Archive of Our Own

Someone at the Intelligentsia Guild had once gifted him a notepad identical to a doctor’s prescription pad. At the time, Veritas had merely hummed, tucking it into his desk drawer.

Nodding his acknowledgement towards the giver, he had then asked if they needed anything else.

The gift-giver — one of his many faceless colleagues — had anticipated a laugh, or perhaps anger from Veritas that he wasn’t being taken seriously since it had obviously been a joke. Veritas’ actual response had them quickly saying their goodbyes and disappearing through the door, somewhat surprised that their prank had failed to agitate him in any way.

Weeks later, Veritas had found himself using them.

The notes were simply designed, with Veritas’ actual name, title, and contact information at the top, and a space to succinctly write any instructions or lessons to the recipient.

When he inevitably orders more, Veritas keeps the same design and simply asks for stronger cardstock.

He additionally orders a digital version for mail and text, since most of his correspondences are nowhere near where he is at any given time.

Now, Veritas’ name on the header of his latest prescription pad stares back up at him as if it is asking what exactly is it that he’s doing.

“Surely this is foolishness,” he says hoarsely to himself.

Picking up his pen, he taps the bottom of it absentmindedly against the small table in his room at the Grand Reverie Hotel as if he’s thinking about what he wants to write.

However, Veritas already knows exactly how he feels and what he wants to say.

He also knows exactly how to say it.

What he does not know, is whether Aventurine will be willing to hear it.

Were Veritas a betting man, like Aventurine himself, he would bet “no” to this question and sleep soundly that night knowing at least a minor windfall would be headed his way shortly.

“Don’t die” would be the most succinct and understandable version, yet it hardly encapsulates his genuine thoughts and any variation on “I love you” would sound trite and insincere.

Veritas had hardly expected to meet anyone who could inspire romantic feelings from him, never mind someone like Aventurine: a degenerate gambler determined to test the limits of his own good fortune until the day when it would mean his own life.

And Aventurine’s life is likely to be the cost of the gambler’s latest scheme.

Tapping the pen more soundly against the tabletop, Veritas clicks it open and begins to write.

Now that he has met Aventurine, Veritas finds it a waste of his and Aventurine’s time to leave these affections unsaid.

The first line is nothing that Aventurine does not already know.

The second line is only a fraction of his own desperation, written in a way that he hopes Aventurine will understand.

At the very least, it should let Aventurine know that he is not alone.

They meet that night at one of the Golden Hour’s casinos just beyond Aideen Park.

To Veritas’ surprise, Aventurine is already at one of the card tables when Veritas walks in.

Bombarded by the blaring noise of advertisements, dice rolling against green felted tabletops, and the incessant electronic cacophony of whirling slot machines, Veritas watches as Aventurine seems to sense his presence and turns to greet him with a wry smile.

“I should have known you’d deprive the masses of that handsome face of yours.”

“Isolated from my five senses, I am able to think without interference, even in a place as vulgar as this.”

Aventurine laughs and pulls the chair next to him out from under the table with a smile. “‘Of course, stupid people don’t want to see you either.’ At least, that’s what you always say, isn’t it doctor?”

Sighing, Veritas takes a seat and watches as Aventurine places two cards face-down onto the table. His movements are deliberately slow to the point where Veritas wonders why exactly Aventurine is stalling.

The woman next to them groans loudly and throws her cards into the centre haphazardly, “All or nothing.” This prompts the dealer to collect them and look to Aventurine for his next move.

“To have everything, or to lose everything, yet I have no power to choose…” Aventurine murmurs, throwing his cards onto the table.

Naturally, Aventurine wins the round.

They don’t linger long at the table after that.

Outside, the streets of the Golden Hour are only slightly less loud than the noise inside the casino. Aventurine meanders around the edge of Aideen Park, wordlessly following the cobblestone streets as a fluorescent-purple SoulGlad vehicle zooms past them both.

“I’m surprised you came, Ratio,” Aventurine says once they reach the outskirts of the park, well out of earshot of the small audience gathered in the centre to hear the Dreamjolt Troupe’s latest ear-scrambling song.

“You requested it of me.”

“In our limited but…fruitful time together, I wouldn’t describe you as someone who does things they don’t want to do.”

Veritas could tell Aventurine how wrong he is, complete with specific and indexed examples. In fact, their initial meeting back in Aventurine’s IPC offices approximately half a standard year ago had decidedly not been a meeting that Veritas had wanted to attend.

A slight warm breeze — the only thing resembling any sort of atmospheric change here in the Dreamscape — ruffles Aventurine’s unruly bangs.

“It was heavily-implied that you wished to review my role in your upcoming performance as your turncoat,” Veritas tells him, allowing his impatience to seep into his tone.

Communication with Aventurine would be eons easier if the man would simply say exactly what he wants to say without trickery or indulgences.

Rather than saying the expected retort of their usual banter, Aventurine stares up at the soulless sea of stars projected above the Golden Hour.

“I don’t doubt you’ll perform admirably,” he says to Veritas after a while, running a hand through his hair. “It’s why I chose you for the part…among other reasons.”

Tightening his fists at his sides, Veritas takes one step closer to Aventurine.

Accursed gambler will you not simply admit that you’re afraid to die?

Still, Veritas respects Aventurine too much to drag this out of the man, and knows that Aventurine will only wave off his concerns as a figment of Veritas’ imagination at best, or a facet of Veritas’ own ignorance and privilege at worst.

“Fear not, your ignorance is temporary and relates only to your knowledge of particulars. You look for meaning in the wrong places.”

Aventurine’s expression cracks.

His smile falls.

You are not alone.

There are myriad philosophers Veritas could quote in this moment. He could espouse the ancient virtues of Philia and Eros, thereby confiding in how Aventurine inspires both in Veritas himself. Citing countless texts, he could tell Aventurine how meaning is most easily found in the simplest of connections and relationships rather than hurtling one’s self towards a overarching grander purpose.

Instead, Veritas remains at Aventurine’s side, simply present, scowl firmly in place, until Aventurine turns back towards the hotel.

“Just tell me if you can’t hold on any longer.”

Veritas says this out of genuine concern, knowing that Aventurine won’t recognize it as such.

Or perhaps Aventurine does and simply never wishes to acknowledge it.

Veritas cannot choose which option he dislikes more.

The man in question is swaying on his feet — every part the Harmony-addled dupe, momentarily bested by Sunday.

“So the ‘genius’ of the Council of Mundanites wants to be my undertaker now?” Aventurine grins wolfishly, even while visibly unsteady.

“My…what an honour.”

They bicker back-and-forth, an odd facsimile of their usually-invigorating discussions that incenses Veritas the longer it continues.

Aventurine refuses to budge from keeping his secrecy and Veritas concedes this round to him.

“You are indeed a gambler, an insane one at that.”

Aventurine shrugs, waving his hand through the air gracefully. “Well, maybe I am. Who knows?

“Fine,” Veritas says.

He hadn’t realized how much he had been hoping that Aventurine would truly confide in him until now, when it had become abundantly clear that Aventurine wouldn’t even consider the possibility.

Reaching his hand into his trousers pocket, Veritas removes the letter he had written what seems like ages ago, after Aventurine had asked him to publicly betray him to The Family.

“Here, take this. Open it when you’re on your last legs. You’ll thank me.”

His fingertips brush against the soft black leather of Aventurine’s skin. In a moment of truly embarrassing sentimentality, Veritas allows his touch to briefly linger before pulling away.

“What’s this? Medical advice?”

Aventurine’s bewildered and amused voice remains in Veritas’ ears long after he walks away.

There’s nothing more Veritas can do for Aventurine now but wait for the gambler to return.