Chapter Text
“1, 2, 3.” A pause. “1, 2. 3.”
In the most unlikeliest of settings, danced the most unlikeliest of dance partners, both clad in the most unlikeliest of costumes: Veritas Ratio, clad in a dark, tailored robe of midnight blue accentuated with his signature erudite gold laurel motif, an ornate cape cascading over one shoulder.
Ratio still wonders, mid-step into a turn, how in all the seven rivers of Nihil is he participating in all the nonsense that leads to this very moment: teaching Aventurine how to dance a basic waltz.
The sound of their footsteps fade into each other and echo in the Prince’s bedchamber, one practiced with a rhythmic cadence, and the other unsteady, his steps almost unsure. The wooden parquet floor amplifies the sound of their feet, letting it bounce off the walls along with the faint rustling of fabric and the soft creaking of their movements.
Gingerly cradled in his arms is his strategic partner, Aventurine, sporting a rather gaudy ensemble of an elaborate doublet over silken hosiery, topped off with a velvet cape. A coronet sits lopsided upon his wheat-blonde hair, each movement sending it perilously close to falling off his head.
A picture-perfect medieval prince; so perfect that Ratio thinks it an affront to the universe that Aventurine was not born into actual royalty. He does not put the incredulous thought into words, of course. He’d rather die than saying it outright.
All around them are furniture—velvet chaise, intricately carved wooden desk, a scattering of plush chairs and a table—all shoved unceremoniously towards the walls, leaving a wide, polished expanse of floor in the center. A candlelit chandelier hangs overhead, its crystals scattering the soft golden flame-lights all across the wood, blessing the room and the two men dancing—or struggling to—with a warm, intimate glow.
The light is caught in the gold in Aventurine’s hair, and its scintillating glow easily rivals the coronet. The small emeralds and rubies embedded along the now flimsy-looking ornament do not compare to the bejeweled sunset glow of the eyes—
Ratio quickly dismisses this train of thought, and forces himself to focus, to veer away from dangerous waters. There is a more important task ahead of them. He can’t afford to let himself be distracted by the very same honeyed trap Aventurine often deploys to catch his marks off-guard.
A sharp jab of pain forces Ratio and his wandering mind into a halt. Aventurine, once again, has stepped on his foot. “Focus, gambler!” he hisses through his teeth. His hands, however, do not mirror his frustration; they remain gentle as he holds the shorter man close against him. Even his reprimand is barely felt, merely spoken out of practiced reflex.
“Oops, sorry doc,” Aventurine says, almost apologetically. Almost. Ratio can clearly see that he’s having the time of his life, at his expense. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
Annoying wanker, comes his conscious thought. His eyecolor mirrors the sunset outside the window, is his unconscious sentiment. “You’d better,” are his actual words, as he briefly lets go of Aventurine to let him straighten his posture and recalibrate his footing. “I will not be teaching you the steps again, no matter how much you beg.”
I will always teach you whenever you need me to.
Once again they move across the floor; this time side by side, with Ratio half-dragging his slower dance partner across the floor to the other end of the room. He clasps the other man’s hand in his as tenderly like he would hold something precious to him.
“1. 2, 3,” He once again counts underneath his breath as he leads Aventurine across the floor once more, hobbling his way into a box step. Another pause. “And…dip.”
Ratio gently yet firmly cradles the smaller man as he lowers him in a graceful dip, his steady arm hooking around Aventurine’s back, keeping him from completely spilling onto the floor.
The coronet, however, finally falls off to the floor with a clatter, but neither of them seems to notice.
“Look at your partner, do not look away,” he murmurs as Aventurine inadvertently gazes off to the side. The irony does not escape him, not when he himself feels this irrational need to divert his eyes away, to not stare and fall into disarming neon sunset of the gambler’s eyes.
Still he has to teach Aventurine how to dance, and show how to be the perfect lead. Everything hinges on the gambler’s grand performance. They can’t afford to lose now, especially not when the only way to win their chance of logging out of this simulated universe is to win the heart of an NPC.
A task that should come easy for someone trained to win people over to their side, like Aventurine. The only complications come from the setting, which is based on an historical era from the Blue, but Ratio intends to fill that gap by supplying the necessary knowledge that the gambler lacks.
Like how to dance the waltz, for instance.
In all the time Ratio had spent with the gambler, holding him close like this—bodies pressed together, with Aventurine clinging to him for dear life as he was dipped close to the floor—hasn’t crossed his mind, not even once. Not even as a strange fever dream, much less as part of their work.
Yet here they are, dancing the waltz in the Prince’s bedchamber.
They rise from the dip and resume their steps. They almost get it now, the rhythm of their steps holding up, until Aventurine’s foot comes down hard on Ratio’s leather-clad toes—again.
A hiss escapes Ratio’s lips once more, his face twisting as the jolt of pain shoots from his toes all the way up his leg. Aventurine has so far managed to step on the same foot for the nth time; Ratio chalks it up to the gambler’s absurd brand of luck. “You’re stepping on me. Again.”
“Sorry. I’m not really cut out for this.” Aventurine sheepishly grins, though Ratio easily sees the impish mischief behind the shallow apology. “Still. Do we really have to do all this?” He vaguely gestures around them—and at them, both wearing their elaborate period costumes.
Ratio sighs heavily, feeling the reprimand fade before it can sharpen into words. “Just pay attention. If you can’t manage to be a decent dancing partner, how do you expect to secure the Princess’s favor? Our chance to get out of this simulation depends on you.” Even he feels uncertain of his own words, and aware of how ludicrous he actually sounds. He spits out a curse in his own native tongue. “I can’t believe she would throw me into this predicament as well. My only sin was being present during the meeting...”
“My bad, I didn’t know how pet—” The next words die before they can leave Aventurine’s lips upon seeing Ratio’s silent look of warning. He quickly backpedals. “…how pretty Miss Herta actually is…haha…ha.”
Ratio tries to convey the message Don’t talk shit about Herta again if you don’t want our minds trapped here for eternity with his eyes. The way Aventurine purses his mouth closed tells him the message has been duly received and noted.
“Aaaaaanyway,” Aventurine gathers himself, briskly rubbing his hands underneath the laughably elaborate lace trim of his puffy sleeves. “I’ll do my best to win this game. Marry the Princess, get crowned, happy ending, yeah?” He walks over to a table adorned with refreshments, including an ornate porcelain vessel filled with cool water, and a pair of matching cups. He fills both, handing one to Ratio.
Suddenly feeling parched at the sight of the proffered drink, Ratio prises the cup off Aventurine’s hand. Their fingers brush, and he suddenly feels the need to hide the blooming color on his face behind the drink, distracting himself with the coolness of the water flowing down his gullet. How strange, the way mere proximity makes him feel certain things.
Ratio almost blames his odd behavior to the preposterous hypothetical thrall apparently caused by pheromones unique to the Avgin species.
Yes. That can very well be it.
Aventurine thankfully saves him yet again from his own spiraling thoughts. “How come you’re so good at this?” he suddenly asks out of the blue. “Dancing, I mean.”
Ratio is thrown off by the innocuous-sounding question, especially considering their current predicament. Still, he finds it a welcome distraction, and so he decides to humor Aventurine’s curiosity. “Dancing, like other social graces, was an essential part of our education as students—instilled in us before we were molded into productive members of society.”
“Is that so?” Aventurine’s face softens to a certain kind of thoughtful wistfulness. “I still wonder how it would’ve been if I went to school.” He knocks back the remaining liquid before setting his cup back onto the table. “Maybe…” He smiles a little, whispering a bit too softly that Ratio almost doesn’t catch his words, “I’d have learned to dance without stepping on toes.”
The bare honesty strikes a chord Ratio hasn’t expected at all, and his response slips out too quickly, too earnestly. “I can always teach you.” He then freezes, quickly realizing what he just said, and he hastily adds, “If you wish, of course. Provided that our schedules can accommodate it.”
A chuckle. “Oh, that’s alright, doc. That ship’s long sailed. I was talking about campus life, anyway.” Aventurine unties the ribbon securing his velvet cape around his shoulders, and shrugs it off, draping the heavy, cumbersome fabric onto one of the upholstered chairs. “I think that’s enough for now. Enough for me to wing it when the time comes, at least.”
“You’d better not step on the Princess’s toes lest you want us to get stuck here, until Herta decides she’s had her fun. It is only by her…rare…kindness that she gave us an explicit win condition.” Ratio pinches the bridge of his nose at the memory. He still can’t believe the way Aventurine inadvertently set off the legendary foul mood of the Herta Space Station’s tempestous mistress. “Aeons…next time, gambler, do pay mind before you waggle your silvered tongue, why don’t you?”
Aventurine laughs. Ratio finds the sound of his laughter quite delightful. “Hey, if running my mouth off means I get to piss off and dance with you on company dime, I’d talk shit in front of Miss Herta all over again if I get the chance.” His laughter calms and simmers down into a cocky grin.
Normally, Aventurine’s blatant impudence would be met by a rebuke, but Ratio read something totally different between those lines: Did the gambler just insinuate he’d risk the anger of one of the more mercurial geniuses if it meant being with him specifically?
What an absurd thought.
“Whatever,” Ratio snaps, a bit too brusquely than intended, and pivots on his heel to make his way towards the door. His cape flutters and swishes behind his shoulder, befitting his assigned role as the Prince—Prince Aventurine’s—Royal Advisor. “The Royal Ball will be in a couple of weeks. See to it that you behave until then.”
“Will do~”
Ratio steps out of the Prince’s bedchamber, the door shutting behind him loud enough for the sound to echo across the empty corridor.
Then, comforted with the knowledge that Aventurine isn’t anywhere around to see him, he buries his face in his hands and lets out a loud sigh of frustration…mostly aimed at himself.