Archive of Our Own

A proper routine is the foundation to good health. This means sleeping early and rising early, dedicating time each day to the maintenance of one's body, eating enough calories in appropriate, balanced proportions, taking time for mental wellness and not wasting it on harmful vices or things of little to no value. Veritas Ratio takes care in maintaining each of these things.

The pursuit of happiness is an equally important component of wellness. He finds this in his work and his ambitions—though he knows better now than to measure his self worth with these. Nous will never gaze upon him, but perhaps he can cure enough idiots to make the world a slightly better place, and that's enough for him.

His foundations are in place. His routine is solid. The important parts of his schedule are non-negotiable: his exercise, his baths, his scholarly pursuits. He's perfectly physically healthy. He finds satisfaction in his work. His interpersonal relationships are more than satisfactory; he has a partner who brings him a great deal of joy, a sufficient amount of support and attention, as well as physical and emotional fulfillment.

There's only one caveat: for however happy Aventurine makes him, he doesn't seem to make Aventurine feel the same. He seems, more and more frequently, rather unhappy instead. Veritas has yet to come up with a solution or to determine the cause.

Now, it's morning. Veritas wakes up early and slips out of bed from beside a still-sleeping Aventurine. He drinks a glass of water and eats the bowl of fruit and oats he'd prepared the night before and left in the fridge. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, puts his contact lenses in and changes into his exercise clothes before heading out to run eight kilometers outside in thirty-five minutes, then spending another forty doing a mix of weight lifting and calisthenics at the gym provided by his apartment complex.

When he returns home, Aventurine is still sleeping. Veritas showers, dries his hair, dresses in fresh clothes, and lines his eyes in red. Aventurine is still asleep when he finishes, facing the wall, the blanket slipping off his shoulder, though Veritas had pulled it up before he'd left.

This isn't odd that he's still asleep. On weekends like this, Aventurine will often stay asleep long past sunrise, sometimes past noon, and it'll be up to Veritas to rouse him, bleary and unwilling, for a breakfast cooked just for him, for conversation and comfort as long as they both have time to spare, because this, like his exercise, like his baths, like his scholarly pursuits, is another non-negotiable piece of Veritas' life.

He turns the light off before he leaves the bathroom. He hasn't pulled the curtains open yet, but enough light leaks through to see. His towel is still around his neck, his feet still bare as he looks at Aventurine's back in the bed. His hair splayed on the pillow and curling over his neck. His bare shoulder. The way his side rises and falls with his breath. He's always been a quiet sleeper. He never snores, never speaks, barely moves at all during the night.

Veritas looks at him a little longer, though he can't even see his face. Just pale skin and golden hair and the soft contours of his scapula. The scars on his back. The brand on the side of his neck.

Veritas pulls the blanket back up to cover Aventurine's shoulder. There's no stirring. Just soft breath. He used to wake when Veritas so much as rolled over at night.

Breakfast comes next. Real breakfast. Omelets with six different kinds of vegetables, sausage and carefully sliced fruit on the side. Toast burnt just a little bit, exactly how Aventurine likes it. He won't eat all of this. He never does, but he'll save the rest for later.

Perhaps the sound of cooking or the smell of food wakes him, because just as Veritas is finishing up, Aventurine comes out. His hair is a mess; he's thrown on his clothes from last night. His footsteps are quiet. They always are. Veritas doesn't notice him for a little while, and then sees him standing there watching, hovering at the end of the counter, looking soft, messy, still warm with sleep. There's a silent urge to hold him that Veritas does not give in to.

"Good morning," he says instead, opening the cupboard to get plates. He notes the subtle way Aventurine seems to sag, spine bowing five degrees or less as he pads closer, Veritas choosing to turn back to the food rather than watch him.

It's surprising, maybe, when there's a pressure between his shoulder blades. Aventurine, still silent, leaning his head there. He doesn't give Veritas much of his weight, doesn't wrap his arms around Veritas' waist or do much of anything at all.

"Good morning," he says back after a delayed while. He sounds tired. He probably is. Sleep still clinging to him, along with all the stress left over from his work, from his lifetime. He stays in place, head between Veritas' shoulder blades, otherwise not touching him at all. His warmth bleeds through Veritas' shirt.

△

It takes him a long while to begin considering it, not until they're finally formally together, though still new, still acquainting themselves with the details, still unused to being more than the mess they'd been before.

Perhaps the first time they met—a perfunctory sort of exchange, a conference neither was particularly enthused to attend, with Veritas a little too obvious about that fact for Aventurine's liking—he'd thought something like what a miserable man. He'd disliked the way Aventurine carried himself, cocksure and flamboyant and ready to flaunt anything he had to flaunt—money, power, looks. Veritas had gone home with a bitter taste in his mouth, and then promptly forgot all about Aventurine as he returned to his routine the next day.

The second time they met, his perspective shifted, but only somewhat. Tasked with cooperation as representatives for their respective departments, they'd clashed and struggled to agree on anything. And then Aventurine put a gun in Veritas' hand and held it right up against his own chest, one bullet in the chamber that he flippantly spun, saying, seems like I'll need to get you up to speed on how I do things, and pressing down on the trigger in Veritas' hand three times, three empty clicks before he drew back, smiling like he'd proven some kind of point.

Veritas had thought then, what a miserable man, less in the sense of him being miserable to be around, and more in the sense that he must be miserable internally to gamble with his life in such an idiotic, unnecessary way. That he must be rotten on the inside, just as much as on the outside, and that, decidedly, he wasn't worth any more of Veritas' time than he was required to give him. Once again, he'd shelved these thoughts and promptly forgot about them.

And then Penacony happened, and detestation turned to ambivalence, then to begrudging respect. And then to this. Slowly but surely, after Aventurine's return from the Nihility, from the mess of his scheme, from his recovery. At first it was purely physical, and then the lines began to blur and they started staying the night, kissing each other on the mouth, having toothbrushes and spare pajamas at the other's place until finally it all came to a head, they came to a head, and they fought horribly and made up just to end up here.

It took time, but as they got to know each other better, as they started living out of each other's spaces—Aventurine's apartment in Pier Point, his on Veritas Prime—Veritas started seeing different sides of Aventurine.

He saw real smiles. Heard real laughter. Learned real truths.

But sometimes Aventurine would run from him, argue with him, double down on his facade as some kind of defense mechanism. Slowly but surely, his perspective began to change again. What a miserable man turned into what a man who knows misery.

They argued. They clashed. The made up and made love and learned each other from the outside in. How to earn a sigh of pleasure first, how to earn an honest conversation second. It took a long time to get to that. Longer still, for those honest conversations to become productive.

They're dysfunctional but they make it work. Veritas falls in love. Finds himself happy. Aventurine falls in love too, but as for whether or not he's happy, the evidence seems to point toward the negative.

Veritas gathers this in pieces. The first of it: Their beginning, their real beginning, the one where they actually consider themselves to be together, not just partaking in mutual pleasures for stress relief or kissing each other quiet after arguments. 

It's a night in Pier Point. They have dinner after work, go on a walk after that. They have sex back at Aventurine's apartment. Veritas takes a bath, Aventurine pretends to fall asleep, or pretends not to wake up when Veritas climbs back into the bed beside him later, clean and smelling like stolen soap and feeling so perfectly satisfied and worn out that he falls asleep right away.

He stirs a little while later, or a little longer than a little while later, and finds the sheets beside him empty. Later, he'll wonder how long Aventurine had lain there sleepless. If he'd slept at all, fitful and dozing, or deep and suddenly interrupted by some bad dream. He wonders now if Aventurine has those. If he dreams at all, when he's so silent and so still in his sleep.

But as it stands, the bed is empty and there are more important things to think about. The door to the bathroom, still open. The sounds of Pier Point's never ending nighttime traffic down below. Veritas slips out of bed, finding the faux wood cold beneath his feet, finding the sheets cold too when he reaches out to feel Aventurine's side. In the dark, Veritas' eyes adjusted and just enough city light leaking in through the window, he can make out the indent still left in Aventurine's pillow by his head.

He's easy to find, at least. Veritas steps out of the bedroom, down the short hallway into the living room, and there Aventurine is, sitting in his open bay window, letting in all the noise and the cold. There's a throw blanket from the couch wrapped around his shoulders, and he's just sitting there, just staring down at the city below.

"Doctor," he says after a moment, not turning to him, lit by city light, cast in shadows.

"You're awake," Veritas says back, looking at Aventurine, who doesn't look back.

There's almost an artistic kind of quality to it. Aventurine there in the bay window in the middle of the night, wrapped in a blanket, his clothes from the night before pulled on beneath. It's as beautiful as it is wrong, or maybe it's just that Aventurine has always been a balancing act of those two things, the scale starting all the way on one end since they met, slowly but surely tipping more and more toward the other the longer they know each other. Now, like this, solidly in the middle. But he's just sitting there, and Veritas can't place why that feels wrong at all.

"Why?" he asks when there's no response.

Now, Aventurine looks at him. "I don't know," he says. "Why is anyone?" Odd, him sitting here like this. Odd, his sudden, lazy smile. His fake laugh.

More and more, Veritas finds a portion of his brain space dedicated solely to worrying about him, about whether he's gotten himself into trouble, whether he's taking care of himself, whether he's doing something irresponsible.

"You work tomorrow," Veritas tells him, and thinks again, why? Aventurine's answer wasn't an answer at all. Why is he awake, why is everything about him off?

"I'm well aware," Aventurine says, laughing again, laughing this awful, false laugh. His eyes are washed free of their color in the dark. "It's not like I make a habit of staying up late, doc. I'll be back to bed in a bit."

Veritas' eyebrows draw together. An unkind, scolding reply waits on his tongue, but he stops himself from saying it, stops himself from letting them fall back into what they're used to, what they used to be. But before he can come up with something better to say, Aventurine's expression shifts, softens. He cocks his head a little, smiles this smile that's practiced and lethal and fake, gaze going half-lidded, voice dipping lower, sweeter. He reaches for Veritas, pulling him forward, into the cold air from the window, the warmth from him.

"Unless you missed me?" he asks, like seduction as he stands, trailing his hand up Veritas' arm.

It's confusing. The sudden shift, the change in his tone and expression. "Pardon?" Veritas tries, finding Aventurine suddenly very close, undeniably alluring, even with Veritas already worn from their earlier intercourse.

Aventurine moves his hands to Veritas' chest. He looks up, beautiful, lazy, expression wanting, or schooled carefully into something that looks like wanting. His fingers crawl up, curling around Veritas' nape, bringing them closer still, drawing Veritas' gaze straight to his mouth.

"Care for a round two?" he asks, smiling slightly, edging his face up, reaching for one of Veritas' arms to pull it around his waist. He doesn't wait for a reply, just stands on his toes to kiss Veritas on the mouth, slow and deep and thorough, with wandering hands and their fronts pressed together tight.

The blanket slips from his shoulders. Veritas bends to accommodate his height, cupping his cheek, belting his other arm around him tight as he's easily distracted by this kiss, always easily distracted, Aventurine a long established vice.

And then a car honks from below and a frigid breeze from the window hits them, and Veritas remembers the odd way Aventurine had been sitting there in the dark. The sleeplessness, the blank, empty emotion on his face, the odd, immediate switch up into seduction so he wouldn't have to answer if Veritas managed to formulate a proper question.

It isn't right. Obviously, the moment Veritas allows himself a moment to think about it, it isn't right at all. He presses Aventurine gently back, studying his face, his expression, half-lidded and perfectly wanting, and wonders if he's overthinking things. But no. The hour, the sleeplessness, the diversion, the way he'd seemed so exhausted and hollow, if only for a moment before he fixed his mask back into place.

Veritas tries his best to keep his voice calm as he says, "You're weaponizing my desire for you."

Aventurine's expression falters, shifts from desire to confusion to something guarded. "A rather cruel assumption, is it not?"

"I'd like to know why you're sleepless."

"Insomnia," Aventurine says, voice too flat. "It comes and goes. It's nothing to worry yourself over."

Veritas looks at him for a long time. Considers pressing, but he knows that's likely to lead to more harm than good. Aventurine has always been closed off to healthy communication. It won't do to force him into it, won't do to demand answers from him that he doesn't want to give.

Veritas can't help the way he frowns at Aventurine, trying to puzzle him out, wanting to make this right but not knowing how, not knowing how to get Aventurine to let him in. But this is only their start. They're still new, even after half a decade of knowing each other. Given their start, he can understand the hesitance to trust. The uncertainty. He knows, anyway, that Aventurine has had a hard life. He doesn't make his bets without being certain of them first. Perhaps he's not quite certain of Veritas yet either.

An uncomfortable pang in his chest. "If that's the case, allow me to make you some tea," he says instead of anything of the things he really wants to.

Aventurine huffs something like a laugh. "Don't trouble yourself, doc," he says, and so much about it still feels wrong. Perhaps he genuinely is troubled by insomnia. It would make sense for his character, for the often unreasonable hours of his wakefulness, for the shadows beneath his eyes that he covers up with a tube of pale concealer in the morning. But insomnia wouldn't lead to this odd kind of tension, wouldn't warrant this kind of diversion, wouldn't force Aventurine to throw all of his walls back into place, would it? Not on its own.

"I'll head back to bed in a bit," Aventurine continues. "I just needed some air. Unless you really did miss me?"

He frowns a little deeper. Considers his options, isn't sure what he'd even call Aventurine out on if he tried. You, he thinks, are unhappy. Why? He can't say that out loud. Aventurine would laugh, and then give him anything but an answer.

"I'm only concerned about your well-being," is what he decides on. "You seem melancholic."

Aventurine's eyebrows lift. He smiles a little, laughs, and Veritas realizes he's lost his chance completely. Aventurine's mask is firmly back in place. "Melancholic?" he echoes. "I just kissed you. What part of that seems melancholic?"

A cold breeze from the window. Someone honks down below. The blanket having slipped off his shoulders, Veritas wonders if Aventurine might be cold, feels the wrinkle between his brows fix into place. "You're well aware of what I mean."

"No," Aventurine says, easy as anything, smiling like he'd smile at a client. Smiling like he used to smile at Veritas, before they were anything at all. "I'm afraid I don't."

△

His is an uncomfortable kind of unhappiness. A deep set one, thick and lingering in his spaces, so longstanding that it hides well. Aventurine has perfected the art of faking a smile, but it's easy enough for the people who really know him to tell. He's different when he lets his guard down. And he does let his guard down. Sometimes. Not often and not for very long, and for every moment of vulnerability he shares, he'll hide away twice as much for two.

Now, he presses his forehead between Veritas' shoulder blades and takes a deep breath. The plates make a soft clacking sound as Veritas sets them down on the counter, careful not to shift too much lest he unbalance Aventurine. He serves an omelet onto each plate, serves sausage—two for him, one for Aventurine—spoons fruit out for them both, carefully sets Aventurine's slightly burnt toast in the last of the scant empty space on the dish.

"Is there an occasion?" he asks, carefully neutral, because it's better to be neutral than to be overly soft in moments like these. Softness masquerades as pity in Aventurine's eyes, and nothing shuts him down faster. So Veritas is careful to be gentle but not too gentle. Kind but not too kind. Luckily, gentleness has never been his strong suit regardless.

"Am I not allowed to lean on you?" Aventurine asks, but doesn't move away.

"I would like it if you leaned on me more," Veritas answers him.

"Romantic," comes the reply. He wonders if a smile comes with it—a real smile, not another fake, practiced one. The kind that barely curls Aventurine's lips but reaches his eyes. Veritas' favorite smile of his, though in a way he likes all of them, even the fake ones.

"Like this?" Aventurine leans a little more heavily into him now, crushing his forehead into Veritas' spine, a hand coming to his hip for stability as he delivers half his weight, falling, following when Veritas stumbles a half step forward. He laughs softly, laughs tiredly, like he's still asleep or so heavy with some kind of burden, and it's...

It's something. It doesn't feel like happiness, but he leaning. At least he's leaning, and that's something. Still unfair, that Veritas can't make him happy the way he makes Veritas happy. He just doesn't know how. Doesn't know what tactics he might choose, what solution he might come up with. Aventurine is a deeply unhappy person, but if Veritas can do even a little bit to remedy that...

"Yes," he says, offering an almost laugh back as he sets his stance so neither of them will fall, even as Aventurine starts pulling away. "You can lean however you like."

"Sweet of you, doctor," Aventurine says, lightly squeezing Veritas' waist as he steps back. Enough space to turn, Veritas does, facing him, seeing his weariness, the rare way he stands there with his guard down and his mask off. His hair messy and unstyled, clothes rumpled, his dark circles heavy. He's beautiful like this. He's always beautiful, but this is a little bit special, because this is something he doesn't show anyone.

Rather than do anything to draw attention to it, Veritas just takes a half step forward to press a kiss to Aventurine's forehead, long and lingering, ticked by his hair. He draws back, looks at Aventurine looking at him, and says nothing more than, "Come eat."

Aventurine blinks once and takes his plate.

△

They're both busy people. While they work together sometimes, more often than not their work is separate, sometimes sending them to opposite ends of the cosmos, sometimes simply hours long enough to keep them from meeting, unless they want to share an 11 PM dinner or bend over backwards for a long commute after an already long day,

At first, they mostly see each other on weekends. Friday evenings when they're both off a little bit early. Sunday nights, sticky with the reluctance of falling asleep and starting the work week all over again in the morning. And then weekends turn to Aventurine conveniently not booking a hotel when he shows up on Veritas Prime for business and Veritas staying with him in Pier Point because his place is closer to the office.

They make excuses until excuses don't need to be made anymore. It becomes habit. It becomes easy and common. Veritas cooks meals for two, Aventurine starts leaving work on time to eat them. Real dates they save for the weekends, but they start spending plenty of time together on weekdays too, sharing the bed after sex, getting dressed together in the morning.

It's good. It makes Veritas happy. Most days, he thinks he makes Aventurine happy too, at least somewhat. But he still thinks about that night in the bay window, still thinks about how it takes Aventurine a long time to fall asleep, the way his smile sometimes seems fixed artificially in place. The way his vices become more apparent the closer Veritas is to him.

He visits bars and casinos often. Veritas has known this and never particular approved, but never cared about it much. Now, as he stands in the kitchen, considering what he might cook for dinner, he calls Aventurine to ask his preference, and finding him more than a little bit drunk.

"Dinner, Aventurine," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I asked what you'd like for dinner."

"Oh," comes the reply on the other end. There's a cacophony of background noise. The chatter of other people, the clatter of chips, the dinging, buzzing, rattling of machines. "You're making dinner?" Aventurine's voice is a little muffled, and he's never been a sloppy drunk, but Veritas can hear the difference obviously enough.

"Yes," he says. "I'm making dinner. Do you have a preference?"

A pause. Aventurine lets out a long hum, and then he ends up saying, "...You?"

Veritas pinches his nose harder. "How much have you had to drink?"

"...Four?" Aventurine offers. "I'm not that drunk, doctor. Can I put my mouth on you when I get back?"

Veritas chooses to ignore the question. "How are you planning to get home?"

"One more round, Doc," Aventurine says, and the noise muddying the line grows louder like he's pulling himself right back into the thick of it. "Let me win a bit first, and then I'll call a cab."

And it's... Veritas surveys the kitchen, the freshly cleared counter space so he'd have plenty of room to cook, the sink empty, dishwasher running. Pans in the cupboard, ingredients in the fridge. He thinks of Aventurine, gambling, drunk, the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes, and he feels... what? Worried? Frustrated? Likely a combination of the two.

"Nonsense," he says. "Stay where you are. I'll pick you up."

"So romantic," Aventurine says, laughing a little over all the noise. "Alright, Ratio, come and get me." Without waiting for a reply, he hangs up. Veritas takes a steadying breath, the admonishment already waiting on his tongue. His phone buzzes again: Aventurine sharing his location.

When Veritas gets there, he's just as drunk, just as cocky and smiling as he'd sounded on the phone. The casino is loud and flashy and stinking of smoke as always. He makes Veritas wait as he collects his winnings and talks back and forth a bit with a man who seems somewhere between furious with him and desirous of him, and though Aventurine doesn't humor him, it's uncomfortable that Veritas recognizes himself there, the way he'd used to be, the way they used to treat each other.

Aventurine talks his ear off for about five minutes in the car, and then the conversation tapers off and he goes mostly quiet, just sitting there staring out the window, Veritas still subject to the stench clinging to his clothes, sparing him glances here and there.

The shift is quiet enough. One moment he's detailing the night, the ways he'd won and lost and won again, the people he'd talked to, the fun he'd had, and the next he gives up on it, settling into the silence, seeming held up only by his seat. Perhaps the alcohol is making him feel ill. Perhaps he'd remembered something unpleasant.

They drive in silence a little longer. Veritas glances at him one more time to see the lack of a smile on his face, turns back to the road, which rumbles beneath their tires. A classical symphony plays through the radio, one of his favorites. He doesn't think Aventurine has simply gone quiet to listen. "Are you well, Aventurine?"

All but instantly, Aventurine straightens up, stiffens just a little. "Just fine, Doctor," he answers, and his voice when he speaks is quiet too. Another glance at the side of his face, the artful mess of his hair. Rarely does Veritas see his quieter moods, but rarely has been happening more and more often. He'd rather Aventurine stay quiet than force his facade back into place again, so he doesn't say anything else, just drives.

They make it back soon enough. Aventurine unlocks the door to his apartment and steps inside first. Veritas is reminded of dinner as he follows, removing his sandals and making his way into the kitchen. "Regarding dinner," he says, already washing his hands in the sink. "We're limited in terms of ingredients, but I was thinking... Aventurine?"

Aventurine is still in the entryway, one shoe off, struggling with the other. He's leaning heavily into the wall, and his gaze is downcast, hair covering his face. His other shoe comes off, and he drops it with a thump. He still leans, still just stands there without replying.

Veritas turns the water off, towels his hands dry, and goes to him. "Aventurine," he says, somewhat softly. Now, Aventurine looks at him, tired-eyed and unsmiling.

"I'm going to just... sit," he says. "On the couch. For a moment. Go ahead and make whatever you see fit. I've no preference." And with that, he stumbles his way over to the living room, the couch, where he sits down heavily. Veritas pauses, watching him, considering.

The more he presses, the more he makes a big deal out of it, the more Aventurine closes off. This much is clear from the incident in the window, from a dozen other sleepless nights and stiff, forced evenings in which Aventurine's smile doesn't reach his eyes and he tries to initiate sex like he can't fathom being wanted for anything else.

So he won't say anything. He'll treat this delicately but like something normal, if only to persuade Aventurine that it's safe to let his guard down here, even if only a little bit.

Veritas takes a glass from one of the cupboards, fills it with water. "You're still drunk," he tells Aventurine as he takes it to him. "Drink this so you won't end up with a headache." Quietly, Aventurine takes it. Their fingers don't brush. He takes a sip.

Veritas is tempted to linger, but he knows there's no point in it, knows Aventurine won't have anything to say and will only be made uncomfortable by it. So he steps back and says, "I will be making dinner now." Aventurine nods.

So Veritas makes dinner in the form of soup that needs to simmer an extra twenty minutes after he finishes preparing it, so he sets the lid on the pot and cleans up his cutting boards and knives and extra ingredients, and then he goes back to the living room to wait.

Aventurine is still there, still on the couch, though he's laying down rather than sitting, legs draped over one arm of the couch, head on one of the cushions. The glass, discarded on the coffee table, is nearly empty, half a swallow of water left in the bottom.

"Fifteen minutes until dinner is ready," Veritas tells him. He stands by Aventurine's head, shadow falling over him. "Sit up for a moment, would you?"

So Aventurine grabs the back of the couch to pull himself upright, and the moment Veritas sits, he falls back, dropping his head onto Veritas' thigh. His hair like a spill of golden paint, his eyes without the glasses to hide them as vivid as ever. "So sweet to me, Doctor," he says, still drunk, beginning to sober. "Picking me up, making me dinner, it's almost like..." He trails off. Veritas sets a hand on his forehead.

"As if I care about you, yes," he says dryly, brushing his hair back, carding through it slow and rhythmic. Ever so slightly, Aventurine relaxes, letting out this sound almost like a laugh but but tinged with his tiredness.

"You just had to correct me, didn't you?" he says, and his eyes close.

"Pardon?"

"'As if,'" Aventurine says. He's still smiling a little. "I said 'like.'"

"Oh." Veritas' hand has paused. He continues, rubbing the strands of Aventurine's hair between his fingers, finding them soft. "Well. You didn't finish your sentence, so perhaps yours would have been correct."

"So much faith in me."

"Yes," Veritas agrees. He watches as Aventurine's smile slips, wants nothing more than to ask him what's wrong, if there's something wrong at all. More and more, he's beginning to wonder if Aventurine is simply unhappy at his core. He sets his other hand on Aventurine's shoulder—a little bit bony, as it as always been—and squeezes lightly. "I have a great deal of faith in you."

Aventurine's eyes slip open to look at him again. His smile fades entirely; he's left with a straight face and tired eyes flicking between Veritas', to his nose, his mouth, back up. He takes a breath with lips parted, and it's clear just from his face, exposed with his hair pushed back by Veritas' hand, that he's still drunk, that he's miserable, and it feels terribly unfair.

Veritas wishes he knew how to help him, but his principles never stick. Aventurine struggles with sleep, loathes exercise, forgets to eat, drowns himself in his work and a dozen different vices. He hauls himself along through each day, and Veritas knows it isn't enough for him, but hasn't the faintest idea what might be.

"You know, Doc..." Aventurine wets his lips. "I'm curious; have you ever been in love before?"

An odd question, but perhaps a valid one. Veritas has lived a large portion of his life already. He runs his fingers again through Aventurine's hair, brushing strands of it behind his ear, finding it warm to the touch. "Before this, you mean?" he asks to clarify.

"Before..." For a moment, Aventurine just stares, trailing off. "Before this." It comes out odd, flat, and confused at once, and Veritas wonders if somehow he's been under the impression that Veritas isn't in love. Wonders if somehow he'd forgotten. If somehow he'd never allowed himself to believe it.

"The answer is obvious, if you mean in general," Veritas continues, "as I am in love now."

And Aventurine blinks. Keeps looking at him, hair shoved off his forehead, eyes brilliantly bright. "Oh," he says. "Are you?"

Perhaps he's just drunk. He's been known to say odd things while drunk before, though he never drinks so far to excess as to risk his reputation with unfiltered words and behaviors. Sometimes things still slip through here and there. This could be another example of that. Or perhaps he genuinely doesn't believe it.

So, "Yes," Veritas says plainly. "With you, even."

He considers whether this might be one of his own failings. Perhaps he's too reserved in showing his emotions. They used to be terribly unkind to each other; perhaps he hasn't done a good enough job breaking those habits. But no, he tries very hard to treat Aventurine with care and respect. He touches him gently, maintains a personal quota of saying at least three nice things to him a day, cooks meals and helps him when possible, plans dates and remembers his birthday and their anniversaries and holidays. Perhaps Aventurine initiates more of their sexual encounters and texts first more frequently, but it seems unlikely that it would be Veritas' failing if he were to feel unloved.

So it must be something else, then. But for what other reason would he find it surprising that Veritas is in love with him? Two possible explanations come to mind: simple drunken forgetfulness, or self-hatred.

Aventurine laughs, an odd, nervous chuckle at first, then a proper one, real and almost delighted, and perhaps that's evidence for the first theory. And yet, with what he says next, it could be evidence for the second as well.

"Really, Doctor? You're in love with me?"

It isn't the way he says it, because that could easily pass for simple teasing. It's the way he says it in the context of his quiet mood, his exhaustion, his genuine surprise after Veritas said it. 

He frowns, deeper the more he thinks about it. "Yes," he tries, and considers what else to say. A confrontation is unlikely to be productive, but reassurance won't get to the root of the problem. "Is that really surprising after all this time?"

Aventurine stills, quiets, looks at him, flushed from alcohol, warm in Veritas' lap. "I suppose not," he says, somewhat softly, and there's this twisting, fluttering, almost nauseous feeling in Veritas' stomach. He's unsure how much time has passed since they ended up here. He had fifteen minutes left on the soup.

"I should check on dinner," he says, and wonders if it's some kind of cowardice. He should say something, but he can't think of a single thing to say. Instead, he lets Aventurine sit up and stands to check on the soup, grateful for the space to think, the wall between them.

Quiet moods, vulnerability quickly hidden. Surprise at the thought of being loved. Veritas takes the lid off the pot, stirs, and considers this food for thought.

△

Even on the weekends, Aventurine is overly dedicated to his work. He checks and replies to emails though he's under no obligation to do so. He plans and stresses over current and upcoming projects. This boundary, or rather lack thereof, could be a contributor to his unhappiness, along with a great number of other things. Veritas is still looking for ways to help.

Urging him to give up his vices is ineffective, as is encouraging him to exercise or practice mindfulness or meditation. Veritas can cook for him to ensure he eats well when possible, can help him relax and distract him for a while, can attempt to provide comfort, though he's not particularly adept at it, but real changes are up to Aventurine to make. Veritas does what he can to improve Aventurine's quality of life. Does what he can to make him happy, but the more time that passes, the less certain he is that he's doing a good job of this. The more obvious it is to him that Aventurine is decidedly not happy at all.

After breakfast, Veritas uses the restroom and comes out to find him sitting in bed on his phone, replying to emails yet again. The curtains are still drawn. The light from his phone casts blue across his tired face.

"Your work can wait until you're actually working," Veritas tells him, pulling the curtains open to give them some light. Aventurine looks up at the scrape of the rings on the rod, then shuts off his phone, discarding it on the bed.

"You're right, of course, Doctor," he says. "But unfortunately many of my higher-ups would not agree. But it's just a small bit of work; it's not like I mind."

Veritas does not touch his work email outside of his work hours. His time is sacred, and these boundaries are yet another key component to his wellness. Aventurine has a complicated relationship with his work. A more demanding job than Veritas, perhaps, but even then...

"The weekends are your time," he says, and hopes that one of these days Aventurine will take it to heart. "You should spend it how you want to, not worrying about your higher-ups."

A laugh. Aventurine looks up at him, still tired-looking, though he hasn't complained about it or said a thing. Aventurine, who makes a fuss over headaches and stubbed toes, who won't say a thing when something actually burdens him. "And I do," he says. "I am."

His phone in the sheets. If he isn't replying to emails, he's often on some social media or another, seeing all of the horrible things people say about him online. Another of Veritas' principles: he's careful to avoid looking at his phone for longer than an hour a day, and he steers clear of any and all social media sites. His phone is for contacting others and, in some cases, reading news and academic articles. He attributes a measure of his sanity to this.

"Would you care to do something or go somewhere today?" Veritas asks, thinking of things might distract him. Positive things, healthy things, rather than more vices for him to drown his negative emotions in. "The weather is nice today; perhaps something outdoors?"

Aventurine opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. His gaze drifts. He gives up on craning his neck to look at Veritas, looks instead at the floor and says, "Perhaps not this time," a little bit apologetically, measured in that careful way he sometimes is, and it's odd.

"But if you want to, don't let me keep you," he goes on to say, looking at Veritas again, putting on one of his smiles. Perhaps Veritas has grown better at reading him over time; even as he asks for nothing at all, it sounds like a tentative request.

"I do not," Veritas says, though he'd certainly planned to go out and do something today, he has little attachment to these plans. Especially not in the wake of this. A tired Aventurine, not asking for comfort, perhaps not even needing it, but deserving it, Veritas wanting to give it all the same. "Shall we stay in today, then?"

"'We?'" Aventurine asks, and at this, Veritas pauses. Perhaps the source of Aventurine's fatigue is people in general, perhaps the kind of mood he's in is one that's best dealt with alone, with more space to breathe and quiet to think.

"If you'd prefer your alone time, I can take you back home," Veritas offers. "With the stipulation that you eat an actual meal for lunch."

A soft laugh. "You're misunderstanding, Doctor. I simply figured you'd have more important things to do."

"Than this?" Veritas asks, looking at him on the bed, this swollen feeling in his chest. "No, I do not."

△

There's a rainy season on Veritas Prime. This is not close to the first time Aventurine has visited, but it's the first time he comes in the middle of a monsoon. Veritas picks him up after his warp and forgets to bring a second umbrella. They walk out to the car under one, sticking close together, water dripping on each of their shoulders, rain splattering the cuffs of their pants, soaking into their shoes.

It's still daytime, but the sky is gray and hazy. The air is heavy and humid and smelling strongly of petrichor.

"I've never seen it rain like this," Aventurine says, and Veritas takes it to mean he's never seen it rain like this here, not in general, but later he will ponder this conversation and consider the fact that Aventurine comes from a desert planet, and he'll wonder.

Now, he simply glances over, eyes the wet patch on Aventurine's shoulder, turquoise darkened to teal, and holds the umbrella a little closer to Aventurine's side at the sacrifice of his own dryness. "It's to be expected this time of year," he says. "I do hope you weren't looking forward to the sun during your stay."

A laugh. Their arms bump. Aventurine doesn't look at him, just looking forward instead, at his own feet, wet with rain, drops clinging to his shoes and flicking off with each step. Veritas looks at the top of his head. His blond hair, soft and shiny. "Perhaps I'll bring clear skies with me," Aventurine says, "what with my luck."

The rain comes down, pattering on the umbrella. The sky stays gray. "Perhaps," Veritas says. They make it to the car. He walks Aventurine to the passenger side side first, opening the door for him, holding the umbrella over him until he makes it inside. He's never been superstitious. He's never believed in luck; all these things with no scientific basis. He sits in the driver's seat and shakes the water out of the umbrella.

"Have you eaten?" he asks.

Aventurine clicks his seat belt into place. Wind whistles and whips outside. When Veritas wraps up the umbrella and shuts the driver's side door, they're left with only the sound of the rain on the roof of the car, soft and steady. "I have."

The drive home is short enough, and then Veritas gets the umbrella out again to walk up to his apartment. He plans to come around the Aventurine's side so he won't get rained on, but Aventurine has already climbed out, a fresh splattering of raindrops on his shoulders, in his hair. His mouth is parted, his eyes are wide when he looks at Veritas now, and it's odd, seeing such an open expression on his face.

Veritas chooses not to say anything, just holds the umbrella over them both again as they take the steps to the apartment. Inside, he leaves the umbrella to dry in the entryway and takes off his shoes. Aventurine does the same, peeling off a wet pair of socks as well, letting out an unsteady breath. His bag hangs off his shoulder, threatening to slip. Just a regular backpack, not even full enough to really bulge. It's something Veritas has always found odd about him. For all his little luxuries, for all of the extravagance of his home and his demeanor and his way of dress, he packs surprisingly lightly. Perhaps it helps that he has a number of his own things in Veritas' home already.

"I'm going to make tea," Veritas says, watching the strap slip a little further before Aventurine straightens up and fixes it, barefoot and small as he stands there in Veritas' entryway, rain in his hair, still staining his shirt at the shoulders and his slacks at the cuffs. "Would you care for some as well?"

"Sure," Aventurine answers. "I'll have whatever you're having."

So Veritas makes tea as Aventurine makes himself at home, settling in easy enough as he always does. He's in the living room when Veritas finishes in the kitchen, bag likely set aside in the bedroom as he sits, feet pulled in on the couch, holding his own ankles and watching out the window, the curtains pulled open.

For a moment, Veritas doesn't say anything, doesn't alert Aventurine to his presence, just stands there and looks at him with a mug in each hand. His narrow shoulders, his hair curling at his neck. The edge of that slave brand visible.

They're still new enough. New by Veritas' standards perhaps, but not by anyone else's. Sometimes it's still odd to look at him, to feel the way Veritas does inside his chest and still be able to connect that to him, to think this is someone I'm allowed to want and to stay with. Veritas does not work in absolutes, but he's begun to see this as something permanent.

A gust of wind makes the building creak. Rain splatters against the window. The sky has darkened further since Veritas last saw it only minutes ago, the sun buried in deep gray storm clouds. The same color as the still wet edges of Aventurine's pants. Veritas stops watching him so hard, making his presence known by coming closer and setting the mugs on ceramic coasters on the table.

"Your tea," he says, taking a seat next to Aventurine. "I added two sugars. Is that correct?"

"You remembered," Aventurine says, smiling faintly. There's an odd, somewhat hollow look behind it. Veritas nods, considering the possibility of jet lag, of warp sickness, of an unpleasant experience with a stranger or something coming up with work. He considers if the weather might have anything to do with it.

"Good," he says, in reference to the tea, and then, "Are you well?"

Aventurine looks at him. "Right now?" he asks. "Or just in general?"

More droplets splatter against the window. The rain grows louder, heavier. It's not scheduled to let up much until three days from now. There are flood warnings for a dozen different districts.

"Either," Veritas answers. "Both."

Aventurine hums, reaching for his mug on the table, warming his hands with it as he turns just a little, facing the window again, leaning back into Veritas' shoulder. "I'm well," he answers, adjusting easily, comfortably as Veritas brings an arm around him.

They fit together nicely. He smells like that cologne he so favors, and Veritas doesn't think he's being honest at all.

"Now?" he asks right back. "Or in general?"

Aventurine doesn't seem inclined to answer. He just keeps watching the rain, holding his mug, leaning back into Veritas' hold. Veritas can't see his face well. He's confused by the memory of his expression, his quietness, his fixation on the storm outside. He's reminded, yet again, of Aventurine in the bay window, sitting there and staring. Oddly quiet, oddly guarded, just like this. Both times, he'd seemed unhappy. But that time he'd hidden, and this time he leans back into Veritas' chest.

"Either," Aventurine says after a moment. "Both."

△

"You're tired today," Veritas says carefully, gathering Aventurine's wet hair in the bath. He's already shampooed it and rinsed the soap out, turning the water murky. All that's left is sweet-smelling conditioner, which he pumps into his hands and applies to Aventurine's hair ends first.

It isn't until he's halfway through that he realizes that perhaps he's chosen a poor time to attempt this conversation. He'd thought since they aren't facing each other it might be a good one, and Aventurine won't have to worry so much about putting on a facade with his expressions, but perhaps the fact that they're trapped together and naked rules that small comfort out.

But Aventurine just hums, and Veritas looks at the slope of his shoulders, slightly freckled. The slave brand on his neck.

"Who isn't?" Aventurine asks. "I work a demanding job, Doctor. And I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night."

He's always been a casual complainer. This much is safe for him to admit. Veritas wishes he felt safe admitting more, admitting to whatever the real root cause of this is. It's painful, being made happy by him and knowing that he is unhappy. He's tried helping in small, subtle ways and doesn't feel like any of it is working. The direct route has never worked either, but perhaps it's worth it to try again. Perhaps with the foundation of trust they've built up slowly but surely...

He should have waited until they got out of the bath.

Still, it's better to test this than to retreat as he often does. Aventurine doesn't respond well to directness, but perhaps it's what he needs. Veritas is running out of options anyway. "Is that really all that it is?" he asks, finishing with the conditioner, dipping his hands into the water to clean the residue from them.

That done, Aventurine leans into him back to chest. Veritas can smell his hair: almond, cherry, and musk according to the labels on his products. By some miracle, he's still relaxed, one of his hands on Veritas' knee. "Does it need to be more?" is his reply.

"There is no 'need to be,'" Veritas tells him. "I'm simply asking if there is."

Quiet for a breath, two. The sound of the water splashing as Aventurine stretches out one of his legs, the other bent, knee out of the water. His fingertips drip. He gets conditioner on Veritas' neck and shoulder as he angles his face up, kind of looking at him, more likely the edge of his jaw. "I'm surprised you'd ask a question you already know the answer to," he says. "Redundant," he adds in a mimicry of Veritas' voice. "Unnecessary and idiotic. Zero points."

He meets Veritas' eyes, tipping his face a little more, smiling in a way that seems real, and like this... maybe he is happy. Right now, he seems happy. Sometimes he is. Sometimes Veritas is able to make him that way.

Gently, he flicks his finger into Aventurine's forehead. "I don't sound like that," he scolds, "and I would not be so harsh toward a student asking a genuine question."

He watches Aventurine's smile pause, start to shrink until he looks away, leaning a little more fully into Veritas' chest. The two of them are wet and sticking, but it's warm between them. He's still relaxed, still calm, and maybe they can have this conversation now. "So yours was genuine, then?" Aventurine asks.

He doesn't say it the way he says things when he closes off. It's a little more quiet, a little more honest. His head pressed between Veritas' shoulder blades this morning. They way he'd leaned, even if only for a little while, even though he hadn't said a thing.

"Have you ever known me to say things just for the sake of it?"

A soft hum. Aventurine's fingers tap lightly on Veritas' knee, drawing patterns with droplets of water that cool in the air. His hair smells sweet. His shoulders, without his clothes, have always been so narrow. "I suppose not," he says, and like he's contemplating the name, the meaning of it, he adds, "Veritas Ratio."

"I care for you," Veritas tells him. "You bring me a great deal of joy and reprieve from the stresses of my life. If possible, I would like to reciprocate, so if there's something wrong... I would ask that you enlighten me and allow me to support you."

"That's sweet, Doctor."

"I mean it."

"I'm sure you do."

Water drips from the faucet. Aventurine stays put, conditioner setting in his hair, tracing circles into Veritas' knee. He still hasn't stiffened, and while he hasn't offered anything, he also hasn't exactly closed off. Veritas hasn't scared him yet, hasn't made him angry.

"I have noticed that you are unhappy these days," Veritas says, deciding to put it plainly. "And I know you are uncomfortable speaking on it, but I would like it very much if you would allow me to help."

"You help plenty," Aventurine says, not even attempting to deny that first half, you are unhappy.

Veritas leans his cheek against Aventurine's hair, an arm winding loosely around his waist. "And yet," he says softly, "I am seeing you unhappy more and more."

Quiet for a moment, then two. Aventurine does not reply. Veritas feels him take a long breath, feels them unstick as Aventurine leans forward and says, "it's been long enough for the conditioner."

"Right," Veritas says. More silence. He looks at the nape of Aventurine's neck. The slope of his narrow shoulders. The knobs of his spine, the scars on his back. "Aventurine."

"It isn't new, if that's what you're asking," Aventurine blurts before he can say anything else. "And it doesn't have anything to do with you, if you're worried."

Veritas' gaze lingers on his back, all the silvery scars intersecting, thick and rope-like, old and healed by now. He hasn't been a slave in a long time, has left behind all of the horrible traumas he went through, but those kinds of things leave an imprint, physical and mental both. With his past, his lifestyle, his job, Aventurine has a hundred reasons not to be happy. It's unreasonable, presumptuous, and idiotic, but Veritas finds himself relieved, hearing that he isn't another potential component to this.

"Admittedly, I find this reassuring to hear," he says, and considers if he might've been a component once. Before they were good for each other, they were terrible for each other. Veritas was deeply unkind. Even then, he shouldn't be so presumptuous as to assume he could have such a large impact on Aventurine's life. "But I worry more about other causes."

A weak laugh. Aventurine runs wet hands through his hair, bowing forward. "Causes," he repeats. "I've always been like this, Ratio. Veritas. I think it's just me."

Veritas reaches out, then hesitates with his hand hovering over Aventurine's shoulder. Already, the water is going cold, but perhaps that's the lost body heat with Aventurine having pulled away. "You mean you're depressed?"

"Sure," Aventurine says, scrubbing his face now. "That."

His mouth feels dry. He swallows. "I know of a number of resources. Psychiatric counselling and medication—"

"I know," Aventurine interrupts him. "I know there are resources. I know there are ways I can fix myself. But the point... The point is that you noticed that I'm unhappy, but really I'm always unhappy, I've been unhappy. The only reason why you're seeing it now is because you're—" He cuts himself off there, taking this sharp breath. Veritas wishes he could see his face. Knows it would do more harm than good if he was able.

He waits a moment, and when Aventurine doesn't continue, he gently prompts, "I'm...?"

"Safe, Veritas," Aventurine says, and exhales. "You're safe."

He should say something. He can't think of what. Aventurine continues.

"So I've started letting my guard down a little. I've started leaning on you, started taking whatever you'll give me, and now you're asking me to lean on you more, and I..." Another breath. Veritas watches his shoulders rise with it, watches him wilt a little more with the exhale. "I... Don't know. I don't know, Doctor. Just help me wash out the conditioner, would you?"

So Veritas reaches for the cup set on the rim of the bath, filling it with water, letting Aventurine ease back, putting a hand over his eyes to protect them as he starts the process of rinsing his hair out. The water spills down Aventurine's back, making noise as it drips, the whole bath cloudy. Veritas fills the cup again, pouring it carefully, gently squeezing it back out while Aventurine stays put and stays silent, his eyes closed, all the hair pushed off his brow, head tipped back.

He looks young, like this. He's always been the younger between the two of them, always been smaller, stunted from a youth spent in malnutrition. Veritas fills the cup a third time and tries not to look too hard at the slave brand on his neck.

He pours the water slowly, running his fingers through Aventurine's hair to work the conditioner out, focusing on the fact that he's still here, that he hasn't run yet, that he's still allowing Veritas to do this for him. That he'd told the truth, or some of the truth, a fraction of it that might as well be an extreme show of trust, coming from him.

"So," Veritas starts, almost nervous in a way, wanting to be careful but not wanting to ruin it. "What you mean to say is that—"

"I'm unhappy, like you said," Aventurine cuts him off. "I try to keep it under wraps. And now you're seeing it, and you're worrying about me like it's something new when really it's been there all along and I just..."

Veritas stays quiet. He runs out of water in the cup, and Aventurine opens his eyes, sitting up straight again, squeezing his hair out himself. Rivulets down his back. His skin, his scars. He's never been shy about his past. Never cared to hide these or the brand or anything else external, while everything on the inside he seems to bury as deep as he can.

A heavy sigh. Aventurine turns, the bath sloshing. He meets Veritas' eyes for barely a second, then takes the cup from his hand, filling it with clean water from the faucet to rinse the last bits of conditioner and the dirty bathwater out.

"I trust you, is what I'm saying," he deigns to finish after a moment. "I am leaning on you, far more than I've ever leaned on anyone, and here you are asking me to lean on you more."

"I care a great deal for your happiness."

Again, Aventurine looks at him, turning fully around to face him, to kneel between his legs with nothing but murky water between them and grab his cheeks. "And I am happy," he says, the ends of his hair dripping, his eyes beautifully vivid and flicking between Veritas'.

"I am happy," he says again. "I'm the happiest I've been in a long time, and that's terrifying."

Happy. Veritas looks at him, his exposed forehead, the slight crease between his brows. His eyes, which Veritas has always felt somewhat guilty for finding beautiful, for always wanting on him. His palms are warm and wet. The scent of his sweet-smelling conditioner still lingers in the air. "Does it need to be?" Veritas asks.

"It's me, Ratio," Aventurine reminds him. "Of course it's going to be terrifying."

"Hm," Veritas says, and for some reason it makes Aventurine laugh this bright, brilliant, genuine laugh, and it's... Well, it's... Hm.

"I love you," Aventurine says, entirely seriously. It isn't the first time he's said it, isn't the first time he's meant it, but there's still a jolt that goes through Veritas' chest at the words. "I can count the number of people I've said that to on one hand."

Veritas stays silent, staring, rapt.

"My mother, my father, my sister. You," Aventurine leaves emphasis on the last word, lets it sit as he stays there a little longer, still holding Veritas' face, still wet and naked and being honest with him now. "You're smart. I'm sure you can see why that might be scary."

His mother, his father, his sister. All of them dead, lost, taken from him. Veritas still here. He nods once, and watches Aventurine's expression soften. 

"Don't bother worrying," he says.

"If you're always going to be terrified, I'm always going to worry."

"Don't."

"I want to do more for you."

Aventurine squeezes his cheeks harder, shoving them together as he says, suddenly passionate, "You already do plenty. You cook my meals, you do all these random favors, you put up with me, you're there when I need you, you stay for some goddess-damned reason, even though you know exactly the sort of mess that I am, even though I'm awful for you, even though I have about a hundred different habits I know you hate, even though—"

"I love you," Veritas says over him, muffled from the way Aventurine is still smushing his cheeks. Aventurine goes quiet, stares with his mouth open.

"What?"

Veritas reaches up to take his wrists, gently prying his hands off. "I love you," he says again, and Aventurine exhales shakily, bowing forward a little, a wet lock of hair falling into his face. Veritas squeezes his wrists, slides his thumbs up the soft insides of Aventurine's forearms until he reaches his elbows. "I never said it back, when you said it earlier."

Aventurine laughs, kind of roughly. "It's not some transaction you have to complete," he says. "I already know you love me."

"Good," Veritas says. "I would urge you not to forget that."

A little longer, Aventurine continues to stare, and then, slowly, he starts to bend, starts to soften, leaning into Veritas' front, pressing his face into his neck, the position made awkward by the fact that they're in the bathtub. One of his hands stretches to prop himself up on the rim at Veritas' back, the other hooking around his shoulders.

"Why?" he says, quiet and unsteady. Again, "Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"Yes!" Aventurine says, voice cracking on it. "Of course you need a reason."

"Very well," Veritas says, winding an arm around Aventurine's waist, shifting to make this more comfortable for both of them. Water spills over the edge of the tub. He presses his nose into Aventurine's hair, smelling almond, cherry, musk. "I've come to value you a great deal as a partner and a companion. I enjoy spending time in your company and sharing conversation with you. You bring me a great deal of joy by being in my life, I—"

"That's enough," Aventurine says softly. He takes a breath, presses his face harder into Veritas' neck. "That's plenty."

Veritas closes his eyes, presses his cheek harder into Aventurine's hair in turn. "Very well," he whispers. A moment, two. They stay like that, pruning up and sticking together. "I love you."

Aventurine clings to him a little tighter and says it back, "I love you too."

△

After the bath, Veritas makes lunch. Aventurine sits on the counter and watches with wet hair and sweet scents clinging to him. He distracts Veritas while things are cooking, baiting him into coming closer and trapping him between his thighs with ankles locked behind his back. He kisses Veritas until things start to burn, and then kisses him a little bit more.

They eat, they wash the dishes together, they have the gentlest sex to ever pass between the two of them, and then they lay in bed for a little while face to face. Veritas runs his fingers through Aventurine's hair, dry now, and soft as silk, and asks him softly, "Would you consider professional help?"

He feels Aventurine sigh, his body deflating, the puff of his breath warm in the crook of Veritas' neck. He keeps his face pressed there, hidden, lips brushing skin. "Of course you'd ask that."

He doesn't get angry, at least, and he doesn't outright refuse. Veritas has referred patients in far worse states than him. Seen some entirely, furiously resistant. Others who see a mile of improvement in a matter of months.

"The benefits shouldn't be underestimated," he says. "Whether from counselling or medication or both, you stand to lose little and gain much." He pauses, brushes hair behind Aventurine's ear. "Isn't that the kind of deal that should appeal to you most?"

Aventurine pulls back just enough to look at him, the two of them still tangled together, still close enough to share breath. "I don't want to," he says, and Veritas strokes a line across his cheek with his thumb.

"Few in your position do."

"But it's worth it," Aventurine says. "Is that what you're trying to say?"

Veritas nods, looking at the circles beneath Aventurine's eyes like bruises. The openness in his expression, even though this is almost certainly a conversation they couldn't have had even a handful of months ago. "It won't fix everything, and it'll take trial and error," he says. "You may need to speak with multiple counselors before you find one apt to assist you, and if you choose medication, you may need to try a number of those too. But it will be worth it in the end."

Aventurine sighs again. Tired, still so tired, as he has been all day. He closes his eyes, tips his face further into Veritas' hand. "I can't make promises to you now," he says. "I don't want to try this. I don't want to think about it. I said the things I did because I trust you. I'm willing to lean a little bit on you. I'm not..."

"And that's alright," Veritas says, pressing a chaste kiss to Aventurine's forehead. "We can start with that. I only ask that you consider, and when you're a little more comfortable, you give it a shot in the future."

"I'm not going to make myself into a burden, if that's what you're worried about," Aventurine tells him, opening his eyes again, circling his fingers around Veritas' wrist. "At least, not any more than I..." He cuts himself off, swallowing.

"That wasn't my concern," Veritas assures him. "Though, admittedly it isn't healthy to rely on only one person. I simply wish for what's best for you, Aventurine. I wish for you to be happy."

"I know," Aventurine says. "I know you... I know. Thank you, I guess."

"I do not see you as a burden."

"That's good, then," Aventurine says. He swallows again, pressing forward to hide his face against Veritas' throat again. "I'll consider. No promises, but I'll consider."

"Good," Veritas says, running fingers through his hair, breathing him in. "I love you, and I appreciate your honesty."

"I love you too," Aventurine says back, and hesitates. "And... You do make me happy. You know that, right?"

A warm, sentimental glow in his chest. He holds Aventurine a little tighter and says, "I know. You make me happy too."