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The universe is inconceivably vast, sprawling and large and forever expanding — and yet despite its apparent size, it feels that wherever Aventurine goes, Sunday is always there with him. Even in the most miserable corner of some backwater planet will he see hints of Sunday's presence: the telltale sign of a stray feather. The slight humming of a choir song.
The ever present feeling of someone watching him.
To Aventurine, who has been scrutinized for most of his life, it is... not necessarily too uncomfortable, though a bit confusing.
“Why would the spokesperson for the Family stalk you?” Dr. Ratio had asked him once, his tone uncharacteristically bitter. Like a husband scorned, Aventurine had teased back then, only to receive an even grumpier glare in return.
“Perhaps it's a coincidence,” Aventurine had answered before going back to his drink, immediately forgetting. There was no reason to take this seriously, after all. Aventurine was just a replaceable cog in the IPC's massive machinery, chipped and already rusting from constant misuse. He wasn't interesting enough to hold anyone's attention, let alone Sunday's, and especially after what Aventurine did inside the dreamscape.
A coincidence, he had said to Ratio at the time, and wholeheartedly believed it.
Now, he is not so sure.
"Something on your mind, Mr. Aventurine?" A sudden voice murmurs near the back of his neck, making him shiver. Aventurine shifts his head slightly, catching sight of a smile that is unassumingly pleasant, and a soft heat starts to simmer in his belly.
Sunday looks too out of place in the slums of Harlow-VI, with his neatly ironed suit and expensive silk gloves. He is a speck of white and gold amidst the muck-stained walls of this alleyway, feathery wings raised high, the glare of his halo bright above him.
“My apologies,” Sunday continues, sounding the opposite of apologetic. He holds up both hands in a placating gesture, and even that looks elegant, the movement smooth and confident. “I did not mean to surprise you.”
A coincidence, Aventurine stubbornly repeats in his head. Despite his divinity Sunday, too, is as fallible as the rest of them. It should not come as a surprise to see him here, in this shitty planet, where crime comes as easy as breathing. Perhaps the Family may be in want of something that is better carried out in places where no one will pay attention to them.
It’s really none of Aventurine’s business, after all.
And yet.
“Sunday,” Aventurine finds himself sneering, unconsciously tasting the sound of him, both mocking and uncontrollably sincere. "This must be, ah, our fifth meeting right?”
Ever since Penacony, the words viciously go unsaid, where you mindfucked me and made me vividly hallucinate, you feathery bastard.
“Indeed.” Sunday looks unfazed by his change in expression, and lifts an amused eyebrow. “I believe I’m quite fortunate to see you here. Perhaps you would care to have dinner with me? I'm afraid I'm a bit lost.”
Lost, my ass, Aventurine thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s here to do business, not to be a tour guide to someone who had pried open the deepest part of him without lifting a single, white-gloved finger.
But perhaps there’s something about the darkness of this place, grim enough to be familiar, because even the deserts of Sigonia had its share of dark-brick alleyways — and Sunday is so handsome beside him, like those angels he used to pray for as proof of some kind of heaven. The Halovian may be mean, sometimes, and surprisingly vicious, but Aventurine is so, so lonely tonight.
It’s cold and damp here.
His hands are shaking.
“Okay,” Aventurine says, then adds, “But I’m not paying for dinner,” even though he can more than afford it, just to be petty.
Sunday stares at him for a moment, his face unreadable, before a smile slowly unfurls, showing hints of teeth. “That’s fine, Mr. Aventurine,” the man muses, something darkly satisfied in the way he says his name. He definitely looks pleased, which unfortunately — devastatingly — makes him beautiful, looking more like the charming Family Head Aventurine met when he first set foot in Penacony.
“That won’t be a problem.” Sunday’s fingers tightly encircle his wrist then, like he’s afraid Aventurine would fly elsewhere the moment the wind blew differently. “Go on then, lead the way.”
And of course Aventurine does — after a beat of hesitation — hand firmly against his, navigating the winding streets, past the flickering lights of broken street lamps. A stray breeze tickles his face, and Sunday walks a tiny bit closer once he feels him shiver. The silence, with their shoulders near-touching, is unexpectedly comfortable.
They’re only a few streets away from a local diner when Sunday suddenly slams him against a nearby wall, hands on either side of him. The Halovian is only a little bit taller — but his back is straight, not a single piece of clothing in disarray, and when he’s not angry or desperate to protect his sister he looks so… so awfully tender.
It is only for a short moment, but that one glance is enough to reorient Aventurine’s entire worldview.
It is a strange thing.
In Harlow-VI, there is no Robin to receive his soft expressions. Neither is there another believer in Harmony, who would’ve been full and satiated with even leftovers of Sunday’s worship.
Only Aventurine, in his lonesome, is granted the privilege.
“I just got this coat cleaned,” the blond quietly whines as his back huddles closer to the wall, for lack of something better to say, before his complaints get swallowed by an aggressively desperate kiss.
Maybe there really is something in the air of Harlow-VI’s slums — that it could make such a hard headed man long for another’s company. This difficult man, and their contentious history, and Aventurine’s own irrational need to not be alone.
Better the devil you know, Aventurine dazedly thinks when they briefly separate for air, inhumanly gold eyes always keeping him within sight, better the sin you're more familiar with.
Then the kiss continues, deepens, alongside the decadent hint of tongue — and it is just so tempting to be the prey to Sunday’s animal. To be his meal. To be devoured. For Aventurine to walk on his hands and knees, across the cool ceramic plate, where he then surrenders to quiet oblivion.
“You're so enthusiastic today,” Sunday approvingly murmurs, his voice as cool and clear as flowing water. His lips move down to skillfully suckle on his neck, and Aventurine hurriedly bites his hand before he can moan out his thanks.
This only makes Sunday more ferocious, though, that controlling bastard.
Kisses that draw blood, fingers that bruise in reds and purples — Aventurine soundlessly accepts his touch, grateful even, to have something to chase the growing loneliness away. He is famished for love, having grown too familiar with the absence of it, leaving him thin and greedy for even a morsel of affection.
“Where is your sense of self-preservation,” Sunday says hoarsely, finally stopping once he sees how deeply he's bitten him. There is an indecipherable note to his voice. His mouth then busies itself on the line of Aventurine’s throat, remorsefully licking the gore away.
“You forgive too easily, little Peacock.”
“It’s not that I forgive too easily.” Aventurine mindlessly tracks the movement of Sunday’s halo above him. It is certainly something to think about, seeing His Holiness like this: gleaming teeth and mouth wet with Aventurine’s blood, each pointed tip on his halo looking unnaturally sharp and prickly.
“It’s just that if I got mad every time someone did something horrible to me,” and here, Aventurine leans closer, his breath hot against Sunday’s ear, “then I'd be mad all the time.”
Feathery wings twitch slightly in response.
“Ahh, but in Penacony… I was in the wrong too, of course.” And then Aventurine leans slightly further away, just enough to press a very tiny kiss on one of his earrings. He can admit at least that much.
Sunday still doesn’t look up, however, head stubbornly pressed so close to his own skin he can feel the minute movement of this man’s lashes. The slope of his nose. The rough sensation of tongue on his collarbone.
“I guess what I’m trying to tell you is to not think about things too much,” Aventurine continues once the silence drags, eventually carding his fingers through that neat, grey hair. He is met with little to no resistance, which is a surprise. “Life is already bothersome enough as is.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Aventurine, it is in my nature to overthink everything.” The Halovian finally looks at him after this. Gone is the calm and collected look, with the rumpled suit and that heavy, smoldering gaze.
“I can change that,” Aventurine says slyly, something like reluctant fondness creeping into his voice. He loops his arms around Sunday’s neck, playfully bringing the man closer — dragging divinity back to earth, where he can be nearer to Aventurine’s level. “Why don’t you just focus on me?”
At his words, Sunday throws his head back and laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
“My dearest gambler,” Sunday's mouth curls gently, mockingly, finally shedding his feathers for the snake-like skin underneath.
“It’s a bet.”
From Harlow-VI, to Harilo, to even a brief visit to the star-dotted city in Abelane — Aventurine continues to meet Sunday in a series of coincidences.
“Coincidence? Really?” Dr. Ratio had asked him the next time they met. The fingers holding the spine of a leather-bound book were clenched tight, causing the pages inside to crease and crumple. “Don't you ever get tired of lying, gambler?”
“No,” Aventurine had immediately lied, toes already curling at the idea of the chase, of the thrill of meeting Sunday in some dark room, or inside the closet of some high-end spaceship. Two opposing pilgrims, lost in willful sin. It had felt like their little secret then, despite his tendency to share some stories with Ratio.
No, the real secret was this: that it had been so much more difficult to love someone like Sunday in broad daylight. Neither a dearly loved one nor a fervent follower, Aventurine gave Sunday a taste of his disrepute, and in turn Sunday had tried to snap the bones of his soul, molding them to fit the shape of his fanaticism.
How destructive, the two of them together.
How ruinous.
In the sacredness of the bedroom they could at least pretend they weren't two sinking ships crashing against each other, substituting carnality for intimacy, bodily pleasure for something more substantial. In the dark Sunday would hold him too closely and it wouldn't have mattered at all, because none of the bruises would show. Neither was it an issue when Aventurine bit and scratched back in fierce retaliation, not when the marks on Sunday’s skin would've been discreetly hidden by the surrounding shadows.
To love someone nakedly, exposed under light, and to realise the things you hate about yourself can be reflected so clearly from the person holding you —
At the time darkness had been so much kinder, so much more preferable.
“What you’re doing is too dangerous.” Dr. Ratio's drink remained untouched. “Aren't you afraid?”
And Aventurine had only laughed, said But I am always afraid before leaving.
One day, he wakes to the smell of baby powder and citrus soap. It is a scent Aventurine is slowly becoming familiar with, something he associates to be distinctly soft and clean.
“How unsightly, little Peacock,” an exasperated voice sighs above him. “You overslept.”
Aventurine looks up, bleary eyes squinting, and a fuzzy grey shape slowly comes into view. He drowsily recalls the horrible fight the night before, and how, for the first time since their coincidental meetings, Aventurine had slept alone.
In his dreams, he was shackled back to the desert plains of Sigonia, his body laid bare at Fenge Biyos’s feet. Then an angel came, bare feet leaving no traces atop the golden sand. Do you wish to destroy the world, he had asked him, chanting it like a prayer, and only then did Aventurine see chains as thick as his wrapped snugly around this creature’s halo.
Not waiting for his answer, he had then taken Aventurine home before painlessly cutting him open, sleek white feathers slowly turning as dark as a crow’s — beak and talons eager for his tender flesh, his willing heart.
“Shhnday,” the blond sullenly mumbles in greeting, still thinking about the odd dream. Sunday pauses, and Aventurine reorients himself during that short-lived silence. There is the feel of soft and warm cloth underneath him. Slowly fading sunlight on his skin. Five fingers, on each hand, which he clenches and unclenches weakly.
“How eloquent, my dear ambassador,” Sunday says at last, instead of a polite hello. There is the same deceptive smile on his face, gracious to the point of being vaguely insulting. “Very dignified.”
“Hrrk.” Aventurine readily agrees with him. Then he rolls over, a pillow in hand, facing away from the intruder. He hears the padded footsteps growing closer, firm and purposeful, before the bed dips slightly behind him.
He does not remember much after this: only the thin, gloveless fingers curled wonderingly on his cheek, followed by the fleeting thought of ah, that's impossible, Sunday never removes his gloves when he's around me.
Then, and only then, does Aventurine fall asleep.
“Must it really be Belobog?”
A light hmm is the only answer Aventurine gets. There is a blonde woman playing her guitar nearby, loud and energetic, but still his humming carries over.
Only when the music lulls to a stop does Sunday deign to speak to him.
“I don’t understand your complaints, Mr. Aventurine.” Sunday's eyes are viciously bright, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Ms. Topaz sounded delighted every time she mentioned Belobog, so I figured it would’ve been nice to, ah, coincidentally meet you here.”
Aventurine forces one eye open once he hears that, glaring moodily at the asshole in front of him.
Sunday is completely covered from head to toe, which is not unusual. There is the same immaculate suit, the same blindingly white gloves, not a single crease or wrinkle to be seen in his outfit. What’s different is the thick and expensive coat nicely draped over his frame today, lined with black and white fur, his feathery wings tucked near the nape of his neck.
He should look ridiculous, but he doesn’t.
Sunday certainly looks warm.
Aventurine hates him. Kind of.
Maybe.
“I can’t believe you managed to convince Topaz to swap places with me during inspection,” Aventurine accuses, shaking and wagging his fist in a half complaint. Ever since Topaz’s failure to acquire Jarilo-VI, the IPC has demanded reports and updates on this tiny planet, greedy hands waiting for these people to fail, for another possession to fall under their massive corporation.
And yet, despite their best wishes, it seems like Belobog is thriving, slowly but surely. Aventurine is certain Topaz will be delighted with their progress. He is, too, even though he knows so little about this place.
But still.
“I’m so cold,” Aventurine grits out in a whine, looking miserable in his thin but fashionable jacket. He is not used to the cold climate, even though he’s already become so well-traveled within the universe’s vast ecosystems. The familiarity of Sigonia’s deserts are beaten so thoroughly within him — the sand, the sun, the loneliness of his wretched existence — that it becomes hard to adjust after being exposed to a place as cool and wintry as Jarilo-VI.
He stretches his jacket tighter around himself, desperate for a bit more warmth, before Aventurine jolts in surprise when Sunday smoothly tucks him by his side, gloved hand resting comfortably around his thin waist.
They are near in height, bodies so close that if Aventurine were to turn his head slightly, their lips would just barely touch.
“...What are you doing,” Aventurine says after a beat of silence, feeling oddly shy.
This is not how they do things.
Something this gentle does not fit them.
Sunday does not turn to look at him. Instead he is studiously staring at the sky. The dancing children near the fountain. An old-fashioned street lamp. At this slowly progressing city, stretching endlessly under the midday sun.
Anywhere else but him.
“You said you were cold,” is all the man offers. Sunday’s face remains unchanged — eyes trained elsewhere, a small and pleasant smile on his face — but his wings tellingly flutter once, twice, in quiet embarrassment.
“I was,” Aventurine admits. Conscious of the hand still insistently wrapped around his waist, he says, his voice small, “Thank you.”
“Well,” Sunday finally redirects his gaze, looking at him with a mildly judgemental eye. “This wouldn’t have happened if not for your questionable priorities, picking fashion over comfort and practicality.” There is a quiet little peacock tacked at the end. Aventurine wonders if he’s imagining the fondness in that name.
Feeling a little relieved to hear Sunday scold him again, because these uncharacteristic moments always left him a bit uncertain, Aventurine gives him a very light kick in retaliation.
And then gets kicked back, hard.
“I don’t know what I expected.” Aventurine mutters gloomily, the first to retreat between them. For someone who sits on his ass all day, Sunday certainly had legs of steel. “Competitive bastard.”
Even as he says this, he makes no indication of moving away.
“I don’t ‘sit down’ all day, doing nothing in my office,” Sunday says in reply, shamelessly using his connection to Xipe in order to glimpse Aventurine’s thoughts. The blue in his eyes are darker than usual, drowning in a sea of gold, a tiny sign of his divinity.
“I’ll have you know that punishing sinners requires a fair bit of legwork.”
Aventurine imagines Sunday determinedly scurrying after some criminals, his halo bobbing behind him, and chokes on a cackle. He turns, his mouth set in a derisive curl, before —
Sunday ducks down and chases Aventurine’s lips for a brutal, punishing kiss, swiftly raising the collar on his coat in a poor attempt at privacy.
“You must think you’re quite funny, Mr. Aventurine,” he mumbles heatedly, harshly biting his lower lip, and Aventurine nearly howls his laughter. A thin trail of blood trickles down his chin, Sunday’s sharp teeth accidentally piercing the fragile skin.
They are fortunate that no one is looking, even though Sunday is distressingly handsome as he broods, even when Aventurine is a terribly loud and cackling mess beside him.
“Why the sad face?” Aventurine leers as he wipes the blood from his chin, dodging Sunday’s attempts to swat him. “Not, ah, very Harmonic of you.”
What’s meant as a throwaway line causes such a sudden stillness, Sunday’s elegant face twisting into one of contemplation. His head is bowed down low, as though in prayer, the new position highlighting his dark-grey lashes. They're long and beautiful, just like the rest of him.
Aventurine feels the urge to crouch and peer up, so that he can observe more.
He resists it.
“...Then,” Sunday says slowly, consideringly, “perhaps you would like to see?” This time, his voice does not have that same reverberating feel to it, like an entire cathedral taking on the shape of a man. “All the ways I am not Harmonic?”
Aventurine stops smiling.
Like this, with the wind and unfiltered sun interwoven in Sunday’s hair, anxious moths begin to flutter inside Aventurine’s stomach. There are none of the gentle butterflies, since Sunday and him are not built for soft, tender romances.
Instead, it is a feeling akin to both dread and excitement.
Does he dare take that gamble?
“You can say no, my Peacock.” Aventurine wants to sew all the names Sunday calls him on his skin, on his fingertips, on that area where a heart usually beats. Peacock. Gambler. Do you wish to destroy the world with me. Say yesyesyes. Flightless bird. IPC scum.
Ah-ven-tu-rine.
“Yes.” Aventurine takes Sunday’s outstretched hand, and Aventurine dares, because when has he ever run from a wager? “Of course I’ll say yes.”
“Good,” Sunday murmurs, and then he leans forward once more, head slightly lowered, all just to relearn the soft inside of his mouth. There is none of the usual fierceness, only Sunday dyeing him in the stain of his blessings.
Aventurine pants, overwhelmed, and —
Sunday wolfs down on that, too.
His every gasping breath.
His little inhalations.
Contrary to popular belief, although Sunday knows and preaches Harmony, in truth he can’t quite claim to fully understand it. Not as much as Robin, at least.
Not even as intuitive to it as the other Family members, perhaps.
He can certainly clasp his hands in a prayer, and deepen his words to a comfortable, soothing sound, but deep down he has tendencies that veer wildly beyond anything Harmonic.
There is the desire for unity, yes, but it has always been tainted by something darker. Too controlling, the other Family members had said, as they caged him in beautiful, whimsical Penacony. Too stiff. Too similar to Ena.
And perhaps they were right, but what those people forgot to mention was his hunger. How Sunday had felt so hollow, covetous even, the moment the IPC ambassador walked inside the Reverie Hotel.
Look at me, Aventurine’s slender neck had called out the first time Sunday saw him, like blood to a starving beast, his skin smooth and milky white. This could be yours, followed by a sensual head tilt, and Sunday’s mouth had instinctively watered.
He had sharpened his teeth and nails because it was so much easier to get to Aventurine’s heart without the hassle of flesh and cloth between them. Sunday’s need for control goes beyond his religiosity for Xipe, and it burns deeper than the inevitable decline that had ruined Penacony.
Look at me, Aventurine’s eyes and the flashiness of his clothes had whispered, the hint of skin on his chest enough to make even the most devout men reconsider, and Sunday had looked.
And had continued to look, once his own personal anger had whittled down to ashes, months and years after Penacony.
Because he could never forget.
Shaking hands, purple-blue eyes, the agonising screams of Aventurine’s sister as Sunday had probed deeper into his mind. Aventurine’s aches had become his aches, too. Every morning prayer, in each bead of his rosary, Sunday had thought of him.
Ka-ka-va-sha.
And now Sunday has him where he wants him, in one of Belobog’s hotels, Aventurine’s bony knees sinking on cotton and silk. The curtains in this room are made from delicate little glass beads, filtering the light that passes through in different colours.
It kisses Aventurine’s cheeks, his arms, the smooth stretch of his barely covered limbs.
"...You're beautiful," Sunday admits, and maybe there is something else to his voice, because Aventurine gasps underneath him, like he's never heard those words directed at him before.
He's shaking like a leaf, and his body is flushed, apple-pink and rosy.
Aventurine is so, so unguarded like this, a rare look of nervousness on his face. He's soft and thin enough that Sunday worries. Would Aventurine bruise like a fruit if he held him a little harder? It feels like his fingers alone could pierce the fragility of Aventurine's flesh until they kept his tissues and marrows company.
(There is a tiny part of him that wants to see it, Aventurine tethered to him in the most extreme way possible.)
“Are you drunk,” Aventurine wonders even as he willingly spreads his legs wider. This, at least, is familiar to him.
“No,” Sunday strips himself of his white gloves, and this simple motion, where he plainly pulls the thick white cloth from each finger, is what finally breaks Aventurine. He lets out a shuddering breath the moment Sunday touches him with his naked skin, bits of grief and fascination slipping through the cracks in his composure.
In response, Sunday gently thumbs at Aventurine’s cheeks, his eyes, feeling the wet dew stubbornly clinging to his lower lashes.
Today, Sunday does not belong to the Family. In this secluded hotel room, with no god as his witness, he is solely Aventurine’s.
So he removes the headdress the Family lovingly crafted for him in his image, puts away the rings and jewelries given to him by god-king Xipe the Harmony. Sunday puts away his wings and his claws and comes crawling back to Aventurine's side wearing only his naked humanity.
“This,” Sunday presses the blunt head of his cock near Aventurine's ass, smearing precum against his skin, “is how I’ll show you.”
He hears a strained hint of laughter, a quick rush of air that tickles his ear.
“Have you always been this forward,” Aventurine leans closer, like he can’t quite help himself, “or is this just a you thing without the guise of Harmony?”
“Why ask,” Sunday says, this time entering in one short thrust, “when you'll find out soon enough?”
“My temptress.” Another thrust. “My little minx.” Then, softly, "Kakavasha."
Sunday bends down to press a loving kiss against a shaking thigh, and gets a muffled hiccup in return.
Soft thighs, small waist, a tight heat that welcomes every entry and exit from Sunday — these are the things that make up his Kakavasha, the sight of him the very pinnacle of what sex has become for Sunday.
“Unfair,” Aventurine sobs, tightening once more as soon as Sunday mouths his name directly above his IPC brand. Ka-ka-va-sha. “You’re so fucking unfair.”
It is true.
Sunday does fight unfairly.
He knows all of Aventurine’s little tells, his weakness and preferences. Sunday continues to make good use of them even now, pounding into him, his thrusts angled in a way that makes Aventurine uncontrollably spasm, forcing out unintelligible whines from his spit-slick mouth.
This is the antithesis to Sunday’s religion, wrecked and sobbing on his cock, incoherent as he demands him for more.
And this, this, the desperate scratching of this man’s blunt fingernails, binding Sunday to him, is what finally causes him to let go, pumping Aventurine full of his semen.
“I h-haven’t come yet,” Aventurine whines, large teary eyes determined to catch his gaze even as he flutters them close with each moan. “Ple-ease,” and then a careful slide of Sunday’s fingers over his cock, causing Aventurine to arch his back violently in a sudden orgasm.
Sunday is greedy, though, and resumes his thrusting.
“Stoop... Sto-p! You monster,” Aventurine cries, no doubt feeling Sunday’s still hardening cock even as he convulses in short, jerky movements. Then, in a visible shudder, he twists and writhes on the bedsheet, moaning so sweetly, so helplessly in overstimulation.
Sunday is not deterred, until Aventurine, boneless and breathless both, weakly raises his head to give him a smug smirk.
Exasperation and flickers of affection fight their way to the forefront. “What is it now,” Sunday tries to look unimpressed, slowing his thrusts a little.
“Back then, since Harlow-VI,” Aventurine looks even more satisfied, if that is possible, “I told you I’d make you focus only on me.”
For Aventurine, it seems like Eden begins in the hovel that is Harlow-VI. It is different for Sunday, where the seeds had begun to take root ever since Penacony, where they are nurtured by rain and wind, stubbornly growing despite, despite, despite.
Again, Sunday cannot help it.
He laughs.
“Well done,” there is something soft in his voice, though the two of them are already well past caring about such obvious signs of intimacy. “For the undefeated winning streak in your bets.”
Was it crude and unsophisticated? Perhaps, Sunday supposes.
But maybe, in this godless room, this is just how humans love.
Messy, without much finesse.
In the end Sunday cannot fully embody Harmony, even though he tries his best to do so.
Still, with their bodies like this — bare legs coiled together, atop the sheets, readily behind bars in each other’s ribcages — it feels like nothing else matters.
Let’s go to sleep, Aventurine says, and Sunday’s world turns anew, not quite destroyed so much as rebuilt.
Yes, Sunday takes a deep breath, gulping down the taste of something unpolluted and pure, before he exhales it gently back to the earth.
It would be wrong to call this sin.