Chapter Text
Present | Terra Amoris, 43°58′41.24″N 15°23′1.14″E
As far as predicaments go, things could be much, much worse.
Aventurine is no stranger to a predicament, he thinks with a strange fondness. It’s a sad attempt at distracting himself from the soft tread of teeth along the slope of his neck, the warm lick of breath against the shell of his ear.
He eats predicaments for breakfast, in fact.
In any normal case, he'd lay down his best cards, get all his ducks in a strategic row, and the blessing of sheer luck would carry him through. But here, trapped in a windowless room padded out in sickly soft velour, atop a remote planet somewhere on the far edge of the general aerosphere, his cards don't seem to count for a whole lot.
The weight of a certain genius atop him is, however, quite a welcome one — a sentiment he'd put some thought into in passing, but never had the wherewithal to entertain. Those hands skirting down along the ebbs of his ribcage before, finally, settling upon the juts of his hips; the thigh pressed flush against his groin. It's quite the thrill, all things considered.
(He's not sure that said genius agrees, but Ratio is playing his role dutifully and with his whole chest, so they're safe, at the very least.
It's also quite likely he'll never look Aventurine in the face again, but that sounds like a problem for tomorrow.)
“Bet you - hah - wish you brought someone else along now, huh, doc?” He laughs, a little hysterically, because it's all he can do to dampen the heat. It earns him an admonishing scoff, a warning bite pressed warm to the sharp edge of his jaw.
“Quiet, gambler.”
“Hah- ah , why don't you make me, hm?”
It had started out as a joint commission. After Aventurine's performance in Penacony had come with shining personal praise from the otherwise elusive Veritas Ratio, it had been determined from there that the two of them do, in fact, complement one another's skills quite nicely. And for a man who relies wholly on blind luck to be told he’s compatible with truth personified; a serial risk-taker to be associated favourably with the harbinger of knowledge, this fact had boded nicely.
Besides, Aventurine does actually very much enjoy the doctor's company.
Thus came a slew of commissions following Aventurine's narrow escape from death. And Ratio hadn't exactly seemed opposed to the extra work either.
Funny. Aventurine reckons Ratio's probably kicking himself for it now.
(He's distantly – painfully – aware in the here and now that he'll never be able to un-know the way Ratio tastes. He'll have this dishevelled sight etched into his retinas for the rest of eternity. He'll bear the bite marks proudly, at least for the next few days until they, too, dissipate into a bittersweet memory.)
Aventurine takes a shaky breath, closes his eyes, and—
—
2 System Days Ago | ██ ██ ██, 1.5 Astronomical Units away from the Outer Asdana Star System
Awakening to the incessant rapping of chalk against a board, Aventurine stirs with a groan and a crick of his neck. It's been weeks since he'd been officially discharged from medical care after the whole shindig in Penacony; he's definitely feeling a whole lot better, but his back still twinges from time to time with the phantom memories of healed wounds. Ratio knows as such, and therefore doesn't outright throw chalk at his head, although Aventurine suspects that he comes very close.
“Ah, so he wakes. Need I remind you that we will enter their aerospace in less than a system hour,” Ratio goads, not for the first time. He's been practically counting down the minutes in half-hourly increments for the past several hours, pin-prick precise in his preparation. “You'd do well to sharpen up now.”
“Au contraire, doctor,” Aventurine smiles, a bleary little gleam, resting his chin atop his hands. Conversely, he's been brewing his strategy ever since the commission came in. But missions like this tend to require a decent amount of going with the flow, accounting for anomalies. “I'm not the one who just spent the past gods-know-how-long wasting valuable mental energy. My brain is refreshed and good to go.”
“Oh, is that so, gambler? If it is, I presume you've deduced a plan of action of your own? Perhaps you've fabricated a script for us to refer to?”
Ah, maybe he’s still not running on all cylinders. “... A script? Not quite. After all, we won't know exactly what to expect until we get there. But do feel free to take me through the endgame again. You must know I don’t tire of hearing it.”
Ratio's sigh drips with grave exasperation. Aventurine is intrinsically acquainted with what they're going there for; he gets the general gist of it. Yada, yada— universal disappearances with no rhyme nor reason. Yada, yada, the sudden and tumultuous appearance of life on a planet far too remote to qualify for economic benefits or status recognition.
Something, something about a rescue mission and an investment opportunity, rolled into one. If they can lay down the groundwork for trade, get this planet on the interstellar map, folk will likely want to visit by their own volition — everyone's a winner here.
Cue the IPC's enthusiastic intervention.
Yeah, he's more than up to speed with all of that. It's the nitty-gritty that escapes his understanding. An environment so far removed from the rest of the cosmos, it might as well be a displaced Stellaron disaster waiting to happen.
Judging by the cacophony of scrawls strewn out across the chalkboard — equations of probability converted to handy graphs, lists, and so on and so forth — Ratio has clearly been hard at work, trying to figure those smaller details out for himself.
“The end goal, if it wasn't already blatant enough, is to work out the links between the disappearances across the galaxy, and the sudden establishment and population growth of the Terra Amoris. And to get those who need to go home, home.” Ratio’s dry diffidence never fails to shake Aventurine to his core. What an insufferably wonderful man. “The IPC will henceforth launch a plan of action, investing its resources… strategically , so to speak.”
Ah, but Ratio is skirting around one major detail here. Arguably, the make-or-break portion of the whole mission. Marketed as the ‘land of love’ to those smitten enough to fall victim, the prerequisite for entry upon the Terra Amoris is about as baffling as it is laughable.
“—And somewhere along the way, we have to fake-date about it.” Aventurine adds wryly. There's no way to beat around the bush with this one. “An honourable role to play with you, if I may add. I was meaning to ask — does that mean I'm gonna get to hold your hand, doctor? Get a little cosy with you? I mean, we'll have to make pretty convincing lovers, right?”
That's the other thing Aventurine doesn't understand. Why the IPC would deem their working acquaintanceship convincing enough to elect the two of them for a mission of this nature to begin with. Penacony was one very big thing, and they did a pretty damn good job, the occasional breaking of character here and there aside. Is there any guarantee that the notoriously stone-faced Doctor Ratio will keep up with the act here? Can he truly maintain a façade like this ?
Surely some of the more starry-eyed career-nuts would have been better suited.
See, Aventurine can and will put on a hell of a performance, but even for him, this one is a little…much.
And secretly, he isn't sure he'd be able to bear it if the doctor was to never look at him the same way again, but that's neither here nor there.
Ratio pinches the bridge of his nose, propping himself back against his desk. It's empty of any of his usual pomp and certificates, lined only with corporate IPC insignias, Qlipoth following their every move. “We will do whatever it takes to sway their trust in our direction,” he explains, dutifully unflappable. “Within reason, of course.”
It really shouldn't , but it fills Aventurine with a sheepish rush of warmth. Now, he's far from prudish, but the idea of getting shit done hand in hand with the doctor is quite the perk. And if he gets even a sliver of a chance to see Ratio flustered? To have him stumble over his thoughts, lost for words? Truly, it would be quite the treat.
“ So romantic, doc. Really. Way to sweep a man off his feet.”
Equally as intractable, Ratio stares at him, nonchalant. “I shouldn't be the only one carrying the weight of this romance, gambler. Feel free to step in at any time, won't you?”
Aventurine laughs, an incredulous tinkle of a noise. “We’re not even there yet and already you find my unwavering adoration to be inadequate?” He clutches his chest in feigned dejection. “Woe, woe. I can change, doc. I can be a better man for you.”
Ratio rolls his eyes, but ultimately – privately – he's amused too, if the subtle quirk of his mouth is anything to go by.
Aventurine would proudly say he's been developing something of a knack for learning Ratio's endearing little idiosyncrasies.
“... Utterly inscrutable.”
Touchdown is relatively painless, sans a little turbulence mid-descent. There is the usual matter of customs and security checks, as well as preliminary IPC formalities. Jade and Topaz do well to establish a foundation of trust, greeting representatives aboard the IPC starship with their dual dynamic approach and syrupy words.
Numby certainly helps to sweeten the introduction some, too. A land without trotters is a rarity, indeed.
Meanwhile, Aventurine itches to get hands-on, floating about introducing himself enthusiastically. Ratio is pretty indignant either way, preferring to stand around and observe for the time being, filing away his impressions to be plucked out if and where needed.
But all in all, their performance begins from the get-go, so he sticks stiffly to Aventurine's side in wait.
Neither of them are quizzed at the border, nor are they scrutinised about their authenticity as a pair. As far as the official folk of Terra Amoris are concerned, the IPC have merely sent their very own, very real power couple as diplomatic representatives. A fitting duo in the land of love. So, hey, maybe they won't even need to prove a damn thing! Maybe they can just go in under the pretence of total trust, play their cards, solve the case, and leave.
He does not deign to address the flurry of disappointment at having nothing to prove. They're convincing enough already, apparently. That is a good thing.
It isn't until they step off the ship — out of the astral port, and into the hustle and bustle of new lands, that things begin to feel a little surreal.
Firstly, the Terra Amoris looks like a holiday resort for people who have never suffered a bad day in their lives – a big, bright city nestled in the centre of an island conveniently shaped like a heart; glistening blue waters as far as the eye can see lapping softly at golden sandy shores.
For a planet so far removed from literally anything of significance, they seem like they're doing pretty well for themselves. Everything is vivid and advanced; its people seem… more or less taken care of. Which begs the question – why were they so willing to play host to a pair of ‘IPC delegates’ in the first place? What ‘investments’ could they possibly need?
A cursory glance up at Ratio tells him that he’s not the only one thinking it.
Secondly, the regular folk of the island are…unusually jovial. Almost robotic in nature. Amongst them, Aventurine recognises Foxians, Pepeshi, a few Intellitrons, natives from the Xianzhou — none of whom would have easily found their way here without help. Aeons only knew that the coordinates had been a little tricky, even for the corporation's well-prized navigators.
Regardless, as they're led through by a planetary representative – and his exceptionally affectionate partner, both of whom seem too distracted to pay them much mind, they're greeted with warm hospitality from passers-by. The occasional, “Have a blessed time here upon the Terra Amoris!” ; the excitedly whispered, “What a handsome pair!” in passing.
Aventurine wants to laugh. He wants to — but he settles for gently knocking shoulders with Ratio, jostling him from time to time, lingering close with the sultry air of a wanting man. For the sake of keeping up appearances, and all. Ratio stubbornly doesn't recoil whatsoever, the professional that he is.
It isn't until they reach the hotel, an imposing rose-gold glass column towering dead-centre over the rest of the island, that they have to be slightly more tactful in lieu of the “ COUPLES ONLY: those found to be travelling alone will be strictly subject to penalties ” signs strewn about the place, eyesores amongst the cloying colour.
And it's the hotel where things turn stranger yet.
In the grand foyer, lined in plush and adorned with flowers and candles, Aventurine goes to coyly curl an arm around Ratio's waist — meanwhile, Ratio has seemingly opted to make a sheepish move for his hand. What transpires in actuality is the two of them clumsily bumping, holding on to one another's forearms. In retrospect, they must look utterly ridiculous. But under the saccharine guise that neither of them can bear to part, it seems to work well enough in their favour.
“Hello, gentlemen,” the glassy-eyed lady behind the rostrum counter chirps with an excessive air of elation. “Oh! You must be our esteemed guests from beyond the sky. Do tell me how often the two of you usually fornicate, and I will assign your room accordingly.”
Aventurine nearly chokes. He doesn't mean to, it's just— that was a little bit left-field, wasn't it? Years of casino games couldn't have even prepared him for that.
Ratio doesn't seem to be faring much better, smatterings of pink crawling up the sides of his cheeks. He'd been explicitly discouraged from bringing along his plaster head – something about maintaining a sense of authenticity, so his face strains with well-practised calm.
Quick to regain his composure, Aventurine, ever the sharp-shooter, shoots sharp in sheer impulse… much to the doctor’s dismay.
“Oh, it's a nightly occasion for us!—” Ratio's glare is burning a hole in the back of his head. Aventurine gives his arm a tentative little squeeze. “Ha ha ha. Mornings, too. We're insatiable. Aren't we, darling? — And can you blame me? Have you seen him? He has a fan-club, don’t you know?”
The woman’s smile does not even twitch, her studious gaze fixed and unfaltering.
“Wonderful!” She clasps her hands together. There's a disjointed kind of enthusiasm to her gestures that doesn’t translate adequately in her eyes. A certain hazy quality that Aventurine is sure hasn't gone unnoticed by the doctor. “Now, we do have some precursory questions for you. However, there is no need to be worried, so long as you are honest.”
Aventurine isn't worried, per se. This is where he shines. Rather, he's concerned about the doctor’s willingness to play along.
He pointedly does not use his brain at all when he hoists himself up onto his tiptoes to throw a blasé arm around Ratio's shoulder. And when a hand comes to lightly settle at the small of his back, he resolutely does not fixate on it at all.
“Of course, of course. Ask away.”
The questions pertain mostly to menial subjects — ‘How did you get together?’; ‘Who confessed their love first?’; ‘What is your partner's favourite colour?’ — each of which, Aventurine answers with surety and in greatly exaggerated detail.
He's good at this part, the fabrication. And Ratio is good at filing away the key points for later. It's their special brand of teamwork. Aventurine doesn’t dare stop to ponder whatever cliché story the doctor would have mustered up if Aventurine wasn't half the adept liar that he is.
Smart, stoic, straight-forward. Is there even a romantic bone in the man's body?
The desk attendant doesn't shift for a moment, still with that distant stare and that delightful little smile, until she finally decides that she deems Aventurine's elaborate stories plausible enough to hand over a single key card.
“Well, Doctor Ratio - and someday-to-be Mister Ratio,” she says, without a care in the world. “That all seems to check out. Do let us know if you need anything further, and I hope you have a heavenly time here on Terra Amoris.”
—
“Really? Soon-to-be Mister Ratio? How can she be sure that I'd be the one taking your name, huh?” Not that Aventurine really has a surname to give. The scary thing about displacement and time is that he's not a hundred percent certain he can remember his family name.
Did they even have one?
(Kakavasha Ratio seems as though it might roll off the tongue quite nicely.
He makes a firm note to never dare himself to think that thought again.)
“You really do enjoy the sound of your own voice, don't you?” Ratio comments, flitting about the room in search of clothes hangers, leaving Aventurine to slump onto the epicurean too-small bed of their shared room.
Even if they were ‘fornicating’ , would this even be adequate? Ratio is tall—a hefty slab of a man. And, sure, Aventurine had played up the part about how they simply can’t bear to sleep with more than an inch of distance between them. But what on earth did the desk attendant glean from his conversation to assign them this ?
“Oh? Many apologies, doctor, I didn't know you’d wanted to offer your own insights,” he replies, absentmindedly thumbing an update text to the Stoneheart group chat — a gently worded ‘fuck you’ to those who had dared to wager that Ratio would leave him high and dry within a day. “Perhaps you would have preferred for me to paint you in a different light?— Ah, maybe you wanted me to tell them that you're the little spoon after all? Would you like for me to pamper you, doc?—”
“Don't be ridiculous. I merely suspect that we should have given this further consideration – together – and much earlier. We can’t merely rely on your– your gaudy ideals to carry us through.”
Aventurine sits up, legs crossed. “Surely you're not getting stage fright now, hm? It would be a real shame for us to have our first couple’s squabble here on this 'land of love.' ”
Ratio sighs, hands lingering mid-air where he had been deftly hanging up clothes from Aventurine's valise. Now, that makes for a convincing sight. If Aventurine happens to brazenly stop to admire the view…well, that’s between him and the gods. “All I'm saying is that we should probably get those infinitesimal details straight soon before we mingle much further. And sorry to disappoint, but my favourite colour isn't blue.”
Aventurine smiles in spite of himself. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but it’s blue for the next few days. As long as you know that it's a little too late to back out on me now.”
“I will see this through. Now, take some time to recollect yourself, and please, since you missed breakfast – eat something. Our day has only just begun. There is still much to see.”
“Yes, yes, fine. I’ll grab an apple before we go. Doctor’s orders, right?”
The room is fittingly sickly. Adorned with plush velour pillows, baskets of muffins and fruits, and lined ceiling-to-floor in embossed velvet. Practically speaking, it's probably not super hygienic in the long-term, what with the nature of the place, and all that it entails. It seems clean though, with a mawkish scent of rosewater, and it does boast most of the usual bells and whistles.
There's a sizable sunken bathtub in the en-suite, of which Aventurine is sure Ratio is probably ecstatic about; a slew of complimentary fine wines, which Aventurine will most certainly take advantage of a little later.
There's a row of sterile plastic-coated drawers beside the bed that neither of them have dared to open yet, although he does have his suspicions.
“We should probably discuss this,” Ratio says a little later, after having spent time investigating the room for surveillance, insisting that Aventurine needn’t raise a finger. Seems like Aventurine isn't the only one still reeling from Penacony. “You've laid down several so-called facts already. If this is the story we're going with, then I suppose it isn't too far from the truth to be unbelievable, as much as it pains me to admit it.”
Aventurine mentally pats himself on the back and gives himself ten points on the doctor’s behalf for that one.
He'd described the blooming of their relationship as one in which they'd found solace in collective turmoil – of which they've certainly had their fair share; where they'd found themselves gravitating helplessly into one another's orbit. And okay, the part of the story where Ratio had kissed him stupid against a wall and declared his undying love in a grandiose gesture of sweeping romance is obviously a big fat lie. But they knew what they were coming into before they even got here. There's always room for a little embellishment.
“However—” Ratio continues, a tired muscle ticking rhythmically beneath his eye. “—We need to establish some firm boundaries. What we will and won't say, and what we will and won't do. From my observations, public displays of affection are… the norm, if not societally—perhaps even lawfully expected. If they so much as find a need to question our validity, we can consider this endeavour to be an immediate failure.”
“Oh, so now you're asking me if you can hold my hand? I'm honoured, doctor.”
“Get serious, gambler, lest I fabricate your very own widower's tale and leave you here.”
“Faking your death to break up with me? Low blow, doc. My heart will never recover.” Aventurine concedes when Ratio stops rising to his quips, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, fine . Sorry. Just know I’m probably more adept at not having boundaries at all. There isn’t a thing I wouldn't do if it means it gets the job done. So, why don't you tell me where you fold, and I'll duly note it?”
This earns him a sardonic huff of breath preceding a narrow-eyed stare. Aventurine forgets sometimes that his occasional escapades in the good name of business aren't exactly widely accepted. Just because Aventurine is pretty much numb to it, doesn't mean anybody else has to welcome his methods with open arms.
Ratio must find him more repulsive with each passing day, he thinks bitterly.
“If you think that makes me any more willing, you're sorely mistaken. I would rather part ways with you on good terms — and more pressingly, I would very much like to not ruffle any of your feathers, so to speak.”
“You're impossible,” Aventurine mumbles, and instead, pats the end of the bed. “Honestly, this conversation is much harder to have with you all the way over there.”
Ratio stares at him for a wordless minute before finally dropping his new role as the unflappable seeker of spare bedsheets. The edge of the mattress sinks beneath his weight, and from here, Aventurine can see the frenzied thought process in the jut of his jaw.
“Okay, there we go,” he continues, regarding Ratio as if he were a skittish trotter. “Listen, if you must know. My one thing?... I don't want to feel like you own me, pretend or not.” His fingers find the edge of his neck, idly tracing the ridged scarring of his brand. “I say it only because I feel like you'd actually make the effort to keep that in mind. We’re on equal footing, whatever we do. I'm fake-yours, and you're fake-mine, as equals. That's my only boundary.”
The atmosphere is tangible enough that Aventurine feels it change in the air. Perhaps he's laying himself far too bare here, but try as he might to avoid the doctor’s steely-eyed gaze in these rare raw moments, he’s always met with quiet understanding.
“I accept your conditions as a given,” Ratio says, carefully, gaze flickering downwards. “I, too, am willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. Whatever that comprises. Just— warn me, somehow, in due course if you plan to do something foolish or impulsive… As you are inevitably wont to do.”
“Oh? Like how?” He can't believe he's discussing the intricacies of this with Ratio. And for what? Kissing? Hand-holding? Exchanging eye contact that lasts longer than five seconds? It's all things he'd willingly give to the doctor on any planet. He's given it all and far more to lesser men on missions with far fewer stakes.
He won't lie, though. Not to himself. Not about this. Thinking about it shoots a zip of heat down his spine. Those first few impressions of Terra Amoris were a false alarm; the vetting process had been about as imposing as it was pleasantly titillating.
Now, he can indulge a little.
When Ratio pauses for a beat too long, a thoughtful little crinkle between his brows, Aventurine gives him a prompting nudge with his foot. “Hey, doctor? Want me to squeeze your hand three times? Stare at you longingly so you know something's coming?”
“Whatever you see fit in the moment,” Ratio says eventually, pointedly deadpan. “Provided you do remember.”
“Aha, like you said, if it's necessary,” Aventurine lifts himself to his knees, scooting an inch closer to delight in the suspicious glance it earns him. “Might as well mitigate any trauma so you can - ah - perform to the best of your ability, right? I’m going to need you at full bandwidth, after all. Unless, of course, you're realising now that this whole charade is beneath you.”
Ratio rolls his eyes with a scoff. “When am I not at full bandwidth? And I'm aware of what I agreed to, gambler. Forgive me for wanting to be prepared well in advance, especially considering you'd spent valuable collaborative time sleeping prior.”
“Aha, are you still thinking about that? You could have woken me, you know.”
Another of those scrutinising stares. “You're still in partial recovery.”
Right. He supposes he is. If Ratio has his way, Aventurine is sure he'd be in partial recovery for life, if it keeps the doctor in extracurricular work. After all, how many times has Ratio been there to stitch him back together again by now?
“Well, on the bright side for you, we might not even need to go so far. But you're aware of where I draw the line, and I know to give you a heads up. So why don't we get our first kiss out of the way now, hm? Tear off the proverbial band aid, as it were.”
It's meant as a partial joke — partial in the way that he can leave his foundational walls standing tall in the case of rejection, while allowing some modicum of preparation.
A feat that does not come.
Ratio straightens beside him, searching his face, the path of his gaze non-linear. “Very well.”
“I'll make it quick,” Aventurine promises, mostly to himself. Out of all of the sorry sadsacks he's ever had the misfortune of fumbling with, none have been half as elusive as Ratio. He supposes the doctor always had been one of his riskiest gambles, for reasons that transcend even Aventurine's own understandings.
Bringing his hand to cup the back of Ratio’s neck, he's surprised to be met with no resistance.
On the contrary, in fact. He's met halfway.
Aventurine is, self-proclaimed, an enthusiastic kisser. He's nothing if not keen, attentive, with an oral fixation to boot. But even here, it starts off a little clumsy, landing a little bit askew. On the second go, he tilts his head with a shaky little laugh, parts his lips, and — oh , he thinks, there we go .
Ratio's mouth is warm, soft, and surprisingly pliant — and then it's even more surprisingly open; not at all as stiff and reluctant as expected. A willing participant.
He's thorough, too, his hand moving to settle upon Aventurine's knee, lashes fluttering like dainty feathers against his cheek.
He tastes a little like the lingering last dregs of coffee from earlier, his tongue tentative and fleeting. Aventurine goes to make chase, just to see it linger a few moments too long – to scratch a strange carnal itch for connection under the guise of meagre practice. But as much as it contradicts his baser impulse for mindless risks, he pushes his luck no further.
But ‘quick’ , be damned, because when they do eventually part, it's with a well-needed gasp for breath, a few moments spent bumping noses. A little lightheaded, Aventurine finds Ratio staring back at him, lips parted and kissed pink.
A jolt of satisfaction wracks his bones at just how well-kissed the doctor appears.
This is problematic, Aventurine quickly realises – this unbecoming want for more. He never wants more; never lingers for long enough to savour the taste of it. Men are often selfish, insatiable beasts that only want to take from the ‘Avgin thrall’ – to steal a moment in the allure of his eyes and to see him squirm.
And yet, here he is, pathetically conjuring up all the scenarios in which he can steal another moment on Ratio's lips.
That said, he supposes he's not exactly in the business of kissing… direct acquaintances?… Friends? After this mission, those stone clad walls will erect between them once more, and Aventurine will be left cold and bereft once again.
Eh, it'll be tomorrow's problem.
“See?” He says, half laughing, half with the wind knocked out of him. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”
That seems to be the moment Ratio comes back to his senses. With one final squeeze of Aventurine's knee, a gesture that says something…something silent and yet so stark , he re-establishes their distance.
“I never said I'd deem it to be bad,” he murmurs, gaze averted, absentmindedly wetting his lips. “Once again, I knew well enough what this mission would entail, idiot. Or do you think me dense enough to allow that vital detail to escape me?”
Ah, so back to normal it is then. Good. That puts that particular concern at ease.
“Haha. Well, if it wasn't bad, there's more where that came from.” It's supposed to be in jest – mindless flirting – and yet it's spoken with the sincerity of an optimist. Sue him, it was nice, even if just for the moment. “So, how about it, hm? Shall we get this show on the road?”
Smoothing down the adornments of his outer robe as if shaking off a whit of dust, Ratio stands. “Get changed first, and then we'll take our leave. Our everyday garb isn't suitable for this occasion.”