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It had been a while.
It had been a very long, agonizing while.
Dr. Ratio had continued on with his life.
Detached. Empty. He did not bother to put on his alabaster head when students blatantly flirted with him, and he did not do anything but stare at them. He said nothing. They would get the hint, anyway.
Severing his connections with the IPC was easy, after several weeks of his horrible performance.
What more could he do, then?
Than nothing?
Dr. Veritas Ratio was not a man of attachment. He was not a man that allowed himself connections to things, not a man that allowed himself to get stuck on things. Time consistently moved; and you would be stuck behind in nothing if you didn't move with it.
Maybe that is why he felt nothing, now. Walking through empty cities, people devoid of themselves and their truths. Maybe he had been left behind.
_________________
His return to Penacony was mandatory, this time.
Meeting in Diamond's office meant pretending, like usual. He summons his alabaster head. Then thinks twice about it, as Diamond already knows. It's her fault, anyway.
He puts it away. Enters the office, makes his way to her desk and sits down slowly. She just continues to stare at her desk as he enters.
“Veritas Ratio,” She says, putting a pen through her teeth as she sorts through documents. “You're needed in Penacony. We need some things back, and you've got VIP status I feel like abusing.”
He's in and out of the conversation. This office is too big, too empty, for a woman so small.
Windows the size of airships behind her. A desk that dwarfs her, all white in color. Grey floors so clean they look like mirrors. Horrible, horrible mirrors. Is the famed Veritas Ratio really the man that is looking back at him right now?
Veritas knows he looks blank, blanker than usual, his eyes empty and his face pale. But he faces Diamond with a half-smile, and the action actually makes her quirk a brow for once. She says nothing, and he offers nothing. She rises, takes papers, takes the pen out of her mouth. “And for fuck sake.. nevermind, Ratio. You look like shit enough,”
And she leaves, he stands, and he follows after the quiet uniformed soldiers to the ship that will take him there.
_________________
It was an item Ratio had not known about. According to Diamond, it was something of 'extreme use' that needed to be handled discreetly. The Family did not know about this, save for Sunday, and Ratio had no patience for asking him for information.
Sunday was nowhere to be seen upon entrance, and Ratio was thankful. He had no reason or want to interact with that man. That thing.
He made his way to the check-in first, in Reality, giving Alley a glance. How long had it been since he'd seen her? Did she have no wish to leave? “I need a detailed description of whoever's checked into room number 254. I'm with the IPC for now, so please keep your questions to yourself.“
She stares, clearly confused, but nods, checking her monitor to see. She wants no issues with the IPC now- nobody does. “The individual's signed under the name.. uhm.. Mundanite? And has requested we inform him when you arrive. We presumed that he was having a meeting since he brought some sort of item with him.”
Ratio's body grows cold. There is no way- and it doesn't make sense. He stifles down an insult, “Thank you. For your help. That isn't very detailed but it works. Would you perhaps have the key to the room too?”
Alley nods, going over to the check-in desk with hurried steps. She brings over the key, and begins to speak and Ratio tries not to fall or collapse with the continuous chatter, the heels, the singing, the music. He can't hear her; it's swimming in his head, and he takes the card from her slowly.
It puts her off, but she says nothing and just gestures to the elevators.
He feels sick.
He hurries, faces blurring into a mass on his way. He tries not to focus on them. Just make your way to the hotel. He keeps moving, taking the elevator to the second floor. The room isn't far, and he puts himself up against the wall of the elevator, as a young woman joins him.
He allows himself to look at her reflection in the glass of the elevator's walls. A young woman. Smiling at a picture, it seems. Vain. Nothing lasts forever.
But he spares her of that. Things can last for her. She can pretend, like he had forgotten to.
She gets off a floor before him, waves at him as she leaves out. Was he like that? That confident?
A pity. It was wasted. He is nothing; nothing but a man that claims to be something so other people see it. A colorblind painter, making an amalgamation he's calling a masterpiece.
The elevator stops. There are a few more floors now, he notices. This room is the first on this floor, and he sees the door as he leaves. The only one with it's light on in this massive, curling hallway.
His steps seem like they're echoing, his body feels tired and haggard the closer he gets to the door.
When he stops in front of it, he lets out a breath. Tries to laugh to himself.
The door opens.
Ratio almost passes out. He is a large man, and tries not to imagine the thudding sound his body would make, hitting the floor.
“Heyy.. lookit you, huh? You look like shit,” The copycat of the man long dead says. There is blood on his front, on his new coat. Peacockish, even in dim colors.
He pulls Ratio in, and both the Doctor and the gambler are surprised at how quick Veritas goes.
The door shuts, and the man that reserved the meeting, he sees, is dead. Lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. His eyes are open- This Aventurine caught him off guard.
Aventurine- this copy, of him- moves, pressing his entire front against Ratio's. There's a zipper on the front of the new coat he wears, and it digs into Ratio's stomach as the blond tries to almost meld them together. He feels the blood smearing onto his shirt. It's disgusting, but he doesn't move.
The gambler's hands cup his face, teeth, sharp, and feeling ever so real and familiar, nip at his chin. Ratio's eyes are focused on the other dead man. It is the only thing keeping him grounded, and is a pitiful thing to say.
“Mmm. You smell good. Did you shower today? You took care of yourself?” The copycat asks, pulling his face into view. Pulling Ratio's to meet his eyes.
“I did,” He says before he can stop himself. He stops, situates himself. Puts on a glare. “No, it is best I ask a question before I entertain you. What- and please, do mind my tongue- the fuck is wrong with you?”
This makes the copycat's eyebrows raise- a comical expression on Aventurine's face- and he laughs. Genuinely laughs.
“My! And here I thought you'd only have that kind of tongue when you were fucking me, hm?” Aventurine's copycat pats his chest, gives him his best cat's grin. “Apologies, Doctor, but I'm afraid nothing's wrong with me. What about you?”
“No. I do not mean in feeling. Why the fuck are you fucking with me now, and how are you doing this? Aventurine is long-dead. His death sentence was announced. Would you really be so cruel—” The gambler's face doesn't budge an inch as Ratio's talking. It's so reminiscent of him, it makes him shocked. It makes him– hesitate. “—as to fuck with me this way?”
“Mm. So you were affected, then? Did you cry, Ratio? I really want to know if you can cry.” Aventurine's arms come to rest upon Ratio's shoulders. He smells of nice things, normal things. Not expensive perfume, but cotton. Some sort of hair product, one he's known his students to throw on haphazardly. A cheap one from around the galaxy. Easy to buy, especially in bulk.
Ratio closes his eyes. The hands move lower, they encompass his neck. He flinches, the other chuckles. “This insinuates that you are the actual Aventurine. I'm not answering otherwise.”
“Mmm, it is me, love. You really don't recognize me, Doctor? Has it been that long already? Did you forget?” The hand scrapes lower, flicks a nipple through the thin cloth. Ratio almost folds in on himself from surprise, only stopped by Aventurine's body as he gasps out.
“I am the final victor, Doctor. I don't lose, hm? Do you wanna show me how sensitive you've gotten, since I left?“
Hands.
They have the same callouses in the same areas. Where Aventurine kept his coin, his cards, where he'd scrape his hand on the sides of tables until blood drew for a good hand.
A hand brings his face down to meet the other's, his mouth is opened after another flick- harder, this time, followed by a squeeze that makes him whine. Aventurine's tongue escapes into his mouth and licks where it shouldn't and he feels dizzy, delirious— and mumbles out, in his haze,
“Please don't do this to me. Please, do not make me wonder if he's still here, please. Don't touch—“ Aventurine's hand touches flesh, his chest window. His hand sneaks into the shirt and pinches the bud so hard he cries, “Pleasepleaseplease, don't please–“
“I'm here, baby,” Aventurine says softly. Calmly. Like it's true.
“I'm here. Lay down for me love. Let me kiss you.”
Time continuously moves. And if you don't move with it, it keeps going. But if you don't look back, you'll forget. Would it be a risk, to reminisce, then, to stop the movement?