#archerine

"Master, is this blanket necessary?"

"Absolutely, Archer."

"Master, can you explain how alcohol and potato chips will help us with our opponents?"

"Just trust the process, Archer."

"Master, I don't see the others here."

Aventurine turned to his assigned servant, grinning as he eyed the results of their little shopping trip in Archer's arms. "That's because they're not here."

Archer lifted one eyebrow, clearly unenthused by their arrangement by now. "Then why are we here?"

"It's all part of the plan, of course," Aventurine remarked, as if speaking the obvious. "This is my favorite spot here in the Golden Hour."

It was true and Archer should absolutely consider himself lucky that Aventurine willingly chose to share this with him; this was his secret spot away from the noise and blinding lights of the main strip, a nice tucked away patch of grass that he often found himself escaping to during his free time while in Penacony, spending his time idly counting the endless stars that dotted the night sky.

But Archer's voice came dry, not a shred of appreciation in his voice. "I don't understand. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you brought me here to rob me blind."

Aventurine rolled his eyes; the naivete was strong in this one. "My dear Archer, how are we supposed to take out the opposition if we hardly know each other?"

Archer took a brief moment to look down at the supplies in his hand, before glancing back. Aventurine watched as the realization inevitably dawned on him. "We are simply master and servant," he finally spoke, "so we needn't be friends."

"And what if I do want to be friends?"

"And what if I don't?"

"Then I down this whole bottle," Aventurine stepped forward, snatching the wine straight from Archer's arms, "and walk out into the middle of the streets where some sixteen-wheeler will turn me into roadkill. Holy Grail War over."

Aventurine crossed his arms and tapped one foot impatiently, matching the stare-off with Archer, before the servant yielded with a sigh. "Where would you like the blanket?"

"Just down on the grass right there," Aventurine gestured with a nod, smirking ever so slightly. "Thank you very much."

Archer was meticulous with the blanket, smoothing out the wrinkles as he spread it along the grass, motioning for Aventurine to take his seat once done. The blond wasted no time in slipping off his shoes, taking his side of the blanket. The material did nothing to cushion his seat, feeling every prickle of grass along his pants, but it worked for the few credits it cost him.

What was more bothersome, however, was the way Archer sat beside the blanket, as if there wasn't a perfectly good other half right next to Aventurine. The blond stared dumbfoundedly at the other, until Archer finally turned to look at him, remaining expressionless as Aventurine pointed to the empty spot beside him.

"Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, this blanket I so generously purchased is being half-wasted," Aventurine scoffed, restraining offense. "Please, sit."

Archer blinked twice. "You have an interesting way of befriending people."

Aventurine only responded with a pat to the empty half, watching as Archer reluctantly did as he was told, filling the spot beside the blond. He then reached over for the bottle, shifting his body on the blanket to hold up the bottle for Archer to see, giving the contents a little shake.

"And now, we can really start getting to know each other," Aventurine said with a grin, uncapping the cheap bottle of liquor, handing the bottle to the other. "After you, of course."

But Archer simply shook his head. "For the sake of the Holy Grail War, I will abstain."

"Suit yourself," Aventurine took the bottle back with a shrug, wincing as the liquor left a lingering burn in his throat, "but the game loses it's charm if it's just me drinking all lonesome."

"Game?"

"Well, it'd be a snooze if all we did was chat, don't you think? I'll give you a random fact about myself and you will have to guess whether it's true or not. If you're right, then I take a sip," the blond swiveled the bottle in his hand, "but if you're wrong.."

"I'm never wrong."

Aventurine's eyes lit up. "Ooohhh, so you will share this bottle with me then?"

"No," Archer scoffed, "because I'm never wrong."

"Mmmmm, we'll see, we'll see," Aventurine chuckled, amused by the servant at last. "Likewise, the same holds true for you when it's your turn to share your fun facts. The more alcohol, the funner the facts tend to get, of course."

"That is obvious, yes."

"Alright, well if everything is clear, then why don't we begin?" Aventurine turned to his servant, before leaning back, nonchalantly balancing himself on his palms. "I'll give you an easy one to start. My real name is Aventurine. True or false?"

"False," Archer answered plainly, "I'd hope for your sake."

Okay, rude. "You're not wrong, but like I said, that was an easy one," Aventurine nodded with a smile, before tipping his head back, wincing at the sting of cheap liquor, taking a pause to clear his throat as he set the bottle down. "And now, your turn, but I'll just say, I always have a good read on people."

"Let me think then," Archer put a finger to his mouth in thought. "I enjoy cooking."

Aventurine narrowed his eyes, analyzing the man before him. "Hmm, you don't seem like the type to cook on the outside, but you also look like the kind of person to have that quality as some sort of secret talent... but I might just be overthinking things. I'm going to go with false."

Archer smiled and Aventurine gawked as the man picked up the bottle, gesturing it to his master. "Drink up."

"Really?"

Archer nodded. "Really."

Aventurine glanced between the bottle and his servant's face, trying to make his best read. "You're not lying, are you?"

"Nope," he said with a shake of his head.

The blond continued his stare-off, yet Archer remained unphased. With a sigh, he took the bottle back into his hand, holding it below his chin.

"Just an unlucky misstep on my part. Don't get too comfortable, Archer."

---

"Archie... it's your turn."

"Master, perhaps we should stop."

"Nonsense... There's still.. halfa bottle."

"And can you tell me where the other half went?"

Aventurine didn't need to, the burning sensation in his stomach already answering for himself.

Archer must've cheated, he swore. Somehow, this man not only managed to mess with Aventurine's judgment, leading the blond to guess every "fact" wrong, but also maintained a perfect read on whatever Aventurine threw at him, effectively tearing down Aventurine's pride within an hour.

"One more," his voice drawled, lifting his head from where he was sprawled along the blanket. Archer was back to sitting on the grass, Aventurine practically having forced him off, but he didn't care because Archer deserved it. "One more... Archie."

He listened for the inevitable sigh, unable to help himself from smiling, knowing that Archer would yield in the end.

"Alright, last one from me," Archer did nothing to mask the reluctance in his voice, "I prefer coffee over tea."

"True," Aventurine spoke nearly instantly. "You look like someone that needs the quick caffeine."

"Actually, false," came Archer's voice. "I actually enjoy both equally."

Aventurine was past the point of debating; with practiced motion, he swung the bottle back in one move, the liquor passing through like water, his tongue numb to sensations.

"Okay, master, let's-"

"No," Aventurine snapped, heat coursing through his body as he wagged his finger at the other man. "One more."

"But we already agreed-"

"No, no," his words slurred, lips heavy, "we agreed that was YOUR last one... not mine."

He didn't bother hiding his smirk anymore; something about pushing his buttons, riling Archer up, was more fulfilling to him at this point than this damn game.

"Master-"

"Archie," he countered, leaning forward now on his palms, shifting his head teasingly at the servant.

The tilted expression he wore told Aventurine that Archer was at his limit now. "Fine. One more for you, no more from me."

Not that he needed his permission, of course; Aventurine could do as he please. But now that he did have what he wanted, Aventurine found himself at a standstill. "True.. or false?" he finally spoke, but nothing came afterwards, for all he could feel was fuzz in his head, a mess of tangles preventing any extended response. He was blanking, having already played his whole hand, his go-to facts all revealed. There was a gap in his line of thought that Aventurine could practically feel, the warmth from his current state pulsing through his head.

"Master?"

"One moment," his mind ran through, thinking of anything to say. "I'm—I-I'm... NOT ticklish!" he finally blurted out. "I'm not ticklish." Why his brain decided to land on something like this he didn't quite understand himself, but hey, it was the best he could do in the moment.

"False." Aventurine gawked at the immediate response; Archer hadn't even given it a moment of thought.

"Huh- uh what?" the blond stammered, quickly losing his footing on how to respond. "Tha—That's WRONG."

But Archer hardly seemed convinced. "Master, are you lying?"

Maybe?

"N-No.... No!" He huffed, unsure if his cheeks were warming up from the alcohol or the way Archer stared at him unconvinced. "I'm really not—W-What are you doing?"

Archer was walking over to him and... oh no.

"Wait—" Aventurine's eyes widened, his brain catching up a second too late. "Wait, wait, you're wrong!"

"Am I?" Archer stepped onto the blanket, looming over Aventurine with that infuriatingly neutral expression.

"YES!" Aventurine scrambled backward on his palms, nearly knocking over the bottle in his haste. "You're—you're supposed to drink! That's the rules!"

"The rules also say you're not supposed to lie."

"I'm not—!" But Archer was already kneeling down, and Aventurine felt a nervous laugh bubble up in his throat before fingers even made contact. "Don't you dahahare—! Archer, I-'m warning you—"

"Warning me about what? You're not ticklish, remember?"

Aventurine pressed his lips together, trying to swallow down another anticipatory giggle as Archer's hands hovered just above his sides.

"This—This is cheating," he barely managed. "You can't just—"

"Prove it then, Master."

The first contact was barely there, just a tingle, but Aventurine's reaction was immediate—a strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and poorly suppressed laughter as he jerked away.

"That's not— I-I'm not ticklihihish!" he protested through obvious laughter, hands batting uselessly at Archer's arms. "I-It's the alcohol! Nohohoho!"

"Alcohol makes you laugh?" Archer's fingers found their mark along Aventurine's ribs, methodical and precise.

"Shuhuhut up!" Aventurine twisted, trying to roll away, but his coordination was shot and Archer easily followed the movement. "This isn't—isn't fahahair!"

"Neither is cheating at your own game."

Aventurine's protests dissolved into helpless laughter as Archer's hands moved with surprising efficiency, as if cataloguing all of Aventurine's weak points. The worst part was how Archer remained completely composed while Aventurine was falling apart beneath him.

"Still not ticklish?" Archer asked dryly, fingers dancing along his sides.

"N-Nohohoho! Never!" Aventurine gasped between laughs, his hands weakly pushing at Archer's wrists. "You're wrohohong!"

"Then we continue."

"It's—it's a coincidehehence!"

Archer paused for just a moment, and Aventurine sucked in a desperate breath, thinking maybe he'd won. But then Archer shifted his attention to the blond's stomach and Aventurine practically shrieked.

"WAHAIT—! Okay, okay, okahahay!" The words tumbled out between hysterical laughter. "Maybe a little!"

"Just a little?"

"Fine! Fihihine! I'm ticklish! You wihihin!"

Archer's hands finally stilled, leaving Aventurine sprawled on the blanket, chest heaving as residual giggles escaped him. Through his disheveled hair, he glared up at the servant.

"That was... completely unnecessary," he panted.

"You're the one who wanted to get to know each other better," Archer said, settling back on the grass, "so I suppose mission accomplished."

Aventurine pushed himself up on shaky arms, glaring at the servant. "This isn't over," he pointed a shaky accusatory finger at Archer. "I'm going to find where YOU'RE ticklish and then—" He never got to finish his sentence as a sudden hiccup sprung from his throat.

"Sure you will," Archer stood, patting Aventurine's back gently. "I think our little game for the night is over. Can you walk?"

"O-Of course I can walk!" Aventurine declared, attempting to stand. His legs had other ideas, though, buckling immediately and sending him stumbling forward and of course, Archer caught him with practiced ease.

"Right."

"That doesn't count," Aventurine protested as Archer hoisted him up bridal style without ceremony, along with the belongings they had purchased earlier. "I don't need your.. help."

"I'm sure you don't," Archer said flatly, starting the trek back toward the main strip.

"And you were... supposed to drink too.."

"Maybe next time, master."

"Yeah.. next time," Aventurine's head lolled against Archer's shoulder despite himself. "I won at least... at least four rounds."

"You won zero rounds."

"Four."

"Alright, master. You won four rounds."

"And I'm... I'm going to find your weakness tomorrow," Aventurine mumbled into Archer's shirt. "Just you wait, Archie."

"I'm sure you will."

"Don't patronize me," Aventurine's words slurred together as his eyes started drooping, barely catching the entertained glint in Archer's own eyes.

"Apologies, master."

Chapter 1: Flower Petals

The unforeseeable force enveloped Archer’s spirit again, taking everything that he is and isn’t, the cells which form his body, magic which completes his soul and fragments of memories that safeguard his past in his stead.

As Archer’s body came into being, of whichever Holy Grail War was happening, he already gripped the cool metal of the dual swords—an all too familiar texture served as a grounding aspect in his non-human reality. One where his fate is not his own, the life he lived once before ended leaving only the role of a Servant — a hero, behind. He cannot disobey the master whom he will meet, but he will be damned if he ever backs down without a fight against someone of ill intentions.

Cold. Unnatural, even artificial cold, meets the only inch of exposed skin of his neck. Archer’s mind already races with important facts which would offer him an advantageous hand in the war. It could be happening in a closed off arena, on a different planet perhaps. If he is dealing with humanoids, their veins will be tighter; constricted due to the chill air. Their muscles will be stiffer, less flexible, making them slower to dodge attacks. They could also be wearing more protective gear, especially to keep their bodies warm. No clothing will stop Kanshou and Bakuya. However, if he is dealing with animatronic, robotic enemies, the temperature will have no effect — although an overly warm climate could affect their motherboards. Should the unusual cold truly be feigned, perhaps there could be a way to make it artificially warm as well.

Too many possible variables end his train of thought, there’s only so many things he can think of in the first split second.

In the following moment, his second onslaught is stopped abruptly. A gentle breeze is rustling his platinum blond locks. Archer tilts his head, which makes them ruffle further.

There’s a scent carried on it. Unlike his expectations: the metallic smell of blood, nose-pinching stench of sweat, and any other unpleasant ones he’s used to; he’s met with cedar wood, citrus notes and a flowery fragrance.

Archer’s Master must be outside of the warzone, although it makes little sense. It tends to not be such a frequent occurrence.

In the three full seconds it took for him to fully materialize, the last thought he has before he is forced to obey and verbally include himself in a discussion, is one of confusion. Why is he hungry?

“Archer, it is a pleasure to see you again. I am Aventurine, I hope you remember me… from the Penacony Holy Grail War?” The blond man in front of him is down on one knee in the vermillion summoning circle. The cold air and the refreshing breeze were coming from the air conditioner on the furthest wall, and the pleasant fragrance from the reed diffuser on the office desk further in the room. The sweet flowery scent must belong to his Master’s perfume.

“You have managed to summon me again. I’m surprised. Is there another Holy Grail War in your world, Master?” The well trained muscles in his fingers flex and relax, releasing the tension he purposefully accumulated there.

Aventurine slowly blinks. As he rises back to his feet, there’s a barely decipherable look on his face, an intentional one. Purposefully, he is refusing to voice it verbally—instead, he heavily relies on Archer to pick up on the nonverbal cue: effectively utilizing his knowledge of Archer’s tendency to not-so-subtly psychoanalyze him. The silence, which stretched on for a moment longer than a normal dialogue would, serves as confirmation. Archer clears his throat, “…Mister Aventurine.”

His Master smiles with the same amount of realism an actor performing in a theatre has. Archer is certain that there’s a hero inside that man, yet he chooses to utilize his villain-esque tendencies to be whoever ‘Aventurine’ is. If a hero is a sheep, one that shed its fluffy coat for one of the lion’s mane, perhaps Aventurine is a lion wearing the skin of a wolf to shield himself from those who would harm him. A sort of self-preservation.

Still… Why would the king of the jungle pretend to be equal to one of the lowly wolves? Does the lion not know that he is stronger than them? What good does it bring to infiltrate them?

“Well, there’s always a war going on somewhere,” the blond man muses, colorful eyes trained on the poker chip flipping across his fingers. The action draws Archer’s eyes to the movement—the perfectly laid out bait, a venus fly trap opening its mouth and patiently waiting for its prey to land. The moment Archer looked down, Aventurine’s gaze moved to the man as he slowly stood back up to his full height.

Aventurine never posed a threat—he is far from a Master who would bring him harm. Still, the unexpected sly action made a shiver go down his spine. The man looks like he’d prefer to have people around him at ease, lazy, lost in their daydreams and desires, especially when conversing with him. This approach, one meant to keep Archer on his toes, was an unusual choice… a surprise to what he assumed he had already analyzed from this man’s behavior. A change of pattern makes him unpredictable, moreover it is a change. Archer doesn’t like those.

Adding onto how quick his master is with analyzing situations, seeing through other’s plans and executing a counterattack makes him both a formidable foe and a powerful ally.

“That is not how this works. I cannot be summoned by a whim, especially by someone not proficient in magecraft,” Archer looks at the ceiling and back at his Master to conceal an eye roll.

“Well,” Aventurine smiles, his cheeks gently puffing up like those soft rice cake desserts Caelus made him try the last time he was summoned to Penacony, “I have a lot of paperwork to fill out because of the Holy Grail War, and I thought I would be easier if I just interviewed you instead of spitballing.” Aventurine gestures to the blinking light on his table, “Also, I’m recording our conversation instead of typing it down, I’d rather look at you than at a keyboard and a hologram,” A warm sensation filled his chest. It was pleasant to see that his Master had gained some weight since last time.

The words eventually register in his mind and Archer needs to hold back a groan, “Regardless, this is impossible: I cannot be summoned for something that isn’t a Holy Grail War,” the pools of brown narrow at the shorter man.

Aventurine’s soft pink lips purse, followed by a tilt of his head, eyes focused on something over Archer’s shoulder, “I prepared food for you. Caelus told me Saber was starving when she got summoned… You didn’t mention it last time, so I got ready in advance for your arrival.”

Trailing his line of sight, Archer turns towards a table covered with various fast food: burgers, noodles, pastries, fruity drinks… And nicely organized, effectively preaching to his choir. “...It wasn’t necessary.”

“Not necessary yet appreciated, right~?” Aventurine practically purrs behind him, taunting him to accept the food. He is one of those people, huh.

Archer’s red cape swishes with another turn, “I wasn’t guaranteed to show up, or for the ritual to work. You could’ve easily gotten a different Servant.”

The demand for an explanation is met with a dry response and a shrug, “I guess you could say I got lucky.”

Akin to a living statue, Archer offers no body language to the lazy statement, “I thought we were past these pretenses,” Despite the nearly perfect concealment of the flamboyant man, his intelligence and quick wit is something Archer recalls without an issue. The memories which usually escape him… seem to have stuck around. Penacony may be a singular loophole in the usual workings of the intricate rules set by the Throne of Heroes.

The memories which should’ve disappeared a long time ago, fortunately, linger. The very realization shakes Archer to the core: there is a direct line of events happening, and he gets to remember it? Outrageous, atrocious— brilliant.

The short man beside him instantly holds his full attention. Archer’s eyes scan every detail of the man’s appearance, suddenly intrigued by everything.

The blond man’s smile widens, even chuckling to Archer’s rejection, “Genuinely, I’m lucky,” Frown lines follow his smile, portraying joy of this ‘fact’. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Dual colored gems are dull, lacking shine, offering a well’s depth of pain to drown in. Along the relaxed blond eyebrows, Archer can see the hidden calm rage, perfected concealment over the years. He isn’t lying to Archer. Oh, he isn’t lying, when his eyes keep screaming how much of a curse that luck is.

Archer scoffs, his brows drop down and furrow, “Is this type of power your world contains? You’re just lucky?”

“Here.” Aventurine rolls a die across the large desk in the middle of the room, fitting for its size. Must be an office. Holograms displaying lines moving up and down across the timeline let Archer know this has to be a workplace. A tad too on the nose with the animal pattern carpet, heavy indigo curtains and a crystal table. Three. Three crystal tables: one coffee table, the larger desk with holograms atop it and one near the door covered in takeout Aventurine so thoughtfully prepared for Archer’s arrival. The die lands on the highest possible number: 6.

“I doubt that was that convincing, so why not play a game with me? I’ll demonstrate it for you,” Light on his feet, Aventurine hurries to his table to gather more dice.

Archer shakes his head, “I’m a warrior. A fighter. You’re suggesting that I play a game? Mister Aventurine—“

“It won’t take long, I promise.” Aventurine grabs two decorative rose quartz cups and flips them down. A pair of dice get pushed towards him. “We both roll our dice under a cup, check them and see who got the higher sum. Usually it is done with a larger group of people and you lie about what you get, or tell the truth, and there’s a bigger number of dice.” Aventurine fidgets with the pair of dice in his hand; showing various pairs of numbers without even glancing at them, “For example, a pair of fours, three fives, two ones, going up by the quantity with each person. There are many variations to dice games.” Aventurine speaks of the rules as one would of the weather, yet he is actively recalling it, sort of adorably looking around, “For our sake, we will leave the lying part and such gambles out. Instead, we can play for the sake of getting the highest added up score. The truthful way. After all, this is just to prove a point.”

Archer’s body meets the white leather sofa, a seat away from his master. The metallic blue dice, engraved with silver numbers intrigue him. Perhaps a short break from action won’t cause much harm…

With one swift movement, he scoops up the dice and moves his cup around, not needing instruction on that end. Could luck truly be something normal for the people of this reality… just how do the gifts of the people here work? Or is Aventurine special? 

“What bet would you place on a game like this?” A question worth asking. There’s no harm in directly trying to get to know him — to uncover the truth behind the mystery at hand. Hopefully, Archer won’t regret that decision later on. Although, someone as open as his Master is probably holding secrets so closely to his heart that not even Aventurine himself would share them to a single innocent piece of paper.

“What I always bet,” Aventurine exhales without a struggle, and the words glide over his tongue far too easily for Archer’s liking, “my life.”

Archer’s teeth squeak when he unintentionally clenches his jaw, “That’s a bit too much—even if you have some type of extreme luck.”

The blond’s locks gently shake with his head, gesturing a no, “Extreme luck would be an understatement. This… luck,” he spits the word like the curse he deems it to be—a poison which flows through his veins, rejecting it with a barely held back snarl, “is the only thing that’s kept me alive. Yes, I’ve fought through so many things by myself,” Archer can nearly see the scenes playing out behind those dual-colored eyes, “yet it all circles back to my… luck.”

Aventurine stops moving the pastel pink cup around and lifts it to reveal the dice rolled to the number 6. A small head tilt in his direction makes Archer lift his own cup, which contains a 2 and a 4.

Archer presses the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, creating a soft clicking sound, “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“I doubt you want us to do this fifty more times, only to see me roll double 6’s over and over and over again..?” Aventurine raises an eyebrow, flipping the cup in his hand.

An easier way of proving this phenomenon occurs to the tall man. A mana transfer usually gives energy, however in this alternate universe it could give something else. Within the same thought, he cannot expect Aventurine to be willing to do it, whichever way he may offer. This is supposed to be a report conversation for the sake of his Master’s job, yet the excitement in his chest and intrigue in his mind once more surprise him. An intruder in his own mind, a desire to learn more, a rare reality for a seasoned fighter, accustomed to only being used as a tool. What harm could it bring to indulge in his curiosities, to communicate as equals in a place he is seen as more than a Servant, with a man who wouldn’t use a command spell on him?

Archer gently places the fragile cup down, “There is another way. It could be entirely false and bear no fruit.”

“Hm… yes?” Aventurine, likewise, places the cup back in its original place, Archer finds himself pondering if the man can also read his mind, or his heart’s desires. For how dare he do what Archer wished for him to do.

“Masters and Servants can exchange energy, where I’m from at least. It is called a mana transfer and it is mainly used to give energy to the Servant to stay in the Master’s service for longer; without returning to the Throne of Heroes. You’re not even a Mage, the process itself could require more fluids,” Archer slurs the last word and nods, carefully nitpicking how he will phrase the next sentence, only to give up and make his explanation blunt, “Now, in this world, I’m not made of magic and energy, which explains why Saber was hungry, and so am I… It is done through an exchange of bodily fluids.”

The gambling man seems unphased, “And what are you expecting as an outcome?”

“If this is truly some form of power from your world, you could prove it by sharing some with me,” he shrugs. Leaning his back against the sofa, he looks towards the third crystal table, trying to appear nonchalant as he gazes over the food.

The excited twinkle in his Master’s eyes does not escape him, “Really? …A kiss should be more than enough to test your theory out, right~?”

Archer’s platinum blond eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, and his body stills for a few seconds. He’s painfully aware that Aventurine noticed and chose to not make a comment about it, for which he is grateful. Archer doesn’t know what he was expecting—bodily liquids means something of that nature.

A man who breathes illusions and trickery should trigger every alarm in Archer’s mind. Alas, the psychoanalysis that he promptly executes while around his Master convinces him that Aventurine isn’t lying about his tremendous luck. It's as if Aventurine naturally brings that out of him.

Following the thread of logic, as to how useful this luck would be to him, is where his resolve falls apart. It’s not like that power would follow him back to the Throne of Heroes…

Would it be so wrong if he actually wanted to kiss him? Yes, absolutely — the man’s fashion taste is too tacky. Then again, Archer can’t claim to be much better with his over-the-top red jacket that ends as basically a strange skirt or cape.

Archer swallows and hesitantly confirms, “I’m open to testing the theory. Although, I know that it isn’t necessary for your post-war interview…”

Aventurine shakes his head, “This is also research in my book, and besides, the interview can continue after the experiment.”

Archer narrows his eyes. Aventurine had believed this claim of mana transfer far too easily for someone who’s naturally sceptical. Which arises two other possibilities: he either wants to kiss him, or he is eager to share—perhaps even lose the power he has. Loss is not something that could plausibly happen here, but Aventurine may be hoping for it, even if Archerknows that hope is pointless.

To Archer’s surprise, Aventurine stands up and takes off his extravagant fur lined coat. Now left in a vest and turquoise dress shirt, tailored perfectly to his small frame, he sits back down, noticeably closer to Archer.

“Good luck,” Before he can stop it, Archer mumbles under his breath.

Aventurine obviously holds back an eye roll, “I won’t need it. The early bird catches the worm, Archer. Let’s not stall.”

Too caught up in his own mess of thoughts, he fails to discern if Aventurine is eager or just nervous. Electing to follow along, Archer leans in. Despite being seated, he still hovers above Aventurine. Finally closer, he can smell the delicate flowery scent. The perfume he assumed belonged to his Master earlier. Their lips part before they meet in something more than a simple kiss. Just how much saliva would be needed for it to work is a question that escapes Archer’s mind almost immediately. Sharply inhaling the scent of the expensive perfume, the body lotion lingering on the seemingly soft skin, makes his head dizzy.

A tongue in his mouth and vice versa is not what he expected to be doing when he was summoned. Yet, here he is, breathing in once more, cupping Aventurine’s cheek, finding himself eager for more.

Aventurine’s hand tugs his collar, inviting him to lean in; an invitation he happily takes and meets their foreheads. Fingers, used to tracing the smooth edge of thousands of blades, caress the curve of Aventurine’s jawline. The rough stubble, not visible to the eye, adds a sensation to his mana transfer experience, making him shift closer and pull the shorter man by his waist.

A barely audible whine escapes his lips when Aventurine pulls away.

“Roll the dice,” he whispers. Akin to light pink roses, Aventurine’s cheeks blush the same shade. His eyes linger on Archer a second longer than usual, accompanied with a gentle look in his eyes.

Archer’s vocal chords tremble and his tongue lays static against the roof of his mouth. Wordlessly, he grips the crystal cup, gathers the dice and gives them a shake. Without waiting for too long, Aventurine matches his motions.

As the cups lift from the table they reveal four dice all rolled to the number 6.

Aventurine blinks softly, much like someone attuned to unfortunate news does; a single blink to deal with the new fate and accept the disappointing reality, his smile returns.

“Lucky you, Archer,” Once more, Aventurine puts on a comedy mask he never takes off. A smile made from diamonds and rubies may be tremendously expensive, but it doesn’t make it genuine.

Archer missed on the neverending performance of the century, eyes wide open and stuck on the pair of 6’s on the table. It worked. It actually worked. Aventurine is… lucky?

He begins wishing that mana transfer also shared memories. A book of Aventurine’s life… what kind of story would it be: one of romance and unrequited love, one of betrayal and survival or something else entirely? Shouldn’t the life of a lucky person be easy and relaxing, helping him live and get through any situation?

The fancy clothes, pompous attitude shows an entirely different persona from the one Archer sees beyond it: crude intelligence and hard earned experience. The lion in wolf’s skin.