[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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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.