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After months of playing a role for the public and trying to strengthen the relationship in more ways than one in private, Aventurine can easily point out the telltale signs of Sunday’s nervousness.
He can’t relate, truly. He’s been trained by the IPC for public speaking and he loves having all the attention on him. If it were for him, he’d have already started some drama just to keep things interesting for the entertainment industry, but both organizations carefully managed and curated their social media, allowing them to post only bland pictures with corny captions.
They were keeping their reputation safe and whatnot, yet Aventurine knew very well a rumor going around here and there could provide a successful boom in sales, something certain departments of the IPC would benefit of. Maybe even The Family could get something good of it if the public knew one of their executives wasn’t another bland, goody two-shoes.
Tonight they were waiting in the backstage of a TV show sponsored by The Family. After the express approval of the IPC regarding Aventurine’s involvement, Sunday and him agreed to participate on an exclusive interview about their marriage.
“I’m impressed an ex bronze melodia like you can have stage fright, angel,” he teases, because he can’t truly vocalize he’s worried, can he? He can’t be getting all soft over Sunday now.
Sunday bites his lower lip in distaste, for Aventurine knows he despises being seen as something less than perfect. “It’s been a while, but I’ll manage.”
That could be it, it was indeed one way to finish a conversation, and Sunday would appreciate keeping a sliver of control over the situation. But Aventurine is getting all soft over his husband, so he comes up with a solution.
“Here, take this,” he says, leaning into him until he’s almost inhaling Sunday’s perfume right from his neck. He presses the object against his husband’s chest, waiting for Sunday to grab it. “My lucky charm. If you feel nervous, you can fidget with this casino chip.”
Sunday looks at him, then at the chip. After a moment, he takes it and traces the patterns with his gloved thumb without saying anything. He’s flustered, that’s for sure, but the uneasiness hasn’t receded yet, and Aventurine can’t take that.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret of mine, birdie,” Aventurine almost purrs as he says it, and Sunday squints at him, clearly expecting some mischievousness from him. “I get nervous too. You have seen me playing with my silly little chips, haven’t you?”
Sunday nods, “I have, yes. Even during dinner.”
Aventurine ignores the reproach. “Well, when I’m nervous my hands tremble, and the only way a businessman like me can pretend to have everything under control is to keep my hands busy.”
His husband stares at him for a moment, taken aback by the sudden display of seriousness and the show of sincerity. Oh, Aventurine wants to kiss his stupid face so badly.
“Thanks for the lucky charm, Aventurine.” He suddenly seems bashful, and he opens and closes his mouth twice before carding his fingers over Aventurine's unruly locks with a trembling hand. “I would like a good luck kiss from my husband.”
Aventurine doesn’t need to be told twice. They both meet halfway, desperate for it. Despite it all, the kiss is actually soft and slow, makes Aventurine’s legs threaten to buckle as he feels like he’s melting into a puddle of happiness.
They have never kissed like this, it was always teeth and tongue, frenzied and full of all-consuming lust. Aventurine realizes this the first time in his life he’s ever received such a kiss.
When they separate, Aventurine cups Sunday's face with both hands, not wanting him to go away yet. His husband places his hands over his and they fondly gaze into each other's eyes for a heartbeat too long for it to be casual.
“You are trembling too…” Sunday says quietly, almost out of breath. “Are you nervous?"
No, he isn't. He craves Sunday, aches for the idea of slow, lazy kisses on the couch, while baking in the kitchen, during a cuddle session. Aventurine hungers over the need to have something like this for himself, wants to open his chest and give Sunday his heart for him to carry. It would be a wager of sorts, for Sunday could decide to throw it away, let his crimson love drip onto the floor without sparing Aventurine a single glance.
"Yes, I want a good luck kiss too,” he says instead, a pathetic excuse to make this sweet moment linger a little more before it inevitably ends.
Sunday kisses him again and it's as soft and sweet as the previous time, thoroughly disarming Aventurine. He melts into inviting lips and forgets everything other than his husband’s touch, revels in the fact that it's only his to feel, those lips his to savor.
A familiar hunger threatens to engulf him whole as the kiss deepens.
Aventurine feels delirious, hazy in a way he doesn't know he should blame the lack of oxygen for or, maybe, that Sunday knew all too well how to take him apart with just a few swirls of his tongue. He thinks maybe they should forego the interview and keep kissing until the end of time, until his heart bursts into flames and they melt together.
He then hears the annoying sound of someone clearing their throat.
A staff member is standing in the room, staring at them completely unimpressed. “Ahem. Five minutes.”
Just like that, they leave them alone.
“Oh, Aeons,” Sunday covers his mouth, clearly flustered after being found doing such an obscene thing in a relatively public space. Aventurine giggles at it, fondness softening his features.
Everything's perfect.