Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ratio loathes that even on his move, his eyes jump to the door when a certain flamboyant International Master enters the tournament hall. Three minutes past the start time, no less. The International Penacony Cup tournament allows running late up to fifteen minutes, but the way Aventurine walks in speaks volumes about his attitude towards the rule. He throws the hall door open with a sweeping movement and corrects his tie still standing in the entrance, a wide smile dancing across his handsome features.

He comes in late on purpose, to throw off the competition.

His opponent likely already thought they’ve got this round in a bag. Alas — showing up three minutes late to a game with a base of two and a half hours and an additional hour after forty moves doesn’t mean anything, but it grants a significant amount of mental advantage.

Aventurine saunters next to rows of chessboards and walks up the stairs leading to a platform serving as the hall’s stage. This is where the arbiters reside behind a table. Aventurine could’ve talked to them without climbing the stairs. He chose so to look down from the stage at the seven rows of joined tables, a chessboard and clock on each, and throw a challenging smirk at row A, where the boards stand the furthest away. The row where the best play. Where Ratio sits at the board marked with a piece of paper listing “1”.

An arbiter points the latecomer to the seventh row, G, and with a last, cocky smile, Aventurine descends.

Ratio moves a piece with a huff.

This is why tardiness shouldn’t be tolerated in tournaments. Aventurine’s opponent isn’t the only one who lost his cool.

Half an hour later, Aventurine moves to sign off the win at the arbiter table. It couldn’t have been a draw, otherwise the opponent playing white would be in charge of formalities.

How he won so fast is beside Ratio. Even though Aventurine was lucky enough to place in the exact middle of the tournament’s starting list which allowed him to score against the lowest rating player, even an 1800 Elo six-year-old shouldn’t fall this fast, and this opponent was neither 1800 nor a child.

Ratio decidedly wins his game against a player just one Elo point below Aventurine.

The next day Aventurine comes right on time. The arbiter gives the signal to start the clocks, and that’s when the door opens.

Ratio almost misses the handshake with his opponent. The 1st starting number in an open swiss tournament won’t be playing against anybody close to his level on the second round, so the person on the other side of the board isn’t a notable player, but they still deserve basic courtesy. Especially since they’re almost trembling before the highest ranked Grandmaster and the tournament favorite.

The opponent mutters a “sorry” when only their fingers brush against each other, as if it’s not Ratio’s fault for being distracted.

After the second round, Ratio visits the arbiters for the previous games’ data. Even without his coaching team, even with his regular preparations, checking your opponents’ most recently played games is always worth the hassle. This information will prove indispensable while he prepares for specific players day to day due to the nature of a swiss tournament.

He sits at the computer in a spacious, backstage room and sifts through the local ChessBase recordings. A game from day one catches his eye — it has less moves than any other in the data that’s not an opening draw. The one Aventurine won in half an hour.

In a tournament of this rank, a player playing black dared to move into a gambit and doubled down on it with an opening trap that chess clubs teach to children these days.

Nevertheless, the opponent folded like a score sheet held by a spasming geriatric. Ratio shakes his head in disbelief.

His line of thought disperses when a voice comes from behind him.

“My, if it isn’t the Veritas Ratio himself analyzing my humble game!”

Ratio turns around to see the blonde, cocky, distracting menace of a player staring him down.

“It’s hardly a game. Nonsense, at best.”

“Yeah?” He slithers closer, syllables falling from his tongue like precious seconds in a blitz. “I wonder what you think about my round two, then.” He leans over Ratio to change the game in the database. His hand leads Ratio’s through the clicks. His skin is soft, but his movements — sharp and decisive.

If Ratio goes along, he’ll end up providing his expertise to a lower ranking contender — it’s a smart challenge. However, an academic professor like him would never shy away from nor feel threatened by sharing knowledge with his juniors.

“Let’s go through it, then,” Ratio says.

Aventurine backs and examines his face for a few seconds. Ratio stays serious. Aventurine’s smile only widens.

“Chess’n’wine in my room?”

“We can analyze here. I don’t drink during tournaments,” Ratio answers.

“Come on, it’s the best part! We have a party in 304 tonight. I’d love to partner up in a bugsy,” Aventurine says and winks.

Ratio pretends he doesn’t see the flirting. At his age, he shouldn’t be taken hostage by some youngster’s smile.

“Bugsy?” he asks.

“Bughouse. Doubles. The one where you pass captured pieces to your partner. It’s super fun after a few drinks.” He laughs like he’s already had a couple.

Ratio can’t believe he’s about to repeat himself. Usually, he hates people ignoring his words, but he’ll make an exception for this IM with a laughter more melodious than ticking of a Garde chess clock. “I don’t drink during tournaments.”

Aventurine pouts.

“Bummer. I’ll take you on the review on another day then — it’s a party night!”

And he leaves just like that, taking Ratio’s words of promise to analyze that he never extended to another day.

Aventurine comes to the third game fourteen minutes late. He’s not wearing a suit this time, but rather — his pajamas. His room, like the rooms of most players, is hosted by the very same Reverie Hotel the tournament is held in, but regardless — a player showing up to a game in such an unsightly state makes Ratio scowl.

He moves a piece, clicks the clock and stands up. The opponent looks up at him incredulously. Veritas Ratio never leaves the board, not to get coffee, not to smoke, rarely even to go to the toilet.

He stands behind Aventurine and takes a glance at his board. Not even his highly ridiculous decision to play the Morra gambit can steal Ratio’s attention from his smell. He stinks. He’s tried to cover the stench of alcohol with perfume, but it’s only made it worse.

Aventurine answers the opponent’s moves as soon as they make it.

Ratio returns to his board, disappointed.

To his surprise, Aventurine still wins his game. Much faster than him, at that.

Ratio reports the outcome at the arbiters’ table and leaves the hall.

“Congrats!” Aventurine runs up to him in the corridor, now dressed like a human being. He must’ve taken a shower during the time it took Ratio to finish his game.

Not only that, but he’s also already aware of the result.

“You seem incredibly confident in my victory.”

“Let’s be honest, the game was over after b3.”

Ratio nods. Though a game is never over until the opponent resigns, that was indeed the crucial point. He nods again.

Aventurine’s innocent beam glues Ratio’s eyes to his face for longer than he’d like. The man is anything but innocent.

“Are you going to lunch? Can I come along?” he purrs and bats his lashes.

Aside from the audacity, Ratio doesn’t see a reason to decline.

He usually eats alone not out of choice, but because he’s been rightfully straightforward with FIDE in the past. The organisation, chess’ rulemakers, have been resting on one’s laurels for far too long, choosing to neglect pressing issues in favor of engaging in political games.

Most players fear his dissidence. In hindsight, calling the FIDE president an idiot might’ve been uncalled for, but at least they reviewed the rulings he requested. Of course, a group of players still possessing a semblance of intelligence took his side, but none of them play in the International Penacony Cup.

Ratio won’t gain any Elo from frolicking around with kids in an open, but the head of the Reverie personally invited him and provided a handsome compensation to promote the hotel’s tournament with a player in the top ten. Ratio might not be liked, but he’s prestigious.

He chooses his lunch from the buffet. Aventurine doesn’t take a plate but still tags along to the food. Like Alekhine’s cat — the man would bring a feline friend whether he was going to the opera or to play for the World Champion title. Ratio smirks at the comparison.

They find a table with four open seats. Ratio sits down, and Aventurine chooses the opposite chair. He entertains him with stories about last night’s bughouses. He complains about how his partner — a woman, Ratio notes — threw one of the games by trying to cheat a third queen on the board, claiming it came from a promotion.

“Aww, badmouthing me to Mr. Grandmaster over there!? Not fair!” a girl walking towards their table yells.

“Sparkle! My head hurts, please talk a bit quieter…” another girl, presumably also a friend of Aventurine’s, pleads in a soft voice. Ratio’s seen this one — she must be reasonably ranked, as opposed to the other.

They sit down, with the loud one taking the seat to the left of Ratio.

“Sparkle and Firefly, my friends," Aventurine introduces. "Sparkle is a Woman Candidate Master, and Firefly, a FIDE Master.”

Sparkle meets Ratio's questioning gaze with a wide smile. “Hey, handsome, did you know those two are your fans?”

Firefly hides her face in her hands. “I- I admire the gameplay, unlike him…” She points at Aventurine.

Ratio stops another fork of food from reaching his mouth. He turns to Firefly. She seems to be the only reasonable one among them. “What do you mean?”

Firefly mutters something incomprehensible. Sparkle giggles. She changes her tone into Aventurine’s cunning lilt, with a tint of drunkenness. She’s terrifyingly good at this. “Have you ever noticed how his brows furrow when he’s thinking about me? And his little smile when…“ she doesn’t get to finish.

“I never said that!”

“It was about Professor’s brows furrowing when he sees Aventurine late,“ Firefly backs him up. Ratio touches his brows. “They do furrow,” she asserts.

Aventurine agrees and laughs.

Ratio, Firefly and Sparkle eat lunch with a side of banter from Aventurine. Even when the girls finish, the group doesn’t move, basking in Ratio’s presence. Which is not only understandable with the innovations he brought to modern chess, but also gives him a chance to lead them towards a better path.

“You ought to treat the tournament more seriously. You’re here to play chess,” he says.

Sparkle perks up. “I’m not!”

It explains why Ratio has never seen her around.

“Why… are you here, if not to play?”

“Why, to party with my dear peacock over here!”

She turns to Aventurine with a wide smile. ‘Her dear peacock’, huh. Of course, the cavalier gambler would be popular among his peers. This might be his girlfriend. Aventurine sends him an apologetic smile. Definitely his girlfriend.

This is ridiculous. Ratio is wasting time on social games that aren’t chess — time he could be using for review. He stands up.

The trio leave alongside him. They follow him like a furious rook follows the opposing king. As much as he’d like to stay unaffected by some mischievous kids, he waves them goodbye when they go their separate ways.

They both win the fourth round without much trouble.

Ratio searches for one more name on the pairings’ table — Firefly’s doing spectacular as well, at four out of four points. In the next round, Ratio might get pitched against either of the two friends.

When he later checks the fifth round pairings, Firefly turns out to be the unlucky one.

She arrives at the table a reasonable five minutes early, armed with a bottle of water, gum and a weird pen. She notices Ratio staring at its wings and clicks a button to make them flutter. His expression must look positively astounded because she giggles nervously and changes the topic to offer him gum. He declines.

She plays solid chess. Not overly aggressive, not overly defensive, a well-balanced combination with strong fundamentals and a reactive edge. She’s playing to draw — not surprisingly, taken the difference between their Elos.

Something catches Ratio’s attention though. She’s a chewer. Gum after gum, the pack slowly disappears. When Aventurine stands behind her to watch the game, she shoos him away with a handwave.

With this in mind, Ratio decides to go for a calculated risk. If she notices why his move is suboptimal and changes her tempo to immediately take control of the exposed white squares on the kingside, she can easily force a draw or even go for more. If she doesn’t though, then she loses the chance and Ratio covers the weakness, while reaping the rewards.

She’s too low on time to notice the urgency after the game has been a slow grind for the last thirty moves. Her position crumbles. It still takes a lot of moves to finish her off, though — she only resigns when he develops a decisive pawn break in the endgame.

The game finishes with Ratio’s victory. People that were watching around them disperse and trickle out of the room. The arbiter asks them to confirm the result without hushing the voice and Ratio realizes they must’ve been the last board of the round.

“When I was looking for counter-play on the queenside, I did this, but I was thinking…” Firefly moves the pieces on the board into the position she’s talking about.

The arbiter leaves, telling them to bring the room key to the backstage room when they’re done with the post-game analysis.

“No, after that sequence, I do this, and then consider this square. I reposition the knight through here instead of a4, and…” Ratio indulges her and offers his insight.

Firefly takes notes. It’s nice to see her treat his favorite game seriously, unlike a certain other player…

The door crashes open. Neither Ratio nor Firefly have to turn to see who’s there, but both do — something about Aventurine catches eyes, be it his clothes, face or stride.

“Can’t believe you’d hog him!” he fake-cries.

“You’re not ruining my chance at getting Professor’s analysis,” Firefly snaps back.

Them fighting for his attention strokes Ratio’s ego in all the right ways. He coughs into a fist.

“If you join, you might learn something as well,” he says.

Aventurine chuckles and takes a seat next to Firefly at the second board, in the same row but a reasonable distance away from the first. “Go ahead then. I’m spectating.”

He’s referring to the game, but his eyes never leave Ratio.

They review for an hour, until Firefly gets a message. Apparently, Sparkle has locked herself out of the hotel and since she’s an unregistered guest sleeping on the floor in Firefly’s room, the receptionist denies her entry. Firefly promises to come back as soon as she deals with the trouble. She reluctantly leaves them alone.

Aventurine remains.

“How did you do today?” Ratio asks.

Aventurine turns away from Ratio and starts creating a piece tower. “I lost.”

Ratio raises his brows. “How?”

Aventurine doesn’t answer. He puts a king on top of two knights holding onto a rook. The center of mass tilts, and the tower falls onto the table. The pieces roll. A few of them fall to the ground and under the table. Ratio cringes thinking of even one ending up damaged.

Aventurine dives to grab the pieces and sets them back up.

“Your 47th move was a blunder,” he says.

Ah, so he noticed what Firefly couldn’t.

“Yes. It was my mistake.”

“No…” Aventurine’s double-colored eyes peer into Ratio. “You did it on purpose.”

Aventurine might be more formidable of an opponent than Ratio took him for.

Before he can defend himself, Sparkle runs into the room with maniacal laughter. She examines the duo sitting diagonally to each other and turns to Firefly with a pout.

“Hey, they’re not doing anything! You said they’re mating.” She changes her voice to Firefly’s to accentuate the last word. "You meant chess!?"

Aventurine facepalms. She acts embarrassing on purpose, and everybody suffers for her entertainment. Ratio’s hand flies to massage his sinuses.

“I… never said that...” Firefly pushes back weakly, but Sparkle ignores her.

She skips towards Ratio’s board and sits opposite him, next to Aventurine. “I’m not teaming up with people who don't understand the beauty of the triple queen. Go play with Mr. Top Ten.” She shoos him away like a kid waving their coach not to stand behind them during an intense endgame.

Instead of walking around the row of boards, Aventurine props himself on the table with one hand, and jumps over to Ratio’s side. His blond bangs flutter on top of his smiling eyes and that cheeky smirk. He does it to show off, and on Steinitz, does it show him off.

He kicks pieces off the board in the process, but Firefly arranges them back, black in white’s starting position.

Ratio realizes what’s going on. They want him to partake in bughouse.

He’s heard of the game before. How it makes properly calculating forward impossibly hard, how it makes kids move their pieces without thinking, dooming years of training, how it encourages throwing your chess knowledge away, despite being played on the very same set.

“I refuse to participate,” he says.

“Aww, are you scared? I'm not even 2k, you know?” Sparkle teases and, for no rational reason at all, Ratio’s ego tells him to tear that grin from her face.

He is the best player amongst them, and definitely better than a fool like Sparkle could ever become. Honestly — he’s better not only at chess. Aventurine shouldn’t go out with somebody driven purely by primal desires for exhilarating fun. It’s a waste of his potential, of the best years of his life.

“It is my duty to school the fools.”

Aventurine and Firefly squeal “wooow” like a pair of excited teenagers. Ratio’s glad he confirmed their ages on the player cards earlier — though Sparkle is an enigma, the other two are in their mid-twenties.

They join the boards and set up the clocks. The air reverberates with wood crashing with wood and clock clicks more befitting blitz than a classical tournament.

“I need a pawn!” Aventurine yells.

“I can’t exchange now.”

Aventurine glances at his board. “Just take b4 with a bishop! Fast!”

Though it’s against his every instinct to exchange a bishop for a pawn without gaining any additional advantages, Ratio fulfills the order without hesitation.

“Good. Now stall for me,” Aventurine continues in a condescending tone, like he’s commanding a beginner, not one of the world’s best players. If anybody else tried to order him, Ratio would be offended. This, however, no longer regards the subject of chess, a more primal instinct prompting him to listen to whatever the voice says.

He lets Aventurine lead, while he provides him with pieces and keeps himself safe against Sparkle’s onslaught. She makes a lot of blunders — he’s aware of her hand and the position, and she almost never makes the moves he’d deem optimal.

With the pattern recognition the same between the games, Ratio’s already learned key gameplay differences — he could easily climb the ladder of this game as well. If it existed, of course.

“Firefly’s sitting on a mate in one. If you have more time on the clock than her, we win,” Aventurine announces.

Ratio has been glancing at the other board’s position, but only now realizes the time difference between him and Firefly matters. She’s frozen — she must wait and see if her partner can bring a win in the amount of time left on her clock.

Sparkle has been moving instantly, and even though Aventurine matched her pace, Ratio’s replies have been slower than Firefly’s. Now that his board is the only one moving, the pressure to defend until Firefly has less time than him is entirely on his shoulders.

The amount of material waiting in their hands won’t change. Sparkle moves like a player with one second left to mate in a king+queen on king endgame. The only difference is that her moves make no sense, they’re chaotic and lack any rhyme or reason. She baits an illegal move more than she plays chess. Ratio takes piece after piece, pawn after pawn, and even though she still has initiative, he’s already up on material.

Finally, she runs out of options to check Ratio’s king. A rush of adrenaline surges through his veins when he counterattacks. He patiently waited for his moment, put up his defenses, but now that his time has come, he starts to understand Sparkle’s playstyle. He places a piece after piece, taking her king in check and then another — and another, just for good measure. His timer’s already above Firefly’s — he could stop playing altogether, but he keeps up the frenzied assault of pieces.

With both Sparkle’s initiative and Firefly’s time gone, they should resign. They don’t, though — whether it’s Sparkle caught up in the madness of pieces flying on their board, or Firefly, too mesmerized by it to even consider ending the game.

Ratio delivers the mate with a rook already present on the board — quite an ironic finish for his first bughouse game.

For a second, all four of them stare at Sparkle’s king, enclosed with black pieces.

“Booyah!” Aventurine breaks the silence and throws his hands into a high five.

From context clues such as a radiant smile and an excited tone, Ratio assumes ‘booyah’ must be a modern slang for ‘wonderful’.

On that, he agrees. He accepts the high five with a smile of his own.

The game isn’t like a mathematical puzzle that he considers chess to be — but it was exciting. Fun. Not in the way he usually indulges in, but fun, nonetheless. Especially the teamplay aspect.

He must admit, Aventurine played well. He’s not going to tell him this, lest it enlarges his already massive ego, but he’s impressed.

“You played well, as expected,” Aventurine says, as if he’s sitting inside of Ratio’s mind. At this point, it wouldn’t be preposterous to admit he is.

Ratio answers with a pleased “hm” sound.

Firefly takes her phone out of her pocket.

“Sorry to ruin your moment but… the buffet closed five minutes ago,” she says.

They scramble to clean up the hall. While Ratio closes the room and brings the key backstage, the trio run to the kitchen to beg for some scraps.

Eating with them on the curb right outside the hotel’s premises, he feels like he’s twenty-five again.

Except, he was breaking 2600 while getting his fifth doctorate at twenty-five, not partying or looking for company. Chess has been his mister, who thankfully allowed trysts with mathematics, philosophy, theology, physics, medicine, biology, engineering, and, most recently, computer science. Never people. Time is finite, and people excel at wasting it.

However, the definition of ‘wasting time’ is at question here. Ratio doesn’t have to pursue more degrees, and his lofty goal of ‘curing humanity of stupidity’ is nothing more than an overchiever’s excuse. No matter how much he does and if his name stands in gold letters under a statue of his likeness, it all won’t matter when he’s gone. While he’s here, it would be pleasant to have a partner appreciating his efforts by his side. He’s deflected his attention to this aspect of life for too long. It’s… a shame somebody he could pursue is already taken.

He glances at Aventurine. He’s munching on some bread, completely unaware of the turmoil he’s causing in Ratio’s head.

Their eyes meet and those ketchup-covered lips form a warm smile. Not evil nor even mischievous, without the calculation his smirk reeks of when he enters the hall. Ratio can’t have him smiling like this. It’s bad for his heart.

Chapter Text

Every action comes with consequences. Playing bughouse during a tournament was a stupid decision, and Ratio deservedly takes a fall in its wake.

Well, it’s not that dramatic. His opponent in the sixth round of the tournament is also a Grandmaster, one renowned for their defensive playstyle. He rarely loses games, but unless an opponent makes a deadly blunder, he doesn't win either. Ratio is just another draw of his, the third during the tournament. It’s not bughouse’s fault, but it can serve as a scapegoat until Ratio reviews his game and knows exactly what he could’ve improved. Which, to be fair, there isn’t much. The opponent built his castle and refused to crack open any doors. That’s it.

Aventurine is also playing in the first row, just a few boards away from Ratio’s domain. This might be the first time his game takes longer.

Ratio stands behind him to spectate. Aventurine doesn’t react, perhaps doesn’t even notice.

It’s his move. He’s nonchalantly leaning back in his chair, with right hand propping his head on the side, but from this perspective Ratio sees how he swings a leg crossed under the table, with the other, trembling hand gripped onto the material of the trousers. A newly acquired instinct tells Ratio to grab this hand to calm him down. Instead, he concentrates on the board.

Aventurine is a pawn down. The initiative granted by the Morra gambit at the beginning of the game has already dwindled. Such are gambits — especially if the opponent prepares, which the International Master facing Aventurine would be stupid not to do.

The only thing in his favor is time. He answers each move with his own faster than any sane player should, relying on his intuition over calculations. He chooses strange variants. Ones that Ratio would discard in the preliminary board analysis. It throws his opponent off, forcing them to find answers to problems with each move — there’s always something that makes Aventurine’s options suboptimal, but while Ratio can find it from the comfort of leaning against a wall behind the players, Aventurine’s opponent struggles under the time pressure.

The opponent squirms in their seat. One can’t leave the board on their own move, but Aventurine doesn’t allow them even a minute to run to the toilet. It’s a war of attrition. So far, though, Aventurine is losing. With the additional time, the opponent shouldn't run out, as long as they keep moving.

The lower the timer goes, the faster they exchange blows. They’re nearing the endgame, at which point all will be lost. Aventurine is two pawns down, if the position stabilizes, there’s not much left to hold onto.

He throws in a draw offer. An additional trigger of words adds to the mix. The opponent declines, but it only furthers the frenzy.

Aventurine moves a pawn from the kingside, not only doing nothing to improve his position, but also working to its detriment, with less pawn moves left on the side.

He’s fishing for something else though. A bishop that hasn’t moved since hiding in a fianchetto during the early game stares at the king on the very opposite side of the diagonal.

The opponent grabs a rook that they’ve been planning to move. Their expression changes not even half a second later as they realize what they’ve done. With the discovery check in action, the only legal move would be to use the touched rook to block the bishop from attacking the king.

It’s chess’ most basic rule — a touched piece must move.

The opponent throws the rook on the board, knocks the chair over when rushing to stand up and runs out of the hall.

Aventurine wins, but at what cost. This isn’t a game that you show off to your students with pride, it’s a game that nobody celebrates. You didn’t play well; your opponent made the last mistake. It leaves you numb, with a single point of consolation; a win is a win.

Aventurine only notices Ratio when leaving the board to report the result. A strained smile graces his features. His pupils are dilated and the uncanny colored irises are barely visible. He flexes his neck to the left and right to release some pressure. It is with pleasure that Ratio notes he suffers from an aftermath of a surge of adrenaline as any other player, no matter how much he tries to hide the stress.

“Another win today?” Aventurine asks when they leave the hall and start walking towards the buffet.

“A draw.”

Aventurine bites onto the insides of his cheeks. Cute.

“So you’re at 5.5. If I win tomorrow, I take it home,” he says and sends a challenging smile Ratio’s way.

Aventurine might have won five out of six games and luckily avoided facing him until now, but with no other opponents left for Ratio, they have to face each other in the final round. The challenge would be endearing, except, there’s no way Ratio would ever lose to Aventurine in a game of chess. He snorts.

“You can certainly try.”

They head to lunch. Firefly is still playing, so Aventurine relays her last position he's seen and they comment on the game between bites of food. An unspoken tension underlies those comments — now that they’re going to face each other tomorrow, anything can be a crucial piece of information.

Done with food, Aventurine slams his fork on the table.

“I have an idea. How about a truce? We don’t prep for tomorrow.”

“It’s a chess tournament, Aventurine.” Ratio tastes the name on his tongue. Sweet, with a tint of bitterness. “What’s the alternative? Before you suggest — I’m not playing bughouse.”

“How about I take you on that promise to analyze?” He slides closer and puts his hand over Ratio’s. “You, me, some chess…” he murmurs as his finger rolls circles on the back of the hand.

Ratio’s hand got captured like the knight on f3 in Anderssen-Dufresne from 1892, and so got his heart. No amount of before-game analysis would’ve prepared Ratio for Aventurine. He swallows to keep his composure.

“Will… your girlfriend be fine with this?”

Aventurine raises his eyes from the hand to peer into his eyes. “My girlfriend? You thought one of them is my girlfriend?”

Only this man can make Veritas Ratio feel stupid. “You’re a very attractive man. I don’t find my assumption overly naive.”

“Why, thank you!” Aventurine laughs. “I’ll let you into a secret,” he whispers and beckons Ratio to lean in. His breath reaches Ratio’s ear. “I’m tragically gay.”

Ratio’s breath hitches.

Like on an invisible leash, he lets himself be led through corridors of the hotel.

Aventurine opens the door to his room and before he can close it, Ratio finds his lips with his. He captures the smaller body; he wants more of him, all for himself, to put Aventurine next to his long list of accolades. His hands grab onto his face, hair, waist, exploring the warmth on his fingertips.

Aventurine breaks the kiss and giggles. “Pause! Pause.” He puts his index finger on the tip of Ratio’s nose. “You’re so eager. Let’s close the door first, hm?”

Of course he’s eager. This man has been driving him crazy since the very first day he saw him, with that confident stride and cunning smirk. Ratio takes on a mission to wipe it from existence. Only one ego the size of a room can fit into this room — and that’s his.

Aventurine kicks the door shut. “Go ahead.” He hangs onto Ratio’s neck and jumps to knot the legs onto his hips. Not only is he tiny, but he also barely weighs anything. He hides his face into the crook of the neck. His hot breath tickles Ratio’s skin.

Ratio carries him through the entrance, to the double bed, standing in the center of the hotel room, way too big for such a small form. He climbs in between Aventurine’s legs, towering over him. A shudder of excitement runs through him as he finds the hem of Aventurine’s shirt and tugs it up.

Aventurine grabs onto his hair. Ratio’s eyes are too fascinated by blush spreading on the man lying below him to notice anything wrong — his fingers do, first. They arrive at a scratch on Aventurine’s chest, and muscles underneath it tense. Ratio trails up from another angle but arrives at another scratch, and another. They connect in a checkered pattern.

Ratio tentatively looks down. Aventurine puts an arm over his expression. The hand he has in Ratio’s hair holds onto it so firmly it starts to tremble.

His skin bulges in a web of scars. Some of them pale, etched into his flesh, carving a grotesque shape; some red or even brown along the white streaks protruding from the skin. All of them are old, but the damage must’ve been inflicted repeatedly.

For the first few seconds, Ratio has no idea what he’s supposed to feel. Anger, disappointment, pity, they all flow through him, but he settles on disbelief. That somebody did this to him; but also in himself. How could he not realize? There’s always something more to people who behave like Aventurine. Coming late, taking risks, begging for attention, acting as if they own the world while they desperately grip the material of their pants under the gaming table.

Ratio takes his hands away from him. When he moves, Aventurine lets go of his hair and uncovers his face, looking at him with an unreadable expression. Is he physically hurt, scared, smug at showing Ratio his preconceptions have been wrong or maybe aroused, throwing a glove by those empty eyes? Ratio can’t read his mind.

“Do you… want this?” he asks.

Aventurine averts his gaze. “Am I… going to see you after the tournament? If we don’t?” he mutters.

“Do you want to see me?”

“Yeah,” Aventurine whispers. “I’d like to.”

Ratio could try. To find some time in his schedule, to get into regular contact, to organize a date.

He brings Aventurine’s hand to his lips and places a gentle kiss on its back. “We can cuddle.”

Aventurine nods.

He excuses himself for a minute to put on his pajamas — the same ones he wore on the third day, but clean. Also, fresh perfume, a bit too strong for Ratio’s liking, but they can talk about it on another day. Now, he opens his arms and Aventurine all but jumps into the grasp. He pushes Ratio down onto the bed and slots himself on his side. His body emanates pleasant heat.

“Tell me about yourself,” Aventurine says. “Do you…” His voice falls into a strained whisper. “…have a wife and kids waiting for you back there?”

Ratio tells him. How there’s never been anybody for him but the purest form of love — the love for the unknown. How chess is his treat among the sea of knowledge which he treads with passion, albeit a bit burned out lately. How some of his students are Aventurine’s age; how he wishes he, also, was Aventurine’s age again.

“I like you how you are.”

“If you say so.”

Instead of saying so, Aventurine turns his head and places a gentle kiss on his lips. And then another, until they lose themselves in the heat.

Ratio doesn’t want to let go of him, of this warmth that might turn out to have been a lie all along, like so many things about Aventurine are. It’s confusing in a way that research can’t solve.

Relationships with people weren’t meant for him. Who is he to cheat on mathematics, the capricious mistress, or philosophy, the wise gentleman, or medicine, the first and last breath of life. He loves them all, after all.

But he doesn’t desire any of them.

He brushes a stray lock of Aventurine’s bangs from his face. A small smile graces Aventurine’s lips.

“Do you still want to analyze?”

Of course, the offer from the arbiter backroom. Now it’s music to his ears. Ratio nuzzles into his hair, the part that reaches the neck.

“Naturally.”

Soft evening light paints the room in shades of grey and blue. Aventurine’s body fits into Ratio like two pawn chains blocking one another from moving.

“1. e4 c5…” Aventurine starts but Ratio stops him.

“You start e4 awfully often.”

It produces open, straightforward gameplay. D4 would fit him more, with its complicated intricacies. Perhaps ironically, Ratio’s own favorite start.

“The person who taught me chess… she used to play it.”

“Who was it?”

“My sister,” Aventurine says, softly. “She wasn’t… good at it.”

“But she liked it?”

With a small tremble in his voice, “Yeah,” he answers.

“I’m sure she’s proud of you.”

Aventurine doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes and wiggles his back closer to Ratio.

The hotel clock on a bedstand hits 7PM. This time tomorrow, they’ll be going back home from the tournament.

“Oh, she’ll definitely be proud when I make you lose thirty Elo!” Aventurine says suddenly, now back to that usual tone.

Ratio smiles into hair covering the neck. "We'll see." He places a small kiss and delights in how Aventurine shivers. It's a pleasure to uncover a sensitive area.

"Wanna bet? If I win," Aventurine stops and turns his head around, so their lips almost meet, "...you'll take me out on a date."

Ratio hums. Hardly a loss, although it's not the scenario that will happen. "And if I win?"

Aventurine's eyes run to the side as he thinks. "You can ask whatever. I'll grant you one wish."

Perfect. Ratio already has a lot of ideas. "I agree," he whispers back.

Aventurine closes the distance and their lips meet, gently, softly, barely a touch, teasing Ratio, challenging him. This time, he lets Aventurine lead. He slowly explores the skin on both sides of the lips before languidly turning his attention to them, catching the lower lip and sucking. Their eyes stay locked, two sets of pawns of different colors about to go to friendly war.

Aventurine bites the lip and all but jumps on top of Ratio. The kiss deepens as he licks into it, his blonde locks falling down, tickling the face. Ratio follows the lead and closes his eyes, giving up to the desire.

This man will be the end of him, but what a pleasant end that will be.

Five minutes before the game, the door flies open. Normally, Ratio doesn't pay attention to every player entering the hall, but the way this player throws it open, like the room behind is his personal space, makes him turn towards it. Who else could it have been, but a certain International Master?

Firefly joins him as he passes her table, a few desks away from Ratio. She fakes a swoon.

"You're... early..."

"Wouldn't want to keep the Professor waiting," Aventurine answers with a smile. That smirk. Cheeky, handsome. Lovely.

"You wouldn't, correct," Ratio says and offers his hand to shake.

He doesn't process why Aventurine turns it ninety degrees, backside up, until he places a kiss on it. His lips only brush the skin, but his breath leaves a burning spot, sending the nerves into overdrive. He locks eyes with him and smirks. Ratio feels the smile on the back of the hand.

Ratio's brain stops. He barely registers a click and a flash of the tournament photographer's camera.

Firefly’s eyes widen like her opponent just blundered a queen. "Aventurine!" She leaves her mouth open for another two seconds, as if trying to say something, but no sound comes out.

Aventurine lets go of the hand and sits down opposite Ratio. He turns towards Firefly and laughs. "What? Haven't you heard about the kiss of death?"

Shaking her head, "You're so stupid," Firefly says, and joins him in laughter.

Ratio’s own lips threaten to rise upwards despite the inappropriate moment right before the game. He concentrates on the board to disassociate with the madness, readying himself to unleash the prepared opening.

The arbiter stands up to announce the start. Firefly waves to them and leaves to her own table.

Then, the game begins.

Ratio, playing white, takes the king's pawn and moves it two ranks, to e4. The final game deserves a change from the d4 routine. As expected, Aventurine goes for 1...c5, the Sicilian.

The immediate answer has him shaking his head in disbelief.

2. d4

"Morra? Really?" Aventurine mouths.

A smirk creeps onto Ratio’s lips. It's one thing to win a game — winning a game playing your opponent's crown opening serves humiliation on another level.

Normally, Ratio wouldn't go for such ego-driven tricks. However, Aventurine, as smart as he might be, is not a player of his caliber. A cunning and talented player, for sure, but one prone to blunders in least expected places. Ratio could probably open with g4 and still come back with a win. Not that he would. He's trying to humiliate the opponent, not disrespect him. Morra is fair game.

Aventurine takes the gambit, as Ratio expected. Maybe next time he should prepare 4. Nf3 and see if Aventurine takes on b2, too. This time though, he takes back on c3.

The black establish the basic line of defense with all three pawns on a, d and e6, but Ratio knows better than to count on Aventurine passively trying to live through the white's assault. Sure enough, he counters Ratio's attack on the king's side by taking control of the c4. He breezes through the position with the grace of a player who's played it ten thousand times.

The only difference being that he's not playing white. Ratio navigates the opening more methodically, taking his time to set up and choke the opponent, using the smallest chances to further assess himself in the center. Finally, Aventurine gives back the pawn that Ratio sacrificed in the opening. Everything looks good.

Everything, except for one thing. Aventurine is a demon of speed. He moves like a thirteen-year-old who discovered free coffee sachets on the beverage table. This, combined with Ratio's unfamiliarity with the opening, causes him to feel the pressure of time earlier than he'd like. He's down to seconds on the time control, and the additional hour doesn't lift it.

Though he has all the initiative on the board, Aventurine has the initiative outside of it, casually leaving the board to look at Firefly's game and coming back to play a move without even sitting down. When he sprawls himself back on the chair, his eyes never leave Ratio's face. He stares with a confident smile unfit for the position.

The game, nearing the endgame, has already crossed the line of no return in Ratio's favor. He noticed a peculiarity in Aventurine's gameplay and used it to his advantage — Aventurine ignores critical positions. Most players spend 60-80% of their time on about five decisions, like key piece exchanges, deciding pawn chains or breaking them, opening or closing up the center of the board among others; the crux lies in them influencing the game in irreparable ways. Fumbling a critical position can lose a game, and conversely — choosing the best line in one can secure a victory.

While critical positions can be logically determined, most players learn through years of experience to 'sense' the immense pressure that they bring before consciously realizing that they found themselves in one. Most players — but not Aventurine. Aventurine only sits down to think when the position crumbles after one imprecise decision during a key point.

When he finally graces the board with his thoughts, sitting down after an escapade to confirm Firefly’s win, the table starts to shake. Not temporarily, either. His nervous leg must've connected with the leg of the table, causing everything to tremble. Aventurine doesn't seem to notice. His head in hands, he concentrates on finding a drawing plan for the endgame.

Ratio clears his throat. This attempt to gather Aventurine's attention fails. To be fair, Ratio never breaks the rule of no communication during a game, so Aventurine probably thinks he's literally clearing his throat. Of course, the by-the-book response would be to call the arbiter and communicate through them, but Aventurine would deem him eternally un-booyah if he does that. To his own surprise, he cares about that.

He does something he's never done before. He nudges the opponent under the table.

Three things happen at the same time: Aventurine freezes, the table stops shaking and two confused eyes fly to meet Ratio's. Then, Aventurine smirks like a young player who's about to go into a favorite opening trap despite promising the coach they wouldn't. A devil.

He drops a shoe and maneuvers his foot underneath Ratio's leg cuff. All of this, still on his move.

This is not what Ratio meant. He only wanted the table to stop shaking, for Tal's sake!

He signals 'stop' with one hand and then grabs the table, keeping it in place. For a second, Aventurine stares blankly. His foot slides down Ratio's and returns to the shoe. Aventurine hides his forehead in hands, going back to thinking. The leg twitches again, but this time he's not shaking the table alongside it. Crisis averted.

With spirits renewed in the most inappropriate of ways, Aventurine decides on which endgame to pursue. He sacrifices his remaining bishop and knight for all of Ratio's pawns. It leaves Ratio with but two pieces outside of the king — the two knights.

With a single pawn below the Troitsky's line still in Aventurine's arsenal, the endgame is a theoretical win. Aventurine knows this. On this basis, Ratio overlooked the option as viable. Thinking about it now, it should've been obvious Aventurine would go for the gamble.

The two knights on a pawn endgame, although a theoretical win, rarely happens in competitive games, and even more rarely does it end in the player with two knights bringing the win home. The fifty move rule prevents the game from going as long as the player wants, and the position's nature as an endgame means that the execution often falls under time pressure. Players don't encounter it often, and even those committed to regularly reviewing Nalimov's endgame tables might fail under stress. Many have fumbled, even among the best.

This, however, goes both ways. If the defending player doesn't recognize which corners could build up to a mate, they might help the opponent by backing in the wrong direction. Ratio suspects Aventurine isn't well familiar with this theory.

Sure enough, Aventurine plays like he's never seen this position before. He doesn't think — he throws his move on the board as soon as Ratio makes his well calculated and optimal reply.

One problem presents itself faster than Ratio would like — the time. It's simply not enough. With Aventurine changing his mind on the line of defense every other move, the optimal play requires constant adjustments. Since Aventurine technically has winning material with the single black pawn present on the board, if Ratio's flag falls, the game doesn't end in a draw, but in Aventurine's win.

Ratio wets his lips. The constant ticking of the clock now echoes in an almost empty hall. He doesn't have to look around to know they're the last game left. An audience gathers around them, whispering questions or move suggestions among one another.

With around a minute left, Ratio doesn't have to write the moves down anymore, but the arbiter brings a set of new score sheets for the both of them. Having to manage the sheet doesn't make Aventurine play any slower — he writes with his left hand and moves with the right, the one closer to the clock. The intensity of his clicks threatens that the horizontally risen flag might fall prematurely from the abuse.

Around ten moves left. Ratio can do this. He would do this with a second left.

He catches Aventurine's king in a corner. Now everything left is to move the other knight from blocking the pawn. This will allow Aventurine to move until the knight brings the final blow.

Three more moves. Everything's in position. Ratio reaches for the knight, ready to claim the victory.

Aventurine kicks him under the table.

Ratio hisses in sudden pain. It spreads in his shin and for a split second, he hesitates, but he doesn't have time to hesitate, he can't lose concentration, he can't forfeit now, so he grabs the knight… and he stops mid-move.

The wrong knight.

The piece in his hand is not the one that he had to move to mate. A surprised whisper rises in the audience as they mourn chess’ most basic rule — a touched piece must move.

With the knight still in hand, hovering above the board, he watches the flag fall. No. This can't be right. He couldn't have... lost like this. It happened too fast. One second he was a move away from winning, and another he threw it all away. Or rather, his opponent made him throw it.

Aventurine covers the board with his arms.

"Draw! I offer a draw," he blurts, the words faking desperation, as if he didn't just employ the most underhanded technique to secure the victory.

Ratio drops the knight. He doesn't say anything, nor offer a handshake to end the game. If he did, he would've ended up slapping him instead.

He stands up and leaves the hall.

"No! Wait!" Aventurine cries behind him, but the arbiter stops him to sign off the game.

Not turning around, Ratio storms out of the hotel and keeps pushing forward, wherever the road leads him. Around the hotel spreads a forest, with lights looming over the green foliage and small bushes, similar in shape to a notation sheet crumpled into a ball after a loss. He doesn't take a second to appreciate the view, pacing further away.

Losing hurts. It always has, from the first time he's touched a pawn. Throughout years of practice, he's learned to deal with the bitter feeling of disappointment, but with failure always comes pain. It's unpleasant, but healthy. It means he cares. He can handle losing.

He can't handle the disillusion. How could he have been so stupid? Him, the so-called paragon of erudition, a bright star on the filaments of both academics and chess, fooled by some whipster. He should've known better than to involve himself with people the age of his students.

No, he should've known better than to involve himself with Aventurine. From the first time he saw him, he knew the name spelled trouble, and yet he couldn't take his eyes off of him. Those mesmerizing eyes, styled blond hair and slender figure; the voice singing with every vowel, his clear laughter.

He used the attractiveness to wrap Ratio around his finger. To confuse and throw him off his best game, and mercilessly deal the final blow when he least expected it. So beautiful, yet so cruel.

Even now, Ratio could go back to the hotel and report the transgression, but he doesn't, be it from affection overstaying its welcome or the humiliation of being used in such a way.

Instead, he walks further into the forest and where nobody can hear him — he screams.

Chapter Text

If Ratio were fifteen years younger, he wouldn't have shown up for the ending ceremony. Alas, his sponsor could consider this a breach of contract, and rightfully so. Ratio has long shed the rashness allowing one’s private life to influence obligations. He won't cause a scene.

The ceremony is held in the tournament hall. Players trickle in, taking seats at the tables, now cleared of chess sets and clocks. Choosing to sit in one of the rows closest to the stage, Ratio doesn't look for Aventurine in the audience.

Everything runs as expected.

"...and for the second place, Mr. Veritas Ratio. Another stellar performance."

Ratio raises to the stage, shakes the hands of every official and, trophy in hand, stands next to the third place. He tries his best to relax his jaw in front of the camera. From the vantage point he can see the entire audience, but he concentrates on the lens.

The host calls out Aventurine's name. The thunderous applause rains upon Ratio's ears, a disgusting reminder. To his surprise, it's not Aventurine that walks up to the host, but Firefly. She explains the situation. Ratio can't hear the conversation from the center of the stage.

Often, when a player doesn't show up for the ending ceremony, a coach or a club member would accept the trophy instead, but they're not allowed to sign for the prize money. Besides, most players like basking in their victory, to the point of missing their trains back home if they win a place on the podium. Aventurine seems like the type. His absence is peculiar.

The host leads Firefly to take Aventurine's place on the stage. They love having an attractive girl in an ending ceremony photo, even as a placeholder. Most wouldn’t agree. Surprisingly, she does.

Carrying the tacky first-place trophy, she takes the center of the stage. Her head turns towards Ratio.

"Can we talk later?" she whispers.

He ignores the question. Perhaps thinking he didn't hear her, she tries once again, this time louder:

"I need to talk to you."

"Leave it," he answers, ending the conversation.

She pouts but doesn't say anything else. They go through the typical motions, photos, congratulations, small talk. Since Firefly can't sign Aventurine's prize money, Ratio goes to the backroom first.

The arbiter welcomes and prompts him towards a document sitting next to the keyboard on the computer table. The very same he and Aventurine used on the second day. Ratio shakes off the thought, taking a seat.

The document consists of ten rows of names, one for each prized player, with a slot to put in a signature. They start with the victor at the top and end with additional prizes at the bottom of the page.

Aventurine's rubric is filled in. Ratio considers asking when, but the thought agitates him, so he abandons the idea. He leaves his surname on the document.

The arbiter confirms the signature and hands him two envelopes.

"Here is yours, and here's Mr. Aventurine's prize. One more time — congratulations!" he says with a friendly smile.

"I'm sorry?"

The arbiter's brows furrow.

"Were you not informed? Mr. Aventurine personally requested you receive the money."

"I wasn't, indeed."

"Well then, you're in luck." He places the envelopes on the table. "Please, ask the next person in on your way out."

Ratio does deserve the prize for being unfairly stripped of the winner’s title, but why would Aventurine leave it to him? Damage control? Was he only interested in the prestige and rating gains?

Without a clear answer, Ratio takes the envelopes and leaves.

Ratio knows better than to catch the elevator. He'd have to rot in a queue only to realize that since everybody's leaving the hotel, they go up and down with baggage, successfully rendering a six-person elevator to fit four people. Besides, walking upstairs to the eight floor counts as a workout.

The staircase, covered with the same red-and-brown flowery carpet that all three-star hotels use, allows two people to comfortably pass one another. Each landing leads to two sets of windows, sending in afternoon light.

When he passes a floor, he hears a giggle and steps rushing away. Likely a kid, who saw him and decided they could run up the opposing flight of stairs faster. Competitive as he might be, Ratio doesn't take the challenge. At this point, he just wants to take a shower, pack and leave. The two envelopes weigh in his pocket.

He passes another landing when he hears something that makes him slow down.

"Sparkle! Listen!" Aventurine's voice dramatically wails from the corridor below. Ratio can't see him, but each word he says sounds clear in his ears. "I was nervous and my legs were shaking, I don't know what happened... I would've never done this on purpose! I know he won't believe me, but at least I wish I could say sorry..."

Aventurine clears his throat.

"Come on, let's go," Firefly's voice says.

Steps echo in the corridor, the person walking further down, until a door opens and closes. They're gone.

Something was wrong with the conversation. It sounded way too much like a theatrical performance, a rehearsed sequence.

Ratio resumes his roam. He moves a few stairs up. Then, he goes back to his previous position at the landing, like a pawn unable to decide which forked piece to take.

Aventurine did tremble during the game. Maybe when he was yelling at Ratio to wait he wasn't trying to have his cake and eat it too, he was genuinely distraught.

Ratio takes a step down.

He never gave Aventurine a chance to explain himself. No matter his feelings, he shouldn’t assume a conclusion without gathering all the evidence.

He takes another step down. Then another, until he's walking down the corridor where the voice disappeared behind a door. The third floor, says a sign. What was the room where Aventurine played bughouses on the second night?

Ratio stands before 304. Now that he's there, his conviction wanes — if he goes inside, he'll have to deal with discerning truth from lies, with all the social nuances and intricacies he's never cared about. On the other hand, he can leave the prize money under the door, return to his room, pack up and leave. Go back to the routine. Allow himself to forget.

He's known Aventurine for a week. As much as this relationship could be the finishing move on the endgame study of his life, rationally it's nothing more but infatuation. Regardless of the overheard conversation, he should remove himself. He should go.

He crouches to slide in the envelope, but before he can start walking back to his room, the door opens. Sparkle beams at him from the threshold.

She raises her voice like an announcer declaring a winner. "If it isn't! The one and only! Veritas Ratio!" She applauds.

Ratio hides his face in his hand. Sparkle must be the most headache-inducing person he's ever met, and that includes the president of FIDE.

"Professor? Professor!" Firefly's voice comes from inside of the room, followed by rapid steps. She peeks out, her smile growing when she notices Ratio. Now, he doesn’t have a choice.

"I came to talk with Aventurine."

"His train is leaving right about now."

"I heard him talking to you."

"That's impossible," Firefly says, exchanging a look with Sparkle, who shrugs. "He left to look for you, but didn't know which way to go, so he came back, said he wanted to be alone, packed and left for the train. He's not here."

He left. Whether he truly talked in the corridor or not, he's already on his way home. That's it, then. The short lived Aventurine saga ends here. Ratio tried to reach out, but talis vita est.

"I see. I apologize for bothering you."

With a final wave of his hand, he turns around and starts walking towards the stairs.

"Wait," Firefly says, runs up to him and grabs his arm. "The trains are always late and I have a car."

The chances of the train being on time are as tiny as the town. She is right. Those things are always late, even on the best of days, and the smaller the station, the lazier it arrives. Ratio’s pace slows down. That's enough for Firefly to dash in front of him, blocking the path. Her stance burns with conviction.

"Let's go on a drive. You don't have to go after him if you don't want to, but at least let me state his case."

Ratio doesn't have anything to lose but time and his train doesn’t arrive till next hour.

"This," Firefly says, caressing her car's hood, "is SAM."

This, Ratio thinks, is a Škoda.

He knows better than to say it outloud. Car-crazy people are often out of their minds, especially those that modify their vehicles... is this a turbo? Why does the car have a yugoslavian licence plate?

A slew of comments surges to the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down.

She notices his stare. "I street race. Aventurine and Sparkle used to bet. You can get in."

Firefly gave Ratio an impression of a gentle, if not meek person. To participate in street racing, of all the hobbies... Taking the front passenger seat, he double checks the seatbelt. Just in case.

Firefly starts the engine and the car rolls out on the town streets. She drives according to the traffic laws, stopping on the lights and ignoring blinks from cars next to her. Thankfully, her common sense prevents her from racing with Ratio onboard.

She stays quiet, waiting for him to start the conversation. Ratio does the same. He doesn’t want to admit to his defeat, nor does he know how. Every word that he can say would rip his confidence apart.

Firefly glances at him before turning back to the road.

“So, what happened?” she gently leads.

"I was a move away from winning the game," Ratio finally drones, "when your dearest idiot kicked me under the table. It distracted me and..." He tilts his head, although more to his own spectacle than anybody else’s. Firefly concentrates on the road.

She changes a gear to the fourth on the open road next to the station.

"He didn't mean to do that. After you left, he came running to us and I swear he was close to crying."

The fact that he didn’t kick on purpose is one thing, crying is another. Clearly, that’s not the case.

"Doubt it."

She chuckles.

"I told him to go look for you, while I searched for your number, but..."

"I don't own a cellphone."

"I figured." She wets her lips. "Listen, Professor. He's not a bad person. A bit troubled, but all three of us are. I can't allow it to end like this."

Aventurine and Sparkle look the part, but Firefly?

"You ought to take care of yourself before fighting for others," he points out.

"There isn't much left of me to care for.”

She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself before a queen sacrifice. SAM slows down and starts crawling through the empty town streets, giving way to other appearing cars. The soft lights of early evening reflect on Firefly's silver hair. Though she's fair-skinned, in this moment she looks especially pale. The steering wheel takes the brunt of her nervous grip.

“I'm ill,” she finally says. “Sparkle knows, but Aventurine wouldn't take it well, so I never told him. I want him to find a stable life before I…" She stops and mulls over her next words before saying them outloud. She doesn't look at Ratio, instead concentrating on the road straight ahead. "It's unfair. It's frustrating. I hate being unable to do anything. I swear, one day I'll explode and…” She slams the horn, the loud sound streaming through the town. “...set the seas ablaze."

She relaxes into a smile and her tone turns lighter. "In the next life, maybe."

"My most sincere condolences."

She shakes her head.

Silence falls between them. Her gaze focuses on the road, giving him the chance to reflect and reach a conclusion.

Life can be cruel, to curse such a young person. Not able to do anything about her own situation, she turns to protecting people around her from the aftermath. Her strength is admirable.

However, no matter how well Ratio wishes Firefly, he can't pursue Aventurine because of her.

"I can't promise anything."

"I know. I just don’t want you to abandon the idea before you try. My dearest idiot needs patience, Professor," she schools him.

Patience was the last thing Ratio offered him.

"Drive to the station," he orders.

Firefly stops the car. The train station car park sign stands right outside the window. Have they been driving in circles around the station this entire time? Ratio turns to Firefly with an accusatory stare. She sends him a smile.

"Here we are! Go, go! I'll wait for you here."

Shaking his head, he exits the car. The grey building of the train station fits with all the buildings around it; the same seedy walls, the same local football club graffiti. Its waiting room serves as a lodging for the local homeless community instead of its original purpose. They observe him when he walks through the building.

"Did the train already leave?" he asks one of them.

The homeless points at her cup of donations. He puts in a banknote.

"Not yet," she mumbles.

With more hope than reason allows, he enters the platforms. Despite being called that, they're nothing more than a few benches on both sides of the tracks, filled with players waiting for their trains to arrive. The sky above the forest on the other side of tracks paints the cloudy evening in a deep purple color palette.

Aventurine, instantly recognizable by his ostentatious clothing and a suitcase suitable for month-long tournaments, stands at the very end of the platform. He stares down the tracks with a blank expression.

When he hears steps, he turns towards Ratio, and his face lights up in surprise.

"Ratio?"

Aventurine runs up to him, but stops before they can touch. The evening light shadows dance on his face. Despite a distraught expression, his features are still striking.

"I'm sorry," Aventurine says. He crosses his hands behind his back and drops the sight to his feet, waiting for the reaction.

Seeing him like this, Ratio’s anger evaporates as fast as it came. Winning to a competitor is what castling is to an endangered king, but is preserving the ego worth putting all the blame on your opponent?

Yes, Aventurine kicked him under the table. No, Aventurine didn't make him grab the wrong piece. Ratio sealed his own fate.

"I need to apologize as well. I overreacted."

Aventurine raises his eyes to peer at him, his brows lowering in a questioning look. He shakes his head.

“What?”

“I will repeat: I’m sorry for storming out of the room. That was inappropriate and unsightly of me.” Ratio keeps his eyes focused on Aventurine. “I believe you wanted to talk?”

“No, I still don’t get it, what are you saying? You should be angry, fuck, I’m angry at myself! Yell at me? Hit me? You can’t just-”

"Shh," Ratio hushes him, opening his arms. Aventurine slots into him, awkward at first, unsure what to do with his hands and where to put his head. Ratio pets his hair in rhythmic strokes, slowly sweeping the worry away.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Aventurine finally mutters against his chest. “It was a twitch."

“So I’ve heard.”

“The girls found you? Oh, that’s so embarrassing.”

Ratio chuckles. “You have good friends.”

He holds Aventurine closer, until he's smothered between his arms and chest. Aventurine replies by also putting more strength into his arms, squeezing Ratio's middle back.

They stay like this for a while, till the train's whistle sounds in the distance.

Aventurine raises his head from Ratio’s chest with a smirk.

"You smell really good," he says.

"I doubt it, I probably smell of sweat."

"I like it." His mischievous smile widens. "I've heard it means we're compatible."

Aventurine wiggles himself out of the embrace to stand on his tiptoes, almost matching Ratio's height. His eyes slide lower, to Ratio's lips. His hot breath mists over them as he pulls in closer, close like a pawn a square away from the promotion, and yet he doesn't make the final move. His eyes meet Ratio's in a silent question. On Ratio's back Aventurine's arms shiver, running a tremor across his spine.

"You fool," Ratio breathes against him and closes the distance.

Their lips meet, soft, cold skin of Aventurine and rougher, hot of Ratio. Together they form perfect harmony; they slowly explore each other without the hunger of all the previous kisses — rather, this one seals the conviction to make it work. To work as a team.

When they pull away, Aventurine's blush extends all the way to his ears. Not only does he look charming, the bloodflow surely makes him feel warmer. Ratio pulls him back into a hug.

Embraced tightly, they watch the train entering the station.

"Uh, I guess I'll go," Aventurine says, freeing himself from the embrace.

Baggage in hand, he makes his way to open the train's door. It gives way with a shriek. Before he steps in, his hand drops from the handle and he turns back one last time.

"Unless I can stay," he whispers.

"I have a train in an hour."

"Oh. I see. Well, nevermind then, haha."

"...but another one is tomorrow. I recall owing you a date."

Aventurine drops the luggage and runs back. Ratio catches him in arms once again, this time perfectly fitting from the very start.

The conductor closes the door and calls the train to leave. It rolls towards the horizon at a deliberate pace, ready to arrive late to the next station. The two stand there till its rear lights completely disappear, enjoying the heat of each other's bodies in the darkening evening.

"Two weeks ago I met his mother," Aventurine says to Firefly and Sparkle.

They're sitting on the ground at a makeshift table, a massive carton in the center of a cluttered living room. Tons of boxes and trinkets unpacked in search of one particular item litter every available piece of space — except for this one. On top of the carton stands a bowl with fruit, a cake and four sets of plates.

Aventurine takes a bite of the cake before continuing.

"She hates me."

Sparkle giggles. "Wow, fun!"

"I take all the blame," Ratio yells from the kitchen. "I told her I found somebody beforehand, but that only made her remember she wanted a grandchild." He sighs. "She thought that I had a phase when I told her I'm gay."

"She's just worried. I get it," Aventurine says.

"So... it didn't go well?" Firefly asks.

"Ah, no, no. She was trying her best to be polite. Too polite, really. She might not approve of me, but I actually liked her a lot. She's a distinguished old lady, well-read and unbelievably smart. It was almost like meeting royalty!"

"You're overexaggerating," Ratio says, emerging from the kitchen with a handful of coffee mugs.

He puts them on the table, one in front of each of the girls and two in front of Aventurine. Like the cups, he sits right to him and locks their hands. Aventurine puts his head on Ratio's shoulder.

"Bweh," Sparkle exclaims after taking a sip of her coffee. She takes the cup and runs to the kitchen.

Taken by a sudden urge, Aventurine feels his wrist. The watch he usually wears is missing.

"Hey! Sparkle? Sparkle!" He dashes after her.

Those two are like this, always on the run, fast to act and eager to play. Aventurine catches Sparkle but she kicks him to get out. When he folds in half, she exclaims that she hid the watch somewhere in the kitchen and he has an arbitrary amount of time before it explodes. Aventurine finds it in the freezer, which was supposed to 'stop the time' as Sparkle explains.

Ratio and Firefly listen to them fondly. It took Ratio some time to get used to Sparkle's trickstery, with himself preferring straight-forward approach, but he's realized she cares for her friends, just expresses it in sparkles of seemingly accidental good will. Like right now, when by playing with Aventurine, she's allowing Ratio to talk to Firefly.

He turns to her and clears his throat to get her attention.

"We managed to discover a theoretical way to push back the degradation. Can you come by next Tuesday?"

She smiles, shyly lowering her eyes to her hands holding the coffee cup. "Yes. I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it."

It will take many years to find a proper cure. Only time will tell whether the progress he's been making is good enough. With Firefly's iron will, he hopes for the best. One thing he knows — he'll try whatever he can to protect all members of this family that Aventurine built.

This line of thought stops when Sparkle runs back giggling and hides behind Firefly.

After her, Aventurine enters from the kitchen. He doesn't move in a sharp, theatrical way, nor does the calculated smirk grace his lips. He doesn't dramatically stop to pose, nor does he correct his tie. Loose strands stick from his hair and he forgot to iron the shirt, wrinkles standing out in his otherwise well-matching outfit. He walks into the room with his shoulders lowered and a soft smile.

He still effortlessly pulls Ratio's eyes on himself. This will never change.