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The apartment is pitch black, the darkness like a living, breathing mass which exists to intentionally obscure Aventurine's vision even though he still feels like he can see. There's no definition to any of the shapes of furniture or artwork, which are abundant in Ratio's apartment, and yet somehow Aventurine can tell instinctively that that's where he is—specifically, that he's in the bedroom, just from the size of the inky blackness that surrounds him.
He's in bed, alone, and the covers have somehow managed to pool down around his ankles. He shivers, the air in the room frigid like winter, and he wants to reach down to pull the blankets over himself, but when he tries to sit up, it's suddenly like the entire weight of the world is pressing down on him, pinning him to that cold, empty bed with the abject silence ringing so loud in his ears that it makes his head ache.
Vaguely, he can sense something watching from one of the corners, and he understands that whatever it is, it doesn't want him to be allowed this one simple comfort.
Naturally, his first thought is that Ratio must be somewhere nearby, and that if he can't reach the blankets on his own, then Ratio will definitely come and help him. With this in mind, he tries to call out, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a hoarse whisper, barely even a sound.
He tries again, but the result is the same.
He whispers, even though he puts all the force he can muster into trying to scream, "Help. I need help. Veritas, please help."
Gradually, a sound picks up and fills the silence, not too far away, and he thinks, it must be Ratio. If he can just get out of bed and make it to the living room, then he can get Ratio's attention, bring him back to the bedroom, and get him to pull the covers up so he won't be cold anymore. A moment ago, he was being held down by some unseen force, but as he thinks this, he finds himself able to slip off the mattress, and he just... goes.
The hallway between the bedroom and the living room seems to drag on forever, and no matter how much he walks, he feels like he isn't making any progress. But he can hear Ratio talking to someone in the living room, so he presses on, pushes against whatever force it is that is now actively dragging him back, with cold, not-quite-human hands on his arms, tugging his hair, wrapped around his neck. Somehow, he knows that if he allows the force to take him, he will die, so he grits his teeth against it until they begin to crumble.
His mouth fills with blood and shattered bits of enamel. He pushes onward anyway.
To no avail.
The cold "hands" pull him back into the darkness and the next thing he knows, he's sitting at a table in a lovely cafe. Ratio sits across from him, watching out the window as cars and people pass, a deluge of cold rain pouring from the dark sky overhead. What little natural light there is highlights the prettiest parts of Ratio's face, a grey reflection in his dusky amber eyes, and his smile is serene. He's so beautiful, but Aventurine still feels an impending sense of dread.
"You've been quiet since we got here," Ratio says.
Aventurine tries to respond, but his mouth is full of shattered teeth and blood.
"You dressed like that to go out for lunch, and you have nothing to say for yourself? Typical. I don't know why I bother," Ratio adds, and Aventurine looks down, only to find himself completely bare.
He's covered in mud and blood, his knuckles beaten raw. His hair feels thick with sweat and body oils, unwashed and unkempt. The only thing that he's wearing is a set of heavy metal shackles around his neck and wrists, which he's only just noticing now.
He wants to say, "I don't know how this happened. I'd never go out dressed like this." but he doesn't want Ratio to see what he's hiding in his mouth. Surely, Ratio would be even more disgusted with him if he knew, so he holds it in as best he can.
Ratio continues, exasperated, bordering on angry, "See, this is your problem. This is what's wrong with you. Look at yourself. Do you understand now why no one wants you around? You're disgusting."
The blood continues to fill Aventurine's mouth until he's nearly choking on it, trying so hard not to let it escape the tight seam of his lips, but so unwilling to swallow. The broken bits of his teeth feel like razor blades against the soft flesh of his tongue and cheeks; if he swallows them, they will tear his throat and stomach open, and he will certainly bleed to death from the wounds.
"Answer me," Ratio demands, standing from his seat and raising an open hand. He doesn't feel the strike. It's as if Ratio never hit him, even though the force of it still sends him to the floor. He sits there curled up, shaking in terror, blood now pouring from his mouth and onto the concrete beneath him. "Is this why you didn't say anything? You little fucking whore. Is this all you're good for? Keeping your stupid little mouth full? Let's put it to the test and see."
Somehow, the taste on his tongue has changed. When he looks down, it's not blood pooling under him, but something thick and yellowish. He spits out a glob of the substance that now tastes foul in his mouth, like too much salt, and the scent of ammonia overpowers him until he feels like he might wretch. Above him, Ratio has removed his belt and unzipped his pants; his hand digs roughly into Aventurine's scalp, yanking on his hair to pull his head back, and all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut to pretend this isn't happening.
"Open up, whore. And behave this time, or I'll knock your pretty teeth down your throat. We'll see how lucky you feel then."
This he does feel. Vividly. Every single touch and all the pain it brings. The pungent flavour, the sour aroma. It invades his body from both sides, tears his skin until he bleeds, and his only comfort is in knowing it won't last long. It never does.
When it's all over and he opens his eyes, the scene is different again.
He's still naked, covered in mud, blood, and semen, but now he's in a courtroom, kneeling on the floor while an audience of people watch on. They're very static, completely frozen solid and silent, and it takes Aventurine longer than it should to realize that they... have... no skin.
The entire audience, the jury, the attorneys, the bailiff. All skinless corpses, and yet somehow they seem familiar to him, like he knows each and every one of them personally, even though not a single one has discernible facial features.
A clinking noise comes from behind him, the sound of chains rattling. He knows the sound all too well, so when he turns—slowly, as if he's up to his neck in sludge—he expects the sight of someone standing behind him with a hand wrapped around the chain that's attached to his shackles. What he doesn't expect is Ratio on the other end, giving him a harsh tug forward until Aventurine falls at his feet, prostrate.
"Veritas," he whimpers, and his eyes immediately fill with tears. He does not dare lift himself up from the ground. "Why are you doing this? I thought you loved me."
Ratio pulls him up by the chain until he's brought back up to his knees, forced to look at his face. Every detail seems to stand out, from the amber of his eyes to the harsh line of his mouth. His eyebrows draw together and his head tilts off to the side. Gaze narrowed on Aventurine, he looks sickened to even be in the same room as him.
"Don't be stupid, Kakavasha," he bites out, "Why would anyone love you?"
Aventurine has no answer for this. Ratio is right. Why would anyone love him?
"You're here to be tried for your crime of—" His voice cuts out, the words garbled beyond recognition. What is he being sentenced for? "The jury has already deliberated, and it's been decided that you will be sentenced to death. You should have died with your people, and you should have died in Penacony. You tried to kill yourself, and you should have died. The IPC should have executed you. You don't deserve to be alive."
And then Ratio raises his fist.
* * *
Aventurine wakes soaked in cold sweat. The blankets are kicked down around his bare feet when he tumbles all the way out of bed in attempt to get away from the horrific images in his mind. Sitting on the floor, hunched over, he heaves for breath, feeling like there's just not enough oxygen in the room to sustain him. He's suffocating, and the sobs that wrack his body are not helping any to rectify that. There are tears streaming hot down his face, his eyes are burning, his nose is completely plugged so he can only gasp for breath through his mouth.
He tries clawing at his throat, knowing it won't help. What's worse is that his stomach is turning violently as the nightmare replays in his mind, vivid as if he'd truly lived it, and he can't stop drooling. He knows he's going to vomit, and what will happen then? He definitely won't be able to breathe if that happens, and if he can't breathe, he'll die.
At this point, death feels like it would be a welcome reprieve, but not... like this. This isn't how he wants to go, in fear and agony, laying on the floor, asphyxiated by his own fluids.
Distantly, he registers movement on the other side of the room, and it startles him so badly that his arms give out. They'd been doing such a good job keeping him from completely collapsing onto the floor, but that's where he is now. He draws into himself, hiding his face in his sleeve, even as the weight of a new presence looms over him, prepared to just die like this if he must.
Pathetic.
He doesn't register being moved, can't feel the large hands on his body helping him back upright. It takes longer than it should for him to realize that he's not alone anymore, and that someone's face is now filling his vision, although their features are heavily obscured by his tears.
Their mouth moves. Sound comes out of it. But Aventurine can't understand what they're saying, or what they're doing, or why they're here.
He's had nightmares before, and he's had panic attacks in the direct aftermath. He's used to the feeling of primal fear, of perfectly believing that he is about to die, but this? Staring straight ahead, not being able to register what's right in front of him?
He's so scared, he feels sick.
His heart hammers in his chest, so hard and fast, combining with the feeling of not getting enough air. He's lightheaded. He wants to lay back down in hopes that the room will stop spinning.
The person in front of him reaches out, towards his shoulder with one hand, and towards his face with the other. An image flashes over his vision. A raised hand, a strike that didn't seem painful at the time, but he knows now in the waking world that it will, so he recoils, squeezes his eyes shut as he cries harder, his nails digging so hard into the rug beneath him that his fingers hurt, waiting for the blow to land.
It never does, but that doesn't stop the fear from escalating, clinging to the inside of his mouth and throat like the taste of—
His stomach lurches, squeezes painfully, and before he can do anything to stop it, he feels something hot and painful surge up through his body.
Initially, he's terrified of the thought of vomiting on the floor, of the punishment he's certain to be given, but it's overshadowed by the fingers gripping at the back of his neck, tugging— no, gently brushing his hair back, holding it while he bends over what he realizes is the bedroom garbage can underneath him.
"No, he's just thrown up," Aventurine hears the stranger say. The voice sounds like it's underwater and far away—but he can tell, at least, that it's a man's voice. Deep and soothing. Familiar somehow. "If I'm to be completely honest, I'm not certain how to proceed. He's had nightmares in the past, but they've never resulted in him vomiting afterwards. Should I take him to the hospital?"
There's a pause, a long silence, a high-pitched noise squealing in his ears.
Aventurine sniffles and his nose burns with the scent of stomach acid.
"I see. I'll talk to him once he's communicative again, then," Ratio says, and only now does Aventurine recognize him through the haze. He pauses again, shorter this time. "Yes, he seems to be coming out of it now. Thank you for your help."
For the first time in what feels like hours, Aventurine takes a deep breath and a rush of oxygen floods his system. Ratio sets his phone aside and scoots closer, reaching out for Aventurine's hands, but the fear spikes again and he can't stop his body's natural reaction to flee, even as his back slams into the nightstand behind him. The worst part is that he can see the hurt in his husband's eyes now, and it just has the tears welling up all over again.
"That's alright, Darling. I won't touch you. Just take deep breaths," Ratio says, and Aventurine manages to inhale just a little longer, so that he's not quite hyperventilating.
Still, he exhales in a rush, and the shame has him trembling on the next inhale.
"That's very good," his husband praises. "Again. Deeper this time, if you can."
It takes a long while of this, endless minutes, what feels like it could be hours, before Aventurine finally feels like he can breathe on his own without Ratio's instruction. His whole body is aching, especially the back of his head where it had made contact with one of the handles of the nightstand. Ratio has stayed a fair distance away, but now the space between them feels too far, too cold, too empty, so Aventurine pushes himself across the floor; his husband rearranges his sitting position to make the perfect spot for Aventurine to sit, and he holds him tight as soon as Aventurine is comfortably curled up in his lap.
"It must have been awful," Ratio says, "I'm here to listen, should you need it. You don't have to keep it to yourself."
"I...." Aventurine's throat feels raw and his voice is raspy. Speaking is painful. "It was.... I've never...."
He can barely figure out how to describe what he saw to Ratio. How will he feel? How will he react? The images return one by one—Ratio raising his open hand, removing his belt, wrenching his head back by a handful of his hair, threatening him, reminding him that he doesn't deserve to be alive.
"Don't be stupid, Kakavasha. Why would anyone love you?"
"Take your time, Darling," Ratio soothes, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.
"I've never had a nightmare like that before. It was just... a bunch of memories," Aventurine finally settles on. "Kind of, in a vague sense. Not perfect recreations, but they still felt like memories. Like pieces of memories, maybe? Except...." He takes a deep breath, now that he can. His whole frame trembles with the weight of it. "It was you. Instead of the people who actually did all that terrible shit to me. Beating me, and... and r—" He falters. This word in particular doesn't want to come out. Tears spring to his eyes all over again, because it feels like razors in his mouth. "And in the end you killed me. All while telling me all the worst shit I think about myself."
"I see," Ratio hums. "You know I would never lay a hand on you, I hope."
Aventurine nods, "I know. I know it wasn't you, but they just... took your form, I guess. It hurt worse than if it had just been some random strangers."
"I assume it would, coming from someone you should be able to trust." Ratio's hand tenses at Aventurine's hip, where he's being held to keep him steady. "If you're of sounder mind now, will you allow me to touch you in other places?"
Again, Aventurine nods, this time soundlessly, and Ratio responds in kind by rubbing up and down the length of his spine, the warmth of his hand soothing. They sit in the quiet like this for a long while, Ratio occasionally kissing the top of Aventurine's head while Aventurine fights off the exhaustion that always comes at the end of his panic attacks. The images are still there in the peripheral vision of his mind's eye, threatening to return as soon as he tries to go back to sleep, and it terrifies him.
Above him, Ratio finally clears his throat, shifts as if he's uncomfortable, and the working of his jaw where his chin is placed on the top of Aventurine's head paints a picture of him wetting his lips in preparation.
"I...." He hesitates. "What happened tonight, Aventurine.... I understand it isn't your fault, and there was no intention to harm on your part; please understand I am not blaming you. But I...." A short pause, a quickly drawn in breath. "You scared me. This scares me. I had to call a crisis hotline because I didn't know what to do. I felt helpless. That's... not a feeling I have much experience with."
A bubble of shame wells up in Aventurine's throat. He feels sick again. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, because he doesn't really know what else to say.
"Whenever I feel helpless, it's always you who's involved, you—" Ratio sucks in a breath, stops himself short. When he continues, his voice is barely above a whisper. "I want to help you, but I can't keep doing this. I'm... exhausted."
Aventurine tries to swallow down the shame as it's accompanied by a new feeling. His eyes prickle again, stinging, burning red hot with fresh tears. "I said I'm sorry," he repeats, this time pushing away off Ratio's lap so he can try to stand on flimsy legs. "Just... go back to bed; you have work in the morning, so you should be resting anyway. Where's the keys?"
"Aren't you coming back to bed?" Ratio asks, slowly following behind him, looking like he's ready to lurch forward and catch Aventurine if his noodly limbs give out on him. "You need to rest as well."
"I just want to get some fresh air first," he says, watching as Ratio doesn't relax, but leans back out of Aventurine's space, like he just realized he was invading it. He looks... dejected, now that Aventurine has enough distance and clarity to see him properly. His dark violet hair is a complete mess on one side, and his pyjamas are askew on his tall, broad frame. There's a dullness to his eyes, underlined by dark bags from lack of sleep.
It strikes him that it's his fault that Ratio looks this way when he's normally so put together, even in vulnerable moments.
As soon as he realizes he's being stared at, Ratio materializes his dumb plaster head, assumes that rigid posture he always has when he wears it, and strides back around to his own side of the bed. And Aventurine... shouldn't let it upset him. Actually, he's not sure why he feels just the tiniest pinch of anger, but.... "You're not wearing that thing to bed. Are you serious?"
"I thought you were getting some fresh air. Why does it bother you what I'm wearing to bed?"
Aventurine huffs, more because he knows he's being ridiculous and he just... wants this agitated feeling to go away, than anything else. He thinks fresh air might actually do him some good, so he turns to make his way out while his husband gets back into bed.
Before he can leave the room, though, Ratio says one more thing, and it hits him like a speeding starskiff. "If you detest it so much, perhaps you should try the bed in the guest room instead."
It stops Aventurine in his tracks. He feels something rotten in his chest swell, fester, climbing up his throat while he sets his jaw and attempts to swallow it down. "You know something, Ratio," he says before he can stop himself. "You're actually an asshole sometimes."
The retort is almost instant, "Interesting. I was thinking the very same."
Without dignifying that with a response, Aventurine goes, snatches the keys from the bowl next to the front door and heads up to the roof, leaving his husband behind in the empty apartment to, hopefully, think about what he's done.
Up on the roof, there's a chill in the air. It's refreshing as it rushes into Aventurine's overheated body, cooling him from the inside out and giving him a chance to clear his mind before it strays back to everything that just happened. Waking up screaming, thrashing, falling out of bed because his nightmares are just that bad is normal. Having his dreams repeat back mixed up images of the numerous ways he's been tormented throughout his life is normal, too. Ratio being right there with him, holding him and comforting him, has also become normal.
But the rest of it?
Seeing Ratio's face and conflating it with his horrific memories is upsetting. No... upsetting is too mild of a word, but he can't come up with something stronger. It just... feels like a bad omen, like wearing his ring on the wrong hand, or accidentally losing it down the drain. It feels like a warning of something awful, like death looming just around the corner.
He stands at the edge of the rooftop garden, and his gaze is naturally drawn to the street below, still filled with traffic, even in the darkest hours of the dawn. He finds himself wondering how long it would take for something of his mass to hit the ground. What kind of an impact he would make. Whether or not it would hurt. How many people would see. Up here, he can put Ratio and his shitty, mean attitude out of his mind, and think about himself.
About how nice it would be if everything would just stop hurting.
Death doesn't end pain, though. It only passes it on to someone else.
Still, he thinks, the edge will always be just a little tempting even if he knows he would never jump—this isn't Penacony's sweet dream, after all. He doesn't need Ratio to tell him that it's l'appel du vide; he's smart enough to know that one on his own.
* * *
Hours later, he has his phone out on the kitchen counter, open to a conversation with the aptly named "Mama Ratio"—complete of course, with the sparkles and hearts she deserves—while she details out the exact way to make what she claims is Ratio's favourite breakfast, which she calls strapatsada. It's not difficult, considering how similar it is to the Sigonian menemen he'd tried making what seems like forever ago now, and with Providentia's careful guidance, he's able to whip something up that is definitely edible, if not a little... rustic looking.
Unsure of himself, he sends her a picture, and she tells him that's what it's supposed to look like, even though he thinks he's choked up prettier stomach contents after going on an all-night bender and then gorging himself on pancakes at four in the morning. He does not tell her that, instead accepting her praise happily.
By the time Ratio finally emerges from the bedroom, all clean and dressed up for another morning of lectures, everything is plated and ready—the strapatsada served neatly on a thick slice of toast, a cup of hot tea steeped to perfection, and a bowl of yogurt with a drizzle of honey and strawberries carved into hearts all await him, with Aventurine standing proudly next to it. When his husband approaches, he's practically vibrating with both nervousness and excitement. Last night was bad—things shouldn't have played out the way they did—but this should make up for it, Aventurine thinks. Ratio should see the hard work he put in and understand that he's still loved, even when he's being an unreasonable douche.
Except... Ratio only spares the effort a single look before he slaps something down on the counter. A slip of paper. "Your appointment slot, and the address. It's booked under Ratio. See to it that you are on time; it wasn't easy getting you in on short notice. This is long overdue."
Aventurine feels his heart stop, sinking into the pit of his stomach when Ratio turns to leave just like that. "Wait, but... what about breakfast?" he asks. He doesn't think he wants to hear the answer, but he asks anyway, just... maybe just to get his husband to stay a minute longer.
"I'll pick something up on the way," is the icy response.
"But... I cooked," Aventurine nearly whimpers. His throat feels dry. "I mean... I guess it's fine. I can box it up for you and you can take it for lunch instead."
Ratio sighs, a sound of heavy exasperation. Aventurine hasn't heard him like this in months; he hasn't missed this side of Ratio at all. "By the time lunch comes, the bread will be soggy. Didn't you think about that ahead of time?"
"Why would I? I was hoping you would, you know, eat it." His voice is watery and his eyes are burning. He tries to dab the tears away on the sleeve of his pyjama top, but it's silk, and it hardly does anything to help.
"Oh for goodness' sake," Ratio huffs. He returns to the kitchen counter in a few long strides, batting Aventurine's hand away from his face so he can wipe the tears away himself. "None of that, now. Aren't you tired of always crying when you don't get your own way? You're acting like a child."
Aventurine doubts that was supposed to be helpful. Ratio is, by now, adept at helping him calm down. The fact that what he said stabs like a knife between the ribs means it was probably meant to. "I'm not acting like a child. I just want you to stay long enough to eat so I can apologize and instead you're running out the door like you don't want to be anywhere near me."
The sound Ratio lets out is amused, and yet also disgusted at the same time. Somewhere between a scoff and a derisive laugh. "You wanted to apologize? And for what reason would you do that?"
Aventurine hesitates, "For... waking you up, and calling you an asshole. I can't really help waking you up, but calling you an asshole was wrong and completely unwarranted, given the situation."
"Wrong answer," Ratio says, and then purses his lips hard against his next words. It takes him a moment before he can continue, "But, I can see you're trying, so I will choose to accept this for now." He turns away at this, picks up the toast with its topping of egg, tomato, red pepper, garlic, and feta, taking a tentative bite while Aventurine watches on. He only feels marginally better when Ratio nods. "Yes, delicious. You're a wonderful cook. I really do not have time to finish, however—I am due for a lesson in fifteen minutes, and I'm already going to be late as it is."
Ratio attempts to leave once more, but Aventurine catches him, reaching out almost automatically and then drawing his hand back once he realizes what he's done, almost like he's been burned. "I—" He falters. "Sorry, I know you're angry, but can you just... kiss me goodbye anyway," he says. "Please. And call me darling."
For a moment, it seems like Ratio might ignore him. Then he sighs, rolls his eyes, and leans down to press lingering kisses to Aventurine's forehead, cheek, and then lips. "We will talk about this. Do not miss your appointment. Try to have a good day, Darling."
* * *
Aventurine does try, to his credit.
He makes it to his appointment on time, he proudly tells the receptionist that the appointment is under Ratio, and feels a profound sense of bliss toward the fact that that could be his new name if ever he felt like changing it legally. He sits nervously in the waiting room, accidentally making eye contact with a person twice his age who looks completely devoid of life, and then decides to just... go through the notes he'd made that morning instead, because he wants to make sure he gets the most out of his first-ever therapy session.
Actually, he finds himself excited, really looking forward to this, knowing it'll be the start of something better in his life. He keeps his expectations realistic—he isn't going to change overnight, he might not ever stop having nightmares or depressive episodes, and he might need to start taking medication again—but just the idea that healing is finally within his grasp makes his heart swell with an overwhelming relief and happiness.
He sits quietly, fingers fiddling with the coin he always carries with him, just to keep his mind and hands busy, until a woman emerges into the waiting room from behind a swinging door. "Ratio?" she calls out pleasantly, and he pops up out of his seat with an amount of vigour he hasn't felt in ages.
They sit down in her office. He can't stop smiling while they introduce themselves. For the most part, she directs her gaze at the clipboard on her knee, asks him some questions....
And then she looks up into his eyes.
* * *
When Veritas' phone rings between classes, he expects it to be the mental health centre contacting him to let him know that Aventurine missed his appointment. He hasn't even answered it yet, and there's anger boiling in the cavity of his chest just looking at the caller ID. At this point, it's nearly an hour after, right around when Aventurine should have been leaving, so he makes the conscious effort to calm down and give his husband the benefit of the doubt.
It's not like Aventurine doesn't want to get better. It can't be easy living with whatever demons he has festering inside him, writhing in a toxic black sludge.
Pleasantries are shared between himself and the person who had ended up taking on Aventurine's case. She speaks sweetly, has a very kind tone, Veritas notes, but that can do little to disguise the blatant disdain when she moves on to the actual reason for the call.
"Your husband, Aventurine.... He doesn't need therapy," she says.
Veritas is completely taken aback by this, "I'm sorry? Perhaps it is because I lack a degree in psychology, but as someone who lives with him and knows him quite intimately, I could have sworn that his frequent episodes and unstable emotions would more than qualify him for some variety of psychotherapy."
"Oh, yes. My apologies. What I mean to say is, I will not be providing it," is her tense correction. "There isn't anything particularly wrong with him on the surface level. Everyone has nightmares, and it's normal to have periods of low mood, or just moodiness in general. It only becomes an issue with him because he's playing it up for your sympathy. From what he tells me, he might be the problem, but you enable his manipulative behaviour, and not only will doing this ensure it continues, but it's only going to make it worse if you don't put a stop to it."
This... leaves Veritas genuinely speechless. There's a throbbing behind his eyes, building, irritating, beginning to ache. "You cannot be serious."
"Does he criticize you, start arguments, or cry when you try to assert your boundaries? Does he dismiss your feelings and make himself out to be the victim? Does he expect affection and compliments from you, but only returns them if he stands to gain something?"
"Are you insinuating that he's a narcissist?" Veritas asks, moving to his desk to sit down in his chair, rubbing his forehead until red marks appear on his skin. "How could you possibly glean that from a single session? Forget the complete lack of integrity and decorum discussing this over the phone with me—making a diagnosis this early is highly unprofessional."
"I don't think he's a narcissist, but he certainly displays some narcissistic traits, which have no doubt been bred into him. Everything I've found talking about the Avgin as a species states—"
"No," Veritas says, sharply. "No, stop right there, I do not want to hear it. I have no interest in a lecture from an idiot on the breed characteristics of an extinct people."
On the other end, the woman sighs, gritting her teeth. "I'm merely suggesting that you might be a better candidate for therapy, Doctor. That's all. I can't imagine it would be easy to work through the effects of his abuse when—"
"Abuse?" He nearly chokes at this. Aventurine is certainly a handful, but calling him outright abusive is so ridiculously far-fetched that Veritas almost laughs. "You mean to tell me you have deduced that he has a pattern of behaviours so evil, so detrimental to my well-being, through one hour of listening to him, that you thought, what? I needed to be warned?"
"I—"
"No, don't answer that. I am curious, however. Did you listen to him at all during his session, or did you look into his eyes the moment you sat down and make your decision based completely on that?" Veritas doesn't need her answer. He already knows, and based on the silence that comes across the line, the therapist knows as well. He exhales heavily through his nose, rubbing his eyes now while his leg bounces with a growing tension. A thought occurs to him. "I don't suppose you told him all this as well."
"How is he supposed to break the cycle if he doesn't know how his behaviour could potentially be damaging to everyone around him? You can't do it for him. He has to want to do it—"
Veritas' heart stops in that moment.
He hangs up on her.
He leaves his office, making his way to the lecture hall where students are already filing in, whispering about their lack of a professor—some in excitement and some in concern. At least half the class will be happy, he thinks as he steps just inside to announce, "Something has come up suddenly, so I'll be taking my leave early. You're all dismissed." He doesn't stop to answer questions, leaving his students collectively confused and scratching their heads.
On the way back to his apartment, he dials Aventurine's number, feeling a terrible sense of deja vu that has dread pooling in his stomach when his husband fails to pick up. It's a much longer trip this time. It's not as simple as just crossing the station to the residential sector and kicking Aventurine's door down. Veritas' apartment is planetside, and the trip home feels like it takes hours on a good day. This time, it might as well feel like an entire Amber Era passes before he reaches Pier Point.
All the while he continues trying to call, only ever getting Aventurine's voicemail.
"Hey, you've reached Aventurine, senior manager of the IPC's Strategic Investment Department and Non-Performing Asset Liquidation specialist! If you're calling for business inquiries, please hang up. If you're calling for business inquiries, you know what to do with the beep."
Fear surges within him. It's too similar. His hands are sweating and he feels like he can barely breathe, but still he pushes on until he gets home, because Aventurine has to be there. He has to be.
Where else would he go?
Veritas tries hard not to think of what the answer to that question might be while he rushes in through the front door, barely closing it behind himself while he scans the area for his husband. He's not in the kitchen or living room, and the rest of the apartment is eerily silent. With the last of his rationally thinking mind, he calls Aventurine's phone one more time, hearing it ring out from the bedroom, and....
He thinks he can empathize with Aventurine much better now than he ever has before.
The closer he comes to the bedroom, the more pure, raw terror grips him, because his mind won't stop supplying him vivid images of Aventurine's huddled up form, looking so small and fragile, his skin pale and his lips tinted blue. He remembers how every strand of his hair was placed, the loose grip of his fist around a bottle of absinthe, how still and quiet he was, so peaceful with his eyes shut and his breathing shallow.
He's outside the door when he remembers the feeling of Aventurine's cool flesh under his fingers as he checked for a pulse, and the weight of his body as Veritas carried him, dying, to the med bay. If he thinks too hard about it, he can still feel the impression Aventurine's body made in arms that night.
Aventurine's ringtone is still going off when Veritas turns the corner, and all he finds is an empty room, the phone plugged in on the nightstand. On the one hand, he's filled with the sweetest relief that Aventurine isn't there on the bed, perfectly recreating the scene of his attempted suicide. On the other, there's a new rush of dread when it clicks that Aventurine isn't here.
Where else could he be?
He wasn't in the living room or the kitchen. It wouldn't make much sense for him to plug in his phone in their bedroom and then go to the guest room or the unused third bedroom. He has no business in Veritas' office. What does that leave? The bathroom, and....
The roof?
Surely not....
He wouldn't...?
Something—some instinct he has—tells Veritas to check the bathroom first. It's on the way, between the bedroom and the end of the hall leading into the living room, so it won't impede him on his journey up to the roof to just pause for a moment and open the door. He doesn't bother knocking—it's not like it would be the first time one of them walked in on the other unannounced, after all—and when he flings the door open, there's a moment of silence before a shrill screech rings out through the room, flowing into the hall, and into Veritas' ears, and he's so, so relieved because no one other than Aventurine could ever make a sound so fucking annoying.
He wants to cry.
"Veritas, what the Hell! A little warning next time?"
Veritas takes a moment to breathe, to take in the scene, to allow his brain a moment to catch up. There's Aventurine, in the massive clawfoot bathtub, sunk down in the water with bubbles obscuring everything but his eyes and the top of his head. "What are you doing?" he asks, pointedly ignoring how out of breath he sounds.
"Uh, taking a bath? What else would I be doing?"
He can't.... Usually it's not difficult for him to figure out Aventurine's tone of voice. It hasn't always been this way, but after all the time spent together, it's become second nature to pick up on all the little intonations and inflections when Aventurine speaks so he can discern the intention of his words. Now it's like there's cotton in Veritas' ears, somehow keeping him from understanding.
It's like being a child again.
"Are you...." He has to take a deep breath. "Is everything okay?"
Aventurine shifts, draws his knees to his chest, and the sound of the water rippling bounces off the walls of the bathroom. "I've been better, but the bath is supposed to be helping with that. Why?"
Another long inhale. Aeons above, he feels like he can't breathe. It must just be the steam in the bathroom...? "I received a call from that charlatan—" He pauses, coughs, feels no better than before. "That charlatan who called herself a therapist. I know what she told you. I expected you to be slightly more... distraught over it."
Veritas finds himself leaning against the wall, his hand naturally gravitating to the exposed skin of his chest. Aventurine is quiet for a moment, watching him, and then says, "I was, but then I thought about it and I realized she's right. You're always trying so hard for me, but I never feel like I give enough back. You deserve a better partner—"
"Stop," Veritas demands, though his voice is weak and it completely loses its edge. "Please. Stop that."
The sound of the water rippling echoes off the walls again, louder as Aventurine moves his whole body, getting up out of the bath to pull his robe on. "Veritas, are you okay?"
"Absolutely splendid," he wheezes, as Aventurine closes the distance to take the sides of his face in his hands.
"Hey, try to focus on me, alright? I know it's hard, but I'm right here," Aventurine murmurs to him, and Veritas can only nod. He does try his best, focusing on the warm, damp skin of Aventurine's little hands on his face, reaching out himself so he can hold onto Aventurine's shoulders for support. "Try to keep talking, too. It'll help keep you in the moment, and you can remind yourself that as long as you're speaking, you can breathe. Have you ever had a panic attack before?"
Veritas shakes his head, "Nothing... not like this.... It feels...."
"Like you're literally going to die?" Aventurine's voice softens immensely at this. "You won't, though. It's just a temporary state, and it'll go away soon. Remember deep breaths, like you always tell me. Can I do anything else to help you feel better?"
Veritas nods this time without answering directly, and uses his hold on Aventurine's shoulders to pull his husband closer. It seems counter-intuitive, especially knowing Aventurine doesn't like to be held too close when he's in distress. But for Veritas, comfort is found in the scent of Aventurine's shampoo, and it helps him in drawing in long, full breaths.
When he finally starts to come down and he can feel Aventurine's weight pressing him into the wall, he tips his head and lets out a long sigh. Aventurine leans back just enough to watch him, stays perfectly still when Veritas lifts a hand to stroke his wet hair back from his face. It feels ridiculous, but just looking down at his living, breathing, beautiful husband has tears welling up in his eyes just from the relief that he's alive.
"Hey, what's going on? This is really unlike you," Aventurine manages to get out before he's being dragged in for a kiss. He accepts it, for a moment, and then pushes Veritas back, dragging in his own shaking breath. "Is this just because of that therapist?"
Is it because of the therapist? Veritas thinks, perhaps she was the flint, but she's not the tinder. She only provided the spark that engulfed his own fears in flames. So he shakes his head. "She certainly didn't help."
"Veritas, talk to me. You can tell me what's going on in that big dumb brain of yours. You know that right?" Although his voice is soft and full of warmth, with just a hint of that familiar teasing lilt, the words themselves make Veritas stiffen.
Can he tell Aventurine what's going on in his head? He'd tried just last night. He'd tried to tell his husband about the way he's being affected, the things he's been so good about pushing down to try and forget they exist. He focuses all his time on teaching, on his projects, on caring for Aventurine, so that he doesn't have to confront the reality of his own fear.
Last night, he'd tried. Maybe it wasn't the best time, but it was the first moment he'd felt the need to really open up about feelings that weren't wholly positive, and what had happened? Conflict. He knows he didn't handle things as well as he should have, and at some point he'll have to apologize. For now though, he's hurt, his trust has been damaged, and it's not something that a simple breakfast and a perfunctory apology will fix.
But... he has to offer something. He has to give Aventurine a chance. "On the way home, I tried to call you to make sure you were safe."
"Yeah, I know," Aventurine says, huffing out an amused sound. "I could hear my phone going off, but I figured it was work related, so I ignored it."
Ah.
"I was afraid you'd done something. You weren't in a good state last night, and I was concerned that something that woman said to you might have—" He stops short. The words refuse to leave his mouth, and his jaw tenses.
This time, Aventurine... laughs. Not loud and raucous, not a teasing little giggle. It just comes off like... the situation amuses him, and it shouldn't. "Veritas, do you really think I'm going to kill myself over some racist hag? If I flung myself off a building or stepped in front of a car every time someone said something shitty to me because I'm an Avgin, I wouldn't be here right now. You have nothing to worry about."
Except... he does. He has everything to worry about. But in the interest of avoiding conflict, all he says instead is, "You're right. I... I suppose that was ridiculous of me to feel that way."
"It's not ridiculous," Aventurine corrects, running a hand up Veritas' chest in a way that is probably meant to be soothing. All it does is agitate. Nothing about this feels good. He despises the idea of not being able to assert himself just to avoid an argument. Were it anyone else, he simply would have raised his voice and spoke over them because he's right, and he's used to having all the knowledge necessary to prove it. In this case, the only thing he has to go off as proof are his own emotions, and he knows he has a significant issue of saying things in the moment that always come off exactly as he intends them—as direct attacks.
This time, he... doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want to hurt Aventurine when he's not being intentionally obtuse or pushing boundaries that Veritas feels he's clearly outlined. Aventurine is trying to help, even if he's being dismissive in the process, and maybe he doesn't deserve to be punished for that.
"Why don't you get in the bath? That always makes you feel better," Aventurine suggests. "I'll run some hot water for you, maybe we can put in some nice oils, light some candles, and you can just relax for a bit while I take care of you. You haven't been able to do that in a long time, right?"
And Veritas... accepts this, because for once, Aventurine is right. He hasn't been able to truly relax in months.