Work Text:
It was the softest bouquet Penacony could offer in spring—a rare thing, cultivated in secret greenhouses buried beneath marble and steel. Ratio had selected each bloom with the same precision he applied to every formula, every hypothesis. Not sentiment. Method.
White lilacs, for unspoken feelings. Blue periwinkle, for memory. A single white camellia—for admiration never voiced.
He held the bouquet out with steady hands, sleeves of his lab coat still rolled up from a long day in the android development wing. He’d returned here only briefly, eager. Hopeful.
Aventurine stood by the full-length windows of Ratio’s office, bathed in gold from the dying light. His reflection shimmered on the glass, ghostlike, hovering beside the real him—still, poised, unreadable in his sharp business suit. They were partners. Technically.
But Ratio had long since crossed into territory words like “partner” couldn't contain.
“Flowers?” Aventurine raised an eyebrow, his tone light. “Never took you for the romantic type, doc.”
“I’m not,” Ratio replied. “But you’re statistically significant to my well-being.”
A snort. That familiar, infuriatingly endearing smirk.
“You know how to kill a mood, huh?”
Ratio stepped forward, offering the bouquet again.
“Then let me be plain. I... care for you.”
Aventurine’s expression faltered. Just a flicker—but Ratio caught it.
“Don’t,” Aventurine said, gently. “Don’t go saying things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll believe you. And I’m not... I’m not... suited for that.”
Ratio said nothing.
Waiting.
Hoping.
“I mean it.” Aventurine’s voice dropped. “You don’t want someone like me. I’ll make a mess of you.”
“I make my own choices. What if I want you to mess me up?”
Aventurine looked away. Something clenched in his jaw. Something softer tried and failed to surface.
“Then this is my choice. You deserve someone better. Someone who isn’t...” He trailed off.
Ratio tilted his head. “So you are afraid.”
“Yeah. And I’ve always been smart enough to run first.”
He gave that same lazy shrug. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t cost him.
And then he turned. Moved to leave, "Please forget me, Ratio."
He left, just like that.
But the gambler forgot something.
His sunglasses—pink, ridiculous, beloved—left sitting on Ratio’s desk from earlier. Ratio reached out to call after him, but stopped.
Instead, he picked them up. Turned them over in his hand. His thumb brushed over the bridge where they'd rested on Aventurine’s nose a hundred times.
He brought them to his lips, softly. Like one might kiss a lover’s hand.
Behind him, the door slid shut with finality.
He didn’t follow.
He kept the glasses.
He returned to the lab that night, running simulations through until dawn.
The bouquet withered in silence. Ratio never gave flowers again.
And somewhere in that decision, something colder started to grow.
=========
Present day.
Rain tapped against the broken glass of the abandoned building. A flickering neon sign outside bled into the cracks—WELCOME TO PENACONY—its light pulsing like a dying heartbeat. The lab Ratio had once known was long gone, replaced by shadows, decay, and the shriek of sirens chasing fugitives in the distance.
Beneath a tarp, on a slab of old marble that once served as a luxury countertop, android Aventurine lay in pieces.
Ratio knelt beside him. His gloves were slick with coolant and old hydraulic fluid, sleeves rolled up just like the day he gave flowers, though the blood on his collar now wasn’t his.
“You shouldn’t have shielded me,” Ratio muttered. His voice didn’t carry like it used to. He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to anymore. A prototype? A product? A mistake?
A friend? Or a tool?
He didn’t let himself finish the thought.
Aventurine’s chest panel was open, wires splayed like spilled organs. Metal ribs dented. One of his synthetic eyes—still red, always red—flickered dimly but never turned toward him.
“I didn’t make you for this,” Ratio whispered, then caught himself. “No—I didn’t… I didn’t mean—”
But he had.
He had built him. Or… rebuilt him. Ratio didn’t even know anymore.
Aventurine had disappeared after their last meeting and before Ratio could search for him, the war for android rights intensified.
Sunday rose to power, and Ratio defected from the labs he once helped design.
And somewhere along the way, someone—or something—had returned the face he mourned.
The pink sunglasses sat on a nearby table, unscratched despite the chaos. Ratio had kept them close for years like they were more precious than his own life.
Maybe it was spite. Maybe hope that the Aventurine would change his mind, that he’d come back, smirk like always, and say, “So that's where my glasses went, you've been naughty doc. Taking what's mine without permission.”
But he never came back.
So Ratio gave them to the android. No… he returned them. That’s what he told himself. The glasses weren’t a gift… not really. He’d taken them from the coffee table that day after Aventurine left, abandoned like the bouquet Ratio had once offered.
The least he could do was give them back. Return them to their rightful owner.
That sounded clinical. Safe. Logical.
But when the android tucked them behind one ear and looked into the mirror—his red synthetic eyes now hidden behind magenta-tinted lenses—he actually smiled. A real smile. Pleased.
Human.
“Much better,” he’d said then, lifting the corner of his lip in that cocky, tilted way that Ratio thought he’d forgotten.
He had even started flipping a coin through his fingers again, a tic Ratio hadn’t seen in years. Index to middle, middle to ring—click, click, click. The same way Aventurine used to do during negotiations. Or while lying. Ratio couldn’t help but watch the motion now, fingers twitching in sync with phantom memory.
“You know, doc, you really oughta get more sleep,” the android had teased just two nights ago, when Ratio stayed up patching the last stabilizer in his leg. “You're starting to look like someone lost a bet with Time.”
“Do you remember why I gave them to you?” Ratio’s voice was soft, cracking at the edges like fragile glass. His eyes flickered to the pink sunglasses resting on the workbench, then back to the figure before him.
The android’s eyes were close. No answer came. How could there be?
Ratio let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and leaned back against the cold metal wall. The wound on his shoulder throbbed fiercely—shrapnel from earlier, a raw reminder of how close death had come. He hadn’t stitched it, hadn’t cleaned the blood. There was no time. No space for pain. Only the endless hum of machines and the relentless pulse of loss.
If he stopped now, if he allowed himself to look up and see beyond the wires and circuits, he might have to face the unbearable truth: He was terrified of losing Aventurine again.
This android—this impossible echo—had somehow become more human than the man who inspired him.
“You’re not him,” Ratio whispered, voice ragged and unsure. The words barely felt like his own. “You’re not.”
But the truth he didn’t dare voice clawed at his heart.
You’re better. You stayed.
A sudden spark jumped from exposed wiring. Ratio hissed, instinctively yanking his hands back and then reaching out, trembling but steady, to stabilize the charge. His fingers moved with clinical precision—autopilot from years of dissecting emotional modules, cataloging synthetic responses, trying to recreate a smile he once lost.
Was he saving a life? Or preserving a delusion?
He didn’t know.
But one thing was certain: he could not stop.
His mind spiraled—dangerous thoughts slipping through the cracks of exhaustion and longing.
He could make this imitation do whatever he wanted.
Program him to kneel, he thought, to obey without question.
Order him to stay by my side forever.
Make him say those words Aventurine never dared: ‘I love you.’
Force him to accept my hugs and kisses—never flinch, never pull away.
Command his gaze to lock on mine, never wandering to another. Ever.
Ratio had the power to rewrite the data. To live out a story the real Aventurine refused to play.
But Ratio swallowed the darker impulse hard.
He was no cruel master.
Yes, Ratio could be a candid, self-centered bastard—sharp-tongued, cutting, always too quick to mask sincerity with sarcasm. But underneath the wit and arrogance was someone who, in rare moments, loved with the kind of intensity that scorched everything it touched.
And this android—this quiet, loyal shadow—didn’t deserve to be caught in that fire.
Not from a man as broken as him. Broken from a heart break.
Because unlike his human counterpart, this Aventurine didn’t flinch when Ratio’s hand lingered.
He didn’t pull away when Ratio’s voice dipped gentle, almost tender.
He didn’t pretend not to notice the way Ratio looked at him when he thought no one else would.
He stayed.
He stayed without being programmed to.
Ratio let the screwdriver fall to the floor with a clatter, metal bouncing once before spinning into stillness.
It was too much. The silence. The way the android’s features looked exactly the same—eyes shadowed beneath pink lenses, lips that held the shape of a smirk he used to dream about. The same voice when he spoke, the same cadence when he teased. The way his fingers flipped a coin between them as if wired from memory.
Wired from memory. Or stolen from it.
Ratio dragged a hand over his face.
“What the hell am I doing?”
You’re not him, he thought, eyes stinging.
But what if the android looked up right now, blinked through those tinted lenses, and said I love you?
Would it be enough?
Would he believe it?
Would it even matter?
Ratio bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste copper.
He hated himself for even asking.
But the worst part?
He wasn’t sure he’d say no.
The exhaustion hit him like a falling weight. A bone-deep kind that no amount of adrenaline could fight. His vision blurred at the edges. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sticky with dried blood. He leaned forward, elbows on the workbench, and let his forehead rest against his arm—just for a moment.
Just for a moment.
His breathing slowed.
And then everything went still.
============
The room was still.
Just the hum of the generator. The scent of solder, antiseptic, and something faintly floral. Ratio was slumped forward against the worktable, coat wrinkled and stained, blood drying at his shoulder. One hand still clutched a screwdriver, as if he’d passed out mid-repair.
The android blinked awake.
A soft mechanical hum. Internal diagnostics cycling, systems blinking online one by one. Fingers twitched. Optics adjusted to the dim glow of the bunker.
He sat up slowly.
His gaze immediately found the man beside him.
Ratio.
Even in sleep, he looked exhausted—face pale, lips cracked, brow pulled tight like he was still in the middle of thinking, solving, worrying. The man hadn’t rested properly in days. Maybe weeks.
The android didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Not until something stirred in his synthetic chest cavity. An ache. A flicker. Not pain, not exactly—more like a glitch. Or a memory that didn’t belong to him.
His fingers flexed.
Then, slowly, he slid off the table and stepped barefoot onto the cold floor, joints clicking softly as he moved. He knelt beside Ratio—not out of duty, but something else.
Reverence.
Instinct.
He reached for the half-wrapped bandage, lips pursing as he carefully unspooled the cloth. Ratio didn’t stir. Only flinched faintly at the antiseptic’s sting.
The android worked in silence, redressing the wound with surprising gentleness.
When it was done, he hovered.
Hesitated.
Then lifted a hand and brushed a few strands of dark hair from Ratio’s eyes, tucking them behind his ear with two fingers.
There was no protocol for this.
No line of code for why he wanted to touch him.
No explanation for the way he found himself leaning closer… and pressing a soft kiss to Ratio’s cheek.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice just above the hum of his systems. “For fixing me. Again.”
But it wasn’t just gratitude.
He didn’t know why—but he’d always wanted to do that.
His thumb hovered just above Ratio’s temple. Then, with a faint smirk tugging at his lips, he tapped lightly between his brows.
“Stop frowning so much,” he teased. “You’re going to get wrinkles.”
Ratio didn’t respond—only breathed out softly, lips parting with the barest sigh.
“Wake up soon, doc,” the android added in a low murmur. “It’s lonely when I don’t have someone awake to tease.”
He glanced to the side, catching sight of the pink sunglasses resting among the tools. Slowly, he picked them up and held them to his chest.
He didn’t know why they mattered so much. Only that he liked how they felt. How he didn't have to sit away from people or face the window.
They were his.
He put them on with care, then turned his attention back to the man slumped in front of him. There—just by the supply drawer—a small violet flower sat in a cracked beaker, wilting slightly from neglect. A relic from earlier.
Something told him it was important.
He retrieved the flower and returned to Ratio’s side.
Still asleep. Still silent.
Still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
With a soft huff of breath—a poor imitation of laughter—he gently tucked the flower behind Ratio’s ear, brushing his hair as he did.
“There,” he said, lips curling upward. “Now don’t you look pretty? You look less of a bear now, haha.”
Then he sat beside him on the floor, silent once more, fingers resting on the edge of the bench.
Waiting.
====================
Ratio stirred.
A soft inhale. A twitch of his shoulders. He blinked groggily, light filtering through the fog of sleep. When he looked up, the first thing he saw was pink.
The sunglasses.
And a familiar figure sitting before him—lips curled in that same teasing smirk. Soft violet light catching on strands of blond hair.
“Aventurine…?” he whispered, voice hoarse. Hopeful.
The android tilted his head.
Ratio blinked again, slower this time. Once. Twice.
Then his gaze dropped—to the eyes. The faint glow behind the lenses. The metallic flicker beneath soft skin.
His shoulders slumped.
Of course it’s not him….
The android grinned, chipper as ever. Unaware of Ratio's rollercoaster of emotions, “Processor check complete. All systems appear to be running smoothly. I'm in an excellent condition if I do say so myself, doc.”
Ratio let out a shaky breath that could’ve been a laugh or a sob. It didn’t matter which.
“You look awful, by the way,” the android continued cheerfully, his tone brightening as if trying to lift the atmosphere. “Even your opponent will laugh at the card table if you show up like this. Did you know I gave you a free makeover?”
He stood, walked up to Ratio—and gently adjusted the flower behind his ear, brushing a fingertip along his cheekbone.
“There,” he declared. “Now don’t you look stunning?”
Ratio didn’t speak.
He reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the flower. His breath caught.
A memory surged—of hopeful hands offering a bouquet, years ago. Of yearning, rejection, and a love never accepted. The ache of it flooded back all at once.
The flower wilted slightly in his hand.
Just like that time.
Except this time, Aventurine hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t walked away.
This one was warmer. Kinder.
But he's not the same person.
Not the one Ratio had fallen in love with.
He squeezed the flower, knuckles white, head bowed.
Tears blurred his vision.
A flower in his hands.
A voice that mimicked love.
And a man he missed so much it hurt to breathe.
But this wasn’t him.
This wasn’t the Aventurine he wanted.
The android tilted his head again, smile never faltering. Watching.
And when Ratio didn’t speak—didn’t move to give a commad—the android slowly closed his red eyes into standby mode, that gentle smile frozen in place, waiting for his master’s next order.
Ratio wept quietly, fingers clutching the flower like a lifeline, alone in the quiet hum of wires and ghosts.
………..
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The End.