Chapter Text
Chapter 3
Ratio had spent the entire night cataloguing data.
Not research data.
Not experimental matrices.
Not even field observations.
No—worse.
Human data.
Aventurine’s data.
The tremor in his hands.
The delayed reaction to the splash.
The rigid shoulders, the forced laugh, the dissociation he tried to hide behind gold rings and glittering charm.
The way his breath broke when Ratio cupped his cheek.
The way he’d leaned into the grounding touch as if he’d been starving for it.
Ratio had seen trauma responses before—clinical, academic, textbook-standard.
He had never seen one wrapped in sequins and bravado.
He had never met someone who concealed fear behind theatricality so effectively that the disguise had become part of his bloodstream.
And he certainly had never encountered a man who made his analytical processes misfire so consistently.
Ratio did not consider himself susceptible to distraction.
And yet—
He spent half the night reviewing the exact pitch of Aventurine’s laugh when it cracked.
The subtle dilation of pupils.
The micro-tremors in the jawline.
The hesitation before accepting tea.
The way the man looked wrapped in Ratio’s blanket, small and exhausted and heartbreakingly sincere for once.
Ratio told himself it was clinical interest.
He told himself that his racing pulse was merely the byproduct of adrenaline.
He told himself many things.
None of them felt statistically sound.
But the one conclusion he could trust was this:
Aventurine did not fear water.
He feared the sensation of losing autonomy.
Suspension.
Instability.
Heat spikes.
Being watched.
Being unable to move without someone else’s permission.
Water merely mimicked the memory.
Which meant the solution wasn’t “swimming.”
It was somatic reframing.
Teach the body something new.
Give the nervous system a different outcome.
Rewire the instinct.
Replace helplessness with controlled movement.
Replace drowning with floating.
Replace old danger with new stability.
Ratio’s stability.
He was the correct variable for the experiment.
Grounded. Predictable. Structured.
Someone whose presence could counteract the chaos Aventurine’s past had carved into him.
Ratio told himself this was logical.
He told himself he was simply being responsible.
He told himself he was not thinking about the way Aventurine had whispered “Why do you care?” in a voice that had nearly undone every neuron in Ratio’s brain.
He told himself many things.
Then he stepped into the pool’s quiet room, scanning its dimensions, water temperature, acoustic reflections—and only after two steps did he realize Aventurine wasn’t beside him.
Ratio turned.
And there he was.
Aventurine stood there in swimwear so expensive it probably cost more than Ratio’s monthly research grant. Designer-branded trunks. Gold-trimmed goggles he wasn’t even wearing. A towel so luxurious it might have been handwoven by artisans on a distant planet.
Beautiful. Distracting. Ridiculous.
And trembling, though he tried not to.
Ratio’s breath caught for a fraction of a second—and he told himself it was simply the cold air.
He adjusted his glasses, voice steady.
“Aventurine.”
Those lavender-blue eyes flicked up.
“Is that attire strictly necessary?”
Aventurine lifted his chin, slipping automatically into charm.
“Doc, please. If I’m going to drown, I’d like to do it fashionably.”
Ratio exhaled. A quiet, faint huff.
He didn’t allow his gaze to linger…
not on the exposed collarbones,
not on the sculpted lines of muscle,
not on the vulnerability barely hidden beneath practiced elegance—
He kept his tone clinical.
“We begin,” he said. “This isn’t about turning you into a swimmer. It’s about teaching your body that what it learned back then is no longer true.”
Aventurine’s pulse skipped.
The pool was quiet at this hour—silent, wide, still.
Soft light glimmered along the surface, casting shifting patterns on the walls like pale constellations trapped underwater.
Ratio gestured toward the water.
“We start with simply entering,” he said. “Your nervous system needs new data. New experiences of these sensations that do not end in harm.”
Aventurine’s throat bobbed.
His feet felt glued to the tile.
Ratio noticed.
Of course he did.
“You’re not alone,” he said. “I’m right here.”
Aventurine hated how comforting that was.
He let out a slow breath, stepping forward until his toes touched the cool surface.
The temperature startled him—so different from desert heat it shocked every nerve in his body.
His breath hitched.
Ratio placed a hand on his shoulder.
Steady.
Warm.
Human.
Aventurine inhaled shakily.
“…I can do this.”
“Yes,” Ratio murmured. “You can.”
The first step into the water was shallow—only ankle-deep. But Aventurine’s body reacted like he was wading into an ocean that had once tried to devour him.
His pulse spiked.
His vision flickered.
The water lapped against his skin like hands.
Hands he remembered too well.
He took another step—forced—and his breath seized again, sharp and involuntary.
Ratio moved instantly, sliding closer, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him.
“I’m here,” he said again, softer. “Breathe.”
Aventurine clenched his teeth.
“I’m not afraid.”
Ratio didn’t contradict him.
He didn’t need to.
“This will feel unnatural at first,” Ratio said. “The water is unfamiliar to you. Your body is responding to memory, not danger.”
He simply guided him further with his presence, not pressure.
“If we can change how your body responds here,” he added softly, “it will start to change how it responds everywhere else.”
Aventurine swallowed.
“Feels like danger.”
“Memory often does.”
That line—soft, quiet, precise—cut deeper than Aventurine wanted to admit.
They reached the shallower portion of the pool where the water touched Aventurine’s waist. He trembled once, barely perceptible.
Ratio stepped in front of him, hands raised slightly—not touching, not crowding—just waiting.
“Give me your hands.”
Aventurine’s breath faltered.
He stared at Ratio’s palms. Clean. Steady. Offered without demand.
“No tricks,” Ratio added gently. “No pulling you under. No pushing. Just grounding.”
Aventurine couldn’t speak.
He placed his hands in Ratio’s.
Cold water.
Warm skin.
The contrast hit like an emotional blow.
Ratio held him—not tightly, not possessively—just securely enough that Aventurine felt anchored.
“Now lean back,” Ratio murmured.
Aventurine stiffened.
“Lean back? As in… float?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like drowning with extra steps.”
Ratio’s eyes softened.
“You will not drown.”
Aventurine hesitated, body taut as a drawn bowstring.
Ratio slid one hand from Aventurine’s fingers to the small of his back, steadying him with quiet certainty.
“Lean into the water,” Ratio whispered. “And if you can’t… lean into me. Either way, your body will learn that it is not helpless anymore.”
Aventurine’s heart lurched painfully.
He exhaled.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he let his body tip backward. Ratio’s hand supported him, firm and careful.
Aventurine’s breath shuddered.
His eyes squeezed closed.
Then—
he floated.
Just for a heartbeat.
The water held him.
Ratio held him.
His muscles uncoiled—just slightly.
His breathing eased.
His lashes fluttered.
For the first time in years, he felt weightless.
“Good,” Ratio murmured, voice low. “Very good. You’re doing it.”
Aventurine almost believed him.
Almost.
Then the memory hit—sand, cages, shouting, hands dragging him—
and his body seized.
He gasped, flailing, breaking the delicate balance.
“Doc—!”
Ratio moved instantly.
He slid an arm beneath Aventurine’s back, lifting him with clean, decisive strength, holding him securely above the water.
Not dramatically.
Not theatrically.
Just effectively.
Aventurine clung to him without thinking—fingers curling into Ratio’s shoulders, breath stuttering, chest trembling with the old, sharp, familiar panic.
Ratio didn’t shush him.
Didn’t say “you’re fine.”
Didn’t brush it off.
He simply held him upright and said, steady as iron:
“You’re safe. Stay with me.”
Aventurine pressed his forehead against Ratio’s shoulder, breathing hard.
The water didn’t feel like drowning now.
Just shaking.
Just remembering.
He hated that he needed someone.
He hated that Ratio was the one he trusted.
He hated how good it felt to be held.
When he finally pulled back, Ratio didn’t let go—just loosened his grip so Aventurine could decide the distance himself.
“Your form is terrible,” Ratio said calmly. “But that’s natural.”
Aventurine let out a broken laugh.
“Leave it to you to critique me mid-panic.”
“It distracts you from spiraling.”
“That’s manipulative.”
“Yet it’s effective,” Ratio corrected then he smirked.
Aventurine stared at him.
Ratio stared back.
Something thick and unspoken pressed between them—the kind of tension that felt like standing on a precipice, looking down at something terrifying and beautiful all at once.
Aventurine finally whispered:
“…Why are you doing this?”
Ratio answered without hesitation.
“Because you deserve the skills to keep yourself alive. What was done to you taught your body one story,” Ratio said. “I intend to help you write another.”
Not
I want to protect you forever.
But
I want you to protect yourself.
Aventurine’s chest clenched painfully.
That kind of kindness was foreign.
Dangerous.
Hopeful.
And it terrified him more than water ever could.
Aventurine tried to climb out himself.
He got one leg up, slipped, cursed—and immediately cramped.
“Ah—!”
His fingers spasmed, thigh seizing painfully.
Before he could fall back into the water, strong arms swept under his knees and shoulders.
Aventurine froze.
Ratio princess-carried him out of the pool with complete, clinical efficiency, as if this were the most logical extraction method and not something that made Aventurine’s heart attempt a backflip.
Aventurine stared up at him, stunned.
“…Doc.”
“Yes?”
“Is this—” he swallowed, voice cracking, “strictly necessary?”
“You’re injured,” Ratio said.
“You could have just—helped me walk.”
Ratio blinked.
“Your center of balance was compromised. This method avoids further strain.”
Aventurine buried his face in his hands.
Ratio carried him all the way to the benches, set him down gently, and wrapped a towel around him with surprisingly warm hands.
“We’ll continue tomorrow,” Ratio said.
Aventurine looked up—wet, trembling, wrapped in warmth he didn’t know how to hold.
He whispered, barely audible:
“…Why do you care?”
Ratio paused.
Then he said, quietly:
“Because someone should.”
Aventurine’s breath broke.
And for the first time in his life,
he wasn’t drowning.
He was floating.
Aventurine sat on the bench, wrapped in a towel far too large for one person. Ratio had draped it around him like a shield—an unspoken gesture of protection that Aventurine didn’t know how to sit still under.
His breathing had steadied, but his heartbeat hadn’t.
Not after everything.
Not with Ratio kneeling in front of him like this.
Ratio’s eyes lowered.
“Aventurine. Give me your leg.”
Aventurine blinked.
“W—what?”
“You cramped,” Ratio said calmly, already rolling the towel up to support his knee. “If we leave it untreated, you will be limping all night.”
Before Aventurine could protest, Ratio took hold of his calf—firm but gentle—and began to massage the tightened muscle.
Aventurine nearly levitated.
“D-Doc—! You don’t—you don’t have to—”
“Keep breathing,” Ratio murmured, thumb pressing in slow, controlled strokes. “Your muscle is still in spasm. Let it release.”
Aventurine made a strangled noise that absolutely did not belong in a public pool setting.
His face turned scarlet.
No one had ever touched him like this:
practical, careful, steady… soft.
His usual charm disintegrated on the spot.
Ratio shifted to work lower down the leg.
Aventurine tried not to melt.
Then Ratio’s hand reached the ankle.
And he stopped.
Not paused.
Stopped.
A faint inhale—so controlled most would miss it.
Ratio’s eyes flicked to the pale, ridged marks encircling Aventurine’s ankles.
Old.
Healed.
But unmistakable.
Shackle scars.
Ratio’s mind flashed—cold, clinical, furious in a way he didn’t express outwardly.
Someone did this.
Someone bound him.
Someone treated him like an object to be owned.
His jaw tightened by a fraction.
Aventurine noticed.
He immediately pulled his foot back, too quick, too defensive.
“It’s old,” he said lightly—too lightly. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Ratio caught his ankle again—but gently.
No force.
Just presence.
“It matters,” Ratio said quietly.
Then, softer: “It is not your fault.”
Aventurine’s chest squeezed so sharply he had to look away.
Ratio resumed the massage—careful around the scars, as if afraid to cause even phantom pain.
Aventurine felt his throat burn.
No one… no one had ever touched those scars without disgust, fascination, or cruelty.
Ratio touched them like they were simply a part of him.
Not a stain.
Not a story.
Just… skin.
When the cramp finally released, Ratio’s hands slowed to a gentle stop.
Aventurine exhaled shakily.
“…Doc. You don’t have to do this.”
Ratio looked up.
The towel dried Aventurine’s cheekbone, then paused.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Aventurine froze.
His lips parted.
“I—”
He swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
Ratio accepted the answer like it was data—logical, neutral, valid.
“Then I’ll continue until you decide.”
Aventurine’s chest squeezed so hard he nearly winced.
Nobody had ever given him that kind of choice before.
Not his tribe.
Not his captors.
Not the IPC.
Ratio brushed back another drip of water from his temple, then stood.
“You’re cold. Come on.”
Aventurine blinked.
“W–where?”
Ratio didn’t answer immediately.
Aventurine snapped out of his Ratio-daze, clutching the towel tighter.
“R-right. I should—uh—I should get dressed. Let me just—”
He gestured vaguely toward the changing rooms.
Anywhere.
Anywhere to hide the fact his brain had temporarily left the building.
Ratio stopped him with a raised hand.
“No. Not yet.”
Aventurine blinked.
“Not… yet?”
Ratio’s tone slid back into professor mode—calm, factual, maddeningly unbothered by Aventurine’s melting dignity.
“You need a proper shower first.”
“I—what? I can shower here,” Aventurine protested weakly, pointing toward the facility showers.
Ratio actually looked at the showers—one glance, one wrinkle of his nose.
“The chlorine concentration here is excessively high,” he said. “The ventilation is poor. And the water pressure is substandard.”
Aventurine stared.
“…Are you insulting the showers?”
“I am stating facts,” Ratio replied. “Chlorine left on the skin can worsen muscle fatigue and irritate your eyes. You’re already drained.”
Ratio adjusted his glasses, completely unaware he sounded like he was proposing marriage.
“My place has better facilities.”
Aventurine stared, wary.
“…Better how?”
Ratio did not hesitate.
Not even one nanosecond.
“I have optimal water pressure, medical-grade filtration—”
He paused.
Then, with deadly seriousness:
“And a superior bathtub.”
Aventurine blinked.
“…A what?”
Ratio continued as if delivering a conference paper.
“A deep-soak model with adjustable jets, ergonomic curvature, and temperature regulation accurate to ±0.1 degrees. The IPC tubs are unacceptable. They barely submerge the knees.”
Aventurine’s eyes widened.
“Doc… are you a bathtub snob?”
Ratio looked mildly offended.
“I am a bathtub enthusiast.”
“…A what?”
Ratio lifted his chin, proud and unbothered.
“I enjoy hydrotherapeutic environments,” Ratio continued, as if this were an ordinary conversational topic. “They are essential for recovery. And for thinking.”
Aventurine blinked.
“Thinking. In the tub.”
Ratio nodded. “Yes. Warm-water immersion reduces muscular tension, improves circulation, and enhances cognitive clarity. A healthy and hygienic body enables a more efficient mind.”
A beat.
Then—without a hint of irony—Ratio added:
“I also keep a series of rubber ducks for debugging.”
Aventurine’s brain short-circuited.
“…Come again?”
Ratio crossed his arms on his chest, unbothered.
“Rubber duck debugging. Talking through a problem with a neutral object improves analytical precision. My ducks are arranged by size and temperament.”
“Temperament?!” Aventurine sputtered.
Ratio, solemn:
“The blue one is most effective for statistical anomalies.”
Aventurine covered his mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking violently.
“Doc—Doc, please, I’m trying so hard not to fall in love with you—”
Ratio frowned.
“This is standard pedagogical methodology.”
“NO, IT’S NOT—”
Ratio continued, undeterred.
“My point stands. You require a proper shower. And my place offers the optimal environment for cognitive and physical recalibration.”
Aventurine pressed a hand to his heart, wounded dramatically.
“You’re… you’re taking me home for your ducks.”
Ratio blinked.
“I am taking you home because you need a hygienic, regulated space for recovery. The ducks are incidental.”
Aventurine whispered to the universe:
“Why is he like this? Why is he perfect by accident?”
Aventurine covered his mouth, shoulders shaking.
Ratio frowned.
“This is not humorous.”
Aventurine wheezed, “Doc, this is the most charming thing I’ve ever heard in my life—”
Ratio ignored him.
“You’re cold,” he said again, gentler now. “Come.”
Aventurine’s hand settled into Ratio’s palm, warm against steady warmth—an anchor he didn’t remember agreeing to, yet somehow couldn’t let go of.
Ratio led him toward the elevator with quiet precision. No theatrics. No hesitation. Just that maddening, grounding certainty that made Aventurine feel both extremely safe and extremely unprepared.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime.
The world shrank to four walls, a faint hum, and Ratio’s presence.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
But unmistakably there.
Aventurine’s breath puffed softly, still uneven from adrenaline and the emotional roller coaster of “bathtub enthusiast,” “rubber duck debugging,” and Ratio politely listing hydrotherapy benefits like he wasn’t—accidentally—seducing him through pure academic sincerity.
Aventurine leaned back against the mirrored wall, towel around his shoulders, hair still damp, heart still doing dangerous things inside his ribs.
Ratio stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, posture mathematically perfect.
Silent.
Except… not really.
Because he kept doing these little micro-actions:
A glance at Aventurine’s hands—checking tremors.
A glance at his breathing—checking pace.
A glance at his stance—checking for dizziness.
Ratio wasn’t hovering.
Ratio was monitoring him like a system he fully intended to fix.
And Aventurine didn’t know how to live with the way that made him feel.
The elevator’s soft lights cast gentle reflections on Ratio’s profile—sharp jaw, wet lashes, the faintest sheen of chlorine still clinging to his skin. He looked clinical, yes… but also warm in a way that felt dangerous.
Aventurine swallowed.
His voice came out thin, a little breathless.
“…Doc.”
Ratio turned slightly.
“Yes?”
Aventurine looked away quickly, staring at the floor so he wouldn’t have to admit how handsome the professor looked even in fluorescent lighting.
“You’re… awfully calm about all this.”
Ratio blinked.
“About what?”
Aventurine gestured helplessly.
“…You. Taking me home. Talking about bathtubs like they’re sacred artifacts. Monitoring me like I’m… important.”
A beat.
Ratio considered this with the quiet seriousness of a man processing variables.
“You are important,” he said matter-of-factly. “Monitoring is standard when someone is in post-stress physiological instability.”
Aventurine made a weak noise into his towel.
“…Doc, when you say things like that so sincerely it feels like my organs are trying to unionize.”
Ratio frowned slightly.
“That seems biologically unlikely.”
Aventurine laughed—soft, breathy, cracked at the edges.
His shoulders relaxed a little.
The elevator hummed along its slow ascent.
For a moment, the only sound was their breathing—his still shaky, Ratio’s steady as a metronome.
Then Ratio spoke again, gentler:
“Aventurine.”
Aventurine looked up.
Ratio’s eyes, in the soft elevator glow, were… warm.
“You did well today.”
The words hit harder than a blow.
Aventurine’s breath stuttered.
His towel slipped slightly.
His fingers curled around the fabric to keep himself steady.
“…Don’t say that. I’m—” he swallowed “—I’m not used to hearing things like that.”
Ratio tipped his head subtly.
“Then you can learn.”
Aventurine pressed a hand over his heart as if that might calm it.
“We’re in an elevator,” he whispered softly. “Please stop saying devastating things in enclosed spaces. I’m fragile.”
Ratio blinked, entirely literal.
“You are not fragile. You are experiencing an autonomic response. It will stabilize.”
Aventurine closed his eyes.
“…Mama Fenge, he’s doing it again.”
Ratio’s brow furrowed.
“Doing what?”
Aventurine whispered:
“Being perfect by accident.”
The elevator chimed.
Doors slid open.
Ratio stepped out first—then glanced back to ensure Aventurine could follow without dizziness.
Aventurine hesitated only a heartbeat before walking after him, towel clutched tight, heart thudding far too loudly for comfort.
Ratio didn’t look back again.
He didn’t need to.
Aventurine followed without being asked.
Like his body already knew:
Where Ratio walked… he was safe.
=====================
Despite the silence between them, the walk to Ratio’s apartment wasn’t long—just a quiet trek down the softly lit hallway of the same complex the training pool occupied.
IPC buildings were built like miniature cities: labs, residential wings, lounges, and facility pools stacked into one sleek monolith. So the two of them padded along the corridor in their oversized towels, still slightly damp, Aventurine trying not to slip on the polished floor while Ratio walked beside him with maddening steadiness.
A few late-shift employees glanced up as they passed—blinked, stared, whispered—but Ratio ignored them entirely, and Aventurine pretended he didn’t hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Wrapped in warmth, exhaustion, and the strange safety of Ratio’s presence, he followed him to the residential wing without a word.
Inside Ratio’s apartment… It was exactly what Aventurine expected—and then not at all.
The space was minimalist, yes. Clean, yes. But not in the sterile, executive way Aventurine had seen a thousand times. No—this was curated. Intentional. Every line and shadow arranged with the discipline of a man who treated order like a philosophy.
White walls with subtle marble veining.
Dark stone tiles polished to a soft, cool sheen.
Tall shelves carved in geometric patterns reminiscent of ancient Delphi temples.
Books occupied every surface—some stacked with surgical precision, others left open mid-thought with quills tucked neatly inside. The spines ranged from philosophy to mathematics to astro-psychology, all in Ratio’s impossibly neat handwriting.
And owls.
So many owls.
Not cute ones—not the big-eyed pastel kind—but elegant, stylized pieces in bronze and stone. Athena-like. Watchful. Symbolic. One perched atop a shelf like a guardian deity of thesis corrections.
Aventurine stepped inside slowly, like entering a scholar’s sanctum.
Then he saw it.
In perfect contrast to the museum-quiet aesthetic…
On a pristine side-table…
Arrayed in a meticulous semicircle…
Rubber ducks.
Seven of them.
Organized from smallest to largest.
Each labeled in discreet handwriting.
Aventurine’s eye twitched.
Ratio didn’t notice his internal crisis.
He simply moved with practiced calm, setting the kettle on.
“You need something warm.”
As if the ducks were completely normal additions to a Greco-Roman temple of academia.
Aventurine dragged his gaze away from the miniature army of debugging familiars.
“…Doc,” he whispered, “your interior design is having an identity crisis.”
Ratio blinked.
“What crisis? This is optimal.”
Aventurine stared at the bronze owl, then the rubber duck with the tiny laurel wreath, then back at Ratio.
He decided he didn’t have the mental stability to unpack this right now.
And then Aventurine noticed the shelf by the bathroom door.
At first glance, he thought they were specimen jars.
Neat glass canisters with wax-sealed lids, arranged in perfect chromatic order from pale amethyst to deep ocean blue.
Then he read the labels.
“Lavender–Chamomile Muscle Recovery Blend.”
“Eucalyptus–Sea Salt Cognitive Refresh Formula.”
“Juniper–Cedar Grounding Soak (Revision Days).”
“Rosemary–Citrus Emergency Recalibration.”
Aventurine blinked.
“…Doc,” he whispered, voice caught between awe and hilarity, “is this—
is this an apothecary?”
Ratio didn’t look up from arranging tea.
“It’s my bath-salt archive.”
“Archive?!”
“Yes.” Ratio gestured vaguely toward the jars. “Each mixture is calibrated for specific physiological states. Recovery, clarity, stress regulation, somatic reset… Some are experimental.”
Aventurine stared at the rainbow-lit shelves like they were a religious experience.
“You have… seasonal batches,” he murmured, pointing to a jar with tiny pressed flowers floating in crystalline salt. “Doc, this one has… a limited-edition sticker.”
Ratio adjusted his glasses, proud and unbothered.
“I participated in a subscription program.”
Aventurine pressed a hand to his forehead, swaying dramatically.
“Rubber ducks. Owl statues. A bath-salt apothecary. Ratio, you’re a luxury spa disguised as a man.”
Ratio blinked.
“Aventurine, it is very normal to maintain a well-regulated hydrotherapeutic environment.”
Aventurine’s voice broke into a whisper:
“…I’m going to fall in love with him in his own bathroom.”
======
After an amazing bath experience he ever had, Aventurine sat on the couch with a sigh. Towel still tight around his shoulders.
He felt the exhaustion now—the emotional crash after adrenaline.
His limbs felt heavy.
His shoulders hurt from tension he didn’t know he’d carried.
Ratio handed him a ceramic mug.
Herbal. Smooth. Calming.
Aventurine took one sip and froze.
“…You remembered,” he whispered.
Ratio tilted his head.
“Remembered what?”
“That I don’t like bitter things.”
Ratio blinked once.
As if it were the most obvious fact in the world.
“You flinch when tea is too strong,” he said simply.
“I adjusted.”
Aventurine stared at the mug.
His throat tightened.
Kindness again.
Too gentle.
Too precise.
He couldn’t outrun it.
Couldn’t hide behind charm.
Couldn’t risk getting used to it.
He set the mug down too quickly.
“Doc,” he breathed, “you’re making this very hard.”
Ratio sat across from him, expression unreadable.
“What am I making hard?”
“Not…”
Aventurine’s voice cracked.
He looked away.
“…Not wanting anything.”
Ratio did not move.
Did not gloat.
Did not soften.
He simply asked:
“What do you want, Aventurine?”
Aventurine almost laughed.
Because the real answer?
The truth?
Would destroy him.
“I don’t know,” he lied.
Ratio leaned back.
He accepted the lie without believing it.
“Then,” he said calmly, “you can decide that later too.”
Aventurine’s breath shuddered.
Ratio stood, retrieving a folded blanket from the closet.
He draped it over Aventurine’s shoulders without touching skin.
“You’re exhausted,” he murmured.
“Stay here until you feel steady again.”
Aventurine lifted his eyes—wide, glassy, searching.
“…Why?”
Ratio met his gaze.
“Because yesterday was hard,” he said. “And you don’t have to go through the aftermath alone.”
Aventurine swallowed hard.
He felt a crack inside him—one he’d spent years reinforcing with charm, greed, grit, and lies. The crack widened with every quiet, grounded word from Ratio.
“You acted quickly,” Ratio continued. “The child lived because of you. You did well.”
Aventurine laughed—broken, soft.
“No one’s ever said that.”
Ratio blinked, startled.
Then his expression hardened—not at Aventurine, but at the world that had shaped him.
“Then they were wrong.”
Aventurine’s breath hitched.
Ratio lifted a hand—paused—and gently brushed a stray drop of water from Aventurine’s jaw.
“Rest,” he said. “We’ll swim again tomorrow.”
Aventurine looked at him like someone staring at a miracle they didn’t dare touch.
“…You’re serious?”
“Very.”
“And if I can’t do it?”
Ratio’s answer was immediate.
“Then I will teach you again. And again. And again.”
His voice softened.
“Until your body remembers something new.”
Aventurine closed his eyes.
He felt it then—the thing he had forgotten existed.
Safety.
Not the loud, dramatic kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind that builds itself around a person without ever asking anything in return.
Ratio stood and flicked off the overhead lights, leaving only the soft lamp on.
“Sleep here,” he said. “You need proper rest.”
Aventurine opened one eye, startled, almost offended by kindness.
“Wait—sleep here? Doc, I— I didn’t bring anything. No pajamas, no cleanser, no spare clothes—my hair will be a disaster in the morning—”
Ratio blinked slowly, as if this problem had a very obvious solution.
“I have guest supplies.”
Aventurine stared.
“…You have what?”
“Standard hospitality protocol,” Ratio said simply. “Fresh sleepwear, toiletries, sealed toothbrushes, combs, a silk pillowcase—”
“A SILK PILLOWCASE?!” Aventurine choked.
Ratio tilted his head.
“It reduces friction and prevents hair breakage. I assumed you’d prefer it.”
Aventurine covered his face with both hands, making a soft, wounded sound.
“Doc… you’re going to kill me with kindness. I’m not built for this.”
Ratio stepped closer—not touching, but the warmth of him filled the air.
“My intention is not overwhelming you,” he said quietly. “It is practicality. You won’t sleep if you return home in this condition.”
Aventurine’s throat tightened.
“…I don’t know how to accept this,” he whispered, voice breaking around the edges.
Ratio’s expression softened—just a fraction.
“That’s alright,” he murmured. “You can learn.”
Aventurine let out a trembling laugh. Tiny. Shaken. Real.
Ratio turned slightly, giving him space to breathe.
And Aventurine—touch-starved, glitter-cracked, exhausted in a way he’d spent years pretending not to be—curled beneath the blanket and whispered into the dim room:
“…Thank you.”
He didn’t know if Ratio heard.
But the soft rustle of the professor settling into a nearby chair—close enough to monitor, far enough to give him autonomy—told him everything.
Aventurine closed his eyes.
He wasn’t drowning.
Not tonight.
Not here.
======
Aventurine did not wake slowly.
He jerked awake—chest heaving, hands clawing instinctively at the blanket—eyes wild and unfocused, as if searching for chains that weren’t there.
A sound escaped him—a choked, broken thing—before he could swallow it down.
Ratio was at his side in less than a breath.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
Just there.
Solid.
Present.
A lighthouse cutting through panic’s tide.
“Aventurine,” Ratio murmured, voice low and warm in the dim light. “You’re dreaming. You’re here.”
Aventurine gasped—too fast, too sharp.
His fingers trembled against the blanket, clutching fabric like it could keep him anchored.
“I—sorry—I'm fine, I’m fine, I’m—”
Ratio shook his head once, gentle but firm.
“You’re not fine,” he said softly. “And that’s allowed.”
Aventurine squeezed his eyes shut.
His breath stuttered, ragged and uneven.
“It’s—stupid,” he forced out. “I know I’m safe, I know I’m here, I know—”
His voice cracked.
“—and still—still my body—”
He couldn’t finish.
Ratio moved closer.
A slow, deliberate shift.
Then—finally, carefully—he touched Aventurine’s forearm.
Just enough pressure to exist as reality.
“Breathe with me.”
Aventurine tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
His breath shook like his ribs were made of glass.
“Doc,” he whispered, breaking. “This is proving the whole thing isn’t working. The somatic—everything—maybe you should just give up. I can’t even sleep without—without—”
His voice dissolved.
Ratio inhaled, slow and steady—like he was drawing patience from the air itself.
“Progress is not linear,” he said quietly. “Trauma is not a malfunction.”
A beat.
“And I do not give up.”
Aventurine’s breath hitched.
The room felt too small, too intimate, too full of things he wasn’t ready to want.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why do you keep choosing to stay?”
Ratio’s eyelids lowered in something almost like sorrow.
Then he exhaled, the truth leaving him in a steady, soft stream.
“Because you matter,” he said. “And because I want to be here.”
Silence.
Deep.
Fragile.
Electric.
Aventurine looked up—eyes glassy, lashes trembling—every mask he’d ever worn carved off by exhaustion and fear and yearning.
Ratio saw all of it.
“You’re safe,” Ratio murmured again, softer this time.
Aventurine’s lips parted.
“You’re… too close.”
Ratio didn’t retreat.
“Tell me to step back,” he whispered.
Aventurine opened his mouth—
closed it—
then shook his head, tiny, trembling.
Ratio’s breath slipped out—quietly, almost reverently.
“…Then I won’t.”
The space between them shrank.
Aventurine shivered—not from fear.
From the sudden, overwhelming sense of being seen.
He whispered, barely audible:
“Ratio…”
Ratio leaned in—not fast, not claiming—just enough that their breaths mingled.
“You can tell me to stop.”
Aventurine didn’t stop him.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t breathe.
He tilted his face up.
Choosing.
And Ratio kissed him.
Soft.
Measured.
Grounding.
A promise pressed into lips instead of spoken into air.
Aventurine inhaled sharply against him—then melted, fingers curling into Ratio’s shirt as if bracing against gravity.
Ratio deepened the kiss by a breath—just a breath—before he pulled back, warm air brushing Aventurine’s cheek.
Aventurine stared at him, dazed, voice trembling.
“…Ratio… what was that for?”
Ratio brushed a thumb across his cheekbone, catching a tear that had slipped free.
“To remind you,” he said quietly, “that you’re here. With me. Not in your memories.”
Aventurine swallowed hard.
Something bright and fragile bloomed behind his eyes.
“…Will you stay?” he whispered.
Ratio didn’t even blink.
“I’m already here.”
Aventurine let out a trembling breath—almost a laugh, almost a sob.
“…Can I kiss you again?”
Ratio’s voice dropped—warm, velvet-soft.
“Yes.”
And Aventurine kissed him—slow, sweet, grateful—like a man rediscovering the concept of hope.
When they finally pulled apart, Ratio stayed beside him.
Not hovering.
Just… there.
Aventurine leaned into his shoulder, exhausted but calmer.
“Ratio… thank you,” he whispered.
This time, Ratio answered.
“You’re welcome.”
Aventurine drifted back to sleep with Ratio’s presence steady beside him—warm, real, a quiet fortress against the dark.
And Ratio stayed awake just long enough to ensure Aventurine didn’t fall back into nightmares.
Not tonight.
Not while Ratio was here to anchor him.
=========
Aventurine slept again—this time with his forehead resting lightly against Ratio’s shoulder, breaths evening out into something soft and peaceful.
Ratio watched him for a moment, the faintest curve touching his lips.
Not a smile.
But something close.
A quiet exhale.
A decision, settling inside him like gravity finding its center.
Tomorrow, they would return to the water.
Tomorrow, there would be more lessons, more trembling steps into safety, more unlearning and relearning.
But tonight—
Tonight Aventurine slept without fear.
Tonight Ratio held him steady.
Tonight something new had begun—gentle, slow, almost imperceptible, like the first ripple on still water.
Not a rescue.
Not a cure.
A partnership shaped by trust and trembling hands.
A promise sealed in a kiss—quiet, certain, and impossibly tender.
A beginning that felt like love finally answering back.
And Ratio stayed awake just a little longer—only until he was sure Aventurine slept deeply, safely, anchored warm against him.
Then he closed his eyes too.
The first dawn light touched the room.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Neither of them was alone.
The End.