Chapter Text
Generally speaking, when Aventurine put his mind to getting his hands on something, there were very few things he couldn’t procure. He hadn’t, however, ever had to reckon with a musical idol who had a following of legions of obsessively passionate fans.
That is to say, he’s tried to get tickets to Sunday’s concerts a half-dozen times now and still come up lacking. Mountains of cash are apparently nothing compared to the tenacity of worshipful fangirls (and boys). The Halovian’s performances often sell out so quickly even the scalpers rarely get their hands on tickets first.
Infuriating.
And unlike most singers out there, Sunday almost never puts on fan events or meet and greets. Some would argue this was a good way to alienate their followers but in his case…it just adds to his mystique, apparently. The star himself is intensely private and guards his personal life closely such that there had never been any rumor of a significant other or even any flings whatsoever. Of course, due to his magnetic presence on stage, his singular ability to make whoever he was smiling in the direction of believe he was smiling for them only, and his horrifically unfair good looks just about everyone who called themself his fan was dramatically in love with him.
Aventurine would deny such a thing publicly…but in private?
Well…he has his own favorite recordings to watch, interviews and performances both. No one should be that fucking beautiful. No one should have a voice that makes one want to listen to anything they say just to hear more of its tone and cadence. No one should be so compelling that someone might go on a cosmos-spanning quest just to see them in person.
And yet here he is. Cursing loudly and just barely resisting throwing his phone across the room.
One more concert already sold out.
“I’m almost starting to think I’m on some kind of auto-deny list,” he mutters under his breath. Aventurine groans and flops back against his bed to scroll moodily through his waiting messages.
“Trash. Trash. Trash. Not my problem. I’ll get to it later. Trash…wait.” He frowns and scrolls back up to a message he’d passed.
A new assignment. The assignment itself isn’t that interesting but Aventurine fixates his attention on the most important piece of data of all: the location lines up nicely with where Sunday’s next concert is taking place. Of course, he still doesn’t have a ticket but…
“There’s more than one way to get someone to pay off a debt,” the Stoneheart murmurs with a crooked grin.
—
Sunday’s latest tour has been an exhausting series of back to back to back concerts on planet after planet after planet. He can’t begrudge the fans who line up for hours just to get into the concert venues, whose overwhelming adoration he can sense with an intensity unmet by anyone who wasn’t Halovian…but he has to admit to himself he’s ready for a break. After tonight he’ll be ready to return to Penacony, at least for a time. In the sweet dream he doesn’t have to wear his own face, doesn’t have to be anyone in particular, and the only expectation he has to meet is to bring back a gift for his sister.
All that said, he also has to admit that the frisson of energy he feels while he waits to go on stage, just as the anticipation of the crowd builds to its peak is…indescribable. It’s enough to let him forget, for a time, the fatigue that’s grown in him throughout the tour and enough to give him what he needs to not only take to the stage but own it .
The roar of the crowd when he appears is deafening but thrilling all at the same time and once the show is on, nothing else matters. At least while he’s in the spotlight, he belongs to them.
Which is, of course, his secret. The audience knows when a performer holds nothing back; they know that every word, every note, every smile…really is Sunday saying this is for you, let me make you happy, let me show you how I care. It’s a performance few can match since, at its core, it isn’t a performance at all.
But when all is said and done once Sunday gives his last encore and disappears backstage all of the vitality that had filled him swiftly drains away. All that’s left is just a man, sweaty and disheveled, toweling his face dry, in perishing need of a long drink of water and ready for nothing more than to collapse on his bed after a hot shower.
“Here,” an unfamiliar voice says as a man he’s never seen before holds out a bottle, “you did a great job.” The man’s admiration for him flickers in his words and Sunday can feel an echo of the cheers of moments before even if the sensation manages to be somehow muted.
Was he in the audience? He’s not on the crew. Even if Sunday hadn’t already had some knowledge of everyone working the concert, the man stands out. He isn’t dressed to work. He is instead quite the embodiment of dressed to impress. The singer has had enough experience with the world of fashion–despite himself–to recognize a bespoke wardrobe when he sees it. But there’s something about the stranger’s eyes behind those tinted glasses that sparks some sort of recognition in the back of Sunday’s mind even if at the moment he really can’t draw out the memory.
So, Sunday takes a deep breath instead and offers up a polite smile as he accepts the water. Once the water is in his hands, he takes a long, greedy swallow before asking, “Thank you, Mr…?”
The stranger stares at him, taking a little too long to provide what ought to be a simple answer. “Vasha, you can call me Vasha.”
“Vasha, then,” Sunday inclines his head, “please forgive me for asking but…are you lost?”
A laugh from the man is the response he receives as Vasha raises his hands, “oh. No. I’m sorry, the arena’s owner is a friend of mine and they were kind enough to give me access. I wasn’t trying to intrude.”
And yet…here you are. Sunday’s polite smile remains unchanged, “I see. Well…thank you for your support, Mr. Vasha. But really, I must go get cleaned up…”
Even if the man’s answering smile shows good humor and admiration, Sunday can still sense a disguised flare of deep disappointment that provokes in him a desire to soften the blow. But before he can do so, Vasha simply nods and steps aside, “I would hate to be in the way. I’m just glad to have met you, Sunday.”
With an appreciative wave, Sunday makes his way past the other man and toward the privacy of his dressing room.
—
The concert, Aventurine had realized, would likely have been orders of magnitude ‘better’ if he’d been sitting in front of the stage where all of Sunday’s charismatic attention was focused. But there’s something to be said for sitting behind the scenes as well. He is, after all, still getting to hear the man himself live and in person and that’s no small thing.
And since he’d made sure to have his contact introduce him to the security and crew behind the stage as an interested VIP, they generally left him be while he lingered. More to the point, no one stopped him when he made certain he was the first person Sunday saw upon leaving the stage for the final time that night.
Even with all of his exertions on stage, the singer somehow still managed to carry with himself a sort of inhuman grace and presence that none of the videos had ever properly done justice to. Upon speaking to him–for once–Aventurine hadn’t been quite as clever or quite as charming as he’d wanted to be when faced with all of that. Sunday’s tight leather pants and sheer shirt (that clung to sweat-dampened skin) had not helped in the slightest.
Is it a Halovian thing? Or just a him thing? And why the hell did you tell him to call you Vasha?
Their encounter had been brief and Aventurine had found himself left wanting. Not that it was Sunday’s fault…merely his own unvoiced expectations. How did you really expect this to go, anyway? he thinks finally as he watches the singer walk away.
“And I’m pretty sure it’s called stalking if I do this again somewhere,” he mutters. That’s a little much, even for him. Would he have to settle for finally managing to wrestle concert tickets for himself and watching recordings that hardly do justice to the real thing?
I’ll figure something out.
Later, Aventurine discovers there’s very little he has to figure out after all. Luck, he thinks dryly, is finally with him when it comes to Sunday.
The note he receives from Jade is brief, “as I’m sure you are aware, the IPC has an interest in the Asdana system. The Family’s representative on Penacony there is willing to meet with us and you have been chosen to speak with her. Details will be forthcoming, don’t disappoint me. ”
—
Sunday’s return to Penacony is a thankfully low-key affair. There’s only one person waiting for him when he exits his transport and he smiles to see her on the platform. “Robin, I’m glad to see you.”
His sister smiles back at him and approaches so she can take his hands in hers, “Sunday…I’m glad to see you too. But,” she frowns slightly, “are you feeling well?”
“Heh,” he chuckles ruefully, “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. You, however, are looking well. How have things been here?”
“Very little of note,” she says as they begin walking toward their residence, “though…there is a representative of the IPC coming. The other Family heads…seem to think it’s time to be a little more open in relations than we have been previously.”
Sunday frowns, “what do you think?”
Robin looks up at him and offers a faint shrug, “I suppose there is potential for something good to come of it. For Penacony’s sake.”
He squeezes her hand lightly and echoes, “for Penacony’s sake.” After a brief pause, he adds, “how can I help?”
“Oh no,” she shakes her head, “I want you to rest, Brother. That’s how you can best help me. Please?”
“Alright,” Sunday agrees quietly, “if that’s all you want. But…if you do need something more…”
“I know where to find you,” Robin gives him a warm smile, “thank you.”
“Good,” he replies, content for a brief moment until he can’t help but ask…”who is this representative? Can you tell me about them, at least? The Family negotiating with the IPC seems rather…momentous.”
Robin laughs but without much humor, “that’s one way of putting it. Here…” she retrieves her phone and begins tapping through it, looking for the information, “his name is Aventurine. One of their ‘Ten Stonehearts’, have you heard of them?”
Sunday frowns in thought then shakes his head, “I do not believe so. Stoneheart. Is their name supposed to be indicative of the sort of person we should expect to see here?”
Beside him, Robin lets out a small giggle, “they are the executives of what they call the Strategic Investment Department. I suppose they consider Penacony to have the potential to be one of those investments. Or one they would like to recoup after all this time, maybe. Ah. Here.” She hands him the phone so he can see what appears to be the top portion of some kind of dossier. The image of the man in question is strikingly familiar, enough that Sunday feels his breath catch in his throat.
Those eyes…
…so is ‘Vasha’ the alias or ‘Aventurine’?
Sunday scrolls the image up a little and scans the top bullet points of information about the Stoneheart. One in particular catches his attention.
Origin: Sigonia-IV
That explains the eyes. He’s an Avgin…I thought they were all wiped out…
Once, when Sunday had still been quite early in his career, he had happened to learn about the massacre of the Avgin people. Even now he can’t pinpoint exactly what had brought it about but he felt something about the tragedy resonate within him. And, after devouring what little public information was available on the event and the people that had been effectively wiped from existence, he’d sunk into penning page after page of lyrics. When he’d finally felt he had a song that expressed that melancholy loss properly, he’d taken it to his manager only to not-so-gently be told that as pretty as it might sound it’d never sell.
At the time he’d been equal parts heartbroken and furious at the callous refusal but now he does, at least, have to admit the manager hadn’t been incorrect. As a new, unknown artist, such a song likely would have pushed away potential fans instead of drawing them in.
But now…now he has an audience that would thank him for the privilege of making them cry.
Which…is not an idea he feels entirely comfortable with exploring but… maybe I should revisit the song, sometime.
“Sunday…?” vaguely, he hears Robin’s voice break into his reverie, “...what is it?”
“Ah,” he shakes his head and returns her phone, “I apologize. I just…he looks like someone I met on tour but surely someone like that wouldn’t be a fan of mine, right?”
Robin nudges him with a teasing smirk, “even high-powered IPC executives are weak to my brother’s voice, I’m sure.”
He gazes back at her with deep fondness, “I am certain they have much more important things to concern themselves with but I appreciate the sentiment, Sister.”
She laughs then and then looks back at him with a speculative expression. “Sunday…I just realized. There is one thing I was hoping you would do for me…”
What?
Oh.
Sunday offers her a slow smile, “it’s in one of my bags. I didn’t forget to find you a new treat to try.”
Robin beams, “as long as you brought enough to share.”
“I always do.”
—
Aventurine only has to spend a grand total of about five minutes in Penacony’s Dreamscape to determine he’s not the place’s target audience. It’s nice, of course, and everyone he sees seems to generally be having a good time.
But that’s all it is. Flash, no substance, and he gets enough of that in his waking life.
Looking up at a nearby billboard with Sunday’s image on it, he has to mutter, “funny how this place produced you.”
A moment later he hears a small cough. Or is it a muffled laugh? Looking in the direction of the sound, he sees a Halovian watching him with something like amusement in their golden-eyed gaze. The eyes, of course, make him think of Sunday but everything else…Aventurine isn’t shy about looking him over. Halovian the man might be but his own halo is hardly as grandiose as the performer’s and the wings jutting out from behind his ears are just a soft, muddled gray whereas his hair is a rather unremarkable medium shade of brown. In fact, if the man had merely continued on his way, there was nothing about him that would have made him stand out particularly against any of Penacony’s other Halovians Aventurine has seen on the streets.
Raising his eyebrows, Aventurine retorts, “don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to insult anyone here.”
The Halovian looks up at the billboard a moment before turning his attention back to Aventurine, “you seemed to be implying there is something strange about Sunday coming from Penacony. Doesn’t that seem to follow that you think one isn’t deserving of the other? I only find myself wondering which it is you believe doesn’t measure up.”
That voice!
It’s not…quite…Sunday’s voice. But still, there’s something about the cadence and tone that feels eerily similar to the one he’s listened to enough to hear in his dreams.
“Well,” Aventurine tilts his head to the side, “considering my words weren’t really intended to be for anyone else’s ears, I still wasn’t trying to give insult but…” he grins, “if I had to answer…I think Sunday deserves better.”
Golden eyes sharpen but the Halovian’s body language remains relaxed, “are you not enjoying your stay in Penacony, Mr…?”
“Oh, I’m sure most people really do think Penacony is the stuff dreams are made of,” Aventurine shrugs, “and it’s fine. Really. I can see where they’re coming from. But it’s not for me. All of this?” he gestures around them, “we both know it’s not real. Nice place to visit, like any dream, but what’s underneath?”
“So…” the Halovian speaks slowly, “I believe you might be the first I have heard to suggest Sunday himself isn’t some flavor of… dreamy.”
A bark of laughter comes from Aventurine unbidden, “I’m sure plenty of people enjoy all kinds of dreams that involve him but…and I know this sounds horrifically naive of me, the difference with him is that I believe if you look past the performance you’ll still see the man. Or maybe…it’s more like the performance isn’t there to hide a lack of substance. I don’t think it could, really, when it comes to him.”
There’s something almost startled in the other man’s expression now, “you’re right. That does sound naive. But someone with that kind of naivete wouldn’t so smoothly avoid introducing himself, correct?”
The Stoneheart snorts softly, “you can call me Aventurine.”
“Dove,” the Halovian responds, “that’s what you can call me, then.”
Aventurine looks again at this Dove’s feathers and their soft coloring. Apt name. “Pleasure to meet you, Dove. So…I assume you’re from here. Have you met him? Am I right?”
Dove’s answering smile is crooked as he shakes his head, “no. We have never met so I am afraid I cannot answer to your satisfaction, Mr. Aventurine. But…” his gaze becomes intent, “...I believe you may be doing Penacony a disservice.”
“Is that so? Maybe you’d be willing to show me the error of my ways, then?”
Silence falls between them briefly as Dove studies him, “perhaps you might tell me what brought you to visit our Sweet Dream in the first place, Mr. Aventurine? So I could tailor your tour.”
“My tour,” Aventurine echoes with a grin, “such hospitality, I’d hate to disappoint you now. I’m here for business, to tell the truth, not a vacation. But I’m always happy to find a little fun along the way.”
The other man nods slightly and gestures for Aventurine to follow him as he begins walking, “I have been told that it is not a good idea to spend too much time working so I must applaud you for choosing to find a little relaxation as well.”
Aventurine falls in step beside him and comments in a casual tone, “guess I should say thank you. Though…” he looks ahead of them, “...are we heading back to the hotel?”
Dove hums noncommittally and looks up toward the Reverie, tipping his head back to look up to where its top is lost somewhere in the sky. “You wanted something genuine in the Dreamscape, no?”
“Well, yeah but I have to admit this feels a little like you’re either about to tell me to get out or you’re not being very subtle about inviting me back to your room which…I kind of doubt is the case.”
The sidelong glance Aventurine receives from Dove is not amused but at least doesn’t show any actual offense at the suggestion, “I am not trying to do either of those things, Mr. Aventurine. But what I wish to show you can only be seen from the Reverie. Though in the meantime, I do have a question…”
“I’m an open book,” Aventurine says easily, “I’ll do my best to answer your question.”
“Mmmm, I imagine that since you have what sound like they may be, let’s say, strong opinions about Sunday…do you consider yourself one of his fans?” The Halovian’s tone is light enough but…
Something about this question is a trap. “Well, I never joined his fanclub,” Aventurine jokes, “but…I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his music. I don’t usually pay much attention to any musician in particular but I guess I ended up making an exception. Why do you ask?”
There’s a slight hesitation to Dove’s stride before he enters the hotel and holds a door for Aventurine to follow. “You don’t really fit the stereotype of one of his fans,” is the dry response. “So I was curious how that came about.”
Aventurine laughs and clutches a hand to his chest in a masterful imitation of one of Sunday’s adolescent devotees, “oh no,” he shakes his head and continues in dramatic fashion, “you just don’t understand. His artistry and depth of feeling is so moving, it crosses any boundary. It doesn’t matter who someone is, they can all be one of his fans.” When he finishes, upon noting Dove’s pursed lips and carefully controlled expression, he just winks cheekily. “But seriously…like I said earlier, whatever he has it’s not just for show. It’s worth paying attention to. And,” he makes a point of looking Dove carefully up and down, “if you’ll allow me to be shallow for a moment, it helps that he’s extraordinarily, exasperatingly gorgeous.”
The Halovian clears his throat with a quiet cough and doesn’t provide any other response right away. Instead, he seems content to order a bottle of epochal Soul Glad before he turns toward one of the hotel’s elevators. After the doors close behind them both he catches Aventurine’s gaze, “I am finding it difficult to discern how much of what you say is honest truth and how much is some sort of joke.”
The Stoneheart crosses his arms and leans his shoulder against the elevator wall, facing Dove, “it’s a pretty objective fact that the man is attractive. There’s enough magazine articles out there that’d attest to it. Along with millions of fans who’d likely murder anyone who would suggest otherwise-”
Dove seems to cringe, “please don’t imply such a thing. At least I’ve never heard that he would encourage his fans to seek violence…”
Aventurine shakes his head, “he doesn’t have to. They’re crazy about him. Overprotectiveness is a trait shared by many a fan.” He leans in a little closer, “but I bet it wouldn’t take much for him to have an army on his hands, if he wanted one.”
“Have you actually listened to his music, Mr. Aventurine?”
“Every single song, even the ones you don’t hear on the music stations anymore,” Aventurine smiles slowly, “so I know what you’re getting at. He’s a lover, not a fighter. Still…” he sighs, “that’s a lot of chips he’s just leaving on the table, so to speak.”
“What do you mean?” Dove frowns at him curiously.
“Pretend I didn’t say anything about violence,” Aventurine waves his hand a little as if brushing the earlier comment away, “Sunday still has millions of people who hang on his every word. That’s a lot of power. I’ve never seen him do anything with it. Just imagine…he could open his next concert with a song about how great Penacony is and tourism would probably jump a few thousand percent overnight.”
The Halovian before him closes his eyes and sighs softly, “I…suppose you are not entirely incorrect. Perhaps he is fully aware of the power he holds over people’s hearts and wishes not to abuse it.”
“Heh,” Aventurine nods, “guess it’s just the dirty capitalist in me…I don’t think I’d be so kind. Maybe that’s why I like him.”
Golden eyes open and study him closely. Intimately, almost. “Dirty capitalist…it doesn’t sound as though you care much for yourself, then.”
Why does he look like he sees so much?
Aventurine chuckles, “it’s a pretty apt description though, trust me. And it’s what I’m good at. I don’t mind having useful skills.”
Dove opens his mouth to respond just as the elevator chimes for their stop and the doors open. “Ah,” he says instead of whatever he might have, “here we are. This will be a sight the average visitor never sees.”
“...is that so?”
The Halovian smiles back at him with a warmth that leaves Aventurine feeling just a little unsteady. Opening the only other door in the hall before them, he reveals a platform bare of any adornment surrounded by nothing but stars. “The Reverie’s rooftop,” he explains, “it isn’t visible from the ground. Since no one comes here, there are only two things to see.” Dove gestures upward, “the sky and,” then far down below them where the rest of the Dreamscape seems to spread out almost infinitely around them, “the sweet dream.” So saying, he carefully sits down by the roof’s edge and opens the bottle of Soul Glad he’d purchased earlier. “Try this first.”
Aventurine looks around them first. The stars seem closer than even when I’m sitting in a spaceship, how does that work? In response to the thought, he just barely resists the urge to try to reach out and touch them. Only then does he settle beside the other man and accept the proffered drink. Inspecting the bottle’s label, he raises an eyebrow, “product placement?”
“Consider it a part of my demonstration.” Dove reaches over and taps the bottle with a fingertip, “Epochal Soul Glad is a memory of something that no longer exists. It was first created even before there was any true sweet dream to speak of, when this drink was a way to raise morale among an imprisoned populace. The main ingredient no longer can be found in the waking world but the Dreamscape allows for the experience to remain. Try it.”
An imprisoned populace, eh? What a pointed reminder.
Raising the bottle to his mouth, Aventurine takes a careful sip. Syrupy sweetness explodes on his tongue and as he swallows he feels a soothing sensation follow it that spreads throughout his body. Intrigued, he tips the bottle further and takes a longer swallow. “Mmm…” he licks his lips as if for the residual flavor even if there’s something daring in his gaze when he offers the bottle back to the other man. “Not bad. It’s definitely one way to make someone feel good.”
Dove closes his fingers around the bottle, just brushing Aventurine’s skin as they trade off. “Would you call it…something real?”
“I suppose I see your point, but is that all you’ve got for me?”
The other man laughs before he closes his lips around the bottle’s mouth and takes his own taste of the drink. “Here,” he leans in close enough to Aventurine that he can feel feathers brush his neck causing him to try unsuccessfully to suppress a shiver. Not seeming to notice, the Halovian stretches out his free hand toward the Dreamscape around them. “This, Mr. Aventurine. A haven built by many people over many lifetimes, all seeking something better , seeking a home. What you saw on the street below is only one side of Penacony. You didn’t see the people who use their gifts to experience the joy of creation, or those who are learning to make the world around them a better place, or the people who are finally experiencing a peace found here away from a life grown too hard…” he shakes his head slightly. “Just because you didn’t look deeper,” he meets Aventurine’s gaze from much too close, “doesn’t mean it wasn’t there all along.”
Aventurine stares back at him. Why does he have to be so fucking pretty even when he’s lecturing me? But he just laughs, the tone equal parts rueful and amused. “So you decided to give me a little perspective, Sunday?” Sunday’s eyes widen in startlement and he starts to pull away, stopping only when Aventurine’s hand catches his. “I told you…your performance doesn’t hide the man. But nice try.”
Almost as if bringing it to light is enough for Sunday’s disguise to fall apart of its own accord, “Dove’s” hair brightens to a pale bluish-gray and his feathers to pure white. His halo expands and shifts to float behind his head instead of above it and when he speaks, his voice resonates perfectly with the one Aventurine knows down in his core. “You are very observant, what gave me away?”
Emboldened by the fact that the other man hasn’t actually backed off, Aventurine strokes his fingers through some of Sunday’s hair, pleased to feel it’s just as soft as he’d imagined. He’s not quite bold enough to touch his wings but it’s insanely tempting nonetheless. “Well, I thought it might be you from the moment you said your so-called name, I knew it. You called me out on my lack of introduction and then proceeded to try to skate right by with you can call me instead of my name is. What I’ve been wondering is, though, did you come for me personally?”
Sunday sighs, “not…exactly. It is more that I decided to take an opportunity that presented itself to me. I know why you’re here but what I wanted to know is what sort of man my sister would be dealing with. And,” he tilts his head slightly, “whether it is Vasha or Aventurine that is your real name. Or neither?”
Aventurine freezes at the reminder of his hasty introduction backstage at Sunday’s concert. “Ah. That. You remembered me.”
Smiling crookedly, Sunday carefully removes Aventurine’s tinted glasses. “I thought you were very striking when you came to see me. And I couldn’t forget your eyes.”
Biting his lower lip, Aventurine rolls his eyes expressively, “that doesn’t mean you liked what you saw.”
“Fishing for a compliment? Beautiful, then,” Sunday murmurs. “I thought you were beautiful.”
“Oh.” Aventurine’s voice is small, “never really thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Tell me,” Sunday responds, “and I might give you another compliment. Did you come find me thinking to secure more favorable terms for your business here? You wasted your time, if so. I will not seek to control my sister on someone else’s behalf.”
“Oh…no…that was for me. I didn’t even know I was coming to Penacony yet,” Aventurine feels himself babbling and for once he doesn’t even care, “I never could get into one of your concerts through the front door so I finally just…pulled some strings.”
Sunday blinks, obviously not having expected that, and then lets out a snicker that develops into a quiet laughing fit, “so you are a fan. I admit, I thought it was unlikely.”
Nettled, Aventurine scoffs, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I apologize,” the Halovian sobers, “that was unfair of me. I appreciate it, truly. Thank you.” He smiles slightly and places his hand on Aventurine’s shoulder, “but somehow I think there is more to it than just that, then?”
“Well…I wasn’t lying about the exasperatingly gorgeous part.” He takes advantage of their proximity to whisper in Sunday’s ear, “it is very, very frustrating. In more ways than one.”
Sunday’s wings seem to flutter by reflex in response to that and he swallows, “teasing me now? How is that fair?”
Aventurine smiles, “you could tease me, if you wanted. That’d be fair.”
Sunday’s fingers tighten on Aventurine’s shoulder before he carefully relaxes them and slides his hand up along his neck to hold him in place when he turns his head to press their lips together.
Desire lances through the blond as they kiss and, given what seems to be tacit permission, he slides his fingers properly into Sunday’s hair as he returns the kiss. “If we’re being real,” he says when they break, “call me Vasha.”
Something approving lights Sunday’s gaze, “good. Vasha has a nicer sound,” he kisses him again and this time Aventurine tastes the Soul Glad on the Halovian’s lips.
It’s better this way he thinks and deepens the kiss, tightening his hold on the other man, having no desire to let him go now that he’s been caught.
Fortunately, Sunday doesn’t seem to mind being captured, at least for now.
And he is a very, very good kisser.
So much for all those rumors that he’s never had any flings. There’s no way he hasn’t.
When they break again, Aventurine is laughing at the thought, “the whole world is convinced you must be celibate. But I never could believe it and I think you’ve proven me right.”
The tilted smirk on Sunday’s lips is pure mischief, “perhaps no one else has ever seen through my disguises. Let’s call this our little secret, okay?”
“I wouldn’t dare share this,” Aventurine says, “I’m selfish that way.”
“Somehow I believe you’re a better person than you let on,” Sunday informs him as he lowers his head to kiss the side of Aventurine’s jaw, “so I hope you don’t disappoint me.”
Aventurine’s eyes slide shut when he next feels Sunday’s mouth on his neck, “you’re saying you want me to play nice with your sister?”
Sunday hums against his skin in agreement before he pulls back just enough to verbally respond, “I would appreciate it.” He closes his lips around Aventurine’s earlobe and sucks gently, sending a surprising jolt of arousal straight to his belly. “It’s not too much to ask, is it?”
With an abrupt shift, Aventurine moves to straddle Sunday’s lap on his knees and cups his face in his hands. “Fine.” He kisses Sunday again and is pleased to feel it reciprocated at the same time the Halovian’s arms wrap around him and pull him down closer. “But I want to see you again.”
Chuckling, Sunday nods slightly, “I’ll see what I can do, Vasha. Depending on your performance.”
Aventurine smirks, “I’ve never had a complaint yet. I don’t think this’ll be the first time…”
—
Later, after his business on Penacony is concluded, among the messages from Jade Aventurine is currently ignoring, a new one pops up from a sender he’s never seen before.
That said, the name is still recognizable and he smiles when he sees it. “What have you got for me now, Dove?”
Within, the message proclaims to be a VIP pass for every concert upcoming on Sunday’s next tour.
Below the pass is a small postscript informing him that the pass comes with a one-of-a-kind exclusive backstage meeting.
Aventurine laughs and types a quick response.
Guess you thought my performance was acceptable, eh, pretty dove?