Chapter Text
People come and go.
That is one of the certainties of life.
The saying takes on a different meaning for someone who works as a barista in a quaint coffeeshop – especially one who deals with regulars all the time. The same individuals will come and go, and then come back again, almost like clockwork for perhaps weeks, or months, and even years—
But eventually… everyone will move on with their lives. Students will graduate, working individuals may change their jobs, some may marry and move away. Their visits will slowly become irregular before disappearing completely, sometimes without even a word of notice, and their presence will all be but a memory etched between memorized drink orders.
For Aventurine, the prospect of losing his regulars (his, he says, as if they belonged to him – he, who has rarely ever felt like he possessed anything, much less anyone. You cannot lose something that you never had in the first place), is something he is keenly aware and accepting of, but simultaneously, is not something he looks forward to.
Once upon a time, he may have convinced himself that he looks forward to that moment when old faces no longer haunt him, but let’s be honest – the physical presence of individuals are unnecessary for him to remember.
(Remember what, you might ask.
Well… everything.)
After all, what are memories for, if not to haunt you?
…
< 1 >
This is the order of events: Topaz earns her social worker license and quits her part-time job at the café. They throw her a farewell party, and Aventurine may or may not have spent an evening wallowing indulging himself in one of Ratio’s bottles of good wine. The doctor begrudgingly allows him to do so and provides him a proper meal to accompany said alcohol and watches him to make sure he sufficiently hydrates himself – and life moves on.
Topaz still visits once in a while – once every two weeks, maybe three, sometimes once a month if things get really busy. She is still working in the city, which means Aventurine doesn’t ever get the chance to miss her, per se (although he does, but he’ll say otherwise if anyone asks), for Topaz essentially comes in whenever she needs someone to vent to about work. That ‘someone’ is most often Aventurine, sometimes Jade, and thankfully not their customers.
(Well, their old regulars are fine. Topaz herself has been upgraded – or demoted, depending on your perspective – into that rank anyway: a ‘Regular’.)
With every visit, Aventurine ends up recalling that yes, Topaz is still as chatty as he remembers her to be. Some things never change.
One day, Topaz comes in with a white-haired girl tagging along behind her, and the first thing Aventurine says is, “there’s no way you could have had a kid since the last time I saw you.”
Topaz, in turn, shoots him a dirty look, and within the café, Ratio lets out an exasperated sigh while shaking his head.
(Speaking of the doctor, Aventurine doesn’t know why he is in here today. While it is one of his days-off, Ratio is out of his usual visitation schedule. Sure, Aventurine appreciates that Ratio came in after the lunch rush with his lunch, but he didn’t have to stay afterwards. The barista appreciates his effort, but surely, Aventurine has earned enough trust to eat his own lunch, no?)
“She’s not my kid—” Topaz begins, and Aventurine tips his head curiously.
“Okay, but she is yours, evidently.”
“Please let me finish my sentence,” she snaps.
Aventurine quickly mimes a zipping motion across his lips. His eyes momentarily flicker towards the child, but Aventurine tries to keep his gaze light and fleeting – the girl doesn’t look a day over eleven or maybe twelve years old, but to call her shy may be a gross understatement. She is completely hiding behind Topaz now, her hands grasping nervously to the back of Topaz’s skirt as her bright-pink eyes warily skim over Aventurine, before quickly moving on to eye the other occupied customers in the space. It’s a good thing that the café is having a quiet day, at least.
At his table, Ratio appears to be disinterested as he continues to read his book – math, this time, from what Aventurine saw earlier on – but Aventurine catches him looking in their direction multiple times.
Topaz never does finish her sentence. Instead, she steps off slightly to the side to reveal more of her mini-not-quite-[her], and lightly rests her hand atop the star-bright hair.
“…Clara, this is the good friend of mine that I was talking about.” Topaz says softly, and Aventurine resists the urge to gape dramatically at being referred to as a ‘good friend’. “The one that can make magical drinks. How about he make you something while I go talk to someone for a bit?”
Aventurine immediately snaps to attention. Impromptu child-sitting? Can he actually do that? Does Topaz really trust him with a child? He—
Some panic must have leaked into his expression, for Topaz clears her throat and shoots him a telling, partially pleading look. He internally groans, but takes a step forward closer to the pair… only to immediately freeze when Clara takes a step backwards with his approach.
Okay, okay – clearly, a different approach is needed here.
He schools his expression into something more neutral but friendly, and slowly drops to one knee to lower himself to the girl’s eye level.
“You’ve been talking up my skill, huh, ‘paz?” He quips amicably to Topaz before letting his gaze drop slowly to Clara’s. The girl instantly stiffens, and Aventurine can quickly tell how badly she wants to hide behind Topaz again. His heart falls a little, but Aventurine manages to muster enough gentle positivity in his voice as he offers his hand out in front of him. “Clara, is it? I’m Aventurine.”
She wordlessly stares at him, and her eyes nervously flicker to his outstretched hand before looking back at Topaz, as if to ask—
Topaz ducks to her knees and cups a hand around Clara’s ear. When Topaz whispers, “he’s safe. I promise.” – Aventurine pretends to not have heard anything.
“…It’s nice to meet you.” He tries again, softer this time. Aventurine does not let his outstretched hand drop. He holds it there, aloft between them – patience, and a promise. Remember what it was like to be a scared child.
Clara eyes his hand before finally raising slowly to focus on his face. She lets out a soft sound after a short moment, as if noticing something about him that is interesting or at least, non-dangerous, and some tension leaves her. Aventurine is tempted to ask what she finds interesting, but this is a situation that requires a more delicate hand, and so he takes his wins where he gets them.
“I can show you what we have, and you can tell me what you’d like in your drink. We have lots of colourful sprinkles and flavours. You can pick something out from out pastry counter too.”
“Go on.” Topaz nudges gently once more.
And finally — a soft, small hand slowly slips into Aventurine’s open palm.
…
Do not be mistaken – it is not as if Aventurine likes children, nor does he consider himself to be ‘good’ with them. On the contrary, Aventurine has little to no confidence when it comes to the concept of interacting with any human being under the age of… not-adult. The youngest individuals that Aventurine interacts with on a semi-regular basis is Lynx Landau, and she has already crossed the age threshold where she would vehemently protest at being labelled as a child, and would be almost correct in her argument.
But Clara is still evidently a child. She has yet to develop the ability to hide her awe as Aventurine presents her the various rainbow assortment of toppings that they hold behind the counter. Her initial apprehension seems to have evaporated at the prospects of sweets, which is all in all, a good thing in his book.
She still doesn’t talk. When he asks her about her preferred flavour or of which sauce she wanted to be drizzled over her drink (‘chocolate, caramel or strawberry?’), Clara chooses to point rather than vocalize her answer, and her gaze rarely rises to meet his.
Aventurine takes no offense. He remembers being a child once (twice?), and he also remembers what it feels like to be frightened one. Clara’s eyes do not reflect an identical fear, but he doubts that she grew up on a barren planet with unstable and violent politics like Sigonia, and Aventurine thank the Aeons for that.
Of course, that does not detract from the fact that there is some distrust in her eyes – not towards him specifically, and more to everything around her – and Aventurine is not oblivious enough to miss the implications of her presence with Topaz.
Speaking of which… from the corner of his eye, Aventurine spots Topaz and Ratio exchanging hushed words. He swallows down the pang of emotion that is accompanied by the sight, and instead glances back at Clara.
He startles to find that her pink eyes staring back at him in return.
(Aren’t those just the prettiest shade of pink he has ever seen? Aventurine’s eyes have a bit of pink in them too, but they are more magenta-leaning and disconcerting than Clara’s gentle shade.)
“…Your eyes are strange.” Clara finally says. Her high-pitched voice is soft with awe, and Aventurine cracks a smile at that statement. Perhaps that is what got her curious in him in the first place. His eyes being strange is hardly a new observation, but Aventurine is pleased that their strange colouration has done him a favour, for once.
Then, Clara averts her eyes and pales as if realizing what she has just (accidentally) said. “I—I m-mean—"
“They’re definitely a little strange, aren’t they?” Aventurine agrees easily. “You’re not the first to say so. A lot of people have told me that.”
“T-They’re pretty. I… I think they’re pretty.”
Aventurine blinks in surprise. Well, that’s a new one.
“…Yeah? I think your eyes are pretty as well.”
Somehow, that is the wrong thing to say. Clara’s presence seems to shrink as her confidence fades into nothing, and they descend into an awkward silence. Aventurine discreetly shuffles in place, but does not pause in his drink preparations, knowing that it would only worsen the atmosphere.
Then, even more quietly, Clara softly whispers, “they say that it makes me look scary.”
This time, Aventurine puts down the cream dispenser, because that hits a little too close to home, and she’s a child, for Aeons’ sake. She’s too young to develop a complex over her appearance, and over something as unchangeable as a pair of eyes.
“Who does?”
“…People.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. Very cautiously, he lowers his hand gently onto the top of her head, and only smiles apologetically when she startles a little.
“Well, they’re not scary to me. I think your eyes are beautiful.” She jumps again at his words, before looking up at Aventurine in some form of confusion. “Do you know what they remind me of? Pink beryl. Do you know what those are?”
She shakes her head. Aventurine takes the time to tuck several stray strands of pale hair behind her ear, and Clara lets him.
“…They’re a type of precious stone.”
“’Precious’?” Something further softens in his heart as Clara repeats the word quietly to herself. Precious, as in…
He hums. “That means, they’re extremely rare, and extremely treasured.”
Clara blinks up at him meaningfully, then just as quickly, looks away, a pink blush dusting her cheeks as if suddenly aware of how vocal she has been. Aventurine leaves her be, and continues to putter about with the mixer and various ingredients to finish her drink.
Eventually, Aventurine feels a soft tug at his apron.
“W-what kind of precious stone are your eyes then, Mr Aventurine?”
None of them, actually. It’s the type of eyes that people typically prefer to gouge out, based on his other experiences, but— that is perhaps an inappropriate thing to tell a child.
“…That’s a good question. I’ve never actually looked it up. But if you do ever find out, let me know, okay?”
…
Scary.
Aventurine doesn’t hear Clara say the word out loud as he leads her towards the direction of Ratio’s table (where Topaz is still at), but he assumes that is what she is thinking about as the two individuals turn to greet them. Clara’s fingers immediately tighten around his sleeve, and her steps slow into a snail’s pace the closer they get to the table.
They come to a stop a mere few feet away from their planned destination, and Clara refuses to take another step closer.
“What’s wrong?” Aventurine prompts her, but he already knows the answer. Her eyes are fixed on Ratio’s figure, after all. Topaz, Clara most certainly has no issues with, but Ratio—
The doctor’s gaze is not cold, but they are unreadable and intense as always. Aventurine kind of wants to slap the man’s head (lightly, at least), because surely, Ratio should know better than to look at a child as if he were staring at a new patient to be studied.
– Unless, of course, he is here to study her.
No, even then, that is no excuse.
“That man is…” She trails off, and Aventurine helps her finish her statement.
“—scary?” He says, deliberately loud while he side-eyes the pair. Topaz lets out a snort as Ratio looks away rapidly. Aventurine rolls his eyes, but mirthfully reassures her, “well, I promise you that Veritas is anything but scary. He’s a doctor, and doctors help people, don’t they?”
“…Yeah.”
He reaches down to rest a hand on top of her head, and gestures Veritas to approach with a thoughtful tip of his head. “I’ll introduce you. He’s just a big softie, aren’t you, Veritas?” Aventurine tacks on a little more loudly once again.
For once, the doctor’s usual stoicism is absent. In its place is uncertainty, an expression so rare that Aventurine cannot help but find impossibly endearing. Of course it would be a child that renders Ratio confused.
Clara’s fingers slip from his hand as Aventurine takes a step forward. Her fingers helplessly reach for him, and something inside of Aventurine melts a little further. He grabs the small, pale hand before Clara can second-guess herself, and extends his other hand towards Ratio, palm facing upwards. “Veritas, your hand?”
Ratio is comparatively (and expectedly) less timid as he rests his palm on the outstretched hand. A corner of Aventurine’s lip quirks up into a fond half-smile as he closes his fingers around Ratio’s warm hand – it is bigger than his, its weight familiar and comforting, but limp until Aventurine squeezes his fingers around the hand reassuringly.
Ignoring the rush of pride and glee from being better at something than the great Veritas Ratio himself (Aventurine means this affectionately, of course), Aventurine takes the two very different hands, and lets them connect to each other in some strange sense of a not-quite handshake. If Clara’s hand looked (felt) small in Aventurine’s hand, it is completely dwarfed by Ratio’s. Judging from Clara’s slightly wide-eyed look, she is likely thinking the same.
Ratio, on the other hand, continues to look a little lost.
“Clara, this is Doctor Veritas Ratio. Veritas, this is Clara.”
“…Hello, Clara.” While Ratio doesn’t physically lower himself to reach Clara’s eye-level, he does tip his head forward in what he probably deems to be a friendly gesture. Aventurine lets out a quiet snort at his behaviour – paediatrics is evidently not one of Ratio’s eight medical specializations.
To the doctor’s credit, Clara does not seem to cower at Ratio’s towering presence; perhaps Aventurine’s (and Topaz’s) presence is more than sufficient enough to make her feel safe. Her bright-red eyes are wide with what Aventurine would deem a healthy mixture of fear and awe, as she looks between their held hands and Ratio’s face, before finally, she greets: “…h-hello, d-doctor—”
Ratio tilts his head, not unlike a cat, and softly states, “you can call me Veritas if you’d like.”
“V-veritas.” Clara repeats, as if testing the name on her tongue.
Aventurine sees it, the moment Ratio wins Clara’s favour: Ratio makes an approving sound, indicating that he is pleased by her address of his given name, and Clara simply… brightens.
Perhaps paediatric medicine is in the cards for Ratio after all, Aventurine muses to himself.
“I… didn’t realize the doc was so good with children.” Topaz whispers to him conspiratorially afterwards. Her eyes continually glance over to Ratio’s table, where the doctor and Clara appear to be having some form of conversation involving the books he had on hand. There doesn’t appear to be many words being traded, but Clara doesn’t seem to mind.
Her drink, a soft pink milkshake topped with heavy amounts of cream and red sprinkles, looks comically endearing next to Ratio’s plain mug of black coffee. Aventurine is tempted to take a photo.
“I didn’t realize you were so good with children either.”
It takes Aventurine a few moments to realize that Topaz’s last statement was addressed to him.
Aventurine shrugs lightly. “We were all children once.”
(In the back of his mind, Aventurine recalls a set of memories that don’t necessarily belong to him, but are his, nonetheless:
A lonely child is put forward, in front of an audience of adults, of older and young children who look at him with neither friendliness nor disdain.
This will be your new home, Aventurine.)
“What of her parents?” Aventurine hears himself asking quietly, and Topaz shoots him a look, before shaking her head. She doesn’t offer him any more additional details – confidentiality, of course – and Aventurine sighs. He supposes he should have figured that out on his own.
“…Well, this is a first then, huh? You’ve never brought your work over here before.”
“Clara is a bit of a special case. I was hoping to get Veritas’ input on her.” Aventurine raises an eyebrow at that. “Her case was given to me recently. She’s been struggling to settle in with the other kids, and with her new guardians, and with school—”
Aventurine grimaces at the answer. He doesn’t have a full picture of Clara’s background, but obviously if she is one of Topaz’s ‘cases’, then that means she must have had a rough time recently. In some ways, Aventurine can see why someone may be concerned at Clara’s (alleged) behaviour, but at the same time, “…you’re not really expecting her to just… get along and trust a bunch of strangers that easily, do you? I don’t have the full picture, but I don’t really need it to know that she’s had a hard time.”
Children are typically too-trusting of other individuals, until they learn that they shouldn’t be – and then it becomes difficult for them to gain trust, period. Obviously, Clara has learned of that already, and it is a very difficult lesson to ‘unlearn’.
Topaz frowns at that. “Well, no, of course not. But she hasn’t really spoken to others, and her guardians suggested that it may be psychological or something—”
“She spoke to me just fine.”
“That’s surprising to me, actually.”
The remark isn’t meant to sting, but it somehow does. Aventurine brushes it off, knowing that Topaz doesn’t mean anything hurtful by it. “…So, what, you roped the doctor in to help? I’m surprised he agreed. He isn’t trained in psychology, much less child psychology.” And Ratio isn’t one to dish out – and Aventurine is quoting the man here – ‘untrained’ opinions, especially related to the medical side of things.
“He told me the same thing.” Topaz replied dryly. “But I’m not looking for a professional medical opinion. He’s good at observing people’s behaviours, I figured that I might be able to get some input from him, and he agreed to meet me here.”
…There’s that sting again.
Topaz isn’t incorrect. Ratio is good at observing people. He is doing that now, in fact – his eyes are unusually focused, and he wears the same neutral expression whenever he is studying something intensely. Ratio directs the same expression at Aventurine frequently, after all; especially when he thinks that Aventurine isn’t looking.
But—
Here’s the thing –
“Why him, and not me?” He doesn’t mean to sound too harsh – and Aventurine doesn’t think he does – but Topaz whips her head in his direction. He doesn’t meet her gaze; instead, Aventurine continues to watch Clara. She is bent over a notebook now, hand gripping the ballpoint pen that Ratio has loaned her. Who knows what she is scribbling – hopefully not math.
(…Aeons forbid , Ratio may actually be teaching her math.)
“I’ve been through the system before. If there’s anyone else who knows what it’s like to be a kid that suddenly put into the care of strangers, it’s me.”
Aventurine gets it.
Sure, those memories aren’t really
his
, per se, but
Aventurine gets it. They’re not his but they are his in a sense.
“Aventurine, I—” Topaz starts to say, and stops.
“…It’s fine, ‘paz.” He waves her off.
Aventurine also understands – he is just a barista. He has no experience dealing with children, both professionally and non-professionally, and he has never shown any inclinations for caring about the welfare of a child.
(Not that someone has to be trained or taught to care about children, mind you. He has been a kid before. He has been a kid twice, if he allows himself the time and space to wade through the memories of the other Aventurine.
It just stings.
It stings when it shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be hurt by this.
And Ratio must have known about the specifics, yet he never once even brought it up to Aventurine.)
Aventurine reaches for his tinted shades in his apron pocket, and slips them on. He sighs as the brightness of the café ratchets down by a few, subtle notches – they’re useful, not just for his eyes, but also for hiding his feelings.
“Maybe you should figure out who is it around her who has been telling her that her eyes are, and I quote, ‘scary’. She has enough on her plate already, and she’s too young to develop an insecurity over something that she can’t control.” He pauses, and then under his breath, adds, “I would know, I guess.”
Topaz remains silent, and Aventurine lets out a sigh. Fortunately, he does not have to dwell in the awkward silence for too long. Clara is suddenly looking over to him, and he breaks out into a wide smile – jut for her.
“Mr ‘venturine!”
“Just Aventurine is fine, Miss Clara,” he teases as he sweeps forward to the table, patting her hair as she looks up at him eagerly, then back down at the notebook, as if telling him wordlessly to look. A part of him wants to turn back to Topaz and sneer at her, as if to say, ‘look, I got her to open up faster than you probably did, didn’t you? What does that say about you?’, but he doesn’t.
Instead, Aventurine peers over her shoulder to see what she has done – he is expecting a drawing or sketch, something to that extent.
What he is instead greeted with, is a page full of numbers and letters.
“…Veritas, that’s a math textbook used in college classes. Did you actually give a child university-level math to entertain herself?” Aventurine asks, scandalized.
“Mr V-veritas told me I got the problem right! R-right?”
Aventurine blinks. Across the table, Ratio nods, dark amber eyes smothering with a rare gentleness. “You did get it correct. Well done.”
Clara beams at Ratio, and then looks back up at Aventurine almost expectantly.
“…You did great, sweetheart.” He manages to say, eyes wide with surprise, and Clara’s smile widens – as if his and Ratio’s praise mean the entire world to her.
Oh. Aventurine wants to hug her so badly.
But also— …perhaps Ratio’s input is more than relevant for Clara than his own.
Behind Aventurine, Topaz makes a faint sound. “I… I think I need to make some calls…?”
Aventurine doesn’t bother to turn to look at her, because he is slightly annoyed with her. He will agree that yes, Topaz will definitely have her hands full with Clara.
With this discovery, Aventurine’s heart sinks as well. Clara’s intelligence may explain her apparent struggle with school, but that information will do little to help her. If anything, it may make her life harder than before.
A higher intelligence means more needs to be met. There are basic needs, of course, as well and social and emotional ones, but a child with high intelligence, in particular, has learning needs. And based on ‘his’ prior experience, the system doesn’t tend to be very kind to children with more needs.
(Not for a lack of effort. There are a lot of individuals in the system, and sometimes (often times), things fall through the cracks.)
Aeons.
He absentmindedly cards his fingers through Clara’s pale hair. Clara makes a soft sound – a happy one, as she drinks her milkshake and unconsciously presses her head into Aventurine’s hand like an affection-seeking kitten.
“I have some colleagues that I might be able to refer you to.” Ratio offers kindly to Topaz, but he is quickly distracted when Clara boldly tugs onto the doctor’s hand.
“I want to do another. Can I do another, please?”
“Of course.” Ratio flips to the next page, and nudges the book closer to her as she stares at the small font size. After a moment, he retrieves a pen from the table and carefully scribbles notes onto the page, and offers a patient and simplified explanation of the starting steps.
Clara lets out a sound of understanding within a minute or two, and Ratio goes silent to let her solve it on her own. His eyes flicker to meet Aventurine’s, and stays affixed onto his face.
They do not trade words, but Aventurine imagines they are both thinking the same thing: the odds might be against her.
Aventurine can only hope that luck will be on Clara’s side. She has Topaz, at least.
And perhaps she will have Aventurine and Ratio as well.
~~~
> (Twin) Stars <
“Aventurine, this is Caelus—” Jade gestures at the young man standing awkwardly next to her. “He’ll be training under you for the next few months. Caelus, you will be reporting directly to Aventurine until he deems you trained enough.”
“Uh, what does ‘trained enough’ entail?” The young man – Caelus – asks while picking at his apron straps. Jade clicks her tongue at the motion, and he instantly stops – like a very well-trained puppy.
“I’ll let Aventurine decide on that as well.” Jade turns back to shoot Aventurine a small half-smile. “I trust his judgement and supervisory abilities.”
Right. While some other individuals might preen from the indirect praise, Aventurine has worked with Jade (this and the other one) for long enough to know that it is always best to approach these situations with some sense of wariness.
It is true that Aventurine is her oldest employee, and is thus the most equipped to train new hires, but… in this case, Jade either trusts him, or Jade is going to be busy enough with her Other Matters™ (that Aventurine is unaware of – Jade has many business ventures) that she will likely be unable to train Caelus directly herself. Or both.
This isn’t the first time Aventurine has had to show a newcoming trainee some of the ropes, but it is the first time that he is given the reins to train a newbie from scratch. And for Caelus to report directly to him?
When Jade had told Aventurine that she was giving him a pay rise, Aventurine hadn’t thought that it was because she was tacking on management duties onto his job description. Once again, this isn’t his first rodeo when it comes to managerial tasks, technically. (For the café, that is., he should clarify.) He has already been handling some of them for a while now, although things like the new hires have always been handled by Jade herself.
Perhaps Topaz’s departure from the café has prompted Jade to change up some things in the café’s management. They do have part-timers that occasionally work in the café a few times a week, usually college students who are looking to make some cash, but this is different. According to Jade, Caelus does intend to stick around for a longer period of time. Aventurine assumes she means that he will be replacing Topaz.
All in all, this should be a good thing for Aventurine. A pay rise, technically a promotion – and wow, it certainly has been a long time since Aventurine has had any subordinates directly working under him…
Aventurine isn’t sure if he likes it. Or this is a good idea, technically. He had a hand with training Topaz, but she had been under Jade, the same as Aventurine.
“Just to clarify – but what about the days that I can’t work? Because of, y’know,” Aventurine gestures at his shades, already perched on his nose despite the early hour. He has started wearing them more frequently nowadays, mostly on Ratio’s insistence that prevention is better than treatment. Mind you, he isn’t asking because he intends to take many days off, and Jade should know this by now – but it is not news to either of them that his sight can occasionally kick up a fuss in the most inopportune of times.
Before, Aventurine would still attempt to go to work in spite of the flareups of his vision problems. Now, however, he has a fussy and extremely observant doctor who would chew him out if Aventurine so tried to do so.
“The same as before – let me know and I’ll make the arrangements, of course. After all, I do not wish to earn the ire of the doctor.” Aventurine flushes at Jade’s serene response, and they both ignore Caelus’ confused look. “I suppose the first goal would be for you to train him sufficiently well enough to be able to hold on his own for a few hours, if need be.”
Reasonable enough. Aventurine nods. “Understood.”
“So formal.” She teases once more, “I’ll leave the two of you to your own devices, then. I have another engagement in two hours, but I’ll be back before the evening rush. Be good, yes?”
Caelus blinks, and hurriedly nods when he belatedly realizes that her last comment had been directed to him. He wears a struck expression, which is not uncommon to those who are new to Jade’s way of speaking to her employees – and Aventurine clear his throat to regain Caelus’ attention.
“Shall we start? The café will open in about half an hour – and we need to get ready.” Aventurine gestures to the half-prepared space with a tilt of his head. He had been working on preparing the café floor when Jade showed up with Caelus, but they’ve spent enough time doing the brief. “I’ll give you a proper run down of how to open the café on a different day, but Landau siblings will be coming down with the pastries in about fifteen minutes, and we should get the kitchen space ready by then.”
…
Caelus is a hard worker, all things considered – at least, when it comes to managing the till and handling the café floor. He still needs a fair bit of practice with making drinks, but Aventurine is more than happy to handle that in the meantime. Until Aventurine passes Caelus’ drink-making skills, he will not be allowing the newcomer to prepare drinks for the customers just yet.
Quality control, yes? And they can afford to do so, anyway.
(In addition, Aventurine finds Caelus’ violent reaction to coffee extremely entertaining. The boy does not like coffee-based drinks, even when it is highly diluted with milk.)
All in all, he is a good addition to the café staff. If this were the IPC, however, Aventurine doubts Caelus would flourish as easily. Caelus is kind, but is also occasionally a little awkward and odd – and Aventurine means this in the most affectionate way possible.
“I was travelling for a while,” Caelus says, when Aventurine asks what he has been doing up until now. Caelus is about the typical age of the college students Aventurine meets around here, but he opted to take online classes instead. “I have family based over here, but I got bored. I have a friend in a different city, we planned to meet up after high school graduation, and we ended up backpacking to places.”
“Did you see anything interesting while you were travelling?” Aventurine asks, curious – because he cannot fathom the idea of travelling in this world, not just yet, and Caelus proceeds to show him a folder of pictures in his phone gallery.
They are all of garbage cans, in all various shapes and colours. A quick check reveals that there are at least 400 other photos in the album, and there are apparently no repeats.
“I know it’s a little weird, but trash cans are really cool.”
“I… see.”
An image of a raccoon comes into Aventurine’s mind, which he brushes off. Aventurine likes being polite, so he offers, “I knew someone who really likes trash cans, so I don’t think it’s too unusual of an… interest?”
“I’m glad you think so!”
If he recalls correctly, wasn’t Stelle (infamously) known for her strange obsession with trash cans? And now that Aventurine thinks about it… Stelle and Caelus do look strikingly similar, don’t they?
The thought seems a little ludicrous – Stelle carried a Stellaron in her body, after all, and even that in itself was a danger to the cosmos. Two Stellaron-containing entities, though? Surely not—
“Y’know—” Aventurine starts hesitantly, “I just realized, you look like someone I’ve seen around here, actually. You said you had family living around here, right?”
Caelus blinks. “Yeah. My mum, and some of her co-workers, who are bit more like an extended family to me. Like, you know, the weird uncle and cousin with their pet cat.”
Aventurine relaxes a tiny bit. That doesn’t sound entirely too normal, but who is he to judge. Most important, there is no mention of the Stellaron, so—
“Oh.” Caelus’s voice drops to a flat tone. “…and the hellion, I guess.”
“The who?”
Before Caelus can answer, the bell by the café entrance rings, and door swings open quickly. An impatient sort of customer, Aventurine thinks initially as he straightens in place, but he relaxes when he notices the customers’ identities.
They are his usual visitors—
“YOU!”
Aventurine blinks as Stelle dramatically points in their direction. Him?
“Yes, it’s me.” Caelus replies flatly, then turns towards Aventurine with an almost apologetic, but largely exasperated expression. “This is the hellion in question. And you, don’t point at people in public, you little shit. It’s rude.”
...Sweet Aeons.
He feels a strange sense of… well neither déjà vu nor jamais vu, but definitely some type of whiplash / uncanny-valley-action as he sees Stelle step up to the counter. With her and Caelus so close to each other, Aventurine has to admit that the likeness is unmistakeable.
Aventurine is almost ashamed that it has taken him this long to put the two and two together. Their eyes, the colour of their hair, their face shapes – they are literally the splitting images of each other, if only in different gendered forms.
“Baby Caelus hasn’t been giving you too much trouble, has he?” It takes Aventurine a bit to realize that Stelle is talking to him. She subtly mimes a punching motion with her fists, and shoots him a wink. “Because if he is, I can take care of him for you.”
An image (well, memory) of Stelle holding a baseball menacingly flashes through the barista’s head; Aventurine feels his eyes twitch in place. “No violence will be necessary.” He manages to answer faintly.
Next to him, Caelus rolls his eyes, “and who are you calling ‘baby’, no one knows our birth order, much less you.”
“I have dibs on being the older twin, just ask mom.”
“And I’m ahead in college classes, so where does that put us?”
“You can’t fool me - Firefly probably helped you pass your science credits. Or you could have bribed Silver Wolf—”
Twin Stellarons in his café— Aventurine suddenly feels sick to his stomach at the thought. Had both of them existed before? Aventurine only ever recalls Stelle, and surely the IPC would have had intel if the Nameless were hiding a second Stellaron (i.e. Potential-Planetary-Disaster-Waiting-to-Happen) in the Astral Express. He wouldn’t have needed to hedge his bets on Acheron back in Penacony if that had been the case—
“How about we leave the sibling bicker for dinner tonight rather than in front of Aventurine?” Dan Heng suddenly steps in between the two siblings (twins?), nodding apologetically to Aventurine as he does so. Behind Stelle, March 7th is non-surreptitiously attempting to drag Stelle a few inches backwards, and Aventurine has the vaguest sense that they may have just avoided some type of physical fight. “Caelus, it’s good to see you back in town.”
“Likewise. Thanks for taking care of the pipsqueak, I know she’s a handful.”
“I’ll show you a handful—”
“Please don’t antagonize her.” Dan Heng interrupts Stelle’s outraged snarl, and fairly tacks on a, “Same goes for you, Stelle.”
“Sorry for all the chaos, Aventurine.” March chirps out an apology. “We’ll just have our usuals, and we’ll get out of your way.”
Aventurine takes a few moments to process all of the new information. His mind feels like it requires some type of rebooting, but with four pairs of expectant eyes looking in his direction and with the potential for more customers to come in within the next few moments, Aventurine files his shock away and redirects his attention to the espresso machine.
“I’ll prepare the drinks, and Caelus will take your orders since he needs the practice.” After a moment of thought, he dryly adds, “please be nice to him,” and to my sanity, “and remember that I know what your usual orders are, so don’t try to trick him, Stelle.”
“You’re not fun, Aventurine.” Aventurine hears Stelle whine in return, only to be quickly hushed by her friends.
He shakes his head. This is his life now, apparently.
He is the not fun one.
…
“Oh, don’t give me that face. It’s not my fault you have the tastebuds of a five-year-old.” Stelle states waspishly at her twin afterwards when Caelus wrinkles his nose at her coffee order.
“I’m not judging your tastebuds; I’m only judging your caffeine addiction.”
“You’re not saying anything about Dan Heng’s drink—”
“Yeah, because I know he doesn’t follow up his drink with another can of Monster in an hour.”
“Stop, are you worried for me? My lil brother—”
“ Die.”
~~~
Notes:
What is this, you might ask? A sequel to Strangers in the Night? Indeed it is. I return bearing three new letters behind my name and a single doctorate closer to Ratio's eight, and also another like, two chapters for this fic already pre-written LMAO.
I'm also happy to inform you that the next two chapters will have angst and h/c :D We're off to a great start, aren't we? :D :D :D
There's a whole bunch of comments that I haven't responded to from the last chapter of SITN, so I shalll do that soon. Sometimes I still get comments coming into my mail box even though I finished that story months ago and it makes me really, REALLY happy to see that you're all still enjoying it ;w; Thank you for all the support, and I hope you'll enjoy this collection of fillers/post-fic/background contents as well <3
-VemyPS, next chapter (or is it next-next chapter...?) spoilers can be found in here!. I occasionally post snippets of future chapters on my twitter acc (@ver_crepuscule).
Chapter 2: [2] / [Rain Pt. 1]
Notes:
Gentle reminder that <2> is the chronological continuation of events from <1>, while >Rain Pt. 1< is a separate event (which will evidently have multiple parts.
Don't ask me about the chronology of the filler bits - I'll, uh, work it out when I finish more fillers + more of the main story arc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
< 2 >
“You knew that Topaz was coming today,” Aventurine says to Ratio later, when he reaches the apartment after work. His voice comes out impressively even, but Aventurine feels… nothing (mostly) as he calmly toes off his shoes.
In the kitchen, Ratio appears unperturbed as he continues to stir whatever he was making for dinner. “Yes. Topaz explicitly requested my presence a week ago to get a preliminary opinion on Clara.”
A week ago. Aventurine mentally files that information.
“You could have told me, you know.”
Aventurine didn’t intend to sound angry or upset – however, some sort of emotion must have leaked into his tone, for Ratio sharply looks up at him, and frowns. “She requested the information be kept between us since Clara is a child.”
“I know that she’s a kid. I would still have appreciated the heads-up.”
It wasn’t as though he didn’t like meeting her, or didn’t like her, per se. Clara was an absolute sweetheart who appeared rather reluctant to leave when Topaz had told her that it was time to go. Aventurine’s heart went out to her the moment he saw the way her expression dropped.
(He had made it explicitly clear to her that she could always come back to the Star-Peace café whenever she wanted to. Obviously, Clara was still a little too young to be making trips outside in the city with adult supervision, but Aventurine knows how such typical ‘rules’ or ‘expectations’ tend to… slip for children like them her. It is safer this way – to establish a safe space to run to, to hide to.
Children with no (perceived) safe spaces can end up doing very dangerous things.)
“I assumed that you would have met her regardless, since you were working today – or that Topaz would have let you know.”
“Well, she didn’t.” He snaps.
Aventurine wants to pretend that he isn’t hurt that Ratio kept this from him. He also wants to pretend that a part of him feels betrayed that Ratio had been there for someone else besides him, and not tell him. In his eyes, Ratio had showed up out of his usual schedule and had brought Aventurine lunch, and then stayed, presumably for him –
…Except that Ratio hadn’t been there for him. Aventurine was just the side task.
…
To clarify – Aventurine isn’t jealous. Aventurine has never entertained the prospect of jealousy. After all, to be jealous, one has to believe that they are entitled to something that they presently do not have. This perhaps speaks volumes about Aventurine’s crippling lack of self-worth, but consider this as well – what is the point? How does being jealous change anything?
His family are already dead – in two worlds, no less.
His people (Avgins) are gone, and Aventurine doesn’t think he’ll be going ‘back’ anytime soon.
And— is he jealous of someone else having Ratio’s attention?
…no. That would imply that he believes himself to be entitled to the doctor’s attention.
Case in point, Aventurine isn’t jealous of Ratio’s attention on Clara. He isn’t jealous of Ratio’s choice to help Topaz when it was requested from him, because of course Ratio would agree to help, it is in his nature, and it’s the right thing to do –
So, it isn’t jealousy that he is (mostly) feeling.
…It’s hurt.
…
“You’re upset.” Ratio states, already having switched off the kitchen burner before Aventurine even notices.
Aventurine barely pays attention to how the doctor is currently wearing the apron he had gotten for Ratio a few weeks ago – it’s a simple light-blue thing with a one-point embroidery of a duckling.
His accurate observation unbalances Aventurine, and the blonde shuffles in place as he quickly drags up a hasty mask over his emotion. “I—I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” The correction isn’t even stern-sounding, but Aventurine’s face flushes anyway, from feeling caught. “I’m sure you understand that there is a need for discretion when there’s a child involved. It’s a professional responsibility that Topaz and I need to maintain—”
The anger (hurt) returns, and it returns red-hot and acrid-tasting in the back of his mouth.
Him and Topaz, yes. Aventurine is not in that list, because he isn’t qualified, because he doesn’t have a part in this, because he has nothing at stake here at all, apparently.
“Your professional responsibility takes precedence over my feelings, then? Or, perhaps you are saying that I’m not good enough for Clara?”
Now that earns him a shocked look. “I did not say that. Either of that.”
Aventurine scoffed. “You might as well have.”
“Aventurine, Topaz has Clara’s best interests in mind and was trying to protect her. She had no intentions of keeping Clara a secret from you—”
“This isn’t about Topaz.” If anything, Aventurine has already said his piece to her earlier in café. There are already unread messages in his phone from her which he is ignoring until he feels slightly more less bitter about the whole situation.
This is about you. I expected better from you.
“I get that she’s a scared child. I know, okay? I get why there’s a need for discretion, for privacy. I get it. But did it ever occur to either of you that I, maybe, remember what it’s like to be in her position? And I’m not asking to be let in on the ‘secret’. I’m asking for a heads-up the next time you decide to fob a traumatized child to me so that you can discuss about said child’s ‘social welfare’.”
He lets out a bitter-sounding chuckle, and flippantly waves into the air as if that is enough to dispel the heaviness that is suddenly surrounding them. “I’m all for that, alright? She’s a kid, she deserves to be protected and to be taken cared of, and yes, the two of you are in the best position to facilitate that. I’m just a ‘barista’, I get it.”
“But— neither of you can understand—"
(It’s him but it’s not him. A different Aventurine, who is brought to a small but bright lit room, and told to sit and wait for a little bit.
He is left alone.
He sits. He waits.
The walls of the room are covered in cartoon posters which he doesn’t process. They’re all smudges of colours in his vision.
His palm sweats, and he hears the wall clock ticking.
He is alone .)
“—of what it’s like—”
(“____ will take care of you, from now on, okay?”
He numbly nods, because that is all he can do. He cannot cry, he cannot weep – it will change nothing.
His parents are gone. His sister is gone.
He has no one left, and –
No one wants him. )
“—to be at her age and to feel so alone and frightened of the rest of the world.”
(In Sigonia , K ̶̝͌̀̋̌̌͘͝ a ̷͆̈͌̇ ̀ ̟͇̇̂͂ ̣k ̷̫̪̳͙̿̀̈́͠ a ̶̍͝ ̃ ̱͇̻̠͔̩̬̀̊̍̌ v ̵̊̐̿̓̍̈͝ ̉ ͍̳ a ̸̨̘͔̈́ s ̵͚̹̭͖̹̊͑͌ h ̸̧͐͌̔̎͘ a ̷̦͖̻̺̫̜̗̪̆̋̈͗͂ hides and waits for the rain to end.
Today is a very special day. Today, the Mother Goddess blesses them with rain.
Today, the Mother Goddess closes her eyes for them him.
Protect them, he prays.
Today is his birthday. )
He draws a hand to his chest, and smiles at the suddenly stricken-looking doctor. “Or perhaps, have you forgotten that I’m an orphan as well, Veritas? And not even once, if you think about it. I’ve been an orphan twice over—”
His primaries memories may be that of the ones from before, but that does not mean that Aventurine has been spared from the memories and emotions from this version of him – the unbranded Aventurine, whose body he has usurped, or been absorbed to. The jury is still out on that one, which is which.
Before one asks, being in the possession of two sets of memories is not a walk in the park. That’s for a different chapter.
Ratio visibly swallows, and Aventurine allows his eyes to drop to a half-lidded state.
“…I did not forget.”
That feels worse, somehow.
So, what? Did you presume the circumstances were simply different enough all together that it wouldn’t affect me in anyway?
The scathing question sits right at the tip of his tongue – and then it vanishes, taking with it all of whatever emotion Aventurine had to spare for the rest of the evening. Honestly, he hadn’t the energy for any sort of vindictiveness either. Aventurine simply wanted to make his point, and he did. And that was enough.
The empty smile melts from his face, and he drops his gaze to the floor, sighing. A tiny part of him feels embarrassed for that slight outburst, but again, he does not have the emotional energy to spare to feel remotely shamed. He begins to turn, “…I think, I should go back to my place this evening. I know you made dinner, but I’ll have to decline this evening, Veritas.”
From the corner of his eye, Aventurine spots Veritas startling at his words. He knows why.
Aventurine hasn’t been over there for more than a week now. He goes over sometimes, usually to fetch some books and clothes to move over from there to here, but he cannot even recall the last time he has slept in his own bed. It must have at least been three weeks ago.
It’s just so convenient, coming home to here rather than there. Aventurine’s apartment is a solid half an hour of a commute away from the café, while Ratio’s place is less than half of that time if Aventurine walked at a glacial pace. It’s not as if Ratio comes home every day either – some nights, the doctor has sleeps (or rather, does not sleep) at the hospital, but Aventurine doesn’t mind being on his own in Ratio’s place. It’s comforting in a way, regardless of Ratio’s presence.
This evening, however, the apartment feels suffocating.
Thank Aeons that Aventurine hasn’t gone around to sell his bed yet (not that it would matter much, to be fair. Aventurine can also just crash on the couch, or honestly, on the floor. It’s not like he hasn’t slept in worse conditions).
“Aventurine—” Ratio takes a step forward, and Aventurine pauses. “…It was not my intention to upset you. Or to go behind your back about this matter. Or to— to neglect your history. I apologize.”
To his credit, Ratio does appear very contrite.
“…Then I accept your apology, Doc.” Does he really, though? “Sorry for skipping out on dinner – and don’t worry your pretty head about me not eating, eh? I’ll make sure to grab something on my way ba—”
He pauses as a hand captures his wrist in a firm, but not painful grip. Aventurine’s hands are cold from having been outside in the rainy weather – comparatively, Ratio’s hand is hot as the doctor tries to weave his fingers between Aventurine’s thinner ones.
He clenches his fist in response.
“Aventurine.” Ratio says, sounding unconvinced. “Perhaps, we should talk about this.”
“There is nothing to discuss, Veritas. I said I accepted your apology, didn’t I?”
Ratio doesn’t answer, but his fingers tighten just ever so slightly. Aventurine doesn’t need to turn around to feel the doctor’s gaze on him.
Fortunately, Ratio has always been a good sport about space; it doesn’t take too long for his grip to slacken enough for Aventurine to free himself, but there is an unmistakable sense of reluctance and regret in the air. Aventurine forces himself to smile as he turns to say goodbye, but he catches himself averting his own gaze from Ratio’s face at the very last moment, unable to meet him in the eye.
He has always been a coward when it came to matters of these, hasn’t he?
“Aventurine.”
Ratio murmurs once more, and Aventurine feels his smile crumble. He ducks his head.
There is no additional apology, for Veritas Ratio has never been one to apologize more than once for a single (mis)demeanour, but there is enough inflection in his addressal of Aventurine for the barista to know that if the doctor had been a weaker man, he may have been begging on his knees for Aventurine to stay.
Instead, he asks quietly, “will you let me know? When you’ve arrived home?”
“Sure.” Aventurine’s voice cracks slightly. “Have a lovely evening— enjoy your dinner and,” Aeons, he’s dragging this out for too long, isn’t he? “…I’ll talk to you later.”
~~~
> Rain | Pt. 1 <
It starts with rain -
it always does.
...
At first, Aventurine thinks that he has gotten over it.
The rain.
He remembers the rain from the previous summer, remembers how gross he thought the moisture and humidity were, but thankfully still bearable in the whole grand scheme of things.
This year, however, the rains are heavier, longer… and accompanied by more than just wind.
"Unusual weather we are having over here." Himeko comments idly as she accepts the takeaway cup of coffee from the counter. She must have noticed Aventurine’s distracted glance at the windows. "The thunderstorms aren’t usually this frequent, are they?”
“Yeah.” Aventurine has noticed. The café has noticed – they’ve been getting fewer dine-in customers, not unless it is already pouring outside.
It is one thing, if the storms only involved heavy rains, but another thing entirely when the skies are almost always growling and flashing every few or so minutes. Jade (and Aventurine) has resorted to keeping most of the café blinds down to reduce the frequency of flashing lights, but the numerous tall buildings that line the streets certainly do not help in preventing nearby lightning strikes.
He sighs. On weeks like these, he almost misses the climatically controlled weather of Pier Point.
He has taken to staying over at Ratio’s apartment more often – mostly at Ratio’s own behest, who cites safety concerns in Aventurine needing to commute longer to his own place with the poor weather. However, Aventurine too, is hesitant in being alone in his own apartment, with only the dark, rumbling skies as company.
He feels himself slipping.
And Aventurine is… afraid.
“Do you enjoy the rain?”
“No.” Aventurine answers quickly. If she is taken aback by his sudden, blunt honesty, Himeko does not let it show. Instead, her eyebrows raise briefly. Mustering a feeble smile, Aventurine lifts a single shoulder in a light shrug. “Honestly? I hate it.”
“It does dampen the mood, doesn’t it?” She hums. “I can’t quite get my curls to stay right when the weather is like this.”
“You look beautiful in any weather.” He offers, and Himeko lets out a soft melodic laugh that somehow warms Aventurine down to his chest. Then, she reaches out to gently cup Aventurine’s cheek in a single hand.
He startles slightly but does not flinch from the touch. Unlike Jade, who rarely wears her affection on her sleeve and does not let much emotion besides mild amusement leak into her words, Himeko’s gaze is warm, and her touch almost maternal as she strokes the outline of his cheekbone with her thumb.
“…into each life, some rain must fall.”
Aventurine blinks. “Is that from a book?”
“A poem, actually.” She lets go of his cheek. “I’m not that big of a reader, but I am surrounded by people who are. Sometimes they share with me these little tidbits, so today, I will share them with you.”
“Do you have another one? One that is perhaps, less depressing?” He asks wryly.
“Hmm… ‘the nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually.’”
Eventually.
Aventurine reaches for a pear and cheese Danish in their pastry counter, and wordlessly packs it into the greaseproof paper packet. Slowly, he hands it over to the engineering professor with a smile. “Is that also from a poem?”
Himeko accepts the treat with a gracious nod.
“A children’s book, actually.”
~~~
Aventurine remembers the rain, but he cannot remember the thunder.
Had there been thunder? On that fateful day – on that day of rain?
There might have been. Aventurine can no longer remember.
Perhaps, he has chosen to forget.
The sound of rain had, after all, drowned out in the sound of
murder
, of bodies falling to the ground, of wet squelches as feet stepped across the growing puddles of red that stained the Sigonian sands.
Had there been thunder, on the day he was sliced out of the Dreamscape?
He remembers red.
Red lightning.
…
It’s always red.
Every̵̡̰͍̪͎̮͙̽͐́͝ţ̴̹̪̠͉̋̓̄̽̂͛͘͠h̴̞͓̲̥̺̥̮̦͆͛̃į̸͇͚͇̠͉̔͗̉n̵̜̣̗̅g̸͙̻̪̅͗̇̋̔͑̿͒ ̸̢͚̠̋͑͗͐͑̊̄̍i̵̝̊͋̋ş̶͎͇͕̘͐̊̃̓͝ ̴̜͈̝̙̤͇̳̖̎̿̇͊̈́̀̇͠r̵̦͕͉̺̤̗̰͇̍̇͂̀͘͘͜e̵̮̖̜̭̞̹͌̇́̎͋͋͝d̷̜͉̪̠̟͉̖̹͕̿͂̀̏̈̆̈́ —
...
Rain is a gift from the Mother Goddess. She is calling to us, urging us to take up arms and fight for our future.
"—turine."
This rain accompanies us. This rain protects us. It is in this rain that we shall meet our honourable demise.
"Aventurine!"
A familiar set of dark gold eyes enter his vision and the call of his name pierces Aventurine’s reverie. The shades of rust and yellows (and red) fade from his vision and transform into the comforting dark brown of parquetry and deep indigo of Ratio’s shirt.
Aventurine blinks.
Mother Gaiathra will p
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Ratio is standing in front of him with his arms crossed, and he does not look very pleased.
Aventurine glances over at the clock nearby and is startled to find that it is certainly past his usual bedtime, especially when he needs to open the cafe the next day - or, well, in less than eight hours. He internally winces at the time. That would explain the doctor’s displeasure.
Lowering his pen into the gutter of his notebook, Aventurine hides his wince as he discreetly stretches his fingers. In front of him, the pages are covered with a scrawl that he does not even remember writing. It is no surprise that they ache – Aventurine must have been writing for hours now.
“Welcome home, Veritas. Is it that time already? I hadn’t noticed.” He greets, perhaps more absently than usual.
Ratio gives him an odd look. He looks more haggard than usual, and the shadows under his eyes much darker than usual. “It’s much later than ‘that’ time. There were several emergencies that I was caught up in, unfortunately. Why are you still awake?”
Right on cue, the skies crackle loudly with a nearby strike of lightning. The curtains in the living room are drawn, as they always tend to be, but the flashes of light slip through the gaps in the window regardless, illuminating the sharp contours of Ratio’s face, and darkening the shadows in others.
Aventurine startles in place. For a moment, he does not see Ratio. Instead, he sees a stranger, an enemy, looming above him, larger than him and in a position that can hurt him and –
His legs jerks and stiffens, and his back straightens with the old instinct to run—
The lighting in the room returns to its original dimly lit state. The digital fire continues to crackle at a muted volume in front of the pair. While his adrenaline had spiked quickly, it takes a longer time for Aventurine to relax – and Ratio notices.
“Aventurine.” His voice is deep with concern, and the rumbling baritone quickly soothes the ruffled metaphorical feathers that are Aventurine’s frayed nerves. “Is there something wrong?”
The sound of rain grows heavier.
There were days when Aventurine thinks…
They should have run.
“Not at all.” He lies, and smiles faintly at the way Ratio twitches, unconvinced. “I wasn’t keeping track of time.”
Ratio’s eyes track down onto the notebook on his lap, and Aventurine shuts it instinctively – not rudely, because Ratio would not choose to read or peek into its contents without Aventurine’s expressed consent, but because he does not want Ratio to realize how much Aventurine has written, and by extension, figure out how disturbed his thoughts have been this evening.
“Have you had dinner? Jade made me take home a bunch of leftovers from this restaurant place that she's been helping out on. Granted, it's a little on the spicier and heavier end given how late it is, but-"
Silence.
"Veritas?" Ratio is staring at him a bit too intensely. Aventurine fidgets, and tries again. "Perhaps you'd prefer to skip right to a bath and bed?"
"I showered at work before I came home." Confident fingers lightly grasp his chin and tips his head slightly upwards. "You're pale." Ratio comments as he thumbs the area below Aventurine's eyes. "...did you sleep sufficiently last night?"
No, he hadn't.
The bed had felt too empty and the room too big. It hadn't been so dark and quiet enough to set off his other fears (nothing like the Nihility that Aventurine is also not fond of), but the accompanying cacophony of thunder and rain had been more than enough to keep his mind running with old memories of before and before.
The home he lived in before he moved out was comfortable, but old. Everything that he was provided with, that he was surrounded with, carried marks of use, of possession: Toys and books with names scribbled on and scratched out. Worn, dog-eared pages of books with the tiniest of doodles, little hearts and stick-figured humans, sometimes a crudely drawn sun.
He wondered, if they could be considered marks of love. Aventurine himself never felt the inclination to leave his own mark on said objects, although he was sure the others did, and therefore, no one would tell him off if he so chose to do so, if it was done discreetly. But even then, there was never any temptation on his part.
There was no point in laying claim to what was and will never be his. This was not a permanent home. This was not for ‘forever’—
“The rain has finally stopped. Don’t you want to go outside and play with the others, Aventurine?”
“…okay.”
“It’s just the lighting of the room. You don’t need to worry about me.” Aventurine smiles wryly, and reaches out to copy Ratio’s action, fingering the dark shadows under the doctor’s eyes. “The same can be said for you.”
Ratio’s brows pinches together, and Aventurine can almost hear him say (think) something along the lines of, "I always worry about you," although Ratio will probably never say it out loud. However, Ratio leans towards his light touch, and something blossoms in Aventurine's chest: a bubble of fondness that grows and grows, effusing warmth throughout his body.
Hugging his notebook to his chest with one hand, Aventurine gently rubs at the furrowed skin between Ratio’s eyes. Before he can coax the doctor towards bed, Ratio beats him to the chase.
"It's late, and you have work tomorrow. Insufficient sleep is the easiest way to fall sick." Surprisingly, his admonishment comes off as gentle, as does his hushed prodding, “…you’ll tell me, if something is wrong?”
“It’s nothing concerning, I promise.” Aventurine offers as a comfort. When Ratio frowns and opens his mouth to protest, Aventurine offers a more informative explanation. “…Let’s just say that some memories have been louder than usual.”
He smiles out of habit, despite knowing that Ratio hates it when Aventurine forces himself to do so when he doesn’t want to, and lightly taps at his notebook. “But that’s why I have this, right?”
To be precise, the notebook is meant for him to keep track of his memories from before. There is only so much Aventurine is willing to share with Ratio, after all – and not because Ratio wouldn’t believe him, but because Aventurine is keenly aware that his experiences will likely give Ratio a headache if Aventurine is to explain everything, from head to toe, about his entire life story.
(It serves an alternate, but important purpose. But that will be addressed in a different time.)
Ratio's frown deepens, then smooths itself into a masked, but not cold, unreadability. Then, he nods, and offers his open palm to Aventurine, who takes it. "Let us go to bed."
Aventurine is surprised at how easily Ratio accepts his excuses. "Right. Bed." He repeats. “We should go to bed.”
"You have work tomorrow." Ratio reminds him gently, but there is a questioning undertone.
"I do." Aventurine confirms. "Thankfully, losing a little sleep has never hurt me."
Ratio makes a sound that is neither an agreement nor a disagreement and pulls Aventurine up with a single tug. As Aventurine stands, he also stumbles as a wave of lethargy hits him in the form of dizziness, but Ratio thankfully does not notice, likely mistaking his actions for some sort of careless, clumsy hug. Ratio loosely wraps his arms around Aventurine’s waist and clicks his tongue as the winds begin to howl beyond the windows.
The blood that accompanied the rain.
The pyres.
The torn pieces of clothing that K
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clutched to his chest as he watched--
"The storm is relentless, even in the evenings."
Aventurine stirs and folds himself more closely into Ratio's warmth.
"Yeah." He mumbles. "Yeah, it's getting a little annoying, isn't it?"
There’s another crack of thunder, and this time, he successfully manages to not physically startle at the sound, fortunately distracted by the doctor’s presence. He does not even register the way the windows and doors rattle in accompaniment like an ominous orchestra.
Somehow, Ratio is still able tell. The doctor lets out a sound akin to a low, rumbling growl (purr?), and cups the back of Aventurine’s head almost protectively. The action makes him feel extremely safe.
“…Is it the rain, or the thunder?”
5 points to the near-accurate guessing:
It's everything.
"...Yes?" Aventurine hesitantly answers and feels the way Ratio silently sighs. "It’s a little embarrassing, I know—” What a mess he is: he has trouble dealing with silence, and emptiness and dark; and now he is struggling with something as menial as the weather. “Turns out I’m more troublesome than anyone could imagine, huh—”
“Stop that ridiculous line of thinking.” There’s another flash, and Ratio’s hands cover his ears before the sound can crash through the entire apartment building. “It’s not an inconvenience to me.” He says, when the sounds fade.
“Well, it is to me.” It’s a great inconvenience, in fact. After a while, Aventurine cannot help but feel… irritated at his mind’s inability to do or react to anything in a particularly ‘normal’ fashion. He doesn’t like sinking into this dreaded cesspool of old memories and feelings.
“I have noise-cancelling headphones that you can use. Or ear plugs – that should cut off the worst of the sound, without completely stripping you of your hearing, if that is a concern.” Ratio offers helpfully. Aventurine isn’t sure if he should be offended at how there is little judgement whatsoever coming from the doctor. Ratio tries so hard; that thought soothes the worse of his own self-inflicted irritation, and Aventurine sighs.
“…I’ll try the ear plugs.”
Ratio makes an approving noise and proceeds to stroke his hair in a comforting manner. Then, more quietly, he offers, “and I’m here tonight.”
He is – and he has already improved most of Aventurine’s evening. “Hopefully, this dreadful weather will pass over soon.”
“I hope so too.”
…
Aventurine is shaken awake by Ratio the following morning, and immediately knows the day will be a bad one within minutes of waking up.
The earplugs had worked their magic over the night – Aventurine had slept. Not entirely peacefully or comfortably, for he is unused to having something stuffed into his ears, but he barely heard the rest of the storm and Ratio’s nearby warmth had been a reassuring presence throughout the evening.
This morning, however, his head and ears are already mildly aching as he sits up in bed and silences his phone. There is a familiar, odd sense of pressure behind his eyes that tell of an inevitably painful afternoon or late evening if he is not careful. Aventurine barely remembers to repress a sigh – the last thing he needs is for Ratio to catch on.
Leaning over, he greets the sleep-bleary Ratio with a chaste kiss to his cheek and coaxes the man back to sleep.
“I’ll see you in the evening,” he promises teasingly when Ratio’s arm finds its way around his waist before Aventurine manages to untangle himself from the blankets. When Ratio continues to trap him in place, Aventurine attempts at an appeal to the doctor’s logical side: “I can’t be late today; I need to open the café this morning, and Caelus will be waiting for me.”
“Jade runs the café, why doesn’t she open it?” comes the quiet, barely-there grumble, and Aventurine muffles affectionate laughter into Ratio’s dark hair. Finally, and while reluctantly pulling away, Ratio adds, “send me a message if you want me to pick you up in the evening.” If the weather is awful; Aventurine assumes that is what Ratio means.
Aventurine hopes there will be no need for it – outside, the weather has finally abated into a gentle drizzle, and when he arrives to the café, the sky appears to be ever-so-slightly-tinted-blue, which would be the first hint of colour in the past week, at least. Caelus comes in not a minute after him, shaking off raindrops in his hair like an overenthusiastic puppy, and Aventurine’s day begins with them mopping off the excess water from the front entrance.
By ‘them’, Aventurine really means Caelus. Aventurine, on the other hand, is busy preparing the beans for the day. Jade shows up a little later after their opening.
Unfortunately, the glimmer of hope that the weather will finally clear up does not ever come to fruition.
There is a pleasant rush of customers as soon as they open – mostly regulars who are willing to brave the meagre drizzle for their coffee after a week of rainstorms – but the stream of customers eventually patters out as the rain returns in sheets.
The rain is so loud.
With the rain, Aventurine’s initial headache blows into something debilitating, a painful pressure behind his eyes that wraps around his head and throbs as the clock ticks past sometime shortly after noon. It isn’t his first rodeo, working with a migraine or two, and the lack thereof customers (due to the rain) means that there isn’t much to be done in the first place, but—
“You were planning on practicing your drink-making this afternoon, weren’t you?” Jade’s voice cuts through the haze of pain. She sounds far away… or perhaps the migraine is messing with Aventurine’s hearing too.
He slowly lifts his heavy head from where he is pretending to be focused on their drink recipes. Aventurine acts as if he is seeing (he is actually very good at pretending that he is seeing, when he is usually not), but in reality, the centre of Aventurine’s vision is a blurry blob of colour and fuzzy particles, like an out-of-focused, broken monitor – similar to one of those in the Dreamscape.
(Aventurine does not enjoy that particular analogy for his vision.)
In front of him, Caelus and Jade are soft blurs of grey and pink.
“Well, I was going to with—” There is a pause. Aventurine has a feeling that they’re looking at him. “…Uh, but—”
“Why are you both talking as if I’m not here?” Aventurine complains and resists the urge to click his tongue in annoyance. He must be losing his touch now, if someone like Caelus can tell when he is like ‘this’. Aventurine suspects that Jade has long since figured out his tells, but Caelus has only worked here for a month.
Typically, Aventurine can still handle the drinks and/or register (if necessary) even on his ‘bad vision’ days. The many years of working in the café has given him more than enough practice (and muscle memory) to know which buttons are where on the register, and Aventurine was the one who organized the drink preparation section of the small kitchen.
For the most part, his visual auras have never taken away the full extent of his vision – only some parts of it, making the auras more of an inconvenience, but not bad enough to constitute as blindness.
(Ratio will severely rebuke him for attempting to handle hot liquids with only partial vision, but what the doctor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.)
…Aventurine admittedly handles those days with far less pain than what he is experiencing today. The pain usually comes after the visual problems, not with it. The pain in his head sparks with every little movement he makes, and he is grateful for the lack of customers.
“Take the rest of the day off, Aventurine.” Jade answers, almost flippantly, then turns towards Caelus without waiting for Aventurine’s token protest. “You will do it with me. Aventurine has been telling me that you’re doing alright, but I’d like to see your progress for myself. You have yet to gain a taste for coffee, haven’t you?”
“Uh, no.” Caelus sheepishly answers, and Aventurine lets out a soft snort. Somehow, Stelle can down an unhealthy amount of espresso shots, but not her twin to who works at a café – there is something ironic there.
“That’s alright. I’m willing to be your taste tester today.” Ah, Aventurine can almost feel Caelus’ trepidation now. How lovely.
He clears his throat. “Surely, you don’t plan to send me out in this weather, are you?”
“Of course not. Your doctor would be extremely displeased with me if I did—"
“He isn’t my doctor.”
“—Which is why I’ve already taken the liberty to call him here.” She finishes, almost smugly. “You’re welcome. Caelus, be a dear and grab his things for him, won’t you? I imagine Veritas will be here in a few minutes.”
Aventurine sputters. “A few— Wait, Caelus, I can grab my own things—"
The grey blob in his vision scampers off obediently. Aventurine crosses his arms and does his best to look slightly annoyed; he isn’t sure if he is successful, or if he simply looks more pained. “…You’re trying to earn his brownie points.”
“And you’re trying to avoid him.”
“That’s not true.” Aventurine doesn’t avoid Ratio anymore – not like before. In fact, Aventurine goes over (read: stays over) at Ratio’s apartment so often that his absence would immediately raise suspicion rather than not, and he is simply waiting for Ratio to ask him to cancel his apartment lease and move-in with the doctor permanently. At this point of time, it’s an inevitability.
What Aventurine may be attempting to avoid is telling Ratio that he may be struggling with the weather – at least in an emotional / mental sense (fortunately), rather than physical (his migraine might be saying otherwise).
“Is it now?” Jade says doubtfully. He huffs, then sighs, knowing that there is little point in trying to figure out her intentions.
“The joke is on you – Veritas doesn’t have a brownie point system.”
(Although he does have a point-point system. He has systems when it comes to Aventurine, unfortunately. In this case, Aventurine may or may not have lost some points today from having Jade tattle on him…
Aventurine internally scowls. Jade is definitely trying to get onto Ratio’s good books, and Aventurine is enabling her to do so.)
She hums, unconvinced.
“…And take it easy on the kid, will you? I almost feel bad for having to leave him alone with you.”
Jade lets out an amused chuckle. “Have you ever known me to be that ruthless?”
“Only to those who deserve it.” Aventurine answers honestly. Jade has never been overtly cruel to anyone, but Aventurine is familiar enough with her character to know that beneath the almost soft-veneer is a woman unafraid to step on those she deemed unworthy; and Jade has a very keen sense of character. That was both true before and, in this world – why else would Ratio be so wary of Jade, if otherwise?
Aventurine considers him particularly lucky (haha) that Jade took a shine to him not just once, but twice. (But again, that is for a different chapter.)
She doesn’t reply to that, but Aventurine senses that her silence is of a pleased nature, so he leaves it at that.
Notes:
The only reason why I can post this is because I have a backlog for this fic. I have not *touched* writing for the past 7 days because moving sucks and I wanted to get as much shit done before I take the coming week off to relax and chill and sleep etc.
ANYWAY, have a good day, and y'all should totally look up like, garden!verse on pixiv dictionary if you have the time, because florist!churine x botanist!ratio is -- oh that could be a really good setting for a steampunk AU, huh? <-- vemy's internal thoughts
Chapter 3: [Rain Pt. 2] / [3] / [All in a Name]
Notes:
Rain Pt. 1, Rain Pt. 2 and All in a Name are connected (in that order precisely).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
> Rain | Pt. 2 <
It’s a little unfair, how attractive Ratio looks even while holding an umbrella out in the pouring rain – or so, Aventurine thinks, since he can’t see anything very clearly at this moment. Judging from Caelus’ soft exclamation of surprise and muttered “holy shit, Stelle wasn’t lying when she said you were dating up”, Aventurine guesses that Ratio looks very good – which, again, is a shame, because he can’t see it.
(Aventurine forgets that Caelus has never formally met Ratio. Met him as a customer, yes – although in most cases, Aventurine has spared Caelus the misery of preparing the doctor’s drinks to its exact standards.
Ratio prefers it anyway, when Aventurine is the one to make his drink – and Aventurine is not ashamed to admit that he does derive a sense of smug satisfaction from knowing that particular fact.
As his… ‘whatever-they-specifically-are’, however? Not really – which is particularly strange, for his relationship with Ratio is perhaps the worst-kept secret between him and the café regulars, Ratio excluded. Aventurine assumes Caelus knows about them, because he knows that Stelle knows, and Stelle and March 7th put together are the worst gossips out there.
Apparently, his assumption is incorrect.)
“You didn’t know?” Aventurine asks, amused, and extends a hand in the direction of Ratio’s indigo-coloured blob. He knows better than to attempt to navigate the café floor while like this; that is not to say that Aventurine wouldn’t dare to with his current vision restrictions (because he has certainly done so many times before), but because he does not want to earn Ratio’s over-protective ire.
“Stelle doesn’t tell me anything, she’s a little shit like that.” Caelus grumbles to him lowly, and then in a brighter tone, whispers, “give me the deets the next time you come in?”
Both of the twins are gossips. Aventurine sighs.
“There are no ‘deets’ to speak of.” The grey blob appears to shrink. “Sorry to disappoint.” Then, when he feels a hand curl around his own, Aventurine casts his eyes in Ratio’s general direction, and half-jokingly says, “you know you didn’t need to pick me up.”
“Look me in the eye, and say that again to me.” Ratio states gruffly.
Aventurine pouts. That’s not fair, and Ratio knows it.
“…I could have walked. I know the way home.”
There is a short pause, possibly because a) there is no way Aventurine could have managed the way home while half-blind and in the pouring rain, regardless of how lucky he may or may not be, and/or b) Aventurine had just referred to Ratio’s place as ‘home’ in front of two other individuals.
“…Then walk.” His hand is gently tugged, and Aventurine takes his first few steps forward, trusting Ratio to guide him safely. “To the car, that is.”
Ratio’s hand leaves his as soon as they exit the café – but not for long. An umbrella is opened above them and the hand returns, this time smoothly wrapping around his shoulder and tugging Aventurine closer to press against Ratio’s form, and away from the rain.
“Migraine?”
The quiet question is nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain, which is infinitely louder compared to when they had been indoors. Aventurine cringes at the additional noise stimuli, which is the only confirmation Ratio needs.
It is only when they are both inside the car does Aventurine relax. He sinks into the seat with weary sigh, and mutters a soft thank you as Ratio turns the direction of the cold A/C air away from his face. The sky, as dreary and grey as it may be, is still too bright for Aventurine’s taste, and he raises his forearm to shield his eyes.
Cool metal taps against his open palm. “You left your shades at home.”
“…I knew they weren’t going to help.” Aventurine confesses wryly but closes his hands around the offered glasses anyway. “Its weight would have made it worse, probably.”
There’s a short pause, and Aventurine waits for Ratio to connect the dots in his head. When the doctor opens his mouth next, he has the courtesy to maintain a low volume for Aventurine’s sake, but the accusing undertone is unmistakeable. “You knew you’d develop a migraine this morning.”
“Mmhmm.”
“You did not tell me.”
Aventurine turns his head sideways towards Ratio’s direction, but does not bother to open his eyes; it would not help him see the doctor’s expression. “What could you have done, Veritas? Keep me home?”
It is probably the combination of pain and weather that makes his words sound sharper than he originally intended. Aventurine immediately regrets speaking as soon as he opens his mouth, and it doesn’t help that Ratio doesn’t deign him a reply.
The silence in the car grows thicker as the minutes ticks by and is palpably choking when the muted cacophony of rain finally goes quiet.
They’ve arrived, then.
Aventurine waits for the car to come to a stop before he quietly reasons, “…it wasn’t so bad in the morning. I figured if it got bad by the end of my shift, I’d call you to pick me up anyway.” Then, more softly, “…are you angry that I didn’t tell you?”
“…No.”
“So, you’re a little angry then.” He surmises lightly.
He hears an aggravated sigh, and nothing else. He opens a single eye to peek over at the man. Judging from the blur, Ratio is looking at him rather intensely – perhaps exasperatedly, and Aventurine shrinks.
“…How many points am I getting deducted?”
~~~
They end up curled on the couch.
To be specific, Ratio is stretched across the couch with his tablet in one hand, while Aventurine is the one who is semi-curled up on top of him, head pillowed against Ratio’s chest like a creature seeking warmth. The position isn’t the most practical – Aventurine has Ratio trapped in his current position, for there is no way for Aventurine to physically move even if he wants to.
…Then again, Ratio is physically strong enough to un-trap himself if he wanted to, so to speak. However, judging from the way Ratio has an arm slung over Aventurine’s lower back, the more accurate description of the situation is that Aventurine is the one being trapped in place.
That’s perfectly fine; Aventurine is perfectly comfortable in his spot, migraine otherwise.
Ratio had forced Aventurine’s migraine medication down his throat as soon as they got home (not literally, of course, but Aventurine certainly felt like he had been held at chalk-point as the glass of water and pills were deliberately and wordlessly set in his hand).
Aventurine had always questioned the efficacy of his migraine medication. They have never seemed as effective as he thought they should be, but after a revision of his prescriptions by Ratio – who groused at how outdated they were (and Aventurine is going out on a limb here and blaming his other-him for not keeping up with them, pot-kettle, hypocrite) – they are most certainly effective now.
Perhaps too effective, even.
They are very good at dulling the worst of the pain. In this respect, Aventurine does like them.
However, Aventurine also discovers that he hates how they dull everything else: his senses, his clarity, his thought processes and filters, and he isn’t sure how much of all of that is attributed to the extreme drowsiness that tends to overwhelm him.
The drowsiness is probably deliberate. Nothing really ‘fixes’ his migraines and visual auras except proper sleep, and sleep is a wondrous alternative to being awake with a splitting head.
The inability to think clearly, however, is less appealing. It’s not as if Ratio cares if he says something stupid or careless while medicated – Aeons knows that Aventurine cannot do worse than the first time he mistook Ratio’s guest bedroom for his ‘old’ place in Pier Point – but Aventurine does care a little.
…Well, more than a little.
It’s especially in moments like these when Aventurine knows that his thoughts memories have been loitering close to the surface of his mind as of late. Aventurine is no longer hiding top-secret, he-may-be-branded-insane-if-it-ever-slips sort of information from Ratio anymore, and yes, Ratio is sufficiently in the loop enough to not bat an eye if Aventurine mumbles something like, Qlipoth save us, or just kill me now, I guess—
But habits are habits, and Aventurine doesn’t like it when such information spills forth from him involuntarily due to a medicated lapse in his cognitive filters.
Frankly speaking, it’s bad enough that it spills into his dreams. He does not want to drag that into reality, if he can help it.
Outside, the rain has evened out into a moderate patter, but there is an unmistakable rumbling in the far-off distance. He doesn’t know what sort of combination that may create: with his memories running so close to the surface of his mind, with his filters loosened, and him, in this particular environment.
He is in safe company. Safe in all matters of speaking.
Warm. Taken care of. Secure.
Things he didn’t have from before. Shut-up Shut up—
Aventurine must have made a little sound. The next thing he knows, Ratio’s hand is pressing against the nape of his neck, keeping a steady pressure that quells the there-yet-not-there pulsing of his head.
“Stop fighting sleep, Aventurine.” Ratio reproaches in a low voice. “The medication is meant to help you rest – let it do what it’s supposed to.”
“…don’t want t’,” the words come out more slurred than he expects.
“It’s not optional.” The same hand slides up to card his hair – gently. “You’re barely coherent.”
“’m too.” Aventurine protests. He shuffles in place, then readjusts his position to allow his head to tuck into the dark crevice between Ratio’s broad shoulder and neck. “’leep’s overrated—”
“I assure you, it is not.”
“Then dreams are overrated.” He grumbles. “Like— like that stupid, stupid dreamscape—”
“I doubt you would dream, not as medicated as you are right now.”
Aventurine smiles against the warm skin, and manages a teasing, “admitting to druggin’ m’?”
“Are you admitting that you’ve been avoiding sleep the past few days, then?”
He drops his smile, and huffs against Ratio’s shoulder. Ratio’s arm eventually re-loops itself around his waist. “You said that your memories have been… ‘louder’ than usual,” the doctor pauses slightly at the borrowed phrasing. “I assume… that they may have been impairing your sleep. Is that what you are avoiding?”
Aventurine lets out a little sigh against Ratio’s neck. “Astounding logic, doctor. A thousand credits.”
The ‘credit(s)’ reference may be lost on the doctor, but he does not react to it besides the gentle brushing of Aventurine’s hair.
“…They’re just memories.” The words are meant to be comforting. Unfortunately, they are not.
“Exactly.” Aventurine forces himself to say. “That’s all that they are.” That’s all they ever will be.
And oh, how he hates that his voice wavers still, his words coated in a thick layer of, what, bitterness? Or perhaps, grief. He blinks away the sudden feeling of heat building behind his eyes, one that has nothing to do with his migraine, and—
“And it has to do with the rain?” Ratio prompts quietly.
He is using that particular tone – an indecipherable, forced-neutral tone that is effective in masking his reaction whenever they are discussing topics revolving around Aventurine’s past. Truth be told, Aventurine dislikes the tone, especially when he is as physically incapacitated as he currently is. He does not like it when he cannot guess what Ratio is thinking and feeling.
For all he knows, the doctor could be diagnosing him as ‘mad’ in his own mind, and Aventurine wouldn’t be able to tell regardless.
(Ratio isn’t. The doctor has tried too many times to abolish Aventurine of his apparent ‘self-deprecating’ mindset – if that’s what you can even call it, really.)
(The point is, once upon a time, he may have gambled on that chance of uncertainty anyway. All or nothing. But Aventurine doesn’t ever want to lose this, to lose Ratio.)
But Ratio is currently offering him a lifeline (or alternatively, a rope to hang himself with?), a conversation topic rather than sleep, and Aventurine would be foolish not to take it.
“’s hard to explain. The rain,” He mumbles, “brings… painful memories.”
Ratio knows a decent amount about Aventurine – but the memories associated with rain comes from a time before ‘Aventurine’.
Talking about his time in the IPC is easy: the training, the promotions, his job, and the many planets he had visited, the different species he met— sharing all of that with Ratio was effortless. Retelling the life of Aventurine: One of the Ten Stonehearts’ life is so, so very easy.
And Aventurine had gone further beyond that, in subsequent mornings and evenings. He explained the existence of Aeons, debated their maybe-equivalents of ‘gods and deities’ in this world, and shared what it meant to be a Pathstrider. Ratio had taken in all of that information barely a sceptical gaze and primarily thoughtful looks –
But the short-lived life of Kakavasha is something entirely different.
“The rain has been endless for the past week.” Ratio murmurs, sounding pained, and Aventurine lifts his heavy head to squint at Ratio’s expression. Fingers lightly brush underneath his eyes. “You could have told me, if you were having trouble with sleep too. I could have prescribed you a sleeping aid, at least.”
Aventurine blinks at him. “…You’re my sleeping aid.” He answers Ratio simply.
After all, moments like these are Aventurine’s favourites. There’s something deeply comforting about Ratio’s presence, the same way Ratio claims Aventurine’s presence to be… ‘calming’ (quoting the doctor directly here).
Now that he thinks about it, Aventurine misses this. It’s not a common occurrence for their day-offs to coincide like this, not when Ratio works irregular hours, and Aventurine works between five-and-a-half days per week. Technically, today isn’t even one of Aventurine’s ‘day-offs’. The poorer weather condition means that Ratio gets caught in multiple emergencies in a week, so they only really catch each other here and there.
If they had seen each other more frequently… Ratio would have likely caught on to this earlier.
That may explain the expression that he is wearing right now. “I haven’t been home for at least half of the evenings this past week, Aventurine.”
“…So?”
He hears Ratio suck in an exasperated breath. “You fool,” comes the expected mutter, but Aventurine can clearly pick out the concern that laces the quiet rebuke. The doctor says nothing else, but –
Aventurine’s eyes flutter close as Ratio cradles his head and tenderly traces the shadows beneath his eyes. There is an underlying plea in the way he is touching him – if begging could be transmitted by touch in the first place – and if Aventurine could see, he imagines Ratio would be looking very intently at his face, his handsome visage marred with a deep frown of concern. Ratio doesn’t conceal his emotions very often, most especially when it’s just the two of them.
Warm air fans against the top of his head as Ratio presses his mouth to the centre of his forehead and holds his lips there for several seconds. Aventurine can feel it when the doctor loses some tension, relaxing under him.
“Tell me next time. There is only so much that I can do to alleviate your burden – at the bare minimum, at least…” Despite the tenderness, frustration clearly leaks into his voice, and Aventurine shuffles, already feeling guilty.
“’m sorry, Veritas.”
“Do not apologize. Not for things that you can’t help.” Ratio admonishes immediately, ever so understanding, and—
…And Aventurine is so very, very weak against this.
“…D’ you want to read it? Read… about it?” He mumbles. Without waiting for an answer, Aventurine braces his palm against Ratio’s chest, and slowly pushes himself up.
His head throbs dully, but he doesn’t fall over, so Aventurine considers it a win. He can almost hear the protest that is surely sitting on the tip of Ratio’s tongue, but the doctor seems to be in a more indulging mood, and allows Aventurine to do so with only a steadying hand at his waist.
“What is this ‘It’ you are referring to?”
“Journal.” Aventurine squints in the direction of the table in front of them – he remembers leaving it there last evening, and Ratio rarely ever moves book-shaped objects from wherever they lie in the house – not unless it is his own readings. “Is it there?”
There is a moment of hesitation, before the requested journal is placed onto his open palm. Aventurine begins flipping it without even waiting for Ratio’s answer. His fingertips light scours the open pages in search for the first expanse of untouched paper. His eyes, while half-open, cannot see, but Aventurine can still feel the raise and dips that has been left behind by a pen on the soft, expensive paper.
It takes him no time to find the last written page, and all it takes is for Aventurine to count backwards, turning back to where he knows (or perhaps the end?) of his Kakavasha’s story. It is the freshest entry in the journal, after all; he wrote it last night.
He palms the cool pages and breathes.
“…Here.”
Surprisingly, there is only a wash of relief as Ratio accepts the journal into his own hand, albeit cautiously.
“Are you sure you want me to read it?”
“You’re the one who gave the journal to me.” He points out. It’s a moot point, and Ratio expresses his displeasure with a frown.
“That does not give me carte blanche to read your personal accounts. I will not read them if you’re not comfortable with me reading them.”
“Trust me, …’s easier than explaining. I think, if you knew— it’ll be easier.” For them both. It’s a little anxiety-inducing, the thought of Ratio being privy to what came before the ‘before’, but a large portion of his nerves are currently dulled out with his medically-induced drowsiness, and the remaining anxiety soothed by the realization that it couldn’t hurt any more or less for this information to be privy to Ratio as well.
Frankly speaking, Aventurine will never be comfortable with anyone reading them. He, himself, is not comfortable thinking about them, and yet they plague him still.
And it has been much easier, all things considered, when this Ratio found out about before.
“It’ll be easier.” He repeats to himself – as if it is a reassurance, and in a way, it is. Aventurine licks his suddenly dry lips and taps at Ratio’s shoulder again to request that they return to their original cuddling position. “You can read it. Just, not all?” Ratio is too chivalrous to snoop anyway.
“…Just from here to where it ends?”
Aventurine nods, and re-tucks himself into Ratio’s warm side. The doctor wordlessly lets him do so, retagging the light blanket over his form as soon as Aventurine appears comfortable.
He lets out a soft hum, and thoughtlessly pats at the soft-yet-firm surface that is Ratio’s chest. “I think… the rest of my entries might give you a heart attack if you read it.”
That’s an overexaggeration, of course. Aventurine’s life hasn’t been that rife with conflict and danger – just the first two decades (which is arguably, more than enough). His entries are also not written in chronological order; Aventurine writes them as he remembers them, and so the journal is, to date, mostly a mishmash of non-sequential events. Some assignments he did pre-Stoneheart era, some post-Stoneheart, and his tattered recollections of the Penacony mission, as well as whatever random facts and trivia he could recall from his daily life in Pier Point—
Aventurine tries to date them to the best of his abilities, but he discovers that there are lapses in his memories. Some of his memories are clearer than others, but some have also begun to fade, the once sharp-details blurring into something soft and just-barely, vaguely comprehensible. Overlayed with the memories of the other him, Aventurine sometimes wonder (fear) that he will start confusing them for dreams (or rather, nightmares).
He tries, at least, not to dwell on that particular possibility. For the meantime, his journal fulfils its purpose. It’s an exercise of memory, rather than a concise summary of events.
Ratio scoffs. “Reading has never done such a thing.”
“I,” Aventurine sluggishly rubs his cheek against Ratio’s warm body. “…won’t take that risk on you.”
A pause, then, “you are sure?”
He hums, then nods groggily. His head feels so heavy now. “Jus’ don’t read it while I’m awake? I— I don’t want to be awake, while you read it—”
“Only when you’re asleep.” Comes the easy agreement. Aventurine hears some brief rustling – of Ratio setting the journal aside, while somehow keeping the pages marked, probably – and Ratio’s fingers reweave themselves into Aventurine’s hair, lulling him even further into the sleep.
Aventurine can barely hear the rain now.
Everything is soft. There is no sensation of wet sand beneath his feet, of rough dust stuck to his skin and clothes. There are no harsh winds batting at his hair, and… and he can feel the slow rise and fall of Ratio’s chest as the doctor breathes beneath him, warm and solid and there—
He missed this. He missed Ratio.
“’m tired, Veritas,” he whispers, as if it is a confession, although he is sure that Ratio knows.
“Go to sleep,” comes the instruction, gruff-sounding, but not unkind. Something is pulled over his shoulders and—
~~~
< 3 >
“I’m sorry.”
Aventurine blinks, his finger still mid-hover over the touch screen of the register. “That was not what I was expecting when I came into work this morning.” He hastily gestures for Topaz to raise her head from the sudden half-bow, before awkwardly asking, “uh…what exactly are you apologizing for?”
He peeks over her shoulder to make sure there isn’t a waiting line. Thankfully, there isn’t one.
“About—Clara, of course.” Aventurine feels his awkward smile slip into a frown. “Well, not her, not about her – but like, as in, not telling you ahead of time. For excluding you. And ignoring your feelings. For being an inconsiderate friend.”
“…That’s a far longer list than what I had been expecting.”
Topaz levels him a telling look. “You probably weren’t expecting an apology at all.”
He grimaces. “Well— you didn’t need to apologize in the first place for all of that. You were protecting the privacy of a child, et cetera. Professional responsibility—” Aventurine internally cringes when he realizes that he is, in fact, citing Ratio. “…anyway, don’t worry about it. Are you having your usual?”
Rather than appear relieved at his quick acceptance and offer of change-in-topic, Topaz’s expression grows even more serious. Aventurine recognizes that look – he has seen it before, in the multiple times they have worked together on projects before and after. Topaz isn’t pleased at all with his dismissal of the topic.
How unfortunate for her, then.
“The strawberry—”
Aventurine cuts her off with a casual nod. “Strawberry milkshake with almond milk. For here or to-go?”
She returns his easy expression with a hard stare. It lasts about half a minute before she cracks. “…To go.”
“Gotcha.”
Having known Topaz for as long as he has, Aventurine knows that she isn’t one to give up too easily. As soon as he hands over her drink, she tries again. “Aventurine, please. I know you’re angry – I should have asked you first.”
“Oh? And you’re suddenly an empath, are you?” He muses. Her mouth closes, and Aventurine nods to himself. “I didn’t think so either. It’s water under the bridge, ‘paz. I told you, I’m over it.” He slides her a cookie, as if to say, relax. She accepts it after only a brief moment of hesitation, and Aventurine feels himself relax.
He turns around to pour himself a glass of water.
“If you are, then why haven’t you looked at my messages, or spoken with Veritas yet?”
His fingers spasm around the glass,
. “…I’ve been busy this week. Caelus is out sick,” – probably caught something from digging around the trash, to be honest, “and my eyes have been kicking up a fuss in the evenings. You know I rarely look at my phone when that happens. …What does any of this has to do with my relationship with Veritas, anyway?”
“I messaged him yesterday. He said he hasn’t spoken to you in a week.”
“Well, he hasn’t shown up in the café in the past week either.” Aventurine pauses when he realizes that he probably sounds more snappish than usual. He forces himself to relax and carelessly shrugs. “I’m busy, and he’s probably busy too, I imagine. It is that time of the year.”
“Wait.” Topaz’s eyes are wide with shock as she stutters, “I-I thought you lived with him.”
“I stay over at his place sometimes, yes,” (or well, most of the time, Aventurine mentally corrects,) “but I still have my old apartment too. I don’t exactly want to bother him too much, anyway.”
For whatever inexplicable reason, Topaz looks devastated, and her voice is soft but strained as she says, “I don’t think you could ever be a bother to him, Aventurine.”
Aventurine shrugs.
Across from him, Topaz appears to be undergoing some form of internal battle as she struggles for words – or perhaps, the appropriate, less painful conversation topic to address. In the meantime, Aventurine averts his attention to wiping the kitchen counter, and only looks up when he hears her sigh.
“…Anyway, I wanted to ask if you were comfortable with meeting Clara again.”
“Excuse me?”
“She likes you. And Ratio too, for the matter. I met her earlier this week, and she asked if I could take her here again sometime. I presume it’s to meet you.”
“Isn’t her guardian supposed to have a final say on that?”
“She’s not talking to them.” Aventurine raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and Topaz backtracks, “she’s not talking to them… much. She talks to me, she somewhat talks in school ,and she apparently likes to talk to you and Ratio, and also about the two of you, but then she goes back home—”
She shrugs helplessly. “It’s a slow work in progress. I don’t want to tell her no, because Clara has never asked for anything until now, but if you can’t for whatever reason, that’s okay too.”
“It’ll be here, I presume?”
Topaz nods sharply. After some thought, Aventurine mimics the nod, albeit with more hesitation. “If the meetings are at the café, I can’t sit with her for too long since I’ll be on the job. There’s only so much leeway that Jade is willing to give me.”
“Of course. I’d be here, anyway, but also—”
“I assume you’ll also want to arrange the visit for whenever Veritas is around. You’ll have to ask him when his schedule is freed up, since I’m almost always here.” Aventurine tacks on more blandly at the end. If Aventurine stresses on the you (and implied, not me) part, he’d claim that one is merely hearing things.
Topaz’s mouth closes sharply with an audible click. “…Right. Thank you.” A pause. “And Aventurine? I—”
Aventurine shakes his head, already feeling tired. “Stop apologizing, ‘paz. It’s not worth it.”
To her credit, she doesn’t apologize again, even though she looks like she really wants to. “Will you talk to him again? I didn’t mean to make things rough between you both.”
“…I didn’t stop talking to him, technically.” Aventurine mumbles sullenly. Or perhaps he did – does it count as not talking when Ratio doesn’t send him messages either? “In any case, it’s not your fault that he didn’t think that far ahead.” So much for being a certified genius.
He could have sworn that navigating social relationships was a far easier task long ago; but perhaps that had more to do with the fact that Aventurine had no social relationships to speak of. At least, not one that he held much value to, for that matter.
Alas, things are much different in this world.
As Topaz’s expression remains downtrodden and sad, Aventurine feels his resolve weaken. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll talk to him, or something. Soon.”
…
The thing is, when Aventurine said to Topaz ‘soon’, he did not actually mean it in a literal way.
‘Soon’ in Aventurine’s book ranges from the next-day to, well, not never, but eventually.
Therefore, while Aventurine has mentally resolved himself into reestablishing some type of contact with the doctor, he is emotionally anything but ready to meet Ratio again. His stomach churns every instance he thinks about messaging the man. The truth is, Aventurine has opened and closed the same messaging app multiple times over the past few days, thinking, this would be day I message Veritas, but his courage fails him every time as anxiety takes over his greater senses.
It’s a poor showing from someone who used to live by the (not-so-) great adage of all-or-nothing. Emotional attachment has made Aventurine weak like that.
What is he so afraid of, even? Of Ratio’s rejection?
Aventurine is the one who left Ratio’s place and hasn’t come back, so—
If nothing goes back to normal, will it be his fault?
…And that is why, when Aventurine sees Ratio waiting outside the door of his apartment after work, Aventurine’s first instinct is to hide.
Unfortunately, there is no good hiding spot in an apartment hallway. Within seconds of stepping out of the elevator, he is quickly pinned by Ratio’s gaze.
“Aventurine.” The doctor greets with a polite duck of his head. It’s been at least a week since they last saw each other, but Aventurine is glad to see that Ratio looks well-rested at least. The man must have had a day-off today.
“Veritas.” Aventurine shuffles in his spot, and nervously fingers his glasses. “You’re… here.” He lamely greets.
The doctor inclines his head slightly. “I am.”
“I thought you would have a night shift today.”
Neither of them comments on how Aventurine has Ratio’s work schedule sort-of memorized. It’s the same the other way round, although sudden changes in their work schedules are fairly common – even for Aventurine.
“There was a slight change in the rotations.” See? “I covered for a colleague the evening prior, so I have the next three evenings clear.”
Aventurine’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Having extended days-off are unsurprisingly rare on Ratio’s side. Aventurine mentally does the counts in his head. The adjustment in shifts would explain the doctor’s absence.
So… perhaps he wasn’t avoiding the café.
Ratio’s brow furrows in confusion. “Pardon?”
Aventurine stiffens, and quickly shakes his head. “Nothing. You didn’t hear that.”
He internally curses his lack of brain-to-mouth filter, but Aventurine is pretty tired today.
Aventurine spoke only truths in his excuses to Topaz this afternoon. He has been working a lot more opening-to-closing shifts than he’d particularly like to this week, but the circumstances (i.e. Caelus being sick) demanded it. While he had initially been grateful for the extended hours, they do eventually take their toll on him, and Aventurine honestly wants nothing more than to sit on a chair after having been standing for that long.
“You didn’t come back at all this week.”
Aventurine pauses.
“You don’t know that.” He says glibly. “I could have dropped by while you were working – you wouldn’t know that.”
When he looks up, Ratio is wearing a distinctly unimpressed expression that clearly says, ‘I do’, but Aventurine merely returns the doubtful look with one of his signature disarming smiles. “Anyway, what brings you over here, doc?”
There’s a short moment of silence as Ratio does nothing but stare at him (rather judgingly, Aventurine wants to add), but the doctor eventually sighs and raises his arm to reveal a nondescript-looking bag. He doesn’t offer for Aventurine to take it, nor does Aventurine reach out for it – instead, Ratio holds it aloft int the empty space between them, and says, “I brought you dinner.”
There is no, ‘may I come in?’ or ‘can we talk?’.
Aventurine looks between the bag and Ratio, and curiously asks, “did you make it?”
“I picked it up on my way here. It’s from that restaurant that we visited a month ago. The one with the extensive soup menu. I recall you enjoyed that meal greatly.”
Aventurine perks up at the mention of the restaurant. He hadn’t been feeling that hungry post-shift in the evenings, but he feels hungry now. That particular restaurant had a soup item in their menu that Aventurine fell in love with – and that in itself is an accomplishment, for Aventurine doesn’t have many favourites (if at all) when it comes to food.
However, that particular soup was hearty, full of vegetable chunks, and most importantly, spiced in a particular way that reminded Aventurine of traditional Sigonian (Avgin) cuisine.
(Now, one could consider soups to be a strange mainstay for a planet that was mostly covered in desert. Water was scarce – but in turn, the local vegetation, i.e. what they foraged and used for cooking, were typically succulents that contained high amounts of water.
Sigonia-IV, while mostly dry on the surface, was rich in aquifers that were unfortunately too deep to be accessed with technological help. Naturally, it was easy for large communities to settle and ‘advance’ once the IPC came along and helped established infrastructure for a stable water supply… among other things.
The climate and meteors, of course, were problems of their own, but again, if there was anything Aventurine learnt from working as a member of the Stonehearts, it is that many of these problems can be solved by simply throwing money at them.)
Aventurine had gone as far to mop up every remaining drop of the soup with the sourdough bread that had been served on the side, while Ratio had watched on fondly.
…
“Perhaps we should come here more often. You are rarely ever this enthusiastic when it comes to meals.” Ratio mused. His eyes were so warm – Aventurine remembered raising his eyes to look at Ratio, only to hurriedly look back down at his almost-finished meal, cheeks aflame.
“I always eat enthusiastically enough. Maybe I’m just hungry today.”
“Should we order another item?”
“You’re less funny than you think you are, Veritas Ratio. I can’t believe most people don’t believe that you possess a sense of humour.”
“You think I’m jesting?”
“Veritas!? Put your hand down— we don’t need the menu, sorry, thank you!”
…
What Ratio has neglected to point out is that he must have gone out of his way to get this food for Aventurine, for it had been at least a solid forty-five-minute drive from Ratio’s place the last time they went.
So, it’s a peace offering, then. Fair enough.
“I did enjoy the food over there…” Without changing the inflection of his voice, Aventurine tilts his head slightly, and curiously asks, “did Topaz put you up for this?”
“Of course not.” Comes the immediate clipped answer. Ratio sounds almost affronted that Aventurine would even suggest such a thing. “I already intended to visit you when your work week ended, but—”
The doctor suddenly stops mid-sentence. The faintest of pinks dust his cheeks, and Aventurine amusedly prods, “…but?”
“…I suppose but she did send me a message this afternoon, saying that you looked… ‘sad’.”
“Sad?”
“That was the adjective she used, yes.”
Aventurine hums. “Which is why you went so far as to get one of my favourite foods for me?”
Ratio nods curtly.
“Why, Veritas… I didn’t know that you cared so much.” He teases – completely joking of course, for he knows that Ratio does care a lot, even with or without their most recent ‘fight’ – and then laughs at the icy look Ratio shoots at him. “I’m kidding, Veritas. I appreciate the effort. I assume that there’s enough in there for two? Because that looks like it holds way too much for just lil ol’ me.”
The doctor clears his throat, appearing suddenly (more) awkward. “There’s enough for two people to share.”
Of course.
Well, Aventurine is not a cruel person, and Ratio technically didn’t need to go so far as to bring him dinner. This… grovelling gesture (because this is grovelling – Ratio’s version of it, at least – was never needed in the first place. The man had already apologized in the same evening after all, and Aventurine’s anger (bitterness) had long since cooled.
However, Aventurine recognizes that Ratio is trying… which means that he should too.
With a fond smile playing at the corners of his lips, Aventurine reaches into his pockets to retrieve his keys, and gestures to the door with a tip of his head.
“Well, come in, then. I don’t have much here, but I have tea if you’d like. Decaf, of course.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll get started on it, and you can set out the food in proper bowls and plates. It’ll beat eating them out of take-out containers.” He ushers the stiff-looking Ratio into his apartment with an exaggerated sweeping motion. “Also, I have to work another half-shift tomorrow morning— I know, Caelus is out sick with Norovirus and won’t be back til Monday – but can we go out after to get something for Clara? And have dinner at your place after, of course—”
~~~
> All in a Name <
(directly continues from Rain Pt. 2)
When Aventurine wakes, he finds himself no longer plastered over Ratio’s chest, nor on the couch where he had originally fallen asleep on. Instead, he finds himself tucked in bed, buried under a coverlet that smells distinctly of its owner.
He isn’t sure how long he has slept, nor does he have any recollection being moved in the first place, but his eyes feel gritty and almost stuck together, so Aventurine assumes the answer is a pretty long while.
(As medicated he may have been, Aventurine must admit that he has never slept as deeply as he does in this version of the world. Sometimes, he feels almost lazy, and very much spoiled as he is plied on more opportunities for rest and just general peace than he has ever been able to experience in his life. He is even occasionally paranoid at times that he might start gaining weight at this rate, especially with how insistent Ratio is with feeding him proper meals and what-not, as if he’s a cat.
Aventurine is not a cat, but he has also given up bringing up these points to Ratio. He has done so once before, mind you, claiming that Ratio is going to fatten him up and spoil him, and Ratio shot him a scathing look that screamed, ‘that’s the plan, you damned gambler barista.’)
Forcing his heavy body to move, Aventurine tosses his arm over to the other side of the bed— only to find it empty. The sheets are cool, suggest that its occupant had long since left their spot, or that they were never in said spot in the first place.
Rather than leave the cozy nest of a bed to look for Ratio, Aventurine drags the coverlet over his head and allows himself several moments to recollect his thoughts. It always takes him more time than necessary to piece his head back together again after a bad migraine plus a medicated sleep to boot, but as the memories return to him, Aventurine finds himself feeling less and less tempted to leave bed.
But he has to, of course – if only to see how much damage control he needs to do.
He takes a few controlled breaths before finally crawling his way out of bed, dragging a pillow with him as he does so.
The curtains in the living room are partially drawn open when Aventurine stumbles out from the short hallway, revealing the surprisingly clear crepuscular sky. Only a few grey clouds continue to linger against the orange to pink backdrop, although the windowpanes are streaked with drops of rain – the rain must have stopped recently.
Aventurine barely registers the restoration of his vision – sitting next to the drawn windows is Ratio, who, as per usual, looks devastatingly handsome against the evening light. The doctor doesn’t appear to register Aventurine’s presence in the room, and only stirs from his pensive thoughts when Aventurine creeps forward to gently lower his chin to rest on the broad shoulder.
“Hi.” He softly greets when Ratio does not immediately do so. When he drops his gaze onto Ratio’s lap, Aventurine is almost unsurprised to see his journal there. It’s closed now, but Aventurine recognizes the indigo-coloured ribbons of Ratio’s laurel branch-shaped bookmark sticking out of the pages, surely marking the pages that he was given permission to read from.
Aventurine absentmindedly rubs his cheek into Ratio’s shoulder. How many times has Ratio read the same entry by now? It must be at least twice, he muses silently.
A hand lands over on top of his head to tenderly brush his hair. “…How are you feeling?”
“Better?” Aventurine offers automatically, and as a side thought, shakes his head lightly. “Much better.” He confirms.
“Don’t do that.” Ratio scolds with little heat. He leans away momentarily, earning a disgruntled whine from Aventurine as his head-perch disappears, but soon after returns to cup Aventurine’s cheek. His thumb brushes just beneath Aventurine’s eyes. “Vision?”
“Better.” He answers obediently while nuzzling into Ratio’s warm palm. “Head is a bit foggy, but that’s normal.”
“Good.”
Then, in a single coordinated motion, Ratio places his journal onto the windowsill and drags Aventurine to sit onto his lap. The chair barely squeals at the added weight – Ratio wouldn’t get anything but sturdy furniture, of course – but an embarrassing sound may have escaped Aventurine from his surprise.
“You could just ask me to make myself comfortable next time, instead of dragging me on your lap.”
“One method is more efficient than the other.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Aventurine grumbles as he clutches the pillow onto his chest. “‘Efficiency’?”
Ratio rumbles an affirmative sound, but his actions are more reminiscent of something along the lines of ‘clingy’; his arms settle rather protectively around Aventurine’s waist, and it is Ratio’s turn to drop his chin onto Aventurine’s shoulder.
He exhales heavily. Aventurine doesn’t need eight doctorates to know the source of Ratio’s distractedness.
“…So, how would you rate it, dear Veritas? On a scale of one to ten point, of course.”
“We are not rating your past experiences like it is a piece of fictional writing.”
“You could still review the quality of writing though. Or my handwriting.” Aventurine thinks for a moment. “Is the adage true, by the way? That doctors have bad handwriting. And by doctors, I mean everyone else but you, obviously—”
Ratio squeezes his waist, as if in warning, and Aventurine falls silent. After a moment, Aventurine sighs, and weaves his fingers into the dark strands of hair. “You see, this is why I said reading all of the entries at once would be bad for your health.”
Finally, the doctor lifts his head. His heavy gaze almost seems to bore deeply into Aventurine’s soul before he asks in a very low and dangerous voice, “…pray tell, what else is there that is worse than witnessing the genocide of your own people?”
Aventurine internally winces.
Sure, it sounds bad when phrased like that, but— Aventurine hasn’t had the opportunity to write about his days as a slave yet. If he considers what has already been written, he imagines the recollection of his grand gambles as an IPC Stoneheart would be effective in further twisting Ratio’s anxieties.
Ah, Penacony—
“…do you really want me to answer that question?”
Even though the doctor still has his face hidden in Aventurine’s neck, Aventurine can tell that his expression has soured.
“All things considered, I would rank that… number three or four on the list of most significant,” mostly traumatizing, “events in my life. Prior to this world, at least. I vaguely recall warning you that I was unfixable—”
“And I recall telling you that there is nothing to fix about you.” Ratio interrupts sharply, looking up as he does so. After a moment of stunned silence, the doctor raises a hand to his temple, and murmurs, “I apologize. I’m…” he slowly lets out a breath of air, “…overwhelmed, in some matters of speaking.”
With a tilted head, Aventurine peers carefully at Ratio, then perhaps with some regret, glances at his journal.
The doctor catches his gaze, and immediately corrects, “I’m not overwhelmed with what you shared with me. On the contrary, I’m grateful that you trust me enough to share that part of your life with me.”
“But?”
“…I worry.”
Ah.
Aventurine sometimes forgets that Ratio’s overprotective tendencies is what got them in this particular position in the first place. This Ratio, that Ratio’s – who knows who had those feelings first. Still, that does make Aventurine feel a little guilty, but also fonder for the man.
“Well, the important thing is that I’m here, aren’t I?”
To sweeten his point, Aventurine deliberately presses himself against Ratio’s form, resting most of his weight onto the man. After a moment, Ratio relents; like a deck of cards that is clearly always going to be in Aventurine’s favour, Ratio folds into his touch.
Compared to Aventurine, Ratio is a solid, heavy mass of muscle and healthy exercise, diet and sleep. If they had been in bed, Aventurine would have simply toppled themselves sideways onto the mattress. On this chair, however, he makes a concerted effort to sit and stay up, bracing Ratio’s body against his and counterbalancing Ratio’s lean with his own.
Like this, they breathe. Together, in each other’s comfort and space.
It surprises Aventurine to discover how little this hurts. For Ratio to know.
By ‘know’, Aventurine is referring to the details of his past, that is, since this Ratio already knows some points, although not all. It’s a sadder funnier thought when he realizes that his past should be more unbelievable in this world compared to before, yet… the other Veritas Ratio hardly knew anything about him.
(About Kakavasha.)
One is tempted to wonder:
Would he have responded in a similar way?
Would he have wanted to hold Aventurine like this?
To hold Aventurine so protectively, to burn with worry and concern?
Aventurine wonders.
“Well, at least now if it’s raining and I’ve having a bad day, you’ll know why.” Aventurine offers as a consolation. “A part of me feels inclined to apologize—”
“Don’t.”
“—but I know you’d call me a fool if I did so.” He finishes without missing a beat and rubs at the corner of Ratio’s mouth. “Don’t scowl at me, Veritas. You’ll develop wrinkles, and it’ll mar your handsome face.”
“It is not unthinkable for your body to associate the weather with such intense, traumatic memories.”
“I know.” He does know. “I just wish it didn’t.”
“You will tell me if it does?”
“For what, exactly?” Aventurine teases. “So that you can take care of me?”
In retrospect, it was slightly careless of Aventurine to ask such inane questions when the answer is already so frightfully obvious.
“Yes.” Ratio answers solemnly, and Aventurine’s cheeks immediately flushes.
He raises the pillow between them to hide his face. “There you go again, Veritas, saying such things with a serious face.”
“I merely confirmed your question.”
“It was rhetorical.”
“Next time, state it as such, then.” Ratio is evidently enjoying this.
Despite his even tone, there is just the barest hint of amusement in the doctor’s voice, and Aventurine raises his head from behind the pillow just enough to shoot a poisonous look at the man – only for his forehead to be met with the soft caress of warm lips.
His eyes flutter shut instinctively.
While physical closeness (though not specifically, intimacy) is not a rarity between them (Aventurine is literally sitting on Ratio’s lap, that’s kind of telling, isn’t it?), such acts like… those – are still occasional, rather than commonplace. This is not a complaint from Aventurine’s part, of course. If he asks, Ratio will be more than willing to give.
But Aventurine is unaccustomed to asking. Or taking, for that matter.
Perhaps it is the fact that he has lost so much so quickly and violently that the concept of having, of possessing continues to be an elusive concept to him. Sigonia-IV has never been a resource-rich planet either. Until he joined the IPC and became a Stoneheart, Aventurine has only ever known poverty and loss.
Twice over, he has lost his parents and his sister.
Twice over, he has lost his home, and his people. Once, to the Katicans and the misdeeds of the Marketing Department, and once more – to his own plans and an unpredicted outcome.
And then there is, of course, the subject of his name.
“…Kakavasha.”
Aventurine stiffens, and in the same breath, forces himself to chuckle. “I haven’t heard anyone call me by that name in a long time. So much so that it doesn’t even feel like it’s my name anymore.”
Ratio pulls away enough to look at him curiously. “I know the name Aventurine was given to you, but I can always address you by your real name, if you prefer—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s not my name anymore. This Aventurine was born with this name, not that one.”
“But it’s your name. A name that was bestowed onto you by your family.”
“By my people.” Aventurine corrects absentmindedly, turning away to stare at the darkened skies. There are no stars, of course – not in a city like this, with its moderate levels of light pollution – and Aventurine almost, almost starts to long to see an aurora. “But they do not exist in this world, so it doesn’t matter.”
It is also a name that he lost before he even earned the name ‘Aventurine’. Perhaps that is what makes Aventurine more reluctant to reclaim it, knowing that it has never simply been a matter of his Stoneheart title replacing his original name. After Kakavasha, there was [Slave] ‘No. 35’, and then there was ‘Aventurine’.
There were more names and titles in between that. Derogatory slurs – ‘dirty, thieving Sigonian rats’ – and nameless ranks that began with a ‘PXX’ until his rank was high enough to be recognized… but Ratio doesn’t know all of that.
He will, eventually. Just not yet.
He half-expects Ratio to put up a bigger fight about this, but to his genuine surprise, Ratio merely leans forward to hug him once more. Ratio is neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Aventurine, which leads him to suspect that the conversation topic will be put off for a different time.
“…If the day ever comes, when you wish to reclaim that name – you need only to tell me.”
Aventurine sucks in a sharp breath. He isn’t expecting kindness, and it doesn’t feel like a fair fight (it isn’t even a fight in the first place) if Aventurine is immediately disarmed by patience and kindness. When he turns to cast Ratio a look of betrayal, the doctor is already looking at him so knowingly.
Kakavasha has only ever known poverty and loss.
“You’re a terrible man, Veritas.” He breathes, but his fingers reach up to clutch onto Ratio’s shirt. The pillow falls into the wayside as Aventurine searches for Ratio’s empty palm with his free hand. He swallows thickly as Ratio’s fist naturally opens to his searching touch.
Their palms touch.
But Aventurine is admittedly… a very greedy creature.
“But… will you say it again?”
Ratio straightens in his seat. “Will you teach me, more about your home… planet?”
Aventurine nods without thinking too heavily upon the request.
“Then I’ll say it as many times as you’d like me to… Kakavasha.”
…
“Once more.” He says later when they are about to go to bed, his eyes half-lidded as he is half-tucked into Ratio’s side.
Let me hear it once more: the sound of his old name, spoken with such immaculate care and affection.
“…Kakavasha.”
He remembers his sister, who would also call him by his name just as sweetly.
“Again, please.”
“Kakavasha—go to sleep.”
~~~
Notes:
Hewwo: I offer hugs and a new chapter today for those who need it.
Oh god it's been a month. Hi. It turns out that moving across countries + impromptu job interview really takes a lot out of one's writing sails, but let's say thank god I finally got this chapter done. I also like, fell asleep twice trying to edit this, so I'm sorry if there are mistakes. (I also got the job, btw.)
I've rewrote so much of this in the past few weeks. It's kinda wild. I might finally do a chapter where it's just all random timeskipped events because it might be easier to write than chronology, but FIRST, I'll like to properly devote my attention to my other wips (just one of them!), so this won't get a new chapter until *that* gets a new chapter. o7 thank you for your understanding.
In the meantime, have you read the omegaverse ratiorine coffeeshop!au that I started over at my poipiku? If you haven't, here it is: [in time of / Poipiku].
For the meantime, take a deep breath, have some water, and take care. I hope your day will be better <3 - Vemy
Chapter 4: [The Coffee Incident Pt. 1]
Summary:
There are a few memories that Aventurine can recall with astonishing detail. [...] One of those memories is of the day he earned the slave brand on his neck.
His jaw still aches just thinking about it: about how hard he had clenched his teeth around the hard piece of leather, about what the leather had tasted like, about how bad the smell of burning skin was, so noxious that he had gagged and would have had vomited if not for the absence of stomach contents in the first place.
…In retrospect, the pain is what Aventurine least remembers about the whole ordeal, and that is probably a good thing.
Notes:
Important bits:
* This is set in the future, after Clara changes schools and becomes friends with Robin. That's a story for a different time.
* Aventurine is kinda /going through it/ in this chapter, so his train of thought might be a little hard to follow. We're following the classic pattern of Churine-torture in this part, fluff and comfort in the next part, etc, as we (I) typically do. Ratio appears only a smidge at the end, but there's gonna be a lot of Ratio in the next bit, of course.
* Writing Sunday is actually pretty fun in this world lmao.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
> The Coffee Incident Pt. 1 <
Aventurine sometimes wishes that he had his old powers back. His ‘normal’ Preservation ones, that is - the one where he can easily generate shields with a simple snap of his fingers, or summon a solid dice of power and drop it over someone’s head, just because.
Those powers, and not his cornerstone powers, because that’s a little bit of an overkill, he thinks.
Of course, there isn’t a strong need for defense or offense in this world - at least, not for him - so Qlipoth’s Gift will likely be wasted… but there are definitely some occasions where Aventurine just wishes for his old abilities back.
For example, whenever he has to deal with a rude customer or two.
To be perfectly fair, the Star Peace café doesn’t get those too often, but whenever they do, Aventurine is sorely reminded that there is no such thing as a perfect world, and that regardless of how nice and pleasant ninety-nine percent of the people he interacts can be, there is always going to be… say, at least one bad apple per month.
Fortunately (or is this unfortunately?) enough, Aventurine has also dealt with his fair share of those from before, and he thus has a higher threshold of tolerance towards them then, say, a certain (ex-)Trailblazer with a potential proclivity towards resolving problems with a baseball bat.
Still, having his old powers back would be really useful - especially when he has to deal with idiots like these.
…
Aventurine should have known that the man would bring trouble to the café.
No - ‘man’ is far too generous of a word for what he is. A better term would be teenager, or at least someone coming out of their adolescence, for no amount of rigorous sport or charming physical features can erase the obvious signs of youth and awkward adolescence from their gait.
He pins the boy’s age to somewhere between eighteen or nineteen - definitely younger than Caelus, and most certainly less mature… and also so far up into his own ass that he has the audacity to roll his eyes at Caelus when the ex-Stellaron is trying to ring up his order. Aventurine merely sighs - again, missing his old powers, but also knows it’d be a complete waste of his energy to feel anything short of resignation when it comes to dealing with annoying customers.
The boy’s expression is carved into one of naive haughtiness. It is that sort of naivety that Ratio typically likes to break for (probably) educational reasons, and Aventurine, for fun.
…but he’s a barista now, and not an executive for the biggest intergalactic corporation in the universe, so he cannot simply scare individuals into obedience (or into common decency). Furthermore, the boy is paying customer, and as much as Jade gives Aventurine the leeway to make his own judgment calls, Aventurine is technically a pacifist.
Well, kinda - Preservation, shields and all that.
“I ordered a single black coffee, how can it take this long to prepare it?”
Aventurine fights the urge to sigh. From the corner of his eye, he spots Caelus shooting the boy a stink-eye, the corner of his mouth tipped down into a displeased frown.
(Aventurine really needs to teach him the art of being subtle. Or customer service. One of them.)
He plasters on his own polite-neutral smile as he slides the takeaway cup over the drink collection corner. “Sorry for the wait. The pot ran out just before you came in, so this is a fresh brew. It’s still very hot, so take care not to burn yourself.”
His apology earns an eye-roll, and Aventurine watches, unimpressed, as the boy wrenches the top off the cup and tosses it unceremoniously across the counter. “Why bother covering it when I’m obviously trying to drink it? So stupid.”
Aventurine merely collects the used top, and quietly drops it into the bin under the counter. Or, you can just burn your tongue while you’re at it.
Honestly, the biggest red flag isn’t the boy’s behaviour towards them - it’s the way his I’m-better-than-you-scowl changes into one of impenetrable charm as soon as he turns away from them, and his gaze laser-focuses onto an occupied table near the café windows.
“Robin! What a surprise. I didn’t know you were here.”
Aventurine nearly chokes. Caelus, on the other hand, does, and has to take a moment to stifle his coughs.
The guy is here for Robin? No way.
Also, Aventurine is about seventy-percent certain that contrary to the boy’s words, their meeting here is not, in fact, a surprise - at least not to him. Robin, on the other hand, is wide-eyed as she looks up from her notebooks, but she quickly masks her shock with a polite, but nervous-looking smile.
Aventurine really, really doesn’t like that.
(While it is true that they do not get high school students in the café as often as they get college kids, Robin has taken to frequenting them to study ever since she became Clara’s tutor (not that Clara needed actual academic tutoring, mind you; just tutoring in… every other sense, but that is for a different time).
Granted, Robin is usually accompanied by Clara, but Aventurine knows that Clara has an appointment with Topaz today, and so he had been pleasantly surprised that Robin showed up after-school. He was a less than pleased when she mentioned that Sunday was finishing his shift at the vet clinic earlier today, and was planning on picking her up at the cafe later, before going for dinner.
Mind you, Robin, of course, is an utter darling, and Clara adores her, which is why Aventurine likes her too. Her brother though? Well, that’s an entirely different problem of a more personal nature, which is why all Aventurine does is internally grimace whenever he thinks about meeting Sunday.)
Without waiting for a greeting, the boy sidles up to her table, and drags a chair from the next unoccupied table. “How have you have been? You haven’t replied to my messages recently.”
Aventurine is unable to hear Robin’s answer, nor the rest of the conversation. A group of customers come in then, stealing his and Caelus’ attention for the next five to ten or so minutes. Just in case (and because Aventurine really does not want to deal with Sunday if anything is to happen to Robin), he continues to keep an eye on the pair.
Robin doesn’t look distressed, but by the time the customers have left with their drinks, the conversation seems to have taken an unpleasant turn.
“C’mon, Robin. It’s just one party - why can’t you go? It’s not like you have anything better to do in the evenings anyway - it’s like, high school. Classes end in the afternoon and there’s nothing better for you to do anyway.”
“My brother isn’t comfortable with me being out ‘til late in the evenings.” Robin explains patiently. She either has the patience of a saint, or is a brilliant actress, for her expression and tone betrays no annoyance or irritation. Kudos to her, honestly. “Especially when I don’t know anyone in the party.”
“You know me,” the guy says with an almost shit-eating grin, as if that’s convincing enough. “And they’re like, my friends, so that should be cool, right? It’s just a bunch of college kids anyway.”
Oh. Okay. So this is a college kid trying to invite a high school student to a college party. Aventurine doesn’t even know how Robin knows the guy - perhaps a senior student? - but he knows that if someone tried to invite Clara to a similar occasion, Aventurine would be putting his foot down as well. Overprotective-brother-Sunday would be apoplectic.
Robin’s expression morphs into an apologetic one. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can change his mind.”
“You don’t need to listen to him.” Aventurine finds himself taking a step forward when he hears the raised volume. “What is he, your owner? Can’t you think for yourself?”
Aventurine, who had extended a hand out to grab onto Caelus’ collar before Caelus can do something incriminating like pour ice down the boy’s spine, releases his hold just a little. Honestly, it’s probably deserved by this point of time, and unless the conversation escalates into actual harassment, they have no real grounds to step in.
“He’s my older brother,” Robin states evenly as she returns to her notes, “whose judgment I’d trust for social situations such as those. Besides, I don’t think it’s appropriate for a college student such as yourself to be inviting me to such affairs.”
“You should just loosen up a little. It’s not like we’re going to be doing anything illegal. Just a bunch of college students having some fun.”
“I hope you enjoy yourself then.”
Despite the kind tone, anyone with basic comprehension skills should be able to pick out the dismissal in her tone.
Aventurine is almost impressed - ‘almost’, because no woman will ever be more dangerous-sounding and upfront as Jade, but Robin’s confidence comes close enough. He is glad that Clara has gotten herself attached to Robin (much like a baby bird); Robin is undeniably the best role model out there for her.
Of course, the poor male ego does not take the rejection well, and Aventurine warily lets go of Caelus’ collar.
“So, what, are you telling me no?”
…And… there’s a threat there.
Robin, Xipe bless her brave soul, doesn’t even flinch as she looks up at the displeased… man-child and calmly nods.
…
This is when Aventurine steps in.
For one, because he has to.
Because protecting the peace of the café is his job, and Aventurine thinks they have waited long enough, and it is now evident that the café’s track record of peace is going to be marred by some college kid that couldn’t handle being rejected by a girl.
He had hoped that said man-child would do the sensible adult thing and walk away, that he wouldn’t do something stupid like raise a hand towards anyone, period, but that was apparently too big of an ask.
…Or, perhaps Aventurine steps in because he senses the sharply spiking anger and spots the way the boy’s hand clenches over his coffee up, and an image of his old master comes into mind.
(His master had been an unpleasant but wealthy individual who was selectively charming to others, but had a dangerously short temper that was most frequently taken out on
… you guessed it - their slaves. Learning to read their body language had been a necessity to stay alive; the same skill served Aventurine very well during his early years in the IPC.)
…Or perhaps, Aventurine sees the wide-eyed fright on Robin’s face, and he is suddenly reminded of several things:
1. This is an individual who Clara adores and admires, and if something should happen to her, it would absolutely devastate Clara.
2. This is Sunday’s beloved younger sister. If anything were to happen to her, Sunday would absolutely murder him for it.
.
.
.
3. …Did
his
sister wear the same expression on her face when the Katicans took her life?
Aventurine couldn
’t save his sister before
(and not in this world either, let
’s be honest)
, but he cannot help but think, if this was my sister, if someone was about to hurt her right in front of him, and Aventurine had the option to not run. What would he have done?
…
A raised voice.
The puce-red ugly colour their face transforms into.
The tension, like a snake ready to strike—
Stock-still, held in place by terror - and chains.
A pale face, thin shaky arms raised above their heads that Aventurine knows will be ineffective against any form of physical strike—
.
.
.
“—!”
Aventurine initially processes only the sensation of wetness - of liquid dribbling down his neck and soaking into the collar of his shirt.
Everything else - things like scent (coffee) and temperature (warm? No, it should be — hot.) — he doesn’t process until much, much later.
Chaos unfolds within the café, but his first priority is Robin, of course. He looks back over his shoulder to check if she is alright, and is relieved to see that she is unharmed. Her big blue eyes are wide and filled with fear as she focuses on something over his shoulder.
Did his sister ever wear such an expression?
Would she have even let him seen it, her fear?
Her lips part, he does not hear anything.
Something painful collides with his temple. His hearing returns to the sounds of shouts, and actual chaos.
Caelus looks absolutely livid as he attempts to hold the boy back, and the other patrons in the café are asking if they should call someone - the police? Probably.
Aventurine can feel trembling fingers clutching tightly onto the back of his shirt, and there’s a displaced sense of satisfaction tucked between relief. The side of his face hurts, and Ratio may or may not have his neck for this later, but at least he was able to protect his sister someone Robin.
“Don’t get in my way—”
He had been caught off-guard the first time round, but Aventurine is prepared now, when Caelus loses his grip. There’s a sound of rushing air, and Aventurine instinctively moves, whipping around to capture the boy’s wrists before the clenched fist can make contact with his face. In the next motion, he firmly strikes the base of his palm against their chin.
As a slave, Aventurine only knew how to kill protect himself through crude methods.
Thankfully, IPC training had taught him more non-lethal, self-defense tactics.
“Number one,” Aventurine hears himself say flatly, “forcing a high schooler to go to a college party, especially after she says no, is gross. Don’t do that. Number two, you should learn how to throw a punch, that was pathetic.”
A strangled sound leaves Caelus’ throat.
“Number three, her brother will absolutely string you up by your intestines for that —”
Aventurine doesn’t get the opportunity to finish his sentence-slash-threat. He hears the bells at the door chime, and Caelus lets go just in time for the boy to be bowled over by a very large and heavy-looking hound, sharp teeth barred in a dangerous snarl.
“Gallagher!” Robin gasps, and Aventurine whips his head to the door. If the hound is here, then surely… “Brother, you’re here!”
(…Well, at least Sunday is less capable for murder in this world. Aventurine wouldn’t know how to write up in the incident report otherwise.
What would he say? ‘Sunday invoked the powers of Harmony (or Order) and made the man-child develop a conscience - or a fear of death, take your pick’?
At least it
’s over.
Not
.
)
…
.
.
.
There are a few memories that Aventurine can recall with astonishing detail.
One thinks that specific sounds, smells and sensations would eventually fade if given enough time, but … Aventurine doesn’t know, honestly, if there is such a thing as ‘enough time’ when it comes to some memories. He is referring to key memories – the ones that are … special (though not necessarily in a good way; most of them are, in fact, not good), fundamental moments in his life that shaped the person he eventually became.
One of those memories is of the day he earned the slave brand on his neck.
His jaw still aches just thinking about it: about how hard he had clenched his teeth around the hard piece of leather, about what the leather had tasted like, about how bad the smell of burning skin was, so noxious that he had gagged and would have had vomited if not for the absence of stomach contents in the first place.
…In retrospect, the pain is what Aventurine least remembers about the whole ordeal, and that is probably a good thing.
.
The thing about shock, is that it is very good at erasing the pain –
but only momentarily.
Once the initial shock is over
… well, nothing can stop him from screaming.
…
Aventurine doesn
’t scream this time.
But he feels himself crashing as soon as the adrenaline starts to wear off.
Aventurine’s to-do list is long, however, and so he forces himself to hold off on everything else he deems less important until he finishes whatever it is that he needs to do. That is,
- Contact Jade.
- Give his statement to the police – because there is no way an incident like this can be not reported to the police, attempted assault,
- Help Caelus close the café after giving his sincerest of apologies to the present customers, while allowing Robin and Sunday and their massive beast of a dog to stay until Robin calms down.
Loosely in that order.
(He puts off messaging Ratio, not because he ’s avoiding the task, but because he is really busy and has a lot to do.)
It is only after all of that is done that Aventurine finally excuses himself to the bathroom to clean himself up - and it occurs to him then, as he stares at himself in the mirror, that he should have perhaps gone to clean himself up before everything else.
His hands are shaking as he lifts a moist hand towel to wipe at his face, and then, with trembling hands, at his neck. Large splotches of dark brown cover the left side of his work shirt and apron; probably unsalvageable, his brain internally chimes - coffee stains are a pain to remove, and these ones have already partially dried.
Where the hot coffee had made direct contact with his bare neck, however, the skin has turned into bright pink in colour.
All in all, it is not that bad of a burn, Aventurine thinks numbly to himself. It’s definitely a burn, and the skin is sensitive to the touch - and in not the most pleasant ways - but Aventurine has… definitely had worse. The coffee must have had time to cool, especially since its lid was off. Enough to take the edge off, at least.
But the throb is familiar, however, and against the bright white bathroom lights and his pasty-looking skin, it looks… well, worse than what it probably is. Aventurine wonders if this is why Caelus and Sunday had been shooting him strange looks.
He circles the edges of the burn with his fingertip - not quite touching the skin - and suddenly realizes, this was where I got branded, wasn’t it?
But… this is just a little burn, Aventurine tries to convince himself as he stares at the incriminating pink patch of skin in the mirror. It’s not a slave mark. It… surely wouldn’t scar. Slather on some burn cream, and everything will be as good as new—
Most importantly, it shouldn’t hurt as bad as before.
Technically, it doesn’t. This is, in fact, not the worst pain he has ever felt—
It ’s not .
—yet, why does his skin throb with every motion, and why does each throb send up a familiar spike of pain up his head? Perhaps this is the adrenaline crash, he numbly thinks to himself. It’s making every little bit of hurt feel five, maybe ten times worse.
Ratio would know. He should ask Ratio.
He should message Ratio.
Aventurine shakily sets the towel down by the sink, stares at his own reflection in the mirror.
…Except that it isn’t his reflection that Aventurine sees.
Instead, there is a younger, emaciated-looking boy staring back at him with wild eyes, tattered clothes nearly falling off his shoulders and blond hair in disarray. There’s a fresh brand imprint on his neck, right over where Aventurine can feel his neck throbbing. The skin is a dark red, almost black in some spots where the skin has charred and burned.
He swallows thickly, and tastes leather in his mouth.
He exhales sharply, and then slowly, slowly inhales through the throbbing pain on his neck – and gags, as he smells not coffee, not even the light floral deodorizer that they use for the bathroom, but rather burning skin and metal.
(Ratio. Ratio. Ratio—)
His vision greys dangerously along the edges, and his knees buckle—
.
.
.
Here ’s another memory.
A softer one.
A memory that isn’t quite his, but is his. A younger Aventurine whose skin still prickles with nerves from Jade’s attention on his person, whose hands are still a little clumsy around the espresso machines and cups.
Hot coffee had spilled over his fingers, earlier. Aventurine had been startled by the pain, but he tried his best not to startle or make a big fuss about it. Instead, he subtly hides his throbbing fingers behind his back.
He wants this job, and he is bound to spill hot liquids on himself, especially if his vision chooses to fail on him, like it has now. The right-hand corner of his vision is a soft blur; not enough to render him properly blind, but just enough to be an annoyance.
But he has lived this long with it - and he can continue to live with it still.
Unfortunately, Jade is more observant that he gives her credit for. With a strength Aventurine does not expect, she grabs his wrist and drags him to the nearby sink. She is silent as she forcibly holds his hands under the running tap, the cool water soothing the unpleasant throb of his fingers.
He makes a token protest when Jade finally lifts his hand from under the tap to examine his fingertips with a careful eye. “Madam— it’s… it’s really fine.”
Jade ignores him. Her hands are soft as she gentle runs her fingers against the pinked skin. “Does it still hurt?” She asks, eventually.
Aventurine shakes his head.
“Good.” She lets go of his hand, and bends down to retrieve a first aid kit from below the register, and gestures for his fingers as she pulls out a tube of burn ointment. Aventurine wants to tell her that this is unnecessary, but something tells him that it will be ignored.
She goes as far as to wrap his fingers with a light gauze. Aventurine is pleasantly surprised to find that his finger dexterity isn ’t at all compromised by the additional wrappings.
“…while injuries may be unavoidable at times, there is no need to hide them from me. I did not hire you to be an unfeeling machine.” Jade finally says as she returns the kit back to its original place. “If you cut yourself, you should step aside to treat it. If you burn yourself, you will run it under the tap immediately. If it hurts, you will say that it hurts . Do you understand, Aventurine? ”
“…Yes, madam.”
Jade hums, appeased. “How is your vision today?”
Aventurine does startle at that. He looks at her in surprise, but eventually breaks out in a little, wry smile. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I, madam?”
“You can try.”
He shakes his head. He doesn ’t think he will. “It won’t impede on my ability to learn today.”
She retrieves a muffin from behind the pastry counter, and splits it into two. She offers one half to Aventurine, and delicately bites into her own.
“I didn’t think so. Finish your muffin, and we’ll talk about inventory management today.”
.
.
.
It takes Kak██ha? ██35? Av██tu█e some time to return to it?him?self.
His neck seems to throb in time to the sound of blood rushing in his ears, and his fingers are stiff from where they are digging into his ankles. It’s a reflexive action, if not partially self-soothing in a way.
If his sisterVer█as were here, Aventurine would be holding onto herhis hand. But she’she’s not here.
She
’s dead.
He
’s not dead, but where is he? ███ wants him.
He registers the sound of noisy breathing – not noisy in a loud sense, but in an unsettling way. Reedy. Unsteady. His knees are drawn up to his chest — oh, those wheezes are coming from him – and his body shivers, heat seeping out from under him and into the cold tiles beneath his body.
Something soft and warm is suddenly drawn around his body, and he is suddenly conflicted if he should huddle into its comfort, or away from… whoever it is that is with him.
Someone is here with him.
A sound escapes his throat. It’s not quite human-sounding, more like a whimpered-snarl that a wounded person creature would make.
The same stranger shushes him.
“There, there now. You’re safe. You’re alright.” They speak in a low croon. It is the tone one would use if addressing a frightened, feral animal.
Perhaps he is one.
His initial instinct is to snarl, to snap, but he cuts himself off, remembering that it is far easier to obey than it is to rebel. Rebelling has only ever earned him more pain.
But he sees an incoming gloved hand, and he instinctively flinches anyway, teeth clacking together in a painful way as he does so.
The hand pauses, and retracts.
“My apologies.” After a moment, a bare hand is offered to him, gloveless and open palm facing upwards, as if to show that they are unarmed. “It’s unnerving, isn’t it?“
Their fingers are soft-looking, and lithe - much thinner than the cruel hands that he is familiar with.
“I’m not here to hurt you.” The stranger murmurs in a gentle tone, and Av███ine feels himself stir. “I just want to make sure that you are alright.”
That voice… it is not unfamiliar to him, but it is not familiar either. His mind doesn’t immediately associate the voice with safety, but he detects no lie nor an intention to harm from the soft-spoken stranger’s words, and so he unfurls from his tight ball of tension – just ever so slightly.
“That’s it. Just like that,” they croon. “Can you look at me?”
He does, hesitantly, and freezes as his eyes meet a set of gold eyes and pale hair.
“Do you know who I am?”
He recalls birds and a golden ring of light.
Slot machines and the sounds of dreams,
the choir of Harmony echoing in his ears.
This
… This is not a pleasant memory.
“Do you love y̴̬͖̦̩̿́̎͋̀o̸̪̙̝͓̳͉̫̽͆͋̓̍͗ų̸͋̅̋̐̄͂ȓ̴̡̜͈̹̭̎̇̅ ̵̨̛̘̊̉͒̉̒̕f̷̻́͆̈́̈ä̵͖͎̣̰̘̞́͠ṃ̸͈͚̝̣͗̓̑̉̃͐͜͝i̵͈͌̾͐̚͜l̵̢̛͍͚̗͌̂̅̂̆̀͜y̴͍̞͋̀ͅ more than yourself?”
.
.
.
There are a few emotions here.
It isn
’t dislike or hatred as much as it is… wariness.
There are simply too many associations with that face, that name, and that voice.
Positive associations? Negative associations?
— Associations.
.
This was the individual who put him here, in this world.
(This is a lie. This is self-denial.)
.
Sometimes, K
█k█s
ha
thinks about the adoration he held for his own dead sister, and thinks about how he saw it that day, in the Dewlight Pavillion, in the form of an unslakable anger, reflected upon a grieving brother
’s face.
He, of all people, should understand.
.
In a different world, we may have gotten along.
Is this that world?
.
.
.
“…Sunday.” Aventurine finally answers, voice cracking. His mouth tastes sour, and something smells sour in the air. It is only when Sunday stands and reaches over to him to flush the toilet next to him does it finally occur that he must have gotten sick in his… panic(?), even if Aventurine doesn’t remember having done so in the first place.
A bottle of water is very carefully placed onto the tile within reach of him.
“Rinse your mouth.” Sunday says.
His voice has lost its soothing inflection, but it is neither clinical nor harsh. There’s a neutrality that Aventurine appreciates, for he does not think he can survive gentleness from Sunday, of all people.
As he reaches (unsteadily) for the bottle of water, the object that had been earlier drawn over his shoulder shifts, revealing a deep blue to light purple shawl that Aventurine immediately recognizes.
He stiffens, and readies to shrug it off. While Aventurine knows that this bathroom is frequently cleaned, he still does not want to have Robin’s shawl touch the tiled floor.
Sunday stops him with a firm shake of his head. “Keep it on.”
“I don’t want to dirty your sister’s shawl.”
Aventurine internally winces at the way his voice shakes.
“She will not mind.” Sunday says plainly, and lifts his chin ever so slightly. “It will be washed this evening regardless. Think nothing of it.”
Aventurine isn’t sure if he can ‘think nothing of it’. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but the shawl does offer some semblance of warmth against the still-present cold residing deep in his bones. His fingers tremble as he tugs the shawl even tighter against himself in a bid to keep most of it off the floor, and then finally, he reaches for the bottle.
Gold eyes watch him like a hawk as Aventurine manages (after several attempts) to pick up the bottle. The cap has already been loosen for him - how considerate - and it is only after Aventurine turns away to rinse his mouth that he hears Sunday stand.
The man shortly returns with a dampened handkerchief and a familiar-looking first aid kit (where did he get that from?), and promptly kneels on the tiles next to him.
Aventurine has always pegged the former Head of the Oak Family to be somewhat of a germaphobe and stickler for cleanliness (well, ‘orderliness’), especially after reading into the pre-Penacony mission intel. He assumes that that particular trait has been retained as well over here, for Aventurine rarely sees the man without his gloves.
But Sunday is bare-handed here, however, and it takes Aventurine a few delayed seconds to realize that Sunday had earlier taken it off when he wasn’t quite… himself.
Aventurine belatedly discovers that he still isn’t quite completely himself yet either. Despite being fully cognizant of his surroundings, Aventurine’s breath hitches at Sunday’s sudden proximity. Sunday immediately pauses - but only for a few seconds.
When he resumes his movements, they are slower, more choreographed and deliberate as he opens up the first-aid kit and gestures for Aventurine to turn his head.
“What…?”
“I want to see the extent of your injuries.” Comes the neutral explanation. Surprisingly, there are no hints of impatience. “I’ve been told to expecting some type of burn - cowering will make it hurt a lot more.”
“I-it’s fine.” Aventurine grits out. Now that he has had the reminder, the pain returns once more, and his neck throbs in response. It feels hot now, unpleasant and stomach-churning, but it is not something he cannot handle. “It’s not so bad.”
It really isn ’t so bad. He knows that it’s the tiniest of burns, and the pain is only disproportionately bad because, because, ̷̝̂͝b̷̛̈́͜è̵̢͌͒͑̂c̷̹̠̍ą̷͍̫̓͜u̶̩̬̪̩͙̒́̎̚̚s̶̯̈́͂̄ḛ̸̡̲̀͆͝—̷̨̛̓͆͝
“Did you happen to acquire a medical degree from living with your doctor boyfriend? I don’t think so.”
Aventurine doesn’t get the chance to ask Sunday how he knows about his relationship with Ratio. Sunday firmly – but not painfully – nudges his head to the side with a single curled finger against his chin, and the cool handkerchief brushes against his sensitive skin.
The pain that erupts from the motion has Aventurine gritting his teeth, but it recedes after a moment, returning to its far-from-dull throb. But then Sunday slightly shifts the handkerchief, as if to inspect a different section, and it sears all over again.
He gulps in air as cold sweat beads along the side of his temple, and Aventurine, against his own better judgment, weakly shoves at Sunday’s arm.
“Stop it. It h-hurts, you bastard.”
“I assure you that my parents were married at the time of my birth.” Sunday replies flatly, but lifts his fingers ever so slightly. “I’m attempting to assess the size of your burn, so be good and hold still for a moment.”
“I’m not an animal.”
“Just because I’m an avian vet does not mean I’m incapable of giving first aid to a mammal or a regular human being.” The look Sunday shoots him is almost scathing. It almost reminds Aventurine of Ratio, except where Ratio’s exasperation (where and when it is directed at him) tends to be softened by fondness and/or concern, Sunday’s is just… not.
“It’s not so bad.” Aventurine weakly says, “I know it’s not so bad, it’s—“
“…You’re right, it isn’t.” Sunday leans back, looking a little confused, but still concerned as he looks over at Aventurine’s pinched expression. “…but a burn is still a burn, and they tend to hurt regardless of their degree and size.”
“Sure, doc. Whatever you say, doc. Please stop touching it.”
He knows Sunday isn’t trying to hurt him, but his excessive prodding is starting to make Aventurine feel sick, and Aventurine really doesn’t want to lose his stomach in front of the former-Oak-Family head for the possibly second time this afternoon.
Sunday retracts his hand, looking unapologetic as he did so.
“If you had seen to it sooner, it wouldn’t have set in at all.”
“Yeah, well, I had things to do. A job, y’know. Kinda important.”
“The maintenance of your own wellbeing should take precedence over anything else.”
Aventurine just manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes, if only because he suspects doing so would hurt his… he wants to say head, but more than that, honestly.
“Pretty sure I’ve heard Veritas say that before.”
“Well, you should listen to the doctor. He is wise on that front, at least. If you cannot take care of yourself, how can you expect yourself to be able to take care of someone who needs you?”
He does not need to state names for Aventurine to know that Sunday is talking about Clara.
“That’s a low blow. And I’m only like this because I didn’t want this,” he awkwardly raises a shoulder as if to shrug, and grimaces at the pain the motion brings. Bad move. Sunday stares at him wide-eyed, as if surprised by Aventurine’s own idiocy. “—on your sister, you know. She doesn’t deserve that.”
Sunday stills, and Aventurine meets the wide-eyed golden gaze with his own challenging look. After a moment, Sunday looks away, looking uncomfortable as he rummages through the first-aid kit to search for the tube of burn cream.
“…Thank you, for protecting her.”
I didn’t do it for you, Aventurine wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his eyes and turns his head properly to the side so that Sunday can do whatever he needs to. “…I wasn’t going to let anyone get hurt in my café.”
If it had been Ratio with him, the doctor who have admonished Aventurine for forgetting that ‘anyone’ should also include himself. Sunday, however, remains quiet, but his fingers are gentle and light when he applies the burn cream on Aventurine’s neck. He reaches for a dressing, but pauses when Aventurine visibly flinches from the movement.
He covers it up with a nonchalant, “…you don’t need that.”
“You’re right, I don’t. You do, probably.” Sunday answers, unfazed. “It’ll help stop the skin from chafing against anything. Judging from your reaction… I think you would prefer that.”
He waits for Aventurine to nod stiffly before continuing with his ministrations. “…this will be enough for now, but I would advise you to have an actual doctor see it as soon as possible. Does anywhere else hurt?”
“No.”
His wrist - the one he used to strike at the man’s chin earlier on - is throbbing dully, and so does his head.
Aventurine is slow to remember that he was actually hit in the head… somewhere. His lapse of memory should be concerning to most other individuals, but Aventurine is keen to escape Sunday’s attention. One medical-oriented individual in his life is more than enough - he doesn’t need two, even if Sunday doesn’t normally treat humans.
“You’re lying.” Sunday states. “But I will feign ignorance for your benefit.”
“Much appreciated.” Aventurine replies in a dry tone.
He shifts to brace a hand against the cold tile. Sunday’s hand flies to his shoulder, opposite to where his burn is at.
“Wait—”
Aventurine pushes himself off the ground anyway, only to stagger as his vision almost immediately begins to darken around the edges.
A hand clamps onto his arm and bodily forces him to sit down onto the toilet – its lid now closed. His head is pushed between his knees, and Aventurine blinks rapidly, unsure of what just happened.
“I said wait, didn’t I?” Sunday snaps. “You’re still in shock. I will not have you worry my sister any further by splitting your head on the tile due to a faint.”
“Your concern is appreciated.” Aventurine mumbles a few minutes later when the initial dizziness fades. “Now, can I stand?”
“No.”
Aventurine is tempted to do so just to spite Sunday, but he thinks twice of it. While his tongue might be capable of sharpness to parry Sunday’s own, Aventurine must reluctantly admit that Sunday is perhaps right - that he is still in shock or… something.
For one, he knows that there is something strange going on in his head.
Everything seems a little tilted, a little off. The pain has abated from its sharp spikes to something more akin to an ever present dull throb that echoes in time with the thrum of his heart - which is also, oddly loud in his ears.
He blinks rapidly, but then his shoulder is squeezed, and everything sharpens back into focus.
Sunday is staring intensely at him now. His expression has now morphed into one of distinct concern: his brows are furrowed, and his mouth is pressed to a thin line. Aventurine wonders how crazy he must look to the man, to have fallen into such mental and physical disarray with only the mildest of burns.
It was just a cup of coffee.
(And what, maybe a small physical altercation?)
A funny thought crosses his mind - perhaps Sunday will think that he is crazy.
“Aren’t you going to ask?” He asks eventually when Sunday continues to stay quiet, still watching him with that look of odd concern and consideration.
“Ask what?”
Huh. No questioning of his sanity — “…You’re far nicer than what I thought you’d be.”
Now that earns him a scowl. “Excuse me?”
Aventurine cannot help himself. He laughs.
…
The shame sets in later, when Aventurine slips out of the toilet and finds that Jade is already waiting in the café - presumably for him. Sunday follows behind him, signature gloves already donned on his hands once more as he nods towards the café proprietor.
Aventurine feels steadier than before, but in the wake of his… whatever it is — Flashback? Panic attack? — he knows that he must appear shaken, if not at least, exhausted. He certainly feels like it.
“Aventurine.”
“Madame.”
Aventurine tries to ignore the way Jade’s eyes immediately slip down to his covered neck. She doesn’t look upset, but it’s hard to tell with her.
“…Please sit down before you fall over.” She says, and Aventurine does just that, slipping into the nearest available chair. “Thank you for checking on him, Mr Sunday, and Ms Robin - I must offer my sincerest apologies for the disturbance you’ve experienced today—“
“N-no, it’s my fault that Mr Aventurine was injured—“ Robin begins to say, only to be swiftly interrupted by a stern-sounding, “Robin.”
“Brother—“
“It’s no one’s fault.” Aventurine interrupts tiredly. “If there was someone at fault, it would be mine for not intervening earlier. If I had, then we could have perhaps avoided all of this. I apologize for my lack of attentiveness.”
He ignores Caelus’ indignant squawk, and ducks his head in deference to Jade when she shoots him a look of acknowledgment. Aventurine then proceeds to tune out the rest of the pleasantries, trusting in Jade’s ability to smoothen out the rest of the situation.
In any other circumstances, he would try to keep up, but Aventurine knows that he will be forgiven today. He manages a facsimile of a smile when the siblings finally make their departure with their monster of a pet between them, and waves away Robin’s final thank you(s) with reassurances that he would be fine and not to worry.
(No one looks convinced at the latter. Not even Sunday, of all people.)
Finally, the café falls quiet - though not for long.
“It’s not his fault.” Caelus suddenly blurts out, and Aventurine nearly lets out a laugh. Those who follow the Path of Akivili are truly a different breed of individuals. “There was a rush of customers that came in right after the douchebag sat down with Robin, and the red flags were only evident after he started talking to her—“
“Caelus.” Aventurine interrupts tiredly. “It’s fine. I’m not in trouble. We’re not in trouble.”
“You aren’t?”
Aventurine shakes his head.
“Not with me, at least.” Jade confirms, her voice carrying an amused lilt as she steps forward in front of Aventurine, and slides a cool hand under his jaw to lightly tilt his head away from the burn - not that she can see its full extent when it is covered by the dressing.
His breathing hitches when the pain sharpens for a moment — Don’t touch, don’t touch! — but Jade moves before he can bat her off, sliding up to feel his forehead and staying there.
His eyes flutter close at the gentle touch.
“Is Veritas working today?” Jade asks, and Aventurine slowly nods. “Day or night shift?”
He blearily blinks at her question.
“…Day.”
“Good. I will let him know what happened.” Her thumb briefly brushes against his temple, where Aventurine is certain a bruise will develop in a few hours or so. “Will you be able to get home on your own?”
“I’m fine. It’s just a teeny burn.”
Caelus stares at him disbelievingly. “You don’t look fine, Aventurine. And you got clocked in the side of your head, did you forget?”
He shrugs. “Not the worst thing that has been done to my person.”
Wait—
“Excuse me?”
Aeons, he really needs to watch his mouth. Aventurine grimaces at the murderous tone, and looks pleadingly at Jade for some type of intervention.
“Can you walk him home? The doctor’s apartment isn’t too far from here.” Jade offers instead. Aventurine doesn’t even want to know about how she knows Ratio’s address. “I’ll handle closing over here.”
“I can help—“
“You look like you’re going to pass out, Aventurine.” Caelus snaps. “You’re going home.”
Aventurine gapes. “I’ve worked here longer than you have.”
“You’re going home, senior.”
Okay, now that’s just rude.
“Boys.” Jade calls out, and Aventurine wilts. “Aventurine, let Caelus walk you back. I don’t want Veritas breathing down my neck if anything more were to happen to you.”
Caelus shoots him a look, and politely says, “I’ll come back right after to help you with closing, Madam Jade.”
“That would be appreciated.” Jade eyes Aventurine once more. He shrinks back as he hears her sigh in an almost regretful fashion, but leans into her touch when she brushes his hair. “You will rest.”
“I’m fine.” He quietly protests once more, sounding weaker than before.
Jade doesn’t disagree with him, but her expression tells Aventurine that she certainly does not believe him.
“I’ll ask Veritas to let me know how you are in the evening.”
~~~
The first thing Aventurine does when he gets home, is to stumble into the bathroom to retrieve the generic painkillers that he knows Ratio keeps a healthy stock of.
He is not referring to his actual migraine medication, no, but his fingers do linger over his prescription bottles for a brief moment - he knows that taking them will most definitely knock him out, and Aventurine wants to be knocked out. If he’s unconscious, he cannot think and he most certainly cannot feel.
His conscience ultimately wins out. Ratio would be absolutely furious with him if Aventurine misuses his prescription drugs like that, even if his head is hurting. It’s a different type of headache, for one…and now that he thinks about it, his migraine medication coupled with his current head-space may actually be a recipe for disaster. It’s best not to mix it.
Aventurine quickly finds what he is looking for - the doctor experiences his own fair share of headaches, after all - and dry swallows whatever the recommended dosage is before he just as quickly (and roughly) closes the cabinet, and stumbles back out into the living room.
Finally, he drops heavily onto the couch, and slowly breathes in the silence of the apartment.
This is Ratio’s apartment. This is… home.
It must be at least another five to ten minutes later when Aventurine stirs and realizes that his phone has been insistently vibrating in his pocket.
He fumbles with the device, and sets the call to speaker mode without even checking the caller ID.
“Veritas?”
“Where are you?” Ratio’s tone is brisk, but Aventurine knows concern when he hears it.
“I… I just got home.”
“Are you alright?”
Is he? Aventurine licks his lips - his mouth feels dry, like it’s been stuck full of cotton wads, and the painkillers have yet to kick in, so his head and neck are still throbbing fiercely. He should change out of his work clothes, and perhaps drink some water, but Aventurine is unable to draw the will (or strength) to do any of that.
“… vasha , are you there? ”
“I’m here.” He mumbles. Ratio doesn’t use his actual name unless he’s actually concerned, so he should really, really answer him— “…I’m okay. How did you know to call?”
“Jade told me you had been assaulted. Will you come to the hospital if I asked you to?”
“Assault is exaggeration. It was just an altercation in the café with some college kid harassing Robin, of all people. You should have seen the way she rebuffed the kid’s advances. It was quite entertaining, in hindsight. I think he might be frightened of dogs now—“
“Answer the question, Aventurine.”
He shrugs, and winces as the burn is jostled. He really, really needs to remember that. “Hospital is unnecessary. Everyone’s concern is—“ unnecessary, he wants to say, but he stops himself. Telling Ratio that several individuals were concerned is probably akin to shooting himself in the foot. “It isn’t so bad. Got some hot coffee on me, that’s it. It would have fallen onto her if not.”
“Burns? Where, and how large?”
“They’re not so bad. It’s what, a teeny burn?” He murmurs. A teeny tiny burn that still hurts like a bitch and is making his brain remember too many unpleasant things because of it, but still.
“Where, Aventurine?”
“…My neck. But—“
He hears Ratio take a sharp breath. “Aventurine—“
“The birdie,” Aventurine interrupts, only to pause. He should clarify that title, shouldn’t he? Calling Sunday a bird makes no sense in this world, but then again, the ex-Halovian is an avian vet here, isn’t he? – “Sunday, I mean. He said it wasn’t so bad. He checked it himself, and even wrapped it up and all.”
“As skilled as Mr Sunday may be, I would rather determine that for myself.”
Something in Aventurine’s chest loosens at Ratio’s stiff tone.
The doctor’s displeasure isn’t obviously directed at Sunday in particular - that much, Aventurine knows, for Ratio is far too logical to be petty towards someone he barely knows - but it is still nevertheless funny to hear, or at least, think about at that very moment. To Aventurine, at least.
He lets out a little sound that may have been a chuckle, or perhaps a hysterical giggle, and the tension in his body melts as he hears Ratio tsk loudly through the phone.
He should have done this earlier. He should have called Ratio. Ratio makes everything better.
Dropping the phone onto the couch, Aventurine allows his body to slump onto its side (the correct side, the one that doesn’t cause him too much pain) and presses his (shaking) hands against his eyes as he feels a tell-tale heat building behind them.
He breathes nosily—
“...Have you had water? Painkillers?”
—and wishes that Ratio could be here with him.
“I’ve taken painkillers. The normal ones.” Aventurine mumbles.
“Good.” Ratio says. “I’m coming home.”
“You don’t need to do that.” Aventurine tries to say quickly, and is horrified when his voice comes out thick-sounding and wet. “You have patients to take care of. I’m fine. It’s just a little burn, I can take care of it myself. I’m peachy keen, whatever that means. That's what people say over here right?” He blinks rapidly, and feels hot tears slip down the sides of his face. “I can’t recall if I’ve ever had a peach before, but I’ve seen them around.”
“Aventurine,” Ratio rumbles. He is somehow able to sound both annoyed but gentle as he points out, “you only ramble when you’re under physical or emotional duress, or when you’re hiding something. I’m garnering that it’s at least two out of these three, if not all.” A pause. “You’ve rambled at least twice now.”
“You know, a lot of people never caught onto that. I think they thought I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“You were surrounded by idiots then.”
He sniffs. “Everyone’s an idiot compared to you, Veritas.”
“Do not group yourself with them. I know for certain that you’re far more intelligent than people make you out to be.”
“Would an intelligent person get himself hurt?” Aventurine hates how his voice sounds far smaller than what he wishes it could be. “Shouldn’t you be displeased by that? Shouldn’t I get points deducted for that?”
“…As much as I dislike you putting yourself through harm’s way, I can understand your desire to step in when you did.” There’s a pause, then a very audible sigh, followed by a clipped, “I’ll give you three points.”
This time, the sound that leaves Aventurine’s lips is something more akin to a wounded animal. A whimper, perhaps - or a soft sob. Aventurine cannot help himself.
“Only three? So stingy, doc. I’m wounded here, can’t you be nicer?” He warbles as he fights to take deeper and more controlled breaths, but it is a losing battle.
“It was originally five - I deducted two points because I will always prefer for you to remain uninjured, but I will allow an additional bonus point since you just admitted that you are hurt. ”
The absurdity of this entire conversation is not missed by Aventurine. Trivial banter about an abstract, pointless point-system that only he and Ratio knows about and neither of them is actually keeping track of? (Well, maybe Ratio is keeping track of the numbers, but Aventurine isn’t.)
It’s a distraction, he belatedly realizes. Ratio is genuinely trying to distract him, to the point of participating in Aventurine’s ramblings and trivialities despite being at work. Aventurine must sound terrible.
He feels terrible too, technically, but there’s something else now, something different, less ugly and painful and more… full and warm that is filling up his chest as he reaches for his phone and clutches it to his chest. It’s almost overwhelming in the best possible way, effective in drowning out the still-lingering memories of his bygone-past, and he clings onto it, preferring to drown in that then in before.
Knowing that Ratio is on the other side of the line helps.
Perhaps, this is what people call yearning.
“I will wrap things up quickly over here, and I’ll be home soon.” Ratio’s voice maintain an even cadence even though Aventurine can hear his brisk footsteps against the hospital’s linoleum floors. “Aventurine?” The doctor prompts after a while, and Aventurine startles. He hadn’t registered that Ratio was waiting for his answer.
“Okay.” He manages to say, “I’ll— I’ll wait.”
“I will call you again when I’m about to leave the hospital. If anything happens before that, do not hesitate to call me. Do you understand?”
“Okay.” Aventurine repeats.
“…Will you be alright if I hang up now?”
Probably not.
“I’ll be okay, I’ll see you later.” He quickly presses his shaky finger to his phone screen before Ratio can call him out on his lie.
The silence of the apartment is suffocating, he realizes not even five seconds later.
~~~
Notes:
Y'know that feeling when you're working on a fic that's basically an anthology of numerous other ficlets set in the same world and as a result, you end up working on multiple ficlets for said fic simultaneously, and that means it takes you forever to finish at least one to two ficlets so it can be chapter-posting ready?
Yeah, that happened over here. (Also I'm juggling another WIP from a different fandom, and I'm also packing to move abroad in like... 2 weeks, so uH when life happens it happens.) I suspect once this fic has reached about 75k or so words, I might mark it as complete and start toning down on the writing here so I can move on to the other *checks list* at least 3 other ratiorine fic plots I have, 1 of which is gonna be long, 2 of which are gonna be... semi-long. I can't say short. I call these things ficlets and The Coffee Incident is at least 15k words long lmao.
(I was planning on posting Pt 1 with another extra ficlet (well, one of them), but the section bloated from 7k words to 8.5k words during the revisions, and I just went, ah, fuck it, you guys get the chapter now LMAO. So here it is.)
Anywhos, here's the short preview for part 2 of The Coffee Incident:
“I didn’t think you’d be able to tie off things at work so quickly.” Aventurine says as he slowly sits up. The fact that both of them are home earlier than expected is throwing Aventurine for a loop. “Not that I didn’t believe you when you said that you’d come home early, but I know how much your colleagues love you.”
“It would be extremely telling of their incompetence and complacency if they were unable to function for two final hours without my continued presence.” Ratio blandly states as he puts the half-empty bottle aside and perches himself at the edge of the living room table.
Aventurine lets out an amused sound. “Is that what you told them to convince them to let you leave?”
And:
“You’re a good brother, aren’t you, Mr Aventurine?”
“Drop the ‘Mister’, Ms Robin. It makes me feel older than I’d like to be.” Aventurine gingerly shrugs. “…Anyway there’s no point in being a good brother if your siblings are dead.”
Then you’re not a brother at all. You’re just… alone.
I would also like to thank everyone who has given this series a shot <3 I still get comments for Strangers in the Night every other week, and it makes me really happy to know that it's still being discovered and enjoyed by both new and old readers <3 Thank you for supporting my writing, and I can't wait to share more stories with you :3 -Vemy.
(As per usual, you may find me on @ver_crepuscule on twt or semblanceoflife on bsky. I occasionally post writing updates/snippets there, but I mostly lurk. )
Edit: Also I forgot to mention, but here is a snippet for a future chapter of Separate Seasons if you haven't seen it: Christmas Present hehe
Chapter 5: [The Coffee Incident Pt. 2]
Notes:
CW: (Fairly) dark themes (i.e. mentions and descriptions of slavery and branding (sorry churine)), flashbacks.
Fun times about.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
> The Coffee Incident Pt. 2 <
“…nturine.”
A deep voice pokes at the edges of Aventurine’s consciousness. It sounds familiar and comforting, but his body feels hot and heavy, so staying asleep seems like the more tempting option here.
Something cold briefly brushes against his cheek.
“Kakavasha.”
Aventurine exhales. He can count on his fingers the number of individuals who know his real name, but only one of them is still alive to address him by it.
Which means that it is time for him to wake up.
His eyes feel gritty and almost sticky with sleep, but Aventurine manages to force his eyes open with a good amount of effort.
“…Veritas?” He croaks as he blinks blearily at the blurry form kneeling next to him. “You’re home?”
Ratio makes a gruff sound. He rocks back on his heels, pulling back his hand as he does so, and Aventurine attempts to chase the fleeting contact with a turn of his head - only to hiss when his neck smarts with the motion.
“Be still.” Comes the stern instruction. “I’ll be back in a moment - I’m going to fetch you some water.”
The doctor vanishes from view. The sound of brisk footsteps followed by the opening and closing of cabinet and fridge doors trickle into Aventurine’s ears. He briefly considers sitting up, but just as swiftly as he had left, Ratio returns with an already uncapped water bottle in his hand. A straw sticks out from the very top, the tip of which is lightly nudged between Aventurine’s dry lips.
“Drink. Slow sips - you are dehydrated.”
Aventurine doesn’t feel like he is, but the thirst hits him as soon as the cold water touches his throat. He is parched.
“You said that you’d call when you’ll leave the hospital.” He recalls when Ratio takes the bottle away from him.
“I did.” Ratio’s expression is pinched as he gestures to Aventurine’s phone. The screen is dark, and when Aventurine swipes at the lock screen, he finds that it has been close to two hours since his last call with Ratio, and… yup, that there it is: three missed calls. “You didn’t picked up.”
“Oh.” Aventurine steals an apologetic glance at the doctor. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Ratio lets out a tired sigh.
“I didn’t think you’d be able to tie off things at work so quickly.” Aventurine says as he slowly sits up. The fact that both of them are home earlier than expected is throwing Aventurine for a loop, but he can’t say that he is unhappy that Ratio is here. “Not that I didn’t believe you when you said that you’d come home early, but I know how much your colleagues love you.”
“It would be extremely telling of their incompetence and complacency if they were unable to function for two final hours without my continued presence. I am not the only attending present on shift.” Ratio blandly states as he puts the half-empty bottle aside and perches himself at the edge of the living room table.
Aventurine lets out an amused sound. “Is that what you told them to convince them to let you leave?”
Ratio does not reply. Aventurine shivers as he feels Ratio’s gaze rake across his form, focused with medical attention. The dark red-amber eyes darken when it reaches his still-covered neck, before finally trailing up and fixing itself somewhere near his hair line.
He suddenly stands, and is crowding into Aventurine’s space the next moment.
“You were struck in the head?” Ratio hisses, furious-sounding. His fingers immediately fly to Aventurine’s temple, but his touch is gentle as he probes around the region.
Aventurine hisses as Ratio finds a tender spot. The combination of painkillers and sleep had muted most of his earlier sores and aches, but they return now with a dull vengeance.
“How did you know?”
“There’s a bruise developing here.” Ratio grabs a penlight from his shirt breast pocket, and waves it against Aventurine’s eyes. It’s a little unnecessary, Aventurine thinks - he’s had enough experience to know what a dangerous head injury may feel like, and this isn’t it - but he knows better than to interrupt Ratio while the doctor is in the middle of… this.
When the penlight clicks off, Aventurine blinks away the bright spots in his vision. “It’s fine, Veritas. They just got a lucky swipe at me, it’s my fault for not noticing It in time.”
“It’s not your fault that you were assaulted.” Ratio points out darkly, and Aventurine blanches.
“…The word ‘assault’ really seems like over-kill. All I did was get in his way—“
“I’m aware that you’ve had many encounters with violence in your lifetime, and that has twisted your concept of the standards by which others can treat you… but the man—“
“It was really just a kid—“
“Someone considered to be of age,” Ratio presses on, “intended to inflict physical harm on your person, and successfully did so. That, by definition, is assault.”
As if to prove his point, Ratio lightly lifts Aventurine’s chin with his fingers. Aventurine’s breath hitches at the movement - not because it hurts, but because an old, trained instinct seems to flare in the back of his mind, and it tells him to brace himself.
He forces himself to ignore the errant thought. Ratio would never hurt him, and he knows this.
Ratio does not seem to have caught onto his internal battle. His eyes are still fixed onto his covered neck, which does nothing to improve Aventurine's nerves.
“Do you want to see it?” He forces himself to ask, and Ratio's eyes finally flicker to his face. Aventurine reaches up anyway - better to get it done and over with in a single swoop than drag this out, “I told you - it's nothing, really–”
“Stop.”
His fingers freeze mid-ascent, which Ratio captures in a tight, but not painful grip. He squeezes slowly, pointedly until Aventurine lowers his hand once more onto his lap. They’re trembling, Aventurine notes almost numbly, though whether from the temperature, or something else, he does not know. His hands are cold, however; that, or Ratio is the one with the raised temperature - the doctor’s hands are almost searing hot against his own.
“I’ll prefer to examine you in the bathroom - somewhere that is better lit than here. It may be more comfortable for you to change as well.”
It takes Aventurine a few moments to realize that he has yet to change out of his coffee-stained work-clothes. His cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“Oh. Right.”
Ratio tips his head forward and silently offers his hand, which Aventurine accepts.
His head still feels out of sorts - whether from the dehydration, from the long impromptu nap, or from the happenings of the day, Aventurine is frankly unsure - and it must show visibly on his face, for Ratio adjusts his grip into a more supportive hold around his waist as soon as Aventurine stumbles onto his feet. If Ratio registers the way Aventurine leans heavily against his form, the doctor chooses not to comment, and merely holds him closer.
It is only after Aventurine has settled himself on the marble steps of the tub and Ratio returns from washing his hands does the doctor finally sigh.
Aventurine assumes it is not one of exasperation - not another ‘how do you get yourself into this amount of trouble again’ or ‘why are you so troublesome’ - but instead, a sigh of resignation. In the past, Aventurine would have brushed off the entire ordeal with a carefree laugh, but he cannot seem to muster up the energy to even fake a smile.
“Are you alright?” Ratio asks kindly. Aventurine already knows it’ll be one of those days because even that is enough to cause his eyes to grow hot.
“Do I not look it? — no, don’t answer that.”
Ratio shakes his head regardless.
He gestures towards the first few buttons on Aventurine’s shirt. “May I?”
There’s an opportunity for a smart quip there, but all he can say is, “please.”
He makes a fruitless attempt to distract himself by considering the various cleaning methods to get coffee stains out of his shirt (who is he kidding, he is probably going to throw it out after today). However, even that is insufficient in keeping his stomach from churning when he feels the inflamed skin being gently tugged as the dressing is pulled away from the skin.
Once exposed, however, Aventurine must admit that cold air feels good against the throbbing skin.
Ratio lets out a controlled exhale of air. Aventurine steals a look at the doctor’s expression, and finds himself surprised to see how furious Ratio looks. It is true that Ratio is a little more than overprotective over him (to Ratio’s own detriment, honestly, but at least Aventurine isn’t gallivanting around different planets in anymore), but the burn, to his recollection, wasn’t that bad.
Not that Aventurine dares to look, no.
“It’s not so bad now, isn’t it?”
Ratio casts him an unimpressed look. ”…We must work on your definitions of ‘not so bad’. Mr Sunday’s definition, as well - that man should stick to treating birds, rather than animals.”
“I’ve been closely compared to a peacock before.” Aventurine offers. “By your counterpart, actually.”
Ratio pointedly ignores that remark.
“…It was just a cup of coffee. I think if he was actually successful in socking me in the eye that second time round, then maybe I’d say it was bad.” Hardly the worst thing to happen to him, but best to not let Ratio know that.
“The fact that he caught you the first time round is already grounds for a lawsuit. And while I applaud your self-defense capabilities, I would also like to remind you that I’ve worked enough shifts in the ER to know how dangerous a ‘cup of coffee’ can be, Aventurine.” Ratio remarks darkly, but his touch is gentle as he slowly nudges Aventurine’s face with the back side of his fingers.
He bites his lip as he feels the doctor’s fingers ghost above the inflamed skin, but Ratio makes no attempt to touch.
“…Do not be mistaken, if this had gotten on your face, if it was even a scant millimetre larger than what it is now, we would be having this discussion in the hospital, not at home. As it is, I am certain this must be hurting you significantly, even if you’ve judged it to be ‘not so bad’.”
“It…” Aventurine licks his bottom lip. “It does hurt. A lot.”
“Yes, most burns tend to do so, unfortunately.”
It almost a relief to have the pain validated by Ratio - that means he isn’t completely crazy, that isn’t maybe-overreacting to the whole incident. He isn’t. He shouldn’t be. He doesn’t think so. Right?
However, Ratio’s attention on his person comes with an increased sense of hyper-self-awareness. The dull throb of the burn is one thing, but there is also the almost chalky-dryness to his mouth, and the pounding of his heart in his chest - and no, it is not because Ratio is looking at him so intently. His cheeks feel flushed, and his palms sweaty against the marble tiles, yet there’s a pervasive chill that Aventurine just can’t quite shake off no matter how hard he tries.
His vision seems to tunnel, then shutters — in and out around around Ratio’s concerned form. He blinks rapidly, as if in a helpless bid to ward off the shadows, but then he seems to lose control over that too - blinking.
“Aventurine!”
He may have listed over, Aventurine isn’t sure, but the next thing he knows, Ratio has moved forward to capture him in an almost-embrace. Aventurine’s head is loosely braced - tucked - into the doctor’s shoulder, and a hand curls into his hair, applying just enough pressure to keep Aventurine present.
Oh. Oh - Aventurine remembers enough to suck in a few, unsteady breathes. Did he just…?
“Sorry— just— light-headed.” He manages to say, hopefully without a slur. “’Swear ‘s not a head injury—“
“It’s unlikely that, unless you’re extremely unlucky.” Ratio answers evenly, but his other hand is already on Aventurine’s wrist, and Aventurine knows that he must be counting. “You’re in shock.”
Still?
He breathes noisily into Ratio’s shoulder.
“No, ‘m—,” fine, he is about to say, but he catches himself. “…just — just give me a min’.”
A full-body tremor goes through him, and Aventurine feels Ratio pull him closer to fully lean against his own warm body, solid and steady like a rock. Aventurine lets himself go limp.
“We should get you warm. Do you think you can handle a bath? I’ll redress your burn after.” There is a pause, as if the doctor is considering something, then, “if treated properly, it should heal without leaving a scar—“
Scar?
He stiffens. Scar - the word echoes in his head, and something seems to crawl forward from the recesses of his mind.
.
Scar.
Scar.
S ̸̢̘̗̖͒͊͂͗̊̕c̵͎͑̄a̴͙̯̥̦̩̐̍r̸̼̣̱̈́̾̉̋́͜?̶̡̛̻͔̤̳̘̉́̏̊͘̚
.
A sound leaves him - a whimper? Or perhaps a soft keen - and Aventurine instinctively clutches onto Ratio’s arm. He makes another protesting sound when the doctor pulls back instead, his expression pinched in deep concern. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing’s wrong, Aventurine wants to say, but the words (lie?) are stuck in his throat.
“It,” he eventually manages to force out, “it won’t scar, right?” If he had been in a better state of mind, Aventurine may have feigned vainness, or at least something to that extent. As it stands, however, he is painfully aware that such a facade is a little more than out of reach for him in his current state.
It doesn’t matter. Aventurine is certain that Ratio can and will see through any of his attempts at a disguise. Aventurine lacks even the capacity to feel shame for his present distress.
If Ratio is puzzled by the direction of his priorities, he does not show it. He only tips his head ever so slightly, his gaze still thoughtfully observant (concerned) as he slowly answers, “no, not if we treat it appropriately—“
.
It is probably to no one
’s surprise that many of the
slaves
individuals that had been taken never made it to the market. Damaged during
‘transport’ and/or ‘processing’, as you will.
Some did not survive the shock - and those who did were left to ‘recover’ in unsanitary conditions.
Many more fell victim to infection.
.
“Aventurine.” His shoulder is squeezed, and someone cups his cheek, guiding his unfocused eyes to their - his, Ratio’s - person. “Tell me what is distressing you.”
.
Technically, the skin should have been instantly cauterized, but that was only if the iron was hot enough, if it had been held still long enough— sometimes the surrounding skin bubbled and blistered. It was those burns that had the higher chance of festering.
If one survived the infection, those were the burns that healed over the messiest. The ugliest.
.
“I need to tell you something.” Aventurine hears himself say. His voice is surprisingly even, and serene-sounding, almost.
“What is it?”
“Something…” Something feels wrong. “My head doesn’t feel right.”
“What do you mean?” Ratio’s hand immediately flies to his temple, then goes up to his hair, as if to feel for another point of injury.
That’s not it. Aventurine bats it off weakly, and shakes his head. “Not… not physically. I just keep—“
Hearing things.
Seeing things.
Feeling sensations that are not there.
Remembering things.
“Was your head knocked against any other surface?” There’s an urgency in the doctor’s voice. “Did you fall, perhaps?”
“No— I didn’t hit my head. I— I don’t think so—“
“You don’t think so?” Ratio sharply interrupts, eyes narrow. “Aventurine, did you lose consciousness at any point of time?”
Did he? But if he had, Sunday would have said something, right? But Sunday hadn’t said anything, and all Aventurine remembers is standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom one moment, and then he was on the floor the next.
He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. He didn’t even remember having thrown up, and yet he did. And most importantly, for however long it had been, Aventurine didn’t remember anything, couldn’t remember who and where he was until—
“I don’t know.” He whispers, breath hitching erratically. “I don’t—“
R ̷͍̼͈̫̈́̏e̷̫͉̹̲̋̉̿̿ṃ̶̟̱̏e̷̞͚̓̈́́m̸̖̓b̵̖̯͎̍̾͝é̵̡̪r̴̭̋́.̸̙̜̐̍͘
“Something doesn’t—“
Two hands clamp onto his arms - hesitant at first, then more tightly as the world begins to shake and tunnel—
…No— the world isn’t the one that is shaking.
Something hot slips down his face.
No. Not the tears—
.
“Is the pretty li ██ e slave cry █ g? ”
(No—no—no— his eyes were dry.)
“This is only the beginning, you know?”
(The taste of leather in hi █ mouth—)
“It’ll only be worse for you from here on out—“
(The taste of tears salt in
his
i
̸̪̭͚̟͉̈t̷̡͔͐s̷̥̘̩̊͛̽͂̀̽͑
m
██
th —
)
.
“I— I don’t feel—“
.
(There
’s
white,
hot pain— it
’s the worst pain he has ever felt.
)
(The smell —)
.
He wrenches away and falls hard onto his knees, and he gags and heaves as his stomach twists and twists until it hurts. Nothing substantial comes out; only a small amount of water and bile that paints the tiled floor. His knees smart from the drop, and he drags a ragged breath in— and lets a sob out.
.
“Don’t you dare make a mess in here!”
The sound of chains clanking against each other echoes loudly in his ears.
He is dragged over the hard gravel, and brought outside. Here, the air is almost frigid compared to the sweltering warmth of the forge.
He curls up as soon as he is able to, sheer instinct telling him to protect his most vulnerable parts even when he no longer can.
.
Hands reach out, grabbing him, but he grits his teeth and snarls, snapping out at them. Eyes unseeing, he throws his arms out, and like an animal who fears pain death, he claws.
“Leave me alone,” he cries out - the dulcet sibilance of his home tongue lost to pain and guttural fear.
The hands disappear, he sobs first in relief, and then in sorrow as his neck throbs in its reminder that it’s too late.
.
.
.
(Is it really too late?)
.
Why? Why weren
’t they
isn
’t
he
afforded any mercy?
Why is it only suffering after suffering after s
̴͎̺͙̆̔̌͐͜u̸͓͙͕̿͘f̵̧̟̦̟̋͒̀̂̈́f̶̛̫̯͊̐̈́̑e̷͍̔͜r̴̡͍̞̱͊̾̐́̐i̸̮͊͌͆n̶̖͒͂̋g̶̹̲͚̻͘?̴̲̳̒̊͘ͅ
?
(All he wanted was to see the dawn with his sister.)
…Now, all he wants is—
.
With shaking hands, he reaches up to gouge at his own neck. Blunt nails cannot easily pierce the skin, but they still feel like a a hot knife against the already inflamed skin.
It hurts. It’s redorangewhite hot pain over pain over pain.
But
… he’s lucky, isn’t he?
Perhaps— maybe— maybe he’d go mad instead—
But his luck is not on his side. Someone is grabbing onto his arms, and this time, he is too weak, too delirious from pain to fight back. He shakes and sobs as he is drawn against something solid and his arms are pinned against his chest.
“’vasha.”
.
Through the pain, he whispers a prayer that will not be heard.
(He does not pray to Mother Fenge.)
.
.
.
“Sister?”
(
“Why are we born just to suffer?”)
.
.
.
He remembers now.
(Oh, how he wishes( wished?) he were dead—)
.
.
.
~~~
“Scar reduction technologies exist out there, y’know?” Topaz (Or was it Jelena, then?) says over her hundred-layer sundae. On her lap, her pet trotter squeals as they wait eagerly for a bite. Sugar can’t be good for warp trotters (what with their nerves and what not), he imagines, but he is certainly not going to tell his fellow colleague that.
They ’ve just finished their training, which ran overnight. It’s a good thing that many shops and diners in Pier Point stay open at all hours, because Topaz(?) is intolerable when she’s hungry. Her trotter too.
They ’re seated next to a window, and outside, the dawn sky is transforming into a heavenly orange-pink.
“So?”
“So—“ She gestures to his neck. “You can get that removed if you wanted to. I know you get a lot of flack from it.”
He doesn ’t care. In the end, he knows he ’ll be better than them. The odds are always in his favour, after all. He shrugs, and sticks a fry into his own, smaller sundae. “I’m not allowed to. At least, I don’t think so.”
“You could always ask Madame Jade.”
He raises an eyebrow at her easy statement. “And offer her what, in exchange? My soul?”
“You have one?” Topaz(?) asks in fake disbelief, and he laughs. She’s teasing, he knows, but—
“Nope.” He sticks the fry in his mouth. It tastes sweet, with a hint of salt from the fry - and he wonders if this is what freedom is meant to taste like. “I don’t. Guess that silly thing got sold a long time ago.”
.
.
.
For the second (third) time that day, Aventurine’s awareness returns to him in fits and starts - starting with the sensation of an object that has been tucked into his palm. Its surface feels matte and rubber-like, and its buffed edges soft against his fingers.
The second thing he notices is the sound of a heartbeat, thrumming slow and regular against his ear. Someone is holding him - cradling him, even, as if he is a precious, delicate object to be held - against their solid form, and he feels their breath, warm and moist, fan against his forehead. Something covers him loosely, not quite as smooth like a blanket - a towel, perhaps.
Aventurine sighs, and tucks his head further into their chest. He slowly closes his fingers around the object in his palm, and squeezes.
It squeaks. Loudly.
“Aventurine?” Ratio’s rumbles lowly.
He allows the rubber duck to roll from his fingers, and wriggles his splayed fingers. Within seconds, Ratio’s hands are sliding against his, their fingers interlacing with each other’s in a smooth motion. Ratio’s hand feels like a furnace compared to his own.
“Veritas.” He manages to offer faintly. “We were… we were talking, weren’t we? Why am I…”
His memory is once again spotty - this happened earlier in the cafe too. Aventurine had been looking at himself in the mirror for one moment, and then he was on the ground. He was speaking to Ratio, and then—
From the edge of his vision, he catches sight of a small towel not too far away, spread uncharacteristically carelessly on the tile, as if to cover up a small mess. He winces as he moves his head in the wrong direction; that is hurting fiercely too, more so than before. A lot of him, Aventurine belatedly realizes, is aching dully, as if he has had a fall, except…
…Did he?
He jolts in place, and something akin to dread and shames washes over him. He hastily makes to sit up, to look around the bathroom for any evidence that his fears are correct, but he is stopped by Ratio’s firm grip around his shoulders.
It is perhaps for good reason - Aventurine’s vision swims in a less than pleasant way, and he lets out a soft groan.
“Don’t move too suddenly.” Ratio rumbles lowly. After a moment, Aventurine reattempts to raise his head, and squints as the doctor’s face comes into focus.
As always, Aventurine can never tell what the doctor is thinking when Ratio’s wears his mask of medical professionalism - but his eyes are notably dark with concern as he rakes his eyes across Aventurine’s face.
“How are you feeling? Are you feeling sick or light-headed? Tell me if so.”
Aventurine doesn’t answer him - instead, he stares long and hard at two long scratches that have somehow appeared on Ratio’s cheek. They hadn’t been there before.
“Did—“ he chokes, and reaches out with trembling fingers. “Did I do that?”
“It’s barely even a scratch.” Ratio huffs, appearing unconcerned with his own state. His hair and attire appears slightly mussed as well - as if he had been in a small scuffle with a wild, feral creature - but there doesn’t appear to be any other harm inflicted on his person besides the raised, pink welt on his cheeks.
Aventurine numbly reaches out, noting that Ratio hadn’t said no.
“I hurt you.” He whispers in horror.
“No, you did not.” Ratio insists with a small stubborn shakes of his head. “It was my fault for grabbing you when you were evidently in the midst of a traumatic flashback. You were reacting instinctively to perceived harm.”
Aventurine barely processes the doctor’s words. “But I hurt you—“
“It will be gone within a few days - Aventurine, look at me.” The doctor seizes his hand before Aventurine can snatch it away, and presses his palm against the injured cheek. Aventurine initially jumps at the contact, his breath hitching with panic, but Ratio merely watches him evenly, and eventually goes as far to nuzzle against his trembling palm. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
“You’re not saying that to make me feel better, are you?”
Ratio tips his head into Aventurine’s touch and slowly blinks. “…I wouldn’t disagree with that, but it is the truth.”
His sincerity cuts through Aventurine’s panic for just a moment, but that gives him enough time and clarity to properly examine Ratio’s face and confirm that his nails (he presumes it is caused by his nails, what else if not) had not drawn any blood. Some scraped skin, yes, but Ratio does not flinch when Aventurine traces the line with his shaky fingers.
Ratio is right. Aventurine has dealt with his fair share of wounds, and this will heal within a day or two. It still does not change that fact that Aventurine is the one to inflict it on Ratio’s person. Ratio may not hold it against him, but that does not mean Aventurine wouldn’t feel bad.
“Your handsome face…” He mourns. He will insist upon applying antiseptic cream over it later.
“I’ll say that a stray cat attempted to maul me, if anyone asks,” comes the dry, almost deadpan answer, but Ratio turns his head to kiss the inside of his palm anyway. “Though I am certain it will heal before anyone can notice.”
“If… you are certain.”
“I am - I am the doctor between the two of us.” Ratio reminds him with barely an inflection of smugness, before his expression grows somber and serious once more. “Now to address the more pressing points… Aventurine, do you remember what happened?”
Aventurine drops his gaze. There it is again, the shame.
“I remember.” He admits thinly, without looking up. Ratio’s hand starts to draw soothing circles on his back. “…I don’t know what happened, exactly, but I remember. You said that I had a…”
“A flashback.”
Aventurine distinctively remembers Ratio calling it a traumatic flashback, but he does not point that out.
“Do you know what that is?” Ratio asks him more gently.
He jerks his head to the side once. No.
“It refers to when an individuals involuntarily experiences a, most often, traumatic memory. It may feel as thought one is reliving the entire event - seeing, hearing, feeling, or even smelling and tasting sensations that are not actually physically present.” A pause. “…Does this sound familiar to you?”
Aventurine thinks about how realistic the smell of burning skin had been, and his stomach immediately rolls at the reminder. He nods shakily, and presses his face against Ratio’s shoulder. “Sounds… right on the mark, I think.” He agrees weakly.
Ratio continues to stroke his back as he nods to himself. “Given your history, I should have expected it.”
There should have been some relief from knowing what all of this is - these… intense moments (attacks?) of dissociation, but Aventurine doesn’t feel that immediately. His chest feels unbearably tight, and his fingers twitch against the doctor’s shirt.
The hand that had been stroking his back suddenly stops. A moment later, Ratio is guiding his head to further nestle into the crevice between his shoulder and neck, and lightly squeezes his nape. “Aventurine. Breathe.”
Aventurine lets out the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. While he typically does not like the smell of hospital that tends to linger on Ratio after work (prior to the doctor’s baths), Aventurine finds himself suddenly incredibly fond towards it as he sucks in the familiar, now comforting smell.
“S-sorry—“ He manages to stammer. For what is he apologizing for - his… flashback, his current behaviour and state (mess) - Aventurine isn’t too sure himself.
“There is no need for you to apologize for things that are out of your control. If anything, I should be apologizing for my own negligence on the matter. Has this happened to you before?”
Before? Before before? Or before the most recent one?
Aventurine nods hesitantly.
“Earlier today? Or have there been other occurrences prior to today?”
“Just today. At work. It was when I was cleaning myself up.” He answers, although with far less of his usual confidence - his memories are pretty spotty, after all. He cannot clearly recall what he had been thinking… or perhaps he simply doesn’t want to. “I… was looking in the mirror, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground.”
He hadn’t known who he was, for a bit. Aventurine remembers that bit of confusion, at least.
Ratio stays silent for a moment, then softly asks, “…and were you alone, when it happened?”
He shakes his head. “At first, but then Sunday was there. I don’t know how long but— he was there when… I came back around.”
“Sunday? He didn’t say or asked anything about it?”
“No. He… He just kept me company. Gave me water. Told me to have a doctor look at me after. Guess he was right, after all.”
“He has my thanks.”
Aventurine’s eyes snap up to Ratio’s face in surprise, and he flushes as soon as he realizes how intently Ratio has been watching him. “I— you were criticizing his efforts, earlier.” He manages to say in a weak attempt of a joke.
Ratio tips his head in acknowledgment. “His medical judgment, perhaps, but I am glad he did not leave you alone immediately after, or pressed for details.”
That was rather nice of him, Aventurine mentally agreed. He thought so too. Being vulnerable in front of the ex-Halovian is probably the last thing Aventurine ever wants to (consciously) do, but Sunday was more agreeable than Aventurine thought him initially to be.
He is still a bit of a sassy asshole, though. Aventurine is glad to see that some things hasn’t changed.
“…You do not need to tell me this if you don’t want to, but can you tell me, which specific memory your flashback was about? Or, memories, if plural.” Ratio suddenly asks, and quickly follows up with an explanation: “These flashbacks are often caused by specific triggers. It may be specific sensations or situations, but it will be helpful to know what they are. So that we can avoid them, in the future.”
Ah.
When it is put that way…
Aventurine nervously licks his lips. Without thinking, he tips his head to the right, and this time barely fazes at the way the inflamed skin tugs and pulls with the motion.
“…it was… about the day I was branded.” Ratio stills. ”They… they used a branding iron. It’s rather rudimentary, given how advanced the technology compared to, well, these present times, but it wasn’t…”
Ratio interrupts him. “And you were branded on this side of your neck?”
The doctor’s tone is deceptively neutral. Calm, like the surface of a lake, but Aventurine can sense the growing tension, bubbling beneath trained muscle and skin. Of course, Ratio knows about his somewhat brief history as a slave; Aventurine has indulged him on that topic to some extent, at least.
(Brief, is rather debatable. Aventurine isn’t sure if he ever stopped becoming a slave, ever after joining the IPC. Corporate slavery is a thing, after all - in this world too - but at least the Strategic Investments Department compensated him rather generously for his efforts.)
Aventurine always glossed over the topic of the slave brand, however. For one, his neck is spotless here, the skin smooth and scarless and free of that permanent, damning mark that denoted him as property. Perhaps he had feared that if he brought it up, its once-existence would change things between him and Ratio.
Or perhaps, Aventurine wanted to pretend that it never existed in the first place. Perhaps, he want to forget how it was earned, and instead replace it with the memory of kisses being peppered against the same spot on lazy, non-workday mornings. Is it so terrible for him to want that sort of memories, than the former?
But Ratio is intelligent - a genius, even - and it certainly shouldn’t take a genius to put all of these pieces together. With every second that passes with (or without) Aventurine’s silence, Ratio is putting information together in that clever, hard-working brain of his.
He breathes out slowly, and nods sharply - once.
“…That is why the mention of scarring triggered you.” Ratio concludes.
“Maybe? I think? The pain doesn’t help too.”
“Not in that specific location, I’d doubt so.”
Aventurine briefly considers the strange, keyed-up state that he has (had) been in for the past few hours, and wonders, “I… might have already been on edge since after the incident.”
“The violence from today’s assault, the site of injury, and the burn, then - that would certainly explain things.” Ratio states with the same bland, detached tone one (well, past-Aventurine) might use when writing an executive summary. His touch is far from clinical, however, and Aventurine finds himself having been drawn more closely towards the doctor.
In some ways, Aventurine feels better now - the combination of being held by Ratio, as well as being able to put a name on what he had experienced earlier does a lot to soothe frayed nerves. With newfound understanding, however, comes the resurgence of shame.
“…How silly of me.” He starts to say, chuckling uneasily as he did so. “…A cup of coffee. It isn’t as bad as a branding iron, all things considered. Just a bit of hot water. And I didn’t even feel it at first, until I looked at the mirror. It’s just an overreaction on my part— wouldn’t even scar—“
Of course it wouldn’t - it’s just a little burn, after all, not even bad enough to blister, much less blacken and char. Just a little… just a little burn, a small one, but, “it just hurts, that’s all—“
He yelps as Ratio seizes him into a hug, and firmly shakes his head.
“Do not put yourself down like that. You were in a distressing situation that reminded you strongly of an extremely traumatic event in your life. It is no wonder that you are so shaken still.”
Ratio’s words are furious-sounding, but their heat is completely softened by the way the doctor is gently carding his fingers through Aventurine’s hair and rubbing his (still trembling) back.
Ratio isn't angry at him, in this instance. He is angry for him.
It’s also an anger that comes much too late, in the whole grand scheme of things - not that it is any fault of his. Nor of Aventurine’s, of that matter.
Aventurine’s expression twists once more as his chest swells with a mixture of a turbulent emotions; a small part of him is still shaken by the old fears and memories of a nightmare scenario he once lived through, but a bigger part of him feels overwhelmed with relief, fondness, and gratitude.
The latter set of emotions eventually wins - but of course they do. The past can only ever haunt you, but they’re still gone (and preferably dead, Aventurine thinks bitterly to himself). Meanwhile, Ratio is here.
Ratio, who breathes his name into his hair and lets Aventurine clutch helplessly onto his shirt with no concerns of tear stains and bodily fluids and the like.
“I’m— your shirt,” he warbles uneasily, tears escaping him despite his panicked attempts to wipe them off.
Ratio catches his wrists, and shakes his head. “It can be washed.”
“B-but— I’ve… I’ve made a mess, haven’t I? I should— I can clean it up.” Aventurine feebly replies, although he has resigned to having his tears wiped by the doctor’s stubborn hands (“let me do it - you’ll hurt your eyes if you rub it too hard.”).
“Leave it to me. As I’ve said, do not apologize for things that are out of your control - none of this is your fault.”
Ratio murmurs reassurances for several more minutes until Aventurine’s tears have dried. Then, he helps Aventurine to his feet, guiding him away from the tub, and towards the shower instead.
“I’ll examine and re-dress your injuries later - but first we should shower.”
“Shower?” Aventurine asks, confused.
“I think it will be prudent for us to avoid exposing you to excessive heat for a few days.” Ratio answers neutrally as he reaches down to retrieve the abandoned rubber ducky on the ground. “Hold this.”
Aventurine clumsily accepts it. “You’re right. Maybe a cold shower would be nice.”
“Not too cold. If you feel like another flashback is imminent, tell me - or squeeze that.” He encases Aventurine’s hand, the one with the duck, and squeezes. The resulting squeak has him startling, but Ratio is correct. It does help him feel a little better. Clearer.
He should have known that Ratio would have a solution for everything. Now, the question, of course, is if Ratio can fix him…
~~~
.
.
.
…Someone is staring back at him.
Soulless rings of luminescent pink and cyan blink at him, slow and tired.
…These are the so-called ‘blessed’ eyes.
Blessed, by Mama Fenge.
These are eyes that carry the weight of a now-extinct clan.
Their skin is pale but dirty, and their hollow cheeks are marred with streaks of grey and crusty red-brown. Their face is sunken, framed by crudely cut blond hair. A heavy-set metal shackle sits low against their collar.
The skin above the neck shackle - on the left, specifically, is a vibrant red. It appears hot to the touch - the skin inflamed, irritated, and in other spots, blistering, even blackened.
When healed, the skin will forever reflect their new fate.
.
.
.
This is not a person.
This is p
̷̩̭͊̓̓͊͝r̶̛͍̫̣̾̕͝ȯ̶̲̹͜p̶̬̤͍̮̦̎͌͌̃͒e̶̤͂r̴̨̙͐̍̈́̍͊t̵̹̘͔̪͖̋̈́̉̄y̵̝̿̇̐̄̂͜.
.
.
.
Later that night, Aventurine jerks awake with a sharp intake of breath.
“We’re in bed,” Ratio reminds him in a sleep-husky voice before Aventurine’s body can jump to panic, the arm around his waist remaining still and loose until Aventurine’s tension dissipates.
“Thanks.” He breathes out. His fingers search and find the familiar, soft-plush fabric of not-Numby’s torso (“it’ll ground you,” Ratio had said when he fetched the toy from the next room before they had gone to bed); he folds the toy pig into some semblance of a hug, then turns to curl into Ratio’s body heat.
Ratio’s arm finally tightens around his waist, but not before drawing the comforter higher up their bodies.
Despite the ensuing silence, Aventurine knows that Ratio is far from asleep. The doctor’s fingers are drawing slow, misshaped circles into his back, and Aventurine just knows that the man won’t sleep until he is certain Aventurine has.
“So you say you’ve never had practice with this?" Aventurine asks a few minutes later, when sleep continues to evade him (or perhaps it is him evading sleep instead). “No ninth specialization in… what would this classify as, brain science?”
“Neurology is my fourth specialization, but I’m certain post-traumatic stress disorder falls under either psychology or psychiatry.”
Aventurine blinks at the unfamiliar term, then files it somewhere in his memory to maybe revisit never. “So… none of those two, then?”
“No.” There’s a pause, before Ratio quietly confesses, “I must admit that I am partially out of my depth. Psychology was never a course I paid particular attention too.”
“…Is that an admission that the Great Veritas Ratio slacked off in one of his classes? How human of you.”
Fingers lightly flick at his head, but the action is more fond than it is reprimanding. “Spare me the lecture. My younger self did not have the best aptitude for it. Now, perhaps things might be different, but there are more than enough doctors who are excellent in that field.”
Despite being completely aware that Ratio has work in the morning and that he probably needs a decent amount of uninterrupted sleep, Aventurine cannot help but press at him a little more. “What’s the difference between the young Veritas Ratio and the one I’m currently in bed with, then?”
“…I was less patient, then. Most fields of medicine are more straightforward than others. The ones that were too complex - that took too long for me to wrap my head around - I had little patience for. It was only after I finished my fifth or sixth residency that I realized I was already… far beyond my peers, and that time is something that I can actually afford myself.”
What a strange thought that is - Veritas Ratio with such a common, human weakness. Impatience.
“Did you feel like you were out of time?”
He feels Ratio shake his head.
“I don’t know… perhaps I felt a desire to prove myself - or to prove it to everyone else, even if I did not need to. Everyone around me knew that I was more intelligent than most individuals of my age group, and yet…”
“You were fifteen when you started medical school.” Aventurine recalls.
“Yes, but I was barred from gaining practical experience until I was of age - my peers had at least two additional years behind them, while I was stuck behind books… yes, perhaps I did feel like I was out of time.”
Ironic. Considering the technicalities, Ratio would have had the most time compared to everyone else.
(Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aventurine thinks about the Veritas Ratio who was ruthlessly ignored by THEM, and wonders if that was what he felt as well: An overwhelming pressure to exceed everyone else’s expectations of his person. Is that another reason why he wears that marble bust? How else would he have not buckled to the curious eyes, all wondering, whispering - when will Veritas Ratio be recognized by THEM?
How… disheartening, Aventurine thinks to himself as he snuggles into Ratio’s chest - as if to offer some delayed form of comfort (although to who, really, is the question); to think that Ratio would be subject to that as well, in this world.)
(Perhaps some things are scripted.
Like him, losing his parents and sister. Like Ratio, having to grow up much too quickly.
Then again, they both did.
Aventurine wonders what else is scripted.
…Them meeting each other?)
He stirs when he feels Ratio press a kiss to his hairline. Aventurine tilts his head up to return the gesture, and winces as the burn is tugged and pulled in an unpleasant manner. He ignores the pain anyway, and presses his lips to Ratio’s chiseled jaw.
“Careful.” Ratio mumbles.
Aventurine is fair, of course. When Ratio shares something personal, Aventurine feels inclined to do so as well.
“This has never happened before.” He quietly says.
Even when potentially sleep-addled, Ratio catches the topic-switch immediately. “Not even before? In your previous world?”
Before… that’s an interesting point. Aventurine isn’t actually sure, to be honest. Then again, he was fortunate to only have been branded once… if that is something to feel ‘lucky’ about.
“I don’t think I ever had the liberty for it. Might have been occupied with trying to stay alive.” Or finding ways to make the entire universe burn, and taking himself down while he was at it.
“…Are you frightened of it?”
“Terrified.” He answers honestly. “I feel better now, knowing that there’s a name to it, but… I don’t exactly want to revisit those memories. They put me in a terrible head space. There are things that I miss from before, but these memories don’t fall into that category.”
“This isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of recovery… even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
“It definitely doesn’t feel like it.” He says dryly. Aventurine can only hope that this is a one-off incident. “To forget where I am, when I am - and who I am. To feel… it again—“
He certainly does not want to be scared out of his skin whenever he gets a little hot water on him. And he has dealt with pain before, a lot of it, even, and nothing has ever caused such an extreme reaction as a stupid cup of coffee—
“It’ll go away, right? Because I can’t be having these flashbacks every time something hot gets on me. What’s next, the bath? Eating soup and a little spills over me? I’m a barista, for Aeon’s sake—“
His spiraling thoughts must have been palpable, for Ratio suddenly sits up, and the bedside lamp is suddenly turned on to its dimmest setting. Aventurine makes a soft whine of protest as his living, breathing space heater is displaced, but then Ratio pulls him - pooling blankets and Not-Numby and all - up into his lap, and—
Oh. Aventurine blinks blearily into the dimly-lit room. Yes.
He rests his head limply against Ratio’s chest, and Ratio’s hand settles on top of his head, stroking lightly.
“Why can’t it be over? They’ve already branded me once. Why do they keep coming back, even after I’ve killed them all?”
If Ratio is at all unnerved by Aventurine’s admission of murder, he does not directly show or act as such. He continues to settle Aventurine the same way one would with a ruffled cat - with gentle words and touches.
“You’re safe here.” Ratio murmurs reassuringly. “No one will be able to hurt you like that ever again.”
“I know that.” Aventurine whines.
“You’ve had hard days before. It has never stopped you from being yourself. Today might be the hardest day, but that means it’ll only get better from here.”
“And what if it doesn’t?”
Ratio doesn’t answer him - but he continues to hold Aventurine until he falls asleep, and that, in itself, is an answer.
~~~
Notes:
So. There's gonna be a part 3, but that will be in two chapters because I need a break from writing this particular arc *waves hands vaguely in the air*. Posting schedules are gonna be weird bc I've moved time zones and started a new job, so that's that. Don't send work emails at 4am in the morning when you're jetlagged but think you *aren't* jetlagged - you probably are...
ANYWAY,
I made a sort-of formatting guide-slash-come edit/format this scene with me for this chapter, and it is posted on my twitter and bsky over heres (Twitter / Bsky). It's honestly.... not as helpful as you think it might be, because the jump between my drafts tend to be a little cuckoo (at least imo) - but I've annotated it heavily, and if you're interested, by all means. I'll probably do a few more of those in the future, especially for the really formatting-heavy scenes.Thank you for all the kudos / comments / bookmarks since the last update <3 I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well! -Vemy
Chapter 6: [Checkmate]
Summary:
The chessboard is an unlikely, but not unwelcome battleground.
...
Ratio has always liked the idea of challenging himself, but this certainly puts a whole new meaning into the idea.
Notes:
Lost media is the one draft of this chapter (and part 3 of the coffee incident) that got booped out of existence when I first moved across continents. But w o a h, what is this chapter? Could it be...? The long awaited meeting of Ratio x Ratio and their saucy chess match? I think it is! (lmfao). Happy reading, and know that Vemy (me) suffered to write this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
> Checkmate<
Migraines are not an unfamiliar concept to Ratio, although they do plague him less often as they do Aventurine.
Their rarity is a tender mercy, for Ratio especially despises how they make him feel. The pain, in itself, isn’t the issue. He is capable of compartmentalizing it in a manner that is probably (most certainly) unnatural - but it works - but the effort will leave him in a peculiar limbo of active-mind and inactive… everything else.
“Veritas?”
A familiar set of eyes flit into Ratio ’s view, magenta and cyan rings appearing entirely luminescent against the dark bathroom. Ratio raises his head slowly in acknowledgment as the curious creature (human being - that is Aventurine Kakavasha) quietly navigates across the marbled floor and sinks down next to him, on the steps of the bath.
Concerned eyes peer at him. The water ripples when fingers reach in, as if testing the warmth.
“Are you okay? You’ve been in here for a while. You’ll get cold soon.”
Ratio opens his mouth.
He thinks he might have said something, for Aventurine ’s expression morphs from concern into something more akin to understanding. The blonde nods once, then stands - and disappears from the room.
Logic informs Ratio that Aventurine will likely come back - that he did not disappear as much as he has left the room to do something else - something for Ratio, no less - but Ratio ’s chest aches nevertheless, his hands clenching into fists underwater as he belatedly processes the too-quiet space.
Where have you gone?
The hollow feeling is vaguely nostalgic, but mostly frustrating - and irrationally devastating. Ratio cannot remember the last time he has felt Aventurine ’s absence so keenly. Their frequent interactions and eventual proximity (courtesy of co-habitation, of course) has been more than sufficient to dull that ever-present edge, but this migraine is apparently challenging Ratio’s mental (emotional) resolve.
…And testing Ratio’s tolerance towards his other self.
Someone touches his hair, careful and light, and Ratio opens his eyes - he doesn ’t remember when he closed them in the first place. Aventurine has returned, a towel draped across his arm, and his eyes are soft as Ratio presses his cheek into the offering hand.
“I’ve set up the bed for you.”
Ratio blinks, eyebrows furrowing at Aventurine ’s choice of words.
In the dark, he sees Aventurine rolling his eyes. “For us , of course, ” he corrects, almost patronizingly, “but mostly for you right now - silly doctor. Come on. Up you get.”
—
.
.
.
Dreams are rather unusual things.
This is not an opinion that is specific or unique to one Veritas Ratio. After all, both scientists and philosophers - the former is arguably a subset of the latter - have long pondered about its function and meaning. It is not sufficient to understand the how or why of dreaming.
The hardest question, is perhaps, what.
What is a dream?
Are they true ‘experiences’? Is it possible to be conscious while asleep? How does one experience the paradoxical waking dreams when they are theoretically ‘asleep’? What defines sleep?
Why does life slumber?
Frankly speaking, Ratio has no interest in delving into the specifics of sleep and dream. As much as he enjoys going down proverbial philosophical rabbit holes, even he has limits.
A proper in-depth study would require a mixture of biological, psychological and cognitive sciences strung together by philosophical and ontological concepts, and frankly speaking, Ratio has more than enough on his plate.
.
“Do you really?” Aventurine muses without looking up from his journal, hands still deftly scribbling a form of script Ratio does not recognize.
He ’ll learn it eventually.
Ratio levels him an unimpressed look, and Aventurine sneaks him a cheeky wink.
.
It is not his research ethic that has fizzled off, mind you. Ratio is simply convinced that the present world is not nearly advanced enough to properly study said phenomenon, and he has only become more sure of this since meeting Aventurine.
(It is perhaps unironic that Aventurine is the better expert on the topic of dreams than Ratio himself, but the barista grimaces at the mere mention of the topic - ‘memoria’ - and Ratio has no inclinations of opening that particular can of proverbial worms.)
Shallow research does not appeal to Ratio as much as it may do so to other individuals, and to borrow a metaphor from Aventurine - he has bigger (non-literal) fishes to fry.
Like dealing with hospital interns while grappling with the logistics of semi-co-adopting / co-fostering an extremely intelligent child that has gotten understandably (emotionally) attached to Aventurine and himself.
There is also the part where he has to come to terms with his recently-acquired knowledge that there is likely an infinite number of parallel universes and realities that contain different versions of himself, but that is arguably the easier of the problems to deal with. Ratio has always known the universe to be rather… infinite - and the pursuit of science, while laudable, is akin to chipping at a cliff face.
…Nevertheless, he has never felt more vindicated to learn that said cliff-face is, in fact, a metaphysical mountain range that still continue to grow as he breathes —
.
—They truly live such insignificant lives.
.
There is also the matter of … his other self .
—
.
.
.
The chessboard is an unlikely, but not unwelcome battleground.
.
Ratio has always liked the idea of challenging himself, but this certainly puts a whole new meaning into the idea.
…What a strange occurrence this is.
It’s like staring into a mirror, except Ratio knows that he does not have any outfit that looks like that. Furthermore, any observant eye should be able to pick out the differences between the man sitting across from him, and… well, himself.
This Ratio wears fewer lines beneath his eyes, but there is an unmistakeable shadow that lingers within the dark amber orbs, and a heaviness in the manner he holds himself despite the ever-straight posture. Ratio feels tired just looking at him - which is a peculiar thought, considering that this is most certainly a dream (…of a sort).
The expression is not a sight that Ratio is unfamiliar with; he has seen it before, in senior doctors and Emeritus professors and scientists. Those who are considered masters in their own fields - gods among men - chipped and worn away by the what-have-yous of reality.
Because even strongholds are immune to environmental weathering, and the hardest of materials can be - will be, with enough time and circumstance - whittled down to its barest bones.
It’s almost jarring to see how far he has fallen. One may even say that Ratio is a little concerned, although that may be attributed to his own professional (read: doctor) senses.
Perhaps this is a warning - of what Ratio could have become.
But therein lies the next question: What are the specific circumstances that led to this?
Well, we know the answer, don ’t we?
.
Now, an ordinary human might have been more surprised at the prospect of encountering a doppelgänger in their dreams. However, while Ratio is certainly an ordinary person, he also keeps rather extraordinary company.
(Aforementioned extraordinary company is a singular person.)
A polished laurel pin adorns his hair. Ratio has never personally owned a laurel pin in his life, but he has certainly heard of another version of him who does.
.
“A laurel pin, with precisely eight leaves.”
Aventurine looks up at Ratio from where he is resting his head on the doctor ’s lap, and draws an invisible shape in the air - perhaps where the laurel would be sitting on his counterpart’s head from Aventurine’s angle. The barista’s finger movements are sharp and confident, and his expression is fond.
Ratio doesn ’t bothering tracking the movement. He can barely tear himself away from the silky softness of Aventurine’s blonde hair, and the bright colours of his eyes. He does, however, manage to ask: “is there a significance to the number?”
“I don’t know. I never asked. I should have, maybe. Perhaps he liked the number?” Aventurine tilts his head slightly as he stares, unfocused, at the ceiling lights.
He shouldn’t do that, Ratio internally thinks to himself, his eyes could do with lesser retinal damage.
“Perhaps each leaf represented each doctorate that he had.” The blonde eventually says while chuckling softly to himself. “I hope he’ll earn new ones.”
Ratio scoffs, but there is no real heat in his voice as he points out, “surely it’ll grow to an inconvenient size if he were to acquire any more.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear doctor.” Electric eyes fix themselves onto his face, and Aventurine’s smile softens as he reaches up to lightly stroke Ratio’s cheek. “It’ll become a laurel wreath. I can imagine no one more worthy than the great Veritas Ratio himself.”
.
As much as Aventurine may hold fondness towards his other self’s… accessories, Ratio must say his outfit appears ridiculously thematic (almost to the point of tacky, if Ratio could say so himself - and he is allowed to, given that this is another form of himself). The laurel pin in itself is acceptable, yet…
Well, the… what did Aventurine call them? Intelligentsia Guild certainly has interesting fashion tastes. (And a naming sense as well.)
“Black, or white?” Ratio asks without looking at the chess board that sits between them; his eyes are affixed onto what appears to be stone tablet, but closer inspection reveals that there is something inherently electronic about the device.
Hearing his own voice is also a peculiar experience. Once upon a time, Ratio had relied on voice recordings for his work notes, but at least in those cases, he’d have some recollection of his statements. But to hear a separate him speak - i.e. to be an independent entity that is also Veritas Ratio?
Is this how Aventurine feels whenever he is addressing someone that he used to know? Ratio can commiserate - the man in front of him is everything, yet somehow paradoxically nothing like himself.
But nevertheless…
Ratio tips his head in deference. “You may choose.”
“How bold of you.”
Finally, Ratio looks up from his tablet, which he snaps shut with a disproportionately muffled sound. The object dematerializes in a shower of pixels.
Interesting …
“I will take black, then.” He says, and with a snap of his fingers, the chess pieces materialize on the board with the same digital-like effect.
…and also convenient, Ratio thinks to himself.
Without further ado, he reaches for a pawn, and rolls the pieces between his fingers.
It feels surprisingly solid in his hand especially for an object that seems to have appeared out of thin air. It’s heavy, with a weight similar or close to marble or ivory, but the material too smooth and too metallic in its luster. An alloy, perhaps?
Curious.
…Then again, if this is some type of dream - although Ratio is more closely leaning towards something more than a dream, but not yet a simulation despite all of the pixelations - then he supposes whatever objects they are surrounded by are as solid and extant as he - or his counterpart - conjures (programs?) them to be.
Clack.
The dull sound echoes throughout the empty space they are in; also curious, for there are no walls for the sound to bounce off from, only a floor that seems to stretch endlessly to beyond what Ratio can make out with his naked eye. He lightly taps the heel of his shoes against the surface, and mentally registers the mild rebound of the metal-like surface.
Curiouser and curiouser.
(Speaking of curiouser - he has shoes, and yet, why has the other Ratio has elected to wear sandals? Perhaps this is why Aventurine has never delved into the details of his counterpart’s attire. Ratio resists the urge to wrinkle his nose - he assumes that he changes to more appropriate attire while in the laboratory… surely.)
Clack.
When his counterpart shows no inclination of explaining their current location, Ratio dryly tests, “I’ve always envisioned my mindscape to be… less expansive than this.”
While he waits for an answer, he assesses the board, and reaches for his next piece.
Clack.
Ratio lets out a harrumph. Oh - is that what he sounds like when he is displeased?
“This is not your mindscape, nor is it a mindscape, for that matter.”
Clack.
So it is a type of simulated space, then, Ratio internally concludes with a faint head tilt. “An ante-chamber,” he says instead, and corrects, “your ante-chamber, for receiving guests such as myself.”
“A half-passable deduction.”
“The question then, is why have you brought me here?”
Clack.
“A curious choice of inquiry - unexpected, much like your selection of moves.” The scholar hums, almost disinterestedly, but his eyes flick up once, and Ratio ignores the chill that is accompanied by the critical gaze.
“Verifying your identity is a needless step.” A raised brow prompts him further. “It is obvious. You are Veritas Ratio. As am I. We do not share a consciousness, ergo, we are two independent entities. We share nearly identical physical-likeness sans some discrepancies, but it would not be incorrect to assume that we likely share similar cognitive capabilities. Were you expecting a conniption or an existential crisis, or do you perhaps lack some self-confidence?”
The sharpness is probably unnecessary, and yet Ratio cannot find himself to care. Aventurine would surely admonish him if he were here, but alas, there is (are) only himself(ves).
Clack.
“Ninety-four percent likeness, to be precise,” Ratio states, as if the number should be meaningful to him. There is just the barest hint of amusement in his tone.
It is perhaps telling of how much influence Aventurine has had on him, for Ratio just barely manages to hold back his desire to drawl, “what, no decimal place?”
He instead moves his pawn forward—
Clack.
—and seizes the first piece on the board. Without context, the number means nothing. Ninety-four percent seems high, but of course—
“Which scores in the bottom three-percentile.” He finishes.
Therefore more dissimilar than similar. Ratio ignores the curl of satisfaction at the knowledge. That is his preference.
“I’ve entertained your deflection for long enough - you have not answered my question. Why have you brought me here.”
The scholar gestures at the chessboard. “Is it not obvious? Have you never desired a game with someone of equal footing?”
Clack.
Ratio narrows his eyes, unconvinced. The answer is too mundane, too trivial and dare he say, narcissistic to be genuine (unless…? He will have so many words to say to Aventurine if that is the case).
There is no inflection to suggest that he is not genuine, but there is little to interpret when there is no inflection at all, which can only be indicative of defensiveness. Ratio resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Has he always been this frustrating to deal with? And to think, Ratio has always thought the pinnacle of convenience would be the ability to converse with someone of equal cognitive wavelength, and yet here he is, proven incorrect.
Then again, as frustrating as he might be to deal with, Ratio supposes this is an excellent opportunity to needle the man of information. He is almost certain that this is Aventurine’s …Ratio, so to speak (the original one, that is) - the physical description fits the man to a T, but he must be careful to not giveaway his own knowledge of the world(s) beyond his own.
He regrettably allows himself to be drawn (temporarily) into the second, poorly executed deflection of the evening (is time even a concept here?). “And how many versions of ourselves have you played against?”
“1365 wins, 498 draws. No losses, disappointingly.”
Clack.
The doctor does the math in his head. “…so many iterations of the single man known as Veritas Ratio.” He muses. “Or are these version all representative of the many iterations of reality?”
The scholar snaps his fingers, and hologram of a tree, made of golden light and with its branches bare, materializes above the chessboard. It’s bright, almost to the point of being garish, but for some unknown reason, Ratio is unable to look away.
“The Forest is vast, and ever-growing. An infinite number of Trees, each growing an infinite number of Branches, and at the tip of each Branch,” Ratio pinches the air, and as if he has just cued spring, numerous leaves begin to sprout simultaneously. “Leaves that hold a separate world, and therefore, another version of ourselves - young, or old…”
Just as equally quickly, the golden Leaves are shed, and new ones sprout in place, creating a dense canopy. “Alive, or dead.”
Ratio watches as the single tree multiplies until it fills up the entire space surrounding them.
“This space is as you have described, an ante-chamber. More accurately, it is hallway where Leaves and Branches intersect.” The two closest trees between them begin to slowly bow towards each other, as if forced by the will of an invisible god.
Their canopies mesh unevenly, and although the hologram is silent, Ratio flinches when golden Branches snap from the unnatural bend.
“It is but a temporary convergence.” Ratio explains, and the trees straighten once again, as if an invisible weight has been lifted off the canopy. Temporary is what the doctor says, yet Ratio finds himself still staring at the golden Branches that continue to remain broken and half-hanging by just the barest of splinters.
Their leaves appear to tremble in silence - almost as if in fear of the harsh manipulation of whatever meta-reality the Forest lies in.
Clack.
The Forest vanishes, and Ratio continues to stare at where the Tree(s) used to be.
Ratio knows something isn ’t right.
Worlds are not supposed to converge like that.
Finally, he returns his attention to the chessboard.
“…I see.”
“Is that all you have to say about that matter?” Ratio comments, sounding more amused than put-out in his lack of reaction.
“The existence of a multiverse is hardly a foreign concept to me.” Mostly because of a certain blonde that you know. “And the concept of cosmos, much less ‘infinity’, has never been of particular interest. It implies endlessness - endless questions, endless problems—”
Endless suffering.
“My capabilities are better spent helping the living rather than pondering upon what lies beyond what is reachable for my version of humanity.”
Clack.
“How incredibly… pragmatic of you.”
Ratio frowns.
He cannot tell if the scholar is being complimentary or not, but from Aventurine’s descriptions of the man, the doctor has always presumed that in spite of all their differences, their thoughts should align on this matter. It’s not as if his approval matters, mind you; but the flippancy that he is met by feels peculiar, and almost dismissive.
“I’m unfamiliar by the physical laws by which your reality operates in, but time is not a luxury that I, nor any other individual possess in this world. In fact, it is the common thing that unites all individuals, regardless of status. I can only encounter so many people in my lifetime, and those whom I cannot save, I assume those I train will eventually do so.”
His eyes suddenly look weary.
Clack.
“Is that your aim? A legacy?”
Once upon a time, the answer may have been a yes. But Ratio’s once-youthful naivety (read: arrogance) has long been trained out of him (all before he even met Aventurine), and he is now but a doctor who is perhaps the most cognizant of the fragility of life, and in that aspect, respectful for all those who try to live out the best versions of themselves within the short timespan.
Perhaps that is why he sits up straighter in the face of potential derision, even if it is directed to him by whom others refer to as a genius among men.
.
“Don’t tell that to his face though.” Aventurine whispers into his ear, as if telling a secret.
“That he is a genius?” Ratio frowns. “Is that not true? The man has eight doctorates, yes? You’ve mentioned he has eradicated diseases, even.”
“Did I not mention before? I think it’s a bit of a sore spot.” The blonde pauses, and opens and closes his mouth several times, as if considering his words. “Everyone always expected him to become a member of the Genius Society - it’s the only way one can be considered a true ‘genius’ - but Nous has never batted THEIR eye in his direction. And the title ‘Genius’ is unfortunately only granted to those who have earned Nous’ gaze. I mean, I know it’s just a cosmetic title, but I’ve always thought it to be a little ridiculous.”
A cosmetic title, indeed.
In his current age, Ratio cannot see why the lack thereof superficial title could become a sore spot for any iteration of himself, but …
Ratio also distinctively remembers being young, once upon a time, and feeling the wight of the stares on his back, as well as the whispers of his older peers and professors.
A/N: One doesn ’t earn eight medical specializations for fun , is what I ’m trying to get at.
Empathy is not an emotion that Ratio wishes to reserve for someone he feels has failed Aventurine so badly, but …
“So the eight doctorates, the solving of the energy crises, the cure for whatever-plague… people don’t refer to him as a genius?”
“Nope.” Aventurine shrugs. “Aeons are strange in that manner. People are too, I suppose, for letting themselves be constrained by the whims of greater beings - letting THEM steer one’s actions and motivations…” His voice drops to a soft hush, and Ratio frowns as Aventurine’s eyes take on a faraway gaze, as if caught in a separate, wayward thought.
He sets a bookmark between the pages of his book, and sets it on the counter in front of him. When Aventurine continues to remain motionless, Ratio nudges the man ’s fingers away from his laptop keyboard, and leans forward to press his lips to the corner of Aventurine’s mouth.
“Vasha,” he says quietly, and Aventurine hums.
“Sorry, I just had a thought.” Aventurine cracks into a small, almost-shy smile when he notices their proximity, but makes not move to put distance between their faces. “In any case, you and him will always be geniuses to me.”
“I don’t need that title.” He doesn ’t need it either, probably, but Ratio isn’t going to make that point.
“I know.” Aventurine cups his cheeks, and brushes their noses together in an affectionate gesture. “It’s not a title to me, as much as it’s an endearment. It’s like, you’re my genius doctor. ”
“Last I checked, I treat dozens of other patients besides yourself, Vasha.”
The barista makes an indistinct noise. “Semantics, dear doctor. I’m trying to be romantic.”
“By calling me your doctor? I think you ’ve forgotten that my general aversion towards dating patients. It’s against the ethical code.”
“And now you’re teasing me.”
Ratio kisses the corner of his mouth once more, in lieu of an unserious apology. “In any case, ‘genius’ is a needless title. Granted, it sounds more like a form of knighthood in your original world…”
Aventurine stills. “…this world also has knights? ”
Also?
“Your world has knights ? Did you not mention spaceships and space-faring trains? ”
Aventurine suddenly looks confused. “What does Akivili have to do with Idrila?”
“…Who is Idrila?”
.
“…My aim is to help people.”
Ratio’s expression does not change. It remains vaguely indifferent, if not disinterested as he looks away with a brief sigh. “A savior complex, then.”
“An unattractive trait - so I have been told.” He brushes off the brusque response with an equally dismissive wave, “but what is my trait is most likely yours.”
“I believe that most individuals are capable of helping themselves.”
‘I’m familiar,’ Ratio thinks dryly to himself as he thoughtlessly scans the chessboard. ‘Considering that you left Aventurine with only the briefest of messages as a tether to the living.’
“I am a medical practitioner. If my patients come to me, it is most likely because they are unable to help themselves, and I am appreciative of their self-awareness.” He grabs his rook piece, and tests the ridges against this thumb. Then, with watchful eyes, he carefully sets it on the board.
Clack.
“It is certainly better than dealing with individuals who actively choose to gamble with their lives.”
Ratio’s eyes visibly tightens at his words - he has struck a nerve.
Ratio allows himself to relax infinitesimally at the final confirmation, and crosses his legs (deliberately ignoring the fact that their postures now perfectly mirrored each other’s).
“Perhaps we should cease this meaningless charade. I have entertained your tangents, and you will answer me honestly now. We both know that we would never indulge in endeavors related to twisting reality without excellent reason. As advanced as your technology maybe, there must be repercussions to such rough man-handling of physics.”
Ratio snaps his finger on a whim - and the single Tree with its broken Branch blinks into existence above the chessboard once again.
(So both of them have the power to manipulate this space; he files that information for later.)
His eyes track the Leaves that had been attached to that nearly broken branch, and narrow as he notices how their golden hue has dulled significantly. If a single Leaf contains a separate world, a separate existence - what does it mean when It dies?
“…So, what is your purpose? What are you searching for, and what could have been so important to have led you to derive of this… crude way of forming links between worlds to seek your other selves? And for what - a game of chess?”
His words grow sharper and more biting as he presses on, but Ratio isn’t angry as much as he is disappointed.
Aventurine had built an image of a man so keen and kind, and most importantly, steadfast in his (their) personal ethics that Ratio thought himself in multiple occasions to be inferior. There he was, being compared to what can only be described as the ‘perfect man’ - a concept which Ratio did not believe in, mind you, except that Ratio himself has personally felt his depth of emotions, has tasted the echo of his bitter grief, and therefore had been convinced of his humanity.
Confronted with all of that, Ratio has never once thought that he wanted to meet the scholar, fearful for how small and inadequate he may feel against his other self.
(After all, Ratio knows that he is not perfect. He may have morals, and he may strive to be an… ethical individual, if not at least, an ethical doctor (that’s the bare minimum), but let’s be honest:
Ratio is not selfless.
Nor is he kind.
If there is anything certain, Ratio is certain he would raze the world for Aventurine - or specially, raze Aventurine’s original world, at least.
They deserve it.)
(Actually, no. Ratio has considered it, once - wanting to meet his other self. Aventurine ’s Ratio . It had been during the first evening, when he had confronted Aventurine about the truth. Ratio wanted to seek his other self out then, if only to verbally lambast the man for his cowardliness, and to interrogate him on what he had been thinking when he left Aventurine to drown.
Ratio will never forgive him for that.)
But…
Clack.
Ratio’s eyes are dark and unreadable and tired as he moves his chess piece, neglecting the glowing tree that hangs accusingly above their heads. Gold glints off his laurel pin.
“Check. You’ve moved carelessly.” He states in a subdued manner - it is as if he knows that his lack of acknowledgment of consequences is just as damning of an admission of his transgressions against life.
.
Here he is, the great Dr. Veritas Ratio in his full glory—
.
“How much time have you spent on these chess matches? How many other universes have you broken in your attempts to will worlds together? Have you grown so bored of your own reality that you have had to resolve to finding entertainment elsewhere?”
.
—and Ratio couldn ’t be more disappointed.
.
“Is this all a meaningless crusade, Dr. Ratio? Have you decided to play God?”
.
“Have you ever been afraid of death, Veritas?”
Ratio warily casts a glance over at Aventurine and the group of miscreants that have somehow encouraged the conversation to lean into such dark topics.
Ah. Professor Anaxagoras and his philosophical flock (read: seminar students, comprised of his TA, Hyacinthia, Tribios, Castorice - and Stelle and her typical posse) .
Do not misunderstand, Ratio actually enjoys listening into the impromptu round-table discussions they have in the Star Peace Cafe, but Ratio must admit that he is occasionally unnerved about how easily the topics slide into the territory of ‘moral-gray’.
Not a terrible topic to be well-read on, and Aventurine seems to enjoy himself so far.
He draws his reading glasses down. “No. If anything, I believe I am more frightened of when you choose to poise me such questions, Aventurine.” He answers dryly, which earns a small round of muffled giggles and a pout from the barista himself. “Dare I ask what brought about this topic?”
“We were discussing the Elixir of Life and its many forms across different cultures!” Tribios explains as she eagerly flips through a thick stack of handwritten notes. “And how its prevalence through time suggests a common fear for death.”
“We thought you might have some additional insight as an individual who works to stop the living from crossing over the River Styx.” Anaxa probes. His single, visible eye glints with playfulness, and Ratio sighs - this is a man who enjoys testing his boundaries. Perhaps that is why he wears an eye patch.
Nevertheless, Ratio cannot help himself.
“To be human means to be aware of the fragility of life.” He pauses, then adds, “so it is not misplaced for them to wish to overcome said fragility by searching for a potential cure-all for disease and dying.”
Stelle raises her hand, and Ratio nods as if addressing a lecture hall. “Does that still count as a fear? Because that just sounds like we’re hard-headed.”
“Way to describe yourself, Stelle.”
“I’ll kill you, Caelus.”
“No murder in the cafe.” Aventurine absentmindedly says as he crowds into Ratio’s space to steal a bite of Ratio’s half-eaten croissant. No one bats an eye - not even Ratio, who deliberately left it unfinished in some strange yet successful attempt to have Aventurine eat something.
“It is only frightening if you let the fear consume you. I think it can be comforting - like falling into sleep’s embrace.”
“…and while I’m also in favour of death being not quite scary, I think only you would feel that particular way about death, Cas.” Hyacintha whispers as she nervously looks around for any strange looks that may have been tossed in their direction.
Castorice hums, unfazed. Ratio does briefly recall Aventurine mentioning that she comes from a family of morticians. Unsurprising.
“What’s your take, Mr Aventurine?” Tribios leans in, and stares inquisitively in his direction. Next to him, Ratio feels Aventurine freeze and stiffen. “Are you afraid of dying?”
Just as Ratio considers intervening, Aventurine shrugs.
“There are worse things in the world, I think.”
“Oh?”
“Imagine being left behind instead. Everyone around you is dead, and only you remain.” He lets out a soft sound that may have been a half-hearted laugh. Ratio isn’t sure - he doesn’t dare to be sure. But Aventurine rests his weight ever so slightly against Ratio’s shoulder, and his fingertips brushes against Ratio’s hand as he openly steals the doctor’s cup of coffee.
It is intended to be a reassuring motion; Ratio lets it reassure him, but he fights the instinct to curl an arm around Aventurine ’s waist and draw him close. Perhaps in the evening, when they are home.
Everyone else remains silent as Aventurine takes a sip of Ratio ’s coffee.
Then, with a faint smile, Aventurine adds, “I think I’d go crazy with grief.”
.
“This is not meaningless!” Ratio snaps, and the chessboard flickers as something cracks in the scholar’s expression - something human and vulnerable.
There it is. Ratio thinks grimly to himself. He leans back in his seat.
There is no satisfaction associated with seeing someone’s grief painted all over their visage.
“…Then cease this charade, and tell me what information you seek from me.” His words loses its biting nature, but Ratio does not soften his tone, knowing that such a tactic will not work on himself.
Ratio’s eyes are closed, as if trying regain some semblance of control over himself, and the doctor grants him the space to do. When he finally opens his eyes, Ratio appears to have visibly aged - not physically, per se, but the confident (haughty) air has vanished, leaving the man looking more human and frailer than the entity from before.
“I’m looking for an individual.” Ratio says in an almost-sigh.
“…Do they not exist in your world?”
“He did.” He answers curtly, and something flickers in his eyes once again. Pain, Ratio concludes, and regret - both emotions that do not mesh well with either of their personalities. “A series of unfortunate events occurred, and he is,” a pause, “lost, for the lack of a better word.”
Lost.
That’s an interesting word. Not dead - not gone - but lost.
“And you were tasked with his retrieval?” Ratio asks, but he doubts this. Aventurine has shared enough of his circumstances, as well as his own conclusions about his fate in his original world.
The ex-IPC department executive had been explicitly clear to Ratio (an almost brutally so) that he isn’t big enough for an investment for the IPC to want to ‘retrieve’ him - if such a feat were even possible, that is - and even if they did, the fate that awaits him may or may not be pleasant, depending on the outcome of his fatal mission.
Of course, Aventurine likely hadn’t factored in the possibility that Ratio’s other self -i.e. Aventurine’s original Ratio - would be mad enough to conduct his own retrieval mission…
(Then, again, Aventurine hadn ’t expected anything from that Ratio, period.)
(And grief can drive one insane.)
Even then, Ratio finds himself cautious. A ‘retrieval’ can mean many things - but more importantly, and perhaps most selfishly, it can mean Ratio losing Aventurine. And he refuses to let that happen.
“…This is not a task that has been put upon my person. Nor is it a retrieval. This plane that we exist in is merely a mental construct, held together by a single, sole tether that is the common identity and existence of Veritas Ratio across my and your worlds. When we wake, there will be no consequences besides the small chance of your recollection of this meeting.”
“You will remember, however.”
“As the initiator of this…” Ratio’s eyes flicker down to their abandoned chessboard. Ah yes, it is his turn, isn’t it? “…meeting, I will retain memories of our exchange, yes.”
Clack.
“So what is the precise nature of your search for this individual, then?”
“I am merely… looking. Observing, in the only way I can.” The admission is quiet, and Ratio is unable to meet his gaze.
He must be fully cognizant of his misconduct, of course. Ratio has truly forsaken their ethos for… Aventurine.
…and to think, Ratio may have been exaggerating slightly when he chose the word ‘crusade’ to describe this wayward, universally unethical venture, but this may very well be a crusade for Aventurine after all.
Or not. Because there were more terrible things that Ratio could certainly do - the man makes his excuses, but Ratio is perfectly confident that with enough time, the scholar would have been capable of devising a means to physically grab an Aventurine from one world to another, if he so wished. The fall out from that particular venture will arguably be worse, potentially catastrophic.
But instead, Ratio is simply… looking. Not like a scientist, peering through an observatory glass; perhaps more like a child, looking out of a window for a glimpse of someone, an old friend—
The means is evidently crude at best, but overall, it is — sans the worlds that may have been accidentally destroyed along the way - harmless.
All at once, Ratio is struck by the realization that gods do, in fact, fall very, very far. He is offended and embarrassed for his other self, but also - and Aventurine will surely be very cross with him for feeling this - he truly pities the man.
Aventurine may not understand, but Ratio does. Ratio has felt that secondhand echo of grief, and if it had resounded so clearly within him as a mere echo, how crippling must it be to this man who sits before him, thumbing the top of the king chess piece with an almost melancholic gaze?
If he were in his position, how would he react if he is forced to confront the loss of the single individual who has somehow changed the trajectory of his life?
(He has already admitted it earlier on.
Ratio would raze the world, the universe, and then probably himself, if anything happens to Aventurine.)
Just like that, Ratio deflates.
“Describe them to me.” He says roughly. He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear, regardless.
Clack.
“Blonde hair. Likely male-presenting, but not strictly so.” Ratio’s eyebrows raise subtly at that. “Their - his - most defining trait are his eyes. They are an impossible colour - concentric rings of magenta and cyan. Disconcerting to some, but—,” he pauses, as if catching himself. “… He is highly intelligent. Scrupulous, yet ironically careless with himself. He uses his self-proclaimed ‘luck’ to downplay his intelligence and hard-earned successes, although it remains unknown if he is truly lucky—”
Ratio stops to stare at him, almost inquisitively. “…You know someone.”
The doctor tips his head ever so slightly. There is no point denying it.
“I do.”
“Tell me about him.” He demands - and Ratio acquiesces, sensing little harm in indulging the man.
“He prepares and serves drinks to customers in a spot near a university in the city I am currently based in. He has an extremely rare congenital eye condition which medically explains his unusual eye colour—”
The scholar lets out a huff of breath at that, as if unconvinced that anyone would buy such an excuse, and… well, fair enough.
“…but the condition does render him partially blind on several occasions. Temporarily, for the most part. He is still considered a medical anomaly for how considerably well his vision has held up compared to the literal dozen of others who share the similar condition. Most of them lose a majority of their vision prior reaching their twenties, and yet he still retains it completely.”
That being said, Aventurine ’s prognosis remains uncertain. Ratio prefers certainty over ‘hope’, but attempting to convince the younger man to see an actual ophthalmologist is in fact akin to coax a feral cat to see a vet - except worse, because Aventurine is aware of the concept of free will.
“You sound very familiar with him.”
Ratio raises an eyebrow. “I am a medical doctor in this world, and you have personally described him to be careless with himself. Would you expect him to not have ended up in my care at least once?”
They trade self-suffering looks, although Ratio refuses to admit that there are any feelings of camaraderie. They will not bond over a certain blonde’s inability to preserve himself.
“You are close to him.”
“I will not disagree with that statement.”
“…Will you tell me his name?” He asks more quietly, as if wary that he would be denied the answer.
Ratio could never be that cruel.
“…His name is Aventurine.”
Too many emotions flick by all at once, too quick for Ratio to discern.
“I see.” Ratio says, and the doctor sees as well.
(He wonders if his masochism is a learned trait, or something more inherent. After all, Aventurine isn’t a masochist as much as he self-suffers (idiot), which only begs of the question of where the scholar would have learned it from.)
Clack.
“You cared for him, deeply.” He states instead, and watches as Ratio snaps his mouth shut. “Your Aventurine.”
The proverbial hackles rise. “What? Is it so odd?”
Clack.
Ratio shakes his head. “It is very human.”
Clack.
“Do not patronize me.”
Clack.
“I am not. It would be hypocritical of me to do so.”
Clack.
An impasse.
Ratio recognizes that look in his other self’s eyes. It isn’t a glare, per se, but neither is it a positive emotion. If he is to guess, he’d say: jealousy.
He ducks his head. “It’s your turn.”
“I have never believed in fate.” He suddenly says.
“Pardon?”
“I think you’d agree with me. The concept of fate is… ludicrous, at best. It insinuates that some form of higher power has control over our outcomes, shackling us to be who we are to ourselves. It’s demeaning.”
“I concur.”
“And yet—,”
Clack—
“—every iteration of Veritas Ratio I have met possesses an above-average intelligence, are masters within their own field… and often share the company of a specific, strange-eyed individual.”
He pauses mid-move, and clarifies, “‘Often’?” But not always.
“His circumstances have never been kind to him.” Ratio answers somberly.
Translation: Aventurine is sometimes not there - for potentially morbid reasons.
Ratio pushes the thought out of his head.
Clack.
“And so—?” He probes.
“And so nothing.” Ratio tips his head, and exhales. “Thank you for speaking to me about him.”
How disappointing, he initially thinks - and wants to say; all of this pomp and circumstance, and he does not even have the courage to ask any more questions.
But the thought is swiftly washed away by a faint, sweet-sounding voice, whispering in his ear:
.
“My dear doctor.” Aventurine croons gently as he folds himself against Ratio’s stricken form. His presence feels like a warm balm to a fresh wound.
There are papers strewn across the counter in front of him, and stacks of half-open textbooks and annotated journals - all of which that amount to nothing.
Ratio ’s breathing is ragged and heavy - filled with frustration and regret.
“I could have done something— Anything—”
“You would have driven yourself to ruin if you tried any harder, Veritas. Has anyone ever told you that you’re unnecessarily hard on yourself?”
.
“…The soul can only take so much grief. He will not want you to despair for him.”
“I do not despair for him.”
Ratio levels the man an unimpressed look. “Yet you search for an infinite Forest for his existence. You’d speak to thousand iterations of yourself, and for the futile purpose of seeing his fate without actually seeing him.” He shakes his head. “He will not want this for you.”
CLACK.
“You do not know what he would want for me.”
A beat of silence.
Ratio maintains his even gaze. “…I know him better than you.”
(And isn ’t that the truth?)
The look he receives can only be described as stricken. “…It is … it is your move, next.”
…
They play in silence for several moments. To be perfectly honest, Ratio’s heart isn’t in the chess match (a/n: a shocker, really), but it would be unlike him to concede defeat so easily.
(He knows he will lose the game, but Ratio doesn ’t care.)
And so, he offers an olive branch. “Tell me about him. About your Aventurine.”
Our Aventurine.
Ratio scoffs. The grief has somewhat tempered, but there is a palpable soreness that clings onto his person, raw and bitter and despondent.
It isn’t flattering on their persons’, but the doctor surmises that it’s a kindness to themselves, to let him feel what he feels in the privacy of this space with little judgment.
This too, is something that Aventurine has taught him.
“What is this, a eulogy?”
“Did he have one?” He asks, genuinely curious. “A funeral, or a wake?”
Silence.
(Was there even a body? Ratio had described Aventurine as ‘lost’.)
“…If he meant enough for you to forsake the ethical values that we have sworn to—”
“He was my friend.” The scholar finally spits out, his voice strained and thin in a very telling way. He has not spoken about this, about Aventurine, to anyone. “An equal. A company I did not know I would miss until—”
He stops short of himself, but the words ring loudly in the silent space, anyway.
I lost him.
“…And yet I find that…I knew so little about him.”
Regret is the single emotion that Ratio despises, and his words are so thickly coated in it that he can taste it in his own mouth.
I failed him.
I miss him.
Ratio opens his mouth, and what comes out surprises himself: “He forgets to eat, sometimes.”
Ratio looks sharply up at him. He plows on.
“But he has this habit of feeding others. He’ll skip his lunch break, but he’ll share a cookie with a customer if that’s what it takes to get them to eat.”
Ratio is still working on it.
“He likes small animals, and he’s good with children, but he’s always afraid that they’d be frightened of his eyes.”
Maybe they should adopt a cat or three.
“His favourite meal is anything soup-related. He says it reminds him of home.”
“His old economics professor still reaches out to him frequently and invites him to lunch to discuss game theory, but he keeps rejecting the invite, citing that he has nothing valuable to bring to the table. He is incorrect.”
He once leaned over Ratio ’s shoulder and correct an error before Ratio or Clara could spot it.
“He likes to look at things that sparkle. Like glass trinkets, but he doesn’t like collecting them for himself.”
He says it doesn ’t suit him. Ratio disagrees.
“He is good at crafts and anything that requires a deft hand.”
Like braiding flowers and beads into hair, and—
“Card and coin tricks.” Ratio murmurs.
That too.
“He thinks he can work through a migraine, even if it renders him partially blind. Regrettably, he has the entire cafe memorized, so he can navigate between tables even while his vision is impaired.”
“He was once shot and he evaded medical in order to have lunch with me on campus,” Ratio contributes dryly, and the doctor shakes his head.
“Of course.”
His bad habits would have had to perpetuate from somewhere.
And most importantly…
“He does not like the rain.”
Too many memories.
“He’s even worse with thunder.”
But he ’ll sleep if Ratio is there - or Clara, if she stays over due to the inclement weather.
"What exactly is the nature of your relationship with your Aventurine?” He finally asks, tone suspicious. Ratio gives the scholar the same response he gives to every other individual who has asked him that same question: a blank stare.
Some people will misconstrue his lack thereof reply as a critical judgment of their persons; the ones who know him will correctly interpret it for what it is.
Ratio shakes his head and huffs, but there’s a shadow of a smile in his expression.
“Perhaps that is the primary factor that distinguishes us.”
“That maybe so.”
(Although how would that work, exactly? This Ratio wouldn ’t be himself if he hadn ’t ‘lost’ Aventurine - and what if Ratio had not ‘found’ Aventurine? Would he still grow enamored with that one blonde barista with his peculiar eyes and dreadful self-care habits.
Ratio abandons the thought. There is too many what-ifs for his liking.)
“Thank you.”
Ratio raises his head questioningly.
“For your kindness. You did not need to share any additional information with me, and yet you did.”
It would have been cruel if Ratio had not, especially considering how their outcomes are ironically tied by the same individual. But he doesn’t know that, and Ratio is still considering if he should make that last point known.
“…Someone often berates me for being unnecessarily hard on myself.”
“How else would we improve?”
“My thoughts precisely. But there’s a fine line between self-improvement and needless reproach.” It is a line that Ratio often teaches to his students, and he assumes the scholar does the same. And so, he drolly adds, “if you are not yet self-aware, you presently stand beyond that line, directly in the territory of self-torment, I believe.”
Ratio shoots him an unamused look, but it feels warmer, somehow. “I’ll make a note of your advisement.”
“Consider it medical advice.” He deadpans.
“…I would have wished to meet this… Aventurine of yours,” Ratio starts to say, albeit haltingly. It is obvious that this admission is painful for him to speak of, but this is perhaps a necessary step. Ratio cocks his head.
“—if only to see what kind of force of nature he must be to have forged me into your form.”
“A frustratingly stubborn enigma.”
(And beautiful and miraculously kind despite all of his circumstances.
- But Ratio would never admit this out loud to his other self.)
He receives a knowing smile, although it still bears the hallmarks of sadness and envy all over. “I was familiar with that aspect of his character, yes.”
Ratio deliberates further - and decides he is finished with the conversation.
“That’s enough of this.” He starts to say.
“Our chess match has not yet been finished. It is currently your turn.” Ratio points out, although he does not sound overly disappointed nor surprised by Ratio’s desire to move on from… well, all of this. Perhaps he is tired too.
Ratio reaches over the board, and knocks his own queen over.
“We do not need to finish. You would have won in three moves.”
His brow furrows in confusion, and he reaches for the fallen chess piece. “I counted at least ten, minimum.”
“Perhaps if you assumed I was playing to win, yes.”
“Excuse me?” Now he looks offended. “Were you deliberately playing to lose?”
Ratio makes to stand, and the chair behind him vanishes when he wills it to. “Perhaps I did. Or perhaps I saw little point in engaging in it. After all, regardless of the outcome of the chess game, I would say that I’ve won.”
The scholar stares at him uncomprehendingly.
“And I will share my rewards with you.” He mutters under his breath.
(Perhaps … perhaps he can be the one to free them both from this unpleasant spiral of paradoxes and unresolved grief.)
“There are three more pieces of information of Aventurine that I will share with you:
“One: He was one of the ten members of the Ten Stonehearts for the Strategic Investments Department of the Interastral Peace Corporation.”
The chess piece falls from Ratio’s suddenly-limp fingers.
“Two: He is the sole survivor of the Avgin Clan from the Planet named Sigonia IV.”
Shock. Bewilderment. Disbelief.
Huh - perhaps Ratio can understand Aventurine’s inclinations towards performative dramatics after all. It is rather satisfying.
“Three: His real name, the one given to him by his family, is ‘Kakavasha’.”
And commit it your memory, for his sake.
“And a bonus point four: He speaks of you often, and very fondly.” He dares the faintest of a smile, and raises his chin ever so slightly. “So do not mourn for him, Veritas Ratio - for where you have failed at, I will succeed in.”
He spins on his heel—
.
They are in bed, and their bare torsos, still warm and slightly damp are loosely covered by sheet - just enough to ward the cold as they settle from their exertions.
Aventurine ’s usually pale skin has taken on a delightful pink shade. Ratio can barely draw his eyes away from him, and has taken to tracing the curve of Aventurine’s face with the ball of his thumb. It’s something worth committing his memory to.
“How have you already caught your breath?” Aventurine complains after a moment.
Ratio thinks for a second, and then answers, “I run almost daily. It wouldn’t be odd for my stamina to be better than yours.”
“…Did you just imply that I have low stamina?”
“You asked me a question, and I answered.” He tucks a stray blond strand behind Aventurine’s ear, and presses a kiss against his temple. “And you know that I have no complaints about any aspect of yourself.”
Aventurine turns his head to chase his lips, and Ratio acquiesces.
“You’ve forgotten about my proclivities for self-neglect,” the barista reminds him when they separate. “Last I checked, you found that infuriating.”
“I do. But as they say - the first step is self-awareness.”
Aventurine swats at his chest. Ratio captures his wrists, and brings it between them to press a kiss against the inside of it - right above the pulse point.
.
.
.
“Are you happy?” He murmurs into the dark later on, when they are both showered and clean and tucked in the freshly made bed.
Aventurine sleepily hooks his chin over Ratio ’s shoulder while he hugs a pink pig (not real(!)) to his chest. “You always ask me this. What would you do if I told you no?”
“I’d find a way to make you happy.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
.
“I’ve told you before. You already do.”
.
Ratio hears a wet-sounding laugh behind him as the space collapses into darkness around him.
…At least he sounds free.
.
.
.
—
He wakes with a singular, hitched breath, and with the faint pressure of a still hand in his hair. His forehead is pressed something soft - like Aventurine’s leg.
“Good morning to you, Veritas. How are you feeling?” Come the careful greeting, and Ratio breathes.
Disoriented.
Ratio turns his head to blearily blink upwards, towards the ceiling, and tries to recall where he is, and how he even got here, in bed, in the first place.
“…Vasha?” He calls out hoarsely.
“That is my name, yes.” Aventurine lets out a slightly nervous-sounding chuckle. “You okay? How’s the head? You scared me a little last night.”
Last night?
The memories are slow to return, but they do. As he remembers himself, Ratio gingerly turns his head to squint in the direction of the curtains, and takes in the position of the sunlight and shadows. “…Didn’t you have work today?”
“Did you not hear me when I said you scared me a little last night?” Aventurine clicks his tongue, but there is no real heat in his words; only mild worry. “I asked to take the day off, in case you needed me.”
“My apologies.” He breathes. “The migraine came out of nowhere.”
“Far be it for me to judge you when your head pulls a fast one, Veritas. How is it now?”
“Gone.” He turns to press his forehead against Aventurine’s offered palm, and sighs at the contact. “Fortunately.”
“You’re still looking a little off-colour. I should get you some water - and you should sleep a little more. I did tell you that you were biting off more than you could chew with those extra shifts you had been taking up.”
Ratio draws his arm around Aventurine’s waist before he can leave, and shakes his head. “Stay for a bit.” He breathes, and waits for one second, two—
Aventurine repositions himself to be closer.
“…Are you okay?”
Ratio closes his eyes and nods once against Aventurine’s thigh. Just once, because Aventurine is right - he does feel like he could sleep more. He feels drained, and it has been a while since a migraine has affected him this much.
No. There had been something else.
Ratio simply doesn ’t remember.
“I feel like I’ve had the strangest dream.” He murmurs. Aventurine makes a sympathetic sound.
“Bad?”
Not a bad dream - he remembers that much, at least.
“Just disconcerting.” He frowns. “I cannot recall.”
“That’s fine. You don’t need to remember those silly dreams.”
Ratio hums. That is true. And yet…
“It feels important.” He breathes.
“If it is, then I’m sure some part of you will remember.” A hand strokes his head, and Ratio lets himself be soothed by the gesture. “If not now, then maybe later.”
Perhaps never.
…
Notes:
Ok, so if you wanted the down low of what OG!Ratio did after Aventurine's perceived 'death' in 2.1: he proceeded to spend an unknown amount of time devising a way to manipulate the Imaginary Forest for his own purposes, sacrificing a few dozens or so universes at the same time during its experimental phase, all too take a glimpse into alternate realities where his other selves may or may not be associated with another Aventurine of their own. i.e. he was most living vicariously through them. It's a little pathetic, but he could have done worse, to be perfectly fair. Thank Aeons (not Nous) for small mercies?
ANYWAY, hi y'all <3 did you know that in less than 2 weeks it'll be the anniversary of the completion of Strangers in the Nights? :D I'm so sentimental lmao. Also I'm finally settling in (it only took, what, 6 months) so hiiiiiii. I need to cleanse my soul and write some fluff to balance out all of Ratio's... ratio-ness. Short end-note for now~ I will respond (VERY LATE I KNOW) to comments after I write some R scripts and make some graphs to analyse some experimental data LMAO.
Take care <3
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