Work Text:
“And here we have the Great Horned Owl, master survivor of the woods.”
At a small restaurant, a child sat swinging her feet under the table as a cartoon documentary played on her tablet.
“They’re nicknamed the ‘tiger of the woods’ because they’re powerful, fearless hunters found all across the Americas.”
The girl giggled, hugging her owl plush to her chest.
“Did you know they don’t actually have horns? Those are tufts of feathers called plumicorns that help them camouflage like tree bark.”
“Mama, mama! They said owls don’t have horns!”
Her mother smiled, brushing crumbs off the child’s cheek with a napkin.
“Yes, honey, they don’t.”
“These owls are biologically designed to survive when food is scarce. Scarce means food can be hard to find. But owls are very smart—they adapt their diet. If their favorite food, rabbits, is scarce, they won’t starve. They’re not picky! They’ll eat mice, insects, frogs, scorpions, even other birds.”
“Mama, if owls can’t find food, can we feed them?” the child asked with a tilt of her head.
“No, dear. If we do, the owl will get confused and follow us home.” She smiled patiently.
“Really? I want to bring one home!”
“I’m sorry, love. We can’t. Owls live in the forest with their mama owl and papa owl.”
“But… what if the owl can’t find food? What if they go hungry?”
The child’s voice wavered a little.
Her mother stroked her hair, gentle and reassuring.
“They’re smart birds, dear. They have owl partners—and their partner helps them find food. The owls will be fine.”
The child brightened, relieved.
At a corner table, a man overheard their conversation.
Even after the small family left, he remained seated with a faint smile — one tinged with self-contempt and self-pity.
“Owls are smart birds that have a partner to take care of them, huh?” he murmured.
A waiter hesitantly approached, wiping his palms on his apron.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid it’s about time to close the restaurant...”
Ratio looked up from his wine glass — half-drunk, half-laced with exhaustion.
“Please,” he whispered. “May I wait another ten minutes?”
The waiter hesitated.
“Don’t worry, he’s with me,” came a voice from behind him.
Aventurine stepped forward, his expression tightening when he took in Ratio’s state.
The waiter visibly relaxed and bowed before backing away.
“Why are you here, Gambler?” Ratio asked, eyes fixed anywhere but on him.
Aventurine exhaled sharply, sliding into the seat across from him.
“That’s how you greet someone you vanished on for two years, doc?”
Ratio’s fingers trembled against the stem of the wine glass.
“…We’re done, Aventurine. You shouldn’t bother about me anymore.”
The blond let out a soft, humorless laugh.
“Not worry? You sent me a breakup text while I was mid-flight and then erased yourself from my life.”
Ratio’s grip tightened, knuckles whitening as if the glass were the only thing keeping him upright.
“I tore the apartment apart looking for you,” Aventurine continued, voice dropping low and tight.
“You didn’t just disappear — you emptied everything. I came home to a locked door and even the bathtub was bare.”
He let out a brittle, humorless breath.
“Not a single rubber duckie left in sight.”
His amethyst eyes hardened, but his voice cracked at the edges.
“Two years of silence. You blocked my number. And I still don’t know what I did wrong to deserve that kind of goodbye.”
Ratio swallowed, throat dry.
“…I thought it was better that way.”
Aventurine’s expression hardened.
“Better in what way? You run from me, then wait here for someone new? Is that what this is?”
Ratio blinked, startled.
“You were watching me?”
Aventurine scoffed softly. His eyes flicking to the empty wine bottle.
“I had a business deal nearby. I walked in and you were… like this.”
Ratio looked away.
“It’s none of your business. My… partner, he promised to tell me something important. He’s just… a little late.”
The younger man’s jaw clenched—sharp, instinctive.
The word partner cut cleaner than Ratio’s breakup text ever did.
For a split second, Aventurine wondered how long that word had existed in Ratio’s mouth.
He breathed out a laugh with no humor in it.
“Late? Doc, ‘late’ doesn’t cover three hours. You’ve been ghosted. Whoever he is, he’s playing you.”
Ratio shrank into his chair, shoulders curling inward at Aventurine’s raised voice.
“Enough,” Ratio snapped, the sound brittle. “He’s not like that. He’s just… poor with time.”
His voice cracked.
It didn’t convince either of them.
A waiter approached cautiously, bowing with an apologetic smile.
“Sir… I really am sorry, but we’re closing soon.”
His eyes flicked to the untouched water, the drained wine bottle, the empty seat across from Ratio.
“…Your companion still hasn’t arrived?”
The words landed like a stone.
Ratio’s grip faltered.
He stared at the tablecloth as if the pattern might swallow him whole.
“Just… leave,” he whispered to Aventurine. “There’s nothing left for us to discuss.”
Aventurine inhaled sharply, jaw tight—but he forced his expression neutral.
Ratio was drunk, miserable.
Hitting back now would be cruelty, not catharsis.
“You made that decision,” he said quietly. “I never agreed to it.”
Ratio flinched.
Aventurine exhaled, raking a hand through his hair as he stood.
“Fine. Come on. Take my hand. I’m sending you home.”
Ratio pushed himself to his feet…
and turned his back on him.
“No need. I can go home by myself.”
He took one step—
wobbled.
Aventurine’s hand shot out, instinct overriding restraint, fingers brushing Ratio’s wrist—
Ratio jolted, pulling away instantly.
“Please,” he whispered.
Firm.
Tired.
A plea for space, not independence.
Aventurine’s fingers curled into a fist.
He let the hand drop, even though the gesture looked like it hurt him to do so.
He watched Ratio stumbled toward the door, worry gnawing at him the whole way.
===========
“I’m sorry, dear.” The landlady sighed with concern. “The professor hasn’t been home lately.”
Aventurine stood at her doorway, a basket hooked in the crook of his arm—apples set beside a small bundle of deep-red blossoms, their shade eerily close to Ratio’s eyes.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“Is that so?”
The last time he’d seen Ratio, the man had been drunk, pale, and miserable.
Worry gnawed at him all night.
He told himself it wasn’t his place anymore—it was Ratio who broke things off on his own… and yet here he was, at the landlady’s door.
Hearing that Ratio’s lights had stayed off for days…
even though the man always came home around eight or nine…
made Aven’s stomach twist.
“…Alright then,” he said softly, forcing his voice steady. “I’ll check with his colleagues at the school. You keep these, please.”
He offered the basket—apples shining beside the red flowers.
The landlady blinked, startled.
“Oh—oh my, you shouldn’t have, sonny.”
Aventurine smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“It’s nothing. Just… let him know someone dropped by.”
Her eyes softened.
“Thank you. I don’t remember the last time I received such beautiful flowers.”
Aventurine bent slightly and kissed her roughened hands like a gentleman, hat held to his chest.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to bring you more next time.”
She giggled like a younger woman again.
“The professor is lucky to have you as a partner. I’m sure you’ll take good care of him. Nobody deserves to be alone in this world.”
Her voice trembled faintly with thoughts of her late husband.
Aventurine smiled faintly, then froze.
Partner.
Ratio hadn’t told her?
He didn’t correct her—couldn’t. Not when he wasn’t sure anymore what he was supposed to be.
“You can bet on me that I’ll make sure the doc doesn’t do anything to make you worry, my lady.” He winked before returning to his car.
He tried to stay hopeful… but every colleague and student he interviewed told him the same thing.
A lab assistant clutched her clipboard, lowering her voice.
“Professor Ratio’s been crashing in his office again.”
A janitor accepted the canned drink and food pack Aventurine offered.
“I saw the good doctor still in the lab at three a.m. last night.”
A student exchanged looks with her friend before nodding.
“We noticed he never leaves the tutorial room, even between classes.”
Back in his car, Aventurine stared at the unfamiliar number his student had scribbled down for him.
He dialed it anyway.
The call was declined.
Aventurine stared at the screen, thumb hovering uselessly.
He’d seen this before—
Ratio going quiet instead of asking, disappearing instead of waiting, choosing distance the moment fear crept in.
“Damn it, doc,” he muttered under his breath. “Why are you so stubborn?”
=========
The lights were too bright.
Ratio felt it the moment he stepped inside—the noise pressing in from all sides, laughter sharp and overlapping, glasses clinking too close to his ears.
He adjusted his posture automatically, straightening his shoulders, smoothing the crease in his sleeve.
Appearances first.
Always.
He found himself standing still while the room flowed around him.
Someone greeted him. He answered a beat too late.
Their faces blurred at the edges, like a poorly focused lens.
Ratio blinked once, then again, forcing the room back into place.
His vision steadied, but the effort left a faint tremor in his fingers. He curled them into his palm and hoped no one noticed.
You’re fine, he told himself.
Just tired.
Voices cut across each other with easy confidence.
People leaned in too close, unafraid, unhesitant.
The floor felt oddly distant beneath his shoes, as if he were walking half a step behind his own body. Conversations drifted past him in fragments—his name, polite laughter, words he understood individually but struggled to connect. He nodded when appropriate. Smiled when expected.
It didn’t feel real.
But it didn’t matter.
He could function like this. He always had.
A server passed with a tray of drinks. Ratio reached for one without remembering the decision, the glass cool and solid in his hand anchoring him just enough. He focused on that sensation—the weight, the condensation slick against his skin—until the buzzing in his head dulled.
His mouth twitched, a faint, bitter curve.
Careful, a familiar voice seemed to murmur. You never did hold your liquor.
As he lifted the glass, his reflection flickered in the dark window—
eyes too bright, face too still.
For a split second, he didn’t recognize himself.
Somewhere, uninvited, the image of a lone owl surfaced.
Wide eyes. Still body.
Waiting for something that never came.
He pushed the thought aside immediately.
Great, he thought. One glass in and I’m seeing birds now.
Another voice addressed him. Ratio turned, slightly too slow, and caught himself staring again, the words taking an extra moment to land. He laughed softly, hoping it covered the delay.
See?
Normal.
The exhaustion sat deep in his bones now, heavier than fatigue should be, but he ignored it. He had things to do. A role to play.
He’d done it already—stood beneath the lights, shaken hands, accepted praise he barely remembered.
Brilliant.
Groundbreaking.
Another triumph.
Now, with a glass of wine cooling his palm, he lingered at the edge of the room, letting the noise wash past him.
This gala was for people like him.
For announcements.
For recognition.
For celebrating work that would outlive the night.
Ratio nodded when expected, smiled when cued. Faces blurred together—polite, impressed, indistinct. He couldn’t have told them apart afterward, even if he tried.
And then, unbidden, he found himself scanning the room.
Not for anyone in particular.
Not consciously.
Just… looking.
For a familiar posture. A flash of blond. A presence that didn’t feel like obligation.
His chest tightened faintly.
Ridiculous, he told himself. He won’t be here. Those days are over.
He took a sip of his drink and turned back to the next congratulation, the next hand reaching for his, even as the sense of something missing lingered—quiet, persistent, unnamed.
Whatever was wrong with him could wait.
The warmth from the wine spread too fast.
Ratio stood very still, glass hovering near his mouth, while his thoughts slipped their leash.
Scarcity, something in him whispered.
Limited supply.
He swallowed, throat tight.
A memory surfaced without permission—
a past lover’s voice, tired and sharp, from long before Aventurine.
You’re too much.
You care too intensely.
I can’t breathe when I’m around you.
The words overlapped, mismatched faces blurring together.
He couldn’t remember who had said what anymore.
Only the pattern remained.
Adapt, the thought insisted.
Eat whatever you can find.
Another image intruded: warm laughter, familiar and bright.
A hand full of rings nudging his shoulder.
Someone teasing him gently about how seriously he took everything. That life is the world’s biggest gamble.
About how badly he handled alcohol.
His chest ached before he could stop it.
Then—the memory he always avoided.
His thumb hovering over the screen.
The message already written.
The certainty, sudden and absolute, that if he didn’t leave first, it would hurt more later.
I’m sorry. This isn’t working.
Send.
Silence.
The room around him pulsed softly, unreal. Ratio exhaled through his nose and took another sip, grounding himself in the taste.
An owl without a partner doesn’t last long, his mind supplied, unhelpful and familiar.
Not if food is scarce.
He told himself it was logic. Pattern recognition. Survival.
People left when he loved too deeply.
That was the constant.
The variable was how long it took.
His grip tightened around the glass.
If I love again, the thought finished quietly, I’ll starve again.
Better, then, not to love at all.
So he stood there, nodding at passing faces, letting hands brush his arm without reaction, letting warmth collect where it could.
Adapt or starve.
The wine did what it always did.
Not warmth—
that came and went too quickly.
This was quieter.
A dulling.
Edges softened.
Thoughts slowed, like numbers written through fog.
Ratio drank again, not because he wanted to, but because the glass was there. Because it gave his hands something to do. Because each swallow pushed the ache a little further away from the surface.
If I take enough of it, he reasoned distantly, the noise should stop.
He knew better.
But knowing had never been the same as stopping.
The room grew easier to tolerate. Voices blurred into a single low hum. The constant pressure in his chest eased into something manageable—still present, but no longer sharp enough to demand attention.
He didn’t notice how fast the glass emptied.
Didn’t register the second drink until it was already in his hand.
His body lagged behind his thoughts now. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Someone stood close. Too close.
A hand brushed his sleeve. Lingered.
Ratio noticed it the way one notices a draft through an open window—registered, filed away, not immediately acted upon. He turned his head slightly, intending to step aside, but the thought dissolved before it reached his feet.
It doesn’t matter, he told himself.
Another touch. This one firmer. Fingers at his elbow, guiding. Familiar enough to pass as accidental.
He should say something.
He knew that.
The knowledge floated there, weightless.
His mouth didn’t open.
The exhaustion pressed down harder now, heavier than before, pinning him in place.
Reacting felt like effort.
Explaining felt impossible.
Let them, a tired part of him whispered.
It won’t last.
It never does.
A bitter certainty followed close behind:
I’m not what anyone keeps.
So he stayed where he was, eyes unfocused, letting closeness linger where it shouldn’t. Letting warmth substitute for care. Letting proximity stand in for affection.
It wasn’t desire.
It was absence.
He felt nothing at all.
“Doc?”
The name landed wrong. Too personal. Too close.
Ratio noticed the room shifting—pressure changing, like air before a storm. A pause in the noise. Someone’s attention breaking away from him, startled.
“Gam…bler…?”
Ratio didn’t notice Aventurine at first. He blinked, eyes struggling to focus.
The faces around him swam, indistinct, until one shape separated itself from the rest—blond, sharp lines softened by something tight and worried in the eyes.
“…Ratio? You okay?”
Concern first. He could hear it now. Clear as a bell.
“I told you not to bother yourself with me,” Ratio said, the words automatic, brittle. He tried to straighten, but the effort lagged behind the intention.
Aventurine’s gaze swept over him in a heartbeat.
Too pale.
Too thin.
Hands trembling faintly where they hung uselessly at his sides.
And then—
the hands that didn’t belong to him.
A touch at Ratio’s arm. Another at his back. Familiar, proprietary in the careless way of strangers who assumed no resistance.
Aventurine’s expression changed.
“Hey,” he said, sharper now. “Back off.”
The room hesitated.
One of the men laughed, confused.
“Relax, we’re just—”
“I said back off.”
Not loud.
Not threatening.
Just final.
The hands withdrew, reluctantly. The space around Ratio opened by inches.
Only then did Aventurine step closer.
“Ratio,” he said again, lower this time.
Grounding.
“Look at me.”
Ratio did, finally.
Aventurine felt it hit him then—hard and deep. The unfocused stare. The delay in recognition. The way Ratio seemed only half-present in his own body.
He’s dissociating.
The realization twisted something ugly in his chest. He’d seen this before. In himself. In people who stayed too long in rooms like this, letting warmth substitute for care because the alternative was colder.
Anger flared—but not at Ratio.
At the hands.
At the room.
At himself, for taking so long.
Aventurine reached out slowly, deliberately, stopping just short of touching.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
Ratio scoffed weakly.
“I’m not helpless.”
He shifted his weight—and swayed.
Aventurine caught him without thinking, one hand firm at his elbow, the other steadying his back. Not pulling. Not restraining. Just there.
Ratio stiffened, shame burning hot under his skin.
“I told you not to—” His voice broke, traitorous. “I don’t need you fixing me.”
Aventurine leaned in just enough that only Ratio could hear him.
“I’m not fixing anything,” he said quietly. “I’m keeping you upright.”
For a moment, Ratio looked like he might argue again. Then the fight went out of him all at once, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
Aventurine didn’t smile. Didn’t push.
He just stayed.
Aventurine watched Ratio sway again, just barely catching himself on the edge of the table.
That was it.
Not the touches.
Not the glass in his hand.
Not even the vacant look in his eyes.
It was the way Ratio tried to pretend none of it mattered.
Aventurine exhaled slowly, grounding himself before he spoke.
“Enough,” he said—not loud, not sharp.
Final.
Ratio stiffened.
“I told you—”
Aventurine stepped closer, cutting him off with presence alone. His voice dropped, threaded with frustration and something dangerously close to fear.
“Stop being a stubborn owl,” he muttered, fingers closing gently but firmly around Ratio’s forearm. “And lean on me.”
The words landed differently than everything else had.
Ratio froze.
Owl.
Not professor.
Not doctor.
Not genius.
Just… him.
The man who hesitated.
The man who ran away.
The man who went hungry pretending he wasn’t starving.
“I can walk,” Ratio said, even as his weight tipped toward Aventurine despite himself.
“I know,” Aventurine replied calmly. “You’ve always could. That’s not the point.”
He didn’t drag him.
Didn’t rush him.
He simply adjusted his grip—steady, unyielding in its gentleness—and guided Ratio through the noisy crowd. Conversations parted around them, curiosity flickering and dying when Aventurine met it head-on.
Ratio let himself be led.
That scared him more than the hands had.
Outside, the night air hit like a slap. Cool. Sharp. Real.
Aventurine opened the passenger door and waited.
Ratio stared at it for a second too long.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he said quietly. “I don’t want—”
“I know,” Aventurine said, gently guiding him into the seat and fastening the belt once he sat. “We’ll argue about meaning later.”
The door closed with a soft, decisive sound.
===========
The engine idled.
Neither of them spoke at first.
The silence wasn’t empty—it pressed in from all sides, heavy with things unsaid.
Ratio stared at the dashboard, hands folded uselessly in his lap. Up close, the exhaustion was undeniable now. The fine tremor. The shallow breaths. The way his shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for impact.
“This is humiliating,” he said finally.
Aventurine’s jaw tightened.
“…What was that back there, Ratio?”
His voice was low, strained.
“Letting strangers touch you like that. The old you would’ve thrown chalk at them. Or at least told them off.”
Ratio huffed a weak laugh.
“That was the old me. Or maybe… this is who I’ve always been, Gambler.”
Aventurine turned toward him fully, a scowl pulling tight across his face.
“You’re a terrible liar, doc. You were drunk. And you never let yourself get like that unless I’m there to watch your back.”
His voice faltered, anger slipping into something rougher.
“…Ever since we—
since you ended things…”
He swallowed hard.
“Did you really hate being with me that much?
Enough to throw yourself away like that?
Let strangers have what I thought was mine to protect?”
Ratio’s breath caught.
“No… Aventurine… that’s not—”
He swallowed again.
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
Aventurine’s voice cracked despite himself.
“Help me understand, Ratio.
Why did you leave?
Was I hurting you just by… not being there all the time?”
“No.”
The word came out thin.
“It’s me. I’m… always starving.
Always looking for the next meal.”
Aventurine frowned, lost.
“Ratio, I still don’t—”
“Owls survive by taking whatever prey they can find,” Ratio murmured, “If they don’t… they starve. And when they finally catch something, they cling to it like survival depends on it.”
His voice trembled.
“That’s what I did.
In every relationship.
I held on too tightly.
Loved too much.
Until they couldn’t breathe… and left.”
Silence settled between them.
Aventurine’s expression softened, just a fraction.
“…You thought I’d leave too?”
Ratio shook his head weakly.
“No. That’s what scared me. You stayed. Even when I kept wanting more… more time, more calls, more of your touches than was fair.”
His fingers curled tighter in his lap.
“I kept thinking—
when will your love turn into resentment?
When will I become something you regret?”
A breath hitched.
“So I ended it first.”
Aventurine closed his eyes briefly.
“…By sending a text while I was on a flight.”
“…Yes.”
Ratio’s voice dropped to almost nothing.
“So you see… I’m a terrible lover.
I don’t deserve what you offered.
You shouldn’t trouble yourself with me anymore.”
Aventurine let out a slow, shaky breath.
“You’re doing it again,” he said quietly.
“Deciding everything on your own…
and ending the lecture like class is over.”
“But it’s true!”
Ratio’s voice broke—loud, raw, nothing like the composed man Aventurine had known.
“I’m an idiot who can’t control how much I love! Everyone leaves because of it—because I cling too tightly, because I’m always afraid of starving.
What variable did I miss?
Which part of the formula went wrong?
Where did I make the mistake?
How do I fix myself… so I stop hurting the people I love?”
Aventurine widened his eyes—then crossed his arms.
“That’s something you ask your partner,” Aventurine said, voice tight. “You don’t sit alone and decide the ending. You don’t leave the table before the other player even shows their hand. I never planned to walk away, doc.”
Ratio blinked, stunned.
“…You still… love me? Even after I was the one that sent that break up text?”
Aventurine paused—but held his gaze.
“…I don’t know what to call it anymore, but…”
“But?” Ratio whispered.
“But I’m still here, Veritas.”
His eyes were so sincere and full of warmth.
It was as if they were back to that dining table in that shared apartment. As if the past two years of separation was one long, rude nightmare.
Ratio’s expression crumbled.
“You’re… a fool.”
Aventurine immediately child-locked the doors as Ratio tried to bolt.
Ratio avoided looking at his face. Attempting a last jab.
“…So now you see me as something pitiful you want to bring home? Like an old abandoned owl nobody wants?”
“No.” Aventurine leaned closer.
“I’m going to teach the owl to fly again,” he added—
not as a promise,
but as something closer to a plea.
Ratio widened his eyes in disbelief, “…You’re absurd.”
“Nope. I’m betting on this stake.” His voice softened. “I’m not giving you up, doc. We can fix this. Together. No more solving this alone.
No more theories without me.”
He reached over, not touching yet.
Waiting.
“You don’t get to destroy yourself just to spare me,” Aventurine said softly. “And I refuse to let you decide what we have from now on. Not anymore.”
Ratio’s shoulders shook once. Then again.
A sound escaped him—small, broken, as if it had been trapped somewhere deep for a very long time and no longer remembered how to exist in the open.
Aventurine didn’t speak.
Didn’t rush to comfort.
Didn’t offer promises he couldn’t prove.
He only stayed where he was,
Steady.
Patient.
Real.
Waiting—not for surrender,
not for forgiveness,
just for Ratio to decide he didn’t have to fall alone.
The silence inside the car shifted, almost imperceptibly.
What had been suffocating moments ago softened into something quieter.
Not peace.
Not yet.
But no longer despair.
Ratio’s breathing stuttered, then steadied in uneven pieces.
His hands, clenched tight in his lap, loosened by a fraction.
He didn’t look at Aventurine.
But he didn’t move toward the door again, either.
Outside, the night stretched on—indifferent, vast, unchanged.
Inside, something fragile and unnamed held.
Not love restored.
Not wounds healed.
Just the simple, stubborn fact of someone remaining.
Aventurine exhaled slowly, as if releasing a breath he’d been holding for years.
“…We don’t have to solve everything tonight,” he said quietly. “We just… don’t run.”
Ratio’s throat tightened.
Running had always been easier.
Safer.
Lonelier.
His voice, when it came, was barely there.
“…Just tonight,” he whispered.
Not a promise.
Not forgiveness.
Just permission to stay.
Aventurine nodded once, accepting the fragile boundary for what it was.
Enough.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then—slowly, as if testing something that might still break—
Ratio’s hand loosened from his lap.
Not reaching.
Not asking.
Just… no longer pulled away.
Aventurine noticed the space between them before he noticed himself moving.
Careful.
Unhurried.
Giving time to refuse.
Their fingers met in the narrow quiet above the console—
a light, uncertain contact that could have been nothing.
Ratio didn’t flinch.
Didn’t retreat.
After a breath, his fingers curled—only slightly—
not holding on,
just resting there.
Warm.
Real.
Shared.
No promises passed between them.
But the silence no longer felt empty.
The engine continued to idle, low and steady beneath them—
a quiet reminder that the road still existed, waiting for a direction neither of them was ready to choose.
For the first time in a long while,
standing still no longer felt like starvation.
In the dim reflection of the window,
the lone owl was no longer entirely alone.