Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun was already beating down hard enough to make Idia reconsider every decision that had led him here. He shifted uncomfortably in his hoodie as he waited near the front gate of NRC, the blastcycle idling quietly beside him.

First date. First real date.

The blastcycle purred at his side like a loyal beast, sleek and polished to perfection. He was proud of it; it was fast, responsive, built for two. The beach trip idea had sounded cool in his head. Normies went to the beach, right? That was what you did. You took your boyfriend on a cool ride, watched the sunset, maybe held hands or... well... kissed?

His processors were already overheating.

And then he saw Riddle..

He was smiling softly as he approached, a little hesitant, maybe just as unsure of what to expect—but adorable. Painfully, unfairly adorable. His shirt was cropped short, just short enough that every time the breeze touched him, a sliver of pale, smooth skin peeked out above his shorts. And the shorts—they were tiny, hugging his hips and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. And those legs—Idia hadn’t realized how nice his legs were, elegant and stupidly cute.

He stared. He tried not to. But there was Riddle, right in front of him, with his delicate tummy showing and his face slightly flushed from the heat and his hair catching the light like fire—

“Oh no,” Idia mumbled, voice catching somewhere between a wheeze and a whimper. He felt even hotter and the sun was already making him feel like a slow-roasting marshmallow. “I’m gonna combust. I’m literally going to explode. This is the end. Goodbye, cruel world.”

“You’re staring,” Riddle said.

Idia flinched.

His gaze snapped up, guilt written all over his face. Riddle had stopped just a step away from him, his cheeks now flushed a deep, blooming red. His eyebrows were drawn into a familiar frown, the kind he usually reserved for rule violations and poorly executed potion work.

“I—Cater said this was what people wore to the beach!” Riddle sputtered. “Is this too much? I—I wasn’t trying to be—provocative!”

“N-no! No no no no no,” Idia waved his hands frantically, stumbling over his words. “Not too much! You look! I mean—uh—visually optimal! No—wait—like, I mean cute! Really cute! Like, dangerously cute. Not like danger-danger, just—you know—I can’t think right now, please send help.”

The blastcycle beeped twice in protest as Idia bumped into it mid-ramble.

Riddle stared at him, clearly caught between scolding him and melting into the pavement from embarrassment. But in the end, he exhaled shakily— and then he laughed. Soft and nervous, but real. The sound of it eased something tight in Idia’s chest.

“Well,” Riddle said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, “thank you. You look… cozy.”

Idia tugged at his hoodie and muttered, “I should’ve worn something beachy. I knew I should’ve googled ‘what do normies wear on ocean excursions.’ This is why I’m bad at this.”

“You’re not bad at this,” Riddle said, more gently now. “You’re here. You invited me. And... you brought a terrifyingly fast machine to take me to the beach,” he added eyeing the blastcycle with some suspicion.

“It’s not that fast,” Idia mumbled as he climbed on his seat. “Just, you know, a standard high speed engine with a cooling stabilizer. Hold on tight.”

Riddle stepped forward, sliding onto the seat behind him, and Idia felt his arms wrap tentatively around his waist. His heartbeat spiked.

Date.exe: Running.

He swallowed hard. “O-okay. Let’s… launch.”

And with a soft roar of engine and a puff of dust, they were off, racing toward the coast, hearts thudding, sun blazing, and Idia already planning six ways to make up for being the weirdest, luckiest boyfriend alive.

***

They made it to the beach in one piece, which, frankly, felt like a miracle.

Idia still wasn’t sure how he’d managed it. His grip had gone a little shaky partway through the ride—right around the time Riddle had shifted closer and laid his cheek against his back, his arms snug around Idia’s waist. Just a gentle pressure. But it had short-circuited Idia’s neural pathways with ruthless efficiency and he had nearly missed the turn, his heart in his throat. But he hadn’t crashed. Small victories.

When they finally rolled to a stop near the shore, Idia exhaled like he’d just cleared a boss fight with one HP.

He turned the engine off. The stillness rushed in, and with it, the sound of the waves.

Only—something felt… off.

He looked up. The sky, which had been a soft blue when they left, was now thick with clouds. The edges were pale, but growing darker toward the center. No sun to speak of. The air had a heavy, damp edge to it, like a storm was waiting just past the horizon, biding its time.

Idia frowned.

Of course it couldn’t just be nice. He’d triple-checked the forecast. Read reviews. Scrolled through beach-date advice columns at 2 a.m. with increasing horror. This was supposed to be perfect. Sunlight and sparkle and whatever passed for a normal human first date.

His luck really was that bad. Of course their first date would be under a moody sky. Of course.

But Riddle was already off the cycle, unbuckling his sandals with practiced, efficient fingers. He didn’t seem fazed by the weather at all. In fact, he looked—

Happy.

Without a word, Riddle stepped into the sand barefoot, holding his sandals loosely in one hand, and made a beeline for the water’s edge. His cropped shirt fluttered with the wind, his small frame looking somehow even lighter in the overcast light. The breeze tousled his hair, salt and air making the red strands shift like flame. Idia blinked, stunned for a moment, before scrambling after him.

“Wait—uh, wait up!”

He yanked off his boots, kicked them into the cycle’s compartment, and half-jogged down the slope to where the waves kissed the sand. Riddle was already ankle-deep in the water, eyes bright, the curve of his mouth soft with wonder.

“Look,” he said, crouching to pick up a seashell, holding it between two fingers. “It’s a moon snail shell. You can tell from the shape.”

He turned it in the light and offered it to Idia, who leaned in to look. The shell was spiral-shaped, pale with subtle blue ridges.

“It’s not cracked at all,” Riddle said, glancing up with a smile. “Look at the pattern. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“You know about shells?” Idia asked, genuinely curious.

“I read about them. Each one tells a story about the sea.”

His cheeks were flushed—from the wind, the sea, the sheer excitement. He looked younger like this. Brighter. The kind of happy that seemed to light him from the inside out.

Before Idia could answer, Riddle turned to walk a few steps down the beach, eyes scanning the sand. “Oh! This one’s shaped like a heart! Almost.”

He knelt again, the water lapping around his feet, hands sifting through wet sand. Then he held it out to Idia, eyes shining.

“Here. You should keep this one.”

Idia reached out to take it. Their fingers brushed. The shell was smooth and slightly cool in his palm.

“Th-thanks,” he said, voice catching.

Riddle smiled, soft and unguarded, and looked back out at the water as the wind tugged at his cropped shirt, baring more of his waist with every gust. His feet left faint prints in the wet sand as he walked.

Idia clutched the seashell like it was a precious gem, watching the way Riddle moved—relaxed, unhurried, eyes sparkling every time he spotted something interesting. Pointing out bits of coral. A crab scuttling between rocks. A sand dollar he knelt to examine.

And slowly, Idia’s inner monologue—a noisy mess of dread and damage control—quieted.

And all he could think was—

He’s so cute. So happy like this. Like sunlight, even under all these clouds.

The sky might have been dull and gray, but Idia couldn’t remember ever seeing anything more vibrant.

***

They had wandered halfway down the shoreline by the time the sky cracked open.

It started with a low, distant rumble, barely more than a whisper behind the crashing of the waves. Idia turned his head, frowning at the sea. The clouds had thickened, deepened, gone from soft dove-gray to something darker, heavier. The sea looked dark and uneasy, like it was holding its breath.

Then the thunder came again. Louder. Closer.

Riddle gasped, and Idia spun toward him, instincts kicking in like a red alert.

“Are you okay?” he asked quickly, scanning Riddle’s face for signs of distress—fear, upset, anything.

But Riddle wasn’t looking at him. He was looking out across the ocean, eyes wide with wonder. A jagged bolt of lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the water in a flash of silver and shadow. It was wild. Beautiful. The sea stirred restlessly beneath it, the dark waves curling like the edge of something ancient.

“It’s breathtaking,” Riddle breathed.

And it was. Terrifying, yes—but beautiful. The sea had shifted, its color now a deep, dark gray, flecked with froth and foam. The wind came harder, pushing against them with damp fingers, teasing at hair and clothes. They stood side by side, watching the thunderstorm bloom across the sky like a slow-motion explosion.

Then the rain came. A single drop at first. Then two. And then, like a switch had been thrown, the clouds dumped everything they had. The kind of rain that soaked you through before you had time to blink.

“Come on!” Riddle called, grabbing Idia’s hand without hesitation, fingers lacing through his as naturally as breathing.

Idia’s brain short-circuited just a little.

He followed in a blur, squinting through the rain as they half-sprinted toward a nearby building. A small ice cream shop, tucked back from the path, its bright pastel paint faded by sun and salt. The narrow awning stretched out just far enough to offer a sliver of dry space underneath.

They stumbled in together, wet and panting, hearts racing from the run. The rain hammered down around them, loud against the metal roof. The shop was dark, the windows shuttered. A sign hung on the door: CLOSED.

Idia slumped against the wall, water dripping steadily from his bangs. “Figures,” he muttered. “Of course it’s closed. Why wouldn’t it be. Classic cursed RNG.”

Riddle was laughing. Breathless, soaked to the bone, but laughing. His cropped shirt was plastered to his chest, and the ends of his hair curled around his face in wet strands. He looked up at the awning, then out at the storm again, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Well,” he said, brushing water off his nose, “we’ve certainly made memories.”

The rain thickened. The air around them was heavy with mist, the sea a blur of gray behind the curtains of water.

They stood close beneath the shallow overhang, but not quite touching. Idia was trying not to stare again—at the way Riddle’s shirt clung to him, the soft pink of his stomach barely hidden by wet fabric, the way his hair curled damply at his forehead. But then he noticed a fine tremor in Riddle’s arms, his shoulders, the way his hands curled in on themselves, and he forgot about everything else. No wonder. His clothes were barely anything to begin with, and now they were soaked through.

Without thinking, Idia peeled his hoodie off in one fluid motion—thankfully the inside was still warm and dry—and stepped in close. Riddle blinked up at him, startled, but didn’t move away as Idia gently settled the hoodie around his shoulders.

“There,” Idia muttered, eyes darting anywhere but Riddle’s face. “Y-you can have it.”

Riddle's hands instinctively reached up to grip the front of the hoodie. It was obviously too big for him. He was basically drowning in it, the hem reaching well below his shorts, making him look even smaller. He looked down at himself, then up at Idia. A flush bloomed across his cheeks.

“I… could have cast a warming spell,” he said quietly.

Idia shrugged. “Yeah, but the hoodie's already charmed. So no need.”

Riddle wrapped the hoodie tighter around himself. It clearly helped. His shoulders relaxed, some of the tension leaving his frame. He looked almost shy in it, ducking his head a little—tiny, bundled in thick fabric, cheeks pink and eyes soft. He looked… so, so adorable. Idia’s heart gave a funny little stutter.

“You’re not cold?” Riddle asked after a moment, tilting his head.

“I-I'm good,” Idia said quickly, waving him off. “Still got long sleeves underneath, see?” He tugged at the edge of his undershirt. “Awkward outfit choice finally pulled its weight."

Riddle smiled then. A small, fond smile that made something warm bloom in Idia’s chest. Then, Riddle reached up, hesitantly at first, and touched Idia’s bangs where they hung limp and dripping. His fingers brushed them aside, gentle and curious.

“Your hair,” Riddle murmured. “When it’s wet, it looks… less like it's burning. More like it’s… well. Hair.”

Idia stared at him.

“You thought it’d do what in the rain?” he managed after a second. “Like, dissolve? Sizzle off and reveal I’ve been bald this whole time?”

Riddle covered his mouth with his hand to hide his laugh, but it spilled out anyway—clear and bright and real. It made something in Idia’s chest ache in a good way.

“Sorry,” he said between chuckles. “It’s just a funny image.”

Then Riddle’s smile faded into something softer. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright. He stepped closer. The space between them felt charged.

Riddle tilted his face up and, voice small but clear, said, “Kiss me.”

For a second, Idia couldn’t move. The world dimmed down to the heartbeat in his ears and the shape of Riddle standing there, rain-damp and smiling shyly in his hoodie. Waiting. Finally, he leaned in slowly, everything inside him trembling. And when he pressed his lips to Riddle’s, it was like stepping into a cutscene he thought he’d never get to play. The kiss started soft, tentative. But then Riddle tilted his face up, leaned in just enough, and that tiny shift was all Idia needed to lose himself in it.

He kissed him more fully—still gentle, but with a new kind of desperation flickering just beneath the surface. Like he didn’t want to waste a second of it. Their lips moved slowly together, warm, and Idia’s hands wandered without thinking, finding their way to Riddle’s waist, sliding beneath the hoodie.

And then—skin. Warm, smooth skin. Idia’s fingertips brushed against the dip of Riddle’s lower back, the soft curve of his hip, and Riddle shivered and made a quiet sound—a breathless little whimper that hit Idia like a lightning bolt to the spine.

He jerked back instantly, heart slamming against his ribs. “I—! Oh no. Oh no—”

Riddle looked up at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed and eyes dazed. “…What?”

“I—sorry!” Idia blurted, voice cracking as he stepped back, hands held out like he was warding off a system error. “I didn’t mean to—it’s just—my hands—they’re cold—I didn’t think—”

Riddle blinked, dazed and flushed, lips still parted. “What…?”

“I shouldn’t have just—” Idia was flailing now, mentally and physically, hands twitching in midair like they couldn’t decide whether to hover or retreat. “You’re cold already and then I go and touch you with ice cube fingers, I mean—what was I even thinking, I just—short-circuited—I’m so sorry—”

He was spiraling. His voice pitched higher with every word, and it didn’t help that Riddle still looked beautiful and confused and unfairly kissable.

Riddle blinked. Then again. And then—he laughed. Just light, sweet amusement, like a chime on the breeze.

“Silly,” Riddle murmured, and reached out to grab the front of Idia’s shirt.

He leaned in and rested his head against Idia’s chest, right where his heart was still thundering.

He didn’t say anything else at all. The only sound was the rain. It drummed against the metal roof above them, steady and rhythmic, wrapping them in a gray, echoing hush. Riddle just stayed there, breathing slowly, his fingers lightly curled in Idia’s damp shirt.

Idia stood still, barely daring to breathe. Then—tentatively, carefully—he lifted his arms and wrapped them around Riddle’s small frame, drawing him in fully. Riddle let himself be held, quiet and content. Idia lowered his head, breathing in the scent of rain and salt and warmth. His eyes fluttered shut.

The sea churned a few yards away, all dark waves and crashing thunder, but in this narrow sliver of shelter, Idia felt something blooming in his chest that no storm could touch.

***

The dorm room lights were dimmed to a soft, cool glow. Monitors hummed. Controllers were synced. Snacks were within arm’s reach. A perfect setup.

It should’ve been his element.

Safe and predictable, the complete opposite of that chaotic weather-glitched beach date.

(Disaster, his mind kept insisting, despite how Riddle had smiled through the whole thing, even after they were both soaked to the bone.)

This, though—this he could control.

He had spent the better part of the day getting the room just right: extra cushions, a low gaming table, even a futon mattress set up in the corner. And Riddle had looked excited when he arrived. His eyes had lit up at the sight of the snacks, the shelves of color-coded game cases, the triple-screen setup. Idia had even let him pick the first game, expecting something logic-based and chill.

Riddle had chosen Mario Kart.

“Prepare yourself,” he’d said, slotting in between Idia’s legs without hesitation as they settled on the floor, making Idia blush furiously. “I’m going to win. But first,” he added a little sheepish, "you have to show me how to play it."

That had been two hours ago. Riddle was still trying. Still absolutely, single-mindedly trying.

He leaned forward as he gripped the controller, back straight, lips pursed in a determined line. His brows furrowed every time Idia passed him on a turn. He tensed when he got blue-shelled. He muttered things like next round and I’m learning and Don’t you dare go easy on me without ever glancing back.

Idia hadn’t moved either.

Riddle was sitting snugly between his legs, back pressed lightly to Idia’s chest, all wrapped up in that fuzzy, heady way that made Idia’s brain short-circuit a little. He wasn’t sure when it happened—maybe somewhere around Rainbow Road—but at some point Idia realized he hadn’t been paying attention to the game for a while.

He’d just… been watching. Riddle was focused, his cheeks flushed from sheer determination. He looked sharp. Competitive. A little ridiculous.

And so, so cute. Dangerously cute.

Because instead of strategizing how to take the next shortcut, Idia found himself wondering what would happen if he just dropped the controller. If he just… wrapped his arms around Riddle from behind. If he tucked his face against that warm neck and nuzzled in like some over-affectionate otome game boyfriend.

What the hell, his brain whispered, horrified. What is this. What is happening. You want to—cuddle? Instead of game?? Like a normie??

It was betrayal. Existential crisis levels of it. And yet, when Riddle hissed softly (he missed the item box, again), and leaned forward just a little more in frustration, the distance between them grew, and Idia missed the pressure of his back against his chest, and he really just had the urge to turn the console off.

“I almost had you that time,” Riddle muttered, tapping buttons furiously. “Your reflexes are ridiculous.”

Idia swallowed. “You’re getting better. Honestly. You just need to master the drifting mechanic on tight curves. Like—um, like the one on Koopa Cape. I can show you—”

“No,” Riddle said firmly, eyes still locked on the screen. “I’ll figure it out. Just don’t go easy on me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Idia said weakly, eyes darting down to the small of Riddle’s back, just visible beneath his shirt, right where it met his waistband.

Focus, he scolded himself, gripping his controller tighter. You are a gamer. A reclusive virtual ace. You do not want to—

Riddle huffed, clearly annoyed by another loss. He fell back against Idia’s chest with a sigh, only to jolt forward again as the next race loaded up.

“Again,” he said with fire in his eyes.

Idia sighed softly. All he wanted right now was to pull Riddle back against him and not let go. To pause the game. To exist in a quiet, warm bubble for just a minute. Maybe two. Maybe longer.

He stared at the screen, where their avatars lined up for another round. His grip on his controller was steady, precise. Years of practice meant his fingers knew what to do without thinking. But right now, his thoughts were interfering—specifically, one thought that circled like a vulture overhead.

Should I let him win?

The idea made something in his gamer soul shrivel up and die. It was the kind of thing insufferably normie guys did in romantic comedies, tanking their win rate because their girlfriend giggled when she beat them. Haha, oops, looks like you beat me again babe~

Gross. Cliché. Cringe.

And yet here he was. Thinking about pulling back, missing a jump, easing off the drift just enough to let Riddle catch up. Just to see him smile. Just to hear that cute, breathless laugh he made when he was really happy.

Riddle let out a little sound of frustration as he got bumped off course. Idia bit his lip. Maybe this time, maybe just—

But before he could even shift strategy, something miraculous happened.

Somehow, out of nowhere, Riddle got the golden mushroom.

Idia blinked. He hadn’t even noticed which item box Riddle hit, too distracted by his own ridiculous thoughts. But now Riddle’s kart was zooming down the track like a comet. One well-timed boost. Then another. Then a sharp turn, perfectly executed. 

And then Riddle crossed the finish line. First place.

“I won!” Riddle burst out, twisting around halfway to look up at Idia with wide eyes and the biggest smile he’d worn all night. “Did you see that? That was— I mean—I actually won!”

His eyes sparkled with triumph, cheeks flushed from excitement, red hair a little mussed from leaning back against Idia’s hoodie.

Idia stared at him, stunned. He opened his mouth. And he could’ve said you just got insanely lucky, He could’ve pointed out every missed drift. But the words died in his throat when he saw that smile. So open. So proud. So cute.

“…You won,” Idia said softly instead, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

He set the controller down and, without really thinking, wrapped his arms around Riddle’s waist from behind. His hands came to rest gently just below Riddle’s ribs, thumbs brushing lightly along the hem of his shirt.

“Maybe that’s enough for now,” he murmured, leaning forward just a bit until his cheek brushed against Riddle’s shoulder, his heart thudding.

But Riddle didn’t melt or sigh dreamily. He didn’t lean back and whisper something romantic. Instead, he scoffed.

“No. One more round,” he said, tilting his head just enough to glance at him from the corner of his eye. “That win was real, but I need to prove it wasn’t a fluke.”

Idia groaned softly, burying his face in Riddle’s shoulder. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m motivated,” Riddle corrected, already reaching for the controller.

***

Idia wasn’t sure how he’d let Riddle talk him into this. He didn’t need to study for finals—he'd probably ace most of them without touching a single book.

He slouched in his seat, legs sprawled under the table, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. One of Riddle’s highlighters sat unused near his elbow. He glanced at the notes in front of him. They looked terrifying, sorted, color-coded, and annotated with such precision it made Idia’s head spin a little, but the content? Child’s play.

He didn’t need to study. He really didn’t.

But Riddle had shown up at his room earlier with a book under one arm and a determined look in his eyes that Idia had learned meant there would be no escape. Apparently, since Idia had helped him understand technomancy during those long tutoring nights, Riddle had decided it was only fair to help him prepare for finals.

It was kind of sweet. And kind of stressful.

Especially when Idia had blurted, without thinking, “So… this is a study date?”

Riddle’s eyes had widened slightly. “I suppose… it could be considered one,” he’d said, tone crisp despite the flush climbing his neck. “But no funny business.”

Idia had choked on his own saliva and quickly waved his hands. “I—I didn’t mean it like that! Not that I didn’t mean it, I just—uh—not that I was gonna—ugh.” He groaned and flopped forward onto the desk. “Can we just pretend I didn’t say anything?”

Riddle had smiled faintly and cracked open his book.

And now, half an hour later, they were knee-deep in magical theory and final exam prep. Riddle read out questions like he was born to do it, and Idia rattled off answers without breaking a sweat.

Riddle narrowed his eyes after the fifth flawless answer. “You really don’t study for these?”

Idia shrugged a little, slouching in his seat. “I mean, what’s the point? As long as I pass…”

“But you could do so much more.” Riddle’s brow furrowed as he reviewed one of his own answer keys. “If you applied yourself even slightly, you could rank in the top five.”

Idia sighed. “And that would help me with... what exactly?"

In the end, his future was already secured- or doomed, depending on how one looked at it. No need to chase extra credit when your path was paved in advance.

Predictably, Riddle didn’t look impressed. His frown deepened.

“You never know what might happen. You should still try,” he said, voice firm.

"Well, I am studying now," Idia said, leaning his chin on his palm, watching the way Riddle’s fingers carefully reorganized the flashcards into perfect alignment. "Mostly because I want to spend time with you but... yeah."

Riddle flushed. “Good.”

He picked up the next card, clearly pretending not to smile—but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. His voice was just a little lighter now.

“Next question,” he said. “No slacking.”

Eventually, they moved from books and notes to conjuring practice. Riddle wanted to improve. He said it matter-of-factly, but there was a faint tremble in his voice that Idia couldn’t quite ignore. Like he had to be better at it. As if struggling with it wasn’t an option.

Idia wasn't surprised it was a subject that gave Riddle the most trouble. Riddle was smart. He could memorize a hundred laws of spellcasting in one night. But conjuring wasn’t something you could reduce to formulas and footnotes. It was all visualization, imagination. Riddle’s notes were color-coded and structured, with tiny diagrams and detailed instructions written in crisp handwriting. Impressive, but kind of useless. Riddle was trying too hard to solve it instead of feel it.

Idia rubbed the back of his neck, carefully setting the papers down on the table. “So, uh… conjuring’s kind of like dreaming, I guess? You have to see what you want to make, not just list the components. You build the shape in your head, and the magic fills it in.”

Riddle was watching him closely, nodding, eyes narrowed in concentration. He always looked serious when he focused, mouth set in a firm line. Idia kept explaining—about mental blueprints and letting the spell unfold instead of forcing it.

“You’re overthinking it,” Idia murmured, leaning over to peer at one particularly dense page. “It’s not like alchemy or arithmetic formulas. You can’t brute-force this kind of spell through logic alone…”

He trailed off and glanced up at Riddle, expecting a sharp nod or some sort of rebuttal—but Riddle didn’t respond.

His head was tilted slightly forward, his hand resting limp beside his notes. His eyes were closed.

It took a second to register. He had fallen asleep—just like that, upright in his chair, surrounded by his immaculate study materials. His back was still unnaturally straight, posture perfect even in unconsciousness. The only giveaway was the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing and the faint, almost inaudible exhale as he dozed.

Idia blinked.

Oh.

He must’ve been completely exhausted. And he still wanted to help Idia study. Something twisted in Idia’s chest, a strange, tender pressure. He stared for a long moment, hardly daring to breathe.

Quietly, carefully, he reached out and touched Riddle’s shoulder. “Hey… hey, Riddle. You should go to bed.”

Riddle’s eyes snapped open. “Mother, I'm sorry—”

He bolted upright like he’d been electrocuted. His whole body tensed, eyes wide and wild, and for a brief, heart-wrenching moment, he looked terrified. Then, as realization sank in, his expression shuttered. He smoothed it all away, just like that, as if nothing had happened.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said quickly, standing up, his voice too calm, too flat. “I... it's getting late. I probably should go.”

He didn’t look Idia in the eye. He turned, reaching for his bag, his motions automatic, like he was already somewhere else in his head.

Idia just sat there, stunned. The way Riddle had reacted—he hadn’t just been embarrassed. He’d looked scared. As if falling asleep in front of someone was something punishable. What kind of expectations had been forced onto Riddle so young that even now, his body still flinched with guilt when it slipped? That even sleep felt like failure?

Riddle’s fingers closed around the strap of his bag. He was already halfway to the door.

And before Idia even thought about it, his body moved first. He stepped forward, closed the distance and gently wrapped his arms around Riddle from behind.

Riddle froze. The silence was heavy for a moment. Idia had no idea what to say.

“You...” Idia swallowed. “You were tired. It’s okay.”

Riddle's shoulders stayed tense beneath Idia’s arms at first. But slowly, slowly, the tension faded. With a quiet exhale, Riddle leaned back. Just enough that Idia could feel the weight of him, the warmth of his frame nestled against his chest.

“…You know,” Idia mumbled, “even if you fell asleep during a Star Rogue movie, I wouldn’t be mad.” There was no reaction, so he added, with a crooked smile, “Okay—maybe just a little mad. I mean, it is peak cinema. It’s basically a sacred rite. But…”

His voice softened again. “That’s not the point. What I mean is… if you’re tired, then it’s okay to rest. That’s all.”

For a second, Riddle didn’t reply. Then, slowly, he shifted in Idia’s arms, turning to face him. His hands curled into the fabric of Idia’s hoodie, fingers clutching the fabric like he needed something to hold on to.

“Sometimes...” Riddle paused, swallowing, “sometimes it’s still hard to believe people won’t hate me for the smallest mistakes.” His eyes didn’t meet Idia’s. “Well…” he added, voice even softer, “many certainly do. After all I’ve done. After how I treated them.”

Idia’s heart ached at the look on his face.

“Maybe some randos do,” he said. “But who cares what they think? People who are actually close to you—the ones who know you? They don’t hate you.”

Riddle gave a short, bitter huff. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I caused so much trouble for Cater and Trey. And Ace… he hated me from the very beginning.”

Idia snorted softly. “Ace?”

He pulled back just enough to look at Riddle’s face, brushing a lock of red hair behind his ear. “Every time I see him, he’s talking about you. ‘Housewarden this, housewarden that.’ And if you ever praise him, you can bet the entire campus will know within the hour.” He tilted his head, mouth twitching up just a little. “He might be my rival now, come to think of it.”

That finally earned him a real laugh. It was small and short, but it was real—Riddle’s lips curling slightly as the tension in his shoulders eased, if only by a few degrees.

Encouraged, Idia shifted again, brushing a thumb along Riddle’s arm. His voice turned quieter. “I-I know what it’s like… to assume people hate you. Or that they should. That everything you do just makes you harder to love.”

He paused, then said softly, “But I... I see the way people look at you. And more than that, I know what kind of person you are.”

His eyes met Riddle’s now, steady despite the heat prickling in his cheeks.

“You’re strict, yeah. Maybe even scary sometimes. But you care so much it hurts. You want things to be right, and you’re trying. You’re not that kid who didn’t know better anymore. You’re… you’re better.”

Riddle didn’t speak right away. He just stared at him, and Idia wasn’t sure if he’d said too much. But then—

Riddle leaned forward, forehead resting lightly against Idia’s chest. His grip on the hoodie tightened.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

***

The soft whirring of cooling fans and the ambient hum of holo-screens filled the room as Idia sat hunched at his desk, knees drawn up to his chest on the chair, hoodie bunched around him.

Another date. Another disaster.

He fell asleep right in front of me. What kind of boyfriend doesn’t notice their partner’s exhaustion until they literally collapse in front of him?

Idia groaned and rolled back in his chair. He wanted to do something right for once. Something that said, You matter to me. I notice. I care.

Riddle liked sweets. That much he knew. And especially strawberry tarts. Idia had already catalogued the way Riddle’s eyes lit up when desserts were involved. How he always tried to act restrained about it, only to get adorably indignant when someone tried to steal a bite.

So, okay. Strawberry tart it is.

His fingers flew across a touch keyboard, bringing up a dozen delivery apps and bakeries across campus and beyond. Filters clicked into place. Ratings sorted. He set his standards high—he wanted this to be perfect.

But forty minutes of obsessive research later, the truth hit him.

The best patisserie in all of Twisted Wonderland? It wasn’t some high-end hidden gem or enchanted chef bakery. It was the Clover family’s shop. Which meant… Riddle was probably already getting the best fruit tarts available. From someone who’d been baking them since childhood.

He couldn’t compete with that.

“So,” Ortho said gently, hovering behind him, “you’ve been staring at those tart comparison charts for forty three minutes and twenty five seconds. Any luck?”

Idia muttered something incomprehensible into his sleeves.

Ortho blinked. “Could you repeat that?”

“I said, it doesn’t matter,” Idia grumbled, louder this time. “It’s pointless. I already figured out the best place to get them is Clover’s family bakery. So unless I can time-travel and become a pastry apprentice for fifteen years, I’m not going to outdo Trey.”

He flopped forward dramatically onto the desk with a thunk, forehead against the cool surface. One of the holo-screens shimmered with the motion, distorting the photo of a perfectly glazed fruit tart.

Ortho floated closer, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s not about being better than Trey Clover.”

“Pfft. You say that, but Riddle’s basically eating S-tier tarts weekly. I can’t show up with some floppy loser pie. It’ll look pathetic.” Idia's voice was muffled against the desk. “Ugh, I already failed the beach date. And the gaming date wasn’t even romantic. And I let him fall asleep at the table like some emotionally constipated idiot instead of noticing he was tired.”

“Brother…”

“I’m the worst boyfriend,” Idia groaned. “He deserves someone who can make fruit tarts without needing to google what a tart pan looks like.”

"What if you made one anyway? Not because you’re trying to outdo anyone, but because it would mean something coming from you.”

Idia blinked. “You mean… like some cringe shoujo anime gesture? ‘I made this for you with love, please don’t die from salmonella’? That kind of thing?”

Ortho giggled. “I mean more like, ‘I care about you, so I tried something new even though it scared me.’ That’s romantic, isn’t it?”

“…Ugh,” Idia said, scrubbing at his face with his hoodie sleeve. “Why do you always say stuff that makes sense when I’m trying to spiral dramatically.”

“It’s a little brother’s duty.”

Idia stared at the flickering tart image again. Slowly, he straightened up in his chair.

“I guess… I could try,” he muttered. “But I’d need actual help. Like professional tier help.”

Ortho perked up. “Oh! I have a list of tutorial videos—”

“No, I mean, like, real help.” Idia’s expression twisted with dread. “Like... talking-to-an-actual-person kind of help.” He gave a small, haunted shiver.

Ortho processed that for a moment, then lit up with realization. “You’re going to ask Trey Clover?”

“Yeah.” Idia’s voice was tiny. “He’s the Cake Guy, right? No point half-assing it.”

There was a pause.

“I’m proud of you,” Ortho said, gently.

“Don’t say it like I’m marching into battle.”

“You kind of are.”

Idia groaned and buried his face in his hands again. “Okay, okay, deep breaths. Think of it like a side quest. Stealth mission. Infiltrate Heartslabyul. Talk to Trey. Obtain the Secret Fruit Tart Knowledge. Escape. Cool boyfriend achievement unlocked. Easy peasy.”

“You got this,” Ortho said, beaming.

***

The moment Idia stepped past the heavy doors into the Heartslabyul lounge, he felt that familiar sense of dissonance wash over him. The room was as disorienting as ever—red and black checkerboard floors stretched out underfoot, with winding staircases that curled into the ceiling like spirals of ribbon candy, leading nowhere. He almost lost his balance for a moment—this place always made him feel like the world was tilted a few degrees to the left.

Still, he was used to it by now. He wasn't exactly used to the the warm reception yet, though.

“Idia! Good to see you!” Trey waved from a corner table, eyes bright behind his glasses.

"Don’t think we don’t notice you sneaking in,” Cater added with a grin. “Looking for Riddle, maybe? He’s out at equestrian club practice right now.”

“Ah—” Idia flushed. “Actually, uh... I’m here to see Trey.”

Trey’s expression shifted to curiosity. “Me?”

Idia nodded quickly, cheeks warming. “Yeah. I was wondering… if you could help me make a fruit tart.”

He trailed off, suddenly nervous, realizing how awkward that sounded. Trey’s brows lifted in surprise.

“You want to try making one yourself?”

“Yeah, um, Riddle likes them, so...  I—well, I don’t want it to be terrible.”

Cater gave a teasing grin. “Aw, homemade pastries for your boyfriend? That’s so sweet."

Idia flushed to the tips of his ears. “D-Don’t say it like that!”

Trey just smiled gently and stood up. “I'd be happy to help. Come on. Let’s get to the kitchen.”

They passed through another impossible hallway—one that twisted twice and looped once even though the destination was just a floor away—and eventually stepped into the Heartslabyul kitchen.

It was surprisingly spacious. Gleaming counters stretched across the room, each spotless and lined with rows of pristine bowls, measuring spoons, whisks, and spatulas arranged with military precision. The entire place smelled faintly of cinnamon, lemon zest, and sugar that had caramelized recently in the oven.

He glanced around, slightly dazed. “This place is... scary organized.”

Trey laughed. “We have to be, with Riddle as housewarden.”

He pulled out a stool for Idia to sit on. “Riddle likes a lot of fruit on his tarts,” he began, pulling a neatly organized set of recipes from a binder. “So the trickiest part is figuring out how much fruit to use—enough so it looks and tastes full, but not so much that it breaks the base apart.”

Idia nodded, frowning slightly as he imagined the tart collapsing under a mountain of fruit.

Trey smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow.”

They set to work. Trey showed Idia how to prepare the pastry dough, explaining each step patiently, while Idia tried to absorb everything despite the swirl of nerves inside him. Then came the pastry cream. Trey showed him how to whisk the yolks, how to temper them without scrambling.Then they moved on to selecting the fruit—bright strawberries, juicy blueberries, and slices of kiwi that shimmered like jewels.

As they arranged the fruit carefully on the tart base, Idia found himself relaxing just a little. He glanced up at Trey, who was working on another tart, humming softly, concentrated but clearly enjoying the process.

Idia's tart turned out... okay.

He stared down at it with an expression that could generously be called cautious optimism. It wasn’t burnt. The cream had set properly. The fruit was vaguely symmetrical—if you squinted and ignored the slightly off-center spiral of kiwi slices. The crust, though golden, had a few uneven edges where Idia’s fingers had pressed too hard or too shallow. The blueberries were kind of sunken on one side.

It was... edible. Probably.

He sighed, slumping slightly against the counter. “It doesn’t look like I imagined.”

Trey leaned over and gave it a thoughtful look. “Well, Riddle from last year would definitely behead you for this.”

“Eep—!” Idia jerked upright, raising his hands defensively. 

Trey laughed, easy and warm, his tone turning gentler. “But he’s not like that anymore.”

Idia blinked, then relaxed, nodding. “Must be a relief for you, as vice housewarden.”

“It is. But mostly because... he seems happier now.”

There was something gentle in the way he said it. Just... pure fondness.

Idia looked down at the tart again, at the uneven swirl of fruit and the fingerprints baked into the crust. He swallowed once, then glanced away.

It wasn’t his business.

He knew that. He hated people who stuck their noses where they didn’t belong—people who thought they had all the answers, who handed out unsolicited advice like it was candy. He wasn’t that kind of person. People like Vil, maybe—perfect posture, perfect looks, perfect grades, perfect polish—maybe they earned the right to make judgments.

But him?

He was a shut-in with the social skills of a damp potato chip. He couldn’t even make a fruit tart without help.

And yet—

He remembered Riddle clinging to his hoodie, his fingers curled into the fabric like it was the only solid thing in the world. Remembered how small his voice had been when he said, Sometimes it’s still hard to believe people won’t hate me for the smallest mistakes.

That look in his eyes...

Just say it.

Idia shifted on his feet, fingers twitching. He didn’t look at Trey when he spoke.

“Y-you care for him, huh. But does he know?”

The words slipped out rough and awkward, like a wire with too much static.

Trey paused mid-wipe of the counter. “What do you mean?”

Idia scratched the back of his neck, mouth dry. “I mean—uh. If... if something bad happens to you when you’re a kid, it... it can mess you up. Like, how you see people. How you think they see you.”

Trey didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Idia kept going, trying to make sense of the words even as he spoke them. “And I know being, like, the chill guy is your thing. Like... super dependable, calm, baking king... so chill nobody knows what you really think... it’s cool, honestly, I think that’s awesome, I’m not even being ironic. But—” He hesitated. His eyes were fixed on the far wall now, heart hammering. “Sometimes... sometimes you gotta be a little intense, you know? Not in a bad way! Just. Like. So he knows.” He gestured vaguely at the air. “So he doesn’t... guess. Or wonder. Or think that maybe you only care when it's convenient.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Trey’s hands had gone still on the cloth. When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful.

“You’re not wrong.”

Idia blinked, surprised.

Trey looked at him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he smiled. “You’re not wrong,” he repeated, and this time, it sounded more certain. “Thanks for saying that,” he added, voice quiet but clear.

Idia startled a little, not used to being thanked for... his words. Or really anything besides debugging a corrupted circuit in record time. “H-huh? W-well. I-it's really nothing. Just... very basic emotional intelligence. I-I mean not that you're emotionally dumb— ugh, I'm just making it worse now.”

Trey laughed, not teasing, just kind. “I’m glad Riddle has someone like you around.”

There was no sarcasm, no flattery. Just an honest, easy warmth behind the words. And that made it so much worse. Idia was so flustered, he had no idea how to respond, so he just looked back down at the tart. His tart. Crooked crust and all.

“…At least it’s not cursed-looking,” he muttered.

Trey laughed again. “It’s charming. Honest work always tastes better.”

Idia wasn't sure that was true, but he hoped Riddle would think so too.

Trey dried his hands and glanced at the ornate heart-shaped clock ticking away on the kitchen wall. “Riddle should be back from equestrian club by now,” he said, lifting the tart carefully onto a plate. “If you want, you can take it to his room.”

Idia went still.

“R-right now?” he croaked, staring at the tart like it had suddenly become a volatile magical artifact. “L-like. Personally?”

Trey blinked. “Well, yeah. You made it for him, didn’t you?”

Idia swallowed hard. He had, technically. That had been the entire point. And yet the idea of actually handing it to Riddle—looking him in the eye, saying something like I made this for you—made his stomach flip in on itself. There was no critical save point before this. No fast travel out of this encounter. Just pure, unfiltered social vulnerability.

But he still found himself mumbling, “O-okay. Sure. F-fine. No big deal.” He grabbed the plate with both hands and turned toward the door.

He wasn’t sure how he made it to Riddle’s room without tripping. The hallway felt longer than usual, lined with too many windows, too much light, and an ominous quiet that made his heart thud louder than his footsteps.

When he knocked, the door opened promptly. Riddle stood there, a bit of color still high on his cheeks from physical activity. He looked surprised. “Idia? What are you—?”

Idia, still holding the plate with all the grace of a haunted automaton, shoved it forward. “H-here,” he said quickly. “For you.”

Riddle reached out and took the plate with both hands, inspecting the contents with a curious tilt of his head. “Is this from Trey? Did he ask you to bring it over?” His tone was casual, but puzzled.

Idia’s heart lurched.

“N-no, it’s not from him,” he said, voice a little too high-pitched. “Just… look at it again. Like, really look. Would Trey let it look like that?”

Riddle peered down again, more closely this time. His brows furrowed slightly as he took in the imperfections— the cream was spread unevenly, some of the strawberries had slid to one side, and a lone blueberry looked like it was seconds away from escape. It definitely didn’t have Trey’s signature presentation.

“It’s… a little messy,” Riddle admitted, and then paused. His expression shifted slowly from analysis to realization. His gaze snapped up to Idia’s face. “You made this?”

Idia fidgeted, one hand curling around the edge of his hoodie sleeve. “I—I know it’s not good,” he rushed out. “It’s probably way worse than what you’re used to, but I—I know you really like strawberry tarts, and I thought… as your… b-boyfriend… I should at least know how to m-make your favorite thing…”

Riddle’s hands tightened ever so slightly around the plate. His cheeks had flushed a delicate red, eyes wide in that stunned, soft way Idia had only seen a handful of times.

“…You made this. For me.”

Idia gave the smallest nod.

And then Riddle smiled, so so pretty and luminous. “It’s the best tart I’ve ever seen.”

Idia’s face was practically burning now as he shifted awkwardly on his feet. “T-that’s… obviously not true. I mean, come on, Trey makes better ones in his sleep. I literally had to be supervised like a baby with a toy oven.  I feel kind of bad about it. I stole his time and his love language.”

“…His what?” Riddle blinked.

“Love language,” Idia said, waving a hand vaguely. “You know, when people do things instead of saying how they feel? Trey keeps baking stuff for you guys because he loves you. That’s just obvious. He’s feeding the whole dorm with affection sugar.”

Riddle’s expression softened, the corner of his mouth tugging into a small smile. “I suppose… that’s true,” he said quietly. He looked down at the tart again, a tiny warmth in his expression like sun catching on porcelain. Then he carefully carried it to his desk and set it down. “I’ll save it for afternoon tea.”

Just as Idia was thinking that maybe he’d survive this interaction without completely short-circuiting, Riddle turned back to him, now a little flushed himself.

“Actually… I have something for you, too.”

He stepped to the side of the bed and opened the drawer of his nightstand, pulling something out with both hands. His fingers fidgeted with it for a second before he turned to face Idia, holding it out.

“I… wanted to learn to do something with my hands,” he said, voice lower now, uncertain. “They say it’s calming. So I tried crocheting. And I know you love cats so...”

Resting in his palm was a small crocheted cat.

It was soft gray, made with slightly fuzzy yarn, and its proportions were off in the most endearing ways. One ear flopped more than the other. Its black eyes weren’t quite even, giving it a permanently puzzled expression. The tail curled like it couldn’t decide which way to go. And across its back, little stripes stitched in with darker yarn wandered unevenly, no two the same thickness or length.

Riddle looked down at it for a moment before continuing, “I know it’s not very good. It’s my first try. I meant to make a better one and give you that instead, but…” He trailed off, hesitating. Then he lifted his gaze and met Idia’s. “I think maybe… this one deserves a loving home too.”

Idia stared at it—at the uneven stitches, the wonky tail, the crooked charm of something made with little skill but a lot of care and effort—and felt a strange, tight warmth in his chest. Something a little wobbly in him softened.

 He reached out and took it, and he pressed it to his chest, holding it there gently, and said in a voice that cracked just slightly at the edges, “It’s- it's so cute." Something stung in his eyes, sharp and sudden. “It’s the cutest kitty ever.” 

Riddle tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting to a hint of teasing curiosity as he watched Idia clutch the uneven little cat to his chest. “Wait…” he said, stepping a little closer and peering at his face. “Are you crying?”

Idia sniffed and immediately turned his face halfway toward his shoulder, ears burning red. “I—I just really love kitties, okay?” he mumbled, voice thick.

A small laugh escaped Riddle—quiet and affectionate. He didn’t tease further. Instead, he reached out gently and touched Idia’s sleeve, then stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him in a warm, careful hug.

Idia blinked, stunned for a moment, then slowly let his arms wrap around Riddle in return, still holding the lopsided kitty in his hand. He felt Riddle’s cheek rest softly against his chest and his heart squeezed, full to the brim.

***

Back in his room, Idia eased down into his computer chair with a low sigh. He placed the lopsided little crocheted cat on his desk with utmost care, like it was some kind of rare, priceless artifact. The uneven stripes, the crooked tail, the way its ears didn’t quite match—it was, in every possible way, imperfect.

And he adored it.

He stared at it for a moment, propping his chin in his palm. “You need a name,” he murmured. He thought for a while, fingers tapping absently on the desk. “How about... Proto?” He glanced at the cat again, then smiled faintly. “Short for Prototype, you know. Because you’re the first of your kind. Also sounds like an RPG mascot, right?”

Proto stayed silent, slightly lopsided but dignified, as Idia gave him a small nod of approval.

Then the smile faded a little. Idia leaned back in his chair and sighed again, this time deeper. “He gave me Proto,” he muttered. “And I gave him... a squishy fruit mess.”

He tilted his head back with a groan. “No matter how much I grind my social stats, I still can’t level up to good-boyfriend tier,” he mumbled. “And Trey’s already got the baking love language slot locked in. I need something else... something pretty. Something me.”

His gaze drifted across the desk. Then a memory stirred. Their first study session. Riddle, watching him explain with that look of intense curiosity, and Idia, explaining how quantum-linked magical loops were kind of like... long-distance wedding rings. Warm when the other person was thinking of you. Bound by connection.

His heart jumped.

“...Rings,” he whispered.

Not wedding rings. Obviously not. That would be way too much. But just... something to wear. For later, when they couldn’t see each other every day. Couple rings with a little spell woven in.

He turned to his screen, fingers suddenly moving with purpose.

Proto the cat watched quietly from the desk as Idia opened a new project file, his face lit by the soft blue glow of the monitor.

***

The next date they planned together was something Idia had once shelved away in the category of 'cool things that only happen to other people.' A Premo concert. Not a streamed event. Not a low-res fan cam with someone screaming over the chorus. A real, live, in-person concert.

When he first saw “Foothill Town” on the tour schedule, he blinked. Then rubbed his eyes. Then cross-referenced three fan accounts, checked the official Premo site, and screencapped it just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was real. They were actually coming to this remote corner of the world like it was the most natural thing ever.

But that’s just who Premo were—amazing and kind. They wanted to meet every fan, even the ones buried deep in magical college towns with awful public transport.

It felt like a cosmic glitch. A happy one.

He’d been so excited he’d ended up rambling about it nonstop to Riddle—infodumping their discography, choreography, their iconic lyrics, the fan projects, everything. But somewhere in the middle of a ten-minute tangent about the significance of the “Skyreach” comeback trailer, he’d hesitated and added softly, “I… I’m not even sure I’ll go though.”

Riddle had blinked, surprised. “Why not? You were just telling me how you’d dreamed of this.”

“Y-yeah but…” Idia shifted awkwardly. “It’s still… a crowd. People waving glowsticks and screaming lyrics and bumping into you and stuff… going alone might be...” he shook his head.

Riddle had paused, then smiled—small, but sure. “Then I’ll go with you.”

It had hit Idia like a critical damage spell to the heart.

He hadn’t even asked. Riddle just offered, calmly, like it was no big deal. Like the idea of accompanying Idia to something he loved was normal.

And then, he added: “I want to understand the things that matter to you.”

Idia had stared at him, barely able to compute it, heart racing. He knew Riddle didn’t know much about Premo—he’d only started listening after Idia had shared a few songs—but he was still willing to come along.

He’d snatched up two VVIP tickets the second they dropped. The bloodbath of ticketing had nothing on him. These tickets were next level: close enough to see facial expressions, with early entrance and access to the exclusive merch line. He messaged Muscle Red about it, and Red said he managed to get tickets to the stop in his town too. Idia was thrilled. He wrote, Hope someday we can go together IRL. But for now?

Honestly?

He was just as happy to go with Riddle.

Even if Riddle wasn’t a full-blown fan. Even if he didn’t know all the fanchants or the lore. Riddle had something even better—Idia’s whole heart. Gatekeeping? Not in this relationship. Riddle had VIP access to everything.

And Riddle wanted to be there with him. That was enough.

Idia was waiting near the gate, wearing his favorite Premo tour shirt, black with shimmering purple text and a glowing constellation map on the back. A little cringe by normie standards, maybe, but it was Premo merch. It ruled. Still, when Riddle stepped through the gate and waved, Idia almost blacked out.

He was wearing a soft white blouse with heart-shaped buttons and puffed short sleeves, tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted dusty rose shorts with gold-accented suspenders. Around his neck was a delicate ribbon choker with a tiny charm shaped like a strawberry. His shoes were pink loafers with bows.

He looked like the most adorable romance option in an idol management slash dating sim game.

Idia forgot how to breathe.

“I-is it too much?” Riddle asked quickly, already turning a bit pink. “Cater helped pick it out again. I didn’t know what people usually wear to concerts but he said it would suit me—”

“Too much?!” Idia blurted, panic rising. “I’m afraid Premo is going to lose fans because everyone’s gonna fall for you. You—you’re, like, glitchingly beautiful. They’ll start chanting your name instead of the members’!”

Riddle flushed deeper. “That’s absurd. I’m hardly that interesting—”

“You look like you just walked out of a dating sim,” Idia said, still recovering. “I look like a sad guy who keeps a rare mousepad merch collection in his basement.”

His outfit—his treasured, glow-in-the-dark constellation Premo shirt—suddenly felt incredibly lame next to Riddle’s soft pastels and polished styling. His jeans were fine, his sneakers were clean, but he looked like a fanboy. Riddle looked like a guest star.

Riddle laughed—quiet and surprised—and shook his head. “Well, I’m excited,” he said, a little breathless. “I’ve been practicing the fanchants.”

Idia blinked. “You—what?!”

“I made flashcards,” Riddle added, a little sheepishly. “There are guides online, so—”

Idia was done. Emotionally destroyed. Ready to evaporate into particles of love and gratitude.

He reached for Riddle’s hand without thinking and whispered, “I seriously don’t deserve you.”

This was real. His boyfriend was going to a Premo concert with him. In that outfit. Knowing the fanchants.

Today was going to be unforgettable.

***

The moment they stepped into the concert hall, Idia’s excitement fizzled into a creeping dread.

He’d thought scoring VVIP tickets was the pinnacle of boyfriend achievement. Instant access, close to the stage, the kind of intense experience every real fan dreamed of. But now, standing in the thick of it, elbows bumping shoulders and glowsticks waving wildly overhead, he realized he’d made a critical miscalculation.

Riddle was… tiny.

He didn’t just look small next to the fans pressed in on all sides—he was actually getting swallowed up by the crowd. His carefully styled hair, his adorable outfit—all of it was being buffeted by taller bodies and chaotic energy.

Idia’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t even thought of this.

Why hadn’t he recommended platform shoes? Why hadn’t he researched crowd density in standing zones? Why hadn’t he realized that no matter how early they arrived, there’d still be a wall of people in front of Riddle, because some people were crazy enough to camp the whole night to get the front row?

He reached out instinctively, one hand settling gently at Riddle’s waist. “Hey,” he said, leaning close, his voice low and careful near Riddle’s ear. “Come here.”

He guided Riddle to stand right in front of him, creating a small buffer with his own body. With one arm draped loosely around Riddle’s waist—not too tight, just steady—he tried to shield him from the ripple of movement, the jostling limbs and stomping feet.

Riddle didn’t resist. He stepped in close, allowing Idia to bracket him, his back brushing against Idia’s chest. Still, Idia could feel the tension in his frame as he craned his neck to see past the heads in front of him.

“I didn’t think…” Idia muttered, self-loathing creeping in. “Ugh. This was stupid. I should’ve known. You can’t see anything like this. Do you wanna go to the back? It’s not as crowded there and—”

But Riddle turned his head just enough to glance up at him, eyes steady beneath the flickering lights. “No,” he said softly. “I’m alright.” His voice was calm. Not strained. Not forced. Just… warm.

“I like that you're holding me,” Riddle added after a moment, a little quieter this time. “It’s comforting.”

Idia froze. What was he supposed to say to that? He opened his mouth, flailed for words, then gave up and just looked away, face fully lit with a blush.

He didn’t deserve this level of adorableness. He really didn’t.

Riddle nestled a little closer to him, his back resting lightly against Idia’s chest, and for the first time since entering the crowd, Idia felt his own heart start to settle.

No, maybe this wasn’t the perfect spot. And yeah, maybe he was an idiot for not thinking it through.

But somehow… Riddle still wanted to be right here. With him.

So he lifted his free hand, flicked on the glowstick bracelet they’d gotten with the VVIP package, and held it where Riddle could see it.

Together, they waited for the lights to dim and the first beat to drop.

***

The crowd was still buzzing behind them as they stepped into the cooler air outside the venue, their bodies warm and tingling from the energy of the concert. The sky had darkened into deep indigo, dotted with stars just beginning to peek through the haze of stage lights and city glow. Idia’s pulse was racing, his shirt clinging slightly to his back. Riddle was flushed too, cheeks glowing pink and his fringe slightly damp.

Idia wasn’t sure what to say. What if Riddle had just powered through the whole thing for his sake? What if he hadn’t enjoyed it? It was loud. Messy. People were screaming, jumping, a girl spilled her drink way too close to them during the encore. And the bass had been so strong it felt like it rewired his heart rhythm.

So Idia bit back the excited ramble crawling up his throat and instead offered a cautious, “So... uh... that was something, huh?”

But Riddle’s head turned quickly, red hair catching the last glint of streetlight. His expression was bright, a little breathless. “It was amazing,” he said, eyes still shining. “Their live singing was even better than the recordings, and the atmosphere! Everyone was so excited. It felt like the whole crowd was one voice.”

Idia blinked, stunned into silence. Then he grinned. The kind of open, crooked, borderline-dorky smile that broke out when he just couldn’t help it. “Heh… yeah,” he said. “Told you they’re peak performance. And that one ballad in the encore? I swear I felt my soul leave my body. They slayed.”

Riddle chuckled, and for a moment, they just stood there, caught in the soft noise of fellow fans streaming past them. Then a voice cut through the air, light and familiar.

“Well, well, fancy seeing you two here~!”

They turned.

There, standing a few paces away, was Lilia—dressed in a frilly black-and-violet outfit that was half-Victorian, half-modern street goth. His hair was done up, and there was a silver chain looping from his ear cuff to his collar, and glowstick bracelets clacked loosely on both wrists.

Idia blinked hard, genuinely baffled. “Wha—Lilia?! You like Premo?!”

Lilia grinned. “Of course! One of my online friends recommended them to me. Naturally, I had to see them live. And well—” he gestured playfully to his outfit, “—I had the perfect excuse to dress up.”

“I… huh. Wow.” Idia was genuinely baffled. “I mean, good taste, obviously, but I didn’t have this on my bingo card.”

Riddle tilted his head. “You came alone?”

Lilia shook his head. “Oh, no, I brought Silver too. He’s off buying water right now—said he felt like his bones were rattling out of sync."  Then his eyes twinkled. “But what about you two? Could it be…” He leaned in slightly, raising a brow. “A date?”

Idia instantly flailed. “Wh—what?! That—!!” But when he glanced toward Riddle, the words caught in his throat. Riddle wasn’t denying it. In fact, his eyes had gone wide, and a soft pink was blooming high on his cheeks, deepening fast. Was it... okay to admit it then?

Idia’s own face flushed hot. “I—I mean—yeah. I guess—I mean not guess, it is a date,” he stammered, his voice dropping a little with every word until it was barely above a whisper. “Yeah. It’s a date.”

Lilia’s smile softened. “Ah… young love. Brings me back, it does.” He sighed wistfully, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “The sparkle of new romance… It’s enough to bring a tear to an old man’s eye.”

Idia made a strangled sound while Riddle coughed gently into his hand, still clearly flushed.

Lilia gave them a two-finger salute. “Well, I’ll leave you two be. Don’t let the night end too soon—make the most of your date~!”

Idia let out a long, quiet sigh, shoulders slumping just a little as he watched Lilia vanish into the dispersing crowd.

A date, huh?

He’d said it was a date—because it was. Because it was Riddle and him, together, on purpose. Because he’d wanted to scream it to the stars and also bury himself under a hundred cloaks of invisibility. 

"I'm really not… built to answer questions like that," he muttered, trying to recover a bit of his composure. "My whole life’s been spent dodging IRL cutscenes like that. I’ve got zero resistance to fluster damage."

Riddle shifted beside him. When Idia glanced over, Riddle wasn’t looking at him—his gaze was fixed forward, his hands clasped in front of him, his posture a little too stiff to be casual. His cheeks were flushed.

“Well,” he said carefully, “if we’re holding hands, then no one will need to ask whether it’s a date.”

His tone wobbled just slightly at the end. Not nervous in the way Idia often was—more like... hopeful. Like he was offering something precious and didn’t know if it would be accepted.

Idia froze, breath caught. For a moment, all the self-deprecating thoughts spiraling in his head—the ‘I’m not good enough,’ the ‘this is too much,’ the ‘he’s way out of my league’—they all paused. Because Riddle, tiny, fierce, brilliant Riddle, was looking so open and vulnerable, standing beside him like he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen, like was okay with everyone knowing. And he was waiting for Idia to choose if he wanted to hold hands in public.

Idia reached out slowly. His fingers brushed Riddle’s and then curled around them, interlacing gently. It was clumsy, a little stiff at first, but when Riddle's fingers squeezed his back, the gesture softened. Natural. Familiar. Idia felt his face go up in metaphorical flames.

His palm tingled with warmth. The world still bustled around them—fans laughing, food vendors calling out—but none of it really registered. Just Riddle’s hand in his.

It was almost like a high-level quest. Like a limited-time event with an absurd difficulty rating. “Hold Hands in Public: S Rank Challenge.”

But also…

It felt really nice.

Idia swallowed, cleared his throat. “So, uh… wanna grab something to drink? There’s this soda stand back there. Sea salt soda. I hear it’s good.”

Riddle looked up at him with a soft, fond smile.

“I’d like that,” he said.

And together, still holding hands, they walked into the cool, starry night.

***

Idia had been thinking about this next date for days.

The concert had been amazing—beyond amazing, really—but it had also been a lot. For both of them. And after it was over, after the electric buzz of excitement wore off, he kept replaying one thing his head: how he hadn’t even thought about how hard it must’ve been for Riddle to see anything in that kind of crowd. All because he was shorter. A basic, basic oversight.

Idia had curled up in his chair that night in the familiar glow of his monitors and muttered to himself about being the worst boyfriend in Twisted Wonderland.

So this time… this time he was going to do better.

It started with cleaning his room. Not just the visible clutter—he deep cleaned. The mountains of empty snack wrappers? Gone. The tangled wires and external drives? Sorted and packed. The figurines? Arranged neatly back on shelves. And in the center of it all, he set up a low table—one of those cozy ones designed for floor-sitting. It took him three tries to align the little floor cushions perfectly on either side..

The puzzle itself was a thing of beauty, something he’d spent hours choosing online. It wasn’t your usual jigsaw puzzle, but a complex mechanical build, all interlocking wooden pieces that would eventually form a working miniature music box. It had gears and keys and elegant filigree details, secret compartments that clicked open when you solved a series of tiny puzzles. It looked like it had been pulled from an old fantasy RPG.

He laid out all the pieces on a soft cloth atop the table, grouping them carefully so Riddle could see how complex—but doable—it was. No pressure. Just fun.

For the mood, Idia adjusted the lighting in his room to make it warm and low. He picked a quiet playlist: soft lo-fi, a few mellow instrumental tracks, and a sprinkle of Premo’s gentler B-sides tucked here and there. The kind that didn’t need full attention, just... filled the space with a soft energy.

He prepared tea, too. Real tea, not instant. He’d borrowed a full set from Heartslabyul and stood awkwardly over the kettle for ten minutes trying not to mess it up. And he made sure to grab a little variety of snacks—biscuits, fruit slices, and gummy worms.

When everything was ready, Idia stood back and blinked at his own room. It didn’t even feel like his room anymore. It felt... cozy. Just the thought of Riddle seeing it made him want to run and hide in his closet—but it also made his stomach flip in a hopeful kind of way.

When the soft knock came, he jumped. Then froze.

Then, very carefully, padded over and opened the door.

Riddle stood in the hallway, wearing a soft sweater with sleeves rolled up, and relaxed trousers in muted cream. He blinked when he stepped inside, taking in the soft light, the cushions on the floor, the careful puzzle layout, the aroma of tea already steeping.

“You did all this?” Riddle asked, voice soft but touched with genuine surprise.

Idia shuffled in place, his voice a mutter. “I mean… yeah. I thought maybe after all the noise from last time, something quieter might be better? You said you wanted to work with your hands, so I figured... maybe this’d be fun.”

Riddle’s lips curved.

“I think it’s lovely,” he said, smiling gently. “Truly.”

Idia let out a relieved breath. They sat together on the cushions, knees brushing lightly under the table. Riddle touched one of the wooden pieces, turning it over thoughtfully between his fingers.

“This looks challenging,” he murmured, already sounding intrigued.

Idia grinned. “Good. I thought you’d like a boss-level puzzle.”

They settled into a rhythm faster than Idia had expected. Maybe it was because the puzzle was genuinely absorbing, or maybe it was just… easy to be around Riddle like this.

Riddle read the instructions with his usual focus, brow furrowed, lips moving slightly as he deciphered the diagrams. Idia, sprawled a bit more casually on his cushion, handled the smaller gear pieces, his fingers nimbly snapping the interlocking wood together. Every so often, he glanced sideways—not at the puzzle, but at him.

Riddle, biting his lower lip in concentration, his sleeves pushed up. Riddle, who hummed softly when he thought, occasionally leaning closer to examine the alignment of parts. Riddle, whose eyes lit up with each little mechanical click of progress.

They talked as they worked—idly, quietly. There were quiet pauses too—comfortable ones—where only the soft background music and the tiny click of wooden pieces being pressed into place filled the room. Riddle leaned a little closer when they checked part alignment, and Idia’s heart did something stupid and fluttery.

When they finally slotted the last piece in place—securing the winding key and closing the secret compartment—Riddle sat back with a small gasp of delight. The puzzle-turned-music box let out a soft, delicate tune, its gears clicking in harmony, and the top bloomed open like a mechanical flower.

“Beautiful,” Riddle breathed.

Idia gave a smug grin. “Instructions said this thing might take a week to build.”

Riddle turned to look at him, eyes sparkling with amusement. “A week? Really?”

Idia shrugged with faux modesty. “Well, yeah. But we weren’t your average noobs.”

That made Riddle giggle. A light, spontaneous sound that made Idia’s chest ache in the best way. He watched Riddle’s face glow with accomplishment and joy—the way his eyes creased, the curve of his mouth. And for a moment, he forgot about the puzzle completely.

All he could think about was how he loved to see Riddle relaxing. Enjoying something just for the sake of it. And then... something in him simply gave in.

He leaned in before he could second-guess himself. The kiss was hesitant at first, sweet and feather-light, his lips gently brushing against Riddle’s. But Riddle kissed him back almost instantly, tilting his face up, pressing closer with a soft sigh as if this was something he’d been waiting for. His lips moved against Idia’s, warm and pliant and eager, and then his hands lifted and slid up over Idia’s shoulders, wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer.

The way Riddle melted into him so naturally sent something fluttering deep in Idia’s chest. His heart thundered as their mouths moved in sync, deeper and more searching. He didn’t know when it shifted, only that it did—that the kiss turned urgent, open-mouthed, and messy in a way that made his thoughts unravel. Their mouths parted and met again, deeper, wetter, tongues brushing with shy hunger.

Idia didn’t mean to get carried away. But it happened anyway.

The warmth of Riddle’s mouth, the soft heat of his body leaning into his, the way his hands gripped Idia’s shirt like he never wanted to let go—it was overwhelming. Idia lost himself in it, in him. Their kiss deepened, then both hands moved—one splaying at his waist, the other ghosting up under the hem of his sweater, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of his back.

Riddle gasped softly—his back arching just slightly, body pressing up into him. His fingers dug into Idia’s shoulders, clutching him closer, lips parting again like he needed more.

It was driving Idia absolutely insane.

He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. He kissed Riddle harder, pressing him gently down into the plush blankets and cushions scattered across the floor. Riddle sank into them without resistance, one leg curling up, brushing against Idia’s hip in a way that made his head spin.

They ended up tangled, clothing askew, heat blooming between them.

Riddle’s sweater was slightly rumpled, hair mussed from where Idia’s fingers had threaded through it. His face was flushed, lips pink and kiss-bitten, breaths coming fast and uneven. And Idia couldn’t stop kissing him—drunk on the way Riddle whimpered softly into his mouth, chasing the sound like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Then Riddle’s back arched a little, a whine catching in his throat, high and sharp.

 That sound—like pain—shocked Idia back into himself.

He tore away instantly, eyes wide, heart leaping into his throat.

“A-Are you okay?!” he burst out, voice cracking as panic surged. “Did I—was that—did I bite you?!”

His hands hovered uselessly, not daring to touch. “I-I forgot, my teeth—they're all—freaky, and sharp, and gods, I’m so sorry, I—I told myself to be careful, I didn't mean—!”

He backed off in a rush, sitting upright with a groan, hands flying to his face. His entire body felt like it was on fire from shame.

“What the hell was I doing?! I got so—so swept up and I didn’t even ask, I didn’t—” His voice cracked again. “I can’t just do that to you, I—I—ugh, what’s wrong with me?”

He peeked between his fingers, breath still coming too fast, heart still trying to crawl out of his chest—and froze.

Riddle was lying there, breathing hard, lips kiss-bitten and red, a little dazed and flushed. His hair was mussed, cheeks bright with color, and his eyes were wide and slightly glassy. He blinked slowly, as if trying to make sense of Idia’s panicked backpedaling.

“I’m not…” he said softly, “I’m not hurt.”

Idia’s hands lowered just enough to look at him properly.

“I-It’s okay,” Riddle continued. “I promise.”

He looked flustered, yes, but not upset. More like—embarrassed. Shy. But something vulnerable glinted behind his eyes, like a door Idia hadn’t expected to be allowed through. That same look he’d worn when he asked to hold hands at the concert.

It hit Idia square in the chest. He didn’t deserve that kind of trust.

“…I just got too into it,” Idia mumbled. “You’re just… so sweet. Like that. I-I kind of short-circuited.”

Riddle's cheeks turned even redder, but he gave the faintest smile. He reached out with one hand and brushed his fingertips against Idia’s hand.  And then, still pink and clearly nervous, he leaned in, cupped Idia’s face in both hands, and kissed him—just once. Soft, steady. Reassuring.

“I said It's okay, silly,” he whispered.

Idia’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. Gods.

Riddle was really the sweetest person in the entire world.

***

Idia had been planning the amusement park date for over a week, obsessively double-checking every possible variable. Weather forecasts. Ride wait times. Crowd estimates. He even looked up strategies for avoiding overstimulation in high-sensory environments.

After what happened—the way he’d kissed Riddle, pushed him down like some instinct-short-circuited beast—it had haunted him. Riddle hadn’t yelled, hadn’t pulled away. But that breathy, high sound he made... the one that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite pain… it had lodged itself in Idia’s brain like a corrupted audio loop.

He had to do something. Something thoughtful. Safe. Joyful.

So, when Riddle had mentioned in passing that a seasonal amusement park had opened nearby—eyes bright, voice lighter than usual—Idia had seized on the idea with both hands. He’d never been to one himself (obviously), but Riddle had said he always wanted to go as a child. And if anyone deserved a perfect day full of fun, it was him.

And Idia would do everything in his power to make it perfect.

He bought day passes, max-tier with unlimited ride access, fast lines, and snack credits. Maybe overkill, but Riddle was worth that and more.

That morning, Idia stood outside the gate, early as always, under a shaded tree, nervously tugging at the hem of his shirt. For once, he’d actually tried to dress well. He’d put on a soft white button-down shirt, light and breathable, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He left the top button undone. His black tapered trousers were cleanly pressed and cuffed above understated black sneakers with silver trim. His hair, pulled loosely back into a half-tie with a black ribbon clip Riddle had once said he liked.

He felt a bit ridiculous, like someone in a dating sim CG event, but more nervous and sweaty.

And then he saw Riddle.

He approached from the stone path leading up to the gate, the early sunlight hitting him just right—like the opening shot of a shoujo anime. His jeans were soft and pale, loose around his legs with a gentle taper, cuffed at the ankle to show off cherry-red sneakers. His crop top was a bold splash of color, red like candied apples and just snug enough to show a sliver of pale stomach every time he moved. His hair was brushed neatly, but a little tousled from the morning breeze. A thin black strap crossed his chest diagonally—his compact messenger bag—and he held a light hoodie looped over one arm in case the weather turned.

He looked casual, effortless—and still, completely lethal to Idia’s nervous system.

Riddle slowed when he saw him, raising a hand in greeting. But his eyes flicked over Idia’s clothes, his posture, and a small crease formed between his brows.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, stopping in front of him. “You’re staring.”

“I—no!” Idia’s voice cracked like a dropped glass. “No, no, you just—you look—”

His brain glitched.

Riddle glanced down at himself, then shifted the hoodie in his arms. “I wasn’t sure if this was too casual. Cater said it was cute, but he always says that, so I couldn’t really tell—”

“No, you look…” Idia paused, helpless. “Like a five-star event character. Limited run. Summer romance alt. I would spend real money to unlock this outfit, no lie.”

That startled a laugh out of Riddle—quiet, breathless.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but his voice was soft, touched by a smile. Then he tilted his head and added, “You look nice too. I’ve never seen you dress like this before.”

Idia’s ears felt like they were on fire. He tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Y-yeah, well. I figured for once, I should, you know. Try not to look like I just rolled out of a cave.” He tried to laugh. It came out as a strangled wheeze.

But Riddle’s smile only widened a little, something gentler in it now. “Well, I like it,” he said. “It suits you.”

When later they stepped off the bus, the park rose up ahead of them in a blur of color and sound. Tall banners waved overhead. Music drifted on the breeze. Somewhere, someone screamed in delight as a coaster dropped in the distance. The smell of sugar and popcorn clung to the air.

Riddle inhaled slowly. His eyes widened, almost luminous with wonder.

“I didn’t expect it to feel so… big,” he said. “Lively.”

Idia watched him for a moment, then smiled to himself.

They exchanged their digital passes and stepped through the gates.  Riddle’s eyes lit up immediately, wide and curious like a child seeing the world unfold for the first time. Idia followed him in, quietly memorizing every expression.

And just for a moment, he thought—

Maybe today will go right. Maybe I’ll actually earn some real boyfriend EXP.

***

At first, things weren’t too bad.

The amusement park was lively, but not overwhelming yet—early enough in the day that the crowds hadn’t reached peak chaos. The sun was warm but not stifling, and the cheerful background music just low enough to feel whimsical instead of stressful. They wandered for a bit, taking in the vibrant stalls and cheerful colors, before Riddle pointed toward the haunted house attraction. A walk-through, not a ride—which meant no long lines, no pressing bodies. Just a small group entering every few minutes.  Riddle’s eyes lingered on the dark arched entrance with its flickering lights and dripping fake cobwebs. 

“Wanna go here first?” Idia asked, nudging him.

Riddle nodded. “The line’s short. We should take advantage.”

Inside, the air cooled immediately, thick with artificial fog and the faint, mechanical whir of hidden props. The corridors twisted unpredictably, lit only by faintly flickering lanterns. Around corners came sudden sounds—a creaking door, a sudden shriek, the slap of heavy footsteps behind them.

It wasn’t terrifying, just atmospheric. In fact, watching Riddle tense slightly every time a ghost lunged from the shadows was more entertaining than the attraction itself.

He was so composed, so dignified—until a skeleton burst from a hidden door with a screech. Riddle yelped and instinctively reached for his pen.

“Whoa!” Idia caught his wrist, laughing but wide-eyed. “It’s just a dude, Riddle! No frying underpaid actors!”

Riddle blinked as if shaking himself awake. His cheeks went pink. “O-of course. I wasn’t— I mean— It was just a reflex.”

“It’s okay,” Idia said, still grinning. “Remind me never to prank you on Halloween though.”

By the time they stumbled out, blinking into the sun, Riddle’s composure was back in place, albeit with a slight dusting of color on his cheeks.

“That wasn’t bad,” Riddle admitted. “Surprisingly creative staging.”

“You almost turned a scare actor into a crispy achievement unlock.”

Riddle huffed. “I wouldn’t have actually cast anything.”

They wandered next to a snack stall where bright pastel swirls of cotton candy spun endlessly behind a glass case. Riddle tilted his head, curious.

“I’ve never had this before,” he admitted.

“You’ve never had cotton candy?” Idia said, scandalized. “We’re fixing that immediately.”

He bought the biggest one the stall had. Riddle carefully pinched off a piece and tasted it, blinking as it melted on his tongue.

“It’s… it’s just sugar,” he said, baffled. “But it’s oddly delightful.”

The innocent amazement in his voice was so sincere Idia couldn’t help it—he pulled out his phone.

“Wait—don’t move. That face—you’re so cute right now.”

“Idia—!”

“No, seriously. This is going in the ‘Precious Memories’ album.”

He snapped a few photos before Riddle could turn away, catching him mid-laugh, a bright bit of cotton candy stuck to the corner of his mouth. Idia’s heart swelled.

They wandered a little more, cotton candy in hand, until Idia’s eyes landed on a bright little stand decorated with stars and pastel signage, selling cheap but colorful gadgets, accessories, and animal-ear headbands.

He gasped. “Wait—waitwaitwait. Kitty ears.”

“What?”

“Kitty. Ears.” He grabbed Riddle’s hand and tugged him toward the stall. “Please, please just try them on. Just for a sec. Please.”

Riddle looked doubtful. “Idia…”

“Pleeeeease. For science.”

Riddle sighed, but allowed Idia to carefully position the soft black-and-pink cat ear headband atop his head. They flicked forward just slightly when he moved, and nestled perfectly into his hair.

Idia stared.

“Oh my gods. You’re going to kill me. This is—this is lethal cuteness.”

He fumbled to open his camera again, taking several pictures from different angles.

“I look ridiculous,” Riddle muttered, pink dusting his cheeks.

“You look adorable,” Idia said with zero shame. “Like. Terminally adorable. Catastrophically adorable.”

“Idia…”

“Okay, okay—one more thing. Just one.”

Riddle narrowed his eyes.

“Say ‘meow.’ For a video.”

He spluttered. “Absolutely not!”

“Please!” Idia begged, clasping his hands. “I-it would mean everything to me. Everything.”

Riddle’s expression shifted—flustered, then suspicious.

“You’re oddly into this,” he said, voice a little too sharp. “Is this because of those comics?”

Idia blinked. “What comics?”

“The ones on your bookshelf. The… inappropriate ones. With girls with cat ears in extremely short skirts.”

Idia almost dropped his phone. He literally felt his soul leave his body.

He should have hidden them. Why hadn't he hidden them???

“You—saw those?? Oh no, oh no—those are—those are ironic! Mostly ironic! Okay, half ironic... I— I can explain!”

“I’m not mad,” Riddle said quickly, pink all the way to his ears.

Idia was still spiraling. “!, I’ll throw them out—burn them—launch them into orbit—I mean, they’re super rare collector’s editions but I’ll still—"

“I said I’m not mad,” Riddle repeated, voice firmer now, though his face was glowing. And then, quieter—softer—he looked away and mumbled, “...Meow.”

Idia nearly collapsed.

He clutched his chest like he’d taken a critical hit. “I—do you know what you just did to me—?!”

Riddle folded his arms, clearly embarrassed. “You were being ridiculous. I had to… defuse it.”

“You defused it by ending me. This is it. This is where I perish.”

“You asked for it," Riddle huffed. Idia laughed nervously. He stood there, dazed, overwhelmed, watching his boyfriend flustered in cat ears under the summer sun—and all he could think was: This is peak happiness.

And he’d die happy.

***

They went on the Ferris wheel next. They rose slowly into the sky, the view of the park sprawling beneath them in a kaleidoscope of color and motion. Riddle pressed his face to the window of their capsule, smiling with unguarded wonder at the miniature world below. Idia watched him more than the view, heart full.

Then they went on a spinning teacup ride, and Idia wasn't surprised to learn that Riddle’s competitive streak extended even to centrifugal force.

“You’re not even trying,” Riddle teased, gripping the central wheel and spinning them fast enough to make Idia’s hair lift from the wind.

“I’m trying not to hurl,” Idia managed, laughing through the dizziness.

They shared caramel popcorn and took goofy selfies at a photo booth, complete with oversized sunglasses and novelty hats. Riddle won a small plush hedgehog at one of the carnival-style games.

By noon, their steps took them to a cozy-looking café nestled between the rides. It was fairytale-themed, with ivy creeping up the walls and soft glowing lanterns hanging from trees. The windows were round like cottage panes, and the sign above the entrance read The Enchanted Hearth in a swirling, golden font. Inside, it was all warm wood and velvet cushions, with whimsical touches: a teapot that whistled like a bird, chairs shaped like mushrooms, pastries that sparkled faintly under glass domes.

Riddle beamed as they were seated at a little table by the window. “This is charming,” he said, opening the menu and pointing at a flower-shaped tart. “I want to try this.”

Idia agreed, letting the comfort of the quiet space settle his nerves. He ordered a smoothie and something with too much sugar and not enough nutritional value. The food was good, and so was the company. For a while, Idia let himself believe he was doing well at this boyfriend thing.

But by mid-afternoon, the crowd had thickened. The summer sun was fully out now, and more people flooded the park—families, teens, couples weaving between stalls, brushing too close. The noise rose in turn. Music from rides, bells from game booths, chatter from every direction—it all started to blur together, loud and constant, like a buzzing in his skull.

Idia tried to keep it together.

He counted his steps. Breathed in slow, out slower. Focused on Riddle’s voice, Riddle’s presence—his hand brushing against Idia’s as they walked, his small delighted sounds whenever something caught his eye. That helped. For a while.

But the lines had grown longer now, the air thicker with heat and noise. The sun beat down in full force, and the smell of fried food and sunscreen clung heavily to everything. They joined the queue for a new ride—a coaster styled after a flying dragon—but the line snaked endlessly through a narrow corral of metal bars, packed elbow-to-elbow with strangers. Every breath felt like inhaling warmth from too many bodies. Every laugh or shout from nearby pierced too sharply through the wall of sound.

Idia tried to tune it out. He focused on the way Riddle stood beside him, patient, humming under his breath. On the light brush of their arms when the line shifted. But even that couldn’t drown out the feeling that everything was pressing in too close.

The crowd surged again. Behind them, a group of teenagers pushed forward, clearly trying to edge past. One of them bumped hard into Idia’s shoulder without so much as an apology.

He flinched. His jaw tightened.

“I—ugh. I hate people who do that,” he muttered under his breath, voice clipped. “Just—just push in like we’re invisible. What even is that?”

He folded his arms, trying to make himself smaller, but the heat and the pressure and the chatter gnawed at him.

“Like, what, they think they’re special? Just—just barging through like that—like they own the place or something." His voice was low at first, but picking up pace, building steam. His words tangled and stumbled over each other, like they were trying to outrun the pressure building behind his ribs. "Ugh. This is why I don’t go outside. People are the worst. Loud, sweaty, rude, no spatial awareness—”

Riddle turned to him slightly, eyebrows raised, but Idia wasn’t done.

“This ride isn’t even that cool,” he said, louder now. “It’s not worth it. Getting packed in like sardines just for ninety seconds of fake dragon whooshing. Not worth getting stepped on by normies who don’t even respect basic queue etiquette—”

Some heads turned. Someone behind them scoffed quietly.

“Seriously, I should’ve just stayed home,” Idia went on, voice rising again. “This is exactly why I don’t do crowds—why did I even think this would be fun—”

Riddle touched his arm lightly. “Idia...”

Several people turned to look. A few gave him strange glances. The group behind them murmured something under their breath.

Idia’s stomach dropped. His breath caught.

“Oh—oh no, I—I didn’t—shit, I didn’t mean—sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud—”

“It’s alright,” Riddle said quickly. He was already stepping out of the queue. “Let’s step aside.”

“No, no, I’m—” Idia stumbled after him, heart racing, head spinning. “I didn’t mean to ruin the mood—I just—just said it without thinking, it’s just, it’s so loud, and there were too many people and—and I wasn’t trying to be—”

He could feel eyes on them, hear the faint whispering. Everything around him tilted—too bright, too sharp, too close. His hands were shaking. His breath hitched. The world blurred like a camera gone out of focus.

“Idia,” Riddle said again, low and calm. “Let’s go home.”

“I’m fine,” Idia said, almost on instinct, trying to straighten up. But his voice cracked halfway through the sentence. “Really, I’m— I can still—”

Riddle reached for his hand. His grip was warm and steady. “You’re shaking,” he said simply.

Idia’s eyes burned. Shame and frustration swelled in his chest like a balloon about to burst. But when he looked at Riddle, there was no judgement in his face. He looked worried.

And that was what finally broke through the noise. He nodded. They stepped out of the crowd together. And as soon as they left the line, it was like something heavy lifted off his lungs. Like the noise backed away. Like he could finally, finally breathe.

***

The ride home was quiet.

The kind of quiet that pressed in around the edges, too thick to be comfortable. The coach hummed softly as it glided down the dusk-painted road, but inside it was hushed, just the faint creak of the seats and the low mechanical whir beneath their feet.

Idia stared out the window, watching trees blur past in streaks of green. He was still trying to regulate his breathing, still felt the residual thrum of panic just under his skin like an overclocked processor. His fingers twitched on his knees.

Across from him, Riddle sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, gaze turned to the opposite window. He hadn’t said a word since they left the amusement park. There was no small talk, no questions, no humming like he sometimes did when he was in a good mood. Just silence. Stillness.

Too much stillness.

Idia’s mind wouldn’t stop racing.

He must’ve ruined it. Completely. He just had to snap like some malfunctioning droid. He saw the moment play out again and again in his head—the way Riddle had looked at him right after. He'd thought it was concern then, but now... it seemed more like disappointment. Maybe both.

He'd wanted the date to be perfect, so of course it turned out to be the biggest embarrassment ever. He just couldn't get this right.

He probably thinks I’m a joke, Idia thought bitterly, chewing the inside of his cheek. A pathetic, volatile weirdo who can’t even make it through a day out without glitching.

He wanted to apologize, wanted to say I'm sorry for being so embarrassing or I didn’t mean to ruin it. But his throat was too tight, his chest too constricted, and the longer the silence stretched, the harder it became to break. His voice stayed locked behind his teeth.

By the time they stepped into the mirror hall at NRC, Idia felt cold with self-loathing. When they reached the fork in their paths—one mirror for Ignihyde, one for Heartslabyul—Riddle stopped. He turned to Idia with that soft, careful expression he wore when he was holding something back. His tone was polite, almost formal.

“You should go rest. It’s been a long day,” he said. “Goodnight, Idia.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he stepped into his dorm’s mirror and vanished.

Idia stood there for a second, blinking. His breath caught in his throat.

That's it?

His stomach twisted as he made his way to his dorm on autopilot. By the time he reached his room, his mind was spiraling.

He’s done with me.

That was what it sounded like. Calm and distant, like someone who’d realized it wasn’t worth the effort. Who regretted the trouble.

He lay down but couldn’t get comfortable. His body was still thrumming with leftover anxiety, his brain moving too fast and too loud. The ceiling blurred above him.

I ruined the date. I made a scene in public. I made him worry. I’m a mess. Who would want to keep dealing with that?

He stared at the shadows on the ceiling. His eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut.

This is why I stayed alone for so long. It’s easier. Safer. At least you don’t have to watch people leave.

He curled forward, forehead pressed to his knees.

But then—

He remembered Riddle’s face in the café, lit up by the pink and gold stained glass. His bright laughter when they had beaten the puzzle together. The way he had reached for Idia’s hand in the crowd. He thought of the words Riddle had said weeks ago: I want to understand the things that matter to you.

He sucked in a shaky breath.

You promised yourself you’d stop quitting on the things that matter.

He had spent so much of his life quitting before things could hurt him, folding before he could be folded. But he didn’t want to live like that anymore. 

He stood abruptly. His limbs felt heavy, like moving underwater, but he moved anyway. He grabbed his tablet just in case it was too hard for him to speak. He was halfway out the door before his anxiety caught up.

What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if I just make it worse? What if he opens the door and says—

He swallowed.

Even if he does. Even if this hurts. At least I’ll know I tried.

And that meant something.

***

“Good evening, Idia,” Trey’s voice drifted to him, smooth and welcoming, as he stepped into Heartslabyul’s lounge. The air inside was warm and golden with lamplight, casting soft shadows across the checkered floor.

“Hey hey, visiting your boyfriend?” Cater called, grinning from where he lounged on the velvet couch.

Idia barely heard them. He mumbled something like a greeting and made a beeline for the hallway. His hands were clammy, heart hammering, every step heavier than the last. When he knocked, it was barely audible.

But the door opened.

Riddle stood there, dressed down in soft pajamas, his red hair damp and slightly curling like he had just showered. He blinked, surprised.

“Idia. You’re here.” He stepped aside. “Come in.”

Idia walked in slowly, suddenly hyper-aware of his own awkward limbs and damp palms. The room was spotless, and smelled faintly of lemon tea.

“Did you rest?” Riddle asked behind him, voice soft, almost careful. The door clicked shut.

“I…” Idia swallowed, eyes dropping to the floorboards. “I couldn’t stop thinking. I need to talk to you.”

Riddle didn’t respond right away. Instead, he crossed the room with purposeful steps and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. His posture was relaxed, but his expression was focused as he looked up at Idia.

He patted the spot beside him. “Come sit.”

Idia hesitated.

The space beside Riddle wasn’t far, but it felt like a chasm. Still, he moved. One step, then another, until he sat down, gingerly, perching on the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure he deserved the space.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He lifted his head by a fraction, enough to catch Riddle’s eyes. His chest squeezed tight, but the words came.

“I… I wanted to apologize.” His voice trembled as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the tight knot of his fingers in his lap. “I know I was awful today. I acted like a jerk, and you had to drag me out before I completely melted down."

Riddle shifted slightly beside him but said nothing. Idia rushed ahead, because if he paused, he might choke on the words.

"A-and I could tell it made you want to keep your distance. I can't blame you. You deserve someone who doesn’t make a public scene just standing in line for a ride." He let out a breathless, broken laugh. “I know I’m a terrible boyfriend. I'm a mess. I keep ruining things. I’m just not good at this. At dating. At being with someone. But... I don’t want to give up, I really, really want to keep trying. I want to be better… for you. If you’ll still let me.”

He finally lifted his gaze—and what he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

Riddle's eyes were wide and full with tears. His lips parted as though he meant to speak—but no sound came.  Then the tears slipped over his cheeks soundlessly, shining in the low light of the room. One tear, then another. And still Riddle said nothing. He just kept looking at Idia, eyes glimmering with hurt, like his heart was too full of it to hold it in anymore.

Idia’s breath hitched.

“R-Riddle…?”

Riddle pressed his lips together, breath stuttering as he brought a hand to his chest like it physically ached.

“I—” he tried, but the word broke halfway through. His breath hitched again, and he looked like he was trying to hold it together, but it wasn’t working. More tears fell, and his face crumpled just slightly, his chest trembling with the effort to speak through it. "I didn’t know how to help."

He pressed his hands to his face, wiping his eyes clumsily, fingers shaking. The way he scrubbed at his tears with his palms, red-faced and sniffling, was so heartbreakingly earnest that it reminded Idia of a small child crying, unable to hide how much it hurt.

"You were clearly overwhelmed," Riddle managed, his voice shaking like glass under pressure. "And I didn't know what to do. So I thought if I gave you space, it would make things better.” His shoulders trembled.

“But instead, I hurt you.” The words cracked open at the end, his voice splitting under the weight of it.

It hit Idia like a physical blow, sharp, direct, and impossible to brace for.

Without thinking, he reached out and pulled Riddle into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms firmly around him. Riddle melted against him instantly, wrapping his arms around Idia’s neck and clutching at his shirt, his face buried in the crook of Idia’s shoulder. His sobs were muffled, trembling against Idia’s skin, warm and fragile.

Idia held him closer, feeling the quiet shaking through Riddle’s body, the raw, unfiltered emotion. He closed his eyes against the sting of tears pricking his own, swallowing hard around the lump forming in his throat.

How can he cry like this over the thought of hurting ... me?

Riddle’s breath was shaky against his neck, little tremors running through him as he tried to speak again.

“It hurts…” he whispered, barely audible.

Idia froze.

Riddle’s grip on him tightened. ““It hurts,” he repeated, more firmly now, voice thick and trembling, “that you think of yourself that way. That you believe you’re some kind of failure.” He sucked in a breath, shaky and full of tears. “Because I feel so happy with you. So safe. Like… like I can actually be me.”

Idia’s throat clenched. He held Riddle tighter, swallowing hard against the wave of emotion rising in his chest.

“And you always try so hard,” Riddle continued, voice rough but steadying. “You’re so caring. So considerate. I just don’t want you to think… you’re a bad boyfriend.” He sniffed softly. "You're amazing."

Idia blinked fast. His hands curled tighter against Riddle’s back.

And suddenly, the voices in his head—the ones that whispered all the ways he wasn’t enough, that told him he was messing this up, that warned him to retreat—fell silent. Because here, in Riddle’s trembling arms, in his voice full of tears, Idia heard something louder.

He heard love.

All this time, he’d been trying so hard to become a good boyfriend.

But Riddle had thought he was amazing all along.

“I...I guess I got pointlessly negative about myself again,” Idia muttered. “Still working on that part.”

“I know,” Riddle said, muffled against him. “But I want you to see what I see.”

They stayed like that, wrapped together in the hush of the room, until Riddle’s breathing calmed and Idia’s heart stopped hurting quite so loudly in his chest.

And even though relationships still frightened him, still felt like some impossibly complex game he didn’t know the rules to, Idia thought that maybe with time, he could really believe it.

Believe that he made someone happy.

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 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 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 he 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.