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"Wait, really? Not a single one?"
"Never."
"Not one old flame? A bitter ex? Any... academic rivals?" Aventurine chuckles, his eyes glinting fuchsia-blue through the bubbles in his drink. He wags the glass playfully. "Not even a fling?"
Plenty of academic rivals, certainly, but all one-sided – on their part, not Ratio's. And absolutely none of those pedagogical quibbles, project disputes, or passive-aggressive peer review annotations have ever been risqué in the way Aventurine implies (or hopes, really); he would so love the teasing fodder. All of that gossip-mongering has almost certainly atrophied his brain.
Ratio rolls his eyes and pinches the stem of his champagne flute a little tighter. "I am not fond of repeating myself, Gambler."
Far below their balcony table, the silhouettes of overdressed IPC rank and file entwine on the gala floor. Aventurine had practically begged Ratio to come, even shouldering his way past protocol to "honor Dr. Ratio's contributions to a successful deal on Penacony" as an excuse to bring him here tonight. And for what? To drink expensive liqueur and watch the dancers from afar? To forget themselves and giggle like schoolchildren? Pageantry is a special kind of time-wasting: it convinces everyone of its own necessity with polite language and gold-trimmed invitations. It demands attention from those who live unsatisfying lives, promising sweet rewards for whoever plays the game.
And yet, here Ratio sits, watching those other lives unfurl between the dancers' footsteps. They're little more than colorful shadows. Pretty distractions from more important things. With Aventurine sitting across from him, smiling expectantly, Ratio has more than enough of that.
"And what of you, then? I can only imagine the litany of torrid affairs you've entertained."
Aventurine wheezes, a drop of champagne squirting out his nose. Disgusting. Ratio sighs and tosses a silk napkin into his face, which Aventurine then scrambles to pull away from his eyes. "Oww," he groans, his face contorting. He dabs gingerly at his now-carbonated nostrils. "That hurt. I'm holding you responsible, Doctor."
The mess of pink rosé and coughing laughter would be unsightly on anyone else, but Ratio finds himself strangely unbothered. He pushes the observation from his mind, unsure of how to interpret it. "That you cannot control yourself is no indictment of my character," he scoffs, humored. Aventurine puts on a pitiable little frown, like a scolded child.
"You're laughing? I've hurt myself, and you're laughing… better watch out, Doctor. I might have to report you for malpractice."
"Oh no, how terrifying. I'm sure the Guild will appreciate the entertainment before tossing it out."
"Ah, ah," Aventurine wags a finger. "First you call me a harlot, then you throw napkins at me – I'm afraid I can't let that unruly behavior go unpunished. So," he says, leaning on the table. "Why not make a game of it, Doctor? I admit, I'm curious about that imagination of yours."
"A game of what, exactly?"
"Of our conversation. What else?"
Of course. Every conversation with him is a game, at some point or other.
"The rules are simple," Aventurine continues. "You try to guess how many lovers I've had. If you guess the number correctly, I'll finish off the rest of the bottle. But if you guess incorrectly–"
"I will not indulge the vagaries of an alcoholic." Ratio folds his arms and leans back in his chair. He pauses, realizing the sharpness of his voice as it cut loose from his teeth. Always too late. "You may gamble all you like with slot machines, but not with your liver."
"Fine, fine," Aventurine snorts. If the jibe bothers him, he shows no indication. Everything folds under the curve of his smile. "So fussy... but there's no game to be had without stakes. Any suggestions, Doc?"
"None come to mind."
"How about... this?"
Aventurine procures two small tokens from his coat. They’re an identical pair: teal-green and glittering gold, with the ornate pattern of a winged shield pressed into its center. He flips one of the coins with a metal clink, catches it in his palm, and slaps it onto the back of his wrist. Heads. "If you get it right, I'll give you this little prize. If not, you give me something of yours. Harmless, no?"
The other coin, Ratio notices belatedly, has vanished from its place on the table. A simple trick, most likely. But even the simplest tricks still require quick hands.
"Fine," Ratio hesitates. "However, you must define parameters. What benchmarks should a lover meet, by your definition?"
"Let's say anyone I've intentionally slept with more than twice."
How crass. And that word – intentionally . A strange turn of phrase. Ratio chooses not to interrogate it. "And absolutely nothing to do with your feelings for each other?"
"If I tried to define parameters for that, Doctor, we'd be here all night."
Touché. "Very well. How many guesses am I allowed?"
"I'm feeling generous. How about... three?"
Three. A fine enough number. Polarizing, decisive. Though Ratio is a man of science, he can't help his fascination with so-called numerology; occasionally, the quacks and faux-psychics in that "field" strike upon something interesting. They stumble into some larger pattern. Three just so happens to be one of their most favored, fairy-tale numbers; superstitious people read power into threes. A witch always grants three wishes, a curse always lasts three days, and Xipe's glimmering melody manifests with three faces. There is some abstract truth to it all, even to Ratio's mathematical mind. A prime always exudes a sense of finality—or perhaps importance—because it refuses to be factored down into something smaller. It demands respect.
"You don't need to think so hard about it, you know." Aventurine's playful lilt guides Ratio back into his seat at their table. "Come on. You have three whole guesses."
"I’m well aware."
Now, here lies the puzzle: no matter how Ratio responds, he will inevitably commit a faux pas. Guessing too high would imply he thinks of Aventurine as some kind of... well, a harlot , to borrow his phrasing. Guessing too low, however, would make Ratio look naïve at best, and like an idiot at worst. The man is undoubtedly experienced. With his social standing, he has all the opportunity in the world. Assuming, of course, that he wants the attention. It's a very easy assumption to make, given the way Aventurine covers himself head to toe in blue-green satin and gold. He makes himself difficult to ignore and difficult to resist, despite Ratio's repeated warnings. His flirtatious manner and provocative dress only make his job—and certainly the rest of his life—more challenging. Vulgar opportunists are wont to mistake his flashy demeanor for an invitation.
Not that a handful of trysts would affect his career prospects. While the IPC may discourage their staff from public displays of affection or illicit affairs, they’re more than well-equipped to cover up any scandals that may arise. Aventurine needs only snap his fingers, and every fawning, overeager supplicant in the universe would throw themselves at his feet –
This is all so trivial. Nauseating, even. Why humor him? Why did Ratio even agree to play this asinine game? It's none of his business. Just pick a number. "Four."
"Don't you think that's a little low?" Aventurine laughs. "I did say ' anyone I've slept with more than twice '."
Ratio tuts. No need to reward his opponent with a reaction. "Incorrect, then. Am I to assume the number is greater than four?"
"You can assume whatever you like. My lips are sealed."
Now he's just toying with him. Ratio has half a mind to cut their game short and walk away. But the other half—maybe pride, maybe curiosity—keeps him rooted in his chair, both feet anchored to the marble floor. Aventurine smirks, folding his hands on the table.
"Zero."
"How very chaste of you, Doctor. Nope."
A server approaches their table before Ratio can get another word in. They wear a plastic smile and a sheen of sweat. Ratio would too, he imagines, if he was doomed to hours of consorting with the wealthy. He nods at them, trying to convey some modicum of sympathy. They scurry away quickly. Ah. He may still need to work on that expression...
In the server's wake lies a martini glass filled with ice, and some kind of zesty green dipping sauce in the center. Four looking-glass shrimp, ivory and translucent, hang limply over the rim. Shelled, Ratio notes, frowning slightly. It's not the proper way to serve them.
"What, you've never had a haunt shrimp?" Aventurine snorts into his fist, watching Ratio's face grow more and more sour as he glares at the offending shrimp cocktail. "I hear they're a fine delicacy on Garak-IX."
"Precisely," Ratio answers flatly. "Nowhere near this banquet hall."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"These soggy, overcooked creatures are a pale imitation of the genuine article. If I were to send a picture of this to my research colleagues on the Velvet Coast, they would weep."
"Oh?" That seems to capture Aventurine's interest. He rests his chin in his hand, donning that curious little pose he takes on whenever he's listening closely. The most memorable quirk of it is how his eyes close halfway, which would signify boredom on anyone else. But Aventurine's eyes are studying, assessing. Appraising. "Do enlighten me, Doctor. What's the authentic dish like?"
"Well," Ratio sighs, rolling his eyes. "Looking-glass shrimp—or haunt shrimp , as you call them—are traditionally fried and eaten whole. Some prefer to cook them for a bit longer to soften their particularly cartilaginous outer shells, but that is a matter of taste. And no one would overcook them this egregiously, besides," he scoffs, gesturing at the so-called hors d'oeuvre. "They are then typically flavored with Velvet Salt and other spices."
"Velvet Salt?"
"The waters of the Velvet Coast have a uniquely citrus-esque flavor. Its salt is highly valued by culinarians across multiple star systems."
Looking at Aventurine's expression now, it's hard to say if he's been paying any attention at all. The look of keen interest on his face seems to have at some point dissolved into a dazed and myopic smile, his hands fiddling with his napkin. What is he thinking? All Ratio knows is that his eyes look a little softer than before.
"Someday," he chuckles, meeting Ratio's eyes. "Once I have enough PTO saved up, I wouldn't mind taking a vacation there. Would you come with me?"
"If you ever have enough PTO." An important distinction. Can Stonehearts really take time off? And, more importantly: can professors at Veritas Prime? "Ask me again when that fabled day arrives."
"Hah. I'll hold you to that. But don't forget, now. You still have one more guess."
Ah. Right.
Everything Aventurine has said thus far seems to suggest the number is far higher. The catlike grin on his face also suggests that he thinks he’s tricked Ratio successfully – he’s been goading him into guessing higher throughout their entire conversation, hasn’t he? But why? What’s his game?
It occurs to Ratio at this moment that this entire charade isn’t a question of how high he should guess. Rather, how high he is willing to. If he speaks a number larger than five out loud, it might become true — or at least, he would come closer to understanding the truth. If he doesn’t guess, he will never know. And he can keep pretending the number is lower. He can pretend that his silence has the power to erase nights in dark hotel rooms, and wash away the fingerprints of men he’ll never know. In other words: if he keeps his mouth shut, the dice will never fall.
To entertain that kind of magical thinking… perhaps Aventurine has been rubbing off on him too much.
Ratio’s stomach churns. He shifts a bit in his seat, then pushes the garish shrimp effigy out from his line of sight. That must be what's spoiling his appetite. In fact, it may well be a sacrificial tribute to the Laughter, given the way it makes him want to gag. He sighs, looking at Aventurine directly. He was wrong to ever indulge this. To let Aventurine put himself on display like the bull’s eye of a dartboard. He chases the thrill of the needle, and now, unwittingly, Ratio has aimed it right for his heart. His fingers twitch on the table, visited by the memory of a cold revolver wrapped between them. No matter how he tries to pull the gun backward, he has no choice but to play. Play, or risk him playing with someone else. Someone who just might shoot.
“Six.”
Aventurine’s crescent smile glimmers under the crystal chandelier hanging over their table. It’s the lip gloss, most likely. He is so vainly trimmed, pampered, and manicured, it should be no surprise. “Incorrect,” he says. “Looks like I win.”
Ah, that smug glint in his anthocyanin eyes – overripe, berry-sweet amusement. “Very well,” Ratio sighs, somehow relieved. “Are you satisfied?”
“Well, I did win, didn’t I?”
A misdirect. “You did.”
“Exactly. I’m happy as a clam. Or,” he snorts, glancing to the side. “As a shrimp?”
Ratio watches Aventurine reach for their nearly-finished bottle of champagne. He pours himself another glass of that rose-gold, this time a heftier amount. The bubbles shimmer against his lips before slipping away between them. “But like I said – I’m feeling generous. How about a consolation prize?”
“That depends entirely on what it is.”
“Mm. How about a story?”
“About?”
Aventurine crosses his legs. “My first lover.”
Something twinges in Ratio’s skull. Adrenaline? Apprehension? A bad feeling, he decides, as frustratingly ambiguous as that may be. It’s the only good summation of all possibilities, forcing them to simplify in his mind. “You don’t need to share anything if you don’t want to,” Ratio says quietly.
“Well, if you aren’t interested–”
“Do not twist my words. I said no such thing. I mean only to respect your privacy.”
Once Aventurine tells him this, Ratio knows he will not forget. He doesn’t do well with forgetting. Anything from minor slights (that imbecile who cut him in line at the university’s café and took the last croissant) to the 52nd digit of pi (5) to the brown-eyed, thinly-veiled disappointment in his mother’s gaze when he told her he was studying to be a teacher (rather than to “apply his talents elsewhere” ), Ratio does not know how to forget. He will remember and remember this evening between seminars, before bed, down the long hallways of Veritas Prime. Part of him shrinks away from the white tablecloth spilling over their ankles, from the small distance between them. "Don’t tell me," that voice pleads. "Don’t tell me something that cannot be untold."
But can he afford to believe in the false shield of ignorance? Are there truly some kinds of knowledge that men could do without? Perhaps. But Ratio has never been those men, and never will be. Aventurine won’t be, either. He has no choice but to know the things that most men would carve out their eyes and ears to avoid.
“I will listen,” Ratio says, to both of them.
“... alright.”
Aventurine leans back in his chair. The pianist in the corner of the gala floor strums out a few soft, plinking notes, like falling rain. His hands are calloused and cracked with age, his fingers a little crooked, but his motions are both gentle and restrained. A clear mark of skill. The cymbals hiss as they catch the droplets, pooling with rosewater melody. When the saxophone enters, Ratio realizes he’s heard this song before – it’s one of Aventurine’s favorites, he recalls. He says it “puts him in a sentimental mood”, but has never told him why. And for it to play now, just as they reach a lull in the conversation, just as he prepares to bare his heart a little more than usual… well. Ratio smiles slightly. How lucky.
They exchange glances. Aventurine’s simpering mellows out into a more peaceful smile. A tender and unspoken symmetry settles between them. “He was kind,” Aventurine starts, not missing a beat, “and he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Really, he couldn’t. Every time he saw one, he tried to make a little escape route for it. Unfortunately, it’s a little tough to herd flies,” he snorts. “Even harder than herding cats. And trust me, I’d know.”
“Oh? Have they been giving you that much trouble?” Ratio can already imagine it: Aventurine, crawling on all fours, trying to coax three big pairs of amber eyes out from under his bed. Ruan Mei’s little “cat-cakes”, as the Nameless have taken to calling them, can be quite the handful. “Have you named them yet?”
“Mm, I have a few ideas. But they need to warm up to me, first. Anyway,” Aventurine says, fiddling with his champagne flute again. “Once, I caught him using a toilet paper roll as a little tunnel for a fly. He was trying to guide it out of the room through a crack in the wall. And it just didn’t want to go in… it was prettier than an ordinary housefly, as I recall. Had a shiny, raspberry-colored back, and brown speckles on its wings.”
“A magenta bottlefly,” Ratio adds.
“I knew you’d know.”
“Go on.”
“Right, well. At some point, he decided his method wasn’t working. So he put his hand over one end of the roll, and managed to get the fly trapped inside against the wall. He slid the paper tube aaaall the way down the wall, and when he reached the crack, he just sat there waiting for it to fly outside. He figured it’d have to go, eventually. We both crouched down and listened for the buzzing. You wouldn’t believe it, but… we sat there for almost twenty minutes.”
“Such dedication. It’s not too late to become an entomologist, you know. I have an agreeable colleague who teaches the subject at Veritas Prime.”
“Hah. I wouldn't be so sure… if I was cut out for the bug-catching life, I probably would’ve noticed the issue sooner.” Aventurine sighs, his smile fading a bit. “When he dragged the tube down the wall, he accidentally squashed the fly. Dashed its guts out in a long, mushy streak.”
“Unfortunate.”
“‘Unfortunate’ is an understatement — he started sobbing . So I said, ‘What’s wrong? It’s just a fly, you don’t need to get so worked up about it’. And then he said…”
Ratio nods expectantly. Aventurine glances at him, then down into the bottom of his glass.
“He said,” Aventurine mutters. “‘It was so close to getting free.’”
As quick as it came, Aventurine’s somber expression disappears. He recovers with a smile. He always does.
Ratio frowns. “The world could use a few more kind and curious souls like him.”
“That’s what I told him, too. But I don’t think he believed me. If he did,” Aventurine shrugs. “He’d still be around.”
In his mind, Ratio faces that wall of cracked stone. He sees the streak of insect guts dashed across its surface. A few pink flecks sparkle between the smeared viscera. He knew the ending of this story before it began. “You have my condolences.”
Aventurine pours himself another glass. Ratio’s hand twitches, but stays put. “Heh. I’d save those condolences for somebody who deserves ‘em, Doc.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, he was a gentleman to a fault. How to put it… well, let’s just say that we were both flies in our own cardboard tube. With a whole bunch of other flies, all fighting over the same crack in the wall." Aventurine chuckles, his eyes glazed over. “And when we were the last flies standing,” he tilts his head, weighing each word. “I got out. And he got squashed.”
It’s not enough to fill in the picture. But it’s more than enough to understand some sense of loss. Ratio nods slowly. This time, he does reach for the glass, and downs the rest of Aventurine’s drink for himself. This earns him a hearty pout, and a few grabby fingers flitting across the table. Ratio holds the glass aloft where he can't reach it.
“Noooo!" Aventurine whines, thumping back against his chair in defeat. “You’re a villain, Doctor."
“Indeed, I am.”
Ratio reaches into his coat pocket, feeling around for a small, smooth object. There it is; he fishes out what appears to be a short stick of chalk. “As promised – to the victor go the spoils.”
“Ooh,” Aventurine coos, holding out his palm to accept his winnings. “Professor Ratio’s chalk?! This could fetch a pretty penny in the right circles, you know.”
“Please refrain from giving my… ‘admirers’,” he says delicately, “any more fodder for their delusions.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Your fan club is a nice bunch. I do enjoy reading their posts when I’m free.”
“I am going to pretend I did not hear that.”
“It’s only so I can keep an eye out for you, Doc,” he winks. “If any overzealous Ducklings were to start stalking you, they’d have some very friendly IPC guards stationed outside their door.”
“I will also pretend I didn’t hear- ‘Ducklings’ ?”
“That’s what they call each other! It’s like a secret code, so they can signal other fans without tipping off strangers.”
Somehow, Ratio suspects that the alcohol isn’t the primary reason for the headache forming between his temples. He reaches out and hastily closes Aventurine’s hand around the chalk. Aventurine's eyes flit curiously between Ratio’s fingers wrapped around his own, then back up at his face. He looks like a peckish little bird. “That’s quite enough out of you,” Ratio huffs. “I’m getting some water for the table.”
“Sparkling?” Aventurine asks, batting his eyelashes. “With the peach extract?”
Ratio levels his expectations with a deadpan stare. “Flat as a board.”
♦ ♦ ♡ ♦ ♦
It’s exactly midnight when Aventurine meanders into his apartment, his suit jacket hanging limply off one shoulder. Ratio insisted they leave the function before 2300. He also insisted on walking him home, probably to make sure he didn’t wander off into any afterparties. Killjoy. He feels some spiteful lick of adrenaline in the back of his head. Come on, stick it to Ratio – go out anyway! Why not?
On any other day, he just might. On any other day, he’d continue his winning streak as World Champion of Ruining His Own Life.
But Ratio had some disarming, annoying look in his eyes when he let him go. Aventurine could feel him staring into his back as he flashed his key card and stumbled in. What a mood-killer. Now, he has to peel off his suit and tidy it up for the next gala. Ugh.
What's Ratio's problem, anyway? Getting him too comfortable, making him tell that entire embarrassing story...
The dry cleaning can wait until tomorrow. He’ll run it through the Omnisynthesizer when he wakes up. But he might be hung over in the morning… oh, come on, it’s only a few button presses. He’ll manage. Whining to himself, he peels off the entire outfit, then painstakingly folds each garment into a crooked almost-square before tossing it in. “Where’s the long-fiber setting,” he grumbles, squinting at the touch-screen keyboard on the side of the machine. This thing is not designed to be drunk-friendly. Why is this so- got it. “There we go.”
Victory! The clothes have been deposited into their tiny oven. Tomorrow, they will come out smelling like fresh linens, or amber, or whatever scent profile he picked the last time and couldn’t be bothered to change. People will compliment him either way. They always compliment the scents he hates.
“Blugh,” he sighs, flopping down onto his plush, queen-sized mattress. The king was, of course, an option. But that’s just too much space for too little Aventurine. Sometimes he regrets not taking it. Especially right now, as his three fur-children start crawling all over him. Crawling all over his drunken carcass, like magenta bottleflies.
“My organs,” he wheezes, pouting at the cat-cake now pattering around his stomach. Woe is he, truly, to be trapped underneath such cuteness. It feels like a crime to try lifting it away. So he doesn’t. If he must be a martyr for continued the happiness of these creatures, so be it.
“Mew,” the cat cake hops up and down, staring plaintively at him. “Clothes! Clothes!”
Right, they know a few words. One of them is quite verbose, actually. Must be a little older. “They’re gonna wash overnight, it’s fine.”
“Get! Clothes! Out! Treat!”
Treat. One of the first words a cat would learn, if it could. And these can. “No treats before bed.”
“Treat! Treat! Clothes!”
It’ll get bored, eventually. Aventurine closes his eyes.
Then, he hears a loud thump – he jolts upright and looks over to see a leaning tower of kitty. The other two cat-cakes have stacked themselves up so that one can bang its face against the Omnisynthesizer. “Hey! Stop that,” Aventurine groans, scrambling over and flicking the machine off. He scoops up the cat cake. “What are you doing that for? You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Your treat is in your clothes,” it says simply, its eyes swimming with tears. This must be the more talkative cat. It’s hard to tell them apart sometimes. “You’re going to cook it by accident.”
“My ‘treat’?”
“Treat, treat- gift,” it says quickly, its velvety body fluffing up. “The gift!”
Ohh. Oh! Shit. Aventurine sets the cat-cake down on his bed, then pops open the Omnisynthesizer door. Sifting through the fabric, he feels around for a smooth, tiny object. “There you are,” he mumbles, pulling Ratio’s stick of chalk out from the breast pocket of his coat. “Okay,” he sighs, closing the door, and turning back to look at his three very stupid, very adorable sentient cats. “I found my treat, alright? Now it’s bedtime.”
“Bedtime!”
“Bedtime!”
“Bedtime!”
Were he not so exhausted, Aventurine might have laughed at the way the cats bounce around his mattress, ploofing down onto the comforter. All he can manage right now is a little smile. “Yep. Bedtime.”
Crawling into bed, Aventurine holds Ratio's gift aloft. There’s no way it’s just a regular piece of chalk – the one Ratio carries around is basically a heat-seeking death missile. A “light pen”, he says. As if it can’t smash targets fifty feet away with deadly precision, then boomerang back into his hand. This one, Aventurine suspects, must also be some weird skeuomorphic technology. But maybe less deadly. His finger wanders to the blue button on its side.
Out pops some kind of grooved, metal prong. The patterns are strange...
Oh? Is it really what he thinks it is?
“You couldn’t have meant to part with this,” he murmurs, turning the key over and admiring its curves in the lamplight. “Could you, Doctor…?”
If this was Ratio’s house key, Aventurine would’ve gotten a call from one very disgruntled professor by now. Or at least a terse little text announcing that he would return in five minutes to collect his belongings. Something like that. So, if not his front door… what does this key unlock? Buried treasure? Some ornate chest tucked away at the end of a mind-boggling series of puzzles? Aventurine tilts the key back and forth.
No, no. What’s the simplest, most straightforward explanation? Ratio doesn’t speak in riddles, and he most certainly doesn’t play games. He’s wedded to the truth, the same way Aventurine is wedded to a lie whenever they’re together.
It’s a spare.
“ ‘My door is always open’ , huh?” Aventurine smiles to himself.
Now, as a matter of propriety, Aventurine will have to give it back to him. It just won’t do for a high-ranking IPC official to be scampering in and out of Ratio’s private quarters. Surely the good doctor has enough common sense to understand that. Why would he offer something so tactless, so… scandalous? Especially for him. Yes, it’s too much. Better give it back tomorrow.
Tomorrow, though. For now, Aventurine holds the key in his palm, tracing his fingers along the silver bumps and ridges.
♦ ♦ ♡ ♦ ♦
The rolling steam of the bathtub anchors Ratio to his body like nothing else. The party-goers and their chatter melt away from his skin, leaving him bare and untainted by noise. The scent of lemongrass also works miracles – Ratio can barely smell the champagne odor radiating from Aventurine’s suit anymore. It followed him all the way home, clinging to his robes. At least drunkenness and alcohol poisoning themselves are not contagious. If they were, Ratio would surely be ill by now, given how long he took examining Aventurine’s face and his gait to make sure he could let him go for the evening. His doctor’s conscience wouldn’t allow anything less.
Checking Aventurine so throughly was strictly a necessity. Ratio's professionalism does not end at the door to his practice.
But enough of that. The gambler will be fine, albeit a little hung over. A fitting lesson for his indulgence.
Once the translucent, white-gold water has risen high enough (frothing just so, the amount of bubble bath just right), Ratio turns the faucet. The flow of water hushes. With this, the bathroom is now exactly as it should be: safe, slow, and comfortably silent. Ratio feels an easy smile settle into his expression. He inhales, closing his eyes, and starts to peel off his-
A metallic clink pierces the air of his carefully-constructed sanctuary. Ratio inhales. His thoughts immediately scatter again, as if someone had pushed a stack of papers off of his desk, letting them fly in all directions. What is that? Why is it here? Is one precious half hour of peace too much to ask of the universe? After hours of entertaining Aventurine’s flighty, whimsical drinking and traipsing around the gala? Aeons forfend. Glowering, he opens his eyes and looks toward the offending noise.
Something flashes on the floor below. Teal and gold, glittering. Ratio blinks, brushing the item closer with his foot. It’s cool to the touch. Largely flat; it sticks to the floor as a coin would. Crouching, he reaches to scoop it up, having some minor difficulty catching it under his fingernail. Once he has it, he lays the trinket flat in his palm. A familiar winged shield pattern rests at the center of the token.
This is undoubtedly Aventurine’s. Perhaps he dropped it on their way back to his apartment, when Ratio walked him home. No, not “dropped”. That would imply it was an accident on part of his dull, liquor-addled brain. A convenient excuse, and one that lesser minds might believe. But Aventurine has chosen Ratio to be his plus-one, and Ratio does not fall for these tricks. Knowing better is something of a survival mechanism around that fool. So no, he does not believe that this token magically slipped into his clothes. He has no pockets anywhere that passers-by can see. That means it would require extra care and precision to stick something on his person, and to ensure that it stays put. If anyone is observant enough to find the right spot, it would be Aventurine. And as satisfying as it is to deconstruct his little ruse, Ratio must admit that he hadn’t noticed until right now; Aventurine won two games tonight. His sleight of hand is not to be trifled with.
... No, that's not quite right. Aventurine won three times: their childish guessing game, stealthily implanting that token, and the very challenging feat of convincing Dr. Veritas Ratio to attend another vapid gala hosted by the IPC.
But why give him the token? Ratio lost their bet. He hasn’t earned this prize. As a matter of principle, he will have to return it tomorrow – it was not fairly won.
Tomorrow, of course. For now, Ratio slips into his bath and lets out a contented sigh. He holds the token in his palm, admiring its shine under the rosy lamplight.