human heart

It's Ratio that pauses first, turning around in the hallway to regard Aventurine with his cool, unimpressed stare. Aventurine leans back on his heels and waits for — something, surely; they're both men of import, it's not likely that Ratio's just decided to stop just to gaze at him. He wasn't a fan of Aventurine's looks, he'd said before, or more specifically he'd said he wasn't a fan of his peacocking: some sense of vague superiority had leaked into his voice there, like it was beneath him to look where Aventurine designed the gaze to be drawn.

So Aventurine waits: adjusts the watch on his wrist and glances at the time like he's got somewhere to be. A scholar as esteemed as Veritas Ratio should be able to pick up such a blatant cue, but there's no accounting for how socially awkward their type can be. Maybe he should say something after all.

"Something wrong, doctor?" Aventurine asks, his voice faintly amused as he brushes imaginary lint off of the cuff of his sleeve. "How unlike you to hesitate. You've never held back before."

"Don't be slow," says Ratio. He pulls his gaze away, his keycard already in his hand, and unlocks the door to his quarters. The hotel arrangements had transformed them into next-door neighbors. He pulls the door open. His palm covers the flat of the edge. He's stopped there, holding it open, and his eyes track back upwards to Aventurine.

Aventurine raises his eyebrows. "Well?"

Ratio clicks his tongue and vanishes into his room. But he leaves the door ajar, a silent invitation, and it would be remiss of Aventurine to reject what's been so purposefully given — so he follows, the low heel of his shoes clicking against the tiled floor, and shuts the door behind him, lingering near the entryway.

It's a small room, nothing more than a chair, a bed, and the adjacent bathroom. There are only small rooms on planets like these, which have nothing to offer the IPC except their potential; Aventurine would know, he thinks, managing only to be faintly bitter, and then underneath that bitter about not being more bitter — under the influence of wealth like his, the heart dulls faster than the mind. They swoop in, offer to aid the planet in their development, and milk them for all they're worth; the original inhabitants, dazzled by the prospect of prosperity, eagerly agree to the terms they set.

Still, Aventurine's lodgings are slightly nicer than these. Ratio's quarters are small enough that he can see everything from where he's leaning against the door: the way that the doctor peels off his skin-tight gloves, the fabric dragging liquidly against his knuckles as he tugs them off, and deposits them on the dresser, and those pale fingers undoing his belt until it sags loose against a palm and drapes over its waiting rest. Ratio shrugs out of his outer robe, the blue fabric pooling against his elbow, and meets Aventurine's eye in the mirror. "You look surprised."

"I am surprised," says Aventurine, mouth curving upward. "I didn't anticipate you propositioning me."

"And?" Ratio tugs at the ornament looped around his neck until it loosens. He scoffs. "Are you going to just stand there?"

Casual: "I might." Dark blue pants puddle on the floor. Aventurine slides off his sunglasses with a finger, folding them against his collar, and gestures languidly with a hand: aren't you going to get on with it? I'm waiting. "I'm rather enjoying the show."

Whatever Ratio says back to him — undoubtedly scornful — is muffled under the fabric of his undershirt as he pulls it over his head. Stretched thin over his flexing arms, the black becomes faintly translucent; he can see glimpses of pale skin before they reveal themselves in full. The light reflects off of the laurel in his blue hair. He's never seen Ratio without it, unless you count when he's wearing that ridiculous plaster head. Could you believe that he calls Aventurine the dramatic one?

But he's naked, now, pulling the accessories off of himself, entirely bare and unbothered as he sits on the edge of the bed. Ratio's gaze flits over the silhouette watching him for a second, entirely indifferent, and he reaches for a slender bottle that Aventurine vaguely recognizes as the utilitarian supplies that the IPC provides on its private transportation (spaceships, hotels, galactic jets — it's a whole enterprise).

The bottle uncaps with a click. Ratio wets his fingers. If he's self-conscious in the face of an audience, he doesn't show it — doesn't seem bothered at all, even after inviting a man in to have sex with him, and then being faced with that man just watching him masturbate.

He never gets thrown off of his rhythm, does he? He'd be a natural at the table. But it makes Ratio look rather unappealing now, staring at his own limp dick with an expression that could only be generously called tepid at best even as if he takes it in his own hands. His movements are economical as he starts, focused; it's obvious that he's done this before, not that Aventurine had expected him to never have so much as jerked off in his entire lifetime — he's direct about his pleasure, running his thumb over the veins as his cock begins to plump in his hands, taking on more color; it blushes faintly where it glistens under his hand.

Not so unappealing now. Ratio's breathing hasn't changed much, but a creeping flush spreads down his neck and over part of his chest. He's fully hard now, plump and thick, the fat flesh of his erection fucking up into his fist as he thrusts up into it. He's looking at himself, the narcissist, his other hand supporting his weight as he leans back. Like this, his body's fully on display to Aventurine: the flex of his chest, the way his stomach jumps and flinches back whenever he touches a spot that he likes, the faintest pink-toned shadow of his pink furled hole whenever he lifts his hips. Aventurine lifts a hand; sets it over his face, his index finger curved over the seam of his mouth as he watches. He doesn't avert his gaze.

"Don't look at me like that." The edge of Ratio's voice is caught on a groan. He doesn't even muffle it. Can't, in his position, with both of his hands occupied, his face turned up towards the light. His breath stutters.

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"Liar," Ratio says, his voice punched out of a derisive gasp. His broad shoulders shake. His eyes narrow into a glare. It's the first time that he's looked at Aventurine since he's started. "You're looking at me like you're in the middle of an appraisal."

Aventurine's startled into a genuine laugh. "I didn't know that you were paying so much attention to me, doctor," he answers, tilting his head forward to conceal his smile. His earring brushes against the top of his furs. "If it bothers you so much, you could always stop."

He doesn't even deign that statement with a response. How very like him. It's odd, this situation: caught between the reality of the intimacy and the strangeness of it, where Ratio is with Aventurine and knows that he's with Aventurine, and won't even look at him, is just getting himself off; you could call him a selfish lover for this in any other context, really, except in this one Aventurine had been the one who'd encouraged him to do so in the first place. He says he doesn't want Aventurine to look at him like that, but he won't do anything to stop him, either; he'll just close his eyes and ignore what he doesn't like.

Aventurine can't blame him. It looks like he's getting close. His cool calm's faded away now, entirely under his own hands, and where he'd started sitting he's now lying entirely against the sheets, cock swelled to bursting, red all-over, like he's been set on fire, like he's been burned. Barely any sound save for the doctor's breathing, and even that's erotic: the rapid hah, haah, that spins out of Ratio's chest, like he's trying to force himself to take long, deep breaths but can't manage it. That hand that'd held him up now twists in the sheets like it's desperate for anchor. Like it's lonely, reaching for someone that isn't there.

"You're close, aren't you?"

"Stop talking if you're — not going to do anything," Ratio grits out, working himself over faster. He's getting sloppy, slick everywhere, positively dripping and still clinging to his self-control even when he's teetering on the edge. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something else, then clamps his mouth closed, eyes twisting shut, his neck twitching like he wants to bury his face into the sheets, a spasm of motion that's truncated by the way that he spills into his hand, wet and messy, just for his audience of one. His body starts to unspool.

Aventurine reaches behind himself, his gloved hand fumbling for the door, and clicks the lock into place. Ratio looks over, but he doesn't look surprised; doesn't have to, with the way that his eyes say, so you finally locked it.

"You didn't seem like you were worried about having an audience," says Aventurine lightly. He takes a step towards the bed. The doctor regards him warily, that vague softness that came with orgasm beginning to abate. "Besides, no one would have been able to come in with me blocking the entryway. Isn't that right?"

"If you really meant to defend yourself," says Ratio curtly, tracking his movements as he curves closer to the bed, "You would at least put some effort into making it sound believable. Or is this simply the best that you could come up with?"

That should be his line. "I could say the same to you."

"Don't be asinine."

"I'm not," says Aventurine. He puts a hand on Ratio's ankle. He can feel the other man tensing underneath his glove, and closes his hand around it anyway, dragging him closer. He's not that heavy — pliant, actually, underneath Aventurine's grip. "I saw how you enjoyed showing yourself off to me. If you were truly concerned about someone walking in, you would have made me lock the door before you started. But you didn't, did you?"

Laconically, the doctor drawls: "Perhaps I did it for your sake."

"For my sake," says Aventurine, and he doesn't even bother to sound like he might be humoring it. It's cute, almost, the way that this is what the Intelligentsia Guild's best can come up with. People venerate these so-called geniuses without understanding their mundanities; isn't that what Ratio so often admits himself? He traces the edge of Ratio's limp cock, pressing down with his other hand against Ratio's hipbone when the other man's body instinctively flinches away in oversensitivity. "Are you sure you weren't hoping someone else would come in and watch you like this? Wasn't that why you were facing the door the entire time, spreading your legs as soon as you'd started; you must have been disappointed," he adds, light as air, "That it ended up just being me."

"Don't delude yourself," says Ratio. His gold eyes bear into Aventurine. "I'm just surprised you didn't run away."

Aventurine goes very still. And then he feels himself smile.

"You really don't know me at all," he says conversationally, sliding his hand upward, over the valley between Ratio's chest, up, over his collarbones, until he's cradling the side of his face like they're lovers. Ratio's eyes are half-lidded, sharper than they should be. He draws himself up and over his body, his shadow covering the ceiling light above, leaving the good doctor enveloped by his silhouette, in his shape, under him. "I'm not known for folding."

Then he kisses him. Ratio parts his lips: half-compliant, half, Aventurine assumes, lazy, or practical, or whatever quality you want to assign him, because they're all similar. Someone seeking optimal alignment: half of the effort, all of the pleasure. The ideal outcome, scientific, statistical: it's just like Ratio.

"How long will it take you to get hard again?" Aventurine asks, pulling away.

"Not much longer," says Ratio plainly. And then, looking down meaningfully at the bulge in Aventurine's pants: "If you can manage not coming in the interim."

"And if I do?"

"Then you can close the door on your way out."

"Don't be like that, doctor," he coaxes, kissing the edge of his face again, and then the corner of his mouth. Ratio looks entirely unmoved. "You invited me in here for a reason, didn't you? I'll get both of us off again. It'll be a win-win situation."

"Not everything is a gamble," comes the answer, which isn't a no.

"Says you," says Aventurine, and it sounds — odd. Not right.

He turns his face away before Ratio might see something uncharacteristic, and looks for the oil — finds it, opening it up, while his other hand fumbles with the zipper of his pants, shoving his underwear down just so his erection springs free. He doesn't bother to undress entirely, which makes Ratio's brow crease as he watches him slick himself up, mouth thinning. It's obvious that he wants to say something but isn't going to do it: is never going to do it, although he reaches out and runs his finger underneath the edge of the cutout over Aventurine's chest. The nail scrapes against his skin there, and it makes the back of Aventurine's neck tingle.

Half-laughing: "See something you like?"

Ratio, cuttingly: "I don't see much of anything to like."

And Aventurine, running his fingers over his painfully hard cock: "Who's the liar now? You were the one who wanted me when I was like this."

When he'd invited Aventurine in, he means; he'd looked at Aventurine in this exact same outfit, and he'd offered — he'd desired him exactly then.

"I left the door open," says Ratio, hand over Aventurine's shoulder now to keep himself steady. "You came in."

"Is there a difference?"

Ratio's other hand was still sticky with his own come, but it drifted closer as Aventurine shifted his weight slightly so he wouldn't crush Ratio underneath him. It traced the edge of Aventurine's jawline, near his ear, and then over his cheekbone, which made him grimace slightly from the texture, and then under his chin, and then, sliding careelssly close, reached for the marking on Aventurine's throat almost curiously.

He caught it before it connected. One of his gloved palms pressed against Ratio's hand, and then slid against it until his fingers filled the hollows between Ratio's, interlocking their hands together, and he pulled it closer to his own face himself, kissing the back of Ratio's hand, opening his mouth so he could drag his tongue over Ratio's come and swallow, faintly thoughtful. It wasn't particularly pleasant.

"Doctor," he says, pushing their intertwined hands against the bed. His teeth scrape against the edge of Ratio's jaw. He tucks his face against the other's. Calmly: "If you try that again, I'll kill you."

Ratio doesn't say anything in response. More accurately, Aventurine doesn't let him say anything in response. He starts rutting gracelessly against Ratio's abdomen. There's nothing elegant about it, nothing sophisticated; it's not the type of sex that they talk about in the salacious novels that they sell to dreamy-eyed young women. He could be fucking against the sheets on the bed for all his body seems to care, desperate for friction and the warmth that emanates from underneath him without care for the source.

If Ratio dislikes it, he doesn't say anything. He's slid the arm he placed on Aventurine's shoulder earlier to Aventurine's upper arm, and he pushes his other hand (honestly filthy, it's disgusting if Aventurine thinks about it for any longer than a second) through the front of Aventurine's hair, pushing it out of his face, and then dragging his arm awkwardly over the crown of his head until it pushes him from the nape — it's the angle, shouldn't a scholar be better at figuring out these things? — so that it drags Aventurine's head closer to his own as if they're about to kiss again. the drying come glues them back together, and it should be awful, more unhygienic than anything else—

But Aventurine, overheated, still covered head-to-toe but for his cock humping against the sweat-slick slope of Ratio's body, it's not bad at all. 

"You're going to stain your clothes," Ratio says, his body rocking with Aventurine's movements. If he closes his eyes and focuses on just the weight, not the feeling, of him thrusting against something instead of in something, it almost feels like he's fucking him.

Aventurine's voice comes out raw. "Worried?"

Ratio makes a disdainful sound. Aventurine laughs again, feeling a little short of delirious, and kisses him again. Ratio makes a half-surprised interjection against his mouth, but Aventurine swallows that down, nipping at his lip. Ratio retreats slightly, but Aventurine just bears down on him more. There's nowhere for Ratio to go from where he's spread out underneath him, trapped between the bed and another body, until he gives in — and he does give in. 

Aventurine feels himself approaching the edge, feeling the pressure beginning to build up and knot inside of him. When he comes it splatters half against Ratio's front, and half on himself, caught between the two of them: droplets splatter against Aventurine's clothing, and Ratio's right, it will stain; he just can't bring himself to care.

Pulsating silence. Aventurine hasn't even taken off his gloves. He looks at them, thinks about dragging a hand against his face, and then thinks better of it. The back of his wrist taps against his forehead. He's warm.

Ratio's voice, when it breaks the silence, is impatient. "Are you done yet?"

"No," says Aventurine, although he does feel sated and satisfied, faintly aglow inside. He lifts himself off of Ratio slightly, then casts a meaningful look at him. "I said I'd make you come again, didn't I?"

"Insatiable," Ratio mutters. Aventurine ignores him. His attention's directed downwards, higher than he'd anticipated; he taps the edge of his oiled, gloved fingers against Ratio's cock, which has faintly come back to life again. It's starting to get hard, but it's not quite there yet. He disentangles himself further, prying them apart, to fumble around the bed. He'd thrown the oil to the wayside earlier — where was it again? And slides off a single soaked glove until it exposes his bare hand.

"Turn over?"

Ratio, long-suffering, acting like he isn't going to get an orgasm out of this, does. Aventurine pulls his legs apart, kneeling in between them, and Ratio stirs slightly in response, beginning to squirm.

"Stay still," says Aventurine, and then slips a finger into Ratio as Ratio lets out a choked-off noise. As expected, he's slightly loose — not loose — but he's done this before, recently, it's easy to tell. Most likely with himself, though it's also possible that he's done it with another person: if he's invited Aventurine into his bed, he must have had other visitors too. He'd suspected as much, earlier, when it'd looked like Ratio wanted to fuck himself on his own fingers when he was masturbating, and Aventurine's bets usually pay off.

His other palm reaches under Ratio and closes over the now-hard erection between the sheets and Ratio's stomach. It's not the most comfortable position, but Aventurine's still loose-limbed from climax. He's feeling tolerant, feeling kind; he'd promised, and what kind of partner would he be if he didn't deliver? A win-win situation, he'd said, and now all he has to do is provide the second win.

"Doctor, you're gaping wide here," says Aventurine, thumb rubbing against the reddening rim. "Feeling empty?"

"Don't exaggerate, gambler," says Ratio. "It makes you sound delusional."

"Ouch," says Aventurine, and slides in another finger meanly, crooking his fingers just so until Ratio's body jerks underneath his touch involuntarily. That's where it is. He squeezes lightly over Ratio's cock in tandem. Earlier, what had he done to himself? Right, he'd liked it here, near the tip, and then a long pull at the base, twisting here, too… "Is that good for you?"

His only answer is a wordless sound. Satisfaction bubbles up in Aventurine's chest. He'll have to get rid of everything he's wearing once they're done — all of it is beyond saving — but he's barely paying attention to that now, beginning to fuck Ratio with his fingers in earnest and palming over that heated cock with his other hand, one gloved and one bare, the sound of Ratio trying to stifle his arousal lingering the air.

He wonders how many people have seen Ratio like this before. He certainly takes it well. He'd never expected him to be a virgin, but he'd thought, earlier, that Ratio was less-suited to pleasure than this, when he'd been on his own; it gets to him more when someone's touching him, obviously. The evidence is right in front of Aventurine.

"Do you think you could take another?"

"What are you," says Ratio, and then: "Wait—"

He doesn't wait. It's a little early for a third finger, honestly, but he thinks Ratio can take it, and he's proven right, forcing it inside and then pressing against the spot that he'd been fucking against just seconds earlier. He watches Ratio thrash underneath him, caught between pain and a sudden onslaught of pleasure. There wasn't any point in wondering if he liked it. He was holding the physical proof of it in his hand.

"Next time," Aventurine murmurs, feeling Ratio rut against his gloved palm, "If you want me to fuck you, you'll have to ask me properly."

Narrow-eyed, Ratio shoots back, "You've — forgotten that this could be a one-time offer, gambler," and then "Ugh," as Aventurine presses hard against his prostate.

"I don't make a habit of accounting failure that hasn't occurred," says Aventurine, and twists one of those shivering little noises of helpless pleasure out of Ratio again.

"That's—" Shuddering. "Awful practice," says Ratio, and he's about to come, Aventurine can tell from how his stomach tenses.

Aventurine kisses the side of Ratio's neck. "Then I guess you'll just have to correct me," he says, mouth against throat, and works Ratio through his orgasm as it comes — dripping wet against him, pearlescent, and with it, the sudden weight of a body relaxed underneath another upon the bed.