Work Text:
Riddle.
Grass feels weird between his feet. Not once had he ever presumed that it would feel sharp, and ticklish at the same time. Chenya, far braver than Riddle, dug his knees into the ground, pants hiked up as he crawls through mud, picking up a squirming worm with a delighted squeal. Riddle wobbles at the sight, a little nauseous.
Trey, who had the good sense to lay out his jacket on the ground, is sitting beside him as he unties his shoelaces. For once, Riddle allowed himself to be convinced to do something kind of gross with Chenya, without any extra help from Trey.
It’s only been a week since Riddle first started sneaking out of his house, and while he still finds himself flinching at every car that looks too similar to his mothers, it’s with a small, giddy delight that he laughs at Chenya, whose fallen face first into the mud. The older boy grins, wiping his face with his bare hands.
The field they're in is dotted with small flowers; pretty yellow buttercups, the occasional daisy, and even some poppies. Beside him, Trey fiddles with something in his hands. Riddle sits down beside him curiously peeking over his shoulder before the green haired boy smiles, revealing six daisies tied together. “It’s a daisy chain,” Trey says, holding it out to him, “When you tie daisies together, you can make a bracelet, like this.”
Chenya pops up behind them, face still streaked with mud. “Or a crown!” He adds, laughing gleefully, “Should we make you a crown, Riddle?”
“Like a queen?” Riddle ponders, and Trey nods.
“Like a queen.” The boy repeats, golden eyes crinkling as he smiles.
Riddle’s face brightens, a wide smile stretching across his face before he quickly schools his expression. “My mother says you shouldn’t pluck flowers. It’s rude.”
Trey wilts a little, and Chenya hums, “Wellll, it’s already out of the ground,” He muses, looking at the small bracelet in Trey's palm, “We can’t put it back.”
Riddle ponders over that, tilting his head. Trey shrugs, “The damage is already done,” He sighs, tone serious, as if he were quoting someone, “So… You should have it, Riddle. You’ll know how to look after it. It won’t break with you.”
Freezing, Riddle gapes. Finally, he stutters, “I can’t! My mother will find it, and she’ll yell at me!”
“Then you can wear it around us. I’ll bring it out for you!” Trey offers, holding the bracelet out to Riddle. Riddle’s hands fist in his clean pants, as he hums. Frustrated, he thrusts his wrist out.
“Fine.” He gives in, “I’ll take care of it.”
Trey carefully rolls the bracelet over his hands, careful not to damage the stem. Once finished, Riddle stares down at the flowers curling around his wrists. It fits perfectly.
A day later, Trey frowns at the wilting flower, and Riddle all but demands to take it home. That night, he carefully presses it into an old copy his father left lying around, and with his heart pounding, he stuffs it under his mattress, praying to the stars above that it would remain in the same state he’d left it.
–
Che’nya! ;3
A lot of people think that Chenya is annoying at best, and weird at worst. Chenya doesn’t really care, and his grandpa says that’s the best thing about him. Chenya’s grandpa is a big old man, with large hands, and a wide, wide smile that people tell Chenya he’s inherited from his grandpa. Same laugh too, they’d say, sighing in exasperation before he pops out of their vision of sight. Chenya cackle’s, catlike, as he revels in their horrified gasps as nothing but his head appears behind them.
Chenya has known Trey since they were super little. Like, basically when they were just born, and Chenya has never in his whole entire life seen Trey this interested in someone.
It’s been a month and maaaaaybe a week since they started sneaking Riddle out of his stuffy house, and every time they meet up, Trey seems to be just an inch closer to asking Riddle to (and he says this quietly) hold his hand. Or! Hug him!!
Chenya’s hugged Trey before, throwing his arms around him and shaking the boy in excitement before releasing him, and spinning him around, and Chenya’s even hugged Riddle, which the boy didn’t seem to know how to respond to, so Chenya had to quickly tamper down his excitement and apologising, before guiding him towards a tree and telling him to climb it with them.
Trey doesn’t want to hug Riddle like that, clearly, cause the one time Chenya hugged Riddle, Trey frowned, looking away and huffing.
Riddle sits in front of a pile of daisies, trying to make himself a crown with minimal difficulty. The only thing he really struggles with is the fear his mom will give out to him, “She won’t know!” Chenya bolstered, hands planted firmly on the ground as he lifted his legs, hanging upside down. Blood rushes to his head, and before he falls over, he adds, “It’s okay. My grandpa says so. Lots of ‘em grow.”
Trey watches the younger boy, humming, “Is he going to get it on the first try?” He wonders.
Chenya shrugs, staring at his icepop, “He’s smart, right? He’ll get it, me thinks.”
Riddle stands, flower crown held victoriously over his head as he laughs, “I did it!” Proud, and confident, and louder than they’ve ever heard him speak. Trey freezes, looking at the redhead, completely ignoring the crown. His cheeks are a little red, and he cheers nervously.
Chenya cheers too, and the second the younger boy focuses on placing the crown atop his head, Chenya whispers to Trey, “You look warm,” Sadly, he extends his icepop towards him, “Have it. It’s strawberry flavoured.”
“You already licked it, though?”
Chenya cackles, shoving it in his face and shrieking with laughter when the boy falls off of the bench in his attempt to dodge it.
Before Chenya can help him up, Riddle’s running over, extending a hand toward Trey. His daisy crown falls lopsided on his head, and Trey stares up at him with wide eyes, face completely red. As he shakily takes his hand, Chenya hums, a smirk dawning on his face.
Oh, he’s so making fun of Trey for this.
—
Trey.
Riddle’s mother leaves, stomping out of the door and slamming it behind her with all of the rage of a thunderstorm. She clutches Riddle’s wrist in her hand, and after five hours of screaming, and crying, the boy looks defeated, worn down, and he stumbles after her.
The last time Trey sees Riddle, it’s through blurry eyes. His cheeks are red and wet with tears, and his eyes are bloodshot, sleeves dampened in his attempt to clean his tears as his lips wobble, voice torn to shreds. Trey doesn’t know if he’ll ever see him again.
The bell rings in her absence, and finally, Trey unfreezes. He falls into his mothers lap, tears soaking her pants as guilt eats away at him. Her hands shake as they rub reassuring circles into his back, and his father bends down to his side, whispering comforting promises into his ears, but nothing they do can rid him of this terrifying feeling welling itself into his stomach.
Guilt feels like a broken bone. Dizzying, nauseating and so, so, sore. It hurts all the way down to the nerves in his body, clutching his heart and stabbing in his head. It weakens him down to his muscles, and even the act of wiping his eyes hurts, and that too, makes him feel guilty.