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“Are they dead yet?” Aventurine mumbles, his eyelids sliding closed. They are so heavy he can’t possibly lift them again. A pleasant fog descends upon his mind.
“No,” Sunday answers. “But they all keep taking the wrong turns. There are windows there that look easily breakable. It’s infuriating.”
“I too am outraged.”
“You have not watched the screen in five minutes, Aventurine.”
“You’re weird for counting.”
“I rounded down.”
Aventurine grumbles half-heartedly. His heart couldn’t hold the irritation if it tried, not with his head resting on Sunday’s thigh and Sunday’s fingers working their magic on his temples.
“Are they dead yet?” he asks after another minute of floating in blissful ignorance.
Sunday sighs.
“Who?”
“Her in-laws. The ones trying to kill her.”
“That was the last movie.”
“Ah.”
“They did die, however.”
“Good,” Aventurine grunts. “Fuck them.”
The headache springs up again the second he tries to open his eyes and his whole body convulses, wincing away from the cut cut cut into his head. Thin needles, heated, piercing into his skull and thrumming until the bone falls apart. Sunday’s other hand presses to Aventurine’s back, dead centre between his shoulder blades.
“Careful. Would you like to know what is happening in this one?”
“Okay.”
And Sunday recounts to him the thin plot with the diligence of someone reading him scripture. A group of friends, a cabin in the forest, and a series of questionable actions.
“The curtains are atrocious,” Sunday comments. “They keep them in frame all the time and it’s distracting.”
“They’re getting murdered, birdie. They have other priorities.”
“The set coordinators were not getting murdered.”
“You don’t know that.”
And Sunday laughs, a breathless little giggle that has gotten easier and easier to get out of him. He looked mortified the first time, wings flapping and hiding his face. This one sounds at ease, freely given. His fingers card through Aventurine’s hair slowly.
“Sometimes their distress makes me sad,” Sunday says.
The Nihility buzzes. Aventurine presses his cheek firmer to Sunday’s thigh.
“So you’re reminding yourself it’s a movie?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to watch it if it bothers you,” Aventurine snorts. “You don’t have to repent via shit horror movies.”
“I don’t mind, usually.”
“I only pick them because it gives me an excuse to hold your hand when you get scared.”
“How insidious.”
“You know me,” Aventurine mumbles. “Always plotting.”
Sunday pets his hair in languid strokes until he remembers the assignment. The fabric of his gloves is pleasantly cool. Press after gentle press to aching temples. Aventurine sighs.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Your health is more important.”
“But I wanted it to be nice. And special.”
“It still is,” Sunday replies without a hitch.
Aventurine frowns. The red cat cake asleep in his arms makes a sound not unlike a ‘mrrp’ and he cannot resist hugging it closer.
“I’ll take you out the next time,” he says. “For the actual first date. We don’t count this attempt.”
“Even if I would like to?”
The warmth is never quite expected. Not a surprise, no, but when it settles and blooms it is in ground that has weathered a thousand winters but flourished in few. Aventurine sighs softly.
“Okay,” he says. “Maybe we can count it.”
“Oh look at you,” Topaz says and rests her chin in her hands. “You’re glowing, that’s adorable. So how well did it go?”
Aventurine stirs his drink and sits across from her in the cushy booth at the back wall of the bar.
“It went horrible.”
Topaz’ face falls. She holds back Numby from storming across the table towards the lemon slice adorning Aventurine’s glass.
“Oh. Why are you so happy then?”
“It worked out,” Aventurine says and shrugs.
Topaz gives him a pointed look.
“Do you want to talk about it? I’m not going to drag all the information out of you but it is a more fun topic than last quarter’s expenses and promotion prospects and-“
“Alright, alright,” he says and sighs dramatically, taking off his sunglasses with a flourish. “So I did decide to go with the place I talked about last week.”
Topaz nods.
“It looked good, yeah. Was it secretly another cultist base? Although I suppose that could have been another bonding moment, considering the two of you.”
Aventurine snorts. His drink is so sweet he grimaces as soon as it hits his tongue.
“We didn’t even get to the place. I zoned out for a moment on the way to my ride and tripped into a very inconveniently placed puddle.”
“Oh no.”
“This broke my phone- I did recover the charms, yes- but by the time I got to the car I was so wonderfully reminded of my trip to the Nihility that I, well…”
“You…?”
“I may have passed out in the back of the car and my driver thought I died.”
Topaz stares him down but her expression softens. A weakness, just a year ago, but he remembers the days after being dragged out of the void. Writhing in paranoid uncertainty, psychedelic dreams that persisted when he woke. Topaz didn’t laugh, Ratio didn’t make any snide comments when he let show even a small piece of his heart. It’s better this way, he reminds himself when the doubts creep in. It’s so much better, this risk.
“And then?” Topaz asks, patting Numby’s head as it gives a squeak of solidarity.
“Then I arrived at the meeting place completely drenched, on the verge of falling over into another ditch,” Aventurine says. “And worse, late.”
“But…?”
The words die on his lips as he considers the phrasing. But Sunday was very sweet and concerned and it is still terrifying sometimes to be cherished and valued for nothing but myself-
“We just went to my place instead,” Aventurine said. “It was nice.”
Topaz fights the grin, she really does, but even if she won’t use it to bargain the chips are stacked on her side.
“I’m glad it was.”
“Come on, say it. I know you want to.”
She says it, somewhere between juvenile and fond. A jab, a friendly thing, Numby still fighting with all its strength to launch itself into the drinks.
Someone’s a little more attached than they intended, huh?
“Mr. Yang brought this one back the last time,” Sunday explains as the record starts to spin. “A kind gesture.”
The tune that plays is cheerful and fast, more aggressive than Aventurine expected. He leans against the doorframe. The Express is quiet at this hour, leaving room for wistful notes.
“Didn’t think you liked music like this.”
“I didn’t really,” Sunday says. “Robin does. She has always been much more daring than me.”
The somber tone does not leave his voice but there is no heartbreak in it, no bottomless pit of despair. Nothing could keep Robin from bending the rules as much as the bars of a cage and finding her brother out there in the sea of stars. Sunday hums along to her songs without looking like he wishes to die, carrying a levity, the certainty of reunions.
Aventurine smiles at him now.
“You hear an electric guitar and faint on the spot, hm?”
Sunday turns. A touch of mischief that skews the perfect smile into good and safe and fond.
“I could. But then we’d have to call off another attempt.”
“I suppose that would make us even,” Aventurine says and beckons him. “No fainting today. This time, definitely, everything will go incredibly well.”
The call is picked up on the eighth ring.
“Ratio,” Aventurine whines, his phone pressed to his ear. “You won’t believe what happened.”
The other end of the line rests quiet for half a minute.
“Is this a serious call? Are you in danger?”
“Yes and no.”
“Aventurine.”
“I’m fine,” Aventurine admits, grudging. “It’s not that kind of serious.”
“If you want relationship advice, I suggest calling Topaz instead.”
“I can’t. She would never let me live it down.”
Ratio sighs, exasperated.
“Alright. What happened?”
Aventurine presses a hand to his forehead. The mirror reflects him through a thin film of not yet dried glass cleaner, dripping slowly towards suspiciously clean restroom sinks.
“A Diting ate my credit card,” he says.
Ratio, heroically, does not sigh a second time.
“When?”
“Just now. Five minutes ago. I was on the way to the restroom and saw the little bastard and when I went to pet it it just-“
“Did you let Sunday know?”
Aventurine frowns.
“Of course not. I’m doing the mature thing of hiding until I figure out a solution.”
“The solution is going back and telling him.”
“But have you considered-“
“You are stalling,” Ratio says. “Go. I won’t let you use me as an excuse.”
The call ends abruptly and Aventurine stares at the black screen for another moment before fixing the buttons on his shirt. Then his sleeves. Then his hair, another time.
Sunday eats the ice cream in tiny spoonfuls and Aventurine thinks about kissing him, about tasting the sweetness on his lips, too.
“It’s melting,” Sunday says and gestures towards the cone forgotten in Aventurine’s hand. “Watch out.”
The rain drums against the bus stop’s translucent roof. It only keeps some of the water away but half of the torrent still pools on the ground and they have long since fled onto the metal bench. Out in the swirling black void of space no rain falls but they are perched on the edge of the planet, watching rivulets fall into formless nothing.
“I think that would be the cherry on top,” Aventurine mumbles and carefully licks the ice cream threatening to spill. “Is this bus ever going to get here?”
“Probably.”
“Probably.”
“I hope the taxi driver managed to free his shuttle,” Sunday says. “And the card from the poor dog.”
Aventurine pulls his legs closer to his chest and sighs.
“You would say that.”
“I did.”
“I think my luck is running out.”
He means for it to be light and easy, a smooth little quip, but it comes out flat and uncertain and Sunday sets the cup of ice cream down beside himself immediately. He takes Aventurine’s hand, gloves still pleasantly cool.
“It’s okay,” Sunday tells him and caresses his knuckles with his thumb. “I’ve had fun and your luck isn’t a finite resource.”
Aventurine stares for a moment and then rests his head on Sunday’s shoulder.
“I suppose it was lucky there is a bus stop at all. And a floating ice cream truck.”
“And that the restaurant manager was a fan and let you pay with an autograph.”
“Fair,” Aventurine mumbles.
“Your ice cream is still melting.”
“Let it.”
Aventurine laughs as a soft wing gently smacks his head.
“You can do this when we get to your place,” Sunday urges him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“The ice cream is, evidently.”
“It is not going anywhere, it’s going on your favorite shirt.”
Aventurine just laughs and interlinks their fingers tighter.
“That was a cruel and callous thing to do,” Sunday whispers and his voice itself is a tune that carries far, melodious and harmonic. “That was unkind and uncalled for.”
The red cat cake knocks its forehead against his another time, purring louder. Sunday takes its paw between his hand.
“Do you understand the crime you have committed? Are you prepared to face the consequences?”
The creature knocks their heads together more enthusiastically.
Aventurine stands in the bathroom doorway keeping as quiet as he manages to, his hair still damp and clinging to his skin. Sunday stays where he is, kneeling on the ground before the red cat cake. He speaks in a hushed tone, the wings behind his ears flapping happily whenever he gets another purr or meow as response.
“Are you threatening Cherry?” Aventurine asks.
Sunday jumps but does not let go of the little paw. He clears his throat.
“Your roommate is terrorizing me.”
“You’re lucky Parfait is asleep. If he heard you-“
“I shudder to think of such prospects.”
“You’re shuddering in general, too,” Aventurine answers and pulls Sunday up to tug the jacket from his shoulders. “Take a shower, too, or you’ll catch a cold.”
Sunday smiles.
“You will have to lend me some clothes.”
The thought jitters in Aventurine’s mind. A warm feeling in his chest.
“Oh no, the horror.”
“A suffering unlike any other.”
Aventurine has only just settled down on the couch with his legs thrown over the armrest as his phone chimes. He steadies Sesame against his side and checks only to blink in disbelief.
Hi, Mr. Aventurine! I’m sorry about the sudden message but I have something important to ask you.
No worries, Miss Robin. What do you need?
It’s about my brother.
I had a feeling.
What has he told you about Gopher Wood?
Aventurine gasps only partly in exaggeration.
“Oh my,” he says and tries to sit up to little avail. “Look at you.”
Sunday laughs. He does a little unenthusiastic twirl and then smoothes the fabric down over his chest. The outfit he borrowed is simple loungewear but Sunday never wears simple. He looks cozy. He looks comfortable. Aventurine clears his throat but his lungs stay tight.
“C’mere?” he gets out and Sunday obliges, sitting on the couch with him and immediately drawing at least one cat cake away from Aventurine’s lap.
“You are lucky I am here to rescue you,” Sunday comments with Sesame climbing his leg already. “They are vicious little things.”
“You brought catnip for them, though, so you are also partly to blame.”
“How nuanced of me.”
“Sunday,” Aventurine says and smiles until the corners of his mouth hurt. “You look happy.”
And Sunday laughs again, another undignified giggle and flap of the wings. He scoots closer until they are touching, leg to leg.
“And you look like you have something on your mind,” he replies and there is a somber tone in it.
Aventurine sighs.
“Don’t even need the Harmony for that one, hm?”
Sunday taps the space between Aventurine’s eyebrows, then brushes his knuckles to his temple.
“Not with your tells, no. Did something happen?”
“Robin texted me about your father’s funeral. You didn’t tell me that was today.”
Sunday pauses and then leans heavier against him.
“I didn’t want to think about it.”
“I get that. That isn’t what bothers me.”
“Oh?”
“You haven’t told her,” Aventurine says and seeks Sunday’s eyes no matter how much they avoid him. The lights are dimmed and the windows closed, reflecting only the same scene. The two of them and an assortment of colorful cats, crammed onto a couch and when the mirrored Sunday pets Parfait, the patterned cat cake, the real one does the same.
“I haven’t told you, either,” he mutters. “I suppose I also have tells?”
Aventurine snorts.
“It’s part of my job to spot those in people, angel, no need to feel bad.”
“I don’t know how to tell her.”
“So what?” Aventurine asks and rubs Sunday’s side. “You’ll let her mourn a guy she’d despise if she knew what he did to you?”
He gets no response and the Nihility worms its way through warmth and giddiness and what is concern born from them. He was happy before you spoke. He was happy before you ruined it- are you going to ruin this one, too, Kakavasha? Are you going to sink your greedy claws into another person stupid enough to love you?
Sunday takes a shuddering breath.
“You’re right,” he says weakly. “Thank you. You shouldn’t have to tell me that but I appreciate that you did.”
Aventurine runs his fingertips up the back of Sunday’s shirt, brushing over feathers always cramped into suits, always hidden from view.
“She also already knows or she wouldn’t ask me to check on you.”
“That is also a fair point.”
“And if you do want to tell me one day,” Aventurine says and flicks the small wing quivering behind Sunday’s left ear, “I’m here to listen.”
Parfait and Plum fight on the couch around them for a moment, scrambling to secure perfect spots and stretching as far out of their colorful shells as they can manage in their sudden bout of rage. Sunday plucks Parfait from the cushions no matter how deep her claws dig into the fabric.
“I want to tell you,” he says and frowns. “I want to do a great many things and then I never get to them.”
Aventurine lets his gaze wander from the corner of Sunday’s mouth to the line of his jaw.
“Make a list? You like lists.”
“Another day. We are still on a date.”
A little burst of happiness. The rain may have caught them before the bus got there and the Nihility keeps buzzing behind his eyelids but Aventurine smiles again.
“Yeah,” he says. “We are.”
Sleeping through the night is a luxury and when Aventurine wakes in a cold sweat the weight of sixty copper coins is all he feels in his pockets. A phantom and a shadow following close behind. He cringes and scrambles to get up but the blankets that buried him are not hot sands. The nausea hits him second and he jumps up, his legs tangled in blankets, and almost falls onto his bedside table.
Shame burns hot, in his stomach and in the angry tears beading in the corners of his eyes. You got out- you got out, why can’t you leave it behind? The sands and the still black waters, the starless skies?
Aventurine throws up nothing but water and bile. He splashes water against his face. He brushes his teeth. Then he returns to the circle of cat cakes staring at him with wide eyes.
“Shush,” he tells them. “I’m going back to sleep.”
They all join him and their warmth persists through the chill of Nihility. Sleep doesn’t come, however.
The light of his phone stings in his eyes but he adjusts to it as he does all things. All of the latest messages are pictures of canine creatures dropped in his group chat with Topaz and Ratio, all of which are rated by her. No matter how many teeth there are she seems to score them above ten. She stopped after midnight and Ratio, after some delay, only sent Did you die?
Below that, Argenti. Beautiful sights from all over the galaxy, sometimes featuring his own radiant figure among what brings light to his eyes. Plants, quite often. Other spaceships, the occasional person in the pictures with him. I hope you are keeping well, friend!
Robin’s last message is a thanks for talking to him, I’m glad my brother has found people like you who care about him as much as he deserves :D
Sunday’s last message is from earlier this morning. An article about violin tuning and an excerpt of musical theory, wordy and complicated.
Cherry gently gnaws on Aventurine’s wrist as he debates his options.
“Hi,” he says immediately as the call connects. “It’s late, I know.”
Sunday hums. There is some ambient noise in the background and then footsteps. After a while the sound of fabric shifting stops and starts.
“Now I can hear you. Hi. You did not wake me up if that is what you were worried about.”
“Maybe so.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?”
“No,” Sunday says. “But I prefer when you are okay.”
Aventurine throws his arm over his eyes no matter if his audience is only a herd of clingy cats.
“That thing you sent,” he sighs. “It went over my head.”
“Oh, that’s alright. You didn’t-“
“It’s embarrassing. It used to be very basic concepts, too, that I just had not heard of and people get that look in their eyes. Like they pity me, this tragic idiot who-“
He trails off.
“You’re not stupid,” Sunday says. “Or an idiot.”
“Can you break it down for me?”
A small quiver in his voice and he feels shame run ever brighter through his veins. Helpless, unworthy, pretender.
Sunday tells him of harmonies belonging to no aeon. The instruments that one Gopher Wood did not approve of, the songs that were not good or proper. Too loud for a public figure and too loud for the halls of the pavilion. A rhythm in every hymn and Sunday takes his time. Tempo and notes and Aventurine listens until his eyes slide closed and he falls asleep with a voice in his ear that is not the buzz of failures past.
The mall’s glass ceiling shatters and a person drops five stories down into the fountain below. Blood splatters and then golden petals sprout from torn flesh. The person blooms in the glow of Abundance and then they gasp awake filled with new life.
Aventurine watches them from the railing above. He heads to the mall’s courtyard with steady steps and the amber light envelops him in advance. A shield too strong for abominations to ever pierce, a gamble won before he made it.
The person drags themselves out of the fountain and their red eyes zero in on the one approaching. They glare and glower and Aventurine pauses, hands in his pockets.
“Oh,” he says. “You’re Blade.”
Blade’s eyes narrow. His voice is grave and low.
“What gave it away?”
“You look like my cat.”
For a moment silence falls over them, broken only by the trickling of water.
“You are Dan Heng’s friend’s boyfriend,” Blade says and tilts his head.
The phrasing sends an embarrassing little flash of happiness through Aventurine’s chest. He doesn’t bother correcting it, keeps the idea safe and secure wrapped in golden shields.
“So I assume your little scripts told you to come here today,” he says and smiles, only three quarters performative. “Any chance I can convince you not to destroy more IPC property?”
Blade’s unwavering stare conveys amusement.
“There are bugs on the roof.”
“Pardon?”
“Firefly and I were in combat with the swarm on the mall’s roof. It is not me who needs convincing.”
Aventurine sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Ah. Even my charm may be wasted there.”
Blade hums, a pleased low note.
“It would be.”
“Then would you like some company killing bugs, Mr. Blade?”
Aventurine stumbles into the apartment, slumping against the door and gasping for breath.
“I am so sorry,” he calls out. “I did not forget, I promise, I-“
The weariness and ache in his body eases at the sight awaiting him, no matter how familiar it has become. Sunday is asleep on the living room couch, surrounded by the armada of cat cakes. Sesame’s shell serves as his pillow and the smallest cat, Key Lime, is attempting in vain to drag a blanket over them with its teeth.
Aventurine laughs, his heart so full he can barely stand it. Then his knees buckle and he truly can’t, collapsing to the hardwood floor. It hurts and buzzes and the numbness gnaws from his legs up to his sides. He takes a breath and while his vision flickers his ears pick up an insistent meow that pierces even this terrible veil.
A second or minute or hour later he feels a gentle touch against his jaw, his face cradled, fingers running through his hair.
“Hey,” Sunday says. “Aventurine. What happened? What is going on?”
Aventurine sighs.
“You don’t have to touch me, birdie, I know you don’t like when-“
“You’re injured. I can manage a bit of- what is this all over you?”
“Swarm juice.”
“No,” Sunday says. “It is not called that. I refuse to accept it.”
“’s true.”
The gentle touch does not stop, cupping his face, brushing and stroking and Aventurine feels tears prick at his eyes, despite it all.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Sunday says. “Can you walk?”
The warmth of Sunday’s body next to his is too tempting and Aventurine leans on him more than he has to, absolutely ruined clothes be damned.
“It swallowed you?” Sunday asks and his voice hitches with worry. “How are you alive?”
“My shield held and SAM- or Firefly or whatever she wants to be called- roasted the thing. They gave me a ride home.”
Aventurine lets Sunday fuss over him, drowsy and exhausted. The Nihility isn’t buzzing in his ears but he came home to someone who gives a shit and whose touch never brings discomfort. Sunday talks about this and that, calming himself down most of all while they peel clothes soaked by insect bile from Aventurine’s shivering form.
“Sorry for being late to another first date,” Aventurine mumbles halfway through.
Sunday shakes his head.
“You said you had work to deal with today and I insisted I’d be okay waiting. I brought food, yes, but we can warm it up if you feel like eating later.”
“Only if you eat something, too.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good,” Aventurine says and hums as Sunday washes gore from his hair. “Hey, Sunday?”
A gentle scrape of blunt fingernails against his scalp.
“Yes?”
“I think we should date.”
The trepidation finds a comfortable home in the pause. Water drips down Aventurine’s ears and temples, small bubbles of soap trailing behind.
“You mean-“
“I mean we are having dates so we technically are already dating. But we never talked about it.”
Sunday continues to rinse his hair.
“True,” he says. “I suppose we should have.”
“You have a key to my apartment and my cats love you. It only makes sense.”
“Aventurine-“
“We don’t have to, of course, if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure. It’s sudden, I know, but-“
“Aventurine,” Sunday says and caresses his hair. “I’d love to. I care about you deeply and it would be an honor to make that official.”
And Aventurine does cry for a moment with half a bug still on his hands and soap stinging in his eyes, a few sobs until he is laughing again and his chest has adjusted to the weight of his heart.
The train sways gently through the stars. The lights are dimmed and the record player turns. Every gentle note is softened still and Aventurine hums along every now and again, catching parts before letting them dance along the song alone.
“This one reminds me of a windmill,” he mumbles against the fabric of Sunday’s sweater.
“Oh?”
“Makes me think of storms.”
“Is that a good thing?” Sunday asks, voice mellowing, petting Aventurine’s hair. Not every blue sky is a blessing and not every imperfection an evil.
“Yes,” Aventurine says and nuzzles his stomach before resting again. “It clears the air and brings the rain.”
Sunday shifts, adjusting his reading position.
“Do you want to sleep?”
“No. Not yet.”
The pages turn, one after the other. Aventurine listens to them and the soft breathing and the movement of cool gloves over his skin. He is not in the desert, witness to a slaughter. He is not in a cage, dreaming of death. He is not in the void, drowning in black waters.
“Love you,” he whispers.
“Love you,” Sunday replies without a hitch, feather-soft voice.
Aventurine counts this as much any other- another good day.