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It is not often that Aventurine asks for something outright. He can count the number of times on one hand and have a finger or two leftover. No, it’s usually a barter, an exchange of goods and information. Rarely does he ever expect a no strings attached favor that will not inevitably be repaid down the road.

So, it is with great disdain that he finds himself texting the good Doctor Veritas Ratio asking for his assistance.

“I… don’t quite understand.”

Ratio is giving him that look. While charming, it sends a brief blip of panic spiraling down into Aventurine’s gut. In the doctor’s arms is a cumbersome medical kit, along with more bandages than any normal human would require. Especially more than a cat cake would.

“Haha, oh geez, well isn’t this embarrassing,” Aventurine jokes.

(It is. It’s very embarrassing. How in the world did Ratio misconstrue his request for medical aid to mean he himself was injured and not one of the critters he had been tasked with looking out for?)

“Where is it?” sighs Ratio as he sets the supplies down beside the door.

“Make yourself at home, doctor,” Aventurine crows as he gestures towards the inner depths of his IPC-sponsored apartment. It isn’t the first time Ratio has stepped foot in here, and Aventurine has an inkling it won’t be the last. Call it a gambler’s hunch.

“The bedroom, I presume?” Ratio asks when his earlier question goes unanswered.

“How forward,” Aventurine laughs, hands falling down to his hips as he watches his business partner wander about his apartment as if he knows it like the back of his hand. It’s surreal. “But yes, it’s—well, it’s been cowering there ever since.”

“What happened?”

Ratio begins to head down the hall but offers a quick glance over his shoulder back at Aventurine. Waiting. What he finds is a weak, strained smile and a slow shrug of Aventurine’s shoulders. Busted.

“I may have left out something that I shouldn’t have.”

“Details, gambler.”

Aventurine feels his weighty gaze sink into his very core. Swiftly, Ratio turns back around and walks a little faster to the bedroom. In a way, it’s endearing. Is Ratio that concerned about the creation’s health? Even so, Aventurine speeds up his own steps, hot on Ratio’s heels.

“Haha, would you be surprised if I said I was burning the midnight oil, so to speak, and forgot to take out the trash?”

As Ratio steps into his bedroom—modestly sized with two critters sleeping at the foot of the bed as his tablet and phone charge next to them—Aventurine feels a touch self-conscious. It is true that Ratio has been over to deliver packages, reports and dive into the particulars of an upcoming mission, but rarely has he ever made it a point to come into this room. There was no need. Aventurine briefly admires the shape of him—strong shoulders, handsome features, legs for days—but then abruptly comes back to reality when Ratio pivots and loudly arches a brow as if to ask, Well?

Aventurine’s laugh is weaker. “My dinner,” he explains. “I was trying that new dish that’s all the craze around here. I only finished half of it and, as you can see…”

A critter feebly wobbles out from under the bed. Its big eyes are filled to the brim with unshed tears and a strange gurgling is coming from its depths. Upon seeing a familiar face, its tail begins to happily swish. Before it can emit a sound of welcome, its body produces a stomach grumble so loud that even Aventurine can hear it from the threshold of the bedroom.

“So it has an upset stomach. I see.”

Oddly, Ratio does not sound judgmental. Instead, he kneels down and extends a hand to the creature. Uncertain, the cat pads closer, keeping its face a short distance away as fearing a swat or smack.

“And why is it suddenly so skittish?” Ratio asks, back turned.

Aventurine clears his throat. “I may have accidentally stepped on its tail the other day…”

Ratio’s sigh is very audible. “Of course.” And then, gentler, to the creature, “I will give you something to relax your stomach, then. It will not taste good, as a fair warning, but you should consume it all the same.”

Aventurine feels his chest tighten. Warmth spreads from his heart and he guiltily admires the way Ratio upholds his promise to better the world one patient at a time. It’s sweet, really. Many would consider the tough Professor a cruel man, cold and unable to make meaningful connections, too calculating and self-absorbed. But, that would be a far cry from the truth. In a way, Ratio is softer than he is: he is tough lines, yes, but he holds a certain kindness that Aventurine has never known.

The cat gently bumps its face against the tips of Ratio’s fingers in acquiescence.

“Yes, good,” Ratio hums.

The words send an electric thrill through Aventurine. What would it be like to be complimented in such a way by the good doctor? Mouth dry, Aventurine tries to ignore the frantic beating of his heart and how he, too, wants to be good.

“Fetch the water,” Ratio says, shattering the moment.

Aventurine promptly rolls his eyes. “A please wouldn’t hurt, doc.”

“Fetch the water before we lose this opportunity to remedy the ailment,” Ratio corrects.

“That’s still not a please, but sure, okay.” Amused, Aventurine turns on his heel and heads to the kitchen.

He gathers the little water bowl he uses for the creatures and returns to the bedroom post haste. He finds Ratio seated on the floor, fingertips stroking along the unique bumps of the creature as it makes a peculiar purring sound. Again, Aventurine is arrested by the moment, by the gentleness of someone he has grown to trust.

(And is quite fond of, if he’s being honest. But Ratio doesn’t need to know that. Not now, and perhaps not ever.)

“Say, doctor.”

“What is it?” Ratio does not look up.

“Have you ever considered being a veterinarian? There’s a few planets that have all sorts of exotic species that would benefit from your magic touch,” Aventurine muses aloud as he joins him on the floor, tucking his legs under his body. He sets the bowl down between them.

First Penacony, and now this. Ratio really is full of surprises.

Ratio rolls his eyes but he makes even that seem endearing. “No,” he says, simply.

“No… what? You haven’t considered it, or you don’t want to do it?”

“Both.” Ratio’s fingers resume their grooming. “While it is an admirable pursuit and career, I find myself focused on other ventures. I have nothing against it.”

“Mhm.”

Aventurine watches as Ratio begins to administer the medicine. The cake resists at first but eventually concedes, staying close to the doctor’s side as if he were its very lifeline. In a way, he is. A moment passes.

And then, Ratio turns to Aventurine, eyes narrowed. It’s a scary look, but also kind of hot. “Aventurine.”

“Hm?” For the second time that day, anxiety swoops low in his gut. “Yes?”

“It is not an upset stomach that is bothering it,” he says, words deliberately slow, cutting.

Aventurine feels his impending doom. “Haha… it isn’t? That’s a relief, I suppose. What is it, then?”

Ratio takes a deep breath, measured but still shaky, and Aventurine leans forward in anticipation. Is it a rare ailment for these creations? Is it something worse? Is the tail still hurting? Is it—

“It has fleas, you imbecile.”

Suddenly, Aventurine wishes he hadn’t asked.

And that is how Aventurine ends up staring at the singular bed in Doctor Veritas Ratio’s apartment that same day, the creatures in isolation and quarantine in the man’s office at the university lest the fleas spread.

“I could have found a hotel,” Aventurine tries to say as Ratio begins to undo his necklace and arm cuffs. “You really didn’t need to do this, doc.”

“You will need to be monitored,” is what Ratio says, only half paying attention as he undoes the bedsheets and walks over to his dresser. There, he deposits his jewelry and then begins the task of undressing.

Flustered, Aventurine turns to the side. He crouches down beside his overnight bag and lets out a flutter of a laugh. “I guess you have no reason to be modest,” he says.

Ratio does not look his way. “What do you mean?”

Aventurine is not unfamiliar with the human body, male or female. Various situations have lead to knowing where bodies differ—not just by gender, but planet and diet and the like. It’s not something he thinks of often. (Rarely, actually, now that he’s focused on other pursuits. Those times are locked away in a part of his brain he prefers not to poke too readily most days.)

“Whatever you want me to mean,” says Aventurine, breezily. His fingers curl around his silken nightshirt. “By the way, I ordered a few things that’ll be delivered tomorrow. I assume that’s fine?”

“Of course.” Ratio pauses, his shirt now over his head and bunched up under his armpits in a way that’s oddly adorable. Childlike. At least, from the little Aventurine can see out of the corner of his eye because he refuses to ogle. “Is there something you are in need of? Perhaps I have it laying around somewhere.”

This time, Aventurine laughs. It’s warm and bubbles up from the depths of his belly. Genuine. “Let’s make a bet. If anything I ordered is a duplicate of something you have, I’ll pay for dinner.”

“You are the guest.”

“Which is exactly why I’d be paying if I lose.”

Ratio tugs the shirt down and gives him a scrutinizing stare. Strangely, Aventurine does not feel picked apart by it. He feels seen. He shakes out another chuckle, like a dog dispelling water from its fur, and begins to change into his own night clothes.

“Do you miss them?” Ratio asks all of a sudden.

(Or, after a few moments of comfortable silence have passed and Ratio has started removing his contacts and reaching for glasses neatly stored on his bedside.)

“Huh?”

“The… your companions,” Ratio explains, pausing. He tilts his head to the side as he settles onto the far edge of his bed. “Have you grown accustomed to their presence at night?”

“Oh,” says Aventurine, feeling oddly off-balance. “I guess. Maybe a little. They whine if they aren’t allowed up on the bed, so it will be nice having legroom for once.”

Warmth spreads across Veritas Ratio’s face. It’s visible even from here and Aventurine wonders how anyone could think this man to be unfeeling. Stubborn, a bit of a dick with the way he words things, but uncaring? Unmoving? Clearly they don’t know Ratio half as well as Aventurine does.

(Maybe that’s the point.)

Ratio hums in agreement and opens his book.

Aventurine finishes changing and rises from the floor. He takes note of the sizable spot beside Ratio on the bed, as if purposely left for… something. Some reason. He chooses to ignore that and instead pads across the bedroom floor to the door.

“If you start scratching in the middle of the night, tell me in the morning. I don’t need the placebo effect,” Aventurine jokes, hanging off the door as if he doesn’t want to leave at all.

(Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s grown ‘accustomed’ to the company, as Ratio put it.

And isn’t that weird for someone like Aventurine.)

“Fetch me a glass as well, while you’re out there.”

“Sorry, what?”

Ratio peers up from his book. Their eyes meet through his black-rimmed glasses that do wonderful things for his fiery eyes. For a second, Aventurine’s knees feel wobbly. Weak. It’s foolish, being so effected by someone after all Aventurine has endured, but here he is, waxing poetics about the good doctor as if he were a hero straight from a book Aventurine could never afford growing up. He swallows down the regret, the guilt.

“I assume you are using the facilities or getting water. It’d be most efficient if you saved me a trip and procured me a glass of water.”

Aventurine wants to tease him for how he just phrased all of that (because really, “procure”?) but his mind gets stuck on an infinite loop on what it all implies.

“You—why would I be headed back to the bedroom?”

Ratio’s gaze does not falter. “Are you not ready to sleep?”

A beat. “In here?”

“Where else, gambler? It’s late, do not play dense. You and I both know you are far smarter than that.”

Aventurine’s eyes dart to the empty space beside Ratio. It clicks. He had left it for that purpose. Heat slithers up and down Aventurine’s entire being as his fingers slip off the doorframe. His cells feel restless. Squeezing his hands into little fists doesn’t work, nor does fussing with the long sleeves of his nightshirt that keep coming unrolled. This sort of restlessness is not something he can beat into submission by brute force.

“Apologies, doctor. I simply assumed you were the type to prioritize your own comfort.”

Ratio frowns. “Are you implying I am selfish?”

Aventurine backpedals faster than he ever has. “No, no. Absolutely not. I’m simply surprised you’d want to share a bed rather than one of us take the perfectly good couch out in the other room.”

“Couches are not good for backs,” Ratio chides, unyielding.

And sharing a bed with someone Aventurine feels so helplessly captivated by is also bad for his health, but he’s not about to say that. He holds his tongue. He swallows down that, too, whatever feeling it is that he doesn’t have a name for.

“Wow, Ratio. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

And then leaning into dramatic flair, he winks. Before Ratio can react, Aventurine dips into the hallway. Self-preservation had always been hit-or-miss with him. Tonight, he supposes, he’s dabbling in both ends of it.

He takes his time getting them both a glass of water.

The lack of sleep may be catching up to him. There’s no way that Veritas Ratio had just so calmly offered to share his bed with a Stoneheart. There’s no way that they’re close enough to act like that.

(Old friends, he thinks. Old friends would share a bed for convenience and not be bothered. But they’re not old friends. They’re acquaintances, business partners, allies. There’s a lot of words and labels for them, but none of them come close to whatever is required to share a bed.)

When Aventurine finally returns, he sees Ratio dozing off. Ratio is still sitting upright, back to his headboard, glasses slipping down his nose and fingers curled around the cover of whatever dry textbook he’s deigned to read this late. It’s—endearing. It soothes parts of Aventurine that usually are the roughest.

Quietly, he tiptoes to the other side of the bed to set the glass of water down. He repeats the motion on his side of the bed (what a concept) and then as gently as he can climbs into bed.

He holds his breath.

(He doesn’t hope.)

Somewhere lost in his thoughts, Aventurine falls asleep, hand curled up loosely in the space between them on the sheets.

There is no startling revelation, no teenager-inspired gushing, no heated blush that threatens to spoil the whole thing as Aventurine wakes the next morning. No pair of arms around his middle or hot breath tickling his neck or, Aeons forbid it, something hard pressing to his lower back.

When Aventurine wakes, it is to a warm bed, sheets cocooned around him that are nearly as good as the ones he has back home, and a distinct lack of little caw toes poking at his face or ankles.

The spot beside him still radiates heat. In his drowsy haze, he thinks to open his mouth to call for the creatures to alert them that it’s time for breakfast. Before he can get the words out, he sees Ratio’s reading glasses on the opposite nightstand and the distinct lack of cat fluff on the comforter.

Right. This isn’t his place.

“Mm.”

Aventurine rolls onto his back. The ceiling seems to swallow him whole as he strums his fingers against his stomach and thinks. He doesn’t get far. The smell of breakfast—something homemade, no doubt—physically drags him out of bed and down the halls of Ratio’s apartment.

“That’s a shame,” he says when he enters the kitchen.

Ratio has his back turned to Aventurine, wearing the same stupid nightclothes as before, nudging a spatula into a frying pan with focus. His hair is messy from sleep and that alone tugs at the broken strings in Aventurine’s heart that make him swell and swoon.

“So you’re finally awake. Good.”

Aventurine snorts. “It’s not that late, doctor,” he says as he steps closer to the stove. “And you’re not curious what I was talking about?”

“I presumed you would tell me regardless,” Ratio says, certain.

He’s not wrong. “Haha, very well.” A beat. “I was hoping you’d be in one of those cute ‘kiss the chef’ aprons in all the movies. You know the ones, right?”

Ratio does not spare a glance at him. Aventurine figured he wouldn’t.

They stand in relative silence as Ratio finishes enough breakfast for two people. The sight of that has Aventurine’s pulse racing. This time, he is in the safety of a small kitchen and not the betting tables or staring down his next great gamble, hand trembling behind his back. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why being so close to Ratio makes him so nervous.

A soft thump breaks Aventurine from his trance of tracing each and every of Ratio’s movements with his eyes as Ratio cooks. It truly is unfair how toned the man is for a scholar.

Ah. Right.

Aventurine perks up and leaves the kitchen to head to the front door. When he opens it, four packages are already stacked haphazardly on the stoop. As he crouches down to inspect the name on the deliveries, he catches sight of some sort of grey robot buzzing around overhead. It rotates in a circle, just a few feet away from the front door, dangling two or three more packages of varying sizes in its long stick-like arms. It sways, off-balance with the weight of the packages and its motor loudly growls in protest. Is it… stuck?

“Uh.” Aventurine blinks a few times.

The drone-like object sputters closer and unceremoniously begins to drop the packages, one by one. With each dropped, it dings and flashes a green light on a small screen near its front.

“Oh, geez,” he laughs under his breath. He may have made a minor mistake in his sleep-deprived haze last night.

“How much, exactly, did you buy?”

To his dismay, Ratio is suddenly very close. Looming right behind him, probably. Aventurine won’t look over his shoulder. Not yet. But he can feel his presence, almost smell the lingering cologne from the day before.

“Well,” Aventurine says, care-freely beginning to stack the packages as they drop from the drone. He’s only halfway done and the stack is already half his height. “I told you I needed a few things, didn’t I?”

“This is not a few,” Ratio refutes, sounding exasperated.

“Depends who you ask,” Aventurine answers as he struggles to rise to his feet with so much weight in his arms. His knees creak and he’s about to set the boxes back down but the drone returns with another five parcels dangling from its robot arms. The motors sound even worse this time.

“Aventurine.”

Aeons, if Ratio didn’t sound so vexed, Aventurine would be a little enamored with how much feeling is in the man’s voice.

“Oops,” Aventurine says, grinning ear to ear, and lightly shoves the tower of packages into Ratio’s very empty arms. “Carry these for me, please? Your room is fine. I’ll handle the rest.”

“The rest…” Ratio flicks his gaze between the boxes in his arms and the ones descending from the sky. “If you were lacking clothes or, whatever it may be…you simply had to ask. This is absurd.”

“What?” Aventurine laughs, stepping away to dutifully collect the parcels now littering the sidewalk and stoop. “Would have let me borrow your clothes, doc?”

It’s too early, still. It has to be because Aventurine swears he sees pink dusting Ratio’s cheeks.

Breakfast. He needs something in his stomach to satisfy the butterflies.

Another thump.

Aventurine smiles helplessly over his juice.

And then another.

“Gambler…”

“Hey, hey! That should be the last of them.”

Thump.

“…I think?”

Aventurine spends the rest of his day unpacking his twenty-four deliveries. The items range from new bottles of shampoos and moisturizers to designer clothes that he had rush-ordered. Ratio mercifully spends his time grading papers and not judging how much Aventurine must have spent to replicate his wardrobe.

(In all fairness, Aventurine is a minimalist. He had to be, growing up. Had he had been anyone else? Well… Ratio wouldn’t be able to see his bedroom floor.)

Around dinnertime, Aventurine seeks Ratio out.

“Don’t have any lectures tonight?” Aventurine wonders as he lingers by the doorway, not wanting to pester Ratio too much if he’s truly in the weeds.

“No,” Ratio confirms.

“Mm.” Aventurine adjusts the collar of his shirt, realizing that he’s left the price-tag on it. Ugh. He rips it clean off and scowls down at it. “Anyway, I got a text from your office that the cats are doing well. It seems they’re flea-free, but they still need to be kept in isolation for another day. Just in case. Yanno.”

“In case they have laid their eggs in their shell,” Ratio says.

“Well, I was trying to be vague,” Aventurine snorts a laugh and walks over. He glances between Ratio’s pinched expression and the papers stacked on his desk. “Wooow. Just how many students do you have?”

“Seventy-two.”

“Between all your lectures, right?”

“That is only this seminar.”

“Oh.” Aventurine can’t even imagine having to grade over a hundred papers from a slew of folks he deems ‘idiots’. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Ratio doesn’t argue.

That, too, is probably for the best.

A few hours later, Ratio joins him on the couch.

Which isn’t strange on its own, but Aventurine is scrolling through pictures on his tablet of the cat cakes and feeling oddly homesick. Even odder, Ratio’s hands aren’t empty: he holds a crystal decanter, filled halfway with a deep amber liquid. Aventurine immediately locks his device, sets it on the empty spot to his left, and gives an appraising look to the bottle.

“You actually own alcohol?” he asks, a little impressed.

“I am not twelve,” Ratio says in utter deadpan. “Yes, I own whiskey.”

“Whiskey,” Aventurine whistles lowly, eyes darting along the pretty engraving on the decanter. “Did this come as a set?”

“It was a gift when I joined the—what does it matter? Hold out your hand, please.”

Aventurine obeys without missing a beat. Ratio reaches to the coffee table and grabs one of the small scotch glasses on a black tray off to the side. He nudges it into Aventurine’s waiting hands. Carefully, Ratio removes the stopper of the decanter and pours two fingers of whiskey into Aventurine’s glass.

“This smells good,” Aventurine says, the stirrings of a smile taking shape.

“It ought to. It was expensive enough,” Ratio sighs as he begins to pour himself a glass with the same amount.

“Expensive doesn’t necessarily mean quality,” Aventurine notes as he gives another sniff to the whiskey. He can smell the smoke, the sweet caramels. It’s comforting. “I know, I know. You wouldn’t think I believed that with what I buy, but trust me. There’s always a reason.”

“I’m certain there is.”

There’s a twinkle in Ratio’s eyes.

“Are you making fun of me? You wound me, doctor.”

“Drink your whiskey.”

Aventurine smirks. He takes a sip and tries not to cough when it burns his lips and subsequently throat. Ratio quirks a brow at him, and Aventurine hurriedly says, “It’s been awhile. I couldn’t exactly drink much after… all that.”

His recovery from Penacony. Ratio nods.

They sit in silence and drink. Just two adult men, sharing a whiskey at some obscene hour before they’ll very normally share a singular bed for the second night in a row. Aventurine’s eyes feel scratchy for some reason.

“You were looking at pictures before I came in,” Ratio says, not looking at him. “Do you miss them?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Aventurine laughs, leaning against the back of the couch, keeping his arms very much to himself.

“It’s only human,” Ratio explains, peering down at his glass. “I never did have a pet, growing up. The idea of it simply slipped my mind when I got a place of my own, I suppose.”

“Did you ever want one?”

Ratio looks to him, finally. That twinkle is gone but something else flits around. It doesn’t have a name. Or, if it does, Aventurine can’t pronounce it. He hasn’t ever seen it in Ratio’s eyes.

“It’s difficult to want for something you have never had,” Ratio says. Pauses. Clears his throat. “Allow me to rephrase. I did want for it, in the way that a child craves a toy that everyone else has that they do not. However, I truly did not comprehend what it was that I wanted.”

Aventurine doesn’t need to be told what it’s like to not have something. To be jealous. To make up fantasies in his head of school and a life on a planet that didn’t despise him. Of loving parents that will one day walk him down an aisle if he lives long enough to marry someone.

“What did you picture?” Aventurine asks, urges. “Probably not one of those critters, right?”

“No, they’re quite unique,” snorts Ratio and he swirls his whiskey around in his glass. “A simple house-cat would have been fine.”

“You do seem like a cat person,” says Aventurine, unabashedly grinning as he bumps their shoulders together. The warmth from Ratio’s body sticks to his. “Prickly and very particular about everything. But if you’re ignored, you’ll come pawing at your favorite person wanting to be held.”

“I do not,” Ratio snaps, but it lacks any real heat or venom. The glare is a little funny, with how his brows furrow and how red blossoms on his face like spring flowers.

“Right, right. You don’t have a favorite person,” laughs Aventurine as he closes his eyes and tries not to let his heart run away from him.

(It's been doing that a lot lately.)

“No, that isn’t what I meant.” A long pause. “I do have one, that is.”

Aventurine’s heart skips too many beats to be healthy. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Aventurine isn’t sure what shifts. Something heavy is in the air and there’s an electric current back in the room that buzzes around the couch like a circuit. His fingers twitch on his whiskey. It isn’t the first time he’s wanted to do something about the stifling tension that comes and goes. It’s just the first time he’s ever felt ready to confront the tangle of emotions and consequences of it.

His throat is dry. He clears it. It doesn’t work.

“And you just let him…” Aventurine begins to say.

Just let him risk his entire life to prove a point, to play out a dead man’s gamble. He doesn’t say any of that. His throat is no longer merely dry but tight, now. Panic seeps into every fibre of his being. He shouldn’t have said any of this.

“Despite my own personal feelings on the matter,” Ratio says, cutting through the hazy thoughts, “I would not deprive someone of personal autonomy.”

Of choice.

Aventurine wrinkles his nose. That’s very Ratio to say. And yet… he cracks open an eye. Stares at the way Ratio is staring at him. His heart races and that tightness in his throat recedes into the shadows of his mind. Good, he thinks. Good.

“What if he had wanted you to?”

“Pardon?”

“What if,” Aventurine says, holding his glass even tighter, threatening to shatter the glass with nerves alone, “he was waiting for you to give him a reason not to do it?”

“Then he is more of a fool than I thought.”

Something breaks.

Aventurine looks to his perfectly fine glass and counts to ten.

(Should have figured, he scolds himself. Hope was never meant for a slave like him.)

“C’mon, doc. That’s just mean. He isn’t that dumb. You’ve said so yourself—” Aventurine begins to say, to save some face, to pretend that Ratio’s words haven’t cut to his core and are consuming him alive, ember by ember.

“You misunderstand,” sighs Ratio. Aventurine hears the clink of glass being set down on a tray. “As usual. It is not that I would have not done what he wanted, it is simply that he should have known he only needed to ask.”

Aventurine is trying to puzzle all of that out when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket.

He swears under his breath.

His eyes flash open and he quickly checks the name on the device. It’s Ratio’s office. Probably about the cat cakes. He should answer this. This could be important. This is his responsibility, his life now, his family—

A hand rests on Aventurine’s knee. It sets his entire being ablaze.

“Answer it.”

Aventurine doesn’t want to lose this. This moment. This tip-toeing into the thing that’s always been bubbling just under the surface. If he loses it now, will it be lost forever? Ratio’s gentle smile urges him to answer in the end. He tucks the device against his shoulder and answers, watching as Ratio finishes his whiskey and heads for the bedroom.

(The cat cakes are doing well. There doesn’t seem to be any residual infestation. They can come home in the morning.)

Aventurine doesn’t finish his whiskey.

But he does taste salt.

Aventurine stares at the book in Ratio’s hands. The way his hair falls so loosely around his cheeks, highlighting the sharp cut of his features. The glasses make him look so downright touchable, human. Flawed.

“Ratio.”

Ratio’s fingers visibly tighten around the spine of his book. “Good news, I assume?”

Aventurine gets into bed. He lays on his side and he stares, boring holes into the other man. His heart keeps playing hopscotch in his chest and his extremities feel cold to the touch, the anxiety taking hold once again. Is he really about to ruin one of two good things he has left to his name?

(Live on, Ratio had urged him. Stay alive.

What was the point if he was just a walking corpse? He needed to take this risk.)

Ratio blinks at him. He closes his book and sets it on the bedside table. As he reaches to remove his glasses, Aventurine’s hand darts out. Their fingers brush. Aventurine’s hand lingers.

“Keep them on.”

“Have you ever slept with glasses on? It’s—” Ratio begins in a huff.

Aventurine is used to betting his life, so why do the next words that momentarily get caught in his throat feel so dangerous? “They look good on you.”

Ratio’s hand falters. It lands back on the bed. “I… see.”

Aventurine’s fingers slip from the arm of the glasses back to an errant piece of hair that he tucks over an ear. “Say, Ratio.”

Ratio’s hum urges him on.

“It’s a little funny. If you count tonight, this is the longest I’ve ever shared a bed with someone that wasn’t my sister,” Aventurine admits, a soft play at a larger pot.

Ratio’s gaze is fire. “Is that so?”

Aventurine props himself up on one elbow. His hair falls in his face and he digs his nails down into the bedsheets. “Come with me tomorrow when I pick them up?”

“I was planning to.”

“…come with me, then return the favor,” Aventurine breathes out before he can convince himself it’s a terrible, rotten, no good idea. “Stay the night. Have an army of packages delivered to my place and let me cook you breakfast and give you even better whiskey.”

Let me take care of you.

“Are you certain?” Ratio asks him, voice unsteady for the first time Aventurine can recall.

Aventurine has never been so certain of something in his entire life. Wordlessly, he answers.

Aventurine leans up the rest of the way and presses his mouth to Ratio’s parted lips. The touch is featherlight, testing the waters, but it causes a shiver to overtake Aventurine that he is helpless against. Warmth returns to his fingertips and Aventurine uses the good fortune to his benefit and slips them, trembling, into Ratio’s messy hair. Ratio finally moves his mouth against his, slowly at first, but then with more force, tasting him. It's relief. It's validation.

Kissing has never felt this good. It shouldn’t feel this good.

Aventurine can feel the cracks of Ratio’s lips and the plush velvet of his mouth when Ratio tilts his head and tries to deepen the kiss. He can feel Ratio’s breath tickling under his nose as he artfully juggles the task of kissing and breathing so well.

Ratio’s fingers linger at the edge of an ear. Gradually, he unfurls them and strokes along the shell, causing another eruption of fireflies to descend through Aventurine’s gut and then chest. Everything feels lit up. He feels alive.

Aventurine is the first to break the kiss. Not because he wants to, but because his elbow is starting to hurt with how much weight he’s putting on it. Getting old sucks.

Ratio doesn’t move far. He bumps their foreheads together and blinks open his eyes at the same time Aventurine does. Or, Aventurine assumes it’s the same time, because he sees a fluttering of long lashes and an inquisitive look that Ratio doesn’t try to hide right away. It looks love worn.

“Are you certain?” Ratio repeats, sounding wrecked.

“Doctor,” Aventurine whispers, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “my heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and I can’t think straight. Can you diagnose me?”

“Insufferable idiot,” says Ratio with a quirk of his own lips betraying his amusement and then leans back down for another kiss, their noses knocking together.

They don’t get much sleep that second night.

“Home sweet home!”

Aventurine watches as the cakes leave their carriers one by one. They scoot along the floor of his living room and merrily start making noises as they chase each other and their own tails. The lifeless four walls of his apartment feel warm again.

Ratio sets down the four giant bags of stuff with a resounding thump.

“Look at you,” Aventurine preens, spinning around to curl his hands at Ratio’s waist, hugging his hips as he draws him nearer, “already performing boyfriend duties like carrying my bags. What’s that worth, doc? Five points? Ten?”

“Aventurine.”

“It’s pretty funny, right? At least give me a pity laugh.”

“The creature is chewing on your charger cord.”

“Wha—Oh! Hey, now! Stop that!”

“…welcome home, gambler.”

He supposes the fact that, technically, there are two beds now shouldn’t be a problem.

Not when his heart and life is suddenly so full for the first time in decades.