【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to a high volume of check-ins, temporary accommodations have been made in our parking garage for all new arrivals. We aim to have all guests moved into their reserved rooms as soon as possible. We deeply apologize for any inconvenience!
All are invited to There Is No Tomorrow, a Phoenix Casino soiree to celebrate our beloved guests. The festivities will begin at 1800 hours on January 20th and end at 1800 hours on January 27th. Please look forward to 168 hours of delight.
In an effort to raise happiness and encourage better guest relationships, attendance is required. The house will assist guests that are too shy to appear of their own accord. Please note that black tie attire is mandatory. As always, we hope you enjoy your stay! 】
PARKING GARAGE
ANY CAR IN A STORM
PHOENIX CASINO HALL
WELCOME TO THE NEXT 168 HOURS
Phoenix Casino is a-flutter with activity and packed to the beak with guests. As a famously ever-changing space, the staff would be remiss if they didn't deck the crown jewel of the Golden Peacock out. The casino glitters from top to bottom, shining brighter than diamonds, rubies, sapphires, opals! Party-goers are shiny and glamorous with picture perfect makeup, fluttering gowns, and sharp suits. Card tables are packed and the slot machines are a-ringing as guests play, play, play! Prizes, luxury, booze, attractive people, it's the place that everyone wants to be at.
Those people being dragged inside by some invisible force...? Silly, they were so excited to come that their bodies moved before they realized what was happening. Those are struggles of joy and definitely not the casino's infamous ghost hands dragging unwilling guests to the party at the behest of the house. Look, they're literally hurling their bodies at the card tables with unrestrained glee!
All clocks indicating day hours and night hours have been removed from the casino. Once a guest has entered, their Watch will jam, making it impossible to keep track of the time. You don't need to worry about that tonight.
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's January event.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header. This month we also have an ongoing ATP / EMP where players can connect. Please feel free to utilize this for all of your peafowl needs!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
[She doesn’t press it. He wonders if that’s better or worse — better, allowing him to remain in this disguise at his own discretion, not bending his will to her request; worse, it means she’s too kind. She lets her brother go on feeling sorry, because that is his version of penitence. Or perhaps she’s being gentle with him given the circumstances, their new and unusual surroundings, and his own unease clawing under his skin to be so out of his element. So out of control.
Sunday’s eyes are drawn by the tug, finding his sister’s fingers curled there at the cuff of his suit. A sigh compresses his chest. Her hand is so small, he could cover it completely if he just —]
No. They aren’t. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful, but it’ll be good to have an ally in Stelle. If she is here, the rest of the Crew can’t be far.
[The interaction with Aventurine had proven… what, exactly? That man’s desires are as alien to him as another planet, and one game on the casino floor was not going to reveal much, except for the most immediate lack of threat.]
I’m more concerned for you. Are you well? Has anyone… bothered you?
[She must know what he means, even though the idea itself threatens to send his mind into a spiral of dark worry, and perhaps lends to why he now avoids her gaze. The sight of her in that outfit, her own disguise, along with the knowledge of this place — what is he supposed to do? How can he protect her?]
( ever the mind for strategy... but this isn't the kind of politics that her brother excels at, and likely not the kind of freedom that he would enjoy naturally.
the thing is, it's been a long time since sunday has played a real game with her that wasn't some puzzle to be put together, or some grand mystery to be solved. it's... difficult... to think of him here. but it's not easy to think about him anywhere now, when the freedom of roaming in an unbeautiful world is fraught with unknowns. it's an empathy that robin cherishes, an anxiety spun with a golden thread: ah, she'd thought, sat within sunday's office a day or two after he'd left, listening to the birdsong in her dreams just like the faint, far-off chirping that she can hear in the room now. so this must be how you had felt, brother.
but this game isn't one that she's naturally engaged in, either, although she's... trying to adapt. the outfit was easy enough to put on; easy enough to think of it as simply show business — if maybe it was a little showier than most.
it's... a little shameful to think about what her brother might think about her in it, even if she's still staying well within his peripheral for the moment he'd turn to look at her, never shying away, not once. it isn't quite comfort that stays her. there's a prickle of distant awareness that robin is steadfastly ignoring in her bid to stay beside him, not quite content enough to stay in his shadow while he steadfastly ignores her gaze in turn. )
... you mean, in context of the game?
( or in general. she shouldn't think about her brother in this context, if he'd find it filthy, and if he'd find her filthy in turn, for considering it at all once she's exhausted all of her options. ) They... haven't really. I have been fortunate that people have been so kind... It should be expected. We're all captives here and it would be beneficial of us to work together.
But it seems so absurd of an idea... How can such a thing grant us our freedom?
[Would it be beneficial to work together? Once again, his sister's optimism for the people around her prevails. He is not surprised to be faced with it, though it only grows his doubt and suspicion toward this place and its inhabitants. Will they treat her so kindly once they are diminished by suffering, influenced by the House? He doesn't suspect so.
But... he's told himself before, that he should not worry so much. That he cannot protect her forever, that she is strong enough to be independent without him. And what if she would prefer to be with these other people she has met? The thought chews at him, an unconscious anxiety so deep within that he cannot even look it in the eye. Not now.]
I don't know.
[So rarely does he admit his own ignorance, least of all to her — perhaps it is an offering, gently stated. He's changed. Or it would be better to say that he wants to change.]
There's too much left in the dark. We've only been here a few days, so gathering information is important. You were right to wear a disguise, but it's not likely that anyone here would recognize you. [Not as the galactic superstar she is, at least — because no one has recognized him. Then again... her notoriety exceeds his own. He's always preferred to be less in the spotlight.] Still, you should be careful.
[He looks at her now, with these eyes that do not belong to him — a glance from the corners to assess her state better, chancing this meager allowance.]
( it's nothing, really, that he hasn't seen before. a statement that requires some clarification anyway: it's a lot of skin showing, but robin usually wears a dress to show the swan line of her covered throat and collar, and the bare shoulder blades where someone might imagine wings would be. her brother has never acted as her consultant in a fitting room. there, she'd be draped in the bare minimum while she's dressed by the hands of strangers. maybe sunday has overseen the process, watched as his sister stepped onto the stage with an immaculate smile like a glossy brochure. nothing really in the in-between.
in this liminal space, it's different — how it must feel like she's under-dressed because of where they are. the dark bodice of her dress drops no lower than it usually does, accenting the wings of her collarbones, the span of her back. and even the curve of it is covered by the fall of her dark hair... only broken up by the pair of ratty wings poking out beneath the long trail of her wig.
it's just the skirt that must be the problem. not so much a skirt than sheer cloth flared along each hip like an afterthought. her legs stretch long under that, covered up in fishnets and nylon that she must have put on as a second layer, like a self-conscious failsafe.
she wouldn't have thought about the stark contrast it creates now. she hasn't even noticed it. her milky skin showing through the rip of it high along her thigh is as glaring as a spotlight in the dark. but at this point, he must've seen fully naked bodies out in the open; this is hardly scandalous by comparison. )
I know.
( but her tone's softer, maybe, gentling in the artificial sound of birdsong all around them, eyes downcast but expression attentive. for her brother to show any kind of weakness is — novel, a feeling that doesn't dishearten her so much as it buoys her up, makes her feel like she should steel her resolve so maybe he could worry a little less.
... it's just— )
... what will you do now, brother? ( that's — a new feeling. of course she's concerned, of course she worries for his well-being. she will wonder how he'll adjust, if he ever will, but what sparks this strange sourness on the back of her tongue isn't... solely that. ) I've seen others try desperate measures to escape... while those that partake in the Game and those that do not can become influenced to engage in it all the same.
(have you— but she bites the inside of her lip, forgetting about the red outline of her lipstick as it smears a bitter taste on her tongue. )
... and even if they won't... everyone seems to feel that something... more awful might happen.
[His gaze doesn't visit the sight of his sister long, but it's enough to burn the image onto the backs of his eyelids — like the light leftover by sunset, searing the distant horizon honey-gold until dusk turns it a cold blue. Robin's shoulders are bare, pale skin sloping up to the bowtie at her throat. It covers a scar: well-healed, long old, but one he could trace in the dark even if he's only seen it once. When she lay there in bed asleep, healing, during those first crucial days of recovery. She didn't know he was in the room so it felt permissible in that moment to look. All he did was look, and that was enough, because it proved she was alive in front of him. She was safe.
Robin's hair is black, which he thinks is all wrong, and he wants to say he doesn't like it. The absurd thought doesn't come from that ideal version of himself whose footsteps he had followed in his goodbye to Penacony. It is something else, some other part of him transformed by the union of those two pieces of his identity. It wants to say it doesn't like the black hair because she's more beautiful as herself. It hates the fake wings, the torn nylon, the cheap fishnets. And yet... he can see nothing else but the sight of her in all of those things, resplendent and gleaming, perfectly without flaw.
Confronted with what she asks, he's realizing how absolutely out of control he is in this situation. And how it just — isn't fair. He worked so hard for so many years to provide a paradise for her, and he failed. What now? What will he do now?]
Don't worry.
[Oblivious to the fact of her concern for him, Sunday sees this only as a way to reassure his sister of her own well-being.]
If you need anything, you should come to me. I have enough chips for the both of us. [The lie tastes ashen; he tells himself it's a temporary mistruth.] You don't have to work that job you picked up, so please don't feel forced to. There are... other options available here. You could perform, if you'd like — I've seen other musicians in the numerous lounges and restaurants.
[He still hasn't moved from where he's standing. He hasn't shed the disguise. It's almost like he's become frozen in this spot, chiseled out of stone, staring at the crossroads ahead and paralyzed by the choice.]
I'll... help you advertise, and if it gets to that point, I know how to manage your appointments.
( that brief moment where she thinks to correct him — maybe i'm stronger than you think — is dashed against the ground at his so-called assurance. but then chips... could be gambled for by other means, no? if she rationalizes it. she's seen the spinning wheels, and the slot machines, and the card sharps getting caught with their hands, but she's caught those hands moving bodies, too, not cards... at least before she'd shift her gaze elsewhere, anywhere else, caught in the throes of someone else's indulgence and trying to figure out where it would be safe to look.
that her eyes dart to him is a reflex that stuns her with its immediacy, but they flicker over him, as if she's checking for injury. there's just nothing that she can see outwardly in this stranger's appearance. not in his deep-water gaze. if she tried, would she be able to make out the current of his thoughts? would he let her? even the faint glow of harmony's passive ability tells her that he wouldn't make it easy. there's nothing in his eyes but her own reflection and the direction of his attention.
what did he do? what has been done to him? (would his hair be mussed after three days, feathers unruly, or would he still present so pristine and untouchable as he did when she saw him for the first time after years of unbridgeable distance?) she feels it, suddenly: smaller than she was, broken and unsteady. it's just that she can't read him, that she doesn't really know him, or anything at all.
her fingers twitch where she's still holding onto his sleeve, but the way she turns to face him more fully, her hand slipping down to press into his fingers instead almost shocks her with the speed at which she does it.
she's silent for that suspended moment. not necessarily to look into his face for recognition. but what he actually says after just filters through much more slowly, leaving her little room to question what she wants to most. )
Then... is it possible that we can survive with that kind of work? Although it isn't the most ( a pause, to reach for the right word... ) lucrative way to do it. We could pitch in together.
( but it does do something to her, that faint glimmer in her eyes like a spark. it isn't a duet by any stretch of the imagination, under forced circumstances, but maybe it's the closest thing that she can get.
[Her willingness to believe in him and his plan, even one mucked up from the depths of uncertainty, desperately constructed in light of the knowledge that the most important person in his life is here of all places — it aches. That touch finds his hand, though his fingers are gloved to provide a fabric barrier against the contact of skin. He can still feel the warmth of her palm, safe and alive. It seems the pain of this situation sits somewhere beneath his ribs, visceral in how it sparks a pervasive burn inside of himself. There's no possible way he could deny that seeking grasp for comfort, so even in disguise, his hand curls to gather her fingers. The illusion of the Harmony is only an exterior one, so perhaps it will feel a little more real as a result. Their palms seem to fit together perfectly — made to be held by each other.]
It isn't, but we also haven't been assigned our rank yet. It's possible we'll be fortunate enough to acquire a position of high standing. Then we won't need to worry at all.
[They would have enough, at least, to support each other. To support her, so that she will not have to go out and comply with the demands of this gilt prison. He cares far less for himself.]
We can survive. [A promise. A squeeze of his hand to seal it like a letter.] As for the exit... don't worry about that yet. There's much of this place we don't understand, but if people can enter, then they can leave. There must be some mechanism for it — otherwise, a world like this would've been noticed a long time ago.
[Is it false hope, to believe that out there in the universe, some entity would know where they are? He's heard of worlds being hidden in the shadows of Aeons... but something like this couldn't escape all notice. And if members of both the Astral Express and IPC are here, there's hope.]
Robin. [Now he turns to face her more fully, though he seems to hesitate in the moment.] Will you promise me something?
( only external. the illusion that harmony creates wouldn't come with a sensation that lies anywhere skin-deep. sunday's fingers feel longer, the width of his palm bigger, more secure than the portrait that his facade had created. but it's still solace. that they don't really touch for it to be familiar is... a thought she won't dwell on too critically when she understands what distance can create. for now, it's enough when it's rare for her brother to let anyone touch him at all.
what stings a little is that he's already pivoting towards damage control, and she's so used to his protection that it would be easy to fall back on it, to believe in the gold-spun illusion and let nothing change at all. it isn't distrust — even if his betrayal had hurt hardest because of her belief, but even now, it doesn't color her memories or any thought of him that she has. his intentions had been good. they will always be. no doubt he's already gutted enough for the both of them if he's still refusing to show his face.
... no. they'll have to... talk about it later. it seems kinder to let him assuage her concerns with his presence even if the words don't hold substance. it's a compromise she's willing to make as long as he won't let go. they'll deal with the suit, they'll find an exit, and she'll consider it gods' blessing that they can do it all together. )
I have faith, dear brother. ( simply, in that gentle, harmonic thrum. even after everything. because of everything, with perfect, unerring trust: ) Anything you request of me, I will do my utmost to promise you.
[In the face of it now, the words are more difficult than he expected. They seem to sit in his throat, unpracticed, uncertain — all of his care and fine control washed away by the newness of their circumstances, how little power he has here to protect her.
She still trusts him, which is perhaps more painful than if she'd cast him out for his actions completely. He deserves condemnation, and yet she only turns forgiveness toward him, soft face and bright eyes and all the love in the world.]
Please don't — [a hitch, in that voice-that-isn't-his.] In the end, it will always be your decision. But... please don't give yourself to someone without certainty they will be kind to you. Good, to you.
[They have not spoken of such things since they were children, when the world was vast and strange and beautiful in its limitless possibilities, before everything began to narrow and darken. He knows that his sister has been desired by countless others, and he has never asked if she has pursued that interest. He has no right to know those private intimacies. Yet at least while they're here, with their precious faraway childhood in mind — if she hasn't experienced what it is like...]
Don't wait until you have no other alternative. Don't let the House control this. It should be your choice, and you should be safe. Comfortable. All right?
strange how his request takes some of the wind out of her. a little unexpected, a little bit shy for how it makes her blink at him owlishly, and yet she stands too stunned to let any hint of color rise to her cheek.
fair enough. years of stardom and she should have admirers by the dozen, or maybe costars that have approached her after a show, or even strangers that she's met in passing, while she's wearing a disguise and sharing their company only. all of that potential, and nothing that she's ever really acted upon.
it feels a little silly now, thinking about it, reminiscing of a day sitting in mister gopher wood's office when she was hardly as tall as the desk that he sat at. something about no relations before marriage or abstaining, if the flesh does not prove too difficult; and that full awkward conversation that came after, that she restlessly daydreamed through to endure.
and then, walking out of the office with her brother at her side, she'd announced with all of the surety of girlhood, i'll just marry you when he'd asked her if she had paid any attention. he could be wearing the same expression here — trying not to twist in discomfort, sharpened in adulthood. a brave face. )
... I thought, if I were to have a partner, you would need to vet them first.
The same way I hoped you'd come to me so I might also give you my opinion... I promised myself that I'd never be harsh. No doubt you would've already put them through an extensive, scathing process if they made it by your side.
( softly, because she does feel a little warm, around her ears mostly as her feathers start to fall towards her throat. and then a laugh, wry and light as her gaze drops to where their hands are still linked. )
... I suppose this means we won't be waiting until marriage.
[His thoughts run parallel, though he is left unaware — memories of their chaste childhood spiraling out, still reconciling his sister as she is now compared to then. Taller, older, yet no less radiant and sweet and kind. Beautiful. There is no doubt in his mind that she will draw attention here, just as she did at home, only now she lacks all of the privileges of her stardom. Security detail, status and safety bought by fame.
Part of him wonders if this feels freer for her than anything before. If there is something she enjoys in her changed independence, her anonymity — even as the other part of him languishes in worry for what that freedom might invite.
There's a small, humorless little chuckle.]
I suppose not. [Something he doesn't like takes root in his chest, behind his ribs, dark and curdling and sour.] But, Robin... I trust your judgment. If you would choose someone, no matter my feelings, I'd set them aside if it was what you truly wanted. You should believe in yourself.
[He is not lying. He knows this, so why do the words feel blackened when he speaks them aloud?
He says nothing for himself. The thought has never even occurred to him — a stranger at his side. A romantic partner. What would they look like? Nothing comes to his imagination. He sees — only his sister, as he has seen her so many times before, the comforting shadow of her light cast over him. Yet in this context, it warps to something inexplicably, irrevocably wrong, and his gaze once more darts away, withdrawing his hand.
There's a knock at the door, and Sunday clears his throat.]
... I fear we've been gone too long. We should return to the lounge.
( ... what a fine, supportive answer. as always, her brother listens so carefully, intuiting her troubles before she ever has the chance to voice them out loud. given the opportunity to think about it, it's so silly in this outlandish context. so much severity put into something that this place doesn't think all too much about, despite calculating a monetary value to the interaction and weighing its worth in the same careless risk of a real gamble. like everything can be bought for the right price.
how quaint. if nothing is sacred, everything can be shared in harmony. but harmony's calling had come second. sharing everything with her brother had always come first.
she should tell him, share your feelings with me so that she could have that from him too. but no one seems to think of privacy as a sacrosanct thing, either, when there's a knock on the door and not enough rooms on this floor for debauchery, it seems. when sunday pulls his hand away, she's left a little stricken for how cold the room suddenly seems without it. his stance is so solid, with a stranger's polished appearance, and the way she looks at him, really looks at him, turned away from her and distant, makes her wonder how she could have ever thought he was anyone else for even an instant.
she smiles a little at that. )
We're allowed use of these rooms as much as anyone else, sir.
( she says, in that softer, familiar lilt that sunday might remember from some other sun-stroking afternoon. it's a bold thing to do when he's unguarded, when the glove on her hand is still warm from his own finger pressure where she's cradling his jaw, where she's turning his face back to meet her, her thumb skimming the curve of his mouth with deliberate delicacy.
maybe he's standing in his office in his memory when robin first leans in, and he'll remember the last time he'd reached out, fingers held firm between them to intercept her kiss of greeting, voice unwavering as he'd intoned with grave finality, we aren't children anymore. )
( the door opens behind them as someone peeks their head inside only to mutter a quick scuse me before ducking right back out thereafter. from the back, it probably looks vaguely as scandalous as it feels: the burnished sheen of her ripped stocking; her hair cascading in a rippling curtain like a held secret; a simple waitress standing on her heels to kiss someone who could be a king, without any care in the world.
alas, but they aren't children. so she's pulling back as quickly as the door clicks shut, her gaze drifting from his eyes and her lashes dipping low as she regards the bright red stain on the thumb of her glove, where she'd kissed it, missing his mouth.
he still looks put-together. it makes the lipstick look a little debauched where her thumb presses it in to smear at the corner of his lip. )
If you're going to wear a disguise, you should also act the part.
( and down his chin, until it's a bright red stain that she's pressing into the edge of his pristinely white collar. )
[Something in his world stops. The moment stills like a picture in frame, his surroundings limited to the immediacy of his sister beside him, slipping in close, her voice changed to that playful lilting frequency he recalls from a long ago childhood. He feels only in that moment the touch of her hand on his chin, angling his head. He catches the scent of her soft floral perfume, lulling him into a spellbound haze. Her mouth is rouged with a bright cherry lipstick. He does not breathe. He does not think. He —
The door opens, and Sunday is aware of a voice though he has no comprehension of the words, only that it goes away, and the door clicks shut again, leaving him to the paralysis of what has happened. His sister plays her part so well that it's seamless; her lips never touch his skin. Yet the impression of it lingers, almost burned in place by the swipe of wet lipstick at the corner of his mouth, at his collared shirt. A stain that mars the perfect exterior he strives to present.
Perhaps telling is that he doesn't swipe it away, or react at all, even once she's withdrawn and shared those words of wisdom. There is a darker question in his mind, wondering maddeningly, where did she learn this? Yet he only clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.
This is clearly an act, and she's helped him perform it. He cannot leave the room looking anything less than this — a man with a sweet, stolen kiss from a pretty waitress, wearing that impropriety on his skin.
He's grateful that his voice doesn't waver when he finally speaks.]
I'll... endeavor to remember that. Thank you, miss.
[Without providing an opportunity for her reaction, Sunday goes to the door. He cannot look at her any longer when his mouth feels like it's on fire, and his heart is a loud drum in his ears, as if she might divine his thoughts, his broiling emotions, should he stay.]
the problem with that, is that it leaves a vacuum in its wake, and the kind of silence that will leave them both wondering, well, what now? and worse. maybe he'll be the one to ask.
the way that sunday freezes up is cute in a way that she expects for all of the wrong reasons, half of her wondering if he'd wipe the stain off on the back of his glove, smearing red across his mouth and face until he fussed towards the nearest washroom to fix his appearance. that he leaves it on makes her wonder if he might be able to act through whatever it is that this place might throw at them... and what that means. it also leaves her with the memory of what that blank, stranger's face looked like, and how her brother's might have looked like under that, half-formed and the thought still inescapable.
... but the room's cold by the time she's turning, the door clicking shut as she carefully doesn't think about what it means when she's alone, feeling a little like she's been jilted in her short dress and — noticing for the first time — her ripped stockings. the birdsong echoing in the room is suddenly too shrill, too fake.
it isn't so bad. time passes. she changes into another pair of tights and a longer skirt using what she finds inside of the wardrobe and leaves the room more presentable than when she entered.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goldmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
peacockstop2025-01-15 09:00 pm
🥹 u get me
Sunday’s eyes are drawn by the tug, finding his sister’s fingers curled there at the cuff of his suit. A sigh compresses his chest. Her hand is so small, he could cover it completely if he just —]
No. They aren’t. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful, but it’ll be good to have an ally in Stelle. If she is here, the rest of the Crew can’t be far.
[The interaction with Aventurine had proven… what, exactly? That man’s desires are as alien to him as another planet, and one game on the casino floor was not going to reveal much, except for the most immediate lack of threat.]
I’m more concerned for you. Are you well? Has anyone… bothered you?
[She must know what he means, even though the idea itself threatens to send his mind into a spiral of dark worry, and perhaps lends to why he now avoids her gaze. The sight of her in that outfit, her own disguise, along with the knowledge of this place — what is he supposed to do? How can he protect her?]
birds of a feather 🙂↕
the thing is, it's been a long time since sunday has played a real game with her that wasn't some puzzle to be put together, or some grand mystery to be solved. it's... difficult... to think of him here. but it's not easy to think about him anywhere now, when the freedom of roaming in an unbeautiful world is fraught with unknowns. it's an empathy that robin cherishes, an anxiety spun with a golden thread: ah, she'd thought, sat within sunday's office a day or two after he'd left, listening to the birdsong in her dreams just like the faint, far-off chirping that she can hear in the room now. so this must be how you had felt, brother.
but this game isn't one that she's naturally engaged in, either, although she's... trying to adapt. the outfit was easy enough to put on; easy enough to think of it as simply show business — if maybe it was a little showier than most.
it's... a little shameful to think about what her brother might think about her in it, even if she's still staying well within his peripheral for the moment he'd turn to look at her, never shying away, not once. it isn't quite comfort that stays her. there's a prickle of distant awareness that robin is steadfastly ignoring in her bid to stay beside him, not quite content enough to stay in his shadow while he steadfastly ignores her gaze in turn. )
... you mean, in context of the game?
( or in general. she shouldn't think about her brother in this context, if he'd find it filthy, and if he'd find her filthy in turn, for considering it at all once she's exhausted all of her options. ) They... haven't really. I have been fortunate that people have been so kind... It should be expected. We're all captives here and it would be beneficial of us to work together.
But it seems so absurd of an idea... How can such a thing grant us our freedom?
no subject
But... he's told himself before, that he should not worry so much. That he cannot protect her forever, that she is strong enough to be independent without him. And what if she would prefer to be with these other people she has met? The thought chews at him, an unconscious anxiety so deep within that he cannot even look it in the eye. Not now.]
I don't know.
[So rarely does he admit his own ignorance, least of all to her — perhaps it is an offering, gently stated. He's changed. Or it would be better to say that he wants to change.]
There's too much left in the dark. We've only been here a few days, so gathering information is important. You were right to wear a disguise, but it's not likely that anyone here would recognize you. [Not as the galactic superstar she is, at least — because no one has recognized him. Then again... her notoriety exceeds his own. He's always preferred to be less in the spotlight.] Still, you should be careful.
[He looks at her now, with these eyes that do not belong to him — a glance from the corners to assess her state better, chancing this meager allowance.]
no subject
in this liminal space, it's different — how it must feel like she's under-dressed because of where they are. the dark bodice of her dress drops no lower than it usually does, accenting the wings of her collarbones, the span of her back. and even the curve of it is covered by the fall of her dark hair... only broken up by the pair of ratty wings poking out beneath the long trail of her wig.
it's just the skirt that must be the problem. not so much a skirt than sheer cloth flared along each hip like an afterthought. her legs stretch long under that, covered up in fishnets and nylon that she must have put on as a second layer, like a self-conscious failsafe.
she wouldn't have thought about the stark contrast it creates now. she hasn't even noticed it. her milky skin showing through the rip of it high along her thigh is as glaring as a spotlight in the dark. but at this point, he must've seen fully naked bodies out in the open; this is hardly scandalous by comparison. )
I know.
( but her tone's softer, maybe, gentling in the artificial sound of birdsong all around them, eyes downcast but expression attentive. for her brother to show any kind of weakness is — novel, a feeling that doesn't dishearten her so much as it buoys her up, makes her feel like she should steel her resolve so maybe he could worry a little less.
... it's just— )
... what will you do now, brother? ( that's — a new feeling. of course she's concerned, of course she worries for his well-being. she will wonder how he'll adjust, if he ever will, but what sparks this strange sourness on the back of her tongue isn't... solely that. ) I've seen others try desperate measures to escape... while those that partake in the Game and those that do not can become influenced to engage in it all the same.
( have you— but she bites the inside of her lip, forgetting about the red outline of her lipstick as it smears a bitter taste on her tongue. )
... and even if they won't... everyone seems to feel that something... more awful might happen.
truly i do not know how to stop tl;dring
Robin's hair is black, which he thinks is all wrong, and he wants to say he doesn't like it. The absurd thought doesn't come from that ideal version of himself whose footsteps he had followed in his goodbye to Penacony. It is something else, some other part of him transformed by the union of those two pieces of his identity. It wants to say it doesn't like the black hair because she's more beautiful as herself. It hates the fake wings, the torn nylon, the cheap fishnets. And yet... he can see nothing else but the sight of her in all of those things, resplendent and gleaming, perfectly without flaw.
Confronted with what she asks, he's realizing how absolutely out of control he is in this situation. And how it just — isn't fair. He worked so hard for so many years to provide a paradise for her, and he failed. What now? What will he do now?]
Don't worry.
[Oblivious to the fact of her concern for him, Sunday sees this only as a way to reassure his sister of her own well-being.]
If you need anything, you should come to me. I have enough chips for the both of us. [The lie tastes ashen; he tells himself it's a temporary mistruth.] You don't have to work that job you picked up, so please don't feel forced to. There are... other options available here. You could perform, if you'd like — I've seen other musicians in the numerous lounges and restaurants.
[He still hasn't moved from where he's standing. He hasn't shed the disguise. It's almost like he's become frozen in this spot, chiseled out of stone, staring at the crossroads ahead and paralyzed by the choice.]
I'll... help you advertise, and if it gets to that point, I know how to manage your appointments.
looks at this monstrosity........ same
( that brief moment where she thinks to correct him — maybe i'm stronger than you think — is dashed against the ground at his so-called assurance. but then chips... could be gambled for by other means, no? if she rationalizes it. she's seen the spinning wheels, and the slot machines, and the card sharps getting caught with their hands, but she's caught those hands moving bodies, too, not cards... at least before she'd shift her gaze elsewhere, anywhere else, caught in the throes of someone else's indulgence and trying to figure out where it would be safe to look.
that her eyes dart to him is a reflex that stuns her with its immediacy, but they flicker over him, as if she's checking for injury. there's just nothing that she can see outwardly in this stranger's appearance. not in his deep-water gaze. if she tried, would she be able to make out the current of his thoughts? would he let her? even the faint glow of harmony's passive ability tells her that he wouldn't make it easy. there's nothing in his eyes but her own reflection and the direction of his attention.
what did he do? what has been done to him? (would his hair be mussed after three days, feathers unruly, or would he still present so pristine and untouchable as he did when she saw him for the first time after years of unbridgeable distance?) she feels it, suddenly: smaller than she was, broken and unsteady. it's just that she can't read him, that she doesn't really know him, or anything at all.
her fingers twitch where she's still holding onto his sleeve, but the way she turns to face him more fully, her hand slipping down to press into his fingers instead almost shocks her with the speed at which she does it.
she's silent for that suspended moment. not necessarily to look into his face for recognition. but what he actually says after just filters through much more slowly, leaving her little room to question what she wants to most. )
Then... is it possible that we can survive with that kind of work? Although it isn't the most ( a pause, to reach for the right word... ) lucrative way to do it. We could pitch in together.
( but it does do something to her, that faint glimmer in her eyes like a spark. it isn't a duet by any stretch of the imagination, under forced circumstances, but maybe it's the closest thing that she can get.
however. )
... that just leaves the exit...
no subject
It isn't, but we also haven't been assigned our rank yet. It's possible we'll be fortunate enough to acquire a position of high standing. Then we won't need to worry at all.
[They would have enough, at least, to support each other. To support her, so that she will not have to go out and comply with the demands of this gilt prison. He cares far less for himself.]
We can survive. [A promise. A squeeze of his hand to seal it like a letter.] As for the exit... don't worry about that yet. There's much of this place we don't understand, but if people can enter, then they can leave. There must be some mechanism for it — otherwise, a world like this would've been noticed a long time ago.
[Is it false hope, to believe that out there in the universe, some entity would know where they are? He's heard of worlds being hidden in the shadows of Aeons... but something like this couldn't escape all notice. And if members of both the Astral Express and IPC are here, there's hope.]
Robin. [Now he turns to face her more fully, though he seems to hesitate in the moment.] Will you promise me something?
no subject
what stings a little is that he's already pivoting towards damage control, and she's so used to his protection that it would be easy to fall back on it, to believe in the gold-spun illusion and let nothing change at all. it isn't distrust — even if his betrayal had hurt hardest because of her belief, but even now, it doesn't color her memories or any thought of him that she has. his intentions had been good. they will always be. no doubt he's already gutted enough for the both of them if he's still refusing to show his face.
... no. they'll have to... talk about it later. it seems kinder to let him assuage her concerns with his presence even if the words don't hold substance. it's a compromise she's willing to make as long as he won't let go. they'll deal with the suit, they'll find an exit, and she'll consider it gods' blessing that they can do it all together. )
I have faith, dear brother. ( simply, in that gentle, harmonic thrum. even after everything. because of everything, with perfect, unerring trust: ) Anything you request of me, I will do my utmost to promise you.
no subject
She still trusts him, which is perhaps more painful than if she'd cast him out for his actions completely. He deserves condemnation, and yet she only turns forgiveness toward him, soft face and bright eyes and all the love in the world.]
Please don't — [a hitch, in that voice-that-isn't-his.] In the end, it will always be your decision. But... please don't give yourself to someone without certainty they will be kind to you. Good, to you.
[They have not spoken of such things since they were children, when the world was vast and strange and beautiful in its limitless possibilities, before everything began to narrow and darken. He knows that his sister has been desired by countless others, and he has never asked if she has pursued that interest. He has no right to know those private intimacies. Yet at least while they're here, with their precious faraway childhood in mind — if she hasn't experienced what it is like...]
Don't wait until you have no other alternative. Don't let the House control this. It should be your choice, and you should be safe. Comfortable. All right?
no subject
strange how his request takes some of the wind out of her. a little unexpected, a little bit shy for how it makes her blink at him owlishly, and yet she stands too stunned to let any hint of color rise to her cheek.
fair enough. years of stardom and she should have admirers by the dozen, or maybe costars that have approached her after a show, or even strangers that she's met in passing, while she's wearing a disguise and sharing their company only. all of that potential, and nothing that she's ever really acted upon.
it feels a little silly now, thinking about it, reminiscing of a day sitting in mister gopher wood's office when she was hardly as tall as the desk that he sat at. something about no relations before marriage or abstaining, if the flesh does not prove too difficult; and that full awkward conversation that came after, that she restlessly daydreamed through to endure.
and then, walking out of the office with her brother at her side, she'd announced with all of the surety of girlhood, i'll just marry you when he'd asked her if she had paid any attention. he could be wearing the same expression here — trying not to twist in discomfort, sharpened in adulthood. a brave face. )
... I thought, if I were to have a partner, you would need to vet them first.
The same way I hoped you'd come to me so I might also give you my opinion... I promised myself that I'd never be harsh. No doubt you would've already put them through an extensive, scathing process if they made it by your side.
( softly, because she does feel a little warm, around her ears mostly as her feathers start to fall towards her throat. and then a laugh, wry and light as her gaze drops to where their hands are still linked. )
... I suppose this means we won't be waiting until marriage.
cw: ok kind of incesty thoughts now :/
Part of him wonders if this feels freer for her than anything before. If there is something she enjoys in her changed independence, her anonymity — even as the other part of him languishes in worry for what that freedom might invite.
There's a small, humorless little chuckle.]
I suppose not. [Something he doesn't like takes root in his chest, behind his ribs, dark and curdling and sour.] But, Robin... I trust your judgment. If you would choose someone, no matter my feelings, I'd set them aside if it was what you truly wanted. You should believe in yourself.
[He is not lying. He knows this, so why do the words feel blackened when he speaks them aloud?
He says nothing for himself. The thought has never even occurred to him — a stranger at his side. A romantic partner. What would they look like? Nothing comes to his imagination. He sees — only his sister, as he has seen her so many times before, the comforting shadow of her light cast over him. Yet in this context, it warps to something inexplicably, irrevocably wrong, and his gaze once more darts away, withdrawing his hand.
There's a knock at the door, and Sunday clears his throat.]
... I fear we've been gone too long. We should return to the lounge.
cw: incest but it's not just thoughts sorry 1/2
how quaint. if nothing is sacred, everything can be shared in harmony. but harmony's calling had come second. sharing everything with her brother had always come first.
she should tell him, share your feelings with me so that she could have that from him too. but no one seems to think of privacy as a sacrosanct thing, either, when there's a knock on the door and not enough rooms on this floor for debauchery, it seems. when sunday pulls his hand away, she's left a little stricken for how cold the room suddenly seems without it. his stance is so solid, with a stranger's polished appearance, and the way she looks at him, really looks at him, turned away from her and distant, makes her wonder how she could have ever thought he was anyone else for even an instant.
she smiles a little at that. )
We're allowed use of these rooms as much as anyone else, sir.
( she says, in that softer, familiar lilt that sunday might remember from some other sun-stroking afternoon. it's a bold thing to do when he's unguarded, when the glove on her hand is still warm from his own finger pressure where she's cradling his jaw, where she's turning his face back to meet her, her thumb skimming the curve of his mouth with deliberate delicacy.
maybe he's standing in his office in his memory when robin first leans in, and he'll remember the last time he'd reached out, fingers held firm between them to intercept her kiss of greeting, voice unwavering as he'd intoned with grave finality, we aren't children anymore. )
no subject
alas, but they aren't children. so she's pulling back as quickly as the door clicks shut, her gaze drifting from his eyes and her lashes dipping low as she regards the bright red stain on the thumb of her glove, where she'd kissed it, missing his mouth.
he still looks put-together. it makes the lipstick look a little debauched where her thumb presses it in to smear at the corner of his lip. )
If you're going to wear a disguise, you should also act the part.
( and down his chin, until it's a bright red stain that she's pressing into the edge of his pristinely white collar. )
Or you're going to get caught.
cw: just incest now i guess 🥹
The door opens, and Sunday is aware of a voice though he has no comprehension of the words, only that it goes away, and the door clicks shut again, leaving him to the paralysis of what has happened. His sister plays her part so well that it's seamless; her lips never touch his skin. Yet the impression of it lingers, almost burned in place by the swipe of wet lipstick at the corner of his mouth, at his collared shirt. A stain that mars the perfect exterior he strives to present.
Perhaps telling is that he doesn't swipe it away, or react at all, even once she's withdrawn and shared those words of wisdom. There is a darker question in his mind, wondering maddeningly, where did she learn this? Yet he only clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.
This is clearly an act, and she's helped him perform it. He cannot leave the room looking anything less than this — a man with a sweet, stolen kiss from a pretty waitress, wearing that impropriety on his skin.
He's grateful that his voice doesn't waver when he finally speaks.]
I'll... endeavor to remember that. Thank you, miss.
[Without providing an opportunity for her reaction, Sunday goes to the door. He cannot look at her any longer when his mouth feels like it's on fire, and his heart is a loud drum in his ears, as if she might divine his thoughts, his broiling emotions, should he stay.]
you ever just want to 🎀 a thread...
the problem with that, is that it leaves a vacuum in its wake, and the kind of silence that will leave them both wondering, well, what now? and worse. maybe he'll be the one to ask.
the way that sunday freezes up is cute in a way that she expects for all of the wrong reasons, half of her wondering if he'd wipe the stain off on the back of his glove, smearing red across his mouth and face until he fussed towards the nearest washroom to fix his appearance. that he leaves it on makes her wonder if he might be able to act through whatever it is that this place might throw at them... and what that means. it also leaves her with the memory of what that blank, stranger's face looked like, and how her brother's might have looked like under that, half-formed and the thought still inescapable.
... but the room's cold by the time she's turning, the door clicking shut as she carefully doesn't think about what it means when she's alone, feeling a little like she's been jilted in her short dress and — noticing for the first time — her ripped stockings. the birdsong echoing in the room is suddenly too shrill, too fake.
it isn't so bad. time passes. she changes into another pair of tights and a longer skirt using what she finds inside of the wardrobe and leaves the room more presentable than when she entered.
they drift. )