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Thirteen system hours remain. Veritas has not seen Aventurine since their exchange in Aideen Park.
Veritas detests to admit that he dreads the hour of execution despite himself. Though Aventurine may have his own plans, it certainly doesn’t assist to dispel the seed of doubt planted in his head knowing the gambler and his self-destructive tactics.
As he struts across the streets of Golden Hour, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. A groan slips by him—who could possibly be texting him now of all times?
He slows down to stride across the side of the road, leaning against the railing as he moves to reach for the device. The screen lights up instantly as he brings it out of his pocket, and upon reading the sender, breathing had suddenly become an infeasible endeavor.
Aventurine: The show’s about to begin soon. Care to share a drink with me? For old time’s sake.
An innocent message to anyone, if they were none the wiser, but the words burn in Veritas’ retinas as he reads the final sentence. The weight the message holds, hiding a sentiment only Veritas can understand, evoking recollections of a bar encounter carved into his memories.
Twinkling lights twirling and dangling down from above, clinking glasses with gaiety toasts and cheers bleeding out to white noise, the lingering scent of liquor permeating the air, and a flightless bird solemnly contemplating his life over drinks with his sole companion in this midnight escapade.
Red dusted cheeks, blotchy eyes, a toothy grin pulling his lips up and accentuating his features, the image of him rests sorrowfully in Veritas’ mind, burned beneath his eyelids; the image of a man letting slip his guard for just one night, for the next time it happens, it will bear witness to a theater devoid of a devout audience.
His words, too, resound clearly in his ears. Every syllable, permanently inscribed in his evocations.
“I do hope, dear doctor,” he said then, looking up at Veritas almost longingly as he waved his hand around, holding up a glass of sparkling champagne, half-empty with its contents swishing around the edges with his movements. “That perhaps you would at least care to have a first and final drink with me sometime soon before my impending departure from this world.”
Yes, he remembers it well. Almost too well.
To have Aventurine inviting him out for a drink, knowing full well of the timer holding the guillotine from dropping on his neck… An uneasy feeling spreads throughout his chest. This was never meant to be a part of the plan.
Quickly, he begins typing.
Dr. Ratio: Right at this moment? Have you gone mad? There are bigger things to worry about.
The response is instantaneous. Veritas grits his teeth.
Aventurine: You’ve always indulged me in the past, so why now should it be any different?
Dr. Ratio: Because this is a matter of life or death, you fool. There is no room for your ‘indulgences’. Time is fleeting.
Aventurine: It’s precisely because it’s a matter of life or death.
Aventurine then continues typing, the text bubble appearing and disappearing irregularly before Veritas’ eyes. He wishes that he has the patience for this, but his nerves are irrationally clouding his thoughts.
Two words go through in the next minute.
Aventurine: please veritas.
Veritas cracks.
He falters, because Aventurine is not asking for his presence, he is begging for it. The Aventurine he knows doesn’t beg. He may do so to get on his nerves, to poke fun into him, but he does not earnestly beg.
What kind of dastardly man would he be if he chose to refuse someone’s last wishes before the curtains inevitably fall on their life? If he chose to leave this flightless bird, hacked off of his wings, die a remorseful death? If he chose to depart without bidding his final farewells?
But this isn’t how things are supposed to go. Aventurine is not meant to die. Not here, not now. That gambler should know more than anyone; his time has not yet come.
But alas, when faced with the promise of death and the allure of everlasting rest, fear is but a natural response.
Yet for someone like Aventurine, he is not afraid of death. He knows well of the path he chose to trudge upon, of what ending it will lead to, for he has been long anticipating death’s embrace with awaiting and welcoming arms. Be it in the way he wonders if he’ll wake up whenever he closes his eyes, or in the way he deliberately hurdles himself to a road of self-annihilation, the release encapsulated in death is but second nature to him by now.
Rather, it is failure that he fears. Failure will follow him no matter where he runs, while death plunges him into a chasm of Nihility, never-feeling. Failure will weigh in his heart for a lifetime, while death will lift all those weights and envelope him in his golden slumber. The choice is obvious.
So he is scared, and consultation from Veritas to soothe his heart is thus his last resort.
It is a cry for help.
Dr. Ratio: Send it.
Aventurine: huh?
Dr. Ratio: The location. Don’t make me repeat myself.
Aventurine: oh.
Aventurine: um.
Aventurine: Okay. Give me a second.
Aventurine has sent their location.
Dr. Ratio: I’ll be there in less than half a system hour.
Aventurine: Alright
Aventurine: and
Aventurine: thanks ratio
Dr. Ratio: Unnecessary.
Veritas pockets his phone and prepares himself. This is going to be a long night.
Veritas arrives not at a grandiose casino or an overwhelmingly packed bar, but rather he is back at Aideen Park, right where they had last spoken to each other. Though lacking the resplendent interior present in the aforementioned locations that Aventurine loves to frequent, he might as well be in one of those gambling houses with the rambunctious noise of the capsule machines berating his ears paired with the clamorous chatter building around him.
Away from the crowd, Aventurine is leaning towards the edge of the railings, staring off into the distance as the mountainous bottle of SoulGlad erupts. It’s loud, ostentatious, and Veritas is woefully reminded of why his preferences lie within the Moment of Dusk rather than Golden Hour.
Upon noticing his arrival, Aventurine perks up, turning around to reveal the two glasses of wine in his hands that he had already poured out beforehand.
“It’s nice to see you, Doctor,” comes the brazen greeting. He hands out one of the glasses to him. “Here you go. I bet something like this will tickle that refined palette of yours.”
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Veritas accepts it. He brings the glass up to where the city lights could shine through, giving prominence to the maroon hue as he scrutinizes the drink from every aspect possible. Aventurine laughs. “What’s with the look? It’s not like I poisoned it.”
“No, it’s just…” Veritas’ face scrunches up. “Nevermind.”
A hum, but no jab at the way Veritas of all people fumbled over his words. “Not very talkative today, are we?” He takes a small sip. “Well, that’s fine. I guess I’ll do all the talking tonight then, friend.”
He does not grace him with a response, merely choosing to observe his behavior in lieu. Aventurine seems relaxed. Maybe a little too much so, considering the mark of the Harmony most definitely still seeded in his brain. But upon further inspection, little bits and pieces start to stand out; minute, but there.
It’s in the way stray strands of hair fall in front of his face, in the way there were more creases in his outfit than there were before, and in the way he was still drained of his color. Pale, monotonous. Eyes, hollow as ever. The light within the Aventurine that Veritas knows has been dulled, but it gives rise to the question: was there ever any light to begin with?
“I’m glad,” Aventurine says, in a tone similar to that of when he had first voiced his desire to converse with Veritas over drinks in the bar, cracked around the edges, vulnerable. “I’m glad you came.”
Aventurine is surprisingly patient, and even more so understanding. He never expects a response from him, always leaving a way out for him if he is so pleased to take it. Hurt as he may be, he wouldn’t chase after Veritas if he were to step away now.
But walking away… Will that gradually blossom into vines of penitence, which thorns will dig and claw into his skin? Will turning away from an injured bird be worth the permanent marks of remorse?
Is running away worth it?
“…Your time is not now.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
“I think you’re smart enough to deduce why.”
He’s right. He had already done so, long before he had even arrived. That familiar-unfamiliar sullen reflection rippling in the wine glass stares back at him in mockery.
Fear. It kindles the strangest decisions.
“What do you hope to achieve from this?”
“Nothing,” Aventurine huffs, “Must you always assume that I have some sort of ulterior motive? Is it really so wrong for me to long for a chance to make a toast for our joint endeavors on this trip?”
Veritas responds with silence. The glass is brought to his lips, and enumerating flavors burst in his mouth at once. Acidic, sweet, tart. It’s not as bad as he thought it’d be, even if the extensive burn drags down his throat.
“So, how is it?”
“…I suppose it’s not detrimental to luxurate oneself to a drink once every so often.”
Aventurine laughs out loud, laughs until his shoulders shake, “I knew you’d come around!” He says, and the mirth would then eventually drizzle away to melancholy, an expression resembling sorrow washes over his features. “It’s just a pity. How this’ll be the only time we’ll ever get to do this.”
“Why do you say that?”
Aventurine shrugs. “I don’t need to spell it out for you, Ratio.”
Paraphrase: Because I’m afraid there won’t be a ‘next time’. Please don’t make me say it.
Veritas’ gaze narrows. He tears his eyes away from the liquid surface of his glass and faces Aventurine. “You said you wanted a toast.”
“That, I did.”
Veritas brings his glass up, returning the same patience that he had given him within the careful look in his eyes. “Then comply I shall.”
A breathless sound would then leave Aventurine’s lips, like he couldn’t quite comprehend just what he was seeing, like he was briefly wondering whether it was possible to dream within a dream. In an uncharacteristic fashion, he ineptly mimics Veritas, returning the action as their glasses collide with a soft clink, drowned by white noise.
Veritas speaks then, “To a safe departure and a swift return, to this we toast to.”
And Aventurine had never looked more enamored in his life. He only stares, and the glass in his hand shakes ever so slightly. Swallowing, he repeats, “To a safe departure and…” His gaze falls. “A swift return.”
He closes his eyes. “Cheers, Veritas.”
Veritas nods, “Indeed.”
Under the never falling moon of eternal zero hours, a promise is divulged over shared drinks between companions who know not when they’ll see each other again for the next time, if not at all.
But Veritas believes differently.
Perhaps the puzzle that is Aventurine is already beyond solving. This, he has pondered upon many a time before. However, he’s certain that there are still pieces that are still within his reach; pieces that are waiting to be found.
Even if Veritas is unable to piece everything about Aventurine together in the end, the least he can do for this gambler of his is to understand everything he can about him while he still has the time.
Time, yes, the most important essence of all.