Work Text:
He’s there when Aventurine wakes from the dream.
Those hypnotic eyes slam open as though from a nightmare, and he gasps and heaves like the pool he lays in suffocates him. When he drags himself out, it's with the same fervor of a rabid animal – clawing and desperate.
Ratio looks away from the display of weakness, focusing instead on his book. Aventurine doesn't like to be seen like this, he knows, and he'd rather avoid distressing him further.
There’s no sign of his usual fox-like cunning in the bare and obvious way he hyperventilates.
In the small part of his peripheral vision not overwhelmed by the gaudy red of the couch he sits on, he can just make out the frantic movement of Aventurine shucking his clothes off as though they've burned him, leaving a trail of black and white and green across the hotel carpet. Then, a door slamming open some feet away.
It’s silent for a long moment. Ratio finally considers it safe to look up.
The ground is a wet mess of sloppily removed garments and sedative fluid from the pool – it's a slurry of mushy fur and riches that disgusts his every sense. Aventurine himself is nowhere to be seen.
The attached bathroom’s door lays wide open like a beacon beckoning him closer – he could leave the man to his own devices, but he fears he’ll find him drowned in a pool of his own vomit in the morning. To be found dead in such a pathetic way is Aventurines worst nightmare, so he sighs, lays down his book next to him, and walks over to the room.
It doesn't shock him to see said man beyond the threshold, kneeling on the tile as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. They've found themselves in this exact song and dance a thousand times before. He sighs.
“Are you intoxicated?”
“Shut up.”
This, too, is familiar. Aventurine wipes his mouth on a towel as he stands up.
“Don't talk to me.”
There's a stumble to his words and movements uncharacteristic for him, a far cry from his usual elegance and flamboyance. Ratio leans against the doorway, watching him practically trip his way to the messy counter, covered in his makeup and skincare products. His body shakes like he’s ill as he takes in his appearance in the mirror.
“I’m going to die. I'm going to die! I'm going to die,” Aventurine clutches the granite like a lifeline while he laughs, “I’m going to die, and my eyeliner is running!”
He makes eye contact with Ratio’s impassive face in the mirror, and his head whips around to face him. Eyelids once adorned with pigments and glitter have turned muddy and runny, mascara left oozing down his face from his tears. Agile hands grab his black t-shirt roughly.
“Fuck me!”
Another familiar request.
“I will do nothing of the sort.”
Aventurine lets out a growl of pure frustration – this fiery, drunk, manic look in his eye isn’t new to either of them, but the terror underneath certainly is. For the first time in his life, Ratio feels destabilized by this man.
“You won't give me a last meal, doctor? That's cruel, even for you.” Aventurine lets out a strangled laugh before pushing him into the wall and dropping his T-shirt like it sickened him.
In front of him, the man is curled in on himself, nothing but a line of pale skin and bones, lean and lithe and sweaty with stress, naked save for his boxers. Aventurine is like a doused fire now that he’s burnt himself out – Ratio watches as he stumbles into the main room and collapses onto the couches, numb and empty and exhausted. Nothing more than wet ashes.
With one hand he grabs the small glass jar containing the cotton balls off the bathroom counter, and follows him across the room to join him where he sits.
It’s an easy thing, then, to tilt his pretty face up and wipe the tear stains from his cheeks. He lets him.
“Am I going to die, Veritas?”
“Most likely.”
Aventurine laughs a soft, real laugh, and sniffs.
“You absolutely suck, you know that?”
It’s silent for a long moment while he wipes the makeup remnants off the man's face, his eyes drifting towards his neck.
The ink of the mark is as bold and as obvious as ever. Aventurine never shied away from putting it on display, though he’s unsure why – whether he considers it inconsequential to how others see him, or if it’s some sick point of pride, he may never know. Some part of him wants to know.
“Can’t wipe that one off,” Aventurine murmurs.
Ratio only scoffs in response. They both sit silently for a moment, staring at where his tanner hand has strayed towards the tattoo – the skin and blood underneath is still thrumming with warmth and life, and he can feel it begin to touch his own. All at once he’s reminded of Aventurine’s extremely tempting nudity.
“If, in the… severely unlikely event of your survival, you decide to pursue formal education, I would be more than happy to assist,” he says abruptly, putting down the cotton balls and leaning his burning arm on the back of the couch.
Aventurine stares at him in disbelief.
“Where the hell did that come from?”
“I’ve simply been giving what you had said the other day some thought. I truly believe you deserve a formal education, and as much as I loathe to say it, you are an intelligent man.”
“I’m much too old to go to college, and you said it yourself, I'm a walking deadman. Why are you even letting me entertain the thought?”
“No one is ever too old to make up for what they were neglected in their youth, Aventurine.” He stands up, leaving the man to watch him from the couch. “Just consider it, would you?”
“Whatever.” It’s grumbled, but even to Ratio’s ears sounds fond. “Thanks for extending your weird olive branch.”
Gesturing for Aventurine to move over, Ratio tugs out the pullout bed. From the surprised face, it appears he didn't even know said bed existed.
“There is nothing weird, or otherwise odd about bettering yourself, " he gathers the throw pillows and places them at the head of the mattress, already set with a feather comforter, “and certainly nothing weird about making up for lost time.”
“What are you doing?”
“Preparing for bed.”
“Are you kicking me out, Veritas?”
He scoffs. “And leave you where? Leave you to the streets intoxicated and a wreck? Illogical.”
“Like you care.”
“I am not heartless, Aventurine. Come here.”
“In...”
The bed lays there made and ready, and Ratio looks at him expectantly, one knee on the mattress. Aventurine still stands there like a statue with a frozen smile on his face – He knows sex is the first thought on that damned peacock's mind when he even thinks of a shared bed, and for some reason this irritates him.
“I told you, I am not having intercourse with you in this state. Rest.”
“Does my nude form not delight you, my liege?” He snarks, but it's quiet, and what he said seemed to break him from his thoughts.
He climbs in alongside him, his lighter weight leaving less of a dent than Ratios own. It’s a sweet decompression from the way the man awoke earlier – he rustles around for a bit in his usual restless fashion, but settles quicker into rest than he ever has before.
Ratio’s eyes are already closed, and he lies on his back in the blissed now-silence. The lights of the room have been slowly dimmed for the time of day, working well on whatever clock they are set to. He’s drifting off deeply as he begins to notice shaking and movement from the warm body next to him and all at once a warm face is pressed into his arm. His eyes open.
Aventurine is latched to his arm, hiding his face into his side as he sobs silently. He’s pressed as close as he possibly can be, as though he's trying to touch every part of his body to Ratio’s own. His sleeve is wet and gross from snot and tears now, but he finds himself unable to care as he rolls over to face him. Not a single moment is spared in which Ratio can get a good look at his face, Aventurine quickly burying his face into his chest.
Soft, ash blonde hair invites him to run his hands through it, so he does. Across his back and down his spine and all the way back up, awkwardly soothing him. Aventurine runs hot and while intimacy isn’t something Ratio ever felt starved for, it feels good to have against him like this. He runs his thumb across the serial number, and Aventurine melts into him further.
“I don’t want to die.” It’s muffled and drunkenly slurred and heartbroken, and absolutely nothing like the cunning man he knows.
“I know.”