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It was mid-afternoon and Aideen Park was close to being deserted save for the lone figure of a young gambler wasting away his hours in front of a slot machine.
The last remaining Aideen Token goes into the Lucky Wheel machine; Aventurine waits for the spinning to stop excitedly, already knowing the outcome would doubtlessly be another win. Too bad there was no one else around to celebrate his victory.
There was a click and the results were out. The shine in Aventurine's eyes dimmed as he took in the symbols displayed. Not a single match. It wasn't a winning combination.
He lost.
Eyes wide, lips slightly agape, he stumbles backward. He clutches the machine to stabilize himself, shaking his head, he stares at the outcome of his last play as if waiting for the hallucination to pass.
The hallucination gains a voice, "Do you not agree with the payout?"
Aventurine blinks. There was not a single soul in his near vicinity. Who spoke that?
"Do you not agree with the payout?" a mechanical sounding voice repeats the question he heard a second ago.
He shrugs, everything is possible in a dream, he thinks.
If there's one thing Aventurine trusts, that would be his luck for it had never failed him in his years of living. Until now, that is. So, he can't help but think something's amiss. The Lucky Wheel machine suddenly gaining sentience only adds to his worries.
He shakes his head, hoping it would be the last time he would do so for the day–he fears the constant tiny tremors he's subjecting his brain with may lose him brain cells.
The machine seemed to take that as his answer as it speaks again, "Dear customer, we have received your feedback. Accept our gift as compensation for your dissatisfaction with our service."
A blinding light shines on him. When Aventurine opens his eyes, he's confused to see the bottom part of the machine directly in his line of sight. Has he passed out? He concentrates on the faint reflection from the shiny covering of the machine.
He blinks. The reflection blinks too.
Is this the compensation I get?! Isn't this more of a punishment for losing the gamble?
Staring back at him was his own reflection as a plush bird. The plushie was in the form of an origami bird that bears resemblance to Aventurine's physical appearance.
Everything is indeed possible in a dream.
Just as he was thinking on a way to get out of Aideen Park and onto a more secluded place, footsteps resounded behind him. Someone was approaching!
The scent of bread, pastries, and something else familiar inades his senses. Oh, he could still smell, that's great. Though before Aventurine could bask in the discovery of his retained senses, he was gently shifted to face the newcomer.
The most handsome man in Penacony fills his vision.
Sunday, clutching a paperbag full of sweets from the bakery near the park, was bent down in a squat matching Aventurine's newly acquired plushie form's height. The dashing man stares at him, astonishment painting his features. The gloved hand moved away from Aventurine's head then Sunday instead used it to support his chin as he placed his elbow atop his knee.
Aventurine is uncertain if he's still breathing–if he could even still breathe in this form–when Sunday's face comes closer, inspecting him further. He grows nervous. Aventurine hasn't yet digested this whole situation. He wasn't sure how he felt losing his humanity or how long he would have to stay in this soft bird body. He wasn't even sure if he wanted Sunday to recognize him. He's not sure if it's a good thing to be recognized or not in the first place.
Because as much as Sunday was an embodiment of beauty, he could be as difficult to handle too. What would he do to him were he realize this plushie was the same IPC representative pestering him for nearly a month now?
Sunday carefully raises his pointer finger, slowly nearing Aventurine's face until it finally draws contact. He felt a soft poke on his beak. Did Sunday just boop him?
There was a spark of glee in Sunday's eyes and Aventurine decided this was the compensation. This was the gift. It wasn't a smile but Sunday did appear happy.
Sunday glances at him as if in contemplation on what he should do. Aventurine could only try his best to give him a cute pleading look with all of his plushie might. He recalls the man's adoration to birds as the next action he witnesses was Sunday picking him up, holding him close to his side as he trudged back on the al fresco seating of the bakery he'd previously visited.
He was deposited on a chair, Sunday sitting beside him arranging his sweets on the table, preparing to eat. The warm afternoon wind blows the music from the orchestra below all the way to them, adding to the ambience. It gradually dawns on Aventurine that this could very well be deemed as a date, ignoring the fact that he, as a plushie, can only perform a single task–watch Sunday eat.
So, watch Sunday eat, he does.
The assortment of pastries diminishes as Sunday unhurriedly consumes each treat. Although his face prevails its impassiveness, Aventurine recognizes the familiar radiance Sunday glows with after satisfying his cravings of sweets. It was an expected scene whenever they meet up and they talk regarding issues on the businesses relevant to them (or any excuse Aventurine comes up with to see Sunday) which was usually accompanied with a piece of dessert that Aventurine brought.
Two slices of cakes–with how similar they appear to be, Aventurine assumes they're of the same flavor–survive Sunday's feast. Perhaps he likes it so much he bought two? Aventurine notes this for their future meetups when he turns back to human. He still trusts in his luck so he keeps faith that his, uh, circumstance wouldn't persist for long.
The two slices of cakes are soon to be reduced to one as Sunday removes a slice from its packaging. A phone in hand, he captures a picture of the cake. Is he sending it to someone? Aventurine recollects those times when he would suddenly receive a text message, attached to it was an image of a beautiful piece of cake.
Would it be presumptuous of him to believe he was the supposed recipient of this photo Sunday had just taken?
If this plushie Aventurine is capable of smiling, he's positive he would absolutely be beaming right now.
It was almost evening by the time Sunday finished everything he bought. Except for that last slice of cake he had saved, meticulously placing it back on the paperbag that now slung on the crook of his elbow. The other was back to staring at Aventurine, mulling over his next course of action.
The plushie was picked up once again, getting inspected from every angle. As though finding the plushie's state to be passably clean enough, Sunday envelopes Aventurine-plush in both his arms.
Aventurine didn't know how long he stayed in that position, safely encased in an embrace by this lovely person, but the moment he was put down, he recognized the place as Sunday's residence. They stopped over at the kitchen for a bit when Sunday set the cake safely aside before they proceeded on their way to what must've been Sunday's bedroom.
It was Sunday's bedroom. There is no mistaking the scent–inherently Sunday that was wafting from the bed where Aventurine-plush was currently perched on.
The owner of the room was busy tidying himself up for a while before he inevitably settled down to the bed.
In this setting, the encroaching darkness of the night, the privacy of Sunday's bedroom, the short distance between the two occupants of the bed, Aventurine registers the moment as the most intimate he had been with the other man. Plushie form be damned.
Aventurine feels warm, delicate hands pat the few feathers sticking out of his plushie head. He gapes in awe as he belatedly notices that Sunday's hands are bare.
If he were in his normal body, this would've been the perfect time to hold hands. Sighs. For now, he would've to be content with this tender affection and the quiet fond gaze Sunday was bestowing upon him.
He really likes birds, huh?
Sunday's headpats develop a lethargic pace, the hand landing on his head slower and gaining weight, due to tiredness or sleepiness or both, Aventurine guesses.
His field of vision sways as Sunday's arm swings an arm over him then laying on the bed which brings Aventurine-plush tumbling down on the bed too. He hears a soft sigh as a face was smushed up on his side.
Aventurine almost bursts out his cottony innards out of glee now that they're cuddling.
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Dawn has not yet reached as the sky outside was still covered in darkness as what Aventurine can peek off the sliver from the curtain on the window.
He tries to stretch but abruptly stops, remembering the chain of events the past day. He raises an arm, heaving a sigh of relief to find it back to normal, covered in his usual clothes, a watch on his wrist and all fingers functioning as intended.
He tries for his other arm but abruptly stops any sign of movement again as he feels a weight over it. A handsome, endearing weight it seems. There, cuddling his arm was a peacefully sleeping angel. A heavenly sight to wake up to. Lucky Wheel was an appropriate name for that machine if it delivers this kind of winning.
His phone vibrating within the depths of his pocket prompts him to pause admiring his view. Aventurine goes over the several notifications he had missed, one particular message causing a skip in his heartbeat.
It was a simple message, a short: "I got one for you too" , attached to it was an image of a beautiful piece of cake. The very exact one that Sunday had eaten on their sort-of-date yesterday, the one sharing the flavor of the cake he had put away in his kitchen.
So, Sunday was saving it for him .
The surge of happiness overwhelmed him. Aventurine had unconsciously wrapped his other arm to Sunday's body, burying his face on the muted blue hair. He forcefully gets a hold of his clarity before the nice smell of Sunday's shampoo dulls his brain and pushes him to act more instinctively.
Aventurine leans back, gasping in surprise, as the breathtaking meld of gold and midnight blue of Sunday's eyes greets him. He must've roused him from his sleep.
He knows he should explain what had happened, but tongue-tied in the face of the most handsome man known to Aventurine in such close proximity, he could only point to his phone screen showing the text message to the sender himself. As if that would suffice as an explanation.
To Aventurine's utter amazement, Sunday just hums. Sluggishly getting up from the bed, taking Aventurine's hand to his own–still bare–hand leading them both to the kitchen where he takes out the cake presenting it to Aventurine.
They sat down, still holding hands. Aventurine tastes the cake in a small bite under Sunday's attentive gaze fixated on him (moreso on the cake, really) with a hint of envy.
He offers it up to Sunday who delightfully accepts. They spent the minutes away, waiting for morning to come, sharing a piece of cake, holding hands, and small smiles hared in between
Losing gambles, a talking slot machine, turning into a plushie, and most importantly being held tightly by the person he likes, Aventurine concludes, however many mishaps occur, that his luck has proven time and again to never fail him.