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@gemkun asked: with the proceedings underway and finalised , he , like the other applicants , alights from the stage. alongside the winning bidder. ❝ why am i not surprised ? ❞ echoes his congratulations , with perhaps , a hint of amusement. ❝ well , i am a man of my word. ❞ shifting on sandals , he tips to regard the supposedly , victorious recipient. pitching a gaze that gleams with intrigue. ❝ as promised , you may select one topic of your choice. i have set aside the rest of the day for this , but i imagine you will not use it up entirely. you have , after all , extended your fair share of complaints surrounding the exceedingly long and unnecessary periods classes run for. despite how i might remind you it is required for one’s engagement. ❞
it occurs to him , that the concept of a lesson can be skewed. especially , when it came to the likes of the strategist , whose job involved navigating twists and turns. and by proxy , creating them too. he sighs at this revelation , but trusts that aventurine will not overstep , when it is in light of charity.
❝ so , tell me , gambler — what do you wish to know ? ❞
Never let it be said that Aventurine of the Stonehearts was cheap or stingy. He'd kept his initial bids on the low end to encourage a little friendly competition and let others have their fun, but when the bidding had really heated up, there was no holding back. It was for a good cause, after all—the very reason he was willing to bid on another person in the first place, aside from the person in question being the esteemed Veritas Ratio and the real prize being time spent with the good doctor.
With the auction ended, he waits at the edge of the stage, eager to claim his reward for his efforts in sliding in with a winning bid at the last fraction of a second. Grinning from ear to ear, he offers an outstretched hand as Ratio descends, curious if the scholar will accept it or turn him down. The sigh does not escape him, and the message behind it is clear, but he doesn't intend to skew the offer in any way beyond its obvious intent. He'll behave—this time, at least, out of respect for the auction's charitable purpose.
"Now, Ratio, when have I ever complained about the time length of a class? I think you must have been dreaming. If you'd rather I start showing up in your classes so that I can occasionally complain about them just for you... I'm sure that could be arranged." Still grinning, he shrugs, nonchalantly starting to stroll away from the stage and expecting Ratio to follow.
"As for my prize, I've been doing some thinking. I don't know too much about where you're from, but people from there probably have at least one unique native language of some kind, right? Most planets are that way, I've noticed. If you don't have anything against the idea, I was thinking...you could teach me the basics of it; how the grammar works, a few simple words, some important or common conversational phrases...stuff like that. That doesn't sound too bad, right, Doc?"
ㅤㅤㅤ𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧... alarming, the macabre farce of excitement which had lanced through him like lightning, but sunday could only feel comfort. it was the strangest thing - like coming home - and he has to wonder if nearly ascending to aeonhood had mucked up his powers so badly that he could no longer tune his own emotions. yet the halovian knew - deep in the most aware parts of his core, that what he felt was no fluke - that the resonance between them was born of cosmic proportion, brought to life through thinly woven threads of destiny and sunday's own dramatic folly upon that stage.
ㅤㅤㅤthe question was, if aventurine understood the magnitude of it's meaning.
ㅤㅤㅤaureate searches the avgin's painfully beautiful face, and he too is thrown back into memory. he'd longed to domineer the man a bit - to hold the reins and ensure that the ipc ambassador had known who was really in charge. unfortunately - their chemistry had been a tangible, magnetic thing, and sunday found himself falling into aventurine with the same ease as breathing, found himself lost in heady touches and flushed skin - the whisper of his name in that delicious voice and even letting aventurine share his bed, stay the night, witness the burden of one damaged, ebony wing...
ㅤㅤㅤhe too, trembles, especially as the stoneheart drops to a knee before his seated frame, especially as he makes to glance away - unable to meet those beautiful, beautiful eyes. ena's eyes. the knowledge nearly drags a whimper from him - but sunday forces it down. it wasn't fear - for the order's embrace was a comforting one - but it was confusion. how long had it been since sunday had wanted to... rely on another, had leaned into a cosmic connection? and with aventurine no less.
ㅤㅤㅤ❝ the dream is not safe right now. ❞ he finds himself saying, before anything else - as if crazed at the notion of an injured aventurine, of all things, ❝ without order to influence it - you truly can die, you shouldn't, you can't - ❞ the dream is over, brother.
ㅤㅤㅤhe sighs, and when he looks back to aventurine, his gaze is ripped raw, all four wings angled downwards, and the clipped one twitching with vague pain. ❝ child blessed by gaiathra, ❞ he murmurs, without the same strength his voice usually carries, ❝ one of THEIR many identities. it would make sense for you to feel some sort of connection to me - what with, what i nearly became, what i am... ❞ the word nearly was agonized, but he doesn't dwell on it. what sunday fails to mention, of course, is that he is equally as compelled to be at aventurine's side - that if he were not the man he was, he'd already be begging for contact.
ㅤㅤㅤ❝ why not bring me in? ❞ he mutters then, attempting to muster some sort of strength, ❝ surely you are in trouble for your little stunt - would a prize such as me not mollify that emanator boss of yours? would i not warrant a promotion? ❞ sunday lets his eyes drift shut, his head hanging forward enough that silky blue-grey hair obscures the better part of his vision, ❝ go on, aventurine. no tricks. claim your prize. ❞ go away, go away, go away, lest i give in to this aeonic weakness that strikes my raw heart hot and true.
Aventurine's voice leaves him with a whisper and a gasp of disbelief. The question is rhetorical, for he immediately understood the meaning of that statement and its implications, but with that understanding also comes an intense wave of shock freezing him where he kneels. Gaiathra Triclops, the Mother Goddess of the Avgins, and Ena the Order...are somehow one and the same. It's quite the revelation to take in, and yet, with that one key truth revealed, many other pieces of the puzzle surrounding him begin to fall into place—
How he'd been able to sense something was off about Penacony before ever arriving there, the 'dream' he shouldn't have been able to have while in the dreamscape, his conversation with his 'future self' whom had made claims and asked questions that didn't quite add up if that were their true identity...and now the magnetic pull he feels drawing him towards Sunday, an Emanator of the very entity he'd been blessed by from the moment of his birth.
Took you long enough, Kakavasha. We'll talk more later. For now...enjoy your time with him.
That voice yet again...and this time he knows exactly to whom it belongs. It's THEIR encouragement which finally snaps him out of a shocked stupor, and he briefly inclines his head in acknowledgement. He has questions, and hopefully THEY will have answers if the opportunity to speak to THEM again really presents itself, but for now, Sunday is so much more important.
"...Never mind that. Diamond only cares about results," he begins, voice still soft as he shakes his head. "One single cornerstone in exchange for all of Penacony by the time my colleagues are done here. As long as he agrees with me that the profit outweighs the cost, he won't care. You...shouldn't be so eager for me to take you in, Mr. Sunday."
The Halovian's name leaves his lips, and with it, his voice falters once more, cracking and rising faintly in pitch. It's a plea; a plea for...something he can't quite name, except that he can't help longing for Sunday to look at him with the same desire he currently feels, and to cease looking so tragically helpless when he knows the man before him to be so much stronger than this.
"I won't do it. I won't." The words leave his lips before he realizes it, and yet he knows in his heart that he means them. His tone now emphatic, he remains on one knee but lifts a hand to gently nudge Sunday's chin upwards, just enough for their gazes to meet should the Halovian choose to open his eyes. "You are...worth more than a promotion to me, as ironic as that may sound after how things went the last time we saw each other. No tricks, no wagers, no lies or half-truths. All I want right now is to be here with you and see to it that you're alright. Nothing else matters."
He sounds like some lovesick fool, and he knows it, yet his awareness of it can do nothing to change the fact that he can't bear to look away or withdraw his hand from Sunday's chin until there's another point of contact between them. He needs this. But he won't push, nor rush anything. Sunday is worth the wait, and always will be.
He's briefly quiet, taking a moment to himself to think. After an uncharacteristically short internal debate, he moves his hand just enough to cup the Halovian's cheek, brushing his thumb across it. "Sunday," he breathes, whispering the name like a prayer, yet intentionally forgoing the use of any title or epithet. "You're hurt, aren't you? At least let me help you...please."
ooc. apologies for the lack of activity lately! most of my free time lately has been on wu.wa (when it functions for me. sighs.) and last-minute grinding for Boothill.
He'd known that some sort of disaster was set to befall his world, but based on what information he was receiving, the true cataclysm had struck centuries after he'd been in this Khaenri'ah and that his time had existed five centuries before this disaster. Khaenri'ah itself had become a fallen kingdom shortly after his expulsion from Teyvat (Tayvet?), information he'd gleaned from the fact that only one place in all of that world had been conducting such experiments. How all of this was now available... It was still something he struggled to wrap his mind around. He'd grown so accustomed to the notion that Tayvet was some inaccessible fortress cut off from the universe, not some dead trove of information.
One thing that heartened him was the fact that the IPC had yet to find his home world. Su had assured him that almost everything they knew about Tayvet had come from outside sources, perhaps of a lone traveler that had found it or a survivor he couldn't begin to quantify. Regardless, it was reassuring. One benefit to having no less than three extremely close bonds with three of his counterparts who were completely omniscient was that he could ascertain things at blistering speeds that few could dream of comparing to. And if Tayvet had been untouched since before the Aeons... it gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to discover more about his home.
"...My name is Al-Haytham," the Scribe supplied warily after a long moment, paying no mind as the blond sauntered to the couch and sat himself upon it, grateful for the distance. If nothing else, he felt calmer than a second ago. The alcohol worked its magic as he sank into the plush leather, arms stubbornly folded but not as closed-off as his body language would suggest. Though he wanted to bite back that, yes, the IPC were as terrible as they were reputed to be, he didn't have the energy to squabble.
"From what I'm understanding, your organization doesn't know the location of Tayvet. I do, but I'm only willing to sojourn with you under the promise that you'll swear you won't involve others unless it involves... I don't know, researchers or something. I know a civilization that existed before the Aeons must be of academic value, and I'd prefer it was kept that way. Else, I might have to take countermeasures to ensure that won't happen." As childish as it sounded to brandish the power of his counterparts like some cartoon masterstroke, the IPC's reputation for incorporating whole planets didn't bode well to him.
Still, they were ungodly in their power, nevermind that Sa probably saw them more as pets or possessions to watch out for. From their place in the Sea of Quanta, it was still a font of power that was more reassuring than anything. As much as he'd keep that fact to himself unless his hand was forced, insurance was better than nothing, even if it was only used to make empty threats he hoped he wouldn't have to follow through on. He was dragged from his reverie at the mention of another member of the Garden of Recollection, admittedly confused. Su had told him there was another of their ranks, but he hadn't been interested in their name due to it being needless. But, if this Stoneheart knew...
"Black Swan?" his voice lilted, but he didn't sound so sure of himself. "I've never met her personally, but I was made aware that one of our ranks represented the Garden for that little invite. We're not really a communicative bunch, and there are numerous members. Unless this is a sign that I should say hello. Meeting you was just a coincidence." He had a feeling it might be a moot point, ultimately, if this little expedition of theirs followed through. "Indulge me for a moment: say I do trust you and we go on this little trip, what will be in it for your superiors? Will it just be a research destination or some new planet to colonize and plunder? Sorry to say, but I don't trust them. Just because you haven't heard of its piss-poor reputation doesn't mean that I'm not abundantly aware."
Ah—finally, a name to put to the face of the man before him. The gambler quickly made a mental note of it, as well as the fact that the alcohol he'd watched Al-Haytham gulp down a minute or two ago seemed to have taken effect. Aeons willing, he wouldn't have to deal with a passed-out drunk anytime soon, though that would depend entirely on the scholar's alcohol tolerance. He'd have to wait and see.
Regardless, he couldn't blame the man for getting drunk. He could relate far more than he would've liked, and possibly far more than Al-Haytham knew, depending on whether or not he'd perused some of the Garden's more recent acquisitions of memories. From what he was hearing, it was likely the scholar had no idea to whom he was speaking, aside from being aware of Aventurine's position within the IPC.
But before he could address that, a rather blatant threat caught the Stoneheart's attention. One blond eyebrow raised ever so slightly in tandem with his head rising from the back of the couch, and he leveled his gaze directly on Al-Haytham. He stared for a moment to ascertain whether or not that threat was simply a bluff—and in seconds, he knew within his gut that somehow, it wasn't.
Fair enough.
His lips curled into a faint grin, and he sat up straighter, giving the scribe his full attention. "Quite the bold play to threaten the IPC in the same breath as trying to make a deal with me. Normally, I would consider whether or not to call your bluff before doing anything else, but...there's something about you. I don't know what it is yet, but I can tell you're serious. I would tip my hat to you if I were still wearing it."
Black Swan was indeed the memokeeper he'd been thinking of after their alliance during the days leading up to the Charmony Festival. He nodded, equally ready to both sing her praises and assure Al-Haytham that she probably wasn't in the room with them—but the question posed to him immediately redirected his thoughts. Though his smile remained, it was now through a conscious effort, for the scribe's words had struck a rather sharp chord within him. Internally, he grimaced, biting back the urge to fire off a retort.
"Black Swan is who I was referring to, yes. She's one crafty memokeeper. We worked well together, I'd say—but I digress. Since you asked..." He paused, reaching into a pocket of his coat to withdraw one of the other forms of advertisement for the current event. It was a small flyer, printed with both the image of a drink and its accompanying tale—this one for the 'Risky Sour.' With a flourish, he placed it on the table between them, sliding it over for Al-Haytham to see and read.
"...Alright, cards on the table, then. Take a look at this. It isn't an exact retelling of what happened when I was younger, but it's still...reminiscent of it enough to help get my point across, since you obviously don't know my history yet and likely won't trust me to go anywhere near Tayvet if I don't tell you why I care enough to handle this appropriately. Maybe you still won't trust me afterwards unless you check my memories for yourself. Maybe you'll trust me even less if you do; that's up to you." He shrugged, his facade of a smile now fallen away.
"Either way, if you have access to all of the Garden's stored memories, you're welcome to take a look through mine as far as I'm concerned. I encourage it. I made a deal with Black Swan while she was here, so...my past will be there, unedited." He leaned forward and paused, a gloved finger tapping the flier for emphasis and his voice losing its playful lilt in favor of equal parts sincerity and sorrow.
"If you can, trust me when I say I share your concerns. Typically, the Strategic Investment Department wouldn't be the ones to assess the potential of an 'unclaimed' planet, but if you're willing to put it in writing that only you know the location and you'll work only with me as the IPC's sole representative in this venture, that will help keep it out of the Marketing Development Department's clutches. Once the project is officially mine, I'll make sure it's an expedition solely for research and the recovery of any relics you'll allow to be taken from the planet. You, me, a few select researchers from the Intelligensia Guild and memokeepers from the Garden, and if any other IPC staff will be there, it will be because they answer directly to me or my boss, Diamond."
Something in his expression shifted then, eyes narrowing as he gazed at the flier; as if doing so might burn a hole through the paper. "If anyone from the Marketing Development Department tries to weasel their way in...as far as I'm concerned, once they're on your home planet, you can deal with them as you see fit. Does that sound like a fair deal to you?"
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It's impossible for the Stoneheart to recall when he last felt so at peace; so utterly content that nothing and no one else matters, save for Sunday underneath him. This skin to skin contact is all the warmth he needs as deft fingers gently stroke the feathers to one side of the Halovian's head, their softness heavenly on his fingertips. It's such a strange thing to feel so at ease, so comfortable in his own skin that he does not deem himself lacking when laying like this in the presence of one whom he can only describe as ethereal in this moment.
Whether Sunday believes it or not, knows it or not, Aventurine knows where his own heart lies. It beats in his chest, yet it belongs to the man laying beneath him, currently staring up at him as if he were somehow more lovely than the all the stars in the universe combined. It nearly steals all of his breath away, and the ensuing kiss between them greedily swallows up the rest. The connection between them is palpable to them both; not only the physical, but something deeper and more primal, as if their very souls had seen one another and knew that it was meant to be.
That is why, when he whispers his request, he means it with every fibre of his being. There is no hesitation; no uncertainty. They've discussed it in the past, and he knows exactly what he's asking for—as much as he can without experiencing it for himself, at least. But that lack of experience makes no difference, for even without the need for any sort of facade or bravado, he is still and forever will be a gambler. He thrives off the sense of risk and the anticipation of the unknown, and this time—this time, Sunday has his full consent. If his mind is to be at the Halovian's mercy in any capacity, he will embrace the experience with open arms.
Beautifully dark feathers brush against his side, fingernails digging into his rear, and his body keens at the touch of both. Even like this, without using that power, he swears Sunday could drive him mad with enough effort. Even the faintest caress leaves him wanting, and his hands claw at the Halovian's shoulders, clinging out of desperation.
It's then that he feels the shift in the atmosphere around them; a sense of some power far greater than himself looming and coalescing in the air around him. Instinctively, he understands that it could overtake him completely if it so chose...but it doesn't. It merely settles on his skin at first, and as it sinks in, he's struck with the distinct sensation of something slotting neatly, comfortably into place, akin to a puzzle piece placed next to the perfect match it's been missing for far too long.
Yes, I'm sure, he answers, though the words remain only within his thoughts, for Sunday's mouth is on his before he can voice them. But that's fine. They both know his answer regardless, and he still finds a way to make it known in the kiss; nipping at tender lips and sighing with need.
Their positions switched, he takes a brief moment to relax on his back and catch his breath, but his eyes still automatically search for Sunday's own as the excitement within him mounts. Their eyes meet once more, and a shudder runs through him, the man now above him radiating the same power that has found its home inside him. Stunningly beautiful eyes, shining like burnished gold, bore into him just after soft lips grace even his ankle. He could speak now, if he wanted, but he chooses silence. The words would likely die in his throat, and Sunday has no need of another answer from him anyway.
The Halovian looms over him then, his length twitching with need as he feels a familiar touch brush against entrance. Dark wings surround him, a curtain of intimacy against the night sky, and his hands clutch at the sheets underneath him. "Please," he barely manages to utter, the first inch slipping inside him, then the next and the next until—
A bell suddenly chimes in unison with Sunday's voice, and with it, power and pleasure wash over him in intense waves. From Aventurine's perspective, his vision goes dark, reality a world away, but oh—his whole body jolts, his eyes blank but glowing brighter than ever before, their light surging with the resonance of an aeonic bond that couldn't possibly be found with anyone else.
His mind becomes hazy, internal defenses shattered in less than a second, and yet he allows it without hesitation. Pleasure rules his thoughts, his actions; it's as if this is the sole reason he continues to draw breath, and this is what he was made to feel. His hips subconsciously move in sync with Sunday's, shifting and thrusting to help drive the Halovian's length deeper, and deeper still. It's all he can do to feel, and feel he does.
The emotions alone would be dizzying, for to quite literally feel that he is so desired and loved is no small thing—and yet it's still even more than that, because he's not just sensing Sunday's emotions from afar like he normally might. This time, the emotions are brought directly into his thoughts, past all defenses and inhibitions, to settle there and merge with his own; to grow exponentially as the intimate act continues. Unbeknownst to him, his breath hitches sharply. This level of adoration and love... He's not felt such emotions towards his own self in so very long, yet through Sunday, he does now. It's not too much—it could never be too much when he asked for this—but it's a priceless, precious gift that he'll never be able to repay.
The physical sensations, too, leave him continuously moaning and gasping for breath, his senses almost entirely lost in a sea of ecstasy of his and Sunday's own making.
One single motion brings double the pleasure again and again, and then somehow even more than that, and he—oh, he's never seen himself look so desirable before, nor feel his body so heated and overflowing with lust. It's all so perfect that he could almost mistake it for a dream, but this time it's no dream; just the beauty of how the Halovian sees him, touches him, exposes him down to his core. He's no longer certain of where his body ends and Sunday's begins; which points of contact are Sunday touching him or him touching the man who holds his heart.
But it doesn't matter. He's found sheer bliss like this, and is in no rush for it to end. It's perfection. He was made for this, made for Sunday, made to share this intimacy with him. Kiss after kiss steals his breath so completely that he's forced back into reality for half a second just to breathe, and that smirk, sultry as it is, barely registers before the sense of lust and bliss resumes. Tears have streaked down his cheeks at some point, but he pays them no mind. His mind, heart, and soul and already within Sunday's grasp; he has no need to hide himself away right now, and the tears are born of joy and pleasure, not sorrow.
For just that moment, even if the rest of the universe suddenly ceased to exist, he wouldn't care less. He doesn't know for sure if the depth of their current connection goes both ways, but he can only hope that Sunday knows he agrees of his own volition—they were made for each other.
ㅤㅤㅤ𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 sinner's - there is always jubilance, for how could a great evil being defeated not invoke joy? but all his life - he had been raised for this - a concrete belief system that had been built upon order - and order alone. harmony - while a beautiful, splendid thing - was never merely enough for the likes of humanity - for the flocks of sheep that led themselves into the maws of proverbial wolves or off the end of cliffs. sunday had believed, in his heart of hearts, that his recourse was right - that all the choices he had made were for a perfect, unending dream. only in that final defeat did halovian learn that perhaps - perhaps the universe was meant to be disorderly in it's own way.
ㅤㅤㅤwhat they did not realize - what the people did not know, was sunday had propped the dreamscape up on his back for far too long. the power of order had kept them safe. death had been that impossibility that was now entirely probable - and without order, there would be freedom, but without order - there would be strife. and yet with it too - there had been. he had caused it, in enacting his master plan upon that grand stellaron stage. sunday knew the methods were incorrect, he knew the teachings to be fundamentally flawed - but he also knew nothing else, he also had nothing else.
ㅤㅤㅤat the end of his pitiful song, he'd disappeared before robin could ever think to awake - intent on not sullying her presence with his own. the reverie had been perpetually under construction, and ( former ) oak family head knew well of the nooks and crannies where he would not be found, so stealing supplies like a common thief ( quick fingers, a talent born from childhood ), the halovian had holed himself up in a storage room deep in the reverie's bowels... where none would think to find him.
ㅤㅤㅤor so he'd thought.
ㅤㅤㅤhe woke with a start - body having evidently succumbed to a brief bout of unconsciousness on the dusty cot in the furthest corner. he doesn't know why he wakes - only that something calls to him. for a moment - he thinks it might be robin, reaching out through their attunement, but sunday had thought he'd blocked the connection - whether by his own volition or xipe's... he does not yet know. but it's a feeling. it's something else. something other. this strange, burning sensation at the core of him, a magnetic pull that has him almost breathless-
ㅤㅤㅤthe door swings open with a squeak, and sunday gasps.
ㅤㅤㅤboth sets of wings flare wide - brilliant ebony alongside the silky dove grey, and normally calm halovian looks stricken. ❝ aventurine? ❞ confusion pulls at him, but so does that connection - so strong that he feels to be a puppet beneath THEIR hand again, weak form pulled upright, briefly stumbling towards the avgin until poise returns to him and he... goes rigid, wings folded in tight and illuminated gold searching the lines of the other man's lovely face. sunday should be terrified - should have tried to obliterate him on the spot, or sunk into the shell of himself that barely existed anymore. wouldn't it be more than likely that he was here to bring him into the ipc's clutches? would he be a prisoner now? no worse than this, he supposed... but instead, instead of trepidation...
ㅤㅤㅤsunday felt like that he had been drowning, and aventurine was beautiful life-giving air in the pressurized squeeze of his lungs.
ㅤㅤㅤ❝ how did you - ❞ he breathes deep, and he stares, gaze unflinching as the muddled warmth of his brain begins to catch up the moment their gazes truly meet ( his eyes, his eyes, his eyes). ❝ you - ❞ left hand trembles, possessed by an unseen force, and sunday grips his wrist to stop something from occurring. a deep breath, as the halovian fights - fights to maintain the shattered bits of his dignity, despite everything crying out to him to allow aventurine to see and tend the wounds of his self-flagellation. he resists though, and simply swallows, letting loose a shaky exhale, ❝ how did you find me? ❞
Never before has his alias as a Stoneheart sounded like such sweet music to the gambler's ears, and yet now it does. The sight of those wings flared in his presence temporarily steals the breath from his lungs, a deep sense of awe washing over him. They're beautiful, even in their ruined and battered state, and his fingers twitch at his sides with the urge to preen them and clean them up; to wash away any blood and dirt so that they might regain some semblance of their former glory.
In the dim light of the storage room, his multicolored eyes flash brightly, feet carrying him closer across the dusty floor before he can consciously register the movement. The force that guided him here—compulsion, some unknown connection, his unnatural luck, or perhaps all three—is stronger than ever, something almost painful to deny at this point. It's urging him, pushing and pulling at his limbs as if he is but a puppet guided by a handful of strings.
Go to him. You know you want to.
That voice again—echoing only in his thoughts this time, a tone slightly off-kilter from his own; a difference in cadence that only he would notice. It's the Harmony again, except it can't be...and it's so familiar, as if it's been with him all his life.
Regardless of that voice's source, it's right. Since his arrival on Penacony, he's had an interest in the Halovian before him from the moment they laid eyes on each other. Gorgeous, a natural leader, highly intelligent and charismatic—oh, how could he not take notice, especially when it quickly became apparent that Sunday felt similarly towards him? It didn't matter that they were enemies; at least not where more carnal urges were concerned. Memories begin to surface; ones that he had frantically tried to block out after first hearing that Sunday was to take the fall for everything. Fierce, domineering kisses, fingers curling around his wrists like talons to hold him down, words whispered for only him to hear as his body surrendered willingly under the Halovian's guidance and touch...
Faintly trembling, he shakes his head, his shoes leaving more faint tracks in the dust on the floor as he draws closer. Now isn't the time to think about those things, and yet it feels almost impossible for him to reassume his usual poker face. Gone is the facade of the reckless and cavalier gambler, leaving in its place the face of a man gazing with longing and sorrow upon the likes of a downtrodden, fallen angel.
Only when he's right beside to the cot do his steps come to a halt, and he lowers himself down onto one knee, concerned eyes faintly aglow and searching Sunday's face and body for any signs of serious injury. "I—," he begins, and his voice cracks and falters, for the sharp tugging at his heart still has him nearly breathless.
"...I don't know. Before you ask, I'm not here to take you into custody. My job on Penacony is already complete. I was thinking of going back into the dreamscape one more time for a brief real vacation, and then I thought of you. When I did...something led me here, right to you. You can feel it too...can't you? I know you can."
@purestvirtue asked: gently pulls the pathetic wet peacock from The River of Doom and kisses his forehead. go. commit more crimes.
With each step, dark water sloshes and splashes around him. Seconds and minutes drag on into what feels like hours, but it's difficult to know for sure. A quick glance at both devices tells him that neither his watch nor his phone are properly keeping time. Even the light of his phone seems to dim and flicker in the midst of pure nihility, and he instinctively knows that were it not for the shattered fragments of his cornerstone still in his possession, he would have long been a goner already.
With each step, it becomes more and more difficult to keep going, his feet dragging through the water as if it has morphed into some kind of thick sludge. The river is wide—far, far too wide, and reaching the other side is starting to feel like little more than a pipe dream. In the back of his mind, he knows such thoughts are due to the influence of the Nihility itself, but as the minutes and hours seem to go on forever, these thoughts are quickly becoming more and more difficult to ignore. He shoves them down as best he can, intent on dealing with unpleasant thoughts as he always has...except this time, his left arm creeps around with more than twice the usual effort before he's able to hold it behind his back, fist clenched tight.
But the water grows ever deeper, and maintaining his balance is crucial. His hand doesn't stay behind his back for very long, and the fear returns.
With each step, he's realizing how much he hates this. The liquid is up to his neck now, and still there is no end in sight. He's going to die here, he thinks, and only one person will know. Would she say anything to the others if he never emerges on the other side? Would she care? Would any of them care?
Probably not, his thoughts answer.
Fear grips him, and he begins to stumble, barely catching himself to stay upright. The thoughts from just before his final act begin to resurface, and even as he pushes onward, still struggling not to give up, each one is like a knife digging into him, demanding that he stop and allow himself to sink.
Coward; a knife through his left hand. Murderer; a knife through his right hand. Failure; a knife in his left leg. Cursed; a knife through his right leg. Pointless; a knife in his gut. Crazy; a knife through his neck. Useless; a knife in his shoulder. Selfish; a knife in his back. Discarded; a knife in his side. Loser; a knife through his heart.
Everything hurts, and he can feel himself sinking, the water now just below his nose. He can't—he can't go on any longer. There's no point in trying if he'll never make it out alive; if no one would even care. He stumbles again, and this time, he doesn't try to catch himself. His head goes under the water, and he can't bring himself to move. He doesn't even want to move, really. He opens his mouth to scream, and water rushes in—
But then an unexpected hand reaches for him, lifting him far above the water's surface with ease. In his shock, he instinctively clings, latching onto the armor of the one now cradling him close. He's soaked to the bone, he can't speak from coughing, and it's all he can do to lean into the embrace of the man responsible for rescuing him. Without warning, soft lips touch his forehead, and a gentle surge of comforting warmth spreads through him. The negativity assaulting his mind begins to recede, and as his breathing returns to normal, he exhales a long, slow sigh.
"....Thank you. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show, Sir Knight. Let's get out of here."
Time had become a blur over the last day or two, and it felt as though it had been far more than that since the gambler first arrived on Penacony. But it was over, and after enduring and surviving what could have easily been his final curtain call, he'd made it out the other side. How typical—not that he could complain this time, in hindsight. It was surreal, yet incredibly refreshing to feel even the faintest bit happy that he'd survived.
And now, after all his hard work, he can rest. Perhaps an actual vacation in the Land of Dreams is in order. He could enjoy it while it lasts; let Topaz and Jade take the reins for the last leg of this mission and prop his feet up somewhere in the dreamscape instead until they all return to Pier Point. He hasn't allowed himself to simply relax in a long while, and that sweet dream holds an allure that he can't deny.
After everything, he's back in his room within the Reverie, gloved fingers trailing across the surface of the iridescent liquid within his dreampool. His thoughts wander, still thinking over the events of last couple days and all those involved. He owes much to the Nameless for that recording, and they and all the others who lent him a hand are safe this time around—a rarity that almost makes him laugh out loud.
But then his thoughts shift to contemplate a certain Halovian's fate, and his hand stills, an odd sensation suddenly prickling at the back of his neck. Sunday, he thinks, and the feeling grows stronger, almost like some force has a lead attached there and means to pull him along. For a moment, he wonders if it might be some remnant of that 'consecration,' but no—the Emanator had already done him a great service in removing it for him. She wouldn't have left any trace of it behind.
Immediately following the initial resolution of conflict, he'd heard talk the Order and its connection to and influence over Penacony, but only in snatches of overheard whispers and conversations; nothing concrete yet. His gut tells him now that THEIR influence could explain what he's currently feeling, but with no clue how or why, he hesitates.
Yet he can't turn his thoughts away from Sunday, and the prickling sensation continues, growing stronger; becoming more of a tug. Sunday, that winged bastard whom had, on more than one occasion, expressed interest in him—oh, it wasn't fair. The interest was mutual; it still is, in spite of everything.
Aventurine's feet begin to move before he realizes it, and he follows that tug, the sensation quickly spreading to envelope every part of his body. He leaves his room, walking past other rooms and down corridor after corridor, the number of guests and employees nearby thinning out to become less and less. At one point, he pauses to observe his surroundings before quickly stepping over a rope barricade meant to keep guests out.
Through another hallway and around another corner, he spots an elevator—clearly older than those the guests have access to, and surprisingly rickety in its appearance. It stands in stark contrast to the opulence of the majority of the Reverie, and it's impossible to know where it might lead him. He's not even entirely sure it will function enough to take him anywhere, but ever the gambler, he steps into it anyway, pushing the button for the lowest possible floor on impulse.
The elevator whirs to life, mechanisms creaking and groaning from disuse and neglect. For a moment, he wonders if it might break, but it soon comes to a stop once more, opening to a dark hallway. His phone retrieved from his pocket, he steps out of the elevator and turns on its flashlight to see a few doors at the end of the hall, as well as an opening to another corridor about halfway down. He chooses the corridor one more time, and at the end of it is a single door.
The feeling that has lead him this whole way suddenly swells, so pronounced that he doesn't think twice at all before opening the door and slipping inside. The interior of the room is dimly lit; just enough that he turns off the flashlight and pockets his phone. At a glance, it appears to be a large, old storage room that's fallen into disuse, with a few boxes of supplies off to one side and a few decommissioned spheroids on the other. Within one, he spots a bit of movement, and his heart skips a beat. Instinctually, he knows who it is.
"Mr. Sunday," he calls out, his voice soft but still echoing a little in the quiet of the room. "...It's you, right? What are you doing down here?"
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ooc. I finished 2.2. I have not yet slept and it’s almost 7am for me but it was so worth it oh my god. That was one hell of a RIDE. If I may, uh—
DON’T MIND ME SCREAMING ABOUT THE VERY LAST SCENE. AVENTURINE LIVED. HE’S OKAY. AND BOOTHILL WITH THE OSWALDO MENTION TO HIS FACE… HYV MORE PLEASE I BEG.
ooc. as with last update, I plan to play through the full 2.2 story tonight in one go if I can manage it! I'll be avoiding tumblr from the time the update drops until I finish, and if I post anything that mentions spoilers afterwards, I'll tag it as #hsr spoilers //
ooc. I haven't seen most leaks and I don't intend to look at more than I have if I can help it. THAT SAID I checked to see if Robin or Boothill had any mentions of Aventurine in their profile content and oh my god. Leak mentions under the cut—
Boothill and Aventurine enemies to lovers when??? The chemistry is RIGHT THERE holy hell. I swear if Aventurine heard Boothill's team join line for him, he would internally fold on the spot. I haven't read Boothill's stories yet, but I glimpsed something while scrolling to get to his voicelines. You're telling me he hates Oswaldo too??? Ohhhh please who do I have to beg for interactions and a ship bc good fucking lord it's practically writing itself—
DING DING !
THERE IS AN INCOMING MESSAGE !
[Dear customer , happy birthday !
We greatly appreciate your PATRONAGE in PENACONY !
BELOW is a VOUCHER for ONE FREE DRINK AT ANY BAR !
We GREATLY appreciate your stay [AVENTURINE OF IPC] !
May all your dreams come true :)
The FAMILY.]
There is , indeed , a voucher attached to the message.
Unprompted, the gambler's phone dings within his pocket. He half-expects it to be some message from work. Perhaps it's a reminder of a scheduled phone or video call he's forgotten about, or word about something that urgently needs his attention, courtesy of his assistant. Curious, he pulls the device out to check...
...And his face promptly falls. That was a reminder he didn't want or need, and he can't help but wonder how he came to receive the message in the first place. He hadn't spoken of his birthday when checking in, other than handing over the required identification that happened to display it. Were it not for the official appearance of the attached voucher, he would think it was solely a well-timed prank.
It's clearly automated—or at least seems that way—so it could just be the work of a low-level hotel employee doing their due diligence. He can't fault anyone for it, in that case. Still, all things considered, there's a distinct multi-layered irony in this little gift purportedly coming directly from The Family.
He exhales a quiet sigh, clicking his tongue and slipping his phone back into his pocket. At least the drink he orders this year will be free, so that's something. His eyes scan his surroundings, his footsteps pausing as he stops to take in the sights and sounds of the Golden Hour for a moment. His family would've liked it here, he thinks—especially the theme park. A sharp ache settles deep within his chest, and he shakes his head before turning on his heel to find a bar.
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ooc. I just realized I never edited Aventurine's bio to reflect his more or less canon birthday, but that's fixed now! that said, happy birthday to this silly gambler. <3
he surely should have left it like this, with aventurine's back turned and him on the way elsewhere, far from the possible obstacle in his pursuit for order. and yet there must have been something in the flickering lights of the insomniac city, perhaps even the way music would echo from the various corners of each hectic corner of divine liberation ; sunday should have walked , but he didn't. in the light of the flickering kaleidoscope skies, sunday found it in him to strike up another conversation.
bouncing off their last encounter.
"...every guest is a unique individual with their own hopes, dreams, and reasons for being here," he'd attempt to imitate the gambler's way of speaking, albeit poorly for he was not quite the mockingbird some might have pinned him as. there'd be a subtle clearing of his throat as sunday would come to place himself beside the gambler, sharp yellow gliding out to the sky before them and the great hall floating in the distance. " it intrigued me, if you mind me passing the overly formal greetings, what you said ; it got me thinking. "
hands would fold against his back. " every guest and their uniqueness, poor or rich, sane or - fleeting. though, in their pursuit of a good dream are they truly so different ? ..." whether it was a question directed towards aventurine or himself was left to interpretation, perhaps both.
but there would be a turn of his head, sunday's gaze seeking to the gambler, voice almost too sweet and gentle; " what would your dream be then , mister aventurine ? if you, like the rest, happen to be so unique as you stated last time."
Out of the corner of his eye, a familiar figure caught the gambler's attention, his stride slowing mid-step. Although he wasn't particularly eager to engage the Halovian in conversation after how things went the last time, he'd learned something during his time on Penacony thus far—if Sunday showed himself in order to speak, it would be wise to listen. There was no telling what information he might be able to glean about the Family, and no telling why Sunday had deigned to speak to him again in the first place.
It was a gamble, and one that he would make again and again so long as there was even the faintest chance that it could prove worthwhile.
However, the sheer mockery in that voice stopped the Stoneheart completely in his tracks. Or perhaps—was it mockery, or was it that he simply couldn't tell for certain without making eye contact? He couldn't hear any overt cruel intent, but then again, Sunday was a master of maintaining composure from what he'd seen of the Halovian thus far. Taking advantage of the fact that the other man couldn't see his face yet, he allowed his brow to furrow, a scowl of annoyance and confusion briefly darkening his features.
Really, he should just keep walking and forgo the chance at a conversation, but something kept him still where he stood. Whether it was intuition, curiosity, or some force stronger than either, he couldn't say. Regardless, he elected not to answer what may have been a rhetorical question, and his facial features were carefully relaxed back into something more neutral by the time Sunday stood directly beside him.
The next question that followed, however, only served to reinforce the way he was frozen in place. He felt his blood run cold, in as much as such a thing could happen within the dreamscape. Sunday was trying to get in his head. He'd questioned it before, but he felt certain of it now, and their prior conversation had made it all too easy for the Halovian to accomplish.
If he lied and gave a vapid or noncommittal, nondescript answer, then he would be disproving his earlier assertion; not an option at this point. If he was firm but vague, he could end up being nearly as revealing as if answering with total honesty. If he were to do that, it would be akin to baring his soul—which seemed to be exactly what Sunday was hoping for, if that shift in tone was anything to go by.
He could either play it safe and still keep his cards relatively close to his chest...or go all in and find out where diving down the rabbit hole would take him. The more he thought it over, the more he realized what little choice he really had. The challenge was to be truthful enough to avoid invalidating his prior statements and satisfy the other man's curiosity, but still withhold the finer details. The risk was that whetting Sunday's palate with a fraction of the truth could prompt even more prying questions in the near future, given that this was already a second occurrence.
It was a risk he'd have to accept.
"...You really don't play fair, do you, Mister Sunday?" He sighed the words, his tone equal parts bitter and resigned. Though he tried to be careful with his words, he was entirely truthful. "My dream would be an impossible reality, and experiencing it once or twice while I'm here wouldn't be worth the cost. It would taint the memories I have of those dearest to me, and I'm not willing to do that for a temporary sense of satisfaction and fleeting happiness. They're...too important to me. Is there anything else you'd like to ask?"
He could just as easily get a satisfying rush from a good game of poker, and that wouldn't compromise his memories of his mother and older sister, nor would it give him more of a false sense freedom than usual.
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