Chapter Text
Aventurine winced as Ratio dabbed antiseptic over a jagged slice near his collarbone.
“Doc, that stings more than a rigged roulette wheel,” he muttered, smirking even as his jaw tightened.
Ratio didn’t look up. “If your comparison means you’re being reckless, then yes. That cut could’ve been avoided.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Aventurine drawled. “I played the odds, kept the stakes in my favor. Just had to bluff a little harder than expected.”
“You weren’t supposed to bluff. You were supposed to watch and stay hidden. This was more dangerous than necessary. Next time, don’t take risks unless it’s really needed.”
Aventurine laughed, low and easy.
“What can I say? Guess I need a partner who knows how to scold me after I go all in without a backup plan.”
Ratio paused mid-bandage.
“That would be... reasonable.”
Aventurine blinked, caught off guard.
“Wait, what?”
“If you keep getting hurt like this… maybe it’d be safer if you stayed with me. My place is quiet. There’s space. I wouldn’t mind.”
He hesitated—just for a breath.
“And I’d know you’re okay.”
“You—you’re serious?” Aventurine’s voice faltered. “Doc, are you proposing we shack up together, or just writing me a treatment plan with extra steps?”
Ratio looked genuinely puzzled—but not dismissive.
“…Both would serve the same function,” he said. “And I find neither option unpleasant.”
Aventurine stared, heart doing a backflip.
“Damn. You just laid that card down like it was pocket aces.”
Ratio tilted his head. “I don’t know what that means, but your tone suggests approval.”
Aventurine tried to smirk again, but it softened at the edges.
“It means I’ve had a stupid crush on you since Penacony and never thought I stood a chance in hell.”
Ratio blinked once, then resumed applying the final bandage with almost too much care.
“Then… perhaps the probability wasn’t as low as you assumed,” he said quietly.
Aventurine raised a brow.
“Doc… you just told me you’d live with me like it’s a logistical improvement.”
“It is,” Ratio replied, expression unreadable. Then, more softly: “But I wouldn’t offer this to just anyone.”
Aventurine laughed, a little breathless.
“You’re playing chess and I’m rolling dice. This is gonna be fun.”
Ratio didn’t quite understand. But he nodded—because Aventurine was smiling like he’d already won something priceless.
And maybe, just maybe, Ratio didn’t mind the idea of being someone worth winning.
=========
Ratio had welcomed Aventurine into his apartment without hesitation. The idea of sharing his space—his routines, his little sanctuaries—felt surprisingly natural when it was with Aventurine.
The first few days passed in a gentle rhythm: shared breakfasts, quiet conversations, and the soft sound of Aventurine’s laughter filling the rooms.
But after a week, Ratio began to notice the little things.
The faint scent of Aventurine’s perfume lingering in the air long after he’d left the room.
An extra set of cutlery and cups on the counter. Coats draped over chairs. Soft music filtering in from another room. A new pattern slowly forming—familiar, but unfamiliar.
One evening, Aventurine appeared in the doorway with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers.
“Thought I’d add some color to our evening,” he said, eyes hopeful.
Ratio looked up from his book. “You didn’t ask if I wanted any.”
Aventurine’s grin faltered. “I… thought I’d roll the dice. Surprise you.”
Ratio’s lips twitched as if to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Next time, maybe call ahead? I already have wine, so no need to spend more.”
Aventurine nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Ah… right. Sorry about that.”
He set the bouquet down too carefully—like it had become something delicate, or maybe unnecessary.
As they sat down to dinner, Aventurine tried to keep the mood light, cracking jokes and teasing Ratio gently. But the ease didn’t return.
Ratio was polite but distracted, eyes drifting back to his datapad midway through the meal. The conversation never quite found its rhythm.
Later that night, Aventurine sat alone in the living room, twirling the ribbon from the wine bottle between his fingers while Ratio cleaned up in the kitchen. The flowers remained untouched on the side table.
He told himself not to overthink it.
But something in the air had shifted.
============
The days that followed weren’t tense, exactly. But they felt… off. Misaligned, like a song just half a beat out of sync.
Ratio began to notice more.
Soft music from Aventurine’s iPad, barely audible, still enough to disturb the comforting stillness Ratio valued.
Phone calls—quick and quiet—always seemed to come at the worst times. Once, a laugh rang out just as Ratio reached the final line of a report. He flinched.
None of it was unbearable. Ratio didn’t hate it. But it unsettled him—stirred something restless, something he couldn’t quite name.
And slowly, so subtly it was almost imperceptible, Aventurine began to change.
His coat no longer rested on the couch, but folded neatly in the hallway. His voice, once bright and unbothered, softened. He asked before playing music. Before bringing things home. Before staying.
One night, drying dishes beside Ratio, he asked casually, “Should I go back to my place tomorrow? Give you some peace and quiet for a day?”
Ratio paused. “You’re already here. It’s fine.”
Aventurine let out a quick laugh. “Right. Just checking the odds.”
Then he smiled.
It was the kind of smile Ratio remembered from before—charming, effortless, the one that made chaos look like confidence. But now, it seemed just slightly off-beat. As if the smile had taken a detour through doubt before landing on his face.
Ratio found himself staring. It looked like the old Aventurine, but it didn’t feel the same.
Still, he nodded and returned to the dishes. The silence stretched longer than usual.
He didn’t understand why those words—just checking the odds—made his chest feel oddly tight. Like something had shifted again, and he hadn’t noticed it until it was too late.
Aventurine kept smiling anyway. Because for a second, he wanted to believe it really was fine. That he was just imagining the discomfort. That Ratio didn’t mind him being here.
Even if part of him still wasn’t sure.
Ratio didn’t want him to leave. That much felt true. He hadn’t said it out loud, but surely it was obvious? He’d invited him in. He’d made space. He thought that should’ve been enough.
But each time Aventurine asked if he should stay elsewhere, his voice lost a little more color. A little more warmth. His questions became quieter. Too polite. Too careful. Like he was waiting for permission to exist.
Ratio noticed the shift—but not the weight behind it. He registered the pattern, but not the reason.
There was no clear cause he could pinpoint. No mistake to correct. Just this slow, creeping discomfort he didn’t know how to name. And no protocol to fix what wasn’t technically broken.
He was used to structure. To logic. But emotional tension didn’t file itself neatly into categories or checklists. And Aventurine… Aventurine was adjusting more than he should have to. Trying too hard to stay small, to stay wanted.
And yet, every time their eyes met—Aventurine smiling like he’d just rolled a winning hand—Ratio felt that flicker of warmth. The same pull that had made him open his space in the first place.
He didn’t see the cracks in the smile. Not fully. Not yet.
But he felt something beneath it. A quiet plea.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to make him want to try. To learn. To make room for something he didn’t yet understand.
Because despite the tension, Aventurine was still here.
============
From Aventurine’s side, the apartment didn’t feel like home. Not quite.
He wasn’t unwelcome—he was received kindly, politely, even thoughtfully. But there was a difference between being welcomed and belonging.
One evening, Aventurine folded his scarf and placed it neatly in the closet.
Ratio glanced over. “Thanks.”
Aventurine smiled, but the words didn’t warm him. They only confirmed a quiet suspicion: he was a disruption. A charming one, maybe. But still… something to adapt to. A variable to manage.
So he adjusted. Asked before bringing wine or flowers. Spoke more gently. Laughed a little softer. Held back in small, invisible ways. He didn’t want to be a burden. He wanted to show he cared—in Ratio’s language.
Even if it meant shrinking just enough not to take up too much space.
=========
Ratio hadn’t thought much about what dating was supposed to mean—not in the way others seemed to.
Was it about sharing meals?
Living together?
Physical affection?
The social scripts were unclear, and the emotional expectations even more so. He wasn’t drawn to people the way others described. The idea of touch, of intimacy, didn’t repel him—but it didn’t come naturally either. It required interpretation. Careful processing.
Still, he wanted to try.
Not because he was expected to. But because it was Aventurine. So he said yes. Not to a role, or a checklist, or a performance. He said yes to learning. Yes to Aventurine entering his life.
Yes to him.
Aventurine initiated everything—touches, kisses, arms looped around his waist.
Ratio returned them when prompted, observed them with interest. Sometimes they were enjoyable. Sometimes overstimulating. Always… data.
One evening, while Ratio typed away on his datapad, Aventurine curled beside him on the couch, resting his shoulder against the older man.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentle. “Can I steal your hand for a minute?”
Ratio blinked, then looked down. “You already have it.”
Aventurine chuckled softly, interlacing their fingers.
“I know. Just… sometimes I like when you reach out first.”
Ratio tilted his head, thoughtful. “Why?”
Aventurine’s smile dimmed a bit. He didn’t meet Ratio’s eyes.
“Because it means you’re thinking of me… without me needing to ask.”
Ratio didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gave Aventurine’s hand a small squeeze—hesitant, almost mechanical—but he didn’t pull away. He held that moment carefully, tucking it into a quiet corner of his mind for later analysis.
At first, even the intimacy felt like a new language—an uncharted territory of human connection to observe, a puzzle composed of gestures and signals waiting to be decoded.
Each touch on Aventurine’s skin was data; every glance from the blond, a clue.
Ratio approached it as he always did: carefully, deliberately, searching for patterns.
He remembered their conversation—how Aventurine quietly asked to “steal his hand,” and said he liked it when Ratio reached out first. That small, vulnerable moment lodged itself deep in Ratio’s thoughts—a new piece of the puzzle he didn’t want to overlook.
There was no rush, no sudden flood of feelings. Instead, it was a slow unfolding—a series of quiet discoveries about how to meet Aventurine’s needs without overwhelming himself, how to respond not just logically but gently.
And when Ratio finally “solved” the puzzle—when he touched Aventurine in all the ways he’d learned brought pleasure, when Aventurine arched beneath him and whispered his name like a confession—the sharp edges of novelty softened.
Ratio quietly slid out of bed once it was over, the moment mentally catalogued.
“R-Ratio…?” came the breathless voice from the bed.
“Rest up and sleep,” he said. “I’m going to take a bath.”
“…Oh.”
He didn’t notice the tremble in Aventurine’s voice as he left the room.
Didn’t see the way Aventurine curled into the covers afterward, holding in tears that didn’t quite have permission to fall—hoping, just a little, that Ratio might crawl back under the sheets and hold him. Just this once.
==========
The next morning, Aventurine made breakfast: toast with fancy jam, eggs shaped into hearts. Coffee brewed just how Ratio liked it—no sugar, precise temperature.
Ratio passed by with a quiet, “Thank you.”
He meant it. He always did. But the words came out flat, a low murmur as he paused to glance at his datapad. A new equation had surfaced. He tapped the screen, half-listening as Aventurine began talking about a funny moment from work.
By the time the story ended, Aventurine looked up—only to find the seat across from him still empty.
Cold toast. Empty mug.
He laughed softly to himself, more air than sound, and stood. Appetite gone.
Later, Ratio found him at the bathroom sink, splashing water over his face again and again.
“What’s the matter?” Ratio asked, voice steady, curious.
“O-oh! Nothing.” Aventurine startled, grabbing a towel and quickly pressing it to his face. “Just washing my face.”
Ratio paused. The towel hid his expression. The air felt too still. He noted the slight tremble in Aventurine’s voice, the redness around his eyes.
He didn’t press. He just watched.
For a moment, he stood there, unsure of the next step. No script. No pattern.
But later that evening, when he returned to his datapad, he opened a new entry:
Observed variable: Aventurine (breakfast, 0700).
Attempted emotional engagement: story + food.
Outcome: silence, emotional withdrawal (1300).
Correlation possible. Response required? Pending.
He read the note twice.
Then slowly, quietly, he closed the file—without adding a solution.
==========
To Ratio, presence was love. Living together. Sitting silently on the couch while he solved formulas. Sharing a meal, even without words.
These were acts of care. Wasn’t that enough?
He didn’t know how to say it out loud, but to let someone exist beside him—undisturbed, accepted—that meant trust. If he brewed coffee exactly the way they liked it, if he remembered they hated foam and preferred their toast on setting number four… that meant affection.
Touch wasn’t easy. Words were worse. But actions? That, he could offer. Quiet, consistent, reliable.
Wasn’t that what love was supposed to be?
They were sitting on the couch again. Ratio was focused on his tablet, the low glow casting soft shadows across his face. Aventurine sat beside him, legs curled under a throw blanket, fingers fidgeting with the edge.
He’d been quiet for a while. Then: “Hey… you ever miss someone who’s sitting right next to you?”
Ratio glanced up. “Statistically, missing someone in close proximity might indicate an unmet emotional need.”
Aventurine huffed a laugh, but it came out thin.
“Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
Ratio tilted his head, setting the tablet down with a quiet click.
“Are you missing me?”
Aventurine looked at him then. Not teasing. Not smiling.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I think I am.”
Ratio blinked, slowly. “But I’m here, Gambler.”
“I know,” Aventurine said. “But that’s just it. You’re here. Physically. But sometimes it feels like you’re miles away.”
He looked down, voice soft.
“I don’t need you to say something flowery, Ratio. I’m not asking for poetry. Just… sometimes, I want a kiss goodnight. Or a hug when I come home from work. Or for you to hold my hand because you wanted to. Not because I reached out first.”
Ratio sat still, brows drawn slightly. Listening, but not quite understanding.
Aventurine went on, voice quieter now.
“I don’t need much. Really, we don’t have to share a bed every night. But when I get excited about something and tell you, and you just nod and go back to work? That kind of hurts. And when I’m feeling down and want a hug, but you just look at me— It makes me feel like I’m just… background noise.”
He swallowed, hands twisting in his lap.
“I lost my sister and mom in the desert, Ratio. After that I was branded and treated like livestock. I was ready to die back in the Nihility Abyss—but then your message bottle found me. I thought… maybe I could still want things. I thought I could love again. With you. For the rest of our lives.”
Ratio looked at him now—really looked. But his eyes were still measuring, still parsing.
“I’m not asking you to change who you are,” Aventurine said gently, voice soft but taut with strain. “I just want to know you’re with me. Not just in the room... with me.”
Silence hung heavy between them. A long pause.
Ratio’s reply hit quieter than before.
“I thought… if I stayed… if I didn’t leave… that would be enough.”
Aventurine’s smile faltered—fragile, small—but then his eyes softened, and a new understanding settled in.
That’s his way, the thought came quietly, unbidden. Not with flowery words or grand promises, but simply by being here—steadfast, silent, present.
It wasn’t cold or uncaring. It was a language of love written in constancy, in the simple act of staying.
He swallowed the ache tightening his chest and whispered, “Yeah… yeah, I guess that’s what I thought too.”
For the first time, Aventurine saw beyond the surface—saw the quiet language Ratio spoke.
It wasn’t less. It was just…. different.
==========
That night, Aventurine curled sideways on the couch, a blanket pulled over his legs. The room felt too quiet, too empty.
His eyes burned with the remnants of soft, careful tears—the kind that slip out when you’re not sure if the ache is real or exhaustion pretending to be heartbreak.
Eventually, he reached for his tablet. The dim glow illuminated his trembling fingers as he typed hesitantly:
“Does it count as love if they don’t say I love you?”
“How do people with autism show affection?”
“Asexual partners in romantic relationships”
“My boyfriend never initiates affection — does he hate me?”
He scrolled through articles, forum posts, and long threads—buzzwords drifting past like gentle debris: sensory sensitivity, masking, analytical affection, non-verbal love, delayed expression.
Pieces began to click into place.
Ratio didn’t like sudden touches. He flinched if startled. He craved order, quiet, control. He also loved bathing multiple times a day.
But he noticed. How Aventurine took his coffee just right, which shampoo made him sneeze, the socks he hated because the seam pressed wrong.
Ratio was meticulous. Quietly thoughtful in ways most people missed.
Maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t care.
Maybe Ratio loved him in a language all his own—an internal constellation made of logic, patterns, and presence.
Maybe the checklist wasn’t cold or distant. It was his way of trying. Trying to get it right.
Still, understanding didn’t soothe the ache.
Because love you couldn’t feel still felt like absence.
Aventurine wiped his sleeve across his face, throat tight, staring at the blinking cursor in the search bar.
He wanted to believe Ratio loved him—that his silence didn’t mean apathy, his distance wasn’t indifference.
He never blamed him.
But damn, part of him ached to scream — to shake Ratio by the shoulders and demand:
“Say it. Tell me you love me.”
“Not in coffee measurements, not in bedtime checklists.”
“Look at me and say it — say it like it’s real.”
But Ratio didn’t yell.
He didn’t chase.
He didn’t say things he hadn’t tested and retested first.
And maybe... maybe that was the answer.
Aventurine stayed with the ache a long time, like someone had handed him coordinates to a distant star — but he had no ship to reach it.
Eventually, he closed the tab without bookmarking.
Not because he didn’t want to understand — but because he wasn’t sure if understanding would change anything.
And that uncertainty hurt more than not knowing.
==========
The next few days, Aventurine noticed the changes immediately.
Ratio brought him flowers one afternoon. Complimented his shirt more than once. Even reached for his hand while they sat together on the balcony.
But it all felt rehearsed. Like a script being followed word for word.
Like a checklist.
And deep down, that hurt more than the neglect ever had.
He’s doing this just because I complained, Aventurine thought bitterly. Not because he wants to.
So he asked again—if they could talk.
This time, Ratio looked… displeased. A flicker of tension crept across his brow. Not anger. Not frustration. Just confusion.
“I thought this was what you wanted,” Ratio said quietly. “Why are you still upset?”
Aventurine forced a smile, voice light, brittle. He wore his pink glasses and excused himself to hide the incoming tears.
“Don’t mind me, doc. Just being my dramatic self.”
===========
It took time for Aventurine to realize what had been quietly haunting their relationship.
Ratio loved him. That much he believed.
But Ratio loved him in his way. Through logic. Precision. Presence.
Aventurine needed something warmer. More alive.
So they talked again. The third and final time.
They sat close on the couch, the low hum of the city drifting through the window. Aventurine’s fingers nervously twisted a loose thread on his shirt.
“I don’t think… this relationship is working out,” Aventurine said softly, voice barely above the hum of the city. His fingers twisted a loose thread on his sleeve. “Not because we don’t care. But because… sometimes caring feels like I’m betting into a game you’re not even playing.”
Ratio’s hands were folded in his lap, but one thumb tapped rhythmically against the other—like he was trying to regulate something inside. He didn’t look confused. He looked… scared to interrupt.
“I want to hold your hand when we do grocery shopping,” Aventurine continued, voice trembling. “Laugh as we watch a movie. Hear you talk about your research papers and inventions even when I don’t get a word of it. I want to go to places with you. Get sunburnt. Try out different cuisines. Match shirts, even if we look ridiculous. I want those things. The messy, alive parts.”
A pause. Then Ratio blinked slowly. His voice came quiet, even careful:
“…But we already do things. We drink coffee together. We go to the same café. You sit beside me while I work. Isn’t that… what people do when they love someone?”
Aventurine’s breath hitched. He gave a sad, brittle smile.
“You’re doing everything right in your world. But in mine?” He shook his head, eyes glassy. “It feels like you’re folding before I even show my cards.”
Ratio opened his mouth, then closed it. His tapping quickened—three taps, pause, three taps again.
“I know you love me,” Aventurine said. “But I have to guess. I always have to guess. You never say it. You never show it in ways I can feel without decoding. And I’m tired of decoding, Ratio. I’m tired of not knowing if I’m wanted, or just… tolerated.”
Ratio's eyes darted up, suddenly wide with alarm.
“Tolerated? No—I don’t…” He trailed off, voice fraying.
He looked like he wanted to move, to reach out—but didn’t. His fingers just kept tapping.
“Then say something. Say you want me. Like how you always scold me for being reckless and get injured during missions. Stop running everything through the algorithm first. Just—say it.”
Silence.
A long one.
Ratio’s lips parted, but nothing came out.
He blinked down at his hands, mouth still slightly open. The pattern of his tapping faltered—slowed, stuttered, stopped.
That was the moment Aventurine knew.
Something in him cracked—not violently, but quietly. Like a worn seam finally giving in.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and stood.
“You’re not wrong, Ratio,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You just love in a way I don’t know how to receive. And I guess… I need love I don’t have to translate first.”
He moved through the apartment in quiet steps, gathering what little he kept there. A change of clothes. Toothbrush. Indoor slippers.
The little things that marked presence. But not belonging.
By the time he zipped the bag closed, the weight in his chest was heavier than what he carried on his shoulder.
Ratio hadn’t moved from the couch. He looked… still buffering, trying to find the right response. But when Aventurine stepped toward the door, Ratio finally stood.
“Wait—” he said, too softly. His hand reached out—then hesitated midair, like he wasn’t sure if touching would make it better or worse. Like he was trying to solve an equation with a missing variable: How to keep you from leaving when I don’t know what I did wrong.
Aventurine paused in the doorway.
His back was turned, fingers gripping the strap of the bag too tightly.
He knew—knew—that if he turned around, Ratio would probably say something this time. Maybe not the right thing, but something rehearsed. A textbook phrase. An attempt to fix the symptom, not the cause.
And he knew he couldn’t take it.
Not another checklist.
Not another smile that felt like it had passed quality control.
Not love that came with a manual he never got a copy of.
In his mind, he already imagined it: Ratio pulling out a notebook, writing “hug more” on the list, researching relationship dynamics like a new science project. Not because he didn’t care—but because he cared the only way he knew how.
And it wasn’t enough.
“I’m sorry,” Aventurine said softly, without turning around. His throat ached. “Maybe this is childish of me. Maybe I’m walking away too fast. But if I stay, you’ll try to fix it the way you fix everything. Like a formula.”
A long silence.
“And I don’t want to be something you fix, Ratio. I want to be someone you feel.”
Ratio didn’t answer. His hand dropped slowly back to his side.
So Aventurine stepped out. Closed the door gently behind him.
No dramatic curtain call. No slammed doors.
Just absence.
Just quiet.
======
The next morning, Ratio found Aventurine’s mug still sitting in the dish rack.
Clean. Dry. Forgotten in the rush to leave gently.
He stared at it for a long, long time.
Then he sat beside it. And said nothing at all.
==========
They still saw each other at work. Of course they did. Their paths weren’t meant to part so easily.
Aventurine smiled when they crossed paths—easy, breezy, like a summer breeze through a broken window.
But it never reached his eyes.
Sometimes he'd wave. Sometimes just a nod.
Like nothing happened.
Like they hadn’t once shared coffee, dinner, silence, and space.
Ratio kept expecting him to pull him aside. To say something.
To undo what had been done.
But Aventurine never did.
A few days later, Jade approached him after a briefing.
“Just a heads up,” she said gently. “You’re not paired with Aventurine anymore as his partner. He requested reassignment. Said he’d prefer solo work.”
Ratio blinked. “Did he say why?”
Jade shrugged, trying not to look too sympathetic. “Just said he wanted a change of pace.” Then softer: “You okay?”
Ratio didn’t answer.
Because what could he say?
He had pages of unsaid things—but none of them fit the moment.
===========
A week passed.
Ratio didn’t chase after him.
Didn’t demand explanations or try to argue the logic of a broken heart. He just… observed. From a distance, like watching an experiment play out under controlled variables—except this one bled at the edges.
Aventurine returned from missions more often now with gauze wrapped around his arm, or bruises peeking through his shirt collar. One time, he was limping. Another, Topaz had to steady him as he exited the transport, his left shoulder slumped like he’d taken a bad hit.
Before, that would’ve never happened.
Not when Ratio was there.
Not when he stood between danger and the man he loved.
Not when he had someone to come home to.
Now?
Aventurine moved like someone who didn’t care if he came back in one piece.
And that realization—it sank into Ratio’s chest like a stone in still water.
Heavy.
Spreading.
Aventurine wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t self-destructive.
Not by nature.
But grief changes your nature.
Loneliness rewires your sense of risk.
Ratio watched him disappear into the med bay one evening and didn’t follow.
His fingers tapped quietly against his thigh, a slow, steady pattern.
Then stopped.
He went home alone. Again.
And that night, the mug was still in the dish rack.
Still clean. Still untouched.
Like it was waiting.
Ratio picked it up. Held it for a long moment.
Then—carefully—he poured coffee into it.
Sat across from it at the table.
And waited.
For what, he didn’t know.
A word. A sign.
A second chance.
But all that came was silence.
And the distant echo of a door that had already closed.
=============
They met again 2 months later at the request of Aventurine.
The blond asked to meet in a quiet park where the air smelled faintly of dry leaves and city dust.
Aventurine wore his favorite pink sunglasses that made him look too cool for anyone’s business. Ratio brought his usual straight-backed posture and unreadable calm.
They sat on a bench. The breeze hinted at changing seasons.
“You know,” Aventurine said, voice almost playful, “that bed in your place was always too small for us.”
Ratio tilted his head. “You liked the left side. The sun hit it in the mornings.”
Aventurine blinked. “You… remembered that?”
Ratio nodded. “You always put your left shoe on first. You hummed in the kitchen when the rice cooker beeped.”
Aventurine let out a quiet chuckle, surprised, “You were paying attention all along.” But his smile faded just as fast. “If I’d known that,” he added, voice softer, “maybe I wouldn’t have felt like I had to spell things out.”
A beat.
Ratio’s eyes flicked to the ground, then back to Aventurine.
“I’ve always paid attention. But understanding isn’t just observation. It’s interpretation.” He paused, then added, with more difficulty, “Even if I wanted to try again... I don’t know if I could give you what you need.”
There it was. The ache tucked inside his logic.
Aventurine’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah. Good thing we ended it early, huh?”
He stood, brushing invisible lint from his jacket.
“I’m leaving soon,” he said, glancing away. “Another solo mission. This one’s father than usual.”
Ratio’s brow furrowed. “You’ve been requesting solo deployments lately. Why?”
“Just the way the job worked out,” Aventurine lied smoothly.
Ratio hesitated. His fingers twitched against his leg—once, twice—like they wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.
“I’ve seen the reports,” he said finally. “Your injuries are increasing. You take more risks when no one’s watching. When I’m not there.”
Something sharp and silent passed between them.
Aventurine gave a crooked smile.
“What, worried I’ll bleed out without a lecture, doc?”
Ratio’s voice was calm, but quieter than before. “I worry because I still care.”
Aventurine looked away, sunglasses shielding whatever flickered behind his eyes. There was a pause—heavy, tense, like neither of them wanted to say what they were really thinking. Then Aventurine exhaled, soft and shaky, shifting the air between them.
“Before I go…” he said, trying for casual but missing the mark, “can I ask for something selfish?”
Ratio tilted his head. “What is it?”
Aventurine smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his voice. “A kiss. Just one. Usually my luck’s good, but… I figure I could use a little extra this time. And since Lady Luck’s not picking up her phone, I figured… maybe you could bless me instead.”
Ratio blinked. Considered that with his usual logic. Then he nodded, gently.
“There’s no statistical proof that rituals improve outcomes. But… if it brings you comfort, then yes.”
Aventurine laughed—wet and soft, like his voice had tripped over something it wasn’t supposed to feel anymore.
He leaned in. Arms wrapping loosely around Ratio’s neck. It was supposed to be a peck. Brief. Nothing complicated.
But it lingered.
Ratio kissed back—hesitant at first, then deeper. Like a song he remembered how to hum. Aventurine’s fingers trembled. Ratio’s hand hovered near his jaw like he wasn’t sure if he should pull him closer or let him go.
Then Ratio pulled away.
Both of them were flushed. The park felt suddenly too quiet.
Aventurine slipped his sunglasses back on—too fast, like armor.
“Improving your technique, doc?” he said, trying for light. “Been sneaking in practice rounds without me?”
Ratio shook his head gently. “You… were my only partner.”
Aventurine let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.
“Then I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes hidden, voice fraying at the edges. “I guess I wasn’t very good at the role, huh? Always too loud, too much, asking for hugs like it’s a prescription. I couldn’t even make you smile the way I wanted.”
His lips quirked upward, crooked and sad.
“Well… see ya, doc. Maybe the next guy won’t treat love like a full-time performance.”
“Wait, I…”
Before Ratio could ask about his flight schedule, or whether he was really flying out alone, Aventurine was already walking away. Ratio watched his silhouette retreat under the amber haze of the park lights, still and quiet on the bench.
Then he whispered, more to the space beside him than the man himself:
“I was never unhappy.”
His fingers tapped twice against his side. A grounding rhythm.
“It was different… yes. Sharing space, changing patterns. But your presence was never annoying.”
He paused. Swallowed.
“I… liked it. I liked you.”
But the person who needed to hear it was already gone.
===========
Three weeks later.
Ratio wasn’t supposed to be in the loop anymore. Not after the breakup. Not after Aventurine requested a different mission partner.
But when Jade approached him in the corridor, her eyes shadowed and tone uncharacteristically subdued, Ratio knew.
“He’s back,” she said quietly. “But he’s in critical condition. They don’t know if he’ll make it.”
Just facts. Just that cold, clinical word: critical.
Ratio didn’t ask for details. He just moved.
By the time he reached the medical wing, his hands were shaking. A rare thing. Almost foreign.
He stepped into the room, and there he was.
Aventurine.
Covered in gauze and tubing, machines hissing quietly around him. One arm pinned to his chest in a cast. Bruises visible even beneath the medical-grade bandages. Face pale, lips dry, lashes still. Still.
Ratio stopped at the doorway. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His heart thudded in his ears, but everything else—everything else—was silent. The air tasted sterile and wrong.
He approached slowly, footsteps soundless on the floor. And when he finally reached the bedside, he couldn’t stop staring. This was the man who once made his quiet apartment feel alive. Who laughed like he was the sun itself. Who used to hum while stirring instant noodles and teased Ratio for over-scheduling even their day off.
Now he barely looked human. Just a collection of wires and fragile skin.
Ratio sank into the chair beside him. His hands trembled in his lap.
“…I should’ve stopped you,” he whispered. “I should’ve said no. Or gone with you. Or… anything.”
But he hadn’t.
And now it was too late for regrets...
=========
Later that night, when Ratio returned home, one of the nurses handed him a small bundle of belongings. Aventurine’s effects. A pair of cracked and bloodied sunglasses. And his ipad tablet.
Ratio turned it over in his hands. Plain. Unlocked. Aventurine had never bothered with passwords. He powered it on, expecting music playlists, shopping lists, maybe old screenshots of memes he'd shared.
Instead he found a trail of questions. Honest, raw. Typing errors left uncorrected.
“how do autistic people show love”
“can asexual people still love romantically”
“love languages for neurodivergent partners”
“if my partner loves me but doesnt say it how do i know”
“am i selfish if i still feel unloved even when theyre trying”
The last one blinked at him.
“what if i’m the wrong love for him?”
The search question never sent.
Ratio sat frozen, tablet balanced in his lap like it weighed a thousand tons.
Aventurine had been trying. Trying to understand him. To reach across their differences. To make sense of Ratio’s silence and still choose to love him, anyway.
He closed the browser gently. Then, with an instinct beyond reason or habit, he returned to the hospital.
===========
The machines beeped in slow, steady rhythm.
Ratio took Aventurine’s hand in both of his. Cool. Lifeless. Still, he held on.
“I would’ve answered those questions,” he whispered. “If you’d shown them to me. We could’ve talked more. I should’ve stopped you that day… I just didn’t know how to ask if you were hurting.”
No response. No flicker of recognition.
Just limbo.
Aventurine lay suspended in a sleep without dreams. No timeline. No promises. No certainty.
Maybe he’d wake in a week. Maybe years. Maybe never.
But Ratio kept coming back.
Again and again. Quiet. Unshaken. As if his presence alone could tether Aventurine to this world.
No flowers. No dramatic monologues.
Just datapads filled with research. His newest papers—because Aventurine once said he liked hearing about them, even if he only understood half. A travel-sized chess set, its pieces neatly arranged, ready for a match they never played. A thermos of coffee he never drank.
He cleaned Aventurine’s nails. Brushed out tangles from his hair. Adjusted his blanket after every nurse's shift. Whispered stories in the stillness, as if Aventurine were only sleeping.
“The hospital was never your stage,” he murmured one evening, tucking the blanket higher. “You belong at the card table. Dice in hand. Mocking the odds.”
He waited for the laugh that never came.
Then, on a night when the city lights flickered faint through the window and the world felt impossibly still, Ratio reached out and took Aventurine’s hand again—not for reflex. Not for science.
Just to remember.
It was cold.
So cold.
He held it tighter.
Ratio sat beside him, fingers curled gently around the motionless hand. The machines hummed on, steady. Unchanged. His datapad rested on his lap, screen aglow with clinical stats he barely saw anymore.
“Neural response latency: absent. Vital metrics: stable, unremarkable.”
He read aloud, voice low. Detached. Hollow.
“Spontaneous recovery remains possible,” he added, more to fill the silence than to believe it. “Unlikely, but… not zero.”
His thumb brushed over Aventurine’s knuckles.
“I could write a new model,” he whispered. “I could log every heartbeat. Every blink on the monitor. But none of it tells me how to reach you.”
His voice cracked.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
The datapad slipped from his lap with a dull clunk.
Ratio bowed forward, forehead resting against the hand he held like scripture.
“…Please,” he whispered. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
A beat. Then another.
“I was never unhappy, you know. Not with you in my space. It changed things, yes. But it never annoyed me. You… you made everything less lonely.”
His voice faltered, raw.
“I’ll change. I’ll relearn everything. I’ll speak your love language—fluently, this time. Just…”
A shuddering breath.
“…come back to me.”
And then Ratio—the rationalist, the scholar, the man of logic—did something he never thought he would.
He prayed.
Not in formula or theory. But in desperation.
“To any Aeon who might hear this—Qlipoth, Xipe, Yaoshi, even Nous… I know I don’t bargain. I don’t beg. But take anything else. Just not him. Please.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I’ll learn every language he speaks. I’ll listen better. I’ll ask next time.”
He kissed Aventurine’s knuckles, feather-light, as if trying to will life into them.
And just as he began to pull away—
Fingers curled.
Barely.
Faintly.
But real.
Ratio froze.
No alarms. No changes in the monitor.
But Aventurine’s hand was no longer still.
It had answered back.
He looked down in stunned silence as the fingers tightened—weak, trembling, but undeniably alive.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. Just held on tighter, like the miracle would vanish if he blinked.
The nurse rushed in at his call. Then the doctor. Both halted when they saw Ratio’s posture—white-knuckled, shoulders trembling.
The doctor stared.
“This… shouldn’t be possible,” she breathed. “Not in his condition. But… it might be something. I want to run a few tests—reflexes, ocular tracking, even verbal prompts if—”
Ratio didn’t answer.
He just nodded.
Still holding on.
Because for once, the impossible hadn’t stayed a theory.
It had reached back.
===========
Days passed.
Aventurine stirred again—first a twitch of the eyelid, then a faint murmur. Once, his lips moved like he was trying to form words, a name. But only a breath escaped. His gaze never quite focused. His eyes tracked light, but not faces.
The medical team moved with quiet precision. Scans. Bloodwork. Memory assessments. They monitored every shift in neural activity, every flicker behind his eyes. Ratio observed it all in silence, always in the room, notebook in hand—like he was collecting data, like this was one more complex system to study until it made sense.
Finally, the doctor returned with her notes.
“He’s… stabilizing,” she said. “But his neural patterns suggest cognitive damage. Like a traumatic dementia. Language centers, executive function—there’s disruption.”
Ratio stood still, hands behind his back.
“Will it improve?”
“We don’t know,” she admitted. “There’s plasticity in the brain, but… what comes back and what doesn’t, no one can say. He may recover some speech. He might recognize faces. But it won’t be quick. And he may need care for the rest of his life.”
She hesitated.
“There are specialized centers—rehabilitation clinics for long-term cases. I can recommend—”
“No,” Ratio cut in, voice soft but firm. “He’s coming home with me.”
============
The elevator dinged softly as it reached their floor.
Ratio guided the wheelchair through the quiet hallway with slow, careful steps. He wore no gloves today. Aventurine liked the warmth of skin better, even now.
They reached the apartment door. Ratio keyed in the passcode. The lock clicked open.
“You used to say I punched the numbers too fast,” Ratio murmured, easing the chair inside. “Said I made the door feel unloved.”
The man in the chair tilted his head—slightly, shakily. His eyes roamed the space like it was familiar in texture, not in memory.
The trauma had left gaps—slurred phrases, misplaced thoughts, long silences. He moved with the stiffness of someone learning how to exist again. Sometimes his eyes flickered with clarity. Other times they were hollow. Doll-like.
But he smiled when Ratio brought him home.
Ratio helped him settle on the couch, adjusting the pillows behind his back. He picked Aventurine’s tablet and turned on a soft jazz playlist—one Aventurine used to hum along to while brewing his coffee.
A faint tune filled the room.
Then, slowly, a hand reached out. Ratio immediately knelt beside him.
“Aventurine? What’s the matter? Do you need anything?”
Aventurine’s fingers cupped Ratio’s face. Fragile. Trembling. But there. His thumb brushed over Ratio’s cheek.
“…Ra…” he breathed, lips struggling around the words. “…Ra.. tio….”
Ratio’s throat tightened. He leaned into the touch.
“I’m here,” he whispered back. “Even if you’re not all the way back. I’ll be here.”
He placed Aventurine’s hand against his heart and held it there. No dramatic fanfare. No full recovery.
Just two men in a quiet room. One trying to remember, the other choosing not to forget.
Love didn’t always return the same way it left.
But sometimes—sometimes—it came home anyway.
Even if it limped back. Even if it forgot its name.
The End.