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The atmosphere of the Reverie’s lounge suits Aventurine all too well. The smooth piano notes floating through the room, the low lamp light, the maroon velvet sofas—they say a gilded frame is crafted to match the painting it will house, and everything about this room seems to exist solely to accentuate Aventurine’s presence like the artwork he is.
Veritas muses over whether or not Aventurine would be classified as a masterpiece while watching him from across the room. He doesn’t mean to stare but, see description above, there is nothing better to look at.
He keeps his distance because Aventurine is working. To anyone else, it looks like the gambler is only making conversation with the man seated next to him. They both have drinks in hand. Aventurine’s is mostly empty by now, and he laughs at something his guest has said. Veritas can’t hear it from where he sits, but his imagination provides him with something like a soft chuckle. Whatever it takes for his guest to feel special enough to strike a deal with the IPC.
Aventurine crosses his legs and rests a hand on his guest’s thigh, leaning close to whisper something in his ear. The man’s face goes bright red, and he responds with his own words pressed against the skin of Aventurine’s neck.
His fingers slip around Aventurine’s wrist, tugging the hand that holds his drink closer. Aventurine sways in his seat, another laugh, and shakes his head. Instead of sharing the last sip with his guest, Aventurine swallows it down until nothing but ice remains in the glass. Ratio’s eyes fixate on the bob of his throat.
It’s fascinating to watch him work like this. All personal judgment aside, Ratio has to commend Aventurine’s ability to tolerate such handsy guests while trying to conduct business. This guest, though, does not seem that interested in business. His eyes sweep up and down Aventurine’s body, and the most pressing concern in his mind is probably how soon he can bring Aventurine to his suite.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
The bartender’s voice pulls Veritas away from his focus. He considers the polite and patient smile that the bartender gives him and decides he should probably stay for a while. To keep an eye on things.
“An iced tea with lemon, please.”
He will not be drinking anything stronger than that tonight. Glancing back over to the subject of his current studies, Aventurine is talking to his guest with a hand on his chest. The man’s arm wraps around his waist, fingers disappearing behind the hem of Aventurine’s coat near his hip.
While Veritas has his own opinions on mixing alcohol with work, he won’t interfere with however Aventurine likes to get his job done. He will remain sober himself, just in case that man’s hands start to wander a little too far to be strictly professional.
The bartender leaves him a lowball glass of iced tea with a lemon wedge split onto the rim. He garnished it with one of those umbrellas that resembles the lounge’s trademark center lamps. Veritas swirls the drink around in the ice and takes a sip.
Aventurine coyly leans away from an attempted kiss, giggling. He leans too far, loses his balance, and nearly slips off the sofa. His elbow supports his weight, all while his guest tries to help him sit back up, eyes flicking around the room as if he fears the gambler’s behavior is drawing attention to them.
Only mine, you horny ape, Veritas thinks, lifting his glass for another sip.
Over the paper umbrella, he watches Aventurine right himself at last, but not without spilling melted ice all over his guest’s nice trousers.
“There goes your deal,” Veritas says to himself. Bumbling around while drunk probably just cost the IPC a new client, but that’s what Aventurine gets. At least now his guest is keeping his hands to himself, namely pressing napkins to his cold and wet crotch.
The two of them exchange a few more words, and then they both get up from the sofa. Aventurine stumbles rather dramatically but doesn’t lose his balance again. As they start to walk across the room, Veritas can see the unfortunate placement of the water stain that Aventurine bestowed upon his guest’s inseam.
“Doctor!” Aventurine says with a little gasp, drawing out the second syllable a bit too long.
Veritas is surprised that he’s been noticed, not because he is particularly hidden on this side of the bar, but because he didn’t think Aventurine was lucid enough to be aware of his surroundings.
But the fond call of his name is the only warning he gets before a warm weight slings itself across his shoulders. Aventurine leans bodily against him, one arm hooked behind his neck as more of a crutch than a hug.
“You know this man?” the guest asks.
Veritas isn’t sure which one of them the question is for, but Aventurine provides the answer.
“This friend is my doctor. My doctor friend,” he says, words slurring together.
Veritas straightens his back to shake Aventurine off, but it only succeeds in making him hold on tighter. He clears his throat.
“I am an acquaintance of his, yes. And a doctor.”
The guest looks Veritas up and down, at the arm hooked around his neck. “I, uh, was going to help him back to his room.”
I’m sure you were, Veritas thinks and inwardly sighs. He didn’t want to meddle with Aventurine’s work, but the gambler made the decision for him by way of such obvious skinship.
“I’ll take him off your hands.” Veritas gestures with a glance down at the guest’s soiled trousers. “You look like you have enough to worry about already.”
Turning redder under his liquor-induced flush, the guest nods curtly and leaves. Aventurine wiggles his fingers to wave goodbye, watching the man ascend the stairs and exit the lounge.
As soon as he’s gone, Aventurine retracts his arm and fixes his clothes.
“I thought he’d never leave,” he sighs, and slides onto the stool next to Veritas.
To his credit, Veritas is not completely surprised that he has been fooled.
“You’re sober,” he says smoothly.
Aventurine winks at him. “Stone cold, Ratio.”
“So all that staggering around was to give yourself an excuse for fumbling your deal? Your superiors will not be pleased to hear about that.”
“On the contrary, I secured my targeted funds and then some.” Aventurine props an elbow on the bar, chin resting in his palm. All at once, he’s no longer slurring. The piercing sharpness is back in his eyes as well. “Certain men are pretty liberal with their signatures if a helpless little bird is handing them the pen.”
He says it with the conviction of someone who has done this more than once. Pretending to be drunk and flirting with clients apparently works well for someone like Aventurine. Veritas looks at him, lifting the glass to his lips.
“Little do they know, the helpless bird is actually a cunning peacock,” he says before a sip.
Aventurine steals the glass and boldly takes a long swig from it. Veritas pinpoints exactly when he realizes there’s no alcohol in it because he frowns and pushes the glass back to the counter.
“Is that just tea?”
“It was, until someone drained all of it.” Veritas rests his fingertips across the rim, absently turning the glass back and forth in semi-circles. The shape of Aventurine’s lips leaves a faint imprint on the glass, as if he were wearing lipgloss. “If you wanted a stronger drink, you could have ordered yourself something other than a decoy.”
Aventurine waves his hand dismissively and takes the paper umbrella out of Veritas’ now empty glass. “I don’t mix work and play. When entertaining potential clients, you won’t catch me under any sort of influence.”
“Oh, there is something the gambler won’t take risks on?” Veritas asks with feigned surprise.
“Any good gambler knows that the most satisfying jackpots always come from games where there was never a risk in the first place.” Aventurine gestures with the umbrella, twirling it between his fingers. “We aren’t in a dream, Ratio. Can’t be too careful.”
He sings it like his own irony amuses him. Veritas sees that there are still a few things he has yet to learn about the gambler.
“In a place like this, I’m sure it’s difficult to abstain,” he points out.
Penacony is the land of dreams, of fantasy. Enter the dreamscape and do anything you like—drink, gamble, party, all without the repercussions such activities would usually be followed by. It should be heaven for Aventurine.
“I do miss my nightcaps,” he agrees.
Veritas gestures to the bar, lined with top-shelf choices from all over the universe. “Your work is done now, isn’t it?”
“Until Mr. Sherry Breath comes looking for me after changing his pants,” Aventurine says with a smirk, then shakes his head. “Another quality in these certain men is that they seem to think my job title is something other than Senior Manager.”
Perhaps Veritas’ initial observation of their exchange was misguided. Perhaps Aventurine doesn’t quite enjoy the social aspect of his job as much as he makes it seem.
“I don’t plan on drinking anything myself. If you wanted to indulge, I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
Aventurine’s eyebrows lift, and his gaze drags over Veritas’ face.
“Are you saying I can trust you with my body, doctor?”
Veritas scoffs. He didn’t have to word it like that, but yes. That is what he’s offering.
“I would argue that I’m the only person you can trust here. There is nothing I would try to buy from you, and I can monitor your intake so you don’t give yourself alcohol poisoning.”
He flags the bartender down and orders a refill of iced tea. When the bartender asks if there is anything else, Veritas points to Aventurine.
“Whatever he’s getting.”
Aventurine’s smile grows, and he tucks the folded umbrella behind his ear.
“In that case, a Vesper, please.”
The bartender nods and gets started mixing the drink. When he’s gone, Aventurine swivels on the stool.
“Spare me that look,” Veritas says before Aventurine can get anything out. “It’s going on my room’s tab, which is being picked up by the IPC anyway.”
That look doesn’t go away. Aventurine just hums in satisfaction. “You’re welcome, then. I’ll keep your chivalry in mind when I come to collect on the loan.”
It’s a joke that Veritas does not smile for. A wave of apprehension just washed over him, providing glimpses of what he might have to deal with now that he’s promised to be Aventurine’s babysitter for the night.
The bartender returns, a lowball for Veritas and a martini glass for Aventurine.
Aventurine lifts his with delicate fingers and holds it outward for a toast.
“Here’s to our enduring partnership. May it survive the night even if you do try to take advantage of poor, vulnerable me.”
“Very funny.” Veritas raises his glass in return. “May our enduring partnership also survive when you inevitably try to squeeze me for every penny.”
The glasses clink together, and they both take their first sips.
Veritas observes him through the first, and the second, and the third drink that Aventurine swallows.
It’s a professional curiosity that he wants to satisfy, he tells himself. His previous assumptions about what alcohol does to Aventurine were evidently wrong, given that the gambler apparently feigns his drunkenness in order to cinch deals on behalf of his employer. Strategically Drunk Aventurine was flirtatious, bold, and inviting, but now Veritas understands why he chooses those qualities to exaggerate during work. Humans react in all sorts of ways when alcohol saturates their bloodstream, so which of those qualities will surface in Aventurine when it’s the real thing?
Veritas steels himself for the worst, although he can’t imagine Aventurine being the angry kind, or the vomiting kind, or the tearful kind. As the evening swims along in that way that only the Reverie can accomplish, Veritas once again cannot keep his eyes off the gambler.
Slowly, Aventurine’s cheeks warm to a subtle pink color. They talk about anything but work, and the intoxication makes itself known in the way Aventurine laughs breathily at things that aren’t funny. Veritas mentions a book he picked up recently, found it so engaging that he read the entire thing while in the bath, and Aventurine giggles, his lidded eyes landing on Veritas’ face.
“Feel free to share what you find so delightful about that,” Veritas mutters.
Aventurine shakes his head, swirling the last few sips around in his third martini glass.
“Why can’t things just be delightful?” he asks, leaning over on the stool until their shoulders press together. “Try some of this, and you might finally get it.”
He lifts the glass to Veritas’ mouth, nudging his lower lip. The scent of the mixed liquors swirls around his nose.
Veritas gently pushes Aventurine’s wrist away with his fingertips. “I know what a Vesper tastes like. Need I remind you of why I shouldn’t try any of yours?”
“Oh, if he hasn’t come back already, then he probably won’t for the rest of the night.” Aventurine sets the glass down less delicately than he normally would, then tucks his hand into Veritas’ bent elbow. “Let’s loosen up together, doctor.”
”I’d say you’re already well beyond that point,” Veritas grumbles, looking ahead at the shelves rather than the eyelashes he knows Aventurine is batting at him.
“Still time for you to catch up.” The hand at Veritas’ elbow makes the short jump to his chest. Aventurine’s fingertips disappear under the edge of his shirt’s cutout. “Or maybe we can order a bottle and take it back to your room.”
Veritas remains still, pointedly ignoring the fingers caressing down his sternum. “And why would we go there?”
Another giggle for a question that wasn’t funny. He didn’t notice when Aventurine’s stool got scooted so close to his own, but now their thighs are touching. That hand languidly skates up to the side of Veritas’ neck.
“So you don’t have to worry about hiding me from my clients, of course. Why else?”
His breath tickles the shell of Veritas’ ear. He clears his throat, only mildly annoyed that Aventurine still likes to push his buttons even when he’s this drunk.
“I’m starting to understand why you keep sober when dealing with them. You’re insufferable otherwise.”
Aventurine clicks his tongue with a fake pout. “Harsh words from the upright man who’s letting me put my hands all over him.”
Veritas could claim that he’s not letting Aventurine do anything, but it’s entirely untrue. Besides, the gambler is harmless. He won’t do anything in such a public place.
“‘Scuse me,” comes a voice from behind.
Speak of the ape, and he shall appear.
Veritas turns his stool to face the prodigal guest, now with a fresh pair of pants. Seems Aventurine’s prediction was wrong—he has underestimated his own effectiveness.
“May I help you?” Veritas asks disinterestedly.
Aventurine didn’t let go when he turned around, causing him to hang off of Veritas’ neck with one arm. It skews the high collar of his shirt, exposing more of his skin. Veritas puts an arm around his waist to keep him from falling to the floor, and the client notices with a brief glance down and up.
“He’s even worse off than when I left,” the guest says.
“That tends to happen when you drink more and more.”
Offended, the guest opens his mouth to say something undoubtedly stupid, but his gaze flicks down to Aventurine, and the words never make it out.
Aventurine is now pressing his lips to Veritas’ neck, kissing slowly up and down. It distracts Veritas too, briefly, but it also gives him an idea. Something to ensure the guest finally leaves for good, and all parties can put an end to this nonsense.
Hands on Aventurine’s hips, Veritas tugs him fully onto his lap so he isn’t leaning so precariously over. The motion stirs a breathy laugh out of Aventurine, before he tightens his arm around Veritas and continues kissing around his throat.
Veritas mentally pushes all other sensations aside and locks eyes with the guest standing in front of them.
“If you have a work-related query with Aventurine, you will have to follow up in the morning.” He lifts a hand to the back of Aventurine’s head to keep him there, mostly so he doesn’t turn around and ruin it by opening his mouth. “Right now, he’s off the clock and obviously unfit for professional matters.”
The look that crosses the client’s face says he definitely didn’t return to the lounge with any professional intentions. Veritas watches his brain try to work through an argument and fail.
“He’s fit enough to spend time with an acquaintance,” the client says, gesturing impatiently between the two of them.
“I never said our acquaintanceship was the professional kind.”
As if on cue, Aventurine wiggles in his lap and lets out a small whine.
“Ratio, what’s taking so long?” he murmurs. Fingers trace up Veritas’ sleeveless arm. Teeth playfully nip at his skin. “You said we were going back to your room.”
The client flushes in anger, fists clenching. Veritas looks him up and down, suddenly glad that Aventurine is usually sober around people like this. Their desire for him is too much, and Veritas understands how easily things could escalate when alcohol makes someone bold enough to think they’re entitled to Aventurine’s time or body.
He pictures the serial number on Aventurine’s neck and realizes that the gambler actually does have a sense of self-preservation after all.
Veritas shakes his head in disappointment, and at last the client storms off. He definitely won’t be coming back now, but Veritas does not need to remain in the lounge to prove himself right.
The fingers buried in Aventurine’s hair give a slight tug.
“He’s gone. You can stop drooling on me now.”
Against his skin, Aventurine’s breath hitches quietly. “Ready to make good on that to-go bottle?”
Veritas uses his grip to pull Aventurine’s head away from his neck. He’s met with red cheeks, shiny lips, and a heavy look in those colorful eyes. The corner of Aventurine’s mouth quirks up, like he thinks he just won a bet.
It must be the alcohol that has him looking so happy.
With a sigh, Veritas stands up from the stool. It jostles Aventurine enough that he stumbles, almost falling over for real this time, if not for Veritas’ hand wrapped around his elbow.
Aventurine regains his balance, pressing both of his palms to Veritas’ chest, and giggles. “I got the hint, doctor. You want me all to yourself.”
Veritas motions to the bartender to close his tab and unceremoniously drags Aventurine through the lounge. At this point, it would probably be more efficient to carry him.
He tunes out the looks he knows they’re getting from the other patrons, and after an entire struggle climbing the stairs, they make it to the hallway where his room is.
The door pushed open, Veritas tugs Aventurine through the threshold and into the dimly lit living space. The glow from the dreampool illuminates the way to his bed, and Aventurine needs no persuasion to fall back against the sheets. Even the luxurious fabric is diminished to a mere backdrop when Aventurine is the center of his attention.
He looks up at Veritas through his eyelashes, the blush still covering his cheeks, and bites his lower lip. His thoughts are written all over his face.
Yes, Veritas knows exactly what this looks like. No, he isn’t going to fall for it.
“I pity all of your clients,” he mutters mostly to himself because he doesn’t believe Aventurine is listening anyway. He tugs off Aventurine’s shoes and lines them up neatly on the floor.
“As you should. They’d burn with jealousy if they knew that the good doctor got me to bed without even having to pay.”
Veritas regards him for a long moment, contemplating the merit of stealing Aventurine’s room key and going to sleep there for the night instead.
But he just resumes his task and peels Aventurine’s expensive coat off from his uncooperative limbs.
“Not everything in life is a game,” Veritas says. “So stop playing with me.”
He could leave it at that, but the rest of Aventurine’s clothes look just as uncomfortable as his coat. So Veritas helps him out of his shirt and pants as well, fighting the heat that ridiculously rises to his face. Day clothes are not meant to be worn in bed. That’s all.
Aventurine’s eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep, as evidenced by the small smile gracing his lips. Veritas takes the opportunity to look at him, the smooth and perfect skin that’s slightly flushed down to his chest, and turns away with a huff.
The gambler is in for quite the headache in the morning.
He tosses one of his spare shirts onto Aventurine’s face. On his way to the bathroom, he hears a disgruntled whine and the subsequent shifting as Aventurine figures out how to pull the garment on. Veritas fills a glass with tap water and brings it back to the bed, amused by the messy quality of Aventurine’s hair.
“Drink this,” Veritas orders, cupping a hand around the back of Aventurine’s head and holding the glass to his lips.
More grumbles as Aventurine gingerly complies. He takes down small sips, eyes barely held open now. At this point, Veritas has gathered enough evidence to conclude that he is the helpless type of drunk.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he says in response to Aventurine’s sounds of protest.
Once he’s satisfied with the amount of water Aventurine has swallowed, he sets the half-empty glass on the side table for when he wakes up. The last detail, he plucks the paper umbrella out of Aventurine’s hair. It’s rather charming, so he figures he’ll keep it as a souvenir.
By the time Veritas has changed out of his own clothes, Aventurine is curled up on his side, snoring.
Half of the bed remains empty, all the more tempting with how tired Veritas is after a whole evening of babysitting.
He goes to the couch instead and collapses onto the soft cushions.
Aventurine sleeps well into the morning. Veritas is just about to check if he’s dead when the gambler finally stirs and sits up.
He rubs an eye, the collar of Veritas’ shirt slipping down one shoulder. His wild hair speaks to how well he slept.
“Good morning,” Veritas says. “You were fifteen minutes away from it being ‘good afternoon’.”
“You didn’t wake me?” Aventurine complains with a gravelly voice. He stretches his arms over his head and climbs out of bed with all the speed of a turtle.
Veritas is standing at the table where the room service he ordered is spread out—several breakfast items and two coffees, one of them already half gone.
“You did stay up late last night.”
Aventurine shuffles over, wearing a small smirk. Veritas’ sleep shirt reaches the tops of his thighs. “Oh~? Shame I don’t remember much. Did you carry me all the way to your room?”
“It was a near thing,” Veritas says.
Plopping himself down on the couch, Aventurine crosses his bare legs and levels Veritas with a look that’s usually directed at the clients he flirts with. “And is that all we did?”
Veritas ignores that. “How is your head?”
“It’s been worse. Now I remember the other reason why I don’t actually drink that often.” Aventurine reaches for the coffee cup, but then he abruptly stands from the couch and all the sleep disappears from his eyes. “Wait, did you say it’s almost noon?”
“Indeed.” Veritas would be lying if he said he didn’t see this coming. His lips quirk up in a small smirk.
“Shit, I’m late for a meeting!”
Aventurine abandons the breakfast table and rushes to throw his clothes on. Luckily, he never spilled anything on them last night, which is more than can be said about the client that both of them thoroughly embarrassed.
“Coffee,” Veritas says before Aventurine can head for the door, holding the cup out.
“Thank you.” Aventurine takes the cup and lifts up on his toes to press a small kiss to Veritas’ cheek. “I’ll find you later in a dream.”
Between one blink and the next, Aventurine is already halfway out of the room. Veritas is entirely unsure if Aventurine even realizes what he just did.
He will need to conduct some research on the ways a hangover can influence someone’s actions.