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As soon as his apartment door shuts at his back, he's enveloped in complete silence. Any other time, he'd be grateful for it—a reprieve from his fast-paced life working for the IPC, where he can take off the smirk he wears as a mask and simply relax—but this time he wishes desperately for something to distract him. Something to keep his mind off what's to come. In the quiet solitude, his mind races, thoughts piling up before he can properly process them, and he simply lets them, unable to find a way to make it stop.
He turns the TV on for some background noise while his brain screams, Failure. Failure. Failure.
He turns on his bedside lamp and then wanders to the kitchenette to turn on the kettle for tea while images flick through his mind—being forced down while his serial number was tattooed on his neck as a child, going through intense conditioning to accept his role as a slave to the IPC during his teens, standing in front of the higher-ups as they make it very clear that the pardon of his death sentence is temporary and conditional now that he's an adult. One failure, and his punishment will be meted out swiftly and without mercy.
As he goes through the motions of unpacking the few articles of clothing he owns from his small suitcase, he remembers Ratio's words, "You're nothing more than a doomed Sigonian thrall, sentenced to die by the IPC."
And that's true, isn't it? What else is he?
A liar, thief, social manipulator? A wolf in sheep's clothing? A clamorous peacock, and a damned gambler?
He's always had to pretend that the words of others don't mean anything to him, even playing into expectations because then no one can hurt him. How much fun is it to browbeat someone who understands and accepts their faults while continuing to thrive? Not that it will ever stop some people. Bashing on him because of his race will always be low-hanging fruit for people who aren't creative enough to come up with anything better.
There are always exceptions, of course. For instance, Ratio never insults him with the goal of hurting his feelings. He only states objective facts, which he uses to support his reasoning whenever he finds something to scold Aventurine for, or when he's trying to give advice. He doesn't mean to come off as rude or insensitive, even though he does. If Aventurine's feelings are hurt in the process, then that's due to his own insecurity.
He lets out a laugh, dry and laden with sadness.
What is he then? Is there anything more to him than what he lets others see? Or has he killed those parts off just to make it easier to keep up his act?
As he asks himself these questions, hoping the thoughts crowding his mind will have some sort of answer, he sits on the floor, letting the silence creep in around him.
His apartment is cold and empty, a layer of dust settled over his furniture after having spent so long away. Calling it an apartment is being unreasonably generous—it's a small space, devoid of anything denoting his colourful personality, making it look more like a prison cell than a bedroom.
While this is IPC standard, he's seen other rooms with potted plants, pictures of loved ones, bursts of colour in stuffed animals or throw pillows. Some hung art on the walls to hide the bland grey of the bulkheads, or kept small pets to liven the space up. Aventurine, however, chooses to everything exactly the way it was when it had first been assigned to him.
After all, this is temporary and conditional. It won't be his forever. And this way, it'll be easier to clean up after him when he's gone. It's not like he has anyone to give his things to after his death—no one who would find him important enough to want a memento of his life, anyway.
Maybe that's the one thing he is, outside of his facade. Lonely. Isolated, even. He has to be, because as much as he's a known risk-taker, there are some aspects of life where it's simply smarter to play it safe. The risk is only worth it if it comes with the promise of reward, after all.
But he's not truly alone.
He has Topaz and Ratio... sort of. In the case of the former, they're colleagues, not exactly friends, though they're not on unfriendly terms. Topaz is one of the few people who doesn't talk down to him, and never has, even before her demotion. Still, she doesn't go out of her way to interact with him, and she avoids him if she can, which he supposes is fair.
And the latter? Well. His relationship with Dr. Veritas Ratio is complicated. On the one hand, if he had to guess, he'd say that any sense of amicability between them comes down to convenience and a lot of alcohol. On the other, none of his hook-ups have ever made him feel as human as Ratio has, though that's probably just Ratio's style—he's not selfish in life, so why would he be in bed? Otherwise, he guesses he's the bane of Ratio's existence, and that suits him just fine.
Aventurine checks his phone, mostly out of habit. He's been home for several hours now, and it's remained completely silent. Even the group chat for the Stonehearts has remained dormant despite how he announced his arrival back home as soon as he'd docked. In his head, he knows this isn't a measure of how important he is to anyone, but in his heart? There's a biting, bitter emptiness festering there, making him feel disgustingly close to a very dangerous thought process.
Ratio is showing online, though, and even though the doctor is the last person he wants to bother, he's also one of the only people who tends to entertain Aventurine despite how hostile their conversations can become. If he didn't know better, he'd almost say Ratio enjoys arguing with him. So, in hopes of silencing the chorus in the back of his head chanting things he knows he shouldn't listen to, he decides he'll just... try. It's not like it's the first time he's texted Ratio out of the blue.
"Hope I'm not bothering you. I just got home. Are you busy?"
Before his eyes, the message goes from delivered to read, and even after several long minutes of waiting, there's still no answer.
With every second that ticks by, the emptiness gets heavier and heavier. It weighs on him until he feels sick with dread. The dread feeds the flames of his darkest thoughts which in turn make the emptiness hurt worse. It's the worst kind of feedback loop, and no matter how he tries to shut it all out, it only grows louder, until it's shouting at him from inside, painful enough that it pricks at his eyes.
If he's being honest with himself, it's already been on his mind since realizing that Penacony was out of his reach. He'd already promised himself to wait until he got home to let it consume him. He'd already decided, but this cements it for him. Truly, what will it matter if he's not here? Who will notice his absence? His existence has always been temporary—more so than anyone else—and he can't help but wonder how long it'll take Diamond to replace him once he's gone. His official title might be Non-Performing Asset Liquidation Specialist, but that's just fancy talk for debt collector with extra steps. Replacing him won't be that difficult at all.
His heart pounds, pulse becoming erratic as he holds his phone in both hands, pulling open the keyboard.
He starts typing.
"I need someone to talk to."
Then he backspaces and tries again.
"I'm not doing well, can you come over?"
Then he backspaces and tries again.
Ratio isn't responsible for his out-of-control emotions. Ratio doesn't even like him. His vision is suspiciously blurry as he finally types out and sends his final message.
"Never mind, I've got it handled."
And he does have it handled. He knows how to make it all stop.
Truthfully, before coming back to his room, he'd been summoned for a debrief on the Penacony situation—specifically how he'd managed to fuck everything up beyond all repair—where he'd been informed that a trial would take place in only a few days to weigh his crimes and decide his punishment. The trial, of course, will mostly be a formality because it's technically his right to have one, even though his fate is already decided. The only thing left to consider is the date of his execution.
"You may file an appeal in writing if you have any objections," they'd even told him, and it had taken everything in him not to laugh right then and there. As if a written appeal stating why he thinks it's unfair for him to be executed when Topaz got off with a demotion and a pay cut would ever change the inevitability of his situation.
The IPC has taken everything from him. His freedom, his autonomy, his love of life. They've destroyed his sense of individuality, reduced him to a walking stereotype that lives only to please the powers who hold his death sentence over his head like an anvil on a thread. They remind him constantly with the black tattoo on his neck that he is property. Not a person. Now they finally want to take his life, as well.
After over an hour sitting on the floor in the same position, he rises to his feet, ignoring the painful pins and needles sensation in his legs as he does a once-over of his room. It's devoid of anything to help him at first glance, but the mini fridge has a full bottle of absinthe in it for just such an occasion, and he's stashed away a bottle of hypnotic sedatives that he was prescribed to help him through bouts of insomnia and duels with night terrors brought on by his past experiences.
Serenity washes over him, fills him with with a relief so pure it feels like bliss. Resolute, he sits down at his desk, opening both his bottles with a long, deep breath. He decides in that moment, maybe he will write an appeal of sorts.
The IPC can take everything from him, but they can't take his life.
Not if he takes it first.
* * *
Veritas' notification sound goes off while he's in the middle of a lecture. Specifically, it's the tone he has set for Aventurine, because Aeons know he needs a warning before having to deal with the flamboyant gambler—not because he finds the thought of interacting with Aventurine offensive at best and vile at worst, but because he doesn't find the thought of interacting with Aventurine either offensive or vile. If anything else, Aventurine makes him uncomfortable because he's like a wisp that can't be pinned down; Veritas can never quite figure out the enigma that is the senior manager of the Strategic Investment Department, and that bothers him immensely.
What's more is that, actually, he enjoys their interactions, as infuriating as Aventurine can be.
They've collaborated on the rare project here and there, and he had eventually come to find that Aventurine is exceedingly different depending on the context of their meetings and his apparent stress levels at the time. In all settings, however, Veritas has always found him quick-witted and sharp; he doesn't have a proper education, and yet he always manages to keep up with Veritas' intellect in areas where the doctor himself tends to falter.
He's also shown an interest in learning, with a voracious appetite for whatever knowledge Veritas chooses to disseminate to him. He picks up new concepts as well as some of Veritas' students, and for someone of his background, that's nothing short of impressive. He may not be educated, but he is smart, and Veritas appreciates that about him.
All that to say, Veritas has found that he actually likes Aventurine. He likes his silver tongue and his calculating mind. He likes his fierce independence and his ability to accomplish whatever goals are laid in front of him, even if Veritas doesn't always agree with his modus operandi. He likes his unscripted ramblings as he sorts through his thoughts, and the little frowns he does when he comes to certain conclusions. He likes the slight narrowing of his eyes when he feels insulted, which only lasts a moment before he composes himself and goes right back to smiling.
Oh, and that smile. When it's genuine, it lights up his whole face, softens his features, warms the ice cold pink of his eyes; he's so beautiful and Veritas is so confused. There must be an equation to describe his perfection so it makes sense mathematically, because words certainly could never do it justice.
And that's another reason why Veritas needs a warning before dealing with Aventurine. Because just the sound of his personal notification tone sends the scholar's heart fluttering madly, and he needs time to compose himself before he can respond, even if it's only a moment.
He makes the mistake of checking the message in the middle of his lecture, glancing at it only long enough to see that Aventurine is asking if he's busy. Well, yes, he is, but he can't stop his lecture just to tell Aventurine that, so he figures he'll just text back later once he's free to see what it was he wanted. Aventurine might act like an idiot sometimes, but he's not stupid. He can understand a concept as simple as prior engagements, and more importantly, not texting during class.
Once the lecture is over and the students have all left, Veritas opens his phone and navigates to his chat with Aventurine via the new notification at the top of his screen. It had come maybe half a system hour ago, while Veritas was still teaching, and he hadn't had a chance to check it until now.
It immediately has him on edge.
"Never mind, I've got it handled."
That's.... It's not unheard of for Aventurine to reach out to him, whether it's for assistance or just because he wants someone to bounce his thoughts off of—their messages are filled with instances of just such a thing. What is unheard of is Aventurine retracting those queries and rejecting Veritas' help before he's even formally offered it. It fills him with an unnameable tension, and before he can stop himself, he's already making his way out of the lecture hall towards the residential sector.
"I'm on my way," he sends back, to-the-point as he doesn't want to waste time on frivolous pleasantries.
After a minute or two, he receives a text in return: "Dont come"
If he wasn't anxious before, he is definitely is now.
Something is wrong.
He tries his best to act natural, even as his pace picks up without his permission. Were anyone to see him like this, they would certainly find it strange, and the last thing Veritas wants to do right now is draw attention when he doesn't have a clue what he'll find upon making it up to Aventurine's room. Aventurine has a number of vices, and most of them are actively detrimental to his well-being. He also has the absolute worst sense of self-preservation that Veritas has ever seen. As much as he puts up shields to keep people from getting too close, he also drinks way too much of things either are or should be illegal to possess, distribute, or manufacture. He's overdosed on his prescription medications enough times that he's no longer allowed to keep them in his room.
There's also the frivolous sexual escapades of his, but... Veritas prefers not to think about those.
Overall, Veritas would call him self-destructive, bordering on masochistic. Certainly, he doesn't seem to mind gambling with his life as the chips on the table, as long as he deems the reward sufficiently worthwhile, and that's worrying in and of itself.
He's also acutely aware of the situation in Penacony, and what that means for Aventurine, who is not the kind of person Veritas can envision going down without some kind of fight. It'd be just like him to do something extremely reckless after convincing himself that he has no other option. That's just how he is—how he's always been as long as Veritas has known him. Considering all this, it's reasonable for Veritas to assume the worst.
Unfortunately, the residential sector is on the other side of the station from where he's currently located and walking takes much more time than he feels like he has. In light of this situation, he does the only thing he can do. He dials Aventurine's number, hoping to speak to him so he can decide if this matter is really worth running. It goes to voicemail three separate times before Veritas makes it to the elevator, and his anxiety swells into panic.
The climb to the sixth floor of the residential sector is far too slow—Veritas feels like he could have taken the stairs and made it before the elevator; he knows that's objectively false, but at least he'd be doing something other than standing around waiting. Thankfully, by the time he reaches his destination, he's well and truly upset, and the expression on his face is enough to keep anyone who might be in his way, out of it. There's still a bit of a trek to the sixth room of the sixth section, and Veritas carries himself there in a fog, simply relying on muscle memory as he attempts one more time to call Aventurine.
"Hey, you've reached Aventurine, senior manager of the IPC's Strategic Investment Department and Non-Performing Asset Liquidation specialist! If you're calling for business inquiries, please hang up. If you're calling for business inquiries, you know what to do with the beep."
Absolutely infuriating.
Veritas turns a corner and finds Aventurine's door easily—it's the one with the number 6 on it, and literally nothing else, unlike some of the other doors on the row which have been personalized by their occupants. It's always struck Veritas as odd that someone as dazzling as Aventurine would embrace corporate minimalism, but this is really not the time to psychoanalyze him based on the contents of his apartment.
Veritas takes a deep breath to school his emotions before he knocks, just in case he's blowing this whole thing out of proportion and everything is fine. A whole minute passes with no answer, but Veritas can hear the muffled sound of the TV inside—specifically a very familiar recruitment ad for the IPC—so he knows Aventurine is definitely here. Maybe he fell asleep while watching TV, or he's in the shower, or some other reasonable explanation for him not answering his phone. Maybe he actually just doesn't want to see Veritas, and even though the thought stings more than it should, Veritas would certainly understand.
Still, it just doesn't feel right. It's not like Aventurine to simply ignore people. He's more the type to entertain even the people he doesn't want to be around, placating them to his own detriment if need be. If he really wanted to be alone or had a change of plans, then he would at least answer the door and tell Veritas to come back at a better time.
No. No, this is wrong. His instinct tells him it is. So he knocks again, harder this time.
"Aventurine, open the damned door. I know you're here," he calls out, and then listens for any indication of movement within. There's nothing. He doesn't usually subscribe to such idiotic superstitions, but he still tells himself, third time's the charm, and then knocks one more time.
No response.
His stomach turns as he tries the door handle, expecting the resistance he meets signifying that the door is locked from the inside. He shoves against it to test for the deadbolt, which is thankfully unlocked, and then takes a step back. For the briefest of moments, he considers how angry Aventurine will be if this is all some kind of misunderstanding; but door frames can be replaced, and relationships can heal. Even if they never reconcile, he knows he'd rather have Aventurine hate him than find out the hard way that he walked away at the wrong time.
With a well-placed kick near the handle of the door, it flies open in a shower of splinters, and he's immediately glad he did. The room is as orderly and plain as it has been every other time Veritas has seen it, except that the desk chair is pulled out, and several crumpled and torn up papers litter the immediately surrounding area. There's one slip of paper left intact, sitting on the desk among all the destruction, but Veritas doesn't have time to check it.
His eyes scan across the room to the bed where a huddled up figure lays, looking almost as if he's asleep. His eyes are closed and his lips are parted only slightly, wheat gold hair haloing his head in a way that would be pretty if Veritas weren't so unsettled by the way he clutches an alcohol bottle against his body, an open pill bottle nearby with its contents mostly missing.
Veritas is a thinking man more than a feeling one; he always uses his brain before he submits to emotion. Even as his heart hammers against his ribs and nausea wells up in him along with the pure fear he feels, he still comes to Aventurine's side to feel for breath and a pulse before he allows anything other than his rationale to take over. Both are faint, but the fact that he can detect them at all lifts some of the sickening dread. If there's even the barest hint of a heartbeat, then there's a chance of survival.
Before anything, he takes his phone from his pocket and dials the medical bay's extension, balancing it between his head and shoulder as he lifts Aventurine into his arms, hastily but with care. The gambler's limp body doesn't weigh as much as Veritas had assumed it would. His mind helpfully supplies the phrase dead weight, but the words prick at his eyes, so he shakes them away before he can fully consider the implication.
He's already down the hall and headed for the nearest elevator when a woman picks up and asks what the emergency is. "I have an unresponsive male, mid-twenties, suspected drug and alcohol overdose," he tells her, following up with Aventurine's approximate height and weight, as well as the name of the drug he'd been taking to help him sleep—which he notes to himself, Aventurine was not supposed to have access to except through a physician, especially in that quantity.
The next few minutes pass in a blur. He makes it to the med bay in record time, and within seconds, Aventurine is being whisked away into the closest exam room. By then, his breathing has become even more shallow, to the point where his lips have started turning a sickly blueish in colour. Veritas, on autopilot, follows despite being told that he needs to stay in the waiting room, and evidently it's a good thing he does.
"Wait, stop. This is Aventurine from Strategic Investments. He's under a DNR order," one of the nurses reads off his file while the others attempt to do their jobs. Veritas fights off security, entering just in time to hear these words and... not much actually angers him, but this....
"Idiot," he hisses, voice filled with potent venom. "Do you understand what DNR is? It's an acronym—an abbreviation made from the initials of other words. In this case, the letters DNR stand for, 'Do Not Resuscitate'. While the word resuscitate can refer to a patient who is unconscious or apparently dead, within the context of a DNR order, you are only to withhold resuscitation if the patient's heart or breathing has stopped."
"Yes, I know that," the nurse says, bold enough to stand up to Veritas, who is twice her size and quite literally talking down to her. "But our orders for Mr. Aventurine are—"
"Do I look like I care?" he retorts, then turns to the nurse that's standing closest to Aventurine's bedside. "Does he still have a pulse?"
The other nurse nods, "It's faint, but detectable."
Veritas draws in a long breath. "Do what you can to keep him alive. I will take care of the details afterwards."
There's a lull in activity, then. The other staff in the room look from the head nurse to Veritas, and for a moment he believes they won't dare go against their orders. But Aventurine is still young and healthy enough that they must understand how odd the apparent DNR is for him. Veritas certainly thinks it is, and he knows Aventurine's background. Would the IPC really order something like this, just because Aventurine bears their serial number on his neck?
He holds his breath while he considers the implication.
He's never liked the IPC. Even though they fund the Intelligentsia Guild and have provided Veritas multiple opportunities to share his wealth of knowledge in many different ways where he can see the difference he gets to make, he doesn't let that cloud his vision. He can also see all the shady business dealings they do right out in the open, unabashed and unashamed. This is one of them.
Were Aventurine to die tonight, he won't be the first nor the last life lost due entirely to the the emotionless capitalist corporation's horrible policies.
* * *
Veritas finds himself back in Aventurine's apartment while he awaits good news. He'd only left once Aventurine had finally stabilized enough that he wasn't in any imminent danger, but the journey hadn't come without its hairy moments. Certainly, though, it was simply good fortune that Veritas had found Aventurine when he had; even minutes later, and things might have gone very differently.
The thought of Aventurine's DNR order looms in his mind and he thins his lips into a firm line. Had he been found by someone with less authority, then he might not be here now. Had Veritas assumed that he didn't want to be disturbed and left, then....
He absolutely detests the thought, but context clues all point to that being Aventurine's desired outcome.
Aventurine's room is exactly how Veritas had left it—relatively clean except for the dust, the scattered scraps of paper, and both the pills and alcohol bottles near the bed. He starts on the task of cleaning up for Aventurine, picking up all the paper scraps and the wood shards from when he'd kicked the door in. He even cleans the dust from all the surfaces, washes his bedspread, and scrubs down the bathroom until it's pristine. Normally this wouldn't be his idea of fun—it still isn't—but the thought that reoccurs in his mind is that he wants somewhere decent for Aventurine to come home to when he's finally released from the med bay so he has nothing to focus on other than recovering well.
It's halfway into his mission when he finally takes note of the one sheet of paper left unharmed on the desk, picking it up when he sees its title.
To Topaz and Ratio.
In a daze, frowning, he carries it over to the bed where he sits on still rumpled covers. The first part of the letter is addressed specifically to Topaz. It lasts the whole front and half the back of the page, and it's none of his business, so he skips over it out of respect. While searching for the section meant for him, he can't help but catch a handful of sentiments talking about their time working together and how Aventurine thinks of her as his only friend.
He finds what Aventurine wrote for him on the back of the page, no more than a handful of lines:
Ratio.
Thank you for putting up with me and being kind in your own way, even though I know you would have loved to impale me with chalk or brutalize me with a textbook. I think I probably could have fallen in love with you because of your selflessness and how you cared about me even though I didn't deserve it; I just didn't have enough time to figure out how to do that. Sorry you had to find out this way.
Veritas notices belatedly that there are tear stains on the paper, smudging Aventurine's pretty handwriting—something he no doubt worked hard to achieve considering his lack of formal education. What's worse is when the blur of his vision and the stinging in his eyes forces him to acknowledge that they aren't Aventurine's tear stains, but his own.
It's not like Veritas to put any stock into hopes or dreams or wishes, not after dedicating years of his life to gaining Nous' recognition only to realize that it was never going to happen. But in this case, he wishes things had gone differently, that he'd been more forthcoming with his own feelings, or that he'd paid more attention to Aventurine so that he could have learned to love and be loved. It's no use pondering hypotheticals like this, but he still wants to believe that if he had just done more then maybe Aventurine wouldn't have felt like he had no way out.
Realistically, this is no one's fault but Aventurine's. Veritas knows that. Even the highest of powers in the IPC, the ones responsible for Aventurine's trauma, were not here to force his hand. So why can't he shake the guilt that wells up in his throat while he covers his face and cries?
* * *
Consciousness sneaks up on him. He becomes aware of the limits of his being, of each of his limbs and their extremities. His body feels heavy as his chest rises and falls on its own, and then slowly, the aches begin to filter in. He lets out a sound that's supposed to be a groan, though it comes out as little more than a wheeze as he tries to flex his muscles and wriggle his fingers through the stiffness that makes him sore all over.
He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry, and finally he cracks open his eyes to see if there's something he can use to remedy that. Wherever he is, the lighting is comfortably dim, but he still squints as he tries to focus on the room around him, right up until his vision is filled with something vaguely doctor-shaped.
It takes a minute, but he recognizes the silhouette of the man's tunic, how it drapes around the width of his body. He recognizes the shining gold details, from his bracers to the owl decal on his shoulder, to the decorative laurel hairpin that's placed perfectly atop thick, dark purple waves. He recognizes the prettiest dusky amber eyes, haloed in gold even in the low light. Aventurine doesn't need perfect vision when Veritas Ratio is as beautiful as he is.
"Wow," he grits out, voice raspy from lack of use. Naturally, as if he weren't laying in a hospital cot with a ridiculous amount of tubes leading from various points of his body, Aventurine forces his facial muscles to contort into a familiar smug smile. "Didn't realize I was actually bad enough to end up in Hell."
Speaking hurts. Breathing hurts. Smiling hurts most of all. He lets his facade fall. It's impossible to keep up his act when he still feels the weight of exhaustion blanketing him, smothering him.
Ratio watches his face carefully, and for a moment he looks relieved, then worried, and then utterly incensed.
"You idiot," he practically seethes, standing from the chair he'd been reclined in and stopping just short of grabbing Aventurine by his gown to shake him. "You damned fool! You're lucky I came when I did and saved your damn life. What the Hell were you thinking?"
Aventurine doesn't answer. There's a pain in his chest, welling up, feeling like it might burst out of him at any moment. It fills his stomach and rises into his throat, persistent even as he tries to swallow it down. Jaw clenched against it, it crawls into his eyes and escapes in the form of hot tears. At first, he doesn't move to stop them, just staring at the ceiling, trying to will them away, but then his breath catches, stumbles, and he chokes.
Ratio stands over him looking almost disturbed, and it's the last thing he sees before he throws an arm over his eyes to let himself submit to his own grief privately.
Through everything he's dealt with, all the years he's spent enslaved to the IPC, forcing himself into positions he'd rather not be in, mourning all the chances he's had to form meaningful connections with others, bond with them as any human longs to do, all the people he's had to keep at arms' length, all the sacrifices he's had to make.... Nothing could have prepared him for this—the most raw pain he's ever felt, just upon full realization that he's alive.
He's alive, and Veritas Ratio, of all people, is the one he has to thank for that.
He grits his teeth, sets his jaw, squeezes his eyes shut, all in hopes that he'll be able to get himself under control, that he'll be able to stop crying while Ratio stands there watching him, finally seeing him for how weak he truly is. If he disgusted Ratio before with his lack of intelligence and his pitiful Sigonian upbringing, then Aventurine is sure that the scholar hates him now. He's not only a slave to the IPC, but a slave to his own emotions as well. How much more pathetic can one person be?
To his surprise, though, through the thickness of his sorrow, he feels a broad hand on the top of his head, petting his hair back gently. Then, Ratio's presence looms over top of him, coming closer, leaning down further and further until something warm presses against his forehead. The first time it happens, Aventurine convinces himself that he's imagining it, but when it happens again and again, his breath catches and his sobs falter.
Ratio is... kissing his forehead?
Shocked, he pulls his arm from his face, hurriedly wipes his eyes, and stares up at Ratio, who is watching him with the same unchanging gaze—level and cold. The dichotomy between the expression on his face and the tenderness of his treatment quite literally has Aventurine's head spinning.
"What...?" he tries to ask, but the words end up stuck in his throat.
Ratio huffs. If Aventurine squints, he thinks he can see some colour rise in the scholar's cheeks. "I may not be as well-versed in the art of interpersonal relationships as you are, but I was a child once, believe it or not, and my parents loved me sufficiently."
"Rub it in," Aventurine grumbles, but there's no venom to it.
"What I mean to say is, even if I have only a rudimentary understanding, I do possess some knowledge on how to comfort someone when they're crying. As you can see, my method has proven quite effective," Ratio continues. He's still petting Aventurine's hair, showing no sign of stopping; not that Aventurine wants him to, as admittedly, it is rather soothing. "Had that not worked, I did have some other techniques in mind, but as expected, you're exceedingly simple to placate."
Aventurine lets out a scoff, reining himself in just short of rolling his eyes. He has at least that much self-control, though the rest of his carefully manicured image seems to have gone completely out the viewport. Still, he sniffles and his breathing audibly trembles, ever on the verge of breaking down once again, and Ratio leans in to press yet another kiss to his forehead.
It does help. It doesn't stop the pain in his chest from radiating with every beat of his heart, or the ache in his head from all the crying he's done, or the stabbing in his stomach that is no doubt due to his own abuse. The more alert he becomes, the more vivid the sensation of raw, all-over pain is, and while Ratio can't take that away with just the press of his lips, the blatant show of affection softens the blow.
Would Veritas Ratio, recipient of eight doctoral degrees and the First Class Honours Degree of the prestigious university he'd attended, lower himself to such depths as to kiss the forehead of a Sigonian and a slave just to make him stop crying? Maybe if he were using it for an honest-to-Aeons research opportunity, Aventurine finds himself musing, but he's also good enough at reading people to discern that that's probably not what's going on here.
He decides to test the water a little. "Now you've got me curious, Doctor. What other techniques did you have in mind?"
"Due to your apparent cognitive dysfunction, I might provide a demonstration rather than verbal instruction, should you be receptive," Ratio says immediately, almost like he's been waiting for Aventurine to ask.
Setting any and all misgivings he has aside, he consents with a clipped, "Sure, whatever." And then he waits while Ratio shifts at his bedside, almost uncomfortably.
"This is between you and I. It doesn't leave this room," he murmurs, but before he can ensure Aventurine's cooperation, he's already leaning in close again. This time, though, his hands find Aventurine's body, engulfing his comparatively slight frame in a way that would make him dizzy with lust in any other situation.
For a split second, Aventurine truly believes that Ratio's "other techniques" include fucking him into the hospital gurney. Not that he'd complain, even if the staff and other patients might. Instead, though, Ratio's hands keep moving, sliding around him to his back, and in another moment, he's being pulled tightly against Ratio's firm, broad chest.
Aventurine flounders for longer than he knows he should before he settles his hands on Ratio's shoulders, leaning closer to drink in a deep inhale of Ratio's cologne—something dark and musky, masculine, but not harsh or unpleasant. It's subtle enough that Aventurine finds himself taking in long, deep breaths to try and discern each of the specific notes, and before he knows it, he's relaxed into Ratio's hold.
"Do you feel any better?" Ratio asks, the low rumble of his voice resounding all the way through Aventurine's body, his hot breath fanning across his ear and neck.
"No," Aventurine answers.
Ratio huffs, but the sound is amused rather than annoyed. "I believe that might be the first time you've been honest with me without being badgered first."
"I'm always honest," Aventurine retorts, but there's no heat in his words. Truly, he's too comfortable where he is to risk aggravating Ratio to the point where he pulls away. "If we have one thing in common, Doctor, it's that we both value the truth far too much for our own good. In my case, people just refuse to trust me because I happen to be a Sigonian working for the IPC as a debt collector." He stops short, lets his own words sink like a rock in his stomach for a moment, and then corrects himself, "I was a Sigonian working for the IPC as a debt collector. And that's all I'm going to be remembered for, if I'm remembered at all."
"That wouldn't have anything to do with your little performance the other night, would it?" Ratio asks. His tone sets Aventurine's teeth on edge, but he knows Ratio doesn't mean to sound condescending, so he bites back the smart remark that's on the tip of his tongue.
"I just felt like, if the IPC wants to take everything from me, then I should be able to control at least one aspect of my life," he answers. "We see how that turned out. They won't even let me die the way I want to."
Above him, Ratio stiffens. His breath catches like he wants to say something, but Aventurine feels his jaw clench and knows he's thought better of it.
"Execution it is, I guess," he sighs. "I wonder if it'll be injection, electric chair, or the firing squad. Maybe I can talk them into something very primitive to make a spectacle of it. Do you think they'd agree to a public hanging if I—"
His speech is cut short when Ratio sits back, just enough to slap a hand over his mouth. "I've had enough of your self-deprecating drivel. You are not being executed." Aventurine's eyes blow wide at this revelation; he'd ask how Ratio knows, but the hand over his mouth prevents him from speaking. Ratio seems to understand, thankfully, just from his expression. "Your trial took place while you were recovering, and I—of my own volition—attended on your behalf. While Law is not one of the studies in which I received a doctoral degree, I am exceptionally skilled in the art of debate; and considering the magnitude of absurdity associated with the trial to begin with, the court would have been little more than a theatre for the IPC's ignorant buffoons to pasquinade to their hearts' content, anyway, had I not been there. It wasn't difficult to force everyone in attendance to see the error of their ways."
Ratio removes his hand once he's finished speaking, and beneath it, Aventurine's jaw has dropped open. He doesn't need Ratio to spell it out for him. He's smart enough to understand implications. All at once, a flood of tears returns before he can stop it, and he tries to crumple away to hide them, but Ratio scoops him up before he can, squeezing him hard so he can't get away.
"You don't deserve to die, Aventurine," Ratio whispers against the side of his head, and just that is enough for a broken, ugly sob to cleave itself out of Aventurine's chest.
He holds onto Ratio like his life depends on it, like Ratio is the only thing good in the entire cosmos and if he lets go, he'll be gone forever. He cries while Ratio rubs his back and kisses the side of his head, because easily, this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him. In just five words, Ratio made him feel more seen and loved and wanted and human than anyone has before in the entirety of his life, and the only thing he can do about it is cry, open and vulnerable, like he hasn't been able to do since he was a child.