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The electronic scoreboard glowed with a red light that seemed to mock everyone present in the Night Raven College zone.
NRC: 42 – RSA: 59
Seventeen points. A seventeen-point difference in an inter-school final. For any average team, this would be a warning sign, a moment to rethink their strategy. But for the NRC basketball team, the problem wasn't strategy, nor technical skill, nor even the "sparkling" teamwork of Royal Sword Academy.
The problem stood 191cm tall, had heterochromia, and was currently emitting an aura so dark it felt like it was going to rain inside the gym.
"Leech! Defense, damn it, defense!" Coach Vargas bellowed from the sidelines, waving his arms with such force that his muscles looked ready to rip through his tracksuit.
Floyd paid him no mind. He didn't even turn his head.
His eyes, usually lazy and half-lidded, were wide open, fixed on the RSA player dribbling the ball in front of him with an irritatingly hopeful smile. Everything about this place annoyed him. The squeak of sneakers. The cheering of the cheerleaders. The pristine white of the rival uniforms.
Boring. This is all stupid and boring.
The RSA player attempted a feint to the left. On a normal day, Floyd would have slid with him, blocking the path with liquid fluidity, laughing while he "squeezed" his prey. But today was not a normal day.
Floyd charged.
He threw his body forward abruptly, slamming into the boy's shoulder with excessive force while trying to steal the ball. The referee blew the whistle immediately.
"Personal foul, number 10!"
Floyd clicked his tongue, a loud, unpleasant sound.
"Tsk. You're so fragile," he muttered, looking down at the boy on the floor with contempt. "If you break from that, you'd better go home."
"Floyd!" Jamil ran toward him, grabbing his arm before he could get slapped with a technical foul for unsportsmanlike conduct. "What the hell is wrong with you? You've been like this since warm-ups. Calm down or we're going to get ejected!"
Floyd shook off Jamil's grip with a sharp tug.
"Don't touch me, Umihebi-kun. I'm playing, aren't I? Leave me alone."
No one on the team understood what had happened. For the past week, Floyd had been... different. Strangely motivated. He had arrived early to practice, stayed to shoot hoops after hours, and, most miraculous of all, followed Jamil's instructions without complaining too much. He was excited.
The reason was an open secret, or at least something Floyd hadn't bothered to hide: Kingyo-chan was coming.
Riddle had promised him on Monday. "It's the finals, Floyd. Of course I'll go. I've cleared my schedule for that afternoon." Those words had been pure fuel for Floyd. He wanted to show off. He wanted Riddle to see him dominate the court, wanted to see that look of contained pride on the small redhead's face, and then collect his reward.
But that was days ago.
Reality hit two and a half hours ago, just as Floyd was changing in the locker room. His phone vibrated. He expected a "I'm on my way" or "Save me a seat" message.
Instead, the screen lit up with a short, dry text:
<<An urgent problem came up at the dorm. I won't be able to make the game. I'm sorry.>>
No emojis. No detailed explanations. Just an "I won't be able to make it."
In that instant, Floyd's switch flipped off. The excitement turned into a black, sticky mass of disappointment, and then, quickly, into a cold, irrational anger. If Riddle wasn't going to watch him, what was the point of all this? Why run? Why win?
Back in the present, the game resumed. Jamil had the ball and was desperately looking for an opening.
"Ace, run!" shouted Jamil.
Ace broke free down the right sideline, unmarked.
"I'm open!" yelled the first-year redhead, raising his hands.
Floyd intercepted Jamil's pass. He had the ball. Ace was in a perfect position for an easy layup that would cut the lead. All Floyd had to do was make a gentle pass.
But Floyd looked at Ace. He saw his red hair. Red like Riddle's.
A wave of irritation shot down his spine.
"Catch it!" Floyd growled.
It wasn't a pass. It was a projectile. Floyd hurled the ball with brute force, straight at Ace's chest, without any kind of arc or finesse. The ball traveled so fast the air seemed to whistle.
"Whoa—!"
BAM!
The sound of the ball hitting Ace's hands echoed throughout the gym. The force was such that it slipped through his fingers, slamming into his chest and bouncing uncontrollably out of bounds. Ace let out a groan, shaking his hands as if he had been burned.
"Ouch! What is wrong with you, Senpai?!" Ace yelled, staring at Floyd in disbelief. "You almost broke my fingers!"
The loose ball was immediately recovered by an RSA player, who took advantage of the confusion to run to the other end of the court and score a simple layup while the NRC team stood paralyzed.
NRC: 42 – RSA: 61
At that moment, the buzzer sounded. End of the first half.
The NRC team walked toward the bench dragging their feet. The atmosphere was toxic. Floyd was the first to arrive, dropping onto the bench and throwing his head back, ignoring everyone.
"This is unacceptable!" Coach Vargas was red with fury, smacking his tactical board. "Leech! You have the physique, you have the talent, but your attitude is garbage today! You've given away six possessions! Six!"
"My hands hurt..." Ace complained, checking his reddened fingers. "Seriously, Jamil-senpai, we can't play like this. If he passes me the ball again, I'm going to end up handless."
Jamil wiped a hand over his face, taking a deep breath so as not to invoke his Unique Magic and control the entire team. He turned to Floyd, who was staring at the ceiling with a blank, hostile expression.
"Floyd," Jamil said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Listen to me. I know you're in a bad mood. I don't know if it's because you lack sugar or because you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but this is the final. We can't lose against these sparkling guys. Are you listening to me?"
Floyd slowly lowered his gaze. His heterochromatic eyes bore into Jamil, cold and distant.
"Shut up," Floyd said. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a dangerous whisper. "I don't care about the final. I don't care about the team. This is boring. I want to go to my room."
"You can't leave, we're in the middle of the game..."
"I said I don't care," Floyd cut him off, standing up abruptly, which made Ace and Jamil take a step back instinctively. "If you talk to me again, I'll squeeze you until you stop breathing, Umihebi-kun."
The silence that followed on the bench was absolute. Even Vargas seemed to hesitate for a second. Floyd grabbed his water bottle, took a sip, and threw it listlessly against the floor, splashing the parquet.
No one knew what to do. Without a focused Floyd, a comeback was impossible. And judging by the look on his face, it seemed more likely that Floyd would attack his own team than score a single basket in the second half.
Floyd slung his sports bag over his shoulder. It wasn't an empty threat; he was actually leaving.
"Leech! If you walk out that door, you're off the team permanently!" warned Coach Vargas, although his voice trembled slightly under the giant's empty gaze.
"I don't care," Floyd replied, turning his back on them.
In the VIP stands, the atmosphere in the Octavinelle section was tense.
"Oya, oya... This is bad," Jade murmured, watching his twin brother with a mixture of amusement and concern. "I've never seen him so unmotivated in a final. Usually, Floyd's violence is... more enthusiastic."
"This is a disaster for business!" hissed Azul, adjusting his glasses frantically while checking betting odds on his tablet. "I have 48 bets in favor of Floyd and NRC, I bet 50,000 Madol with a guy from Scarabia... Why is he acting like this? Did someone steal his shoes? Is the weather not to his liking?"
Down on the court, Floyd took the first step toward the exit. For him, the game was over. The noise, the shouting, the smell of defeat... it all faded away. He just wanted to go to his bed.
But then, the gym's double doors burst open.
BAM.
The metallic sound resonated, cutting through the general murmur (Actually, nobody really cared). A small figure was silhouetted against the hallway light. He was visibly panting, hands resting on his knees for a second before straightening up with fierce dignity, resuming his firm, rigid posture.
Floyd's world stopped.
The stale air of the gym seemed to fill with that scent of roses and authority that his brain instinctively recognized. Floyd turned slowly, the sports bag slipping from his shoulder and hitting the floor with a thud he didn't even notice.
There he was.
Riddle didn't look like the perfect Housewarden he usually was. His tie was slightly crooked. A couple of rebellious strands of his red bangs stuck to his forehead from sweat. His chest rose and fell heavily, evidence that he had run—no, sprinted—from the Hall of Mirrors to the gym.
"I'm... I'm here," Riddle gasped, catching his breath, as his grey eyes frantically scanned the court until they found the nearly two-meter tower looking at him with eyes wide open.
"K-Kingyo-chan?" Floyd's voice cracked into a high, almost childish note, full of hope.
The transformation was instantaneous. The black cloud over Floyd's head dissipated as if it had never existed. His eyes regained that mischievous shine, and that lazy, wide smile curved his lips once again.
Floyd ignored Vargas, ignored Jamil, and ran toward the entrance.
"Kingyo-chan! You came!" he sang, his voice booming in the stunned silence of the gym.
Riddle had just caught his breath when Floyd arrived in front of him, crouching down to be at his eye level, moving like a giant, happy puppy.
"You're late, Kingyo-chan~" said Floyd, with a playfully reproachful tone, reaching out a hand to touch Riddle's flushed cheek. "I thought you had abandoned me. I was about to go to sleep."
Riddle swatted Floyd's hand away gently, but didn't pull away.
"Don't be dramatic," Riddle took a deep breath, smoothing out his vest. "I had to handle an emergency with some hedgehogs that escaped in the garden. As soon as I caught them, I came running. Literally." Riddle looked him in the eyes, his expression softening a bit. "I'm sorry. I said I would come, and a Housewarden of Heartslabyul always keeps his word, even if it's a little late."
Floyd's heart beat very fast. He ran for me.
"Aha~, you're all messy," Floyd laughed, delighted. "You look cute like that."
"Silence!" Riddle blushed furiously but quickly recovered his military composure. His eyes drifted to the giant scoreboard above their heads.
NRC: 42 – RSA: 61
Riddle's eyes narrowed. Then, he looked toward the NRC bench. He saw Coach Vargas on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Jamil rubbing his temples in desperation, Ace with red, swollen fingers, and the rest of the team looking at Floyd with a mix of terror and pleading.
Riddle, being Riddle, understood the situation in less than two seconds.
"Floyd," his voice dropped an octave. It became cold, authoritative. The voice of the Queen.
Floyd blinked, intrigued by the change in tone. "Yes~?"
Riddle reached into a bag he was carrying and pulled out an ice-cold water bottle. He held it out to Floyd but didn't let him take it yet. He looked at him sternly, nodding toward the scoreboard.
"Are you telling me I made a fool of myself running through half the campus, breaking three rules about running in the hallways, just to arrive and see that you are losing by nineteen points against... them?" Riddle spat the word "them" out, looking toward the RSA bench with disdain.
Floyd shrank a little, though he was still smiling. "I was just bored without you..."
"Excuses," Riddle cut him off sharply. He handed the water bottle to Floyd with a bit too much force, but Floyd only laughed. "Listen to me well, Floyd Leech. Since you took the trouble to throw a tantrum and drag our school's name through the mud, now you are going to fix it."
Floyd uncapped the bottle, drinking eagerly while he listened, fascinated by the intensity in Riddle's eyes.
Riddle crossed his arms and raised his chin, defiant.
"I propose a deal. Or rather, an order. Half the game remains. I want you to score 40 points."
Floyd almost choked on the water. "Eh? Forty? That's a lot, Kingyo-chan~."
"I don't care," Riddle sentenced, a small, dangerous smile curving his lips. "If you don't manage to score at least 40 points and win this game... I'll take your head. I will leave you without magic for an entire month. No potions, no transformations, and definitely no 'squeezing' anyone."
The entire gym seemed to hold its breath (Actually, no one was paying attention to them). Jamil, listening from afar, went pale. A month without magic? That's brutal even for Riddle.
But Floyd... Floyd didn't look scared.
His pupils dilated. An electric current ran down his back. The threat didn't bother him; he loved it. He loved that Riddle was strict, that he demanded the impossible, that he looked at him with that burning intensity that said "I know you can do it, so do it."
Floyd's smile changed. It was no longer the goofy smile of happiness. Now it was a sharp, predatory smile, full of teeth.
"Forty points?" Floyd repeated, lowering the empty bottle. He licked his lips. "And if I do? What do I win?"
"If you win..." Riddle looked away, his cheeks dyeing a softer red. "Then you can ask me for whatever you want."
"Done!" Floyd exclaimed.
At that moment, the whistle blew indicating the start of the second half.
Floyd turned toward his team. There were no more slumped shoulders or empty gazes. His body radiated terrifying kinetic energy.
"Hey, Umihebi-kun! Kani-chan!" Floyd shouted toward Jamil and Ace, who jumped in place. "Pass me the ball! I have to score forty points or Kingyo-chan will get mad!"
Vargas let out a sigh so long he seemed to deflate. Jamil closed his eyes and muttered a "Thank the Seven." Hope had returned, and it was shaped like a red-headed tyrant with an empty water bottle in his hand.
Floyd walked onto the court, passing by an RSA player.
"Hey, Zako-chan," Floyd said, cracking his knuckles with a smile that promised pain. "Get ready. Now I'm going to play for real. My boyfriend is watching."
Riddle, from the sidelines, crossed his arms and watched, trying to calm his own racing heart.
The whistle blew, and the ball was put into play.
What happened next wasn't a basketball game; it was a display of nature in its wildest state.
If in the first half Floyd had been an erratic and destructive storm, now he was a focused tsunami. As soon as Jamil passed him the ball, Floyd disappeared.
"Defense! Stop hi—!" the RSA captain's shout died in his throat.
Floyd passed him like a breath of wind. His movements had that unnatural fluidity only possessed by those born underwater. His long legs covered the court in impossible strides, dodging defenders with a serpentine agility that made rival players trip over their own feet trying to follow him.
He jumped.
For a human, gravity is a law. For Floyd, in that moment, it was just a suggestion. He rose high above the rim, with terrifying grace, and dunked the ball with a violence that made the entire basket structure shake.
BAM!
Two points.
Floyd didn't even land completely before turning his head. He didn't look for his team's approval. He didn't look for the camera. His heterochromatic eyes sought a specific point on the sideline.
Riddle.
Riddle was there, arms crossed and posture rigid, but his eyes were wide, fixed on Floyd. Seeing Floyd look at him, Riddle nodded slightly, an almost imperceptible gesture of approval.
That was all Floyd needed. A shot of pure adrenaline straight to the heart.
"Again!" Floyd yelled, running back to defense without showing even a drop of extra sweat.
The game became a monologue. Ace and Deuce, and even Jamil, stopped trying to make complex plays. They understood their new role quickly: they were mere spectators in uniform. Their only job was to recover the ball and give it to Floyd.
"Umihebi-kun, long pass!" Floyd called. The ball flew through the air. Floyd caught it mid-air, spun 180 degrees, and launched a three-pointer from an absurd distance.
Swish!
Clean net. Three more points.
Floyd turned around. Glance at Riddle. Riddle was biting his lower lip, trying not to smile, but his eyes shone with pride. Floyd winked at him, sticking his tongue out playfully, before turning back into a killing machine on defense.
RSA's lead evaporated. Now, Night Raven College was crushing them. The RSA students panted, sweating buckets, their "sparkling" spirits broken by the relentless pressure of a single man who seemed to have infinite lungs.
"Is... is he a monster?" gasped one of the RSA defenders, hands on his knees, unable to keep up. "Why doesn't he get tired?"
Floyd passed by him, fresh as a daisy. "Because I want my prize," Floyd whispered as he passed, with a smile that froze the rival's blood.
The clock marched on relentlessly. Floyd was counting. 30 points... 32 points... 35 points...
Every basket was an offering. A reverse dunk: Look at me, Goldfish. A jump shot: This is for you. A brutal block against the backboard: I want you to watch me.
The crowd was going wild, but for Floyd, only the count in his head and the grey gaze following him from the sidelines existed.
Less than a minute remained. The scoreboard was a massacre in favor of NRC. Victory was assured. Any normal player would have slowed down, would have let the time run out.
NRC: 80 – RSA: 65
But not Floyd. Floyd was counting.
"38..." he murmured, looking at the personal scoreboard in his mind.
He looked at the game clock. 00:12 seconds.
Twelve seconds. Thirty-eight points. He needed two more. If he didn't score now, Riddle would carry out his threat. Not out of malice, but out of principle. And Floyd hated losing a bet with Riddle.
"GIVE ME THE BALL!" Floyd bellowed, startling his own teammate, who had just grabbed a rebound.
The boy threw the ball to him as if it were a hot grenade.
Floyd caught it at the half-court line. 00:08 seconds.
Three RSA players threw themselves at him, desperate to stop the final humiliation and salvage a shred of dignity. They formed a human wall. They weren't going to let him pass.
Floyd smiled. How cute.
00:05 seconds.
Floyd didn't go around them. He went through them with a technical spin, using his long, flexible body to slip through a gap that seemed non-existent.
00:03 seconds.
He was in the paint. He jumped. An RSA defender, a big, strong guy, jumped with him to block him.
00:02 seconds.
In the air, Floyd made an adjustment. He lowered the ball, protecting it from the block, and then, using his core strength, propelled himself a bit higher, towering over the defender.
His eyes sought Riddle one last time while he was suspended in the air. Riddle was on his tiptoes, hands pressed against his chest, holding his breath.
This is for you, my Queen.
00:01 second.
Floyd released the ball gently against the backboard. The ball hit the glass. The backboard lit up red. The final buzzer sounded.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.
And just as the sound stunned everyone, the ball fell through the net.
The referee held up two fingers. The basket counted.
Floyd landed on the floor with a strange feline softness. Exactly forty points. Mission accomplished.
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar; balloons and confetti in purple, black, gold, and white began to fall. NRC had won the championship. But Floyd didn't celebrate with the public. He stood still for a second under the hoop, chest heaving. He was euphoric, so much so that he didn't even feel the exhaustion.
He turned slowly toward the sideline. Riddle was there, exhaling the air he had been holding, with a mix of relief and anger for almost having lost.
Floyd smiled. And this time, it wasn't a shark smile. It was a "told you so" smile.
On the court, the basketball team piled up, jumping and high-fiving. Ace and a guy from Savanaclaw ran toward the center to celebrate, looking for their MVP.
"Floyd-senpai! That was incredible!" Ace shouted. "I've never seen anyone move like th—! Eh?"
Ace stopped dead. The Savanaclaw guy crashed into his back. The spot where Floyd should have been was empty.
Floyd had no interest in celebrating with his team. He didn't care about the trophy, nor the cheers, nor Coach Vargas's look of pride. His mind, now free from the murderous concentration of the game, had returned to his sole objective.
He crossed the court ignoring the barriers, the cheerleaders, and the referees. His long legs moved with childish urgency.
"Kingyo-chan!"
Riddle barely had time to turn around.
"Floyd, wait! You can't leave the playing zo—"
Too late.
Floyd didn't brake. He crashed into him like a wave breaking on the shore. Without warning, his large hands closed around Riddle's small waist. With a grunt of happy effort, he lifted him off the ground as if he were a feather.
"I won! I won, Kingyo-chan!" Floyd shouted, his voice vibrating with pure euphoria.
And he started to spin.
"Floyd!" Riddle squealed, clinging to the brunette's broad shoulders out of pure survival instinct. "Put me down! Put me down right now!"
"I scored the forty points! I did it!" laughed Floyd, ignoring the protests, spinning around with his boyfriend in his arms in front of the entire school. "Did you see the last one? I jumped over that big guy! Bam!"
"Yes, yes, I saw it! It was impressive!" Riddle tried to maintain his authoritative tone, but it was impossible when suspended half a meter off the ground. "But you're soaked in sweat! You're getting my uniform dirty! And everyone is watching, by the Seven!"
Floyd stopped spinning abruptly, but he didn't put him down. He kept Riddle elevated, their faces level. Floyd's chest rose and fell against Riddle's, the body heat from the game seeping through the layers of clothes.
The gym, though still noisy, seemed to create a bubble of silence around the two of them.
Floyd looked at Riddle. His heterochromatic eyes shone with an intensity that made Riddle swallow his complaints about sweat and etiquette. Floyd's smile in that moment was one he knew all too well.
Riddle blinked, his already red cheeks flushing even darker, knowing what was going to happen. "Floyd, wait, not here, there are too many peo—"
Floyd tilted his head and captured Riddle's lips.
It wasn't a soft romance movie kiss. It was a Floyd kiss. Hungry, messy, full of adrenaline and possessiveness. Floyd was practically devouring his mouth, one hand moving up to tangle in Riddle's red hair, messing it up even more, while the other held him firmly against his body.
The effect on the gym was immediate (Actually, not really).
Ace dropped his water bottle. Jamil Viper covered his face with both hands, muttering something about "I don't get paid enough for this." Jade and Azul, in the stands, smiled; Jade with genuine amusement, Azul calculating how to sell photos of the moment.
The rest of the school stood in stunned silence (Actually, not really). The terrifying Floyd Leech and the strict Housewarden Riddle Rosehearts? Kissing? With tongue?
Riddle tensed for a second, his eyes flying wide open in surprise at Floyd's audacity. It's a flagrant violation of public decency rules! his logical mind screamed. But his heart beat as loud as a marching band drum. He felt Floyd's overflowing happiness, the relief, the raw and unfiltered affection.
And he surrendered.
Riddle closed his eyes, sighed against Floyd's lips, and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend's sweaty neck, returning the kiss with an intensity no one would expect from the little tyrant.
It was a long kiss. Uncomfortably long for the onlookers, absolutely perfect for them.
When they finally separated, gasping for air, Riddle had swollen lips and a totally red face, but he didn't look away. Floyd was smiling as if he had just won the lottery, not a game.
Floyd rested his forehead against Riddle's, enjoying the closeness.
"Ne~ Riddle~"
The use of his real name, without marine nicknames, without teasing, sent a shiver down the redhead's spine. Riddle looked him in the eyes, hypnotized.
"Y-yes?"
"For my prize..." Floyd brushed his nose against his. "I want you to eat lunch with me every day. For the rest of the year. No Housewarden excuses, no rules. Just you and me."
Riddle blinked, surprised. He expected him to ask for something extravagant, or expensive, or perhaps something embarrassing. But simply asking for... time...
A soft, genuine, crystal-clear laugh escaped Riddle's throat. "That's it? All that effort for that?"
"Aha~. It's what I want."
Riddle smiled, a sweet expression that softened his severe features. "Alright. It's a deal. I'll have lunch with you... although you'll have to eat vegetables."
"Eehhh! I don't like green things," Floyd complained, but kissed him again, this time a quick, loud peck.
Finally, Floyd lowered Riddle to the ground. He gave him one last pat on the head, something Riddle allowed only for today, and turned toward his team, who were looking at him as if he had grown a second head.
Floyd walked toward them with his usual slouching gait, as if nothing had happened. "Hey! Did you see that?" asked Floyd, pointing back with his thumb. "Kingyo-chan says I was great."
Ace was the first to regain speech. "Floyd-senpai!" he shouted, pointing a trembling finger at them. "What the hell was that?! You and Housewarden Rosehearts?! Since when?!"
The rest of the team nodded frantically. Even Coach Vargas seemed confused. Rumors existed, sure, but seeing Floyd kissing the strict Riddle in the middle of the court was something else.
Floyd tilted his head, looking at Ace with genuine confusion. Riddle, beside him, crossed his arms and raised his chin, regaining his air of authority despite his messy hair and red lips.
Both looked at each other for a second and then looked at the crowd.
"What are you talking about?" said Floyd, shrugging.
"Nobody asked," said Riddle simply, brushing invisible dust off his uniform.
"So we didn't have to say anything," completed Floyd with a lazy smile, slinging an arm around Riddle's shoulders and pulling him close.
"But... You just kissed in front of half the school!" insisted Ace.
Floyd let out a cackle. "Yes~. And if you keep asking dumb questions, I'm going to squeeze you all. Now, where is the trophy? I want to use it to serve juice to Riddle at lunch tomorrow."
The celebration continued, as did the questions. The players went to collect their trophy and Riddle stood watching Floyd's back as he walked a few meters away with his teammates.
The pride he felt in that moment was immense. But what shook his heart was realizing that Floyd had done it all for him. Only for him.
.
.
.
.
.
EXTRA
The Heartslabyul Housewarden's bedroom was plunged in soft gloom, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the velvet curtains. The silence was comfortable, broken only by the soft tick-tock of the wall clock and a deep, vibrating humming.
Riddle was lying on Floyd's chest.
A couple of hours had passed since the "private celebration." Floyd, to Riddle's surprise and relief, had behaved unusually well. There were no visible marks anywhere, nor was there any kind of pain. Only a pleasant tiredness and the warmth of their entwined bodies under the sheets remained.
Floyd stroked Riddle's hair with long, lazy fingers, humming a slow, jazzy tune that Riddle didn't recognize. Probably some song they played at the Mostro Lounge. The vibration of Floyd's chest against Riddle's cheek was a natural sedative.
"Ne~, Kingyo-chan..." Floyd's voice broke the melody, sounding raspy and low.
"Mmm?" murmured Riddle, eyes closed, too comfortable to articulate properly.
"Azul sent me a message while you were showering."
Riddle opened one eye. A mention of Azul in a moment of peace was never a good sign. "And what did Azul want at this hour? To charge me for the air I breathed in the gym?"
(Riddle made a joke, make a wish!)
Floyd let out a giggle, a sound that shook Riddle gently. "Nope. He told me why you asked for exactly forty points."
Riddle tensed. His body went rigid on top of Floyd. "I don't know what you're talking about. It was a random number based on the point difference and the remaining time to statistically ensure a victory..."
"Liar~" sang Floyd. He stopped stroking his hair and moved his hand down to pinch Riddle's waist gently. "Azul told me you entered his illegal betting ring. And that you bet five figures that I would be the 'Top Scorer of the Match'."
The silence that followed was thick. Riddle's face, though it was dark, burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.
"I-it wasn't an illegal bet," Riddle stammered, trying to sit up, but Floyd kept him pinned. "It was... a calculated risk investment. I knew you had the potential, and Azul was offering ridiculous odds because you were playing poorly at the start, so..."
"Hahaha!" Floyd burst into laughter, rolling abruptly on the bed.
With a fluid movement, he reversed their positions. He cornered Riddle against the sheets, looming over him with that amused shark smile. Riddle sank into the pillow, embarrassed.
"You're terrible, Kingyo-chan!" teased Floyd, bringing his face close to his. "The Leader of Rules betting in Azul's black market. How naughty."
"Shut up!" Riddle looked away, indignant. "I just wanted to show that I trusted you would win!"
Floyd looked at him for a second, and his expression softened. He leaned in and left a soft, extremely tender kiss on Riddle's cheek, right where the blush was most intense. Riddle closed his eyes, shuddering at the contact.
"If you had told me there was money involved, I would have scored more points," said Floyd, resting his chin on Riddle's shoulder. "I don't like owing favors to Azul. I could have won by seventy points if I had known my Kingyo-chan was going to get rich at my expense."
"It's not at your expense! Since my presence was a good addition to your playstyle, I decided I could get some money to invest. But you should have played better in the first half. Getting mad at everyone just because I was late..." Riddle scolded him, regaining a bit of his usual tone. "It was irresponsible, immature, and..."
"Blah, blah, blah. You're so noisy," interrupted Floyd.
Ignoring the lecture, Floyd let himself fall. Literally. He dropped all his weight onto Riddle, burying his face in the redhead's small chest.
"Gah!" Riddle let out his breath all at once, feeling as if a whale had landed on him. "Floyd! You're heavy! Get off me!"
"I don't wanna... you're comfy," mumbled Floyd against the fabric of Riddle's pajamas.
Floyd lifted his head a little, just enough to place a lazy kiss on Riddle's neck, right over his pulse. "I'm happy..." he whispered, his voice becoming pasty and slow. "Now I'll be able to eat with you every day. I'm going to sit with you and steal your food..."
"Don't even think about it..." Riddle started to say.
"Mgh..."
It was instantaneous. In a second, Floyd's breathing became deep and rhythmic. A soft snore began to emanate from him. The exhaustion of the game, the adrenaline, and the emotion had finally shut down his system.
Riddle stared at the ceiling, with almost ninety kilos of eel on top of his ribs.
"Floyd," whispered Riddle.
Silence. Only snoring.
"Floyd, seriously, I can't breathe well. Move."
Riddle pushed Floyd's shoulder. Nothing. It was like pushing a boulder. He tried again, using both hands. Floyd didn't even flinch; in fact, he seemed to hug Riddle tighter.
On the third attempt, Riddle sighed, defeated. His arms fell to his sides. He felt Floyd's warmth, the comforting (though suffocating) weight, and the slow beat of his boyfriend's heart against his own.
"Idiot," Riddle murmured with a barely visible smile in the dark.
He lifted a hand and, carefully, tangled his fingers in Floyd's turquoise hair again. He settled in as best he could under the weight, closed his eyes, and fell asleep without thinking about any rules.
