Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Title: Let’s Go to School!

“Is everything ready? Your wallet? Handkerchief? What about your ID? Did you remember to bring your food pack?”

Aventurine laughed as he buttoned up his shirt.

“Ratio, calm down. It’s just school.”

Ratio’s brow remained furrowed.

“It’s your first day. How can I not worry?”

The blond chuckled again when Ratio combed his hair for the third time like a fussy mom.

This all started last week, when Jade summoned him to her office…

===========

A Week Earlier

“A master’s degree certificate?”

Aventurine blinked like an owl.

Jade nodded.

“Yes. Diamond has reviewed your KPIs and found you eligible for a promotion. However, we still require complete documentation of your educational background to formalize the process.”

They both remembered how they met. Aventurine was still Kakavasha then—bloodied and defiant, a man who had murdered his slave master just to get a seat at the IPC table.

After his clan was wiped out, and he was taken as a slave, there was never a real chance at a proper education.

He wasn’t sure how to feel. So, he laughed it off—too loud to be real—because if he didn’t, he might think too hard about what it all meant.

“Seriously, ma’am. Me? Going back to school? I’ll be a laughing stock.”

“You’re going to Penacony Paperfold University College, not secondary school,” Jade corrected. “You’ve been placed in Fortune Academy, which specializes in financial studies and economics.”

Aventurine gave a low whistle to hide his nerves.

“So… I get to skip work?”

Jade’s smile widened.

“Diamond is not that generous. You’ll do a sandwich course—still working and studying part time.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She chuckled. “If it helps, Professor Ratio teaches there. He can… accompany you. Perhaps offer private tutoring, if you kindly request it.” She winked, as if their not-so-secret relationship was a running joke.

Aventurine blushed and tilted his hat to hide his face.

“Uh… yeah. Noted.”

He was nearly out the door when she called him back.

“And one more thing. Remember to keep your identity as a Stoneheart confidential. Unless, of course, you want past enemies or clients getting… ideas about your classmates.”

Aventurine paused, then nodded.

“Got it. I’ll play double agent and earn that certificate, Jade.” He winked before stepping out of her office.

But even outside, the nervous flutter still lingered.

“Going back to school, huh? Who would’ve thought.”

Truthfully, he’d never had the chance. Now that he did… he was genuinely excited.

“Let’s bet—do I flunk my first test or ace it?”

==============

That Night

The familiar scent of ink and citrus clung to the air when Aventurine stepped into their apartment. He lingered in the doorway, fingers brushing the rim of his hat, heart still racing from the meeting with Jade.

In the living room, Ratio sat at his usual desk, annotating financial reports with crisp red ink. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose. His pen moved with surgical precision.

Aventurine swallowed. Time to drop the bomb.

“Hey, babe.” He leaned against the doorframe with a casual air he didn’t quite feel. “Guess what Jade just told me?”

Ratio didn’t look up.

“You’re being sent back to school.”

Aventurine blinked.

“Wait—huh?”

Now Ratio looked up. Calm, composed—but there was a quiet tension in the line of his shoulders.

“She consulted me earlier in the week,” Ratio said, setting down his pen. “Diamond wants to promote you, but your credentials were flagged. They weren’t… IPC standard.”

Aventurine snorted, trying to laugh off the flicker of hurt.

“You already knew and didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t want to influence your decision.” Ratio stood and crossed the space between them with steady, precise steps. “This needed to be yours.”

“But you let me walk into that meeting blind?” Aventurine teased, though the edge was real now. “Let me play the fool for Jade?”

Ratio’s eyes softened, just slightly. “Would it have changed anything?”

“…Maybe not.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Ratio exhaled and gently cupped Aventurine’s face—affectionate, but not quite enough to erase the sting.

“I’ve already contacted the registrar. You’ve been accepted into the part-time finance track. Your materials will arrive tomorrow.” His voice was instructional. Detached.

Aventurine frowned.

“Wow. You really planned this out.”

“It’s what you need, isn’t it?”

A pause.

Aventurine stepped back with a lopsided smile and a hollow laugh.

“You’re already slipping into professor mode, huh?”

Ratio didn’t smile.

“If you’re going to do this, you’ll do it properly.”

That stung more than he expected.

“Right. Better bring my A-game… or I’ll get detention.”

Ratio’s lips twitched. Almost a smile.

“I’m serious, Aventurine.”

So was he.

==================

Later That Evening

Dinner was unusually quiet.

Aventurine poked at his food with the tip of his fork, appetite dulled by exhaustion and something heavier.

Ratio sat across from him, sipping tea. Calm. Unreadable.

No argument. Just silence.

The meal ended with the soft clink of cutlery. Aventurine stood to clear the plates—but Ratio was already up, moving swiftly.

“I’ll do it,” he said, gathering them before Aventurine could.

Aventurine let him. He wandered to the couch, slumped back, and stared up at the ceiling.

What am I doing? Back to school. IPC work. And Ratio acting like he’s not my lover anymore.

He closed his eyes.

A minute passed. Then footsteps. Then the weight of someone sitting beside him.

Ratio didn’t speak at first. Just sat. Close enough that their shoulders touched—barely.

“You’re not a student to me, Aventurine.”

The words were quiet. Careful. As if they’d been rehearsed but never said aloud.

Aventurine cracked one eye open.

“You don’t say?”

“I know,” Ratio murmured, fingers folding in his lap. “I sound harsh. I’m… being harsh. But only because I know what you’re capable of.”

Aventurine studied him in the dim light.

Ratio met his gaze—firm, steady.

“You’re brilliant. But you’ve never had the framework to prove it. This is your chance. And I don’t want you to half-ass it because you’re scared—or because I went easy on you.”

“…But I’m not some investment portfolio,” Aventurine muttered.

Ratio flinched, then—gently, unexpectedly—reached for his hand.

“You’re not,” he said softly. “You’re the man I love. And I’m scared too.”

Aventurine’s breath hitched. “You are?”

Ratio gave his hand a small squeeze.

“I’m scared I’ll mess this up. That I’ll blur the lines. I want to push you to succeed—but not if it means losing us along the way.”

For a moment, Aventurine said nothing.

Then he tugged Ratio closer by the wrist, leaning his forehead against Ratio’s shoulder.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s figure it out together.”

Ratio didn’t reply. He just wrapped an arm around his waist and held him there.

Firm. Steady. Like a man who knew he couldn’t be soft tomorrow…

…but needed to be gentle tonight.

“…Ratio?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Ratio chuckled and brushed their lips together.

“Of course.”

………

……………..

……………………….

To be continued.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Rules of Distance

Aventurine woke to soft morning light spilling across the duvet—filtered gold, warm and gentle as it painted streaks across the wooden floorboards. It touched the edges of the bed, glinted off the corner of Ratio’s framed certificates on the wall, and coaxed a sleepy flutter from beneath Aventurine’s lashes.

He stayed still, eyes half-lidded, letting the hush of morning settle over him. From the kitchen came the subtle clatter of a spoon against ceramic, the low hum of a boiling kettle, the distant purring of water pipes. Ratio moved with quiet efficiency—an unhurried, practiced rhythm that said this was routine.

Comforting sounds. Familiar. Ordinary.

And yet today was anything but.

Aventurine exhaled slowly, the air leaving his chest more like a sigh. His heart beat a little too fast, each thump loud in his ears. His hands, resting on the duvet, felt cold despite the sunlight.

His eyes drifted to the window. The world outside was alive—students walking past below, backpacks slung over shoulders, the murmur of early conversation rising with the wind. There was something so normal about it. It unnerved him more than it soothed.

It’s just school, he reminded himself. You’ve stood before petty kings and conniving merchants. You’ve brokered ceasefires over a single breath. You can handle a university orientation.

Still, the nerves coiled tight and sharp beneath his skin.

The scent of laundry detergent and cedarwood drifted from the sheets—Ratio’s scent. The quiet scent of home. And somehow that only made it worse.

============

By the time he padded barefoot into the kitchen, Ratio had already set out breakfast: oatmeal, honey on the side, and a cup of dark, unsweetened coffee that still steamed faintly in the morning light. The older man stood at the counter, tablet in hand, glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through what looked like student papers or department schedules.

“You’re up early,” Ratio said, not looking up.

Ratio always folded the napkin into a perfect triangle before sliding it to Aventurine’s side of the table. A detail so small it could be mistaken for habit—except it wasn’t today.

Aventurine hummed and pulled out a chair. His voice was low, rasped by sleep and something else.

“Didn’t sleep much.”

Ratio’s eyes flicked to him—brief but thorough. A quick visual check-in. The kind that meant I noticed, even if he didn’t say it aloud.

“Nervous?” he asked, tone neutral.

Aventurine scoffed, but it lacked conviction. “Excited,” he offered instead, reaching for his coffee. His hands wrapped around the mug as if to warm his fingers.

Ratio didn’t push further, but the weight of silence between them said he wanted to. Instead, he sat across from Aventurine, picking at his own breakfast with practiced detachment. A bird chirped outside the window. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator creaked softly.

They ate in near silence. Not uncomfortable—just suspended. Like both were bracing for something.

==============

Aventurine stood to grab his bag. Ratio followed without a word, his footsteps quiet on the tile. At the door, Ratio straightened. His eyes flicked over Aventurine’s outfit with clinical precision—green blazer crisp and fitted, golden accents perfectly coordinated, dark trousers pressed just enough to whisper wealth without shouting it. His chestnut hair was styled like he’d stepped out of a lookbook.

Ratio clicked his tongue softly.

“Did you remember your student ID?”

Aventurine patted his inner pocket.

“Yes.”

“Handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Backup pen?”

“I’m not twelve.”

“Hmm.”

Still, Ratio reached up and adjusted the collar of his blazer, fingers cool and deft. His hand lingered, just briefly, against Aventurine’s neck. Just long enough for a flicker of warmth to settle there.

“You remember what we talked about,” Ratio said, voice dropping slightly. Calm, but firm. “No arriving together. No contact during campus hours unless necessary. No familiar language. No shortcuts.”

Aventurine’s chest tensed beneath his blazer.

“I know,” he replied quietly. “It’ll be troublesome if people start talking. Better to keep focus on the coursework.”

Ratio’s hand fell away. For a moment, the older man hesitated. Then he leaned forward, brushing the softest kiss against Aventurine’s temple. Not a lover’s kiss—something quieter, more fragile. Something that would vanish if anyone else looked.

“I wish you luck,” Ratio murmured.

Aventurine offered a faint smile—small, but genuine.

Then he opened the door and stepped into the morning.

================

It was immediate.

The stares.

The whispers.

It was in the way students paused mid-step, conversations trailing off as he passed. Eyes flicked from his boots to his blazer to the designer-brand satchel slung casually over his shoulder. Some squinted, visibly confused.

“Is that a guest lecturer?” someone muttered behind an overpriced coffee cup.

Aventurine kept walking across Penacony Paperfold University.

Someone skateboarded past him in socks and a toga. He wasn’t sure if it was a costume or a protest.

The campus was sprawling and green, dotted with old stone buildings and sleek glass additions. Vines clung to the brick of the older structures. Students clustered under archways and on picnic benches, animated in their own little worlds.

And Aventurine walked through it like an oil painting against a photograph.

Maybe the hat was too much. He tugged it lower over his brow. But the glasses stay.

==========

“Um—sorry!” someone said, jogging up beside him, a paper schedule flapping in one hand. “Are you… staff? I’m looking for the lecture hall for—”

“Oh, I’m not a lecturer,” Aventurine replied with a warm laugh, lips curling into his public-relations smile. “Just… overprepared.”

The student blinked, then flushed.

“O-oh! Sorry, you just—you looked kind of important.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

=================

The rest of the day bled together in a dizzy blur.

Classroom maps that may as well have been riddles. Icebreaker circles where students listed favorite anime, favorite drinks, favorite ways to die from exam stress. Aventurine answered “travel documentaries” and “carbonated rose water,” which only made things worse.

Lunch was an ordeal. The kiosk glared at him with LED apathy. He waved his card. Nothing.

“You have to tap it twice,” someone beside him offered gently.

He turned—and met warm brown eyes, an easy smile. Older student. Relaxed posture. Their sweater was too large and hung off one shoulder.

“First day?” he asked. “Name’s Luke.”

“That obvious? Just call me… Aven.”

“You’ve got the look, Aven.” the upperclassman teased. “New, overwhelmed, dressed like you came out of a Milan catalog.”

Aventurine chuckled, setting his tray down.

“I’ll tone it down next time.”

“Don’t,” he said, genuine. “It’s a vibe. I’m with the outreach club. We’re recruiting this week—if you’re not too cool for that.”

“Oh, I think I’ll be lucky just to survive the week.” The blond’s shoulders relaxed, glad to have someone friendly in this foreign environment.

“Well,” he said with a wink, “we like lucky.”

============

Ratio stood in the faculty lounge, half-listening to a meandering conversation about textbook procurement. His eyes, however, were elsewhere—drawn to the quad beyond the wide windows.

There he was.

Aventurine. Laughing.

Too close to a handsome upperclassman with an easy smile and a familiarity that grated. The student’s hand landed on Aventurine’s shoulder in a gesture that might have been friendly—but lingered a second too long. Aventurine didn’t step back. He smiled.

Ratio’s grip tightened around his coffee cup until the lid crinkled.

“That’s the new transfer, right?” a female colleague asked as she joined him at the window. “Impeccable taste in coats. Heard he’s got a special tutor already.”

Ratio’s jaw twitched.

“I arranged it,” he said flatly, eyes never leaving the window. “Temporarily.”

“Oh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Thought he’d be too advanced for remedial.”

Ratio didn’t respond.

Not because he didn’t want to—but because he wasn’t sure what would come out if he did.

A special tutor. As if it was some anonymous academic favor. As if it wasn’t him.

He clenched his cup tighter, fingers flexing around the thin ceramic. Part of him wanted to clarify—to say it was his student, his responsibility. But the other part, the colder, smarter part, knew that would only raise more questions.

So he stayed silent, watching as Aventurine threw his head back in a soft laugh, posture relaxed, visibly charmed.

Ratio's stomach coiled. He didn’t blame Aventurine, not really. Charisma was second nature to him.

But seeing it pointed elsewhere, toward someone who could speak freely to him in public, who didn’t have to hide behind classroom doors and rules… it rankled.

Ratio’s gaze lingered at the window, his coffee now cold.

===============

Elsewhere, beneath the shaded cafeteria awning, Aventurine sat alone, his untouched tray of food cooling beside him.

He held his student ID in one hand, tapping it cautiously against the scanner like it might bite. The machine blinked red. Again. Then again.

He let out a slow exhale through his nose, jaw tightening.

It wasn’t the machine’s fault. Or the food system. Or the school’s convoluted layout. But all of it stacked on top of a creeping discomfort—like wearing someone else’s shoes in a crowd and being expected to walk gracefully.

He leaned back on the bench and scanned the courtyard. Groups of students gathered at nearby tables, laughing over inside jokes, trading snacks, showing each other videos on their phones. A language of familiarity he hadn't yet learned.

They looked so young. Not just in age, but in the way they moved, unguarded. Secure in themselves. Comfortable in their chaos.

Aventurine adjusted the brim of his hat, shielding his eyes. His blazer felt too formal now. His boots, too shiny. He imagined how he must look to them—like someone who walked in from a different life and didn’t know how to blend in.

Ratio would’ve figured this card system out in two seconds.

Back home, Ratio always checked their groceries twice. Always caught the little mistakes—like setting the timer on the wrong stove burner. Small things. The kind Aventurine never noticed until now.

The thought surfaced like muscle memory. Unbidden, comforting, sharp. Ratio always read the fine print. He would’ve pointed out the instructions at the bottom of the screen—the ones Aventurine had missed while trying not to look overwhelmed.

He shook his head and sat forward, squinting at the terminal. He tried a different sequence: one tap, a pause, then a second.

The machine blinked green. A soft ding sounded.

“...Finally,” he muttered under his breath, equal parts relief and exasperation.

He reached for his tray—but the lunch bell rang, sharp and unsympathetic.

Students were already standing, gathering bags and tossing leftovers. His stomach gave a quiet, traitorous grumble.

No time.

He stood, discarded the tray with a pang of frustration, and began fast-walking toward the classroom buildings, trying not to look as out of place as he felt.

=============

The lecture hall buzzed with soft chatter as students filed in, notebooks flipping open, laptops clicking to life.

Aventurine settled into a middle-row seat, back straight, trying to look like he belonged. The minute Ratio stepped in, silence fell like a curtain.

Ratio’s presence at the podium was commanding—sharp voice, clean pacing, chalk sweeping across the board in crisp, unhurried strokes.

“Define the principle behind this formulation,” he said, turning to the class.

A student in the front answered tentatively. Correct. Another followed. Ratio gave an approving nod.

Then his eyes landed on Aventurine.

“You. The third row. Go ahead.”

Aventurine froze. The equation on the board blurred.

“Ah… it refers to—” He fumbled for the term, but the phrasing caught on his tongue. “Thermal diffusion?”

A beat of silence. A soft, scattered laugh from someone in the back.

He never faltered in meetings. Never forgot a number in a fiscal projection. But here, in front of Ratio—he couldn’t even recall a term.

Ratio’s expression didn’t shift, but the disappointment in his voice cut deep.

“Not quite. Pay closer attention.”

The lesson continued, but Aventurine barely absorbed it. Shame prickled under his collar like heat.

As class ended, Ratio’s voice rang out over the scraping of chairs.

“Stay back after the lesson for tutorial.”

It wasn’t a request.

“Understood, sir.” Aventurine nodded.

===============

“Sit,” Ratio said.

The classroom was empty now, the hum of the overhead lights loud in the silence between them.

Aventurine lowered himself into the chair, stomach twisting—not from nerves now, but from plain, mundane hunger. He hadn’t eaten since the oatmeal Ratio made him that morning. He’d meant to grab something between lectures, but everything had been overwhelming—lines too long, systems too confusing, and now here he was, being treated like a student who’d skipped studying rather than one still catching his breath from a hurricane of change.

His vision dipped slightly, the room too warm. His head swam with terms, timelines, too-tight expectations.

Ratio stood by the board, flipping open his notes, red pen already uncapped. His shoulders were tight, his jaw tense.

“You annotated the wrong source here,” Ratio began, tapping a page with the pen. “And this paragraph—what exactly were you trying to argue?”

Aventurine leaned forward, trying to focus, to be professional.

“I thought it tied into the main thesis—”

“You thought incorrectly,” Ratio snapped.

Aventurine blinked. The words sliced sharper than they should’ve. He lowered his gaze, jaw tightening. His pride stung, and worse—it felt personal.

Still, he kept his tone even.

“Got it. I’ll do better.”

Ratio didn’t soften. He stepped back toward the board and continued reciting the points with the same clipped precision as earlier, as though trying to scrub away whatever softness lingered between them this morning.

Aventurine tried to follow. He really did. But his head throbbed from hunger.  His stomach knotted, low and insistent—a hollow reminder that he hadn’t eaten since morning.

Ratio paused mid-sentence.

“You’re not listening,” he said.

“I am—”

“Then what did I just say about causation bias in political theory?”

Aventurine blinked, struggling to recall the last sentence.

“It’s when… correlation is mistaken for cause?”

“Superficial,” Ratio snapped. “Pay attention.”

“I am trying—”

“Try harder.”

That did it.

The words hit like ice water. Aventurine’s chest twisted—not from anger, but shame. His hands curled tightly into fists on the desk.

He looked down, forcing the tremble out of his voice.

“Right.” A pause. “Sorry.”

Ratio said nothing for a moment. Then turned away again, continuing the explanation—but the cold edge in his tone remained.

================

After Ratio left the classroom—sharp shoes echoing down the corridor—Aventurine lingered.

He packed his books slowly, methodically. Each movement deliberate. Mechanical.

The classroom was quiet now, save for the soft slide of paper and the hum of the ceiling fan. The same room where he’d just been spoken to like a slow learner. The same man who held him that morning had now turned his back with a clipped “Good.”

His laptop clicked shut with a faint finality. He slipped it into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, exhaling through his nose.

Outside, the hallway was already half-empty. The late afternoon sun filtered through tall windows, casting gold across the floor tiles and walls. For a second, it reminded him of the warm light from that morning—how safe it had felt.

Then he caught sight of his reflection in the glass pane by the stairwell—and paused.

Too polished. Too stiff. Too other.

His blazer sat crisply on his shoulders, hair still perfectly combed, but his posture betrayed him: rigid spine, tight jaw, that slight furrow between his brows that Ratio used to smooth away with a thumb.

A second-year passed by, gave him a curious look—half intrigue, half confusion.

Aventurine forced a small smile, the polite kind he gave to stockholders he didn't trust.

He looked away and reached up to fix his collar, adjusting it just-so—just like Ratio had done that morning with quiet hands and lingering fingers.

The pressure behind his eyes swelled, sharp and sudden, but he blinked it down.

“…I’m sorry, Ratio,” he murmured, voice barely audible above the creak of his bag strap. “I’ll do better.”

He turned toward the stairwell and walked on, head bowed beneath the weight of rules he’d helped agree to—but never imagined would feel like this.

================

That evening, the apartment was dim by the time Ratio returned home.

Just like they promised, the two of them didn’t return home together but at separate time.

“He’s a bit late.” Ratio checked his watch, “Did he get lost again?”

He tapped a message draft open.

He typed, ‘Are you okay?’

But then he deleted it.

No, I shouldn’t. it’s too personal. Too dangerous.

==========

Half an hour later, the door to their apartment opened and Aventurine stepped in exhausted with his books and laptop.

The warmth from that morning had drained away, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of overcooked rice.

Aventurine saw Ratio stood by the stove, stirring something bland-looking.  Seeing his lover reminded him of the tutorial lesson and this caused the blond to quickly escape to the bathroom.

Steam curled around him as he leaned against the tiled wall of the shower, water pouring over his back.

The day hadn’t just been long—it had been unraveling. The kind of day that pulled threads from him one at a time until all that was left was frayed exhaustion.

He closed his eyes, remembering Ratio’s voice. Stern. Sharp. Nothing like the man who kissed him goodbye this morning.

Was it always going to be like this? A performance at school, a second life at home?

Maybe it was selfish of me to expect softness after a hard day?

Maybe he hadn’t earned it.

He rested his forehead against the wall.

“I’ll do better,” he whispered to the water, and tried to believe it.

==============

Aventurine sat down at the kitchen table, groaning over his achy feet and a mild headache.

“What a long day,” he murmured. “And it’s only day 1.”

Ratio didn’t look up.

“You have a reading due Friday. Also, you missed a comma splice in your last summary. We’ll go over it tomorrow.”

Aventurine stiffened.

“Could we… not do this right now?” His voice cracked—quietly, like something delicate splintering.

Ratio finally turned. The kitchen light cast his expression in shadow.

He set the spoon down.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But this is for your own good.”

Then, wordlessly, he stepped forward and pulled Aventurine into a hug—from behind, arms circling his waist, face pressing into the nape of his neck.

It wasn’t tender. Not yet. But it held them both upright.

Aventurine closed his eyes, letting himself lean back. Letting himself breathe and basked in Ratio's warmth.

I missed you today.

I hated pretending.

Please don’t stop holding me.

Pretending was harder than he thought. It wasn’t the secrets. It was the silence they demanded.

He opened his mouth—I love you—but no sound came.

Ratio, as if hearing it anyway, whispered into his shoulder:

“I know.”

To be continued.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 – Where Silence Lives

Lately, the apartment had been too quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet—the one softened by the rustle of pages, low music, or the occasional hum of Ratio’s kettle. No, this silence was sharp. Hollow. The kind that pressed against Aventurine’s chest and made his own breathing feel too loud.

Ratio liked it this way, apparently. He claimed silence helped him think—said too much noise muddled the shape of ideas. If it got too lively, he’d reach for that damn sculptor’s mask of his, the one he wore when he needed to “focus.”

Aventurine, on the other hand, felt like he was living inside someone else’s house.

He used to look forward to evenings on the couch, Ratio curled up beside him, their dinners long gone cold while they got lost in each other’s warmth. But now—even brushing shoulders in the hallway felt awkward.

This all started when Ratio let the tutoring bleed too far into everything else—since then, their home had felt less like theirs and more like a space Aventurine was only passing through, careful not to leave too many fingerprints behind.

Determined not to let the distance between them grow any wider, Aventurine tried to close it the only way he could think of: with tea. He knocked on Ratio’s study door—once, soft and careful, the kind of knock that had learned not to expect much.

The door didn’t open.

Only the soft click of keyboard keys answered him, steady and indifferent. The same sound he’d fallen asleep to most nights this week.

Aventurine lingered, breath shallow, tea warming his palm. He set the cup down gently outside the study, the scent of Earl Grey curling faintly in the air, clinging to nothing.

Ratio emerged hours later, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, the faint imprint of glasses still on the bridge of his nose. He moved like a ghost—retrieving the cup of tea without a word, without a glance.

“Thanks,” he murmured distractedly, already turning back toward the study.

No smile. No eye contact. No peck on the cheek like he used to give—just the faint steam curling up between them, dissipating fast.

Aventurine followed after him into the study but stopped at the door frame. Feeling as if he’s unwelcome into Ratio’s space.

“You’ve been working so late these days,” he said, keeping his voice light. “What’s keeping you? The semester just started—surely you’re not drowning in exam papers already?”

Ratio paused, but didn’t look back.

“Admin work,” he said shortly. “Just sorting things out for the department. Nothing interesting.”

Not a lie, but not the truth either.

Behind his closed door were lesson plans and tailored reading materials—things he hadn’t been assigned, things he’d built quietly, meticulously, so Aventurine could catch up with the rest of the class.

But saying that felt too… personal. Too compromising. So he stayed vague. Professional. Distant. Once again Ratio forgot to turn off his work mode at home.

Aventurine let out a small, brittle laugh.

“Well then—how about a break? Grocery run? We’re out of… sugar, I think. Could pick some up and maybe grab dinner? I’ll even treat.”

Ratio’s voice came a beat too late.

“I’m busy.”

Not unkind. But not kind either.

“We’ll eat separately tonight. Don’t wait for me. Just go to bed.”

The door closed again with a quiet finality.

Aventurine stood there, alone with the silence and the tea that still lingered in the air—its scent slowly cooling, like everything else.

That night, Aventurine curled up on the far side of the bed, arms around a pillow that didn’t quite replace a person.

Ratio’s half remained untouched—still smooth, still cold.

Moonlight spilled across Ratio’s untouched half, silvering the creases in the sheet. Aventurine reached out once, fingers grazing the cold dip where a body should be. Then he curled back inwards, smaller than before.

============

A few days later, Aventurine tried again.

It was raining—gentle, rhythmic. The kind of rain that made things feel softer, like maybe the world could be kind if you let it.

Ratio was finally home before midnight, seated at the dining table with papers spread around him like a paper barricade. The lesson plan for Aventurine’s remedial classes finally took shape. His brow was furrowed, glasses slipping down his nose.

Aventurine padded over in quiet steps and stood behind him, hesitant. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out, unsure if Ratio would welcome the touch or pull away. He bent down carefully to wrap his arms gently around Ratio’s shoulders, leaning in so his cheek brushed against the warm skin.

“Ratio… love,” he whispered, voice soft and tentative, lips close to the shell of Ratio’s ear. “Come to bed, you’ve been working so hard, and I’m proud of you. Let me warm you up, okay?”

He searched for the familiar warmth in Ratio’s tense posture—the easy closeness they used to share—but all he found was a new distance, a quiet barrier that hadn’t been there before.

The Ratio of recent weeks felt like a stranger, distant and unreachable, and it made Aventurine’s chest ache with loneliness he wasn’t sure how to name.

The older man stiffened under Aventurine’s touch, the small warmth fading from his shoulders like a fragile promise slipping away.

“You need rest, too,” Aventurine added, his voice soft—careful not to sound desperate, but unsure if he succeeded.

Ratio shifted slightly but didn’t lean into the embrace. His tone was clipped, professional.

“I have two thesis drafts to review before tomorrow. And your own presentation still needs work.”

The moment snapped, sharp and brittle.

Aventurine pulled back, forcing a casual smile, letting his arms drop to his sides as if nothing had happened.

“Right. Of course it is,” he said, quieter now.

But Ratio didn’t see the way that smile faltered the instant Aventurine turned away. He never looked back long enough to catch the silent hurt lingering in the air between them.

But later, when the apartment had quieted and the tea had gone cold untouched on the table, he began to notice the gap.

The days that followed slipped by in a haze—long, slow stretches where silence draped over their apartment like spilled ink, thick and impossible to ignore.

Ratio buried himself in admin work and tutorials, often staying holed up in his study late into the night.

Aventurine, meanwhile, juggled with his IPC job while attending lectures in the afternoon while his weekends spent at the library. Some nights, he didn’t come home until after midnight.

They barely crossed paths. Meals became quiet rituals observed out of habit rather than hunger—Ratio eating cold leftovers between spreadsheets, Aventurine microwaving tea in the dark. Their words grew fewer. Their glances even fewer.

The silence between them wasn’t hostile. Just… exhausted.

And getting harder to break.

Ratio belatedly felt the weight of it all pressing on his chest—the distance he’d created, the warmth he’d pushed away. Guilt gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. He wanted to fix it. To reach out. But every attempt felt clumsy, like he was fumbling in the dark.

Then, one evening, hoping to patch a crack with something small and soft, Ratio came home carrying a modest cardboard box tucked under his arm. His steps were hesitant, the usual confidence replaced by awkward hope.

“It’s not much,” he said, voice uneven as he set the box gently on the floor. “But I thought… maybe it’d cheer you up.”

Inside, a cream-colored kitten peeked out, smoky-tipped ears twitching, mewing softly as it wobbled forward on unsteady legs—an unexpected burst of life and mischief in their quiet, heavy world.

Aventurine blinked, caught off guard.

“You got me a cat?”

Ratio crouched beside him, the stiff formality he’d worn for weeks slipping just a little. A familiar, sheepish smile tugged at his lips—the kind that used to mean he was about to say something mildly insulting but secretly affectionate.

“It reminded me of you. Kind of clingy. And maybe… a little too pretty for its own good.”

Aventurine let out a breathy laugh—thin, startled, but real. For a flicker of a second, something sharp and sparkly lit up behind his eyes—mischief, bravado, the ghost of the man who used to banter without fear.

“Oh? So you do admit I’m pretty,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into a familiar, lopsided smirk. “Took you long enough.”

It wasn’t quite effortless—but it was close. Like slipping on a favorite jacket he hadn’t worn in a while. One that still fit, even if the lining felt thinner now.

Ratio huffed a soft laugh, and for a second, they were almost themselves again.

“You’re such a disaster,” Aventurine added, fond and exasperated, the words slipping out more easily than he expected. His voice was warmer now—almost teasing, almost like before.

For a heartbeat, it felt like they were finding their way back. Like the space between them wasn’t quite so wide.

“I’m trying,” Ratio replied, eyes sincere but tired.

And just like that, the spell wavered. Aventurine’s smile didn’t vanish, but it dimmed—just a little. Trying was good. Trying meant Ratio still cared. That maybe the man he missed—warm, gentle, reachable—was still in there somewhere.

They weren’t back to before, not yet. But the words were a flicker of the Ratio he loved.

Encouraged by that glimmer of honesty, Aventurine leaned in and pressed a light kiss to Ratio’s cheek—a soft thank-you, brief but lingering. When Ratio didn’t flinch, his heart fluttered with hope.

His hand moved instinctively, fingertips brushing down the front of Ratio’s shirt, slow and tender. He let them rest against his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath.

“Hey, Ratio…” he murmured, gaze lifting to meet his. “Can we…?”

His thumb traced the edge of Ratio’s button, tentative. The gesture wasn’t overt, but intimate—an unspoken plea in the way Aventurine looked at him, in the way his body leaned closer.

He wasn’t trying to seduce, not really. He was trying to reach—to feel wanted again, to chase the warmth that had been slipping further away each day.

Ratio felt it. The heat in Aventurine’s touch, the ache in his voice. And for a moment, it pulled at him—something old and instinctive rising in his chest, begging him to close the distance, to wrap his arms around him and make love to him.

But then the other part of him—the rigid, responsible part that had dug in deep over the past few weeks—tightened its grip.

What if this blurred the line again?

What if giving in now made Aventurine too comfortable, made him fall behind again?

What if he let himself be a lover when he needed to be a mentor?

He turned his head just as their lips were about to meet.

The kiss missed its mark, landing soft and unsatisfying against the side of his face.

“…Ratio?”

He could hear the hurt from Aventurine’s voice.

“Not yet,” Ratio said quietly. Final. “Did you finish the assignment you haven’t hand in?”

Aventurine stayed close, heart aching, his hand still resting lightly on Ratio’s chest—close enough to feel his warmth, and the cold distance beneath it.

“Am I not… desirable to you anymore?” he asked, voice barely more than breath.

Ratio’s eyes flicked to his, startled.

“No! That’s not it—”

“Then…” Aventurine’s voice wavered, though his eyes stayed steady on Ratio’s. “What are you waiting for?”

Ratio opened his mouth. Closed it. A dozen reasons crowded behind his teeth—logic, guilt, worry. None of them felt worthy of saying aloud.

The silence stretched too long—louder than any answer he could give.

Aventurine watched him, the light in his eyes dimming by degrees. Then, with a soft, almost practiced smile, he gently withdrew, hand falling from Ratio’s chest like the final petal of a dying flower.

“…I see,” he said quietly. “You’re tired. And busy. Of course you are.”

His gaze dropped to the kitten as it curled trustingly into his lap. Aventurine stroked its soft fur, voice breaking just at the edge but never quite shattering.

“You brought me this little one… that’s already more than I deserve. I’ll take good care of it, I promise. So you don’t have to worry about me.”

He didn’t look up. Maybe he couldn't.

“…You should rest soon, too.”

Standing up with the kitten in his arms, Aventurine turned his back on Ratio.

“Let’s get you some milk, okay? I bet you’re hungry. And oh, what shall I name you? Dice? Chip? Oh, how about little casino machine?”

He gave a soft, breathy chuckle.

“Tiny, clingy, and already crawling into places you don’t belong… just like me, huh?”

Aventurine stroked the kitten’s downy head with trembling fingers, eyes fixed firmly on the soft curve of its back.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll take good care of you. That much, I can still do.”

Behind him, Ratio shifted. His hand half-lifted—toward Aventurine’s shoulder, maybe to offer comfort, maybe to finally speak. But the words caught in his throat like thorns.

His fingers hovered for a beat. Then curled slowly into a fist, falling uselessly back to his side.

“…Aventurine,” he said at last, voice barely more than a whisper.

The blond didn’t turn around. Whether he hadn’t heard from the distance between them or simply chose not to respond, Ratio couldn’t tell.

Aventurine just stood there by the kitchen counter, gently pouring milk into a shallow bowl. One hand stroked the kitten’s soft fur, steady and slow—like he hoped the purring warmth might fill the hollow space Ratio no longer reached.

Ratio looked away, jaw tight, guilt blooming cold and sharp behind his ribs.

Still, he said nothing.

And silence answered for them both.

===========

That night, Aventurine didn’t sleep. He lay still beneath the covers, eyes open and burning, tracing the faint outlines of the ceiling in the dark. The kitten curled against his cheek on the pillow. A tiny, trusting weight that made his chest ache worse.

Beside him, Ratio was just as still, flat on his back, silent and unmoving. His glasses rested on the nightstand, untouched since earlier. His expression, even in the dark, was unreadable.

The silence between them wasn’t peaceful. It throbbed with all the things they weren’t saying. Like the breath between a question and an answer that never came.

Aventurine’s thoughts circled, sharp and suffocating.

What are we now?

Lovers? Students?

Roommates with history and too much pride to say it’s over?

Ratio had always been gentle—even his discipline came wrapped in care—but lately, Aventurine couldn’t feel that warmth. He understood the importance of his studies. He knew getting his Master’s mattered. For his career. His future. His worth.

But was that reason enough to be shut out of Ratio’s heart?

Or was that just an excuse? A way for Ratio to keep things neat and proper, to avoid the messy truth of loving someone like him—a broken, branded ex-slave who clung too tightly to affection like it might vanish?

Aventurine turned his head just slightly, watching the silhouette beside him.

You used to kiss me goodnight, he thought, aching. You used to pull me in and not let go.

Was this his punishment for being too slow? Too needy?

At some point before dawn, their hands drifted close beneath the sheets. Not touching, just near enough to sense the heat of the other’s skin. Their pinkies brushed.

Aventurine froze, breath caught in his throat.

Please, he thought. Please reach back.

But Ratio didn’t move.

And Aventurine didn’t dare close the gap.

So the space between them held—thin as a breath, deep as an ocean.

============

A few days later, Aventurine stood outside Ratio’s office, the small reusable bag cradled carefully in his hands. Inside, a sleek black tumbler of Earl Grey—steeped just right, with that faint hint of bergamot—exactly how Ratio liked it.

He lingered for a moment, thumb brushing the fabric handle of the bag as if grounding himself, willing his heart to steady. The ache of the silence that had settled between them hummed beneath his skin like a faint electric current, impossible to ignore.

Maybe this time, he thought, maybe this time it’ll be different.

Inside the bag, a folded note rested against the tumbler like a secret—simple, but full of meaning:

“Don’t forget to hydrate, doc. —A”

No hearts. No kisses. Just a trace of warmth hiding behind the joke, a sliver of connection threaded through the words.

He forced himself to smile, smoothing down his hoodie, telling himself this was enough for now. That love doesn’t always need fireworks. Sometimes it was just this: small care held in quiet gestures.

But beneath that fragile hope, the demons whispered.

He’s too busy.
You’re just a distraction.
He doesn’t want you—he just tolerates you.

Aventurine’s chest tightened, breath catching in the familiar grip of doubt. He fought the urge to listen, to let those voices spiral into full-blown panic.

No, he told himself firmly. Don’t let them win.

He straightened, turned away from the office door, and walked off before anyone could see the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

Later, around 4:30, fate—or perhaps habit—pulled him back past the office.

The lights were off. The silence heavier than before.

The tumbler still sat there, unmoved. Untouched.

Aventurine stood frozen in the hallway, eyes locked on the little black cup that had become a symbol of everything he longed for but couldn’t quite reach.

A dry, humorless laugh slipped past his lips.

“…Guess I should stop making it.”

His fingers curled tightly around the tumbler’s smooth metal surface, the weight of it both comforting and crushing.

Just as he was about to leave, a sharp hiss of water caught his attention near the loading area behind the admin building.

A girl was crouched by a cart of gardening tools, fighting a tangled hose as it sprayed unpredictably. Water splattered across the pavement and her sleeves. She groaned in frustration.

Aventurine paused, then walked over.

“Need help?”

She looked up, startled.

“Oh—uh, yes! This thing is possessed or something.”

He knelt beside her, quietly adjusting the pressure valve and straightening the kink in the tubing. With a quick twist of the nozzle, the water steadied into a smooth stream.

The girl blinked in awe.

“Okay, wow. You’re like a hose whisperer.”

Aventurine chuckled under his breath, brushing a droplet from his sleeve.

“Just lucky.”

She gave him a grateful smile, then tilted her head.

“Wait… weren’t you that super rich diplomat’s son who turned heads back during orientation session?”

Aventurine blinked then chuckle with a killer smile, “…Maybe?”

She noticed him not elaborating then play along, “Well we were just heading up to do greenhouse maintenance. You want to tag along? We could use someone competent. I’ll even split my cafeteria cake stash.”

Aventurine hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the handles of his reusable bag. If he went home now, he knew what was waiting: a silent apartment, untouched tea, Ratio buried in reports.

He glanced toward the elevator, then back at her.

“…Sure,” he said quietly.

Together, they loaded the tools and entered the lift, the greenhouse their next stop.

============

“Damn meeting.”

Ratio muttered under his breath as he stepped out of the staff conference room, massaging his temples. What was supposed to be a two-hour session had ballooned into three and a half—bloated with circular arguments and faculty members more invested in their own voices than anything of substance.

His headache throbbed as he trudged toward his office, half-dreaming of his desk and a few minutes of silence. But as he rounded the corner, he caught a familiar flicker of gold.

Aventurine. Stepping into the elevator with a bag in hand, following after a girl.

Ratio halted mid-step.

“Aventurine?”

The doors slid shut before he could call again.

He hadn’t meant to follow. He really hadn’t.

And yet—

Minutes later, he found himself riding the elevator up to the rooftop level, muttering weak justifications under his breath like this isn’t following, it’s just… academic curiosity.

The rooftop garden managed by the third-years of the Garden Initiative wasn’t hard to find. What was hard, however, was being discreet.

Ratio attempted to pose like a Greek statue, his sculpture mask firmly in place, crouched behind a large planter box on the stairwell landing.

When he poked his head out—far too obviously—a passing student glanced his way, prompting the scholar to scramble backward, awkwardly ducking behind a spindly tree with the stealth of a startled cat.

At one point, he even held up a leafy branch in front of his face like makeshift camouflage. It did absolutely nothing. A breeze caught the branch and nearly smacked it into his glasses.

“Such foolishness. I’m a scientist,” he whispered to himself, crouched awkwardly behind a wide pillar. “Not a spy.”

Still, he inched closer.

Soft voices drifted through the open air—gentle and unguarded. One of them was unmistakably Aventurine’s.

It had been days since they’d truly spoken. Every night since, Ratio had stayed up too late, eyes glued to paper stacks he wasn’t reading, anything to avoid facing what he didn’t know how to fix.

But now—hearing Aventurine laugh, really laugh—something sharp and hollow cracked open inside his chest.

From behind a rusted barrel of gardening tools, Ratio finally got a clear view.

Aventurine stood beside a row of planter boxes, sleeves rolled up, golden hair mussed from the wind, a hose in one hand and a spanner in the other as he adjusted something in the irrigation system. Water trickled out gently from newly connected tubing, pooling perfectly in the soil. Nearby, one of the Garden Initiative girls crouched beside him, chatting as she sorted out some tubing.

Ratio recognized her—a sweet upperclassman with a fondness for sun hats and tree metaphors.

“You’re a natural at this,” she said brightly. “Honestly, the last guy we asked nearly flooded the lavender beds.”

Aventurine chuckled, adjusting the hose with practiced care, his movements precise like someone who’d handled more delicate situations than plumbing. Or burying them.

“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice fixing broken things,” he said, half-grinning. “Tools. Plans. People. Sometimes you don’t get a perfect hand—you just play what you’re dealt.”

She blinked.

“That sounds… kind of sad.”

He gave a dramatic shrug, eyes glinting.

“I prefer to call it strategic thinking. Every gamble’s got a risk. You just learn how to hedge your bets.”

She tilted her head, amused.

“Is that your way of saying you wing it?”

“Exactly,” he said with a wink. “Add a little mystery to the mix—suddenly people start wondering if I’m secretly royalty, or a slave with eyes you can sell for 60 Tanbas or just bluffing the whole time.”

She laughed. “That still doesn’t make sense.”

“Good,” Aventurine said, flashing a grin. “That means the bluff’s working.”

Ratio’s frown deepened as he watched. There was a softness in Aventurine’s smile—genuine, unguarded. Not one of his usual playful masks. And it wasn’t for him.

The girl’s expression shifted as they continued adjusting the hoses. Her voice grew quiet.

“You don’t have to explain, you know. If you’ve got heavy stuff you can’t talk about… I get that. Honestly, trees listen better than most people. They don’t ask questions. They just stay. Keep growing around you.”

She gestured toward a slim young tree nearby, its leaves swaying gently in the wind.

“That one’s my favorite. It’s small, yeah, but it still gives oxygen. Still helps people breathe, even when nobody notices.”

Aventurine stilled. For a moment, Ratio saw that familiar flicker in his expression—the quiet sorrow he only let show when he thought no one was watching.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Giving everything and still being left behind.”

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but then rubbed her arms with a faint shiver. The wind had picked up—cooler now as late afternoon turned to dusk.

Aventurine hesitated. Then, he reached into the reusable bag he’d set aside and pulled out the sleek black tumbler.

Ratio froze.

That was his tumbler. The Earl Grey he’d missed because of the meeting.

“Here,” Aventurine said, offering it to the girl. “It’s still warm.”

She blinked in surprise.

“I couldn’t. Isn’t this yours?”

He shook his head with a small, wistful smile.

“Nah. It’s not going to be drunk by anyone anyway.”

Ratio’s breath caught. His fingers tightened around the rusted edge of the barrel.

The girl took the tumbler gingerly, cradling it with both hands like it was something delicate.

“Well… thank you. You sure?”

“Yeah.” Aventurine turned back to the hose, fiddling with the nozzle as if it needed more attention than it did. “He didn’t want it.”

There was no bitterness in his voice—just a quiet resignation, like someone stating a fact they'd finally stopped trying to change.

She watched him for a moment, eyes soft with something like understanding. Then, with a gentle smile, she offered,
“How about we split it, then? I’ve got some cafeteria cake stashed away. Want to come sit with us? We’ve been trading scandalous lecturer gossip all afternoon.”

Aventurine paused, blinking at her in surprise. Then a quiet chuckle escaped him.

“So I’m one of your crew now?”

She grinned. “You helped save our hose from certain doom. That earns you honorary club status. Plus,” she added with a playful shrug, “we’ve been secretly hoping to steal a selfie with you—those eyes of yours are practically filter-proof.”

Ratio stepped back from the barrel, heart aching, guilt and longing tangled in his throat.

He hadn’t meant to follow.

He hadn’t meant for this.

But it was time—past time—to stop hiding behind meetings, papers, and silence.

Aventurine was reaching out in small ways, even now. And Ratio had let every signal fall to the floor like crumpled notes unread.

No more.

Even if it was messy. Even if he didn’t deserve forgiveness.

He had to try.

He’d buy dinner. Take Aventurine somewhere private. Somewhere quiet.

A date.

Maybe their first real one.

So he made a plan.

A small, quiet step forward.

===========

That weekend he booked a discreet café off-campus. Somewhere no one would recognize them. He even styled his hair differently, wore the wrinkled blue shirt Aventurine once teased made him look like a salaryman.

But the moment Aventurine walked in—hood drawn up, cap pulled low—Ratio knew it wasn’t going to work.

Not the way he’d hoped.

“You should’ve told me,” Aventurine muttered, sliding into the seat across from him. “Someone might see.”

“I just wanted something normal,” Ratio replied, trying to keep his voice light. “A date.”

A pause. Long enough to notice how tired Aventurine looked. His sleeves were rolled up, faint traces of cat fur on the hem.

Ratio blinked.

“You went out?”

Aventurine raised a brow.

“Yeah? Took the kitten to the vet. First check-up.”

“…You didn’t tell me?”

“I did tell you,” Aventurine snapped, sharper than he intended. “You were too busy muttering to yourself over admin papers to hear it. I was standing right there, Ratio.”

Ratio frowned, stung.

“I was preparing your tutorial schedule—”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Aventurine cut in, his voice low but shaking. “I just wanted you to look at me. See me.”

The table between them might as well have been miles wide.

Silence lingered, bitter and fragile.

Then Ratio exhaled and reached slowly across the table, palm up. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I wanted tonight to be… different. Maybe I messed that up.”

Aventurine stared at that outstretched hand like it was a lifeline. Slowly, he placed his own hand atop it.

“Let’s just eat,” he said with a tired smile. “We’ll call this round one.”

A step forward.

The food arrived. They didn’t talk much, but they shared bites.

Aventurine Ratio’s awful posture. Ratio stole a mushroom from his plate. A flicker of warmth returned, cautious and small.

Then the bell above the café door chimed.

Aventurine noticed Ratio tensed up and glanced around as if checking their situation.

Two students entered, chatting and laughing loudly.

Ratio froze mid-sip. His shoulders tensed. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by calculation.

His sculpture mask worn instantly.

Aventurine widened his eyes at Ratio’s actions then smiled bitterly.

“You act like I’m something to hide”, he whispered, voice tight, the edge barely concealed.

Ratio gasped, belatedly realizing the implications of his actions. His mouth parted to deny, to apologize… but nothing came.

Aventurine stood before dessert arrived. He didn’t cause a scene. Didn’t slam his napkin down or raise his voice.

Just a quiet sadness as he whispered, “I think I’m done here.”

For a second, he held out his hand—uncertain, suspended between hope and habit. A silent invitation to try again.

But then, as if remembering where they were, what they were (or weren’t), he hesitated. His fingers curled back in.

He dropped his gaze.

“Let’s go home, Ratio,” he said, voice barely above the clatter of dishes. “Not that we talk there either.”

To be continued.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 – The Things We Leave Unsaid

“Director! Can you please sign here? Madam Jade needs it for the next staff meeting.”

Aventurine didn’t break stride as he walked toward the car, the weight of the day evident in his posture. Without looking up, he pulled out a pen and signed the document in one fluid motion. He handed it back to the subordinate, who was jogging to keep pace with him.

“Inform her I won’t be attending.”

“Understood, sir.”

Aventurine paused briefly, then added without turning, “And also tell Topaz the key is in my desk drawer.”

“Noted.”

The subordinate nodded and hurried away, leaving Aventurine alone with the growing quiet around him.

Two weeks passed. The unspoken rift between him and Ratio only deepened since that disastrous dinner at a cafe.

Aventurine slipped into a rhythm—if it could be called that at all.

Mornings spent buried in work at the IPC and meeting clients.

Evenings attending lectures, and sleepless nights hunched over textbooks or distractedly watching his kitten chase shadows dancing across the apartment walls.

Aventurine found himself lingering near the campus noticeboards more often these days—clubbing events, study groups, hobby meetups.

A week ago, he'd ended up helping a girl from the Garden Initiative untangle a wild hose behind the admin building. One thing led to another, and before he knew it, he was on the rooftop greenhouse with dirt on his hands, wind in his hair, and a slice of cafeteria cake being passed his way like he belonged.

It was strange, almost unsettling, how easy it felt. No poker face. No double meanings. Just the slow rhythm of watering systems and quiet laughter.

Nature, he realized, was all about long odds—putting time and care into something without any guarantee it’ll grow. And maybe that’s what made him feel so at ease. It was the first place in weeks where he wasn’t bluffing, wasn’t hedging. Just playing the hand as it came, no stakes, no masks—and still winning something real.

Aventurine packed Ratio’s lunches in silence each morning, carefully choosing the older man’s favorites. He left fresh tea by the study door in a black tumbler, a small ritual to stay connected. But the notes of encouragement he once wrote had stopped—the words now felt hollow, empty without a way to truly reach Ratio’s guarded heart.

Ratio, for his part, maintained the facade of normalcy. He continued his lectures with the same stern professionalism, and dutifully held private tutorials for Aventurine whenever he fell behind.

But beneath the surface, a quiet distance had settled between them—their private tutorials felt more like meetings between strangers than moments shared by lovers. Ratio meant well; he wanted Aventurine to succeed, to ace his course. But he struggled to switch off his work mode, and in his careful, methodical way, he kept things strictly professional—unintentionally putting up higher walls between them.

===========

The days blurred together, each one slipping past with quiet routine but growing tension. Neither dared to break the fragile silence that stretched between them—until the weight of the approaching thesis deadline finally loomed like a storm on the horizon.

The deadline came—and went.

Aventurine didn’t submit his draft.

When he arrived home that evening, rain slicked his clothes and streaked the papers clutched loosely in his bag. His hair hung in damp strands around his face, and exhaustion tugged at the slump of his shoulders. Ratio was waiting by the door, eyes sharp, voice clipped.

“You missed the deadline,” he said. “No message. No explanation.”

“I wasn’t ready,” Aventurine muttered, shoulders sagging as he toed off his shoes.

“You’ve had two weeks,” Ratio said, stepping forward. “What exactly have you been doing?”

Aventurine froze, disbelief flickering across his face. Then his voice turned cold. “Everything. Alone. Like always.”

The exhaustion in his voice was palpable.

“I’ve been trying... IPC reports. Meetings. Lecture prep. I’ve been working on it—but by the time I get home, I’m dead on my feet. I open the file and just... stare at it.”

Ratio exhaled sharply. His fingers clenched the strap of his bag.

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

It came out sharper than he meant—more lecture than concern.

Aventurine’s eyes widened, hurt flickering across his face.

“Every time I do, you criticize every bullet point, every capital letter, every spacing choice like—what was I even trying to write when everything’s wrong to you?”

Ratio let out a tight breath, his voice low and strained.

“I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t just come to me. You’re struggling with your thesis, falling behind on assignments—and I wasn’t trying to tear you down. It’s for your own good.”

Aventurine’s expression twisted—like something in him cracked. The Ratio he remembered, the one who cared gently, seemed to vanish.

Ratio went on, frustrated now.

“You’d actually make progress if you came to me, your tutor, instead of helping some random girl water her plants.”

Silence.

Aventurine blinked. The quiet rang louder than the words.

“You saw that?” he asked slowly. “You followed me?”

Ratio looked away. “I was passing by. That’s all.”

“You were passing by,” Aventurine repeated, voice flattening. “Funny. Where were you when I came to bring you your tumbler? I was worried you’d be exhausted from work—but turns out you were strolling around campus, having a lovely day?”

“I didn’t—” Ratio stopped, his jaw tightening. “I just didn’t get it. You say you’re too tired to do anything, but you’re out there smiling and laughing with the plants like none of your assignments matter. Do you not want to graduate?”

“Of course I do! It’s called trying not to drown,” Aventurine snapped. Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. “So you had time to check up on me, but not to check in with me?”

Ratio stiffened.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“No,” Aventurine cut in. “You’re just doing what you always do. Measuring effort in results. If it doesn’t move the needle, then it’s a waste of time, right?”

“It’s not like that—”

“No?” Aventurine’s eyes glinted. “Because it feels exactly like that. Like you don’t trust me. Like I have to earn your concern. Your time. Your belief.”

Ratio opened his mouth—then stopped.

“I cook for you,” Aventurine said, voice trembling. “I waited to have dinner or breakfast together. I left notes with your tea though now that I think about it, they’re just useless pieces of paper. I sit next to you in silence and you still don’t see me. You just walk past like I’m part of the furniture. When I played with my kitten.”

Ratio flinched.

The hallway went still, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

Aventurine’s eyes glistened. His jaw clenched.

“Do you even care about me… or am I just another stupid student to you?”

Ratio opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Too much to say. Too little left to give.

Aventurine’s breath shook.

“Let’s… just forget it,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’re tired. I’m tired. Let’s talk tomorrow. Or whenever you’re done with your work.”

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes a little too hard, and disappeared down the hall.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Ratio stood frozen in the silence, eyes fixed on the quiet mess Aventurine had left behind — a damp jacket slumped on the floor, scattered thesis memos, last week’s vet bills still folded unevenly, and ink-smudged notes curled at the corners like they’d been gripped too hard, too long.

He exhaled shakily and knelt down, smoothing out the jacket with fingers that trembled despite himself. It was still damp. Still warm.

His phone felt heavy in his pocket. He puled it out and began typing.

I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have pushed you.
I just wanted to help.

He stared at the words. Then—slowly, deliberately—he deleted them.

What good were apologies if they always came too late?

Instead, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and began gathering the scattered papers. One by one. Quietly. Like he could piece something back together with his hands if not his words.

The silence pressed in around him, heavier now, louder than any slammed door.

==========

That night, they barely crossed paths.

Ratio worked late in the study. Or at least, he pretended to. The cursor blinked in an empty document for hours, untouched.

Aventurine didn’t knock.

He microwaved leftovers in silence. Ate standing at the counter. When Reo padded into the kitchen, tail high and curious, Aventurine lifted him gently and cradled him like something precious. The only softness he allowed himself.

No words passed between them.

The hallway light buzzed faintly. The apartment felt too quiet, too big.

Ratio didn’t come out.

Aventurine didn’t wait.

===========

Ratio sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen, though his work was forgotten. The folder of photos open before him held memories of better days—smiles shared, small moments of warmth, quiet mornings with coffee. His jaw was tight, but his eyes softened as they lingered on one picture of him and Aventurine laughing together.

He shook his head, frustration still there beneath it all.

Why won’t he just ask me for help?

Meanwhile, on the couch, Aventurine’s gaze drifted to Ratio’s coat casually tossed over the armrest. Without thinking, he reached out and pulled it closer, pressing it lightly to his cheek. The familiar scent of Ratio clung to the fabric, warm and quietly grounding.

Aventurine closed his eyes for a moment, the anger ebbing just enough to make space for a deeper ache. Why does this still hurt so much?

In different corners of the room, they both held onto something — frustration and regret tangled together. Both knew, deep down, they had a part in the rift, even if neither was ready to say it aloud.

Ratio sighed softly, minimizing the photos but keeping them close, fingers hovering over the screen. Aventurine set the coat down gently, a small breath escaping him.

The silence between them was heavy like a tomb.

===========

The next day, Aventurine signed up for everything—Outdoor Hike Club. Crafts Club. Anything. He didn’t care what they did. He just wanted to be somewhere he wasn’t second-guessed, somewhere his smile wasn’t under a microscope.

“Aven! Want to join us later and shop for hiking shoes?”

“Text me the time and place, my friend,” he said with a grin—too easy, too polished. But someone smiled back, and maybe that was enough for now.

“Blondie! Can you pretty please come be our model later? We’ve finished a new outfit and it’s totally your vibe!” a student from the sewing club called out, half-hanging from a workshop doorway.

Aventurine let out a short, startled laugh—genuine, unguarded.

“Again? At this rate, I should start charging you.”

It wasn’t much. Just a moment. But it felt unforced. It felt his.

Even the guy riding past on roller skates in a toga gave him a high five. It was stupid. It was fun. It was… quietly freeing.

When he got home, Reo the kitten mewed and leapt into his arms.

Aventurine kissed the top of its head and whispered, “At least you don’t treat me like a mistake.”

The study door never opened.

Inside, Ratio sat unmoving at his desk.

Aventurine’s voice haunted him, soft and breaking: “Am I just another stupid student to you?”

He hadn’t written a single word in hours.

But still… he didn’t open the door.

=========

Aventurine didn’t stay out late.

He ate quietly, alone. Didn’t knock on the study door.

Ratio’s coat still sat on the couch, untouched.

That night, Ratio lingered outside the bedroom. The light was off, the door half-open. He stepped in quietly, careful not to wake him.

Aventurine lay curled on his side, back to the door, the kitten nestled in the crook of his arm. His breathing was even, but not calm — tension clung to his brow, even in sleep.

Ratio approached hesitantly. He sat at the edge of the bed. His hands hovered, then settled as he lay beside him—close, but not crowding.

He stared at the ceiling. Then whispered: “I’m sorry.”

A pause.

“I thought I was helping,” he said. “I didn’t know I was… hurting you like this.”

He turned slightly, forehead brushing the back of Aventurine’s shoulder.

“I just… I want you to thrive. And I didn’t know how to say that without turning it into an order.”

A shaky exhale.

“I love you.”

Aventurine didn’t stir. Or maybe he did, just faintly—but it could’ve been the kitten shifting in his arms.

Ratio stayed still, eyes open in the dark, waiting for forgiveness that wouldn’t come tonight.

============

Rain came often that week—sometimes in soft trails, other times in violent drops, like the sky couldn’t decide whether to mourn or cleanse.

The first week of club activities passed in a blur of motion: outdoor hikes, planting flowers with the Gardening Initiative, and rehearsing strange lines in the Theater Circle.

Gardening was grounding — a slow game of patience, like waiting for the right hand to play. The soil smelled rich and alive, the steady rhythm of watering and pruning a steady bet against chaos. The girls in the club were sweet and patient, like cautious players breaking through a risky table.

“Aven, we’re having E’claires later! Can you make tea like you always do? They’re the best!” called out Viola from the stairs, her voice bright and teasing.

Aventurine laughed, the sound soft but genuine. “You really like your sweets, huh? I think I’ve gained a few kilos from all the cakes we’ve shared.”

He didn’t mind the weight gain. It was proof of something normal, something warm—little moments like this that didn’t feel heavy with expectation.

“Careful with that rose bush. They’re stubborn but worth it,” Lily said, flashing him a warm smile.

Like Ratio, Aventurine thought. Beautiful, sharp-edged. You don’t get the rose without the thorns.

He’s probably still mad, Aventurine told himself. Or worried. Or both. Probably thinking I’m overreacting.

He looked down at the thorny bush in front of him, its buds tightly closed. It really reminded him of Ratio—beautiful but guarded, like a rose wrapped in sharp thorns.

Sometimes, the thorns hurt. Sometimes they pushed him away when all he wanted was to get close. But the rose—the person beneath—was worth it. Worth every prick and every careful step.

Aventurine sighed quietly. He wasn’t ready to knock on that door again. Not yet.

But like the rose, maybe some wounds just needed time to bloom.

Then there was theatre — chaotic, loud, and strangely electric. The girl in the red beret had found him the day after the fair, practically dragging him toward the rehearsal hall.

“You have to join,” she said, voice bouncing with excitement. “You’re perfect for the role of the Narrator. Ghostly, tall, mysterious—basically you.”

Aventurine tried to protest, “Are you serious, Isolde? I don’t even know what I’m saying half the time—”

“Exactly! It’s postmodern grief. Emotional destabilization. You’ll love it.” She winked.

Inside, the rehearsal hall smelled like sawdust, sweat, and old curtains. The cast lounged on the floor in mismatched clothes, reciting lines or stretching.

The costume designer — a lively 2nd year with a rainbow streak in her hair — sidled up to him, eyes wide.

“You! Blondie! You’re the new star. I’m telling you, with these eyes and those cheekbones, you’re a natural. I’m already designing three different outfits just for you.”

Aventurine blinked.

“Wait, me? I’m not even sure what the play’s about.”

“Doesn’t matter. You have presence. Height, photogenic, mysterious vibes. Trust me, you’ll be our showstopper.”

She handed him a velvet jacket covered in tiny silver stars.

“Try this on. You’ll look like you fell out of a dream.”

He tried not to smile. Didn’t work.

During rehearsal, he found himself standing center stage, voice low but steady.

“We do not name what is already leaving. We only watch the door close.”

A hush fell over the room.

Behind the words, a stubborn ache nagged — that prickly resistance to admit how much he missed Ratio. Not just the man, but the idiot who never quite knew how to say what he meant.

Maybe some doors don’t stay closed forever, he thought.

Maybe some silences beg to be broken.

But he wasn’t ready to say that out loud. Not yet.

After rehearsal, the costume designer cornered him again.

“You have to come to the photoshoot. You’re going to love the outfits. And trust me, everyone will want to know who you are.”

Aventurine’s grin flickered like a dealer shuffling cards—calm, confident, a little dangerous. He tipped an imaginary hat with a wink.

“Who, me? Just another wildcard in the deck. Can’t let everyone see my hand, can I?”

The designer laughed, eyes shining. “Ooh, mysterious and photogenic? Jackpot.”

He shrugged, voice low and smooth like a gambler’s whisper, “In this game, the best players know when to fold, when to bluff… and when to disappear.”

Aventurine grinned despite himself. Maybe being seen was a gamble worth playing—just as long as the stakes back home didn’t come calling.

=========

Ratio heard about Aventurine’s sudden club fame in whispers.

“Have you seen the Theater Circle’s new guy? Blond kid’s got stage presence like whoa. Eyes like an Aeon’s—creepy and beautiful.”

“I heard he juggles three clubs in a week. Bro’s a hardcore overachiever!”

Ratio said nothing. He just stirred milk into the Earl Grey he’d made himself—no Aventurine, no gentle hands, no quiet hum in the kitchen. Just silence and a bitterness he’d earned.

Back home, Ratio tried not to notice how late Aventurine returned. How the duffel bag thudded against the floor. How Reo meowed at closed doors like she was searching for someone who no longer came home the same way.

The kitten had grown clingier, restless—pacing the hallway, curling up in Aventurine’s slippers, falling asleep by the front door like she might be the first to notice if things ever went back to normal.

Ratio crouched beside her one evening, scratching behind tiny ears.

“I know,” he murmured. “You miss him too.”

Reo gave a soft, pitiful chirp, nuzzling closer.

“This is my fault,” Ratio whispered. “All of it.”

He pressed his forehead lightly against the kitten’s, eyes closed. “I wanted him to succeed. I still do. I just… didn’t think I’d be the thing he had to get away from to do it.”

Reo mewed again, as if echoing his confusion.

“To succeed, hard work is required. Not playing around with flowers and theater.”

Ratio exhaled shakily, stroking the kitten’s fur like it could somehow smooth out the ache in his chest.

“How do you love someone without smothering them?” he asked. “How do you help without turning it into a lesson plan?”

There was no answer—just the soft sound of paws on wood as Reo climbed into his lap, small and warm and still waiting for a home that didn’t feel this empty.

Ratio didn’t move. He just stayed there, holding the one thing that hadn’t walked away yet.

============

The Outdoor Hike Club gave him trail maps, sunscreen packets, and one too many protein bars shoved into his arms.

“You’re serious about the Black Pine route?” asked a girl with braided hair and a bandana tied like a victory flag. “If you’re not secretly an ex-model or spy, I’ll eat my hiking boots.”

Aventurine smirked, breath puffing in the morning chill. “Where’s the mystery if I show all my cards?”

She laughed and looped her arm through his, declaring him “officially adopted.”

Culture shock set in quickly for the gambler.

Within fifteen minutes, he’d learned you weren’t supposed to wear cologne (it attracted bugs), you had to ration water even if you weren’t thirsty, and that stepping on visible tree roots was apparently a “rookie mistake.”

“Long strides, soft knees, eyes ahead,” came a smooth voice beside him.

Aventurine glanced over. Tall. Athletic. Confident in that “I’ve-read-two-books-on-charisma” kind of way. Long ponytail like a horse’s tail—probably styled to bounce with just the right amount of arrogance. He moved like someone who knew he looked good and expected everyone else to agree.

Cute. In a catalog way.

But Ratio? Ratio was like a rose—beautiful and elegant, with petals soft enough to soothe even the worst days, but thorns sharp enough to keep anyone from getting too close without earning it. His ruby eyes glinted like red petals catching the light, fierce and tender all at once.

Great, just great. Only a week into theater and I’m already turning into some cheesy poet, comparing Ratio’s eyes to red rose petals like I’m starring in a tragic play or something. Who even does that? Seriously, get a grip!

And yet… somehow, still the only person Aventurine wanted to be notice by him.

“I’m Mason,” the guy said, flashing a grin like he’d practiced it in front of a mirror. “You’re Aven, right? How come we never get to learn your family name? Rumors spread like wildfire—some say you’re a diplomat’s son, others say you’re some ex-spy and others think you’re a model.”

Aventurine smirked, shifting his footing on the rocky path while sizing up the guy like a player reading a hand.

 “A diplomat’s son? Spy? Sounds like I’m the jackpot everyone’s trying to hit. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m more like a wildcard—you never quite know what hand I’m playing.”

Mason chuckled. “So, what’s the story then?”

“Stories are for gamblers who want to lose. Me? I keep my cards close, play it slow. Besides,” Aventurine added with a wink, “a good poker player never shows their hand too early.”

Mason raised an eyebrow, amused but clearly intrigued. Aventurine just smiled and let the silence do the work—sometimes mystery was the best game to play.

Mason tried again, “The costume girls won’t shut up about you. ‘Photogenic’ was used like, five times.”

Aventurine offered a half-smile. “I’m not liable for their artistic delusions.”

“But you’re easy on the eyes,” Mason said casually. “Let me guess… lost soul trying to find his place?”

Aventurine tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Who knows? But if I told you the truth, I’d probably have to file a confidentiality report.”

Nice try, he thought, amused. Trying to sound all grown-up and smooth—cute, but not quite there.

Mason chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Keeping your secrets. I like that.”

Aventurine played along. Just enough. A wink here, a gentle comment there. It was second nature—like sweet-talking defecting clients into laying down weapons. Nothing dangerous. Nothing real.

Until Mason stepped closer.

“So,” Mason said, brushing a stray leaf off Aventurine’s shoulder with careful fingers, “any chance you’re free after this? I know a quiet café—with a nice view. Just a drink. No pressure.”

Aventurine turned fully toward him, the familiar poker face sliding effortlessly into place—calm, charming, and dangerously smooth, like velvet just before it smothers.

He twirled a poker chip between his fingers before holding it up to his lips—a silent, teasing gesture.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m taken.”

There was no heat in his voice, only quiet truth with a trace of fondness.

“He’d shoot you with a chalk bullet if you stared too long.”

Mason blinked, eyes darting around like he’d just been caught under the watchful gaze of some ominous owl.

Then he grinned nervously, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Fair play. Had to ask.”

“Thanks for asking,” Aventurine said softly—and meant it.

They fell back into step together, the crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the hum of bees filling the comfortable silence.

==========

Later, at the overlook, they reached a bluff where the trail widened into a clearing.

The view was pure watercolor—mist drifting below, sun brushing gold over treetops.

Aventurine sat alone on a rock, knees pulled up, arms loose around them.

He watched the others laugh, snap photos, pass around fruit bars. Mason was chatting with someone else now. People liked him. It was easy. He noticed Aventurine glance his way and gave a casual wave. Aventurine waved back, easy and unbothered. No hard feelings — just friendly.

So this was what having friends looked like.

No late-night lectures about “taking better care of yourself.” Or “how’s the update of your thesis?”

No cold Earl Grey tea or overnight dinner left on the dining table.

No silence so thick it felt like a wall between them.

And yet…

Aventurine stared out over the edge of the hill.

Ratio would’ve hated this hike — too slow, too time consuming. He’d much rather be up before dawn, running laps or stretching muscles until they burned.

But he’d have come anyway if Aventurine asked of him. Muttering about exposure risk and foot blisters — while quietly packing two spare canteens, bandages and a foldable windbreaker “just in case.”

The ache bloomed slow and steady, like the sunrise.

He could laugh with these people. Smile with them.

But it wasn’t home where Ratio is at.

========

The others wandered off toward the ridge trail, laughter trailing behind like streamers in the breeze.

Aventurine lingered.

He crouched near a patch of soft dirt by the overlook’s edge. Picked up a stick. Idle hands, nothing more.

At first, he drew lazy spirals. Then a spade. A token chip. Reo, his cat. A heart.

Finally, almost without thinking, a name:

Ratio.

Just the five letters. Neat. Deliberate. Like handwriting on a letter never sent.

He stared at it for a moment, eyes lingering on the "R." as the wind tugged at his hair. The ache in his chest felt less like a wound and more like something growing roots.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he swept his hand across the dirt, wiping the name away.

Gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

“Idiot…”

==========

Late afternoon in the Theater Circle room. The windows were open. The air smelled of sun-warmed wood and rosemary. Students lounged on the floor, adjusting scarves and props. No audience—just each other.

Aventurine sat at the stage edge. A light shawl draped over his shoulders—part of that day’s warm-up.

Isolde called out, “Next pair—Aven and Theo.”

“You’re not escaping,” Theo joked, bowing dramatically. He was a second year who wore a tunic that made him look like a washed-up prince. “You’ve got great physical tension. Let’s use it.”

“You want tension? I’ve got years of it,” Aventurine deadpanned, standing.

“Perfect. We’re doing identity shadows. You wear a mask. I mirror. Then switch.”

The mask was a silk scarf. He wrapped it lazily across his face like a half-veil.

“Who are you when no one’s watching?” the director called. “Act without posing. Move without telling.”

Aventurine hesitated. Then moved.

He lifted a hand. Theo mirrored. He shifted weight. Theo followed. Then—he pressed both hands to his chest. Not theatrically. Just… held. Like he was trying to keep something from spilling out.

Theo mirrored. Something in the room shifted.

Aventurine turned. Lowered the scarf.

“Now,” Isolde said. “Words. One line. Speak to your shadow.”

Aventurine’s mouth parted.

“If I wear this mask well enough, will you forget to ask who’s beneath?”

A beat.

Theo echoed, soft.

“If I wear this mask well enough, will you forget to ask who’s beneath?”

A flicker passed across Aventurine’s face. Not quite pain. Not quite relief.

“Again,” someone murmured.

He did. Softer.

Theo stepped back, bowed out.

Aventurine stood alone at center stage.

The silence didn’t mock. It honored.

Someone handed him a water bottle.

“You okay?” Odette asked.

He nodded. Hands trembling.

“Yeah. I just didn’t expect that to hit.”

“You didn’t act like a character,” she said. “You acted like a person. That’s harder.”

Aventurine lingered in the black box theater, a golden scarf draped over one shoulder. The others had drifted off, but the line echoed in his head like a bird unsure where to land.

From the doorway, hidden in the shadows, Ratio watched.

He hadn’t meant to stay—he’d only come to deliver some paperwork for the drama department. But then he saw Aventurine in the spotlight—moving like no one was watching, speaking like it cost something.

And people listened.

Not because they had to. Because they wanted to.

They saw him.

Ratio’s chest ached—jealousy, sudden and undeserved.

But he didn’t own that closeness anymore.

He’d wasted it on silence.

The rehearsal ended with laughter, scattered scripts, and well-worn prop pieces.

Aventurine shrugged off the scarf, lingering by the mirror. His reflection looked unfamiliar, but not wrong.

He turned a corner—and stopped.

Ratio stood by the stairwell, hands loosely in his pockets, shoulders slightly slumped. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he looked thinner than before.

“Kakavasha...” he said quietly.

Aventurine’s eyes widened. He hadn’t heard that name from Ratio in a long time. For a moment, he almost took a step forward — but stopped himself.

“Veritas...” he replied softly, faking a cough as he tried to sound casual, though wariness showed in his posture. “Were you looking for someone?” Aventurine asked.

Ratio hesitated. Then, with a fragile honesty, he said, “You.”

Aventurine stayed still, jaw tightening.

“You were incredible in there,” Ratio added after a pause. “That line—”

“I didn’t know you were watching.”

“I wasn’t supposed to. But I stayed.”

A pause.

“That’s surprising. This place is not really your kind of crowd,” Aventurine said lightly. “You prefer your messes academic.”

Ratio swallowed. “Maybe. But that wasn’t a mess. That was raw. Honest.”

“You haven’t seen me like that in a while.”

“Maybe I stopped looking.”

“You did,” Aventurine said quietly. No malice—just truth.

Ratio nodded, shame flickering in his expression. “You’re right.”

“…Why now?” Aventurine asked.

Ratio swallowed. “Because I miss you. Reo too. Even when we’re under the same roof. Even when I tell myself I don’t have the right to.”

Aventurine’s gaze lowered, voice rougher now.

“Do you understand now… what it felt like? Standing outside your study door, hoping you’d open it and see me—not as your student, but as the person you loved?”

Ratio looked down and gave a small nod, guilt flickering behind his lashes.

But the gesture didn’t bring the comfort Aventurine had imagined.

No vindication. No release.

He thought he’d want Ratio to feel it—to carry at least a fraction of that ache.

The quiet devastation of being invisible to the one person who was supposed to know you best.

To approach for comfort, only to be met with critique.

To feel like every plea for connection had to pass through the lens of a lesson plan.

He let out a breath, barely a whisper.

“…But it doesn’t help. Watching you now, like this—it just hurts worse.”

Ratio stood there, slouched beneath the weight of his own silence, dark circles under his eyes, thinner than Aventurine remembered. He looked like someone unraveling in slow motion.

And yet—it didn’t feel like justice.

It didn’t feel like balance restored or pain repaid.

It just felt… hollow.

He didn’t want Ratio to suffer. Not like this. And it ached, too, remembering the one thing Ratio had offered him freely: Reo. He hadn’t meant to neglect the kitten. But some days, it had been hard enough just to face himself, let alone care for something that reminded him of warmth he no longer felt welcome in.

“I’m sorry,” Aventurine murmured, his voice tight. “I didn’t take care of Reo the way I should have. I just… couldn’t.”

Ratio looked up, startled. “Don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t carry that alone.”

He wanted to reach for him—to close the gap, to say something that might matter. But every step forward felt like his whole body was sealed like a statue of hesitation.

What if I make it worse? he thought. What if I only remind him of what he lost by loving me?

And deeper still, a quieter, bitter thought: He’s found people who understand him better than I ever did. I was always just... the supervisor, the work partner, the professor. Never the person who made him feel seen.

He clenched his hands in his pockets.

“I didn’t mean to drift so far. I just thought if I stayed out of your way, maybe you’d find someone better.”

Aventurine blinked, stunned by the admission.

“I never wanted better,” Aventurine said softly. “I just wanted you to show up.”

Their eyes met.

Ratio’s breath caught. The ache in his chest threatened to crack wide open. Slowly—hesitantly—he stepped closer. Just enough that the edges of his shadow reached Aventurine’s shoes.

“I’m here now,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “If you’ll still have me.”

Aventurine’s fingers twitched at his side. His heart pounded like it didn’t trust itself. For a moment—he wanted to believe him. To reach back. To say yes, even if it was still too early to mean it.

His hand began to lift…

“Hey, Aven! I need help with locking up!”

The voice echoed down the corridor—casual, unaware.

They both flinched. The spell broke.

Aventurine’s hand dropped.

“Kakavasha…?” Ratio asked.

He didn’t look at Ratio when he spoke.

“….Good night, teacher,” he said, the words soft but formal. “I’ll see you in class in the next lesson...”

And then he walked away.

Ratio stood frozen in place, the space between them colder than before.

He stood where he left him, unsure if silence was punishment or mercy.

To be continued.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Things We Build Together

The conversation from the theater hallway still echoed in Aventurine’s mind.

Their names spoken like confessions. Ratio’s voice had been low—earnest.

Reaching.

A step forward.

And yet, all Aventurine had managed in return was distance.

He told himself it was self-preservation. A moment to breathe. A pause before he gave in completely.

So why did it still ache?

The next day passed in a blur. He kept moving—IPC meetings, lecture notes, club group chats buzzing in his inbox. There were too many things to fix. Too many silences he didn’t want to sit with.

He hadn't seen Ratio again after that night. And neither of them had texted.

It was easier that way.

Wasn’t it?

=========

The IPC cafeteria buzzed with low chatter and clinking cutlery, the air thick with burnt espresso, cinnamon glaze, and recycled chill.

Aventurine sat hunched in a corner booth, jacket slung over the chair, tablet open beside a half-marked report. His sandwich sagged on its wrapper. His stylus hovered, unmoving.

He stirred his drink absently, never drinking. His reflection in the cup looked as exhausted as he felt.

“Okay,” said a voice across from him, dry and unimpressed. “You look like a sick trotter who ate something bad.”

Topaz slid into the seat opposite him, arms crossed.

“I heard from your fanclub among our subordinates that you’re juggling three clubs, IPC reports, and lecture deadlines, and I know you haven’t slept in a week. What gives?”

Aventurine blinked at her, slow and unfocused.

“I’m fine. Just… testing my limits.”

“Test passed. You’re dying,” Topaz said flatly.

He huffed a tired laugh. It flickered—and vanished just as fast.

“This isn’t just about school, is it?” she pressed. “This is about Professor Ratio.”

Aventurine didn’t answer at first. He spun his token chip between his fingers, slow and deliberate—until it slipped and clattered onto the table. The sound felt too loud in the quiet space between them.

“We… talked. After rehearsal,” he said, voice low. “It almost felt like something—like maybe we could fix it.”

He paused, thumb brushing the edge of his token chip.

“But it wasn’t. Not really. Not yet.”

There was a flicker of something complicated in his eyes—something between longing and retreat.

“I wanted to believe it, but… he still looked at me like I might disappear if someone saw too much. Like we’re something that only exists in quiet corners.”

Topaz studied him for a long moment, then leaned in and said flatly,

“Alright. Start from the top. I’ll tell you if you did something stupid or not.”

Aventurine blinked.

“You’re not going to tell me to rest first?”

“Rest later. First: spill.”

He hesitated, then murmured, “After he saw my rehearsal, we talked. Asked me if I allowed it, he still want to be by my side. It was his attempt to patch things up between us. However… just when he reached out to me I heard a friend called out to me and I stepped away from him.”

Topaz raised an eyebrow, “Why?”

A pause.

"I convinced myself it was necessary. Just a break. Space to collect my thoughts before falling in too deep." He sighed.

Topaz tilted her head.

“So how long of a break are you planning to take? Do you plan to continue ghosting him?”

He winced. That one hit harder.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s easier when I’m moving. Doing something. Anything.”

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, cracking open his drink for him, “you can’t outrun your own burnout. Eventually your body cashes the emotional checks you keep writing.”

He laughed dryly, then rubbed at his eyes.

“He said he missed me. But I still feel like I don’t belong in his world. Like I’m just this extra variable he’s trying to solve around.”

“He cares. I’ve seen it. The only time the Professor gets that agitated is when it’s about you. For anyone else? He’d step over their unconscious body to make his next lecture.”

She paused.

“But yeah. I get why you’d doubt it. There are days when he’s in his own head too much. Forgets the rest of us don’t live in equations.”

Aventurine’s stylus rolled off the table. He didn’t bother picking it up.

“Am I overreacting?”

“No,” she said. “You’re hurt. And however much Professor Ratio cares, that doesn’t erase what he missed. You’re allowed to feel let down.”

She nudged his sandwich toward him.

“But don’t build a wall and call it healing. Take space if you need it. Just don’t shut the door and throw away the key.”

“…Thanks,” he murmured.

“Don’t thank me yet. I still respect Dr Ratio slightly more than half of my superiors. Just like Miss Jade.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Now eat. Nap. Maybe cry. And don’t vanish before the next assembly—I’m not filing a missing Stoneheart report just because I’m the last person the victim talked to.”

“I’ll try,” he said, smiling weakly.

But even as she walked away, the ache under his ribs didn’t fade.

So he kept moving.

Because stopping still meant feeling it all at once.

Across the cafeteria, Jade had watched quietly as Aventurine slumped over his untouched meal. She didn’t approach then—but she took note.

=========

Outside the greenhouse, afternoon light filtered through misted glass, painting long green shadows across tiled floors.

Aventurine stood among rows of blooming pots, hose in one hand, nozzle in the other. Dirt streaked his gloves. Sweat beaded at his temple, despite the quiet hum of the cooling system overhead.

Jade stepped in silently, tablet tucked under one arm. She waited until the other students cleared out before speaking.

“Efficient use of downtime,” she said, offering him a water bottle.

“Trying to earn my keep,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired half-smile. “Or at least distract myself productively.”

She studied him.

“I reviewed your coursework through admin this morning.”

His shoulders tensed. “Let me guess. I’m tanking.”

“Not quite,” she said. “But the ledger’s slipping. Three major assignments outstanding. One flagged—by Ratio.”

He looked down at his boots.

Jade leaned against a nearby table.

“If this course is running you into the red—physically or mentally—you can withdraw. Start clean next term. There's no penalty in cutting your losses before they compound.”

He blinked, startled by the suggestion.

“You’re saying I should quit?”

“I’m saying the decision is yours to make. You owe us nothing. It’s your career so you’re the one making the big decisions.”

He stared out at the flowerbeds. Not really seeing them.

“…Did Ratio talk to you about me?”

“Not explicitly,” Jade replied, adjusting the tablet under her arm. “But he’s been pacing in his office like someone stole his favorite rubber duckie. For a man like him, I’d call that emotional transparency.”

Aventurine let out a breath. Slow. Tight.

“Then why doesn’t he just say it?” he muttered. “Why does he keep lecturing me like I’m one of his failing students? I’m his partner, not his project. And even when he tries to reach out now…” His voice dipped lower, cracked slightly. “I’m scared if I take his hand… we’ll just fall into the same pattern again.”

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. The ache was already visible in the tremble of his shoulders, in the weight he carried like a second skin.

Jade tilted her head, considering him.

“Whether the next cycle will hurt again or not…” she said softly, “there’s no way to hedge that bet. The professor is… complicated. The kind of man people either idolize or dismiss. Cold logic dressed in tenured robes.” She paused. “But you—” her tone sharpened slightly—“you were the one who broke through his sculpture mask.”

Aventurine blinked, startled.

Her smile turned faintly serpentine. Pleased, but not without weight.

“Isn’t that your forte? Wagering everything on the table and walking away as the final victor. All or nothing, wasn’t it?” She chuckled once, dry and low. “I’d say that’s a rare talent. Especially when you made even him speak. The house never loses… right?”

He didn’t respond. Just stared at the dirt on his gloves, the soil caked into the folds of his palm. As if waiting for the earth to answer for him.

His gaze drifted. Back to the beginning—when Ratio had been a puzzle to solve. The challenge of cracking the stoic doctor’s marble mask. He hadn’t expected the man behind it to be so… awkward. Sharp tongue but actually caring. Endearing. The same man who once tried to apologize with a kitten and bathed with duckies to unwind. A man brilliant enough to hold eight doctorates, and still so hopeless when it came to love.

Maybe that was why it hurt so much now.

Jade’s voice broke the silence, low and smooth.

“Just think about your decision about continuing your studies or start over next term,” she said. “Don’t stay for Ratio. Don’t stay out of pride. Define your own yield.”

She stood and gave a single, elegant nod.

“Consider your next move carefully. Whatever path you take—I’ll honor it.”

She left without waiting for a reply.

Aventurine stood there, silent.

He looked down at his gloves, the soil ground into every line of his palm.

As if the dirt might offer answers the silence never did.

========

Ratio was still seated in his office an hour after his last class ended, rereading the same thesis outline for the fifth time, when a knock tapped against the silence.

“Come in,” he called, expecting a student.

Instead, the door opened to reveal a familiar silhouette: Jade, wide-brimmed hat casting soft shadows across the floor.

“Jade?” he blinked.

She closed the door behind her with calm deliberation, her presence as measured and graceful as always. Her gaze swept the room once—calculating, quiet, unreadable.

“I saw Aventurine today,” she said, stepping closer. “He was in the greenhouse. Elbows deep in soil. Looked like someone on the losing end of a very uneven contract.”

Ratio set his pen down.

“I’ve noticed.”

“You’ve noticed,” she repeated smoothly, folding her arms. “And the return on that observation is… what, exactly?”

He sighed. “I talked to him after rehearsal… but he didn’t want me. Or at least, that’s how it felt. He’s been throwing himself into everything except his coursework. I thought… maybe giving him space would help.”

Jade tilted her head, gaze steady.

“And what exactly were you expecting in return for that silence, Doctor?” she asked. “Reconciliation? Gratitude? A miraculous recovery?”

She turned to the window, her tone cool, deliberate.

“Space offered without clarity isn’t kindness—it’s a gamble. One you made hoping he’d come back to you on his own.”

She paused.

“But even a high roller folds when the rules are unclear. And Aventurine… he’s not collateral to wait on your terms.”

Ratio looked down, ashamed.

“I offered him the option to drop the program,” she continued. “He didn’t take it. But he looked like someone unsure if he was allowed to stop paying a debt he never agreed to.”

Ratio’s jaw tightened.

 “You think I’ve pressured him?”

“I think,” Jade said, calm as polished stone, “you’ve grown too comfortable confusing mentorship with metrics. That boy walked into this program already leveraged to the bone. He didn’t need another professor. He needed someone who could tell the difference between performance… and survival.”

Ratio didn’t speak. His throat felt tight.

“I’m not here to collect guilt,” she added, her tone softening by degrees. “Only to ask: what are you to him now, Professor Ratio? A tutor? A partner? Or just another observer watching from behind glass?”

He stared at the ungraded papers on his desk. His voice, when it came, felt scraped from his chest.

“Aventurine was... is—loud, impulsive. A gambler with terrible taste in his outfits. But after Penacony… after working so closely as his supervisor, I couldn’t stop caring.” His jaw clenched. “We became lovers. And I still love him.”

He paused. “But I pushed him. Too hard. I know that. Still, how am I supposed to help him succeed if he won’t meet me halfway?”

Jade turned, expression unreadable.

“Must you still be his tutor to help him succeed?” she asked.

Ratio blinked.

She stepped closer, voice quiet but firm.

“You’ve guided hundreds of students. But Aventurine isn’t one of them. You know what’s behind his poker face—the rest of us could only guess. So, stop treating him like a case study. Start treating him like someone you chose to love.”

She walked to the window, gazing out at the soft outlines of the courtyard.

“Talk to him, Ratio. Not as a mentor. Not as a professional. Just… as someone who cares. He doesn’t need another marking scheme. He needs honesty. Presence. Someone who sees the person, not the report card.”

At the door, she glanced over her shoulder—just once.

“And remember,” she said, voice a shade cooler like a mother serpent, “he is your partner.”

Then she left.

The click of the door closing felt quieter than it should have—like the soft closing of a vault that had once held something priceless.

Ratio was left with the silence.

And the crushing weight of everything he hadn’t said.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as his head rested against it. For a long moment, he stared at nothing—only the hum of the overhead light filling the room.

Then his gaze drifted to the desk drawer. Slowly, he opened it.

Inside was a crumpled slip of paper, rescued from a reusable bag tossed in the trash several days ago. The ink was faint, the handwriting familiar in its casual neatness.

Don’t forget to hydrate, doc. —A

No hearts. No flourish. Just simple care.

Ratio unfolded the note, smoothing it with careful fingers. He hadn’t even noticed it at the time. Too absorbed in lectures, schedules, deadlines. Too focused on perfecting the system to see what had been quietly breaking outside it.

He reached for his phone and opened the gallery.

Swipe. Swipe.

Then—there it was.

Aventurine, asleep on the couch. Reo curled tightly on his chest like a warm little sentinel. The lighting was bad. The framing off-center. But the softness in Aventurine’s face made it one of Ratio’s favorite photos.

He had taken it weeks ago. Meant to show it to him. To tease him. Maybe say something clumsy, like we look like a family.

But he hadn’t.

And now all he could do was stare, thumb hovering over the screen like it could rewind time.

He let the phone fall into his lap.

His heart ached with a hollow kind of certainty: he hadn’t stopped loving Aventurine.

He’d just spent too long speaking in corrections and lesson plans, waiting for the perfect moment—to praise, to comfort, to reach out—without realizing those chances had already come and gone.

He gave me so many openings, Ratio thought bitterly. And I was blind every time. Treated him like a variable I can force on an equation.

He closed his eyes. Let the image burn behind his eyelids.

Not as punishment—but as proof.

Proof that love wasn’t enough if it came with conditions. That you could love someone fiercely and still drive them away if all they ever saw in your eyes was evaluation.

He’d told himself that space was what Aventurine needed.

But maybe what Aventurine really needed was to be held. To be seen. To have his efforts acknowledged instead of dissected—every punctuation mark, every full stop, weighed like a flaw in execution rather than a sign of trying.

What his lover needed wasn’t another round of critique. It was a shoulder to lean on when frustration brimmed too high. Someone to listen when the stress of assignments spilled out in messy, imperfect rants.

Someone who didn’t make him feel like he was always one wrong answer away from being dismissed.

And Ratio… hadn’t been that someone.

Not for a while.

Now, he wasn’t even sure if he still had the right to try.

Jade’s voice echoed in his mind:

"Talk to him, Doctor. He deserves transparency—not a ledger full of good intentions and emotional debts."

Ratio stood. The chair creaked beneath him as if the office itself were reluctant to let him move. But he moved anyway.

If he was too late, so be it. But he wouldn't stay still and let the silence widen.

Not again.

He checked the library first—quiet rows of tables and flickering lamps—but the librarian informed him the blond student had left just five minutes ago.

Ratio's pulse quickened.

Next stop: the rooftop greenhouse. He climbed two flights only to find Lily brushing dirt from her gloves.

“Oh, Aven?” she said, tilting her head. “He was just here, professor. Went into the storage shed to find more fertilizer, I think.”

Ratio checked. The shed was empty. Only a note left behind: “Took the trolley to the theater club. Forgot the prop bag.”

He hurried across campus, dodging bicycles and buzzing club flyers.

Inside the theater building, he peeked into the rehearsal hall—empty. Someone passed by with a clipboard.

“He’s in the dressing room, I think. Or was. Not sure.”

Ratio checked.

No Aventurine.

He doubled back toward the student lot. Just in time to see a familiar black car pulling out of the space and vanishing into traffic, brake lights blinking through the drizzle.

Ratio stood frozen for a beat. Rain had started again, soft and persistent.

He thought of the faint sheen on Aventurine’s skin lately. The sweat he passed off as humidity. The way his hand trembled as he reached for tea but never drank it.

Please don’t let this be what I think it is.

Ratio pulled out his phone. Dialed.

No answer.

He tried again. Straight to voicemail.

He stared at the screen, rain now pattering against his sleeve, and whispered to no one:

“Where are you?” Ratio whispered into the storm. No answer. Just the dial tone swallowing him whole.

Something in his chest twisted.

He didn't think—he ran.

Down the steps. Across the quad. Past the campus gate and straight toward the parking lot where his own car sat—unused since Monday. The rain blurred his vision, the streetlamps streaking gold against waterlogged pavement. He drove on instinct.

Home.

He didn’t remember unlocking the door. Only the way it slammed open beneath his shoulder, rain-drenched papers spilling out of his bag, umbrella bent at the hinge like a snapped wing.

The lights were on.

But the apartment felt wrong.

Not quiet. Empty.

No soft music from Aventurine’s tablet. No kettle boiling.

Then he saw him.

And Reo.

The kitten crouched beside him, pawing at his forehead with frantic little cries, like he was trying to wake him.

Half-slumped outside their bedroom door, one leg twisted beneath him like it had given out. A water bottle lay nearby, still rolling gently from where it had dropped. His head lolled against the wall. His skin—too pale. Clammy. Sweat pasted golden bangs to his forehead.

Ratio’s heart stopped. Then kicked hard.

“Aventurine!” he choked, already dropping to his knees, everything else falling away.

Fingers hovered a second—just long enough to notice the heat radiating from Aventurine’s skin. Fever. High. Too high.

“Kakavasha…” Ratio said, voice cracking. He pressed a hand to his cheek, then his neck. The pulse was there—fluttery and faint.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me.” He shook him gently. “Come on, open your eyes.”

Aventurine stirred, lips parting. A whisper:

“...Rati…o…?”

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

A blink. Then his eyes slid shut again.

Ratio pulled him close, already reaching for his phone to call the clinic. This wasn’t a moment for plans or protocol or pride. This was fear. Raw and immediate.

“I’ve got you,” Ratio whispered, voice hoarse.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t care about saying the right thing—only that Aventurine heard it.

=========

The bedroom was dim, curtains half-drawn to mute the rainlight spilling in. Ratio had bundled him in blankets after the clinic visit—an injection, a round of meds, fever reducers.

He sat at the edge of the bed now, gently pressing a cool cloth to Aventurine’s forehead. His hand lingered, smoothing back sweat-damp hair with surprising tenderness.

Reo meowed worriedly from the nightstand.

Hours passed in slow drips.

Aventurine stirred occasionally, whispering nonsense—or worse, half-truths Ratio wasn’t meant to hear.

“...Should’ve just… given up,” he mumbled once, voice cracked with fever. “Not cut out for this. Too much…”

Ratio sat beside him, elbows on knees, guilt a vise in his throat. He pressed the cloth to Aventurine’s brow again, unsure if his own hands were shaking from cold or fear.

Please, he thought, don’t disappear on me like this. I wouldn’t survive it.

Aventurine shifted restlessly, face turned to the side.

“Why’s he so cold now…? Used to be sweet. Used to care.”

Ratio’s hands clenched in his lap. He didn’t speak. Didn’t trust his voice not to break.

“Guess I’m just… a stupid student after all. Can’t do anything right…”

The words landed like stones in Ratio’s chest. He reached out and gently stroked Aventurine’s sweat-damp hair back from his temple. His fingers lingered there, trembling slightly.

“I’m here,” he said softly—so quietly he wasn’t sure if he meant it for Aventurine or for himself. Aventurine’s breathing slowed. His body relaxed just slightly.

“...Miss him,” he murmured. “Miss how he’d… hold me. Felt like… I mattered.”

Ratio bowed his head, forehead nearly touching the edge of the mattress.

“Maybe he doesn’t even want me around anymore…”

Ratio reached for his hand, threading their fingers together, squeezing gently.

Aventurine’s grip tightened briefly—reflex, instinct, muscle memory—and then loosened as he slipped back into sleep.

Ratio stayed like that for a long time, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

Listening to the rain. To the silence he had helped create. To all the things he hadn’t said.

===============

The fever broke just before dawn.

Ratio had drifted into a light doze, still seated at Aventurine’s bedside, one hand cradling his partner’s loosely. He startled awake at the sound of a quiet breath—less labored now.

Aventurine’s face was still pale, but his brow was no longer damp, his chest rising with a steadier rhythm. He stirred faintly, eyes fluttering open like it took effort.

“…Ratio?” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Ratio straightened immediately, brushing the damp cloth from his forehead.

“I’m here, love.”

There was a pause—confused, fragile.

“I… think I fell while trying to get some water?”

“You did,” Ratio said quietly. “You collapsed. Fever. You’ve been out for nearly ten hours.”

Aventurine blinked, dazed. “…Oh.”

Ratio hesitated before continuing, voice rough with fatigue.

“You scared me.”

He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But now it hung between them—tender, unpolished.

Aventurine swallowed hard. His lips parted like he wanted to respond, but he faltered.

Instead, he turned his head slightly, as if ashamed.

“Did… I say anything last night?”

Ratio hesitated, then nodded.

Aventurine winced.

“Great. Fever rambling. I probably said something embarrassing.”

He looked away. The air between them thick with awkward silence.

“Are you going to lecture me now? About not taking care of myself? Or about the overdue assignments and half-finished thesis?”

“No. Never.”

Ratio took Aventurine’s hand between both of his.

“I’m sorry.”

He pressed his forehead into their joined hands.

“You were tired. Hurt. Overwhelmed. And I made it worse by acting like some snobbish teacher—lecturing you for falling behind. It was all… my fault.”

Aventurine stared at him, quiet for a long moment.

“I was at fault too,” he said finally. “For bottling everything up. I thought… if I just kept working, maybe you wouldn’t think I was useless. The kids here—they’re younger, smarter, better educated. They went to real schools. Not like me…”

His eyes drifted, distant.

“I grew up in the desert. Running from enemies more than running toward a future.”

“Kakavasha…” Ratio murmured.

“I should’ve told you my limits,” Aventurine continued. “Instead of hiding in my clubs. I should’ve asked for help. You were just doing your job. But I ran away instead.”

“You were never useless,” Ratio said firmly, squeezing his hand. “I should’ve asked you to sit down with me and figure out a plan. Something that fit your schedule—your world. But I assumed too much. That was selfish.”

Aventurine let out a tired breath—half laugh, half sigh.

“Instead of hiding in your study, I wanted you to notice me. Whenever I brought you tea with those handwritten notes. I missed when we’d cuddle on the couch and share takeout. But once the semester started… you changed. You stopped seeing me.”

“I’m sorry,” Ratio said softly. “I did notice. The whole time. But I blurred the lines—treated you like a student, when I should’ve treated you like someone I love. I even gave you Reo thinking it would fix things. But what I should’ve done was sit down and talk to you.”

Aventurine gasped. “Oh no—Reo. I haven’t been feeding her or taken her to the vet lately.”

“It’s okay. She’s our responsibility. I fed her, bathed her... but she still likes you better. She’s been waiting for you.”

The blond winced. “I totally suck…”

“Don’t say that. You were overwhelmed.”

Ratio looked down at their joined hands—how naturally they still fit. Then up again, gaze steady.

“And I’ve been distant. I’m so sorry, Kakavasha,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not because you deserved it—but because I didn’t know how to be close without making things harder for you.”

He took a breath.

“I missed you,” he added. “But that day outside the theater club… when you walked away… it felt like I lost you.”

Aventurine looked down. “That was… because I was scared.”

“Scared?”

“I was scared that the same cycle would repeat if I took your hand again. I thought, if I came back to you… how could I be sure you wouldn’t ignore me again? That you wouldn’t lock yourself in your study, or humiliate me in class when I didn’t understand a question you asked?”

Ratio closed his eyes, expression crumpling.

“Yes. Your fears are valid. And the fault is mine alone. But now—I don’t want you to carry all of this alone anymore,” he whispered. “If it’s too much—tell me. I’ll be by your side, if you’ll let me.”

Aventurine’s throat tightened. He thought of the owl-shaped message bottle Ratio gave him back in Penacony. How he clung to it in the darkest moments.

Ratio had always had his back.

Always.

“I can’t,” Aventurine said. “Not alone.”

Then, softer:

“But if you’re with me—supporting me, loving me—I think I can do this. The sandwich course, the thesis. All of it. Not because you’re my teacher… but because you’re my partner.”

Ratio’s fingers tightened around his.

“Then I’m not going anywhere. Kakavasha… please. Let me start over with you. If you’ll have me.”

This time, Aventurine didn’t look away. His eyes shimmered—not from fever now, but from something quieter. Deeper.

“…I missed you too, Veritas. I want you to listen and help me when I whine about my assignments. I want to show you the photos I take on my hikes. I want to rehearse my theater lines with you. I want us to eat dinner out in public—without feeling like I’m someone you have to hide.”

Ratio opened his mouth to speak, but Aventurine squeezed his hand—just once—to let him know he wasn’t finished.

“You were the one who pulled me out of the Abyss back in Penacony,” he whispered. “Your message bottle gave me the will to live…” A tear slipped down his cheek. “There’s no one I want to spend this new life with—except you.”

Ratio didn’t answer with words.

He moved without thinking—slow, careful—slipping onto the edge of the narrow bed beside him.

Aventurine made a soft sound as Ratio’s arms came around him from behind, steady and warm. He leaned back into the touch without hesitation.

For the first time in weeks, the ache in his chest eased.

Ratio tucked his face into the crook of Aventurine’s neck.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Aventurine’s breath hitched—half relief, half disbelief. He turned just enough for their eyes to meet.

No walls this time.

Just bruised honesty.

He reached up, quiet and sure.

And this time, Ratio didn’t turn away.

He kissed him back.

Slowly. Softly. Like a promise.

When they parted, neither spoke. But the silence no longer pressed—it breathed with them.

And for the first time in a long time, they simply held on.

Not as teacher and student.

Not as burden and caregiver.

Just two people—trying again.

Together.

======

The next few days passed slowly. Aventurine rested. Ratio stayed. The house filled with long silences, sleepy afternoons, and the distant hum of spring outside the windows.

Ratio made soup. Aventurine didn’t even complain about the vegetables. It had been so long since he’d eaten something made by Ratio, and somehow, it tasted like everything he’d been missing.

They sat together in the living room, wrapped in blankets, watching clouds drift past in companionable quiet.

“I think I’m going to try again,” Aventurine said one afternoon, his voice low but clearer than before. “Finish the course. Properly, this time.”

Ratio glanced over. “Yeah?”

Aventurine nodded, gaze fixed on the sky. “Not for my KPI. Not because Diamond wants to promote me. Just… for me. To prove I can finish something. That I don’t always have to bet everything and hope it works out.”

He paused, then added, more quietly, “And because I’m not doing it alone this time.”

Ratio didn’t speak at first. He simply took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“You’re not,” he said. “Whatever pace you choose—whatever path—you’ve got me.”

Aventurine gave a tired, grateful smile.

And this time, when he leaned into Ratio’s side, it felt like the beginning of something new.

===========

They went walking a week later—just the two of them, and Reo trailing behind on a harness, sniffing everything like it was brand new.

They laughed when she pounced at a butterfly and nearly tripped over her own paws. The air smelled like citrus and fresh grass. For once, the world felt soft again—like the past month had been just a bad dream that was finally loosening its grip.

Aventurine still looked a bit pale under the sun, but his steps had lost their weight. He nudged Ratio’s side as Reo darted ahead.

Aventurine pressed a finger to Ratio’s lips, halting his apology with a touch that was firm but familiar.

Reo immediately began circling their legs, as if she sensed something shifting—like the air had changed.

“I want your help,” Aventurine said, voice steady. “I need it. But I need it on my terms, too. You, when it comes to education, can get… intense. And stubborn. I love that about you but—”

Ratio's brow arched, voice lower now. “But?”

He caught Aventurine’s hand before it could drop away.

And—slowly, deliberately—pressed a kiss to the tips of those fingers.

A touch too soft to be chaste. A beat too long to be polite.

“Careful,” he murmured against them, eyes half-lidded. “You say things like that, and I forget we’re negotiating terms and not... kissing the professor.”

Aventurine’s breath hitched—then he laughed, cheeks coloring.

“But if we’re doing this again,” he said, tugging his hand back, flustered but not pulling away, “—this second try. This sandwich course. This… whatever we are...”

He waved vaguely between them.

“We need ground rules.”

Ratio’s mouth curved, a slow smile forming.

“Alright,” he said, tone teasing now. “What kind of rules? Preferably ones that don’t involve banning finger-kissing.”

“If I say you’re being an asshole,” Aventurine continued, “you stop lecturing and just listen.”

Ratio didn’t even flinch. “Fair.”

“And if I panic or overwork and start pulling another vanishing act,” he added, eyes fixed ahead even as his shoulder brushed Ratio’s with each step, “you remind me that I’m not doing this alone.”

Ratio glanced at him sideways, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Also fair.”

Their hands weren’t touching, but they kept swaying too close—pinkies nearly brushing. Each time their arms grazed, neither pulled away.

They kept walking. Reo found a leaf she didn’t like and hissed at it, tail puffed like she was ready to duel nature itself.

The two men laughed—but too softly, like laughing too hard might tip the balance.

Aventurine clasped his hands behind his back like he was trying to keep them from reaching for Ratio’s. The ache to be closer pressed tight against his ribs, but he didn’t move.

Ratio cleared his throat, adjusting the strap of his bag unnecessarily. “We’re doing well. Having a reasonable conversation. Like civilized adults.”

Aventurine snorted. “We’re five seconds away from making out on this bridge like horny teenagers.”

“I wasn’t going to say it,” Ratio murmured, lips twitching. “But yes.”

They paused at the end of the path, where the breeze stirred petals into lazy spirals around their feet. Aventurine shifted his weight like he wanted to lean in—just a little. Just enough to kiss the corner of Ratio’s mouth.

Instead, he curled his fingers into a fist and exhaled slowly.

“Later,” he muttered. “When we’re home.”

Ratio’s eyes glinted. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Aventurine said, and this time, he didn’t bother hiding the smile.

They continued walking—this time just a little closer, as if gravity had finally started tugging them back into orbit.

Aventurine glanced sideways. “So. Since I want to finish this course, I do want your guidance—but not as a strict, overbearing teacher. I need you as my partner. Someone I can lean on. Not someone who makes me feel like I’m constantly catching up.”

Ratio nodded slowly. “That’s… reasonable.”

“So I’ve decided you need a safe word.”

Ratio blinked. “A what now?”

Aventurine’s smile curled at the edges. “Like an academic safe word. Something that means, ‘Back off, Professor Veritas, you’re being insufferable.’”

Ratio huffed a laugh, genuinely amused. “Alright. Let’s go with… ‘Duckie.’”

“Of all things, why rubber ducks?”

“They’re cute. Plus, I use them whenever I have my rubber duck debugging sessions in the bath.”

Ratio’s shrug was casual, not performative—just honest in that nerdy, familiar way that made Aventurine’s chest warm instead of ache.

“Alright. Duckie it is. You better remember that, Veritas.”

Ratio lifted his hand and pressed a soft kiss to Aventurine’s knuckles. Not with heat, but with reverence. A promise.

“Always, Kakavasha.”

Reo mewed and launched herself into a bush like a tiny missile.

They both burst out laughing—and didn’t stop for a long, long time.

There was no rush now. No desperate reach for closeness. Just the soft unfolding of something rebuilt.

They stayed in the park a little longer, walking slowly beneath the trees while Reo trotted ahead, tail high.

Then, halfway through a lazy turn toward home, Aventurine froze.

“The garden,” he blurted. “I haven’t checked it in over a week! I forgot to water the seedlings. They might’ve all—”

He turned, half-panicked, already stepping toward the nearest tram stop.

Ratio caught his wrist gently.

“Hey. Breathe. You were sick. No one’s blaming you.”

“But if they’re all dead—”

“Then we replant,” Ratio said simply. “But I’ll come with you. You’re still recovering. No rushing off.”

Aventurine hesitated, shoulders tense—then nodded, exhaling slowly.

“Okay. But we take the fast route.”

Ratio chuckled. “Only if you promise not to sprint.”

========

The club garden bloomed in early summer.

Reo peeked out from inside Ratio’s coat, wide eyes blinking against the light. Her tiny paws curled into the lining, safely hidden—since animals weren’t exactly allowed on campus. Ratio kept one hand over the flap to keep her from jumping out, though her tail flicked against his ribs.

Aventurine knelt near the little patch he’d started back in autumn, brushing away weeds and checking leaves. Relief softened his features.

“Phew. They look alright,” he murmured, fingers brushing a cluster of green. “I planted it a few weeks ago. Didn’t think it’d survive. I kept messing up the soil pH, forgetting to water it on bad days. But someone from the club helped me fix the roots. We added companion plants and… well.” He glanced up, exhaling. “It’s still standing.”

Ratio crouched beside him, careful not to jostle the kitten. “It’s beautiful,” he said softly. “Stubborn little thing.”

Aventurine gave a small, tired smile. “It reminds me of us.”

Ratio looked at him, then back at the plant. “It’s growing. Like you.”

He hesitated—then knelt beside the sapling, fingers brushing the soil next to Aventurine’s. “I hope it keeps growing,” he said quietly. “I want to keep growing too.”

Laughter rose from the path behind them.

“Aven? Is that you?” A voice came from nearby.

Reo gave a muffled meow from under Ratio’s coat.

Ratio tensed automatically, realizing he was standing beside Aventurine—with a cat stuffed inside his jacket.

A student rounded the corner and paused.

“Professor, why are you here?”  Then her eyes narrowed, “Is that… meowing?”

Ratio froze, then slowly straightened, face composed but his brain sprinting.

“Ah. Yes. That would be… the, ah… club mascot. She’s—rather discreet. Discretion being, of course, an undervalued trait in most felines.”

Viola blinked. “Isn’t it against the rules to bring pets to school?”

Ratio cleared his throat. “The spirit of the regulation is to avoid classroom disruptions. This… doesn’t qualify.” He paused. “She’s quiet. Small. Low threat level.”

Reo meowed again, as if in agreement. Ratio sighed, long-suffering.

“She’s also now an unofficial honorary member of the Garden Initiative,” he added dryly.

Viola shrugged, amused. “Well, as long as the kitty doesn’t eat the prize tomatoes.”

Then she turned to Aventurine.

“Oh, it was you! Welcome back, Aven! I heard you got really sick last week. How are you now?”

She looked between him and Ratio.

“In fact, why are you two together here? Was there an outdoor tutorial that I missed?”

Ratio’s mouth parted—but his brain failed to load a convincing lie.

For one breath, every academic instinct screamed: DEFLECT. DODGE. DECLARE THIS A THEORETICAL SIMULATION.

But beside him, Aventurine gave him a look.

Steady. Patient.

Ratio blinked.

Right. No more hiding.

“No,” Ratio said at last, tone even. “He wanted to show me the plants he grew. I… wanted to see them.”

Aventurine raised an eyebrow at the weak explanation. Reo meowed again—and a tiny paw poked through Ratio’s coat flap.

Viola’s eyes sparkled with glee. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “You two are so dating.”

Ratio gave a sigh, adjusting his glasses. “I still have access to your midterm rubric if you intend to share that observation publicly.”

Aventurine stood and dusted off his jeans. “That won’t work. She’s a menace.”

Viola beamed. “Blackmail's a two-way street. I won’t say a word… if you bribe me with one of those mille crepe cakes from the new café.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Alright. Two cakes. Extra cream. Consider it hush-money.” Aventurine took out his phone and transferred credits to her account.

Viola skipped off, practically glowing with smugness.

When she was gone, Aventurine leaned in. “You almost panicked.”

Ratio exhaled, sheepish. “I did. Abysmally.”

Aventurine rolled his eyes and looped their arms together.

“I’ll let it slide. You didn’t even give me a chance to use the safe word.”

Ratio smiled, tired but genuine.

Reo, ever victorious, poked her head out from the coat like a queen surveying her domain.

As they cleaned up and repotted the last few herbs, Aventurine’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out and snorted softly.

Viola
 [Photo attachment: A very smug selfie of her holding up two slices of prized cake in front of a café window]

“Thanks for the cakes, lovebirds! Also, what’s the garden club doing for the school festival?”

Aventurine blinked. “What school festival?”

He turned the screen toward Ratio. “Did you know about this?”

Ratio adjusted his glasses. “It was mentioned in the staff briefings and posted in the student announcements. I didn’t bring it up… I didn’t want to overload you.”

Aventurine scrolled through the message thread in their club group chat, where Viola had already dropped her selfie and tagged several members with cake emojis and event suggestions.

He bit his lip thoughtfully.

“I’ve never really experienced a proper school festival before,” he admitted. “All those years of private tutors, travel, lectures in sterile halls… It always sounded too messy. But now…”

Ratio raised a brow. “You want to participate?”

“I want to try,” Aventurine said, surprising even himself with how certain he sounded.

“You’re sure?” Ratio asked carefully. “You still have a lot to catch up on. It’ll be a time sink.”

Aventurine folded his hands in mock prayer, taking a step closer.

“You’ll help me, won’t you? Pretty please?”

Ratio sighed, trying to keep a straight face.

“That expression should be outlawed. It’s weaponized.”

“And yet,” Aventurine purred, closing the distance further, “you always fold.”

Before Ratio could protest, Aventurine cupped his jaw and leaned in—slowly, deliberately. The kiss that followed was soft at first, but lingered, deepening just enough to make Ratio's breath catch. A low hum escaped from the back of his throat, hands twitching at his sides.

But then—Aventurine pulled back.

Just an inch. Just enough to leave Ratio chasing the ghost of his lips.

“Mm-mm.” Aventurine grinned, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “You said we’re keeping things slow, remember?”

Ratio stared at him, dazed. “You’re evil.”

“Effective,” Aventurine corrected, brushing his thumb along Ratio’s lower lip. “So… you’ll help?”

Ratio groaned, already resigned as he wrapped his arms around Aventurine’s waist.

“Yes. But we’re making a study schedule and sticking to it this time. I’ll staple it to your forehead if I have to.”

Aventurine laughed, triumphant as he hugged Ratio. “Knew I could count on you, Professor.”

==========

The following week, fully recovered and back on campus, Aventurine eased back into his usual routine—lectures, club meetings, and the flood of group chats that had exploded during his absence.

First, they’d been filled with concern:

“Where are you?”

“Heard you collapsed—are you okay?”

“Your flowers misses you. And so do we.”

Then came the relief once word got out he was back:

“Aven’s alive!!”

“You’re back in class?! Finally!”

 “Don’t scare us like that again, okay?”

By the third wave, the tone had completely shifted: chaos. The school festival had been announced—and suddenly every club thread was buzzing with excitement, planning, and one recurring question:

“Aven, any ideas for our booth?”

First came the theater club.

“So, any ideas for our festival performance?” someone asked, flipping through costume sketches.

Another added, “The director said you’d probably have a concept. Something with dramatic flair and minimal budget.”

Then the hiking club caught him in the hallway.

“We’ve been brainstorming, but let’s face it—nobody wants to hike during a festival.”

“Yeah, maybe we set up a demo booth? Something interactive? But we need a hook.”

And finally, the gardening club group chat lit up:

[GreenThumbs]
Viola: “Thinking of doing floral arrangements or a plant sale. But you're the creative one, right? Got anything in mind, Aven?”

Aventurine stared at his phone. Then at his notes. Then at the blinking cursor on his tablet.

Three clubs.

Three expectations.

One guy.

He felt it creeping in—the familiar pressure tightening around his chest, like a vice. That creeping, bone-deep fear of letting everyone down. Of messing it all up and proving them right.

He closed his eyes, pressed a palm to his forehead.

Then, before the spiral could close in, he did something he wouldn’t have done a month ago.

He called Ratio.

The line clicked once. Twice.

Ratio picked up almost immediately.

“Love? Are you okay?”

There was a pause.

“I’m… kind of drowning,” Aventurine admitted, his voice low. “Three clubs. Three different ideas. And they’re all waiting for me to lead. I—I said I wanted to do it, but what if I can’t?”

Ratio was quiet for a beat. Then came the sound of him setting a mug down gently on his desk.

“Well,” he said, voice dry but fond, “aren’t you a Stoneheart member? The same Aventurine who once negotiated with Sunday while defusing a disaster on Penacony? You really think a few student clubs are going to sink you?”

Aventurine laughed—soft, a little choked, but warm.

“This ain’t the IPC… no one’s holding my chips hostage.”

“No,” Ratio agreed, tone even. “But you remain yourself—and if there’s anyone capable of persuading three ideologically divergent clubs to collaborate without mutual destruction, it’s unquestionably you.”

A brief pause.

“…Besides, you’ve successfully navigated client defections, soothed volatile club presidents, and cohabitated with a feline who’s under the distinct impression that she pays rent. Compared to that, a university festival is a manageable variable.”

That got a real laugh out of him.

“Alright,” Aventurine murmured, voice steadier now. “Guess I just needed someone to remind me the odds aren’t stacked against me.”

“I’m aware,” Ratio said, his tone gentling. “Now, formulate a plan, Kakavasha. And remember—If you can’t hold on any longer, tell me.”

Aventurine gasped, remembering the written bottle of message that Ratio gave him when he was in the Nihility Abyss.

“I love you.”

He could hear Ratio smiled from the other line, “I love you too.”

Aventurine ended the call and smiled softly at his phone’s wallpaper—Ratio cradling a sleeping Reo in his large hands. The panic melted away like morning mist on glass.

He took a steadying breath—calm and sure—knowing Ratio was right there with him, even if they were a few school buildings apart.

To be continued.