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Summary
Aventurine blinks, taking a good look at Ratio — hair undone, his laurel clip nowhere in sight. He does look disheveled, even more so with the ruddy flush high on his cheekbones. He’s wearing nothing but a long, dark blue robe, the cut over his chest deep enough to show how far his blush has spread.
“So even you can be bested by a common cold?”
If a stare could kill, Ratio’s would be deadly. “What nonsense are you…” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “Never mind. I’m in pre-rut, gambler.”
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or, Ratio is entering his rut, Aventurine offers to help out.