#honkaisr

"Hey, you. Take the spare gauze to the medical staff."

The *why* of it all still eluded him. Prompted by his own volition, Aventurine moved, dropping his camera gear and glasses into the equipment box. He ignored his assistant’s frantic questions. He only stepped into the locker room when he was absolutely certain Ratio was alone.

Click.

With the door locked, he looked at Ratio from behind. The champion was hunched over his blood-stained fists, his bare torso mapped with a stark, undeniable web of scars.

"What do you want?"

"I came to bring you gauze," Aventurine explained.

"Playing doctor now, are we?"

"Just making sure you’re alright."

"I’m fine," Ratio snapped, his tone laced with acid.

He turned, and their eyes finally met. A shiver rippled down Aventurine's spine. Taking a breath, he walked around to face him, finally sitting down by his side.

"You’re going to be suspended for what you did," Aventurine stated. "Was it worth it?"

"I don't know. He was getting on my nerves," Ratio said, holding out his hands. "He kept spouting bullshit about me."

Aventurine looked up, freezing with the gauze suspended mid-air. "Like what?"

Ratio didn't answer. He simply stared at him. Then, down at the gauze. "Your hands are cold."

Small and delicate, Aventurine’s hands cradled those of the boxing champion. Gripping them tightly, Ratio hoisted them up until the back of the photographer's hand rested a mere two inches from his mouth. Even his lips were bleeding—chapped, and utterly beautiful. Aventurine thought back to Ratio's battered appearance, to the blood that had ended up on his own glasses and hair. And he smiled. Before Ratio could kiss his hand, Aventurine pulled it toward himself, mirroring the gesture.

Tilting his head to the side, he slipped his tongue out, brushing it against the tips of the bloody knuckles. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear and raised his eyes, making sure not to miss the slightest flicker of a reaction. As the fighter's expression turned uncertain, a smirk carved itself onto Aventurine's face, and he began to lick.

A metallic tang flooded his mouth, sharp and laced with the bitter sting of sweat. It was clear Ratio couldn't bring himself to stop him. The champion's grip tightened around his hand, and the more Ratio pulled back—however involuntarily—the more Aventurine pressed forward, straddling his way along the bench.

A distinct erection was tracing itself against Ratio’s shorts. It was only then that he shoved Aventurine back. A soft whine escaped Aventurine, caught somewhere between pleasure and discontent.

"You’re... sick," Ratio muttered, touching his own hand as if to cover it. "Stay away from me."

But his breath was ragged. Aventurine's smirk widened, and he gripped the edge of the bench, grinding closer.

"You're no better," Aventurine murmured. "You thrashed that poor man because I fucked him, didn't you?"