Chapter Text
"Mr. Aventurine, my apologies for keeping you waiting."
That man before him lets out a soft laugh. If his precarious situation makes him nervous, he has effectively hidden it behind careless bravado.
"Mister Sunday, I was hoping it wouldn't be you. If only because then it'd mean you were just a little less cliche."
Sunday slows his step, pausing out Aventurine's reach. Not that the gambler could have reached him anyway, with arms bound behind his back.
"Do you mean to say I'm still playing your game?"
"Not at all. Rest assured, even I run out of back up plans eventually. You got me." He does not sound like a man 'got'. "I just mean the shackles, the blindfold… on my knees? Not that I didn't guess your… proclivities would lean this way. I just thought you might be a little more subtle about it."
Sunday lets out a soft exhale.
In reality, when he had been told that Mr. Aventurine's 'body' had been found floating among the memoria, his instructions had simply been to make sure he could not escape and let him wait in Sunday's office. These additional… flourishes, were probably his staff adding a dose of humiliation to offset their frustration with the recent and ongoing threat inflicted by the IPC.
But, if he is honest with himself -- and Sunday does try to always be honest with himself -- he also feels some resentment toward this man. Thus, he does not find the flourishes… wholly inappropriate.
"Consider it a sign of my esteem. The previous 'restraints' were clearly not enough to contain you. And, because I underestimated you, you've managed to leave a permanent scar upon everyone's sweet dream. I simply wish to ensure that it doesn't happen twice."
"Still," Sunday murmurs, almost to himself as he takes in the man who 'looks' up at him, sitting on bound ankles, back forced straight by the forearms similarly tied behind him, yet still somehow… less perturbed than expected, "I hope you are not uncomfortable."
Aventurine's smile is sharp in a way Sunday had only seen in recordings of the incident at the amusement park, half hidden by a mask. Devilish is the only word he can think of to describe it.
It sends a little shiver down his spine.
"I've bargained from worse positions." The bound man gives a slight shrug of one shoulder. "So why don't we cut to the chase? You could've left me to the Hounds if you just wanted me dead, you could've returned me to the IPC to try and get them off your back for a bit if you wanted me out of here…" He muses aloud. "I can't exactly ask 'what do you want' -- like I said, you've been a little obvious on that one -- but I don't think I'd be here if that was the only value you saw in our… continued interactions."
"Value…" Sunday turns the word over like hard candy held between tongue and teeth, "It's surprising to hear that word from you. Do you really think you have 'value', Mr. Aventurine?"
The devilish smile fades, becomes a soft, straight line that none-the-less can not hide the flicker of doubt behind it. Sunday feels a bit pleased, knowing his barb had latched onto skin.
"Like I said," Aventurine's voice has cooled, "If you didn't think so, I wouldn't be here at all."
Sunday shakes his head, and when he realizes Aventurine can not see this, adds a soft click of his tongue. "You have been lost in the memoria for some time -- frankly, it's impressive you're able to hold a conversation at all -- but it seems you don't quite realize how the situation has changed."
"...don't keep me in suspense then, Mr. Sunday."
Without exactly thinking about it, Sunday begins to peel off his right glove.
"Mr. Aventurine, I think this every time we talk, but you have truly terrible manners. Your technical ability for eloquence only accentuates your lack of respect. I had to tolerate it when you were a guest, and when you represented the IPC, but that's no longer the case, is it?"
Behind the blindfold, a couple of perfect pale eyebrows rise.
"Even if the IPC had fired me, I'm sure they'd still reward you handsomely to get to deal with me personally."
"Fired?" Sunday doesn't hide the laugh in his voice. "Have you forgotten the conclusion of your own grand show? As far as the IPC -- and anyone else -- is concerned, you are dead."
As he watches attentively, Sunday spots a curl of annoyance in Aventurine's half hidden expression, a brief flash of teeth on lip, and then, to Sunday's great surprise, the gambler actually holds his tongue for once.
"Do you understand now? You have nothing to bargain with. You squandered your chips on one great gambit, and you've lost. The Charmony Festival concluded -- I can't say it went off without a hitch -- but it was well enough. And you…" Sunday's hand pauses over the man's soft yellow hair, he had a strange impulse to touch it. It was right there, after all. Nothing and no one could stop him.
Except himself, of course.
He instead places two fingers under Aventurine's chin, pushing hardly at all. There is a moment of resistance, and then that pretty, blinded face tilts up toward him.
"You did not escape the effects by being buried in memoria. I have already returned your 'real' body to the IPC. I'm sure the funeral will be spectacular." Sunday slides the fingers down further, until he can feel the pulse in Aventurine's neck. The man pulls away, but it is too late -- Sunday had felt the racing beat, pounding briefly against his fingertips.
As expected, under the unruffled surface, Aventurine's heart beats as rapidly as that of any frightened bird.
"Mr. Aventurine, you will stay here for all time. Be it as a guest, a prisoner, or a spirit… for you, there is no waking from this dream.
There is a sharp inhale, another precious crack in the man's mask, and Sunday can feel a glare piercing through the blindfold. The man's gaze, somehow, unerringly finds his.
"...You're bluffing."
"I believe we've been over this already." He takes the man's chin in hand once more and holds firmly this time. "I am not a gambler. You entered the Reverie under the guise of a guest. Twisted our courtesies against us. Threatened the peace and security of all here. And instigated a battle that left an unhealable mark of Nihility across paradise." Despite himself, Sunday feels his voice rising, temper flickering hotter as he recalls all the risk this gambler had taken up without consideration to anyone but himself and his own agendas. "I tasked you with finding my sister's mur--"
"--I went looking for your sister--"
Before even realizing what he has done, Sunday places a silencing thumb across Aventurine's unsmiling lips.
"--with finding her murderer, and you gambled not just your own life, but with everyone in Penacony. Tell me, Mr. Aventurine. Did you really think the Family's hospitality extends so far that we would let you freely rouse from your slumber, even if your spirit could come back unscathed?"
A sharp inhale, this time. The lips under his touch set firmly, and Sunday senses Aventurine reaching to regain his composure. But there is a small tremor in the otherwise rigid frame.
"...Alright." Aventurine's eventual response is almost a drawl. Thoughtful, not panicked. Though Sunday detects a note of chagrin as well. "That still doesn't answer my question. As you've said, you have every reason to want to be rid of me, and you don't believe I'm of value to you. So. Why bring me here?"
Sunday sighs, like Aventurine is a fresh faced Family member who can't seem to stop disappointing. "Recall what I said before about manners, Mr. Aventurine. If you want something from someone, who has no other reason to fulfill your wishes, what is the polite way to go about that?"
There is another, no doubt calculating, silence from the kneeling man. Then, finally, Aventurine opens his mouth, seems about to form the word Sunday had been waiting for… when to Sunday's very real surprise, Aventurine instead places his lips and tongue on Sunday's thumb and pulls it into his mouth in one shameless motion.
It takes a moment for Sunday to realize the sharp inhale this time had come from himself.
And yet, he does not yank his hand back as if burned.
Part of it is a long, long ingrained habit to not let anyone catch him looking anything less than absolutely certain.
And the rest -- if he is being honest with himself -- is real curiosity.
"Have you never heard the word 'Please' in your life, Sigonian?" Sunday asks, voice dry, even as he presses down against warm tongue, following the nubbed surface toward the back of Aventurine's throat.
Aventurine responds with an indecipherable, muted sound, and then wet audaciousness and teeth. Sunday feels like he was being swallowed up by a man who is, should be, helpless before him.
It is his own lack of experience, he decides. Aventurine is a flightless bird; full of clever tricks to stay alive, but ultimately weak.
"Still… it's quite a trick." Sunday murmurs, finally withdrawing his hand from the promising warmth of Aventurine's mouth.
Aventurine licks his lower lip and responds as if nothing so forward had occurred. "Don't worry, Mr. Sunday. There's no need for insincere pleasantries," he says, while sounding insincerely pleasant. "IPC or not, I believe in fair trade. And since you are so clearly uninterested in my 'value', I won't ask a single thing of you."
Sunday finds himself rubbing the pads of his slick thumb against his forefinger. He should remove the filth, but he doesn't want to even dirty a handkerchief with this particular mess. "Is that so?"
"All the cards are in your hand." Aventurine sounds gallant, agreeable. "I cannot stop you, so I await your decision."
And then he is silent, apparently truly just… waiting, but that devilish smile is back.
"You…" Sunday finds another spark of true frustration in his breast. Why did this man in particular give him a sense of unease, even when he could feel assured that this was nothing more than a peacock flashing its tail feathers in defiance?
Sunday inhales across several careful seconds, and exhales just as slowly.
He's decided how to finally remove the cooling, damp feeling from his fingers. He reaches out and catches Aventurine by the hair, rubbing the spit off as he grasps those pale gold strands. He almost lets himself enjoy the sensation… before instead just tightening his hold. "So proud for a creature with so little shame. I suppose it really is almost… impressive, Mr. Aventurine."
There is another small resistance before Aventurine lets Sunday twist his head back just so, exposing his throat.
The smile stays, and Aventurine says nothing.
Sunday feels challenging, bright eyes on him.
He is tempted to have him thrown back into the memoria. Let him float there until the ebb and flow of thousands of other dreams unspun him.
But… Aventurine's gambling instincts were too good. He had called Sunday's bluff. The IPC 'ambassador' still has a myriad of potential uses. It would be wasteful to cast them aside due to his personal frustration.
The strands of hair in his hand are almost too silken, the smile too confident, the half-hidden face too flawless… and yet, from this angle, with neck exposed, Sunday clearly sees the brand inked into Aventurine's skin.
Why were so many beautiful things fated to be broken in this world?
He does not think about kissing Aventurine. He simply does.
Later, he would dissect his own thoughts, doubts, and passions; determined to put a reason to it.
But at the moment he simply feels if he does not now, then he never will. There will never be a more perfect opportunity than this.
He is… inexperienced, but he has been inexperienced in countless things and thrown himself into them with absolute confidence regardless, and he does the same here. Bends and captures Aventurine's damned mouth. The man has the gall to chuckle, as if Sunday has fallen into a trap, and does not turn away as Sunday's tongue follows the path his thumb had laid out earlier.
It is not long, though it's longer than he had intended. He didn't account for the fact that kissing Aventurine also allows Aventurine the opportunity to kiss him. He pulls away feeling like he's lost as much as he's gained.
"Well," the man on his knees sounds mocking, "It seems we might be able to discuss a fair trade after all."
Sunday stares down at the captive, captivating man before him, and feels like he must have misstepped somewhere. As if taken the wrong turn down a hall yet cannot resist the urge to see what lies through the darkened doorway at the end of it.
His wings flap once, softly, and he shakes his head to dispel the disorienting thought.
"Later, perhaps." By the time he speaks he's certain his voice will come out cool, disinterested. "I have a busy day ahead of me. I'll see you are put somewhere… comfortable, Mr. Aventurine."