☾ - title: fractured paradise
☾ - summary: You've been engaged to Sunday since you were both children, and though he plays the part of a perfect fiance, he hasn't been honest with you in years. ☾ - pairing: sunday x reader ☾ - word count: 3.2k ☾ - tags: arranged marriage, ambiguous + complicated relationships, some slight powerplay, reader wears jewelry (specifically a necklace) ☾ - commissioned by: @stellamancer ☾ - author's notes || read on ao3 - ☾
You first met your future husband when you were eight, dressed in new, shiny patent-leather shoes that pressed your toes and a smart, dove-grey coat, threading your fingers together and trying to keep still.
Your mother chatted with Gopher Wood, gloved hand covering her mouth as she laughed pleasantly, and you hovered just a step behind her. Sunday was buried in Gopher Wood’s robes, anxious, chubby fingers clutching the fabric as he looked at the ground.
He glanced up at you, and before he could glance away, you mouthed, “Hello.”
He stared before tentatively waving his free hand. You smiled at him, pleased, and then he broke eye contact, looking down at the ground again, red blush staining his pale ears.
After that, your mother and Gopher Wood left the two of you alone over china cups of black tea and a rainbow swirl of macaroons in order to get to know each other better. You promptly got up to sit next to him on the plush, rose-pattern fabric, plopping down so close that Sunday’s wings fluttered in agitation.
You held out your hand, and said your full name. “What’s yours?” you asked.
“I’m Sunday,” he murmured, startled, perhaps, at your proximity and how bold you were. Your mother always chided you for acting too forward, but what was wrong with knowing what you wanted?
“Your name is pretty,” you said. “Sundays are my favorite days of the week.”
Sunday blushed again, and you really did think he was pretty, the prettiest boy you ever saw. Whenever you came over for weekly visits, an effort meant to increase the intimacy between the two of you, he would shyly ask how you were and if you wanted anything to hear about what he was reading that day.
You were the one to decide the pace of your relationship, taking his hand and dragging him around to explore the libraries, to ramble in the gardens, to spy on the grown-ups and eavesdrop on their conversations. No matter what you wanted, he followed obediently, trailing after you like a baby bird whenever you took his hand in your own.
Arranged marriages aren’t about love, and yours is nothing more than a political engagement between the Oak and Iris Families. At the time, though, you thought you could love him. Fancied yourself a little in love with him already, but then your cute little bird changed. It was gradual, the way he became more withdrawn, how he let go of your hand and started talking to you in the same polite tone he used with shareholders and political opponents.
It’s not as if he’s cruel these days, either. Sunday is courteous, respectable, responsible. He takes you out to lunch once a week at noon sharp on Fridays, with a long-standing reservation at a restaurant you enjoy. He sends you gifts of jewelry, necklaces with delicate golden chains and dewdrop gems nestled in creamy wrapping paper. He opens doors for you, keeps a hand on the small of your back, brings you back home before nine and never asks for anything except for a chaste kiss on his cheek.
No, on the surface, you have no reason to complain about your fiance. It’s just that you’re aware of the truth, always lurking under every interaction: Sunday shut you out, and he’s never let you back in.
—
You’re alone in your dressing room, staring at the vanity’s mirror, necklaces and bracelets and earrings spread around you in an indulgent feast of gold and jewels. There’s a party in half an hour, but it’s really just an excuse for political maneuvering and sucking up to those in power. You’ve grown up attending such events as the heir of the Iris Family, so you know how to smile and flatter, how to shut down the wrong people attempting to get into your good graces.
Knuckles rap on the doorframe, but you don’t startle. There’s only one person who could enter your room so freely. Besides, your mirror captures the edge of your door, so you can see the shine of Sunday’s gold cuff links on his black silk suit jacket, his pressed pants perfectly creased down the middle, as he likes it.
“You’re not ready yet,” Sunday says. You keep your eyes steady on the mirror as Sunday approaches, stopping a polite distance away from you.
“Well, I’m stuck,” you drawl. “I just don’t know what jewelry would match with my outfit.” You’re dressed in white and black silk, something that slinks down your body and matches with Sunday’s outfit.
Sunday flicks a glance across the dazzling array of jewelry. “Why not this?” he asks, pointing at a simple gold pendant, a modest white diamond its only adornment. He gave it to you for some holiday or the other, an obligatory gift that you never wore, though Sunday has given you so much jewelry it’d be hard to find the occasion to flaunt all of it.
“It doesn’t fit,” you say. “I was actually thinking of…” Your fingers dance on your vanity until they loop around the chain of a silver necklace, awash with blue and green gems that sparkle in the low light. It’s just shy of ostentatious, but it’s the opposite of the sort of subtle, classy jewelry Sunday prefers. “...this.”
“That’s from one of the IPC’s Stonehearts, isn’t it. Aventurine, I recall?” Sunday asks. His face still retains its poised expression, and his voice is perfectly pleasant, but it dips in tone, the only sign that your choice has any effect on him.
You smile at him in the mirror, your lips curling with the weight of your own self-satisfaction. “Oh, is that so? He was quite charming, wasn’t he?”
“The IPC’s presence here doesn’t bode well,” Sunday says, voice sharp, the barest edge of a blade.
“Well, it’s not as if we want to get on their bad side, either, do we? This could be a show of good-will.”
“All the same, we’re not here to bend to their demands,” Sunday says. “Besides, the necklace I showed you would suit your outfit more.”
“I think you just like gold,” you say, twirling the necklace around your fingers. “No, I’ll wear this one.”
“If you already had your eye on a particular piece, I fail to see how my input was necessary.”
You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Maybe I just like hearing the sound of your voice, Sunday.”
Sunday doesn’t look away. “And if you wanted to hear me talk, you have more than ample opportunity at our engagement tonight.”
“You’re so touchy,” you grumble. “You already know you’ll be busy with everyone trying to suck up to you to spare a single thought for me.”
“Fulfilling our duties is the only reason we’re here in the first place,” he says.
“Fine, fine. I’ll be out in a bit, hm?” You waggle your fingers to dismiss him.
Sunday doesn’t move. “Let me help you put your necklace on.”
You dip your head slightly in acquiescence, and Sunday pinches the delicate chain of the necklace with both hands, bringing it up to rest against the hollow of your neck. You watch as he gazes at the necklace in the mirror, evaluating it against your skin.
His movements are slow and deliberate as he fastens the necklace together, the brush of his silk gloves cool against your nape. He lowers his gaze in concentration, eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. For a second, neither of you speak, and in the dim lamps floating around the room, his eyes shimmer, molten gold that threatens to swallow you whole.
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” he says, and then he’s gone, vanishing from your mirror, footsteps receding behind you.
You sigh, fingering the cold gems that rest against your collarbones. It’s not as if you can blame your deteriorating relationship solely on Sunday. But as forward and obstinate as you are, Sunday is just as stubborn and unyielding. And if teasing him like a child and playing petty games is the only way to crack his facade, then what other choice does he give you?
“You could have at least told me I looked nice,” you grumble at your own reflection, but there’s no one to respond.
—
The party is hosted by the Oak Family, and like everything Sunday likes to do, it’s a dazzling, opulent affair, positioned to show both prestige and power. In the Dreamscape, where everything can be bent to his whims, musician-less instruments strum a dreamy waltzy in the corner, silver plates piled with delicacies from across the galaxy waft through the air, offering themselves to the silk and jewel encrusted members of Penacony’s most elite society.
You and Sunday walk through the entrance together, your hand safely tucked around his arm, and you press yourself to his side, the picture of a beautiful, engaged couple. A flock of admirers drift around you the entire time, socialites eager to get into your good graces, members of other Families hinting for more funding, more support.
It takes a while before you can shake most of them off, and when you do, you practically drag Sunday towards a cluster of floating drinks, swirling with ruby red liquid.
“Hyenas,” you murmur, snatching a thin-stemmed glass out of the air. “You’d think they followed the Voracity instead of the Harmony with the way they act.”
“Everyone is drawn to the promise of Penacony’s sweet dreams,” Sunday says. “But that’s what this party is for, to contain their ambitions. As long as they understand their role in things, there won’t be any issue.”
You glance at Sunday. The way he talks makes him feel like a stranger at times, a thousand miles away from you. What happened to the child who used to hide behind curtains with you at stuffy, formal events, sneaking more sweets than your guardians would ostensibly allow?
“The two of you look quite well this evening.”
You whirl around, raising your glass to your lips to hide your grimace at the voice, creamy smooth and decadent to the point it makes your hackles raise.
“Aventurine,” Sunday greets, and you can’t tell whose smile is less genuine.
Aventurine is dressed in a shimmering green suit that shifts under the light, the top three buttons left undone, dripping with silver and blue jewelry. His eyes crinkle when he sees you, and as he lowers himself into a bow, he reaches out a hand.
You give him your free one, and he presses it to his lips.
“Your necklace suits you,” he says. “I’m glad you liked it enough to wear it for this party.”
“Why, it was so beautiful I couldn’t resist,” you say, a charming smile of your own plastered to your face. “Thank you for such a treasure.”
“It’s a trifle, really,” Aventurine says, waving one careless hand. “It’s the least I can do for a new friend, hm?”
On the surface Aventurine and Sunday are nothing alike. He’s rakish, oozing with charisma and sweet words, and Sunday is formal, courteous, benevolent if a bit distant.
But you’ve been raised by politicians, surrounded by entertainers and performers. You know a liar when you see one, no matter how skilled. Everything both of them do is calculated, from the number of buttons Aventurine leaves undone, to the way Sunday hides behind manners and decorum.
“I hope we can become good friends, Aventurine,” you say.
“Me, too,” he says, his voice a purr. “I think we could do excellent things for each other, don’t you?”
For a split second, you think Sunday is going to say something. His face has smoothed into something blank and impenetrable, eyes cold. But then he smiles, all kindness and charm, and expertly secures your hand around his arm again.
“If the opportunity arises, then I’m sure we’ll all get along quite well,” Sunday says. “But if you’ll excuse me, my fiance and I must get going. There are some members of the Bloodhound Family we can’t afford to neglect.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to hog your attention all to myself,” Aventurine says. “Another time, then, friends.”
Sunday leads you along, all but steering you away from Aventurine. You try to quell your rising irritation as the two of you bounce from guest to guest, Sunday never letting you stray from his side. He traps your hand with his own, keeping it securely pressed to his arm.
When Sunday moves towards another group of guests, you instead tug on his arm, dragging him towards the end of the hall, past a door that opens just enough for the two of you to slip through. It’s an area that no ordinary guest can access: the end of the sweet dream, where you’ll be safe from prying eyes. In the party’s backstages, blue bubbles float and burst, furniture wheeling in a chaotic jumble overhead.
“What are you doing?” you say, voice low.
Sunday appraises you, his eyes flicking from your expression to the way you slide your hand off his arm.
“Do you have a problem with my conduct?”
“You’re acting strange, Sunday,” you say. “Ever since we talked to Aventurine. Do you expect me to just smile and act like it’s nothing?”
“I simply found that man and his transparent ulterior motives irritating. There’s nothing to be gained from the IPC taking an interest in Penacony.”
You fold your arms. This time, it’s your turn to appraise Sunday, the flutter of his wings, the way he folds his hands in front of him, pristine and untouchable. His expression is mild, relaxed, but his head is tilted up, so it feels like he’s looking down on you as he speaks.
“Sunday. Are you jealous?” you say.
“Jealous? Why would I be? You’re my fiance.”
It’s the way he says it, so dull and careful, as if you’re another asset, unwilling to let any emotion affect his voice that makes your temper spike. Even now, in private, he’s incapable of letting his facade slip, just once.
“I’m only your fiance in name,” you snap. “Please. We all know this is just a marriage of convenience.” You take a step forward, jabbing your finger at his chest. “I don’t know why you bother with putting on an act in public. Everyone knows this is a sham. You might as well just break our engagement and find someone else. I know anyone will do for you—”
“Anyone will do?” Sunday’s voice is quiet, intense, as he grips your outstretched hand. His touch is firm and possessive, the pressure just shy to crush your fingers. “You think I would be happy with just anyone else?”
“Yes,” you snarl, jaw clenched, unwilling to look away from his eyes, those unfathomable pools of gold, deep enough to drown you. “You haven’t given me any reason to think differently, have you? The last time you were honest with me was when we were children, Sunday.”
“I am not going to break off our engagement,” he says. “That has never been a possibility. It will never be a possibility.” His free hand snakes alongside the back of your neck, gloved fingers toying with the clasp of your necklace. “This color is abominable. Gold has always looked best on you.”
You let out a breath, and then, jerking your hand out of his grip, you shove Sunday, hands flat against his chest as you push him with enough force that he stumbles. For a fleeting moment, you savour his bewildered expression, his eyebrows knitted together, mouth open with shock. Your childish games, your childish rewards.
“Really?” you say coldly, rubbing the back of your neck, fingers pressing into flesh, as if you can rub away the memory of his touch, or press it deeper into your skin. “I find both gold and silver awful colors on me.”
“It’s a shame we disagree.”
“Why don’t you talk to me?” you say. “Tell me the truth. Tell me how you feel. I can be here for you, like I was when we were children.”
The silence stretches out, taut and fragile as a spiderweb. For a moment, you think he’ll do it. He parts his mouth, but then he scrubs a hand across his face, smoothing his expression back into something placating. The face of your fiance, the heir and the head of the Oak Family. “Things are much too different from when we were children. If you’ve finished composing yourself, then we should head back.”
Bitter disappointment seethes in your stomach, but you manage a careless wave of your hand as you turn from him. “Oh, no. I don’t think I’m done with my temper tantrum. You’ll have to go back to the party without me. Otherwise I might be liable to embarrass you.”
“As you wish.” Sunday moves past you as you dig your hands into your outfit, slippery silk crushed in your hands. At the doorframe, he pauses. “Why haven’t you broken off our engagement, if you’re so unsatisfied?”
A memory surfaces of a shy little boy fluttering after you, hand reaching out to you. Back then, he wasn’t afraid, because he knew you would always, always take his hand. “Because it’s too much trouble, I suppose.”
“I see.” The door cracks open, letting in a swirl of light and laughter, and then he’s gone.
—
After your first meeting with Sunday, you and your mother rode home in a chauffeured car, sleekly winding through the streets of Penacony like a snake. You snuggled into her side, as content and satisfied as a kitten.
“What did you think of Sunday?” your mother said, glancing out the window, where Penacony was nothing more than a smear of a dream, bright colors running together.
“He’s cute! I like him a lot,” you said, giggling, as she ran a fond hand through your hair.
“That’s good. This may be a political marriage, darling, but it makes a world of a difference if you like the person you’re marrying.”
“Oh. If I said I didn’t like him, then does that mean we’d be unhappy?”
“I’m not sure,” your mother said. “It depends on the person. Even if you didn’t love each other, you could still be partners. There are different types of relationships.”
“Well,” you said, toying with the rings on her hands. Your own mother was cordial with your father, business partners. You were an asset, you knew, but in rare moments, she indulged you like this. “I want to like him, but even if he doesn’t like me, we’re going to be together forever, right? Then I just gotta do my best until he does.”
—
A few days after the party, a gift shows up at your door, packaged in sleek white paper, wrapped with a blue ribbon. You twine the ribbon around your finger as you rip the package open, revealing a gold necklace nestled in a little box.
There’s no note or address, not that you need one to know who it’s from.
You let the slinky chain run through your hands as you marvel at the craftsmanship, the solid weight to the gleaming gold. You press the necklace to your lips, a cold kiss, before you throw it onto your vanity, where it bounces carelessly onto the wood.
You want to stain Sunday’s heart, sink into him and mark him as deeply as he’s marked you. It’ll never be enough, not until you have him right where you want him: by your side, where leaving isn’t an option.
You’re tired of necklaces. For the next party, you don’t think you’ll wear any at all.