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"Hey," Aventurine says, looking up from where he's splayed across Sunday's lap and reaching a hand up to hover over his hair, a silent ask for permission to touch it. Sunday bats his hand away, and he lets it flop above his head, continuing to look at the person above him.
"Hey," he tries again. He hums this time, making Aventurine's lips curve into a pleased smile as he watches the Halovian turn a page of the book he has resting atop his stomach, otherwise paying him no mind. "Say, you've never let me touch your hair. Is it…"
Sunday furrows his brows. "Is it what?"
He shrugs. "Well, you know."
"I don't, actually. Why is my hair any of your business?"
Aventurine ignores the way his neck flushes at the conversation he's willingly inflicted upon himself and pushes forward, propping himself up on his shoulders, a chuckle escaping him at the indignant noise Sunday makes at his book sliding down from Aventurine's shift in position.
"Spit it out." Sunday huffs.
"Is your hair… feathery?"
"Feathery?"
"I don't know. You have feathers in your hair, it would make sense if the rest of it was something like that too."
Sunday looks at him, scandalized. "No."
"Really?"
He raises a brow. "You can't possibly think that. My hair doesn't even look like feathers."
Aventurine bites his lip. Well, I can't think of another reason you don't like it being touched."
""Has it ever occurred to you that I just don't like the feeling?"
He scoffs. "You're too touch-starved for that. I was thinking that if it's… feathery… that it might be sensitive because of that."
Sunday sucks in a breath and reaches for his book. He slides his bookmark into place and sets it on the coffee table next to him. "It is."
It comes out as a mumble. Aventurine kicks his legs up and around, sitting up and scooting beside him. "Huh?"
"It… is. Sensitive." He bites out.
"Oh." The word falls out of his mouth without him even realizing, melting into the air with the building tension of this conversation. It's a touchy subject, he can tell. If he were kind, he'd move his conversation along to an unrelated topic, letting the Halovian off without question.
Aventurine is not kind. He senses a soft spot in a cold, thick exterior and presses at it for all it's worth. Even if it means warping the spot until it eventually cracks and falls to pieces.
Sunday is full of poorly hidden weak spots that he loves to press.
"You're sensitive, huh?" His voice syrupy and sickly sweet. The tactic doesn't go unnoticed by Sunday, yet he shifts his legs anyway.
"No."
"You just said-"
"I'm not. It's just…"
Aventurine hums in a sinister curiosity. "Do you like having your hair touched?"
He goes silent. Aventurine looks him over, checking in. He may love to push him, but he knows when he's going too far. This isn't one of those times, if the inviting look in his eyes practically begging him to test — to prod — is anything to go by.
Not unlike a few minutes ago, he hovers his hand over Sunday's hair once again. Instead of batting it away this time, he simply closes his eyes.
Taking it as the permission it is, he uses a single finger and slowly runs it across his scalp. His shiver at the sensation only eggs him on and, after running the finger around his ear — careful to avoid the wings behind it — he starts gently running his fingers through the tangle of hair at the crown of his head.
His hair, while not feathery, is incredibly soft. It's far less coarse than the hair he's felt in the past — granted, he never paid much attention to hair above the chest. Not like this.
He repeats the motion, watching his hair run through his fingers as his hand slides back and forth. Eventually, he starts playing with small strands, lifting them up and letting them fall in every which way. All the while, Sunday's shoulders begin to relax into himself.
Aventurine smiles when he sees the wings near his ears flutter, pleased. "Not denying it anymore, are we?" He can't help but tease.
Sunday doesn't bother giving him a response, not that he had even anticipated one at this point.
After the third time of his head starting to fall forward, it's clear he's starting to fall asleep. Something warm curls in his stomach at the sight, unusually pleased at the idea that he's brought enough peace for him to practically fall asleep here and now.
A small, soft whine escapes him when he takes his hand out of his hair in favor of shifting back against the pillows of his bed. He chuckles lightly, hushing him with a hum as he guides his head into his lap. "You really like this, huh?"
He snaps his eyes open solely to glare at the man. "Shut up," he huffs and yet his bark has no semblance of bite. Aventurine simply puts his hand back in his hair and starts running his fingers through it again. His eyes flutter closed as he shoves his head into his thighs, allowing him full access to the hair on the back of his head.
His hair is long enough for him to cut it around his fingers a few times, but not enough for him to do much else. He eventually starts pressing the pads of his fingers into his scalp, testing different scrunching and scratching motions and watching his breathing change with each motion. He traces shapes into his hair too, stars and triangles, and circles that are most definitely coins.
He doesn't notice when Sunday's breathing starts to even out until he's fully asleep. It's nice for him, too; he's coming to realize. He's never been one to please others, but watching the person under him go from rigid and tense to asleep in his lap fills him with a sort of satisfaction he'll never admit to.
Soon, he finds his own eyes beginning to close out of his own will. With a hand still in Sunday's hair, he leans over to click off the lamp at his bedside and shifts as far down into his bed as he can without waking him. He doesn't get far before he resigns himself to a night of sleeping sitting up, but — like everything — it was worth a try.