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The Express’ anniversary booths are as dazzling as they are every year. Pictures never did it justice, no matter how many Topaz sent in the groupchat.
Aventurine waves at the train’s navigator across a stand of balloons.
“Your invitation surprised me, I must say,” he drawls. “No hard feelings?”
Himeko gives him a smile that could cut any gem clean open. It is not unkind, in its sharpness, but Aventurine feels the thrill of meeting a worthy opponent all too clearly.
“You are a friend of the Astral Express,” she says and her warm tone leaves no room for insincerity. “Of course you were going to be invited. Miss Topaz must have informed you, there are many other guests in attendance that opposed us before and became our allies regardless.”
Aventurine does not miss a beat, no matter how disarmingly honest the words strike at him.
“Then it appears I find myself in good company.”
“Enjoy the party, Mr. Aventurine. Don’t be a stranger. I’m sure there will be some familiar faces you are eager to chance upon as well.”
She winks at him. Aventurine smiles, no matter his confusion. This is a joke he isn’t yet in on. A small nagging sting at the back of his mind. Who else is here?
He continues on exploring through the venue with a lingering sense of dread in his stomach. Something horrible may lurk between the smell of outlandish sodas and colorful cake. The Nameless would not lay down traps in broad daylight. If they wished to cage him-
Aventurine shakes the thought off like raindrops. The rain, like so many other things, won’t find him here.
True to Himeko’s suggestion there are familiar faces amidst the crowd and those manning the stalls. Some he has met in person, others he recognizes from wanted notices.
“Thought I was gonna be the most criminal person here,” Boothill laughs as he crosses Aventurine’s path. “I didn’t know the Express would bring out even bigger guns.”
Sure enough Aventurine spots more than one Stellaron Hunters among the attendees. Kafka, wearing a dazzling black suit, is performing what looks like magic tricks to oblivious children from the Xianzhou Alliance who cheer louder than even the music Silver Wolf blasts from speakers close by.
“Perhaps the Strategic Investment Department should include some of these techniques for their next teambuilding exercise,” Jade comments as he passes by. Aventurine grudgingly joins her near a giant sandpit populated by origami birds.
“Wouldn’t that be something,” Aventurine says. “Sugilite is going to be ecstatic to hear it, I’m sure.”
“He will come around, child. Just like you.”
“I am already having a grand time.”
“Mhmm.”
Jade does not wink at him but the feeling returns, of missing something, of being left out of a joke. Aventurine considers his options.
“Any recommendations on where to head?” he tries.
Jade’s smile widens faintly. She watches the birds play and thrive in the sand with lazy curiosity. A snake basking in the sun may not chase even easy prey.
“Nothing in particular, no. Just enjoy yourself, hm? Who knows who you might encounter? The newest Nameless, even, if you’re lucky.”
Aventurine’s jaw twitches but he manages the same smile he always does, something tight-lipped and placative.
“Who knows, indeed?”
“Don’t waste any golden opportunities~”
Her words echo long after Aventurine tactically retreats into another aisle of wondrous stalls. Gigantic gears turn and fishing lines span half the venue and he finds himself face to face with another set of Stellaron Hunters. Blade and Firefly are tending to gigantic Cycranes and their shimmering metal plumage. The creatures sing beautifully and Aventurine lingers for a moment to take in their symphony.
Is this it? Is this what they hinted at?
He wanders further, aimless, thoughtless. Pretty colors and prettier exhibits and then, in the furthest corner, a fleeting glimpse of red.
“Lost again?” Aventurine asks and plops down on the floral bench, a net of green.
Acheron hums absentmindedly.
“One could say that.”
“Were there any particular spots you wanted to check out? I could make some time to try my hand at being a guide.”
There is a grudging ease to being genuine with her, as much as he still knows how to. This one has cut through all of reality, led the dead by the hand to calmer shores. She knows the rain better than he does.
“I heard of a place that houses many cats,” Acheron says. “Have you passed by it yet?”
Aventurine shakes his head.
“No, but we can look for it together.”
The silence is not somber. Life is so fleeting and so cruel and yet that light in the distance beckons them along. Nihility conceals nothing and consumes all.
“How have you been?” Acheron asks him between a rollercoaster and a tv screen, just as it had to end in their most violent encounter. Now there is beautiful calm.
Aventurine shrugs. The outfit he picked for the occasion is something flashy and bright, a mosaic neon jacket and earrings that are heavy enough to tug on his earlobes. Acheron’s suit is much more muted in color. She has no one and nothing to impress, after all, no curtain to hide behind. He envies it, sometimes. Feels sorrow, otherwise.
“Been alright,” he says. “Recovering. Business as usual. You?”
“Lost, again.”
Aventurine laughs.
“That’s something easily fixed, at least.”
“For a time.”
Always somber, this one. Refreshing. Most days he would prefer to pull a blanket over his head and stay in bed until the end times come, too.
“For a time,” Aventurine echoes. “I had no idea you like cats. You’ve never visited me and met mine.”
“Pier Point would not greet me as cordially as you might.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“One day, perhaps.”
A small thought owed to a future. It’s difficult to plan for what you barely wish to come to pass. Aventurine smiles, tipping an invisible hat.
“One day, then.”
The venue’s dome of a ceiling is split into many smaller parts. It resembles a firmament, beams connecting every segment as though someone had taken the time to paint constellations into place. A strict brush, star to star.
Aventurine almost walks into a sign pushed too far into the aisle. Only Acheron’s gentle grasp on his shoulder stops him. There’s amusement in her eyes but no judgment. Not an arbiter, not of people.
“The Nameless have outdone themselves,” Aventurine says and clears his throat, studying the sign. “Ah, perfect. This is a… map, I suppose.”
The abstract art does detail the venue in colorful splotches of ink. Between the greenest fish and a neon red pentagram he spots a mark, left by a cat that dipped its paw into paint.
“As good a guess as any,” Aventurine says. “Cute.”
Acheron leans over his shoulder.
“Have you always loved cats?”
A thought that sends him back to days wishing for rain, to not knowing animals beyond the scope of his planet. Everything is so small in the cosmos, every insignificant little life. All of it, doomed to die. Aventurine shakes his head.
“It’s more of a recent development,” he admits. “Since being given my own I may have become quite enamored. Why?”
“Only a passing curiosity.”
There is more to it, a depth to a still lake. Aventurine does not push. Such cards are better to hold onto, for one reason or another.
They pass by a stall of Immersias and Topaz mingles so effortlessly with the group of people laughing over something that Aventurine does not try to get her attention. A sting of jealousy, of bitterness, can’t be helped. Not everyone finds themselves so easily a part of the world. Guilt follows, anger, the cycle that never ends. He takes a breath and moves on. Acheron keeps the cards to herself, too, lets him off the hook.
“The map also showed a cocktail stall,” Aventurine says. “Perhaps that will be stop number 2.”
“The Memokeeper has invited me as well.”
“Ah, maybe I’ll pass then.”
“Why?”
“Now, while I would grace you with the delight of my company, I do believe Miss Black Swan asked you on a date.”
“You think you’re not wanted,” Acheron says, calm, as she does all things.
Aventurine opens his mouth to close it again.
“Well.”
“I wouldn’t invite you if you were not welcome.”
“To be fair, you didn’t explicitly invite me.”
“That is fair,” Acheron says with half a smile. “Oh, we’re almost there, aren’t we?”
Before them, at the venue’s edge, several small enclosed stalls line the walls. Between one that resembles a greenhouse and an upside-down pyramid filled with pitch-black darkness stands a cozy little hut. The green roof matches the large pawprint-shaped door. Not much can be seen through the windows because the glass has been covered in glowing stickers. The smell of coffee beckons.
“Here we go,” Aventurine says. “Delivered you safe and sound.”
Acheron lingers.
“You’re leaving?”
“And not look at the cats? Hah. No, of course I’m going to look at the cats.”
The sense of foreboding that Jade’s comment has left with him only intensifies as Aventurine steps past the white picket fence and over gently swaying grass. A simulated lawn, wildflowers leaning into a breeze the venue doesn’t have.
“Fun,” he comments, a hand on the door handle.
He pulls and the cat café is revealed to him. Rustic wood paneling and pastel decorations. Cat-safe plants fastened to high shelves. Cat towers, balls of yarn, and a display of fresh pastries and amidst it all-
The blissful, oblivious moment of calm passes.
Aventurine walks through the paw print door and freezes. Acheron bumps into him but her question doesn’t register to his ears. Of course Jade didn’t mean Boothill or Acheron or the Hunters. Of course Jade meant Sunday, of all people.
The newest Nameless, it rattles around in Aventurine’s skull. Then nothing moves anymore because his mind is delightfully blank as the sight fully sinks in.
Sunday is surrounded by a number of cats, speaking to one perched on the counter with a tenderness that makes Aventurine’s heart ache. Fluttering wings, soft smile, a voice to melt anyone’s thoughts into a puddle.
Sunday also, devastatingly, wears a black and white maid outfit, a cat tail, and cat ears. The feline features move, Aventurine’s dazed mind notes, so it must be some illusion or temporary spell. They look soft and fluffy. So does Sunday’s hair, so do the suddenly expressive feathers.
Aventurine’s eyes wander from the dress’ ornate collar over Sunday’s slim waist to his legs. Stockings, lacey, leaving a small gap of thigh to stare at. Heeled boots with bows on them to match the ones all over the dress and fastened to Sunday’s choker. Most of the fabric is black to contrast pale skin but there are white accents underlying it all to break up the monotony.
Monotony, Aventurine’s mind repeats to itself, eyes glued to Sunday’s lips. Have they always looked so nice?
The spell breaks as Acheron pushes him over the doorstep and the bell above them finally chimes. It breaks for long enough to step inside, at least, but seeing Sunday turn to them and then smile, of all things, does not help Aventurine’s struggle.
“Oh, welcome,” Sunday says and his cat ears and wings twitch in surprised delight. “I was hoping to see you both here today if you’d allow me to speak with you a while.”
Acheron, her hand still on Aventurine’s shoulder, steps a bit closer.
“I was looking for the cats. But go ahead.”
Aventurine thinks what comes out of his mouth is something like “guh?” but neither Sunday nor Acheron look surprised by his reaction so his ears must simply be ringing too loud. The dress’ fabric moves like gentle ocean waves around Sunday’s body. Has he always filled out his clothes so well?
“Well, Miss Acheron, I was going to say something to you in private, if possible, but only if you are amenable.”
“Anything you’d like to say to me you can say in front of him,” Acheron responds, a fact as calm as any other.
Sunday has the audacity to laugh. Not one of the bitter curt puffs of breath that were still horrendously charming, but rather a genuine bell chime of laughter, something free and unguarded. Aventurine stares so much his eyes hurt.
“Well then,” Sunday says and takes a breath to steady himself. “I would like to thank you for you involvement in Penacony. Without your perception and heart my foolish plans might have come to pass and brought harm to many people. You have my heartfelt gratitude for deciding to help put a stop to it.”
He gives a little bow, too, inclining his head. Rehearsed, yes, but not pretending. The knowledge that Sunday, always so put together Sunday, was nervous and determined enough to practice a heartfelt apology leaves Aventurine reeling. Even Acheron looks impressed, if still skeptical. Aventurine wonders if by the time he is spoken to he will manage a second syllable. The way the stockings whisper against Sunday’s thighs doesn’t bode well.
“It was my blade who did most of the work,” Acheron says. “And it was neither for you nor done for thanks.”
Sunday nods.
“That may be true but it changes nothing about its impact. And a blade, in my eyes, is only ever as much as the one who wields it.”
“You do have a knack for flattery.”
“Stating the truth hardly counts as flattery.”
“You said you had something to say to both of us, Mr. Sunday.”
And Aventurine knows he is doomed as Sunday turns to him, so achingly sincere and alive, and says: “You were a truly formidable opponent, and someone I greatly admire for many reasons. I don’t expect either of your forgiveness but I would at least like to apologize for the way I acted, especially you, Mr. Aventurine. As much as it was part of your scheme, I was out of line.”
Sunday’s eyes are more intensely golden now that they are no longer cold and distant. Truly like a sun, Aventurine unhelpfully decides. It takes him a few seconds to realize he is expected to speak.
“It was just business,” he says, too curt and dismissive. Aventurine’s voice is rough. Who is supposed to come up with a coherent sentence when Sunday’s low murmur is almost more delicate than all the lace adorning him? Handsome, so handsome.
Sunday’s face doesn’t fall but his bushy cat tail droops. Aventurine wonders if he would purr if someone pet him. Someone nondescript. Someone-
“Well, that was what I wished to say,” Sunday concludes, flushing in a way that still only makes him prettier. “Thank you for your time. Miss Acheron, would you still like to be introduced to the cats?”
Acheron’s ‘yes’ comes comically fast. She follows Sunday to the counter, abandoning Aventurine to his fate. He stays by the door, as though keeping a distance could somehow convince his brain to cease daydreaming. How warm it would be to have Sunday on his lap, how nice to interlace their fingers, how-
“Oh, Buttons seems to have taken a liking to you,” Sunday says. “Would you like to hold her?”
Aventurine blinks, returning to the room only to find the question directed towards Acheron. She holds out her hand to the tabby cat, hesitant, cautious. The cat, bless its heart, is not deterred in its quest and starts to climb Acheron before she can ever protest. It settles, belly up, in the crook of her arm.
“Do let me know if it bothers you,” Sunday says, sounding faintly concerned. “No matter how cute they are.”
Acheron shakes her head. The tension has left her, the vigilance needed to oppose an aeon undergoing ascension. This is not Penacony, this is not a trap.
“It does not.”
The cat purrs in her hold. Not a care in the world, not a thought behind its closed eyes. Little paws knead at Acheron’s arm. She glances towards Aventurine, her gaze as divided as the horizon itself.
“I forgot what they feel like,” she says, to both, to neither. “How this sound travels.”
Sunday laughs softly.
“They are eager to remind you.”
“Even though-“
Acheron does not finish her sentence. Beyond that horizon of existence there still remains a god in need of killing.
“They are wonderful judges of character,” Sunday says. “There can be no mistake.”
Aventurine, spiraling in torment still, sinks deeper into despair. He shuffles a step towards the wall, only to have something to lean against. Whatever grudge Jade thinks he keeps never existed in the first place. Penacony was just business, Mr. Sunday Oak was fascinating and surprising and only mildly irksome, in that order, and this new venture with the Express is an intriguing mystery at worst. That was before this.
Sunday’s tail happily swishes behind him as he chats with Acheron. There is guilt and gloom clinging to all three of them, a shared past and calamity and regret, but Aventurine can’t help but be mesmerized by simple warmth. The costume remains an added bonus. An incredibly distracting added bonus. That waist needs to be kept warm with an arm looped around it.
Aventurine debates joining them, swaggering over and grinning as he could. A charming word, then another, until he had Sunday in the palm of his hand.
But-
But Acheron looks happy. It isn’t much, it isn’t healing a world of hurt, but she has a moment of feeling real and good.
But Sunday is not the same, clearly, not the holier-than-thou pretender whose façade needed breaking, who would make a fun distraction through a game of cat and dove.
So Aventurine stays where he is because the lie would be a disservice to a friend and the faint self beneath unwanted by another. He stays, stuck, following the lines of Sunday’s profile with his gaze. If I caressed your brow, would you close your eyes? Would you lean on me? Trust me?
Their chatter makes for pleasant background noise. Occasionally they look to him and he busies himself with some of the décor or the pastry shelf until they redirect their attention. Sunday explains in great detail whatever Acheron points him towards, fluttering wings and all. It is soothing, lulling Aventurine into a false sense of security.
By the time Acheron places a hand on his shoulder on her way out the door he is not ready to face his predicament yet.
“His heart is sincere,” she says under her breath. “There is nothing to fear. Also, my offer for the drink still stands.”
The encouragement only sends more heat to his face. Aventurine nods, smiles, lets Acheron leave instead of telling her I’m not scared, I’m weak to angelic catboys apparently. Sunday’s heart isn’t the issue. Aventurine’s, however, is in peril.
The silence that descends upon the room only lasts an instant. A meow startles the world back into being.
“No, no, you can’t climb the metal beams, Mr. Ravioli,” Sunday laughs, prying a tiny orange kitten off of the venue’s boundaries that make up the café’s back wall. “Come now, let’s get you back to the others.”
Aventurine watches him handle the small cat with nimble hands. Sweet, so sweet, and the lace still whispers along. When Sunday bends down to place the kitten into a basket alongside its many purring siblings Aventurine gets another good eyeful of his thighs. Plush, getting squished ever so slightly by the stockings.
Aventurine turns away so fast his head spins. His face burns with a very unappreciated blush and this is not how he ever envisioned this meeting to go. He wanted it to be something mysterious, brief, to duel with words and innuendo. This is dangerous, sincerity always is.
“Oh, apologies, Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday says behind him. “You seem… distracted so I did not wish to drag you into conversation or keep you longer than you have time for. If you would like some of the food or drink I am at your disposal, of course.”
It takes all his willpower to face Sunday again but Aventurine- heroically- manages.
“Do you have a fever?” Sunday asks, worried. Worried. A crease in his brow, a twitch in his wings. The cat ears join his feathers, too, a new chorus.
Aventurine blinks.
“What’s with the getup?”
It comes out much less charming, much more challenging. He watches in real time as Sunday’s confident demeanor melts into self-consciousness.
“It’s a long story,” Sunday says, tugging on the hem of his gloves, his sleeves, his smile weakening just enough for another pretender to take note.
Aventurine huffs, weakly.
“Lose a bet or something?”
“I thought it might fit the occasion.”
OH FUCK HE PICKED IT HIMSELF, Aventurine’s poor brain screams. HE PICKED IT AND YOU RUINED IT. OH NO!?
“I should go,” he says instead and heads for the door before any cat angel maid can sway him otherwise. It is the least graceful retreat of his life, perhaps, but it is still successful. The venue awaits outside. The same breeze, the same fence. All designed to be peaceful and calm.
Three aisles farther his head finally cools down enough to find another rational thought.
“He thinks you hate him,” Aventurine mutters to himself, watching a slot machine spin its wheels endlessly. “How else could that be interpreted?”
The Nameless are important allies. The Express and the Strategic Investment Department need to get along. However, devastatingly, Aventurine knows that any squabbles between Sunday and him would change nothing. Sunday, this new Sunday, was apologetic and accommodating.
“Oh, he is going to blame himself,” Aventurine says and hides his face in his hands. “Ugh.”
“Sir, are you alright?” the girl overseeing the fireworks asks him. “My chat said you’ve been talking to yourself.”
The smile slides onto his face so easily. Suddenly, the performance is effortless again.
“I’m great, thank you,” he says and laughs. “Practicing for my part in one of the plays, don’t mind me.”
“Aw, chat, see? He’s not a raving lunatic after all!”
The way back to the café is longer than his escape felt. Hasty, heart beating out of his chest. A momentary lapse in judgment. The second attempt will go better. Aventurine will walk past that fence and the door and not fumble this again.
It all goes wrong on the threshold once more. The windows remain hard to see through and the door flies open and then, for the third time today, Aventurine walks into something.
“Ah!” said something yelps.
There is no moment of confusion as they plummet to the floor. Aventurine sees Sunday’s wide eyes and fluttering wings and then they hit the floor with a loud thud. It hurts, immediately, Aventurine’s knees scraping and he hisses in pain. Sunday, however, makes a sound like he is dying. The shock trickles cold down Aventurine’s back. He scoots backwards, away, removing his weight from Sunday’s legs. Then closer again, hasty. There’s no blood. No blood.
“Are you hurt?” he asks weakly.
Sunday breathes shallow, grimacing, trembling.
“I- yes.”
“Where?”
“I landed on my wing, it-“
“Let me see,” Aventurine blurts out. “It’s the least I can do.”
The surprise on Sunday’s face is overshadowed by pain. He hesitates, no wonder, but nods eventually. The fabric of his pretty dress still whispers but it is much easier to focus with an important task.
Aventurine places a hand on Sunday’s side. Warm, so warm. He follows the line of a bow until his fingertips meet feathers. Midnight blue, folded so tight against his body they look like parts of the fabric.
“Can you open them?” he asks.
Sunday tries. The tremor that shakes him runs through his whole body. Something’s deeply, deeply wrong. Aventurine lifts his hands and then drops them onto his lap helplessly.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Sunday?”
Sunday’s tail swishes over the floor. Some of the cats take notice, peek over the counter to watch the strange scene.
“It’s unsightly. I don’t- this is not something-“
“I’m not going to say anything,” Aventurine huffs. “Let me help, hm? To make up for my clumsiness?”
Some of the tension leaves Sunday immediately. So on edge, so easily spooked. A house of card toppled by a few callous words. Aventurine realizes, by the by, that it doesn’t please him to see.
“I liked your apology,” he says, keeping a palm on Sunday’s back, tracing the feathers, soothing them. “Cute.”
Sunday winces again.
“I meant it.”
“I know. I’m not making fun of you.”
“Ah.”
“You look good,” Aventurine says, finally, flushing. “And we’ll get your wing fixed up, too. Alright?”
“Alright.”
And with every brush of his thumb Sunday relaxes more. The whisper of lace is closer than ever. Then, suddenly, the rustling of feathers joins.
Sunday’s wings spread out across Aventurine’s lap. In the light they shimmer, iridescent like an oil spill. The feathers are well taken care of, long and thin and soft.
“They’re beautiful,” Aventurine says. It can be easy. A measure of truth to mend the rift.
Sunday doesn’t protest as Aventurine directs him to lay down. With his upper body draped over Aventurine’s legs his wings are easily accessible.
“I don’t think anything broke,” Aventurine reports, rubbing along the bone. “How’s the pain?”
“Better.”
Still so quiet. More confidence to coax back out. Aventurine rubs the spots where the flight wings meet Sunday’s lower back.
“Relax. Can you do that for me?”
“I’m not sure that I can.”
“What’s got you so panicked, hm? Was it something I did? Something I said?”
The silence is answer enough. Aventurine casts a glance to the door and pushes it shut with his elbow. No one outside needs to watch Sunday unravel.
“I had certain… anxieties even before your arrival,” Sunday admits, cat ears pressed against his head. “But I can’t say the scrutiny and disapproval helped.”
Disapproval, Aventurine notes and almost laughs. How cruel that would be, another insult on the board.
“So when I left, you got caught up in those anxieties?”
“You could say that.”
“What are they like?”
His fingertips caress along the feathers, adjusting them all, smoothing them out, rubbing the ache from their base. Sunday’s flight wings settle down. The ones behind his ears droop as he sighs.
“It is embarrassing, isn’t it? For me to parade myself around like this. To put on the costume of something sweeter, something less burdened.”
“Something?”
“Mhm. And now, to put you in a position where you feel obligated to comfort me-“
“I put myself in that position by falling on you, angel,” Aventurine protests and flicks one of Sunday’s fluffy cat ears. “How’s the pain now, anyway?”
“Barely there.”
“Uhuh. So it isn’t gone?”
“…no.”
“Nothing a bit of tender attention can’t fix,” Aventurine says before he can think better of it. There is no blood. Nothing is broken. He has seen worse, so much worse. And yet the sight of Sunday, hurt by his thoughtless stumbling, has Aventurine’s fingers twitch to soothe it all away. Selfishly, perhaps. Did I stir your heart, too, with curiosity?
“You caught me off guard,” Aventurine finally admits, fingers shaking where he buries them in soft feathers. “And not because I dislike the outfit, you silly thing.”
Sunday goes very still and quiet. Some of the cats have finally made their way over, cautious step after step. They sniff the shiny feathers. Aventurine gently nudges them away before any murderous paws can be lifted into the air.
As he turns back Sunday is watching him, headwings puffed up, blinking owlishly. The blush on his face starts to burn on Aventurine’s too.
“You didn’t have a fever,” Sunday ascertains.
The dress’ fabric crinkles as he sits up- not fully, not too far, because the strain in his wing still pulls him down onto Aventurine’s lap. Aventurine thinks he could get used to it quite easily.
“That’s correct,” Aventurine says and clears his throat. “I did not, in fact, have a fever.”
A cat bumps into his leg. Purring and curious and worried, perhaps, alongside two fools who needn’t have.
Sunday laughs and it is that same bell chime, relieved and joyful in a way that neither of them could have dreamed of on the Planet of Festivities. That rigid restraint is washed away by something kinder than the rain.
Aventurine covets in a way unfamiliar to even himself. There is the thrill of a game, of losing his life or winning it back over and over, and there is this, this strange tender thing. Sunday’s earnestness is addicting. The handsome façade was scraped away to reveal something even more enticing.
“That is good to hear, really,” Sunday says and studies Aventurine with a hint of a smile. “I… let some of the nightmare scenarios I had imagined for our reunion cloud my judgment. I thought you were disgusted, not…”
He trails off and laughs again. His flight wings fold in slightly, a loose hug around Aventurine’s side. Then, as though catching himself in the act, they spread out. Hasty. Eager.
“Not disgusted,” Aventurine says and plays with one of the bows, the feathers. “Far from it.”
“I should mention I also enjoy the sight of your outfit very much.”
“Even through the pain?”
“It’s all better already,” Sunday says and places a hand on Aventurine’s. “Thank you.”
The soft lace still whispers of a future. Dangerous, again, sincerity and wishfulness, but that only lets it beckon sweeter. Aventurine stares at Sunday’s lips, the way they twitch and curve with every smile gifted.
You got it bad, he admonishes himself but even that has no heat.
“You are very good with your hands,” Sunday comments and leans into Aventurine’s touch, the palm that lays warm against his waist. “Forgive me for indulging in your care for a while.”
It short-circuits Aventurine’s brain again. A flash of heat that travels through his whole body, followed by the mortifying gooey warmth nesting in his chest.
“Indulge away,” he manages, a herculean task. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Unfortunately I will have to return to my job here soon, there will be people arriving eventually.”
Sunday’s tone is regretful and Aventurine can’t help but agree. This is so special, this moment tucked away from prying eyes. A magical place of pastries and cats where nothing matters except them, where Aventurine can fumble and still win with no losses. He sighs.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“If you-“ Sunday starts and his wings flutter too much as he loses heart, shaking his head. “Nevermind.”
Aventurins twirls a lock of Sunday’s grey hair between his fingers.
“What is it?”
“You’ve already been held up for so long.”
“Mr. Sunday,” Aventurine drawls and presses a kiss to Sunday’s palm. “I never held a grudge and you look lovely today. Will you let me take you out after your shift ends?”
“Sunny, you scored a date! We’re so proud of you!” the Trailblazer yells across five other stalls. Their thumbs up follows.
Aventurine tries to stifle his laughter but a flustered Sunday is simply too enchanting. The puffed up fluttering wings are cute, yes, but it’s the cat ears and tail that betray him fully.
Aventurine’s amusement only lasts until he sees Boothill pop up next to the Trailblazer, grinning with teeth so sharp he may bite Oswaldo Schneider’s throat clean from his neck when the time comes.
“Real proud of you, too, Mr. IPC executive who I am not in any way affiliated with!”
“Karma,” Sunday mumbles.
Aventurine frowns at him but they’re both flushed and flustered and put on the spot and that alone mends some of the wounded pride. A bandaid, a balm.
They continue their stroll through the venue together, disregarding the many prying eyes following them. Most of them mean well. Most of them-
“There you are,” Topaz says, stepping in their path with Numby perched on her shoulder. “And hello again, Mr. Sunday. If you need rescuing from my colleague, please feel free to contact a professional at any time-“
Aventurine raises an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sunday says and inclines his head. “Mr. Aventurine has been very gracious about settling our differences and moving forward towards a common goal.”
“Since when are you two acquainted, let alone conspiring against me?”
Topaz shakes her head.
“No conspiracies here. I did have something to say to you so let me interrupt your date for a second, ‘kay?”
She tugs Aventurine into a quieter spot between two stalls before he can even protest. The weight of her palms om his shoulders is accusation and absolution alike.
“Congrats on all that, first of all,” she says. “But I saw you slink past the booth I was at looking all mopey earlier. I told you to come say hi if you show up today and I meant that. So next time don’t just run off.”
You are wanted here, Topaz doesn’t say but Aventurine hears it loud and clear. Too sincere, as many things today.
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“Sure. Now go back to your catboybird. That was all. I’ll send you pictures of Numby in costumes later and you better pretend they are the best thing you’ve ever seen.”
And it’s a deal, as simple as that. The cosmos moves on. Topaz’ exasperation only ever hides genuine worry and Aventurine will squirm and frown and wish for a different shape to hide in. One that wears the truth well, that can give back what he is given.
Sunday waits on the side of the aisle. His eyes are drifting from booth to booth. Head in the clouds, perhaps, his fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with parts of the lacey dress. It fits him so well, delicate gloves and flowing frills.
The moment Aventurine enters his vision again Sunday perks up. His cat ears twitch and so does his tail, excitement shared freely.
“Hello again,” he says. “I hope everything is alright.”
Aventurine leans against the booth next to him, letting his eyes trail up and down the whole lovely picture again.
“Everything’s alright, yeah. No conspiracies on my end.”
“Oh, that- Miss Topaz and I met earlier today. I helped calm her companion.”
“Ah. No wonder you are best friends in her eyes now.”
“Well, I would like to help mend all that I severed so carelessly in Penacony-“
“Angel,” Aventurine says and pushes a strand of Sunday’s hair behind his ear before petting along the shell. “Relax. No need to beat yourself up over the past when we are here and willing to do all the mending, hm?”
Sunday’s gaze softens.
“I hope you tell yourself the same.”
The sentiment takes a moment to reach Aventurine, a leaf lazily sailing towards the earth until it finally makes contact. A descent so slow it hardly feels the landing.
Penacony was just business. Guilt, if there ever existed any, was only directed at the concept of Sunday, not the person he met and quarreled with. However, as the leaf gently settles on even ground, Aventurine knows there has been change in just a few months.
He asked Jade about that prisoner, he did comment on it to the Nameless when they showed up to help with Currency Wars. A mystery, intriguing.
And then today, today, today-
“Hm,” Aventurine says and cups Sunday’s jaw. “You’re no less perceptive, Mr. Sunday.”
Sunday blushes bright red. It warms his skin up, too, pleasant to caress.
“You are… quite forward now.”
“With how I started today I still have some ground to make up.”
“Ground.”
“Perhaps not my most elegant choice of phrase.”
“What would it entail, to make up for it?” Sunday asks, turning his head just so until his cheek fits perfectly against Aventurine’s palm. “If I said I would wish for you to try?”
Mirth and genuine interest make for a horribly enticing mixture. Aventurine’s stomach brims with butterflies, with a giddiness he hadn’t known he was capable of. It outlasts everything, it seems, his potential to want.
“Whatever you want it to entail,” he replies, a low murmur, ardent, almost feverish.
Sunday smiles.
“A longer walk around the venue, perhaps. And then… something quieter away from all these watchful eyes.”
Getting Sunday to indulge is a fascinating task on its own. Rewarding, too, watching him light up at encouragement no matter how much he still tries to keep up an air of regal grace.
Cute, Aventurine thinks as they try their hand at a much too complicated fishing minigame and manage to reel in a gigantic horned whale with their combined efforts. Sunday focused to do well, even in this small a game.
Cute, Aventurine thinks as he buys Sunday ice cream only to be met with equally determined insistence to return the gesture.
Priceless, all of it. The credits that overflow Aventurine’s pockets can’t buy him the same sweet treat that Sunday assembles for him with the discerning eye of someone who cares to make him happy.
Acheron and Black Swan are pleasant company. A comment here and there over fruity cocktails. Himeko joins for a while, too, ruffling Sunday’s hair and giving Aventurine another knowing look.
“No one has laughed at this outfit yet,” Sunday admits, slightly tipsy. “I keep expecting them to. Like they are lulling me into a false sense of safety so it hurts more when they strike.”
“Aw, Sunday, no,” March pipes up from the side. “You look so cute. We were all so happy to see you so comfy. Tell him how good he looks, Aventurine, right meow-“
Aventurine laughs, keeping an arm around Sunday’s waist. They have gravitated closer and closer and now there is no removing one from the other.
“Gladly, gladly.”
It is a lively group and livelier party but the longer it goes on the cozier that promise of quieter becomes. Sunday’s wings flutter and Aventurine’s heart follows so willingly.
“Mr. Aventurine’s usage of supposedly clashing colors to create an immaculately coherent whole is inspirational,” Sunday tells Boothill while the cowboy nods sagely. “I hope he knows that.”
Boothill glances at Aventurine, still glued to Sunday.
“If only he was around to hear it.”
“If only.”
“I think you should take your bird friend home, partner, he’s had like five drinks too many.”
Sunday does purr.
Aventurine gets to find out in a taxi’s backseat on the way to his apartment. The conversation slowed down naturally, the pleasant buzz of excitement fading to make way for something quieter. Sunday rested his head on Aventurine’s shoulder and then, blessedly, the low rumbling enveloped them both.
“You can’t be real,” Aventurine mumbles and tightens his hold around Sunday’s waist, rubbing his side. “Have mercy, please.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“Not for this, at least.”
“I told you I am not holding a grudge. I hurt you just as much.”
“And now you’re spoiling me,” Sunday huffs, interrupting his own purrs. “I... can’t say I’m used to all this attention.”
“Did you pretend to be drunk to escape the crowd, pretty bird?”
“Yes.”
“So eager to go home with me.”
“Mhm.”
“Trustful, too.”
“I suppose so,” Sunday says and yawns. “So are you. That is the point of this, in a way, no?”
To figure themselves and each other out. To take risks and see them pay off. More warmth settles in Aventurine.
“Our encounter encouraged you to rely on your luck a little more, hm?”
“I won’t deny that,” Sunday says, fluffy ears twitching. A lazy cat basking in the sun, relaxed and pliant. Aventurine wants. To spoil him rotten, to be looked at so joyously, to hoard trust like others would coin.
They kiss as they stumble over the threshold to Aventurine’s apartment. Finally, finally, Aventurine’s hands get to grasp Sunday’s plush thighs, keeping him up until they tumble onto the couch.
“We could have done this for months,” Aventurine sighs against Sunday’s eager lips. “In your office, even.”
“It’s better this way.”
It is, isn’t it, Aventurine wonders. To have this Sunday, shaky but determined on a new path, on his lap. To know the stages they would readily martyr themselves on, to know the depth of the heart and the mind alike. The game is won, the dance is done, now there can be this.
“It’s better this way,” Aventurine echoes and kneads at Sunday’s lower back. “A much sweeter taste.”
The purr sends shivers down his spine.
“And next year,” Sunday says and nuzzles into Aventurine’s jaw, “maybe you can be a foxmaid and match outfits with me.”
Stunned, flustered, enamored- Aventurine can’t not kiss him again.