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With his labored breaths echoing through the narrow corridor, Aventurine takes his first heavy and strenuous step beyond the threshold of a hotel room. Scraping against the filthy carpet, the door clicks woefully behind him as it finally closes. Swallowing the grotesque scene left in the man’s wake as if it were nothing more than the dull conclusion to a thriller that dropped the ball just when it had just begun to roll.
Thrust into the oppressive air of the long hallway, where it smells of incense and alcohol instead of sulfur and burnt plastic, Aventurine’s lungs contract painfully. The taste of gunpowder still clings to his tongue, which is so dry that it feels like sandpaper whenever it ghosts over the roof of his mouth. It makes his throat burn with every pant that rushes past his cracked lips.
In the seemingly empty and endless corridor stretching out as far as his blurry vision can fathom, he feels like he’s slowly being suffocated. The sickeningly sweet aroma wafting up from the gaudy vases and vibrant flowers within them seems to sink deeper and deeper into his nostrils with every drawn out tick of a clock that’s hanging somewhere out of sight. It makes the walls feel compact and lofty–as if they’re leisurely closing in on him. Even the dim glow cast by the hideous fluorescent lights spread out every few feet feels like it’s getting brighter and brighter. It’s as if this hotel has a life of its own and he’s slowly being digested in the belly of a beast.
Sucking in a breath full of vinegar and soot, Aventurine’s trembling hand slams unceremoniously against the metal plate beside the lifeless room he’s shut away. His fingers, slick with sweat and oil, grasp at the bronze lettering–staining the number that’s etched neatly into its surface: 1414–until it’s nearly unrecognizable.
With his legs shaking even more prominently than his arms, he begins to drag himself down the lonely, dark hallway. His hand struggles to keep his body upright as it slips on and off of the golden trim jutting out slightly from the wall. It offers him little support, but, then again, when has anything?
A hoarse, hollow chuckle rumbles weakly within the depths of his chest at the thought. Its eerie sound bounces off of the black tiles and velvet carpet, reminding him, as always, that he is alone with nothing but his own ghost to keep him company. And that ghost laughs alongside him. No, it laughs louder. It laughs at him.
He can’t see the end of the hallway anymore. Even the flowers that had consumed his every sense a moment ago have become fuzzy at best. If one were to ask him what is planted within those golden vases: be it petunias, begonias, cyclamens, he would no longer be able to say. Their once vibrant petals have been devoured by the darkness creeping ever nearer.
Squeezing his heavy eyelids shut to escape the blurry mass before him, he feels the world around him begin to spin. Faster and faster. The color drains from his face until his skin looks lifeless and ghastly. His head is heavy, and every last drop of blood still within his body seems to be rushing down to his feet. He’s dizzy enough that he might as well start charging admission for the joyride he’s been forced to operate.
As his fingers curl into a tight fist against the wall, he slowly opens his eyes once more. Darkness threatens to consume his vision where it stubbornly clings to the edge. Reluctantly, he musters up the will to look down at the carpet. He can’t tell where the crimson of his own blood ends and the scarlet of the once pristine rug begins.
Unsteady and lightheaded, he turns to smack his back against the wall. With his ears ringing and his chest throbbing, Aventurine tilts his head against the golden trim he’s soiled with his own blood, and slowly lowers himself down onto the ground. The ceiling looming above is whirling, and the floor beneath his feet is undulating. There’s bile in the back of his mouth, but it tastes just palatable enough for him to force it back down into the pit of his stomach.
The high-pitched and joyful tune that plays all over the grand hotel carries on in the background, keeping time with his ailing heartbeat.
He drags his hands across his body, his right groping uselessly at his torn shirt and the bullet wound in his side, where his fingers press hard against his flesh. Blood oozes out between his knuckles and slowly trickles down his hip before sinking, deep, into the carpet below. It makes his palm sticky and hot. His left arm falls into his lap, a revolver still held firmly within his grasp despite the glossy sheen coating its barrel.
Just a minute. That’s all he needs to catch his breath. When that distant clock sings again, he’ll drag himself back to the solitude of his own room.
A small part of him questions; however, if he will ever pick himself up off the floor again. Maybe this is it, he thinks, and his heart skips a beat and the air in his lungs stirs. Perhaps today is when he will see what happens when his luck runs dry. Maybe the Family can even use his blood to paint the trim he’s ruined red to remind them of the last gamble he ever took–and won. Even if the bags beneath his eyes and the shallow rise and fall of his chest might imply otherwise, the corpses behind the door of room 1414 say nothing but the silent truth.
He exhales. The skin on his lips blisters, and his tongue cracks.
In that once lonely and desolate corridor, the sound of footsteps drowns out the cartoonish theme of the imposing hotel.
Aventurine’s ashen lips lift into an unsettling smile as he turns his head to stare into the blurry nothingness splayed out all around him. So far removed from the hotel’s other occupants–guests seems too gentle a word to describe the people of this place–where the giddy laughter and drunken quips can’t reach his buzzing ears, the echo of shoes upon the carpet is as loud as a spaceship’s engine.
Until, finally, that sound fades into nothing, and the owner of those shimmering, golden sandals is standing before him.
It seems the Mother Goddess has blessed him once again.
“So, dear gambler, is this the peroration of your latest soliloquy?” Ratio’s deep and familiar voice fills the void.
With it, color and life returns to Aventurine as the mass of blue and white begins to take form in front of him. Morphing from theory to form as Ratio’s visage comes into view.
The Doctor is close enough that Aventurine can see the individual strands of his dark hair framing his striking features. Close enough, even, that he can feel the other’s scalding breath against his cheeks, inhale the scent of eucalyptus from his shampoo, and taste the bitterness of cologne on the other’s neck. When Ratio reaches out to grasp his shoulder with a firm and steady hand, those same fingers brush along his jaw in the process.
The smile that sticks to Aventurine’s parched lips is baleful at best. “Mmm, you've arrived just in time for my curtain call, Doctor.”
The grip on his shoulder tightens. He can hear the stiff fabric of his jacket crinkle within Ratio’s hold. The pressure of the other’s hand is strong enough to hurt, and Aventurine can feel the subtle prick of a bruise beginning to form on his skin.
When Aventurine tries to meet Ratio’s gaze, he finds the Doctor’s expression nigh impossible to read. Not at all because he’s unfamiliar with the other’s subconscious habits–no, he had long since memorized those, but instead because he finds it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. And it makes the other’s face constantly go in and out of focus.
He can only vaguely tell that Ratio’s lips are pulled taut into a stern frown. His eyes–his captivating and scintillating eyes–are nothing more than a conglomeration of pink, purple, and yellow. In the low light that seems far too bright, they remind him of the fleeting existence of dawn–when the sky is at its most beautiful and pure–just before it's washed out by the overwhelming violence of daylight. And, when Ratio inclines his head to look at him more closely, the dark blue of his hair spills into that dawn–as if they were strands of the night sky leaning down to kiss the final traces of the sun as it sinks beneath the horizon to repeat the cycle yet again.
He wouldn’t mind if dawn is the last thing he ever sees.
“And was this mediocre drama worth staking your life on?” Ratio’s voice rumbles against Aventurine’s ear. Every word brings with it a wave of heat that caresses his jaw.
For a moment, Aventurine thinks about how the Doctor is close enough that their noses would brush against one another if he were to turn his head towards that stern grumble that pops and fizzles like static in his ears. He even considers it. But his head feels dreadfully heavy and his neck remarkably stiff. Even if he were to try, his body is too numb and too exhausted to obey him. He can barely even concentrate on what Ratio is saying.
“All or nothing.” Aventurine’s own voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere faraway–like it’s hovering over the edge of a cliff and ready to jump. Whether it plummets into the depths of Hell or takes flight towards the breathtaking dawn has yet to be determined. He doesn’t think he minds one way or the other. “And today, my production has given me everything.”
“I beg to differ.” Ratio’s hand slips down from Aventurine’s shoulder, finally giving the newly formed bruise room to breathe, and leans into the other’s lap. His fingers, steady and deliberate, wrap around Aventurine’s hand that’s still clutching that filthy revolver. The other’s palm is tacky and damp, and it makes it seem as if his fingers are cemented to the barrel. Slowly, one by one, Ratio begins to pry Aventurine’s knuckles loose.
“To me, it appears you are a few pieces short of whole.” Ratio’s fingers are slippery and gooey from the blood and sweat smeared all over Aventurine’s hand by the time he pulls every finger from that revolver, and takes it from Aventurine. Without sparing it a glance, he tucks the weapon away.
The gun dealt with, Ratio’s moves Aventurine’s hand away from his wound. Carefully peeling back the bits of tattered and soiled clothing from the bullet wound, he presses his own palms against the open, fresh injury on Aventurine’s hip, and leans in–his knee pressing into the other’s side.
With nearly all of the Doctor’s weight bearing down on him, Aventurine can almost hear his bones pop from the pressure as a searing pain pours through his entire body. It’s uncomfortable–it’s agonizing, and he’s, thankfully, too drained to squirm. All he can muster up is a breathy groan.
“No, I’m whole– now. I was only one card away from a Royal Flush.”
Flexing his hand weakly where it’s still draped uselessly in his lap, Aventurine lethargically lifts his arm towards Ratio. His quaking fingers trace softly along the Doctor’s prominent jaw, staining the other’s pristine skin as he guides Ratio’s head towards him as best he can. With his hand, frail and unsteady, against the other’s jaw, he settles his thumb over the corner of Ratio’s supple lips. Compared to the other’s deep frown and powerful hold, Aventurine’s touch is feeble at best.
“And, Doctor, you’re my Ace of Spades.”
Every muscle in Ratio’s body that had already been tense pulls completely taut. With his hands pressing hard against Aventurine’s wound that’s pinned beneath his knee to stop the bleeding, Ratio can’t lift a finger to brush away the other’s hand from his chin.
Instead, Ratio is forced to swallow the newly formed lump in his throat. He can taste iron and salt on his tongue where Aventurine’s thumb is resting against his mouth. The stench of ichor and onions collides with the heavy aroma of vanilla from the other’s favorite perfume, and they both flood his lungs until he’s almost–irrationally–certain they might burst.
Emotions are a complex network of instinctive urges, changing circumstances, and relationships with others. They are baffling when they conflict with one’s own survival–yet logical when they serve the desire to live. But they so often seem to favor the former. Even he, with all of his merits and publications and discoveries–cannot claim his grasp on them is infinite.
However; he deduces that when the poets of yore described love as something sweet and comforting and pure–they must have never once fallen in love throughout the entire course of their lives.
Because love is something ugly and sharp–something utterly illogical and unpalatable. It lingers on his tongue like spoiled fish and sits in his stomach like an iron chain, one with rusted hooks that sink into his heart. Love won’t resuscitate him like lyricists and novelists claim, but it will surely kill him if he gives it the opportunity.
He has known Aventurine for a long while now. Yet, there remain countless things about the other that continue to elude him. Ratio doesn’t know him as the stars know the moon or the clouds know the sun. He doesn’t know him as deeply as the ocean descends or as loftily as the mountains climb. He scarcely knows him at all despite being able to recite nearly every word the other has spoken to him since their very first meeting.
And it was that very same meeting during which Ratio had lost the Gambler’s bet before the cold metal of the gun had even been pushed into his palm.
He can still vividly recall the weight of Aventurine’s hand over his own. How the trigger had felt under his finger that didn’t wish to press it. Most days, it feels as if it had never been lifted from it at all. Even the sight of the unsettling smile that had painted Aventurine’s rosy lips is now a portrait on display in his mind. And every single time he closes his eyes, he’s forced to gaze upon it.
Now, Ratio begins to suspect that the warmth of the other’s hand upon his jaw and the featherlight touch of his thumb upon his lips will, too, never leave him. Instead, It’ll settle into his very flesh, and make a home within his bones.
Because love is something wicked. Something unfathomable–something scathing and rough.
Because Ratio has been deeply in love with Aventurine from the first empty gunshot that had rung out between them.
Without hesitation. Without an ounce of fanfare or surprise, Ratio says,“You predicted my arrival.”
No longer feeling the viscosity of blood trying to ooze out against his palms, Ratio slowly pulls his hands away while keeping his knee firmly in place beside Aventurine’s wound. With nothing else to use, he pulls the silky, blue scarf hanging from his shoulder off, and leans over the other to swiftly tie it taut around Aventurine’s hip. Tight enough that it threatens to cut off circulation–tight enough to bruise, and tight enough to hurt, but Aventurine’s only reaction is the slight twitch of his fingers against Ratio’s jaw.
It’ll make due until he gets Aventurine back to his room where he can treat the wound properly. For now, it's a temporary solution to a pressing problem that he has little desire to delay the more permanent conclusion to.
Removing his knee from Aventurine’s side, Ratio sweeps his hands beneath the other’s knees and back, effortlessly gathering the other man into his arms.
Aventurine’s response is strained and exhausted and prideful, but the smile on his face is genuine. “I’ve told you before, Doctor: Life is a grand gamble, and I’ll always be the final victor.”
Aventurine loosely encircles his arms around Ratio’s neck, and leans his head against the Doctor’s chest. His cheek, now a bit more vibrant and flush with life, leans against the bare skin peeking out through the window in Ratio’s shirt. It’s hot, but smooth to the touch. He can even feel the drum of the other’s heart against his jaw. It creates a significantly more pleasant and welcoming song than the one constantly blaring through the hotel halls.
When he’s confident Aventurine is steady, Ratio slowly rises to his feet, being careful to keep the other pinned to his chest and doing his best not to jostle him in the process.
Sliding his sticky fingers through Ratio’s sleek hair, Aventurine’s hand wraps around the back of the Doctor’s head, weakly urging the other closer. Ratio complies, allowing himself to be drawn downward until their lips nearly brush.
“For the Ace of Spades to have any value, you must be able to play your hand,” Ratio ventures, he can taste the cherry chapstick on Aventurine’s tongue. “To phrase it bluntly: You must live.” Leaning down, he closes the distance between them.
Ratio’s soft lips meet Aventurine’s cracked ones in a kiss that’s neither extravagant or exhilarating. It doesn’t render Aventurine’s heart helpless and swollen–it doesn’t make his stomach flip or his knees weak. Though the wound had done plenty of that for Ratio already. It’s far from magical or life changing, as true love’s kiss is so often described.
But it is patient and thoughtful–surprisingly calm and gentle. It instills a warmth in Aventurine’s chest that he’s longed to call his own. One that seeps into his veins, pushing it through every part of his body. It breaks the rock he’s been carrying around within him for years now, and frees his stomach of the heavy anxiety that so often finds its home there. It makes his blood flow back into his limbs–steady, for a change, despite everything. It is mundane and unassuming.
Ratio doesn’t kiss him expecting anything in return. His mouth doesn’t seek out Aventurine’s with the promise of something more. The soft touch of their lips doesn’t bring with it a burning desire. One who doesn’t know better might even claim it boring or passionless.
But Aventurine knows Ratio loves him– genuinely loves him–because of how straightforward and subtle and tender that kiss is. It brings with it a comfort and familiarity he’s not accustomed to. It exposes the depths of the Doctor’s heart to him. It’s a heart that’s composed and considerate.
Ratio kisses him like he cares .
And, maybe, he’s grown tired of the thrill because that kiss is everything Aventurine wants it to be. Everything he needs it to be.