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There is no light in Aventurine’s eyes.
It is neither Sunday’s first observation of them nor his most significant one, though it returns to him more often than the others in moments such as this; where he has little option but to stare back at those bands of violent blending into ripples of still water to secure a tear-shaped jewel pressed into the heart of an amethyst, dark and bottomless, irreflectable, almost like—
(THEIR eyes were on him, THEIR eyes were on him, THEIR eyes were on him, and THEY were staring, judging him, stripping him, the universe is sized into rings of bleeding barbs and honeyed beats, into the pitch black of million upon million of dilated irises all drilled dreamward…)
Sunday flinches, his features twisting in a reflexive attempt to recoil from the voices clawing through his mind and the unrelenting eyes trained on him, but to no avail.
It’s hard to move when his body is pressed against an alley wall that he was cornered into minutes ago where neither passersby nor sunlight can find him. It’s hard to squint when deft fingers press just above his eyes, their pressure rivaling the hot thumbs digging into the hollow bones of his headwings. It’s hard to breathe, the air is thick and his head is fuzzy from the wine he has consumed earlier, or maybe it’s simply the way Aventurine kisses him, the way his tongue moves against his own, the way they turn upwards then slides further inside to demand more access. It's hard to just stop thinking and exist in the moment, harder still when Aventurine’s fingers snake down and tilt his chin upward to keep their eyes locked, denying him the fleeting comfort of looking away, making it abundantly clear that he wants Sunday’s eyes on him and nowhere else.
On him alone and those lightless, mystic eyes of his.
Aventurine is acting restless.
It’s partially Sunday’s fault, he knows that much. Aventurine is an observant man with a unique ability to read people like open books. He could tell, no doubt, that Sunday’s gaze always slips away before it can linger. He could also take notes of how Sunday favors studying the bridge of his nose, the soft line that makes his jaw, and the subtle shift in his signature smiles rather than keeping contact with his eyes. Most people would dismiss his strange action as a lack of social tact or absentmindedness, especially those who don't know him. Aventurine never would, of course. He has known Sunday better than most people, perhaps better than Sunday himself, and maybe Sunday should’ve foreseen that things would only go downward from the awkward phase of their relationship when Aventurine stopped wearing his glasses around him, as if he was testing a theory in his head — a theory that was proven true.
Should he apologize?
Perhaps he should. Regardless of the questionable nature of their relationship, it’s simply rude of him to act in such a way. Sunday is beyond his old ways of enforcing his power over people to get under their skin, and who knows what kind of absurd conclusions Aventurine has come to in return to his silence and the feigned ignorance whenever the gambler took each and every chance to bring attention to his own eyes.
An apology is nice, an apology is reasonable, but would it matter?
He doubts it. He could offer an acceptable explanation, if nothing else: Your eyes are striking, remarkably so, but I find them traumatizingly familiar. Please don't mistake my avoidance for mockery, or disdain, or… rejection. It’s not about you, Aventurine, I’m the problem.
Sunday could even suggest some sort of a compromise for them to meet him halfway, to look at him for a few seconds at a time, or warn him before he looks away, anything. But that’s not what Aventurine is after—he doesn't need an explanation, he doesn't need a compromise, Aventurine only needs their eyes to meet and never part to prove a point.
It’s not out of vanity or insecurity, but a drive. An obsession. Aventurine simply wants to have it all, and the realization settles into Sunday’s chest with uncomfortable uncertainty. He’s familiar with that mystic drive that masks Aventurine’s action, a desire lies beyond the surface of lust and love. Possessiveness, his mind hopefully supplies, and for Sunday it’s a rather endearing trait and a source of amusement under different circumstances, but now… now Sunday knows that the tightening of his chest isn’t an indication of lust or love either, rather—
(█read, dre█d, drea█, dr█ad, d█ead, ████).
He feels the twitch at the corner of Aventurine’s mouth before the bite tears him away from the labyrinth of head, a breathless gasp slips past his lips unbidden, but Sunday is quick to swallow it down. Pain is nothing but a pleasant distraction, always been, always will. Sunday welcomes it without hesitation and seizes upon it instinctively, biting into the already throbbing flesh of his lower lip while his arms wind around the small of Aventurine’s back.
The taste of iron blooms across his tongue, sharp and familiar. Tiny sparks dance beneath his skin, tangled with the thick sting of Aventurine’s perfume where their foreheads rest together. Their eyes remain locked in stubborn defiance, but the pressure becomes easier to bear once his vision begins to blur.
Soon enough, blood mingles with saliva, doing little to temper the force behind their action. If anything, Aventurine only grows more insistent, more demanding. There's something slightly more unhinged about him tonight, and Sunday is ashamed to recognize the way it lures him regardless and how the pit of his stomach twists into a knot he can neither ignore nor unravel. How indecent, to be reduced into such a state, to eagerly allow Aventurine to suck on his lips and have his share of his blood, too.
Beneath the steams of their shared breaths and the rigged moans that break out of him, Sunday attempts to adjust his footing into a more comfortable position, leaning his head against the wall and hoping for a sliver of personal space, if only to gather his shattered himself long enough for his halo to stop beating in little sparks of dim golden light.
Aventurine closes the distance less than a heartbeat later, one measured half-step carries him neatly between his legs, laying claim to the space he'd hoped to salvage as though it had never belonged to Sunday in the first place.
Sunday groans again. He inhales through his nose, then exhales, once, twice, sharing the same air with Aventurine, trying to calm the restlessness evident in his flapping headwings—that’s too close, they’re too close, and Aventurine’s watching him, listening to him, tasting him, it all makes something inside of him heat up, and he has to grip the back of Aventurine’s shoulder so tightly until his knuckles turn white and the gambler’s shirt is almost ripped apart. He can’t breathe–the alarm bells in his brain suddenly snap and both shock and awe flood him, because Aventurine’s too close, too close, too close, and Sunday wants him to go away and he wants him to stay and his world is broken apart and rebuilt anew all at once.
The next moments are a blur, a trick of time, he knows he has momentarily passed out because his world turns darker, darker, darker, until nothing else exists but the shell of his body and orbs of violet-blue-purple-harmony-order and the dread that devours him whole.
(…and at the centre of that dream, he remains alone).
The first thing Sunday’s senses recognize is warmth.
A Dream is cold. Warmth is not. Robin’s embrace is warm, unlike the dreampool and unlike the dreamscape and like the sweet dream. Warmth is a sign of reality, an anchor to cling into, and so he grips so dearly on the warmth long before his senses take notes of where he is and who is with—of course, of course, it’s Aventurine, his forehead is still resting against him, noses are almost brushing, only they’re not kissing now because—
(Don’t look!!!!)
Sunday’s headwings jerk on their own to shield his eyes, but then his head is hurt and he’s in pain and something right behind his eyes is snapping and there’s a mind-jarring noise against his ears as his halo rolls and rolls and rolls to take as much information of his surroundings as possible, and he’s panting heavily, like he can’t actually breath—but this is ridiculous his mouth is breathing just fine—oh, he’s crying, he’s crying and sobbing and it’s all catching on his throat and he’s hyperventilating and this isn’t right it shouldn’t be he shouldn’t be acting like this what is wrong with him—
“Sunday,” he hears.
Then more urgently "Sunday."
It’s to the third calling of his name (or more, aeons know how long he has been out) when he finds the energy to rasp, a hard lump at the base of his throat moving alongside the tentative words that slip past his lips. “Stop yelling,” his voice is partnered with an unhelpful cough, then another, and another, so he takes a moment to collect himself, the distant sensation of fingers drawing circles on the small of his back guides him until he speaks again. “I... I can hear you.”
Aventurine hums and makes an obnoxious show of inhaling and exhaling, as if Sunday can’t tell he’s doing it on purpose, as if the added warmth that floods his senses isn’t making it harder for him to breathe.
“Okay,” Aventurine’s voice comes out softly, like a whisper, as he shifts, balancing their weight, and it’s only then that the rest of the world returns in hesitant fragments. “Can you look at me?”
Sunday doesn’t mean to press his lips, but he does.
Aventurine hums again. “It's okay, you can free your eyes. It'll be okay.”
Reluctant as he is, Sunday turns his head up and works on unfolding his wings. It takes him a second too long to regain his control over them, and another second to blink his eyes open. He’s welcomed to the violet-blue of Aventurine’s eyes as it swims into the center of his focus before settling into studying his wings, one hand slowly follows to align the messy feathers.
Sunday’s lips part in a sigh as heat spreads across his wings. Aventurine’s hair is spilled down over his shoulder blades rather unruly, the sides of his lips smudged as he licks over them in a manner of consternation. The fabric of his shirt is stretched taut and torn open on his neckline, exposing the curve of his neck, and it takes Sunday a second too long before he takes note of his clenching hands on his shirt.
His fingers stiffen pale and cold, but he doesn’t let go—he can’t.
Even then, Aventurine shows no sign of discomfort. Sunday dares to glance at his eyes and in them, he says a hint of something warm.
Sometimes, Sunday wonders how the hell he had caught his interest, and how it continued and marinated into something more intimate despite the horrible terms they ended up with in Penacony. There’s always that air of disinterest and self-imposed distance about him that makes it difficult for people to get close with him. Sunday knows that all too well, has experienced it himself, but still, there’s something different about the way he treats him. He’s openly antagonizing him, for the love of the game more than anything else, but the hits barely land these days and the mask of nonchalance can be as transparent as a clear water in moments like this.
Sometimes, Sunday also wonders why in the aeons’ name he is interested in him, but this is a question as hard to answer as the last one. He decides to push these sorts of questions away for another time where his head isn’t aching in dull pain.
Just then, Aventurine’s fingers tangle into his hair and a thumb presses there, where it hurts the most, and from within the small gasps that flit past Sunday’s lips, his voice returns.
“A credit for your thoughts, songbird?”
“Don’t call me that,” Sunday murmurs without thinking much of it, his head becomes wonderfully fuzzy the more pressure is put on it. He thinks he hears Aventurine laughs, feels like his face is flushing out of embarrassment. (And out of something else, but perhaps he’s just imagining it. It scares him, nonetheless).
“A million credits for your thoughts, songbird?”
Stop treating me like this, Sunday wants to say, but instead he looks at his shirt and grimaces.
“I ruined your shirt.”
Aventurine’s laughter comes louder this time. “Don’t pay that any mind. I’m rich. I will live. In faaaact,” he pauses, stretching out the word for as long as it takes for his lips to spread with the promise of an eager grin. “I’d be thrilled to have you rip the rest of my clothes and get all handy with me, but this isn’t the time for this, no?”
It’s not, this isn’t really a private place for that and Sunday doubts he has the heart to cause any more disturbance than he already did. “Maybe,” he shrugs, and a small jolt of annoyance rushes through him, fizzes out as fast as it came. It’s definitely not, but for a heartbeat, Sunday realizes that he’d welcome the distraction regardless.
Aventurine pouts childishly and a hand dips lower to work on adjusting the wrinkles in Sunday’s clothes, and everything inside of Sunday turns warm and fuzzy again. He’s unbelievable. Why’d he care about someone else’s appearance when he should focus on his own first. That’s stupid, yet he’s annoyingly endearing like this, and his lips are a mess, still tinted wet in smudged blood and his own saliva. Sunday wonders for a moment what his own lips look like right now, if it’s as messed up, if it tastes like Aventurine’s mouth.
Sunday wonders, and wonders, and wonders, while Aventurine takes on fixing him up, turning him here and there. It’s casual and genuine and amidst it all, Sunday brushes Aventurine’s hair out of his face, twirls a golden strand around his fingers for a little while, toying with it, fighting the urge to pull it near his nose to smell it, before gently brushing it behind Aventurine’s ear.
Then, on a fleeting impulse, he closes his hand around his ear and tugs a little.
Aventurine makes a sound between a squeak and a gasp. His face turns to look at him, eyes back on Sunday’s, but he’s quick to catch himself staring and shifts to look at the hand still on his ear instead, and he… he’s flustered, Sunday notes. He’s flustered and his ear is becoming impossibly hotter in mere seconds. He swats at him, almost hissing, and Sunday doesn’t know what’s so amusing about it all but he makes little efforts to push back the burst of chuckles that ripple right out of his chest.
“Sorry,” he wheezes. “Sorry, I was just—”
…furious?
Because, because—
It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. He’s weak, and it’s not fair. He doesn’t want to be weak—he understands that it’s okay to be weak, but he doesn’t want to be like that, doesn’t want to allow his weakness to take the better of him. And it’s so, so unfair, for Aventurine before it is for him, because, because—
Aventurine is seeing something through him now and he’s almost speaking it up, but Sunday’s hand comes up to pinch his ear between two fingers before the words get out, and he’s once again attempting to tug him back to him, a bit more roughly, and the startled sound that leaves him sounds closer to a moan than anything else.
He sounds beautiful, and familiar, like a melody, like a wildfire in Sunday’s core, prickling in his whole body, pooling in his belly and his fingertips, until he’s moaning, until they’re staring at each other, until his gaze drops to Aventurine’s lips, then flickering back and forth between them and Aventurine’s glittering, triple-hued eyes.
There’s no light in Aventurine’s eyes, the observation hits him yet again like a twisted knife. It’s almost like back, back, back, when his eyes lack them too, when Robin looks at him with eyes that will forever outshine his, yet the grief in them is unmistakable and it’s not until now that he finally understands, but, but—
“I'm sorry,” he repeats, loosening his hold just enough for his thumb to brush over his earlobe, still warm beneath the touch. “I... lost myself for a moment. Could we please do that again?”
One of Aventurine’s brows lifts.
“Do what?”
“The...” Sunday hesitates, the words catching in his throat. “The part where you were kissing me while looking me in the eyes, I mean.”
“Oh.”
They blink at each other, and this time… this time it’s Sunday who kisses him, he thinks, but he can’t be sure, because everything blurs together afterwards, and he’s far too overwhelmed with the body that returns between his arms to pay attention to anything else. Aventurine is moving more gently now, perhaps out of pity, perhaps he has finally realized how breakable Sunday is. He only hopes it’s not out of guilt.
Those thoughts are soon to disappear, when he presses his tongue to Aventurine’s teeth, when he opens his mouth, when he lets him brush his tongue against his; when he shivers, when he gasps, when his grip on his sleeve tightens. Sunday is still dizzy, so he’s a little sloppy, but that doesn’t matter, because Aventurine feels nice against him, because he’s making it so, so clear that he’s enjoying this—that bastard, he’s having the time of his life, his cheek is burning on his palm when he cups his face, where he nudges at his chin to angle it a up a little so Sunday can nip at his bottom lip, tugging at it a little with his teeth.
Aventurine gasps, high-pitched and needy, and he sounds really, really nice, and it makes his head spin, makes him brush his thumb down his chin to his throat so he can feel the vibration and waves of his voice. So it can rattle around in his own bones, so he can swallow it up and keep it to himself forever and ever.
“Aventurine,” he groans into his mouth, briefly stopping for air, and groans again as Aventurine’s breath fans over his face. “Look at me, please, please, I need you to look at me.”
“You’re beautiful,” he hears, and it takes a moment for him to realize it was in fact Aventruine who said it, and not him, which doesn’t make sense to him, but it was definitely his voice, and he knows Aventurine’s voice too well by now to mistake it as his, and halovians born with ears made for the gift of music, so of course he can tell this is Aventurine’s voice and—
“I love you.”
Heavens above, why is he telling him this? “Eyes on me,” he reminds him.
Aventruine hums, a breathless haha followed with his lips nuzzling against his forehead lightly, and Sunday groans again, everything in his mind is blurring together and flattening out and he’s tearing up before he knows when Aventurine holds him, when he kisses his nose, and when he finally looks at him. It’s just as overwhelming as before, the weight behind his eyes, the intensity in their lightless colors—but it’s okay, it will be okay, Aventurine says as much, and, and… even if there’s something Sunday dreads, it’s definitely not in front of him, because what he dreads is cold and shapeless and unkind and no human in this world deserves to be compared to it. Not his sister, not Aventurine—and perhaps, perhaps, not even himself.
There’s no light in Aventurine’s eyes, but tonight, Sunday learns that there’s warmth in them so intense it lingers on him hours after their parting.