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Floyd Leech is not usually the type of person who would stay interested in one singularity for a long time—for a lifetime, even.
In short, he has never been good at staying.
Not with hobbies. Not with interests. Not with people, if you ask anyone who thinks they have him figured out.
He drifts by nature. His attention comes and goes with the tide, pulled by curiosity, amusement, or sheer impulse. Most people assume that means he is incapable of commitment. He grows bored easily. What fascinates him today might be abandoned tomorrow, left behind without ceremony.
So people assume commitment is beyond him.
They are wrong.
Because in truth, Floyd Leech is loyal to a fault.
It is not the loud, noble kind of loyalty people like to name and praise. He would never dress it up in words. Loyalty sounds too heavy, too earnest, too sincere for someone who laughs with teeth and thinks that everything is a game.
But once someone sinks deep enough—past the sharp grin, past the teeth, past the way he keeps everything slippery and unserious—Floyd does not let go, he stays.
Azul has always known this. Even before Octavinelle became polished glass and velvet shadows, when it was still murky water and ambition stitched together by desperation, Floyd stayed. Through paranoia. Through deals that almost collapsed. Through nights when the Lounge felt like it might drown them all. Floyd complained, threatened, joked like he might bite, but he never left.
That is how his care works.
It is crooked. Unrefined. Wrapped in teasing and mockery instead of reassurance. Floyd protects by lingering, by watching, by choosing to remain when walking away would be easier. It is no less real for being clumsy. No less sincere for being unspoken.
People mistake his eccentricity for emptiness.
They see the mood swings, the sudden laughter, the way he reacts too fast or too slow, and decide there is nothing underneath. A problem child. A ticking bomb. Something easier to label than understand.
Floyd hates that.
Because there is still thought behind his chaos, not always but the point still stands. There's awareness behind the whimsy. He notices everything.
That is how he notices Riddle Rosehearts.
At first, Riddle does not stand out in any flattering way. Riddle is rigid in a way that feels almost painful to watch—wrapped so tightly in rules that breathing looks like a chore. He is sharp when angry and unbearably restrained when he is not. Loud in his discipline, suffocating in his expectations. To most people, he is exhausting. Suffocating.
Boring, people say.
Floyd hums along whenever he hears it. Lets them think that.
Because as boring as Riddle is, he is anything but boring to him.
Riddle is a string pulled too tight, humming with tension. His anger burns hot and sudden, his temper sharp enough to cut. Floyd watches every outburst with idle fascination—the way his entire face reddens, how Riddle’s jaw locks, the way his hands curl into fists, the way his voice trembles just before it snaps.
And then there are the moments no one else sees.
The quiet ones.
The way Riddle’s shoulders sag when he thinks he is alone. The way he rubs at his temples when the world presses in too tightly. The way he holds himself together through sheer force of will, like letting go would mean shattering completely.
Those moments sink their hooks into Floyd.
He tells himself it is still just amusement. That teasing Riddle is fun. That provoking him never gets old. He crowds his space, grins too wide, drags out nicknames because it is easier than admitting the truth—that he notices when Riddle skips meals, that he knows the sound of his footsteps without looking, that he has started keeping track of where Riddle is without meaning to.
Riddle, for his part, does not understand Floyd. He snaps and scolds, throws rules like shields, face flushed with frustration. Floyd would laugh and lean closer, unbothered.
Because even when Riddle is furious, he is honest.
Honesty is a rare sweet thing.
They did not get together in a dramatic way.
There was no direct confession, no moment where the air changes and everything becomes obvious. It happens quietly, the way tides change without asking permission.
It starts with Floyd staying.
Staying after classes. Staying after arguments. Staying when Riddle is exhausted and too tired to keep his walls perfectly upright. Floyd lingers in hallways, lounges against walls, announces his presence just enough to be noticed.
Riddle would always tell him to leave.
One time, Riddle falls asleep at a table surrounded by books in the library, spine still straight even in unconsciousness. Floyd covers him with his own blazer without comment. Riddle would wake later in the same library, confused, cheeks warm, and does not give it back.
Another time, Floyd reaches out—lazy, unthinking—and fixes Riddle’s unusually crooked bow. Riddle freezes. Then exhales. Does not pull away.
Neither of them names it.
They simply begin to orbit each other.
By the time Floyd realizes he has crossed a line, Riddle has already crossed it with him.
The first time Floyd sees Riddle cry, it feels wrong.
Not because Riddle should not cry—but because the world has no right to see him like that.
It is late. The halls are quiet. Riddle sits rigid even in exhaustion, back straight, hands clenched in his lap as if holding himself together by force alone. His eyes are red.
Floyd stops.
For once, there is no teasing. No grin. No drawn-out nickname that calls for goldfishie.
He just watches.
The ache in his chest is sharp and unfamiliar. Floyd does not like it. He does not like feeling helpless, or wanting to be gentle when gentleness has never been his strength.
So he does the only thing that feels natural.
He stays.
He leans against the wall, presence loud enough to be noticed without intruding. Riddle stiffens when he realizes he is not alone, already pulling himself back together, already preparing an apology.
Floyd speaks first.
“Ya don’t gotta put it away,” he says, voice softer than usual. “I ain’t gonna steal it.”
Riddle blinks. “Steal what?”
Floyd gestures vaguely. Feelings. Weakness. Truth.
Riddle exhales.
Something settles between them.
From then on, Floyd’s choice becomes absolute.
If Riddle is angry, Floyd takes it. If Riddle is strict, Floyd bends around it. If Riddle is lonely, Floyd stays loud enough to fill the silence.
He never explains. Never asks permission.
He simply remains.
Love, Floyd learns, does not need grand declarations. It does not require carefully chosen words. Sometimes it is just showing up—again and again—even when it would be easier not to. Even when it hurts.
Riddle would at times, ask why Floyd is always there, 'pestering' him.
Floyd never truly tells him why aside from fun.
But on quiet evenings, when the world finally softens its grip, Floyd makes the mistake of staying quiet for too long.
Riddle is now seated beside him, posture still precise even in rest, fingers folded neatly in his lap. The candlelight catches in his hair, turns it warm. Human.
Floyd watches him for a moment longer than necessary.
“Goldfishie,” he says suddenly.
Riddle stiffens on instinct, already bracing for teasing. “What is it now, Floyd?”
Floyd does not grin.
“I love you.”
The words land heavy.
Riddle freezes. Truly freezes. His breath stutters, lips parting as if his body forgot how to respond before his mind could catch up. His eyes widen—not in anger, not in scolding—but in something fragile and stunned, like the ground has shifted beneath him.
“You—” Riddle starts, then stops. He swallows. Tries again. “Floyd, that is— I—”
Floyd cuts in gently, voice low, steady in a way it rarely is.
“I know,” he says. “I know you know that.”
Riddle’s hands tighten in his lap.
“But I think,” Floyd continues, softer now, “you need to be reminded once more.”
Riddle looks at him.
That alone feels like a victory.
“There are others who care for you,” Floyd says. “Not ‘cause of rules. Not ‘cause you gotta earn it or do it right.” He tilts his head, eyes sharp and sincere all at once.
“Just ‘cause you’re you.”
Riddle opens his mouth again, clearly trying to form a response—an apology, a correction, something practiced and safe.
Floyd doesn’t let him.
“You don’t gotta say anything,” he murmurs. “Don’t gotta explain. Don’t gotta be perfect about it.”
He leans closer, close enough that Riddle can feel the warmth of him, but still gives him space.
“I’m here,” Floyd says simply. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Riddle’s shoulders tremble.
When he exhales, it sounds like something unravelling.
He does not push Floyd away.
Instead, after a moment that feels unbearably long, Riddle leans in—just slightly. Just enough.
Floyd stills, then smiles, sharp and gentle all at once.
The thought drifts through him like a promise carried underwater.
If you wanted to, I will.
Because he already has.