Work Text:
Aventurine's suit chafes. It’s not his usual one; that one’s a second skin. This one's an itchy carapace to be shed. The aesthetic, however, is close enough: bright peacock blue over a charcoal-grey shirt, purple accents and shimmering golds to round out the look. Nothing less than jewel tones for this Stoneheart — intimidating and luxurious. And, sometimes, almost unbearably stifling.
As the commuter ship makes its slow descent into the dock, Aventurine leans against the window, watching the reflection of the setting sun in the windows of the skyscraper straight ahead. It's the golden hour and the whole city bathes in its deceptively quiet, picture-perfect glow, yet only the C-suite offices get to enjoy a sunset view. Lower ranks are relegated to watching the spectacle through the hall of mirrors that is Pier Point’s Financial District — but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't beautiful.
Aventurine shifts in his seat. One hand clenches, then relaxes; the other lifts up to loosen his collar. He'll have time to button it up again before disembarking, but for now, he allows himself the small indulgence. He’s hungry, too, but that’s not surprising; between calls and meetings and negotiations, there hasn’t been time to sleep, much less take advantage of the provided refreshments, and so today he’s running on just a few winks, a single meal replacement pack, and a whole lot of caffeine.
Just about everything gets on his nerves: the crowds, the noise, the fact that public transport was his only option to get off that Aeons-damned planet. Not that it was any worse than the last one, or the one before, or the one before. It was perfectly fine, actually, and while the assignment was a little on the longer side this time, Aventurine closed the deal with flying colors. So what's the problem now?
It's not like him to get worked up about a job like this, his sensibilities dulled by time and experience to whatever the IPC deigns to throw his way. But this one has him leaving with a bad taste in his mouth and too many of his buttons pushed — probably for the first time since he'd completed his metamorphosis into Aventurine of Stratagems.
And it was so easy, too. Draft up the contract, spruce it up with the usual tricks, put on his best performance for the inevitable rounds of negotiation. As he'd expected from the beginning, this particular planet put up a challenge—all smiles and sweet words and impeccable hospitality until it came time to talk business—but that isn't what makes a job difficult for Aventurine. In fact, it’s a perfect match for someone like him, far better than those mind-numbing assignments with entire populations who take his words at face value. This bunch is almost as conniving as he is, meeting him at every turn with empty sentiments and pretenses that have more layers than his favorite Penaconian dessert. This is his comfort zone, and he navigates it like a duck takes to water.
And yet.
Something about the whole thing has him unsettled and moody, counting the seconds until he’s back home in Pier Point, even if he's headed straight to a networking event the moment he steps off the ship. He can’t even bring himself to be mad about the absurdly tight scheduling, because—by some stroke of luck—Ratio will be there. And he can’t think of anyone else he’d rather see after an assignment like this — even if he can’t put his finger on the why of it quite yet.
He should be—
Better. Used to it. A professional about it, at least. It’s all he can do to deserve the company of someone like Dr. Veritas Ratio, someone who is the exact opposite: real and honest and true to his name. Someone who, for some reason, willingly continues to stay in Aventurine’s orbit.
He has to be better than this if he wants Ratio to stick around, but he doesn’t know if he can be; at his core, he’s nothing more than a fraud and a liar, just like the ones whose company he keeps so well.
He has to be better than this, and he's not.
Aventurine steps off the vessel, pulling his small, sleek suitcase along the walkway. The valet service at the conference hotel will deliver it to his house, but before that, he needs to drag it across Central Station and a few blocks over to the venue. Just this final stretch, and then, after weeks of traveling out of his personal phone’s coverage area… Ratio.
Ratio, and a whole lot of networking with people he likes a whole lot less.
Aventurine’s steps quicken as he turns the corner, thinking of little more than the promise of seeing his… seeing Ratio, whatever they are to each other. Business partners? Sure. Occasional lovers? Certainly. But anything else? Right now, he’s not even looking for answers, only to lay his eyes on the man, to fall back into their usual teasing exchanges, to maybe even take him home tonight — provided that the networking responsibilities don't get in the way.
One of Aventurine's phones buzzes just as the entrance comes into view, but he ignores it, not even bothered to pull it out to check who it is. Nobody from work should be hounding him for anything serious for the time being; he’s already meant to be at the function.
With his suitcase handed off, Aventurine steps inside, adjusting his clothes as he goes. It still sits all wrong, feels all wrong. Each step feels like the wrong move, even though there’s nowhere to go but forward. He’s done this a million times before, so why—why—is it suddenly so difficult?
There it is, just through those doors: that nameless, faceless crowd he’s tasked with getting to know tonight. And in their midst, towards the back, that head of purple hair he’s been searching for ever since he walked in, talking to someone with thinly veiled disinterest.
It feels stuffy indoors, harder to breathe. Aventurine pushes his sunglasses up his nose, checks his watch. Doesn’t register the time. It’s— fine. He knows what he needs to do: approach Ratio, say hello, bask in his prickly presence as a momentary reprieve from… everything. Everything else here.
But his feet won’t budge, stuck in their tracks. What right does he have to do that in the first place? It’s not as if they’re together, as if they’re lovers. Not proper ones and not for real. He glances at Ratio again, and this time it makes him dizzy in a whole different way, makes him feel like he’s about to float out of his body.
It’s not as if they’re— anything.
Why is Ratio humoring him?
Then Ratio’s eyes lock onto his from across the room and he’s— caught. That’s the feeling. Caught where he is, seen right through with those analytical eyes the color of the setting sun. The doctor doesn't change his expression, still engaged in his conversation, but doesn’t let go of Aventurine either, watching quietly without nodding as much as a hello.
Why? Aventurine learned a long time ago not to question how Ratio conducts himself—it’s a point he appreciates about him, after all—but right now it only makes the nerves buzz louder.
So Aventurine runs. He runs, and he tries not to think.
In practice, it doesn’t even draw attention. He’s used to slithering in and out of rooms like he was always there from the start or never there to begin with; nobody as much as glances in his direction.
But Ratio doesn’t stop watching. In fact, the doctor is right on his heels when Aventurine turns the corner into the first hallway he sees. He doesn't slow down, though, mind so overtaxed with thoughts running at double-speed that it’s making them all fade away. He can barely recall why he’s running, but he needs to leave, needs a change of scenery, needs—
A dead end.
The double doors ahead are locked and the pursuit comes to a close — not that Aventurine had much of a chance to begin with. He can't outrun a true Pathstrider of the Hunt; all he can do is put up walls.
But even that fails him, sometimes. He turns around to face the other man, a little shaky, a little out of breath. Has he been running for that long?
"Aventurine," greets Ratio. Not 'gambler'. "Did something happen?"
"No."
Then, quieter: "Why are you running from me?"
"Not— Not from you." Aventurine exhales. To you, he doesn't say, because it feels very stupid all of a sudden. And just plain wrong. Why is he running from the very person he wants to see? It doesn't make sense, and he knows Ratio likes it when things make sense. He takes a controlled breath, then another. And then they're coming too fast, and it's too—
"Come," says Ratio, one of his large hands already curling around Aventurine's wrist. His thumb brushes against his pulse point and then presses a little harder—
On purpose. Of course.
How could he forget? Ratio acts with purpose, with substance. It's so different from Aventurine's brand of confidence, empty and superficial at its core, no matter how well he can fool others. Before Aventurine's thoughts can accelerate again, Ratio’s moving, and he's being pulled along.
They end up in an empty conference room like they often do, if the long mahogany table and twelve matching chairs are anything to go by. There’s a mounted projector screen at one end of the room and a console directly beneath it, where an array of coffee and refreshments would normally be laid out. Aventurine’s seen his share of rooms just like this one.
Ratio closes the door with a soft click and turns the lock on the handle. Aventurine lets out a breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
The parted curtains on the windowed wall reveal a view so uncharacteristic of Pier Point that Aventurine has to do a double take. Ratio is already there too, throwing open the drapes with a loud rustle and opening the window as much as it can go.
Cool mountain air rushes in.
“This… is unexpected,” mutters Ratio. “Certainly a fine piece of work.”
And it is; the last time this district saw real vegetation was countless Amber Eras prior, but hologardens like this are not uncommon around town. Most, of course, are not so extravagant in their design: rich, true-to-life colors and scents, expansive mountain views, diverse rugged flora that almost overwhelms with its vitality. Likely, commissioned by someone with more money than they know what to do with. But, from the looks of it, Aventurine has a sneaking suspicion that it might be a little peek into someone’s home world — which, even he has to admit, there’s something heartwarming about.
Ratio doesn’t voice any further feelings on the subject. Instead he turns to Aventurine and gestures to a desk whose side is pushed right up against the window.
“Sit.”
Aventurine sits.
Ratio’s hands are on him without delay, first stripping off that infernal jacket, and then undoing his tie and the top few buttons of his shirt. It’s—
Better.
“Thanks,” says Aventurine.
“Mm,” voices Ratio vaguely, sitting down next to Aventurine on the desk.
A moment of silence falls over them. Aventurine gazes at something far off in the manufactured distance—a hawk of some kind, or a flying lizard—while he tries to regain his bearings, which still feels like an insurmountable task. His thoughts refuse to focus and his body simmers in agitation, though it’s been eased a little now that his clothing is looser. Next to him, Ratio hums in thought but says nothing.
And then it’s unbearable again. Aventurine bolts upright to stand, leans on the windowsill to look outside. He takes a tense breath, then one more. When neither helps, he paces the length of the room from one end to the other, and then—
“Come here,” says Ratio.
Aventurine does.
When he comes up to Ratio this time, the doctor doesn’t keep any more distance between them; he pulls Aventurine down to sit between his legs on the desk and coils his arms around his waist.
Of course, in this too, Aventurine can’t say no to him. Despite the rush of feelings that accompany the long-awaited physical contact, he finds that he’s able to relax a little at last, the tension dissipating just enough to give him a sense of equilibrium — somewhat.
Enough to finally greet Ratio the way he should have done when he first arrived. “Been a while, hm?”
“It has,” agrees Ratio.
“I… It’s been—” difficult, “—different. Not being able to contact—" you, "—anyone for so long.”
“Right.” Ratio scoots closer and rests his chin on Aventurine's shoulder, leaning his cheek against the side of his neck.
It’s— nice. Especially in this raw, oversensitive state that has Aventurine in its grip today. Ratio’s arms around his waist are secure and tight, the cadence of his breathing as steady as ever. Addictively calming. And this time, not at all sexual — which is new for the two of them, though Aventurine suspects that could change at the drop of a hat.
He feels Ratio’s subtle grin against his skin and wonders, not for the first time, what the doctor is getting out of this. So far, Aventurine seems to be the only real beneficiary.
"Did something happen?” Ratio asks again, this time with more hesitation coloring his voice.
“Not particularly.” Aventurine stiffens a little, biting into his lip.
He stands up so that he can turn around to face Ratio, and finds that it's easier that way, somehow. More intimate. Perhaps it’s the way he’s exposed for Ratio to observe him. Perhaps it’s the closeness he feels whenever he meets the doctor's penetrating eyes. He stares absentmindedly at Ratio's shoulder, reminds himself to keep breathing. Ratio’s arms return to their place around his waist.
Then Aventurine corrects himself, more decisively: “No, nothing happened.”
“You—” Ratio clears his throat. “You don’t have to explain. Only if you wish to.”
Aventurine nods quickly to show that he knows. That’s he’s known. He finds himself at a loss, sometimes, when Ratio’s like this: the sweetest parts of his thorny demeanor laser-targeting Aventurine, of all people. And why? What did he do to deserve it? Something tightens in the pit of his stomach, threatening to build into something uncontrollable again.
"Aventurine."
"Hm?"
"When did you last eat?" asks Ratio. Quietly, without the usual bite his accusations tend to have.
"This morning."
"Back on Volans Beta?"
Aventurine nods. "Must have been."
"How much sleep did you have?" continues Ratio in his examination mode, observing Aventurine closely as he answers his questions.
And he does answer each truthfully, even if his replies don't paint a pretty picture. But Ratio makes no comment — not even to deduct points.
Another inscrutable stretch of silence follows.
"Do you have to go back out there?" Ratio suddenly asks, nodding towards the door.
Aventurine thinks on it for a moment. "I should. But... I think I can get around it. I'd have to reach out to a few of them later, but it can wait, I suppose."
"Then, you are able to... come home with me?" says Ratio in a rare uncertain intonation, arms squeezing around Aventurine as he speaks.
Aventurine relaxes into it, feeling a little more like himself again — whatever that adds up to. He chuckles, and then confesses: "I doubt I could let go right now even if I wanted to."
"Good," says Ratio. "Then it's for the best that you don't have to."
For a second, his tone almost sounds too serious for his words, almost too clinical, but then Aventurine glimpses the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth and smiles right back — easy and free flowing.
The car picks them up from the back entrance. The fewer run-ins with other attendees that might want his time, the better. The evening has become about him and Ratio—has, perhaps, been about the two of them all along—and that suits Aventurine just fine too; he's more than willing to make up the work tomorrow in order to see this through to its conclusion.
In the back seat, they sit closer to each other than usual. And it's so much easier now: easier to breathe, easier to be. Aventurine leans his head onto Ratio's shoulder and closes his eyes.
"How much time do you have to rest?" says Ratio, resuming his questioning.
"Until tomorrow evening."
"Generous of them," comments Ratio with biting sarcasm on his tongue.
"Mm. Yeah."
"Do you require more?"
"Hm? More what?” asks Aventurine in return, having lost the thread of the conversation already. Ratio's body next to him is warm and comfortable, and the temptation to doze off quickly growing.
But Ratio clarifies, single-minded in this as he is in anything else. "I asked if you would like more rest."
"Oh."
"I could supply you with a doctor's note."
Aventurine can't help but laugh at the thought, too exhausted to bother filtering his honest reactions. He hooks an arm under Ratio's, presses a little closer. Sighs. "Doesn't matter to me. It's fine. It'll be fine."
Ratio takes his hand, slotting their fingers together. "In my opinion... you require more."
"Whatever you think is best, Doc," says Aventurine as he stifles a yawn, settling in for a ride across town, the majority of which he already knows he'll spend unconscious.
"Mm," voices Ratio, as he reaches up to tuck a lock of Aventurine's hair behind his ear. "Just promise to follow doctor's orders."
It's the last thing he hears from Ratio before sleep finally claims him.