Archive of Our Own

At precisely 10:43pm, a blast had torn through the private rooms of Pier Point’s grand casino, leaving behind a trail of bodies and a considerable mess in its wake. The civilian zone has since been fully evacuated, and what remains of the once opulent building is now reduced to dust and smoke.

A gas leak, the preliminary reports insist. That is what Ratio has been dispatched to verify. Such incidents are statistically rare—particularly in a facility subjected to regular inspections and maintenance.

He heads for the entryway with long, deliberate strides.

The casino had once loomed grandly over the boulevard, all glass and excess. Now the second floor is demolished and reduced to a skeletal shell. The lower half bears collateral damage. Wind blows through the cracks in the windows, and each step he takes is loud, accompanied by the dry crunch beneath his shoes. Ratio navigates the interior with care, avoiding collapsed sections and exposed steel beams jutting out from all directions. What remains of the furnishings are splintered tables and slot machines coated in ash and debris. The air itself feels charged and heavy against his lungs.

He steps into a wide room where most of the team is located. Tall windows flank it, allowing the first rays of morning light to flicker in through the jagged glass.

“Gas leak,” one of the officers repeats what Ratio has already heard. “With the amount of smoking done in this gambling den, I’m surprised the whole thing didn’t go up.”

Ratio hums noncommittally as he pulls on his gloves. 

To suggest that Ratio had ever aspired to be a detective would be a lie. His father had been one. People tend to find this explanatory.

During his lifetime, the man had attempted to educate his son in the profession. He believed in the system and the reassuring fiction that rules would eventually reciprocate one’s loyalty. He had been a righteous man, burning with a devotion to justice so intense it regularly eclipsed his obligations to his family. 

A profoundly stupid man.

It was that same devotion that got him killed, in an explosion not unlike the one Ratio is now investigating.

But for all his criticisms of his father’s methods, Ratio does find the work itself engaging. He does not particularly like it or dislike it, which is perhaps ironic, given the sheer amount of time and energy it consumes each day. He lives in the space between questions and answers, and spends most of his waking hours there, whether he wishes to or not. Incompleteness tends to upset him greatly, and pries sleep from him more frequently than long working hours ever could.

It had taken several years of routine, dull cases before he was entrusted with assignments that demanded actual thought. These are the ones he finds difficult to abandon. He does not enjoy bloodshed, nor does it trouble him particularly. Murder, at least, tends to obey certain patterns, and those patterns are what truly hold his attention. There is comfort in that—more than in people, anyway. 

For a while, he kneels and inspects the debris, rubbing soot between his fingers. He is then guided to the locations where the bodies were recovered, which were allegedly charred beyond recognition. 

Explosions are not unheard of in Pier Point, but they are far from common. The city favors quieter violence, such as targeted assassinations or disappearances that draw minimal scrutiny. Large-scale operations draw attention, and attention is expensive. Still, with the number of crime organizations operating in the city, such an incident is hardly unthinkable. Particularly for those who know what signs to look for.

“Detective,” one of the officers calls, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you ready to review the evidence?”

Ratio inclines his head. “I should think so.”

He is led to a neatly enumerated collection of evidence bags. Most contain personal effects, such as loose cash, jewelry, or damaged scraps of clothing. One item, however, gives him pause.

A ring.

He adjusts his glasses to properly examine the engraving within: an intricate symbol depicting several looping lines, beneath which two hands meet in a firm clasp. It seems his premonition had been correct.

“This was recovered with one of the victims?” he asks.

“With what was… left of them, yes.”

“The Alfalfa family, then,” Ratio declares, setting the bag aside.

The officer stiffens while scribbling notes. “Pardon?”

“The symbol is unmistakably that of the Family. Among its branches, the Alfalfas wear rings, the Oaks earrings, the Bloodhounds necklaces—or collars, if you will—et cetera. You ought to know this.” He pauses. “How many rings like this have you catalogued?”

“Ah, we’re still searching,” the man mutters, looking through his notes. “Though, we’d need to check all the jewelry for engraving. It’s, uh, hard to tell with this much soot. Would you like us to do that, sir?”

Ratio resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Obviously.”

He moves on before his colleague can respond.

That is when his attention catches on something out of place.

A poker chip, sealed inside a plastic evidence bag.

Ordinarily, such an object would be unremarkable in a casino. This one is not. It has survived the blast entirely intact, its surface gleaming a perfect gold. So pristine that Ratio can nearly discern his own reflection within it.

It does not belong to this casino. Nor to any other in Pier Point, for that matter. It’s a personal collector’s piece, likely devoid of any prints, if it ever bore any at all. After all, the fingers he has so frequently seen this very chip dance across are always gloved.

The quiet drop in his stomach is… inconvenient.

“I will be conducting several private inquiries,” Ratio says evenly. “Leave this item with me for now. Update me once the final number of casualties is confirmed.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

By the time Ratio approaches the run-down motel on the edge of town, the sun has set and his mood is beyond salvation. The casino incident is all anyone is talking about, and he’d been forced to cycle through three radio stations before admitting defeat and driving the rest of the way in silence.

The motel announces itself with a flickering pink sign, the M in MOTEL entirely extinguished, the L blinking with a persistence that would grate on Ratio’s nerves were he staying overnight. But he assumes the establishment’s clientele are not here in pursuit of sleep. Fortunately, neither is he.

He proceeds to the appointed room. As agreed, he knocks twice, pauses for three seconds, then delivers three rapid knocks. Eventually, the door opens to a man in a dark suit whom Ratio vaguely recognizes and fully expects. The individual he is here to see does not, as a rule, open his own doors.

He is allowed inside.

The lighting inside is dim, forcing his eyes to adjust from the bright, antiseptic glare of the corridor. The room is stale, its walls long saturated with mold, cheap tobacco, and the residue of countless poor decisions. All of it is presently overpowered by the scent of a familiar cologne.

The man who let him in promptly vanishes into the periphery of his vision, like he was never there to begin with. Then again, maybe Ratio’s attention has been wholly claimed by the figure seated in an armchair near the window. Near-glowing eyes land on him, rooting him in place despite the fact that he had fully anticipated the sight.

“You came.” The voice is soft and teasing. “I was beginning to suspect you’d set me up, Detective—and that your agents would be kicking in the door to arrest me any second.”

A sensible suspicion. In fact, Ratio has considered it often enough that the thought has settled into the margins of his mind like an annotation he pointedly ignores. The more compelling question is why he never has—not during their first meeting, nor in the months that followed. 

He scoffs quietly. “I’m not a dishonorable man. We established terms, and I will abide by them—provided you continue to do the same, gambler.”

Ratio despises admitting that the man before him is disarmingly attractive—in a particularly catastrophic manner that has driven more than a few business magnates and crime lords to their knees for a mere chance to have him. His golden hair appears soft in the neon glow through the window, and his eyes are as impossibly bright, promising indulgence and disaster in equal measure. But that softness can be misleading.

Aventurine of the Stonehearts is one of ten leaders of an organization that treats capital and influence as a game of leverage, and bloodshed as an acceptable escalation when other methods fail.

Unfortunately, he is also a source of information Ratio has occasionally relied on when his investigations reach an impasse.

Their deal is simple: Aventurine supplies information when needed and keeps his own activities carefully concealed. In return, Ratio refrains from correcting the legal oversight that is Aventurine’s continued freedom.

Ratio dislikes the arrangement, which is reassuring, as it suggests he has not yet lost his judgment. 

The more they spoke, the more he came to realize that Aventurine is simply not the type to get ‘caught’. Someone like him does not truly need Ratio’s cooperation. He could have extricated himself at any point. He had no obligation to cooperate and no incentive to promise answers. And yet he did, again and again. He continued to return, to exchange intel, to offer just enough glimpses behind the curtain to keep Ratio coming back. Ratio has closed more than a few cases with the gambler’s assistance. After all, who could be better versed in the fragile internal politics of criminal organizations than someone operating from within them?

And still, it often leaves him wondering what kind of convoluted game Aventurine might be playing, and whether the arrangement truly benefits him as much as Aventurine pretends.

Their truce trespasses across several professional and ethical boundaries. But every so often, Ratio recalls the advice of his senior detectives early in his career: information rarely travels a single, respectable road. Sometimes it must be acquired from sources the law intends to pursue at a later, more convenient date. It is not something his father would have condoned. Then again, his father had been an idiot.

With a sufficiently rigorous contract and a healthy measure of mutual distrust, such arrangements can function. They serve the greater good, provided one is careful and they remain undiscovered. 

Such as theirs. 

“You know,” Aventurine muses, leaning back comfortably, “when someone asks to meet alone in a place like this, it’s usually for drug business or sex. Occasionally one becomes the other.”

Ratio’s face twists in displeasure. As always, he does not rise to the bait. “I regret to disappoint you. I have no such intentions this evening.”

“This evening?” Aventurine’s smile widens. “So maybe another time, then?”

“Cease your theatrics, gambler,” Ratio says sharply. “You know why I’m here.”

There is a moment of silence. Then, Aventurine looks past him, and speaks into the dark. “Give us some privacy.”

Immediately, the man whose existence Ratio had almost forgotten slips wordlessly outside the room, leaving the two of them alone.

“Then do enlighten me,” Aventurine starts. “What brings the esteemed Detective Ratio to a location like this? I did invite you to my home the last time, didn’t I? I assure you, it’s much more conducive to conversation than our recent venues.”

“So you have,” Ratio exhales, positioning himself before the armchair. “Forgive my reluctance to step unescorted into the residence of a Stoneheart leader. I am rather attached to my continued existence. As well as my employment.”

Aventurine presses a hand to his chest. “Ah, Detective. You wound me. I thought we were friends.”

Friends would be a generous overstatement. Enemies, however, does not quite apply either.

Ratio makes an effort to keep their interactions brief and strictly professional. Aventurine, regrettably, appears committed to the opposite approach. He often lingers, asks questions that have nothing whatsoever to do with their arrangement and, worse, have an inexplicable capacity to hold Ratio’s attention. 

Ratio can’t claim he has ever tolerated a conversation partner for more than a few minutes. Not that he actively seeks conversation. In the interest of maintaining a semblance of balance between his work and private life, he occasionally attends dinners with colleagues. However, these gatherings generally leave him feeling more anthropologically intrigued than socially fulfilled.

Forming friendships has always proven difficult. People had a habit of withdrawing after a certain point, their demeanor shifting toward something that bordered on caution for reasons he can neither pinpoint nor recall provoking.

In any case, a man with a life as… dynamic as his, who has seen what he’s seen, rarely finds much to contribute to discussions of weekend plans and work gossip. Emotional numbness is hardly an anomaly in his profession, but it does make stimulating conversation a rare luxury. Aventurine, unfortunately, appears to be the exception.

In theory, Ratio is aware of the man’s history. Aventurine had allowed bits and pieces to slip during moments where he’d felt particularly unguarded: an orphan with a troublesome adolescence and years spent drifting through the system that provided neither stability nor mercy, until he encountered those who promised protection, for a price. Pier Point produces such stories with unfortunate regularity.

Aventurine is intelligent—dangerously so. Well-versed, perceptive, and endlessly adaptable. A fascinating individual and troublesome man. And Ratio, predictably, is drawn to what he can’t fully understand. He loathes admitting that his curiosity has gotten the better of him several times now.

But whenever he grows too curious about Aventurine’s life, he is quickly redirected by a clever deflection. More often than not, he realizes he has been misled hours later when he is alone at home, replaying the conversation and noting with belated irritation exactly where his attention had been guided astray, and how much he’d shared.

Aventurine is exceptionally skilled at that—coaxing Ratio to go on a tangent while revealing absolutely nothing himself.

Ratio tells himself that his curiosity is professional interest. A desire to understand the anomaly before it causes greater harm. But if that were entirely true, he would have reported Aventurine long ago. 

To his credit, Ratio has, on several occasions, attempted to secure alternate sources of information. Not because Aventurine’s intelligence was lacking, but because the threat of personal entanglement was reason enough to consider disengaging, and perhaps negotiate with the Oak Family instead. Every attempt ended the same way: the source failed to appear, or was later found dead. Whether this was due to their own stupidity or external interference remains unclear.

The result is infuriatingly consistent: Ratio always ends up returning to Aventurine. And Aventurine… seems more than content to be relied upon. But the arrangement has always been provisional. He has always known that, one day, the gambler would be arrested, and the collaboration would conclude. 

This would be considerably easier to accept if he were not experiencing something uncomfortably close to disappointment at the prospect of Aventurine’s involvement in the deaths at the casino.

Ratio reaches into his coat pocket and produces the plastic evidence bag. Without ceremony, he tosses it across the room and right into Aventurine’s waiting hand. The gambler’s face lights up when he inspects it.

“How thoughtful of you to return this,” Aventurine purrs. “I was beginning to wonder where it had wandered.”

He handles the bag as if Ratio had presented an expensive gift, rather than the bloody evidence of his crimes.

“Consider this a professional courtesy,” Ratio says coldly. “Should you prove cooperative, I may even be persuaded to afford you several minutes’ advantage before the police begin their pursuit.”

“Oh? At least tell me what crimes I’m accused of, Detective.”

Ratio gives him a flat look. “Shall we begin with the abridged version, or the complete accounting?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Ratio takes a deep breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where his glasses have been pressing all day. “Answer a single question. The casino incident targeting members of the Alfalfa Family—was that you?”

To his displeasure, he already knows the answer. The evidence is clear to the point of insult, and the execution—all flashy and theatrical—bears Aventurine’s signature. But why the unnecessary display? He knows that relations between the Stonehearts and the Family have never been cordial; the gambler had explained it to him once. Was it a simple power play? Or is there more to it? Moreover, how is it possible that someone as careful as Aventurine would leave behind such obvious evidence?

Aventurine tilts his head. “And if it was?”

“We had an agreement, gambler. Our cooperation remains viable only so long as you provide me with no legitimate reason to apprehend you. This would constitute a breach. A substantial one.”

For a moment, Aventurine’s expression shifts into something Ratio finds very difficult to read.

“Then perhaps the error was yours, in trusting a man like me.” 

Ratio frowns. He is left with the distinct feeling that he has just been offered another lie, carefully packaged in charm. It’s Aventurine’s preferred tactic to lure Ratio away from the topic at hand, he knows. But tonight, it irritates him more than usual.

Losing patience, he steps forward, positioning himself directly in front of the armchair. Placing his hands on the armrests, he leans in, studying Aventurine more carefully. 

“And yet you won’t meet my eyes,” Ratio observes. “Are you lying, or simply ashamed to look at me?”

Aventurine glances up at him through lowered lashes. He says nothing at first, but his fingers rise to slowly trace the seam of Ratio’s tie. Physical touch between them is rare, which is precisely why it knocks Ratio off balance for a moment. But he senses that pulling away now or breaking eye contact would feel like a concession—such delicate games of body language are something they both tend to pay great attention to.

“Would it help break the illusion you’ve built for me, Detective?” Aventurine asks, annoyingly coy. “You seem so determined to believe I’m better than I am.” Then, sweetly, “Yes. I was behind it. I was there—gambling with them. And I was the only one who walked away that night.”

“Why?” Ratio finds himself asking, even though he already knows. 

Aventurine’s fingers travel higher, his index straying from the fabric and coming to rest on Ratio’s throat. The touch sends a strange kind of shudder through him, but he forces himself still.

“Money, power, the usual business,” Aventurine idly recounts. “Much like the Stonehearts, the Family have their own methods in the city. It works, so long as boundaries are respected. One of their branches grew greedy and were using the casino’s second floor for private dealings. This was a warning. Nothing more.”

“Twelve people died, Aventurine.”

“And twelve is enough to prove a point,” he says lightly. “One for every million they had no right to claim.”

Ratio exhales slowly. “Was such a spectacle truly necessary?”

He isn’t sure why his disappointment presses so insistently between his ribs. It might be the absence of the more honest version of Aventurine he has glimpsed only occasionally. But should that matter? He has violated the agreement. That’s the only thing that should concern him.

Ratio’s breath catches when the fingers toying with his tie tug, bringing him just a bit closer.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Ratio. You’ve always known what I am. What I do.” The gambler’s smile softens, deceptively gentle. If Ratio were an even more foolish man than he is, he’d almost believe it to be rueful. “I can’t exactly play house. Even if I’d love to make you happy. I’m just not that kind of man.”

His eyes drop to the tattoo on the side of Aventurine’s neck—a brazen declaration of ownership bestowed by those who claimed him, and proof that his words aren’t merely performative. Even stripped of his appetite for violence and manipulation, he would still remain what he is, bound too tightly to the system that made him. There are few paths by which Aventurine might change, and fewer still that lead toward anything resembling lawfulness.

Aventurine smells good, he finds. Like strong cologne and cigarettes and something clean beneath it. Ratio doesn’t make a habit of smoking—he dislikes the scent, the burn in his throat, and above all the unsettling notion that he might need it. He allows it on rare occasions to clear his mind when a case has taken up too much space in his head. Maybe that’s why Aventurine’s scent disperses every thought for a few blissful moments. It’s merely a conditioned response, nothing more. 

He doesn’t realize how fully his attention has been captured until a soft click makes him flinch, and cool metal snaps around his right wrist. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to realize: Aventurine has cuffed him to the lamp beside the armchair.

The handcuffs are standard police issue. Ratio briefly wonders which unfortunate officer Aventurine lifted them from—not that it matters. He gives an experimental tug. The lamp doesn’t budge; motel furniture is almost always bolted to the floor to discourage theft. Worse, it’s his dominant hand. Reaching for his gun or phone now would waste precious seconds, which Aventurine is perfectly capable of exploiting.

How humiliating.

Ratio huffs, looking back to find Aventurine smiling. “How flattering that you felt the need to incapacitate me to hold a conversation.”

“You've got to admit, we're not exactly evenly matched here, Detective.” Aventurine sounds smug. “I’m just evening the odds.”

Then, something sharp and cool presses to his cheek. Ratio tries to gauge what it is, and nearly ends up rolling his eyes, despite the kick it delivers to his pulse. “A knife? Truly, gambler, are such theatrics necessary? If this is meant to intimidate me, the attempt is almost charming.”

“Almost?” Aventurine echoes, propping his chin in his palm. “Then what would it take to actually charm you?”

Ratio’s stomach tightens with annoyance and a flicker of something else. He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Nor does he find the words when the blade slides along his cheek with firmer pressure, still not enough to break skin, but enough to unsettle him.

In all his years of work, Ratio has never found himself in such a position. Detectives are not typically required to subdue their suspects themselves. Then again, few detectives would voluntarily meet a man like Aventurine alone. How very foolish of him indeed.

Aventurine keeps them like this; Ratio leaning over him while he remains seated. Despite the difference in height, Aventurine effortlessly holds all the power.

“Tell me, Ratio,” he continues, almost casually, “have you betrayed me?”

He’s still smiling. But beneath, there is a chill to his tone that suggests disappointment.

Ratio has never given Aventurine cause to act against him. But now, backed into a corner by someone that very realistically could turn him in, it becomes clear that the gambler would not hesitate to protect himself. It ought to unsettle Ratio or make his pulse spike. And it does—only not for the reasons he expected.

“I have not,” Ratio says evenly. “Not yet. I came to speak with you first. Though, I would hardly call it betrayal. You were the first to violate the agreement.”

“Touche.” Aventurine watches him carefully. “You sound disappointed.”

Ratio’s breath catches as the edge of the blade traces his jugular with disconcerting intimacy. One misstep and he could bleed out here and now. He wants to believe Aventurine wouldn’t do it, but he has already underestimated the gambler’s appetite for violence before. He will not do so again.

“I am,” he manages.

“In me?” 

Yes. But he only has himself to blame.

Had he expected improvement from Aventurine? No, he realizes now that this would be an unserious conclusion. Still, he had allowed himself, for just a few careless moments during their conversations, to forget who Aventurine really was. To forget that beneath the charm and intellect lay a man capable of almost anything, and entirely unconstrained by conscience.

Those glimpses had been too tempting, too intellectually tantalizing. Ratio had been too busy piecing them together, and thus allowed their arrangement to become a professional liability. A foolish lapse in judgment on his part.

Ratio swallows before looking him in the eyes, noticing an uncharacteristic tension there.

“You were right,” Ratio says. “I should not have expected better from a criminal, I suppose.”

Aventurine’s smile falters just a fraction. He masks it instantly, but Ratio notices. He has become particularly perceptive when it comes to those small tells.

“A criminal,” Aventurine repeats softly. Like he’s hurt by the idea of Ratio seeing him that way. “And you think you’re so much better than me?”

Ratio’s brows knit together. “I am aware that enlisting your cooperation skirts the boundaries of my duty, but the purpose is to prevent worse outcomes. Your goals, on the other hand, only leave bodies in their wake.”

But that only makes Aventurine laugh. The knife disappears, withdrawn as casually as a prop no longer needed.

He rises, leaving Ratio chained to the lamp like a fool in favor of pacing through the room. Ratio has to crane his neck to see him, which is humiliating enough as it is. But that is the point of all this spectacle, is it not? Their positions, the blade rather than a gun—all psychological dominance. Aventurine knows exactly how these games operate. 

“If you had arrested me from the start,” Aventurine muses, gesturing loosely, “maybe these people wouldn’t have died today. Their blood is on your hands as surely as it is on mine. You’re no saint, Detective. But keeping all that tucked into your neat little philosophical box helps you sleep at night.”

Ratio’s wrist strains against the metal. He can’t deny that arresting Aventurine sooner could have prevented this outcome. Or perhaps not. One of the other Stonehearts could have easily done the same, just in a different fashion. But the way Aventurine frames it so casually irks him. As if Ratio had wanted any of this to happen.

“I caution you, gambler, against mistaking intuition for insight,” he says, trying to keep his voice level, even while the questions in his mind continue clamoring for attention. “I am aware of the consequences of my own actions.”

“Are you?” Aventurine asks, smiling. “I think you barely know yourself, Ratio.”

Ratio’s eyes track him as he continues his prowl across the stained carpet. “And you do?”

Aventurine shrugs, entirely unconcerned.

“Don’t pretend to care about why they were killed,” Aventurine continues, his tone softening, almost conspiratorial. “That question is far too boring for you. You knew the moment you saw the scene, didn’t you?”

He did. Of course he did.

The casino’s reputation alone narrowed his suspicions. It’s an unregulated space, with private rooms hidden from view. Twelve casualties, confined to a single location, with the surrounding floors conspicuously untouched. Likely unoccupied. Ratio had confirmed as much before ever arriving at the scene: the building was bought out for the night under a fake name, paid for by someone obscenely wealthy and careful enough to erase themselves afterward. 

“What really caught your attention was this.” With a flourish, Aventurine produces the poker chip between his fingers, as if performing a little magic trick just for Ratio. “A little gift only you would recognize. It’s still bothering you, isn’t it?”

Ratio’s nails dig into his palm. That assessment is… regrettably accurate.

It was not the casualties that unsettled him, unfortunate as they were. Ratio has never labored under illusions regarding the gambler’s character, nor has he ever found himself inclined to excuse his crimes.

The presentation was what irked him. It was inelegant. Worse, it was simple.

The chip, in particular, offends. Left in plain sight and recognizable at a glance, as though Ratio’s curiosity needed prompting. Anyone else would have dismissed it as personal belongings of private collectors. Such trades are not uncommon in the private rooms of such establishments. They would have found no prints or engravings to trace it back to Aventurine himself. Ratio, however, was not required to think at all. 

He had expected more from Aventurine. Layers and problems worthy of Ratio’s sustained attention, the sort that had led him to Aventurine for information in the first place. Instead, Aventurine had provided him with cause so clean it verged on textbook murder, with motive, method, and evidence all neatly aligned.

That is what frustrated him.

“I found the execution uncharacteristically sloppy for your standards,” Ratio admits. “The chip was indeed the variable that troubled me.”

Aventurine laughs, bright and amused, the sound brushing against Ratio’s ear like silk. “So you came to me for answers. As you always do, dear Detective.”

“What is the point you are trying to make?” Ratio asks tightly, watching the chip dance across Aventurine’s knuckles before it disappears. “That I performed my duties by following the evidence presented?”

“My point,” Aventurine replies, strolling lazily around him, “is that you never stop. The lengths you go to find answers—most people wouldn’t. You don’t care about the poor, tragic victims or justice for their untimely ends.” His lips curve into a delighted grin. “You just get off on the puzzle itself.”

“How crude,” Ratio mutters, ignoring the jab the assessment deals him. “And irrelevant. An affinity for problem-solving is entirely compatible with this work. Not every detective needs a foolishly inflated sense of justice. Only idiots allow sentiment to guide them in this profession.”

“Did I strike something tender there, Detective?”

“No,” Ratio sneers. “I am merely correcting the false assumption that a lack of sentiment implies professional inadequacy.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of calling you inadequate,” Aventurine purrs, circling him like a cat. The knife finds its place beneath his throat again, tracing gentle, teasing arcs as a tail might. “On the contrary, I’d say you’re the best. But what you have isn’t just an affinity for problem-solving, my friend. You desperately crave an outlet for that obsession of yours. Your job does it for you most of the time, but there are things you still haven’t figured out… and those unanswered questions frustrate you to no end. Isn’t that right?” 

Ratio lets out a laugh. The sound startles even him. His mother had made the same observation, and had warned him that he would be ill-suited to any profession that demanded restraint of curiosity. That it was dangerous to fixate so completely on a single problem until it yielded. He had chosen it anyway. Out of spite, perhaps. He isn’t sure anymore.

He wants to refute it. To insist that Aventurine is exaggerating and that he can step away when necessary, that his work-life balance is perfectly reasonable. But then he tries to recall the last time he slept more than five hours, or spent a waking moment not thinking about cases or… Aventurine himself. He comes up empty.

Aventurine hums knowingly, leaning closer until his breath ghosts along Ratio’s cheek. “Just like you can’t figure out what I want from you… or maybe,” he adds softly, “what you want from me.”

Ratio feels the tight, jittering chaos in his chest scatter, despising the unwelcome heat of it. He’s not used to being studied in such a way, to have his thought process teased apart so diligently. It makes his thoughts tangle and then pool loosely at his feet. Aventurine needs to stop talking, and Ratio should have already started planning his escape from the moment he was cuffed.

He forces his voice to remain steady, even as the small points of almost-contact between them distract him immensely. It’s maddening, to feel the edge of the blade and not the man behind it. But that doesn’t make surrender acceptable, not to Aventurine and not to the honeyed insinuations he favors. “Our arrangement was a practical one. I sought you out for information when necessary. The conversations that took place surrounding that… were perhaps an oversight on my part.”

It is not a lie. But it isn’t the truth either. 

“You always had the option to leave,” Aventurine counters. “You chose to come back. You talked, you listened, and then you very politely forgot to mention me in your reports. Such selective integrity, Detective.”

Ratio opens his mouth, but realizes he has nothing to counter the argument with. Because he did, didn’t he? He kept seeing Aventurine despite knowing better. And even after getting what he needed, he stayed for conversations, allowed the attachment to form and his own curiosity to feed on itself until he was hungry for more.

His work is indeed a welcome source of mental stimulation. But Aventurine… was something else entirely. The fulfillment Ratio derived from their exchanges made him more productive than any tedious murder case ever could. Even now, he feels the pull, though he can’t name what it is that he craves.

How can he blame Aventurine, when the fault is entirely his own?

“Yes,” he concedes. “I am aware I should have stopped this arrangement long ago.”

“How unfortunate,” Aventurine murmurs, voice almost regretful, “that you never managed to find a good replacement for me, no matter how hard you tried.”

Suddenly, the pieces click together uncomfortably in Ratio’s mind. 

“That was you?” he asks. He feels sick to his stomach. “The prospective contacts who failed to appear—did you kill them, Aventurine?”

“I would’ve made sure you’d never have found another soul from my line of work to tell you anything, Ratio,” Aventurine complains, almost plaintively. “I couldn’t just let some greedy criminals use you in exchange for their freedom.” 

“And yet it is permissible when you do it?” Ratio’s chest tightens with exasperation.

“People are greedy,” Aventurine says softly, but there is still an edge of sharpness there that Ratio has learned to recognize. “They’d take advantage of you if they could. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He should be disturbed by the casualness with which Aventurine dismisses murder as a trivial inconvenience (again). But to Ratio’s renewed shame, it isn’t the violence of the act that draws his attention, but the effort Aventurine has put into all of this. Aventurine has not simply killed; he has killed for Ratio. In Aventurine’s mind, removing anyone from Ratio’s vicinity equals protection. Who knows what other measures he may have taken to quietly shape everything around Ratio, keeping him isolated and dependent on the information and company Aventurine provides?

But each act presses the question further to the front, only makes his mind latch on to it more until he feels like he’s suffocating. Why go to such lengths to ensure their collaboration? Why does Aventurine seem to care so much if they belong to opposing institutions? Why does his knowledge of Ratio’s life seem so intimate? Is it obsession, or just cunning? He can’t tell. He hasn’t been able to in months. 

Aventurine seems to find his struggle entertaining. “I don’t think you mind it,” he murmurs, low and intimate. “In fact, I think you enjoyed our time together. Maybe you even craved it. Talking to me. Dissecting me in that busy brain of yours.” His thumb presses gently at Ratio’s jaw, tilting it so he can look down at Aventurine properly. “And you let me do the same to you. A man with principles doesn’t indulge himself like that, Detective.”

Ratio tries to tear his eyes away from the man before him. But he can't. 

In the silence that follows, Ratio hears his own pulse thrumming far too loudly. He feels sick with the realization. Sick and—

Gods help him—

Intrigued.

Aventurine is playing with him. Both with his words and with the knife he so gently traces along Ratio’s skin. And Ratio, for all his frustration, can’t do anything to stop the way it draws him in.

He has always felt a certain kind of rush when solving a particularly satisfying puzzle or navigating a complex problem, but this is different. It always was when it came to conversations with Aventurine. His body feels like it’s burning with adrenaline from the inside out, the tension in his gut only coiling further the more the gambler speaks.

“What does this arrangement mean to you?” Ratio asks at last, speaking out loud the incongruence that has eaten at him for months. “Why leave the chip? Why sabotage every other avenue merely to ensure I’d return to you? You do not truly need my protection from the law. So what is it you gain?”

“You’re good at deductions.” Aventurine replies. A faint, teasing smile tugs at his lips, but he looks tense. “Why don’t you take a guess, Detective?”

There are too many possibilities, and Ratio has exhausted them all before.

Aventurine doesn’t need deals with the police for protection; he could disappear at will. Is it entertainment, then? Does he enjoy watching Ratio crawl for answers, only to withhold the ones that intrigue him most? But Aventurine is no sadist—not to those who have given him no reason to be.

More tellingly, Aventurine doesn’t permit closeness without transaction. Everyone around him is a tool, a threat, or liability, and anyone who acquires too much knowledge of him is removed quickly. Anyone but Ratio. That exception is statistically significant.

Over the past months, there has been a rare peace in their conversations. They spoke about dealings and bloodshed and motives, but they also spoke of unrelated things. And sometimes, when Ratio meant to leave, Aventurine would catch him by his sleeve and ask him to stay longer. To talk about Ratio’s work, or his father, or just until Aventurine’s cigarette burned down.

Someone shaped by the life Aventurine has lived should prioritize distance. Instead, he has engineered repeated contact. He has tolerated Ratio’s scrutiny. He has gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure their arrangement remained functional, that Ratio would return, and that no one else could take Aventurine’s place.

These things don’t add up to a motive, not in the usual sense—but they suggest something else.

“Your methods,” Ratio grits out with a weary sigh, “are… spectacularly inconvenient. Murdering prospective contacts, leaving evidence as if to taunt me, restraining me in a filthy motel room—truly remarkable, gambler. And entirely unnecessary.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “I am simultaneously appalled and, I regret to admit, impressed by the lengths you’ve gone to preserve this arrangement.”

Aventurine’s lips twitch. “That’s high praise, coming from you.”

“Today, you wanted me to find the chip,” Ratio continues, pointedly ignoring him. “A signal obvious only to its intended recipient. You anticipated the questions it would provoke, and you ensured there would be only one logical place for me to bring them. And now you have me restrained and at your mercy, yet you make no sincere attempt to harm me. Nor does this strike me as mere thrill-seeking—though I concede you derive some enjoyment from the spectacle.”

Ratio’s pulse kicks. Just as it does when he is close to solving a case. It’s his favorite part, connecting each dot, aligning them perfectly until they form a clear answer.

“Which brings us to motive,” Ratio announces, gesturing with his free hand. “You require neither my protection nor my advocacy. You have never once asked for favors in return. Instead, you appeared content to… talk. At length. About matters of negligible relevance to our agreement.” He exhales slowly, catching Aventurine’s uncertain gaze. “You suggested earlier that I derive enjoyment from these conversations. I find it statistically improbable that this interest is entirely onesided.”

Aventurine’s expression tightens by a fraction. The blade dips, its edge no longer aligned with anything vital. “Careful, Detective—”

But Ratio can’t stop before the conclusion is drawn. 

“I believe you are lonely,” Ratio concludes. “That you perform your role so convincingly you have no one with whom you can speak without pretense. And that you have chosen to engage with me so you might feel less alone in your pursuits.”

He is reasonably confident that he is right on the money when Aventurine takes a slow step back, visibly unsettled, as though the ground has shifted beneath him.

So the peacock is skittish, Ratio thinks. Deflection has served him well in the past. Here, however, there is nowhere left to retreat—short of abandoning Ratio in this room. And Ratio is fairly certain that he would not.

“What is it that you seek?” Ratio asks, calmly. “Is it my cooperation? My company? Or have I misread what I can only interpret as an unconventional invitation to your bed?” His gaze flicks briefly to the cuff at his wrist, then returns to a very quiet Aventurine. “But I would advise abandoning the psychological pageantry. It’s inefficient. And exhausting.”

Aventurine's throat works as he swallows. But his chest then shakes with a quiet laugh, recovering just a moment too late to be genuine.

“You really are incredible, Ratio.” He evidently needs a moment to collect himself, the hand holding the blade shaking as he figures out his next move. “And if I said I was interested in all of those things. What then?”

What then, indeed? Ratio doesn't know. This is a negotiation he is wholly unprepared for.

“Would you kill me if my response proved unsatisfactory?”

“Am I really that much of a cold-hearted murderer in your eyes?” Aventurine’s eyes soften in a way that suggests he doesn't feel particularly happy about that thought.

“I can hardly say,” Ratio replies honestly. “All that I have observed of your methods has been, quite frankly, unappetizing.”

Aventurine frowns. “I wouldn't do anything to you, Ratio. I'd let you go, obviously.” 

“You handcuffed me and threatened me with a knife.”

“I was bluffing.” Aventurine points out, slipping back into a more genuine smile. “And honestly, that part’s a crowd favorite.”

To the gambler’s credit, he does remove the knife, setting it on the nearby table with care. Ratio would prefer not to note how the gesture leaves his knees faintly unsteady.

The adrenaline hasn’t fully gone away. Nor has the heat in his abdomen, proving awfully distracting. He would prefer it to be uncertainty, or professional concern over the collapse of their arrangement. Unfortunately, the truth is far less dignified. He is painfully aware that his composure is compromised.

“What is it that you want, Aventurine?” he asks again, more firmly this time.

At that, Aventurine’s smile shrinks into something less performative.

“And what if I said I wanted you?” he asks, his eyes flickering across Ratio’s face. There is a hint of something vulnerable there. “For you to be mine, so no one else can have you? Selfish, isn’t it? What would you say to that, Ratio?”

The statement doesn’t surprise him as much as he thought it would. 

“Then I would award you ten points,” Ratio huffs. “I believe that is the first substantial thing you have said since we met. You have finally expressed your desires and ceased your endless games of manipulation and misdirection.”

Aventurine’s eyes are wide before he laughs, genuine and unrestrained. It embarrasses Ratio to admit how much the sound pleases him.

He ought to be more concerned about liking it all this much. But looking at Aventurine now, with his eyes crinkling and his scent bleeding into every crevice of Ratio’s mind, he can hardly find it in himself to feel anything about it at all. Aventurine’s motives suddenly feel clear as day, and Ratio has always been vulnerable to clarity, no matter how inconvenient its source.

It’s the reason he’s here, isn’t it? Why he’s painfully warm and uncomfortably certain that he would allow Aventurine almost anything, if it meant feeling that rush again. 

“You want me too, don’t you?” Aventurine asks softly, his tone almost hopeful.

Want. Is that all it’s ever been? A desire so primal and basic it had never occurred to him to name it. To him, curiosity and desire are often one and the same, each feeding the other. 

The gambler’s innuendos and invitations to his bed had often been veiled in honeyed jests, sometimes less obvious, sometimes more so. Ratio had never considered those words to be genuine. Seduction was, after all, part of Aventurine’s trade. 

He had wondered, once or twice, whether there was any genuine interest behind it. More embarrassingly, he found himself wondering whether he reciprocated a certain degree of interest. There was no denying that something about Aventurine had drawn Ratio in, both intellectually and physically. At the time, it was nothing more than an idle thought while indulging in a bath—the sort that surfaced uninvited and was just as easily washed away alongside the soapy water. After all, good detectives do not indulge such thoughts about men they should one day arrest.

Perhaps, Ratio reflects dimly, he is not a good detective. Nor does he seem to have a particularly good taste in men.

“Yes,” Ratio finally admits. “As ill-advised as it is—yes.”

Aventurine laughs softly. Like he doesn’t find it disgusting. Like he’s simply happy about Ratio wanting him back.

He can’t help his breath hitching when Aventurine’s thumb traces his cheek, the sharp edge of a knife replaced by warm hands and touch that Ratio hasn’t known in years. The contrast is dizzying, but gods, it feels good. It feels like sweet relief—a form of an answer he’d been seeking.

“Is this the conclusion you were aiming for?" Ratio asks at last. “Was this entire spectacle engineered to bring me here? To lead me about by the nose, through a series of carefully curated moral conundrums until I arrived at the conclusion that I am, at heart, a deeply compromised human being? Or was the hypothesis simply that I would eventually sleep with you?”

Aventurine smiles in that unnervingly mysterious way of his. “Did it work?”

Ratio nearly laughs. Not because it is funny, but because the alternative would require him to admit aloud how thoroughly he has been outmaneuvered, and just how thrilling that feels.

Because yes. Yes, it did work.

The truth is: Ratio is so hopelessly aroused by it that he can’t quite think straight.

Maybe that’s why he makes no move to pull away when Aventurine finally unlocks the cuff and tugs him closer by the tie.

The motion distracts him so thoroughly that he doesn’t even notice the sleight of hand when Aventurine’s fingers dip to his belt. By the time Ratio notices, his gun is already in Aventurine’s grasp, lifted with an elegant flourish and slid across the table with the kind of reverent attention one might give to undressing a lover. Ratio swallows, begrudgingly admitting that it might just be one of the sexiest things he has ever seen someone do without touching him.

But Aventurine doesn’t stop there. He reaches beneath his jacket and removes his own gun, unholstering it from the harness strapped across his chest where it’s been concealed all along. A contingency, neatly concealed beneath all his charm. He’d never shown his full hand. Not once. Ratio is certain there are other contingencies still in play, tripwires and backdoors he’ll never see. He can hardly blame him for that. Aventurine had arrived tonight half-expecting betrayal.

A treacherous part of his mind wonders what it would have taken for Aventurine to actually use it. Whether the smile would have faltered. Whether the flirtation, his obsession—whatever it is he feels for Ratio—would have survived if Ratio had chosen to do the right thing.

He doesn’t have the clarity to chase that thought further.

With all potentially hazardous items out of the way, the rest is simple. Ratio is guided forward as if this were nothing more than the next step of the dance they’ve already been performing—one step, then another—until the bed presses into the backs of Aventurine’s knees and there is nowhere left to go but down.

He climbs atop Aventurine without being told, the tug on his tie pulling him forward like a leash on a well-trained dog, until he claims the spot between Aventurine’s spread thighs. He chastises himself in the same breath as he finally gives into the touch, his hands closing around Aventurine’s slim waist and eliciting the most wonderful shudder. The last remnants of his judgment murmur their objections in the back of his mind, but he finds that his mind is far too busy studying Aventurine, tracing the way he moves, the arch of his back, the way his hands tremble at the smallest touch.

Aventurine is beautiful. Like a sinful dream, prostrating himself willingly before Ratio to unravel. He understands why so many have surrendered their better judgment for a taste of him. And now, confronted with the evidence of his own weakness, he wonders whether he was always destined to wander into this trap, fully aware and still unable to resist.

But only Aventurine can give him the answers he needs. Only this way will he finally be satisfied.

“You're thinking too hard.” Aventurine whispers, drawing him in with the promise of fulfillment. “What's stopping you from taking what you want?”

Nothing is stopping him. That's the very problem.

He has already crossed so many lines, violated rules from both an ethical and legal standpoint. And for what? To not have a single unsolved case on his record? To prove to himself that his father’s methods were false and naive? The unsettling truth is that he is no longer certain he cares.

Aventurine’s eyes are soft despite the tension in Ratio’s grip on him. His chest rises and falls quickly, his lips parted in a way that shouldn’t rob Ratio of thought or reason.

We shouldn’t, he thinks distantly. The objection forms too late.

He could still pull away, get into his car, and go for a long drive until the rational part of himself returns. If he were a more responsible person, he’d contact the station and request an arrest. He does neither of those things.

Instead, he leans in and kisses Aventurine. 

He feels his rationality draining away. The conflict, the duality, the questions scatter, replaced entirely by the heat of Aventurine’s mouth and the fleeting brush of tongue. Beneath him, Aventurine moans softly, his hand slipping from Ratio’s cheek into his hair to tangle there. He tastes like cigarettes and something sweet, consuming every corner of Ratio’s attention.

It’s the kind of clarity that leaves his chest achingly alive, and it floods him with a euphoria he has not felt in years. All this time, this is what he’d wanted? What he’d needed to finally silence that itch beneath his skin? How absurd.

Aventurine is hard against him, pressing up eagerly at his hip, and Ratio nearly groans at the sensation. Instinctively, he rolls his hips once, twice, until they’re both gasping into each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck,” Aventurine pants when they break apart. “Fuck, Ratio—”

But Ratio can’t have that. Because if they stop now, if he pulls away and is granted the necessary oxygen to think about what they’re doing right now, he might just spiral entirely. Feeling Aventurine’s mouth on his, the way his hands wander in search of skin—this is the only way to silence his own mind and keep the realizations he has made tonight from festering unchecked.

He takes his time exploring Aventurine's mouth, licking into him at a steady pace as clothes gradually come off, ignoring the impatient whines and the sharp nick of teeth on his lip. Aventurine has never been so candid in what he wants, and Ratio finds these revelations intoxicating. The question is finally untangling itself, each thread falling into its proper place, and the only solution is to give into it fully. 

“C’mon,” Aventurine whines against him. “There’s, ah, probably condoms and lube in one of the drawers. Though, we can skip the prep if you want—”

Ratio can’t help but frown. “After all your efforts, I would have assumed you’d want to savor the finale, gambler.”

“What can I say, Detective? I'm a greedy man,” Aventurine pants.

“That you are,” Ratio murmurs, lips brushing against his jaw. “But there is nothing stopping you from savoring your greed a little slower.”

Surprisingly, Aventurine obliges and lets Ratio do as he pleases. He finds it odd to look down and see Aventurine’s lips not twisting into a forced smile. How his lashes flutter, and soft, breathy sounds slip from his lips as Ratio works his fingers inside him, each one drawn out and faintly surprised.

He leaves himself completely exposed to Ratio, letting him control the pace. But Ratio feels it even now—the sheer control Aventurine has over him. Even at his most vulnerable, he commands Ratio’s full attention, offering him the kind of forbidden knowledge Ratio has resisted tasting for far too long.

When he finally enters Aventurine, it feels tight and warm, and whatever remains of Ratio’s rational thought dissolves then and there.

He presses Aventurine deeper into the mattress with his hips, refusing to dwell on how wrong this is—or on the fact that his colleagues are likely toiling through the night while Ratio is here, fucking the man behind all the chaos. Gods, it sounds far worse when he thinks of it that way, doesn’t it?

But with Aventurine beneath him, his eyes filled with tears as he clings to Ratio like a desperate lover, those thoughts vanish into the back of his mind, where they do not resurface. Ratio has never felt anything like this—this sharp, heady exhilaration. It’s like he's tasting some twisted kind of freedom for the very first time. A deliberate breach in a system he has spent his life maintaining. The forbidden nature of it only seems to sharpen his appetite. Why should he not be allowed this? Why can’t he be permitted to set aside duty and find satisfaction elsewhere? 

Aventurine whimpers, fingers digging into his shoulders after a particularly rough thrust. “Yes, oh, I’ve wanted this—you have no idea—”

Ratio has wanted it too. He must have, if it feels this inconceivably right.

He can’t stop the groan that spills into Aventurine’s shoulder, surrendering to the sensation as it crests and pulls him under. He has never felt as selfish as he does now, claiming Aventurine so thoroughly. He kisses the mark on Aventurine’s neck, a reminder that he is not a free man, perhaps never will be. But tonight, at least, they are both choosing selfishness.

He crashes their mouths together and drives into Aventurine again, faster, deeper. Nails rake over skin, teeth graze lips. He feels Aventurine gasping for air between every kiss, barely keeping pace with the intensity, moaning sweet things into his ears that only serve to spur him on.

“Don't you see how good we are together, Veritas?” Aventurine breathes against him just before he comes, his words dripping with sweet want. “How good it feels?”

And Ratio, having exhausted every line of reasoning available to him, cannot find a single flaw in the argument.

About an hour later, when some fragment of Ratio’s sanity and judgment has returned, he sits wordlessly on the edge of the bed and stares at the room’s stained walls. He does not feel regret, at least. But it is something adjacent to it. Something that comes with losing yourself so entirely in a person, uncaring of the consequences.

Certainly, there are post-coital considerations to be had when one of the participants is a wanted criminal. A degree of introspection seems unavoidable. Possibly a therapist. Almost certainly a vacation of sufficient length.

He feels somewhat cold, having refused to get under the covers given the statistical improbability of motel laundering standards being adequate.

Aventurine, meanwhile, is distractingly beautiful where he leans out the window, naked, exhaling smoke into the night. His back is turned just enough for Ratio to see hints of past wounds across his back, interspersed with the fresh bruises Ratio himself has left behind. A small shiver passes through him at the thought of wanting Aventurine back in bed, if only to delay the inevitable moment when reality reasserts itself and they must return to their respective lives.

“This was a much nicer way to end a meeting, don’t you think?” Aventurine says. “We should do this more often.”

Ratio’s stomach sinks. Not because of the casual offer, but rather the impossibility of this between them persisting. Not after what they have done.

“I can’t accept information from you any longer, gambler,” he quietly says. “You know why.”

Aventurine doesn’t turn. For a moment, there is only the distant rev of an engine somewhere below and the steady burn of his cigarette.

“Really?” He laughs softly at last. “You want to play by the rules now? I’d say we’re way past that.”

“How do you imagine this functioning?” Ratio asks after a pause. “In practical terms. My neutrality is already compromised beyond repair. This is ethically indefensible. You know this.”

“Was it ever?” Aventurine chuckles, smoke curling with every breath. “Honestly, Ratio, I doubt a little… fun with me will ruin your career. Dare I say, it might even help you blow off some of that obsessive energy of yours.” 

It is an elegant lie. Or perhaps a sincere one, which is worse.

Because it cannot work. Ratio recognizes that much. His judgment has already been compromised, and his emotional distance eroded. That alone is argument enough. 

“And what will happen when my sources are questioned?” Ratio asks. “If someone comes close to finding out? Would you kill them, Aventurine?”

“Would that bother you?”

“Yes. Yes it would bother me greatly if you committed murder for the sake of… this.”

“You know I can make problems disappear,” Aventurine says easily. “All you have to do is ask.”

“I will not,” Ratio replies flatly, “require you to murder anyone else on my behalf. Thank you, gambler.”

He drags a hand down his face. This is proving significantly more difficult than anticipated. In fairness, he had never conducted an analysis of the practicalities involved in developing feelings for a leader of a criminal organization. He will need time in a hot bath, and perhaps a minor existential crisis to ruminate over the many inconvenient realizations of tonight.

The logistics alone are enough to induce a headache. They would never be able to lead a normal relationship, if one could even call it that. They’d only be able to meet up in secret, where not a soul would be able to track them or acquire security footage. Ratio does not doubt Aventurine’s ability to orchestrate such conditions. He is still, with some regularity, out and about, as long as his face is not tied to the Stoneheart persona with a mask.

But identities never remain hidden forever. The Stonehearts’ predecessors had all been unmasked eventually. The positions were always replaced by newer, more ruthless successors. And despite knowing all the things Aventurine has done, Ratio still dreads the day when his luck runs out.

“And if, one day, an arrest order is issued,” Ratio asks eventually. “If the Stonehearts are dismantled entirely—if you are finally cornered. What then?”

He does not look at Aventurine’s face. He keeps his gaze fixed on the line of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, wishing, foolishly, it wouldn’t feel so wrong to want to keep him near.

Aventurine crushes the cigarette out on the sill. Then he turns, returning to bed with graceful steps. When he climbs back up, he settles his weight onto Ratio’s bare lap, knees bracketing his hips.

And then, Aventurine kisses him, allowing Ratio to taste the last dregs of the cigarette with him. The touch is soothing, and Ratio’s thoughts scatter, unfinished and less important than they were moments ago. 

When Aventurine pulls away, he smiles against Ratio’s mouth, his eyes bright in the dark. 

“I’d love to see you try, Detective.”