Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The intercom crackled overhead. “Riddle Rosehearts, please report to the principal’s office at your earliest convenience.”

Riddle frowned, glancing up from his study guide. He didn’t recall scheduling a meeting with the principal.

Across the table, Trey raised a brow. “Were you expecting that?”

“No. I don’t remember having any appointments today,” Riddle said, already gathering his things.

“Maybe it’s for career selection? They’ve started calling students in,” Trey offered.

Riddle shook his head. “Unlikely. That would be the counselor’s office, not the principal’s. And they usually send a student runner, not an intercom announcement.” He sighed, zipping his bag shut.

“Maybe Deuce and Ace got into trouble again,” Trey said with a shrug, standing to pack up as well.

Riddle’s frown deepened. “If this is because of those two, it will be Off With Their Heads.”

Trey laughed. “Guess you’d better go find out. I’ll see you back at the dorms.”

Riddle hummed in acknowledgment as Trey walked off. He slung his bag over his shoulder, mind still turning. Whatever prompted the summons, he’d deal with it soon enough.

Riddle didn’t know which of the Seven he’d offended to end up in the principal’s office with his mother already seated, waiting like some quiet omen.

He had to physically stop himself from spiraling into a full-blown panic. As far as he knew, everything was fine—his grades were flawless, he ranked in the top one percent of the school, the dorm was running smoothly, and he hadn’t done anything to warrant disciplinary action.

At least… nothing came to mind.

He swallowed hard and stepped fully inside. “Good afternoon, Mother,” he said, trying not to betray the sheer terror clenching in his chest.

She smiled at him—pleasant, composed. Riddle had to fight the urge to flinch. That smile only ever appeared when he was in serious trouble.

Principal Crowley cleared his throat. “Ah, Mr. Riddle! So glad you could join us on this fine afternoon, yes?” he said with forced cheer. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Riddle nodded and quickly sat, murmuring a quiet thank-you.

“Now, Mrs. Rosehearts,” the principal continued, folding his hands with deliberate civility, “I understand your concern regarding your son’s relationship—but I must remind you, this is not a matter typically handled during the school term. It lies outside the bounds of school jurisdiction.”

Riddle felt his heart drop at the word relationship.

No.

How did she find out?

He had taken every possible precaution to make sure his relationship with Floyd never reached her ears. How could she have known?

A voice in his head whispered, cruel and certain, of course she knows. Mother always knows.

He shoved the thought away. Now was not the time to spiral.

“While I do understand, Principal Crowley,” his mother said smoothly, her tone razor-sharp beneath the veneer of concern, “I truly believe this… fling my son is having with that boy will ruin his academic life.”

Fling?

Riddle bristled. He and Floyd had been together for almost a year. Their anniversary was just two days away.

“And how does Mr. Riddle feel about this?” Crowley asked, turning his gaze to Riddle.

He could feel his mother’s stare, sharp as blades, drilling into the side of his face.

“I’ve made sure my relationship hasn’t interfered with my academics,” Riddle said carefully, eyes fixed forward. “My grades haven’t dropped. My ranking hasn’t changed.”

“It hasn’t improved either,” his mother snapped, voice like a slap. “I thought I raised you to strive higher. But ever since you began seeing that boy, you’ve done nothing but lie.”

“I haven’t lied about anything—” he began, only to be cut off.

“You lie constantly about studying. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your little escapades off-campus? Dressing like a cheap slut, whoring yourself out to that boy?”

Riddle’s face went hot—half humiliation, half fury.

“Whoring myself out!?” he snapped, finally whipping toward her—and immediately regretted it.

She looked seconds away from striking him.

“You see what I mean?” she hissed, eyes blazing. “You would never have raised your voice to me, never spoken back like this, if it weren’t for that boy and his disgusting influence!”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the tension clinging to the air like smoke—until Principal Crowley spoke, his voice clipped but polite.

“Ah, Mrs. Rosehearts,” he said, smile taut with annoyance, “you’re being rather cruel. I don’t appreciate my students being spoken to like that in front of me.”

“Apologies, Principal Crowley,” she replied calmly, hands folded in her lap. “But I fear my son must hear these harsh truths if he’s to come to his senses.”

She rarely scolded him in front of others—too conscious of appearances to risk losing face. But now she wore her reprimand like it was a civic duty.

“I truly only want what’s best for him,” she continued, her tone soft, composed—deceptively reasonable. “He’s still too young to understand that these are the most formative years of his life. Squandering them on… some boy… would be a terrible waste.”

That tone always sounded so gentle, so measured, it could fool anyone into thinking Riddle was the misguided one, and she, the dutiful mother, was simply correcting her child.

Principal Crowley didn’t blink. “Isn’t Mr. Riddle eighteen now?” he asked, folding his hands. “By all accounts, he’s an adult—and from everything I’ve seen, quite a capable one. He’s proven time and time again that he can manage himself just fine.”

His mother’s face tightened. “Yes, well—a mother’s work is never done,” she said, voice clipped with restrained frustration.

Principal Crowley let out a slow sigh. “Truly, Mrs. Rosehearts, what exactly would you have me do? Mr. Riddle is, by law, an adult. He has full autonomy over his personal life. There’s no school policy that forbids student relationships.”

He leaned back slightly, his expression firm but courteous.

“This entire conversation is, quite frankly, moot. The only person with any authority over Mr. Riddle’s choices in this matter…is Mr. Riddle himself.”

Riddle was honestly surprised the conversation had gone on this long. He had never seen Principal Crowley so serious before, the man was usually far too casual, almost flippant about most things. To see him actually take a stand for once was… a pleasant surprise.

Not that Riddle said any of this out loud, of course.

The room had fallen silent again, his mother visibly processing the principal’s words.

“I apologize, Principal Crowley,” she said tightly, her voice carefully controlled. “You’re right. I should have spoken to my son first.”

She turned to him, and Riddle felt his entire body tense.

“Riddle,” she said gently, reaching out to take his hand in hers, “you know I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”

“Of course I do, Mother,” Riddle said evenly.

He already knew this tactic. She'd feign warmth, speak as though everything she did was out of love, and guilt him into believing he was selfish—ungrateful—for wanting basic autonomy. And the worst part? It almost always worked.

It would’ve worked last year, before he had over-bloated, back when he still believed her words were law, and anyone who defied them must have been wrong.

But not anymore.

He knew that if he didn’t speak now—while she still believed she had full control over him—then everything he’d worked so hard to build over the past year would unravel.

“But, I truly believe Floyd is right for me,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “We’ve been together for almost a year, and… he makes me want to be a better person.”

He met her gaze, willing her to hear him.

But the moment her expression turned cold, he knew she hadn’t.

“A year?” she repeated, her voice ice.

That reaction confirmed it—she had only recently discovered his relationship with Floyd. How she found out was still a mystery, and the thought of it made his skin crawl.

Her fingers tightened around his hand, the grip bordering on painful.

“Do you have no care for everything I’ve done for you?” she hissed. “Eighteen years of raising you, training you, molding you into something exceptional—and you're willing to throw it all away for a boy?”

“I haven’t thrown anything away,” Riddle said, trying to keep his voice calm, firm—but it wasn’t getting through.

“Listen to me, Riddle.” Her eyes were sharp, her tone absolute. “I know you better than anyone in this world. That boy is filling your head with nonsense.”

Her grip turned to iron.

“Next you’ll tell me you no longer want to be a doctor.”

The silence that followed was damning.

Her eyes scanned his face—and when he didn’t deny it, her expression darkened, lips tightening as rage overtook her composure.

“Riddle!”

She shot to her feet, hand dropping from his, eyes blazing as she loomed over him.

But Riddle didn’t flinch.

“Mother!” he shouted, rising from his seat as well, voice cracking with something raw and long-suppressed.

That stopped her.

The shock flickered across her face, brief but visible.

“Why can’t you just accept my choices?” he demanded, breath trembling. “Why is it always your way or nothing?”

Silence fell like a weight.

Riddle’s pulse pounded in his ears, loud and ragged. The air between them buzzed with everything that hadn’t been said before now.

“Or nothing?” she echoed, her voice low—dangerously soft. “I’ll show you nothing,” She loomed over him. “If you don’t end things with that boy, I’ll disown you.”

Riddle stared at her, stunned. Horror hollowed out his chest.

“Now, Mrs. Rosehearts, let’s not take things to such extremes,” Principal Crowley interjected, his tone tight with urgency, trying to cut through the rising heat.

But she didn’t even look at him.

“No,” she said coldly. “You were right earlier, Principal Crowley. This is a matter between me and my son. It has nothing to do with the school.”

Her gaze never wavered from Riddle’s face.

He barely registered Crowley’s reply—his words sounded far away, muffled, as though spoken underwater.

Riddle just stood frozen, staring at the woman who was supposed to be his mother. Who was supposed to love him.

The words echoed like a curse in his skull: I’ll disown you.

He’d heard her threaten, guilt, manipulate—but this... this was something else. This wasn’t disappointment. It wasn’t even rage. It was a line drawn in the sand, dared to be crossed—and the promise that if he did, she’d burn everything behind him without hesitation.

Disown him. Like he was disposable. Like he hadn’t spent his life breaking himself into pieces to meet her every expectation. Like the perfect son she’d demanded had never even existed.

All of it—everything—swept aside. For what?

Because he loved someone?

Because—for the first time—he wanted something that wasn’t hers to control?

He felt it then. Slow and cold, like frost creeping across glass. A numbness spreading in his chest, swallowing the panic, silencing the desperate urge to make her understand. It hollowed him out. Made room for something quieter. Heavier.

It wasn’t anger. Not yet.

It was grief.

Not for what she said—but for what it proved, that no matter how hard he tried, how perfectly he performed, the second he stepped out of line, she would discard him.

Maybe she always would have. Even if he had become everything she wanted.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t look away.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Steady.

“Then do it.”

His mother—no, Edith Rosehearts—stood there, stunned. Speechless. Like she hadn’t expected him to fight back.

Principal Crowley cleared his throat, his tone light but firm. “How about we take a recess? Some fresh air. Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

It was phrased as a suggestion, but it was anything but optional.

Riddle didn’t feel there was anything left to say. She had drawn her line, and he had drawn his. There was no middle ground now.

Still, he gave a small nod—more to Crowley than to her—then turned away from the woman who used to be his mother.

And without another word, he walked out of the office.

The numbness was fading.

And panic was beginning to set in.

If his mo—Edith—actually followed through, he could end up homeless.

He didn’t have any personal savings. Every coin, every expense, every piece of clothing he wore was tied to her. The dorm fees, the textbooks, even his uniform—it had all been paid for with money she controlled. She could pull it all back. Legally, she had every right. The credit cards were in her name.

Riddle froze mid-step.

No.

That wasn’t true.

The credit cards were in his father’s name.

His father.

He had two parents.

Absent as he was, Riddle’s father still existed—still signed the documents, still made the payments. A distant figure more specter than parent, yes, but a man ruled by logic. Cold. Calculating. Detached—but rational.

And no matter how quiet he’d been all these years, Riddle couldn’t see him agreeing to disown their only child.

They’d had him late in life. Too late to easily try again. Not without potent fertility spells or advanced alchemical intervention—and Edith would never subject herself to that. Too dangerous, too undignified. People would talk. The illusion of perfection might crack.

And she wouldn’t want to raise another child anyway. She hadn’t raised him out of love—she had molded him. Curated him. Sculpted him like a legacy project.

So if she was threatening to throw him away... then she wasn’t the only one with something to lose.

His parents weren’t in love. That much was obvious. He remembered something his father once said, back when Riddle was too young to understand what it really meant:

"She was the smartest woman I knew."

Not the kindest. Not the woman I loved. Just... smart.

Pragmatic. Strategic. A match made for appearances, not affection. And Riddle suspected his father had only agreed to a family because it was expected of someone in his position.

If Edith disowned their only child, it wouldn’t just hurt Riddle.

It would tarnish him. His reputation. The immaculate family portrait they’d spent years constructing would start to fracture—and people would look closer.

They’d ask questions.

Questions neither of them wanted to answer.

Riddle dug through his bag with trembling hands until he found his phone.

He turned it on, the screen flaring to life, and opened the call log.

At the top was Floyd.

He paused, staring at the contact.

Their last call had been just last night—nearly three hours long. He couldn’t even recall most of the conversation now. Bits and pieces floated back, Floyd rambling about something he did to annoy Azul, Riddle complaining about his dorm mates. Nothing important. Nothing urgent.

But he remembered how it ended—Floyd’s voice low and warm.

“Love you. Sleep tight.”

Just hearing those words in his memory grounded him.

This was why he was fighting. Not just for Floyd—but for the right to feel something for someone without shame. For the right to want. To choose. To live.

His relationship had been the catalyst, yes—but it was his freedom, his identity, his future that were really on the line.

He drew in a slow breath, steadied his hand, and left Floyd’s contact behind.

Scrolling through his list, he found the number.

Father

He hadn’t called him in years.

But now… now he had no choice.

With a final exhale, Riddle tapped the screen.

The line began to ring.

It rang once. Twice.

Then came the low, gravel-edged voice, “Hello?”

“Mother wants to disown me,” Riddle blurted out almost immediately.

Silence.

Riddle held his breath.

“…Excuse me?” his father said, the words slow and frigid. The temperature in his voice dropped several degrees, and Riddle nearly winced.

“We got into an argument,” he said quickly. “She said she’d disown me if I didn’t comply with her.”

A pause.

“Riddle,” his father said at last, calm but unmistakably stern, “explain the context of this disagreement.”

There was no room for vagueness. No hiding behind polite phrasing. Riddle drew in a breath and explained. All of it. The relationship with Floyd. The confrontation in Principle Crowley’s office. Edith’s threat. His voice shook toward the end, throat tight with the pressure he’d been holding back all day.

When he finally stopped talking, there was another pause.

“What species is this boy?”

Riddle blinked. “H-he’s a merman.”

He mentally cursed the stammer. The question had caught him completely off-guard.

“Seahorse pregnancies are viable among mermen and their partners, aren’t they?”

Riddle felt his face flame at the implication. “I… yes. I believe so.”

His father sighed, long and tired, like he’d just accepted an unpleasant but necessary truth.

“Let’s make a deal,” he said, voice level. “As long as you have at least one biological child—whether it’s with that boy or someone else—you will not be cut off from the inheritance. And I will not allow your mother to disown you.”

Riddle’s breath caught. He blinked, stunned by the cold efficiency—but also the shield offered beneath it.

“I don’t want to be a doctor,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

His father didn’t hesitate.

“Then what do you want to be?”

“A lawyer.”

“That’s acceptable. Any other confessions?” There was the barest hint of dry amusement in his tone—something too subtle to call warmth, but close enough to sting.

“I… no. None.”

“Then we have an agreement?”

“Yes, I accept the terms,” Riddle said, formal and automatic.

“Good. I’ll speak with your mother.”

There was a beat, and just as Riddle started to lower the phone from his ear—

“Oh, and Riddle.”

He tensed. “Yes?”

“I’m proud of you.”

The line clicked dead.

Riddle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It was just so painfully ironic.

He had spent years tearing himself apart, wringing out every drop of perfection he could muster, all for a sliver of praise from Edith. And now, out of nowhere, his father—the man who had barely been a presence in his life, who had delegated the entire task of raising him to Edith—just handed it over like it cost him nothing.

“I’m proud of you.”

The words rang in his ears. Hollow. Warm. Infuriating.

He sank shakily onto a bench in the corridor, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to process it all—everything that had happened, everything that had been said.

He felt rung dry.

And then, without meaning to, he started to laugh.

Sharp and breathless at first, bubbling up from some cracked, exhausted part of him. But the laughter twisted quickly—too tight, too jagged—and suddenly he was sobbing.

The kind of sobs that came from deep in the ribs, that didn’t wait for permission. They spilled out of him like flood water through a broken dam.

The last time he’d cried like this was after his and Floyd’s first date—that disaster. When everything had gone wrong and he’d thought he’d ruined everything before it could even start. When he’d cried not because it was over, but because he had wanted it so badly.

Just like now.

It was supposed to be a good day.

He was going on his first date with Floyd. His first ever date.

He’d been looking forward to it all week.

Instead though, the day had turned out to be a complete disaster.

It started with a knock at his door—a frazzled first-year ward reporting that all the hedgehogs had gone missing.

Riddle had to help find them. Normally, Trey would have handled it, but Trey had been off-campus that day, leaving Riddle to manage everything alone.

Then, not ten minutes later, another student burst in to tell him a beastman had trampled every last rose in the east garden.

Of course.

The roses were usually Cater’s responsibility, but Cater was—conveniently—‘busy.’ Riddle didn’t have time to ask for details. He was already running late.

He repaired what he could with magic, replanted what was beyond saving, and filed a maintenance report.

As if that weren’t enough, just as he was rushing to finally leave for the café, he witnessed one of his wards fall off the roof—directly in front of him.

He barely managed to save them in time and had to escort the dazed student to the infirmary. Again, normally Trey would’ve handled it—but Trey was still gone.

By the time he broke free, he was already cutting it dangerously close. He reached for his phone to message Floyd… and that was when Ace barreled around the corner and crashed into him.

His phone went flying.

Out the nearest window.

And before he could even react, a bucket of green paint rained down over him—courtesy of two students trying to prank their friend… and somehow mistaking him for said friend.

Dripping, humiliated, and vibrating with restrained rage, he ordered Ace to retrieve the phone, collared the students, then stormed off to change.

When he finally rejoined Ace, it was to learn that the phone was completely destroyed—beyond repair—though mercifully, the SIM card survived.

Still Riddle had nearly snapped.

But Ace, with the air of someone trying very hard not to get hexed, offered up his own phone so Riddle could at least text Floyd.

Floyd hadn’t been upset. In fact, he’d only laughed and told Riddle to come as fast as he could—he had a surprise waiting.

For a brief moment, it felt like the day might finally turn around.

So, gathering the last reserves of energy and dignity he had left, Riddle set out for the café.

And then—because of course it would—it started to rain.

Not a drizzle. Not a sprinkle.

A full-on downpour.

Normally, he would have cast a shielding charm, but his mage stone had darkened, heavy with the added accumulated frustration and stress of the day. One more spell and he risked overblotting.

That… that had been the final straw.

Standing alone in the street, soaked and trembling, Riddle had come dangerously close to crying.

He had turned around and walked home.

Riddle stumbled into his room, clothes clinging to his soaked skin, hair plastered to his face.

He didn’t even bother turning on the light.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed and buried his dripping head into the blanket, pressing his face into the soft fabric as if it could absorb everything he didn’t want to feel.

The cold, the exhaustion, the bitterness clawing at his throat.

He just wanted to calm down. To breathe. To stop himself from breaking into a pathetic, helpless sob.

He had wanted today to go well.

More than that—he had needed it to.

His first date. His first real date. And it had all gone to hell before he even got the chance to see Floyd’s face.

His breath hitched, and he bit back a sniff, squeezing his eyes shut.

He pressed deeper into the blanket, seeking some kind of warmth, some comfort—anything.

He knew he should change, get out of his wet clothes before he made himself sick.

But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not right now.

All he wanted was to disappear into the silence and pretend this day had never happened.

When a knock came, Riddle didn’t move.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t lift his head. Didn’t even turn to look.

He just stayed where he was—kneeling, soaked, his face pressed into the blanket—praying whoever it was would go away.

No such luck.

The door creaked open.

He hadn’t locked it.

Footsteps, soft but certain, entered the room. No words. Just the sound of someone crossing the space and settling down beside him.

Riddle squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could somehow make the moment disappear. But he already knew who it was.

He didn’t have to look.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice muffled against the damp fabric.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t cold. It just was.

A space held open, waiting.

“Nah, don’t worry too much ‘bout it,” Floyd eventually says, his voice light, almost lazy, as his fingers threaded gently through Riddle’s soaked hair.

The gesture was so casual, so unbothered, that it chipped away at the knot of shame in Riddle’s chest.

Slowly, he turned his head, finally meeting Floyd’s eyes.

Floyd looked… nice. Really nice. His usual chaotic sense of style had been tempered into something thoughtfully put together. Subtle jewelry, coordinated colors, even a cologne Riddle hadn’t smelled on him before. It wasn’t flashy—it was intentional.

Riddle bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

He had done the same. Spent hours obsessing over what to wear. He’d even asked Cater for help.

Cater, of course, had teased him relentlessly the entire time, but still dragged him out to shop for casual clothes—since, as he’d so bluntly put it, “Your wardrobe screams ‘courtroom,’ not ‘coffee date.’”

And Riddle had let him. Because he wanted this to go well. Because he wanted to look good for Floyd.

And now here they were—date ruined, outfit soaked, hair dripping, pride in shreds.

“I really wanted today to be perfect,” Riddle whispered, voice raw around the edges.

Floyd didn’t respond right away. He just sat with him for a beat, then reached out and gently poked Riddle’s cheeks.

“You know, ya really look like a goldfishie right now.”

Riddle blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in tone—then laughter bubbled up inside him, sharp and unexpected.

Of course Floyd would say something like that.

Even now.

He laughed. And laughed. Until the laughter turned to sobs.

All the weight of the day crashed down on him at once, and he collapsed against Floyd’s chest, the tears spilling freely now.

Floyd wrapped an arm around him and rested his chin on Riddle’s damp hair.

“There there, goldfishie.”

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t expected. But it was exactly what Riddle needed.

Eventually, the sobs eased into sniffles. He wiped at his eyes, cheeks still blotchy and warm, and looked up at Floyd.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Riddle said quietly.

He didn’t know what his face must’ve looked like—red, puffy, pitiful—but Floyd’s expression softened.

“Sure,” he said, grinning slightly, “but I still gotcha a surprise.”

Riddle blinked, confused for a moment—then remembered. Floyd had mentioned it earlier, before the day had taken a turn for the worse.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up straighter as Floyd reached behind him.

From a bag, Floyd pulled out a small container—and handed it to him.

A parfait.

“I made it for ya,” Floyd said. “You really liked the one I gave you before, so I made this one strawberry.”

Riddle stared at it. Then slowly, carefully, took it from Floyd’s hands like it was made of glass.

“You… made this for me?” His voice came out smaller than he intended.

Floyd snickered and handed him a spoon. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

Riddle opened the container, took a bite—and his shoulders instantly relaxed. He closed his eyes, letting the creamy sweetness melt on his tongue before letting out a soft, pleased sound.

When he opened them again, something felt… different.

His clothes were no longer clinging to him. His hair wasn’t dripping. He looked down—he was dry.

Floyd had cast a charm while he wasn’t looking.

“Now you’re a fish out of water,” Floyd said with a grin, his tone smug and teasing.

Riddle let out a helpless giggle, the sound light and unguarded. “That was terrible,” he murmured.

“You love it,” Floyd replied, leaning in close enough that their shoulders touched.

And he did.

Even after the worst day imaginable—even after falling apart—Riddle found himself smiling.

Because Floyd was there. And that was enough.

Riddle leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Floyd’s cheek. “Thank you,” he said, voice quiet but full of meaning.

Floyd’s grin stretched wide, lazy and pleased, before he leaned forward and kissed Riddle on the lips.

It wasn’t their first kiss—not by a long shot—but it didn’t matter.

Riddle still felt that flutter in his chest, that silly little spark that made him feel like he was weightless. His cheeks flushed, lips tingling, and a giddy warmth spread through him like he was falling all over again.

He pulled back just slightly, eyes meeting Floyd’s with a half-smile. “You always kiss me when I least expect it.”

Floyd shrugged, clearly unbothered. “You always look cute when you’re surprised.”

Riddle scoffed, but he couldn’t help the smile that broke through. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Floyd said with a wink.

Riddle didn’t argue.

Because it was true.

Once Riddle had calmed down enough to steady his breathing—and his thoughts—he returned to Principal Crowley’s office.

But this time, he didn’t walk in with fear clawing at his chest.

He walked in with purpose.

His father was backing him. He wasn’t alone.

Edith was already seated when he arrived, her expression carved from stone. Composed. Cold. Riddle took the chair beside her without a word, refusing to acknowledge her presence.

Principal Crowley glanced between them with a cautious smile. “Well, I hope everyone has taken a moment to breathe.”

“I apologize, Principal Crowley, for the disruption we’ve caused,” Edith said, voice smooth as polished glass. Then, she turned to Riddle.

“I retract my earlier statement. It was rash and cruel of me,” she said.

A pause.

“You’re an adult now, and you’re free to make your own choices.”

Riddle raised a brow. He waited for it.

“Even if those choices are… less than wise.”

There it was.

Even now, she couldn’t admit she was wrong—only that she had been too forceful in trying to be right.

More carefully chosen words. More hollow apologies wrapped in cold civility. She wasn’t sorry. Not truly.

She was simply cornered.

Her power threatened. Her authority checked.

“Can you ever forgive me?” she asked, voice soft, as if rehearsed.

Riddle stared at her.

Really stared.

He searched for something—anything—in her face. But there was no remorse, no vulnerability, no true reach across the divide between them.

And something inside him shifted. Hardened.

“I accept your apology,” he said evenly.

Edith’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Yes, but… do you forgive me?”

Riddle hesitated.

He didn’t know.

Because despite everything, despite the damage and control and manipulation… he still loved her. Or maybe he loved the idea of her. The mother he used to hope she’d be.

Even now, part of him wanted her to say the right words. To reach for him with something real.

But she didn’t.

And he wasn’t sure she ever would.

“…I don’t know,” he said at last, his voice quiet but firm.

And that, more than anything, was the truth.

Chapter Text

Edith had stormed out, her pride and ego clearly bruised. She didn’t even bother saying goodbye to Principal Crowley.

Riddle just felt drained.

He offered a weary apology to Principal Crowley for being dragged into unnecessary family drama, then quietly took his leave.

By the time Riddle got back to the dorms, Tery and Cater were waiting near the entrance. Tery was the first to spot him and quickly hurried to his side, with Cater following close behind.

“Are you okay?” Tery asked, concern etched across his face. “You were gone for a long time.”

Riddle couldn’t help himself; his eyes were already starting to gloss over with tears. Cater’s expression shifted to one of alarm. “How ’bout we talk about this in your room?” he suggested gently, quickly ushering them inside.

By the time they made it to Riddle’s room, Riddle was shaking. He dropped his things to the floor, sank onto the couch, and buried his face in his hands. And then he cried.

He didn’t care if it was unbecoming. He didn’t care if it made him look weak. He cried.

He cried and cried, because if he wasn’t crying, he might’ve screamed, or shouted, or broken something just to feel like he had some control.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, he felt Trey wrap his arms around him, pulling him close in a steady, grounding hug. Cater sat beside him, quiet but present, resting a hand on his shoulder in silent support.

Neither of them said anything for a while. They just stayed with him, quiet and steady, until Riddle finally managed to get a handle on his breathing. His sobs dwindled down to soft sniffles.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his uniform. “My mother threatened to disown me,” he said quietly.

Trey’s voice came out low and sharp. “She what?”

“That wench!” Cater burst out, jumping to his feet, eyes wide with disbelief. “Oh, when I get my hands on her—” he growled, pacing back and forth in front of them like a storm about to break.

Trey had shifted onto the couch beside Riddle and pulled him closer, holding him tight.

“What even happened?” he asked, carefully. “I know you were called to the principal’s office, but… what happened?”

Riddle bit his lip hard. “She found out about me and Floyd,” he said, voice shaky. “I don’t even know how.”

Cater froze mid-step.

“I thought we were being careful,” Riddle went on, rubbing the tears from his eyes. His voice cracked. “We were being careful.”

“I—I need to tell you something,” Cater said hesitantly, his voice losing its usual lightness. He finally stopped pacing and sat back down on the couch. His knee bounced anxiously.

He reached out, gently taking Riddle’s hand like he was afraid he might pull away. “I meant to tell you earlier, I swear. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Riddle tensed, his stomach already knotting up. “What is it?” he asked, cautious, every worst-case scenario racing to the front of his mind.

Cater winced. “I… accidentally posted a picture. You and Floyd were in the background. Kissing.”

For a second, the room tilted.

Riddle’s ears started ringing—sharp and loud, like someone had smacked the side of his head. “You what..?”

“I didn’t realize!” Cater rushed out, eyes wide and frantic. “You were way in the back, and I wasn’t even thinking—I was just trying to post a cute selfie! Someone pointed it out in the comments and I immediately deleted it, but…” His voice trailed off. “It must’ve been too late.”

Riddle stared at him, numb, his brain scrambling to catch up. He suddenly felt very cold and very hot at the same time.

“I’m so sorry, Riddle,” Cater whispered, gripping his hand like it might stop him from falling apart. “I didn’t mean to out you. I swear I didn’t even notice. I never would’ve posted it if I had.”

Trey’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything, but Riddle could feel the shift in the air — protective and tense, like a rope pulled taut. Cater looked like he was about to cry himself.

Riddle finally tore his eyes away and stared at the floor. “That’s how she found out,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “That’s how everyone back home found out.”

He could already picture it—Edith scrolling through her phone with that awful, tight-lipped expression, the click of her nails against the screen, the disapproving silence that always came before the storm.

And the storm had come. Full force.

“I’m sorry,” Cater said again, quieter this time. His voice was thick with guilt, barely holding itself together.

Riddle took in a shaky breath, then another, trying to steady himself. His fingers trembled as he looked down at their joined hands—Cater’s grip so gentle, like he was afraid of breaking him. And then, slowly, Riddle squeezed back.

Because it had been a mistake. A stupid, painful mistake.

But an honest one.

It stung—of course it did. His chest still felt raw, like someone had carved open something he hadn’t meant to share. But Cater… he wasn’t cruel. He didn’t move through the world with malice. That wasn’t who he was.

“It’s—” Not fine. It wasn’t fine. Nothing about this was fine. But nothing ever was with Edith. If it hadn’t been this, it would’ve been something else. Some other way for her to twist his life into a weapon.

“She would’ve found out eventually,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “She always does.”

Cater’s eyes were glossy, red around the edges. Trey shifted beside them and placed a firm, steady hand on Riddle’s back.

“It’ll be alright,” Riddle said at last, his voice thin but steady. “I’m cutting contact with her anyway.”

That made both Cater and Trey freeze.

“You—wait, hold on,” Cater said, eyes wide. “You’re what?”

“Okay, back up,” Trey added, his tone serious now. “Just… explain exactly what happened in the principal’s office.”

Riddle let out a slow, uneven breath, like even breathing hurt. But he told them.

He told them everything—how Edith had been in the principal’s office with that tight smile and venom-laced voice, demanding that Principal Crowley discipline him for his relationships. How she called dating Floyd inappropriate, scandalous, shameful. How she hadn’t even looked at him when she said it.

He told them how, for all his usual buffoonery, Crowley hadn’t caved. How Edith had tried to corner him anyway, manipulating and threatening him—saying she’d disown him.

And then he told them how he’d called his father. How he’d told him the truth. How his father had listened, quietly... and, shockingly, agreed to back him.

They struck a deal: Riddle would still inherit the Rosehearts fortune, with his father’s support. Edith would be cut out of the conversation entirely.

By the time Riddle finished, he sounded completely wrung out.

They sat in silence for a while.

Cater stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Trey hadn’t blinked in a minute.

Finally, Trey let out a breath. “Damn,” he said quietly. “You really did all that?”

Riddle gave a single nod. “She left after that. Stormed out. Didn’t even say goodbye to the principal.”

Cater flopped back against the couch, stunned. “I mean—I knew you were strong, but damn, Riddle. That’s… That’s a lot.”

Riddle rubbed his eyes again. His voice came out soft. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did,” Trey said gently. “You chose to protect yourself. That’s brave.”

Cater reached out and took his hand. “I’m proud of you, Riddle. Seriously. We’ve got your back, okay? No matter what she says. No matter who sees what. We’re not going anywhere.”

“I–I thank you,” Riddle said, a small, shaky smile tugging at his lips.

Cater insisted they needed a chill evening to wind down after everything Riddle had been through.

“Movie night,” he declared, already halfway out the door. He was heading to his own room to grab supplies—and, importantly, some extra clothes. Because he’d remembered that Riddle didn’t own any actual lounge wear, and there was no way he was letting him watch movies in a stiff dorm uniform.

Trey had agreed without hesitation, saying he’d handle the snacks. Before leaving, he gently told Riddle to go take a shower while they got everything ready.

“No arguments,” he added with a small smile. “You’ve earned it.”

Riddle felt a quiet warmth settle in his chest at how considerate they were being. Without protest, he went to take a shower.

He turned the water to its hottest setting and stepped under the stream, letting it pour over him like a blanket. The heat soaked into his skin, washing away the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his chest, the remnants of the day clinging to him like smoke.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, the extra clothes Cater had promised were neatly spelled onto his counter. Riddle dried off and quickly changed into them. They fit perfectly—of course they did. Cater must’ve charmed them to his exact size.

He felt a flicker of gratitude… even if the outfit was a little too cutesy for his taste.

The pajamas were Hello Kitty-themed: the pants were covered in full-body Hello Kitty prints, while the top was a soft pink with just the iconic bow and logo printed across the chest.

Still, they were comfortable. And warm. And—begrudgingly—kind of cute.

Before he stepped out of the bathroom, his phone pinged with a notification.

We’re Adults 😭😭

so no head: lol not Riddle getting called into the principal's office before me

im in danger: I hope everything's okay, Riddle!!

There were a couple more messages from the now third-years’ group chat, but his screen was locked, so he couldn’t see the rest.

He sighed softly and set the phone aside. He’d deal with it later.

“Ohh, you’re just so cute!” Cater exclaimed the moment Riddle stepped out of the restroom.

Without missing a beat, he grabbed Riddle’s arm and led him toward the bed. “Sit. We’re watching The Princess Bride,” he announced with a grin that dared anyone to argue.

Riddle hesitated. He didn’t love the idea of crumbs in his sheets, or movie snacks getting everywhere, but… he supposed, just this once, it would be fine.

With a small sigh, he climbed into the bed.

Trey was already there, setting out snacks with practiced care like he was organizing a tea tray.

Cater climbed in after him, his laptop already loaded up and ready to go.

They nestled together beneath a blanket, the soft glow of the screen lighting up their little fort of comfort. Trey handed around snacks—nothing too messy, out of respect for Riddle’s sheets—and they all settled in, the warmth of quiet friendship filling the room.

The movie played on, a whimsical escape full of sword fights, true love, and ridiculous quotable lines. Riddle found himself relaxing more than he thought possible. Trey was a steady presence at his side, and Cater kept gasping at dramatic moments and making commentary that made him laugh through his nose. It felt... safe.

Then, halfway through the movie, Riddle’s phone rang.

All three of them flinched at the sudden noise. They’d been so caught up in the film that the sound cut through the room like a knife.

“Sorry, that’s mine,” Riddle said quickly, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

“Who is it?” Trey asked.

Cater leaned over his shoulder to peek.

The name on the screen made all of them go still.

Mother.

No one moved. They just sat there, watching the phone ring.

“Open your phone,” Cater said, breaking the silence.

Riddle hesitated—but he trusted Cater. Slowly, he unlocked it.

In a flurry of motion, Cater snatched it from his hands. “Hey, wait!” Riddle protested.

But it was too late. Cater’s fingers flew across the screen, and in under thirty seconds, he declared cheerfully, “And blocked!”

He handed the phone back with a proud grin.

Riddle stared at the screen, blinking in confusion—until he saw it. Cater had blocked Edith’s number.

A strange mix of emotions washed over him: relief, guilt, disbelief… but mostly, a quiet sense of finality.

“It’s for the best,” Trey said gently, taking the phone from Riddle’s hands and powering it off.

“Let’s just enjoy the movie.”

Riddle let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He curled a little deeper beneath the blanket, letting himself sink into the warmth between his friends.

Cater pressed play again, and the movie picked up right where it had left off—soft music, sword fights, a ridiculous prince yelling “Inconceivable!”—and Riddle actually smiled.

He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but right now, here in this bed with the people who loved him, he felt safe.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Riddle knew the moment he sent that message to the third years’ group chat that Floyd would show up. Whether it was through the door or the window was anyone’s guess.

As if summoned by thought alone, Floyd climbed in through the window with the ease of someone who’d clearly done this before.

“I’m gonna kill your mom,” was the first thing out of his mouth.

Riddle blinked. He had to stop himself from laughing at the sheer absurdity.

“You’d have to get in line. Trey’s already claimed the first spot,” Riddle said dryly, watching as Floyd strolled over to the bed like he owned it.

Floyd didn’t grin like usual. He climbed onto the bed with an ease that belied the tension in his eyes. “How you feelin’, Goldfishy?” he asked softly, reaching up to cup the side of Riddle’s face.

Riddle sighed and leaned into his touch.

“Tired. Disappointed. Angry,” he murmured, voice quiet. His fingers gripped the fabric of Floyd’s shirt, and without really thinking, he pressed his face into Floyd’s chest, seeking comfort in the warmth and weight of him.

Floyd didn’t say anything at first. He just shifted to hold him better, one hand petting slowly through Riddle’s hair, the other resting between his shoulder blades.

“Mm. That’s a lot of heavy stuff for such a tiny lil’ fish,” he said eventually, his tone light but careful.

Riddle huffed a weak laugh into his shirt.

“She said some awful things,” Riddle admitted, voice muffled. “She threatened to disown me. Said I was—” He cut himself off before the words could make it out.

Floyd’s fingers twitched against his back.

“I told you I was gonna kill her,” he muttered, resting his chin on top of Riddle’s head. “Just... y’know. A lil’ murder. It never hurt no one.”

That made Riddle laugh properly this time—short, sharp, and a little watery.

Floyd smiled, finally. “There’s my Goldfishy.”

They lay in silence for a while, just enjoying each other's company, until Riddle broke it.

“I’m going to start studying law fully,” Riddle said absently, eyes unfocused as his fingers curled into Floyd’s sleeve.

Floyd hummed, unbothered. “You gonna collar me and toss me behind bars?” he teased, pinching Riddle’s cheek with a grin.

“You’d look good with a collar around your neck,” Riddle shot back, half joking, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.

Floyd snorted, then leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Any other big plans, Counselor?”

Riddle paused.

Really paused.

Because for the first time in his life the question wasn’t about expectations or duty or what came next—it was just… open.

Just his.

And that was terrifying.

He laid there for a long while, eyes distant, chewing on the thought. Then, finally, quietly, “I want to change.”

His fingers tightened in the fabric of Floyd’s shirt.

Floyd blinked, expression softening. “Change how?”

“I don’t know,” Riddle admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “And it scares me. I want it—I really want it—but I’m scared I won’t like who I become. I’m scared other people won’t like me either. That I’ll change and… and everyone will hate me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Floyd tilted his head, casual as ever. “Why’s that matter?”

Before Riddle could respond, Floyd leaned in and cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing against the heat blooming under Riddle’s skin. His voice dropped, low and steady.

“You’re allowed to change, Goldfishy. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? You broke outta that tiny glass tank your mom shoved you in. You did all that already—told her off, stood your ground. You got free.”

He pressed their foreheads together.

“So what’s the point of freedom if you’re still scared to swim?”

Riddle’s breath hitched. Floyd’s hands were warm. Grounding.

“You’re allowed to live,” Floyd said softly. “Wear weird clothes, try dumb hobbies, fail hard and laugh harder. You’re allowed to be someone new every week just because you feel like it.”

“And yeah, maybe you’ll mess up along the way. Who doesn’t?” Floyd shrugged with a crooked smile. “We’re young. This is prime mistake season, baby.”

He grinned, sharp and sincere. “So let’s make some. Let’s go out and get stupid drunk, or let’s stay in and dance until our legs give out. Just the two of us. I wanna meet the version of you who isn’t scared of living. And I know I’m gonna love him too.”

Riddle didn’t respond with words.

He didn’t need to.

Because in the next heartbeat, he pushed Floyd down onto the mattress and climbed into his lap, and kissed him like he was trying to carve their names into the stars.

He kissed him once—hard.

Twice—desperate.

A third time—slow and full of everything he couldn’t say aloud.

Floyd understood. He always did. His arms wrapped tight around Riddle’s waist as he kissed him back, deeper this time, pulling him close like he never planned to let go.

And when Floyd laughed into the kiss—breathy, delighted, all teeth and affection—Riddle wanted to bottle that sound and hide it in the corners of his soul.

He wanted to remember this.

Every laugh.

Every heartbeat.

Every stupid, beautiful moment with this chaotic, brilliant boy beneath him.

And he never wanted to let go.

“I’m already regretting this,” Riddle sighed as Cater practically dragged him along by the wrist.

“Ah, but this is going to be such an enlightening experience for you, little Rose!” Lilia chimed, floating beside them with a grin far too mischievous for Riddle’s comfort.

They were going clothes shopping.

It had all started innocently enough—Riddle had been thinking a lot about what Floyd had said. About change. About freedom. About trying new things and figuring out who he wanted to be now that he was finally allowed to make his own choices.

So, he’d mentioned—casually—that he might be interested in picking up some new clothes. Something less uniform-adjacent. Maybe even something… expressive.

Cater’s reaction had been instantaneous and terrifying.

“Say no more, bestie. We’re going shopping.”

And somehow, Lilia had gotten involved.

Now here he was, being marched through a busy shopping district with one fashion-obsessed fourth-year and one ageless bat-dad who thought leather straps were casual wear.

He wasn’t sure if he was making a brave decision or a terrible mistake.

Possibly both.

“Do you have any ideas on what aesthetic you’re going for?” Cater asked, sifting through a rack of shirts with practiced flair.

“I—I think it was called… Harajuku punk?” Riddle answered, voice small but determined.

Cater froze mid-rack-pull and whipped his head around to stare at him. “You’re into punk fashion?” he repeated, eyes wide with disbelief. “Our prim and proper Riddle is into punk fashion?!”

Riddle felt his face heat up immediately. “Ethereal dreamcore works too…” he mumbled, as if softening the blow.

Cater’s expression softened instantly. “You really looked into this beforehand, huh?”

Riddle gave a stiff little nod, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“Don’t worry, little Rose,” Lilia said brightly as he reappeared from a different aisle, arms filled with hangers. “By the time we exit these doors, you’ll have a wardrobe full of your dream looks!”

Riddle looked between them—Cater, practically vibrating with excitement, and Lilia, somehow holding four plaid skirts and a ruffled crop top—and tried to calm the anxious flutter in his chest.

This was terrifying.

And kind of… exciting.

Riddle felt dizzy just looking at the mountain of clothes Cater and Lilia had shoved into his arms.

“We’re having a fashion show!” Cater declared gleefully, practically shoving him into a dressing room. “Now go! I picked this first outfit specifically for your inner fairy prince!”

Riddle groaned but obeyed, albeit with great reluctance. It took him forever to figure out where each layer was supposed to go—and more than once, he muttered curses under his breath as he fumbled with delicate clasps and confusing straps.

Eventually, he stepped out, adjusting the sheer top with careful fingers.

The outfit was… elaborate, to say the least. A soft, draped cape-like blouse in pale pastels floated around him, paired with flowing light-blue pants trimmed with lace at the cuffs. A silver-toned belt, glittering with charms and tiny blue ribbons, cinched his waist.

Cater audibly gasped.

“Awwww!! You look like you walked straight out of a dream!” he squealed, immediately snapping a photo. “Hashtag totes adorbs, hashtag look at this cutie~!”

Lilia cackled with delight. “Oh! Send me that one—I want to frame it!”

Riddle flushed a deep scarlet. “You better not post that,” he said with a full-blown pout.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry!” Cater reassured him, waving a hand. “I triple-checked—this one’s only going on my super private account. Pinky promise.”

Riddle gave him a dubious glare but turned back toward the changing room.

“Now go try on something punkie!” Cater called after him.

“That’s not even a word,” Riddle huffed as the curtain swished shut behind him.

After much deliberation—and a few near wardrobe malfunctions—Riddle finally settled on an outfit and stepped out of the dressing room once more.

This one was bold. Dramatic. A long coat jacket in dark red and black patterns swept around his thighs like smoke, layered over a crimson lace top and a sleek black corset that hugged his waist. The look was completed by textured black shorts over fishnet stockings, tall dark boots decked out with buckles, studs, and chains, and a dark choker around his neck with a red heart gem that gleamed under the lights.

The room went still for a second.

Then—

“Ooh, little Rose, you surprisingly pull off the punk aesthetic well!” Lilia exclaimed, clasping his hands with glee. “We could match! Just dye your hair black and we’ll be twins!”

“Ack!” Cater squealed. “You do look super punky! But like, in a cute way!” He immediately snapped another photo. “Hashtag rebel, hashtag beware—there’s a new punk in town!”

Riddle sighed, half exasperated, half resigned to Cater’s dramatics. But as Lilia continued chatting about matching accessories and safety pins, Riddle’s thoughts drifted to the idea of black hair.

He… wasn’t opposed to it. Black would look nice. And there were hair styles you could use to hide the dye easily—ones that only showed depending on how you styled it. If he slicked his hair back or pinned it just right, maybe no one would even notice unless he wanted them to.

It was a strange thought. But not a bad one.

Not bad at all.

After their little fashion show, they spent some time shopping for more casual and lounge wear. Nothing too flashy—just soft, comfortable pieces Riddle could see himself actually wearing in his dorm.

And, as Lilia had promised, the whole experience truly had been… enlightening. He felt a little more grounded. A little more himself.

“If you ever need suggestions on how to layer or style an outfit, don’t be afraid to call me, alright, little Rose?” Lilia said warmly, pulling Riddle into a gentle hug.

“I will. Once again… thank you for the help.” Riddle returned the hug, his voice soft but sincere.

“Ahh, you’re just too cute,” Lilia beamed as he pulled back. “Well, I best be off. Have a lovely day, you two! See you at light music club, Cater!” he added with a cheerful wave.

“See you!” Cater called.

“Goodbye,” Riddle echoed.

They waved until Lilia quite literally vanished from sight.

“Well, today’s been eventful,” Cater said brightly as they started walking back to the dorms, casually levitating the pile of bags with a flick of his wrist.

“It was,” Riddle agreed. Then, after a brief pause, “Do you know anywhere I could go to dye my hair?”

Cater stopped mid-step. “You’re actually taking Lilia’s suggestion?!”

Riddle nodded, a little shy but determined.

“Oh oh oh—this is just great! I totally know this amazing boutique—super reputable, great with sensitive hair, and they do hideable dye jobs as well—”

Riddle just smiled as Cater launched into an excited ramble.

Today had been a good day.

A strange day.

An unexpected day.

But good.

Chapter Text

Riddle sat at his vanity and stared at his reflection.

His fingers hesitantly combed through his newly dyed hair, the strands catching the light in unfamiliar ways. He liked how it looked—he truly did. But beneath that flicker of pride, there was fear. Heavy and gnawing.

He knew he was driving himself mad with anxiety over something that, in the grand scheme of things, was probably meaningless. It was just hair. Just fashion. Just… clothes.

But still, he was scared.

Wearing those softer, dreamier outfits—flowing tops, pastel pants, glittery belts—that was easy enough. People stared, sure, but no one questioned it too much. NRC had enough eccentric fashion tastes that he could pass as another whimsical student trying something new.

But punk fashion? Chains and corsets and fishnets?

That felt loud.

That felt like defiance.

And Riddle wasn’t used to being loud about anything that wasn't rules and orders.

The idea of walking out in public dressed like that made his chest tighten. It sent his thoughts spiraling—fast and sharp—until he could feel the edges of panic brushing against him like cold wind.

It was silly, wasn’t it?

Just clothes.

But to him, it wasn’t.

He had an image. A reputation. A role.

He was supposed to be the prim and proper Housewarden—always immaculate, always composed, always correct.

He was supposed to look the part.

And right now… he didn’t know if he wanted to anymore.

He was pulled out of his spiraling thoughts by a knock at the door.

“Ah—come in!”

The door opened, and in walked Yuu.

Riddle blinked, caught off guard, but stood up from his vanity to greet them, smoothing down the front of his lounge wear—simple, comfortable, nothing remarkable.

“Yuu. What a pleasant surprise,” he said politely, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

Yuu smiled. “Sorry to drop by unannounced,” they said, a glint of something unreadable in their eyes, “but I had a feeling I was needed here.”

Riddle frowned slightly at that, but he couldn’t say he was shocked. Yuu had a strange way of showing up at just the right moment—or the wrong one, depending on the chaos level—whenever someone needed something.

It had only gotten more noticeable since they’d become a second-year.

Without a word, Yuu walked over to the couch like they owned the room and patted the cushion beside them, beckoning him over with a knowing look.

Riddle hesitated, lips parting as if to form an excuse—but stopped himself. He already knew better than to try to talk his way out of it when Yuu was in this kind of mood.

So he sat beside them with a quiet sigh, unsure of what was coming—but trusting, just enough, to stay.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Yuu said gently.

And somehow, that was all it took.

Riddle found himself speaking before he could even stop to second-guess it.

“I… recently cut contact with my mother,” he began, voice low but steady.

Yuu’s expression shifted—half surprise, half something like quiet understanding. Maybe even expectation. 

Of course they knew. Yuu had a way of sensing things, even when no one said them aloud.

Only a handful of people knew what had happened. Trey. Cater. Che’nya—though with him, Riddle hadn’t even told him; he’d just known. And the rest of the third years, who he had felt close enough with to share what had unfolded in his personal life.

He hadn’t shared it beyond that. It wasn’t anyone else’s business.

“And since then,” he continued, glancing down at his hands in his lap, “I’ve realized I’m finally allowed to be my own person.”

He paused. His voice wavered—not from uncertainty in what he was saying, but from the weight of it.

“But I’m struggling to figure out what kind of person I want to be.”

He inhaled shakily.

“Everyone I’ve told has been so supportive. They’ve been helping me and trying to show me new things, help me explore. And I’m grateful, I really am.”

Riddle’s fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his pants.

“But I still feel anxious. Constantly. And it’s frustrating. I’m scared of what people will say if they see me like this—struggling. Floundering. Not… in control.”

He swallowed.

“Not even a moment ago, I nearly gave myself a panic attack. Over what clothes I’m allowed to wear,” he admitted, a bitter little laugh escaping him. “As silly as that may sound.”

Yuu reached out and gently took Riddle’s hand in theirs.

“What you’re feeling is normal,” they said softly. “Though, for most people, it happens a little earlier—usually during their early teens.”

They gave his hand a light squeeze, their voice even and steady.

“In psychology, there’s a stage called identity versus role confusion. It’s when people start asking themselves who they are, who they want to be, and where they fit in the world. Most teenagers go through it.”

They tilted their head, thoughtful. “But not everyone gets to. Some people skip it because they’re under pressure, or boxed in by expectations. And those people? They usually need a little help finding themselves later on.”

Riddle stared down at their joined hands, listening in silence.

“You don’t have to do everything all at once,” Yuu continued. “Start small. Like with the clothes—you don’t need to leap into full outfits right away. Try subtle accessories. A bracelet. A pin. Something that makes you feel good when you look in the mirror.”

Their smile was soft. “Then build from there. Let yourself grow into it.”

Riddle looked into Yuu’s eyes, and for a moment, the world felt quieter.

It was in moments like this that Riddle remembered—really remembered—that Yuu was probably older than him, even if they didn’t always act like it. Even if they still didn’t know everything about this world they’d been dropped into, there was something about them that carried the weight of experience.

Different kinds of experience. But still meaningful.

He swallowed and offered a small, genuine smile. “I like trying new things… as nerve-wracking as it can be. Any suggestions?”

Yuu laughed, light and easy, but didn’t comment on the shift in conversation. They just rolled with it.

“Trey’s coming back to campus tomorrow, right? For the next unbirthday party prep?”

Riddle nodded.

“Then why not try baking with him?” Yuu said, a mischievous glint in their eye. “I know your first attempts were a little… hmm—” They broke into giggles at the memory. “Let’s say unique.”

Riddle huffed, crossing his arms with a light pout. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“I distinctly remember you putting oyster sauce in your tarts,” Yuu teased.

“...How could I have known Trey would lie about the recipe,” Riddle muttered, then sighed. “But fine. You have a point.”

“Baking’s fun,” Yuu said. “And it’s a great gateway hobby. You can follow the recipe at first—rules, structure—but then you can start experimenting. Add your own flavor. You get to make something from scratch. And you can share it with others. It’s… satisfying.”

Riddle hummed, thoughtful. “Alright then. I’ll give it a try.”

Riddle stared at the cake as it came out of the oven—sunken right in the center like a sad crater—and felt like a helpless puppy.

Right beside it, Trey’s cake sat perfectly domed, golden, and smug.

“You probably forgot the baking soda,” Trey said gently, patting Riddle’s head in a soothing, practiced motion.

Riddle pouted, crossing his arms. “I was doing so well, too.”

“It’s fine,” Trey said easily. “We can turn it into cake pops instead.”

Riddle let out a long sigh, though he was slightly relieved. At least he hadn’t destroyed it completely.

He watched as Trey began to crumble the failed cake into a bowl, hands moving with steady confidence.

“How do you do this?” Riddle asked, voice genuinely curious.

“Do what?” Trey said, glancing up. “Make cake pops, or just… bake?”

“The latter,” Riddle said as Trey handed him the bowl and gestured for him to start crumbling.

Trey smiled and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. “Well, I’ve been doing it pretty much my whole life. At first, it was because my parents needed an extra hand in the shop. But over time, I started enjoying it.”

He shrugged, casual and relaxed. “There’s something nice about it, y’know? Kneading dough, whisking egg whites—it’s therapeutic. It gives you something to focus on, something to feel proud of when it’s done.”

Riddle hummed softly, pressing his fingers into the cake and watching it break apart between them.

He wasn’t sure about therapeutic just yet, but he did find the crumbling oddly satisfying.

“Besides,” Trey added with a small grin, “I get to eat as many pastries as I want, anytime I want. It’s pretty rewarding, being able to make it all yourself.”

Riddle blinked, the mental image of eating pastries on a whim tugging at something uneasy in his stomach.

He couldn’t imagine it—indulging that freely, that often. The very thought made him feel slightly nauseous.

He didn’t voice that thought though.

Instead, he let out a soft laugh. “I’d imagine that must be awfully convenient.”

“It is,” Trey said, smiling warmly. There was something gentle in his tone—like he meant more than just the words.

Riddle nodded and focused back on the bowl, fingers methodically crumbling what was left of the cake.

Ultimately, Riddle decided he wasn’t the biggest fan of cooking.

Baking was… tolerable, he supposed. Enjoyable, even—comparatively. But he couldn’t imagine doing it very often.

Cooking, though? That was another story.

He was getting better at it, sure. But he didn’t like it. He only did it because food was necessary for survival, and even that felt like a frustrating compromise. Cooking was tedious. Exhausting. Hours of slaving away in a kitchen for what—ten, maybe twenty minutes of pleasure? Thirty if you were an exceptionally slow eater?

He could think of an infinite number of more productive things to do with his time.

While baking didn’t stir up the same disdain, he couldn’t see himself doing it frequently either—especially not for a crowd. The scale of it was draining.

They had been in the kitchen for hours now, mixing and rolling and shaping and decorating, and Riddle was so ready to hang up his apron and not touch a spatula for the foreseeable future.

Possibly ever again.

“Hehehe. These are really good.”

Riddle startled and whipped around—he knew that voice anywhere.

“Che’nya,” he sighed, hand on his chest. “How do you keep getting in here?”

Trey laughed good-naturedly from the counter. “It’s good to see you, Che’nya.”

“Good to see you too!” Che’nya beamed, already licking a bit of frosting off his thumb, a half-eaten pastry in the other hand. He made no effort to answer Riddle’s question, per usual.

Riddle just shook his head fondly and wiped his hands on his apron. “I’m glad someone is enjoying the mountain of pastries we spent hours slaving over,” he said, voice dry with a hint of humor.

“Mhm! Very good,” Che’nya said cheerfully, hopping down from the counter with an exaggerated bounce. “You’re getting better at this, nya~!”

Riddle rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, Che’nya added, “I like your hair pins. They fit the new style.”

Riddle blinked, caught off guard—and had to stop himself from preening at the compliment.

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear instead, trying to play it cool. “Thank you,” he said, just a little too primly.

Che’nya draped himself dramatically across Trey’s back like a stage performer mid-monologue. “Look how fast our baby’s grown, Trey!” he said, voice full of faux emotion. “Feels like just yesterday he was knee-high and yelling about one of the Queen’s rules!”

Riddle pouted, arms crossed. He was only a year younger than them, but Che’nya always held it against him like he was a kindergartener in a kitchen full of adults.

“It really was only yesterday he was lecturing someone for not using the proper tea spoon,” Trey added, eyes twinkling as he played along. “And now? Here he is, helping me bake.”

“Oh, not again,” Riddle groaned, shooting them both a glare. “Don’t start with this or I will leave this kitchen.”

They just laughed—loud, unbothered, rude.

Riddle scowled deeper. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.

But he didn’t leave.

And they all knew he wouldn’t.

“You should try one of the pastries you guys made—they’re really purrtastic!” Che’nya purred, holding one up enticingly.

Riddle shook his head with a polite smile. “Ah, I’m not hungry.”

“We’ve been working all afternoon,” Trey added, his tone gentle but concerned. “You should eat something.”

Riddle looked away—away from them, away from the trays of pastries, away from the warmth of the kitchen.

“I had a really big breakfast this morning,” he said quickly, a little too quick, a little too rehearsed. “I’ll be fine.”

“That’s odd,” Che’nya mused, tilting his head. “I don’t remember you eating breakfast today.”

Riddle’s smile strained at the edges.

He wanted to snap—how would you even know that if you weren’t there? But the problem was, there was a very real chance that Che’nya had been there. Just unseen. Watching. Lurking upside-down in some hidden corner like he always did.

So Riddle just… laughed. Polite. Dismissive.

He couldn’t defend himself without proving he was lying, and he couldn’t deflect without inviting more questions.

“I’m just saving my appetite for the party,” he said instead, smoothing out his tone with practiced ease.

Che’nya didn’t push.

Trey didn’t either.

But the air in the room shifted—just a little.

And Riddle, despite the smile still on his lips, suddenly felt very, very tired.

“You want me to join the Light Music Club?” Riddle asked, brow raised with curiosity.

“Mhm!” Kalim nodded enthusiastically, practically bouncing where he stood. “Cater mentioned you know how to play a couple instruments—and we’re gonna need new members soon since all the fourth years are graduating this year!”

He beamed even brighter. “And honestly, the music part’s kind of secondary. It’s more like a chill club where we hang out, vibe, snack—just relax! You’d love it!”

Riddle hummed thoughtfully.

He did have a bit of free time now, and Floyd had been very adamant lately about him not working himself into the ground.

 A little club with no pressure didn’t sound so bad.

“All right, I suppose,” Riddle said with a small nod. “When and where are we meeting?”

Kalim’s grin somehow grew even wider. “Don’t worry—I’ll text you everything you need to know!”

“Oh! And I really love your jacket—black’s a surprisingly good color on you!” Kalim added cheerfully before rushing off to who-knows-where, as he often did.

Riddle blinked, then smiled faintly at the compliment.

And that’s how he found himself, on a perfectly good Thursday afternoon, sitting in some classroom-turned-club-room, listening to Cater sing a pop song Riddle wasn’t even remotely familiar with.

Lilia sat beside him, bobbing his head to the beat and cheering loudly once Cater finished the song.

He turned to Riddle with a bright smile. “Cater’s truly a talented musician, don’t you agree?” he said cheerfully.

Riddle nodded. “He has a nice voice,” he agreed, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

“Ah! That reminds me—I've been meaning to ask you something,” Lilia said, tilting his head.

Riddle glanced over, curious.

“What instrument do you play?” Lilia asked. “Cater hadn’t been very forthcoming about that.”

“Oh. I can play a few, actually.”

Lilia’s eyes lit up with pleasant surprise. “Do tell,” he encouraged.

“Well… there’s the piano, of course. A classic. And the violin. And… then the harp.”

Lilia blinked. “The harp?” he repeated, a spark of fascination flickering in his eyes. “It’s been ages since I’ve met someone who could play such an instrument!”

He leaned in, beaming. “Oh, I must hear you play sometime!”

“Ah, I don’t know where I’d find a harp,” Riddle said, frowning slightly.

“There must be one around here somewhere!” Lilia declared, springing up from his seat with far too much enthusiasm for a Thursday.

“Would you two help me find something?” he called out, and both Kalim and Cater looked up from their conversation.

“Of course!” Kalim said, already bounding over.

“What’re we looking for?” Cater asked, curious as he joined them.

“A harp,” Lilia replied simply.

“A harp?” Kalim and Cater echoed in unison.

“Mhm!” Lilia nodded, eyes gleaming. “Riddle informed me he could play one, and I simply must hear him perform—or I’ll wither away in despair!” he added dramatically, hand pressed to his heart.

Both Cater and Kalim turned to look at Riddle with wide, surprised eyes.

“I didn’t know you could play the harp!” Kalim said brightly.

“Neither did I,” Cater added, clearly amused. “I only knew about the piano and violin.”

“Wow! Three instruments?” Kalim’s eyes sparkled with admiration. “That’s amazing!”

Riddle flushed, gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s… not that impressive,” he said quietly. “My, uh… mother thought it would give me an edge or something.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t mention the hours spent hunched over ivory keys and gut strings, fingers blistered, eyes stinging. Didn’t speak about how she’d sit just out of sight, criticizing every mistake, every missed note, every breath too long. Or how the difficulty would be upped before he even had a chance to breathe.

He just shook his head and muttered, mostly to himself, “It was never really about enjoyment.”

There was a small pause. Just long enough for Riddle to regret saying anything at all.

But then Cater stepped in, voice light but sincere. “Well, whatever the reason you learned, I still think it’s impressive. Most people can’t even play one instrument without butchering it.”

“And you can play three!” Kalim added, still smiling—less wide now, but no less genuine. “That takes so much dedication.”

Riddle’s fingers twitched at his sides. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Lilia, sensing the weight in the air, spun back toward the others with a clap of his hands. “Now then! Enough standing around—we’ve got a harp to find!”

“Are we even sure there is one here?” Cater asked as he followed Lilia toward the far side of the room.

“If there’s not,” Lilia said confidently, “I’ll just summon one.”

“You can do that?” Kalim blinked.

“I mean, no,” Lilia grinned. “But I like the attitude.”

Riddle let out a quiet laugh and trailed after them, a little slower, a little more relaxed.

They ended up combing through dusty instrument storage closets and half-forgotten prop trunks. It was chaotic, borderline dangerous at one point (Kalim almost got stuck in a tuba case), but after what felt like far too long—

“Found it!” Cater called, levitating up a harp case with exaggerated triumph.

Riddle blinked in surprise. “You actually found one?”

“Duh,” Cater said, grinning. “You think I’d let your debut performance slip away that easily?”

Kalim clapped excitedly. “Yes! You’ve got to play something now!”

Lilia nodded solemnly. “Play a haunting lullaby. Or a tragic ballad. Or a pop song. I’m not picky.”

Riddle stared at the harp. Then at the three of them.

And—for once—he didn’t feel like someone performing under pressure.

He felt… invited.

“I’ll play something simple,” he said, and opened the case with practiced care, casting a quick cleaning spell before levitating it to its full height. The harp stood taller than him, elegant and imposing.

He pulled a chair over and sat down, adjusting his posture like second nature. His fingers hovered above the strings for a brief moment… then settled.

He began to play.

The notes of ‘The Fountain’ by La Source flowed out, delicate and cascading like water tumbling over stone. It was a piece that required control, precision, grace—traits Riddle knew well. It wasn’t an easy piece, especially after so long without practice, but it wasn’t impossible either. And more importantly, it was his.

The room went still.

Even Kalim, who usually had the attention span of a firework, sat perfectly quiet.

The music rippled through the air—soft, fluid, filled with emotion Riddle hadn’t quite known how to say aloud. Not until now.

When he finished, the last note hanging in the air like a held breath, the room remained silent for a moment too long, and Riddle could feel the nerves creeping in.

He knew he was rusty. He knew he wasn’t perfect. But he’d played well—hadn’t he?

Just as his doubts began to curl like fog in his chest—

“Holy Seven!” Cater breathed, eyes wide. “That was seriously amazing, Riddle!”

“That was beautiful!” Kalim gushed, practically bouncing in place. “You have to teach me how to play!”

“Ah… this brings me back,” Lilia said with a wistful smile, his tone unusually soft. “Truly fantastic, Riddle. You’ve got a gift.”

Riddle’s cheeks flushed pink under the weight of their praise.

He looked down, hands resting gently on the strings, and gave a small, humble smile.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “All of you.”

And for the first time in a long while, he meant it.

Riddle realized that roller skating wasn’t too difficult—at least, not if you already knew how to ice skate.

Of course, he’d floundered a bit when he first stepped onto the rink, arms flailing and knees wobbling like a baby deer. But after a few ungraceful laps and a near-collision with the wall, he found his rhythm. The muscle memory kicked in, and soon enough, he was gliding with ease.

“Aww, I was just starting to enjoy watching you flounder around like a little fishie,” Floyd pouted, arms lazily tucked behind his head as Riddle skated a smooth circle around him like a shark.

They were on a date.

It was Floyd’s turn to pick the activity, and—unsurprisingly—he’d chosen something that involved wheels. Riddle had known Floyd was an avid skateboarder, but there was no way he was getting on one of those death traps.

Too little stability. Too much chaos. Absolutely not.

So Floyd, to his credit, had relented and taken him roller skating instead.

And Riddle… was enjoying himself more than he’d expected.

Riddle had never been roller skating before, but he had ice skated—quite a bit, actually, when he was younger.

It was one of the few memories from his childhood that he held onto with something close to fondness.

Surprisingly enough, it had been his father who’d taken him. Years ago, in the thick of winter, when Riddle had still been small enough to wobble in oversized skates. At the time, it had felt magical—cold air, laughter, the glide of blades on ice.

He later found out the real reason.

His father’s hospital had been hosting a family event that year. There would be ice skating, games, photo ops. And Riddle, being the only child of an important executive, was expected to perform—to behave, to skate well, to be seen and admired.

His father hadn’t taken him skating out of sentiment. He’d taken him so he wouldn’t embarrass him in front of his colleagues.

The memory soured a little after that.

But not entirely.

Even now, Riddle could still recall the rush of movement, the fleeting freedom he’d felt gliding across the ice. It wasn’t the reason they’d gone that stuck with him—it was the feeling. That brief, weightless joy.

And here he was now, years later, roller skating in circles around Floyd on a date.

The thought made him smile.

Riddle’s thoughts drifted as he skated another slow loop around the rink. The familiar motion, the steady rhythm under his wheels—it was almost meditative. He barely noticed the way his face had softened, gaze distant and a little nostalgic.

Floyd noticed, though.

He always did.

“Hey, Goldfish,” Floyd called lazily, gliding up beside him and skating backward with effortless grace. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

Riddle blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “What face?”

Floyd squinted dramatically. “The one that looks like your brain got stuck in a memory. Kinda like when a song’s playin’ in your head but it’s one of the sad ones.”

Riddle looked away, cheeks lightly flushed. “It’s nothing.”

Floyd hummed. “If it was really nothing, you wouldn’t be makin’ that face.”

There was a beat of silence between them as they skated in sync for a moment—Riddle forward, Floyd still backward, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then Riddle sighed. “I was just remembering… when I used to ice skate as a child.”

Floyd tilted his head, interested. “Oooh. Did baby Goldfish twirl around like a little ballerina?”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “No. My father made me learn because his hospital was hosting a winter event. He didn’t want me embarrassing him.”

Floyd’s teasing grin faded.

“Oh,” he said, voice softer now.

“But,” Riddle added, glancing up at him, “I liked skating. It was one of the few things that made me feel free.”

Floyd was quiet for a beat.

Then he suddenly looped around and hooked an arm around Riddle’s waist, pulling him close as they rolled along together.

“Well,” Floyd said with a grin tugging back at his lips, “guess we’re making new skating memories now, huh?”

Riddle startled a little at the sudden closeness, but didn’t pull away. In fact… he let himself lean into it.

“I suppose we are,” he said quietly, lips curving into a real smile.

Floyd bumped their heads together gently. “Bet I can make you laugh before we finish one more lap.”

Riddle raised a brow. “Bet you can’t.”

Floyd’s grin turned sharp. “Ohhhh, you shouldn’t have said that, Goldfish.”

And just like that, the air grew lighter again—still warm, still full of something meaningful. But now with just enough chaos to make it theirs.