Work Text:
“This Curio is perfectly safe,” Asta of the Herta Space Station assures him seconds before Sunday falls unconscious in the middle of her office. She yells in obvious distress but his ears barely pick up on it. It is lights out, signal cut.
What he wakes to is the worried faces of Asta and one of her colleagues hovering above him.
“Miss Asta, what happened?” Sunday intends to say. What comes out instead is a an adorable little chirp. The sound brings tears to Asta's eyes and she sniffles, desperately wiping at her eyes trying not to start sobbing.
“Mr. Sunday, you-” she starts and has to blow her nose. “Everything is going to be alright. All of these Curios have a temporary effect, give it a few hours and you should turn back to your usual self. You can understand me, yes?”
Sunday nods his head. It must look adorable, as well, almost enough to get Asta to break down. She is kind enough to contact the Express for him, however emotionally compromised by his appearance, and soon enough he finds himself cradled in March 7th's careful hands.
“Aw, Sunday,” she says. “If that bird you were so upset about looked anything like you right now I can't blame you for remembering that for decades, you're so cute.”
Sunday is used to his feathers puffing up in embarrassment or anger but usually it is his wings only not his entire very fluffy body. March giggles.
“Is that the bird equivalent of a blush? I didn't know doves could look flustered but you somehow manage.”
Her thumbs smooth down the feathers along his head. A soothing, comforting motion.
“No need to be scared, either,” March explains. “One time we accidentally turned Himeko into a worm but she got better really quick. So I'll just get you back to your room and you can sleep this off or something. Or we can try to play a board game and you can perch on my shoulder like a parrot with a pirate. Or-”
Her stream of consciousness, uninterrupted, continues on. Sunday always appreciates it, always has. At the very start it filled a silence he could only ever offer guilt to. Now he gives chirps whenever March asks him questions. A dove, he keeps thinking. It has been long enough, healing enough of a time, that he could laugh at it if his shape allowed it.
“It was not your fault,” Robin told him the last time they met, cloaked in a sheen of Harmony in a restaurant far from the Family's grasp. “And it was not mine, either. You would not condemn a different child for trying their best and falling short.”
A guest waits for him aboard the Express. Aventurine sits on the plush seat, effortlessly taking up space, one arm draped over the backrest and one of his legs thrown over the other. Those clever eyes miss nothing, no detail, no opportunity.
“Hi,” he says. “Oh, Miss March, did you-”
“It's Sunday!” March interrupts him, cheerfully. “He got turned into a bird.”
Aventurine's elegant eyebrows surge up.
“Oh. How inconvenient.”
“You two were going on your totally-not-a-date, right? You can still go. Only if Sunday says it's okay, though.”
She lifts her palms up until Sunday has been elevated to her eye level.
“Do you want to go hang out with Aventurine while you're like this or stay here on the Express?”
After a long moment of staring at him expectantly she pauses.
“Oh, you can only answer yes or no questions. That's right. So, yes to Mr. Aventurine over there?”
Sunday nods and catches Aventurine's reaction out of the corner of his eye. A satisfied smile graces his features, a smile so charming it always made it easy to pretend it was earnest. Wishful thinking, once. Aventurine moves with a self-assured grace, rising from his spot. He holds out a gloved palm and March is very careful moving Sunday into his new nest.
“Oh my,” Aventurine says under his breath. “Look at you.”
Sunday's plumage puffs up once more. He is so small he does not even fill Aventurine's cupped hands, their careful grasp enveloping him. Aventurine always runs warm and Sunday feels drowsiness seep into him instantly. He chirps softly, closing his eyes for but a moment.
Nesting always was a thing for children. Fledglings, really, too young to know better. Robin and him spent hours arranging their plushies and blankets just right, finding ways to create a fortress. They knew little of 'preservation' then and even less of 'order'. On the Express it has been different, simpler and as convoluted as a maze conjured by the Dreamscape. Freedom of choice but no rules no systems nothing meticulously sketched out before his mind's eye. He asked for help and every new set of input built that nest, that mosaic assembled one shred of love at a time.
“Sleepy songbird, aren't you?” Aventurine says under his breath. “Did you overwork yourself again?”
No, but your hands, too, feel like home.
Sunday works too much and not enough. Guilt is a mountain scaled best one day at a time and he climbs and climbs until his hands blister and bleed. The summit remains out of reach.
“Hey,” Aventurine says, even softer, and his thumbs rub Sunday's cheeks, the small stretch beside his beak. “Stay with me.”
Sunday blinks and turns his head into the touch. A shiver runs through the warm hands cradling him and the look Aventurine gives him is equal parts pained and fond.
“You have to warn me, songbird, or I might think-”
He doesn't finish the sentence. He only looks, head tilted in the most fetching way possible. Sunday mirrors him.
I'm not gone , Sunday chirps. And you are warm and kind even if you don't believe me.
Aventurine looks as though he wishes to hold him tighter, keep him closer, but this bird body is fragile and light. Instead he lifts Sunday up and offers him a spot in the collar of his coat near his neck where his pulse races. Sunday accepts gladly. Another nest, perched in a soft scarf. He coos happily.
“Still so trusting,” Aventurine mumbles and shivers. “Could go to a man's head.”
Good. It should. You should keep it up there, should keep it forever.
Sunday rubs his beak against Aventurine's neck before leaning into him. There is no fear. This is a roost between fabric and flushed skin.
The letters have reached the Express in timely fashion, spread out over weeks but never leaving doubt that another will be soon to follow.
Did they not give you a phone , the first one read, penned beautifully and in an expensive envelope that carried a subtle woodsy smell, although there is something whimsical about writing on paper, I suppose. I'll let it slide this time. I accept your offer, too.
And Sunday held that small cat in his arms like he once wished to shelter the whole cosmos. Safe and cared for and when it first ran his stomach dropped. Too much, again, making choices in another's stead, assuming too much, thinking himself a savior- and then it unraveled, the strange disguise, and he found himself only relieved that his choices this time were not grave transgressions.
Aventurine looks at him now, too, scared and unsure, and Sunday wonders what nightmarish visions he sees. Torn feathers, hollow bones snapped, this small bundle of a creature crushed into bloody pulp. He'd still fit into Aventurine's palms.
“Hey, songbird,” Aventurine whispers. “Hold on tight, okay?”
Sunday nestles deeper into the scarf, into the nest. The heartbeat thrumming against his side speeds up once more. Always a smile, always a clever word, but in those letters and the grey hours of that early morning of Aventurine's stay at the Express he was not talkative at all. Quiet and contemplative and willing to let the silence rest as much as his body did. All the cathedrals and chapels of the Harmony could not contain the awe it inspired, still inspires. Sunday holds on tight, as tight as he held that small cat when it ran scared from people wishing to harm it. A give and take. This is good. There is no need to be afraid.
Aventurine walks through the busy streets of Pier Point and explains in hushed whispers what there is to see and hear.
“That's the Kiliro Fish Restaurant,” he says. “Strange sight, isn't it? That is one of the options I considered taking you to but I wasn't sure if you even like fish. You seem like the kind of guy who doesn't want to see any animals harmed. So I considered other venues, less prestigious, but then there would be no telling if their standards are what I'd like for you to enjoy-”
You thought about this so much, Sunday chirps and rubs his head against Aventurine's jaw. About me. About our time together.
The embarrassment usually crawls in about now, the flush to his cheeks and the way his feathers stand on end with every shiver, nervous or delighted. Sunday squirms around feeling good and seen and appreciated, always does. Too much, undeserved, unwarranted. Aventurine is devastatingly handsome, each smile more charming than the last, and his honesty is the light moths are helpless to chase, uncaring of their fate. Now, with this body, all that remains is the happiness. Just the right amount, just enough to fill his heart.
“This is much harder than I thought,” Aventurine mumbles. “Not knowing what you'd reply. All those things I usually ask you about, all saved for later. How am I going to know if you liked my gifts, hm?”
Sunday coos against his pulse.
“I think I really like him,” he told March just yesterday when discussing his plans. “I'm not entirely sure how to tell but I think this is it.”
She prodded him for more information, never pushing him too far. Blunt and irreverent but never unkind, always beaming when he admits to any small bit of indulgence. That's what staying around Aventurine is, what thinking of him has been. Sugary sweet thoughts without the stale aftertaste soda would leave him with. Candy, light and guilt-free, in every minute spent.
“Do you have butterflies in your stomach when you think of him?” March asked, her chin in her hands. “Oh, your wings fluttered when I said that. You totally do!~”
Sunday does, usually, but not now. Perhaps there simply isn't enough space in this small body to contain all his anxiety. All he can think is how lovely the warmth is, how pleasant the smell.
“Are you falling asleep again?” Aventurine asks him. “Or just overthinking, songbird?”
You're one to talk.
The golden barrier in the sky tints the whole world into perpetual dusk. The day is always almost over, perpetually on the verge of ending. When the night comes it is abrupt, merciful, until dusk will return on the break of dawn.
“I walk this way almost every day,” Aventurine informs him. “I do a lot of incredibly boring work, you know, the times I head out to charm my way into the good graces of pretty birds like that are few and far between.”
Regret and self-deprecation.
You didn't manipulate me into this, Sunday chirps, hopelessly. And I did not compel you, either. Let it be real because it is.
“I was going to take the day off and sleep,” Aventurine admits as his steps take him past a pastry shop and its many sparkling delights. “Before you asked to meet up, I mean. It wasn't going to be a good day. Sometimes I just know when I wake up in the morning. It's a gamble, too, I suppose.”
Sunday listens. Some of this isn't new.
My stay in the Nihility came with a few side effects, those letters explained. Nothing I can't handle.
“That's the bar I went to with Topaz and Ratio last week. Horrible indoor ventilation. Even more horrible than my company that day, I am sure.”
“Over there is where Jade took me to celebrate my first legitimate job. Got called names by someone, good time.”
“That's where-”
And Sunday chirps and rubs his head against Aventurine's neck once more, stopping him, sending shivers through his body. Halted in its tracks, that horrible spiral, eating a person from the inside out and leaving them hollower than before. Sunday has heard others like this in the darkness of Penacony's confessionals, crying alone or laughing or doing nothing at all until the weight of their guilt drew them away to the vices of the Dreamscape instead. He listened then and it hurt, at times, always hurt because he needs not know a person to feel for them, to feel the suffering seep from the hinges of the world. Misery is the same no matter where he goes. It still aches more when Aventurine carries himself through it, too, slowed by its tar, stuck in its glue.
“Alright, alright,” Aventurine murmurs. “I'll stop. Is it alright if I just head home, songbird? I don't think I can stomach much more talking to myself.”
Sunday nods his tiny head and it gets a laugh out of Aventurine, at least, no matter how defeated.
You don't have to perform at all. You can just be. It's okay. I like every version of you I've met. Loud or quiet or cat.
The walk to his penthouse is quiet, peaceful and somber. Aventurine takes the elevator, not the stairs, and leaves his expensive shoes by the door. Before dropping onto the couch he thinks better of it, slowly sitting and slowly cupping his palms around Sunday's small form. He mimics March's motion, raising him up to eye level.
“Have you seen yourself yet? That was the strangest moment for me, seeing myself changed.”
Sunday shakes his head. He bumps his beak against Aventurine's nose, hears the hitch of breath up close.
Show me.
Held up to the bathroom mirror Sunday only briefly studies his own form. A chubby little bird, white and blue, with a halo behind its head and extra feathers lining his cheeks where his headwings would be. His eyes trail up, however, to Aventurine, sweet Aventurine, whose hands still suffer a faint tremor. A small smile on his lips and so much worry in his beautiful eyes. A bird this small will break apart so easily. The bird, however, only marvels, fearless. Blonde hair, styled windswept and deliberately casual. He makes it seem so easy, to be handsome, to own his body with even cosmetic confidence. Sunday watches the way his clothes hug his body. What an effort he made. Peacock feathers, all on display, and Sunday would smile if he could, smile until his mouth hurts.
“I can't tell if you're impressed or not,” Aventurine says. “You always look...”
He trails off. Sunday settles more comfortably into his palms, puffing up his feathers, a fluffy round shape. Like a cloud, he thinks seeing himself in the mirror, sheltering the sun for now.
“I miss hearing you talk, songbird,” Aventurine tells him. “You make it easier to...”
And again it escapes him. He must be tired, must be worn out and worn thin, must have needed company instead of this. Sunday spreads his wings and takes flight, sailing into the living room and onto the table. The eyes of the catcakes are on him but they are smart creatures, sense the soul within the shell. Aventurine chases after him, however, the fear in his eyes so bright they gleam with it.
“Sunday,” he calls out. “Cmon, don't-”
And he pauses, disheveled, as he watches the small bird pick up a pen in its beak. It gets another laugh out of him, a soft exhausted puff of air.
“Let's try a touchpad instead,” he says and sits down at the table. “You're going to hurt yourself trying to lift that.”
Sunday taps onto the screen with a clumsy claw.
miss u 2.
Aventurine presses a hand to his mouth to stifle another laugh. His eyes are misty. It must have been a day of all days.
“You can't just be sweet when you're looking like a plushie come to life, darling. A dove carved out of marshmallows. The concept of tenderness given physical form.”
Sunday can't help but preen.
I hope you know that whatever shining blinding wonderful star you see in me I see in you a thousandfold, is too long for him to type so he settles on it's true.
“Okay,” Aventurine relents, his smile softening. He leans onto the table, still gravitating towards Sunday. The lines around his eyes, the dark circles, are concealed expertly but begin to shine through again. His eyeliner smudges onto his nose as he rubs his face.
“It helped me to go to sleep, do you want to do the same?”
ok.
Aventurine pulls a few shirts and blankets from his drawer and arranges them near his pillow on the bed. A well is left in the cozy heap and Sunday fits right in. He tucks his beak under his wing and closes his eyes. A gentle thumb strokes over his head, caressing his feathers, coaxing sleep to overtake him.
Sunday dreams of Penacony often. City skylines and never-changing nights and its splendor has long since dulled in his memory. Beyond the dream lay ever grander sights. He soaked them all up, grew his heart in size to finally make space for all that once consumed him. When he wakes, he will be better. When he wakes, he will give voice to all he couldn't so that terribly voice in Aventurine's head may quiet. When he wakes, early in the morning-
The purr stirs his body like the gentlest earthquake, moving his very foundation. Sunday blinks and he is still a bird, clearly, feathers in his view. Then he takes a second glance. Fur the color of warm sands, eyes like gemstones.
“Hi,” Aventurine meows and slips into the nest of fabric, curving his body around Sunday's. “Better, isn't it?”
The worry remains, buried beneath the teasing lilt. Sunday rests his beak on Aventurine's flank where the purrs reverberate the most.
“What happened?”
“After our encounter I went back to the space station and managed to strike a deal for a few more doses of the stuff. It was fun, right? Who doesn't like a bit of adventure in their life?”
“What about your cats? What if you don't turn back in time when they get hungry?”
“I fed them before I took it, of course,” Aventurine says and looks as offended as a cat can. “I called Topaz, she'll be there in the evening. It'll be okay. She called me an idiot but she's reliable.”
Sunday chirps in what he hopes comes across as reluctant understanding.
“Reckless.”
“Mhmm, that's part of my appeal.”
Everything you are is part of your appeal , Sunday thinks and he is shy still and uncertain but he says it, too, word for word in little chirps. Aventurine's purrs halt for a brief moment. Then his bushy tail wraps around them both even tighter.
“I didn't like the quiet.”
“I know,” Sunday replies, rubbing his beak over Aventurine's soft side. “It's okay. This is nice.”
“You're nice.”
You were scared of hurting me as yourself, of crushing me or saying the wrong things or being too much when you felt it was only you occupying space.
“You're also nice,” Sunday tells him because not everything can be so easily put onto the table and examined. “If you would like we could try again tomorrow. Have our... meeting.”
“Our totally-not-a-date.”
Aventurine is so warm. He smells like a field of flowers. Sunday imagines it, the two of them stretched out amidst fragrant petals and below the rays of the sun. He imagines not caring about the stains on his clothes from the dirt or the pollen in the air or the insects crawling over flushed skin. It would be alright. It would be okay. Sunday sighs, his feathers shifting to caress Aventurine's fur.
“Would you like it to be?” he asks.
The purr doesn't stop this time.
“What do you think, songbird?”
It was not hidden well at all, an open secret. Put on display, really, punctuality and consideration and flawless presentation offered up in scarred hands. Sunday would smile if he could. He will again soon.
“Tomorrow it is,” Sunday chirps. “Totally-a-date.”