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“Have you had enough to eat yet? You had better take advantage of my generosity while it is still available.”
“I don’t know.”, Aventurine slides a hand to his upper abdomen. It’s firm when he presses into it, but that’s the norm with his physique, after countless battles and years of training and meticulous upkeep.
“How can you not know? You moronic gambler.”, Ratio fixes his gaze onto the blond’s expression: utter confusion, thickly veiled by a curtain of faux arrogance. It’s obvious, even from the other side of the hotel room.
“Look, it’s not customary for me to— eat… food… ”, he suddenly realises how bizarre that may sound, to a sensible man akin to Ratio, but he crosses his arms and proceeds nonetheless, “I just drink whatever liquor is presented to me, and test my luck at whatever poker table I can find. Is that so hard to comprehend, Doctor?”
Ratio doesn’t respond with his decidedly precious words, sighing disappointedly in their place. The blond has witnessed many a frustrated man before, yet he becomes doubtful of the speech that spills through his lips at the current moment, especially when Ratio scrutinises his form, as if he were some incoherently babbling toddler.
Though there is a heavy cast of reluctance in his eyes, Ratio beckons for Aventurine to approach him, all the way from the other side of the hotel room, the clear boundaries that he’d set separating the space in half. He feels as if he needs to steel himself for the unadulterated idiocy that awaits in the interaction that he’d chosen to initiate.
“Bring that over, if you will.”
Aventurine stops where he’s standing, collecting the plate from the table on his side of the room, before resuming his advance towards Ratio. A commanding finger points to the space next to him, and Aventurine takes Ratio up on his offer, taking a seat beside him, before placing the plate on the table.
“Right. You’ve barely had half of what’s on this plate. Don’t tell me you’re one of those elites with ridiculously unattainable standards.”
“That’s not it.”, Aventurine scoffs, but the brunet sees through his haughty demeanor, to the quivering child beneath all of that bravado.
“Open your mouth, you immature lunatic.”, Ratio lifts a forkful of pasta to the blond’s mouth, each noodle neatly spun onto the utensil’s prongs, “I can’t believe you need to be fed like an infant. I hope you feel ashamed of yourself.”
Aventurine’s eyes avert to the side, and for once, Ratio feels a little pity for him. He quells the insignificant thoughts by shoving the bite into Aventurine’s mouth, watching those pale, chapped lips wrap around the fork, teeth clinking against metal as he pulls the strands off.
“By the way, I didn’t touch that bowl of… sauce. The other dish.”, Aventurine draws Ratio’s attention towards the table at the other side of the room— ‘Aventurine’s’ side of the room. Once again, Ratio isn’t quick enough to catch a glimpse of the blond chewing his food, just his Adam’s Apple bob as the pasta runs down his esophagus. There’s an opaque container on the coffee table at the other end of the room, and Ratio swiftly recalls its contents, without so much as a moment to think.
“You’d better finish that so-called ‘sauce’ as well.”, Ratio scowls, distaste clearly apparent in his complexion, "You're enough of a whiny imbecile as is, even when you’re not on an empty stomach.”
“I’m not one to whine about a little hunger,”, Aventurine’s unsettling eyes meet Ratio’s own, their uncanny, almost deranged nature enough to make anyone dizzy, “I learned that lesson long, long ago.”
Ratio remembers the details of Aventurine’s previous state of poverty. A lack of sustenance during his harrowing past had likely taught him to acquire such an instinctually impaired trait. He watches the blond chew: mandible moving twice before he swallows, not nearly enough to break down the morsels in his mouth. He notices Aventurine doesn’t have any trouble getting the food through his throat, though, probably a behavioural quirk he’d picked up while he was still young and impressionable, a result of when everything was in sparse supply during his childhood.
He waits a moment longer, just until he’s sure Aventurine has settled, before he lifts himself off of the couch. Though the blond’s eyes follow the other man’s figure, he doesn’t make any move to question him.
“This,” Ratio starts as he retrieves the untouched container from the other side of the room, returning to where Aventurine is situated, “is cream soup.”
“That’s soup? The only soup I’ve ever had is salty lukewarm water from some nearby— lake…”, Ratio only stares at him, face laden with either shock or disgust, Aventurine can’t tell, but his voice hitches regardless.
“Have you never… gone to one of your… fancy restaurants,”, Ratio hesitates to continue, mentally recounting the entirety of events that had lead him to such a predicament, ”and ordered a serving of decadent soup? You, of all people?”
“I’d thought those posh people were having… dipping sauces… out of bowls… I suppose.”
Aventurine gets a spoon shoved into his mouth before he can continue to speak. It’s embarrassing, how little the man knows about life outside of that dazzling, tantalising casino. But Ratio isn’t exactly opposed to educating him on a few matters; he’s just knocking another man off of his high horse.
The liquid… the soup, is wildly different from the dainty finger foods Aventurine’s used to. It’s warm, not frigid, and it doesn’t crunch, doesn’t scrape and wound his gums, doesn’t leave him thirsting for some alcoholic beverage to wash it down.
Before he’s able to comprehend the intricate mixture of flavors that dance on his tongue, they’re already dying, sliding down his throat, their fleeting flicker of life disappearing in an instant. He can’t keep anything around for long. It’s nostalgic.
“How do you feel?”, Ratio runs his fingers down Aventurine’s abdomen, now devoid of the wanton yet muted groaning of his innards, as if Aventurine had been intentionally endeavouring for his insides to stay silent, sewing their lips of reason together tight with a blunt needle and a lengthy thread of insincerity. Aventurine stifles a hiccup as Ratio kneads at his stomach, softly. He isn’t surrounded by the booze, the migraine-inducing clashing of chips, the raunchy women in skimpy silk dressest, that supposedly keep him grounded. He isn’t used to this, the comforting touch, the quiet atmosphere, the man sitting next to him.
“Hot,”, though it doesn’t exactly compel Aventurine to pry at his collar or loosen his choker, diverging from the normal heat that causes his head to spin and his vision to double, “Like I’ve had one too many drinks, maybe…”
“Wrong,”, Ratio flicks a finger to the blond’s forehead; a foolish punishment for a foolish man, “What you’re feeling now, is warmth.”
“You had better grow accustomed to this sensation. I’m sick of caring for a grown man who’s so flamboyantly pathetic that it’s almost humorous.”
He knows his gratitude won’t mean a thing to the Doctor, so Aventurine only nods, because there’s not much else to say.
Because Aventurine knows that they will soon split ways.