[Use the theater of your mind to imagine exceedingly polished coding with maybe a funny meme or two to underscore the fact I'm approachable, but know my way around HTML.]
[His hands clench the second Aventurine mentions his sister and a noise escapes Sunday's lips (something low, angry, a little reckless, something he'd buried and had grown inside of him like a seed or rot), and the only thing that saves the Stoneheart from him doing something truly reckless - a lunge, ripping the halo off of his head and trying to stab him with it and damn the cornerstone (Sunday couldn't, but he can pretend, he can imagine taking the pointed part of the Harmony's mercy and using it for bloody murder) - is the fact that the elevator dings. The doors open.
They have more important things to focus on. He exhales, his breath shuddering, and forces his body to relax.]
I can only do so much lest I draw the Family's eye upon us. I assume you have a plan? [There's memes and Bloodhounds and all sorts of things between them and their exit.]
[ The rage is unexpected. An interesting surprise, even. Aventurine feels the air between them change before he sees the tightened fist, the subtle tensing of muscle. Penacony's poised and perfect ice prince is, it seems, entirely capable of such base emotions. A part of him delights in the idea of pressing that bruise to see what happens. But now isn't the time.
He steps forward, putting himself between Sunday and the open elevator door, placing a gloved hand on the frame to hold it in place. They're about to be spit out into a long, empty door-lined hall. Quiet, dimly lit, probably rarely used. A good escape route if no one was looking for an escaped prisoner, but presently, everyone is looking for that escaped prisoner. ]
I thought we could get a bit of shopping in. [ He glances over his shoulder, shooting Sunday an appraising look. Best not to joke too much. He's not exactly a fan of getting punched or stabbed. ] The Tuning- can you use it to obscure yourself at all? Change your appearance? We stand a better chance getting lost in a crowded place than trying to stay hidden in these.... backrooms.
[Unfortunately, that's a good point, and Sunday hates to concede it, but also...a good point is a good point? He inclines his head in respect of it, actually, and then-
One moment, Sunday, fugitive of The Family and fallen from grace, is standing there. Blink, and suddenly it's an Intellitron instead. Composed and proper, her face stoic and unmoving and all but blank. There's nothing to be seen here, no depth of expression.]
[ The change is instant, but Aventurine thinks he can pick out the faint feel of the Tuning affecting him as it happens. Maybe his senses are playing tricks on him, making something of nothing, but it still takes considerable effort not to recoil on instinct. His only reaction, in the end, a slight tightening of the corners of his eyes. Then, a second later, the pendulum's swinging back, his smile wide and teasing as he offers a nod of approval, voice suitably saccharine. ]
Lovely as ever. Stay close.
[ Aventurine steps into the lead, quick but casual. He doesn't quite know where they are, but has a rough idea. It might be better to move in total silence, but Aventurine opts to lay out a plan in a low, conversational tone. It's better than thinking about Tunings, anyway. ]
If we're unlucky enough that anyone asks, you're my personal assistant. Here to help me with the logistics of a few gifts for my business partners before we leave the Dream, because I've of course made a total mess of things. And- ah! This one.
[ It really seems like he selects the door he does totally at random, but when he throws it open, it's exactly what he expects: a staff entrance into a storage room for one of the larger Golden Hour clothing boutique. ]
[He does, of course, stay close. A half-step behind, a little bit differential, his jaw set so tightly that he half-imagines his teeth shattering, he half-imagines biting his tongue to the point in which he draws blood. He doesn't, of course. His adoptive father taught him how to control himself, which is part of the problem. He knows so much about control that Sunday doesn't know how to deal with a world in which he doesn't have control.
Aventurine reaches for a door, completely at random, and it's thrown open and there is-]
Of course it is.
[Of course, the Tuning means that low frustrated sound comes out as something softer, more differential. Don't think too hard about it. Besides, Sunday knows politeness. He can act like a personal assistant. (He's going to think about this later.) Moving right along.]
It sounds like you are in the habit of making messes, Mister Aventurine. [...he can act like a personal assistant eventually, but they have a few moments before someone inevitably finds them.]
[ The Tuning makes expected irritation sound downright pleasant. Admittedly, it's a little less fun, not being able to tell when he gets a rise out of the former Bronze Melodia. Aventurine spares a glance over his shoulder at the blank intellitron face before stepping through into the shop. No dour expression, either. Shame. ]
Ah, and we're just two peas in a pod, there, aren't we?
[ Aventurine smirks. Sunday, too, for all of his care and effort, has certainly helped to make a mess of things in the Sweet Dream, after all.
He passes through the storage room like he belongs there and stops at the first shelf of neatly folded clothing he sees. Paired shirts and sweaters, he grabs up two of each in whites and blues, then moves on to another table and starts selecting clothing items. ]
The way I see it, life is always going to be a little messy. Rather than trying to stop it, my energy was better spent learning to navigate it. [ He turns and holds the stack of clothes he's selected out for Sunday to take, grinning. ] It makes catastrophe a little less catastrophic. For me.
[The Tuning can only do so much: Aventurine calls them two peas in a pod and Sunday flinches before he can stop himself, but he knows the sound of a point well made. Fucking annoying, but also...
Not incorrect, and he knows it. He made a mess of things in the Sweet Dream because of his care and effort, in defiance of it. He has a lot to think about. He had anticipated doing so in the arms of The Family, but, instead, it looks as though he'll be pondering things in the hands of the IPC instead.
He follows. He watches as Aventurine picks out clothes, and is convincing in doing so. And...
...and Sunday doesn't know if it's a choice or a weird quirk of luck, but he catches himself thinking that he actually rather likes that particular shade of blue which Aventurine plucks from a pile, and isn't that thought irritating? That means Aventurine knows him well enough to know what color he might like, or that Aventurine guessed it at random, or that he's predictable enough (and does this thought burn) that a near-stranger could look at a pile of clothes and go yes. That one. Or maybe some strange cocktail of all of the above because, after all, he is known for pristine white.
It almost makes him want to run screaming into something red, but he'd look hideous in it, be miserable, and what is the point. Perhaps he is predictable. Perhaps there's something to be said for knowing what shades match his skin.
Aventurine offers him the clothes and he takes it, grateful that the Tuning means that he can't see the expression on his face. Intellitrons struggle at murderous glares. Halovians do not.]
Given what I've seen I would have guessed otherwise, Mister Aventurine. [The mister is a stand in for a different sentiment. They both can hear it. Moving right along.] You don't seem to navigate it so much as throw yourself into it and trust the currents to carry you along. But, I suppose I can't judge: after all, from a distance it seems as though you've fared quite well in life.
[ Aventurine may not be able to enjoy the fury and disgust playing out on Sunday's features, but he can certainly feel that edge. It should come as no surprise to him that he overplays his hand, delighting too much in his once tormentor's misery, but Sunday's comment absolutely catches him off guard. His fingers still on the shoulder of a pearly white leather jacket, breath momentarily caught at the back of his throat. His jaw clenches.
He smiles, though. Aventurine always smiles, but there's a bit too much slow care in his words when he replies. ]
I have built this life brick by brick, that's for sure.
[ Ever higher and with no support to bear it, because he deserves none of it. Someday, it will all finally, blessedly, topple down. He will be crushed beneath the weight of sin and scheme, and be free. But for now, work.
Sunday's certainly managed to drive a knife in. Aventurine entertains the possibility of being a little less obviously delighted by his discomfort. ]
That's probably enough frivolous spending for an evening, huh? [ He could flash one of his bright, shit-eating smiles again, savor the image of Sunday scowling prettily beneath that Intellitron mask, but he's at least learnt his lesson for the moment, and keeps it pleasant. ] We'll get these sent up to my room before departure.
[ Aventurine leads the both of them to the front register with the ease of a man not presently being hunted by the Family. Just a night of fun before leaving the Sweet Dream, is all. ]
[Aventurine's careful smile is met of one of his own - not that he can see it, of course, but it's a tight smile, a very careful smile because for all that Sunday generally shies away from showing genuine feeling? For all he values his control? There's a small handful of people who make his control slip through his fingers. Gallagher, whatever happened to that abomination of a man, traits stolen from others and woven together into a different whole like an act of Harmony. Robin, of course. His father as well, for all of his misguided righteousness. And this Stoneheart.
He follows.
As much as he wishes otherwise, he keeps silent because the last thing he needs is for Aventurine to overplay his hand and for the both of them to become...
Guests, of The Family. He's every bit the model personal assistant as he follows, the Intellitron mask firmly on his face. It's another way of acting.]
Will you? [And, also.] I suppose I have nothing else to do but to wait. Take your time, Mister Aventurine. I know an assistant's place.
[ It's a shame about that Intellitron face, stonily placid, unreadable. Aventurine has a sneaking suspicion that Sunday is fuming beneath Harmony's mask, and a not-so-small part of him finds ruffled feathers delectable. It's not a feeling that hits without guilt, though. The former Bronze Melodia may have had a hand in putting him through hell, but has Sunday not been through hell, himself? A hell of his own making, certainly. But Lady Jade had said his sister had seen such good in him, wanted better for him than the Family's plans.
Aventurine tries not to let that gnawing thought sink its teeth in. The woman behind the register takes the purchases to be sent to the hotel in the waking world, leaving the two of them free to step out into the Golden Hour's main drag.
Bright and noisy as ever, Penacony, as though the whole thing hadn't nearly come crashing down. Aventurine side-steps to lean against the shop window, the knuckles of one hand pressed to his hip. He surveys the block, far too busy for the two of them to be noticed, especially with Sunday disguised.
It takes him a moment to finally say something, jaw working, like he's fighting with himself over it. ]
Is there anything you'd like to see before you go? [ His voice does not sound nearly as smug as he thinks it should. ] Need to say goodbye to anything?
[His step falters, even through the guise of the Intellitron - his eyes are wide and he's grateful he's holding onto that mask. Some things never should be seen. He bites his lip- all of this is lost on Aventurine. The Intellitron's guise is more certain than Sunday feels at the moment, because of all the things he expected, it wasn't kindness.
He knows what he should say: no, because that would put the both of them in danger, not just him. (Not that Aventurine needs to know this part.) He should turn his back on Penacony and start moving with what time he has, try to figure out what next now that he's been leashed by one of the IPC.
But-]
Just one thing. [A compromise. Seeing Robin would put his sister and Aventurine in danger; investigating the traces of the Order would do much of the same to Aventurine, and for all he hates him, he already owes him so much. That leaves him...] If you don't mind. Looking at the theater from afar, one last time.
[ Just one thing. There's never really "just one thing" when it's your home, everything you've known and loved, being taken from you. Aventurine knows the feeling, though. Even with the memory of Sunday's cruel, divine justice still haunting him in his restless sleep, he cannot imagine denying the man something as vital as a goodbye.
He looks to the far end of the Golden Hour's Main Street, more to hide his own rueful smile than anything. Sunday has him at a disadvantage there. ]
Yeah, sure.
[ He shoves himself away from the window, nods his head toward their destination and begins his leisurely stroll. His gaze wanders as they walk, tracking the crowds for signs of Bloodhounds or unwanted excitement. ]
[There's a part of him that wants to guard his secrets, stonewall them even now, but, does it matter at this point? And as someone who once took the confessions of others, he knows the value of speech- he also knows how easily people can lie to themselves, to others. Maybe he's been doing it all this time.
Melancholy thoughts that Aventurine doesn't need to know. Sunday keeps his spine stiff, his posture rigid, and tries very hard to not stumble as they go.]
When I was...
[He licks his lips, clears his throat, starts again.]
When I was younger, yes. When my [master, teacher, leader] father had me start to take on responsibilities, I would. After work, I would stroll down this street just as we are doing now, and find the quietest place I could, and just watch it. At the time, I told myself that I was reminding myself of my purpose, of what we - myself, my father - were all doing it for.
[A hesitation, and then:]
With the value of hindsight, I suspect I was trying to make myself feel small instead. [And, then:] My sister prefers Dream's Edge.
[ How surprising. So forthcoming a tale from the man who'd seemed incapable of an imperfect thought. It was not so long ago that Sunday had condemned Aventurine to death or synthesis into a hive mind for the sins of pride and subterfuge, and now he allows a peek into his own melancholy past. ]
Small is safe. [ He allows that much as they come to the end of the Golden Hour's main drag. Aventurine looks at Sunday, studying the inscrutible Intellitron features, knowing he'll find no new revelations in that false mask. ] But you didn't stay small for long, huh?
[ No surprise that Robin would love the frontier, the Sweet Dream's cradle of possibility. She's not so unlike how Aventurine imagines how his own sister might've been, brave and brilliant and larger than life. And Sunday wanting to feel small, oddly, is not so unfamiliar to him. ]
You aren't a prisoner, you know. Not my style, really, keeping others in shackles. If you can believe it, I mean. [ He doesn't really expect Sunday to so readily accept that he means him no harm. It's fine. He wouldn't, were roles reversed. Aventurine leans on the wrought iron railing, arms dangling over the edge as he stares up at the theater, once home to a Stellaron. ] I'm not exactly enthusiastic about our little joint venture, but... maybe by the time you come back this way, you'll have a new appreciation for Dream's Edge, as well?
[He stares at the theater longer, glad he's wearing that Intellitron mask because he knows that whatever expression he's wearing would give something important away to Aventurine, something that he's not ready to show to anyone. Something that should remain unknown. He's standing there, turning Aventurine's words over in his head like they're stones in a tumbler, over and over and over again.
Not a prisoner?
He doesn't believe it, of course. He also doesn't quite not believe it- it's a murky third thing. Something he's not in a hurry to define. Even if he trusts it (he doesn't) the reasons for Aventurine saying something like that are something that he's going to turn over and over and over and over in his head-
Now's not the time for that. Especially when they can gloss over that.]
If I do. [He finally says that, eyes still trained on the distance.] Perhaps I will.
[And then he pulls away.]
I'm ready.
[This is said with the gravitas of a man facing his executioner (death of self, perhaps, or death of purpose), filtered through Tuning into something more...
Normal.]
omg sorry i disappeared! the holidays ate me. happy new year! i'm here now!
[ Aventurine turns, pressing the small of his back against the railing. He really is at a disadvantage at the moment, unable to read any Sunday in the Intellitron beside him, but he looks, anyway. There is, Aventurine thinks, at least a new certainty to him. He wonders how well the resolute Mister Sunday will fare against the backdrop of Pier Point, all the ruthless greed of Penacony without the glitz of the Dream. At least it isn't half as debauched -- where people can see. ]
Well, assistant.
[ Aventurine fiddles with the hair falling over his ears, leaning in closer to Sunday. From a distance, it looks like he's dipping in to flirt, ever the ostentatious cad, the Stoneheart of Stratagems. There is nothing lascivious on his mind, however, as he murmurs, ] Where can I find you outside of the dream? Did you stow away, or find an unoccupied bed?
I spent the last 2 months having to identify as an elf (v long story) I totally understand
[It takes a great deal of self-restraint to keep from reacting as Aventurine leans in closer, and he tenses, torn between flight and fight. Ever the bird. but either would land him back in the chains he just escaped from, whatever peace Penacony had gained shattered by it.]
The lower levels of the hotel. [So, an unoccupied bed, of sorts. Always a maintenance tunnel to be had when you know how the hotel works.] There's always a few spare beds to be had - you'll never know when you'll need extra Bloodhounds or a dreamweaver to put in overtime. Not as luxurious as the one you're currently in.
That's a lot of rooms to explore. Hang a sock or something on your door knob so I can find you?
[ Aventurine puts on a satisfied smile, leaning back slowly and considering their options. The waking side of the hotel may be a bit tougher to infiltrate than the Dream, but he's sure he can manage. ]
I'll be there in a jiffy.
[ With that, Aventurine wakes. Gone from the dream and back in the pool of his, as Sunday'd stated, luxurious hotel suite. Packages from their Dreamside shopping trip have already been delivered, enough items to fill a rolling cart he retrieves from out in the hall. Naturally, the size of the thing necessitates the use of a maintenance elevator in the back, and the bellhops are more than happy to let Aventurine carry his own things where he will after a few generous tips.
He descends, disembarking at one of the hotel's lowest floors and lazily strolling down the hall, keeping an eye out for the right door, and an ear perked for any rumblings from staff about a fugitive. ]
[He wakes and is greeted with the smell of laundry. What? Even in a luxury hotel that's mostly a dream, there's still a need for clean sheets and towels. When he had been important, he hadn't quite seen the need to upgrade the staff pools: they're serviceable, it's not as if they're spending the bulk of their time in the waking world while on the clock. Now? It's another entry on the long list of items that Sunday would gladly slap himself about. If he could turn back the clock and slap himself? He would.
Whispers of a fugitive will take Aventurine lower, near the elevators, and then through a truly wacky set of coincidences he'll eventually end up encountering a bellboy who'll unintentionally give him really good directions without realizing that is what it is that he's giving. "And a really nice Dreamweaver told me to-" That sort of contrived bullshit. Don't tell him that all of this relied upon the equivalent of 'Aventurine knew the one bit of trivia a struggling bellboy was trying to remember' or 'Aventurine had a cough drop in his pocket against all odds and someone needed it and...' because Sunday will scream.
Speaking of Sunday.
Right now he's in his room, his hands gripping his thighs like he wishes he could grip someone's throat. (Surprisingly, not Aventurine's.) He's prepared for things to go wrong. He's prepared to be caught. He's going to be somewhat disappointed if he's not.]
[ It is through a truly maddening series of events that Aventurine successfully navigates the maintenance halls of the waking world's hotel, blind, obnoxious luck just as much at play as quick thinking. (And, admittedly, everything gleaned from memorizing floor plans in the lead up to all of this Penacony nonsense; don't tell anyone.) If it makes Sunday feel any better, he does not discover the Fallen Oak behind the first door he tries, but he does behind the third.
There is no surprise on his face when he finds him, just that intolerable, inscrutable smirk. Whatever he feels when he beholds Sunday looking like he might be halfway to a panic attack well hidden behind a cat-like mask. ]
Well, look at that. There's a bird in the hotel.
[ He takes his time stepping into the laundry room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it with feet firmly planted. One palm flattens against the door. No one has followed him this far, but just in case a shield becomes necessary. ]
We're almost home free, and it's best if we play this casually. I've got a cart full of bags and gift boxes waiting. If I can trouble you, Mister Sunday, to carry a few of them to my shuttle for me, I think that might obscure your face without risking more Tuning. We take it slow. No reason to rush. [ A pause, he tips his chin down to look at Sunday over his glasses. ] Do you need a minute to collect yourself first?
[There's that intolerable, inscrutable smirk and he hates it, and, even now - wings clipped, thrown into the mud - there's a part of Sunday that itches to rip Aventurine apart and he kind of hates that there's a part of him that wants this. He sits, very still, and wills himself to something approaching calm.
He's not calm. He feels as calm as an active volcano. But he can pretend to be calm.]
No.
[He does.]
I'll be fine.
[And he stands, very rigidly.]
But I thank you for your regard, Mister Aventurine.
[ Ah, here is a reaction that is a bit less fun than gnawing frustration when Aventurine is purposefully annoying. Though he can no longer claim the title Bronze Melodia, it seems Sunday still has a knack for exerting the same dense, chilling pressure he did when he was in charge. It also seems that Aventurine is still primed to hate being in the presence of that stillness. Fear unfurls in his chest, jolts down his spine and out to his fingertips.
Aside from standing a bit straighter, flattening his back against the closed door, he refuses to show it. Consecration can't possibly still be a threat, right? ]
Hold on.
[ Sunday does need a moment. They both do.
So Aventurine pulls out his phone and busies himself starting the remote check out process. Room emptied, access returned, shuttle called for. With luck, it'll be there waiting when they get topside. A bit of administrative work, a bit of planning ahead, sets his head back on straight. ]
Alright! Stay close.
[ Now, finally, he turns, and tosses a lazy glance back as he opens the door. His grin goes crooked, and he squirrels up a bit more control for himself, saying the first and most fearlessly obnoxious thing he can think to say: ]
We can even hold hands if you want, so we don't get separated if we have to make a break for it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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They have more important things to focus on. He exhales, his breath shuddering, and forces his body to relax.]
I can only do so much lest I draw the Family's eye upon us. I assume you have a plan? [There's memes and Bloodhounds and all sorts of things between them and their exit.]
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He steps forward, putting himself between Sunday and the open elevator door, placing a gloved hand on the frame to hold it in place. They're about to be spit out into a long, empty door-lined hall. Quiet, dimly lit, probably rarely used. A good escape route if no one was looking for an escaped prisoner, but presently, everyone is looking for that escaped prisoner. ]
I thought we could get a bit of shopping in. [ He glances over his shoulder, shooting Sunday an appraising look. Best not to joke too much. He's not exactly a fan of getting punched or stabbed. ] The Tuning- can you use it to obscure yourself at all? Change your appearance? We stand a better chance getting lost in a crowded place than trying to stay hidden in these.... backrooms.
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One moment, Sunday, fugitive of The Family and fallen from grace, is standing there. Blink, and suddenly it's an Intellitron instead. Composed and proper, her face stoic and unmoving and all but blank. There's nothing to be seen here, no depth of expression.]
Better?
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Lovely as ever. Stay close.
[ Aventurine steps into the lead, quick but casual. He doesn't quite know where they are, but has a rough idea. It might be better to move in total silence, but Aventurine opts to lay out a plan in a low, conversational tone. It's better than thinking about Tunings, anyway. ]
If we're unlucky enough that anyone asks, you're my personal assistant. Here to help me with the logistics of a few gifts for my business partners before we leave the Dream, because I've of course made a total mess of things. And- ah! This one.
[ It really seems like he selects the door he does totally at random, but when he throws it open, it's exactly what he expects: a staff entrance into a storage room for one of the larger Golden Hour clothing boutique. ]
See? Shopping.
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Aventurine reaches for a door, completely at random, and it's thrown open and there is-]
Of course it is.
[Of course, the Tuning means that low frustrated sound comes out as something softer, more differential. Don't think too hard about it. Besides, Sunday knows politeness. He can act like a personal assistant. (He's going to think about this later.) Moving right along.]
It sounds like you are in the habit of making messes, Mister Aventurine. [...he can act like a personal assistant eventually, but they have a few moments before someone inevitably finds them.]
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Ah, and we're just two peas in a pod, there, aren't we?
[ Aventurine smirks. Sunday, too, for all of his care and effort, has certainly helped to make a mess of things in the Sweet Dream, after all.
He passes through the storage room like he belongs there and stops at the first shelf of neatly folded clothing he sees. Paired shirts and sweaters, he grabs up two of each in whites and blues, then moves on to another table and starts selecting clothing items. ]
The way I see it, life is always going to be a little messy. Rather than trying to stop it, my energy was better spent learning to navigate it. [ He turns and holds the stack of clothes he's selected out for Sunday to take, grinning. ] It makes catastrophe a little less catastrophic. For me.
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Not incorrect, and he knows it. He made a mess of things in the Sweet Dream because of his care and effort, in defiance of it. He has a lot to think about. He had anticipated doing so in the arms of The Family, but, instead, it looks as though he'll be pondering things in the hands of the IPC instead.
He follows. He watches as Aventurine picks out clothes, and is convincing in doing so. And...
...and Sunday doesn't know if it's a choice or a weird quirk of luck, but he catches himself thinking that he actually rather likes that particular shade of blue which Aventurine plucks from a pile, and isn't that thought irritating? That means Aventurine knows him well enough to know what color he might like, or that Aventurine guessed it at random, or that he's predictable enough (and does this thought burn) that a near-stranger could look at a pile of clothes and go yes. That one. Or maybe some strange cocktail of all of the above because, after all, he is known for pristine white.
It almost makes him want to run screaming into something red, but he'd look hideous in it, be miserable, and what is the point. Perhaps he is predictable. Perhaps there's something to be said for knowing what shades match his skin.
Aventurine offers him the clothes and he takes it, grateful that the Tuning means that he can't see the expression on his face. Intellitrons struggle at murderous glares. Halovians do not.]
Given what I've seen I would have guessed otherwise, Mister Aventurine. [The mister is a stand in for a different sentiment. They both can hear it. Moving right along.] You don't seem to navigate it so much as throw yourself into it and trust the currents to carry you along. But, I suppose I can't judge: after all, from a distance it seems as though you've fared quite well in life.
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He smiles, though. Aventurine always smiles, but there's a bit too much slow care in his words when he replies. ]
I have built this life brick by brick, that's for sure.
[ Ever higher and with no support to bear it, because he deserves none of it. Someday, it will all finally, blessedly, topple down. He will be crushed beneath the weight of sin and scheme, and be free. But for now, work.
Sunday's certainly managed to drive a knife in. Aventurine entertains the possibility of being a little less obviously delighted by his discomfort. ]
That's probably enough frivolous spending for an evening, huh? [ He could flash one of his bright, shit-eating smiles again, savor the image of Sunday scowling prettily beneath that Intellitron mask, but he's at least learnt his lesson for the moment, and keeps it pleasant. ] We'll get these sent up to my room before departure.
[ Aventurine leads the both of them to the front register with the ease of a man not presently being hunted by the Family. Just a night of fun before leaving the Sweet Dream, is all. ]
Oh- when you wake up, I'll come to you.
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He follows.
As much as he wishes otherwise, he keeps silent because the last thing he needs is for Aventurine to overplay his hand and for the both of them to become...
Guests, of The Family. He's every bit the model personal assistant as he follows, the Intellitron mask firmly on his face. It's another way of acting.]
Will you? [And, also.] I suppose I have nothing else to do but to wait. Take your time, Mister Aventurine. I know an assistant's place.
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Aventurine tries not to let that gnawing thought sink its teeth in. The woman behind the register takes the purchases to be sent to the hotel in the waking world, leaving the two of them free to step out into the Golden Hour's main drag.
Bright and noisy as ever, Penacony, as though the whole thing hadn't nearly come crashing down. Aventurine side-steps to lean against the shop window, the knuckles of one hand pressed to his hip. He surveys the block, far too busy for the two of them to be noticed, especially with Sunday disguised.
It takes him a moment to finally say something, jaw working, like he's fighting with himself over it. ]
Is there anything you'd like to see before you go? [ His voice does not sound nearly as smug as he thinks it should. ] Need to say goodbye to anything?
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He knows what he should say: no, because that would put the both of them in danger, not just him. (Not that Aventurine needs to know this part.) He should turn his back on Penacony and start moving with what time he has, try to figure out what next now that he's been leashed by one of the IPC.
But-]
Just one thing. [A compromise. Seeing Robin would put his sister and Aventurine in danger; investigating the traces of the Order would do much of the same to Aventurine, and for all he hates him, he already owes him so much. That leaves him...] If you don't mind. Looking at the theater from afar, one last time.
[The place where his path began.]
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He looks to the far end of the Golden Hour's Main Street, more to hide his own rueful smile than anything. Sunday has him at a disadvantage there. ]
Yeah, sure.
[ He shoves himself away from the window, nods his head toward their destination and begins his leisurely stroll. His gaze wanders as they walk, tracking the crowds for signs of Bloodhounds or unwanted excitement. ]
You spend a lot of time gazing up at the theater?
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[There's a part of him that wants to guard his secrets, stonewall them even now, but, does it matter at this point? And as someone who once took the confessions of others, he knows the value of speech- he also knows how easily people can lie to themselves, to others. Maybe he's been doing it all this time.
Melancholy thoughts that Aventurine doesn't need to know. Sunday keeps his spine stiff, his posture rigid, and tries very hard to not stumble as they go.]
When I was...
[He licks his lips, clears his throat, starts again.]
When I was younger, yes. When my [master, teacher, leader] father had me start to take on responsibilities, I would. After work, I would stroll down this street just as we are doing now, and find the quietest place I could, and just watch it. At the time, I told myself that I was reminding myself of my purpose, of what we - myself, my father - were all doing it for.
[A hesitation, and then:]
With the value of hindsight, I suspect I was trying to make myself feel small instead. [And, then:] My sister prefers Dream's Edge.
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Small is safe. [ He allows that much as they come to the end of the Golden Hour's main drag. Aventurine looks at Sunday, studying the inscrutible Intellitron features, knowing he'll find no new revelations in that false mask. ] But you didn't stay small for long, huh?
[ No surprise that Robin would love the frontier, the Sweet Dream's cradle of possibility. She's not so unlike how Aventurine imagines how his own sister might've been, brave and brilliant and larger than life. And Sunday wanting to feel small, oddly, is not so unfamiliar to him. ]
You aren't a prisoner, you know. Not my style, really, keeping others in shackles. If you can believe it, I mean. [ He doesn't really expect Sunday to so readily accept that he means him no harm. It's fine. He wouldn't, were roles reversed. Aventurine leans on the wrought iron railing, arms dangling over the edge as he stares up at the theater, once home to a Stellaron. ] I'm not exactly enthusiastic about our little joint venture, but... maybe by the time you come back this way, you'll have a new appreciation for Dream's Edge, as well?
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Not a prisoner?
He doesn't believe it, of course. He also doesn't quite not believe it- it's a murky third thing. Something he's not in a hurry to define. Even if he trusts it (he doesn't) the reasons for Aventurine saying something like that are something that he's going to turn over and over and over and over in his head-
Now's not the time for that. Especially when they can gloss over that.]
If I do. [He finally says that, eyes still trained on the distance.] Perhaps I will.
[And then he pulls away.]
I'm ready.
[This is said with the gravitas of a man facing his executioner (death of self, perhaps, or death of purpose), filtered through Tuning into something more...
Normal.]
omg sorry i disappeared! the holidays ate me. happy new year! i'm here now!
Well, assistant.
[ Aventurine fiddles with the hair falling over his ears, leaning in closer to Sunday. From a distance, it looks like he's dipping in to flirt, ever the ostentatious cad, the Stoneheart of Stratagems. There is nothing lascivious on his mind, however, as he murmurs, ] Where can I find you outside of the dream? Did you stow away, or find an unoccupied bed?
I spent the last 2 months having to identify as an elf (v long story) I totally understand
The lower levels of the hotel. [So, an unoccupied bed, of sorts. Always a maintenance tunnel to be had when you know how the hotel works.] There's always a few spare beds to be had - you'll never know when you'll need extra Bloodhounds or a dreamweaver to put in overtime. Not as luxurious as the one you're currently in.
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[ Aventurine puts on a satisfied smile, leaning back slowly and considering their options. The waking side of the hotel may be a bit tougher to infiltrate than the Dream, but he's sure he can manage. ]
I'll be there in a jiffy.
[ With that, Aventurine wakes. Gone from the dream and back in the pool of his, as Sunday'd stated, luxurious hotel suite. Packages from their Dreamside shopping trip have already been delivered, enough items to fill a rolling cart he retrieves from out in the hall. Naturally, the size of the thing necessitates the use of a maintenance elevator in the back, and the bellhops are more than happy to let Aventurine carry his own things where he will after a few generous tips.
He descends, disembarking at one of the hotel's lowest floors and lazily strolling down the hall, keeping an eye out for the right door, and an ear perked for any rumblings from staff about a fugitive. ]
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Whispers of a fugitive will take Aventurine lower, near the elevators, and then through a truly wacky set of coincidences he'll eventually end up encountering a bellboy who'll unintentionally give him really good directions without realizing that is what it is that he's giving. "And a really nice Dreamweaver told me to-" That sort of contrived bullshit. Don't tell him that all of this relied upon the equivalent of 'Aventurine knew the one bit of trivia a struggling bellboy was trying to remember' or 'Aventurine had a cough drop in his pocket against all odds and someone needed it and...' because Sunday will scream.
Speaking of Sunday.
Right now he's in his room, his hands gripping his thighs like he wishes he could grip someone's throat. (Surprisingly, not Aventurine's.) He's prepared for things to go wrong. He's prepared to be caught. He's going to be somewhat disappointed if he's not.]
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There is no surprise on his face when he finds him, just that intolerable, inscrutable smirk. Whatever he feels when he beholds Sunday looking like he might be halfway to a panic attack well hidden behind a cat-like mask. ]
Well, look at that. There's a bird in the hotel.
[ He takes his time stepping into the laundry room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it with feet firmly planted. One palm flattens against the door. No one has followed him this far, but just in case a shield becomes necessary. ]
We're almost home free, and it's best if we play this casually. I've got a cart full of bags and gift boxes waiting. If I can trouble you, Mister Sunday, to carry a few of them to my shuttle for me, I think that might obscure your face without risking more Tuning. We take it slow. No reason to rush. [ A pause, he tips his chin down to look at Sunday over his glasses. ] Do you need a minute to collect yourself first?
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He's not calm. He feels as calm as an active volcano. But he can pretend to be calm.]
No.
[He does.]
I'll be fine.
[And he stands, very rigidly.]
But I thank you for your regard, Mister Aventurine.
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Aside from standing a bit straighter, flattening his back against the closed door, he refuses to show it. Consecration can't possibly still be a threat, right? ]
Hold on.
[ Sunday does need a moment. They both do.
So Aventurine pulls out his phone and busies himself starting the remote check out process. Room emptied, access returned, shuttle called for. With luck, it'll be there waiting when they get topside. A bit of administrative work, a bit of planning ahead, sets his head back on straight. ]
Alright! Stay close.
[ Now, finally, he turns, and tosses a lazy glance back as he opens the door. His grin goes crooked, and he squirrels up a bit more control for himself, saying the first and most fearlessly obnoxious thing he can think to say: ]
We can even hold hands if you want, so we don't get separated if we have to make a break for it.