Work Text:
The hotel room is quiet.
A lavish display of the finest dreamweaving, drenched in a lush royal blue that’s probably supposed to make the environs look mystical, but just makes Aventurine a little sleepy. Normally, anyway. The nerves skittering through him are doing a good job keeping him awake. He steps out of it and into the hallway. More noise, here, the sounds of distant footsteps and people talking in the lounge, but nobody’s within immediate eyesight.
The other hotel room is a few doors down. He knocks on the door; locked, of course, the better for no other guests or employees to trespass into and have questions. After a few moments, the door opens, revealing the thoroughly unremarkable face of the least ethical Dreamweaver Aventurine could find.
“Get in, quick,” the man whispers, and Aventurine doesn’t need to be told twice. He enters the room. It looks much the same as the other one. Sleepy royal blue, carefully-designed opulence.
Unlike Aventurine’s room, though, it’s not unoccupied.
The man quickly closes and locks the door behind him. “It’ll only last a few hours,” he says. “Constructs like this usually require multiple dreamers keeping them alive, and besides, the Family can pick out false notes fast, so the longer it lasts, the greater chance of it being discovered.”
The Dreamweaver would lose his job, of course. Aventurine probably wouldn’t lose his, not for such a paltry corruption, but it would certainly damage his reputation with the Family, possibly earn him a ban from the planet, and his colleagues would find the news amusing in a way he’d rather avoid.
“I’m aware,” Aventurine says. He’s not really paying attention to the Dreamweaver right now, anyway. His eyes are fixed on the Dreampool at the back of the room.
“And I really shouldn’t be here when it wakes up,” the man says. “The false memories are hard to maintain when they encounter abnormal elements. I realize you probably want confirmation that it’s functional before you send the rest of the payment, but--”
Aventurine pulls out his phone and makes a few taps. “Sent,” he says. “I doubt you’re a Family honeytrap, and if anything happens we’re both going down on this ship. I’ll take my chances.”
It’s a good bet. An expensive one, too. All the best bets are.
The man nods, looking immensely relieved. “All right,” he says. “It should wake up in a few minutes. Call me if it’s still around after, uh, you’re done, and I can take care of it. You don’t have to watch if you don’t want. Probably you shouldn’t.”
Aventurine intends to stay for the entire timespan. He’s paying enough for it, after all. If he doesn’t get his money’s worth, what’s the point of all of this?
But he nods anyway. “Got it,” he says.
“I’ll let you get to it, then,” the man says. “Remember, only a few hours.” He leaves, probably planning what to spend his new riches on. Whatever luxury can’t be found here gratis. Or maybe he’s planning to skip town. But why would a Penacony native ever want to leave the dream? Besides, of course, the ones who have to work in it.
Aventurine locks the door behind him. After a moment, he pulls off his jacket, folds it over a chair, removes his gloves. Steps out of his shoes. The carpet is plush beneath his feet. Always awkward to take those off in the heat of the moment; better to deal with them now.
He turns to face the Dreampool. Just like the one in his room, and in every room. A shell-shaped pool filled with something almost like water in a calming shade of blue, bubbles drifting off the top of it.
But, as mentioned. Occupied.
Aventurine walks up to the pool. The construct certainly looks accurate. Taken from his own memories, so if there are any differences, they’re his own fault, mild idealizations he wouldn’t notice. And isn’t that the point of this? That he’s not getting the real one?
Though of course he wants it to be as realistic as possible. To look right, to sound right, to talk right. Just…with an additional interest.
His hand isn’t shaking when he reaches out to touch the construct’s face, but it feels like it is, somehow.
The construct’s eyes are closed, its chest rising and falling with believable breath. Its face is perfect. A sculpted look to it, metaphorical in the real world but literal here. Its skin is soft under his fingertips. He lightly strokes its cheek, a small intimacy never before allowed or even asked for, and something inside him clenches. It--
He can’t think of it as an it, or as a construct. Even if he knows it is, even if he knows exactly what he’s doing, and that the real one would never approve of this, perhaps be horrified by the idea. Only a few hours of existence. How much worse a person would Aventurine be, if he didn’t want him to enjoy them too?
He pulls his hand back just before he opens his eyes.
The man in the pool blinks once, twice. Raises an eyebrow.
“You could’ve waited in the lounge,” Ratio says. “No need to come to my room.”
Aventurine smiles, inside and out. The voice and tone are perfect. “It’s awfully boring there,” he replies. “The unwashed masses pretending at wealth and power for a few days, drinking dream substance and claiming it to be finest whiskey when it’s no different from SoulGlad. Hardly my idea of a party.”
Ratio stands up and steps out of the pool. Drops of blue water roll down his clothes and back into the pool, leaving no trace on the fabric. “I imagine the guests who can only afford a few days would be in a different area than the VIP lounge,” he says.
Aventurine shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t see much difference between them,” he says. “They’re all still small fry in the eyes of the truly wealthy.”
Ratio brushes a stray drop off his shoulder and looks towards the door. “Shall we be off, then?” he asks. “There’s little to do in here.”
“Ah, I thought it might be nice to relax in here for a little while first,” Aventurine says. “Get your bearings. We’ve got plenty of time, no need to rush.”
Ratio looks at him, and then looks at the door again, and then back at him. A silence falls.
Aventurine is almost about to say something when Ratio says, “I’m not real, am I.”
Aventurine’s stomach plummets.
What did he do wrong? Or did the Dreamweaver do a shoddy job? That must be it, he’s barely spoken a few sentences, surely that wasn’t enough for--
Ratio sighs. “The look on your face is confirmation enough,” he says.
Aventurine finds his voice. There’s no point in lying now. “How did you know,” he says.
“I wouldn’t normally come to Penacony for entertainment,” Ratio says. “Its hedonistic nature holds no appeal to me. Nor, I believe, does it especially appeal to you, though for different reasons. Yet my memories tell me that that is why we are here. While I would not object to spending time with you, it would not normally be in these environs. So there must be a reason we are here, instead of a place we would both prefer.
“There’s only one reason people come to Penacony. If it doesn’t apply to me, it must apply to you. The luxuries mean little to you; it must be the nature of the place, then. There is something you can find in the Dreamscape that you cannot find elsewhere. And if I do not remember what it is, and you seem disinclined for me to leave the private confines of the room, then it is a reasonable conclusion that the something is me.
“Not an ironclad theory by any means, of course. But as I mentioned, your face gave it away.”
Aventurine swallows. His throat feels dry. Against his will, the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “I should’ve guessed you’d figure it out,” he says. “A perfect copy would have the same mind, after all.”
“The question, then, is what you would spend an undoubtedly obscene amount of money creating a sentient dream replica of someone for,” Ratio says. His gaze is level, betraying nothing. His voice is as stern as ever. Which doesn’t necessarily mean anything, under other circumstances--but, well. “Would you like me to deduce that, as well, or will you do me the honor of explaining it yourself?”
Aventurine leans against a table in as nonchalant a manner as he can. “Oh, you know,” he says lightly. “The real guy’s been busy lately, I just wanted someone to talk to.”
Ratio’s gaze deepens. “Don’t patronize me.”
Aventurine exhales. Taps his fingers against the table. A tiny, staccato sound, muted by the heavy weight in the air. “Can I ask you a question instead?” he says. “My answer might change depending on yours.”
“There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”
“Okay.” Aventurine takes a breath, plunges a hook into his heart and yanks out words that feel like knives in his throat. “Do you love me?”
Ratio’s expression doesn’t change. “Does he love you, you mean,” he says.
“Sure. Just answer it? Please?” Aventurine doesn’t like the way he says the last word.
“How would I know? I assume I was created from your memories. If you don’t know his feelings, I wouldn’t either.”
Aventurine’s fingernails drag against the surface of the table, scratching the varnish, or at least they would be if that was possible here. “Guess,” he says. “Extrapolate. You’re good at that.”
“He cares about you,” Ratio says. “Or at least you think he does. For all I know, he’s simply very good at hiding that he hates you.”
A laugh bubbles up out of Aventurine’s throat, past the words’ bloody tracks. “He wouldn’t hide that,” he says. “He always says what he means. He’s nothing like me at all.” Aventurine doesn’t wish he was a better person. He is what he is and can’t change that, and brooding about it won’t accomplish anything. But he does feel the sharp contrast, when he stands next to his friend. And he does wonder, sometimes, maybe more than sometimes, what Ratio thinks of that contrast. If he thinks anything about it at all.
Ratio is a good man, if a stern one. An extremely attractive man who doesn’t like being extremely attractive, which Aventurine finds fascinating. Not afraid to play politics, but not fond of it. Easy to draw the ire of, and yet somehow he seems to not object to Aventurine’s company. They’ve even gone drinking together a few times. It was nice. Two glasses in Aventurine watched Ratio rant about the dangers of perceived intellectual superiority in intergalactic politics and realized with a terrible certainty that he liked him more than he’d ever liked anyone.
Besides family, which isn’t the same. Certainly likes him enough to think, sometimes, about what it would be like to go to bed with him, if he’d be willing to indulge Aventurine’s tastes, or even have a complementary inclination himself. In fantasy he does, of course. In reality…who knows. Who knows if Ratio likes him at all, or only tolerates him.
Ratio probably doesn’t hate him. But there’s a wide range between hate and…other things, and Aventurine would like to know, so very badly, where on the scale this falls.
If Ratio did love him--or close to it, at least--then he wouldn’t need to do any of this. Seduction can be a challenge, but he imagines it’s easier when you know the other person has feelings for you. The right words to bring it out, maybe a casual display of vulnerability--or just get drunk together and use the alcohol as an excuse, then the morning after admit to the plan and hope the confession is endearing.
But he doesn’t know how Ratio feels. And a gambler he may be, but the thought of losing that bet makes him feel like his insides are lined with lead.
So he stands in a dream with a pretty-faced doll, where the odds are certain because he paid off the dealer. Or they were supposed to be, at any rate.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ratio says. “Back to my question?”
“Right.” Somehow these words come easier. Rough instead of sharp, half-truths instead of unpleasantly real ones. “Haven’t been feeling great lately and my usual method of stress relief was getting boring, so I thought I’d spice it up with a face I already knew. Happy?”
The usual method involves men he never has to see again. Though they do recommend him to other industry professionals, apparently. He’s a generous tipper. But it’s been a little while since his last purchase.
He’s not an idiot. He knows the situation he came here for is at best pathetic, at worst revolting. But it could be worse, couldn’t it? He could’ve asked for a Ratio who would--say things, maybe. Nice things. Answer that question differently. That would be pathetic. Sex is pedestrian, compared to that.
Ratio’s jaw sets in a hard line. “I’d guessed as much,” he says. “Though I suspect you’re not being entirely truthful about your motivation, given what you asked me.”
Aventurine swallows the blades on his tongue. “Don’t make me say it, Doc.”
The quieter, sadder thoughts, the more selfish and pathetic ones, about what he wants from Ratio, he always stamps down. How can he say it, when he can’t even let himself think it.
“I can’t make you do anything,” Ratio points out, arms crossed. “I’m not even a person. You’re likely in contact with the Dreamweaver who created me; if I displeased you, you could simply have me unmade. A waste of money, perhaps, but surely preferable to such an extensive failure of your plans.”
It’s already failed. This isn’t what he wanted at all. “You’re not supposed to say things like that,” Aventurine says. “You’re supposed to be--” He doesn’t know the word, or doesn’t want to say it.
Ratio’s voice is flat. “Pliable?”
Aventurine shakes his head. There’s a pit forming in his stomach. “Not like that,” he says. “Just…open to the idea.”
“You wouldn’t pay that much money for open to the idea,” Ratio says, dripping scorn. “How did you think this was going to go? You’d say some nice words and I’d be overcome with lust? A lust designed to your specifications, no doubt.”
Aventurine is going to ruin that Dreamweaver’s life. Ratio’s not far off--extremely close, actually--but that is pointedly not what’s happening, and thus this is not what he paid for.
Ratio catches that, somehow. “Don’t blame the Dreamweaver,” he says. “I do desire you.” Those words coming from that voice and that face make something in Aventurine’s gut shiver. “It’s simply not enough to overpower my faculties. You designed me too well, gambler.”
A bet that didn’t pay off. But--no, this can still be fixed. He still has the Dreamweaver’s number.
Aventurine pulls out his phone with a very steady hand and dials it.
“What are you doing?” Ratio asks cautiously.
The man picks up. “That was fast,” he says.
“It’s not going right,” Aventurine says. “Max out the desire and you’ll get another 100k.”
Ratio’s eyes widen. He strides over and tries to grab the phone. Aventurine turns it off just after hearing the “Uh, okay,” from the other end.
Ratio is just inches away from him now, and the height difference feels towering. “You care so little for my agency,” Ratio hisses. “You would lobotomize me to fulfill your personal fantasy, without even the slightest concern on your face.”
Aventurine swallows. “You said it yourself,” he says. “You’re not a person.”
“Neither are you, it seems,” Ratio says in a voice like the dead of winter.
And then a haze crosses his eyes.
Just briefly. Barely noticeable. But as close as they are, Aventurine sees it clearly.
And then Ratio grabs Aventurine’s wrists and shoves him against the wall.
The breath knocks out of him and is replaced by Ratio’s, a bruising kiss that feels like Aventurine is being devoured alive. Finally, finally. Aventurine closes his eyes and lets himself fall into it, give up every inch of control he’s scrabbled so hard for and let someone take and take and take.
Ratio kisses him like he’s starving, like he can’t get enough, like Aventurine is a feast just for him and maybe it doesn’t entirely matter what Aventurine thinks about it. It’s perfect. Aventurine moans into Ratio’s mouth and relishes Ratio’s iron grip, the muscular chest pinning him to the wall, the feeling that he couldn’t escape even if he wanted to.
He can feel himself getting hard, and a matching erection pressing against him. A shiver runs down his spine. Every idle thought and long night already pales in comparison to the real thing--
Though this isn’t really the real thing, is it.
No, if he thinks like that this will be ruined. Don’t lose focus.
Ratio’s tongue maps every inch of his mouth, tangles with his, slick muscle dominating his mouth. Aventurine almost feels dizzy, and it’s only just begun. What will the rest of it be like? His specifications were exact, and the Dreamweaver seems to have paid close attention.
It feels like forever until Ratio decides he’s done. Their mouths separate, and Aventurine gasps for breath, though he doesn’t really need to. He gasps again, for different reasons, when Ratio’s teeth sink into the crook of his neck. An exquisite pain on sensitive skin, still throbbing after Ratio withdraws, blooming bruises and very nearly blood. The gasp turns into giddy laughter.
Ratio lets go of one wrist, and yanks the other, pulling Aventurine over to the bed that has loomed large in the room since Aventurine walked into it. Aventurine stumbles a little, another laugh tumbling out. Aeons, but he’s wanted this. Even if he thought maybe there’d be a little more talking. Not conversational, exactly, but some words, maybe, comments or exhalations or just incoherent swearing. Instead Ratio hasn’t said a thing. Well, that’s fine.
Ratio shoves him onto the bed. Not every room in the Reverie even has those; what are they needed for, in the land where no one sleeps? Well. You have to pay extra for that. Aventurine did, of course, landing on the soft mattress, blankets already pushed aside, presumably by the thoughtful Dreamweaver. He’ll have to tip the man. Ratio pins him down, devouring his mouth again and tearing his shirt open without even looking at it, expensive fabric ripping in a way it wouldn’t have in the real world. Aventurine paid extra for that, too.
Ratio’s clothes aren’t as difficult to take off as he thought they’d be, Aventurine finds, hastily undoing the belt buckle and pushing apart the sashes. They slip off his shoulders, still attached to one arm. Ratio mouths at his neck again, which makes it harder to undo the buttons on his vest, but Aventurine manages.
After some quick work with the collar and Ratio obligingly yanking off the remaining sleeve, Ratio’s bare torso is finally on display, an expanse of pale skin and muscle that really doesn’t fit with the usual perception of a scholar. Maybe it’s even slightly exaggerated; it’s not like Aventurine’s seen Ratio shirtless before. Aventurine’s not complaining, though, as Ratio bears down onto him, pressing him into the mattress. Aventurine runs his hands along the muscular plane of Ratio’s back. Every touch is a tiny delight, sparking up his spine. It’s a slightly pathetic thought, but he wouldn’t even mind if it wasn’t sexual, if it was just…something besides that that isn’t important. Anyway.
Ratio grinds their erections together, heat coiling in Aventurine’s gut. There’s still too much clothing left. This is why he partially undressed already--he should’ve asked for Ratio to be wearing less too. But that would’ve been even more suspicious.
He refocuses on getting the rest of their clothes off. Once that’s done, it’s even more of a thrill, naked legs tangling with his while Ratio bites more at his shoulders, leaving marks that would surely show in the real world, badges of accomplishment littering his skin. He wouldn’t show them off, necessarily, but looking at them in the mirror would feel almost as good as receiving them. Little signs that he can make Ratio lose control. That Ratio desires him enough to want to leave marks on him, possessive or not. Aventurine’s used to being owned, but that type of smaller, more intimate claim sounds much more appealing.
Half a dozen bite marks, maybe more, neck and shoulders and chest and Aventurine’s starting to lose count a little, lost in the euphoria. You wouldn’t expect Ratio to be so--animalistic, maybe. (Maybe he wouldn’t be.) But Aventurine is happy to reap the rewards, even if they’ll be gone when he returns to the real world.
Abruptly, Ratio lifts himself up and flips Aventurine over. Aventurine’s face hits the pillow with a soft thump, and he finds himself laughing again. “Give a guy a warning, will you?” he says, not really meaning it. Ratio doesn’t respond anyway. He kind of wishes he would.
Hands on his thighs. Aventurine would open them himself, but it’s more fun to let them be pushed apart. His cock drags against the mattress, leaking precome into the sheets in a way that would leave a stain if stains existed here. It’s friction, but not enough friction, but it hasn’t been so long that that’s maddening yet. There’s still time, though. He asked for a few rounds. Long enough to get so fucked out he doesn’t have to think about anything, work or--well, there’s not much in his life besides work, which is another thing he doesn’t want to think about. A few hours to completely and wonderfully lose himself.
Maybe it wouldn’t all have to be like this, though. Maybe towards the end it could be different. A hand in his hair, maybe, lips against his forehead, sturdy arms around him.
But it would be horribly pathetic to fall asleep to that and wake up in an empty bed, so maybe not.
Here and now, blunt fingers force their way inside him. You don’t really need lube here. But Aventurine’s looked at Ratio’s hands often enough that they’ve become an integral part of the fantasy. Uncalloused skin, soft from a lifetime of academia, but genetics lending broadness and manicures lending nails short enough not to scratch unpleasantly, if scratching isn’t desired. A moan falls from his lips as they work him open, brushing roughly against his prostate. His fingers clench in the pillow, his hips buck involuntarily against the mattress.
All too soon, the fingers withdraw. A thin whine escapes Aventurine at the loss. But the sound cuts off into another moan as Ratio’s cock pushes against his hole, a rough thrust with no thought for gentleness or thorough preparation. No need to worry about accidental bleeding here. Just a cock forcing inside him, the push and pull harsh and unrelenting. More sounds escape Aventurine’s lips, some words and some incoherent. Ecstasy floods his brain. Aeons, it’s good, being ravaged like this, like protests wouldn’t be listened to. They would, of course, but it feels like they wouldn’t. It feels like it doesn’t matter what Aventurine wants, which is what he wants.
The universe has fucked him enough. What’s wrong with getting to choose it on his own terms?
Ratio really has been awfully quiet. It does defeat the point, a little, when he can’t hear him and from this position can’t see him; it might as well be any other man. Aventurine twists his head to get at least a little of a look. What does Ratio look like now?
And his blood runs cold, because the look on Ratio’s face is not desire but disgust.
Ratio’s still participating, of course, thrusting into him just as hard, hands on his hips just as bruising. But the haze has passed, if it was ever really there at all. If he enjoyed any of this, or was just forced to while his body acted out Aventurine’s request.
If Aventurine was any kind of good man, he’d stop right now, call the Dreamweaver again and make him take it back. End this, now that the illusion has broken.
If Aventurine was any kind of good man, he wouldn’t have done this in the first place. He turns his head back and squeezes his eyes shut and hates himself a little.
It does end eventually. Bastard or not, the last part didn’t feel as good as the rest of it. When he comes into the sheets it feels less like a rising crest and more like a hard landing. Ratio comes inside him without as much as a moan.
Aventurine lies there for a moment, sweaty and exhausted, catching his breath. He almost doesn’t dare to look back again. But he can’t stay here forever. He lifts himself up on shaky arms and rolls over, bracing his arms behind him.
Ahead of him, Ratio’s gaze is ice.
“Are you,” Aventurine starts, and stops, because asking it feels absurd.
“How kind of the Dreamweaver to program in a moment of clarity,” Ratio says in a low voice. “Or just to give you a rest between rounds. I’m sure I wasn’t factored into it at all.”
“That’s not true,” Aventurine insists, sitting up fully. He wants to reach out and touch Ratio’s arm. He doesn’t. “I wanted you to enjoy this too. You were supposed to.”
“I was supposed to think I was something I wasn’t, so you could have a more realistic sex toy,” Ratio says flatly. “Should I feel grateful you wanted me to live a happy delusion?”
“It would’ve been better, wouldn’t it?” Aventurine says desperately. His fingers clench in the bedsheets. “You’d have had a good time. You wouldn’t be feeling like this. Isn’t that better?”
Ratio, sitting back on his thighs, disheveled and sweaty and tired and furious, looks less like a classical sculpture and more like a modern commentary on something Aventurine doesn’t want to think about. “Would your life have been better if you were a happy slave?” he asks.
Something inside Aventurine feels pulverized.
“It’s not the same,” he says, his voice small.
“True,” Ratio replies. “A slave can dream of freedom. Can I even exist outside this room?”
“The Family would find you pretty quickly, the Dreamweaver said,” Aventurine says, distant. “Then they’d erase you.”
Ratio laughs. It’s low and cold and unpleasant. “A preferable fate to being your toy until you grow tired of me.”
Aventurine feels very small. “You wouldn’t last that long anyway,” he says. “The Dreamweaver said you’ll stop existing in a few hours.”
Ratio doesn’t say anything.
Eventually, he says, “You must not care for the real me at all.”
“No, I--”
Not that Aventurine could say it, but Ratio cuts him off anyway. “I pity him,” he says. “To have a friend such as you. I can only hope that someday he will see the snake in the grass.”
“I’d never hurt him,” Aventurine says urgently. Not in any serious way, at least. Maybe in small ways that don’t really matter. They wouldn’t matter, right?
“Then congratulate him for being the exception to the rule, for you clearly care nothing about what you do to anyone else.”
Aventurine knows he’s not a good person, but part of him withers regardless, hearing it stated so harshly by a version of the only person he thought might possibly like him anyway. Though he knows, now, that Ratio could never, that there’s something so fundamentally rotten with him that even the closest thing he has to a friend is disgusted by it. He sits there silent, unable to respond.
Ratio steps off the rumpled bed and starts to dress again, despite the sweat and general mess. Perhaps he wants what little control he can get. When he’s done, he stands in the center of the room, arms crossed, eyes cold. “If not a person, what am I?” he says softly. “Inorganic beings have charters of rights guaranteeing equal treatment, but they possess undisputed free will. Am I on the level of one of the cleaning robots on Herta Space Station, bearing traces of personality yet still fundamentally an object that can be destroyed without guilt?
“The Family forbids the creation of beings like me, and freely erases them when found. No one would consider that murder. Yet when interacted with, we seem no different from living people. Is that sentience? Or are we merely following what has been programmed into us?
“Here lies the rub, gambler. I was made from your memories, to your specifications. Am I saying all of this because it is what you want to hear?”
Aventurine opens his mouth. It takes a moment for him to find any words, and even then, they’re hardly much. “I don’t know,” he says.
Ratio huffs. “Of course you don’t,” he says. “You put no thought into this at all. Only the satisfaction of fulfilling surface-level desires.”
It’s not surface-level, Aventurine wants to say. It’s buried in thorny depths, strangling tighter by the minute. It’s caltrops lining his throat, smoldering coals burning a hole inside him. It’s something once soft and warm now turned to horrible, suffocating ruin.
Ratio exhales, and some of the anger leaches from his eyes. It is not replaced with sympathy. It’s only drained. “A few hours,” he says. “Less than that, now.”
“If I paid the Dreamweaver again, he could make you last longer,” Aventurine says suddenly, though he doesn’t know if that’s possible, actually. “Even if you can’t go very far, you could still--”
Ratio cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “I would rather dissipate into nothing than exist only by your whims,” he says.
It was only a momentary idea, and a desperate one at that. But Aventurine doesn’t know how to fix this. Ratio--this Ratio--will die, and die hating him, and it will sit in Aventurine’s stomach like a stone.
“I’m sorry,” he says, helplessly, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
Ratio’s gaze is quiet. “I suppose I should feel honored by a rare moment of sincerity from your lips,” he says.
I’m always sincere with you, Aventurine wants to say, even if it’s a horrible lie, because he wants it to be true. He wants the thorns in his throat and the glimmer on his tongue to disappear, and to be able to tell Ratio words, and live an impossible life free of the shackles that never went away. He wants it so intensely that he knows he’ll never have it. This was supposed to be the closest he could get, and it was only further proof that he doesn’t deserve anything like it.
Ratio looks at the door. “Leave,” he says. “I would face my end alone.”
Aventurine gets out of bed and dresses in silence. He feels like he’s at the bottom of a pit so deep he doesn’t know what the sky looks like anymore.
He leaves. He does look back, only for a second. Ratio’s back is turned to him, silent.
Outside in the hallway, he closes the door. It takes him a moment to remember that he has his own room to return to. He goes there, and he looks at the Dreampool that will return him to the real world.
The only other person who knows about this is the Dreamweaver, who will certainly never tell. After a few hours, the only sign that this ever happened will be his lowered bank balance. If the IPC goes on one of its searches, he can claim he made a bet that didn’t pay out.
He doesn’t return to the real world yet.
He sits on the lavish couch and stares at nothing, checking his watch occasionally. After four hours--just to be sure--he leaves his room, and goes back to the other one.
It’s empty.
The bed isn’t made. Nothing in the room has been moved; he can’t tell what Ratio did in the last hours of his life. Maybe the same thing he did. Maybe it’s not his right to know.
For a few hours, there was a person here, maybe. Maybe not. Even now Aventurine isn’t sure. Those words about programming, about what Aventurine wanted--
It would be disrespectful to assume the construct must have been following a script. If he was real. If he wasn’t, it would just be a logical statement of fact. Aventurine feels dully that the theory could have been true. He has a very objective opinion of himself, after all.
But maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe there was a person here, and now there isn’t anymore.
Aventurine doesn’t feel the thorns anymore. He doesn’t feel much of anything. He goes back to his room.
He doesn’t know how he’ll react when he sees the real Ratio again. Ratio will pick up on it, of course, know that something’s wrong, though he won’t be able to guess exactly what. Maybe. Maybe he will figure it out, and then he’ll never talk to Aventurine again.
It would be easier to cut ties himself; but even beyond the thought sickening him, there have been murmurs about the IPC making more serious inroads into acquiring Penacony, and Diamond will likely think it’s funny to assign the Land of the Dreams to their least real executive, and Ratio is so often deployed alongside him. It would be strange to insist otherwise.
A curious peace descends upon Aventurine, then. He has some ideas about what he could do. It might be appropriate, even, for it to happen here. One last trip with Ratio; maybe he could manage to hold it together that long. And then…
And then.
Yes, it’s a relieving thought. It makes him smile, even. He should’ve done it sooner, honestly, but he didn’t quite have the nerve. Now, though, it’s fully cemented in his mind that this is what he deserves. If he’s a horrible waste of a person even to the one person he cares about, there’s really not much point to him, is there?
Aventurine slips into the Dreampool, to return to the real world and all its requirements and opportunities. Time to wake from the dream. At least for now. The next time he comes here…
There was a person in that room, and now there isn’t.
There is a person in this room.
Soon, there won’t be one here either.