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"Three Mr. S Mystery Shop collaboration cocktails comin' through!"
Floyd leans down, setting the tray onto a table as phone flashes light his face up. He grins, letting the reflection of his smile blind the customers gently, as he turns on his heel and heads back to the barstand.
If there is anything being with Riddle taught him, that would be holding himself back. The itch to squeeze someone was roaring in the back of his mind, and instead he settled for clearing his throat idly, startling a few students waiting for their drinks; as he went back to preparing various beverages, Floyd checked his phone, idly.
Message read 4:13 p.m. It was 8:39 by now, and Goldfish had not even bothered to shoot him a text indicating his unavailability - at this point, he was straight up ghosting Floyd. It's always "I have exams to worry about," it's always "I can't talk right now, I can't go to Mostro Lounge tonight."
And what was all of this for? The nights Floyd had stayed awake, making sure whatever he's prepared would guarantee he sees Riddle smile genuinely, and the days he'd spent actually begrudgingly plowing through homework to ensure Goldfish met his eye - was this all for naught?
Floyd tried so hard, hell, he even changed for that little tyrant. Just for him to up and leave. He saw the way Riddle acted around that loud first-year, and the way he acted around sea-snake; the reserved smiles he granted those two were nothing in comparison to the brilliance of the days he'd spent with Floyd, and yet the primal jealousy, the envy of being separated and being left behind as a toy one grew tired of poked painfully at Floyd's entire presence. The green-eyed monster within him rose along with bile and an instinctual desire to wrap his hands around some idiot's throat, just to make sure they'd never touch Riddle in the same spot as Floyd did before.
It wasn't right, and so he knew. But who was to blame here? Was it Floyd, with the way he admittedly obsessed over Goldfish, or was it Riddle himself, who paid little attention to the obvious displays of affection?
A ding from his phone let Floyd shift his focus from preparing drinks back to reality.
We need to talk, Riddle wrote. The glass cup in his hand shattered, and within the largest shard, Floyd saw the hollow boredom within his own eyes.
"Floyd," he sat him down, as though scolding a little child, "I've noticed your foul mood lately. Does it have anything to do with my lack of free time?"
Riddle stares him down, the crown of his dorm uniform mocking Floyd; it was as if he still refused to accept the eel an equal, as if Goldfish elevated himself to the status of a royal or whatnot, one forgoing the masses and simpletons akin to Floyd. It made him grit his teeth, knuckles whitening as he clutched at the cloth of his pants; Floyd still made a face of ennui, feigning a carefree attitude, and he found himself truly bored.
"Kind of. I try so hard for you, yanno, and you're still so mean to me," he drawls out, sharp teeth on display, and now it is as though they were never lovers to begin with, "but after all, it was only a matter of time until I'd get bored of Li'l Goldfish."
The quiver of Riddle's lips, the way that cupid's bow wavers, tells Floyd everything the other boy is concealing. He's obviously hurt by the words, and there's something twisted inside of the eel that realizes he doesn't feel a pang of guilt over this. He's overcome with malaise, asking for attention.
He wonders, though, if he'll get the attention he so sought.
"Then, let us part, now. We are going nowhere."
Floyd lies, gaze piercing through the icy blue of Riddle's eyes, masterfully concealing the puffiness and mistiness within. "Okie-dokie."