Chapter Text
Unknown Number: hey, is this sunday oak?
Sunday: That depends. Who are you?
Unknown Number: this is topaz. aventurine's friend.
Sunday: Hello, Topaz. Yes, this is Sunday.
Unknown Number: aventurine asked me to text you. he can't make it tonight. he says he's sorry.
Sunday: What happened? Is he alright?
Unknown Number: he's in the hospital.
An hour and a half later, armed with a bouquet of roses and a get well card, Sunday walked into the hospital where Aventurine was being treated, following the address Topaz had given him. He was grateful that his status as a Nameless allowed him to use the space anchors to warp quickly from the Express directly to Pier Point.
Worry settled in his chest as he he strode through, and he said a quiet prayer for Aventurine as he waited at the reception area for the person at the front desk to be available. Topaz hadn't told him what happened, only that Aventurine had been hospitalized and that she wasn't sure if he'd be accepting visitors. But Sunday had to try.
The hospital itself was quiet, no emergency room full of traumatized people with their life or death struggles. Instead it had a single waiting room, the ward locked off by a large door adjacent to the nurses station where a receptionist sat behind a glass partition. It was modestly luxurious, likely catering to wealthy IPC executives, with cozy chairs and an espresso bar for the handful of people waiting there.
Sunday approached the receptionist, who raised a skeptical eyebrow at the vase of flowers in his hands. "I'm here to see Mr. Aventurine," he said.
"Name?"
"Sunday Oak."
She hummed softly. "Let me check the list."
Her long fingernails clacked on the keyboard, brow furrowed for a moment as she scrolled through, but then she nodded.
"Okay, you're allowed. But I can't let you bring glass onto the ward. Sorry. And if those roses have any thorns, they're not allowed either."
What peculiar rules. But Sunday supposed a hospital ward would have a focus on safety.
"The thorns have been removed," he said. "Perhaps I can leave this vase with you for now, and collect it when I leave?"
"That's fine. Just go around to the side when you're ready and I'll buzz you in. He's in room 7A."
Again Sunday was a little taken aback by the security on the ward, but he supposed it made sense. The executives to frequent a hospital like this must be very wealthy indeed; they probably needed to be guarded when they were at their most vulnerable.
A loud buzzer sounded when the receptionist opened the door, and Sunday stepped onto the hospital ward. It wasn't the clean, sterile area he expected, no white walls or linoleum floors. Instead, there was wall to wall carpeting in a tasteful beige, the wallpaper a pleasant pale blue.
Directly inside the locked door was a sitting area, and beyond it a smaller room with chairs arranged into a circle. About half of them were full, people in sweats or scrubs speaking softly in the group. A man in the corner sat playing checkers against himself, muttering under his breath. Another woman curled up in a chair by the window, her eyes vacant and her body utterly motionless.
Sunday's halo buzzed with distress, picking up the ambient sorrow and stress of those on the ward around him. He was used to feeling such things in places like hospitals, where people came on the worst days of their lives. But this ward had a different emotional flavor than any hospital he'd ever been in. As the Bronze Melodia, he'd visited quite a few, and they all resonated with fear and pain and suffering. But there was an uncanny quality to the space he was in now, a disconnect and a wildness to its melody that made him uneasy.
Sunday located Aventurine's room, but hesitated just outside the open door. Would Aventurine really want to see him in such circumstances? They had been dating for a few months, but while Sunday was quite taken with Aventurine, their relationship had been undeniably rocky. Aventurine had a way of enchanting and thrilling him, but at the same time could be moody and distant, lashing out when he felt insecure. Twice Aventurine had broken up with him, only to relent easily when Sunday begged him not to go. As though it were the reassurance he needed, not the distance.
Despite all that, Sunday could not stay away. He felt like a moth, recklessly battering his wings against a flame that would eventually consume him. While Aventurine did his complicated dance of intimacy and disconnect, Sunday dreamed of marriage and children. He would have given Aventurine his undying devotion, yet sensed that Aventurine was conflicted about whether or not he wanted such things.
After a moment, Sunday drew in a deep breath, hefted the roses in his hand, and stepped through the threshold into Room 7A.
The room itself was tidy and unremarkable, no decorations or clutter but the walls had been painted a cozy blush shade and the bed was neatly made.
Aventurine was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, one arm in a sling and a cast on his right foot. The gray light from the blustery day outside played over his sharply handsome features, casting them in perfect melancholy. He glanced at Sunday, then turned back to the window.
"You brought roses to a psych ward?" he said, with a huff of morose laughter.
Finally it clicked. The strange emotional resonance of this place, the inhabitants with the lost look in their eyes, the group therapy session taking place in the main area.
Why was Aventurine in a locked psychiatric hospital?
"Topaz told me you were unwell," Sunday said, setting the roses on a small table.
Another painfully bitter chuckle. "That's one way to put it."
"All she said was that you were hospitalized. But I can see you're injured. Aventurine, what happened?"
Aventurine closed his eyes for a moment, turning his face away. In profile, his features had a rare and striking nobility, his proud nose and the sharp line of his jaw.
"I jumped off a building," he said.
Sunday stared at him, struck speechless by a sudden realization. As he pictured Aventurine, jumping recklessly to what could easily have been his death, his chest constricted with fear though the scenario had already passed. It felt like an iron band around his middle, restricting his ability to breathe as he considered just how close he'd come to losing Aventurine.
I love him, he realized, with gentle wonder. This was no fling to be forgotten as he'd always thought, no dalliance to fill his days since leaving Penacony behind. He loved Aventurine, thorns and all, with a desperate and dogged devotion that he would not be able to easily leave behind.
"But lucky me," Aventurine continued, "I made a one in a million landing. Dislocated my shoulder and broke my foot but I'm otherwise fine."
"Why?" Sunday said, his voice harsher than he'd meant to be. "Why would you do such a thing?"
Aventurine shrugged the shoulder that wasn't wrapped in bandages. "Maybe I wanted to test my luck."
That was clearly a lie, yet Sunday found himself at a loss for words. Aventurine seemed so distant, as though he were on a far shore, a vast body of deep and treacherous waters between them.
"The doctors don't believe me," Aventurine continued. "They think I'm a suicide risk. So I'm trapped here."
Sunday stared at him, baffled by his flippant tone. "You could have died. Of course they are concerned. I am too."
Aventurine turned back to the window. "It was sweet of you to come, angel. Thanks for the flowers. But you don't have to stick around."
"What does that mean?" The hurt in Sunday's chest made his words come out more sharply than he'd meant them. Was Aventurine already trying to get rid of him?
"Just that… I'm a certified loony now," Aventurine said. "You should see the number of acronyms they put in my chart. You don't want a boyfriend you have to visit in the psych ward, trust me. You should get out while you can."
Sunday huffed a gentle laugh, some of the ache in his heart easing as he realized Aventurine wasn't rebuffing him but rather just trying to protect himself from what he saw as the inevitable end of their relationship.
"Don't be silly," he said, sinking to his knees to be level with Aventurine in the wheelchair. He took Aventurine's hand and kissed his palm, then each fingertip. "I'm just so grateful that you're alive."
"I know you have a martyr complex," Aventurine said, but there was a sweet and sharp longing in his gaze. "I don't want to be another of your charity projects."
"You're not." Sunday pressed Aventurine's palm to his cheek, taking some comfort in the warmth of Aventurine's skin. Inside, he was still trembling from the bitter reveal of how close he'd come to losing him. "I promise."
Aventurine drew in a shaky breath, his gemstone eyes filling with tears. It was fascinating to see him so vulnerable, so raw, when usually he wore a charming facade, a flawless quartzite bravado.
"I apologize for interrupting." A tall man stood in the doorway, angular features that sloped downward to a mouth pressed into a slight frown. Even so, there was a look of kindness about him. "I'm afraid I need an hour of Mr. Aventurine's time."
Aventurine smiled, but his gaze was dim and gloomy. "There's nothing wrong with me, doc."
"All the same, your appointments with me are mandatory as long as you are a resident here," the doctor said.
"I told them I want to go home," Aventurine huffed.
"You know the conditions of your release," the doctor said firmly. "I cannot authorize it until you have someone willing to take responsibility for you."
"I'm an adult. I don't need a babysitter. I just need to be out of here, and I'll be fine."
Sunday watched the exchange curiously, his heart aching for the distress Aventurine was trying so hard to hide. While the psychiatric ward was not an unpleasant place, he knew Aventurine would not sleep well at night without the many security features and fortifications he'd added to his penthouse. An unlocked door would trigger a great deal of anxiety, and being so exposed, all day long, likely was not hastening his recovery.
"Taking care of Aventurine, what does that entail?" Sunday asked the doctor.
"Nothing you want to be bothered with, angel," Aventurine said. Sunday wondered how he could be so flippant and coy when his inner sorrow was making Sunday's halo thrum without even trying to read his emotions.
"I disagree," Sunday said. "I care about you. If you need someone, I am here."
"I'll need you to authorize me to share medical details with him," the doctor said to Aventurine.
"It's fine." Aventurine turned his face away. "Tell him whatever. I don't care. Just don't make me say anything."
"I'm Dr. Reed." The doctor held out his hand for Sunday to shake, a quick, firm grip. "It's a pleasure to meet Aventurine's…"
"Boyfriend," Sunday said, and gave his name. Aventurine had pulled out his phone, and, guessing from the tinny sounds emerging from it, was playing online poker.
Sunday and Reed sat in the two cushy chairs in one corner of the room, and from his wheelchair, Aventurine did his best to ignore them. But Sunday noticed the way he flinched whenever his name was spoken, subtle but unmissable.
"Mr. Aventurine was admitted after a suicide attempt," Reed began. "For him to be released, we need confidence that there is a suicide watch in place until he has recovered."
"I understand." Though Sunday spoke smoothly and calmly, his insides contracted into a sick knot every time he was reminded that Aventurine had almost died. "I will need some guidance as to what exactly to do."
"Of course, we can go over some techniques and best practices. Aventurine's caretaker will also need to make sure he takes any prescribed medication and attends his medical appointments. He'll probably also need help bathing and getting around until the casts on his foot and arm come off."
"I will do whatever it takes," Sunday said.
They were unable to release Aventurine that same day, so Sunday remained on the ward, keeping him company as the light falling in the big window gradually faded to blue, then to black.
"Nights here are the worst," Aventurine murmured. Sunday had helped him into his pajamas, then onto the hospital bed where they now lay side by side, pressed against each other, watching a trashy reality show on the TV.
"I could stay with you," Sunday offered.
"You're already doing too much. And I don't think it's allowed."
Sunday laced their fingers together and squeezed. "Don't you worry about 'too much.' I want to take care of you."
Carefully, Aventurine turned so he was lying on his uninjured side, pressing his face into Sunday's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I thought you'd be better off… without me. But now I've just gone and ruined your life."
Sunday wrapped his arms around Aventurine, mindful of the bruises along his back that he'd noted when helping him change.
"There is no universe in which I would be better off without you," he murmured.
"I'm a shitty boyfriend," Aventurine said into Sunday's neck. "I didn't need the doctor to give me a diagnosis. I know something's wrong with me. But seeing them write it in my chart, it… I don't know. It makes me feel sick."
"Perhaps naming an issue can be the first step to overcoming it." Sunday pressed a soft kiss to Aventurine's hair.
"You're probably dying to know what they diagnosed me with." Aventurine's tone was sharp, bitter.
"It might be helpful, but it's up to you if you want me to know or not," Sunday said, as patiently as he could. He did want to know what the diagnosis was, but didn't dare press. It was Aventurine's choice to disclose.
"I guess I should tell you, so you can decide if you really want to stick around or not."
Sunday closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. It was easy to become irritated at Aventurine's relentless needling, but he reminded himself that Aventurine spoke this way only because he needed constant reassurance that Sunday would not leave him. Sunday wished his words could be enough to assuage Aventurine's fears once and for all, but understood that might be unrealistic. He knew very little about Aventurine's past, but had the sense it had been marked by loss and suffering.
"There is no diagnosis they could give you that would make me change my mind," he said firmly.
"They gave me two," Aventurine said flatly, pulling back to look Sunday in the eye. "Complex PTSD and borderline personality disorder. No easy fixes for me."
"I'm sorry." Sunday brushed his fingers along Aventurine's cheek. "It cannot be easy for you, living with that. But rest assured, I am not going anywhere. I want to be with you, no matter what."
Aventurine blinked rapidly, gemstone eyes filling with tears, and Sunday could tell that he believed him, at least for now. He pressed a kiss to Aventurine's forehead and they laid there together until the night nurse came to tell him he had to leave.