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Aventurine had booked the accommodation for this business trip without reading any reviews, blindly trusting his “well renowned” good fortune. Maybe it’s on him for disregarding the importance of customer reviews and taking the “ five stars” at face value - the hotel is nothing but filthy and ominous. The halls are almost perpetually dark, save for some low greenish fluorescent lighting in some odd places, and it smells like a gas station rest room. From the corner of an elevator, he pinches the bridge of his nose above the frames of his sunglasses. Taking a deep, semi-nauseating breath, he tries to calm his thoughts.
( You have survived far worse conditions, albeit not for a long time. A trashy hotel is nothing you can’t handle. )
When the elevator stops on the third floor, doors opening with thuds and bangs that are anything but reassuring, Aventurine almost pinches himself. Stood before him is an all too familiar face, yellow eyes gleaming in the strange lighting. They look radioactive, he thinks.
“...Going up?” Aventurine eventually asks through gritted teeth.
The intruder's wings flick in a frustrated motion. He’s wearing a black coat which he smooths with his hands. Or maybe he’s wiping off sweat.
“Never thought I’d see you in a place like this,” he comments, “hasn’t Penacony been good to the IPC’s funds?” The way he’s speaking is almost snarky, but his tone is entirely polite.
Aventurine moves to close the doors, practically jabbing the button, and as he does this the other man blocks the door with his shoe and steps inside.
“Apologies. I’d take the stairs but strangely enough they are locked.” He sighs and adjusts his sleeves. “I’m sure that’s a fire hazard.”
The buzz of fluorescents rings in the air, almost deafening. Aventurine pockets his glasses, feeling an encroaching headache. When he does this, it’s only now that he registers how fast his heart is beating. Afterall, this intruder had quite literally psychologically tortured him to “death” just months ago.
“Mr. Sunday,” He starts, willing confidence into his voice, “do you suppose I should just let you out of this elevator?”
Sunday narrows his eyes at Aventurine, but doesn’t turn to face him. “...I’m assuming you’re still upset about my… methods.” He inhales, “But surely you of all people can understand my motivations.”
A small laugh escapes Aventurine’s mouth. “Methods? I thought I was going to die.”
Sunday’s wings twitch once again. “But we both know that was merely a thought. You had the Self-Annihilator to help you, after all.”
“What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be severing your wings, as Jade put it?”
Now it’s Sunday’s turn to laugh. “Well, it’s like you told me. Life is too short to miss out on golden opportunities .” He smooths his coat again. “I don’t think Lady Bonajade’s deal could ever satisfy the needs of my ideals. Preservation - it’s the opposite of progression.”
Aventurine rolls his eyes at this. “Still into that Orderly bullshit I see. You know I was hoping you’d have some nice character development and open an orphanage or something.”
( You’re being honest . Not necessarily about the orphanage part, but about your belief that Sunday could become a good person. He was offered something close to freedom, a chance to change. When you were before Jade’s mercy, you’d wished for an opportunity like this. You dreamt and hoped the IPC would not turn you rotten, would not hollow you out and paint your shell. You dreamt of lives where the IPC had set you free. Where your debt had been settled quickly. Where you’d had the opportunity to grow and learn and see the world. You dreamt of becoming someone you could love, someone your loved ones would not hate. And when you woke up, you found yourself painted in gold, another asset, bargaining chip, a risk, a stepping stone for Diamond’s will. )
“Also, that doesn’t really answer my question.”
A strange look creeps onto Sunday’s face. “Finality . This works much better with Harmony and Order.” The elevator jerks a little, though Sunday stays perfectly in place. “The next Finality, I was promised, will be something pulled from our dream.”
The elevator jerks once more, and Aventurine leans on the handrailing. “And who is making this promise this time? Not another Gopher Wood I hope.”
Sunday’s head turns to face him. “ Destiny’s Slave , actually.”
Before he can concoct a response, those hideous fluorescents begin to flicker, and the entire room shakes once. Then stops. Both men stumble.
A loud groan escapes Aventurine’s throat. “You have to be shitting me.”
Unfortunately, the emergency button does not work, the elevator does not move, and Aventurine’s phone has no service in this area of town. Sunday’s wings twitch again.
“I don’t suppose you’d know when the hotel last inspected their elevators?” He asks.
Aventurine can’t tell if this is supposed to be a joke or an expression of anxiety. He assumes both.
“I’m not as incessant about safety protocols as you are.” Is all he responds with.
It’s obvious that the man before him is growing increasingly agitated. His marble-like composure is flaking away the longer he is stuck in Aventurine’s presence.
( Your hand itches for a cigarette. A confined space like this with little ventilation, it’s not as if the place didn’t already reek; and it’s not as if the both of you don’t deserve to suffocate and die where you stand. )
He exhales, trying to breath out the thought at the same time.
This is interrupted by a confession from the altar boy before him.
“I was supposed to say this before actually, but I am truly sorry for what I did to you in the Dreamscape.” His voice is hushed and soft. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Aventurine scoffs, and it suddenly becomes apparent that Sunday’s discomfort had been stemming from guilt rather than agitation. But this doesn’t make him any more forgiving towards his past perpetrator.
“My heart,” the man named Aventurine starts, “says that you should be paying your penance, tied to the IPC in golden shackles.” He moves across the floor of the elevator to face Sunday, gloved hands keeping contact with the railing. “It’s what I had to do. As you already know. Eavesdropper.”
Sunday does not move, but his eyes follow Aventurine, visibly displeased. Now that he is seeing him up close, Aventurine realises that he really looks like shit. His clothes are still pristine and perfect of course, but his hands have the slightest shake to them. His eyes are darker and more sunken than Aventurine remembers. Parts of his hair are a little choppy and uneven as if they’d been cut with something blunt. His eyes are almost bloodshot. Flaws you’d only notice if you were actively searching for them, yet flaws nonetheless. It must irritate the angel exceedingly, for all the precision he holds so dearly. Something about this makes Aventurine smile.
“Your heart, or your Stoneheart?” Sunday says once Aventurine has stopped in front of him. Playing the shrink. Priest to penitent.
This warrants a humoured scoff from Aventurine.
( Aventurine, as you name yourself, can tell the gamble is a lost cause. You know a Stellaron Hunter is not an asset. You know a dream is just a dream. )
(Kakavasha, as you once knew yourself, can understand the desire to spread one’s wings. You want to see him touch the sun. You want to see him light the sky. Your heart says set him free, your heart says to give him the chance you never had. Yes, you did follow this when Jade asked for your opinion. But at the same time, your head says a dream can’t bring back a dead family. Your head says a golden cage is still a cage. The suggestion - of freeing a criminal, investing with no return - is offensive. This isn’t a gamble, it’s just reckless. The Doctor might hit you on the nose with a rolled newspaper.)
“Don’t act like you know the difference. You… witnessing that side of me was simply a part of the stakes. The gamble paid off anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t matter how you see me.”
Sunday drops his gaze briefly. He clasps his hands together, almost as if in prayer though Aventurine knows he is stopping them from shaking. The motion reveals white bandages that peak out of his shirt sleeves. “I know you would have been happier in the dream. I wish you could have experienced it.”
“I would have hated it.” He says this and means it when he does.
( You don’t want another flavour of counterfeit freedom, you already have your own that’s bitter and stale and that you’ve grown into. When something fits, you wear it for life. )
Sunday chews his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.” It’s a whisper. He’s biting hard. “Please let me make it up to you.” There’s going to be blood if he keeps going.
Now there is intrigue. The marble has corroded and the flesh beneath is aching to repent. Aventurine supposes a good deal can be made from this. Or one the IPC would punish him for if they found out about. He decides the latter is much more appealing.
( You live for the risk, so take it. )
A coin makes its way into his palm, raised instinctually from his pocket, rolled involuntarily between his fingers. “If you let me kill you too,” The coin is tucked away, Aventurine’s head tilts; eyes burning into Sunday’s which are beginning to flash and water, “then I’ll see it as if nothing ever happened. An eye for an eye.”
In response, Sunday swallows. Then appears relieved. His hands are unclasped and he thanks him.
Despite their agreement, Aventurine is not entirely sure what to do next. They’re stuck in a confined space that could move and expose them at any moment. He questions Sunday on this, trying to avoid awkwardness.
“Wait a moment.” He answers simply.
Six seconds pass and the elevator begins to move again. Aventurine feels his face scrunch, curious and slightly concerned.
“Surely Halovians can’t predict the future now as well?”
Sunday’s wings flutter briefly. “Elio’s script required me to be here now.” He pauses, considering for a brief moment, and then admits: “The stairwell wasn’t locked. Apologies. I hate lying.”
“So this wasn’t a messed up coincidence.” Aventurine says this almost like a question, though he’s more stating an observation than he is asking.
“No. As part of my deal with Elio I am able to redeem myself to those I’d wronged before.” He closes his eyes. “The Stellaron Hunters have been very kind to me.”
Aventurine’s hotel room is a mess. The blinds are drawn shut yet they do an awful job at blocking the blue light of this planet’s three moons out of the room. This does however serve as the only source of lighting and Sunday has to strain to look around.
The bed is unmade, a suitcase open on the floor. There’s an empty wine bottle on the desk beneath the window next to a face down folder with a golden IPC logo on the cover. It’s clear he hasn’t been expecting any visitors. Sunday locks the door behind them and as he turns around he finds it hard to let go of the handle. Aventurine is staring, an unreadable expression painted across his face.
“Are you scared?” He asks with no obvious emotion.
Strangely enough, Sunday feels calmer now, ten steps from his grave, than he does as goes to sleep at night. He wonders just how thrilled the gambler is.
( You accepted death the moment you stepped into the shadow of your Father and claimed the title of Oak Family Head. You were the Family’s perfect sacrificial lamb; a son who can bear the weight of all sin, who is obedient and malleable yet when you reached up and held the dream you couldn’t grasp its horns quite tight enough. Now the dream is over but you still find yourself consumed by that same death drive. Did they carve into you the need to be a saviour, or the need to be slaughtered? )
He lets go of the handle. “Not really.” Is all he can think to say.
Aventurine shows his teeth. It’s almost a smile and there’s a hungry look in his eyes. “Take off your coat.”
Sunday obeys, hanging it on the back of a barstool by the room’s kitchen. “How do you want to do this?”
“I’ve actually given it a bit of thought.” He removes his gloves. “Lie down on the bed.”
Sunday obeys, laying stomach up as a scared dog might. He is careful to avoid touching anything but the fitted sheet. The mattress smells like pine and aftershave, he feels the subtle poke of springs in his back.
( Order is safe and comfortable and true, even when you are not the perpetrator. )
After a moment of staring at the ceiling, he feels the weight of knees digging into the mattress on either side of him. The top button of his shirt is undone, and two warm hands are cradling his throat. Aventurine, gazing down at him, looks as if he wants to say something. Sunday closes his eyes and there is no further talk.
He savours the burn that rises in his chest and pictures bruises forming around his throat like blooming flowers. But it isn’t that picturesque for very long. His back and hair are already sticky with sweat, teeth baring in an attempt not to fight back, to stay out of Aventurine’s head. Instinctively, fists are balled and pushed into the fabric of the other man’s shirt and his head twists and turns to escape the embrace. Feathers are left on the mattress beside them. His hands move from Aventurine’s shirt to his wrists, pulling and pushing them away as he becomes lightheaded. His legs kick and there is fluid leaking from his eyes, his nose, his mouth.
Then he begins to still, his hands losing the strength to keep hold of Aventurine’s wrists, his legs growing too weak to keep kicking. And the warmth around his neck vanishes.
Coughing and spluttering, Sunday opens his eyes to see Aventurine’s hands held up as if in surrender. It’s clear he can’t move them and a metallic vibration sound fills the air. He inhales-exhales sharply, allowing Aventurine to drop his arms.
“That was the Harmony again, wasn’t it?” Aventurine asks, voice hushed and tender. He leans forward and brings a hand to Sunday’s throat once more, this time with a gentle stroke of his thumb.
( You know the gambler above you. You know he wouldn’t really kill you, vicious as he appears. But he thinks he can and that he wants to, and you want to let him think so. )
Sunday bites his lip. “Yes.”
Aventurine presses his thumb hard into the bruised flesh of his neck, hard enough to make Sunday flinch and grab his wrist, pushed away.
“There. Now we’re even once more.” There’s a twisted humour in his dead eyes that Sunday finds both repulsive and charming.
Warm, offensive, bare. The hand Sunday holds like a white flag is then drawn down, towards his face.
“As much as I want to make things up to you, Aventurine,” he folds and unfolds the foreign hand before him, examining. A cut by his thumb. A curved heart line and prominent fate line. Nails cut too close to flesh. “I’m not the type to fall apart over such a slight imbalance.”
Aventurine hums in response. “You adjusted your coat a total of eight times before I told you to take it off.” There’s amusement apparent in the way he’s squinting. “Forgive me for making assumptions, but you just strike me as a very meticulous individual.”
Sunday’s brows narrow. “Don’t pretend to have such an expert grasp of my character. We are still inequals in that regard.”
A weight presses on Sunday’s stomach as Aventurine moves closer.
For a fleeting moment he appears to empathise, to be something closer to real. A slip of his mask. “Let me help you find more equal footing then.” He moves closer still. “...Do you still hate and wish to destroy this world with your own hands?”
The question calls back loudly to their moment in Dewlight Pavillion, yet he speaks it quietly, perhaps afraid for the world which he has worked so hard to conquer and subdue to hear.
( You think of Charmony Doves and music boxes. Of your mother’s soft voice and your sister’s hard tears. Of Stellarons and breadcrumbs, of clipped wings and sweeping floors. You think of a crow that feeds its offspring bones and cigarette butts and pecks flesh to blood to bone. A bullet and an auditorium, of violence and of slavery. Yes, you wish for an end to this disorderly world. )
( You think of Charmony Doves and music boxes. Of your sister’s gentle laughter and resolute will. You think of your Father who fixed your clothes when their imperfection drew you to tears. Your Father who promised heaven and planted pretty seeds in your head when all you could see before you was this world’s ruin and depravity. You think of the smooth ivory of piano keys, the perfect starlit sky that exists even in the reality of the Reverie. The mara-struck who cut your hair with shaking hands when your own, damaged from the fall, couldn’t stop shaking themselves. No, you keep your hands in your pockets and with them cling tightly to this world’s warmth. )
The question rings in the air and remains unanswered for a moment.
“It’s more complicated than that.” Sunday eventually responds, daring himself to look Aventurine in those hypnotic eyes. “I wanted to destroy it once. Then I wanted to change it. Now… I don’t know. I suppose I put my only personal goal in the hands of a stranger.”
Aventurine turns the hand Sunday is holding and holds him back. “Thank you for the insight.” His expression is unreadable and Sunday squints at him.
( You think of the common ground you and the gambler are beginning to tread, of the tip of scales between the two of you. Something about this particular balance makes you uneasy, strange because it is generally a source of comfort. Perhaps you don’t want the company to end - it’s like looking in a mirror, only the reflection has golden hair and only hates you half as much. A certain scholar might liken you to Narcissus. )
“You understand, don’t you?” Sunday asks.
“You already asked that.”
“Help me understand.”
Aventurine’s grip loosens.
Overcome by impulsiveness, because getting even means being left alone, Sunday reaches out, now returning bruises with kisses akin to biting, grabbing at arms and clothes where Aventurine, ever desperate to settle the score, avenges the embrace with the same level of violence.
It’s the most aggressive act of love Sunday has ever experienced. Hurtfully tender hands feel and dig into every scar and shiver, hurtful because there is a stinging desire, a starvation for more; for flesh to merge through cloth and seep into the deepest crevices of veins and arteries beneath skin. They undress each other, peeling back layers like fruit, shedding snakeskin. In this moment guilt is a foreign concept, a word unborn on their tongues and to be reflected upon in the morning when they care to care.
Sheets are creased, legs are spread. The act brings tears to eyes which are hushed and hidden in the crevices of shoulders. They find themselves naked, entwined, alone and invisible if not for the glow of the moons.
(epilogue)
In the soft light of the morning, things appear differently. The wretched bird before Aventurine has become another sector in a venn diagram, the overlap growing bigger with every word and hitch of the breath.
The shuddy hotel curtains let in golden sunshine, only serving to highlight dust that dances and twirls in the air, the air that moves with the rise and fall of Sunday’s chest and the air that seemed to grow thick as they embraced each other through the night. Still asleep, Sunday stirs with a twitch of his eyelids. The scene feels too private for Aventurine to be a part of.
( You treasure your privacy, though with the IPC you don’t have too much of it. This just makes the small things you can do for yourself, by yourself, all the more valuable. Hanging paintings in your apartment. Feeding your catcakes overpriced pet food. People-watching from your balcony on days off. )
( At the same time you miss having people to share this privacy with. The paintings you choose would inspire your sister. Your mother would spoil the catcakes more than you would. The streets of Pier Point are always too rushed and loud. Somewhere in you there is a boy who misses the quiet warmth of the desert. )
He sits up and stretches. Does privacy matter to a man who used to have surveillance all over Penacony, a man who can read minds? Aventurine supposes not and entertains himself with the simple act of looking at his company asleep beside him.
A golden eye opens, blinking, directly back at Aventurine.
When Sunday reaches towards his face, Aventurine thinks for a moment that he might pluck his eyes out. And that he might let it happen.
Instead Aventurine’s eyes are covered by soft hands. He listens to the sound of the other man shifting before him. He hears his soft breathing continue. A finger smooths gently beneath his left eye and lingers for a moment. Then Sunday’s hands are gone.
( When you look in his eyes you think of sand and stars. It’s both homely and desolate. You wonder what he thinks of when he looks at yours. )
Head tilted, Sunday speaks. “Thank you.”
Something about his words feel incomplete. They both expect more to come out.
Aventurine isn't sure what to say back.
( You want to ask him to stay. You want to tell him you never want to see him again. Your heart aches but you aren’t sure what for. )
Silence ensues, and Aventurine watches that wretched bird escape his grip. He doesn't know when they will meet again.
( But you won’t think about it, instead you revel in the safe, grounding equilibrium. )