#avencher

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.