[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.
[ Aeons, Aventurine is certain that no one has ever looked at him this way, that he has never beheld anything even half as lovely as Sunday is just now in this chilly, gray room on a half-forgotten world where people fight for any scrap of hope they can. He doesn't know what to do with it, the compassion, the kindness, the genuine, unfiltered affection. Color floods his face anew.
It is easier, not naming this thing between them. Easier to make small, easier to deprioritize, easier to escape, certainly, and all things that a Stoneheart should want from a dalliance.
...but he does not want a dalliance. With the flash of a smile, with the drop of his name, he can score a dalliance anywhere, with anyone. Whatever is best for a Stoneheart, for Aventurine of Stratagems, specifically, it is not what he wants.
Maybe... he wants a label.
But saying so is too frightening. ]
It's sweet of you, but I'm glad you can't shelter me like that. [ He slides both hands against Sunday's face again, gazing into golden eyes. ] I'd much rather have you right here beside me, so we can face all these fun little problems together.
[ It'd be a lie to say a part of him doesn't long for an imagined version of the life he might've led with the Avgin had they won the day against the Katicans, quiet, simple, surrounded by love, always on the road, but never far from home. Idyllic, perfect, ignoring that it would not challenge his mind half as much as he needs. Even the quiet life he dreams of in his most solitary moments, he isn't quite sure is what he really wants. ]
There's no paradise for me in this life, but... traveling with you, fighting for people's happiness, watching you spread your wings... [ His brows flatten over his eyes with sudden certainty as he allows: ] I think I could be content.
I don't think the Express will try to jail you again, Sunny, but if they do... I won't let them take you. We'll keep running. We'll figure out this path of yours, that paradise you want so much.
[Sunday's wings flutter back and forth as he considers Aventurine's words.
He speaks of soaring into the stars together, of searching for paradise together, and it sounds so sweet that Sunday wants to latch on to it, to exclaim that they should do just that. Together, they can make a better world, one where the tragedy that befell the Avgins will never happen again...
But Sunday doesn't think that is what Aventurine really wants. He would be content, maybe, but not happy. Aventurine deserves to find a path that is entirely his own, where he can live unfettered. He doesn't deserve to be chained anymore, not to his past, not to the IPC, and not to Sunday either.
Sunday's own journey of healing has only just begun. There is so much darkness within him still, so much anxiety and uncertainty and pain. There is still a hollow in his heart that he needs to fill... Attempting to fill it with Aventurine's salvation would not be fair to either of them. Sunday cannot continue to fall back on old habits like this, embracing the needs of others so that he never has to consider his own.]
Thank you. [He says softly, and smiles.]
But I do disagree with one thing. I believe there is a paradise for you, if you allow yourself to find it...
[And Aventurine will need to find it on his own. Neither Gaiathra Triclops nor Qlipoth nor any other Aeon will light the way. No Aeon cares...
Well, maybe one nearly did.
If the Embryo of Philosophy had lived, he would have cared. Sunday is sure of it. He would have been the sun for all humanity. And if Aventurine asked for paradise, he would have granted it...
Memories of their passionate embrace mere minutes earlier sizzle into his mind, bright and hot. I would worship you on my knees, maybe. Between your thighs. Slowly. Sweetly. Until you're satisfied. Until you tell me to stop.
Sunday's jaw tightens, his eyes blaze, and, before he is aware of what he is doing, he pushes Aventurine back into the mattress.]
As I am no longer divine, I cannot grant you absolution, but I can give you respite from your torment.
[A tight, heavy breath heaves from his lungs, then he leans down to press his lips to his poor, suffering friend's.]
You will not lose yourself in me. Maybe, for a time, you can find yourself in me instead.
[Words nervously jumble together on his tongue.]
I...
Tonight....
If...you will permit me to do so. I will bring you to paradise.
[No sooner has he spoken than he regrets it. Did he just...proposition someone? He thinks maybe he did. But paradise need not be a tangling of bodies; it can be a tangling of hearts. Whatever nameless thing is growing between them deserves to be explored in detail either way. Their boundaries have shifted, he can feel it, he can also feel that they are still present, and finding them would be wise.]
[ Tackled, but not wholly surprised by this turn of events, Aventurine laughs as his back hits the mattress again. The faint huff of music catches between their mouths when Sunday leans in to kiss him again. In short order, Aventurine stretches arms up, wraps them around Sunday's back to hold him close.
Sunday is so unbearably earnest, so eager to promise something positively spiritual from these first, joyously clumsy moments of intimacy. It's wonderful, too sweet to find any reason to deride his almost innocent, guileless endeavors. Aventurine cannot deny that Sunday needs something more solid, more harsh than the Sweet Dream to start building expectations of life and reality, but he is also reluctant to set such strict boundaries here.
He likes this, Sunday's intensity, the certainty of his feeling. Perhaps it is wrong, indulging, encouraging. For now, today, after weeks of plotting and days of taut silence and travel, he does not care. ]
Bring me wherever you want. Just tell me where we're going first, and I'll adapt.
[ With a soft snicker, Aventurine flattens his palms against Sunday's back and drags them up and down, as affectionate as they are encouraging of more.
He is not blind. He knows who the former Bronze Melodia was and, in many ways, still is. There is a wall that Aventurine ordinarily would not be interesting in overcoming. Here, with Sunday in particular, though, it is a barrier that he thinks will be fun to topple, to tear down brick by brick.
First, though, the stage must be set for deconstruction. ]
As long as you tell me, clearly, what you want, as long as you listen to my own limits, I will follow you anywhere.
[ Another light peck, clumsily pressed to the sharp tip of Sunday's perfect nose. ]
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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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
It is easier, not naming this thing between them. Easier to make small, easier to deprioritize, easier to escape, certainly, and all things that a Stoneheart should want from a dalliance.
...but he does not want a dalliance. With the flash of a smile, with the drop of his name, he can score a dalliance anywhere, with anyone. Whatever is best for a Stoneheart, for Aventurine of Stratagems, specifically, it is not what he wants.
Maybe... he wants a label.
But saying so is too frightening. ]
It's sweet of you, but I'm glad you can't shelter me like that. [ He slides both hands against Sunday's face again, gazing into golden eyes. ] I'd much rather have you right here beside me, so we can face all these fun little problems together.
[ It'd be a lie to say a part of him doesn't long for an imagined version of the life he might've led with the Avgin had they won the day against the Katicans, quiet, simple, surrounded by love, always on the road, but never far from home. Idyllic, perfect, ignoring that it would not challenge his mind half as much as he needs. Even the quiet life he dreams of in his most solitary moments, he isn't quite sure is what he really wants. ]
There's no paradise for me in this life, but... traveling with you, fighting for people's happiness, watching you spread your wings... [ His brows flatten over his eyes with sudden certainty as he allows: ] I think I could be content.
I don't think the Express will try to jail you again, Sunny, but if they do... I won't let them take you. We'll keep running. We'll figure out this path of yours, that paradise you want so much.
nsfw a bit
He speaks of soaring into the stars together, of searching for paradise together, and it sounds so sweet that Sunday wants to latch on to it, to exclaim that they should do just that. Together, they can make a better world, one where the tragedy that befell the Avgins will never happen again...
But Sunday doesn't think that is what Aventurine really wants. He would be content, maybe, but not happy. Aventurine deserves to find a path that is entirely his own, where he can live unfettered. He doesn't deserve to be chained anymore, not to his past, not to the IPC, and not to Sunday either.
Sunday's own journey of healing has only just begun. There is so much darkness within him still, so much anxiety and uncertainty and pain. There is still a hollow in his heart that he needs to fill... Attempting to fill it with Aventurine's salvation would not be fair to either of them. Sunday cannot continue to fall back on old habits like this, embracing the needs of others so that he never has to consider his own.]
Thank you. [He says softly, and smiles.]
But I do disagree with one thing. I believe there is a paradise for you, if you allow yourself to find it...
[And Aventurine will need to find it on his own. Neither Gaiathra Triclops nor Qlipoth nor any other Aeon will light the way. No Aeon cares...
Well, maybe one nearly did.
If the Embryo of Philosophy had lived, he would have cared. Sunday is sure of it. He would have been the sun for all humanity. And if Aventurine asked for paradise, he would have granted it...
Memories of their passionate embrace mere minutes earlier sizzle into his mind, bright and hot. I would worship you on my knees, maybe. Between your thighs. Slowly. Sweetly. Until you're satisfied. Until you tell me to stop.
Sunday's jaw tightens, his eyes blaze, and, before he is aware of what he is doing, he pushes Aventurine back into the mattress.]
As I am no longer divine, I cannot grant you absolution, but I can give you respite from your torment.
[A tight, heavy breath heaves from his lungs, then he leans down to press his lips to his poor, suffering friend's.]
You will not lose yourself in me. Maybe, for a time, you can find yourself in me instead.
[Words nervously jumble together on his tongue.]
I...
Tonight....
If...you will permit me to do so. I will bring you to paradise.
[No sooner has he spoken than he regrets it. Did he just...proposition someone? He thinks maybe he did. But paradise need not be a tangling of bodies; it can be a tangling of hearts. Whatever nameless thing is growing between them deserves to be explored in detail either way. Their boundaries have shifted, he can feel it, he can also feel that they are still present, and finding them would be wise.]
no subject
Sunday is so unbearably earnest, so eager to promise something positively spiritual from these first, joyously clumsy moments of intimacy. It's wonderful, too sweet to find any reason to deride his almost innocent, guileless endeavors. Aventurine cannot deny that Sunday needs something more solid, more harsh than the Sweet Dream to start building expectations of life and reality, but he is also reluctant to set such strict boundaries here.
He likes this, Sunday's intensity, the certainty of his feeling. Perhaps it is wrong, indulging, encouraging. For now, today, after weeks of plotting and days of taut silence and travel, he does not care. ]
Bring me wherever you want. Just tell me where we're going first, and I'll adapt.
[ With a soft snicker, Aventurine flattens his palms against Sunday's back and drags them up and down, as affectionate as they are encouraging of more.
He is not blind. He knows who the former Bronze Melodia was and, in many ways, still is. There is a wall that Aventurine ordinarily would not be interesting in overcoming. Here, with Sunday in particular, though, it is a barrier that he thinks will be fun to topple, to tear down brick by brick.
First, though, the stage must be set for deconstruction. ]
As long as you tell me, clearly, what you want, as long as you listen to my own limits, I will follow you anywhere.
[ Another light peck, clumsily pressed to the sharp tip of Sunday's perfect nose. ]
So, yeah. Show me paradise.