love doc, love

With the immediate troubles of Okhema restrained—temporary as that shackle may be—Mydei quickly realizes just how much war has bled into his life. It isn't a surprise, and it shouldn't be. After all, he calls himself a warrior more than he calls himself a prince. Titles have nothing to do with one's combat prowess, and if anything, he would much rather boast about how little strength it takes him to crush a neck between his fingers rather than the prestige that comes with royal blood. 

Compared to Castrum Kremnos, the city blessed by Kephale is much too quiet for his taste. Perhaps that is why his discrepancies are blatantly obvious under the glaring sun and blazing truths of a city bathed in holy light. 

As always, Phainon is much too observant. It's inhuman, almost. Is it a direct aftereffect of the demigod trial? He can't imagine this was what Tribbie and Aglaea were also left to experience themselves. 

The message comes swiftly. Mydei doesn't exactly want to talk, but the stream of vibrations and incessant pinging noises coming from his teleslate are hard to ignore. This device—temperamental and annoying as it is— plays a crucial role in ensuring long-distance communication between the Chrysos Heirs. So, if possible, he'd like to refrain from destroying it in his rage. 

Shoving his head under his pillow, Mydei suppresses a groan, hissing and pulling the fabric over his ears as tightly as he can.  If it weren't for that damn teleslate's function, he would have picked it up and thrown it at the wall to save himself from being at the mercy of Phainon's childish sentiments. It's a shame that his petulance can only get him so far.

Buzz. Buzz. Ping!

Doesn't he have anything better to do? And even if that isn't the case, had he wanted to pester someone so badly, did it truly have to be him? Their latest adventure—no, that isn't the right word to describe it. Their latest trial in the Flame-Chase Journey has reaped them several new allies. Or, well, one. This so-called 'Astral Express', who are supposedly travellers from beyond the stars.

Of course, Mydei believed the tales they spun. It wasn't entirely implausible that other worlds existed out there. Space is, to his knowledge, a vast expanse of stars, suns, and moons that humanity has not yet managed to fully traverse nor exploit.

Simply put, it is merely the detail that of all people, Phainon actively chooses to meddle in his affairs, and not those of people who spend their time documenting the known universe and beyond. 

Especially—as Mydei caves in, out of curiosity unbecoming to him—for something as alien and as foreign a concept as Uno. Whatever that is. 

Judging that the suggestion itself came from Phainon, it can't possibly be something enjoyable. Phainon , this planet's declared, mighty Deliverer is the same man who spends an interminable amount of time deciding whether he wants a bronze or copper cooking pot. And that is not at all congenial. Not if you're Mydei, the soul unfortunate enough to have been the first person Phainon saw that morning. 

After that, Mydei couldn't even tell the difference between the colour of copper and the colour of bronze. 

Phainon has done them all the service—or disservice, in Mydei's case—of making an entirely new group chat specifically to plan this meetup. It is appropriately titled  Uno 101 , a name that rings alarm bells in his head. Surely Phainon jests. There is no way that he is being invited to play this immature game. There is no immediate problem with indulging the trailblazers—the other members of this party—and Castorice (even though he is sure she won't bother to show up either way), but Phainon, on the other hand? 

Absolutely not. 

Oh, he can already imagine that man's smug smile. He doesn't know what the rules even are yet, but he would be a fool to think that Phainon wasn't going to be good at this. This was merely another outlet for him to show off. And Mydei? He would rather be no part of that. Plenty of years have passed since they were first acquainted, and since then, his life has been filled with nothing but moments like that.

The other night was the one time that he had finally managed to settle the score with his fellow Chrysos Heir. But unlike Phainon, he would not rub it in his face. At least not for another decade, anyway. 

Bzzrt! 

Phainon

Mydei, I can see you. Don't pretend like you haven't read this text chain! 

Caelus

Wait, Mydei's in this chat? You invited him? 

Phainon

Of course I did! How could I leave him out?

Dan Heng

I'm quite certain that it will just be you two playing at this point. Miss Castorice and Mydei seem to merely be reading the texts that both of you have sent, and I highly doubt that I will be joining you, either. There are still some reports I haven't filled in on the Data Bank yet. 

Castorice

Agreed. Apologies, Lord Phainon. 

Mydei

Right.

There. Now Phainon can't come crying to him about how he never sent a single text message to the group. A faint smile ghosts his lips; at least there is someone here who can appreciate his sentiment. And that settles it. With a groan, Mydei tosses the device back down onto his bed and stretches his arms above his head. The bed creaks under his weight as he rises, swiftly strides to the door, and heads to Marmoreal Market for some pomegranates—getting through this useless charade is an occasion worth celebrating.

Without all of the other chaos likely unfolding across the rest of Amphoreus, this is the only real and tangible thing he can celebrate. 

Castrum Kremnos is a city known for avidly worshipping the Titan of Strife, Nikador. Strife, slaughter, and glory are the key cornerstones of its society—the young are not exempt from such values. Without them, the city of war would merely be like the rest of Amphoreus; gladiators and warriors alike would see no reason to journey there. Taking part in its tournaments and feats of combat in the central colosseum are the city's equivalents to Okhema's peaceful sightseeing. 

Of course, Kremnoans are not barbarians. They are all, to some degree, practiced and learned in other arts. It perfectly explains why some, after having lived a life of violence until the very end, are able to move on with some level of dignified grace—those who survive the horror and glory of war, that is. Some become carpenters. Others, seamstresses. The battle is an art that many see as bestial and savage, though Mydei is well aware that it is anything but that.

Among those educated, Mydei is perhaps the best testament to that. Amphoreus is by no means technically advanced in the same way that, say, the Astral Express, is, but he isn't an idiot, nor a buffoon. He may have been thrown into the Sea of Souls directly after birth, but that hasn't stopped his brain from working like a normal human being. Though, of course, it has since strengthened him to the point of immortality. 

And right now, he is absolutely baffled at the small, miniscule, infinitesimally tiny probability that he has just encountered.

Marmoreal Market has run out of pomegranates. 

Of course, this then begs the question: then, how exactly have they run out? 

For a moment, Mydei dares to ask the vendor, who is selling apples instead of her usual pomegranates, but the thought is quickly dismissed. Chances are, she doesn't know either. A handful of other potential customers are also lurking around the storefront, murmuring in hushed voices. Perhaps they have heard rumours of a supply storehouse being raided? Either way, the matter at hand is no longer his concern. 

That being said, he really would have enjoyed a fresh, sweet pomegranate. Oh well. 

Mydei turns on his heel, making to go back to his room, when he hears that equally sweet, sultry voice from across the marketplace. It could have come from anyone, really—Marmoreal Market is as alive as normal. 

People rush about in their throngs; they do not push and shove as Kremnoans would, hustling nearby travellers with their for-sale weapons. No. They are orderly, almost, in the way they cross the paved sidewalks, chattering and talking to one another. Some hold baskets filled with the enticing smell of fresh fruit. Others have their hands full with bundles of clothes. 

Distinct, he could never mix up that voice with one in the rabble. Mydei finds his eyes magnetically drawn to the sound, to the high, rising laughter, golden irises honing in on their target with a desperate urgency he didn't know he possessed. There, standing right beneath the dusted shop sign that reads Treasure of Ages...

Phainon. 

Thankfully, he's engaged in deep conversation with the shop's vendor, which would give Mydei plenty of time to slip away, unnoticed by the Deliverer's prying gaze. 

But he doesn't. 

For some reason, unknown to even Mydei himself, he doesn't. 

Arms at his sides, he pauses mid-step and watches. He watches Phainon throw his head back animatedly and chortle at whatever joke Theodoros bats his way. He watches Phainon stare intently at a necklace clutched in Theodoros’ fingers. He watches Phainon look his way—

—and wave a hand at him enthusiastically. 

"Mydei!" He greets, lips parting to form a soft smile. "I was just looking for you."

Was he, now? Raising an eyebrow, he cautiously sidles over, careful not to let his bulky frame touch any of the other artifacts standing sentry at the shop entrance. He seriously doubts he has enough money to pay for any of these antiquities. And even so, he is not a direct recipient of Oronyx's power—he cannot reverse time, nor the catastrophic amount of damage he would deal. Amphoreus is an ancient nation, yet adventuring these days is strictly off-limits, and only an option for those who are truly prepared to face the consequences. 

Rare relics such as the ones Theodoros hoards and places on display for sale are... precious in a different way to silver and gold. No manner of money would ever be enough to pay for them should they be destroyed. 

He says nothing in response. Only a non-committal hum even confirms his presence at Phainon's side. 

“L-Lord Mydei!” Theodoros stammers. Mydei doesn't miss the way he discreetly slides the necklace into his pocket. “It is an honour to have you in my humble shop…”

“Save the formalities for another time. I happened to be passing by.” The statement isn't entirely false. 

Phainon straightens from where he is leaned casually against the wall. “Well, I must be going, Theodoros. Keep that safe for me, will you?” That only makes Mydei even more suspicious of the necklace, but as he goes to take a look, Phainon quickly shoos him away with the back of his hand, like he's a feral cat and not ‘Mydeimos the Undying’. “Dei, a grand adventure awaits us!”

“Don't call me that.” He says this, but can't hide the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

He's not mad. 

Not really.

“No, Lord Mydei—” Castorice shakes her head vehemently, shaking her head at him before he can place down another yellow card on top of Caelus’ blue one. “You can only match them if they're the same number.” He knows she doesn't mean to, but the robotic, gentle way she speaks makes it sound as if she is attempting to patronize him. It may well be that she knows the game much better than he does, but there is little need to rub the fact in his face. 

And that irks him. She doesn't mean to, and yet the simple, reiterated explanation stabs him in the heart like a fork into a vegetable. It's utterly belittling . Worse still, Phainon is here to witness it all. 

Phainon’s white hair flutters softly in the light spring breeze, legs crossed against the smooth marble. Nearby, water trickles from above them, mingling with the scent of lavender that Castorice has poured into the Hero’s Bath. The smell is supposedly relaxing. 

Apparently, small tricks like that have little to no effect on Mydei. His back muscles are clenched, rippling through his skin, as they would be on the battlefield. He can't relax , not when Phainon is grinning ear to ear like the title of the game’s winner is already within his grasp. 

With a grunt, he drops down another card to combat Caelus', withdrawing the yellow one back into his deck. Castorice silently nods at him, then places down a green card with the same number engraved on the front. 

Right. So… colours seemingly have no effect on the match, so long as the number is the same as the previous one. That doesn't seem so hard to understand. Mydei quickly reviews his remaining five cards. A few other numbers and colours—namely one red, two yellow, one blue, and one black—three of which bear odd symbols. 

For one, there's a circle with a line drawn through it, as if indicating some sort of stopping motion. Earlier in the game, he saw Caelus use it against Dan Heng and cackle maniacally whilst his companion merely rolled his eyes and gestured for Phainon to take his turn in his stead. Another bears a +2 on its front. Does that mean he has to take another two cards from the deck? 

Mydei wrinkles his nose while he waits for his turn. What a disgusting and truly pathetic addition to the game. The third card houses a smaller, curved rectangle inside, with differing card colours arranged against each other. It's easy to presume that this swaps the colour of the deck to one of his choice… But weren't colours irrelevant? 

Whatever. It's still only the first match. That gives him plenty of time to make a comeback—a good enough one that will wipe that smug smirk from Phainon’s face. 

There is, however, one minor problem: he still can't play the game to an adequate standard. Even if this round is the first of many, he still can't afford to lose. Or, better put, he can't afford to let Phainon win , even in a small, inconsequential ‘ family game’ , as Caelus had described it. The box even had enough audacity to say ‘suitable for 7+’. Mydei is an awful lot older than seven. 

He can do this. How hard can it be? 

Surprisingly, the round plays off swimmingly for the next ten minutes. Castorice ends up skipping a couple of turns, Caelus and Dan Heng consistently switch the colours from green to yellow, and Phainon placidly returns the non-aggression pact by shoving harmless card after harmless card onto the ever-growing pile. There are a couple of plus twos—it’s only after Mydei receives one from Phainon that he figures out exactly how much of a double-edged sword they are—and order switches thrown into the mix, but it's never anything drastic enough for Mydei to want to rip his hair out. 

Five minutes later, he wishes he had throttled the Deliverer before he had the chance to enact his grand scheme. 

The chain starts slowly, at first. Mydei places down his final plus two card, remaining motionless when Castorice reaches out to take her cards from the deck…

… Only to frown, and instead, place another plus two on top of his. 

Seriously? 

Caelus gleefully slaps his own, yellow plus two down, and Dan Heng quickly follows suit. Mydei can only watch in insurmountable horror when he sees Castorice subtly shaking her head at the Deliverer. There's an uncharacteristically devilish smile painted on Phainon's features. It marrs his otherwise playful features, softened by the light reflected upon the waters. He's on his last two cards, but his fingers play with the edge of one of them, adorned in a black plastic coating. 

“Well, Deliverer?” The words spill out before he can stop them. It's a taunt, and he knows full well that whatever Phainon is planning is due to fall on him, like a swift slice of a sword to the head. Taunting him was never a good idea, but the long standing rivalry between them has made the small habit into an urge he cannot control. 

He flips the card over and slams it down onto the pile. 

Mydei almost can't believe his eyes. Almost , because if there is one thing he has learnt about Uno in the past thirty minutes, it is that the game is as unpredictable as its players. And for all that he is, Phainon is one slippery man to deal with. 

It's a plus four. Exactly how many of them are there in the deck, anyway? Is it even legal to—no, is it even part of the damn rules to give someone a plus twelve in total? 

He stares at the sad, miserable fate laid out before him in the cards for exactly half a millisecond before he whips his head to face Phainon. 

“Oh, you've done it now .” 

Call him a sadist, but Mydei’s stomach flips, erupting into a storm of butterflies when he sees the abrupt change in Phainon’s facial expression. First, there is the joyous mirth, the loud laughter. He throws back his head and cackles like a witch, like the plus twelve is a deadly poison that he has spent years attempting to perfect, and he has finally mastered its brewing. Then, there's the elaborate pause, the dramatic frown. His face downcasts, and he cocks his head. Pitiful, how his curiosity is short-lived, quickly morphing into the panic that Mydei now sees in his eyes. 

Two things happen at once. 

Phainon squeaks, diving behind the couch as if the inanimate object will save him from the Undying’s wrath. Mydei stalks after him. There's a scuffle, a yelp, and two seconds later, Mydei emerged from behind the Tribios’ favourite couch, clutching Phainon by the scruff of his neck. “Ow! Mydei !” The Deliverer whines. His hands scramble against Mydei’s iron grip, but to no avail; he remains solid and unmoving. “I’m sorry! I won't do it again!” 

His plea falls upon deaf ears. Castorice, Caelus, and Dan Heng watch as Mydei drags the proclaimed saviour of Amphoreus towards the baths. Mutual thoughts are left unspoken—it is best if the lion is not awoken from its slumber. All three spectators, however, find some semblance of enjoyment in watching Phainon squirm under Mydei’s fingers, any previous trace of victory erased. Only the thought of survival remains. 

“No. ” Phainon’s voice sounds scratched raw. His eyes widen. “You can't be serio— Ahg!” 

Mydei doesn't wait for a reply before he kicks up a small splash of water with a scoff. Phainon is just… dramatic , would be the right word to use. And it's no less pronounced when the Deliverer can't get through his thick skull the fact that Mydei isn't trying to drown him. The water isn't deep, certainly not to the point that Phainon thinks he's making. Years upon years, decades upon decades, they have fought side by side. Naturally, Phainon should have honed his perception of the other man by now. 

Apparently not. 

The Deliverer splashes him back much, much harder, sending large ripples of water hurtling across the surface. Mydei blinks in surprise, having to shield his face from the worst of the splashes with his arm and hand. But it's not enough to stop most of it from drenching his clothes, his face, his hair . Surrounded by the choppy waves, Phainon’s face sticks out at him, grinning from ear to ear. Triumphant, his smile is bright enough to light up even the darkest of nights.  

They're equal—evenly matched—and Mydei likes it this way. A victory is a victory, whether or not it's his, and Phainon's win today has only added more fuel to the competitive flame that burns inside him. 

He will win. Next time. And the time after that. 

“Good match.” Phainon says nonchalantly. Stray white locks of hair cling to his face, and for a moment, Mydei allows himself to be envious. Envious of how good Phainon looks, even after all of that. His eyes haven't lost their sparkle. Instead, they reflect the same, youthful charisma he has always had. The very one that Mydei adores. 

“Wanna play again sometime? I'm sure you'll pay me back tenfold for what I did to you today.” It's a harmless joke, but Mydei commits the comment to memory with a silent nod. He will beat him, even if he has to message Caelus three times a week for strategies to do it. 

Together, they wade out of the water. Phainon reaches the steps first, and he turns to offer Mydei a hand. Of course, he bats it away with a small, muted snort and climbs out of the bath himself. Not before his breath hitches in his throat when his eyes trace up to meet Phainon’s amused gaze. 

Stray beads of water glisten atop Phainon’s skin, clinging to him like a layer of shine one would use to polish porcelain or alabaster. His damp hair is given volume, sticking up in a way that makes Mydei want to reach out and smooth. It looks so soft, so ethereal, that he wonders what it would feel like between his fingers. Water drops from his chin into the bath below them, and he follows its trail from the bottom tip of his right ear, all the way down his sharp jaw, right to his exposed clavicle. 

He looks absolutely breathtaking. 

“Lord Mydei—...?” Castorice murmurs. Thankfully, it's enough to break him out of his stupor. At least one person cares enough about his well-being to let him know that he has been staring for Oronyx knows how long. 

He thanks Dan Heng and Caelus as quickly and politely as he can and acknowledges Castorice with a slight tip of the head. Then he leaves. Phainon doesn't need a goodbye, for he already knows his answer. The heat of his smirk trails down his spine and he shivers against it. 

University of Veritas Prime. Monday, 11:23AM.

Dr. Veritas Ratio doesn't condone tardiness. It's a habit—unfortunately—that many people develop in their lives as an aftermath of stress and disorder one may encounter in day-to-day pursuits. And quite quickly, it can develop into a long-lasting trait, sowing chaos and confusion to the point of ruining one's endeavours. Sometimes, it cannot be helped. He supposes that enough bad luck can easily do that job for you. Other times, it is entirely that person's fault. 

In this case, Ratio is almost ashamed to say that he is the root cause of these symptoms. And when Aventurine bursts into his office, not even bothering to knock, Ratio is all but prepared. 

Well, correction: Aventurine had loitered outside his office for Aeons knows how long, and Ratio had resorted to unlocking the door for him. That didn't really count as bursting into his office, per se, seeing as the gambler had not so much as lifted a finger against the door, but he prefers to replay the memory in his head that way. 

He'd seen the gambler from miles off through the security cameras as he took another sip of his lukewarm coffee. The bitterness was still there, but the temperature was off by so many degrees that Ratio considered not drinking the rest of it. Aventurine had stepped out of the taxi and walked straight down the campus, cheerily waving hello to students who happened to pass him by. As usual, he was wearing his tinted glasses to obscure his eyes, and Ratio made the quick presumption that was the reason why the scholars were smiling back at him. 

A few times, Aventurine humoured him by squinting at the various signs dotted around the campus. Like he didn't know where the offices actually were and was simply wasting his time. Like he knew Ratio's eyes were on him and that even on his sick leave, he decided he wanted to give the doctor a good show. 

Part of Ratio wanted to hold the gambler accountable for simply being too... fashionable, if that was a crime; showing up in his work clothes in arrogant shades of gold and turquoise. Then again, he'd seen him like that countless times during Penacony, and a handful of times even before that, so there was no apparent reason as to why he should continue to stare at Aventurine given that fact. But he did anyway, only stopping when he could see the blonde's outline right outside his office door. 

So in essence, the fault behind his tardiness was him. Aventurine wouldn't turn up early. 

In respect of Aventurine's nature, Ratio stays glued to his desk, vigilantly marking the remainder of his papers. Or maybe vigilantly wasn't the right word to describe the manner of his performance. The essays weren't at all difficult to appraise. They all sounded almost exactly the same, and even if they were his students, Ratio was completely unafraid to claim that they had copied from each other. Because Aeons, did it show. Perhaps this was the reason behind why he made an excellent fit (in his opinion) as a teacher. Pure, unrivaled, unbiased attention. After flipping yet another page, however, he noticed that Aventurine had barely moved from his spot, only turning around so that he was facing away from the door.

What on Lushaka was that fool hesitating for? Could he see past the windows? Could he see he was still marking...? No. Ratio is sure that he couldn’t, the windows are heavily tinted. At least, when the windows had been installed, they had told him that. Ratio wasn’t an expert on windows (surprisingly), so he’d believed their better judgement. Was Aventurine, of all people, stalling for time? Not to say that he wasn't good at it, or that the Stonehearts did not practice it, but needless to say, they were out of work hours. There was no use for him to do that here. The sentiment, possibly, was just not shared between the gambler and him, given he had turned up in his work clothes, whereas Ratio's uniform was… well, uniform. Standard. Unchangeable. Aventurine was at the very least provided with the comfort of his own home, and with it, the ability to change attire. 

So why wasn't he doing that now, either? 

If he was in his right mind, Ratio might have asked Aventurine personally, seeing as though the man himself was right in front of his office. But he doesn't. Instead, Ratio sighs heavily as he gets up from his chair and quickly strides towards the front door, opening it. 

As he does, he hears a squeak of surprise from the other side. Like Aventurine didn’t expect Ratio to personally greet him. Just like before, the doctor doesn't share this deduction, and he also doesn't see why Aventurine did. The younger man, instead, turns his focus to the windows lining the outside office walls. More focused than the Aventurine Ratio knew him to be. Weird, he notes, turning his eyes to gaze at the blonde. Neither of them speaks. Aventurine doesn't even wave or call him doc, and that fact alone already sets Ratio off.

"Aventurine," he begins, thankful that his voice doesn't sound croaky even after his fifth cup of coffee that afternoon. "Come in." Aventurine gives Ratio one last once over with his eyes—as if scrutinising his clothes—before scurrying inside. The door shuts with a cold snap. 

That leaves Ratio even more aware of his shabby appearance. His gold laurel, his crowning glory, is somewhere in the office. Simply anywhere but where it should be on his head. He's just had a class and perhaps blinded by his rage in teaching that pack of ignoramuses, he had thrown it. Had he not become a teacher, the prospect of being an athlete didn't sound so bad. He could have been the makings of a renowned discus champion, maybe… if not for the cramping arm pain, the deafening volume of a crowd, and the staggeringly high expectations, among other things. Ratio tries to not think about whether he's made the right career decision. Especially after Nous' rejection and the many, many times he's tried reasoning with the Aeon's prized subjects—the Genius Society—over it. Eventually, he came to terms with it. Able to recognize that geniuses as they were, their minds and hearts lay sealed off from the idea of emotion. But maybe the younger Ratio had more to say on the matter.

Had he then, chosen to become something else, would he be happier? 

Another sharp gasp brings Ratio back to where he stands. Back to tangible, solid reality. Aventurine now sits in one of the hard wooden chairs and when he speaks, he barely manages to catch the words. And even if he did, it filters right out of his ears. He pays too much attention to the way the gambler sits. He pays too much attention to the way the chair doesn't fit him properly. He pays too much attention to the sheepish smile Aventurine gives him when he stalks back to his desk, desperately attempting to hide the unspoken. 

Once more, Ratio casts him a cold glance as he sits down. Aventurine won't take any offence from it because it is what is expected of him. Always has been. And it plays particularly into Ratio's hands because it means there's no issue in hiding his own emotion. What's expected of him, Aventurine will most certainly receive. A useful tool that he's been taking advantage of these past few weeks. 

As much as Ratio likes to believe his teaching methods procure results, this batch of students is no better than the last with each turn of the page resulting in a fresh wave of monotonous display. Word after word, sentence after sentence, leaving him more astonished by their stupidity and lack of pure common sense. It does nothing more than give him a migraine. Throbbing pain begins at his nape and arches up to the front of his head, the intensity of which increases by the centimetre. If anything, Ratio begins to feel more cretinous simply by staring.

The statistics don't help the case either: an open book to the plethora of researchers, no doubt, who want to find a chink in his armour. No more than 3% of scholars who exit the course accomplish anything. That is, to say, on paper, though Ratio doubts the fact his alumni would deny the fact for any other parameter on top of it. Many have claimed the same, even without prior experience with his lectures, feeding only off of snatches of rumours.

What more the media will do to make the Intelligentsia Guild hate him, he doesn't know. Of course, he can always hazard a guess.

Aventurine's words float back into the peripheral part of his brain, once again, alerting him to the gambler's presence in the room. Naturally, he could never forget him. Mainly because the Stoneheart is known for his extravagance, his absurdly extroverted traits, and his loud, boisterous, sultry voice. But even when he's silent, Ratio can still never quite push him from his mind. Whether that is another symptom of his ailment, Ratio doesn't know, and reading books didn't seem to help him on the matter either. They don't refer to love as disease, or a weakness, or even something to be rid of. Rather, an emotion to be embraced. 

Definitely not his style. 

"Well, yes." Ratio frowns. Both in confusion at himself for recalling what Aventurine had said, replying to it accordingly, and also in dissent of the words spoken. Anxiety gnaws at his gut, like starved rats threatened by a flame. Did Aventurine not want to go? Had he read the signs wrong? Absolutely, the Stoneheart was the Strategic Investment Department's charmer, whether for the good or the bad and in all senses of the word. It would be easy to mistake Aventurine's normally flirtatious behaviour for something more than what it truly stood for. However, Ratio’s ulterior judgment does not believe he was that bad of a judge of character. But given it was Aventurine, he could always make an exception. 

He says the words before he can think about them. Maybe he should have thought about them, in light of the question Aventurine has batted his way. “Hey, doc… Are you sure about this whole gimmick of ours? Seems like you’ve still got a lot to do.”

The clock ticks on, and so does Ratio's patience; a bomb ready to explode at any given moment. It wears thinner and thinner with each passing second, each blocky red cross, each scribbled remark in fancy calligraphy he'd learned in some random art class. Handwriting that never helped the accusations about his condescending nature, yet Ratio has kept it nonetheless. By the constant shifting in his seat, the doctor can tell Aventurine is beginning to get restless too. Whether he wants to leave specifically for the aquarium, or just… leave in general, Ratio could only hazard a guess at which is the truth, and which is the lie, but all the same, it shows that it is high time they get going. 

"Mindless fools…" his scribbling further intensifies. 

"Ummm… doc?" Eyebrows furrowed, Ratio doesn't reply. The last thing he wants to do is take out his anger out on the gambler. Paired with unbridled force and the consequence of bottling up one’s emotions, he doesn't think he would be physically capable of seeing the grimace on Aventurine's face that is likely to follow. Already, he is capable of saying rather harsh things to him. Factual, yes, but even the doctor could deduce that the truth hurt many people. And for Aventurine, whose life was a constant cycle of masking his own truth, he was no different to the rest of them in that regard. 

"Doc…?" Aventurine says again. He was familiar with the nuances of the gambler's tone. A fact that he shouldn't necessarily be proud of, given Aventurine's lecherous nature. After months of working with him—and studying the way he held himself around the bourgeoisie, other IPC executives and members—there was always that slight difference. Ratio noted it all down mentally without thinking. It was simply just a reflex for him by this point. Irritating, during their first few days of encounter. Ratio couldn't stand him. Couldn't even look him in the eye without thinking of the vast, rolling sands of Sigonia. But as with many things, Ratio quickly adapted. Got used to it. Tuned out that little voice in his mind that whispered each and every little thing in shockingly accurate detail. 

Aventurine was getting desperate to leave. 

From above the rim of his glasses, Ratio looks up to meet Aventurine's gaze. The gambler is not exactly looking at him, per se, but rather the absence of the fishbowl on his desk. Try as hard as he might to clean it, the residual dried stickiness of the tank remains on the desk, imprinted as a reminder of the office's emptiness. And, to some extent, the desolation in the eyes Aventurine stares at it with. Is he presuming the worst? Most likely; but Ratio doesn't have the time, nor the patience left in him to explain. All he does is hold up a finger to signal the number one, then looks back down at the remaining paper. 

He's sure that Aventurine gets the signal, because he stops speaking altogether. Instead, opting to let the doctor finish his work in peace. He could, perhaps, go on about how Aventurine's lack of education did not equal a lack of intelligence. A despairing fact, considering Aventurine would likely serve a better candidate to study at University compared to the fools he was teaching. Not the youngest Stoneheart (that spot belongs to Topaz), Ratio still secretly commends the gambler's progress over time. Of course, he wasn't always paired with ambassadors from the IPC. The Intelligentsia Guild was merely a side hustle, waiting for their investment, but he always heard snatches and whispers, much to his own chagrin. Rumours of how Jade was training an ex-slave and an Avgin to become a member of the Stonehearts. Telling Aventurine this, however, would do more harm than good. Better to hide the truth from him this time, than to see his ego swell to twice its original size. 

After leaving one last, cold remark, Ratio stands from his desk. Aventurine's eyes fly up suddenly, shocked by the doctor's abrupt movement. A sigh of relief eliciting from his lips, he tosses his pen down, unfazed with the loud clatter it makes on contact. "Alright. Let's go, gambler." With that, Ratio shrugs off his lab coat, letting it fall onto his chair with a rustle. A single hand reaches up to remove his glasses and stuff them into a drawer in his desk. 

West Campus Apartments. Veritas Prime. Friday, 7:11PM.

"Wait, wait. Hold on a second, Veritas. I'm confused again. Start from the beginning again. You want me to give you Aventurine's address. And you won't go and get it yourself? Aren't you two friends or something?" 

Ratio sighs. "No. Aventurine won't give me his address, so I need a way around that."

"We literally just said the same thing." 

He pinches his nose, fighting the urge to regurgitate the rest of the information in a manner even more frustrated than the last. When Ratio ended up turning their mutual co-worker—Topaz—for help, he didn't know why he expected anything but a response like this. Conversations with the woman feel like an uphill battle, though that doesn't seem to stop him from recruiting her into his plans should the occasion arise. He won't deny the fact that he is a talented employee, both dedicated to her job and the field of human sympathy, but he guesses this is just part of Topaz's charm as a person. That, or Ratio's just a masochist. 

"Aventurine and I aren't friends." 

"Well you sure act like it, sometimes."

"What?" Ratio frowns. He doesn't remember a time when they've looked like friends. At least not outside of closed doors. 

"What?"

"Oh Aeons..." 

Brought close to indignation by whatever convoluted side-street this conversation has been hurled into, Ratio decided to drown his problems in man's greatest vice: a glass of Cosmic Turbidity. Well, it was all Topaz's idea to begin with. She'd been little more than a phone call away, just coming straight off of one herself with Aventurine the day before. She seemed more than happy to answer his courtesy call, and given her ties with Lady Jade, it wasn't the hardest job in the world to file for a quick hour's break from work. To think that she'd even called off at all was a miracle in itself. 

On the other side of the coffee table, Topaz sniffs in distaste. Apparently, her tastes run far more sophisticated than his, even if the matter is one of preference. She holds a glass of Beautiful Enemy delicately between her fingers, the epitome of elegance that reminds him all too well of her mentor. In fact, it wouldn't be too unsafe to say that it was Jade herself who had taught her to drink in the first place. But considering her glass has a large image of a rubber duck printed all over it, she doesn't quite manage to live up to the image Ratio thinks she supposes she has. 

Despite this, when Topaz comes over to his apartment on Veritas Prime, he finds that it's a fun addition to his monthly schedule. Tonight, he's opted for a much stronger beverage than his usual, but it does little to change the fact that Topaz's cheese and crackers are delicious. They're on crockery that screams just as every bit sophistication as her wine glass: a glass tray decorated with polka dots and tells its owner to EAT HEALTHY in Latin ("Sanus Manducare") in block letters. Ratio has no idea why he bought half of this stuff. Or even went through the process of seeking it all out. Well, men are indeed an enigma, himself included now, he supposes, no matter how hard some journalists seem to argue that he is a “God among men”. Whatever context they mean that in. 

Considering he was still new to the whole IPC deal, he had never expected to find an acquaintance in Topaz. If… acquaintance meant dropping the formalities and instead, calling each other by their first names. 

Succinctly, Ratio begins again. From the top, this time, "I need Aventurine's address so that I can return the rubber duck to him."

Topaz nods to show that she understands. "Okay. That definitely does not prove my point."

Ratio chooses to ignore the blatant sarcasm. "Yesterday, likely after Aventurine called you, I received a duck through the mail."

"How can you be sure he was the one who gave it to you, anyway?" Topaz interjects, waving the hand not currently intertwined around the hem of her glass. 

"The duck looked like him. Similar to how Aristotle was custom-made to resemble my appearance." 

"I see..." She takes a measured sip of her beverage, swirling it around in her fingers. "And you're really sure you want to return it?" 

Ratio shoots her a glare, like he doesn't quite acknowledge the fact that she may well be right. "Jelena, do I have any reason not to?" He insists. Then he pauses, remembering how quickly he had ended the call with Aventurine back then, lest the gambler privy further into the nitty gritty details he so sorely attempted to shy away from. "Even if such a reason exists, I can buy Aristotle a new companion myself, can't I? Throwing credits in my face isn't going to gain my favour like it has for other people in the past," he splutters, indignant. 

The statement ends up bursting out of him way louder than he intended. More of a shout than an exclamation, really. Topaz raises an eyebrow. Another sip. Even with the un-threatening image of a duck staring back at him from her wine glass, she looks awfully poised, like she's made up her mind and Ratio can do nothing to change it. After a moment, she reaches over and stirs Ratio's glass a little with the spoon, previously abandoned on the coffee table. She's urging him to take another long, gratifying gulp of his drink, to feel the heat soothing his already burning throat. It doesn't make sense logically, but alcohol has never been a sensible fit for anyone, even when taken in healthy amounts. 

"Veritas, I don't think he's trying to gain your favour, if I'm going to be completely honest with you." 

Flushing, Ratio mutters an apology—something he hasn't done in quite some time—and accepts the offering humbly. Maybe then, he is truly a god. He stares down at the glass in his hands. Murky liquid, all mixed together now thanks to Topaz's meddling, and not the perfectly separated layers he remembers hazily. A flick of the wrist. A fluid motion. The liquid goes down his throat, pulling the warmth of a million suns down with it. Placing the glass down on the table, he clears his throat in a desperate attempt to bring his thoughts back into a coherent bubble. 

"So? What do you expect me to do with that information?" Ratio quips. 

She clicks her tongue. "Consider… not returning it, maybe?" 

"Absolutely not," he says. 

"Don't tell me you don't think it's cute." Topaz counters. "That he's cute." 

And Ratio nearly chokes, even with the drink now safely mingling with other stomach fluids. "Never once have I described Aventurine as cute. Not to you, not to anyone, and certainly not to that crazed gambler's face," the doctor argues. Quite contrary to the statement, his face heats up all the same. 

The Stoneheart must believe the reason behind it is mild infatuation because she arches an eyebrow at him. "Whatever you say," she shrugs, nonchalantly, and pours herself more Puffergoat Milk into her glass, even though hers is still half full. "But let's just look at the facts: say Aventurine is trying to butter you up. You're more than welcome to kick him to the curb to prove me wrong." 

"And if he isn't?" 

"Well…" 

Ratio pinches the bridge of his nose, anger beginning to prickle at the surface of his skin. "I'm not going to wait until he admits his failures before giving it back," he says plainly. 

Failures. 

Funny how that word seems ugly now.

"Like I said, there's the possibility of considering it first. You don't have to decide right now, you know." 

"That's ridiculous," Ratio scoffs. The thing about Topaz is that she doesn't exactly know the situation between him and the gambler; evident from the way she had called them friends a few minutes prior. Aventurine to some degree unfortunately fit his Avgin stereotype: he could be crafty and slick, and his way with words almost certainly was the sealing deal when it came to his job. Of course, Ratio wasn't some puppy-eyed scholar who could be won with such linguistic methodizing, but should he leave the duck in his apartment too long, Aventurine would begin to assume things. After that, it wouldn't be long until the Stoneheart was twisting his words, and that was a path Ratio preferred not to travel upon. 

"This whole thing is ridiculous. You're already asking for his address." 

"I'm aware." 

"So then why are you getting so worked up about it?"

"Because—" Ratio stumbles as if a block has been placed in his path. He opens his mouth and then quickly shuts it, not sure of what to follow his sentence up with. Why is he getting so worked up about it? It shouldn't take a genius to figure it out. 

Because Aventurine gets on his nerves. Badly enough for him to want to wring his pretty little neck. He knows exactly what gets on the doctor's bad side, and makes use of it with every chance he gets. Aventurine, for all his charms and trades, is too hard of a person to figure out. What exactly does he want from him? He's sure he wants something, and that certainty freaks him out. 

Because it's shitty. Shitty that Aventurine is making him think that he likes him, that he has a crush on him. But the gift-giving and money are no different than how he acts with his clients. 

Because there's part of him that feels bad for Aventurine despite all his indignation and vehement declination of his stupid party invitations. He knows the gambler won't have anything to do with his pity, and if anything, he'll even scourge it given the chance. Pity is for the weak, he'll say with a smile. But he can't help but feel it nonetheless. It's the same pity he feels for Ruan Mei's various experiments. Thrown away and discarded. Used only to harvest their results. Worthless to her, except for her fruitless gimmicks, which come nowhere close to becoming the new cusp of humanity. In a way, Aventurine is like that too. Jade and the Stonehearts have no use for him other than to gather his profits. All for the Amber Lord, he recalls Aventurine's words before his downfall. Even if the Stonehearts each acted out of their own motive, Aventurine was different. Ex-slave as he may be, it wasn't impossible to suggest that he had the least amount of freedom to an executive. Physically, of course, he was entitled to it. Mentally, Ratio couldn't be so certain. 

Perhaps that was the reason why he chose to offer himself up to the Emanator as a glorious sacrifice? To not only receive the death he sorely wanted but to cover it up by saying it was a necessary action? 

Aventurine was a lot smarter than they gave him credit for. 

So then, back to the rubber duck. 

Ratio heaves a sigh. This is too much thinking for a Thursday evening. Not really, he supposes. He would just prefer not to think on one of his rare nights off—if he can even call skipping marking a proper night off. He needs another refill so he can burn those papers to ash in his mouth. Ratio pours himself another helping of Odd Concoction, Soothing Soda, Ice SoulGlad, and Stellar Champagne respectively, watching as the layers of alcohol pile up. Heck, they might as well become bartenders with the number of different bottles splayed out before them on the table. All the while, Topaz watches him, tracing his movements as he takes another calculated sip and sets the glass down again. 

"How is Aventurine doing, anyway?" She asks. 

Didn't you talk to him earlier today? Ratio, decidedly, leaves the words unspoken. It will only result in the two of them delving down another random avenue. He simply answers the question. "The usual." 

"I hate talking to you." 

"The feeling is mutual." 

With a grin, Topaz grabs her phone from her back pocket, thumbing open a memo pad app. It takes a few seconds of scrolling before she passes it along the table to him. "Here." 

Block 1, Apartment 10, Floor 34. Pier Point Penthouse. 

Aventurine's address, and one that he is unlikely to forget. 

Lushaka National Aquarium. Lushaka. Monday, 02:10PM.

Sometimes, Ratio believes that there are people put in this universe specifically to make his eyes twitch. 

Aventurine is most definitely one of those people. 

In fact, Aventurine may be the person birthed to cause him grief. The two of them have never gotten along; not even for a second since they met. And if they have, the chance is so infinitesimally slim that Ratio, for all his sanity, does not count it. As far as the doctor is concerned, they're sworn enemies. That much is an open secret even to complete strangers with only Topaz believing that there is even a thin shot at them being friends. They only spend time in the same damned building, the same damned vicinity, because they have to for work. Every time they're assigned to a project together—something that has mercifully only happened once—Ratio has to remind himself multiple times of both the legislative and personal consequences of murdering another human being. 

So you can imagine Ratio's surprise when on a regular Saturday afternoon, Ratio is being dragged by a small, extravagantly dressed man with blonde hair bearing the name Aventurine. Right when he knows he should be tucked away in a secluded corner of his apartment on Veritas Prime, the temperature set to a comfy sixty-five and a book between his long, slender hands. A reward, for finishing all that arduous, mind-numbing, finger-aching marking. 

But instead, he finds himself here. 

Aventurine isn't exactly small, per se. Rather the height difference between them is quite obvious at around seventeen centimetres: the length of a small ruler. The people around them can only stand and gawk at Aventurine's absurd amount of energy as the two of them hop, skip, and jump (well, not literally; Ratio would have his head for that) around the aquarium's many exhibits. Ratio had no prior clue that the damned gambler had enough energy in him, and his appearance certainly didn't help to deny that presumption. Although his blonde hair was well-maintained—far from unkempt—his cheekbones were too high, making him appear gaunt and severely sleep-deprived. His clothes just barely did their job of hiding just how slim his figure was. Aventurine was only pushing it close by getting a tight-fitted suit to match his dress trousers, a gamble that was nothing out of the ordinary and nothing that he couldn't handle. He knew there was worse to it than that. 

And still, yet again, Aventurine fooled him. How was he supposed to do his “research” if he kept pulling him around like some kind of father hunkering after his child? 

"Ratioooo~!" Aventurine chimes in that sing-song voice of his, gloved hand tight against Ratio's. He points eccentrically at the next exhibit, lit aglow with the same, mesmerizing blue lighting as the rest. Inside, Ratio manages to make out a few fins here and there, just past the large crowd of families packed around it, but that's as much as his vision allows. Given his height, it doesn't usually prove to be much of an issue to peek over other onlookers, but right now, it's just a case of there being too many of them . "I think those are sharks." Aventurine continues, tugging once more at the palm of Ratio's hand. His free hand points to the shark pen's neighbouring exhibit. This is possibly the closest the two of them have ever had to physical contact. Well. Kind of. Except for that one time in Penacony, but Ratio refuses to let his mind elaborate on the topic further. Aventurine isn't normally this touchy-feely, and the doctor doesn't object to it. Perhaps that's one thing they can both agree on. 

The gambler stares up at him wistfully with bright eyes, like a puppy begging its owner for another treat. The gesture makes Ratio partly wish he had never lied, never covered up the truth under the guise of a research project. Because now, he has to pull away to regain his bearings and fulfill the promise he has so foolishly signed himself up for. All he has to do is pull away. So that's what he does, albeit reluctantly.

Ratio quickly removes his hands from Aventurine's, the celerity of the movement painting out the gambler's skin as if it were poison. The blonde seems to take this approach too, when he responds by taking a few steps backward. His eyes return to their former state, back when they'd first met each other. Soulless and empty. Bright nonetheless, but they hold none of the emotion nor the warmth Ratio saw in them mere seconds ago. Following it up with a quick, hesitant smile that has Ratio's mind faltering, he twists away towards the throng of families. Before long, he's completely vanished from the doctor's sight. 

With the taste of dissatisfaction on his tongue, Ratio turns to sit down on the bench behind him. Once his left leg is propped snugly on top of the other, he grabs his codex. The heavy book—or should he address it as a tablet?—materialises out of thin air in a shower of blue sparkles, and he doesn't hesitate to flip it open. Now that he's finished marking, there's not much else for him to get up to, but he still scrolls mindlessly through the e-library all the same. At least, he does while waiting for the crowds to disperse. 

Nothing particular catches his eye, but he clicks on a few articles nonetheless. There's nothing wrong with wanting a refresher course on his older degrees, so he chooses ones that are more focused on biological areas of study. Besides, his tablet serves no purpose other than a mere distraction from the malaise. It would be a waste of his energy if he were to search for something truly worth reading and dissecting. Every so often, his eyes flick up to see if he can catch a glimpse of gold among the multitude. Most of the time, his pursuits to “spot-the-Aventurine” come back empty-handed, like the gambler is truly, honestly, trying to hide from him out of petulance. An unsurprising conclusion, given Aventurine's track record. But then again, Ratio wouldn't blame him if that were the case. He appears genuinely offended this time, and even he, the great, esteemed Dr. Veritas Ratio, admits that he is the one at fault. 

There are still many, many things he hasn't told Aventurine. Like the fish tank, for instance. And the duck. He still remembers the desolatation in the blonde's eyes. How could he forget? Misery and its collective synonyms had been the only words accurate enough to describe that look. Nothing else could quite grasp the gravity of the situation. And to think, he considered this a more extreme circumstance than his closer encounters with death. Because it was. Aventurine believed that he'd dumped the fish tank somewhere unimaginable. Perhaps Dreamflux Reef was an appropriate guess? He hadn't. It was simply sitting in his other home at Pier Point. As for the duck? Seeing as though he hadn't actually mailed it to the gambler, he must have assumed the worst there, too. The truth of the matter was that he'd kept it, planned on keeping it the very day he noticed it in his bathtub. But like any other case concerning Aventurine, he couldn't, wouldn't admit it. What would follow would be nothing less than a deconstructing, frankly embarassing lecture about how Aventurine-was-always-right and Ratio-was-always-wrong. Words that Ratio didn't need to hear for a second time. 

Ugh. There are just too many regrets. 

It's only when he stops hiding behind his codex that his irises manage to seek out the damned gambler. Frustration had merely gotten the upper hand over him when he finished reading that last line: some fraudulent statement that claimed sleeping too long was not detrimental to one's health. And in all his exasperation, Ratio plants his codex face down against his thighs and sighs, nursing his brow fervently with his free hand. From the upper corner of his eyes, there's a glimmer of gold and turquoise, and when he looks up, the herd of families has cleared, leaving only Aventurine behind, staring at the next enclosure across. Ratio blinks several times and even rubs at them, to make sure that the gambler isn't just an apparition his brain has manifested for the sole purpose of unburdening him.

Yes, it's definitely him.

Before he decides to say anything, Ratio sits back, free arm draped languidly across the back of the bench. Aventurine's blonde hair is strikingly obvious, even from behind, and the gems on his suit sparkle dazzlingly under the aquarium's lights. He knows it's more for the aquatic creatures than for the people looking around at them, but they compliment the blonde all the same. Perhaps, if he had nothing he wanted to say to the gambler, he would have—could have—sat here forever, just admiring Aventurine's radiance. Stoneheart or not, to Ratio, he would always be a polished gem. Not perfect, but nobody ever was. Even the Aeons themselves, and Ratio has had plenty of experience in that field. 

Once he's sure he wants his attention, Ratio calls out, "Aventurine." No response. 

"Aventurine," he says again, tossing his codex to one side. He doesn't check to make sure it's properly disappeared, but he has full faith in his own mechanisms. Mechanisms that neither the rest of the Guild nor the IPC will ever get their hands on. To some extent, maybe even the Genius Society, if Screwllum were out of the picture. 

"Aventurine." It's only on the third time that his companion decides to acknowledge his presence, and by this point, Ratio is already on his feet. Awkwardly, he sidles over until he's standing next to him. They'd be shoulder to shoulder if only he hadn't chosen to stand a safe distance away. If anything, Aventurine needs the distance more than he did. It's worked like this before. Whenever the gambler has been angry in the past, it's better to let him breathe rather than to approach instantaneously. That ends in little more than a dogfight, something neither of them has the energy nor patience to do. 

Ratio lets another minute pass before he finds his voice again, "Gambler." 

"Yeah?" 

He lets the silence do the talking. Idle watching is a much better indication, proven by Aventurine tracing his line of sight to the tank. "Beautiful..." the blonde breathes, gasping in awe at the fish that swim before them, all shades of purple, gold, and green. Now, Aventurine must be entirely convinced of his reason for dragging the both of them here. The fish really are from Lushaka, no doubt of it. That wasn't the lie he was telling him, anyway. Ratio nods silently. "You really weren't kidding about the whole research project, were you, doc?" the gambler laughs. It sounds too high for Aventurine to be serious, to be genuine, and Ratio doesn't meet the gaze the blonde's likely throwing at him. He doesn't want to see those empty, disappointed eyes, so he just nods again. Slower this time. 

"So you weren't lying then, doc?" Aventurine repeats heatedly. The air between them wavers, as if slashed by an invisible sword. Tension simmers there and Ratio fears another snarky remark like that from the gambler will cause it to blow over. What exactly is he so worked up about? 

It's hard enough to deal with Aventurine in the first instance. Hard enough to fight an uphill battle with his volatile emotions, too. And it's even harder to control his anger, just bubbling within the surface, so Ratio chooses his next words very, very wisely. "No. Why, do you see this as another act, akin to the one we played in Penacony?" It's not a reply made out of frustration, made strikingly obvious from the way he nurses the bridge of his nose. Slowly, carefully, like he's attempting to prevent another headache.

He's not initially mad but then a presumption pops into his head. Not one he can fully prove, just one that can be implied from Aventurine's actions. He thinks he's pretending, thinks he's lying through his teeth. For one, Ratio is no sadist. He doesn't revel in seeing others suffer, unlike the Genius Society. Nous wouldn't gaze upon him, perhaps because he has enough emotion not to dismiss the results of his experiments as nothing more than worthless tools, devoid of both life and emotion. Nous wouldn't gaze upon him because he wasn't cruel enough to be a genius. Just a scholar. And for another, Ratio isn't a liar either, unless it is an absolute necessity. So why Aventurine came to that conclusion, he has no clue. 

"Do I look like the type to falsify such a thing?" He snaps, finally turning to greet the glare plastered to Aventurine's face. Anger is a momentary reflex and within seconds it dies down inside Ratio, tucking itself into its own coffin. The silence that lapses is proof that the gambler has realized this, too. They're professionals, grown-up men and not to jump back onto his pride as a failsafe, they're both better than this. Although Aventurine can easily play the picture of petulance, that is nothing but an act, solidified specially for their Penacony mission. It's not his true personality. Whatever that may be, Ratio has yet to find out. 

Softly, he starts again. "—But you must know, gambler, that research isn't the only reason I brought you here." He watches the glare fade into an indecipherable expression, something halfway between confusion and curiosity. "You told me you'd never been," he continues, quieter. Given Aventurine's background, asking that question back then seemed redundant. It had been answered for him already when he had looked into the Stoneheart's files, the majority of them marked as containing sensitive information. And they hadn't disappointed. It was no wonder the gambler looked so out of place amongst the hordes of children and their parents. With or without his extravagant outfit, Aventurine would still exhibit the same, childish curiosity as he had done, solely because his childhood was too short. 

"Well," a pause, as there's a hard swallow. "I didn't exactly have the time to go by myself, did I?" A shaky laugh. 

By myself. The words hit him like a slap to the face. 

"Obviously not, seeing as you agreed to this." Rolling his eyes, Ratio scoffs. He wants to tell him that he's not alone, that other people care for him and are more than willing to go places Aventurine has never once visited in his life. To make up for his lost childhood, but the words are lost on his tongue. When was the last time he spoke such kind things to another human being? It's lost in time, somewhere, much too covered up by what everyone else thinks of him. What Aventurine thinks of him. He's not as incapable of emotion as it's made out to be. 

"So, you planned to bring me with you, then?" Aventurine asks, prodding further into Ratio's intent. "And then what?" 

Here's the tricky bit: confessing. Lies have forged their relationship thus far, Penacony and even before that. Aventurine surely won't mind if he reveals the truth behind another, especially if in the end, he is the one who benefits. At least, he thinks so. There's no saying with the gambler. Vividly unpredictable, Aventurine has always managed to slip past his vices and deliver surprising comebacks. He guesses that's just the charm that comes with a gambler. Always willing to bet the most precious of things, certain that they will win by the most unorthodox and risky methods. 

Inhaling sharply, Ratio starts, "There are people out there who care for you, Aventurine." he says shakily, swallowing before he continues. "I'm more than willing to be a part of that." 

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable but contemplative as the blonde digests the new information that he's been given. He has no counter, no words left in that snarky mouth of his that he can use to retort what Ratio has just said. It's a plain, simple, and undeniable truth. And so far, they've only been speaking in half-truths, not quite giving each other the full picture. 

"The note…" Aventurine splutters, only to be cut off when Ratio pulls at his wrist. There are still other people left to consider. It is a public place, after all. It's not a straightforward case of spilling one's thoughts. Even if this is Lushaka, not Penacony, that they stand in, and they have the advantage of being complete strangers to everyone else here, Ratio's still adamant about maintaining their secrecy. 

Only when they're sitting down does Ratio begin to speak again. "Do stay alive," he mutters. Originally, the words weren't meant for such a touching purpose. Ratio was simply aware of Aventurine's risky methodising and the potential it had for getting him in harm's way—intentionally or not. Back then, he'd only been securing the IPC's infamously ostentatious gambler came back alive. And in one piece. 

Now, those three words meant so much more to both Ratio and Aventurine. Were they, perhaps, placeholders for a different set of letters?

"If you weren't being so careless about your health, then there would have been no use for it." Truth. "But seeing as though you used the mission as an excuse to put your life in jeopardy ." Pointedly, Ratio glares at Aventurine, who plays it off with a weak smile. "I thought the gesture was necessary." 

"Thanks, doc." 

The hand he used to pull Aventurine over to the bench now lies limply by his side. Momentarily, he glances over at Aventurine's own hands lying dormant on his lap, atop legs that shake profusely. A habit of the gambler's, he's noticed. It's the result of nervosity: hundreds and hundreds of bets on the cusp of failure. There's always the chance of it, despite Aventurine's claims of being gifted by Sigonia's mystical goddess, Giathara Triclops. And it seems he knows that too, judging by the erratic nature of his movements. Following the path of his eyes, he's looking over at the enclosures again. At the fish. He can't be sure of it, Aventurine's gaze flickers much too often to confirm or deny his suspicions. Either way, he's looking anywhere but at Ratio. For fear of another reprimand, perhaps? That's not a surprise. 

They sit in silence. Minutes must pass while Ratio stares hotly at each person who passes by, questioning each and every quirk of the brow he receives. They're not getting anywhere at this rate, so Ratio makes to stand, eliciting a sigh from his lips. "Now that we've emptied the contents of our hearts, we should be leaving."

Aventurine says nothing to this demanding remark, his instinct only kicking in when Ratio's fabric leaves the surface of the wooden bench and he climbs to his full height. His hand shoots out suddenly and grasps at Ratio's wrist. Aventurine's hand is ice cold against the warm pulse beating underneath his skin, enough for both the gesture and the drop in temperature to catch Ratio's attention. "Don't leave," he pleads, "please." An afterthought, to inject a syringe of etiquette into his words, to make it sound more like a request than a demand. 

Ratio stiffens at the touch but does not pull away this time. Instead, he stills to think. His jaw muscles tense and brows furrow. He wants to stay, more than anything. Ratio is the sole reason that Aventurine is here, and they came with the intention of filling in the gaps that the gambler missed. Of course, the blonde didn't know that from the beginning, but Ratio always has, considering it was his idea in the first place. Now that he's told Aventurine, it's only fair that he wants to stay and relish the moment. Once he's declared well and gets back to work (if the rest of the Stonehearts choose to let him), there may never be a time like this ever again. Aventurine even said it himself, I didn't exactly have the time to go. If his back-to-back lessons and essays are enough to possibly cause him a mild stroke, then he cannot begin to imagine how much paperwork the blonde has piled up on his desk at home.

Pursing his lips, Ratio glances quickly at his companion. A tentative gaze, more to assure his next decision than one sneaked in out of curiosity. Though, he'll take that, too. The blonde matches his look, eyes equally as intense. "If that is your wish, gambler, then I am well within my rights to grant it." 

"Thanks, doc," is what he gets in light of his most recent statement. That, and the wide 'o' shape of Aventurine's mouth to pair with it, voicing his surprise for him. He doesn't reply to that. Doesn't see the need to say you're welcome or it's my pleasure in response. Fewer words, fewer chances to say something wrong. 

Ratio then does the unthinkable in place of his words. Words are dead without action , Ratio vaguely remembers reading that passage somewhere. From where , exactly, he doesn't have enough strength left in him to properly register it. As a professor, giving credit to one's sources is paramount to an essay or article, as a way of dictating credibility. But that rule will be ignored in this case. Instead, he leans over a little and gently pulls Aventurine's head onto his shoulder. There's no motive behind his action. Aventurine isn't uncomfortable with the seat, but the relaxed gasp he receives from Aventurine is enough of a reason. 

Twelve days, twenty-two hours, six system minutes, and one, two, three seconds. That's how long it has been since Aventurine tasted the blade of an Emanator, and it leaves him relieved every time he stops to think about it. At times, Ratio wonders: would that gambler have made it out alive if not for his intervention? Aeons, would he have even wanted to come back? It is said that all Avgins believe that once one dies, they are destined to meet their loved ones in the life that is to follow. 

Did Aventurine of Stratagems—Aventurine, his Aventurine—believe that superstition, too? Is that why he chose to die, and extravagantly so? 

But that does not matter now. Not when Aventurine is here. Living, breathing along with him, the rhythmic beat of his heart thumping under his chest a strong, soothing presence against Ratio. 

"Hey, Ratio?" The idyllic silence between the two of them is casually interrupted by the blonde's words. He hums to show his acknowledgment. "Can I ask one more favour of you?" he says sweetly, no different from when he would usually ask Ratio to indulge him in the most absurd of his ideas. 

"Humour me." He clicks his tongue. Aventurine—it seems—knows how to make him curious. Besides, they have all the time in the world. 

The devilish smile that follows sets Ratio's mind into a course of deep-set panic. What has he just agreed to? And of his own volition too so that Aventurine can easily hold his accountability against him? Slowly, Aventurine leans forward, a staggeringly, mind-numbingly slow pace that only makes Ratio's eyes widen further in confusion. Then, soft pink lips touch his own, scratched and coarse against smooth skin. He's kissing him. Gentle, warm, soothing, the feeling akin to one of his evening baths. Except better, he might even say. Each subtle, calming kiss leaves a layer of heat against Ratio's skin, trailing down until a fire has ignited in his throat. Passionate heat that drives him to kiss back aggressively as Aventurine leans further and further in until their shoulders and legs are touching. 

University of Veritas Prime. Monday, 11:23AM.

Don't get him wrong, Aventurine has been nervous his entire life, but this feeling? Now, this is in a completely different playing field. Some would say he was being irrational. Stupid, even, in thinking that this small situation meant so much more to him than betting brazenly at a casino and putting his life on the line. His hands would shake behind his back as he rolled dice after dice after dice , with each roll as perfect as the last. But this, to Aventurine, was more than just a one-off gamble, a one-night standoff against the inner workings of his mind, that thought, just once, he would lose . 

He would make sure he couldn't lose this time. He wouldn't. Aventurine wasn't sure he would let himself live if he did. 

If the taxi ride to Ratio's office on the campus made his knees quake, he fears they would completely give way when he walks up to Ratio's door and knocks. For a moment, Aventurine thinks the doctor won't answer, and his assistant will appear magically out of thin air to tell him that Ratio lied. The sad thing is, it wouldn't even be a far-fetched possibility. Ratio downright hates his guts, thinks he's annoying, and probably has enough sadism in him to make Aventurine drive all this way for nothing. If anything, Aventurine blames his students. Perhaps Ratio wasn't always like this. Grumpy 24/7, barely giving two fucks about anything other than his work and the “pursuit of knowledge’—or whatever he called it.

Aventurine is still mid-thought when there's movement behind the glass. Imagine a window bordering a principal's office. Yeah. That's the sort of thing Ratio decided to install in front of his office. Whatever possessed the good doctor to make him believe that this was a good idea, Aventurine doesn't exactly know, but he'll make sure to file a professional complaint, whether it's the last thing he does or not. It only helps to heighten Aventurine's growing anxiety. Beneath him, his leg bobs up and down endlessly; it’s supposed to help calm him down. The air behind the door shifts a little, and before Aventurine can properly compose himself, the door opens to reveal Ratio. 

His hair looks like a bird's nest, albeit messy but cute. Perched on the bridge of his nose is a pair of thin, gold-rimmed spectacles that compliment his eyes perfectly. Over his usual black vest, he's wearing a white lab coat, as if he were conducting an experiment—right there and then—in his office. Which, honestly? Aventurine wouldn't question. 

At first, his eyes glaze over Aventurine, in a move which suggests he's not expected him to show up in front of his office. A very un Ratio-like thing to do, Aventurine thinks to himself. He seems a lot like the “make plans now, regret later” type of person, especially given his choc-a-bloc timetable. Only now has he really discovered the true gravity of Ratio's situation, as both a teacher, a scholar, and the Intelligentsia Guild's newly elected representative for the IPC. That would explain the frazzled hair, the eyebags growing under his irises, and (apparently) the forgetfulness that comes with a busy schedule. He can't possibly imagine how hard it is to juggle lessons with marking work and, extensively, all his other personal escapades. Heck, how does the doctor even have enough time at the end of the day to take a bath?

Ratio blinks slowly and tilts his head like this checks out. As if he can guess what Aventurine is thinking in that very second. Which would be pretty weird, but not surprising, either. "Aventurine," he begins, voice clipped. "Come in." The gap between the door and the frame widens, and the gambler quickly steps inside. It was already awkward just standing there. To pretend Ratio hadn't spoken to him just then would, arguably, be a worse prospect than annoying the doctor. Even if that would be well worth its merits. 

Inside, the office is chillier than the space outside it, and when Ratio promptly shuts the door, the temperature somehow drops even lower. It's quite dark, too. The ceiling lights are off, and only a single lamp quietly hums on Ratio's desk. Next to it, is a large stack of papers and a cup of coffee, absent of its usual steam. "Hey, doc… Are you sure about this whole charade of ours? Seems like you've still got a lot to do," he purrs, deciding to take a seat on the hardest of the wooden chairs. He's a lot more used to the recliners Topaz has in her office, or the armchairs/deckchairs-type thing Jade has going on in hers, so the hardwood doesn't bode well with his ass, and he nearly ends up slipping when he sits down. A feat that he tries to hide when Ratio stalks back to his desk. 

It doesn't go unnoticed, the doctor gives him a sharp glance before sitting back down, irises sliding up and down his thin frame like he's a sample to be analysed. The gaze is cold, calculated, even. Not the kind of gaze one would throw to shamelessly stare at another's body, Aventurine understands. 

Obviously, it's not as if he doesn't want to go, per se. Stoneheart or not, his plan wrecked earlier or not, he definitely does not wish for murder at the hands of Ratio. Because clearly, it would be easy to point his fingers at Aventurine and say that this whimsical visit to the aquarium had been all his idea. That when the families of his rich students came knocking with complaints, Ratio would immediately have some kind of backup solution to that problem. As if anyone would believe his story, Stoneheart or not he is a Sigonian—

Maybe he's thinking too much between the lines, affirmed by the doctor's next, prized words. "Well, yes." Ratio frowns, picking up his pen and going back to work. "I don't have very many papers left to mark, gambler." 

Oh. Oh. The pieces click into play, and he finds himself staring—once more—at the gargantuan pile of paperwork to Ratio's left. They're all the marked essays, not the ones Ratio has left to do. Now that he's a lot closer, he can see the blocky red crosses scribbled all over the students' work. An unfortunate fate indeed. 

The silence that permeates the office is unbearable. All Aventurine is permitted to hear is the incessant scratching of pen against paper, punctuated by the occasional scornful tut. "Mindless fools..." Ratio mumbles to himself, and the hurried scrawling only intensifies. Now—probably—is a bad time to speak up, but it's almost as if he's taken a back seat to the world. That his body is nothing more than just floating space, watching Ratio write and furrow his brows whenever his students write something stupid. In fact, it's scary, and he can only imagine what they have to go through with him as their teacher. 

The silence is also quite boring. Aventurine can only sit there and twiddle his thumbs mindlessly while Ratio continues to work. Should he dare speak? The doctor is already stuck in some kind of work stupor, and he fears the worst when he opens his mouth to say something. What will Ratio do if he speaks? Give him a smack over the head? A faceful of chalk and an insult? "Umm… doc?" he says, tentative. 

Silence. There's a rustle of paper as Ratio flips the page.

It's weird, how the IPC are transferring all their files to electronic hard drives, and aren't doing the same for the rest of their system. That being said, the Intelligentsia Guild doesn't have nearly as much funds as the Strategic Investment Department does, and Veritas Prime likely pulls those resources from a completely different sect… It's no surprise that Ratio is still having to handmark his assignments. However, he has heard that Ratio insists on using a blackboard during lessons, only allowing himself the luxury of a laptop should it be required for explanations of a more complicated calibre. Even so, if the university were to release a decree stating that electronic marking would be preferable, it would come across as no surprise at all if Ratio decided to work against that tide. 

"Doc...?" Aventurine says again. This time, he stresses the syllables more and raises his volume. It's just a tad bit louder. Not too loud, but loud enough for Ratio to hear the difference. There's beauty in the subtlety by which the doctor looks up, his molten gold eyes narrowed in both frustration and exhaustion. He doesn't speak, but sharply raises his free hand to signal that he has one more paper left to mark before they can leave. 

Said one paper drags on forever, and in the time it takes for Ratio to hastily scribble a few more red crosses over the crumpled pages, Aventurine's eyes land on one thing. Or, perhaps—to phrase it better—the absence of one thing. 

The fishbowl has disappeared from its pedestal on Ratio's desk. 

To be truly honest, Aventurine isn't at all surprised. Before leaving his apartment back at Pier Point, he'd checked his messages to see if the doctor had read the texts. Predictable as it was to be left on read by Ratio, Aventurine couldn't help but be disappointed. He supposed, then, that his earlier presumptions were correct. Ratio probably thought he was trying to buy out his kindness with one-time gifts. 

Or maybe he was merely getting ahead of himself. He could ask Ratio, but exactly how much of a difference would that make? Perhaps it was simply the other side of his brain that was willing to believe, to hope, that the doctor appreciated the things he had bought him. 

Before Aventurine can further comprehend this predicament, however, Ratio abruptly stands from his desk and tosses his pen to one side. "Alright. Let's go, gambler." 

Lushaka National Aquarium. Lushaka. Monday, 02:38PM.

There are times when Aventurine wonders if Ratio has smiled before. And no, it's definitely not because he is curious as to what the good doctor looks like with something other than a permanent frown on his face. It's purely because most of the time, Ratio can't take a joke. Like, if he does, Nous will strike him down, deem him unworthy of the Aeon's graces, unworthy to be counted amongst the Genius Society's midst. Even if Nous is a supercomputer (and likely has zero emotion), he's pretty sure that members of the intelligentsia are allowed to laugh, too. 

The queue to the aquarium is surprisingly long, considering it's a weekday. Monday, Aventurine recalls, from the last time he picked up his phone. Which is, to say, two seconds ago. It feels impolite to be on his phone, given he's with a friend—no, he stands corrected, a colleague. Then again, neither of them have uttered a single word to the other since they left Ratio's office. Breaking the silence now doesn't seem appropriate. At least, not until they actually reach the inner sanctum of the aquarium itself. 

Directly above them, the air conditioner blasts a column of chilly air in their general direction; a welcome gesture from the Lushakan heat. Ratio is usually prepared for this kind of situation, but now that he thinks about it, he's never seen the doctor in anything other than the same clothes he's wearing. It's the sort of belief he shares with Aventurine. They're just co-workers—solidified only by their experiences in Penacony. Changing out of their work attire is an unnecessary grievance. 

Of course, he's not entirely opposed to seeing Ratio in a cable-knit sweater, or a shirt and tie, or—

Aventurine shuts his brain up before it can think of anything else unprofessional, especially with the person in question standing right next to him. In the past, Ratio has proven to be some kind of clairvoyant. Maybe that's just what happens to those who spend even their free time crunching numbers. There might as well come a point where they can predict the future using merely the statistics in their heads. The queue shuffles forward, barely an inch. An inch! Exactly how long will they be here before they can even get a ticket? It doesn't help that many of the people making up the hubbub are large families. Four or five, with kids too. And if that isn't the cherry on the top, then the handful of elderly people might as well be. 

Aventurine and Ratio both sigh in unison. "Maybe we can, you know… Rain check, doc?" 

At that, Ratio turns. His eyes flash in the aquarium's dim lighting, and his reply is just as sharp. "No." 

… What? Ratio is acting weird today. Too weird for Aventurine's liking. Sure, he shares the doctor's sentiment. Of course he wants to stay. Awkward as it was, with both of them keeping their silence, going out with Ratio isn’t a terrible thing. Whether this escapade was for research purposes or not, the doctor easily could have dropped Aventurine from the books. Going alone would make it much easier to scrutinize the species behind their glass tanks.

Then Ratio had thrown him a curveball. Asked him if he'd been before. A question that was so out of the blue that Aventurine wasn't going to pretend he hadn't jumped for joy when he received that fateful text, hadn't screamed internally like a thirteen-year-old girl with a crush.

The problem is, Ratio isn’t acting like… well, Ratio. And that’s what is freaking him out so much.

Aventurine gawks at him and only realises he's been doing it for too long when Ratio speaks up again. "What is it, gambler? Is there something on my face?" 

"Hah, no, no." He shuts his mouth, biting down on his tongue as he does. The pain shoots through him like a bullet. "I just didn't expect you to say that so... defensively." 

"Don't think you're special." Ratio snorts in response, inclining his head the other way. Like it or not, there are other things to stare at. No matter how much Aventurine pouts about how the doctor isn't constantly keeping his two eyes on him, it changes nothing. "At the end of the day, don't I still need my research? You underestimate the will I practice when it comes to obtaining accurate results." 

Aaaand, now the normal Ratio is back. Aventurine makes a face and nods, choosing instead to speak with his body language rather than actual words. After all, silence is a language too. 

After another ten minutes of waiting, the queue shortens down until the two of them are the next in line. The couple in front of them is making a huge show of the fact that they are, indeed, dating. Feathering each other with light kisses, and the guy has his arm casually thrown around the woman's shoulders. Aventurine even has to look away to not feel jealous. In the end, it's all futile, and he is powerless to stop the way his heart thumps madly underneath his ribcage and powerless to the way his face twists sourly when they reach in for a hug. 

Time seems to slow like the world is taunting him further at his inability to simply tell Ratio how he feels straight to his face. Aventurine wants to argue back, wants to yell and scream and kick and cry that they don't know. They won't know how to navigate the complicated mess of emotions hidden behind his brain. Behind Ratio's brain, even. 

It's all too inexplicable. 

Aventurine is scared of losing whatever there is between them. What littler there is, anyway. Acquaintances or co-workers, or even meagre friends. That's all Aventurine forces himself to think they'll be. 

He won't admit it to Ratio. He can't admit it to Ratio. What will the doctor stand to gain, pray tell? 

When the couple finally move away from the front desk, Aventurine heaves out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding. The receptionist looks up at them and flashes a bright smile. "Hello! What can I do for you today?" 

"Two tickets." Ratio says gruffly, ever stoic in his position. 

Before he can say anything else, however, the receptionist butts in. "Is that a couple’s ticket you're wanting, sir?" 

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned... Aventurine's going to have to change that mantra in the long term, just for Ratio's sake. 

"I beg your pardon?" Ratio says. For a second, Aventurine swears he averts his gaze. 

"A couple’s ticket," the woman repeats, blinking up at him owlishly, like what she's said isn't the most outlandish thing they've heard all day. At the corners of her lips, Aventurine sees the hint of a smile forming. It is, but she doesn't know that. 

Aventurine bites down hard on his tongue. Partly to stifle the laughter building in his throat, and partly to save him from further embarrassment. "And how much is it compared to two ordinary tickets?" He puts way too much stress on the syllables, and discreetly throws a glance Ratio's way, hoping the doctor gets the cue. But no, he is clearly too lost in his thoughts to care. Maybe he should start thinking about things from his perspective, rather than his own. Imagine getting mistaken to be in a relationship, and with the dratted gambler, of all people! Heck, he might as well have been mistaken for being in anaphylactic shock. 

The lady's brow furrows and pushes her glasses further up her face. A few clicks later, she replies. "2,000 credits less." The smile doesn't disappear from her face. 

Awkwardly, Aventurine pats his companion on the shoulder. Anything to divert his attention elsewhere. Anything to divert his attention from the pale pink blush that dusts his cheeks, and the heat seeping through his skin. However, it didn't seem to provide him with very much to work with. Ratio's muscles felt stiff to the touch. Hard. Solid. Oh. "See! That's not so bad now, Ratio!" Really, he doesn't know why he's trying to save him money. Gaining favour with the aquarium staff, perhaps? Either way, they can afford it. "We'll take it." 

Ratio is still too stunned to move from his spot, let alone pull out his card, so he pays in his stead. Quickly, he transfers the credits over with one tap of his phone, before the doctor can regain his senses. "Have a good day," he says, before he drags Ratio away, one arm snaked around one of the doctor's broad shoulders. At least, the feeling of warm skin beneath his palms is plenty of distraction from the thoughts raging inside his head. 

What made the receptionist think they were a couple? Everything they had done in that moment served as evidence in opposition. Then again, it could have easily all been some kind of joke. With the way the receptionist had wryly smiled at the both of them, it was entirely possible. 

"Having a sense of humour isn't a crime!" Aventurine splutters through his high-pitched giggle as he drags the doctor away. Ratio is still glaring daggers at the receptionist lady. She's now serving the elderly lady who had been waiting in line behind them. They talk in hushed voices and laugh with each other. Aventurine senses that the topic of their conversation is them, even if he can't fully make out what they're saying. Perhaps, the old lady hasn't seen a “couple” arguing like that in decades.

If Ratio’s eyes were narrowed earlier, they are barely slits now. His shoulders are hunched, his muscles are even tighter against his black vest, and the dark red mascara around his eyes has more likeness to the “blood of his enemies” rather than a kind of makeup. At his sides, Ratio's hands are clenched into fists, and while he otherwise knows the doctor can compose himself, this time, Aventurine is genuinely worried. 

"Can't she see that—" Ratio sighs. A very, very deep sigh indeed. He then seems to realize that the both of them are in a public place because his shoulders immediately deflate the second they step away from the front desk. "Never mind…" 

"Let's just get on with your research, shall we, doc?" 

"Yes." 

For all the Avgin stereotypes in the world, Aventurine fails to pick up on the absence of another thing. 

Ratio never scolds him for putting his hand on his shoulder. 

What Aventurine lacks is time. When he sits to think about it, he always has. It always slipped through the cracks in his fingers, as if to say he was undeserving of its graces. Already blessed by the Mother Goddess, useless as his luck may have been to him personally. He lacked the time to spend with his family. He lacked the time to properly tie ends to the Penacony mission—even if he argued his death was justified. And, he lacked the time on his hands. 

So then, it's no wonder Ratio is attempting (and spectacularly failing, by the way) to keep him on a tight leash as they troop around the aquarium.

"Aventurine," the doctor calls, for what is likely the third time since the pair gained admission into the place. The slightest hint of a warning in his tone makes him sound like a father berating their overtly enthusiastic child. Opposing to what his large frame might suggest, Aventurine has been doing much more walking—no, running—than him. A lower calorie workout as it may be, at least he's doing something, and not just sitting down on one of the various benches littered around like Ratio is. For someone who is supposed to be doing “research”, he doesn't seem to be playing the part right up to the standard. And unlike Ratio, he can't read his mind, can't see the cogs grinding away underneath all the lean muscle, so he can't prove himself wrong even if that was what he wanted to do. 

Ratio's voice fades away into the dark confines of Aventurine's mind as he happily skips about, playful as a newborn fawn after it had learned to walk. Much as he loves Ratio's voice, the aquarium is good at distracting him from his petty annoyance at the doctor. The deep, blue glow of the aquarium lights cascades across his face like an oil lamp in the dark, coalescing to match the shapes of the waves as they slosh gently against the fish's tanks. It's a pattern that no artist can draw, no patchwork quilt can sow, and Aventurine has never seen anything like it. All the splendour and gold of Penacony, nor the heavy, clunky jewels in his bag, can seem to match its worth. Everything is so different, so alien, and all of a sudden, his gargantuan penthouse suite back in Pier Point feels small, further justified by the fact that Aventurine is the only one living there.

Work is like a distant memory. The Nihility is like a distant memory. 

In their little enclosures, the fish sway from side to side. As Aventurine presses his gloved fingers to their enclosures, he expects them to dart away. By now, they're likely used to all the attention, all the clamouring, all the noise, even if fish don't have ears. 

But they don't. Instead, they lean closer to him. So close, that Aventurine can see every shining scale, every tiny movement of their gills, and the soft, almost endearing way that their mouths open and close silently. It must be hard, he thinks sadly, and boring, as an afterthought. With nothing but little children, awkward couples, and elderly ladies gawking at them all day until the place closes and they are given peace. 

Well no, he's not about to compare himself to a fish. He can't swim, and even if he could, it would be nowhere near as beautiful and inborn a trait as theirs. Yet the way they're trapped here, behind the polished glass panes, is a stark reminder as to his position in the Stonehearts. It seems, that no matter how many mistakes he makes, they just won't let him go. 

The fish continue to drift past him in large shoals, fins twisting and tilting in unison, and in turn, he watches their show. Pretends that their performance is just for him. Ratio is too far away, even when his relentless calls pummel at Aventurine's sanity. That only makes it easier for him to dissimulate. 

When Aventurine finally tears himself away, his usually cheerful smile has faded a little. Only a little, but with the doctor's eyes on Aventurine once more, it's not too subtle a change for him to miss. But if he notices, he doesn't show it. The doctor stays silent, choosing instead to get up, mind likely exhausted of all its ideas. He stands next to the gambler, awkward at his side, yet somehow manages to stand out next to the hordes of tourists that stream in around them. 

Aventurine finds it a little disappointing, that instead of joining him on his adventure, Ratio opted to sit. Then again, he supposes he could think of no other way to disperse their earlier argument. 

They're still separated. Not as much as before, mind you. Far enough apart to give each other width and space, and close enough so that Aventurine can still spot Ratio in his peripherals. Occasionally, he casts a glance at the gambler, but his bright golden irises are much more focused on the aquatic creatures. To think that it took him this long to show real interest is somewhat of a hilarity.

It takes less than a minute for Ratio to break the uncomfortable silence. Perhaps he's finally picked up on the social cues? Aventurine isn't petulant enough to hold a lifelong grudge, yet petty enough to give Ratio the silent treatment as punishment for his former outburst. "Gambler." 

"Yeah?" Aventurine replies on instinct, unable to contain the silence any longer. Shuffles over to where Ratio is stood, rapt and stiff as a board when he doesn't say anything back. 

When he follows the doctor's gaze, he realises that silence is the answer. Wordlessly, they stare together at the fish. There's no debate. No half hearted, sarcastic comment about their appearance. No childish, sexual innuendo—Aventurine would be wholly impressed with himself if he managed to squeeze something like that in. The truth is simply too irrefutable. Purple and yellow have always been opposing colours, so why is it that they're when mixed together, they still remain— "Beautiful..." he breathes. Words otherwise left unspoken, now vulnerably slipping from the tip of his tongue. "You really weren't kidding about the whole research project thing, were you, doc?" Aventurine laughs, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The fish...they really are from Lushaka." Or at least, that's what the board squeezed between them claims. 

There's some truth to what he says, as Ratio nods in approval without turning his gaze. Again, Aventurine feels his heart knock at his ribcage. Twice, then thrice. Maybe he should have listened to the warning signs properly, instead of diving into the deep end. 

Aventurine doesn't quite know how to explain the feeling. He doesn't quite know if he even can. He's no poet, no scholar, and so words don't come to him as easily as they do to Ratio. He fumbles, and turns this way and that, all while trying to navigate the complicated maze of emotions scientist call a brain. How can he so foolishly expect others to comprehend its depths, when he still isn't brave enough to come to terms with what—with where—his happiness comes from?

Ratio. It's always been Ratio. 

Perhaps it's this realization that drives Aventurine to say what he does next. To cling to the little hope he has left, that Ratio will say the words back. 

Block 1, Apartment 10, Floor 34. Sunday, 09:57PM.

The words float around in Aventurine's mind, constructs of the memory he has been replaying over and over again. 

"Do stay alive." Three simple words, printed in plain black ink on the note attached to the curiously shaped tube Ratio had given him prior to his departure. The stage had all been set for his main act, his glorious death. Yet, those three words were anything but candid. They plagued his every waking hour, haunted his dreams so he could not sleep, and plunged him into a state of disarray comparable to the slash of that Emanator's blade. Stark as a comparison that may be, it was the indisputable truth. To falsify such a thing would bring him no peace in his slumber, no refuge within the confines of his home, no little crack or crevice from which he could hide. 

Aventurine rolls over in bed weakly and checks the time on his phone, groaning when he realizes how late it is in the day. It comes out all croaky, clouded by the thick gulps of alcohol he had taken the previous night. 

God, he missed Ratio. He wished he'd never left that day. Maybe then, if he had stayed, 'Aventurine' never would have died. Never would have burnt out, the sole meteorite coming crashing to the ground. But at the end of it all, it was a toss-up between what he longed for the most. A battle of attrition against his own wits, if he must call it that.

Did he seek death, or life? 

He'd spent his time in house arrest—of sorts, he wasn't necessarily forced to stay here in his absence—pondering this question. Mulling it over the alcohol, and foolishly thinking it would clear his system rather than clog it. All it had done was give him a terrible migraine the following morning. The question exhausted him to his wits end, and for a man who was known to think on his feet, there were no thoughts left to give. What followed was an answer Aventurine never expected to come to the conclusion of. 

Ratio wanted him to stay alive. The meaning from those three words was clear enough, sure.

He'd have to look twice. Spend days, weeks, even, trying to make some sense out of Ratio's all too straightforward way of speaking. For him to actually mean what he'd written that fateful day was an entirely different matter, especially when sarcasm was a linguistic device the good doctor made too much use of, to the point where Aventurine could never take him seriously. 

Ratio didn't want him dead, contrary to the gambler's belief. Aventurine's brain couldn't quite fathom the truth behind that. Wasn't every sardonic quip, every derisive remark, a physical manifestation of Ratio's hatred for him? Even Sunday, Head of the Oak Family, could make that deduction, clear as day. Apparently, their tightrope of a relationship was an open secret to everyone, even complete strangers. 

That only made things worse for Aventurine. Made him miss every little thing about the doctor so badly, that he was forced to drown all his sorrows in cocktail after cocktail, sip after sip of an alcohol too-strong. Anything to drown in that feeling he had around Ratio. 

On his bedside table sits the half-drunk glass of alcohol from the previous night. The clear glass is enticing and, with a mere moment's worth of contemplation, Aventurine reaches over downs the whole thing in one go. The burning extends down to the base of his oesophagus, a hot, unforgiving feeling, rather like the sudden rush of love to one's brain. 

This feels better than that, he supposes. 

"So you weren't lying about your research then, doc?" Aventurine repeats, and the phrase feels somewhat soured on his tongue. Chagrin. Disdain. Regret. Dissatisfaction. All but synonyms coming from a true root. 

Ratio still doesn't look at him when he raises a brow, complacent in the way he stares intently at the glass tank. "No. Why, did you see this as another act, akin to the one we played in Penacony?" The doctor sighs for the umpteenth time and pinches the bridge of his nose, more tired than frustrated. The smallest hint of satisfaction works its way up to Aventurine's half-assed smile, somehow doing the job of widening it further. A reminder of Ratio's failures when it came to maintaining his work-life balance. "Do I look like the type to falsify such a thing?" he snaps. 

That's the thing. Ratio doesn't. 

At that, Aventurine glares at him, and bitterly so. Anger was easier to hold than whatever else was trying to creep up on him. Or rather, resurrect itself from the death it had faced in his past. The feeling, however, doesn't last very long; he's simply being irrational, blaming Ratio for things and concepts and feelings he doesn't even know about. Pinning all the blame on the doctor, when he's not the one who's swallowed the pills. 

Ratio must have picked up on his silence because his voice softens. "—But you must know, gambler, that research isn't the only reason I brought you here." he pauses briefly. Irresolute, Aventurine thinks he hears hesitancy in Ratio's voice when he continues, albeit quieter, "You told me you had never been." 

"Well," Aventurine swallows hard. "I didn't exactly have the time to go by myself, did I?" he lets out a shaky laugh, more to calm his nerves than anything else. 

"Obviously not, seeing as you agreed to this." Ratio rolls his eyes. 

Part of Aventurine wants to see Ratio in his exasperation again, but the other man's words stick to him, twisting the knife of guilt further in. Dissatisfaction fades into a sore, dull ache in his brain, nothing more than the broken shell of disproved emotion. Ratio's leaving him on a cliffhanger, now. "So you planned to bring me with you, then?" Aventurine prods, eyes sparkling blue against the gentle lighting. "And then what?" 

He doesn't expect Ratio to continue explaining, but the other man once again proves him wrong by doing exactly that. "There are people out there who care for you, Aventurine." Ratio swallows hard and continues, "I'm more than willing to be a part of that."

There's a part of him that wants to protest, but he doesn't have it in him. It's not that he's tired, or particularly bored. In fact, the real reason is far from it. Aventurine is in disbelief. He gambled with Ratio, using his trust and credence to set the stakes, but this wager was a friendly one. But Ratio's said it himself now. There are no grounds by which he can reliably deny the truth set before him. No face to hide behind, no rationale or motive that drives his refutation forward. 

Ratio cares. 

"The note...—" Aventurine suddenly blurts. Before he can finish his sentence, Ratio grabs his wrist and lightly drags him away from the fish's enclosure. Ah. Right. Aventurine quickly realizes that they're still in a public place, and where they once were is now crowded with kids, all clamouring to see the aquatic creatures. Is it embarrassing enough to say that he'd forgotten where they were? 

Perhaps that was all the more testament to support telling Ratio the truth, too. 

"Do stay alive." Ratio murmurs softly, now that they're both sitting down. His voice barely rises above a whisper, but Aventurine hears it all the same. Of course Ratio still remembers what he wrote. Hand-wrote, Aventurine recalls. Such a task was likely facile for the doctor, an educated man with eight PhDs. "If you weren't being so careless about your health, then there would have been no use for it," he explains. "But seeing as though you used the mission as an excuse to put your life in jeopardy," Along with his scolding tone of voice, the doctor illustrates his vexation by pointedly glaring at Aventurine. "I thought the gesture was necessary." 

Aventurine smiles, averting his gaze from the heat of Ratio's dirty look. A second longer and he might laugh again. "Thanks, doc." 

He doesn't reply to that, but then again, Ratio isn't exactly the most vocal man he knows. Silence is better than speaking if you only stand to vocalise your stupidity, as he once said. Probably. Aventurine was never there to witness such a moment.

The hand Ratio used to grip his wrist now lies limply at his side, muscles relaxed. Aventurine instinctively raises the fingers on his other hand to brush the skin where Ratio's hand once was. Instinct, honed from years of enslavement. Long, hard, gruelling years of imprisonment and incarceration at the hands of the man who he would later murder in cold blood. The very same man he dreamed about upon contact with Penacony's memoria. Instinct, that always told him to get up and flee from whatever was touching him, holding him. But Ratio had been gentle, and even though the skin there burns, it is more because Aventurine's face was still dusted pale pink from its aftermath. Not as a result of a slave mark being branded into his skin with a hot iron. Whatever they'd used, it had hurt. Like Hell. Maybe, once, it burned too, but with a very different kind of calefaction. 

With a sigh, Ratio stands up. "Now that we've emptied the contents of our hearts, we should be leaving." Aeons, Ratio is a baffling man. Avgins, Sigonians… they're all infamously known for their inhumane perception, their ability to charm and lie and cheat. Yet, despite all of that, Aventurine still can't seem to decipher Ratio. One second he acts like he genuinely cares, and then one second later, he's dropped that facade faster than a reptile can shed their snakeskin. 

Demonic possession—did that even exist? Impulse. Muscle memory. Aventurine will never know the reason behind why he sticks his hand out and grabs Ratio's wrist. The doctor tenses at the sudden movement, head snapping to meet Aventurine's pleading gaze. 

"Don't leave," Aventurine finds himself saying. Begging the doctor to stay, even. "Please," he adds as an afterthought. Politeness will likely get him no further in convincing Ratio, but it's worth the best shot he has. 

Since when was he this hopeless?

At that, Ratio stills. Freezes, like a block of ice. The muscles in his jaw tense, and his brow furrows. Clearly, the doctor is deep in thought. Possibly arguing with the two sides of his brain in a desperate battle to come to some sort of resolution. Never mind colouring him surprised, Aventurine is shocked that Ratio even needs to contend with himself on this matter. Certainty is a quality that the gambler is oh so jealous of Ratio for. Sure, Aventurine always knew what he was doing himself, but the manner through which he carried out these deeds was always riddled with doubt. For he knew a single misstep was enough to cause large catastrophes in his plans. 

And so Aventurine waits. He'll wait forever for Ratio if he has to. 

"If that is your wish, gambler," in the ensuing silence, Ratio finally speaks. His voice—thankfully—not sounding as deflated as Aventurine had expected. "Then I am well within my rights to grant it." With that, he sits back down, the cloth pinned to his shoulders sweeping down to the floor. Even if Ratio's tall, apparently he doesn't have enough height to stop the fabric from gathering dust. It's no wonder, then, that he does so much cleaning. 

Aventurine gapes at him before promptly shutting his mouth. "Thanks, doc," he manages to splutter out. One of Ratio's massive hands reaches over to pull his head onto his shoulder. Abrupt as the movement is—knocking both Aventurine's lungs and brain clean with surprise—it's not by any means unwelcome. It's quite… comfortable, actually. Not that Aventurine will ever admit that to the doctor's face, but it's factual nonetheless. All things considered, Ratio works out an awful lot. Too much, perhaps, but in this case, both parties benefit. Aventurine gets his congeniality, and Ratio gets to keep his absurdly strict health routine in check. 

They sit like this for a while. Silence permeating their little bubble, perfectly cocooned from the hustle and bustle around them. Almost as if it all fades away, a vacuum to their very presence. 

Twelve days, twenty-two hours, six system minutes and one, two, three seconds. That's how long it has been since Aventurine tasted the blade of an Emanator, and it leaves him breathless every time he stops to think about it. He's still alive; right after all the time he'd spent planning his glorious death. He'd call it a shame, but he wouldn't say that sitting in an aquarium, his head on Ratio's shoulder, was really a shame, all things considered. 

He's still alive. Alive and living his life with the only man he trusts more than anything.

He realizes that in a manner that paints “pathetic” all over his forehead. Because it only took him an entire date. It only took him days, weeks, months, years, or however long he and Ratio have been working together to finally come to such a conclusion. 

Aventurine doesn't feel scared anymore. 

In fact, he might even be feeling brave today. Perhaps it's something in the water, something in the glass, released when he pressed his palms to their surface, that has intoxicated him to feel this way. Or maybe, it's simply his mind talking back at him, and telling him that he should take his most important gamble. As he always has. 

"Hey, Ratio?" He pipes up. He hears Ratio hum quietly in response, the sound thrumming up to his cheek. "Can I ask one more favour of you?" It's not really a favour, per se. More of an indulgence, but Aventurine doesn't tell Ratio that either. With his eight PhDs, the doctor can surely grovel in the dark and figure this one out all by his lonesome. Either direction the doctor decides to go, it'll be more fun to watch. Ever since birth, it isn't a far-fetched idea to suggest that Aventurine has always enjoyed watching Ratio suffer. In an endearing sort of way, of course. Putting the doctor within an arm’s length of real danger? That was a question for a completely different time. 

"Humour me." With the click of his tongue, Ratio's reply holds just as much snarkiness as the very same man who uttered it. He shifts his position a little so that he is now facing the blonde. Aventurine's head falls from its high perch. He's a little sulky at that, the golden warmth now dissipating from his skin, but he is well aware that what follows will only sweeten the wine. 

With a devilish smile on his lips, Aventurine leans forward ever so slowly. Oh, how he relishes that look of confusion Ratio has, his lips melting into the gambler's touch. It's a soft, gentle kiss that spreads a wave of heat, like melted butter, across the rim of their mouths. As Ratio kisses him back—with more aggressive, peckish movements—Aventurine moves closer and closer to the doctor until they touch. Until he feels Ratio's rapid heartbeat against his chest.