#- my dream ends late (may i never be awaken) ; Sunday ♠

[aventvrina]

songbird #12 - achilles come down featuring Sunday (@halothes) & Aventurine

summary: in the midst of nothingness, madness and harmony, aventurine sees the person who's responsible for it all.

"You crave the applause yet hate the attention, then miss it, your act is a ruse. It is empty Achilles, so end it all now. It's a pointless resistance for you."

'We've got to make good use of death.'

Such were the words he told Ratio before walking to his execution and such was the truth even if masked in deceit. The near omnipresent gaze was meant to hinder their plan as it should be impossible to lie under such circumstances. With every move read and every word analyzed the slightest misstep could be fatal but Aventurine is used to this pressure. After all poker had always been his favorite game.

The confident smile speaks of coercion, an early silencing of the dove that could shatter a million hearts across the universe but none would bleed harder than that of her brother. Tied to the altar as he was, it was impossible to move without stirring the delicate strings of the knot that held Penacony together.

How fortunate of him that Aventurine was there to hold his hand. A faithful servant who had offered himself so graciously, forfeiting his own freedom and power to Sunday as promise of his unwavering loyalty. He was to uncover the truth in his name, perhaps even bring the criminal to his trial, standing shoulder to shoulder with the head of the family as the sinner is sentenced for the murder.

Too bad The Family is not fond of games of deception.

With the barrier broken between the layers, Nihility and Harmony bleed into each other in a slow dance. The fissure reveals a hidden world submerged in slumber, far too big to be ignored but small enough to be temporarily contained. And although Aventurine should be walking beyond the barrier, he finds that there's still some defiant interference in his way.

He should not be seeing Sunday in front of him right now.

'This is all but a fleeting dream.'

They stand on what could be described as a roof top, the black waters gently dismantling the building from beneath but never quite allowing it sink. A silent devouring that should cease as the knot begins to mend itself whole again. But for now, IX remains in the horizon, uncaring of his travel to it's immense shadow and oblivious to the grappling resistant pull of The Harmony.

Sunday's hand is extended, expectant.

"Is this your last effort to keep me?" He can't help but to laugh. The trial should be over and the Harmony's connection severed from him. Whoever, Whatever he's seeing right now is not Sunday, but they managed to make him stop nonetheless.

'Do you love your family more than yourself? '

There is an underlying rage as he recalls the question. To force him to admit such truths to be used as punishment on him was foul. Even after decades of having his origins held against him by everyone he comes across, none hit quite as hard as having the fictitious promise of being reunited with his family again.

A new beginning, free from pain and eternally happy under the merry tune of the harmonious orchestra. It's disgusting. A laughably terrible joke.

Perhaps this is how they attempt to lure him back. If not by love then at least by hate. Surely he wouldn't pass the chance to have one last shot at winning his trial. They studied him so well, they gave his younger self the perfect day of a lifetime, his future a mocking smile that insults him from even daring to fight back, and his present. He was made captive in the dream, isolated from everything and everyone he has come know and forced to walk the Golden Hour in excruciating torturous pain under the guise of investigation. All the while he gave his cornerstone to whoever would accept, the broken aventurines are to spread fortune and wealth to those who need it most.

Such a magnanimous selfless act. He can't believe they fell for it.

The etched marble like smile remains ever so gentle as he approaches. Immaculate gaze elated as if the pain he has gone through was well earned and washed whatever crimes he had committed. All that is left is to do is take the hand and he is forgiven.

Aventurine finds that divinity and economy act the same way. They think themselves superior and justified as they bring ruin for those who swear to their name. Calling mercy to their guiding hand, promising sweet nothings that wouldn't be real had they not destroyed everything beforehand. But the worst of it all, is their self entitlement to punish those who do not comply.

Gaiathra Triclops punishes him for being born. The IPC punishes him for surviving. Sunday punishes him for doing his job.

The only difference is that Sunday is tangible, even if not quite at the moment.

"What a miserable move." He takes the waiting hand and guides it to his waist, letting it rest securely behind him as he crowds the figure. " You should never gamble, your bluff is terrible."

He really shouldn't be entertaining this but Aventurine doesn't know when to quit. Doesn't realize where the edge of the building and the sea of abyss is and how close to danger he truly is. He just keeps walking, guiding the ethereal figure in an embrace towards their destiny. And just as he has continuously done since he set foot in Penacony, he takes a gamble.

"Don't worry." His cynical smile doesn't match his gestures. Caring hands cradle the unmarred face, fingers webbing through soft feathery locks as he lures Sunday ever so close.

He's uncannily surreal, the precious gold doesn't shine in reaction, in fact, he continues to maintain the image of a merciful saint who knows of his past sins and has absolved them. It's a pity he can't have the satisfaction of seeing real fear in such a perfect face.

"I am still on your side." There's some honesty to every lie but the betraying kiss should be for the real one and not for this joke of a fabrication.

With a step back he jumps and then all is black.

[aventvrina]

@halothes gambled:

the fate of a gem is to be desired, cut and sold. such is the steadfast belief of the blond man, a notion that holds truth in the hearts of many, perhaps even his own. ❝ i don't find myself agreeing. ❞ sunday declares, ❝ rather than being desired, cut and sold, i believe its destiny should be to be cherished. ❞ he muses gently, leaning forward to place a delicate kiss upon the man's forehead. ❝ the fate of a gem lies not merely in its material value, but in its ability to be treasured and loved. ❞

He all but stops, cheeks warming, gaze fleeting as the words sink in. He wants to blame the tender gesture that renders him speechless but actually it's the belief. Destined to be cherished. Ability to be treasured, to be loved. It's a dangerous thought, to think his end is not that of death. Sunday always has a way with words.

"Ability you say." Aventurine wonders if he has it in him. It's a difficult thing to accept when his birth dictated his worth, to his people and the rest of the verses, the expectations were there before he could even open his eyes. He's not supposed to be able, he's meant to just be, meant to follow the tell tale of the gem whether he's capable of withstanding it or not. Yet all those who believed in his worth are no more and he's currently left to prove himself to those who consider him even less than a speck. But Sunday speaks of inner worth instead of bestowed, and the kiss to his forehead is a quiet proof of his belief in it's existence.

He's not sure what to say, what to promise. It'd be so easy to fall back on the Aventurine, to shrug the gesture and taunt the man, remind him of who they're supposed to be, how they're supposed to act. In a rare moment of honesty, silence speaks. He can't really say much else, he would win nothing by airing out his actual thoughts on himself nor what he's been put through. The less Sunday knows the better, like that, the halovian can keep on believing in whatever inner worth he thinks Aventruine may have. A gem doesn't chose it's value nor destiny but if it could.

If it could.

A gloved hand seeks the other's and is rewarded with warmth, he musters a smile, however practiced it might be, it'll do to not shatter the moment. Even he finds himself deserving of it in spite of it all.

"That's a lovely sentiment." It's all it is, a sentiment. But he still ponders it.

Sunday is an earnest idealist, his core quality and flaw. For all the things that make it easy to understand one another, all the similarities, the thing that distinguishes them the most is their view. Aventurine accepts reality as it is, all it's flaws, all it's injustices, the roles he must take to keep going and all the ruin it brings him. The cards are dealt regardless of fortune, the only thing one can do is to play. Sunday wishes to end the game, he tried so, almost did it, but in the end.

In the end Aventurine's cheeks are warm, the light feeling of a kiss lingers on his skin and he finds himself wishing for that reality. He places a kiss to the back of Sunday's hand, eyes finally meeting, a belief of his own, no matter how sheepish and unsure. While he's not as grand as the cosmos nor as important as humanity, perhaps he can muster the ability to make himself important to one person, regardless if he has value or not.

"Wouldn't be such a bad fate for the gem."

[aventvrina]

@halothes

-continuing from here ;

"I will persist."

A smile blooms without restraint, for once it is genuine. But how could he contain himself when Sunday keeps meeting his expectations. He's glad he's not broken. Lesser men would tumble and weep for their hard work crumbling, for their backs stabbed harshly to hide the truth, for their lives shaped in falsehood to be crushed by reality. He's glad they're of the same cloth, unwavering, unbending, in spite of it all, persevering. Maybe Sunday would fit with the Preservation, a senseless thought but one he still entertains. The halovian has the look of a misplaced ghost, a soul haunting the wrong body waiting for the time he can be released from the flesh. Being denied the entry to the dreampool must be weighting on him heavily. It's amusing to witness.

"Don't fret, luck may still be on your side." The Family isn't as harsh as the IPC, even with Sunday being the scapegoat, the chances of him just getting a slap on the wrist due to Robin and the Nameless intervention are so high, he hardly figures the notion of the opposite. But he can understand the thought, after all, Sunday's the one who grew up in such an environment. A false, idealized one, but still the very thing that shaped him to be what is today. Like a baby dove, he's still opening his eyes anew, only gazing at the world from the nest. Eventually, he hopes, he'll take flight.

"You're not wrong for wanting change." It's the most innate thing to humanity, to be restless, to be unsatisfied, to be hungry. The never ending urge to move forward, destroying the past if needed, using it's ruins to take a step higher than before. Sunday is no different, despite his role in the game, his aspirations are just the same as everyone, it's just his sight that is shorter.

"But you're changing the wrong thing." He glances at his wristwatch. Aventurine's not about to start an argument when his own time is so severely counted. Perhaps he should request some days off after the dust settles, there's still quite a hurdle before it happens, but having future plans is what solidifies his will. Just like Sunday, against all odds, he too will persist.

"Unfortunately my time is up." The Ranger should be almost figuring out where he went, although he had promised cooperation, disappearing momentarily isn't going to win him any favors, he still needs Boothill manageable even if for that he'll have to take the gun aimed to his head. He gets up slowly, fixing whatever folds and dents might have happened with this little stunt. He is somewhat stalling, almost reluctant to admit that he'd rather indulge in whatever cheap conversation they're having than returning to the status quo. But then again when will it be the next time he'll have the chance to play with a kindred soul. One who's just about to get his footing.

He's already by the door when he pauses. There's nothing owed between them, nothing left to be repaid, but still, he can give the other one last piece of advise.

"What you seek is not there. A fake world can only give fake answers." Try as he might, Sunday would have never gotten what he wanted in the end. Delusions do not make truth, and sweet dreams are meant to be just that, dreams. To be born, to live and to die under eternal ecstasy, is more hellish than existence itself. But who is he to tell him that, this is something Sunday has to learn by himself. What happens afterwards, well, that Aventurine is also trying to figure out.

"When you're ready to stop burying your head in the sand, call me." It wouldn't be him if he didn't throw one last gamble. For all he knows this could very much be the last time they interact. Even if by a sheer miracle Penacony retains it's status and all bad blood is washed between them, there's still nothing that would warrant them meeting again. Aventurine has his path, death awaits him with each step, one he is carefully nursing to greet him only at the right time. There's still so much he has to do. Sunday on the other hand, may as well be free, and if he were him, no, if he could wish something for him, he wouldn't want him to walk with the same person responsible for his downfall. Such a curse should only be for those blessed by destiny, those who can afford to get their hands dirty in the name of something selfish. Yet, he still extends the invite.

"I'm always looking for new friends." And with that, he leaves.

[aventvrina]

@halothes

continuing from here

 my,  what interesting things your dreams consist of.

It slowly clicks together and if Aventurine could experience shame it would be staining his cheeks in treacherous revelation. But he has long since discarded it as a useless emotion, instead there is nothing but a pause at Sunday's words. Whatever blissful veil he had been under was lifted and now he's forced to acknowledge his actions. Actions he can't justify as they had been done through the lenses of a dream. His shoulders sag slowly with a muted sigh, amused despite it all, gaze stuck on molten gold as there is nowhere to escape.

But truly, what can he do? He was caught, irrevocably guilty of stealing something as sacred as a kiss from someone who should be forbidden to him. They are enemies first, barely acquainted second, strangers last and yet, it's just as the halovian has serenely accused him of, he occupies his head enough for this to happen. Aventurine has long since stopped understanding his dreams, as long as the screams aren't louder than his thoughts, as long as the rain doesn't haunt him through the night, as long as his wrists remain light, the scalding heat, the bruising cold, the accumulated attempts upon his life, anything, he'll take anything over a reminder of life.

Sunday figures in his dream as an unbroken promise, a balm to the endless gashes on his soul, a foreign tenderness he can barely remember receiving. How fitting that his mind would cast him of all people in such a role. It's exactly the part Sunday seems to love to play, the guiding hand, the forgiving grace, the bleeding heart who aches for everyone but himself. He'd ache for Aventurine too, and apparently, he'd haunt him as well since he chose to invade his dreams.

He has to commend the dedication on his suspicion, it's truly disarming to think that not even in his private psyche he's truly safe. He's not safe from himself and now, he's not safe from Sunday, but he finds that he's oddly amenable to it. There have been worse people trying to break his mind, far less savory methods than simply visiting him in dreams, some that still torment his thoughts far more often than he cares to admit. But even in this the man manages to be proper, not stirring, not moving, the threat is spoken with just as much elegance as he had broken the spell with.

He doesn't know how he expects him to feel remorse like this. He remains silent, a proud smile, daring, just as his hands dare to lay upon the pristine lapel of Sunday's vestment. Refusing to move from his place, refusing to speak, refusing to damn himself further than he needs to. In truth, he's excited to see what will happen. Sunday's careful use of words give him an inkling that he's in no real danger, despite the hands on his cuff pulling him in further. But it's the gold that gives him away, he recognizes that look, the look of a challenger, of someone throwing their cards at the table to meet the stakes. It oddly suits him.

The distance is torturous. He doesn't fold. There's much that can be said, much to be raised between this dance of hold and release even if neither are willing to move first. His hands remain at the lapel waiting for Sunday's decision. It's all dependent on him.

 would you care to find out  ? dear gambler

His answer is silenced before he can even think to speak. In a surprising spin, Sunday leans forward and their lips meet once more. It's funny how well fed devils behave better than famished saints. This one feels better but uncertain, bashfully hungrier and endearingly inelegant. How enchanting to experience such an earnest attempt. He almost wants to scare him in tease if that didn't mean an early end to it. For now, he indulges in the simple sensation, letting Sunday have his fill as arms come to coil themselves around his waist, a worthless attempt of preventing him from leaving should the other chose to.

Aventurine appraises him through slit eyes, for once, he finds himself at a loss, basking in the warmth of a corporeal sun, defined only in dream but still so human-like. It's somewhat addicting, he fears he might want more, he always does. Such is his nature as the sinner, even if only in the worlds eyes, even if only in Sunday's. No matter how pliant he is, there will come a time where he'll reach for more than Sunday can give. The same hand that pushes the chips is the same that takes them, and unlike this cautious player, so caring in his pull, so tender on his lips, he's not afraid to give everything if it means he'll reap.

If only it were real.

But it will be. It will be.