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Aventurine is a strong person.
At least, that’s what Jade tells everyone, her pink brows lifting just the slightest with pride whenever she introduces the Stoneheart to potential friends or future enemies.
He rolls with it, of course. Laughing off Jade’s words with a wave to try to show some sense of humility, extending a hand with a firm squeeze as his eyes go dark as if to say believe her, because I won’t stop ‘til I get what I need.
But instead of strong, Aventurine would call himself fake.
His life is an act, the world his stage. He puts on a good show, and he knows it.
From years of seducing old men and leading them to bed before slitting their throats and stealing their gold, to a new life sitting at a long, narrow table in a freshly adorned suit introducing himself as “Aventurine” to his nine new coworkers. It has been a long life of fake smiles and fake laughs.
His most eccentric performance, he thinks, is the one that happened a few months ago on Penacony. It was his biggest gamble yet, betting his own life in order to get what he needed for the IPC. There were no lingering feelings of regret for what he did to the Trailblazer and the Nameless. He knew what had to be done, so he did it.
And despite death washing over him in the sea of Nihility, his act – his life – still continues.
It was a scary thing, being wrapped in that endless void.
Ever since returning to the real world, nightmares plague his mind as he sleeps, that sea of darkness intertwining with memories from when he was enslaved and still held the name Kakavasha. (‘Held?’ Aventurine thinks. He wonders.)
It’s one of those nightmares that woke him up in a cold sweat just a few minutes ago.
Aventurine gasps as he opens his eyes to his dimly lit room, his body nestled under his covers, the mattress sunken in beneath him. His bones create indents on the memory foam.
There’s obvious gunk in his eyes, the crust tugging at his tear ducts. He can’t seem to lift his hands to wipe it away.
So, he lays there instead, staring at the sliver of sunlight shining through the crack in his curtain as an image from his nightmare repeats in his mind.
Shackles cold around his ankles and wrists. Ripples of black water swaying at his feet. Some sort of liquid dripping down his back, his chest.
Blood, he thinks.
It’s been a recurring nightmare, this one. And it always ends with Aventurine dragging his feet towards that glowing black hole in an attempt to escape screams of guilt forming into a wave high above his head. He panics and shouts, his words becoming nothing as they leave his mouth, no one hearing or saving him as the wave crashes into his back–
“Aventurine?”
A muffled voice outside his door.
He doesn’t want to answer.
“Aventurine, it’s me, Sunday.”
“Well, no shit,” Aventurine mumbles to himself. It could not have been anyone else. He groggily curls his knees up to his chest, tugging his comforter to his chin.
It’s a bit embarrassing, Aventurine thinks, having someone else around while going through…all this.
Ever since Jade absolutely insisted on taking the ex-head of the Oak Family into the IPC’s arms, Aventurine has been the one to practically babysit him and keep him on the down-low until tensions simmer on Asdana.
Usually when he can’t seem to get out of bed, he can go a weekend without anyone bugging him or seeing him in this state (and then promptly lie to his coworkers the following Monday about all the things he accomplished over the weekend), but that’s impossible now that Sunday is here.
“Is everything okay, Aventurine?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he responds with the most “Aventurine” voice he can muster. He hopes it’s convincing. “I’m okay.”
“May I come in, then?”
A wave of nausea rolls over him. The state of his room is messy. And he realizes it’s been over a week since he ordered groceries, got cleaners…shit.
“...Fine,” He says a few seconds later. He rolls onto his side, his back facing the door. A strand of blond hair falls over his face.
Aventurine hears the door click open and small footsteps inch their way into the room. He feels golden eyes bore into the back of his head.
“I haven’t seen you all weekend,” Sunday quietly says.
“Mmm,” Aventurine hums. He picks at his nails. “Sorry about that.”
“...Have you eaten?”
Ah. Maybe that’s why he’s nauseous.
“Whoops. I think I forgot.”
“...Please wait here, Mr. Aventurine.” And then the presence behind the door is gone.
Always so formal, Aventurine sighs and thinks to himself.
What a silly thing to say too, as if Aventurine would somehow manage to muster the energy to stand on his feet and escape somewhere. He’d never go out in this state out of fear of people seeing his eyes sunken in more than usual, his hair greased and almost matted on his head.
And where would he even go, where Sunday couldn’t find him? Down the hallway to lock himself in the bathroom? Out the window, splatting onto the pavement below?
He considers it for a brief moment.
A few moments later, Sunday returns. Aventurine’s back is still towards the man, instead focusing on the crack of light from his curtains again.
“May I sit?” Sunday asks, walking over to Aventurine’s bed.
“Mmm,” Aventurine mumbles. Is this the first time Sunday is seeing his room?
The bed indents behind him, the weight of Sunday sitting on the edge of the mattress. There’s a crinkling of plastic and what sounds like a glass cup being set on the nightstand behind him.
“I brought you an oat bar,” Sunday softly says behind him. “They were my favorite growing up, and my sister stashed a bunch of them inside my bag before I left. They’re sweet, but they also have a lot of nutrients…I think you’d like them.”
Aventurine responds in silence. He digs his nails into his palm.
“...I- I brought some water for you too. If you want something else to eat or drink, I can try to–”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Aventurine says with annoyance. The room goes silent.
Fuck.
He didn’t mean to snap at him like that.
Him and Sunday have been on good terms, recently. Something Aventurine would have never expected, especially after being subjected to the Halovian’s harmonic tuning.
But, they both apologized to each other when Jade’s idea came into fruition. Aventurine was more nonchalant about it – mouth taut as he sincerely said sorry for trying to take over Sunday’s home planet.
Sunday showed more regret, his eyes glazed with tears on the cab ride to Aventurine’s apartment for the first time, gloved hands prim and proper on his lap as he apologized for everything he did to the gambler during his time on Penacony. Aventurine was sure Sunday would be on his knees if didn’t have to be buckled into a seat.
Aventurine wouldn’t say they’re close by any means, but they share meals together every once in a while (or really, every morning and night) and Sunday asks about Aventurine’s day whenever he comes back from the office.
He hopes this won’t ruin their civility.
“God,” Aventurine whispers. “I’m sorry.”
It’s a weird feeling, being shown sincere care. He should be happy about it. But he feels pain, anger, an ache in his chest, a lump in his throat. People aren’t meant to be kind to him.
“It’s alright, Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday says. “If you don’t want the full oat bar, I can eat half of it.”
Aventurine rolls onto his back, rubbing his eyes to finally get the gunk out and pushing his hair out of his face. He side-eyes the silver-haired man sitting next to him.
Although it’s dark in his room, there’s still enough light to see what Sunday is wearing. It’s no surprise he’s dressed in his usual attire: dark dress slacks and a button up white shirt.
Sunday starts unwrapping his snack, and Aventurine finally glances up at his face.
It’s a bad idea.
Sunday looks soft. The light peeking through the curtain dimly shines over his face, his slightly curved lips, his relaxed looking wings. His eyes are focused on unwrapping his snack, his hands gentle with the plastic. Sunday takes a bite out of the bar, and then looks at him.
It makes Aventurine want to cry.
His eyes are so kind. Too kind. Without Sunday even saying anything, it feels like there’s an understanding. That Aventurine needs someone. That it’s okay that he exists.
Aventurine’s hands come up to cover his face. It’s extremely embarrassing, that one look brings Aventurine to tears, but Sunday doesn’t say anything about it.
“Would you like some?” He asks as Aventurine wipes his eyes. An arm extends the oat bar out to him.
Aventurine hesitantly lifts his hand to grab it. He’s shaking – most likely from the lack of food in his body.
They sit in silence for a bit. Sunday grabs the cup of water on the nightstand, quietly sipping it as he lets Aventurine nibble on the bar on his own without any prying eyes. Aventurine forces himself to chew and swallow a few bites of the bar before handing the rest back to Sunday.
At least he tried.
“Thank you,” Aventurine says. “And…I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
“Please do not apologize,” Sunday responds. “I was worried when you had not come out of your room for the past two days. I know it’s the weekend, but, well…you’re usually up and about, so this was unusual.”
Aventurine hums. He puts on a fake smile. “This just happens sometimes. You don’t need to worry about me.”
He can feel Sunday’s eyes on him, scanning his face. His defenses are up, his shell hardened.
Sunday opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Finally, he says “Would you like me to help you get cleaned up?”
And he does.
Aventurine slowly sits up and stretches as Sunday goes to open the curtains, letting the light shine into his room. The sun is warm on Aventurine’s skin, the rays settling onto his bare chest and lithe arms.
Eventually, Sunday gets Aventurine to the bathroom, the two of them walking down the hallway in silence.
It’s quiet, but comfortable.
The Halovian turns around as Aventurine strips himself to shower. Sunday wasn’t going to let Aventurine be in the bathroom alone, so he sits on the toilet and waits.
The water is warm, soothing as it falls down Aventurine’s back. Steam quickly fills the room, rising up and out of the shower.
Aventurine lathers his hair with shampoo and rinses, and then repeats to get all the grease out. He starts working in his conditioner when he hears a quiet humming. He quietly peeks outside the curtain to see where it’s coming from.
Sunday is still sitting on the toilet, one leg crossed over the other as he fiddles with one of the wings on his head.
He looks relaxed, content. So much so, that he’s softly humming to himself; Aventurine doesn’t think Sunday realizes he can hear him over the running water. On any other day, Aventurine would tease Sunday about it. But, if he’s being honest, he kinda likes the sound coming from him. And he doesn’t want Sunday to stop.
Aventurine goes back to washing his hair and his body as he listens to the sweet melody.
Tears sting at his eyes. He doesn’t know if it’s from sadness, this new feeling of warmth, or guilt. The water washes them away.
Once he’s finished, he shuts off the water, grabs his towel, and dries himself off.
“Feel better?” Sunday asks, eyes down as he quietly continues to pick at his wings, his humming no longer audible.
“Hah. I guess better is a word for it,” Aventurine replies. He throws on a plain sweater and loose, baggy sweatpants. He has to admit, it does feel nice to be clean.
The two of them saunter back to Aventurine’s bedroom, Aventurine leading the way as Sunday follows behind. Before he can climb back into bed, Sunday stops him.
“Where are your fresh sheets?” He asks.
Aventurine tells him they’re at the top of the bathroom closet. Within minutes, his dirty sheets are stripped from the bed and new, fresh linens are pulled onto the mattress.
Aventurine stands off to the side, arms wrapped around his body as he watches Sunday sit on his freshly made bed. His chest feels tight. His limbs ache.
“...Why are you doing all of this?”
“I just…I want to.”
“That’s not a good reason.”
Sunday is silent as he watches Aventurine climb past him into the bed. Aventurine lays on his side, facing away from Sunday once again.
He’s being stubborn, he knows that. But how could he believe that Sunday is doing this out of the good of his heart, when most everyone he came into contact with has wanted to use him – his brain, his body, his luck – in some way? He stares out the window, golden hour setting in as the sun begins its descent below the horizon.
“Please forgive me if I’m overstepping, Aventurine. But, well…I know I am not your ideal living partner. And I know you probably still hold my actions in Penacony against me. But I have grown to enjoy your company these past few months,” Sunday quietly says. “You have shown me kindness that, frankly, I feel I don’t deserve.”
Aventurine screws his eyes shut, letting out a groan as his arms reach up to cover his face. He rolls over, his body turning to face the Halovian.
“...I’m supposed to be the one to say that,” Aventurine whispers, his voice muffled in his arms.
He realizes then that he doesn’t feel the need to put on an act around Sunday.
Maybe he did when they first met, or during the first few weeks they lived together. But today, Sunday has accepted him for who he is. He snapped at him, cried at him; he saw a part of “Aventurine” that no one else has seen in god knows how long. And yet, he’s still here, staring into Aventurine’s eyes with a kindness that washes over his soul.
He lowers his arms, feeling tears well up. They fall onto his cheeks.
“Can you stay with me for tonight?” Aventurine asks. It’s a selfish thing.
He’s expecting rejection, but a hand reaches down, soft, warm skin wiping his face. “I’ll be right back.”
Sunday returns in his own pajamas, a journal under his arm, and two cups of water. He sets them down on the nightstand and climbs into Aventurine’s bed, laying on his side to look at Aventurine.
“...Thank you for today,” Aventurine says. He reaches up to card his hands through Sunday’s hair. “Really.”
A delicate hand moves up to grab Aventurine’s hand in his.
It’s comforting, having the warmth of another’s body near him. Aventurine holds Sunday’s hand as the sun is replaced with the moonlight, the soft blue glow illuminating the room. A thumb rubs over the top of his hand, the steady breathing from Sunday making his eyelids heavy.
I’ll be okay, Aventurine thinks as he drifts off to sleep. I’ll be okay.
He hopes he doesn’t dream.