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When Sunday was a child, he attended a Family gala.
Merely a celebration of cooperation between the different branches. A yearly occurrence on Penacony, a chance to mingle with Family members outside of work, an opportunity for speeches about how proud everyone was of the joy they helped create, a time to network and chat and drink.
There were generally few children in attendance. The gala took place in the Dreamscape, after all, where children were not technically allowed. But the adopted children of Gopher Wood were of course an exception; so well-behaved, they were, and little Robin was such a delight, and little Sunday would benefit from seeing the people he would one day lead.
While Robin charmed, Sunday listened and learned and nodded along to conversations he did not entirely understand yet. It wasn’t terribly fun, but it was interesting. And it was, as everyone told him, a chance to witness how beautiful it was that all these people could get along so well to produce such wonders. How wonderful. How harmonious.
He still thought he served the Harmony, then.
Today’s gala holds no such pretensions. It concerns money and prestige, and connections are formed in the name of the almighty credit, and half the conversations are about stocks. If it’s in honor of any Aeon, it’s the Preservation, but prayers fall from no one’s lips and if the Amber Lord is mentioned at all it is more in a way one would describe a sponsor, rather than a deity. No one speaks of wonders. And of course there is no Robin.
Sunday lifts a champagne flute to his lips and thinks about the fall of gods.
A conditional release to the employ of Lady Jade was hardly an expected fate. But she is prone to odd bets with long payoffs, he hears, and has many strings to pull. He supposes it is technically a better sentence than life imprisonment. Nevertheless this new life he has been forced into has neither the beauty nor the higher purpose of his old one, and watching executives chatter about investment portfolios with oily smiles on their faces is not an enjoyable evening. He wishes, longingly and bitterly, for the simple contentment of an evening spent contemplating scripture.
He is only a few sips into his glass when a familiar figure sidles up to him by his position at an unoccupied wall. There are only a few faces he would recognize here, and this one is hard to forget.
“Aventurine,” he says coolly. The man’s dress is comparatively subdued, a dark green suit and tie with only faint gold accents around the lapels. Pink sunglasses do a moderate job of obscuring those eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Aventurine’s own glass is mostly empty. “Just thought I’d check in on my new junior,” he says, a slightly chilly smile on his face. “See if you’ve gotten bored enough to start hypnotizing people yet.”
It is a bland barb, not worth responding to. But perhaps it is important to emphasize certain facts. “The Harmony’s blessing has deserted me,” Sunday states. “I am no longer capable of such things. If I were, the IPC would not so casually permit me to mingle.”
“So I hear,” Aventurine says. The lighting adds an eye-catching gleam to the metal rim of the sunglasses. “I know their hiring practices are eccentric, but even they wouldn’t hire a supervillain without neutering him first.”
Sunday sighs. Of course a conversation with Aventurine would be tiresome. But he doubts he is permitted to leave until the gala finishes, and it is uncouth to be antagonistic to a coworker, much less one who outranks you by a substantial margin. “A childish term. I thought you better than that.”
“Did you? I didn’t think you’d think about me at all.” Aventurine takes a sip from his glass. The drink within doesn’t match Sunday’s, and neither does the glass itself; a more compact glass of amber liquid, contrasted to a flute of pale champagne. It occurs to Sunday that whiskey is not typically drunk from a full glass to begin with, and thus Aventurine may have had less to drink than he thought.
“You nearly destroyed the Dreamscape, and now we share an employer,” Sunday says. “I have had reason to remember you.”
“Oh, yeah, all that stuff.” Aventurine waves a dismissive hand. “Water under the bridge. I hear they’re making good progress on repairing that hole in the sky, anyway.”
Sunday blinks. “Are they?” he says. “I wasn’t informed.”
A pale eyebrow rises above the sunglasses. “They haven’t been keeping you up to date on your old kingdom?”
“The only information I’ve received is what pertains to my new responsibilities and restrictions, and I’ve not had time to browse the news myself,” Sunday says.
“Huh. Well, I don’t know the details myself, but it seems like the Family’s getting back on their feet pretty fast.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Sunday says. “It is comforting to know.”
The gratitude is genuine, if tempered with resentment that this man knows more of Penacony’s current events than he does.
Aventurine takes another sip. “You’re never going back there, you know,” he says.
“I am aware.”
“I don’t think they’d even let you into Asdana at all.”
“I am aware.”
Aventurine lets out a small laugh. “And that doesn’t bother you at all?”
“I have lost my purpose, my sister, my god, my home, and my freedom, and their absence gnaws at me so deeply I am certain I will never be whole again,” Sunday says.
He takes another drink.
Aventurine pauses. “Yeah, okay, I’ll drink to that,” he says, and downs the rest of his glass.
A silence descends. Sunday wonders if it will make Aventurine leave.
It doesn’t. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for an alcohol guy,” Aventurine says, gesturing at the champagne flute.
“I am not,” Sunday says. “Alcohol dulls the mind. It is suited to those who wish to lose themselves, not those responsible for those people’s care.”
“But you’re drinking now,” Aventurine points out.
Sunday glances down at the flute of pale yellow champagne. Tiny bubbles permeate it, slowly floating to the top and leaving a ring around the rim. “The carbonation is reminiscent of SoulGlad,” he says.
“Now you’re just making me sad,” Aventurine says with a grimace. “Anyway, get used to drinking at these shindigs, or at least pretending to drink. It’s a bonding exercise. The folks here trust you more if you’re willing to get mildly shitfaced with them.”
Sunday surveys the crowd. Expensive suits on prosperous individuals, many of whom see Penacony purely as an opportunity for profit. “I doubt anyone here will ever truly trust me,” he says.
“Oh, believe me, the supervillain thing isn’t a problem,” Aventurine says, shrugging one shoulder. “The IPC has its own moral code. As long as you bring in the cash, they don’t really care what kind of person you are.”
Sunday shakes his head. “Therein lies the issue,” he says. “I will never be motivated by profit, and doubtless they are aware of it. I have seen glories they could not conceive of, known a purpose immeasurably higher than their petty ambitions, and whatever Lady Jade thinks she stands to gain by my employ, it will never change the fundamental fact of who I am. I will never belong here. Any IPC employee who knows me knows this.”
Aventurine gives a half-smile, a sharp little curve of his lips briefly showing a few white teeth. “Bundle of laughs, you are. Were you this bad at parties before?”
“The galas held by the Family were far superior to this.”
Aventurine gives a theatrical shudder. “Oh, I’ll bet,” he says. “Did you have the scripture recital before or after the group confessional?”
Sunday levels an even gaze at the man. “Why did you come to speak to me in the first place, if you so disdain me,” he says.
Aventurine toys with his empty glass between his fingers. The thin sheen of remaining whiskey rolls along the bottom in tiny droplets. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he says. “Maybe I thought you’d be more interesting than these stuffed suits.”
“And am I?”
“I can’t say you’re not.”
“Then I am thrilled to be a source of entertainment for you.”
Aventurine sighs. In the background, the noise of the crowd is an irritating buzz, ever prodding at his senses. “Look,” he says. “I’m still not happy about the whole ‘bind his tongue with a hot iron’ thing. It wasn’t a great experience.”
“It wasn’t intended to be,” Sunday says evenly. A harsh use of the Harmony’s blessing, of course, but surely THEY would forgive a little suffering in the name of the greater symphony.
“No shit,” Aventurine says. There’s a tension in his brow, a wariness to the set of his mouth. “At least tell me this. Did you enjoy it?”
Sunday considers his response. “Only in the sense that it seemed to be successful,” he says. “It was a necessary action to aid the revival of the Order, nothing more. I do not find pleasure in hurting others.”
Aventurine exhales. “Okay,” he says. “I guess that’s the best I’m gonna get.”
Sunday does not regret it. It was the prudent action at the time, and not one of the factors that contributed to the dream’s downfall. But if he is to work with Aventurine, perhaps concessions are in order. “Do you desire me to make amends?” he asks.
A moment of silence lands. Aventurine tilts his glass in his fingers.
“You know what, sure,” he says. Even through the sunglasses, Sunday can see an odd look in his eyes, like he’s calculating a decision and coming up with an unexpected answer. “Do you have anything in mind?”
Sunday shrugs. “I have little to my name,” he says. “Ask of me what you will.”
Aventurine taps his fingers against the glass. “Okay,” he says. “How about this. Play a game with me.”
“What sort of game?”
“Blackjack. I’d say dice, but anything that’s pure chance is weighted in my favor.”
Sunday is aware of the man’s allegedly blessed luck. The Sigonian goddess either does not exist, in which case it is a fascinating coincidence, or her three-eyed nature being remarkably similar to the three faces of Xipe is a sign of something else. Regardless, it is undeniable. “I thank you for your foresight,” he says.
“Don’t thank me yet, luck’s still a factor. I’ve never lost a game of blackjack I wasn’t intending to.”
A mild humiliation, then. A way for the gambler to show a measure of superiority over someone who once hurt him. Very well. There are worse punishments.
Sunday looks back at the crowd. It has yet to disperse. “This does not seem to be a venue for a card game, however,” he says.
“I didn’t bring a deck with me anyway,” Aventurine says. “My place isn’t far, let’s go there.”
Sunday raises an eyebrow. “Are we not intended to remain here for the duration of the gathering?” he asks.
“I’ve done enough schmoozing and you were probably only sent here so Jade could see if you could talk to people without proselytizing to them. Besides me you haven’t talked to anyone at all, so that’s a different data point for her. I’m sure she won’t complain.”
Fortuitous. Sunday wishes he’d known this earlier, so he could leave by himself, but better to know it now than to remain in this garden of avarice any further. “Very well,” he says.
“Great. Exit’s this way.”
They make their way through the crowd, some guests eyeing them for a moment before returning to their own inane discussions, and out to the street. It’s a cold night in Pier Point, chilly through the white fabric of his suit jacket; not enough to see his breath in the air, but enough that Sunday misses the eternally mild weather of the Dreamscape. The Golden Hour’s endless midnight was based on a summer evening. Never any discomfort to be had. Here, in a street lit just as brightly under a dark and starless sky, reality feels like an imitation just similar enough to embitter the comparison.
Aventurine’s car is less ostentatious than he expected. A simple black town car, elegant and marked with the name of a high-end company, a vehicle more suited to an ordinary businessman than a peacock. Sunday says as much, when he sees it.
“What, you expected me to drive a gold-plated sportscar? I use company cars when I see clients, and those have chauffeurs anyway,” Aventurine says with an amused smile. “I don’t need to keep up appearances when I’m driving home.”
Appearances. “So it is a performance, then,” Sunday says. “I had wondered.”
Aventurine unlocks the car with a beep from his phone. The doors click, and he pulls open the driver’s side door, sitting down at the wheel. Sunday follows suit with the passenger door.
“Some of it,” Aventurine says. “I do look good in green.”
Sunday noticed. The color complements his skin, even in the dimmer lighting of the car. The darker shade now, and the brighter shade then. With or without the extra flash, he is pleasing to look at. “It must be tiresome, living in such a way,” he says. He buckles his seatbelt.
Aventurine taps a few buttons on his phone, and the engine starts up with a faint rumble. He places the phone in a slot near the gear pedal. “Not really,” he says. “Like I said, some of it’s real. You’re telling me you never had to perform when you were being the cool unflappable shadow leader of a whole planet?”
“No,” Sunday says simply.
He has ever been exactly who he is. He took to his duties with pride, and while doubt was an occasional unwanted guest, he was always certain of his identity. Ena wanted a calm, resolute minister, and so that’s who he is.
Was.
He supposes he is not entirely certain what he is now.
Aventurine glances at him sideways. “And I thought I was a mess,” he says.
“I’m not the one not wearing a seatbelt,” Sunday replies.
Aventurine looks down. He looks at the wheel. He purses his lips.
“I guess that’s something I should be doing now,” he says, and pulls his seatbelt down to buckle it.
“You didn’t before?”
“Let’s not talk about that,” Aventurine says, and puts his hand on the gearshift, and reverses the car out of its parking spot.
An unexpected tiny revelation. Merely recklessness, or a genuine apathy towards survival? Surely someone who has been through so much and crawled out on top would have a stronger survival instinct than most. Or perhaps no amount of success could undo certain things. Or perhaps the nature of the success counted as another certain thing.
Aventurine certainly isn’t going to tell him. Sunday supposes it will remain a mystery.
Much of the drive proceeds in silence. A nighttime city passes by the windows, skyscrapers near and far, passersby on the sidewalks that go by too quickly for Sunday to get much of a look. Streetlamps light up the road in sodium yellow, creating islands of illumination in the dark. Around and above them, buildings are speckled with the lit windows of people remaining at work even at this hour.
The car’s engine remains relatively quiet. Certainly moreso than the vehicles of the Dreamscape, zooming down the city streets with the abandon of drivers who knew hitting pedestrians would at best cause ruffled feathers. Traffic laws were more suggestions in Penacony.
But looking at the city too much reminds him of what is lost to him, and so Sunday finds himself occasionally glancing at the driver instead.
Aventurine seems calm, sometimes muttering at other drivers who pull out in front of him unexpectedly but otherwise quiet. His expression is neutral, neither a charming smile nor a frustrated grimace. It is an ordinary side of a person, devoid of the dramatics that characterized their previous interactions.
Sunday wonders what he looks like now. Just as ordinary? A bird with clipped wings, sitting quietly in a passenger seat, dressed without raiment and charged with duties more mercantile than spiritual. Still not a typical person, perhaps, but far from glory.
Of course Aventurine never belonged to glory in the first place, but still it feels odd, seeing him in such a thoroughly unremarkable manner.
“I know I’m nice to look at, but you don’t need to keep staring at me,” Aventurine says, eyes still on the road.
“I merely ponder the oddity,” Sunday says. “A deliberate spectacle of a person, occupied in an ordinary task.”
Aventurine huffs. “What, you think every moment of every day is glitz and intrigue? You never had to drive home?”
“The Family has drivers.”
“Of course it does.”
“You did say that the IPC uses company cars.”
“For company business, yeah.” Aventurine gestures out at the road. “You see any clients out here?”
“I’m certain other executives employ personal drivers for their own daily life,” Sunday says.
“I like being alone sometimes.”
“I do sympathize,” Sunday says, after a pause. “I enjoyed solitude, when it was available to me.”
“A good chance for personal prayer time with a dead god, I bet.”
The slight is a small sting. But it is factual, that the Order exists in a different state than other Aeons. “I find comfort in scripture,” Sunday says. “You have your own god. Is there no structure to her worship?”
There’s a pause, perhaps a few seconds, perhaps more.
“Sigonia didn’t have cathedrals, if that’s what you mean,” Aventurine says eventually.
“I meant the smaller aspects,” Sunday says. “Prayers, traditions, daily worship.”
The city streets continue to pass by in the dark.
“I don’t remember most of it,” Aventurine says. “I was pretty young when the whole genocide thing happened. Hard to keep up traditions when no one’s around to remind you what they were.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Sunday says. “Worship provides a strong foundation for life, and comforts that can remain even in the darkest of times. I imagine your god brought stability to your people.”
Aventurine scoffs. “Like you even believe in her,” he says. “Gaiathra Triclops isn’t an Aeon. No one outside Sigonia’s even heard of her as anything other than a backwater superstition.”
Sunday declines to mention his theory about the similarities between three eyes and three faces. “I don’t have to believe in her to acknowledge the impact belief has on a people,” he says.
“Yeah, well. Most days it felt like she wasn’t having much of an impact at all.”
“So you no longer have faith in her?”
Aventurine goes quiet for a while.
“Her luck hasn’t run dry yet,” he says finally, after long enough that Sunday wonders if the conversation has ended. “The day it does, I’ll see how I feel about it.”
Sunday knows not to push any further. Faith can be a difficult topic among those who have ever had the luxury of faltering in it. As Ena’s steward, faith has been as much a part of life as the air he breathes. The nourishment he takes from it is nearly equal to food.
But then, he is no longer Ena’s steward, is he.
Aventurine pulls the car up at a tall building, dotted with windows and terraces, elegant curved cornices accenting every feature’s edge. Warm light spills through a pair of glass doors, recessed to the back of a stone courtyard. The courtyard itself is lined with trees and bushes, carefully trimmed and never reaching higher than the first floor. Verdant green against white stone, but not to the point of inconvenience.
An incline leads to a parking garage on a lower level. The door opens with no apparent external input. The inside is plain concrete, but clean and well-kept in a way that suggests the funds for frequent maintenance. Aventurine parks the car at a spot near a door in the back. A small plaque on the wall indicates that it is the spot for 701.
It’s all still so everyday. There aren’t even any parking attendants that Sunday can see.
Aventurine parks the car, and the doors unlock with a click. He unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs his phone, exiting the vehicle; Sunday follows suit.
“I expected a parking service,” Sunday says into the chilly silent air of the garage. “The wealthy generally prefer to do as little labor themselves as possible.”
“Feels weird to use servants,” Aventurine says. “Or people like servants. I can take care of myself, anyway.”
An attitude born of environment, Sunday assumes. He himself remembers little of life before the Family. It was not precisely extravagance that he grew up in, but it was always clear that Gopher Wood was of higher status than anyone else, and many things reflected that. Aventurine, by contrast…well.
They walk across the pristine concrete and to the exit at the back. The door is gleaming metal, with the small metal box of a bioscanner at approximate eye height. Aventurine leans towards it, pulling down his sunglasses. A brief laser display emits and runs up and down his eyes. Satisfied, the lasers stop and the door clicks.
Aventurine pulls his sunglasses back up. He opens the door, and they enter the room beyond.
A simple elevator room, but even then, the carpet is a rich red and the walls pale marble, the elevator doors and frames golden and etched with intricate patterns. A plaque informs him of trash collection dates.
Aventurine presses a button on a golden plate and one of the doors opens immediately. They step inside. Roomy, elegant. Accented, somewhat absurdly, by a paper notice taped above the buttons, reminding residents of the schedule for HOA meetings. Sunday imagines such meetings attended solely by the wealthy would be insufferable affairs. He cannot imagine Aventurine attending at all.
A light jingle plays on the journey upwards. It is perfectly in-key, and wholly unobjectionable, but so far from the beauteous choirs of communion that it scarcely feels like the same artform.
The elevator arrives at a small hallway with the same red carpet and the same marble walls, but only one doorway. The top floor; it must be a penthouse. Finally, an extravagance. Sunday was starting to wonder if Aventurine cared for them at all.
The door itself is smooth, rich mahogany, with another bioscanner, which Aventurine passes just as easily. It opens, and Aventurine’s living quarters reveal themselves.
Cream carpet, cream walls, golden trim. No paintings on the walls, which makes for a somewhat bare appearance. A marble fireplace off in a corner, stacked with open boxes that indicate disuse. A standard assortment of furniture, mostly in black, some in leather. An entrance to a kitchen shows a bare glimpse of appliances, and a hallway with a few half-open doors implies further rooms.
“Home sweet home,” Aventurine says, closing the door behind them. “Apologies for the mess.”
There are, indeed, scattered documents on many of the surfaces. Enough mess that the itch to clean it up is present, but not so much as to be distracting.
“I didn’t expect much in the way of neatness at your home anyway,” Sunday replies.
Aventurine gives him a sidelong glance. “I feel like that’s a judgment.”
“It is what it is.”
Aventurine cocks his head. “Yeah, I bet your place was spotless. Probably made sure the maids knew exactly where everything was supposed to go, huh?”
“A clean living environment begets a clean mind,” Sunday says evenly. Gopher Wood was very sure to stress this. In very early days, a young Sunday sometimes left toys out. It was made very clear to him that this was behavior unfitting of an adherent to the Harmony, much less the heir to a grand purpose, and he never did it again.
“There’s nothing clean about me or my life, and you should know that by now,” Aventurine says. There’s a slight bitterness to his tone.
Sunday pauses. “I did not mean to offend,” he says, though he did, a little. “A houseguest should be courteous. My apologies.”
“Whatever,” Aventurine says. He removes his coat and hangs it on a coat rack, then takes off his shoes and tosses them in the vicinity of a shoe rack. Sunday resists the temptation to place them in the correct spot as he does so for his own. The suit jacket, he keeps on.
Aventurine walks further into the room. “Take a seat wherever, I’ll go get the deck,” he says, and heads down the hallway.
Sunday observes the available choices and settles for an armchair by the coffee table. It’s rather spacious, and the leather surface is smooth under his hands, the cushioning comfortable. He sits upright and waits for his erstwhile host to return.
It doesn’t take long. Aventurine comes back with a deck of cards in hand, and plops down on a nearby couch. With one hand he sets the deck on the table, and with the other he removes his sunglasses, placing them on the table as well, further down. He undoes his tie, tossing it to the other side of the couch, and rolls up his sleeves, exposing pale forearms.
He looks back up at Sunday. Without the tinted shield, his eyes really are striking. Sunday thought as much when they first met, and it’s still true. He wonders if the colors are typical to the Avgin, or if it is another aspect of the alleged blessing.
“I’m guessing you don’t know the rules,” Aventurine says. “The heir to the house of Gopher Wood probably wasn’t allowed to go gambling.”
“I’ve been to the casinos of the Golden Hour,” Sunday replies. Not as a patron, of course; merely an occasional perfunctory check to ascertain the continued functionality of the facilities.
Aventurine raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? And what’d you think of those?”
“Perfectly suited to the desires of the guests,” Sunday says. “I did not partake myself, but gambling is enjoyed by many, especially as some planets forbid it. I see no harm in it.”
“Even when it lets someone throw away all their savings and get kicked out of the hotel because they can’t pay their bill anymore?”
“Guests are only allowed to purchase so many Aideen tokens in a given day, and the prizes are not monetary in nature. Such cases are rare.”
“But not impossible.”
Sunday weighs his response. Honesty may be better here. “Guests do sometimes take actions that do not benefit them,” he says. “In Ena’s dream, such things would not occur. Every gamble would pay off, and money would not be a concern anyway.”
Aventurine’s eyes narrow. “For the small price of not being allowed to leave, of course.”
“They would not wish to,” Sunday says calmly. “Ena’s dream is paradise. Leaving would be unthinkable to anyone who has tasted it.”
Aventurine’s smile is even sharper now, and unpleasantly so. “If that was true, the Express wouldn’t have torn it open to get out.”
Sunday is certain they would not have if it weren’t for the interference of that Memokeeper. The souls of the Astral Express have experienced their share of troubles; they would have welcomed paradise, if given the chance.
But they were not given the chance. And the Order lies dead once more.
“You asked a question, and I answered it. I’m not sure what else you expected me to say.”
“Yeah, expecting you to answer like a normal person was a fool’s errand,” Aventurine says. He turns his gaze back to the cards on the table. “Unfortunately, questions were what I had planned, so I’m a fool anyway.”
Sunday tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
Aventurine gestures towards the cards. “No point playing for money, and I don’t think either of us has anything the other wants,” he says. “So the ante is questions. Whoever wins a round gets to ask one, and whoever loses has to answer.”
“It seems as if rather a lot of questions have been asked and answered already tonight,” Sunday points out.
“Questions the loser doesn’t want to answer,” Aventurine says. “If the loser refuses, the game ends.”
Ah, here lies the expected punishment. Sunday will surely lose more rounds than he wins, if he wins at all. Very well. Sunday has little to hide at this point.
“I accept the terms,” Sunday says.
Aventurine blinks. “Color me surprised,” he says. “I thought you’d get huffy about it.”
Sunday spreads out his hands. “My secrets have little value now,” he says. “I assume yours have some, but I also assume I will not be winning a single round of this game, so that does not matter.”
“You might win some,” Aventurine says. “If my luck was infallible, my life would be very, very different.”
Sunday supposes that’s true. The alleged blessing must have its limits, and some of those limits must be cruel.
“In any case, I would appreciate a refresher on the rules,” Sunday says. “While I visited the casinos, I was more interested in the upkeep than the games themselves.”
“Blackjack’s an easy one,” Aventurine says. He picks up the deck, and starts to shuffle it, cards rearranging themselves in a practiced motion. He puts the deck back down. “I draw a card first and put it on the table, then you, then we repeat, each of us counting up the total numbers on our respective cards. Jacks, queens, and kings are worth 10. If you draw an ace, you can choose between 1 or 11. If the total of the numbers on someone’s cards goes over 21, they lose. If it reaches 21 exactly, they win. If someone stops before they get to 21, the other person keeps drawing until they win or lose.”
Sunday parses the rules in his head. It will likely be easier once they start playing. “Shall we do a practice round first?” he says.
“Sure.” Aventurine draws his first card, laying it face-up on the table. A 3 of clubs.
Sunday draws his. A king of spades. 10, then.
Aventurine draws a 5 of hearts; Sunday draws a 2 of clubs; Aventurine draws a 2 of hearts; Sunday draws a 7 of spades; Aventurine draws an ace.
“And that’s 11,” Aventurine says. “Making 21. I win.”
Sunday is not surprised. But he thinks he understands the game a little better now.
“Then let’s begin the game proper,” Sunday says.
He is not surprised when he loses the next round, either.
This time, no aces are involved; Aventurine is at 16 and Sunday is at 15 when Sunday draws a queen. 25 total. ‘Bust’, Aventurine informs him, is the term.
Aventurine sits back on the couch. “All right,” he says. “The people in your paradise wouldn’t have even known they were in a dream. Would that include your sister?”
Ah. Perhaps some secrets are harder-kept after all.
But it would be cowardly to end the game so early. “Yes,” Sunday says. “Her happiness, more than anyone’s, is paramount to me. She, too, would have lived without suffering.”
“And lived without knowing that you were the one who forced her into it.”
“Yes,” Sunday replies again. “Robin possesses a streak of independence. As with everyone, it would be better for her not to know.”
“Oh, that’s cold,” Aventurine says, shaking his head. “Not even your sister gets to have free will. The two of you must have a great relationship.”
Sunday’s hand clenches on his slacks. “I would not expect you to understand.”
Aventurine gives an oddly bitter laugh. “You know what, I could use another drink,” he says, and stands up off the couch. “You want anything? I’ve got beer, whiskey, probably a bottle of wine somewhere.”
If the rest of the questions are going to be like that, perhaps a degree of inebriation would not go amiss. “Wine, then.”
“Yeah, I figured. Back in a minute.” Aventurine leaves for the door that seems to lead to the kitchen.
Sunday is left alone. In the absence of anything else to do, he examines the cards. An older deck, worn around the edges, cardstock gone a little soft. Often used, then. Sunday wonders if Aventurine often invites people back here for a card game. The idea is oddly displeasing.
Aventurine returns eventually, carrying a glass of red wine and a bottle with a label Sunday recognizes as a beer company. He hands Sunday the glass and sits back down.
Sunday looks down at his glass. No similarity to SoulGlad at all, this time. He raises it to his lips and takes a sip of it. A slightly bitter taste, with none of the floral or fruity accents wine is proclaimed to have. Perhaps that will change as he drinks more. He doubts it, though.
Aventurine takes a swig of his own drink. “All right, next round,” he says.
To Sunday’s continued lack of surprise, Aventurine wins this one too.
After a few cards, Sunday’s total reaches 19; he chooses to ‘stand’, finishing his turn, and Aventurine, drawing more, goes from 13 to 20. Of course.
Aventurine leans back on the couch, striking eyes watching Sunday with an appraising manner. “How did it feel when your parents died?” he asks.
Sunday takes another sip of wine. It remains bitter.
“Surely you don’t expect the answer to be anything positive,” he says.
“I guess I just want to know how badly it affected you.”
“I was quite young,” Sunday says. “I don’t remember much of it. I do remember not understanding what had happened, and then when I did understand I was distraught. But I believe what it affected most strongly was my desire to protect Robin.”
So young, they’d been, and Robin even younger. And they had no one else. Until they did, of course. But even then, sometimes, and even now, it still felt as if they had no one else.
“To smother her, you mean.”
“The Order’s revelation came later,” Sunday says. “At the time, I was simply a child who did not want his sister to die.”
Aventurine watches him for a moment in silence. Sunday wonders what sits behind those eyes.
“Next round,” Aventurine says.
And this one, Sunday wins.
Sunday is at 14 and Aventurine 16 when Aventurine draws a king. 26. Bust.
“Well, what do you know,” Aventurine says, and takes another drink. “Ask away.”
Sunday has to take a moment. He honestly hadn’t expected to need any, and so he has no questions prepared.
Then one comes to him. “You’ve been asking questions about family,” he says. “Did you have any family of your own?”
Aventurine takes yet another drink.
“For a little while,” he says. “Dad died before I was born. Then mom died. I had a sister, but she died too, of course.”
“My apologies,” Sunday says.
“That’s nice of you to say, but I know you don’t mean it.”
“I do, as a matter of fact,” Sunday says. “Does it not occur to you that I might sympathize on the matter?”
Aventurine gives him another long look.
“I guess you’d know the feeling,” Aventurine says eventually. “Your sister’s still alive, though.”
“And for many years I feared she too would die,” Sunday replies. “The promises of the Order became much more compelling, when I realized they meant she would not.”
It grates on him that he does not know where she is now. She is not incapable of taking care of herself, but the universe is a dangerous place, and she may no longer have even the Family’s protection.
And more than that, he misses her dearly.
Aventurine sighs, and reaches out his bottle. “A toast to the Dead Parents Club,” he says.
Sunday blinks, but reaches out his own glass as well. Glass clinks together. They drink in unison, Aventurine more than Sunday.
“Enough about sisters,” Aventurine says. “Next round.”
Aventurine wins again, of course. Quite handily, too; he draws a 10 and then an ace, reaching 21 in just two cards.
“Did you ever wonder if you were doing the right thing?” Aventurine asks. “Even a little bit?”
Sunday considers his answer. “In some ways, yes,” he says. “Chiefly when I was younger. I wondered if everyone truly deserved paradise, if there were not some whose desires should not be fulfilled, or who had committed sins severe enough that they were not worthy of an eternal reward. Of course I realized over the years that none of these desires and sins would have occurred if the individuals had had paradise to begin with, and so I could not deny it to them now.”
“I more meant if you ever wondered if imprisoning the universe was a good idea,” Aventurine says, looking unimpressed.
Sunday shakes his head. “Not substantially.”
Aventurine takes another drink. His bottle is nearly empty.
“I guess I should’ve expected that,” he says.
“The Order’s teachings are clear,” Sunday says. “Much clearer than the rest of the universe, chaotic as it is. Under the guidance of Ena, chaos becomes order, strife becomes peace, suffering becomes bliss. I knew suffering, both firsthand and from witnessing the pain of others, and THEIR scripture promised an end to all of that. Of course I could not doubt, for to doubt was to say that suffering was necessary. That would be a far crueler belief.”
“You don’t have to believe suffering is necessary to believe people should make their own decisions.”
“Even if those decisions only lead to harm?”
Aventurine looks him in the eye.
“I’d take harm over being a doll someone puts in a pretty house,” he says.
Sunday sighs. “A poor way of putting it.”
“Well, the first way I was gonna put it was pet, so I think this one’s nicer.”
Sunday does not feel anger at Aventurine. The man’s words have a touch of venom, but they stem from a life of bitter lessons; either he believes that he does not deserve paradise, or that it could never come without drawbacks. Sunday would happily show him otherwise, if he were able. But he is not.
In the here and now, Aventurine sits in a luxurious apartment he likely did not choose himself, coat off and splendor dimmed. Alcohol has loosened his posture and his lips. He looks less a peacock and more a man, and thus, Sunday notes absently, a rather beautiful one.
“You can put it however you wish,” Sunday says mildly. “The reality of it remains.”
“I don’t know why I thought you might’ve changed a little,” Aventurine says. “Fanaticism doesn’t go away easy.”
Sunday tilts his head. “Did you want me to have changed any?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I thought it’d be easier to work with you if you were normal. I mean, it’s not like anyone at the IPC is normal, but at least our takeovers don’t involve mind control.”
“I did say I am no longer capable of that.”
“But if you were, you’d use it?”
It seems a tricky conversation. If he answers honestly, Aventurine will likely take it poorly. If he lies, Aventurine will likely be able to tell.
Honesty, then. He didn’t come here with the intention to lie. “Yes,” Sunday says. “As I am now an employee of the IPC, if I still had the Harmony’s blessing and was ordered to use it in the course of my work, I would do so. I wouldn’t use it for personal reasons, however.”
Aventurine huffs out a breath. “Yeah, okay, I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“You truly disdain your employers,” Sunday observes. “I’d taken you for a company man. It’s unexpected.”
“Don’t get me wrong, the alternative would’ve been worse,” Aventurine says. “And the benefits aren’t bad.” He gestures to the apartment around them. “Nice living conditions, plenty of discretionary funds. Power, authority, resources. All I had to do was sell myself to get it.” He tilts up his bottle and drains the rest of it, placing it down on the table when it’s empty. “And now I get the luxury of driving whole planets into bankruptcy or forcing people to sign their species away for a chance at tech or just sitting by and watching while my coworkers decide that a planet’s population is an inconvenient setback they should just get rid of. And they can have me killed for basically any reason at any time. It’s a great work environment.”
“And yet you prefer this to paradise,” Sunday says softly.
Aventurine looks down at the carpet.
“I’m drunk enough to admit that it wouldn’t be paradise if it wasn’t tempting,” he says.
He picks up the deck. “Next round,” he says.
Oddly, Sunday wins again.
Aventurine stands at 20 while Sunday is still at 17. Since the odds of victory seem very low anyway, Sunday takes another card, and draws a 4. 21.
He takes a sip of wine. The taste has not changed. Between the wine and the champagne, he’s consumed perhaps a cup of alcohol total. Enough to feel a little warm and a little mellow.
“You were still on Penacony when Ena’s dream came forth,” he says. “What was paradise like for you?”
“I need another beer before I answer that one,” Aventurine says heavily.
“You already drank at the party,” Sunday points out. “How inebriated do you intend to get this evening?”
Aventurine rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, maybe it’s not a good idea to get drunk around you.”
Sunday frowns. “What do you think I would do?”
“It’s not about what you would do,” Aventurine says. “Just, bad decisions, that’s all. Okay. No more beer.” He exhales. “Paradise, huh.
“My family was alive, obviously. The IPC’s promises actually came through, and the Katicans stopped attacking and we even got some terraforming out of it. More rain. More farmland. The good doctor was visiting Sigonia for a study into local plantlife, and we hit it off, and he asked if I’d ever thought about studying offplanet. Then I woke up. That’s it.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Sunday says, and he means it. Everyone should have a family, and a safe home, and good opportunities. An ordinary life can still be a meaningful one.
“When I woke up I wanted to die all over again,” Aventurine says flatly.
An extreme reaction. Sunday had expected anger--by now he knows Aventurine’s thoughts on paradise--but even if sorrow was a possibility, he would have thought something milder. Clearly Aventurine does nothing by halves.
“My family’s dead,” Aventurine says. “Living a dream with fake versions of them--little constructions of memoria without wills or even souls of their own--spits on their grave. How could I live with myself, knowing that I’d been happy there? My family died to keep me alive, and there I was, undoing that because I was sad. Gaiathra herself would never forgive me for that.”
Sunday feels…unsettled. It’s not a perspective he’d thought of before.
“…if it helps, it was not truly you doing that,” Sunday says slowly. “The Order based paradise on people’s thoughts, but people’s thoughts are not their actions. Just as wishing violence on another but not enacting it is not a crime, neither is wishing for a happiness you find shameful but not creating it yourself.”
Aventurine’s gaze is unreadable.
“Huh,” he says. “Not the kind of thing I would’ve expected you to say.”
“In my days of confessional, many came to me begging forgiveness for their thoughts,” Sunday says. “I always told them that recognizing their desire for sin and seeking to stop that desire instead of acting it out is a moral act, not a sin itself.”
Aventurine leans forward a little, props up his elbow on his knee and rests his hand on his chin. “I didn’t just wish for it, though, I enjoyed it while it was happening.”
“If a starving man is presented with a banquet, is it wrong for him to eat?”
“Aren’t you just full of surprises, Mr. Sunday.” Those striking eyes seem to be evaluating him. What exactly they see, he doesn’t know.
“I could say the same to you.”
“Oh yeah? What about me is so surprising?”
Sunday examines his words before choosing them. “Your willingness to speak to me about your past, for one,” he says. “The ante could have been anything, and yet you chose this. ‘Questions the loser doesn’t want to answer’, you said. Of course you were unlikely to lose, yet the possibility remained, and you have so far lost twice. So despite not wanting to speak of such things, you are nevertheless willing to. To me.”
Aventurine shrugs one shoulder. “You already know the broad strokes anyway,” he says. “It’s not like knowing I had a sister gives you any power over me. In fact, you have no power over me. I outrank you, I have seniority, and while we’re both Jade’s pet projects, I’ve got a proven track record making me valuable, and you don’t yet. A few words from me and I could have you thrown back in prison.”
“You haven’t, though,” Sunday says.
“Give me a reason and I will.”
“But you haven’t,” Sunday says. “Which is another surprise.”
Aventurine straightens up, rests an arm along the top of the couch. “You’ve been well-behaved so far,” he says. “Granted, it’s only been a few days.”
“I’m sure if you’d truly objected, Lady Jade would never have made the offer to me in the first place,” Sunday says.
“Lady Jade does what she wants.”
“You’re being very defensive about this,” Sunday observes. “Is it so onerous for you to say that you do not completely despise me?”
“It’d be real strange of me not to, given everything you’ve done.”
“But you don’t.”
Aventurine goes silent, then says, “Yeah, well, nobody ever accused me of having good judgment.”
He sits up and picks up the deck.
“Next round,” he says.
Sunday’s 6 becomes a 12 becomes a 17 becomes a 24. Aventurine wins.
It takes a while for Aventurine to ask his question, though. He leans his head back on the couch, stares up at the ceiling, rubs his eyes again. Then he sits back up and looks Sunday in the eye.
“Are you attracted to me?” he asks.
Sunday is…not at all sure how to answer that.
Aventurine fills the silence. “You said you didn’t enjoy it, but back on Penacony you sure seemed to be getting something out of messing with me,” he says. “And now you’re in my apartment, drinking with me, because I invited you on a whim to do something you really didn’t have any reason to do. And you keep looking at me. So.”
“If you’re asking if I came here with the intention to sleep with you, I did not,” Sunday says slowly.
“Not intending to, sure. But if I offered, would you take me up on it?”
“I can’t imagine why you would offer,” Sunday says. The idea had not occurred to him at all.
Aventurine exhales. “Maybe I just want to not have another coworker I can’t stand,” he says. “Maybe I just don’t want to be thinking about my job right now and you’re a convenient distraction. Fuck, maybe I’m just lonely and a little drunk. It doesn’t really matter.”
Sunday has gone with honesty the whole evening; there’s no reason to abandon it now.
“You are very attractive,” he says. “But casual sex isn’t something I think about often.”
“Right, I bet your good Aeonic upbringing didn’t allow for hanging out with the wrong crowd. But you’re not there now. You’re an adult, you can do what you want.” Aventurine tilts his head. The pale column of his throat is visible. “No need to worry about lowering yourself, you’re pretty low now anyway. No one even has to know about it, if you want to keep up whatever’s left of your reputation.”
Sunday allows himself, for a moment, to think about it.
Aventurine is beautiful, of course, and seems to be genuinely offering, though the exact motivations remain unclear. Certainly the man has a peculiar charm to him. The evening hasn’t been as unpleasant as Sunday was expecting. The mellowing effect of alcohol helps, of course, but Aventurine himself is not intolerable company.
It’s not as if sexuality is unknown to him. In his teenage years, Gopher Wood arranged a meeting with a nice young woman from the Iris family, and then after some communication arranged a meeting with a nice young man from the Iris family, and the implication was that if a future engagement was agreed upon, certain activities would not be strictly forbidden. But the engagement was not agreed upon, and Gopher Wood seemed to abandon the idea after that.
Casual dalliances were not encouraged. A distraction from his responsibilities, and moreover, anyone who was not vetted by Gopher Wood could be hiding any variety of negative qualities. But Sunday is as human as any other, with the same body as any other, and occasional dreams or an eye wandering towards a man on the street did occur.
And he did, a little, enjoy watching Aventurine struggle under his power.
What would it be like to repeat that in a different context.
“I suppose,” Sunday says, slowly, “the idea sounds acceptable.”
“Acceptable, that’s a new one. Usually people are either all over me or think I’m disgusting.”
Disgusting is a word Sunday would hardly apply to the man in front of him. Outside paradise, injustice is frequent, and it is not necessarily a sin to put up with it to survive, if he’s reading the subtext correctly. In a better world, none of that would weigh Aventurine down. But there is no other world anymore.
Aventurine stands up off the couch. Looks at Sunday, a bit of calculation in his gaze.
“All right, might as well,” he says, and walks to Sunday’s chair, and maneuvers himself into straddling Sunday’s lap.
A body so close is foreign. Aventurine’s thighs are a warm weight on his, and Aventurine’s face is bare inches away. Sunday finds his breath catching in his throat.
Aventurine takes the wineglass from his hand and twists around to put it on the table, then leans in. Ena, those eyes. This close they’re nearly hypnotic.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Mr. Sunday,” Aventurine murmurs. “Whatever will people think.”
He takes hold of Sunday’s head and closes the distance with a kiss.
A new sensation. Aventurine’s lips are soft, warm, a brush against his. Sunday rests his hands on Aventurine’s hips and closes his eyes. Tension tingles under his skin. The tip of Aventurine’s tongue presses at the seam of his lips; he opens his mouth, and the rest of Aventurine’s tongue slips inside. An even newer sensation, wet and strange and yet not unpleasant. He licks at Aventurine’s mouth, a little cautiously at first, then less so, to chase that sensation further.
Aventurine rolls his hips against his, grinding their groins together. Sunday feels his cock stir. He tightens his grip. With every second he can feel inhibitions slipping away, restrictions losing importance when faced with a warm body against his and a warm mouth to explore.
Aventurine’s hands slip off his head, trail down to his collarbone and to the knot of his tie, deft fingers starting to undo it. Sunday glides his tongue around Aventurine’s, brushes the roof of Aventurine’s mouth. A few moments and the tie is discarded to the floor. A few moments more and his jacket’s buttons are undone, and Aventurine starts in on his shirt. The first several go, but the position makes it difficult to reach any more.
Sunday slides his hands up to encircle Aventurine’s slender waist. The desire to touch bare skin surges, and he reaches for Aventurine’s belt, unbuckling it--a little clumsily at this angle--and pulling it loose, discarding it to the side. He pulls up Aventurine’s dress shirt and slides his hands up underneath it, Aventurine’s waist now available to touch and even more inviting.
The skin is warm, perhaps searing, under his fingers. He slips his hands further up to Aventurine’s ribcage, though the buttoned shirt makes it difficult to go any higher.
Obligingly, Aventurine turns to his own buttons, undoing them with remarkable efficiency. He slips off his shirt and tosses it aside, leaving his entire torso bare. Sunday itches to explore it in its entirety. His hands run across the planes of Aventurine’s back, flat and soft over solid bones, and his chest; little muscle, a wiry frame perhaps bespeaking an early life of limited nutrition.
The slightness is pleasing. Sunday thinks an excess of musculature would hold less appeal. And besides, the idea of being able to physically overpower Aventurine has a certain something.
Aventurine pulls back from the kiss and murmurs against his mouth, “Not going to let me enjoy the view too?” His hands toy at the collar of Sunday’s shirt.
Sunday considers, briefly, telling Aventurine no. But that might come across poorly. He manages to shrug off his jacket, and then his shirt, undoing the last remaining buttons himself. And now the two of them are bare from the waist up, Aventurine’s warm skin close to his. Sunday’s erection has started to ache, straining against his pants and what he can feel as Aventurine’s own. The room’s air feels heated. He’s not sure he could look away from Aventurine if he tried.
“The chair’s nice and all, but it’s getting kind of cramped,” Aventurine says. “What say we take this to the bedroom, huh?”
Sunday nods. Aventurine slips off him--Sunday nearly grabs his wrist to prevent him from leaving--and Sunday manages to stand up himself, following Aventurine down the hall and into one of the open rooms. Aventurine’s bedroom is not spacious, but the bed is large and decked with many pillows, an oddly endearing sight. Aventurine pulls open the pale yellow blanket to reveal white sheets, then pauses, stepping back to loosely wrap his arms around Sunday’s waist.
“Let’s get the rest of this off first,” he says.
Clever fingers swiftly undo his belt, and Sunday undresses the rest of himself while Aventurine does the same. They stand bare next to each other, scarcely a couple feet apart. Sunday has seen nudity rarely, much less so close to him. Aventurine’s legs are as slender as the rest of him, pale skin that Sunday itches to touch, and his erection juts out from a patch of pale hair. Another new sight, and a fascinating one at that.
Sunday’s own frame is not especially muscular either, though in a healthier way, and a touch larger. He wonders what Aventurine thinks of it. It seems uncouth to ask.
Aventurine’s hand trails down his arm. “Come to join us sinners in the pleasures of the flesh,” he says lightly. “What are the Order’s thoughts on the matter, anyway?”
“THEY hardly forbid intercourse,” Sunday says with a slight frown. “Even for recreation. Leadership requires moderation, however, and worldly matters are a distraction from the greater work.”
“Yeah, that tracks,” Aventurine says. He’s taken hold of Sunday’s hand, and is idly tracing meaningless patterns on the palm. “I figured either you were a virgin or you had a sex dungeon.”
“And why would you think that,” Sunday says, his expression unimpressed.
“You’ve got a thing about control. Anyway.”
Aventurine pulls him by the wrist towards the bed, and lets go, slipping onto the mattress. Sunday follows him, kneeling on the bed. He’s not entirely certain what to do next.
Aventurine, lying back with his head on a pillow, beckons him over with one hand. “So how much do I need to teach you,” he says.
Sunday has a vague awareness of positions. “How should I start,” he says.
“You’ve figured out kissing, at least, so that’s step one. What do you want to do?”
Sunday looks at the form spread out before him, beautiful and waiting. He leans forward, situates himself between Aventurine’s legs. Leans down to kiss Aventurine again. Lowers one hand and grasps Aventurine’s cock.
A slight shudder underneath him. The skin is soft, almost silky, firm flesh underneath. Sunday wants to touch Aventurine all over, but here especially, the source of pleasure so restricted before. It is a pleasant thing to hold, to caress. Sunday runs his fingers around it, enjoying the feel and the slight unsteadiness of Aventurine’s breath.
“Points for initiative, but it’s better to lick your palm first,” Aventurine says, a little hoarsely. “Like this.” He laves his tongue across his own palm, and sits up, and wraps his hand around Sunday’s cock in turn. Sunday exhales as Aventurine’s hand slowly moves up and down. Yes, the wetness makes for an enjoyable friction, and the grip besides. He withdraws his hand and follows Aventurine’s suit.
Aventurine pulls back and falls back down onto the mattress. “You never jacked off, either?” he says, sounding faintly impressed.
“I didn’t often feel the need to.”
“But you sometimes felt that?”
“It’s important to practice self-discipline,” Sunday says, and, experimentally, circles his thumb around the head of Aventurine’s cock. The slight arching of Aventurine’s hips proves it successful.
“There’s a whole rabbit hole with you, isn’t there.”
“You say that as if there isn’t one with you.”
Aventurine seems to ignore that statement, instead saying, “Well, you’re here now, so that self-discipline didn’t amount to much in the end.”
Mouthy. Sunday leans down and nips Aventurine’s ear.
Aventurine jolts. “Okay, learning fast, huh?”
Just a bit of warm flesh, soft between his teeth. He hadn’t bit very hard; as he pulls back, he can see the bitemark already slowly fading. A shame. He likes the idea of marking Aventurine.
“Do you always talk this much?” Sunday breathes.
“When the person I’m with has no idea what they’re doing, sure.”
He’d prefer Aventurine incoherent, perhaps begging. But the man has a point.
He tightens his grip on Aventurine’s cock as he moves his hand. Aventurine shudders, just a little.
“All right, you’ve figured that out,” Aventurine says. “We can keep going, or do you want to try something else?”
Enjoyable as this is, it’s not very intense. “What do you recommend?”
“Lie back for a bit,” Aventurine says. Sunday withdraws and turns onto the other side of the bed, lying on his back and looking over at Aventurine. Aventurine sits up and moves to crouch between his legs.
“Slightly advanced class,” Aventurine says, and lowers his head to take Sunday’s cock into his mouth.
Sunday’s breath hitches. The wet warmth is nearly overwhelming, Aventurine’s tongue sliding across sensitive skin as he takes even more of it into his mouth. The sight, too, is obscene, Aventurine prostrated before him like a subject lowering themselves before their lord. He moves his hands to Aventurine’s head, fingers tangling in blond hair. Aventurine hums, and the sensation reverberates through him, and his fingers in Aventurine’s hair tighten.
Aventurine bobs his head back and forth, sweet friction making heat coil in Sunday’s gut. He can’t decide if he wants more to pull Aventurine’s hair or to pet it. He feels--enraptured, perhaps, is the word, watching Aventurine attend to him so beautifully. Never was there a sight more wondrous.
With every caress of Aventurine’s tongue, a space behind his groin tightens; yet Aventurine withdraws, sitting back on his legs, and release is not achieved. It feels like cruelty, but it likely isn’t. Aventurine has not seemed so inclined.
Aventurine wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “You get the picture,” he says. His lips are slightly red, his face flushed. “Wanna try?”
It takes Sunday a moment to parse the words; but yes, he does, now that the notion’s been brought up. Feeling Aventurine come undone at his ministrations would be nearly as sweet.
But first. He pushes himself up, and forward, facing Aventurine, and cups Aventurine’s face in his hand, and kisses him. A moment’s surprise; but Aventurine makes a soft sound, perhaps a happy one, and kisses back. A strange taste in his mouth, slightly bitter, slightly salty, which Sunday supposes must be the taste of himself. Odd, but somehow enjoyable, to share that taste in Aventurine’s mouth.
He withdraws a bit. Aventurine’s captivating eyes are so very close.
“You’re being awfully sentimental,” Aventurine murmurs.
“Is that unusual?”
“Just unexpected. At least that you’d be that way towards me.”
Sunday frowns, and reaches out to toy with a lock of Aventurine’s hair. Soft, silky, a little sweaty. “Do you believe you don’t deserve it?”
Aventurine barks out a laugh. “That’s a whole different thing,” he says. “No, I just figured you didn’t like me all that much. You’re probably only doing this in the first place to see what it’s like, after all.”
Sunday combs his fingers through Aventurine’s hair. “I don’t hate you,” he says. “I thought I might, but I don’t. You are an interesting person. I suppose I’d like to get to know you better.”
Aventurine’s eyes are just slightly half-lidded, his head just slightly tilted into Sunday’s hand. “Hell of a way to get to know someone.”
“You were the one who offered.”
“I suppose I was.”
Sunday kisses him again, just briefly.
“Okay, enough sappy, let’s get this show on the road,” Aventurine says, and shifts around Sunday, lies down on his back again. “Show me what you’ve got, Mr. Sunday.”
Sunday situates himself between Aventurine’s legs, bows his head down, takes hold of Aventurine’s cock in one hand. Licks at the tip, first. Still silky and firm, with a slight bead of come at the slit, a similar taste. He runs his tongue around the head of it, and Aventurine lets out a breathy sigh, places his hands on Sunday’s head.
Sunday doesn’t think he can take as much of it into his mouth as Aventurine did, but he does try, slowly. Aventurine seems to appreciate it, more little breathy sounds. The weight feels heavy on Sunday’s tongue. Eventually he reaches a point where it grows uncomfortable, and he withdraws just slightly. That will have to do.
He copies Aventurine’s movements, and Aventurine’s hands on his head tighten. Avoiding his teeth is difficult, but not impossible, and it gets easier the more he does it. A rhythm emerges, taste and weight and texture and movement and the sounds Aventurine makes, more beautiful than any choir. It makes Sunday’s own cock ache harder, even devoid of direct stimulus.
Aventurine didn’t tell him to stop, so he continues. A slight ache is forming in his jaw. It’s tolerable. Eventually, Aventurine says in an uneven voice, “If you want to pull back, now’s the time,” and Sunday doesn’t want to pull back, so he doesn’t. A keening moan and tightening fingers in his hair and a splatter in his mouth. The bitter taste is stronger now that there’s more of it. He swallows it down anyway.
Aventurine’s cock grows softer in his mouth. He does pull back now, licking the last drops off the tip, and raises his head to look at Aventurine.
His breath catches in his throat. Oh, there’s a sight, Aventurine flushed and panting, because of him. He sits up, and leans over and braces his arms on the mattress, looking down at Aventurine.
“You really are a fast learner,” Aventurine says, a crooked little smile on his face.
“I was ever an attentive student,” Sunday murmurs, and leans down to kiss him again.
Aventurine’s hand circles around his shoulders and lands on the back of his neck, gently pushing him down further, and Sunday obliges, covering Aventurine’s torso with his own and bracing his arms on the pillow. Aventurine’s arms wrap around his back, holding him down.
His cock presses against Aventurine’s thigh. The ache has grown, and the stimulus makes his breath hitch in Aventurine’s mouth. Still, it feels less important than continuing to kiss Aventurine.
Aventurine turns his head to the side. He starts to say something, but Sunday kisses his neck instead. A little breathy sound turns into a laugh. “Okay, not that this isn’t nice, but you seem a little neglected.”
“I don’t feel neglected.”
“Aren’t you a saint. Do you want to fuck me or not?”
Sunday does not need to consider that. “Yes,” he says simply, and kisses Aventurine’s neck again.
“You’ll have to stop kissing me to do that.”
Annoying. But factual. Sunday pulls back and sits up. The view is still beautiful.
He is, he thinks, a little overly fascinated with Aventurine. But the experience has been its own form of holy, its own form of worship. He understands why Gopher Wood discouraged this sort of thing; nothing has ever been so distracting as this body, this man, temptation made flesh. He could drown in this, if he were not careful.
What reason does he have to be careful?
Aventurine sits up himself, leaning to the nightstand and pulling open a drawer, removing from it a small jar. Sunday sees the edges of foil packets, but Aventurine doesn’t take any.
Aventurine hands him the jar and lies back down again, head resting on one of the many pillows. “Put some of that on your fingers,” he says.
Sunday understands the concept. He twists open the lid of the jar and discards it on the nightstand, and dips his fingers in the oil inside, sliding them together to coat more evenly. The jar goes back on the nightstand as well. Aventurine’s knees are up a bit, canting his hips towards Sunday, granting easier access between his thighs.
Sunday places one hand on the inside of Aventurine’s knee, gaining a grip, and the other moves down.
It should be unsanitary, he thinks, slipping the tip of one oiled finger into Aventurine’s hole. But that doesn’t seem to matter now. The inviting heat and the low sigh slipping from Aventurine’s mouth are far greater concerns. He pushes his finger in further.
“Curl your finger,” Aventurine says. “Ahh--yeah, that. Keep doing that.”
The space isn’t so tight enough that one finger can’t fit easily. Sunday moves as instructed, feeling the soft inner walls. With his finger fully inside, it brushes against something firmer behind the membrane. Aventurine’s whole body shudders.
“Hhhhhh yeah definitely keep doing that.”
Sunday likes the reaction, so he continues to gently massage at that spot, listening to Aventurine’s breath growing heavy and feeling the twitch in his thighs.
“You can add another finger,” Aventurine says, his voice a little strangled.
Sunday does, slipping it in next to the first one. He repeats the curling motion--a little harder with less room to maneuver--and continues his work.
He notes with interest that Aventurine’s cock has started to harden again. Something to enjoy later. He’s busy now. Preparing Aventurine seems to have turned into taking Aventurine apart, and he wants to focus on that.
A low moan slips out at a firmer press. He redoubles his efforts, and Aventurine quivers, clenching around his fingers. “Take your time if, ahhh, you want, orrrhhh add another finger, probably you don’t need more, fuck, keep doing that.”
The present space doesn’t seem quite large enough for comfort. Sunday slips in the tip of a third finger, and it is a tighter fit. He massages more, stretching what he can while still tending to Aventurine’s pleasure.
“Hhhokay, if you do that any more I’m going to come again,” Aventurine says hoarsely.
“Do you not want to?”
“I don’t think I have a third in me, and hhhhh I said stop doing that--” Sunday does not feel remorse. “--it’d feel even better coming while you’re inside me.”
Sunday won’t complain there. He withdraws his fingers. Aventurine lies before him, still panting slightly, fingers gripping the sheets, one knee held up by Sunday and the other tilting to the side.
Sunday grasps his cock and positions himself, lining it up before Aventurine. The air seems to go still for a moment. He carefully starts to push in.
His breath stutters. The clinging heat is different from Aventurine’s mouth, oily rather than the thin slick of saliva and wrapped around his cock entirely. A comfortable fit, though, like puzzle pieces slotting together. With every bare inch he pushes inside he can feel more of his mind slipping away.
Aventurine is making those sounds again. There are no other sounds in the world. The position’s steady enough now; Sunday lets go and takes hold of the inside of Aventurine’s other knee, the angle lifting up Aventurine’s hips a little more. A shallow thrust; the heat still clings. He sets a pace, and every drag in and out is an exquisite torture.
He does his best to hit at that spot, pushing into its small solidity. Aventurine gives a hoarse cry; it sets his nerves on fire, hastens each thrust, so desperate is he to keep hearing those sounds from Aventurine’s lips. The mattress shakes underneath them. Aventurine’s ankles lock around Sunday’s back, pulling their bodies together even more. Aventurine’s head is thrown back, eyes squeezed shut in overstimulation, but Sunday can’t look away. The sight before him is unspeakably beautiful. Pale skin flushed red, slim waist bent nearly in half, chest heaving, throat bare and exposed, mouth open and spilling holy writ. Blond hair mussed on the pillow. Hands digging into the sheets and pillow like a lifeline. No scripture could compare.
Only one thing could make it better. “Open your eyes,” Sunday says hoarsely. Aventurine does, the stark pink-blue searing into his soul. He feels pinned by those eyes, drawn into a cage where the only thing that exists is him and Aventurine. Another thrust, and another cry from Aventurine’s throat, and Sunday’s breath is so erratic he wonders if he’s taking in oxygen at all, or just sustaining himself from the clenching heat of Aventurine’s body.
Aventurine’s eyes squeeze closed again. Sunday can hardly fault him for it, even though the loss of that searing color sends a pang through him. He doesn’t think he can hold out much longer, anyway. He manages to take one hand from Aventurine’s knee, take hold of Aventurine’s cock instead, lingering oil slicking it as he pumps it. Aventurine whines, coming not long after, ejaculate landing on Sunday’s chest. He can’t bring himself to care about the mess.
So close, seconds away, heat building and building almost at its crest. Sunday lets go of Aventurine’s other leg and nearly collapses on top of him, bodies fully flush together. He buries his face in the crook of Aventurine’s neck, and finds revelation.
The world is still save for their panting breath. Sweat soaks their skin and ejaculate sticks between them. Aventurine’s legs lower to the mattress, loose from exertion. Sunday feels like his entire body has turned to liquid.
He tilts his face as much as he can, to look at Aventurine. Aventurine’s eyes are partly open now, half-lidded in exhaustion, and Sunday feels as if he could drown in that color. In this man. Absurd affection tangles in his chest. He wants the moment to never end, for Aventurine to stay in his arms forever, neither of them returning to the harshness of the world. Paradise in miniature, between cotton sheets.
“So,” Aventurine says, breezily. “How high on the list of sins is deflowering a man of god?”
“I honestly don’t think THEY’D have an opinion on the matter,” Sunday says.
Aventurine laughs. Sunday feels the vibration of it through his chest. One of Aventurine’s hands finds its way to the back of Sunday’s head, fingers combing through his hair. “And what would the Sunday of a month ago think about that?”
“I don’t have to be the same as him.” Though he is still him, in some ways, perhaps many ways. But not in every way. And certainly in fewer ways than he was before tonight.
“Good to know,” Aventurine says. “I really wasn’t looking forward to working with that guy.”
Sunday kisses Aventurine’s cheek, the closest part of him he can reach without moving. “What about me?”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
Sunday supposes he shouldn’t push it.
In a better life, Sunday thinks, you would live happily in Ena’s dream, free of the IPC’s chains and the universe’s horrors. I could take you as consort and confidant, keep you safe and provided for. So few ties to others you have, you would not mind if you were mine alone. I would treasure you as something far more precious than your namesake, and you would live a life of love and meticulous care, cherished and kept and blissful in a world where you would no longer suffer the cruelty of freedom.
But it does him no good to dream.
In the here and now, Aventurine is warm and willing. Sunday is still inside him, both softening cock and ejaculate that will surely be uncomfortable if left there. Another moment, though, to stay in this little world. A handful of moments. A moment even after that.
The moments end, however. “We should clean up,” Aventurine says, glancing down at where their bodies meet. “You do need to let go of me for that.”
Regrettable. Sunday withdraws his arms and sits up on unsteady legs, bodies separating. The head of his cock has a small amount of semen on it, and it slides off onto Aventurine’s rim. The sight is viscerally pleasing.
Aventurine sits up too, leaning against the headboard. “I’m probably going to feel that in the morning,” he says resignedly. “Oh well. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
A little ugly feeling stirs in Sunday at that, but he knows it isn’t something he can do anything about. Aventurine’s job is different from his in many ways. Still, he doesn’t have to enjoy the fact.
Aventurine slips off the bed and stands up. “I really need to take a shower,” he says. “You can join me if you want.”
“Yes,” Sunday says, a little faster than he means to, a little too revealing. Aventurine surely notices, but doesn’t point it out.
Aventurine’s shower is a tiled affair, slate gray and just slightly textured under his feet. The rush of hot water is a balm to sweaty skin, and Aventurine’s close proximity a comfort to his mind. Aventurine insists on cleaning himself. Sunday reins in his disappointment, and focuses on his own cleansing. His eyes keep straying to Aventurine, though, especially once Aventurine turns to cleaning himself out, slipping fingers inside to wash out Sunday’s come. Obscenity again, and all the more captivating for it, a stark sign of his influence on Aventurine’s body.
Neither of them bother with washing their hair. Plush green towels dry them off, and Sunday finds himself standing in Aventurine’s bedroom once more, naked and clean.
“I won’t force you to leave if you want to stay the night, especially since I drove you here,” Aventurine says. He doesn’t even ask if Sunday wants to stay, instead pulling open a chest of drawers and tossing a set of pajamas at him. Black, gold-trimmed, and very soft.
“I’m unfamiliar with the etiquette,” Sunday says.
“Yeah, I figured. Well, here’s some clothes. They’ll probably fit you.”
Sunday dresses. They must be a little loose for Aventurine’s frame, because they’re not tight on his. And they’re nearly the same height, after all. He decides to buy a spare set of pajamas for his own apartment, just in case.
Aventurine, clothed in his own set, pads to the wall and presses the light switch, sending the room into dim darkness still slightly lit by the lights of the city outside. He becomes a near silhouette, features blurred, eyes darkened, but still recognizable.
The sheets are soft, if damp on one side. Sunday takes that one out of politeness. Many pillows to choose from. Aventurine pulls the blanket over them, and everything is quiet and dark and warm.
Aventurine lies on his side, facing him. His face is less indistinct this close, his eyes still light enough to be noticeable.
“You’re not going to read too much into this, are you?” Aventurine asks.
Sunday frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this isn’t a marriage proposal. At best it’s an occasional thing.”
Sunday reaches out the small distance between them, brushes a thumb over Aventurine’s lip. “You seemed to enjoy yourself, though.”
“Hence the ‘occasional’ and not ‘never again’,” Aventurine replies. “Just don’t expect too much, okay? That sort of thing isn’t really an option for me. Nor for you, for that matter.”
The blunt statement puts a fraction of cold in Sunday’s chest. But Aventurine would say that, wouldn’t he. His is a life of luxuries, but not comforts. Perhaps he is so used to their absence he assumes they aren’t possible.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sunday says evenly. There is time yet. He can make use of it.
“Good to hear,” Aventurine says, and rolls over. “G’night.”
Sunday stays watching him for a little while.
It’s been a very strange evening. A strange several days, for that matter; but at least this was strange in a pleasant manner. It’s given him things to think about. Who he is, what he wants, where this new life of his will take him.
He still isn’t sure who he is now, devoid of the Order’s clarity of purpose. Another of the IPC’s indentured servants? He doubts they will ever supplant Ena in his mind. He might learn to enjoy the work, or he might not. He isn’t sure which option he’d prefer.
But there is one thing, at least, he knows he wants to be his.
He closes his eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, his sleep is dreamless.