Chapter Text
He’s making coffee. It smells the same as usual and so does everything else in the apartment. He reaches for the mug and slips, cursing sharply when the boiling water touches his hand. He can hear his sister laughing in the next room.
You’re so clumsy, *******.
He starts to turn towards her. She starts to turn towards him.
He’s making coffee. It smells the same as usual. He reaches for the mug and slips. Boiling water sears the already-reddened skin on his hand. It hurts. His sister laughs. His stomach growls with hunger as he starts to turn towards her and she starts to turn towards him—
—he’s making coffee. It smells faintly of rotting fruit. He reaches for the mug and slips. His skin is blistering, burning. His sister laughs but the sound is far weaker than before. He feels lightheaded, his stomach cramping around the emptiness that fills it. The bananas on the counter begin going brown. He tries to look at his sister.
He’s making coffee. The smell of decay fills his nose and mouth but he still reaches for the mug. The burn has reached bone, his hand a mess of charred flesh. His skin pulls taut across his cheeks, his arms skeletal and weak and they ache as he tries to lift the jug again. The fruit rots on the counter. He can hear his sister’s rattling breath. She is on the couch but she still isn’t looking at him. He takes a step forward. The dread is ice in his chest, burning his lungs and choking him. Everything is taller and bigger than it should be. He reaches towards his sister. She starts to turn towards him.
Aventurine screams—
—BANG!
Sharp pain shoots up his arm as he crashes to the floor. He stifles a shout, curling in on himself. The smell of blood cuts through antiseptic perfume and makes him double over further. With eyes screwed shut, he tries valiantly not to retch.
Slowly, the world comes back to him. The cool white scent of a new hotel room, punctuated now by rust and sweat. A humming air conditioner in the hallway, the sharp glass corner of his bedside table that had split his elbow open as he fell. His eyes focus on his coat lying crumpled on the floor; he vaguely remembers throwing it at the desk chair, but it appears that he missed.
Aventurine doesn’t know how long he sits there, only that his heart doesn’t stop racing, and that listening to his loud, ugly, ragged breaths quickly becomes unbearable. A drop of red lands on the pristine white carpet and he rubs at it automatically before realizing his mistake.
”…shit,” he says quietly, staring at a now much larger red smudge. It’s all over his shirt sleeves too, he realizes with dismay, noting that he’d passed out in his work clothes again—luckily this time he’d at least lost the watch and shoes. But it’s a silk dress shirt, and it wasn’t cheap, and either this is going to come out of his budget or he’ll have to explain to the stony-eyed department head back at the IPC headquarters how he managed to bust his arm open over the course of a two-day investment conference.
He grinds his teeth and drags himself upright. Neither option sounds particularly appealing. Shuffling into the hallway, he stares blearily into the darkness before feeling his way to the suite’s main living room. Surely there must be something to stop the bleeding—
—and then he freezes, because the suite’s second occupant who he had managed to forget about entirely is sitting on the couch, book open in his lap and head resting on one hand but very clearly awake.
Not that they had spoken all that much during check-in; he wasn’t even sure of the man’s name, only that he’s a doctor of some kind. Aventurine didn’t much care for the Intelligentsia associates in the first place, but they were headed for the same conference and apparently neither of them were valued enough as of yet to warrant exemption from cost-cutting measures. Beyond the necessary surface knowledge, his impression is one of someone both conceited and a bit of a jackass, though he hadn’t yet found itself within him to care all that much prior to now. He catches himself mid-step and begins shifting his weight to the back foot, intending to back up noiselessly.
The dark-haired man’s eyes snap up almost instantly. There’s a beat of silence during which they flick up and down, taking in Aventurine’s bloodied arm and sweaty face, before landing on direct and uncomfortable eye contact.
Aventurine scrambles for something to say, anything to break the tension and get off the defensive, and he’s normally much better at this but right now his tongue feels more like cotton than silver. He laughs weakly.
“Late night, doctor?”
His voice breaks on the last word in the most pathetic way possible, and he briefly considers flinging himself out the open window rather than deal with any of this.
Snap.
The doctor closes his book.
He’s across the room before Aventurine can process he’s moving, reaching for his arm; Aventurine flinches away before he can make contact, hugging his injured arm closer and gazing warily at the tall figure before him. Helpfully, a voice in the back of his head chooses this moment to remember that the man’s name is Ratio.
Ratio’s eyes narrow and he stops for a beat before holding out his hand again. “That is not a shallow injury, and I presume you do not intend to visit a medical center.”
“I’m fine,” Aventurine says, trying to keep his tone even. “I just need. Adhesive, or—something.”
“If you let me look at it and I agree with that assessment then you may proceed to go and get one.”
Now he remembers why he hadn’t spent much time talking to the doctor this morning: he’s profoundly irritating. Aventurine mentally runs through several potential courses of action before reluctantly holding his arm out.
Ratio gently lifts his elbow with one hand and examines the torn skin for a few seconds before clicking his tongue and letting go.
“Go and sit down before you fall over and injure yourself again. I’ll get something to clean it with.”
“I said I’m fine,” Aventurine snaps, forgetting that he was trying to sound neutral, but Ratio only rolls his eyes.
“The tremors lead me to believe differently,” he says, “and if you concuss yourself and impair what appears to be already fragile judgment then you really will need to go and see a medical doctor.”
Aventurine stares at him, incredulous, but Ratio has already turned his back and is heading for the bathroom. Whether it’s out of shock or because he is growing increasingly lightheaded, he drops onto the couch with a quiet groan.
It does hurt. Not badly, but it hurts. He thinks his head hurts worse; his pride, even more so.
“Lacerating oneself in bed is no small feat,” comes the haughty voice from behind. “I almost find myself impressed that you managed it.”
“Wasn’t in bed.” Aventurine warily eyes the gauze and antiseptic wipes in Ratio’s hands.
“Oh?”
“Fell out,” he mumbles. “Hit the table.”
“Mm.” Ratio begins to meticulously wipe down his hands. “The IPC headquarters has the same problem.”
“With bleeding in bed?”
“With glass end tables that have sharp edges they refuse to sand down.”
Aventurine snorts. “Good luck taking that one up with Diamond.”
“I don’t plan to,” Ratio says. “It seems to me that would only be a waste of time.”
“Really are a genius, aren’t you.”
“Arm.”
He raises it without thinking and Ratio takes it, examining the drying blood with a slight furrow between his brows. “I find it concerning you were planning to close a wound this deep with adhesive without disinfecting it. Surely you must not be so foolish as to invite infection through such negligence.”
It is undoubtedly phrased as an insult, but something in Ratio’s tone and serious expression reveals an undercurrent of what Aventurine can only interpret as genuine concern. The social faux pas almost makes him smile, and he forgets to flinch at the burn of the antiseptic as a normal person might, which causes Ratio to flash him an odd look but doesn’t elicit a related comment.
“You’ll need to be far more careful while it heals,” he says instead. “Do take care not to reopen the wound, yes?”
His hands are cool and steady, creating a harsh contrast with Aventurine’s clammy shakiness. Aventurine stays tense, like a dog ready to bolt, but he finds himself slowing his breathing to match Ratio’s in the silence, if only because his hyperventilating was loud and made him feel exposed.
“You have a mild fever, but it’s likely psychosomatic.”
Aventurine smirks. “Calling me hysterical, doctor?”
“What—no, I was saying—that—”
Watching him fumble momentarily does wonders for Aventurine’s mood. “Don’t worry. Joke.”
Ratio frowns at him. “I find it—”
“Your concern is touching, though.”
There’s a brief pause, then a deep, weary sigh that makes Aventurine chuckle.
Finally, Ratio finishes securing the bandage, and Aventurine quickly pulls away, flashing the most charming smile he can manage. “Thanks, doctor. I’m in your debt.”
Ratio doesn’t return the smile, instead staring at Aventurine for a long, silent moment that makes him feel very, very small.
“Sleep deprivation and psychological stress are the two most common causes of night terrors,” he says at last. “You should get more sleep.”
Aventurine’s stomach drops. “How did you—”
But Ratio just continues watching him with those calm amber eyes, and Aventurine realizes he doesn’t want to know the answer. He swallows.
“Substances that affect cognition can also be a factor,” Ratio adds, casting a pointed glance towards the empty bottle of red wine on the kitchenette counter.
Aventurine laughs. He’s surprised at how genuine it sounds. “Well, unless you want to write me a prescription for a more reliable sleep aid…”
Ratio rolls his eyes and sighs again. “Also, you’re not.”
“Not what?”
“In my debt.”
“I—sorry?”
“I don’t know what games you expect to play,” he says evenly, “but I will not be taking part.”
Now it’s Aventurine who stares, searching the other man’s face for any indicator he’s making a gambit of some kind. Ratio looks back steadily, his expression betraying nothing but mild annoyance.
“You must want something.”
Ratio presses the back of his hand against Aventurine’s forehead; Aventurine forgets to flinch. Ratio shakes his head and stands.
“Right now what I want is to go to sleep, so if you must cling to this notion of repayment, I suggest you do the same.”
He heads for the bedrooms, leaving a dumbfounded Aventurine to stare after him. Pausing briefly in the doorway, he looks back.
“You should drink some water, too. Cold sweats can leave one dehydrated.”
He’s strung up by his arms in a room that’s a stage and an office and a prison cell. He’s strung up by his arms and his shoulders ache from the angle, his mouth tastes like sawdust. His mouth is full of sawdust, or dirt, or mold. He spits and something burns his tongue on the way out; molten gold drips down his chin.
The sounds of a city street. The sounds of the IPC’s main offices. The sounds of a murmuring audience. Another voice, behind him, singing softly. She’s close. He strains to turn and look at her but can’t move his head far enough to make out anything but a flash of pale gold hair.
Clink.
A coin falls to the floor. His sister’s voice falls silent. He can’t feel her there anymore.
Chains tighten, wrenching his arms higher, and he cries out as pain shoots through his body. There’s another now, one that wasn’t there before, coiling around his neck like a snake. It tightens. It tightens. IT tightens.
He can’t breathe. The chains are made of rusty iron, they’re made of gold, they’re made of red-hot metal that burns and chokes him in equal measure. He kicks and thrashes and tries to scream but he still can’t get air.
A voice speaks from a great distance, distorted as though he’s deep underwater. A distance too far to make a difference, his vision is already fading, but the voice grows closer and louder and closer and louder and something shakes him hard and the chains go snap and he falls with a gasp—
Aventurine lurches forward, wheezing for air. He gulps it down for a solid few seconds before he recognizes the hand on his shoulder, and he stares at Ratio wildly, chest still heaving.
“Breathe,” orders Ratio, tightening his grip on Aventurine’s shoulder, and he sucks down another long breath.
“What are you—” Aventurine coughs, clearing his throat. “What’re you doing here?”
“I should be asking you that question.”
He blinks. Ratio raises one manicured eyebrow.
“You had a meeting with Topaz and myself scheduled for forty-five minutes ago.”
Aventurine’s stomach drops. “Shit.”
“Indeed.”
Silence falls heavy between them. Aventurine avoids Ratio’s eyes, fiddling with his watch instead. He had fallen asleep in an odd position, and the hinges had cut into the skin of his wrist. Finally, Ratio sighs.
“I covered for you this time,” he says. “But I don’t suggest you make a habit of it.”
Aventurine glances around in an attempt to realign himself with whatever had been happening before. They’re in his office, which feels colder than usual; he remembers turning down the thermostat in the hopes that it would help to keep him awake. He runs his fingertips over the leather surface of the couch. There’s a stack of papers on the coffee table—he had been going over some of the Penacony paperwork in preparation for the meeting, closed his eyes for what he thought would only be a few minutes.
He groans loudly and throws his head back, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t say it, doc. I already know.”
“I am not in the habit of wasting words,” Ratio responds frostily, “and I know you won’t take my advice regardless.”
He stands and retrieves a bottle of water from the small refrigerator under Aventurine’s desk, tossing it deftly towards the couch. “Drink. That’s an order.”
Under the doctor’s imperious gaze, Aventurine does. His head clears a little. He mumbles something incoherent about how at least this time it wasn’t on his desk, which Ratio ignores as he makes his way back to the couch and sits back down next to Aventurine.
“You were having another one.”
Aventurine glances sideways. Ratio’s expression has softened slightly, a familiar crease of worry appearing between his brows. Too tired to argue, he nods.
“Is it just that obvious?” His mouth twists into a bitter smile.
“Your breathing was incredibly erratic. And you’re still pale as bone.”
“Well, maybe I’m just too busy with work to get any sun.”
“Is there something going on that I’m unaware of?”
“I—nothing you need to be concerned about.”
Ratio gives him another long look. Aventurine is struck by a very ill-timed observation that his eyes are really quite beautiful.
“Finish the rest of that water.” Ratio’s tone is curt as he gets to his feet. “I’ll reschedule with Topaz.”
As he speaks, an impulse rises in Aventurine’s chest. Instinct tells him to choke it back down, but he hesitates, tentatively entertaining the idea. After all…if not him, then who?
“...Doctor,” he says slowly, and Ratio pauses. “There’s a…business venture I’ve been mapping out that I’d like your, ah, input. Input on. When it’s more fleshed out, I mean.”
Ratio narrows his eyes. “Is this related to the IPC’s dealings in Penacony?”
“Uh…yes and no. Like I said, I’ll explain when I have a—a clearer idea. Wouldn’t want to waste your valuable time, you know.”
Ratio stares at him until he starts to fidget with his watch. He looks away, bracing for the rejection. It was a stupid idea to begin with—
“Fine.”
“It was—what?”
Smirking at Aventurine’s expression, Ratio inclines his head slightly. “I would be happy to consult.”
Aventurine blinks, then grins. “Pleasure’ll be all mine, surely.”
“Flattery doesn’t suit you at all, you know.”
“Anything suits me when I want it to.”
Ratio rolls his eyes. “Good to see you’re feeling like yourself again, gambler.”
He makes his way to the door, stopping to frown at the thermostat and turn it up a few notches.
“Ratio.”
“Why you do the things you do, I swear I’ll never—”
“Thanks for coming to check on me,” says Aventurine. “I owe you one.”
Ratio glances back at him and sighs.
“Next time, just set an alarm, would you?”