Chapter Text
When Sunday arrives on Aventurine’s doorstep - eyes downcast and a look of shame etched into his features, silver feathers of his right wing fluttering against the swell of his cheek - he is loathe to let the Halovian inside.
But Sunday is dressed in his sullied best; a suit tattered at the hems, gloves tainted gray, a painful look in that ichor gaze that seems to make his halo dim in the low light of the Reverie’s hallway. Aventurine steps to the side after some careful consideration, allows Sunday to squeeze past him without so much as a word as his eyes sweep the hall before clicking the door shut.
The apartment is relatively bare save for a canopied bed with a side table, an emerald chaise, a coffee table, a wardrobe with a mirror, and windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling to peer down into the Reverie’s spacious lobby. For the gambler’s ostentatious sense of style, Sunday is shocked to find that his living space is void of an equally nauseating color palette or any unnecessary clutter. No, Aventurine’s penthouse is relatively empty, the effervescent bubbles of the Dream Pool that’s tucked into the corner next to his bed twinkling at the edge of Sunday’s periphery.
The pair are silent as Sunday surveys the space, lips taut, and the purple bags beneath his eyes seem to deepen when he finally turns his gaze to the blonde at his back.
“Thank you for the key.”
“Why are you here, Sunday?”
Sunday is rather surprised, given their last interaction, to find that Aventurine’s face lacks any of that familiar teasing, voice dull. His lips pursed, he appears to be painfully worn out, and suddenly Sunday wonders if he should’ve come at all.
Silver brows pinch over the bridge of his nose as his forehead creases. The Halovian crosses his arms, ashamed of the sorry state of his attire and trying entirely too hard to ignore it.
Sunday has had to make do, having had to take a considerable amount of time and heed a regrettable amount of caution during his tedious journey from the chill of his cell to Aventurine’s doorstep. It consisted of quiet nights darting in and out of different corridors, Hounds hot on his heels and the alarm raised once they’d realized that the Family’s fugitive had vanished into thin air. It had taken time, yes, but eventually Sunday had successfully mapped the expanse of the Family’s tunnels enough to forge a path out.
It had taken the better part of almost two weeks, and Sunday was nothing if not exhausted, filthy, longing to sleep against something that was neither a marble floor nor a chair wrought of steel.
That is why words seem to fail him as he searches, lips parting under the gambler’s watchful eye. Perhaps because there are no chains to hold him back, Aventurine considers him with a bit more vigilance, those shifting Sigonian eyes flickering up and down to mark every breath Sunday takes.
“Did you not leave me a means of escape in an attempt to lure me back into your company?” Sunday is confused, and rightfully so. That’s not entirely the only reason he’s found himself on Aventurine’s doorstep; it didn’t take him long to realize that very few options were left for him in regards to a safe place to lay low, and he’d had some sense of hope after their last meeting that perhaps he’d be welcomed.
This Aventurine is different, too wary and lacking that intoxicating verve he’s unfortunately found himself craving since they…well.
The gambler’s gaze is muted, jaw set, and Sunday’s fingernails bite through his gloves into the curve of his biceps as he waits on a response with folded arms. It doesn’t take long, perhaps because Aventurine already seems painfully tired of his presence, and the IPC member waves a hand and lets his shoulders sag with a sigh.
“It’s been a long day. This is…not even close to what I’d expected. Yes, I won’t deny I had hopes of running into each other. But not so soon, and not like this.” Aventurine shifts his weight and runs a hand down the tired length of his face, careful to keep a watchful eye on Sunday as he turns to ensure that the door is bolted tight. Something seems to tickle his sense of humor, and Sunday watches as the conman’s lips curl up slightly before he speaks again.
“Since you’re now a wanted fugitive, I’ve had to see your face plastered all over the Dreamscape. Such a mess you’ve made for me this time, Mister Sunday, as the main IPC member spearheading this little acquisition.”
The lilting tone and his choice of words are not lost on Sunday; he bristles at the verbiage, suddenly very aware of the strange energy that settles between the pair. Aventurine and Sunday had started out as two opposing forces vying for Penacony, then shifted to something akin to true enemies, only to then blur the lines after they went ahead and —
Sunday’s thoughts halt to a stop as his cheeks flush at the humiliating thought, and he clears his throat as he tugs at his collar. Aventurine seems to notice, seems to track his thoughts with an amount of ease as despicable as it is concerning.
“I’m not in the mood to f*ck, if that’s the reason you’ve come all this way.”
Sunday is immediately rigid, teeth grit together as his nostrils flare at such an accusation.
“How disgustingly vulgar. That’s not my intention in the slightest. I just…” The Halovian turns away, ichor eyes flitting to the windows to survey the Reverie’s lobby. “…I did not have anywhere else to go. All I had to go off of was a snippet of a conversation I overhead about a certain ‘IPC member’ taking up residence as part of the Penacony acquisition. It didn’t take much to deduce that it was you, Mister Aventurine, who’d made a home for himself in one of the Reverie’s finest spaces.”
Aventurine hums, watches Sunday’s eyes trickle over the little throngs of people so far below them as they check in and out, pacing the lobby, marking the bellhops sprinting to and fro with amusem*nt. It must pain Sunday to have returned to a place that once was so very dear to him only to be forced into the shadows with not even his dear sister to comfort him.
But mercy is finite when one works for the IPC, and after the day Aventurine has had, he finds it very difficult to muster up much for the disgraced Oak family head. Not three system hours prior and he was being tried with a shattered Cornerstone in his palm and the scales determining his fate tipping this way and that.
Aventurine had been welcomed back, his damned Cornerstone mended; a demotion, an execution, some modicum of freedom would have been preferred. But he suspected that his unfortunate habit of producing enviable results with his little gambles was just too profitable for the Stonehearts to surrender just yet, and so - after all of that - the last thing he had the patience for was a Halovian brat who’d all but dug his own grave and now refused to lie in it.
“You know, our little ‘get together’ in your sorry excuse of a cell was nothing more than that.” Aventurine finds the need to reiterate this, though he admits that it was a regrettably enjoyable experience that he can’t quite tell if he’s necessarily against repeating. He maintains a stern look, Avgin eyes glinting fiercely as Sunday regards him with a grimace. “I fail to understand why you assumed that dragging yourself here would be a safe bet, Mister Sunday. I gave you a key to your locks, not a key to my place. Care to elaborate as to why you’ve now put myself in the line of fire with you? Surely you must know that if I’m caught harboring a fugitive, I’ll be struck down by not only the Family, but the IPC as well.”
The restored Cornerstone weighs heavy in his pocket. Another mess-up and Aventurine is certain that he will be properly punished. For all of his gripes and conflicting thoughts about the outcome of his trial, he finds that there’s something horribly selfish about trying to attain that “freedom” by selling out someone as piteous as Sunday is in this moment, and risking his safety feels like a rather twisted copout.
When Sunday turns to face Aventurine fully, there’s a bite to his tone and a spark behind his eyes. “You came to my cell. You were the one who instigated this. Such a poor host, being so inhospitable when you were the one who slipped that key into my pocket with every intention of me coming here. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
A stalemate; Aventurine will not disclose whether he’d intended for Sunday to seek out and hide away in his brand-new apartment, and Sunday refuses to acknowledge that it might have been a bit foolish to assume that the gambler would harbor him.
So, Sunday backtracks in an attempt to cool the simmering tension that’s settled between them with a lie, silver-tongue working quickly, even though he’s almost certain as he speaks that Aventurine doesn’t buy a single word.
“Regardless, I only came to inquire about a shower. Perhaps, if I might be so candid, I’m also in need of new clothes. Two weeks is far too long to go without changing.” Aventurine maintains his distance at that remark, and Sunday wrinkles his nose at his own filth. It’s no fault of his own - well, Aventurine supposes he could argue that it is indeed an indirect result of his own actions - and finally the gambler relents with a shrug.
“I can get you some clothes. A toothbrush, toothpaste. You’re welcome to use my bathroom, it makes no difference to me.” He waves a hand dismissively and watches as Sunday’s shoulders sag as though a great weight has been lifted from them. Aventurine recalls how quickly Sunday pulled himself from the floor of his cell to wash off; the Halovian detests mess, and yet he was so very keen on making one in that ridiculous cell of his.
The thought almost brings a snicker to Aventurine’s tired lips, but he swallows it down and smooths his palms over his jacket as he prepares to step out and fetch Sunday some toiletries and a change of clothes. The Reverie is not lacking when it comes to branded robes, pajamas, and slippers; he’ll be sure to grab a couple of each, just in case.
Why he thinks to do this, he does not know; Aventurine shirks it off with a shrug. Sunday has always taken great pride in his flawless attire, so it must be quite humiliating to be perceived in such a sorry state by another.
Sunday clears his throat once more as Aventurine turns, the first time since he’s stepped foot into the apartment that the gambler has seemed to let down his guard a bit, and he cards a hand through silver locks as his wing twitches.
“Then I’ll use your bath. I-If you could leave the pajamas at the door, it would be much appreciated.”
Aventurine hums, exhausted and eager to get his impromptu errands over with, and Sunday seems to understand. His gaze flits from the IPC member’s fingers as they rest atop the brass doorknob to his face, and the gambler allows a look of surrender to color his features.
“I won’t tell a soul, Mister Sunday. I’d hate to be implicated in your escape, lest the Hounds arrive to you in my bathtub.”
Sunday’s features fall into a grimace, like he wants to spit out a retort, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he turns on his heel and stomps to the bathroom, right wing fluffed and curling about his jaw to hide his face as Aventurine smirks and ducks out of the apartment.
*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
When Sunday sinks into the foamy water of the clawfoot tub, he shivers. Raven wings tuck against his back as he lets the bubbles tickle his jaw, a robe already laid out with matching slippers to ensure that he doesn’t risk seeing Aventurine unclothed or in the scant wrap of a towel. Not that the IPC member would take him to bed again — though, they did it in a cell with a steel chair, so he supposes he hasn’t technically taken him to bed at all — but his guard remains up, regardless.
The crimson embroidery of the capital cursive “R” for Reverie is sewn into every robe, slipper, pajama set that is usually complimentary for any paying guest. It makes Sunday’s heart ache a bit; never once did he imagine he’d be here, leeching off of Aventurine’s bath to coax the weeks of filth from his skin.
He wonders how the merger between the IPC and Penacony’s leadership is going. Based off of the gambler’s drained demeanor, it’s not looking hopeful; Sunday’s fingers itch and he tucks them into his feathers, rinsing them with plenty of bubbles and warm water. So completely out of his control, Penacony’s future lost to him as he clamors for a grasp on something he can’t fathom, not allowed even the most minute of stakes in what might lie ahead.
It’s infuriating, being an outcast in a place he once called home. Sunday knows the Hounds are likely seething as they search, the Alfalfa Family the next in line to spearhead operations. Sunday is nowhere to be found, a traitor, and his sister?
Sunday grimaces, sinking beneath the bubbles to let the deafening sound of running water cloud his senses. Silver lashes knit tightly together, and he considers Robin. He’d sought her out, but she was nowhere to be found; not even through the intangible senses granted to him by his halo could he find her. No, Robin was elsewhere, somewhere Sunday could not reach, and as he bursts to the surface with a slew of water from his nostrils, he considers the Dream Pool.
Sunday is certain that there will be precautions in place to ensure that he, specifically, does not enter. If he sinks into the Dreamscape, he will likely be met with repercussions and Hounds waiting for him, having littered the Golden Hour and the realms beyond it. It’s dreadful to be trapped in such a suspended state of in-betweens. It would make the most sense to abandon Penacony entirely, to flee elsewhere, but that innate sense of duty binds him so.
Sunday hears the clicking of a distant lock, footsteps padding against the marble, and he watches the shadows beneath the bathroom door with narrowed eyes. It seems Aventurine meant it when he said he wasn’t looking to “f*ck,” a pile of linen laid gently upon the tile just outside the door to occupy a sliver of the light that leaked in. He supposes he’s grateful for it; Sunday should be gone by morning, anyway.
So, the Halovian sighs as he shakes himself, scrubbing every inch of skin until it sings with a stinging cry, sufficiently clean. Sunday stands, draining the tub, wringing his silver hair dry and running the cotton of the towel along every surface until he is satisfied with how very new he feels.
He dons a robe, careful as he pushes the bathroom door open just wide enough to snake a hand out and snatch the pajamas from where they’ve been laid. Sunday swears he hears a chuckle at that and chooses to ignore it, finding that wrapped inside the crisp cotton lie both a toothbrush and toothpaste.
He takes his time preparing for bed, caring for his feathers before tucking his raven wings against his back, drawing his fingers up along the buttons of his pajamas. His slips his feet into the plush of the slippers, relishing the taste of mint so much that he brushes his teeth twice. If Sunday had really understood what a luxury it was just to bathe, he wouldn’t have taken it for granted for so long.
When he emerges from the bathroom, the air heavy with humidity as steam rolls out against his back, Sunday finds Aventurine busily tapping away at a data pad in his hands. The gambler lies in his bed, clad in a navy button-up set of pajamas, seemingly unaware of Sunday’s presence. Something about being ignored irks him, and that right wing flicks beads of water at him as he passes by with a huff.
Aventurine frowns, brushing his sleeve atop his data pad to wipe away the droplets that smear the text into an incomprehensible mess of pixels. Shifting eyes flicker up to watch as Sunday saunters to the chaise, golden gaze widening just barely before he stamps down that unabashed surprise in an attempt to ensure the gambler doesn’t see. But Aventurine does see, and he watches as the Halovian fluffs the pillows that the gambler has fetched without urging, makes a crude nest of the blankets he’s folded there - which, Aventurine notes, is as interesting as it is strange - and curls up with a sigh of relief.
The apartment grows deathly quiet as Aventurine finishes his daily report, tucking the data pad away next to him atop the sheets before he turns on his side to face away from the wall Sunday’s chaise is pressed against. They’re far enough away they needn’t worry about accidentally glimpsing each other, but it still feels too close, awkward.
Aventurine knows it’s very unlikely that Sunday will try anything in the cover of night given the serene nature most Halovians seem to harbor. But he’s shown himself to be duplicitous, and that tricky ability with the Harmony still presents a threat, so the gambler decides to resolve himself to treading the fine line between sleep and dozing.
Sunday presses into the emerald cushions of the chaise, feels his right wing curve about his face as the scent of cinnamon curls about him and clouds his senses. It’s much stronger in Aventurine’s apartment; how he failed to notice it before, he’s not sure, but it soothes an ache in his bones and seeks to curb the exhaustion. Sunday knows he should stay alert, but he’s unable to do much more than focus on the twinkling lights of the Reverie lobby that wink along the glass of Aventurine’s windows.
He wonders why he doesn’t draw the shades; he also wonders if Aventurine has left them open to allow Sunday to feel a bit freer than the dark of his cell permitted.
Sunday is certain that that’s just wishful thinking.
There’s another painful minute of silence and Sunday realizes that he can’t just fall asleep like this, a strange tension in the air as the pair settle into their separate spaces. He figures he should thank Aventurine, but instead his tone grows amused, taunting.
“For such a gaudy sense of style, your apartment lacks opulence.”
Aventurine is silent for a heartbeat; Sunday can hear him formulating a response with that forked tongue.
“If my design choices are not to your liking, you’re free to leave and settle back into that decrepit cell.”
Sunday frowns as the words bite. He grumbles and turns onto his belly, chin propped up against an obscene number of pillows to peer out the window into the lobby, and Aventurine almost regrets his snarky response. But he settles into the sheets and his fingers slip beneath the pillow to ensure that the Aventurine stone is indeed still there, fully remade and thrumming beneath his touch.
Sunday sinks into the throes of sleep some hours later after having kept a watchful eye over the lobby, something painfully wistful about his features. Aventurine follows soon after, regrettably keeping too loose of an eye on the pretty Halovian to remain semi-conscious, the effects of such a taxing day finally catching up to both of them as they tumble into the depths of a dream.
*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
When Sunday wakes, he’s certain that it’s far later than he intended. The light winking through the windows, the bustling chatter and music of the lobby below, the empty apartment; it’s all enough to make it clear that he’s slept in almost embarrassingly late.
Aventurine is gone.
Sunday is not certain as to when he left, but he’s positive it must have been hours prior. The alarm clock on Aventurine’s side table blinks: 05:55:56 P.M.
Most of Sunday’s harrowing exhaustion was undoubtedly a result of the conditions he’d endured over the last handful of weeks, any time not spent on the move having been spent curled up against icy marble in the shadows of an empty corridor or propped up against the wall to indulge in a moment’s rest. The thought of having gotten a good night’s sleep for the first time in months should be enough to soothe him, but instead it does little to alleviate the sudden influx of apprehension that knots his insides.
The Halovian sits upright as his pulse thunders in his ears, immediately wanting to burrow back deep into that nest of blankets that smell of cinnamon and spice, let it tangle about his chest and linger in his lungs and cling to his skin.
If he wasn’t so prideful, he’d inquire as to what cologne Aventurine uses. Instead, he finds a shameful sense of comfort as some random itch of his Halovian instincts is quelled with the random, makeshift nest of blankets he tugs about his legs and the heavy scent. He kneels on the chaise, silver hair a tangled mess atop his head and feathers ruffled from sleep. The raven wings at his back ache to be stretched, but he refuses to let his guard down so candidly.
Sunday peers down into the lobby, watches for a moment too long as some broken emotion flits behind his eyes, and he stands. He’s in the middle of stretching, enjoying the peace that the empty apartment provides, when his stomach looses a growl so heinously loud he drops his hands to it, covering it as though it’ll shut it up.
Yes, Sunday supposes he hasn’t been able to eat much of anything that wasn’t procured by…less-than-desirable means. The thought of food is suddenly the only thing the Halovian can think about, an intense awareness of how shaky he is and, in turn, how very empty his stomach is clouding his senses.
And it’s as he’s in the kitchen with the fridge door wrenched open wide - digging through what appears to be at least four takeout boxes, Good Lord, Aventurine -- that the apartment door clicks open and two heels abruptly halt as soon as they clear the threshold.
Sunday’s right wing flares frantically as he turns on his heel, all four boxes balanced precariously on top of each other as the IPC member regards him with a quirked brow and what looks to be another bag full of takeout on his arm. He blows out a whistle as Sunday grimaces with flaming cheeks, shoving the boxes back into the fridge and smoothing his hands down the wrinkled front of his pajamas. He looks a mess, hates that he didn’t take the chance to clean himself up before his hunger took over, and Aventurine drinks him in, that mop of silver a nest above those stern brows.
“Didn’t realize you’d start looting my fridge. Positively shameful, Mister Sunday.” Aventurine shakes his head mockingly as that teasing smirk that always seems to be present slips onto his features.
He shakes the bag in his hand and sets it atop the marble island of the kitchenette, pushing it along the smooth surface that stands between them. Sunday watches the bag slide to a stop in front of him, Aventurine having turned away to lock the apartment door tight.
It would be poor timing to have a passerby glimpse The Wanted Fugitive Sunday Oak, after all.
“You have a rather alarming amount of these boxes. Do you really need more?” Sunday taunts, but he peeks into the bag with interest. There’s at least three different entrees to choose from; he’s a bit unsure if they’re up for grabs, but Aventurine gives a wave to urge him to help himself as he slips off his dress shoes.
Right, Sunday had almost forgotten how filthy rich the Stoneheart is. He’s cautious as he takes the three boxes from the bag to survey their contents under a careful eye, debating. He notes a fried chicken sandwich and frowns, wing flicking his cheek, pushing it away in favor of what appears to be some kind of rice dish with vegetables.
“I’m surprised you’re still here, to be frank.” Aventurine isn’t really. He’d arrived with plenty of food fully aware that Sunday would likely look for something to eat at some point. By the looks of him, it appears as though the ex-Family representative hasn’t had a proper meal in…well, weeks, if the timeline of his escape is correct.
Sunday scoffs as he returns to his little makeshift nest of pillows, carding a hand through his mess of hair in an attempt to comb out some of the tangles as he settles into the blankets with his takeout. Aventurine sets about storing the rest of the boxes in the fridge as the Halovian speaks, voice a bit more strained than normal.
“It was not my intention to sleep so late. I…apologize.” Sunday hates having to apologize at all, but Aventurine had opened his home to him, even if only temporarily, and that itself was an obscene show of kindness. “I will be gone once night falls.”
Aventurine hums, slipping his data pad out of his briefcase and tapping at the screen absentmindedly. “Where will you go?”
Where would he go?
It’s not as though Sunday hadn’t given it considerable thought. It’s just that, in truth, there wasn’t an answer to be found. Robin was seemingly gone, vanished into thin air, and outside of her and the Dreamscape, Sunday found himself lacking any options that didn’t point to leaving Penacony behind entirely.
Something in his chest grows tight at the thought, and the Halovian ignores the gambler’s question in favor of taking a bite of food. It’s mouthwatering and it’s warm, a luxury he hasn’t had the pleasure of indulging in in so very long. Sunday barely swallows the first mouthful before he’s shoveled another one in, vaguely aware of Sigonian eyes drifting from the datapad at his fingertips to watch.
“Careful, there. I’d hate to have you come so close to freedom only to choke on the food that I provided.” Aventurine quips when Sunday spares him a glance, eyes of ichor narrowed. “I’m fine with you helping yourself to my fridge, but let me just put it out there that the rest of my belongings are a no-no, yes?”
Sunday nearly rolls his eyes. It’s hardly necessary to lay down such rules, but he gives a curt nod. Like he’d go digging around anyway; the notion makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust.
“If you don’t know where you’re going to go, then what will you do in the meantime?” Aventurine just won’t let his line of questioning die, it seems, and Sunday sinks against the emerald velvet of the chaise as he speaks. The plush of the cushions cave under his weight, and he nearly sighs at the relief of being able to recline against something that is not icy to the touch and unyielding.
“I…am not sure yet. But I will be leaving tonight, regardless. You have my word.”
Something about the way Aventurine’s lips quirk at his reply makes Sunday wonder if he doubts him. He brushes it off and takes another bite, savoring the delightful crunch of a sprout, the silence stretching on for a heartbeat longer before Aventurine is back to tapping against his data pad.
Sunday’s gaze flickers from the IPC member - still clad in his business attire while Sunday is still a disheveled mess of pajamas and knotted hair - to the lobby. He watches a family, a couple, frowns as two children - a boy and a girl - play together and point excitedly at a poster of Robin that’s been set out on display.
Robin.
Sunday tears his gaze away. Ichor eyes simmer with a flurry of emotions as he takes another bite of rice and watches Aventurine work.
He is rather curious about what exactly had seemed to plague the gambler yesterday, given that Aventurine seems to be in far better spirits today. Perhaps his sudden change in mood can be relegated to the fact that the Halovian has sworn up and down that he’ll be gone by nightfall, but Sunday isn’t quite certain that that’s it. No, it had seemed like something had happened, and for fear of sounding as though he actually cares about the IPC member’s well-being, his voice is void of anything when he speaks.
“Might I inquire as to why you were in such terrible spirits yesterday? I am aware I am an unwanted guest, but that hardly seemed reason enough to be so very…” Sunday’s lips grow tight as his nose wrinkles, “perturbed with my presence.”
Especially after our last meeting.
That part goes unsaid, but Sunday knows the blonde hears it ringing in his head just as he does.
Aventurine’s fingertips hover over the screen, the glow of it dancing along his gloved palms, and he seems to consider his words carefully. Sunday watches him mull them over, surprised that the gambler seems to regard his question as deserving of a well thought-out and calculated answer. But the silence is enjoyable, and he takes the time to shovel the rest of the food into his mouth before it can get cold.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever eat cold food willingly again, if he can help it.
Sunday stands, slipping his bare feet into the plush Reverie slippers next to the chaise to discard the empty takeout box. He rounds the corner of the island, careful not to glance the other’s way, lest he appear too eager to hear his response. Aventurine looses a sigh as he lets the data pad rest against the countertop, finally having seemed to settle on an answer.
“Acquiring Penacony for the IPC was no small affair. It required lengthy preparation and sacrifice; a Cornerstone to a Stoneheart is more precious than life itself. Shattering mine was a gamble of the highest order, and - while it paid off and I did indeed procure the ‘Planet of Festivities’ for the IPC - it was still a grave sin to destroy my own Cornerstone.” Aventurine’s eyes darken as he speaks, a multitude of emotions Sunday can neither discern nor name flitting behind them. The gambler’s gaze remains fixed on the data pad, but the Halovian can see his mind wander as he continues.
“My checking on you after the Family imprisoned you here on Penacony was indeed just a ‘pulse check,’ ” — Sunday’s gaze flickers to the marble of the island he stands in front of as heat swirls in his cheeks at the mere mention of it — “since my status as a Stoneheart was still up in the air. My trial was yesterday.”
The term makes Sunday’s rather vulgar thoughts vanish, pink in his cheeks dissipating as he leans against the counter to glimpse a series of numbers and paragraphs flickering along the screen at Aventurine’s fingertips. The IPC member seems to take notice, shifting the data pad so it’s out of view and blocked by his elbow, opting instead to fold his hands and echo Sunday’s movement to lean atop the cool marble.
“You no longer bear the title of ‘Stoneheart’?” Sunday is shocked as he speaks, though he stamps down the edge to his tone at the thought. To think that Aventurine - for all of his talk of never losing a gamble - might have lost this one after being dealt such a stellar hand in terms of his luck on Penacony is difficult to wrap one’s head around.
A coy smirk tilts Aventurine’s lips; Sunday marks that it’s not quite as genuine as he remembers it being. Aventurine gives a chuckle and shakes his head, all of that coy, teasing bite to him having returned, albeit half-heartedly. He unclasps his hands to mess with the watch around his wrist, unfazed; when his watch is not enough, Sunday glimpses a golden gambling chip being tugged from his pockets, running along Aventurine’s knuckles like water.
“On the contrary, I’ve been reinstated. I’m the one in charge of this merger, hence why I’ve been allotted such a spectacular living space.” The gambler waves his head around in a dramatic show, a bit of irritation creeping into his tone. “A pity, though, I was so hoping for a demotion. It would’ve meant less paperwork, at least.”
Sunday doesn’t doubt that as his brows furrow, watching Aventurine toss the gold chip into the air and catch it with an air of nonchalance. He tucks it back into his pocket and hums, turning on his heel to bend at the waist and fetch something from the fridge. The man had been born tethered, and though the fetters might have changed both hands and material, they were just as present as ever. No, Aventurine wasn’t free at all; it seemed the leash about him had grown tighter after his endeavors on Penacony and in the Sweet Dream, and now the Avgin was saddled with the title of “Stoneheart” once more in a thinly-veiled effort to continue to reap the rewards as he sowed the seeds.
Sunday very nearly finds it piteous.
“So,” Aventurine’s voice thins as he crouches, reaching far enough into the fridge that he’s all but disappeared from view before he lets out a little sound of victory, “you can understand precisely why I’m not quite as hospitable a host as you’d like. Bad timing, Mister Sunday, as always.”
When he straightens, the blonde sets two bottles of SoulGlad against the countertop. They clink together, a crass sound that makes Sunday flinch, and his gaze grows confused. He looks from the bottles to Aventurine, and then back.
“Might as well enjoy a drink before you go. Who knows when you’ll get to taste Penacony’s renowned SoulGlad next.” The blonde says with a mocking wink, opening one of the drawers in search of what Sunday suspects to be a bottle opener.
He blanches, caught off guard. It’s unnerving, the way Aventurine seems to act directly against his words. He’ll speak as though he detests him and then offer a kindness, but Sunday supposes that’s the contradictory nature of a conman, always maintaining a front that others can neither penetrate nor unravel.
Aventurine turns back to face him after a moment, armed with a bottle opener and a glint in his eye. He lifts one of the bottles from the counter and slides the cap between the metal teeth, popping it open with ease. Sunday watches as the blonde extends his arm over the white marble, offering the fizzing drink to Sunday as condensation drips down the dark leather of his gloves.
How he wished he had gloves.
Sunday accepts it without a word, golden gaze lingering as the gambler opens the second bottle and tosses the caps into the trash can. He’s never been one to partake in SoulGlad often, but there’s something nostalgic about the bottle in his hand, and he supposes it’s because he knows it’s not likely he’ll ever get to taste it again.
So, Sunday brings the bottle to his lips and sips, bubbles bursting on his tongue as Aventurine watches with an indiscernable look. Sunday’s right wing flutters, comes to rest along his cheek to hide the lower half of his face from the blonde’s prying gaze as his ears start to burn.
The apartment - for all of its spare square footage - suddenly feels a bit too small for the two of them, and Sunday’s teeth come to rest against each other in a fine line behind his lips.
All of those rather unfortunate memories come flooding back, and suddenly Sunday feels like the room’s temperature has jumped ten degrees higher, a bead of sweat gathering at his nape. He’s careful not to look at Aventurine as he braves another sip, the icy cool of the beverage winding its way down his throat as his adam’s apple bobs, gaze instead flickering to the glow of the Reverie lobby’s lights that refract along the penthouse windows.
“I imagine it would likely be best for the both of us not to make this a habit, sharing in each other’s company.” Aventurine quips, bringing the bottle to his lips to take a gentle swig. Sunday’s eyes finally flicker from the windows of the apartment to the gambler, his tone elusive and difficult to decipher.
“Am I not practically on the way out?” Sunday’s silver brows surge upward, bemused at his strange choice of words, that wing still flush against his cheek. Aventurine hums at his response, gaze thoughtful as those Avgin eyes glint and flit away.
“So you are.” He chuckles like something is funny, and then, “Even so. We’re not necessarily on the ‘same side,’ so to speak, and you’ve caused quite a bit of paperwork for me after your disappearing act. Once you leave Penacony, I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again.”
Aventurine rounds the corner of the island, free hand spinning his rings about his gloved knuckles as he takes another swig before setting the darkly-colored bottle down atop the marble.
Sunday stills as he draws near, breath caught in his throat, but the gambler does nothing but step past him, albeit too closely for comfort. Aventurine’s gaze remains fixed forward, Sunday ignored, and something about that makes him click his tongue in annoyance.
Aventurine’s bare socks are almost silent against the marble floor as he pads his way to the windows, fingers busy toying with his multitude of accessories as those dual-toned eyes peer down at the guests checking in and out. There’s something uncomfortable about the silence, Sunday notes, a strange pressure at the base of his spine that seems to be creeping its way up to his shoulders. He realizes he quite prefers bantering with the IPC member over whatever this strange, docile composure is that has such a hold on him.
Aventurine seems different, and Sunday finds that he’s not as much of a fan of a “tamed” version of the gambler as he thought he’d be. His wagers and impractical line of thinking had been a thorn in Sunday’s side for quite some time, but now he finds the lack of that taunting fire disturbing. He considers joining the blonde at the windows to look down at the Reverie’s bustling lobby; instead, he sips from his bottle quietly as his wing finally stills at his temple.
“You won’t tell anyone I’ve been here, correct?”
Sunday’s question wrings a snicker from Aventurine, and he casts a glance back over his shoulder.
“Please, as if I’d disclose I harbored a fugitive in my single-bedroom apartment for the night. It would be rather scandalous, don’t you think?”
There they are, those glittering embers that burn behind those shifting eyes. There’s a familiar, teasing bite to his tone, and it eases some of that tension in Sunday’s bones. But he’s still rather annoyed with the reaction Aventurine’s choice of words seem to wring from him, even if he’s unfortunately pleased the man facing him seems to be a bit less of a shell and a bit more of a person.
Sunday grimaces as he turns to lean back against the countertop, straightening the pajama top he still dons. He supposes he should actually tug a brush through his mess of hair, brush his teeth, do something to feel a bit more put together than he does now. Because right now, Sunday feels like a disconnected mess, pieces of a puzzle strewn about the floor with no reference image to go off of and the only available pieces being corners and edges, the center hollow.
The fact that Aventurine is seeing him like this makes his skin crawl, and he adjusts the top button against his collar bone as he clears his throat.
The gambler seems to take note of it, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. He steps away from the window and Sunday tries very hard to appear desperately enthralled with the label of his SoulGlad bottle as his right wing flutters. He’s aware of Aventurine stepping into his space, of the warmth radiating from him as cinnamon curls about in Sunday’s lungs, but his golden gaze remains fixed on the bottle even as the tips of the blonde’s socks come into view in front of his slippers.
Sunday does look up when fingers catch the tip of his wing in a careful pinch, stilling it as another nervous flare ruffles the feathers he hadn’t yet smoothed over from sleeping on them. His lips instinctively draw back in a defensive sneer, and Aventurine hums, diamond pupils narrowed as he takes in the sight of the disheveled Halovian in front of him, leaning in a bit too close to be casual.
Sunday feels the lip of the countertop bite into the flesh of his back, pressing against the raven wings he’s tucked away, and he refuses to do so little as breathe as the gambler’s hands come to settle atop the marble on either side of his hips, effectively boxing him in. Sunday is more confused than anything as Aventurine’s gaze goes half-lidded, a taunting grin curling his lips over the brilliant white of his teeth.
“It’s starting to wind down out there. Perhaps it’s time for you to head out, angel.”
“That’s a good boy, angel.”
Sunday starts as the memory slips past his defenses - an unfortunate side effect of the pet name, it would seem - and he stifles a shudder that threatens to wrack his frame. Aventurine seems pleased, though, by the way his ichor eyes widen - even fractionally - and he clicks his tongue in amusem*nt as he runs a hand along the bone of Sunday’s wing to tease it before his fingers settle back at the ends of those silver feathers.
“I told you, that’s reserved for intimate partners.” Sunday snaps as he raises a hand to swat him away. Aventurine is adamant, though, refusing to relinquish his hold on the tips of his primary feathers, opting instead to smooth them over.
“Oh? I assumed I qualified after last time.”
Sunday allows Aventurine’s fingers to arrange his feathers, tries to swallow down a trill that works its way up his throat as the gambler helps to fix the mess of silver, and Aventurine tries to stifle what looks to be a genuine smile at that. He marks the pink tinge to Sunday’s ears, the flush that settles over his cheeks, and he lets his fingers play a bit longer than necessary until the Halovian finally shivers beneath his touch.
“Is this some ploy to try to get me to stay another night in your care?” Sunday is tricky, and the blonde lets him successfully bat his hand away this time as his tone takes on a scathing edge.
“Me? Try to goad you into staying?” Aventurine laughs at that, but it’s a mirthless thing, and Sunday knows he’s struck gold. “Gaiathra above, Mister Sunday, you’re a deluded one. What makes you think I’d want to continue to harbor a fugitive in my residence?”
But, once again, Aventurine’s words do not match his actions, and Sunday cannot help but be a little swayed by curiosity. He shouldn’t continue to entertain the conversation, should instead thank him and sink back into the Reverie’s corridors to catch a ship out of Penacony’s docking bay - actually, he should also probably steal a few of those takeout boxes to take with him while he’s at it - but he cannot push away the strange intrigue that the elusive IPC member evokes.
Aventurine lets his hand fall to the marble, resting his weight fully against the arms that brace atop the counter, head co*cking to the side to gauge Sunday’s reaction. He can’t help but toy with the pretty thing in his grasp; he felt similarly back in Sunday’s cell, when the Halovian was bound and pliable to his every whim in those chains. But here, Sunday is not restrained, and it provides an interesting change in dynamics that Aventurine can’t help but take some pleasure in exploring.
He enjoys teasing, enjoys seeing what responses he can wring from the other, and watching the gears turn in Sunday’s head as Aventurine, himself, struggles with whether or not he truly wants to cast him out of his apartment and - in turn, out of Penacony entirely - is a fascinating game to play.
Sunday seems to struggle to find the words, uncertain as the gambler’s palms slide along the marble, inching closer. The blonde dips his chin low as he hums, threatening to knock his forehead against Sunday’s, catching the sound of a surprised gasp that he tries to stifle.
Aventurine - though it may seem otherwise - is not immune to what took place weeks prior in Sunday’s cell. No, he’s found himself ruminating on it a bit too often, and with the pretty bird back in his grasp, he finds those rather unprofessional urges have surged once more to the forefront of his mind. He’d sought to break and satisfy the strange tension that had remained between the pair; instead, he’d only planted the seeds for it to sprout anew, and here he was suffering the consequences as a bead of sweat curves down Sunday’s temple.
But Sunday’s gaze remains narrowed, his lips drawn back in a show of teeth, and Aventurine knows that the Halovian will not break so easily a second time. Not that he minds, it’s likely best for the both of them that they don’t blur the lines again.
“I’ll ask again. Where will you go if you leave my company tonight?”
Sunday hates the way Aventurine phrases that, like he’s intent on feeding into the kindling that sparks and burns between them if Sunday chooses to stay. He presses back another impossible inch as Aventurine’s hips inch dangerously close with another shift of his splayed fingers along the countertop, a heat in his belly that licks up the base of his spine.
But Sunday is adamant that he will not cave a second time; it will make things far too messy between them, both figuratively and literally, and so he shifts and cants his own hips to the side to avoid any accidental contact before he replies.
“I shall figure it out. I assure you, I’m not incapable. It’s quite insulting you seem to think so.”
“On the contrary, Mister Sunday,” Aventurine chuckles, low and throaty as those Avgin eyes simmer, “I’m wholly aware of how very capable you are. However, I think before you go, it might be beneficial for you to know that the Hounds have only increased their active members in the waking world. Since they’ve been on such high alert in the Dreamscape, they’ve determined that you haven’t attempted to sink into the Sweet Dream once since you fled the Family’s cells. I think it might be rather difficult for you to sneak out under their noses, even if you do look the part of a mere ‘hotel guest.’ “
Sunday’s shoulders bristle as Aventurine divulges the information, and he knows that he’s been sitting on it all day, a precious hand of cards to hold onto until he’d been guaranteed the win.
Win what, exactly?
“Wouldn’t that have been a nice little piece of information to know before.” Sunday deadpans, ichor gaze molten as his voice takes on a furious bite. Aventurine holds that challenging gaze, relishes the way the Halovian’s wing twitches, and then he relents with a sigh, ducking under Aventurine’s arm to step away.
“Very well. Until a more sound plan is devised, I will stay.” Sunday’s lips curl down impossibly further as he glances over his shoulder with a flick of his right wing. “I doubt I can count on you to help me procure safe passage out of Penacony?”
Aventurine seems to consider briefly before he shrugs, straightening from where he’s leaned over the counter.
“Regardless of what you think of me, I will do my best.”
He isn’t all that certain that he means it, but Sunday accepts the response with a tired wave of his hand. It looks strange, seeing him dressed down in pajamas, no gloves or suit jackets in sight; Aventurine almost remarks on it before Sunday speaks again.
“In the meantime, if you might be so kind — “ Sunday takes a step forward, his bare fingertips brushing along Aventurine’s shoulder. It’s effective, breath caught in the IPC member’s throat as Sunday’s other hand comes to lie flat against his chest, fingers splayed wide as the Halovian dips closer to nose at his jaw, “ — as to tell me where in Ena’s name my sister is.”
It is not a question, that much is clear, and it’s evident that Sunday has sought to take a page out of Aventurine’s book when it comes to bullying and toying with the other until he gets the reaction he wants. The gambler shivers beneath his touch, lips drawn back in a tight smirk as those diamond eyes appear to widen somewhat, but something about his expression tells Sunday that whatever it is he’s about to say, it will not satisfy him.
“My utmost, genuine apologies, Mister Sunday, but that’s something that I cannot disclose.”
Sunday wrenches his fingers away as though he’s been burned, giving a dissatisfied click of his tongue. His jaw tight as he steps out of Aventurine’s space, he resists the urge to hurl an insult in his direction, even if it’s just something to help quell the absolute sense of hopelessness that claws at his chest.
The smell of cinnamon remains present, an unfortunate warmth in his lungs that threatens to soothe the agitation in his limbs, and he settles for pacing back and forth along the windows in silence.
The gradual, undulating guilt that Aventurine feels is not entirely surprising. He’d counted on Sunday inquiring about Robin’s whereabouts eventually, and it wasn’t as though he derived some kind of pleasure from not telling him. But Sunday still presents a risk to the freshly-reinstated Stoneheart’s status; if he risks exposing himself, if he joins his sister and - for whatever reason - it becomes public knowledge that she has taken him in, it will become Aventurine’s responsibility to aid the Hounds in arresting him a second time.
Robin is the most likely candidate for the Hounds, and so she is the one place Sunday cannot return to.
And the IPC member is not so certain that the Family - nor the IPC itself - will allow the Halovian to take up residence back in a cell when a more permanent means of punishment exists to ensure he does not slip away again.
That, and it sounds like an awful lot of paperwork.
And so, Aventurine instead tucks the knowledge away. Sunday is too unstable, though he attempts to appear otherwise, and the gambler sighs as he picks up his bottle of now-warm SoulGlad from the counter to finish it off. Perhaps later, he will tell him, but for now, Robin’s whereabouts - for all of their safety - will remain something tucked deep into the recesses of his mind.
Sunday’s slippers settle into a rhythm as he paces, and for the briefest moment, he considers using the Harmony to force Aventurine into divulging the information he so desperately seeks. But something about it feels wrong, feels like perhaps the gambler’s genuinely apologetic attitude about it is for a reason, and against his own wishes, Sunday refuses to pry.
When he approaches Aventurine again, the blonde is on high alert. But Sunday steps past him as if he isn’t there at all, grabbing the SoulGlad bottle to down the rest in a rather pitiful show. It leaves him coughing on the bubbles that build in his throat, Aventurine quirking a champagne brow at the sight, and with burning cheeks he tosses the bottle into the trash.
“I’ll be using the bathroom first.”
Aventurine doesn’t have time to answer before he’s vanished, the door clicking shut forcefully behind the Halovian. He’s likely getting ready for bed, or the day - after all, he did sleep half of it away - but Aventurine bets that he’ll likely sleep another day away before he’s really recovered enough to worry about something as trivial as maintaining a “normal sleeping schedule.”
The IPC member heaves a sigh and returns to his data pad, filing reports as he slips out of his clothing and into his pajamas. Sunday remains in the bathroom for the better part of an hour; Aventurine knows it’s likely due to the fact he’s avoiding him, but he eventually stands with a heavy exhale to rap his knuckles against the wood of the door.
“I’ll be out in a minute.” Sunday’s response is curt, enough so that the blonde steps back to make way from the door that he suspects will come bursting open any moment.
He’s correct in his assumption, palm flying up to block his face as he catches it in his grasp. The door swings violently against the hinges, squeaking, but Sunday doesn’t heed him any mind. Instead, he slinks back into the nest of blankets and pillows he’s arranged on the chaise, and Aventurine realizes that he won’t be hearing another word from the Halovian for the rest of the evening.
It’s with that knowledge that he also ducks into the bathroom to prepare for bed, and when he emerges some time later, Sunday has fallen asleep, wing twitching at his temple as he snores softly.
Aventurine wonders if he’s dreaming of Robin. He supposes he will never know.
*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
There are days where Sunday and Aventurine talk often once he returns from work, always with some kind of bag in tow. It’s only ever chitchat, a fine line of complacency they walk as the energy beneath the surface begins to shift over the passage of time as Sunday’s stay begins to lengthen of its own accord.
But Sunday will not address it, and it seems neither will Aventurine.
And then there are days where they hardly talk at all.
Sunday has begun to suspect that - while the gambler shows an alarming appreciation for Penacony’s renowned restaurants in the form of takeout - he has mostly been routinely bringing it back to his apartment for him.
There’s always a multitude of entrees to choose from, far too many for one person, and he hasn’t once brought back anything fowl-related since Sunday’s initial show of distaste for it.
The Halovian isn’t sure what to make of it, but it’s something that continues to plague the back of his mind. He almost believes that perhaps Aventurine is paying attention to his wants, that he’s gone out of his way to accomodate, and that line of thinking teeters on dangerous.
However, it becomes harder to dispel it once the man starts to bring home sweets.
Sunday has always been loathe to admit it, but he has always had a sweet tooth. It’s something that was shared with Robin since childhood, a common thread that never seemed to fray even if he’d insisted upon it in his initial exhaustion months prior, and the first time Aventurine brings home a box of macarons, Sunday looks up from the book in his lap with a look of unabashed interest.
The chaise has remained a nest of plush cushions and blankets since his arrival, his own little corner of the apartment to call his own. It’s some way to grant Sunday some semblance of privacy, at least, but he does dearly wish there were walls to separate his space from the rest of the open concept layout.
Because, on this particular afternoon, Aventurine has returned from work far earlier than Sunday had anticipated, and he’d shirked his shirt as soon as he’d woken to an empty apartment to free the raven wings at his back.
Aventurine’s gaze flits from Sunday’s look of surprise to the lightly-toned lines of his abdomen. Sunday has always been lean; it’s never escaped the gambler’s appreciative gaze, and certainly hadn’t been ignored the last time he’d seen him without a stitch of clothing.
But this time, Aventurine notes how very skinny Sunday appears. It has to be from having spent weeks on nothing but occasional scraps; Sunday hasn’t divulged any details regarding his escape, but it didn’t take much to assume that it was not ideal and that luxuries such as toiletries and sustenance were scarce.
The IPC member sets the box of macarons atop the kitchen island, kicking off his loafers as he locks the door firmly behind him to grant Sunday a moment of privacy. When he turns back to face him, Sunday is swathed in blankets, cheeks a pretty shade of rose that makes Aventurine want to tease him for it so very badly.
But he’s merciful, instead fetching the box and setting it on the chaise next to him. He notes the shift of feathers at Sunday’s back beneath the covers, considers drawing his fingertips along the edge of Sunday’s wing that peeks out from the nest he’s made, but he decides against it. No, he’ll allow him some peace and let him return to his book.
For now.
Except, that seems to be the exact opposite of what Sunday wants, and he makes it known as soon as Aventurine takes a step away.
“What is this?” Sunday’s nose is wrinkled, as though the cardboard box next to him is something poisonous, and Aventurine once more finds his patience on edge since the ex-Oak Family representative is just so good at getting on his last nerve.
“A gift. What else would it be?” Aventurine’s voice is tight as he adjusts the watch along his wrist. He’s quite irritated that things with Sunday can never just be “please” and “thank you.”
“Why?” Sunday asks like there’s a hidden price to be paid, reaching out to pick up the box and examine it with caution.
“If you don’t want them, I’ll give them to someone else.” Aventurine rolls his eyes, shifting gaze narrowing as that taunting grin refuses to leave his lips. “I’m not really one for sweets myself.”
But Sunday clutches the box to his chest, holding it there with a territorial glint in his eye, and the IPC member smirks in victory.
How simple it is at times to ruffle the pretty bird’s feathers.
Sunday is silent as he opens the box, silver brows surging upward in surprise to find that there are at least a dozen macarons all lined up in a precise, orderly fashion. There’s a multitude of colors and no way to identify the flavor; it’s a bit of a gamble, he thinks to himself, and something about the fleeting thought seems a little humorous.
However, he finds he lacks the number of hands necessary to both keep the blankets at chin level and pick through the box without dropping it from where he’s balanced it, and Sunday would sooner die than let the blankets fall for Aventurine to take another prying glance at what lies beneath. It mattered little that he had seen Sunday under far more compromising circ*mstances; without the heady haze of sex to distract from his overwhelming desire for orderly control, the thought of the gambler seeing Sunday in the privacy and comfort of his own quarters is enough to make the raven wings at his back twitch.
Aventurine’s dual-toned eyes flicker over once more as Sunday quietly debates something that he is not privy to, and after a moment of watching that serene face pinch together, he realizes that the Halovian is quite set on not allowing him another glance beneath the faux fur he’s tugged up to his jawline. The blonde chuckles at that, finds something endearing about it, and realizes that he very badly wants to find a way around it.
Aventurine approaches the chaise, knee slipping atop the emerald velvet as the cushions dip beneath his weight. Sunday can sense something mischievous is about to ensue, and he narrows his eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“Actually,” the blonde’s gloved fingers snatch the box out of Sunday’s grip in spite of the protests that form on the other’s lips, “I think you’re the one in need of some help, Mister Sunday.”
He almost fights him on it, but with the gambler so distractingly close, Sunday finds that the words dry up on his tongue. He won’t risk exposing himself a second time in an effort to retrieve the box, wing at his temple flicking against his ear at the thought of the blankets slipping, and Aventurine chuckles.
“Which one do you want?”
It all seems harmless enough until Sunday considers Aventurine’s gloves. He will not entertain the blonde’s strange desire to hand feed him while he dons such things.
“The gloves must come off. They’re probably filthy.”
“Oh?” Aventurine’s champagne brows lift in a show of exaggerated amusem*nt. “Mister Sunday, are you that eager to take my fingers again?”
“You - ” Sunday’s composure nearly snaps, heat surging to his cheeks as he purses his lips. He visibly bristles as the blonde peers down at him with a smug sense of triumph, eyes aglow.
But Sunday knows that now that Aventurine is here and so very close, he will not drop it until he’s fed the Halovian at least one macaron to ensure that he’s the victor in this little spat (if it could even be called that to begin with).
Insufferable.
“The confetti one.” Sunday grumbles, barely loud enough for himself to hear, and Aventurine hums. He sets the box next to his knee atop the chaise, busying himself with removing his gloves. They fall into Sunday’s lap, a bit weightier than he thought they’d be, before plucking the aforementioned macaron out from the bunch and bringing it to rest against Sunday’s lips.
Sunday debates whether he should accept it or not, or if he should try to bite one of the Stoneheart’s fingers while he’s at it to get his frustration across. Not enough to break skin, but definitely enough to leave a fine bruise.
Sunday’s hesitation makes Aventurine sigh, his other hand reaching up to brush silver bangs from silver lashes. His bare fingertips ghost over Sunday’s temple; he tries to ignore the way all of his wings twitch response.
“You’ve been here over a week and you’re still set on keeping your guard up so impossibly high?”
Aventurine is right; Sunday supposes it wouldn’t hurt to relax a little, though he’d argue that he’s already done that. There aren’t many times Sunday can think of that he’s been relaxed enough to sleep in another’s presence, but he also supposes that that’s still due to his rather alarming lack of sleep from time spent in endless corridors of marble and lowlights.
Sunday flinches at the thought and finally surrenders, pink plush of his lips parting as he keeps a careful eye on the blonde above him. The position is, regrettably, reminiscent of another memory that threatens to draw a shiver from him. It’s a rather crude thing, the thought of Sunday taking far more than just a macaron into his mouth at Aventurine’s behest, and he once again finds himself careening towards a broken composure and the urge to bat the man’s hand away.
Instead, Sunday bites.
The macaron is delightful, so much so that a little trill vibrates bright in his throat. Aventurine’s lips curl at that, smile a bit more genuine than taunting now as Sunday chews. His apparent pleasure at seeing Sunday unabashedly surprised and happy makes him turn away in embarrassment, ichor eyes falling to the cushions next to him as his right wing curls about his cheek to hide.
He feels the wings at his back flutter at the sudden shift, threatening to throw him off balance, and Sunday takes a moment to bring the blankets tighter about his neck before he turns back to finish off the macaron quickly.
Aventurine goes to fetch another from the box and Sunday opens his mouth to stop him, to tell him he’s fine without a second, but he’s struck with inspiration. Because Aventurine has been teasing him an awful lot as of late, and Sunday’s found it quite annoying, the ease with which he gets under his skin.
Perhaps it’s time he had a turn.
When Aventurine kneels a bit closer, hand poised at Sunday’s lips, he’s far more receptive this time. Sunday opens for him, takes the entire thing in, and decides to go a bit further.
Aventurine’s bare fingers sink into the warm wet of Sunday’s mouth, a stunned expression tearing across his features as those diamond pupils blow wide at the sight. Sunday keeps his gaze fixed upward, boring into the gambler’s as he sinks to the second knuckle.
It’s fun and a little cathartic, teasing Aventurine so. It urges another pleased trill from his throat as his tongue slips between the gambler’s fingers to separate them and urge them deeper, and it’s as Aventurine’s grin falters and his breath hitches that Sunday pulls back, macaron pressed against the inside of his cheek so he can nip at those fingertips with a glare.
“Thank you.” His mouth is full as he speaks, but Sunday hardly minds. He’s too pleased with the wrecked expression on Aventurine’s face, the stuttering rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s drifted closer with a look of intrigue to brace his other hand against the back of the chaise. “They’re delectable.”
Avgin eyes blink once, twice; Aventurine’s lips grow taut, schooled into an irked grin as he straightens. It looks as if he wants to say something, wants to find something he can fling back in Sunday’s face so that they’re even, but there’s nothing. The Halovian reaches down from between the blankets to fetch his book, relaxing back against the cushions and bringing it up to eye level to resume his reading.
He’s shocked that Aventurine has nothing to say, a pained, pissy glint to his gaze as he stands and retrieves his data pad from his briefcase.
Sunday isn’t sure quite what it is, but there is a shift. It feels as though he might’ve accidentally started something without meaning to, like a bet has been made and the chips placed on the table.
An earnest, unspoken challenge hangs in the air.
That’s the first night that it’s a bit harder to fall asleep in each other’s presence, the apartment deafeningly silent as Sunday counts Aventurine’s breaths until he sinks into a deep slumber.
*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
A week would soon fade into two, and Aventurine would still insist on bringing home something sweet for Sunday to indulge in. Though he doesn’t attempt to feed him again - seemingly having learned his lesson the first time - Sunday notes that Aventurine is still too fond of getting close to him whenever he can find reason or an excuse to. He teases and taunts, always near enough to touch, and it’s begun to wear down his nerves.
It’s enough to send a bead of sweat carving out the length of his spine with every “accidental” brush or innuendo that the gambler seems far to eager to send his way; Sunday’s patience - while immaculate - is far too thin, out of practice, and he fears the day that Aventurine will goad it into breaking.
But he accepts it if it means he can continue to stay, and Sunday also supposes that being showered with sweets isn’t necessarily an unpleasant experience, even if coupled with the gambler’s smug demeanor. He finds that it soothes some unspoken itch he hadn’t noticed before in the back of his mind, like some strange sort of…courting?
Sunday shakes his head at the thought, ears burning as he pops a bite of chocolate tart into his mouth while Aventurine works, leaning quietly against the kitchen island as champagne brows draw together.
That has to be some odd facet of his Halovian nature speaking, though he loathes to acknowledge it.
But, to be frank, things have started to feel dangerously domestic, and Sunday has been silently grappling with it. Because on days like these where Aventurine returns home earlier than normal, the sweet treats or takeout has become customary; it matters little if it is a latte, tea, baked goods, or whole entrees, it seems that Aventurine is set on ensuring that Sunday is fed, and Sunday has almost begun to anticipate it with a flutter in his stomach.
There’s something too sentimental about that, and the Halovian tries to push the thought aside.
However, on more than one occasion, Sunday has caught himself awaiting the IPC member’s return home. He swears up-and-down that it’s just to alleviate the boredom that results from being cooped up in the silence of the apartment.
On a typical day, Sunday wakes after Aventurine has already left. He stretches, brushes his teeth and mop of hair, smoothes his feathers; he paces the length of the apartment ten times over as the lobby bustles below. He eventually sinks atop the chaise to watch the guests in the Reverie, reminisces until it’s too painful, and then he sinks into the layers of the nest he’s maintained since his arrival and reads from the little stack of books that Aventurine keeps next to his bedside table.
Sunday has nearly completed the whole pile, has considered asking if the gambler will fetch him some new reading material, but it seems wholly inappropriate. That, and he worries it will sound as if he’s intending on extending his stay indefinitely, which is not the case.
Not that Sunday has been able to do much regarding hatching an escape plan. His resources are limited, his communications even more so, and he hasn’t been able to think about it much at all without immediately hitting a dead end.
He has considered the Dreampool, but it’s all too likely that he’ll be caught within minutes of descending into the Dreamscape. It’s far too risky, the crystalline bubbles floating about the air in an effervescent show, catching the light that filters in from the massive windows and splitting it across the marble floor.
Sunday sighs as he tears his gaze away from the bubbling pool and to the book in his lap. He snaps it shut, agitated fingers running along the leather binding as his thoughts continue to wander.
While it has started to feel alarmingly domestic - comfortable, even - the atmosphere has also taken on an equally noticeable edge. It’s ever-present, an invisible pendulum swinging closer with each passing night, and Sunday is painfully aware that his stay is not infinite. It’s not a bad thing to be on an invisible clock given the gravity of the situation, but with so little progress made in regard to an escape plan - and without seeing Robin once since his initial flight from the Family’s cell - Sunday has found himself beginning to worry that there is no closure to be had between them, after all.
Once he flees Penacony, Sunday is quite certain that he will never return.
He is equally as certain that he will not see Robin again.
Sunday’s right wing flutters at his temple as his thoughts return to the present, feathers puffed up in a mess of silver, and he starts as a set of fingers begin to smooth over them lightly. He raises a hand to bat those gloved fingertips away, is in the act of doing so when he turns to his left to find Aventurine knelt next to him.
His lips remain fixed in that ever-present grin, a taunting hint to his features, but the Avgin’s eyes are a bit less pointed. Those diamond pupils settle on Sunday as he frowns, hand falling limp into his lap as he gives up and allows Aventurine to soothe his wing and, in turn, the apprehension that roils in his gut.
“The book isn’t to your liking? I can always go get another.” The IPC member goads, watching as Sunday’s nimble fingers trace the embossed title on the cover. The Halovian looses a chuckle, exasperated, and his wing twitches in the other’s grasp.
The silken edges of his feathers slip along the leather of his gloves, and Aventurine considers tugging them off to indulge in that soft plush of silver. The feathers at Sunday’s temples are softer, more inviting, and he moves his attention there as the other suppresses a shudder.
“It’s nothing.” And then, after a heavy exhale. “It’s…Robin. I want to see her, even just once, just to know that she’s alright.”
Aventurine’s fingers halt, hesitating, and when he resumes alleviating some of the tension beneath Sunday’s skin, he’s silent.
Robin is the one wish that Aventurine cannot grant the other, no matter how guilty it makes him feel, and he sighs.
“I really am sorry, you know. It’s not like I derive some kind of pleasure from keeping her from you. It’s just a risk I can’t take, not now.”
“And I thought you were a self-proclaimed ‘risk taker.’” Sunday snorts without a lick of humor to his tone, and Aventurine’s lips press together into a tight line.
“It’s hardly a worthy risk when I am not the one with something on the line. I don’t condone taking hefty gambles with others on the chopping block when they’ve nothing to give; I actively avoid them when I can. And you and I are both aware that the Family will not be so lenient with their punishment a second time if you are caught.”
Sunday doesn’t remark on it, but Aventurine can hear it in his mind so loudly it’s almost as if he did speak it aloud: it does not matter the punishment so long as Sunday can just see her, and something about that sends a pang of pity cutting marrow-deep into the gambler’s bones.
Aventurine’s fingers still at the juncture of feather and flesh, unsure of how to break the weighty silence that’s turned his silver tongue to lead. It’s not his responsibility to comfort Sunday, he knows this, but what a poor host he would be to leave him in such a sorry state.
“Why do you get so worked up about your wings?” Aventurine asks in attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, and even with the way his lips quirk up at the corners, Sunday can tell his curiosity is genuine.
“They…well, for starters,” he hisses, raising a hand to slap Aventurine’s fingers away as they begin to draw circles along the flesh behind his ear, “they are highly sensitive.”
“Mm.” The gambler hums at that; he’s all too familiar what delightful little sounds just the brush of his fingertips can wring if they play in those silver feathers long enough.
“But it’s more than that. Halovians’ feathers have special meaning, and we hold them dear. They carry and convey energy, and as such, they are sacred things.” Sunday’s tone grows tight at divulging such sensitive information. It feels strange, having to spell out something so innate to himself to one who understands so little about what he is. “And so, besides the emotional weight behind them, they are also far too close to my halo for you to be touching them so freely.”
Aventurine’s eyes flicker up to the glinting gold that frames the crown of Sunday’s head. Sometimes he forgets it’s there, and he cards his curious fingers through Sunday’s hair, inching close to the first protrusion that catches the Reverie lobby’s light before halting when a hand wraps tight about his wrist.
“While my halo may not be tangible in the waking world, it does not mean that you’re welcome to toy with it.” The Halovian’s right wing flutters violently at his temple, the tips of his feathers brushing along Aventurine’s exposed forearm until it tickles. “My wings are one thing, my halo is another. While I might be lenient with the former, I will not be so kind as to indulge your curiosity when it comes to the latter.”
The gambler marks Sunday’s reaction with interest, Avgin eyes going half-lidded as the other’s fingertips press deep into the soft flesh of his inner wrist.
So, all he needed to distract Sunday from his qualms was this?
Aventurine is still quite annoyed that he was caught painfully off guard after the whole “macaron incident,” and since Sunday’s brazen teasing he’s found it increasingly difficult to keep his hands to himself. Even now, wrist caught in a vice grip, close enough that the pair share every breath, Aventurine finds that he craves Sunday far more than he’d like to admit, even if he is rather temperamental at the moment.
He dares to press the Halovian’s limits further, gloved fingers flexing to their limits to press against the very tip of his halo, the ghost of a touch that he suspects will not wring much of a reaction at all out of him.
Aventurine’s fingers sink into nothingness, unsurprisingly. There is no solid surface to be found, no cool, cutting edge of winking gold to slip along his fingertips, only a space void of anything tangible. Instead, there’s a burst of nerve endings set alight through the leather, the sensation nearly ticklish as it courses up the length of his digits and settles in his palm, and suddenly Sunday is writhing beneath him as his halo flickers brilliantly bright.
An aborted thrust of his hips and a broken sound that makes Aventurine shiver, and Sunday grits his teeth and involuntarily buries his face into the crook of the blonde’s neck. He pants, a pathetic, shallow series of breaths as his co*ck visibly hardens in his pants; it’s so piteous, the way his halo renders him speechless, but he relishes in the way the IPC member seems to find pleasure in pushing his limits, even if he will never admit to it aloud.
Instead, Sunday’s thighs part of their own accord, and he feels a building heat lick up the base of his spine. Aventurine is not slow to understand, the Halovian’s wings fluttering beneath his shirt as the one at his temple twitches. He understands that Sunday wants, and the gambler is loathe to deny him.
It’s been far too long since he last indulged in the warmth of his lips, allowed his hands to wander; Aventurine has tasted Sunday and has been so very eager to find an excuse to slip his tongue between those thighs once again in search of the pure ecstasy of it. But he is patient - at least, as much as he can be - and watches those ichor eyes blink away the haze of lust before turning molten with fury.
“Did I not just specify that you’re not allowed to touch — ”
Aventurine swallows any other convictions, feeling the Halovian’s resolve melt away as he trembles in his grasp. The fingers about his wrist slacken, and the blonde takes it as a sign to push deeper, tongue begging for entry as he trails it along Sunday’s lower lip.
It’s quite astounding that they’ve managed to keep from crossing the invisible, unspoken boundary for as long as they have, and given the way the former Family head sinks against the cushions and fists at Aventurine’s hair to pull him down with him, it seems as though he’s likely felt the same.
However, Aventurine reminds himself, if Sunday does blame him for it after, he’ll have to argue that his little display with the macarons was the spark to the kindling. They’ve indulged each other in this strange game of chess, and it was Sunday who took the first pawn this game. Aventurine, if anything, is only retaliating in a way he deems appropriate. They are sore losers, the both of them, and the thought makes Aventurine’s lips curl up in a smug smirk as Sunday’s breath hitches and his lips part.
Seems like he’s won this hand.
The gambler licks into his mouth as his hands wander, trailing down the length of Sunday’s torso. He knows what the other wants, can feel his desire pulsing through his pants; the gambler wonders with a stifled chuckle just how wet he is from a mere brush against his halo, and the thought makes him groan.
Aventurine wants to taste, wants to draw his tongue deep until Sunday is thrashing above him, but he knows that now is not the time. The line breached, a barrier crossed, and he’s so very certain that Sunday wants him inside, be it his co*ck or his fingers.
The blonde’s hands are quick to wind their way into Sunday’s hair, fisting silver locks until the Halovian shudders and whimpers against his tongue. He wants Sunday pleading, pliant, sinking into that headspace where all that matters is just taking it. He’s watched him fall into it before, been oh-so eager to indulge in it, and as his fingertips brush along Sunday’s jaw, he relinquishes the assault of his tongue, instead tracing those plush, wet lips with his thumb.
Sunday pants as his lips are met with the heat of Aventurine’s bare fingertips, dizzy and reeling from the suffocating need that courses through him and spears through his gut. He’s not sure when the IPC member shirked his gloves, but Sunday finds that hardly matters. He aches, wants to be touched, wants something inside so very badly.
This is one of the many reasons he maintains that his halo is not to be touched, but now that the provocative gambler has chosen to ignore his wishes, he’s left to bear the weight of the need that makes Sunday shiver and drip with desire.
He will take him any way, he decides; Aventurine’s tongue, his fingers, his co*ck. Sunday is so immediately deprived of the friction he craves that it matters little how he has it, as much as he does indeed have it.
Aventurine’s fingers press in against his lips, vying for his mouth, and Sunday’s sex-addled mind has little thought other than to take what is given. He allows the Avgin’s fingertips to press past the barrier of his teeth, running along his tongue, and he sucks them down as though they can provide him some reprieve from the delirium that results from the ache in his groin.
He urges them deep, raven wings quivering beneath the thin white cotton of his pajama top, and his hazy eyes flicker up to the IPC member’s as he guides his fingers down his throat with his tongue. It feels different than before, a bit slower; perhaps it’s because Aventurine knows that he holds Sunday within his grasp indefinitely now, no longer relegated to an icy cell and chains and time constraints.
But the chains do sound delectable; Sunday is certain he comes to that conclusion at the same time, groaning as he swallows those two fingers down, letting them carve a path in the channel of his throat. He longs to take Aventurine in, to taste him again, but something tells him that he will not be allowed the luxury. No, the pulsing heat between his thighs is enough to convince him that he’s playing a dangerous game, and that the ball is in the gambler’s court.
What a shame; he’d so dearly love to take him in his mouth a second time.
When Aventurine pulls his fingers from Sunday’s lips, he’s satisfied with the pop that resounds in his ears. He wastes little time, replacing his digits with his tongue, tracing the path of Sunday’s teeth as his fingers slip beneath the waistband to brush against his length.
He’s burning, feverish, and Aventurine watches Sunday writhe at the smallest whisper of a touch with a smirk. But his fingers sink lower; he wants to slip inside, to finger him until he c*ms in those silly Reverie-branded pajamas, and Sunday is all too eager to let him.
His thighs part further, allowing Aventurine to kneel between them atop the emerald cushions of the chaise, and as he braces himself against the back of it to continue pressing kiss after kiss against those lips, his fingers delve past the raging length of him to the cleft of his ass.
“I can help relieve some of that tension, pretty bird.” Aventurine breathes as he pulls away, Avgin eyes aglow and simmering. Sunday pants as his hands reach out, desperate to grab onto something, and he settles for the IPC member’s waist as he draws him closer.
Aventurine awaits a response, more out of show than anything, fingertips coming to rest at the fluttering, soaking hole that Sunday tries so hard to hide. He waits, albeit impatient, allowing the damp tips of his fingers to tease up and down along that wanton heat until Sunday writhes.
“A-Aventurine, you — ” The blonde delights in the way some insult teeters on his tongue. The Halovian whimpers, a lovely, broken noise, and then he’s begging all too easily with another taunting press of the gambler’s fingertips, “please.”
Ah, so he is wet for him.
As if that had been called into question in the first place.
Aventurine’s middle finger sinks in to the knuckle, and even that is enough to draw out a whine. His eyes never leave Sunday’s face, watching those silver lashes knit together as his eyes flutter shut, halo pulsing. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before, but the pleasure seems to draw out throbbing little flashes.
Perhaps it’s in part to his making contact with it, like Sunday’s lost a bit of that control he’s so obsessed with. The thought makes him shiver and a smug sense of satisfaction pulse through his body.
The blonde’s lips curl as he sinks deeper, leaning down to mouth along Sunday’s jaw, relishing just how tight he is around his finger. He’s quick not to waste time, slipping out only to push back in, delighting as Sunday gasps and scrabbles at his shoulders.
Sometimes it’s just too easy to make the Halovian come undone. Aventurine isn’t expecting anything in return, not when the reward is Sunday Oak boneless and trilling under every touch, and he bats away the other’s wandering hand as he lets a second finger tease at his entrance. The gambler has half a mind to sink between his thighs and guide him onto his tongue, but that seems unnecessary when Sunday seems to be so very satisfied with being filled.
Sunday thrashes beneath him, another broken moan slipping from his lips, and his right wing covers the lower half of his face as Aventurine straightens to get a better view and angle. His second finger breaches Sunday’s entrance, a delicious stretch that drives a heated pulse of pleasure up his spine, and the Halovian feels his ears burn and cheeks sting as a feverish flush settles over his features.
Perhaps it’s due to the fact that the last time they were…intimately acquainted, they were in an icy cell with nothing but hard surfaces, but Sunday finds that it’s far easier to understand what Aventurine meant by helping him “relax” like this. He finds himself sinking into that brainless state as his worries fade to nothing, and all he can focus on is Aventurine and the dizzying sensation of his two fingers working deeper, the sounds lewd and foul against his ears.
Sunday is barely present at all when those same fingers curl, searching for something, and he gasps and throws his head back against the emerald of the chaise as Aventurine finds that soft bulb of flesh and bullies it. He draws his wrist back only to press against it incessantly, greedy and relentless in his pursuit of Sunday’s release.
The Halovian’s eyes remain sewn shut as the blonde purrs in satisfaction, silver bangs caught in his lashes.
“You really were eager for my fingers a second time, weren’t you?” He teases as he stifles a groan at the sight of the Halovian shivering beneath his touch. Sunday pants, desperate little breaths that leave his chest heaving beneath the buttons of his shirt, and the gambler swears he sees a golden eye open to narrow at his remark.
The push and pull is intoxicating, Sunday’s body so very pliant and willing when his attitude is, decidedly, not as much. It makes him feel victorious, like he’s won an impossible bet, drinking in every broken sound that tumbles past his swollen lips as Sunday’s eye flutters shut once more in surrender.
Raven wings twitch violently at his back, Aventurine humming as he watches Sunday squirm against the cushions with another pointed press of his fingertips. His free hand runs up the length of his shirt, tracing each button until it comes to rest against the column of his throat. The gambler pauses, curious, and wraps his hand around Sunday’s neck to press in gently.
Last time, Sunday seemed to enjoy being choked much more than he’d care to admit. Aventurine observes with a look of interest as Sunday’s eyes flutter open, half-lidded, and he nearly chuckles. Ah, so that’s all it took to get him sinking into that subservient state of mind. So needy, docile; he drinks in the sight of Sunday as his pace quickens, curling his wrist to f*ck in and out as the sound of just how wet the poor thing in his grasp is rings in his ears.
He feels Sunday’s pulse, quick and erratic as he shivers, and notes the shift in his demeanor as his hips bear down against his fingers. Sunday is getting close, and the euphoric line he walks as he draws near the edge becomes evident as his gaze grows hazy, breaths shallow and short. The rosy hue of his cheeks deepens to something more akin to scarlet, and Aventurine realizes that he’s a little too far gone as his wings quiver at his shoulders, body trembling against the chaise.
“Easy there, you need to breathe, angel.” The blonde coos as he pumps his fingers impossibly deeper, his grasp loosening about Sunday’s throat to allow him a more steady supply of oxygen. It’s a bit ironic, asking him to breathe when it’s his doing, but his words seem to break some of that trance as he feels the other inhale deeply against his hand.
Aventurine’s palm remains at his throat, a gentler pressure, and he feels Sunday begin to clench around him as his whines grow more frequent. Aventurine hums, pleased, a smirk on his lips as he nuzzles against Sunday’s pierced wing. He catches his earlobe between his teeth, delighting in the sharp inhale it draws out, and he ceases slipping his fingers in and out and opts instead to still his hand. Those fingers curl over and over as Sunday’s hips jerk beneath him to bully that spot, eager to see just how many of those delicious noises he can wring from him as the Halovian’s breath catches.
“Cum for me, pretty bird. I wanna feel it.”
And feel it, he does.
Sunday gasps and his wings tense as he shatters, toppling over the edge. He’s vaguely aware that he’s soiled his sleeping pants, co*ck dribbling against the white cotton as he clenches impossibly tight about Aventurine’s fingers. The gambler urges him through it, his movements against that special little spot slowing to coax Sunday along his release, whispering praises in his ear as his wing twitches against the IPC member’s cheek.
A lovely trill vibrates in his throat, melodic and short as he winds down from the high, Aventurine’s fingers still buried in the deep, wet heat of him. Sunday’s breaths become less erratic, more regular in rhythm, and Aventurine chuckles against his feathers as he slips his hand from beneath his waistband.
Sunday’s eyes flicker open, no longer quite as glassy, and he watches with furrowed brows as Aventurine brings his fingers to his lips and makes a show of sucking them clean. The Halovian’s cheeks are aflame as he tears his gaze away, trying to ignore the taunting laugh that rumbles from the gambler’s throat.
“Hm? More relaxed now?”
Sunday’s lips purse as he considers in the hazy aftermath. Yes, he supposes that he does feel a bit less tense, though most of it is likely due in part to the serotonin coursing through his body. He wants to curl up in the blankets against the cushions, drown in that warm scent that clings to everything Aventurine touches, maybe drag him into his nest with him and hold him there until they fall asleep —
What in Ena’s name is going on with him?
It’s the chemicals, more potent that before, it must be; that, and his tricky Halovian nature that the gambler unfortunately seems to subconsciously coax out of him. Sunday shifts his focus to less complicated things, like the sticky mess that’s left his pants soiled and clinging to his abdomen in a way that’s not just unsightly, but a sensory disaster. He frowns in disgust as he pushes Aventurine off of the chaise, scrambling to his feet.
“I-I need to go clean myself.” Sunday tries to school his tone into something more composed, but it’s clear that his composure has gone out the window. Aventurine nods, a pleased grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and he waves him off.
“Go for it, the bath is yours. I’ll fetch you some more clothes.” And then he winks as his voice sinks an octave lower. “My apologies for ruining them. And how many pairs should I ask for, just in case?”
Sunday bristles as his nostrils flare and ears burn, raven feathers ruffling at his back as another amused chuckle sends the IPC member’s shoulders quaking. Sunday does not dignify his question with a response, tries to stamp down that innate need to grab him by the hand and tug him into the sheets and lie there until he’s fallen asleep.
Instead, he storms to the bathroom, eager to scrub his skin until it’s raw and void of any sign that Aventurine has touched him.
The IPC member watches him go, eyes alight as he shakes his head. He washes his hands as he hears the water turn on, snatching his data pad from the counter and resting against the chaise.
It’s funny, Aventurine thinks to himself as he inhales deeply. It seems the blankets pooled around his waist have begun to smell of lavender and mint. The gambler finds he quite likes it.
*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
In the days that follow, things are tense.
For what it’s worth, Sunday is adamant that he will not cave to the gambler’s whims again.
It was a moment of weakness, and the Halovian swears up and down that they’ve entered some strange game of chicken where he is certain he will emerge victorious.
But it’s easier said than done.
Where Sunday is, so is Aventurine, usually brushing against him with relentless teases and winking eyes. Sunday finds comfort in control, and it’s so very infuriating the way that the gambler seems to urge him to cast it aside for something so wholly outside of his own authority. It’s difficult to feel some semblance of order or composure when Aventurine is present; with every barrier Sunday erects, it seems the IPC member is equally equipped - and willing - to tear it down.
Without that hateful animosity he dialed into when the blonde first arrived in Penacony, Sunday finds it’s much more difficult to keep him at bay. That collected, professional exterior is near impossible to maintain; it’s too easy to let his guard down.
However, he is somewhat grateful. Because in the days that follow their little tryst, neither Aventurine nor Sunday address it. It becomes a strange moment lost to time, neither acknowledged nor cast aside. It should grant Sunday some reprieve, knowing that - unless he speaks on it - Aventurine will not address the way he so pathetically came on his fingertips.
But there is still a bed, a massive one at that, and Sunday has found himself far too pliant in the heady cinnamon warmth of Aventurine’s apartment to ignore it or the way that spending his nights on the chaise suddenly seems to sound like a chore.
Sleeping atop the firm emerald velvet instead of swathed in gold and midnight sheets has become seemingly uncomfortable overnight, and Sunday is certain that - if he mentions his sudden discomfort - the IPC member will take him to bed properly, and that’s a line he has no idea how to cross again.
Shouldn’t cross.
He doesn’t know if he’d even get the chance to if he felt brazen enough, because the Hounds have only increased in terms of their security and aggression.
Sunday first notices it in the Reverie lobby.
They line the corridors and pace about the administrative desks, drinking in every face they see. Aventurine notifies him when he arrives home that same day - with a hot tea in tow, this time - that they’ve begun to knock on doors and search rooms, especially vacant ones, to see if Sunday has slipped into a Dreampool to descend into the Dreamscape.
Sunday accepts the tea as a cold thorn of fear spears through his being. Being found out means being chained again, or - as Aventurine pointed out priorly - something far more permanent. He’s spent too much time complacent in the Stoneheart’s apartment, lounging and reading and whatnot. Suddenly the possibility of being found out seems much more concrete, and Sunday sips from his cup with white knuckles that he so dearly wishes he could hide.
Aventurine typically spends at least half the day away at work, and the thought of being found out by the Hounds - namely without him - is worrisome.
Yes, Sunday can manipulate the Harmony. It’s quite likely he can wriggle his way out of being immediately reprimanded, but if the Hounds notify anyone else? If he’s spotted by more as he makes his way to Penacony’s port?
There is an advantage in numbers, one that even Sunday would struggle to fend off. It’s likely he’ll be caught on the docks, preparing to hastily board a cargo ship to flee Penacony entirely.
Aventurine may not be able to deter them, but the thought of encountering the Hounds without him present as the IPC’s main force in the merger makes his stomach twist into a series of knots. There are few places to hide in the apartment with so little furniture, and Sunday reluctantly runs his thumbs over the warm plastic of the lid as Aventurine settles against the chaise beside him.
He sips a latte, data pad in his lap as he waves a gloved hand above his head.
“The Hounds already searched my apartment upon your initial escape with the rest of the floor, it’s highly unlikely they’ll search it again.”
Aventurine is relaxed, enviably so, but Sunday sighs and settles against the cushions. Much to his dismay, it’s become rather difficult to remain alert when Aventurine is so…lax about it all. Sunday knows it’s a front; it wouldn’t take a genius to pick him apart and expose that little facet of his personality. It’s the reason the gambler is constantly toying with his rings, spinning his watch, clicking his tongue absentmindedly when something seems to be careening down a less-than-ideal path as he taps away at his data pad.
But the issue is that Sunda has also found himself starting to loosen up, both in terms of his paranoia and his personal comfort. When Aventurine says that he will be taken care of, that he is safe in his apartment, Sunday is loathe to find that he takes some part of that assumption as fact.
Not only has he found it easy to slip into the comfort of the place in terms of his personal safety, but he’s also found that his comfort levels around the blonde have seemed to increase. The raven wings at his back have ached for so long after being tucked away, and he only recently started opting for no shirt at all to alleviate some of the pressure while Aventurine was at work. It didn’t take much more than a day for the gambler to insist that it was not an issue, to “Relax, pretty bird, I’m not going to lose my cool just because you’re shirtless”, and so Sunday allowed himself to indulge in the comfort of it.
Even now, sitting next to the gambler atop the couch, he find that - as an unfortunate, subconscious side effect of some primal urge - his wings stretch and wrap about the blonde’s shoulders.
Sunday has found this to be a strange, instinctual thing; any time his wings are free and he’s close to Aventurine, he usually finds himself cocooning him in raven feathers as they talk. He still despises the clipped ends of the wings at his back, still shudders every time the blunt edges breach his periphery, but the Avgin seems unbothered. He does not seem to notice nor care, allowing for Sunday’s wings to curl about the backs of his shoulders, and the Halovian supposes he’s grateful for his silence on the matter.
After all, this is the first time in years he’s been so able and free to allow them to breathe a bit, and he does not know when he will next get a chance to do so again.
“I assure you, they won’t search this place again.” Aventurine reiterates, shifting gaze slipping along the chaise to the man at his side. “I can tell you’re tense.”
Sunday shifts beneath his eyes, raven feathers ruffling along Aventurine’s shoulder. He knows he should chide them for having a mind of their own, should pull back, but Aventurine doesn’t acknowledge it, and so neither will he.
“If I am caught — ”
“You won’t be caught. So paranoid — ”
“What if you’re gone? I am not incapable of defending myself by any means, but their strength lies in numbers. My ability to manipulate the Harmony can only do so much to fend off more than a handful. If something were to happen, I’d have no way of reaching you. You are by no means responsible for me, but I would hate to see how it might fall back on you after you’ve gone to such lengths to be so kind as to grant me a safe haven for the time being.”
It feels pathetic, shameful, even, to admit it all aloud. Sunday’s cheeks grow hot as he keeps his gaze fixated on the marble floor in front of him. He hates feeling so vulnerable, especially in front of the gambler who - for all intents and purposes - is technically spearheading the operation to return Sunday to the Family’s custody. The silence is heavy, and then the blonde’s fingers tap a bit more pointedly against the surface of the data pad in his lap.
“Consider it divine intervention, but it so happens that I may have recently found a lead in regard to smuggling you out of Penacony.”
Sunday’s breath halts and his nostrils flare. That’s hardly where he thought this conversation was going at all, and he can’t help but feel a little part of himself wilt inside at the thought of leaving.
No more Robin, no more Penacony, not even a dream to cling to. No more Aventurine and his incessant, insufferable teasing.
The idea is so offensively ridiculous and all too overwhelming at once, and he finds himself unable to process it, stoic and silent as he waits for the gambler to elaborate.
“You forget, Mister Sunday,” Aventurine chirps as he relaxes against the velvet chaise and - in turn - Sunday’s wing, “that I’m rife with luck.”
Sunday finds the wording strange. Being considered “rife” with something is not usually said with a positive connotation, but it’s unlikely the gambler views his own small blessings in the same light Sunday does. For one so eager to die, Aventurine has lived far longer than what he’d likely imagined, and the Halovian is quick to click his tongue and dismiss his comment.
Of course, Aventurine would consider his luck a foul curse instead of an act of divinity. How else would the sole survivor of a massacre react to remaining alive.
The Halovian’s wing at his temple twitches as he sinks into silence, and Aventurine looses a sigh before he sets his data pad down in his lap. He’s quick to slip the rings from his fingers and settle them atop the touchscreen, tugging his gloves from his hands before they’re pressing insistently against the juncture of where Sunday’s feathers bloom behind his ear.
“You’re that worried about it, hm?”
Sunday frowns and swats his hand away, wringing a snicker from the blonde at his shoulder. He hums, opting instead to trail his fingertips along the curves of Sunday’s raven wing to elicit a shudder and an equally fierce glare.
Sunday’s eyes flicker down to the data pad in his lap before he can think much of it. But it’s there that he glimpses a dizzying array of numbers and figures, graphs, names, message notifications. It’s quite overwhelming, he muses to himself, and his ichor gaze flits up to the corner of the display:
Ten Stonehearts: Aventurine: Kakavasha.
Kakavasha?
Sunday’s rips his gaze away immediately as it becomes clear to him that it is not a title but a name, and not one that he has ever heard himself nor heard the gambler mention. He is still, careful to ensure that Aventurine has not noticed his prying eyes, and as the gambler brings his latte back to his lips - unperturbed - Sunday’s limbs release some of the pent up tension.
Aventurine seems to take his sudden, rigid silence as confirmation of his anxiety, and he sighs warily.
“I’ll see what I can do, Mister Sunday.”
What he means by that Sunday does not know, nor does he understand why the Stoneheart would care regardless. Aventurine is not an unkind person, he knows this, but there are times where he’s a little too kind for his own good. It directly conflicts with his status among the IPC, and for the life of him, every time Sunday thinks he’s managed to get a clear picture of him, the gambler will act out of turn and shatter that image.
This must be one of those times, Sunday decides as he stands, tugging his wing from behind the blonde’s back to pace the windows. His bare fingertips dance along the rim of his cup, tea having gone cold; Sunday considers asking for some gloves, but he’s been living in exclusively pajamas for so long that the thought of wearing something else while being cooped up feels a bit odd.
That, and he feels a twinge of guilt at asking Aventurine for yet another thing.
When Sunday’s gaze flickers back to the blonde, he finds him hurriedly typing away once more. He’s certain things must be busy, especially if the Family has only cracked down in their efforts to find him, and he’s also certain that Aventurine is dealing with the brunt of the IPC’s pressures that align with the Family’s when it comes to finding the fugitive.
Aventurine - for all of his taunting - looks tired. The bags beneath his simmering Avgin eyes are deeper than usual, and Sunday catches him loosing little sighs every few minutes he spends staring at the screen. He cannot help but feel some semblance of guilt, being the root cause of it after Aventurine has been ridiculously kind to him.
It’s while he’s in this deep state of thought that Aventurine slips from the chaise, closing out his data pad for the night as a hand cards through his silken champagne locks to ruffle them.
“I’m taking a shower. Do you need the bathroom?”
Sunday shakes his head, sipping his cold tea with a wrinkled nose as he peers down at another throng of Hounds as they stalk the lobby. Aventurine hums in reply, and within seconds the apartment is quiet save the click of a door and the running of water.
Perhaps he should’ve asked if he could join him.
Sunday shakes himself. Those ridiculous thoughts have become all too frequent as of late, and part of him wonders if they’re derived from the stress of the situation as it bubbles dangerously close to the surface. It’s a line of thought he’s loathe to waste time on, knowing he will not come to a conclusion that suits him, and instead Sunday finishes off his tea while the shower runs in the background.
When Aventurine emerges from the bathroom, Sunday is once again swathed in blankets. He knows he should wash them at some point, but he’s become oddly territorial about his little nest, and his ichor eyes flicker up from the book he’s resumed to find the gambler with only a towel draped about his waist.
His eyes narrow and he nearly rolls them at the sight. Aventurine is nothing if not always seeking to push his limits, and that’s all too apparent as he bends at the waist to fetch his data pad, wicked glint in his gaze as droplets drip from his wet locks along Sunday’s blankets.
In this light - as opposed to that of his cell - Sunday can see his scars clearer.
How they appeared so minimal in the dark of his holding cell, he doesn’t know, because they are stark against Aventurine’s flesh. His commodity code is the first thing that catches his gaze, nothing gaudy enough or overly-saturated in color to distract from it, a dark mark that’s etched deeply into his flesh. Sunday’s eyes trails down the length of Aventurine’s torso as he straightens, discolored lines running up and down every rib, every ripple of lean muscle, and he finds himself more upset by the sight of them than appreciative of the Avgin’s beauty.
At times like these, Sunday wants to ask about them. He’s curious, yes, morbidly so. But he knows that that would cross far more than just a singular boundary, and so his questions are swallowed as he stands to use the bathroom to prepare for bed.
It’s far too early, he knows. Even Aventurine casts him a puzzled look, but he ignores it. Sunday finds he’s mentally drained, exhausted, and as soon as he emerges from the bathroom the Halovian collapses against the chaise as the gambler chuckles at the sight.
Sunday begins to snore not long after.
*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
When Sunday wakes, it’s not to the chatter of the Reverie lobby nor his internal clock. Rather, it’s to Aventurine’s lilting voice, melodic and gentle against his barely-present senses.
Sunday sits up, groggy, blinking away the sleep from his eyes as his gaze sweeps from the empty kitchenette to the empty bed, confused.
Except the bed isn’t empty at all, and he squints as he rubs his knuckles against the backs of his eyelids. Aventurine sits propped up against a mountain of pillows, reading glasses resting along the bridge of his nose as he flips through a flurry of papers.
He seems to be on some sort of…call, perhaps? Or had he been talking to Sunday?
“What are you — ”
Aventurine gently shakes his head, lifting a finger to his lips, and he goes on to speak as his eyes bore into Sunday’s.
“Just some guests passing by my room. Apologies, Topaz, please do go on.”
Sunday’s lips sew together of their own accord as a silent laugh sets those Avgin eyes aflame. Suddenly, the Halovian is able to piece together that it is still early in the morning. It is unusual for Aventurine to still be present; usually he is gone by this time, likely somewhere deep in the Dewlight Pavilion for a handful of meetings or running around the family’s physical Estate, but this particular morning he is nestled in his sheets as he works.
Sunday is confused at first.
There is little reason as to why Aventurine would still be in bed, especially on a call when it’s most appropriate to take them privately, lest he divulge some information in Sunday’s presence that he’s not privy to. But his golden gaze flits to the wardrobe as his thoughts wander, and where he finds a handful of Reverie-branded pajamas folded next to the wardrobe, he also finds an intricately ornate suit hung over the door.
It is unlike his old one, lacking that pristine white and symmetrical design. But it is…intriguing? Less of the Family and more akin to something he thinks Robin might enjoy, what with its colors and shades and layers.
Sunday’s simmering gaze flickers from the suit hanging atop the door to the IPC member tucked into the gold and black patterned sheets. He must know that Sunday has seen it, that he’s aware of the kindness he’s done for him, but Aventurine pretends not to notice at all. His gaze remains trained on his data pad and the papers in his hand, aggressively so, and Sunday feels that - even though he is on a call - the urge to find a way to thank him is immediate.
His thanks comes in the form of a subconscious trill, one he tries to swallow down, but the moment it vibrates in his throat he catches Aventurine’s lips twitching upward, even if his eyes do not falter from where they rest on his screen. That’s when Sunday - still regrettably deep in the throes of sleep, that’s all it is - decides to forsake decency and patter from the chaise to the cinnamon-soaked bedsheets.
He ignores the way Aventurine’s eyes widen in a silent protest as he curls near him, back drawn to him. While Sunday might indulge in the comfort he provides, he refuses to acknowledge it, it would seem. He curls into himself, shirtless, raven wings tickling Aventurine’s arms through his shirt as the Halovian settles into the pillows to inhale deeply.
Yes, this is far more comfortable than the chaise. The cushions have started to leave him sore in the mornings, the pressure on certain points of his body far too much.
Sunday breathes in deep and finds his eyes unable to remain open for long at all. This is far better than the emerald velvet, and he hopes that Aventurine will indulge him in this and not boot him from the bed with a look of pointed disgust.
He can hear the slightest whisper of a voice from Aventurine’s earpiece, and Sunday’s wing at his temple flutters at his cheek when the gambler hums in reply to something the other party - Miss Topaz, was it? - says.
“Oh, believe you me, I am doing everything in my power to find the ex-Oak Family Head. Why else do you think the Family’s Hounds have been putting on so much pressure for more funding to expand their reach? The Family is just as pressed to locate him as we are, it’s by no means a laughing matter.”
Sunday nearly scoffs at that, rolling his eyes where Aventurine cannot see. Because for all of his bluffs, even he does not think his fellow IPC member would ever consider that Sunday is not “missing,” but rather curled up next to the blonde in his bed.
It’s a very strange irony.
Sunday decides that he will take advantage of Aventurine being distracted and rest. Not that he has much of a say, his body already pliant in the sheets and his ichor eyes are blurry as unconsciousness threatens the edges of his gaze. He winds his arms about the pillows at his head to pull them closer, that warm cinnamon scent curling in his lungs and settling in his chest in the most delightful, comfortable ache.
There are fingers in his hair, and Sunday nearly jumps out of his skin at the unexpected touch. But the sensation is soothing, and Aventurine continues to spew out something about data and figures that Sunday really couldn’t care less about in his current state as fingers card through his silver locks.
Aventurine is careful not to touch the pretty gold halo at the crown of his head, knowing that he’ll receive far more than just an earful if he does, and instead opts to let his fingers wander down to the silver of Sunday’s wing. His touches are fleeting, gentle, smoothing over the feathers that are ruffled from the Halovian’s sleep. He waits to be batted away, insulted, or even to be on the receiving end of a perfunctory glare over Sunday’s shoulder, but Sunday does not react.
Aventurine really does love toying with his wings, doesn’t he?
Sunday is quiet, seems to settle deeper into the plush of the pillow, and as Topaz begins to rattle off some data about Penacony’s monetary value and output, the gambler finds his gaze slipping from the papers in his lap to the Halovian as he sinks back into a state of slumber.
Aventurine feels something in his throat, a tension that draws out a clipped breath, and he clears his throat to ensure that Topaz does not draw any attention to it.
Aventurine has, indeed, found a lead in regard to Sunday’s escape, and has been working diligently to organize a way for Sunday to flee Penacony unharmed and with little interference from the Family or the Hounds.
But it’s times like these that Aventurine wishes he had never visited the pretty bird in his cell to begin with.
Because suddenly, Sunday has become a strange constant in his routine. The thought sets his teeth on edge with how very inappropriate it is to consider their push-and-pull interactions in such a way, but it is the truth, regardless.
It’s become all the more difficult the more indefinite Sunday’s stay becomes to remain as urgent with his friends on the Astral Express about how dire it is that Sunday Oak leave as soon as possible, and the gambler finds that that is a line of thought that he does not want to - nor can he - pursue.
There is no way in which any possible outcomes end amicably unless Sunday is gone.
A half-baked snore tumbles from Sunday’s lips, and Aventurine finds the corners of his mouth curling up of their own accord in wary amusem*nt. He swallows a sigh, removes his fingers from the silken silver of Sunday’s wing, and runs a hand down the length of his own tired face before slipping one of the plush blankets from his lap over Sunday’s shoulders.
It would be best not to ruminate on such thoughts, lest Aventurine find an excuse to keep the pretty bird in his grasp for longer than he already has.
Sunday has suffered enough cages for one lifetime, he thinks to himself.
*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*—*
When Sunday wakes, he is silent about the matter. Aventurine winks at him as he taps away at his data pad, in and out of calls for the remainder of the day, and the Halovian is loathe to give him the satisfaction of any comment on his falling asleep in his bed.
But when he goes to lie down atop the chaise in the late hours of the evening, he’s met with a quizzical champagne brow and half-lidded eyes as Aventurine tucks himself into his sheets for the night.
“Is there something you wish to say?” Sunday hisses with folded arms, but the gambler does nothing but chuckle at the immediate defensiveness and shakes his head.
“Goodnight, pretty bird. Enjoy your chaise.”
Sunday bristles at that as the Avgin’s eyes twinkle mischievously, and if Sunday wasn’t so set on refusing to falter after failing so spectacularly with just a single touch against his halo days prior, he might even consider slipping into the sheets next to the blonde.
But he knows that look, that alluring smile, and heat licks up the base of his spine at the thought.
Instead, Sunday huffs and turns on his shoulder so his back is to Aventurine. He can feel the weight of his gaze settle on his figure, but it seems the gambler surrenders after another minute as the lamp near his bed clicks off.
He is adamant that he really, truly will not cave to such sordid desires again.
