Chapter Text
The afternoon sun was filtering through the hedges and trees of Heartslabyul’s garden in rippling warmth. Riddle knelt within the hedgehog enclosure, a wide space carpeted in soft grass, shaded by flowering shrubs. A small shallow dish of water sat nearby, and a basket of fresh berries and cut fruit lay within reach. The hedgehogs—plump, curious, and well cared for—snuffled around his knees as he carefully checked each of them for signs of injury or discomfort.
He smiled faintly as one of the smaller ones tried to roll away a slice of melon he hadn't cut yet, nose twitching. “You’ll get a stomachache if you eat that whole thing,” he murmured, gently nudging the fruit back toward the pile.
The peaceful air was soon broken by the creak of the nearby garden gate and the sound of someone approaching through the grass.
“Hey, uh—Cater said I’d find you here,” Idia’s voice drifted toward him, hesitant but warm.
Riddle looked up from where he was seated on the grass, brushing his hands off against his trousers. Idia stood just beyond the low wooden fence that enclosed the space, curiosity lighting up his face as he took in the scene—Riddle seated cross-legged in the grass, surrounded by inquisitive hedgehogs.
Riddle’s eyes softened, and he gestured toward the gate. “Come in,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “They’ve been curious about you. I told them all about you, after all.”
Idia blinked. “Wait… you talk to them?” He leaned on the fence, eyes going wide. “You know their language?”
Riddle gave a prim little huff, though his smile betrayed his amusement. “It’s the bare minimum if one wishes to care for them properly. They’re sensitive creatures. Communication is important.”
Idia stared at him for a beat longer, then gave a slow, utterly awed nod. “You’re, like… the hedgehog whisperer.”
The moment he stepped into the enclosure, Riddle saw the way the little ones perked up—tiny noses twitching, claws scritching gently in the grass as they turned toward the newcomer. Idia knelt beside him, his movements careful. He began to coo, eyes sparkling. “Heehee, they're so cute. They’re even cuter up close. Look at their tiny feet—aaah, she’s got a little berry nose!”
One of the bolder hedgehogs—a sleek little girl with a pale stripe across her back—waddled right up to him. She sniffed at his fingers, then promptly began climbing into his lap.
“Oh—oh!” Idia froze, startled, before carefully adjusting his arms so she wouldn’t slip. “She’s—she’s just. She’s climbing me. What? She likes me?”
Riddle felt a flutter in his chest, watching them. He smiled, then said before he could think better of it, “She knows you’re gentle.”
The moment the words left his mouth, heat surged to his cheeks. He stiffened, eyes darting down as he busied himself with rearranging a cluster of fruit pieces. He'd told the hedgehogs that Idia was his partner, that he was gentle and caring, and that he cared for him and admired him greatly. It was all the truth, but it'd be a little embarrassing if Idia found out.
Idia didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy laughing under his breath as the hedgehog continued her slow climb toward his shoulder.
“She’s really going for it. Bold little tank. Oop—okay, okay, that tickles—”
Riddle's gaze lingered on Idia, his careful hands, the way he grinned excitedly, cooing at the hedgehog. The way those striking gold eyes now looked so soft and unguarded. He'd seen that tender look many times before—directed at him. When Riddle shared a story, or smiled at something small, when he was happy.
Riddle swallowed, his heart clenching. Ever since he stopped fighting the feelings—stopped choking them down with shame and self-doubt—they’d only grown louder. Stronger. On days like this, moments like this, they felt too big to contain, like his ribs weren’t made to hold this much tenderness. It left him breathless.
His chest ached in the best and worst ways.
He watched Idia laugh quietly as one of the hedgehogs climbed higher, her tiny claws catching on the fabric of his shirt.
“She’s determined,” Idia said, amused. “Kinda feels like she’s making camp up here.”
“She likes your hair,” Riddle said. “It’s warm.”
Idia tilted his head slightly toward him. “Huh,” he said, a touch of disbelief in his voice. “Well… at least someone likes it.” There was a self-deprecating lilt in it, the kind Idia wore like armor, like a script, without thinking.
Before Riddle could stop himself, he was leaning forward, his hand lifting. His fingers brushed gently through the flame-blue strands, warm and soft. He brushed one piece aside, letting his palm settle gently against Idia’s cheek with such natural intimacy it startled even him—but he didn’t pull away.
“I like it too,” he said quietly. “It's so pretty.”
Idia blinked, once, twice—like the words had physically stunned him. A rush of color bloomed high on his cheekbones.
“Y-you can’t just say stuff like that out of nowhere,” he sputtered, voice pitched high and frantic. “I—I was in standby mode! Low-defense! No buffs! And you just launched a full-on charm spell straight to my heart with zero warning!” His hands flailed slightly in the air, like he could swat the embarrassment off himself.
Riddle blinked at him—and then, before he could stop himself, a soft giggle bubbled up in his chest. He covered his mouth with his hand, eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re ridiculous,” he said.
Idia’s panic stuttered to a halt at the sound. He looked at Riddle, startled—and then… his expression shifted. Like ice melting under sunlight. That soft, rare smile curved his lips. A little bashful, a little stunned. His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, all the usual tension he carried seemed to melt away. And there it was again. That warmth in his eyes. The look that always made Riddle’s heart feel too full. Like he was being seen and held and treasured all at once.
Riddle stared at him, lips parting slightly, breath catching. His heart ached so sharply with affection it almost hurt.
He’d never known eyes could hold so much tenderness. And that it could all be for him.
***
Idia's room was, to no one's surprise, cluttered. Cords trailing like vines, game cartridges stacked in questionable arrangements, and an impressive colony of energy drink cans migrating toward the waste bin. Still, compared to the overwhelming chaos it used to be, it looked... better. Or maybe Riddle had just gotten used to the mess, as strange as the thought was. It didn't bother him that much anymore. It was just... Idia's space. Filled with all the unique things he loved.
The mess didn't trouble him, what was concerning was that Idia clearly was not here. Riddle checked his phone. Where are you? he typed.
A moment later, the response blinked onto the screen.
> the vr exam rig @ the coliseum borked so now crowley’s making me solo tank the tech repair bossfight. it’s a mess. sorry sorry i’ll be late (ಥ﹏ಥ) u can wait in my room if u want.
Riddle huffed. Is Crowley really making him fix it alone? He made his way to the bed, brushing aside a folded blanket and a wayward hoodie as he sat on the edge.
The mattress gave softly under him, the faint scent of Idia’s shampoo settling around him. Plushies were scattered across the bed in disorganized ranks: some looked like anime mascots or game creatures, original characters with button eyes and huge heads. And nestled among them, half hidden under a squishy Kirby pillow, was—
“…Proto,” Riddle murmured, reaching out.
The little cat Riddle had crocheted was slightly wobbly in structure, with one ear higher than the other and little pink yarn paws. Riddle had seen him among Idia's plushies before, and Idia proudly told him about the name he'd picked. Now Proto wore a soft red sweater, fluffy and far too elaborate for such a wonky plush, the kind of tiny doll clothing Idia probably ordered online alongside his collection.
Riddle held the little thing in his hands and smiled, gently smoothing a bit of its yarn fur. It was, objectively, ugly. And yet the fuzz of wear along its sides and the little sweater said more than anything: it had been loved. Touched. Kept close.
He exhaled quietly, returning Proto to his spot and letting his eyes wander. Then something caught his eye. Near the base of Idia’s monitor, partially tucked behind a figure of a spellblade heroine, was a slip of thick paper—familiar in a way that made Riddle’s breath catch. He rose and stepped closer, then blinked.
It was a drawing. His drawing.
A roughly-sketched lily. He remembered drawing it while quizzing Idia during one of their study dates, the rhythm of asking questions settling him into a sort of thoughtless motion. The lines were shaky, the petals uneven—he hadn’t been focused on the art when he made it. He’d been doodling without thinking. It wasn’t even good.
He remembered frowning at it when Idia leaned over to see what he was doing.
“I... don't know why I drew it,” Riddle had said, shoving it aside. “I don't approve of distractions during studying.”
Idia had picked it up anyway. He hadn’t said anything, only smiled to himself—and slipped it into a book. Riddle had completely forgotten. But Idia hadn’t. Now, it rested beside the things that mattered, propped up carefully. Preserved.
He didn’t know why that made something tighten in his throat.
His gaze drifted to the nightstand. And there, on top of a small stack of books and an old tablet charger, lay a familiar glint of silver. The rose pendant bracelet. And next to it…
Riddle’s breath caught.
A heart-shaped seashell, pale coral pink with a soft, natural shimmer. The one he’d found on their first date, tucked half in the sand. He remembered holding it out to Idia, not really knowing why—only that it felt like a moment that should be marked somehow. A memory to keep.
And Idia had kept it.
It was strange. As he looked around he kept noticing other things. His old rose pattern bookmark, peeking from the pages of a tech manual on Idia’s desk. A tea tin with his favorite blend sitting on the shelf beside gaming snacks. And many other small things.
There were pieces of Riddle everywhere in this room.
His heart clenched. He sat down slowly, the bed dipping beneath his weight. He didn’t know why it touched him so deeply. Why the quiet act of someone keeping his offerings could leave him feeling breathless. But it did.
And then the memory came, sudden, slicing through him like a cold wind.
He was a child—small hands gripping a colored pencil, lips pressed together in focus. The drawing had been for his mother. A flower, painstakingly colored, with the words I love you, Mom. scribbled underneath.
When he’d given it to her, he hoped that maybe she'd smile. She hadn't. She'd barely glanced at it before frowning.
“You wasted your study time on this?”
He’d watched her toss it in the bin. Not even cruelly, just… dismissively. Like it didn’t matter.
Something inside him had curled up and gone quiet after that. He hadn’t drawn anything again for years, outside of art class assignments. Until... until that study date with Idia.
Riddle blinked the memory away, his chest tight.
Here, his drawing wasn’t in a wastebasket. It was displayed, gently propped up like a treasure worth keeping. This room was a lot like the life they were building together—still messy and uncertain and flawed—but Riddle’s offerings were safe here. Loved.
He was loved. Even the parts of him he thought were unworthy.
The sound of the door opening Riddle from his thoughts.
He turned, and there was Idia, stepping into the room. There was a tired slump to his posture that looked bone-deep. His hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, wisps escaping around his face, and he was dressed in something that looked thrown together for utility: a black tank top, and Ignihyde dorm uniform pants, dusted in lint and mystery crumbs. There was a tool belt half-undone around his waist and grease smudged faintly on his hand.
He looked exhausted.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, raising one hand weakly in greeting. “The VR setup in the Coliseum decided to implode in, like, twelve different ways at once and—shocker—Crowley dumped the whole thing on me. Because apparently I’m the only person in this entire school who can handle a couple of runaway spell circuits without causing an explosion.”
He kicked off his shoes and groaned, rolling his shoulder like it ached. “Seriously. Who designs a field exam VR simulation with that many unstable spell-meshes? It’s like he wants a tech meltdown. I had to rebuild half the matrix by hand.”
Riddle gave him a sympathetic look. “You couldn’t refuse?”
“Oh, I tried,” Idia sighed as he unhooked his tool belt and dropped it onto the desk. “He did the thing where he pretends you have a choice. You know. That Crowley special. ‘Of course, I understand, it's just so sad that the entire field exam will be canceled and no one will graduate’. I swear, that man’s charisma stat is trash-tier but his emotional blackmail skill is maxed out.”
He walked straight to the bed and with a tired groan, he collapsed backwards onto the sheets, limbs sprawled out like a deflated starfish.
“My HP is in the red,” he mumbled staring at the ceiling. “Requesting immediate emergency emotional support cuddles. Please and thank you.” Before Riddle could even react, Idia grabbed his wrist and tugged, gently but with purpose, until Riddle gave in, letting out a breathy laugh as he was guided down. He let himself be pulled over Idia’s chest, settling into the cradle of Idia’s arms.
“Do I even get a say in this?” Riddle murmured, amused, cheek resting just below Idia’s collarbone.
“Nope,” Idia replied, already wrapping both arms around him. “You’re my designated comfort plush now. My teddy bear. No, wait, scratch that, my plush kitty. All dignified and elegant but still warm and soft. Perfect for curling up with but will bite if provoked.”
Riddle scoffed against his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But I'm not wrong,” Idia said contentedly, pressing a hand to the middle of Riddle’s back, fingers splaying like he wanted to memorize the shape of him. “You're my little kitty.”
Riddle didn’t answer, but his cheeks were tinged with heat. He hadn’t known—hadn’t expected—how much he’d come to need this. This warmth. This closeness. This peaceful sense of being wrapped in someone else’s presence.
It was still a relatively new part of their relationship, this physical affection. Idia had been reserved at first, hesitant to touch, content with stolen glances and shy smiles. But once the walls began to fall, once he’d begun to trust, he became surprisingly affectionate. Clingy, even. He’d pull Riddle into hugs, rest his head on his shoulder, tangle their fingers together. And Riddle, who’d never had someone reach for him like this, found himself aching for it.
He sighed, sinking deeper into the embrace. He could feel Idia’s chest rising and falling, slow and steady. His shirt was warm and smelled faintly metallic, like something electric. Here, in Idia’s arms, the world felt quieter. Like all the weight of the day had been muffled, softened by the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat.
He’d never thought much about being held—what it could mean, what it could offer—but now, it felt like something he’d always needed without realizing. This safety, this warmth, a space where he didn’t need to lead or correct or perform.
Just be.
And he was allowed to, here.
Idia’s voice came again, low and quiet. “You know... most people kinda drain me. Even if I like them, it’s like… being around them feels like running too many apps at once. Eventually, I crash.”
He paused, exhaled through his nose, and shifted just slightly so his cheek rested against the top of Riddle’s head.
“But you... you’re the only person who charges me. When I’m with you, I don’t get tired. It’s like—your presence fills up my battery instead of draining it. And I didn’t even know I could feel that way.”
Riddle’s breath caught. His eyes stung a little at the corners, and he blinked quickly, hiding his face in the crook of Idia’s neck. It was such a small thing, spoken so naturally, but it unraveled something tangled and tight inside of him. To be the one who made someone feel better. To be the reason they didn’t feel alone.
His throat felt tight. Not with sadness, but with something too large to name. Something aching and bright. He swallowed thickly.
“I suppose,” he said softly, “being your plush kitty isn’t the worst job I could have.”
Idia laughed under him, soft and breathy, and pulled him just a bit closer. “You’re overqualified, honestly.”
Riddle smiled, eyes slipping closed. His hands curled gently in Idia’s shirt, and he let himself breathe.
He could stay here like this for a long, long time.
***
It was silly, really, that he still got nervous before every date.
He told himself that often enough that it was illogical. They’d been seeing each other for a while now. Idia knew him, had seen him at his best and at his most flustered, had held him when he was overwhelmed and when he felt too small. And still, every time they planned to meet, Riddle found himself standing in front of the mirror as if it were the very first time.
Today’s outfit was a simple one: a soft linen blouse in a pale coral, off-shoulder, leaving his collarbones and the tops of his arms bare to the air, the neckline sitting low and loose against his skin. There was a delicate ruffle at the top, airy and light, and he’d tucked it neatly into white shorts that stopped a little above the knee. His shoes were understated—cream-colored flats with tiny gold buckles—and his hair was carefully combed, pinned loosely at the side with a coral clip to match.
It was light. Summery. Not too bold. Nothing outrageous.
And still, he lingered.
His fingers smoothed over the blouse’s ruffle again, fidgeting with it even though it was perfectly in place. He brushed imaginary creases from the shorts. Turned slightly to check the side view. Then the other. He adjusted the hem of the blouse again.
He’d never worn things like this before, not until recently. There had been a time, not so long ago, when outfits like this would have made him recoil. Too informal. Inappropriate. Not dignified. Not something his mother would approve of.
But then one day, when he'd admitted—quietly, reluctantly—to Cater that he didn’t know what one was supposed to wear on casual dates, Cater had practically sparkled with excitement and dragged him off to help him shop. According to him, cute outfits are mandatory for proper dating aesthetic. Riddle had been flustered, uncertain. But he'd let himself try, just a little. And when he saw the way Idia's eyes lit up on their first date, something fluttered inside him.
Now he had a drawer just for date outfits. And though he still felt uncertain when he looked at himself—still caught in the echo of a voice that told him this was shameful—he was starting to like what he saw. Even if part of him still expected someone to scold him for it.
He glanced at the time. Just enough to make it to the gate without rushing.
He took a breath and stepped out.
***
As expected, Idia was already there.
He always arrived first. Riddle sometimes wondered if he came early on purpose—maybe to calm his nerves, maybe to catch a moment alone before they met. Riddle paused for a second before approaching.
After seeing Idia at the Beltane Ball, he’d thought maybe he’d become at least somewhat resistant to how handsome he could be. But apparently not. It still startled him sometime.
His hair was pulled into a high ponytail today, the strands cascading over his shoulder like wisps of flickering starlight. He wore a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, just a but wrinkled. A pair of dark blue jeans, slim-fit but comfortable, and a simple black wristband completed the look.
And he looked…
Riddle felt his breath catch, just for a second.
He knew people would stare. Not just because of Idia’s unique features—his hair like living flame, those eerie golden eyes—but because of how the strange and beautiful came together in him in a way that was magnetic. People stared because they didn’t know what to make of it—of him.
Idia didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and had just learned to pretend otherwise. That, more than anything, might be why he always looked uncomfortable when they went out. Riddle knew Idia thought the staring was because he looked freaky. But that wasn’t all of it, not really. He was striking. Uniquely attractive. The kind of person who made people look twice and then keep looking without knowing why.
Idia saw him and straightened up a little. Riddle walked the last few steps toward him, cheeks already warming under the sun. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something that could match what he was feeling—this strange warmth that unfurled like wings in his chest—but all that came out was a soft, simple:
“You look good.”
He meant it. Really meant it. But it felt so small. That was the worst part—how small his words felt next to the weight of what sat in his chest.
Idia froze like he’d just received a critical hit. “Wha—I—you—me? W-wait, you look so adorable, like an idol—no wait, like a cute rare fairy that gives out health buffs—!”
He flailed slightly, hands gesturing at nothing, like the words might rearrange into something coherent if he moved enough.
Riddle blinked, then laughed.
Even when he was ridiculous—and he often was—Idia always said the things Riddle never knew how to. He was better at it. At making Riddle feel... loved. It didn’t matter that his voice stumbled, that he tripped over himself trying to say too much. It was always overflowing with feeling, with admiration and honesty that made Riddle's chest tighten.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t seem to say anything more than you look good.
How could he explain this bright, aching thing in his chest? The way it glowed when Idia smiled, or how it ached when Idia looked away too quickly. The way it swelled and burned when he thought about how lucky he was to be loved by someone so gentle beneath the layers of awkwardness.
In his opinion, today’s outfit wasn’t anything particularly special. Just one of a few he wore on warmer days. But Idia reacted to it like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. As if every version of Riddle—no matter how dressed up or down—was uniquely dazzling.
It was ridiculous.
It was… sweet.
It made something warm settle behind Riddle’s ribs as he walked beside him, Idia still babbling nervously, trying to say he looked cute without completely combusting.
It made him feel beautiful in a way no mirror ever had.
***
They walked side by side down the cobblestone streets of Foothill Town in the summer sun, surrounded by the with the clinking of glasses from cafés with open windows, the gentle hum of passing voices. The air smelled faintly of flowers, and somewhere, someone was baking—sugar, butter, maybe cinnamon.
Riddle felt the brush of fingers against his hand. Then nothing. A pause. Then again—closer this time. A gentle nudge like a question.
Riddle glanced up. Idia’s eyes were trained firmly ahead, his expression fixed in that careful way he wore in public—composed, but uneasy. His lips were pressed together, and there was a visible tension in his shoulders, like he was trying not to shrink in on himself. He was nervous. But he reached out again, and this time—his hand wrapped gently around Riddle's.
Riddle let out a soft breath and turned his hand, intertwining their fingers. Idia’s hand was warm and large around his—gentler than it looked, and careful in the way it held him, never too tight, never pulling. Just there. Steady.
Riddle looked down at their joined hands. It always surprised him how much he liked it—how safe it felt. Being held like this. He wished he could offer that same feeling in return. But the last time they’d been out like this, Idia had struggled. Overwhelmed by he crowd, the noise, the attention. And Riddle hadn’t known what to do.
He swallowed thickly. It wasn’t guilt, exactly. It was… a deep longing to be better. He squeezed Idia’s hand, just once. A soft, subtle pulse of affection.
He looked up again. Idia still hadn’t said anything. His gaze was fixed ahead, ears pink, jaw tight. His fingers twitched slightly, like he wasn’t used to being allowed to touch like this.
It was endearing in a way that made Riddle’s chest feel full to bursting. He’d seen so many sides of Idia now—his brilliance, his sarcasm, his tenderness in private moments. Idia had grown so affectionate with him in private, but a little hand-holding in public still left him flustered.
Adorable.
Then Idia glanced down at him, and he smiled. Soft and uneven, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure he should smile, but it slipped through anyway. Honest. Warm. Just for him.
And suddenly, Riddle felt it again—that feeling, too big for his chest.
I want to make you happy.
The words came to him silently, but with such force they left him dizzy.
He didn’t know how, exactly. He didn’t have a map or a plan. Just this blinding certainty, this need like a fire in his heart.
I want to give you that warmth you give me. I want to be someone who makes your world feel gentler. I want to be the reason you smile like that, always.
He looked up at Idia—tall and awkward and wonderful—and wondered, How?
How do I do that? How do I give you what you give me?
Riddle didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to put something like that into words.
So instead, he pressed closer to Idia's side and he held his hand a little tighter.
***
The café was tucked between ivy-covered brick buildings, its flower boxes overflowing with bright summer blooms. The air was cool inside, sweet with the scent of coffee and pastries, and the quiet clink of cutlery on porcelain made the space feel warm and alive without being overwhelming.
Riddle followed Idia to a small table by the window, sunlight spilling across the wood. A waitress came over to take their order, notepad in hand, but she faltered the moment she looked at Idia. Her eyes lingered, widening just a touch. Then, as Idia glanced up from the menu with distracted curiosity, she flushed hard and nearly dropped her pen. She turned away with their order, but Riddle noticed the way she glanced back over her shoulder as she walked away, still pink.
He glanced at Idia.
He hadn’t noticed. He was turned toward the window, his chin propped in his hand, fingers toying idly with a sugar packet. The sunlight caught in his lashes, softening the sharpness of his features. There was a far-off look in his eyes, like he was mulling over something. Or maybe just enjoying the view.
Riddle’s gaze lingered.
Idia had tied his hair up again today, but there were a few small, colorful clips nestled in the loose strands near his temples—two characters he recognized from the tales about the King of the Underworld, and two smaller ones, one shaped like a pixelated star, the other like a chubby cat. Bright, silly, childish things. They should have clashed with everything else about him—his height, the deep shadows under his eyes, the sharp bones of his face. But somehow, they didn’t.
Without thinking, Riddle reached out and brushed his fingers gently against one of the clips, tucking a loose strand of hair back. Idia startled slightly, then flushed.
“Ah—those?” he said, bringing a hand up self-consciously. “I, uh, like cute pins. I think of them like... lucky stat boosting accessories.”
Riddle tilted his head. “Lucky?”
“Y-Yeah, I usually wear them for game club tournaments,” Idia mumbled. “Honestly, they're mostly, like, for emotional support... since we have to play against strangers from other schools.” He sighed. "I don't need them to win, obviously. My IQ is like ten stories above the next guy’s and I've got more experience. I usually annihilate everyone. My strat game’s... next level.” He grinned then—wide and crooked, all too many sharp teeth.
Riddle glanced at the pins again, and then at Idia’s face. His grin was sharp, his posture relaxed, but his cheeks were faintly flushed. That grin—to anyone else, it might have looked smug, even unnerving. But to Riddle, it was... endearing.
“Then maybe I should come watch sometime," he said. "See this so-called superiority in action.”
Idia’s grin widened, mischievous. “Pfft, you should. Azul would die. He already turns blue just seeing he has a match against me. You show up and he’d probably dissolve from the humiliation.”
Riddle chuckled behind his hand. “How tragic for him.”
Idia leaned back in his seat with a quiet sigh, stretching his legs out under the table. “But I guess Azul’s dignity will be safe next year,” he said with a lopsided smile. “I won’t be around to destroy it anymore.”
“How merciful of you,” Riddle chuckled. But as the moment passed, so did his smile.
Next year.
He knew it, of course. That Idia would be off-campus, that he would be busy. That they wouldn’t have these quiet dates in Foothill Town or those long technomancy study sessions in Idia’s room.
This might be our last date like this.
The thought hit harder than he expected. Final exams were next week. After that, everything would shift. They’d both be chasing deadlines, fighting stress. And once summer started—
Riddle’s spine went taut.
That house. His mother’s sharp voice. The stifling rules. The endless expectations. The aching silence during meals. He could already feel the weight of it tightening around his chest like a too-small collar.
Don’t think about that. He pressed the thought down quickly. Not now.
Just then, the waitress returned with their drinks and food. She set them down slowly, her eyes flicking to Idia’s face. She stammered a hope you enjoy and nearly dropped the cutlery, flushing bright red as she fled the table. Riddle glanced after her, brow furrowing slightly.
He looked back at Idia. He still didn't notice. He was poking at the whipped cream on his iced drink with a straw, gaze wandering toward the window again, expression distant.
Riddle had grown used to the stares. It was the way Idia looked when he wasn’t trying to shrink himself: tall and lean with long fingers, fine features, an arresting, almost unearthly presence. And now that he was eating better, sleeping more, smiling more, and dressing more elegantly when they went out—he only drew attention more easily.The stares didn’t matter, not really. But sitting across from him now, watching the gold of his eyes catch the light as he stirred his drink, Riddle felt that ache again. Quiet, steady, filling his chest. That same ache he felt every time Idia’s fingers brushed his, or when his arm curled around Riddle’s waist on the walk home, or when he’d lean in close to say something low and teasing.
This soft, shimmering feeling that had nowhere to go but inward.
He wanted to hold onto this moment. To gather it up in his hands like petals before the wind took them.
And he wondered, not for the first time:
How do I keep him close when he’s far away?
How do I hold onto this feeling?
He reached for his spoon and stirred his tea slowly. Idia took a sip of his drink and looked back at him. “Wanna try mine?” he offered, nudging the glass across the table with a grin. “It’s disgustingly artificial. Tastes kind of like bubblegum. You’ll probably hate it.”
Riddle smiled faintly. “I’d still like to taste it.”
And in the back of his mind, the thought whispered again—
Stay.
They finished their drinks slowly. Riddle found himself watching Idia more than he realized—how he stirred his drink even when it was nearly gone, how his eyes flicked to the window and then back again like he was working through a thought in his head.
When the check came, Idia reached for it first.
“I’m paying,” he said firmly, though the tips of his ears turned a little pink. “I was the one who invited you, remember?”
Riddle frowned. Idia always invited him—planned the place, looked up the hours, checked the reviews. And despite all his stumbling speech and self-deprecating jokes, despite the fact he barely left his room for his first two years of school, he had taken the lead more times than Riddle could count. He thought things through. Made sure Riddle would be comfortable too.
He…tried. And Riddle—he just went along with it. Grateful, but still uncertain how to take up that space himself.
So instead of insisting, he gave a soft exhale through his nose and folded his hands in his lap. “All right,” he said gently. “Thank you.”
Truthfully, he had no idea how to find places like this. He didn’t know where people went for fun, or what places were considered good date spots, or how to look up such things online. Not when his entire upbringing had been rules and books and suffocating precision. He knew how to recite laws, lead debates, structure essays. He didn’t know the first thing about how to plan something romantic, how to surprise someone, how to... how to make memories. And even though he’d been the one more outwardly confident at the start of their relationship, Idia had been quietly, steadily taking the lead.
And Riddle…let him. Trusted him. Maybe the fact Idia was older than him, and his senior, made him feel less guilty about it. And yet—
I wish I could do more for you, he thought.
Idia was wrapping up the payment when he glanced sideways, a little fidgety, like he was working up the nerve to speak.
“So, um,” he began, voice careful but earnest, “there’s a laser show tonight. Over the sea. And I, uh… I looked up a spot. A good one. Real quiet. Not crowded at all. I thought maybe—well, if you weren’t too tired, or if you didn’t have more review plans, we could… go?”
He said it in a rush, then looked quickly back at the receipt like it was somehow interesting.
Riddle blinked. His first impulse, sharp and reflexive, rose in his throat before he could stop it: We shouldn’t stay out so late. Exams are coming. We have to be responsible.
His lips parted—and then stilled. He hated that voice. That shadow of a mother who still lived in the back of his mind, whispering of wasted time, of irresponsibility, of failure.
He bit the inside of his lip, hard, and swallowed down the impulse.
Why is that still my instinct? Why, when he’d been working so hard to be free of it? Perfect grades. Perfect discipline. Perfect behavior. It had always been his armor. But what did that matter—what would it matter—if he missed something like this?
The final exams would come and go. He’d get perfect scores as always. He knew the material. He could study later, stay up a bit longer. He was used to that. But what if they didn’t get another chance like this again? What if this moment, right now, was something he’d look back on and regret letting slip past?
He looked at Idia again, at the tentative hope behind his awkwardness, and something in him eased.
“Lead the way,” he said, standing. He reached out and his fingers curled around Idia’s hand, warm and sure. Idia blinked, startled, eyes darting to their joined hands. Riddle squeezed gently, giving a small smile. And Idia smiled back.
They stepped out into the summer evening together, their hands linked.
***
The laser show lit up the sky like magic.
Brilliant beams of color arched over the sea, painting the dark canvas above in shimmering ribbons—violet, gold, green, streaks of red that rippled like auroras. They sparked and burst into glittering patterns, trailing light like stardust before vanishing in soft flickers. Reflections shimmered on the water, stretching and dancing with each new pulse of color. It was mesmerizing.
The place Idia had found was perfect. The distant, ambient music drifted faintly toward their secluded perch—just a stone ledge above the shore, hidden away behind grass and a scatter of flowers, where the breeze smelled of salt and wild thyme. It was just the two of them here. Riddle wrapped his arms around Idia’s arm, gently leaning his head against it as he watched the sky transform.
He could feel Idia relax under his touch, the tension in his muscles easing, his breathing slow and quiet. Riddle smiled to himself. When he tilted his head up a moment later, he found Idia wasn’t looking at the sky at all.
He was looking at him.
That soft, fond look that always made Riddle’s chest ache—like he was precious, and Idia still couldn’t quite believe he got to hold him. Riddle smiled, quiet and full of warmth, and Idia’s lips curved in return. He shifted slightly, turning to face him more.
His gaze dropped—to Riddle’s lips, and leaned down just a little. And then he froze.
It wasn’t the first time this happened.
Idia hadn’t kissed him in a while. Not since that one time—messy, rushed, too much and too fast—and Riddle had made a sound. A sharp little gasp against Idia’s mouth, back arched under his hands. Idia had stilled instantly, pulled away, guilt written all over his face.
He’d thought he hurt him. But he hadn’t. That gasp hadn’t meant stop. It had meant more. He’d liked it... maybe too much. It had lit something in him he didn’t quite understand. Something he couldn’t quite voice. And now, watching Idia hesitate again, something tight twisted inside him. He didn’t want this distance, especially since it came from the wrong assumptions. And... he wanted more.
So Riddle reached up, fingers gently curling in the front of Idia’s shirt, and he tugged, softly, insistently.
“Kiss me,” he said.
Idia blinked. His eyes widened for a beat—then melted into something warmer, deeper. He leaned down, gently brushed his lips against Riddle’s like a question.
Riddle answered with a soft sigh. The kiss deepened, a soft press of mouths, a faint exhale shared between them. Idia’s hand rose, hesitating near Riddle’s cheek before finally resting there, thumb brushing faintly under his eye. It was nothing like that messy, breathless kiss from before. It was tender, warm, full of care.
Riddle loved it, of course. And yet—
His fingers clutched at Idia’s shirt again. There was still that aching little want blooming in his chest. Because he remembered the feeling from before too well, the heat, the weight of being pinned, the dizzy rush in his blood. That moment when Idia hadn’t hesitated—had taken what he wanted. Riddle wanted it again. That messy, overwhelming hunger. That intensity.
But he didn’t know how to say it.
Idia pulled back, a little breathless, blinking down at him.
“Did you…” he started, voice hesitant. “Did you like it?”
Then, quickly, his eyes darted to the sky as if afraid to look too close—
“I-I mean the laser show! Did you like that? Not—not the kiss— I mean I hope you also liked it, but I just meant—yeah. The show. Was it good?”
Riddle let out a quiet laugh, half-choked by the sudden ache of love and fondness swelling in his throat. Then he pressed his forehead to Idia’s chest and wrapped both arms around him tightly.
“Silly,” he murmured.
The word slipped out without thought. It often did, when his heart was overflowing. Idia made a small, stunned noise, but he didn’t move away. His hands came up slowly to wrap around Riddle’s back, holding him close.
And Riddle just stayed there, his face buried in soft fabric, listening to the steady, startled thud of Idia’s heart under his ear.
***
Riddle was exhausted.
Exams were always demanding, but this year felt worse. Not only did he have his own perfect scores to chase, he was also tutoring Deuce, and many others who needed his help. And he wanted to help them, he considered it his responsibility. But it left his days feeling impossibly crowded: lectures, reviews, essays, tutoring, notes, more tutoring, barely any rest. He hadn’t even spoken to Idia properly in three days.
When a soft knock came at his door that evening, he was so out of it for a moment he barely registered it. He was mid-sentence in an essay draft.
The knock came again. He rose with a sigh, pushing back his chair. His shoulders ached. His neck felt like stone.
When he opened the door, he found Idia standing there with a crinkling bag of snacks and a portable console in his arms.
“Hey,” Idia said. He looked sheepish but hopeful. “I, uh… figured you could use a break? I brought stuff. And—um, Animal Crossing. Thought you could try it. It's super relaxing. No timers, no battles, just… like, vibing. You build stuff. Decorate. Catch bugs. The villagers are chill. It helps me when I'm stressed.”
He offered a shy smile, inching inside, already rattling off ideas about what Riddle might name his island, how he could decorate it with roses and white fences—
And something in Riddle recoiled.
The suggestion—so simple, so far from the mountain of deadlines and academic demands—hit him like an insult. Like a dismissal of his hard work. His vision swam briefly, his throat tightening, and before he could stop himself, the words spilled out.
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” His voice came out sharper than he intended. “Do you think I have time to waste on some childish game?”
Idia froze, his smile dropping.
“You're ridiculous. I don’t know why you think I need you barging in here with candy and games like that’s going to fix anything,” Riddle continued, the frustration now spilling over, twisting into something cruel. “Honestly, Idia. Just—go.”
Silence fell.
Crushing, heavy silence.
Idia stood there, the paper bag in his arms rustling faintly as he shifted his weight, the motion somehow unbearably loud in the quiet room. His eyes dropped. “Oh,” he said softly. “Sorry. I… I just thought—never mind.” His mouth pressed into a thin, uncertain line. He turned, stiffly, as if trying to back out of the room without making a sound.
And Riddle’s heart cracked.
What did I just say?
What did I do?
The guilt punched through his chest like a blade. Sharp, immediate, awful.
He’d lashed out—at Idia, of all people. His sweet, thoughtful boyfriend who came here to cheer him up because he’d noticed Riddle was tired and stressed. And now he looked like he was folding in on himself, retreating. Like he thought he'd made a mistake just by showing up.
Regret flooded Riddle like cold water.
“I—” Riddle stepped forward. His mouth moved but nothing came out. His throat was tight. There was a sick, hot feeling rising behind his ribs. Say something. But nothing came. All that was in his head was echo of his own voice, ringing in his ears, cold and clipped and cruel. He hated it. Hated that once again he'd proven that he wasn't the type of person that could ever know how to receive kindness, affection, love—
Idia had his hand on the doorknob, but then… he paused. Slowly, he turned back. His eyes searched Riddle’s face. And whatever he saw there made something shift in him.
He didn’t leave.
Instead, Idia stepped forward, hesitated for only a breath—and then gently wrapped his arms around Riddle. Warm, careful. Hugging him as if afraid to be rejected, but doing it anyway. The snacks dropped softly to the floor, forgotten.
Riddle froze. Then, all at once, the tension in his body unraveled.
He sagged forward into the hug, hands gripping the back of Idia’s hoodie, clinging tightly. His eyes burned. No tears came—but they sat there, heavy and unspent behind his lashes. His heart thudded painfully, and he crumpled against him, burying his face in Idia’s chest. The warmth of Idia’s arms was familiar, comforting in a way that made the regret in Riddle’s chest sting even more.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, voice thick and trembling. “I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I just… I’m tired. I’ve been so stressed lately and I—”
“Hey,” Idia said gently, his hand stroking slow circles across Riddle’s back. “It’s okay. I know.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with me like this.”
“But I want to,” he murmured.
Riddle clung to him, breath stuttering as that too-big feeling bloomed again inside his chest. It hurt. Not in a sharp way—but in that aching, trembling way love did when it was too much, when it filled every inch of him and he didn’t know how to hold it all at once. When the depth of it scared him.
“I don’t deserve how kind you are,” he murmured.
Idia gave a quiet huff of a laugh. “You deserve more kindness than you let yourself believe.”
Riddle sniffed quietly, tightening his grip, like maybe if he held on tighter, he could keep all of this—this warmth, this tenderness, this love—from slipping through his fingers.
He wasn’t sure how long they stood like that.
Eventually, Idia said, “We can play later. Or not at all. I can just sit with you while you study, if that helps. You don’t have to talk. Just… let me be here.”
And Riddle, his face still pressed against Idia’s chest, nodded.
“…Okay.” His voice was small, but sure. “Stay.”
***
Later, after the tension had ebbed into stillness, Riddle found himself tucked gently between Idia’s arms, the small portable console resting in his hands. He could feel Idia’s body curled behind his own, the steady weight of him a grounding warmth. Idia’s chin his brushed the top of Riddle’s head, close enough for Riddle to feel his breath as he murmured directions in that quiet, careful voice of his.
“So, uh, this is where your house is. I mean, the game’s version of you. You can change the roof color if you don’t like it, though the red is... very you.”
Riddle blinked at the screen. His villager was currently wearing a bowtie.
“Try planting the turnips here,” Idia said. “That villager over there? He likes flower arrangements. And the shop resets tomorrow, so make sure you check back…”
The game was slow, the music mellow, each moment gentle and without consequence. Nothing urgent. Nothing loud. Riddle’s mind, which had been spinning with formulas and dates and schedules for days now, slowly began to quiet. The constant hum behind his eyes dulled, and the tightness in his chest began to loosen as he placed one pixelated flowerpot after another.
He sank a little more into Idia’s hold.
Idia continued, “That one’s Blathers. He gives you fun facts when you donate bugs. Not gonna lie, he’s kind of a scaredy-cat, but in a relatable, ‘please don’t show me the tarantula again’ way.”
There was a small chuckle at the end, like he was trying to make Riddle smile without drawing attention to it.
He was trying. Riddle knew that.
Every time Idia said something in that earnest, awkwardly enthusiastic voice, Riddle felt a little more guilt twist in his chest. The earlier words he’d hurled at him—sharp, cold, unjust—still echoed in the room like ghosts.
Riddle kept his eyes on the game, trying to focus on shaking trees and collecting pears and arranging silly little furniture sets. But the warmth wrapped around him, the soft weight of Idia’s arms, the rise and fall of his breath—all of it made something stir in his chest. That feeling again.
That feeling that was too big. It swelled behind his ribs like he couldn’t contain it anymore. He didn’t know when it happened—when the guilt and affection and longing all tangled together so tightly in his chest that it became unbearable—but one moment he was watching his villager fish off a pier, and the next, he was turning sharply in Idia’s lap, wrapping his arms around Idia’s neck.
Idia flinched in surprise, the console slipping off to the side onto the blanket. “R-Riddle—?” But when he felt the way Riddle buried his face into his shoulder, shaking just slightly, he immediately pulled him close, both arms around his back, holding him steady.
“I’m sorry, I'm so sorry,” Riddle choked, voice barely audible.
Idia’s hand stroked his back, slow and calming. “You already said that.”
“I know, I just—” Riddle shook his head. “I hate myself when I get like that.”
“It's okay. You know, kittens scratch and bite sometimes,” Idia murmured, and Riddle could hear the wry smile in his voice, even if he couldn’t see it. “And everyone loves them anyway.”
Riddle let out a laugh—wet, broken, astonished. It caught in his chest and turned into a sob before he could stop it. He clutched at Idia’s shirt with trembling fingers, burying himself deeper in the warmth of him, like maybe if he held on tightly enough, all the awful things would melt away.
“I think…” he sniffed after a moment, suddenly feeling completely exhausted, “…I need to lie down.”
There was a pause. Then the sound of sheets shifting and the softness of Idia’s arms as they moved together, wordlessly, onto the bed. They lay facing each other, close enough to share breath. The orange light from Riddle’s desk lamp cast a warm halo around them, catching the blue flicker of Idia’s hair like firelight through stained glass.
Idia was looking at him like he hung the stars.
That was the only way Riddle could describe it—because there was something so utterly gentle in his expression, so reverent it made Riddle’s chest tighten. Idia’s eyes, so often flicking nervously from place to place, were steady now. Still. Focused entirely on him, and filled with such raw tenderness that Riddle could hardly bear it.
The moment stretched between them, soft and hushed. Riddle’s breath caught. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve being looked at like that. He wasn’t used to this kind of softness directed at him. He felt small and seen all at once.
He stared back at Idia, taking in every detail. His bright gold eyes, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his bluish lips curved in a small smile.
When Riddle had snapped at him... it must have hurt. For someone like Idia, who still doubted himself easily… staying had taken courage. And yet—he stayed. And he brought comfort. He gave Riddle safety.
He’d been tired for days, knotted up with tension, trying not to snap under the pressure. But right now, he felt… safe. And happy.
That thought settled heavily into his chest—because he knew, too soon, it would end. Summer was coming. And with it… home.
He swallowed, the pleasant warmth beginning to thin with dread.
He didn’t want to go back.
But... even if he could avoid it entirely, he didn’t know if he’d be able to do it. The idea of seeing his mother again filled him with anxious dread… and yet the thought of not seeing her left him shaken in a different way. Because he didn’t know how to stop loving her. He didn’t even know what kind of love it was anymore—devotion, fear, guilt, it twisted him up inside, made him nauseous when he tried to name it. It made him feel sick, heavy, broken. And still the moment he thought about not seeing her, not going back—he felt that same familiar pressure in his throat, the stifling, breathless kind.
It made him want to scream and cry and apologize all at once.
Maybe it wasn’t the exams that had been stressing him so badly after all. Maybe it was this.
His gaze flicked back to Idia.
The contrast between this—this quiet, calm space with Idia's warmth in front of him—and the looming tension of home made the distance feel even more impossible. But at the same time, it made Riddle want to hold on tighter. To protect this fragile, unexpected comfort he’d found.
“I’m… worried about going home,” he said quietly.
Idia didn’t answer right away. His expression shifted—eyes flickering with uncertainty, maybe concern. Then he glanced down, one hand tightening slightly in the blankets between them.
“I’ve been, um. Talking to my parents,” he said, after a moment. His voice was quiet, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he should even be saying it.
Riddle blinked, surprised. That wasn’t where he’d expected the conversation to go.
“I told them about you,” Idia continued, still avoiding Riddle’s eyes. “That I’m, uh… serious. About you. And they—they said they’d like to meet you. If you wanted. I mean—you could come over. During summer.”
Riddle stared at him, momentarily stunned into stillness.
Idia flushed. “N-not like a subject this time, I promise. I mean—yeah, you’d have to sign an NDA, but like, that’s normal? Sort of? Either way, I think half of NRC already has a pretty good idea what Styx is about, and the whole thing with Malleus was on the news, so it’s not that classified anymore, haha…”
He was rambling. Nervous. Riddle could hear it, and it made his chest twist even tighter.
“You…” Riddle said slowly, “want me to meet your parents?”
“Ugh, no,” Idia groaned immediately. “I mean. Yes. But no. They’re gonna grill me and probably dig up all the embarrassing stuff I’ve ever done. It’s going to be horrible.”
Riddle blinked again.
“But. It was the best excuse I could think of to get you there. If you want. You don’t have to. I just thought…”
His voice trailed off. The rest was left unsaid—but it hung heavy in the quiet. I just thought it might help.
Riddle exhaled, shaky. His chest felt tight how much he wanted to be somewhere he was loved.
“I…” he whispered, “I think I’d like that.”
Idia's eyes widened, lips parting like he wasn't expecting him to agree. And Riddle—feeling that flicker of warmth flare up again in his chest—reached up with one hand and his fingers brushed against Idia’s cheek, then settled there, cupping the side of his face as though to memorize the shape of it.
“You’re so lovely,” Riddle whispered, the words escaping before he could swallow them down.
Idia blinked. For a moment, he didn’t seem to understand. Then he flushed. A deep, startled pink rushed to the tips of his ears, and his hair responded in kind—the flickering ends glowing a bright, embarrassed hue that shimmered like sunlight through cherry blossoms.
“W-What?” he squeaked, voice climbing in pitch as his brain clearly short-circuited. “W-Where did that come from? You—you can’t just say something like that out of nowhere!”
Riddle laughed softly, the sound a little shaky. Not mocking, just fond. Deeply, aching fond. He didn’t take his hand away.
He shifted closer, blankets rustling as he moved, until their knees bumped under the covers. His heart was pounding, too full, too fast, almost painful in how much it wanted to pour out.
“I mean it,” he said, quieter now, like confessing a secret. “I’m so lucky to have you.”
That seemed to hit harder than the first compliment. Idia made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a protest and ducked his head.
“N-no,” he muttered, flustered beyond comprehension. “Incorrect. That’s just—there’s no universe where that computes. You’re like… like an S-tier final boss of loveliness and I’m a glitchy background NPC.”
Riddle smiled helplessly. He leaned in, closing the space between them, and pressed their foreheads together. Idia stilled at the contact, his breath catching. Their eyes met.
“You’re lovely,” Riddle whispered again, more earnestly this time. “You make me feel… safe. Happy.”
Idia blinked, wide-eyed, as if Riddle had just told him the moon had fallen out of orbit.
After a long moment, he swallowed hard and murmured, “Okay. Then I hope you're ready to see three albums of my embarrassing baby photos, and listen to my mom cooing over how cute you are,” Idia mumbled, trying for humor, but his voice wavered slightly.
Riddle smiled. “If it means being with you… I’ll face whatever horrors necessary.”
Idia huffed out a soft laugh, shoulders relaxing. “Well… don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Riddle didn’t reply. He let the silence stretch for a moment, basking in the quiet warmth between them. For now, the future still felt uncertain. But maybe that didn’t mean it had to be hopeless.
Maybe it could be something new. Something better.
And lying here, wrapped in warmth, in the feeling of being wanted—he thought, maybe, he could survive summer after all.