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I'm going to regret this. The thought was cuttingly prescient; Aventurine pushed it aside with the practice borne of long years of doing the wrong thing and still walking away unscathed.
He had made the first move—telegraphing his intentions as dropped an elbow onto the bar counter and leaned in, inquisitively. Sunday raised a single eyebrow, smiled slowly, and accepted the proffered kiss with all the grace of a liege lord obliging a vassal.
The beautiful young head of the Oak Family had quite a vicious streak. Aventurine kept his mouth placidly open as Sunday drank his fill of him. When their lips separated, he was breathless. He could feel teeth-marks on flesh of his lower lip. A biter. Repressed. Searching for control in a city which spiralled ever more into chaos.
"Was this what you wanted, Mr Aventurine?" drawled Sunday.
"I did say you were the most handsome man in Penacony for a reason," says Aventurine, pushing their wineglasses aside. He moves smoothly; lets Sunday study the expanse of him.
"How forthright of you," murmured Sunday.
"I'm always honest, Mr Sunday," he said demurely, batting his eyelashes. "Especially when it comes to a question of aesthetics."
Sunday smiled, ostensibly flattered; but Aventurine spotted the place where contempt poked out between well-bred etiquette.
Give them enough rope, and they'll hang themselves. Be it Iymanikan warlords, or simple arena-masters. He smoothed over his coat, watching Sunday watch him with a hungry unblinking gaze. Ratio must've performed his 'betrayal' by now. Sunday wanted to play with his food tonight, so that he could revel even more in playing God tomorrow.
Sunday dragged him closer, finger hooked into the belt Aventurine wore around his neck. He quickly revised his estimate of the Oak Family head; canny and honestly, quite gifted at digging his fingers into weak spots. If Aventurine had been a decade younger, he might've even flinched. As it was, he tilted his head, bared his commodity code and flashed his most exuberant smile.
Go on, he thought, watching something cold and hungry come to life behind Sunday's eyes. Hit me with your best shot.