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The apartment is dark when Aventurine arrives, and deadly quiet too. so quiet that he assumes Sunday must have been called out by the Express. The ex-Oak Family head was too obsessed with routine to be sitting in a dark home. Aventurine kicks off his shoes and places the bag of takeout on his arm onto the kitchen island. He's taking a peek into the fridge for a drink when he hears a soft creak. His eyes dart towards the bedroom, and with a hint of suspicion in his belly he slinks closer.
Pushing the door open greets him with a familiar sight. In the dark, he can make out that the bed looks fuller than it typically should. “Is that my angel?” Aventurine muses as he pads slowly closer. The large heap of blankets shivers, a soft grunt muffled, and Sunday pokes his head out. His eyes look heavy, his ears tinted pink and his hair a mess. If Aventurine didn't know any better, he'd assume that Sunday had not left the bed all day. The IPC member has to restrain himself from giggling at how adorably rumpled he is. His wings are as messy as his hair, drooping down to rest on his shoulders. Sunday's jaw sets, expression growing tight with irritation at the sight of Aventurine's amused grin.
“Fuck off.” He hisses, worming back under his mound of blankets. a
Aventurine coos and slips into the Halovians sloppy nest. “What's wrong, angel?” He eventually wiggles his way beside Sunday, wrapping his arms loosely around his torso. Sunday, despite previously seeming pissed off, nearly melts in his arms. He preens and trills softly, arching back to rest the crown of his head against Aventurine's shoulder.
“Hurts.” he mumbles. Sunday's ears burn red with embarrassment. It's not like he hasn't aided Robin through this very pain in the past, but there's something so humiliating to be experiencing it in front of anyone else.
Aventurine hums, catching onto Sunday's situation quickly. His hands ruck up Sunday's shirt and press into the flesh a little below his belly button. Sunday's wings flare and flutter, a stutter of surprise leaving his throat. Red colors his face as Aventurine nimbly massages over the base of his belly. The skin is tight and a little distended there, warm to the touch. Aventurine understands why Sunday’s so irritated. The IPC member pecks a few little kisses into the visible skin of his neck, earning himself another little noise from the ex-Oak Family head. “Does my song-bird need anything?” Sunday rolls his eyes at the name.
He does contemplate it, though. Walking around the dreamscape he heard many men complain about how it was an escape from their nagging or demanding wives. He doesn't want to be deemed a ‘demanding wife’. Although, now that he thinks about it, he isn't sure he could consider himself ‘Aventurine’s wife’ to begin with. Halovian nature must be at play if he's genuinely considering how Aventurine would treat him if married. They haven't even officially stated that they're dating yet, much less ready to tie the knot.
A silver wing curls around his face, hiding his features from the ipc member behind him. Sunday stammers from behind his feathers, “a hot water bottle would do nicely.” Aventurine's gloved fingers press into his bloated belly, taking specific care to rub where his uterus–the epicenter of his pain–is. Sunday looses a soft moan at the feeling.
Aventurine doesn't move, seems to wait for the proverbial other shoe to drop. “Anything else?” he encourages like he knows there's another request on the tip of Sunday's tongue. Sunday hums as a warm palm slides smoothly over his belly, skirting closer and closer to his sternum. “Parfait…” Sunday blinks, falters like there's cotton drying up his mouth, then regains his confidence. “Chocolate parfait.”
Aventurine grins. He plants a languid kiss directly onto Sunday's nape as a form of reward. Getting Sunday to voice his wants and requests is a chore that Aventurine is use to, even enjoys sometimes. Yet he feels the need to reward his little birdie for expressing his wants without having it be wrung from him. Aventurine's hands glide upwards, over his belly and up to cradle his ribs. Sunday schools his expression and turns to face the IPC member, and is delightfully greeted with a pair of lips against his own. The Halovian twists his body so he can properly reciprocate the kiss.
“You'll be good while I'm gone?” Aventurine teases, breath warm and fanning against Sunday's lips. A double edged comment that makes his halo pulse weakly. Sunday nips Aventurine's bottom lip before dragging him into another kiss. Aventurine's hands flutter down to weakly grip onto his hips. a tongue prods at the seam of his lips, and Sunday obliges the IPC members' request. Sunday trills softly as he feels that silver tongue swipe over the dull arches of his teeth. He meets it with his own, swallowing down a groan as Aventurine dominates his mouth.
Without realizing, a hand has traveled up to cup his cheek, the tips of the fingers petting at a silver wing. His wing flaps weakly to try and slap the teasing fingers away, but the effort is futile. Sunday pulls back to down some air, but also to glare at Aventurine. “sorry,” Aventurine says, tone not the least bit apologetic. In fact, his tone is colored with mirth, like this is all just so amusing to him.
“Do we even have a hot water bottle?” Sunday groans and has half a mind to smack that grin off his stupidly smug face. A silver wing slaps at gloved fingers once again. “In the closet,” Sunday huffs. Aventurine hums and leans in for another kiss. There's something about the idea that Aventurine is attempting to kiss his pain away that makes Sunday's heart pound like a hummingbird's. Sunday's eyes flutter shut, butterflies soaring up from the depths of his belly into the cavity behind his ribs and before his lungs. He’s warmed from head to toe as Aventurine pulls him closer, kisses growing deeper, longer. They pull back for air less and less, hands roaming and holding each other close.
Sunday could forget the sharp ache in his belly momentarily, he could melt here under warm blankets and even warmer affection and he'd be fine with it. Aventurine's arms wind around his waist, pulling their bodies flush together. Sunday instinctively wraps his legs around the IPC member, hardly giving it any thought or breaking their kiss. Aventurine sighs against his lips, gloved fingers trailing slow patterns against his exposed skin.
He doesn't pull back in the slightest as he murmurs. “I know. I just wanted to see if you did.” Sunday groans and rolls his eyes, yet he can't stay mad, and soon his groan turns into soft giggles. Silver wings curl and ruffle with amusement. “I believe it best you go attend to my requests before I have you sleep on the couch.” Aventurine laughing causes him to burn bright red, wondering if sending Aventurine to the doghouse in his own home was too much. “So bossy,” Aventurine says with a grin, pecking one last kiss to the corner of Sunday's lips before untangling himself. Guess it was pretty silly to think that would have upset him.
There's a pang in Sunday's chest that urges him to drag Aventurine back into bed, though. An instinct that tells him to not let him leave. He pushes the feeling away and watches the IPC member rummage through the closet. Sunday's eyes trail after him as he leaves the bedroom, the raven wings ruffling weakly. It's suddenly cold without Aventurine, and the Halovian finds himself padding slowly after him.
Aventurine makes a throaty noise of subdued surprise when he feels sunday press against his back, laughs when he feels him rubbing his face like a cat against him. “Miss me?” he looks over his shoulder at the ex-Oak Family head. His ears are tinged a pretty pink, face hidden and pressed into his shoulder blade. Sunday's arms wrap loosely around his waist, pulling their bodies together. Sunday doesnt grace him with an answer. Doesn't need to, not when the weak fluttering of his wings and the gentle pulsing of his halo speaks volumes. Aventurine's eyes soften at the state of his … partner.
Since his fall from grace, Aventurine has happily indulged Sunday whenever he shows up at his door. The Express doesn't seem to care about him wandering off now, so he often stays with Aventurine when not needed by the Nameless. Despite the frequent visits, their relationship is something they've treaded oh so carefully around since they met in Penacony. Just how do you explain an IPC Stoneheart and a disgraced, ex-Family head of Penacony coming out as a couple without earning some backlash? Aventurine often has an ugly desire to lock Sunday up in his apartment and hide him away, anyways. The public doesn’t need to know what goes on behind closed doors.
Perhaps they'll be like this till the end, toeing the line of love or not, together or not. Aventurine thinks that this is enough for him. Knowing that Sunday allows him to see his most vulnerable parts–the parts he finds ugly, the parts he'd usually hide away from everyone–is enough. It almost makes him laugh in disbelief. He sounds like an old man talking about the wife he's been married to for fifty years. That outcome doesn't sound so bad, a part of him whispers. He chooses to blame it on Sunday's Halovian nature rubbing off on him.
Shaking off any lingering Halovian attributes rubbed off onto him, Aventurine can only surmise that the Oak Family provided Sunday with birth control to calm his periods. Now that he's traveling the galaxies and is a fugitive of his home planet, he must be suffering the brunt of them, and he can only guess that Halovian nature and instincts complicate things. Aventurine twists his body in the Halovian’s hold and kisses his temple. “Did my angel miss me?” He whispers, voice soft, no longer set with a teasing lilt. Sunday trills softly, silver wings flaring and curling to wrap around his face.
So predictable, Aventurine thinks with unbridled glee. Gloved fingers run along the downy wings hiding Sunday's face, and slowly but surely they unfurl to reveal a face of rosy red. Sunday quickly finds himself buried in Aventurine's chest, swallowing down another trill as that pang in his chest subsides into a gentle lull of warmth. Aventurine smells of warmth and sandalwood and outside, yet it settles those deep buried instincts of his that yearn for a mate. Usually, Sunday would squash these feelings into dust. Such desires could not be given a chance to bloom under gopher wood, under the order.
But here, in the solitude of Aventurine's home, Sunday allows these feelings to spread their vines, entangle his limbs and snare his heart. A moment of weakness, but one that he's willing to share with the IPC member.
Aventurine never gets an answer before the whistle of the kettle disrupts them. He reaches back and flips the spout open then turns back to the needy Halovian clinging to him. “Lie on the couch for me angel, I'll bring you the hot water bottle in a moment.” Sunday marks with hopeful optimism that Aventurines tone lacks its usual bite, uncharacteristically subdued and tender. Sunday swallows down another trill before padding to the couch to lie down. Aventurine watches him go with a smile.
Once the waters had time to cool he pours it into the hot water bottle and caps it. Sunday’s curled his body around one of the throw pillows, and all it takes is a stroke to a silver wing to get him to unfurl his body. Aventurine pulls the waistband of Sunday's pants from his body, and it leaves him flushed and stammering. His wings flare and flutter, a warbling comment on the tip of his tongue.
‘Don't look.’
‘It's disgusting.’
‘I don't want to.’
Color him surprised when all that happens is Aventurine slipping the bottom half of the hot water bottle into his pants. Once settled perfectly over the core of his aches, Aventurine's hands move to fix his shirt and readjust the waistband of his pants. Something between a trill and a purr rises up Sunday's throat.
“You still want a chocolate parfait?” Aventurine smoothes a hand over silver locks, gloved fingers occasionally brushing against his wings. Sunday nods and presses into the gentle touches, causing a soft chuckle to loose itself from Aventurine. “Don't keep me waiting,” Sunday grumbles as Aventurine makes his way to the door. “Wouldn't dream of it.” Aventurine calls over his shoulder, and then the front door clicks shut and Sunday is left longing once again. He drags the blanket off the back of the couch and the nearby throw pillows into some half-baked nest to cozy himself into. The warmth and the smell of sandalwood soothes his nerves. Sunday blinks, and suddenly Aventurine is on his knees beside the couch, ungloved hands running through his hair.
Sunday swore he only closed his eyes for a moment, but he guesses he must have misjudged himself. He stretches and wraps his arms around the IPC member, dragging him into the makeshift nest. Aventurine goes easily, and is soon wrapped around the Halovian. He's quiet for a few long moments as Sunday intakes the fresher, stronger scent of sandalwood off his shirt. Is it cologne or natural smell? Sunday may never know, and why should he. Gentle fingers tap against his hip. “Your parfait is on the coffee table.” Sunday glances over and swears he feels his heart soar into his throat.
His parfait, chocolate as requested, sits with a plastic spoon perched on the lid. Next to it is a glass of milk in a very childish mug covered in doves and angels and verses from a faraway religious text. By the milk is a smaller paper cup–one you'd use to gargle with after brushing your teeth–containing two pills. For all of his years as the Bronze Melodia, as the Oak Family head, as Sunday, son of Gopher Wood; never has he once felt as see as he does around Aventurine.
“Ibuprofen,” Aventurine breaks the silence after noticing Sunday’s staring. “Thought you'd like something to dull the pain.” Sunday wants to laugh and groan and hold his face in his hands all at the same time, because of course Aventurine took a gamble on him wanting ibuprofen and won.
“Only you would do something like this, gambler.” Sunday downs the ibuprofen with a swig of milk before picking up his parfait. Aventurine laughs, a muttered ’guilty as charged’ passes his lips, before he nestles his face in the crook of Sunday's neck. Silver wings are shockingly silent for once with Sunday sitting in his lap to eat the parfait.
Aventurine doesn't know what to do with himself, doesn't know how to calm the pounding in his chest. The last time he heard his heart this clearly in his ears was … darker times. His first instinct is to run and never look back. It's scary how Sunday all but manipulates his emotions now and he doesn't even know it. Aventurine finds himself realizing that if the Halovian ever called for his help, he'd drop everything to be by his side. Perhaps he should have the Doctor scan his head and make sure there aren't any silver feathers lodged in his brain causing him to think and feel such funny things.
The IPC member inhales, feels something twitch against his belly, and holds his breath. Sunday seems to catch onto his silence all too quickly, wings ruffling and curling to hide his red face. Aventurine's hand moves slowly from Sunday's belly to his back. an involuntary trill looses from Sunday's mouth as Aventurine pets over what feels like a second pair of wings. “Are…” Aventurine stammers. Sunday answers before he can even finish.
“Yes … o-only mates should touch them, though…”
That causes him to pause. M ates . Aventurine narrows his eyes as he sees the wings fluttering weakly beneath Sunday's shirt. a tremor seems to run through the Halovian as he struggles to finish off his parfait without shaking hands. something wells up behind the IPC member’s heart, crushing his airways and sending blood rushing through his ears.
Penacony, land of the sweet dream, was a second home to lovers. Newlyweds often went for their honeymoon, and many would return for anniversaries. Many men would spend their Aideen tokens at slot machines or poker tables and slur about their wives. Anything from calling them boring or annoying, to complaining about how little sex they get from them, nothing was off the table for those drunks. And quite frankly, Aventurine never cared about what they said. Not because he was silently rooting for the wife, but more simply because all he cared about was the payoff of the game.
Those memories are now recontextualized through a kaleidoscope of colors, all leading back to Sunday. Would he bad-mouth Sunday like that? call him a nagging Nancy or a cheap slut? what would he say if … if Sunday was his wife …? in the moment, all he can come up with is how soft his little, silver wings are or how expressive they are. He thinks of Sunday's voice early in the morning, when he's just woken up and it crackles and dips. Sunday has seen him at some pretty low points, yet he's never run away or called him disgusting.
If Sunday were his wife, Aventurine would never have to worry about him running away.
Words choke up in his throat and leave him speechless, so many emotions crashing down on him at once. A part of him screams to be Sunday's mate, to have something stable and tangible to cling to for once. Aventurine's eyes widen fractionally when he realizes that his hands are still settled over Sunday's clothed wings. There's something so poetic about the way Sunday has allowed them to rest there, not bothering to swat them away like he usually would, like he use to.
Sunday's silver wings begin to droop, the tips brushing his shoulders. They've toip-toed around their feelings for long enough.
Coming back to himself, Aventurine slips his hands under Sunday's shirt and quickly find soft wings pressed tightly against the Halovian’s body. All those large coats must have been to conceal them. Sunday sputters out a choked noise as Aventurine preens each feather his fingers come across. Slow and methodical, he unwinds the stiff wings that had spent their entire lives concealed and constrained. Aventurine looses a breath as he sees the tips poke out from beneath Sunday's shirt, a viciously contrasting black that shimmers purple in the light of the living room.
Before he can even get a proper look, raven wings snap back against his waist, a shiver running down Sunday's spine as he conceals his wings once more. He swallows and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Another choked noise escapes his throat as Aventurine pushes his shirt up under his arms, silver wings flare and flap with protest as his entire lower back is put on full display.
Aventurine is silent with awe as his hands trace over the bony top before drifting down to raven feathers. As he feels, he marks that they’re not as soft as his silver wings, but only just marginally. They reluctantly part from their stiff position pressed against Sunday's waist, slowly fanning out much to the delight of the IPC member. However, his joy is crushed when his fingers brush feathers with straight edges rather than points. He peers down, hoping its just a trick of the mind, yet it becomes difficult to claim it was just a false alarm. Sunday's wing shudders as aventurine, like handling porcelain, examines Sunday's clipped wing.
Almost all the feathers were clipped, and done so with expert precision. Aventurine chances a glance up, and sees Sunday's shoulders shake. “Angel…” Aventurine breathes, dragging him back against his chest. Sunday accidentally lets loose a hiccup as his back meets Aventurine's chest, tears silently rolling down his cheeks. Aventurine presses his face into Sunday's neck and inhales.
He wraps his arms around the Halovian and squeezes. Aventurine feels tears well up behind his eyes at the thought that Sunday carries such pain with him every day. No amount of chocolate parfaits or hot water bottles could soothe such a pain, and Aventurine finds that he understands all too intimately how Sunday must feel. Without knowing how Sunday feels about it, Aventurine presses a simple kiss to the side of his throat. “I'm sure this has gone cold for quite a while,” he pulls the hot water bottle from the waist band of Sunday's pants and sets it to the side. “Want me to fill it up again?”
Aventurine's attempts to redirect conversation, not wanting things to grow awkward. Aventurine barely gets the words out before Sunday has spun around in his lap and begins to kiss the literal breath from his lungs. /he Halovian's hands shake where they settle on Aventurine's face, and he feels the need to wrap him up close to his chest. He moans softly into the kiss and finds himself chasing Sunday's lips when he pulls back to suck down some air. Electricity runs through them with every kiss, melding them into one. “Why'd you touch them,” Sunday breathes out, forehead pressed against the IPC member's. “I told you that touching them was different than touching my ear wings. Why would you touch them?”
Aventurine wants to roll on the floor with laughter at the obliviousness of the question, he doesn't when he sees the genuine turmoil in those golden eyes. The IPC member chances to steal one more little peck from him before replying, nuzzling his nose against his cheek bone. “You clearly have no experience in subtlety.” Sunday glares and bares his teeth at that, pulling a genuine laugh from him. He smoothes a hand over Sunday's lower back, fingers skimming across the delicate area where feathers meet flesh.
“I wanted to. You told me that touching them is for lovers only, so I touched them. Do you think so lowly of me to have some hidden agenda?” Sunday's eyes narrow, and Aventurine recognizes the look. He presses their foreheads together once more, hand reaching out to hold and squeeze one of the Halovians. He whispers, “it's okay. I give you permission.”
Sunday hesitates. Doing this could ultimately backfire and make Aventurine hate him. He doesn't want to reach into his memories and rip the understanding out of his chest. Sunday cannot simply mind read his way out of confronting his need to know the truth and be in control. He ultimately shakes his head, squeezing Aventurine's hand in return. “No. I trust you.”
Aventurine's eyes widen fractionally at the admission, as though he never expected Sunday to trust another word he said after all the two-timing and mind fucking he did on Penacony. The notion that Sunday trusts his word at face value without any kind of verification warms his heart and pushes him to surge forward and steal a few more kisses. Sunday readily reciprocates and kisses him back. This time, silver and raven wings curl to wrap around the two, attempting to envelope them and shield them away from the rest of the world.
Aventurine holds Sunday's rosy red face in his hands, kissing over every little feature: his mouth, his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, his eyebrows, even his eyelids for Aeons sake. He has to reward his Angel.
In the comfort of his apartment, filled with warmth and the mingled scent of sandalwood and mint leaves, Aventurine feels a shift inside himself. Two halves of a whole clicking together, a confirmation of long withheld feelings. He finds himself grinning at the knowledge that his closet is now they're closet, that his toothbrush holder now holds two rather than one. His cheek is pinched. “You look creepy like that,” the Halovian grumbles.
The IPC member can't help but to laugh. He apologizes by planting a few quick kisses onto Sunday's lips. “What a way with words, Mr. Sunday. I'm sure you make the ladies just swoon.” Aventurine laughs again at the scrunched up face of unadulterated disgust.
The two fall onto the couch in a flurry of dual colored feathers and flailing limbs. Aventurine turns on the TV, just to use the pepeshi broadcaster as background noise. Sunday curls up on his chest, wings visible and settled into a comfortable position, borderline dozing off again. Aventurine smiles and plays with some small locks of blue-gray hair. Aventurine blinks and finds himself growing sleepy–for once he's sleepy without having to use medication or just waiting until his body passes out from exhaustion. With his last bit of will power, he curls his arms around the Halovian and sticks his nose against the crown of Sundy’s head. With the help of his warmth and the minty smell of his shampoo, Aventurine's eyes begin to pleasantly flutter shut.
He'll tell Sunday about the nine, identical chocolate parfaits he put in the fridge later.