[ ah, aventurine thinks, it really is a shame that the good doctor hasn't his usual bust. there's something here to be said about how the contours of the mask reveals more than it hides, the cosmic irony of it lending humanity through a facsimile of marble and stone to ratio's usual severity. it softens the taut pull of ratio's proud jaw, the sharp-edged frown lines painted red in the flaring pinions of spread-winged owls. aventurine likes ratio's bust in the same way that he likes the scent of the earth after rain, the same way he likes the buttersmooth lilt of a good waltz, the way he likes the kiss of a knife slipping in between the third and fourth ribs at dusk.

ratio's gaze drifts over and moors solidly in aventurine's business. aventurine's smile lilts in the way of innocence found only in newborn puppies and seasoned conmen. the way he lifts his hand, palm up in a show of evidently trustworthy innocence, is entirely for show. ]

Ouch. [ aventurine winces. ] You've a way of engaging in conversation that makes me feel as if I'd walk away with a strip of my skin torn clean off. Have you considered that I wasn't trying particularly hard because you lack appreciation for sales pitches?