Chapter Text
That brilliant, dazzling, infuriatingly resilient man.
Dr. Ratio leans against the railing on the Radiant Feldspar's promenade, watching golden starlight dance upon the Dreamscape's vast, velvety horizon. It's quite grand, a swirling nebula of Penacony's dream, hanging like a painted backdrop.
The artistry is charming, and perhaps he would praise the Iris Family's work if he wasn't embittered by the entire star system right now. And, of course, there's the tension of being at a social gathering.
Regardless, Ratio only appears to be watching the sky, not seeing the finer details before him. He's wrestling with the thoughts in his head.
Aventurine is vibrant in his mind — the way the corners of his mouth twist when he's about to use that silver tongue of his to provoke. The warmth of his hands, callused and worn. The beauty of his soul, a deeply empathetic man who is intentionally obscured behind walls of opulence, showboating, and charm. How shameful, that the universe has not been kind to a man so wonderful.
Most of all, it's dizzying, maddening, to think that Dr. Ratio has fallen in love with such a man — the most achingly human man Ratio has ever met.
Curious, hurt, intelligent, reckless, unyielding, steadfast, complicated, caring, gorgeous.
Ratio is rattled, shaken, and he can't stop thinking about the sound of Aventurine's voice begging for him to end his life into the quiet of night. Ratio had been so terrified in that moment, a cold dread that had threatened to shatter his composure entirely. It was then, Ratio thinks, that the universe must have been fundamentally reordered.
A giggling young man and woman lean against the railing beside Ratio, posing to take a photo of themselves against the horizon. Ratio swiftly paces away to maintain his brooding solitude.
The other end of the promenade leads to a party in full swing. Obnoxious laughter, celebratory drinks, dancing, and loud music. Ratio immediately spots Jade, holding court near the bar. A chill traces its way down his spine, and swiftly, he turns back.
That's when the air beside Ratio begins to shimmer, gathering light and form. Aventurine's projected hologram materializes. A near-perfect, untouchable effigy. Ratio's entire body softens in relief.
Though Aventurine is contractually mandated to be here just as Ratio is, the man's injuries allow him to attend this benign, pointless gathering from the comfort and safety of his hotel bed.
At least, Ratio hopes he's lying in bed.
"Hellooo," Aventurine's projection sings in greeting. There's a charming smile on his lips. "Can you see and hear me okay?"
Ratio is already beaming. Aventurine looks well, dressed in one of his flashy, custom suits. There's a familiar, confident smile on his face, but even through the grainy projection of a hologram, Ratio can see through it. Penacony truly did a number on the both of them.
Ratio says, "I can. Come, stand over here beside me."
Aventurine tilts his head in confusion. "Over... where exactly, Doctor?" Then, he fiddles with his glasses.
The question, so simple and genuine, strikes Ratio like a physical blow. He freezes. Of course, you idiot. The hologram has no senses. Even though the Radiant Feldspar is within the Dreamscape, there's no way to connect Aventurine's perception to this holographic output point. Ratio reels in shame at the carelessness of his mistake.
"I… A few steps forward. Yes, right there." Ratio says, his voice tight with regret. "Forgive me, Aventurine. We're standing on the larboard promenade."
"Come on, doctor. Don't worry about it. Hmm, output doesn't want to play nice with my hologram's projection point," Aventurine gives up quickly, asking, "Well, how's the view, doctor? I've heard the Radiant Feldspar is quite luxurious."
"It is. Not bad decor, I'll admit. Your appearance has quantitatively improved the magnificent view."
"Oh?" Aventurine's face brightens. "Do share. And don't skip me. I could go for some compliments right now."
Ratio describes the ship's opulent interior, polished in gold-accented metals and accented with chrome, the red, velvet upholsteries, and gaudy carpet. There's artwork everywhere, of which Ratio gives his haughty opinions of amidst describing the setting. Then, he describes the colors of the sky before cheekily moving onto the magnificent sight of the projected man before him.
"I truly wish you were here," Ratio concludes, his voice low and earnest, meant for Aventurine's ears alone. "Ugh. I detest gatherings. Must they be so noisy?"
"Keep it together, doc. We'll be out of here as soon as we can." Playfully, Aventurine adds, "And unfortunately, a doctor from the Intelligentsia Guild has ordered me to stay in bed. No fun allowed."
"Heh." Ratio beams. All he wants is to close the impossible distance, to feel the real, solid warmth of Aventurine's body, to get some tangible proof that the man who begged for death is truly, irrevocably, choosing to live. "I'll keep an eye out. He is merely concerned for your health, you know."
While Aventurine does his social rounds, Ratio escapes to a liminal hallway between the ballroom and the front deck. It's quiet, only disturbed by the occasional party-goer rising from the grandiose staircase below.
Finally, Ratio is alone with his thoughts, all of which gravitate back to Aventurine.
The peace does not last long. The door across from Ratio crashes open to a loud woman is on the phone — Topaz, the Stoneheart. Ratio's entire body tenses.
"Augh. Hold on," she's saying, frustrated. Ratio's eyes pierce through her, distrustful, but he's far enough away from Topaz for her to not pay him any attention. Her attention is occupied enough as things are. The phone, her pet trotter running around her feet — and Aventurine's hologram, Ratio realizes, just beyond the door.
Aventurine tilts his head, his lips curling into. "Hurry up, Director. I'm gravely injured, you know. Your staff can wait, but I might not be able to~"
Rushed, Topaz apologetically ends her phone call.
"Well, well, if it isn't the IPC's game-winner," Aventurine taunts, only moments later. Heavens, the man is relentlessly obnoxious, and Ratio's heart warms upon hearing his voice. "Quite the step up from that frozen backwater blunder of yours to lounging around on a luxury airship, huh Director? Maybe the big shots will promote you back to P45. I'll certainly put in a good word for you, since you did so well as my project manager."
"Ugh." Topaz lets out an exasperated sigh, glancing up and then down the digital Aventurine before her. "I didn't know you were here, Aventurine. Are you feeling better?"
"Mandated, full-salary sick leave? It's like a dream, Director," Aventurine boasts. "Now. I heard a rumor that Oti Alfafa intends on going public with Penacony. Tell me about that."
Topaz crosses her arms. "You're on medical leave. Jade will fill you in soon enough."
Jade. Ratio's stomach twists.
"Oh, come on. I just orchestrated the entire acquisition. Surely I've earned a few insider details from my dear project manager."
Topaz gives up. "Fine. Yes, the IPO is moving forward. Oti's pushing for an expedited timeline and wants to capitalize on the publicity from the Charmony Festival."
"Ooo. Aggressive. I like that." Aventurine hums thoughtfully. "What's the projected valuation?"
The two fall into corporate gossip. Ratio crosses his arms and leans against the wall, observing them candidly with a mixture of amusement and fascination. Aventurine is fully in his element — charming, shrewd, always angling for information he can leverage later. The man's lifeblood is business, and his talents are always a thrill to see in action. Topaz, for her part, clearly knows she's being played but engages anyway, unable to resist the bait.
There's an ease between them, a professional rapport built on mutual respect. Ratio can tell. Aventurine teases, Topaz rolls her eyes, and somehow they still manage to exchange genuinely useful intelligence.
Ratio can't help but be on guard around the Stonehearts, especially after this mission. But Topaz feels a lot less sinister to be near than Jade. Still, Ratio remains cautious, ready to pounce on the woman if she so much as begins to disrespect Aventurine.
Thankfully, she does not. The banter remains light, the gossip technical. Their conversation drifts into stocks, holdings, market fluctuations in various sectors. It all makes Ratio's head spin. He understands the skeleton of their conversation, the individual concepts, but... Heavens.
There's reason Dr. Ratio does not hold a doctorate in business. The psychology of it all makes his skull throb.
"You're impossible," Topaz finally says, shaking her head. "I have to get back to the party. Try not to cause any more international incidents while you're recuperating, okay?"
"Hah. No promises," Aventurine says. "Bye-bye."
Ratio is smiling.
The game room also proves to be more quiet than the main ballroom, though no less gilded.
Argenti, a Knight of Beauty who rescued Aventurine, and Boothill, the very same Galaxy Ranger who had threatened Aventurine and Ratio at gunpoint in Aventurine's hotel room, have commandeered one of the billiards tables. Their contrasting styles making for an oddly entertaining match — the Knight's flowery commentary punctuating the ranger's laconic grunts.
Ratio is describing each move to Aventurine's projection, who listens with genuine interest. The man is not shy about his love of games and competition.
"Dr. Ratio!" Argenti calls. "Would you grace us with your company? Surely a scholar of your caliber must possess the intuition for this beautiful game!"
Ratio's first instinct is to decline. He came here seeking solitude, after all — to observe and pass the time, not to participate. But Aventurine's voice carries that particular lilt that means he's intrigued.
"Oh? Are you any good at billiards, Doctor?"
Billiards is a game of applied physics, spatial reasoning, technical skill, and precision execution. Nothing extraordinary. Ratio's chest tightens in competitiveness. Is Dr. Ratio good at billiards? Heh.
"Passably," Ratio says, joining the table and picking out the longest cue he can find. He tests its weight, its balance, the subtle warping of the wood grain. Satisfactory.
"Do continue to narrate," Aventurine says, and there's genuine warmth in his voice that makes Ratio's pulse quicken.
"Very well."
The game begins simply enough. Boothill breaks with more force than finesse, scattering the balls across the felt. Argenti takes his turn with theatrical deliberation, sinking one ball while waxing poetic about... something. The man talks a lot, and frequently references his the Aeon of Beauty, Idrila in relation to Aventurine, who plays along.
Then it's Ratio's turn.
He circles the table like a predator sizing up prey, cataloging angles, vectors. The seven ball sits at approximately forty-three degrees from the corner pocket, with the cue ball positioned at—
"Doctor?" Aventurine's voice interrupts his calculations. "Are you still there?"
"Apologies. Yes." Ratio clears his throat. "I'm examining the table. The seven ball — that's the solid maroon one — is positioned near the far corner. If I strike the cue ball at precisely twenty-two degrees from center, applying a three-quarter force stroke, the resulting trajectory should put me in an advantageous position."
The crack of contact echoes through the room when Ratio executes the shot. The cue ball kisses the seven at the exact angle he calculated, sending it rolling smoothly into the pocket. Ratio smirks.
"Perfect execution," he boasts.
"Did you make it?" Aventurine asks.
"Naturally." Ratio moves to his next shot, his competitive instincts fully engaged. "The three ball is partially obscured by the eleven. However, if I employ a masse shot — that's when you elevate the cue to create a curved trajectory..."
He lines up the shot, elevating his cue to precisely forty-five degrees. The physics are elegant: the downward force creates topspin, the friction against the felt curves the ball's path around the obstacle.
Ah, the beauty of physics; the relief that comes with sound calculations. Geometry unfolds before him in a most satisfying way. The three ball curves beautifully around the eleven and drops into the side pocket with a satisfying thunk.
"Impressive!" Argenti exclaims.
Boothill grumbles, "Show off. This ain't a fair game."
Ratio works the table like a theorem to be solved. He sinks the four, then the five, narrating each calculation to Aventurine in detail. Numbers flood his vision, overtaking the entirety of his mind and speech.
"The cue ball's current position is approximately fifteen centimeters from the left rail, thirty-two from the top. It creates a direct line to the six ball when accounting for a two-tip offset to compensate for the slight leftward bias I've observed in—"
"Ratio," Aventurine interrupts, laughing. "Calm down. Just tell me if you're winning or not."
"Hm? Oh, yes. I'm winning. Decisively." He chalks his cue with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, his mind already three shots ahead of the current state of the table. "The six is now positioned such that a firm center ball strike will send it banking off the far rail at a thirty-degree angle, which will then..."
Perfect execution, once again. Ratio can't help but smile. Argenti applauds with genuine enthusiasm. "Magnificent!"
"Perfectly executed. Only the eight ball remains," Ratio continues, circling the table. His jacket sleeves are rolled up now, his hair slightly disheveled. "Standard rules dictate I must call my pocket. I'm selecting the corner pocket to my right — your left, from your perspective, Aventurine."
The eight ball rests in a deceptively simple position. A straight shot, but the angle requires precision. Ratio lines up carefully, acutely aware that he's climbed half onto the table to achieve the optimal angle, one knee pressed against the felt.
Ratio draws back his cue, every muscle calibrated for the perfect stroke. The calculated physics align in his mind with beautiful order — force, friction, trajectory, spin, all converging into a single outcome.
The cue ball strikes true. The eight ball rolls forward, and drops into the called pocket.
"Game," Ratio announces, straightening. There's a flush of satisfaction warming satiation his chest.
"Did you just run the table?" Aventurine muses, incredulous.
"I did." Ratio can't quite keep the smugness from his voice. "A flawless victory."
"Muddle fudging hustler," Boothill cries, offended.
Ratio sets down his cue, acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look — jacket wrinkled, hair mussed, having just demolished his opponents with the intensity of a man defending his stance in a heated academic debate. The competitiveness drains away, replaced by a more familiar self-consciousness.
"I don't recall either of you asking me if I was proficient at billiards. I was merely offered a spot in your game, of which I accepted." Ratio turns away from his two opponents. While immensely entertaining, the billiards match was a bit much, socially draining. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
"Lead the way, champion," Aventurine teases. But the warmth in his voice makes something flutter in Ratio's chest, dangerous to his carefully maintained composure. "It was a pleasure, you two. Better luck next time."
Aventurine's hologram accompanies Ratio outside, an untouchable shadow.
They find their way to a quiet alcove, where Ratio studies Aventurine's projection carefully.
Even through the grainy transmission, Ratio can see the exhaustion, the way Aventurine's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. The slight delay before his responses.
"How are you feeling?" Ratio asks quietly.
Aventurine's smile tightens almost imperceptibly. "Well enough."
Ratio notices it then: Aventurine's ungloved hand drifting up to rub at his eye. A brief, unconscious gesture he tries to hide the moment he realizes he's done it.
"Aventurine," Ratio says carefully. "May I ask you something? You may, of course, refuse to answer."
The hologram's shoulders tense slightly. "Go ahead."
"You rub your eyes frequently, I've noticed. Do they hurt?"
Aventurine's hand drops immediately. His expression smooths into something practiced, neutral. "No."
"Aventurine."
"It's nothing, Ratio. Really."
Ratio's eyes do not leave the hologram. "Prosthetic acrylic wears against the conjunctiva over time. The body has a funny way of rejecting foreign materials, even necessary ones. It's none of my business, but you should ensure that you're not overdue for a refitting."
The silence stretches between them. Aventurine's jaw tightens.
Ratio says, "I am asking as your colleague and friend for you to please take care of yourself."
"I'll... think about it." Aventurine's voice is flat. Dismissive. "Thank you."
"I promised to remain by your side during your recovery, did I not?" Ratio hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. "That promise extends beyond the visit with the Doctor of Chaos. If you decide to see an oculist, I will accompany you, if you want me to be there."
Aventurine's hologram goes very still.
"And," Ratio adds quietly, "I would ensure that the exact hues are used in the new prosthetics. Down to the limbal striation. The precise shade of pink, the patterns in the cyan, the ring of purple. Every detail that makes them yours."
Aventurine's lips part slightly. "You... you'd make sure they matched?"
"Yes. Of course."
The hologram flickers. When Aventurine speaks again, the bravado is gone from his tone, replaced instead with confusion. "Why?"
Why? Because Sigonians are despised across the cosmos, and Ratio barely trusts a medical professional he doesn't personally know to treat an Avgin man for any reason. Putting faith in the probability of such a person to also keep Aventurine's new prosthetics looking as faithfully Avgin as his current ones... well, the influence of his threatening presence will drastically increase the odds of nothing going wrong, he can hope.
Ratio lets a tight, angry breath escape his nose. He says, "Eye color is important to the Avgins, no? Might I also assume that your prosthetics are painted the way that they are because it's important to you that they're recognizably Avgin?"
The silence that follows is heavy. Aventurine's heritage is a touchy subject, one that warrants delicate consideration when brought up in conversation. Ratio's mind races to the first scene that he and Aventurine had acted out as part of their scheme in the hotel room — the one in which Aventurine had lashed out with such ferocity that Ratio is certain that it wasn't a part of the act.
"I..." Aventurine starts, then stops. "Look. I don't like doctors. Or medical procedures. Any of that. I know I need to replace my eyes eventually, but the thought of—" His voice catches. "—ugh. The thought of them touching my eyes again. Taking them out..."
"...I understand." And Ratio does. He witnessed Aventurine's terror with the Doctor of Chaos, the way he'd nearly bitten through his own tongue rather than trust a stranger to heal him. "You don't have to decide now. But when you're ready, allow me to accompany you if it will help. I'll make sure you're safe and well cared for. I promise."
Aventurine is quiet for a long moment. Then, he says, "Thank you, doctor. I'll keep that in mind. And, hmm..." Aventurine's lips quirk into a small, genuine smile. "You might scare away the oculist if this is anything like our encounter with the Doctor of Chaos. Hah."
Ratio groans, running a hand through his hair. "That will be up to their behavior, not mine."
Aventurine laughs, and some of the tension settles between them.
Ratio leaves the Radiant Feldspar with no fanfare, slipping away as the party as it reaches its crescendo. It's how he often retreats from social obligations, disappearing without a trace. Aventurine's hologram had flickered out an hour ago, and it would be outrageous to not check on him — so, Ratio does.
Aventurine is peacefully asleep in the Dreampool in his hotel room, breathing. Thank Heavens. But the man should be resting his body and mind right now, not doing whatever it is that he's up to in the Dreamscape.
The Dreamscape materializes around Ratio in a wash of over-saturated color that comes with a wave of nausea that steals his breath. Ratio orients himself quickly. Distinctly, the man Ratio is looking for is not in his hotel room — he's off somewhere in the dream. That infuriating man. He said he was resting.
Intuition leads Ratio to the theme park, the very place where Aventurine nearly destroyed himself in a spectacular blaze of self-destruction. The place is eerily quiet now. The rides stand frozen, their lights flickering in automated patterns.
And there, at the epicenter of the broadcast platform, stands Aventurine. Not a hologram this time. He's quite stunning, dressed in the same suit from the party, but his jacket is off now, carefully draped over one arm. His pink-tinted glasses catch the faint, neon glow of the park. He's looking up at the sky — at the impossible, marvelous chaos of the Dreamscape's ceiling, where stars and auroras dance in defiance of the natural laws of physics.
"There you are," Ratio says, his voice softer than he intends. "Shouldn't you be resting?"
Aventurine doesn't startle. He must have heard Ratio's approach. "My physical body is resting, isn't it?"
Ratio stops a few feet away from Aventurine, giving him space. Aventurine stares at him, and then says, "Come here. Stand right there."
Sighing, Ratio does, and Aventurine stares at him once more. It's an uncomfortable thing, but surely it's for a good reason.
"What color are your eyes, doctor?" Aventurine eventually asks.
Ratio hesitates, surprised. It's not often that people ask him simply questions about himself, and he can't recall a time in which he's ever described the appearance of his eyes.
"Ahem. What color are my eyes? Well, my sclera are white, like most humans. And similar to your prosthetics, my irises exhibit bi-colored centralized heterochromia. My pupils are black. Vertically slit. The inner ring immediately around my pupil is golden yellow, and the zone is red, dusty rose."
Something about the description must surprise Aventurine. He laughs, but then falls silent. Ratio doesn't pry, and can only assume that the man harbors a vast array of complex emotions regarding eyes. An infant could deduce that much.
"Wow. Pretty," Aventurine muses. "They match the sky."
The compliment has Ratio's heart rate spiking. "The sky outside of the Dreamscape is far more boring than this, I'm afraid."
"Not on Sigonia. I remember it looked similar to this."
Ratio memorizes every trace of the Dreamscape's sky. It makes sense. Sigonia lies in a tumultuous star cluster with a number of cosmic weather disasters that would indeed impact the visible atmosphere from the perspective of someone living on Sigonia. Ratio doesn't comment, he merely listens.
Then, the sky lights up.
Fireworks bloom in the night, bursts of sapphire, emerald, and gold reflecting in the pure, genuine surprise of Aventurine's face. There's longing in his expression, excitement. Deeply, deeply human in a way that makes Ratio's entire heart ache.
Aventurine takes a cautious step back, transfixed, but nervous. "Huh?"
"They're safe. Fireworks," Ratio explains simply. "The very last event on tonight's agenda."
"Fireworks," Aventurine repeats, his lips carving into a smile. "You know, the Alfalfa Family was generous enough to provide me with an agenda in braille. This is 'fireworks'? I was picturing something more..."
More fireworks whizz in colorful sequence, ending with thunderous booming across the Dreamscape in their bright, fantastical explosions.
"...contained?" Aventurine snorts in laughter.
Ratio smiles, content with watching Aventurine's beautiful reactions over the fireworks show. A man who continuously begged for death, but then chose to live, seizing his heart with unshakeable longing and love.
As the show goes on, Ratio badly desires to kiss Aventurine again. He needs to. The thought is incessant, and it has been all night long.
"Aventurine," Ratio dares to say, his voice soft.
"Yes?"
"May I kiss you again?"
"Oh?" Aventurine smiles in that way he does when a scheme is brewing in his head. "Hmm. I've already said my goodbyes to the dream, so a kiss right here might be a rather poor substitute for the real thing, wouldn't you say, Doctor?"
In reality, Aventurine's fingers trace the line of Ratio's jaw, feather-light and reverent. They map the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his brow. His thumb brushes against Ratio's lower lip, and Ratio has to close his eyes against the overwhelming intimacy of it.
It's surreal. Maddening. Akin to the thought that has been plaguing Ratio's mind for months since it happened: when he showed Aventurine his art, the way he had so intimately brushed his fingers across his marble form.
"You're a handsome thing," Aventurine hums.
"As are you," Ratio says, taken aback by the compliment. His hands find their way onto Aventurine's lithe waist, and he carefully settles them there. Leverage for the calculated kiss he places on Aventurine's smiling lips.
Magical.
"May I confess something?" Ratio asks, taking a breath.
"Go ahead, doctor."
"...I have feelings for you." The words feel too big for his chest, and stumble out rather tactlessly. But they're true. They've been true for much longer than he's willing to admit.
And Aventurine — he laughs.
"What?!" Ratio stammers, horribly embarrassed. A selfish part of him is glad that Aventurine isn't able to see how red his face must be right now in shame.
"Sorry," Aventurine says, though he certainly doesn't sound it. "I could have come to that conclusion myself, doctor. But I appreciate hearing it outright like that. And don't be too surprised, but... I also have feelings for you."
"Truly?"
"Yes. Truly."
Ratio cups Aventurine's face in both hands and kisses him — slow and deep and full of every emotion he's been struggling to hold back. Aventurine makes a soft sound against his lips, his fingers tangling in Ratio's hair, pulling him closer.
When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing hard.
Ratio genuinely does not know what to say. For once, his mind is empty — cleansed of persistent thoughts and wholly fixated on the vivacious present. Aventurine.
Aventurine's expression turns mischievous. "Describe the fireworks to me, doctor. The ones from earlier — I really liked them. I could see them, but I think hearing your description will make them even better. You're good at that."
Ratio huffs a laugh, fondness flooding through him. Of course Aventurine is still thinking about the fireworks. "Fireworks are a rather extravagant form of pyrotechnic display — controlled explosions designed to create a visual and auditory spectacle. The ones tonight were set off in a cascading pattern, with primary bursts in deep sapphire transitioning to emerald green at the edges. The chemical composition likely included copper compounds for the blue, barium for the green—"
"—Professorrrrr."
"Yes?"
"You're doing that thing again where you use too many technical words."
Ratio smiles. "You asked me to describe the fireworks and I did. No?"
"Use that pretty little head of yours, doctor — be romantic. I wanted you to tell me that the fireworks were beautiful."
"They were," Ratio says softly, looking at Aventurine's face. He's handsome, maddeningly so. "But I will admit, I was more attentive to you during the display. And I can say with certainty that the fireworks were not nearly as beautiful as you."
Aventurine's cheeks flush. "Hah! That was terrible. So sappy."
"But you're smiling."
"Just — kiss me again, doctor. Please."
"Heh." Ratio does.