine with a tender smile, realising this could be taken the wrong way.]
Not because I am hesitant. Quite the opposite, really. I like you. I like you very much. And I have thought about this for so long that...
[Pink rises into his cheeks anew and he looks away, grabs his coat and starts folding it neatly in his lap.]
I want to savor every moment of this. Every moment with you, really, both the beautiful and the painful. If I am going to learn the ideal form for my paradise, I need to learn to...savor pain as an element of life. Not run from it.
And for as long as we are together I would like to do that with you.
[ Despite his inexperience, Sunday kisses with a certainty of feeling that leaves Aventurine breathless. He welcomes each press of lips, but finds the words alarming. In the absence of that confounding term -- friend -- Sunday's meaning becomes crystal clear.
Whether the bird knows it or not, and Aventurine does not think it outside the realm of possibility that he does not, he speaks of being in love. Aventurine's insides do a very funny dance at the realization, and he, unable to untangle pain and anxiety from excitement, can only do his best not to react outwardly. Something winds tight at the base of his throat, his breath stills in his lungs. Right away, questions flood his mind. There are dangers to account for and valid reasons to push Sunday away, there are excuses he could make, practical reasons the two of them should not become too entwined. There is Aventurine's work, and the reward at its end.
It does not even occur to him to wonder whether he, himself, even wants to be loved. Whether Sunday's feelings are returned. What matters is that fussy bird of his, pink-faced and pretty and busying his ridiculous hands with unnecessary work, does not think himself stranded, abandoned, left to the wolves that are his former Family. It is Aventurine's job to see him to his new one, whether that's the Express or the Intelligentsia guild or Madam Herta's eccentric little cohort. Sunday will be safe. He will find connections that can more kindly help him with that foolish paradise of his, so long as Aventurine takes care of him until he gets there.
Responsibility, that is an easy thing to focus on. ]
Sudden urge to do laundry? [ He teases with a gentle smile, sitting up further. ] We're going to go at the pace you're comfortable with. That's my preference.
[ And it's true enough. Aventurine has always rushed through physical encounters as fast as his partners permit, the sooner they're over, the better. This, though, he doesn't want to rush (out of an abundance of caution, he assumes, for how Sunday might react).
After a deep breath, trying to cool the inferno raging beneath his skin, he scoots closer and lights fingers on Sunday's arm. As long as we are together is an easy phrase to latch onto, letting him escape examining his own tangle of feelings, letting him treat this as temporary. So, he does. ]
And for as long as we're together, I can safely say, I'd be happy to help you with all that.
[Aventurine places emphasis on echoing Sunday's words, though Sunday doubts the Stoneheart is aware of it. For as long as we're together.
Sunday's warm expression slowly sobers.]
For as long as we're together. [He says again, more softly this time. It is hard not to notice Aventurine's quiet distress in the way he pauses, breathes deeply as if trying to clear his head. Sunday suspects he's said too much.]
I am...not blind to the fact that this is temporary. You and I have our individual goals, and we cannot complete them while yoked to eachother. But, I...
[Is there anything to say that can smooth this rough moment back into the comfortable, silky feeling they shared only minutes earlier? Unlikely, but Sunday wants to at least explain himself.
He places his now neatly folded coat beside his pillow (no, Aventurine's pillow), then shifts himself around until he is fully facing his distraught friend.]
When I was still a boy, after my sister left Penacony, I devoted myself to our dream. It became everything to me. I hollowed myself out and rushed toward it with single-minded ferocity. Anything that stood in my way was eradicated, and anything that would normally constitute a real life, I ignored. Eventually, my dream became me.
So, after I fell and was locked in chains, I was empty inside. I had nothing, Churin. Nothing to anchor myself to. Because I never actually lived.
[To live, he would have needed to be a person. And he wasn't one. He still isn't. He is only the outline of one, waiting to find enough experiences to fill himself in and become whole.
His wings twitch.]
Anyway, I should probably get to my point.
I think part of my healing process is learning to enjoy things, even if they are temporary, even if they are stepping stones on my way to accomplishing my dream. It is a necessary thing to learn, right? If the Express accepts me instead of imprisoning me again, as would be their right, I would become a Nameless. To be a Nameless, I need to enjoy a journey for its own sake.
[Though as he thinks about it, it slowly occurs to him that breaking hearts might not be Aventurine's concern. Aventurine may not feel so intensely about him.
Which isn't so bad. One more rejection in an endless string of them. Nobody who has ever glimpsed the man beneath the Melodia has ever been impressed, which had made it easy for him to bury that part of himself until he was convinced it was dead.]
...I want you to be comfortable too, you know. If you do not feel the same way about me, I understand. We can maintain a professional distance from now on.
[ In a way, it is a relief to see Sunday finally embrace the gift his sister has set before him. He speaks of living and loving in the moment, of filling in the blank space where his personhood should be -- Robin would be proud, Aventurine thinks, a little to softly. Were he better able to name is feelings, he might say with certainty that he is, as well.
All this is temporary, though. Everything is, and loss looms large and terrible in his mind. He has already carved out his heart, filled the hollow with Diamond's power and dreams of vengeance. There is so little of him left, after. Poured into anything, he is certain that an inevitable end will devour him completely. Wealth, health, his own life, all chips for the table, but... not love. Or... whatever this is.
He settles his bare hand on the back of Sunday's own. ]
I don't know what I feel. I haven't-
[ Aventurine purses his lips. His gaze falls. ]
Veritas Ratio said something to me once. After you were apprehended, before we parted ways, I... [ His gaze tips skyward, annoyance playing faintly across his features. ] I pushed my luck with him. Made a joke that was too flippant for his liking, I guess. And he... cautioned me about becoming a "philosophical zombie." Do you know what that is, Sunday?
[ He grins, wry. ]
I didn't before. Now I do.
[ Briefly, Aventurine slips into silence. This would be infinitely easier if he were trying to manipulate Sunday to some end, but all the ones that make the most sense to Aventurine of Stratagems -- drive him away, keep him at arms length but still on the hook, make him happy enough to shut up and get back to kissing -- leave his insides feeling sour.
He does not want to lie. He does not want to play games, not here, not like this. But even honesty feels empty when his nerves light up in fear at the prospect of letting Sunday in. Still... it can be okay, if he is the only one getting hurt. ]
So, I don't know if you're going to be getting any gardens out of me, like you said, but... I know I want to see you grow and find happiness. And even though it's a terrible idea... [ He leans in closer, but hesitates before stealing a kiss. ] The last thing I want is professional distance. I want you close, for however long I can have you.
[Aventurine leans in to a steal a kiss Sunday offers freely.]
We do not need to name this feeling. We can just...live in it.
[Upon saying this, he grins, pleased with his own words.]
Heh. It's funny, isn't it? Normally, I am so quick to label everything. See? Our journey together is already changing me for the better.
[One arm wraps around Aventurine's shoulders, and he presses his smiling lips against him.
The universe is vast beyond compare, and he has so much of it left to experience. With the Nameless, he will journey skyward, and with Aventurine, he will learn to grow...
If Aventurine would only allow himself to grow as well.]
...As for philosophical zombies...
[The smile falters.
Aventurine is in so much pain, and he wishes he could do something, anything, to alleviate it.]
If that is what you are, then I am one too. I am only the shape of a man. I am a ghost.
But I want to learn to live.
You've devoted yourself entirely to your ambition, as I once did. You are not yet empty. You are hurt.
[If Sunday could only be a balm for Aventurine's aching heart. He sighs heavily.]
You are the sort of person I wanted to shelter in my dream.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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?
yeah this is nsfw lmao
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.
still nsfw
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.]
still nsfw
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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The lightning zinging up every nerve as Sunday takes his time has him moving his hands move up Sunday's trunk and back down again, pressing to the shape of him, savoring the slender curve of his body. He had expected something softer, but is not so surprised to find the body beneath his palms is fit and firm. When their lips meet and part again, Aventurine tries to give chase, to catch that mouth for more, but Sunday sits too far back for him to reach. ]
Sunday...
[ He murmurs, needy, but stops short of letting himself say please.
Aventurine stares, lips parted, confused at Sunday drawing the line between his eyes and the eye of Ena. ]
Gaiathra. Gaiathra Triclops's eyes. Her blessing.
[ He corrects with a thoughtful furrow of his brow. He's not sure why it matters. He is the last of the Avgin, his Mother Goddess as much a figment as that foolish Knight of Beauty's aeon. Before he can consider it, Sunday scatters his thoughts with expert application of his mouth. Aventurine's heartbeat hammers against his skin, throat buzzing as Sunday finally earns a low, almost musical moan.
He thread fingers into silver hair, drags nails over his scalp, unable to resist offering encouragement. A breathy laugh rushes out of him. ]
Is this your way of taking revenge for that little knock on the noggin?
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Gaiathra, then...
[Goddess of the Avgin, of course. Could she be Ena? Could the Avgin have--
Aventurine moans. The vibration tickles Sunday's lips. What a pretty sound. He wonders if he can coax it forth again and lifts his chin slightly to search for another pleasurable spot on the underside of Aventurine's jaw. In his reckless enthusiasm, he mouths the Stoneheart's chin instead.
Awkward, yes, but nothing he cannot recover from. His lips travel south again, then Aventurine...scolds him? He is familiar with the idea of teasing and tormenting, even if he isn't sure how to go about either. Aventurine may be tormented. Or else, Sunday is doing too much.
Better to err on the side of caution.
He sits back, flushed, ruffled and wild-eyed.]
What?
Sorry, do you want me to stop? Or...?
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I'm teasing.
[ He sits up, reaches out, and catches Sunday's face in his hands. A kiss, soft and quick and reassuring, not charged with fire. ]
Since you're moving so slow, y'know. Not a criticism.
[ Another press of lips, a little firmer, punctuates the thought. Sunday's inexperience bleeds through in the most awkwardly charming ways. Aventurine can't remember the last time he'd shared a bed filled with this much care, this much joy. Instruction, that's easy to do. Fun, even. ]
I want you to keep touching me, exploring, enjoying yourself...
[ His chin dips, gaze falling, suddenly bashful. ]
I want you to keep telling me I'm a good person, too.
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Thank you for agreeing to go at my pace. I'm sure it must be frustrating for you.
[Another kiss, longer and deeper this time, then he sits back and scoots up to the head of the bed. Near his feet, he sees his coat lying in a discarded heap. So messy. It will get wrinkles just lying there like.]
This may be unusual for a man, but I do not want to rush into anything, not with you.
[He looks back at Aventurine with a tender smile, realising this could be taken the wrong way.]
Not because I am hesitant. Quite the opposite, really. I like you. I like you very much. And I have thought about this for so long that...
[Pink rises into his cheeks anew and he looks away, grabs his coat and starts folding it neatly in his lap.]
I want to savor every moment of this. Every moment with you, really, both the beautiful and the painful. If I am going to learn the ideal form for my paradise, I need to learn to...savor pain as an element of life. Not run from it.
And for as long as we are together I would like to do that with you.
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Whether the bird knows it or not, and Aventurine does not think it outside the realm of possibility that he does not, he speaks of being in love. Aventurine's insides do a very funny dance at the realization, and he, unable to untangle pain and anxiety from excitement, can only do his best not to react outwardly. Something winds tight at the base of his throat, his breath stills in his lungs. Right away, questions flood his mind. There are dangers to account for and valid reasons to push Sunday away, there are excuses he could make, practical reasons the two of them should not become too entwined. There is Aventurine's work, and the reward at its end.
It does not even occur to him to wonder whether he, himself, even wants to be loved. Whether Sunday's feelings are returned. What matters is that fussy bird of his, pink-faced and pretty and busying his ridiculous hands with unnecessary work, does not think himself stranded, abandoned, left to the wolves that are his former Family. It is Aventurine's job to see him to his new one, whether that's the Express or the Intelligentsia guild or Madam Herta's eccentric little cohort. Sunday will be safe. He will find connections that can more kindly help him with that foolish paradise of his, so long as Aventurine takes care of him until he gets there.
Responsibility, that is an easy thing to focus on. ]
Sudden urge to do laundry? [ He teases with a gentle smile, sitting up further. ] We're going to go at the pace you're comfortable with. That's my preference.
[ And it's true enough. Aventurine has always rushed through physical encounters as fast as his partners permit, the sooner they're over, the better. This, though, he doesn't want to rush (out of an abundance of caution, he assumes, for how Sunday might react).
After a deep breath, trying to cool the inferno raging beneath his skin, he scoots closer and lights fingers on Sunday's arm. As long as we are together is an easy phrase to latch onto, letting him escape examining his own tangle of feelings, letting him treat this as temporary. So, he does. ]
And for as long as we're together, I can safely say, I'd be happy to help you with all that.
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Sunday's warm expression slowly sobers.]
For as long as we're together. [He says again, more softly this time. It is hard not to notice Aventurine's quiet distress in the way he pauses, breathes deeply as if trying to clear his head. Sunday suspects he's said too much.]
I am...not blind to the fact that this is temporary. You and I have our individual goals, and we cannot complete them while yoked to eachother. But, I...
[Is there anything to say that can smooth this rough moment back into the comfortable, silky feeling they shared only minutes earlier? Unlikely, but Sunday wants to at least explain himself.
He places his now neatly folded coat beside his pillow (no, Aventurine's pillow), then shifts himself around until he is fully facing his distraught friend.]
When I was still a boy, after my sister left Penacony, I devoted myself to our dream. It became everything to me. I hollowed myself out and rushed toward it with single-minded ferocity. Anything that stood in my way was eradicated, and anything that would normally constitute a real life, I ignored. Eventually, my dream became me.
So, after I fell and was locked in chains, I was empty inside. I had nothing, Churin. Nothing to anchor myself to. Because I never actually lived.
[To live, he would have needed to be a person. And he wasn't one. He still isn't. He is only the outline of one, waiting to find enough experiences to fill himself in and become whole.
His wings twitch.]
Anyway, I should probably get to my point.
I think part of my healing process is learning to enjoy things, even if they are temporary, even if they are stepping stones on my way to accomplishing my dream. It is a necessary thing to learn, right? If the Express accepts me instead of imprisoning me again, as would be their right, I would become a Nameless. To be a Nameless, I need to enjoy a journey for its own sake.
[Though as he thinks about it, it slowly occurs to him that breaking hearts might not be Aventurine's concern. Aventurine may not feel so intensely about him.
Which isn't so bad. One more rejection in an endless string of them. Nobody who has ever glimpsed the man beneath the Melodia has ever been impressed, which had made it easy for him to bury that part of himself until he was convinced it was dead.]
...I want you to be comfortable too, you know. If you do not feel the same way about me, I understand. We can maintain a professional distance from now on.
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All this is temporary, though. Everything is, and loss looms large and terrible in his mind. He has already carved out his heart, filled the hollow with Diamond's power and dreams of vengeance. There is so little of him left, after. Poured into anything, he is certain that an inevitable end will devour him completely. Wealth, health, his own life, all chips for the table, but... not love. Or... whatever this is.
He settles his bare hand on the back of Sunday's own. ]
I don't know what I feel. I haven't-
[ Aventurine purses his lips. His gaze falls. ]
Veritas Ratio said something to me once. After you were apprehended, before we parted ways, I... [ His gaze tips skyward, annoyance playing faintly across his features. ] I pushed my luck with him. Made a joke that was too flippant for his liking, I guess. And he... cautioned me about becoming a "philosophical zombie." Do you know what that is, Sunday?
[ He grins, wry. ]
I didn't before. Now I do.
[ Briefly, Aventurine slips into silence. This would be infinitely easier if he were trying to manipulate Sunday to some end, but all the ones that make the most sense to Aventurine of Stratagems -- drive him away, keep him at arms length but still on the hook, make him happy enough to shut up and get back to kissing -- leave his insides feeling sour.
He does not want to lie. He does not want to play games, not here, not like this. But even honesty feels empty when his nerves light up in fear at the prospect of letting Sunday in. Still... it can be okay, if he is the only one getting hurt. ]
So, I don't know if you're going to be getting any gardens out of me, like you said, but... I know I want to see you grow and find happiness. And even though it's a terrible idea... [ He leans in closer, but hesitates before stealing a kiss. ] The last thing I want is professional distance. I want you close, for however long I can have you.
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We do not need to name this feeling. We can just...live in it.
[Upon saying this, he grins, pleased with his own words.]
Heh. It's funny, isn't it? Normally, I am so quick to label everything. See? Our journey together is already changing me for the better.
[One arm wraps around Aventurine's shoulders, and he presses his smiling lips against him.
The universe is vast beyond compare, and he has so much of it left to experience. With the Nameless, he will journey skyward, and with Aventurine, he will learn to grow...
If Aventurine would only allow himself to grow as well.]
...As for philosophical zombies...
[The smile falters.
Aventurine is in so much pain, and he wishes he could do something, anything, to alleviate it.]
If that is what you are, then I am one too. I am only the shape of a man. I am a ghost.
But I want to learn to live.
You've devoted yourself entirely to your ambition, as I once did. You are not yet empty. You are hurt.
[If Sunday could only be a balm for Aventurine's aching heart. He sighs heavily.]
You are the sort of person I wanted to shelter in my dream.
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nsfw a bit
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