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Even a gambler knows there are some things that are too precious to risk.
Such things are very few and far between now: a golden brooch; scraps of bloodied cloth; the health and wellbeing of three moon-eyed catcakes —
And now, apparently, his relationship with one Dr. Veritas Ratio.
Aventurine wakes with a jolt to the sound of his phone alarm blaring, a catcake paw smooshed into his cheek, and a glob of phlegm migrating painfully from his sinuses down the back of his throat.
He fumbles his arm through the mess of blankets to shut off his phone. With the screen now black and the alarm automatically going to snooze for the next ten minutes, he flops back into his pillows, only to be beset by a deep cough. There is a disgruntled mrow as a soft, wiggling body digs into his sweat-soaked back. Aventurine turns his face into the pillow and coughs — and coughs — and coughs —
Aeons, his whole body aches.
And his phone keeps ringing.
With a groan, Aventurine grabs the phone — because that is in fact his ringtone, not the alarm — and holds it up to his ear with a harsh, "What."
"Gambler!" Ratio. Ratio is calling him at some ungodly hour of the morning, and Aventurine feels a headache coming on.
"You are 17 minutes and 14 seconds late for our —" The good doctor cuts himself off abruptly as Aventurine coughs again, so hard that he can feel his chest convulsing with the force of it.
"You sound awful," Ratio comments flatly.
"Good one, doc." His voice is raspy, and Aventurine winces at the sound. "Now you're going to tell me that I've overslept and am running late."
"Both of those things are, in fact, true." Aventurine rolls his eyes as he forces himself to a seated position. Phlegm relocates itself inside his skull, and he hastily presses mute before he sniffs forcefully, a honking snort emitting from his nose.
Ugh. He's a mess of mucus.
How disgusting.
But Ratio is, as always, correct — when he blinks past his blurry vision, he sees that he has overslept, and that his notifications are full of emails and text messages. He scrolls, skims, and swipes as he hacks out another set of coughs. He has just set all his statuses to Busy to buy some time to pull himself together when he hears:
"Gambler? You haven't answered any of my questions; I cannot provide any additional input if you don't provide me with more information, you damned peacock."
Aventurine hurriedly unmutes himself and replies, as sweetly as he can manage: "What was that, doctor?"
Aventurine can easily imagine the grumpy expression on Ratio's face. Half the fun of working with the doctor is riling him up, and he barely suppresses a snot-filled snicker at the thought of the furrow between Ratio's eyebrows.
There is a deep sigh from the other side of the line. "Why do I even bother? I've been asking after your health, gambler, which I know you take such little interest in. Now tell me — how long have you had that cough? Have you had a fever? Have you been around any sick contacts?"
"Uhhh." Aventurine struggles to make his brain function as he slowly emerges from his bed. Outside of the cocoon of his blankets, he starts shaking almost instantly. "Cough since yesterday. I don't think I even have a thermometer, so no idea on the fever. I was at the office yesterday, so I came into contact with half the businessmen in Pier Point."
He puts his phone on speaker and sets it down on the bathroom counter. Damn it, his limbs are still trembling. His pajamas cling to his skin with a clammy persistence, letting him know that, thermometer or not, he's just lied to Ratio about the fever. Oh well.
He scowls at his reflection in the mirror. There are circles under his eyes, darker than usual, and his hair hangs limp over his forehead. He's going to need the full coverage concealer today, apparently.
Then he plasters on a smile, so that it sounds through his voice. "But no need to worry about little old me, Ratio. Something like a silly cough won't hold me down. I'm getting ready as we speak; give me half an hour, and allow me to change our meeting to lunch — I'll place some calls, get us a nice table at that Xianzhou restaur—"
His chest suddenly rebels; he bends over the counter and tries to cough one of his lungs out of his body.
"Gambler!"
He can't stop coughing — he can't stop coughing — the phlegm relocates, clogging up his nose and the back of his throat so that he can't breathe — and his chest keeps heaving — coughing, coughing, coughing —
He barely stumbles over to the toilet before the phlegm dislodges and he vomits into the bowl, a splash of chartreuse mucus and vomitus as his eyes and nose stream with fluid in the aftermath. He sucks in a grateful, rattling breath.
"Under no circumstances are you to leave your apartment, do you understand me?" The doctor's voice is severe. "I will contact the IPC on your behalf. Don't exert yourself; I'll be there shortly."
"R-ratio, you don't have to do —" Aventurine croaks, but there's a telltale beep from the phone as the call is ended. The only sound left in the apartment is his own phlegmy breathing and the plaintive, worried meows of the catcakes.
The creatures emerge from the bedroom and gather around him. After he spits and wipes his mouth, he sits back onto the cold tile with a sigh and gathers them close, their soft bodies and sweet faces a comfort, as he wrestles with the fact that he just might truly be too ill to work today.
And that somehow, he has merited enough significance that Dr. Ratio has taken it upon himself to make a house call.
Contrary to the good doctor's orders, Aventurine does exert himself. He brushes his teeth, applies concealer, and spruces his hair with dry shampoo — and even those simple activities make him shake like he has crawled through the heat of the desert for three days.
He grits his teeth. A few more tasks. He can do this; he has been through so much worse than a cold.
Aventurine trembles as he changes out of his sweaty pajamas into a pair of dark trousers and a loose white button-down. He flicks his hair out of the collar and then spritzes himself with his favorite cologne.
He sprays more than usual, just to make sure he doesn't reek of sweat and illness. Ideally he should have showered. He doesn't think he can shower without falling over. Better to have Ratio complain about the cloying scent of the cologne than have him find Aventurine with his head busted on the shower tiles.
He didn't walk through the Nihility and scrounge together a newfound desire to live to go out in an embarrassing way like that.
During all of this, the catcakes have followed him like three little shadows, and now they start up a distressing chorus of mewls. Aventurine sighs and trudges towards the kitchen.
"Okay, okay, I know you're hungry. Give me a minute."
If he's honest, they have been remarkably well behaved, considering he slept right past their normal breakfast time and then sluggishly moved through an abbreviated morning routine.
He can't remember the last time he was sick like this — he is usually lucky enough to remain unscathed by whatever bug is going around the office.
He grabs some tissues and blows his nose, a gross gurgling sound coming out of him along with the mucus. He can't believe he's about to let someone see him like this; no one has seen him so run down in years. He is Aventurine of Strategems, he has a reputation to uphold —
His thoughts are interrupted by a set of rhythmic knocks, so sharp that his brewing headache twinges with each rap.
"That was fast," Aventurine mutters. That, or he has been moving even slower than he thought. Which is possible because he feels a little like he's dragging his feet through water as he goes to answer the door.
He is greeted by none other than the esteemed Dr. Veritas Ratio, sans bust, but with the lower half of his face covered by a medical mask. It's not enough to hide the glower on the man's face, though; his eyebrows immediately cant downwards, and a scrunch appears on his forehead.
"You idiot, why are you dressed? Do you listen to nothing I say?"
Ratio barges past him into the apartment, going straight for the kitchen island. He sets a bag down and starts unpacking it — bottles of pills, a bag of cough drops, a thermometer, a box of gloves, a box of tissues, a small bottle of nasal saline spray.
"Hello to you too, doctor," Aventurine greets as he closes the door and wanders over to the kitchen.
Ratio fixes him with a no-nonsense stare. His gaze is always so intense, like no matter what smoke and mirrors Aventurine conjures up, Ratio's fiery eyes will always see straight through.
It's disconcerting, to be the center of Ratio's undivided attention.
It's invigorating, enthralling, to have that sharp intelligence turned his way.
"Hello, gambler," the doctor responds brusquely.
And then the catcakes start wailing.
Ratio jumps, looking down at the creatures. "Why are they making that racket?!"
Aventurine sighs and just accepts the pain that envelopes his head. "I haven't fed them yet."
He starts to move to the cabinet that has the catfood, but Ratio stops him with a raised hand.
"No. Sit. I will feed them." Aventurine opens his mouth to protest, but he is defeated by Ratio's sharp glare and slides onto one of the stools at the kitchen island instead. Ratio hands him the thermometer.
"Take your temperature. You're shaking like a leaf."
And that is how Aventurine finds himself with a thermometer under his tongue, a little monitor on his finger to check his pulse and oxygen levels, and Ratio fending off his pets as the doctor fills their food bowls.
When the bowls are on the floor, the catcakes wobble, their eyes wide and pitiful. They make a keening sound, and Ratio frowns down at them.
"Why are they still staring at me, gambler?"
Aventurine points to the thermometer and then pantomimes another scoop of food.
Ratio scoffs. "You're spoiling them. They absolutely do not need that much in one serving."
The thermometers beeps, and Aventurine yanks it out of his mouth. The display on it is red.
"Well, what would you have me do? They cry like they're starving."
"I would expect you to show some discipline —"
The tirade goes right over Aventurine's head, as he suddenly feels very, very tired. He props his head in his hand and listens to the dull throbbing behind his eyes mixed with the timbre of Ratio's voice. The fatigue settles slowly over his skull.
He jerks when he feels the pulse oximeter release his finger and the thermometer leave his hand. Ratio glances at the reading and shakes his head. He places a glass of water in front of Aventurine and lines up a small handful of pills.
"Are you allergic to any medication?"
"Not that I know of."
"Good," Ratio says, and points at each pill. "Then take these: an antipyretic, an expectorant, an antihistamine —"
"So explanatory," Aventurine snarks. "So glad my synesthesia beacon is translating all these medical words for me." But he takes the glass and swallows the pills down.
"Come along, gambler. Let's get you back to bed."
Aventurine doesn't think he's ever heard Ratio's voice sound so soft — didn't know Ratio's voice could sound like that. But he doesn't have much time to contemplate it before he's doubling over with another coughing fit, and then there's a strong hand on his elbow, helping him up off the chair, down the hall, and back into bed.
This isn't how he wanted Ratio to see his bedroom. In his dreams, such a thing goes very, very differently.
He coughs again, and again, and a glob of phlegm hacks up his throat and into his mouth. He grabs some tissues and spits it out with a groan.
"Sleep will help the most," Ratio says, still at his side, his voice a soothing rumble.
Aventurine collapses into bed. The covers are adjusted around him, tucked tight around his shoulders.
He sleeps.
Aventurine wakes after swallowing another morsel of mucus and coughing so deep it sounds like barking. Late afternoon light streams across his bed as he slowly takes stock of himself.
He still aches, but he isn't shivering uncontrollably anymore. His head is still a fuzzy mess. He definitely needs to piss. He takes a deep breath and braces himself to migrate out of his bed to the bathroom.
It is a long, cold journey, but he completes his mission. He has just crawled back into bed when there is a knock on his bedroom door, and then it opens.
He stares as Ratio walks in, carefully balancing a tray that holds a bowl of soup, and then sets the tray over Aventurine's legs — as if he were having breakfast in bed. Heat billows up from the soup, and he can see chunks of vegetables, little bits of chicken, and noodles mixed into the fragrant broth.
"Where did you get soup?" he asks, confused.
Ratio sniffs. "While you were convalescing, I set myself to something properly productive, gambler. I could not trust that you would be able to cook for yourself, and I shudder to imagine what unhealthy concoction you would order for delivery, if anything, so I have provided a much more favorable solution for all involved — a hearty soup, with plenty of nutrients to help you recover quickly."
Aventurine chuckles at the long-winded explanation, which turns into a small bout of coughing. He hides his face in his arm as he hacks into the crook of his elbow.
All those words to say — Ratio made this? For him?
No one has cooked for him like this since —
"Well, lucky me," he drawls once he can speak again. He manages to sound coy, thank all the gods, drawing out the syllables to cover the warble in his throat. "And here I thought that you would have high-tailed it out of here as soon as I fell asleep. Can't say I'd blame you; this place must be crawling with germs."
Ratio does still have his medical mask on; Aventurine can't read his expression in the tiny movements of his mouth. But the doctor harrumphs and — to Aventurine's astonishment — reaches out, pushes aside his bangs, and presses the back of his hand to Aventurine's forehead.
"Don't be preposterous, gambler."
Ratio's hand is cool against his burning forehead, and for a moment, Aventurine is stunned into silence.
A pathetic, foolish part of him wants nothing more than to nuzzle into that touch.
He ruthlessly stomps down that ridiculous urge by forcing himself into stillness. It will take more than a fever trying to boil his brain to make him lay those cards on the table.
"You're still feverish," the doctor finally declares. "Eat the soup, then take another dose of medication. Read, if you so choose, or go back to sleep. I'll clean the kitchen in the meantime."
When Ratio removes his hand, Aventurine is finally able to blink back into himself. He notices now, that the tray has not only the bowl of soup, but also a glass of water with a couple pills next to it, and a book — a slim volume titled On the Care and Keeping of Dessert-Based Lifeforms: A Handbook from the Herta Space Station.
"Perhaps I should hire you as a maid from now on, doc," he says, smirking, and that gets Ratio to stop hovering over him while he eats. The soup tastes very good and feels like a comforting warmth in his stomach. He can hear clattering in the kitchen, and after awhile, Ratio returns to take the tray back. Aventurine swallows the medication and drinks more water like the good little patient that he is. He changes into clean pajamas and then lays back down. He puts the handbook on his nightstand; he will read it when his brain is less foggy.
He sleeps again.
The next time he wakes, it is nighttime. He checks his phone — solidly after the first system hour. Two of the catcakes have clambered into bed with him, and they are twin familiar lumps as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
He wonders if Ratio fed them before he left. He should probably get up and lock the door properly; Ratio wouldn't have been able to get the deadbolt without the key, after all.
Aventurine coughs, blows his nose, drinks some water. As he gets out of bed, he realizes that he does feel a little better — less clammy and achy. With any luck, his fever has broken.
He pads quietly through his apartment, but he pauses when he realizes there is a light on in the living room. He frowns; Ratio is always meticulous, he wouldn't have left a light on without a reason —
Aventurine sucks in a breath.
The reason becomes very clear as he rounds the corner — Ratio is still here. He is here, in Aventurine's living room, curled up in Aventurine's turquoise chair, fast asleep — the floor lamp still on, a book balanced on the arm of the chair, and the missing catcake snoozing in his lap.
Reclined, he looks like a old oil painting, caressed in bronze light with deep purpling shadows. Like this, his hair drapes elegantly around his face, a few wisps curling along his cheeks, highlighting the long straight expanse of his nose. He no longer wears the medical mask, so Aventurine can finally see the strong line of his jaw, the set of his mouth — in repose, the perpetually downturned edges have relaxed. It's a little strange to see the good doctor's face smoothed by sleep — no deep contemplation of the universe's mysteries; no exasperation from dealing with idiocy; no irritation from fending off Aventurine's playful bets and banter.
He looks, in short, beautiful.
Aventurine huffs. With a sigh, he perches himself on the coffee table, resting his chin in his hand as he stares at his sleeping guest.
"What in the world am I supposed to do with you, doc?" he murmurs to himself.
They never talked about it — what Aventurine put them both through in Penacony. Ratio played his part to perfection, as Aventurine knew he would, but it was not hard to sense the doctor's displeasure. The man was nothing but a ball of vexation, snark, and aggravation the entire mission.
And yet —
When Aventurine was on his last legs, beaten down by the Emanator — staring down the abyssal sea, that unblinking black sun — it was Ratio's words that gave him back a spark of hope.
Do stay alive.
Aventurine's mouth twists into a small smile. He suppresses a cough as he watches the doctor sleep, the easy rise and fall of Ratio's chest.
He was astonished when he saw Ratio again after Penacony; he was sure the man would have requested a transfer. The doctor had been willing to overlook their initial meeting, that unhinged spin of a revolver's barrel — but surely Penacony had sealed their fate, that he would never work with such a crazed, secretive Stoneheart ever again.
But Ratio didn't leave.
They worked on projects together — smaller ones, calmer ones. They met for meetings and business lunches. They texted — about philosophy, game theory, statistics; about jewelry and fashion and bath products.
Ratio brought him the catcakes.
In Ratio's lap, the catcake shifts, yawns, and then blinks sleepy yellow eyes at Aventurine. He stretches out a hand and scratches under its chin, pleased by the purrs that spill out of the creature.
Ratio came and took care of him today, just because he was sick.
Deep in his chest, he howls for the affection, the regard of the most brilliant man in the universe, the press of his hand on a poor Sigonian thrall's forehead — wants that and more, much much more — every crumb that Ratio might be willing to spare — a touch, a kiss, a lifetime — Aventurine would gobble it up, starving and gluttonous —
Aventurine curls his left hand into a fist to hide the trembling that has overcome him.
This is something that he can never ever bet — because to lose what he already holds so dear?
He might as well have never returned from the Nihility.
He lets out a slow, steady exhale. He stands, grabs the book that still rests on the arm of the chair, dogears the page — Ratio can yell at him about that tomorrow — and places it gently on the coffee table so it will not risk falling to the floor. Quietly, he takes the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and carefully drapes it over Ratio's shoulders, arranging it so the catcake is unobstructed.
The doctor's eyelids twitch in his sleep. Aventurine wonders what he is dreaming about. He hopes it is something lovely.
Aventurine tucks the blanket around him slowly, drawing out the quiet of the moment, letting himself linger close enough to feel Ratio's breath leave his nose. And then he simply cannot help himself — one indulgence, he swears, to soothe that ravenous avarice that claws through him —
Once, and then never again, because this precious relationship cannot be risked for something as fickle as Aventurine's foolish heart —
He places a kiss to Ratio's forehead — short, sweet — a first, a last, a far-flung dream —
And as Aventurine leans back, he hovers his palm over Ratio's palm, where it rests half-curled on the arm of the chair, and whispers his prayer for this aggravating, endearing man into the listening dark:
"May the goddess Gaiathra close HER eyes three times. Keep your blood eternally pulsing. Let your journey be forever peaceful, and your schemes forever concealed."