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Deuce had stopped listening sometime during the first ten minutes of class.
He knew this because the professor’s voice had dissolved into a low, indistinct hum—present enough to be annoying, absent enough to be meaningless. Words reached him in fragments, detached from each other, slipping through his head before he could grab onto them. He tried. He always tried. He sat straight, back stiff, hands folded neatly on the desk, eyes fixed on the front of the room like that alone might force his brain to cooperate.
It didn’t.
His thoughts drifted anyway, slipping sideways no matter how tightly he tried to hold them in place. His gaze followed.
A few rows ahead, someone was scribbling notes at an impossible speed, page already half-filled with tidy, compact handwriting. Another student yawned openly, chin propped on their hand, yet somehow still managing to write without looking down. Someone else stared out the window, completely detached, serene even—as if boredom didn’t claw at their insides the way it did his.
How are they doing that? Deuce wondered.
He looked down at his own notebook.
Half a page.
Messy. Uneven. Words crossed out, rewritten, abandoned halfway through. Arrows pointed nowhere. Sentences trailed off like they’d simply given up before he had. It looked less like notes and more like evidence of a fight he was losing.
His leg bounced under the desk. Deuce pressed his foot flat against the floor, jaw tightening. Stop.
It worked for exactly three seconds.
The room felt unbearable—not because of heat or noise, but because of the way time dragged. Each second stretched thin, heavy, sticking to him. The scratch of chalk against the board scraped at his nerves. Someone clicked their pen repeatedly, a sharp, rhythmic sound that drilled straight into his skull. He swallowed, breath shallow, forcing himself to stay still.
To his left, Ace didn’t look any better.
He was slouched deep into his chair, chin resting in his palm, eyes unfocused and glassy. The end of his pencil was chewed down to splintered wood, bits of graphite staining his lips where he absently worried at it. His knee bounced openly, unapologetic, shaking the desk just enough to be noticeable. Every few seconds he shifted, shoulders rolling, legs moving, like he couldn’t find a position that didn’t itch under his skin.
Deuce watched him longer than he meant to.
Ace had always been like this—restless, loud, impossible to pin down. His usual crooked grin was gone, replaced by a thin line pressed hard into his face. His jaw was clenched.
At least I’m not the only one, Deuce thought. The relief was immediate.
He looked back at the board, forcing his eyes forward. Trying to listen again.
Professor Trein stood at the front of the room, book open in one hand, glasses perched low on his nose. He read aloud in his usual measured tone.
“—as previously stated” Trein continued, tapping the page lightly, “the ethical consequences of magical contracts must always be considered alongside their legal bindings. Power without restraint invites catastrophe.”
Deuce tried to focus on the sentence. Tried to hold onto it long enough to understand it.
Ace’s bouncing knee stopped. His pencil dropped onto the desk with a soft clatter. He stared straight ahead for a long moment, unmoving, then exhaled slowly—deep and tired, like the breath of someone who’d been holding it for far too long.
Then he leaned down and reached for his bag. He watched as Ace unzipped the bag, the sound quiet but deliberate. Books shifted. Paper crinkled. Something plastic knocked softly against the desk. Ace’s shoulders slumped as his hand moved inside, searching with practiced familiarity.
Deuce hesitated.
It wasn’t his business. He knew that. Ace was allowed to dig through his bag without commentary. And yet, something about the way Ace’s posture collapsed—just a little—made Deuce’s chest tighten.
“…You okay ?” Deuce whispered before he could stop himself.
Ace didn’t look up. “I’m gonna take my meds” he muttered.
The words didn’t register at first. Deuce blinked, brain lagging behind, replaying the sentence until it finally settled into meaning. He turned fully toward Ace.
“huh—”
Ace paused. His fingers emerged from the bag holding a small plastic bottle. He stared at it for a moment, then glanced sideways at Deuce, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “…Yeah?” he said.
Deuce stayed quiet, watching the yellow bottle like it might disappear if he looked away.
“You hurt?” he asked finally, voice low.
Ace snorted softly. “No?”
“Then…”
“It just helps me get through class, helps me to turn on my brain.” Ace said. Not defensive. Just tired.
“Ah! The pill that helps you concentrate?” The words came out too fast, tumbling over each other before Deuce could rein them in. Hope crept into his voice despite himself. That’s—that’s exactly what I need right now.
Ace stiffened. “…It’s not like that” Ace said quietly. “It’s not a magic fix...”
Deuce frowned. “But it helps. Right?”
“Sometimes” Ace replied. His mouth twisted, like he wasn’t sure whether that counted as an answer.
Professor Trein cleared his throat loudly at the front of the room and launched into the next passage without pause. Both of them turned forward on instinct, eyes fixed on the board, backs straightening like they’d been caught doing something wrong. Deuce forced himself to stare at the text, but the letters swam uselessly in front of him.
“Gentlemen” Trein said without turning around, “if my lecture is interrupting your conversation, I would be happy to assign an additional assignment .”
Both of them snapped forward immediately. Ace slid the bottle back into his bag. The lecture moved on.
“Man” he said lightly “Trein’s really out to kill us this week, huh?”
Deuce forced a small nod. “Yeah.”
The rest of the class passed in a way Deuce wouldn’t have been able to describe, even if someone asked him to try.
By the time Professor Trein finally dismissed them, the writing on the board had blurred into meaningless shapes. Deuce stood on instinct alone, chair scraping softly against the floor as his body moved before his thoughts could catch up. His muscles felt stiff, tense, like he’d been holding himself upright through sheer force of will. His head was heavy—overfull, stuffed with noise and nothing at the same time.
Ace stretched beside him, arms lifting above his head as he let out a lazy groan. “Freedom!” Deuce barely registered it.
They had agreed to work on their new research assignment after class. Group work. Easy, simple—at least, that was how it was supposed to be. Something about the historical magical contracts and their long-term implications. Deuce knew he should remember more from their lecture. At least he knew that Ace probably did.
They settled at one of the tables of the now empty classroom near the back, away from the louder clusters of students. Ace dropped into his chair and immediately started unloading his bag, stacking books neatly, flipping them open. Ace leaned back slightly, one leg hooked around the chair rung, eyes already scanning the page like this was just another routine task.
Deuce sat across from him.
“Okay” Ace said, already skimming a paragraph. “So this part talks about enforcement clauses. Basically—if one side breaks the contract, there’s usually a magical backlash proportional to—”
He could hear Ace’s voice—the pitch, the rhythm—but it felt distant, muffled, like underwater. One sentence blended . Deuce blinked, shaking his head slightly, trying to anchor himself. But it was like reaching into fog. into the next; he caught fragments: magical backlash… proportional to… He nodded again
“Undestood?”
“Yeah. Makes sense.” Deuce hummed, nodding automatically
It didn’t. Not really.
Exhaustion settled over his shoulders, dragging him downward like gravity had doubled when he wasn’t paying attention. At the same time, his foot started bouncing under the table—fast, relentless. His fingers tapped against the tabletop in an uneven rhythm, stopping only to start again somewhere else. Tired, but wired. Drained, but unable to rest.
He frowned faintly. Ace didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just chose not to comment.
The words slid past him, refusing to stick, but he nodded anyway as Ace kept going—reading, summarizing, typing notes into their shared document. Deuce added the occasional comment when prompted, vague but agreeable, just enough to seem present.
Time passed like that.
Ace working steadily.
Deuce there in body only.
Then it hit him.
His chest tightened sharply.
The worksheet.
Deuce froze.
The memory surfaced all at once, unwelcome and painfully clear: Professor Trein’s voice, stern but not unkind. An extension. Five days. Don’t waste it. The paper folded carefully and tucked into his bag. Today’s date.
Today.
“Oh…” Deuce breathed.
Ace looked up. “Oh what?”
Deuce’s stomach dropped. He dug into his bag with suddenly clumsy fingers, pulling out the crumpled worksheet like it might accuse him if he looked at it too closely. The due date glared back at him.
“I-I” He swallowed hard. “I was supposed to turn this in. Today…before class”
Ace blinked. Then he laughed. “You’re kidding” he said. “Dude. Trein extended that assignment only for you.”
“I know...” Deuce muttered, shoulders slumping. He stared at the paper, shame crawling up his spine, hot and familiar. “I just forgot.”
Ace leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with an easy grin. “Unbelievable. You get a second chance and just—whoosh.” He made a dramatic gesture with his hand. “Gone.”
Deuce dropped his forehead onto the table with a dull thud.
“I’m the worst” he mumbled into the wood.
Ace snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far. Irresponsible, maybe.”
Deuce didn’t laugh.
He stayed there for a moment, breathing against the cold surface of the table. He’d always thought the problem was effort. Discipline. If he just tried harder—sat straighter, focused more, stopped letting his thoughts wander—then eventually it would work. That was how it was supposed to work.
“But it’s not the worst” Ace added lightly, as if trying to soften it. “It’s not like the world ends over one assignment. And, honestly? Trein’s classes are kinda brutal.”
Deuce lifted his head slowly.
He stared at the worksheet, at the uneven creases, at the ink smudged where his hand had dragged across it. He thought about how easy it had been to forget. How the deadline had slipped away without him even noticing.
Other people don’t forget things like this, a voice in his head whispered.
They complain, sure—but they still do it.
“Everyone gets distracted” Ace whispered. “Everyone gets bored. This class is just… like that.”
“I just—” Deuce’s jaw tightened. He hated how small his voice sounded. “I should be better at handling it.”
Because if he wasn’t—
If trying harder wasn’t enough—
Ace’s hand stilled on the page.
“Yeah” he said quietly. “That’s what I told myself too.”
Deuce stared down at the worksheet, the lines of text blurring until they were nothing more than dark smudges on paper. His grip tightened unconsciously, knuckles pale. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Ace exhaled, long and deliberate, and tapped the edge of the worksheet with the eraser of his pencil.
“Hey” he said, his tone shifting—lighter now, deliberately so, like he was trying to lift the weight before it settled too deep. “If you need to finish that thing, just go. I can handle this research on my own.”
Deuce looked up, caught off guard.
“You sure?” he asked, hesitation creeping into his voice.
Ace glanced at him, one eyebrow lifting in that familiar, almost challenging way.
“Yeah, Deuce. Just finish and deliver that paper!” He tilted his head toward the classroom door. “Ask Riddle or Trey-senpai for help—before Professor Trein is done for the day. You’ll never catch him once he’s gone.”
Deuce followed the motion, eyes flicking briefly toward the exit. His chest tightened. The urgency was back now, sharp and insistent, cutting through the fog.
“…Thanks” he murmured.
Ace shrugged, already turning back to his book, fingers resuming their steady movement across the page. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Deuce managed a small nod. He gathered his things quickly, the worksheet folded tight in his hand, and stood. For a moment, he hesitated—then turned and left. Deuce moved quickly at first, shoulders tense, replaying Ace’s words in his head like instructions he couldn’t afford to forget.
Dormitories.
Kitchen.
Trey-senpai.
Before Professor leaves.
The walk to the Heartslabyul dorms should have been straightforward—familiar halls, familiar turns—but Deuce followed them on autopilot, breath shallow, mind buzzing with urgency and static all at once.
Dormitories.
Kitchen.
Trey-senpai.
Before Professor leaves.
“Deuce!” The voice cut cleanly through the noise in his head.
Dormitories.
Kitchen...
He stopped short. Cater was leaning against the wall a few steps ahead, phone in hand, expression bright and effortlessly amused.
“Oh—Cater-senpai” Deuce said, straightening instinctively.
Cater’s smile widened. “Whoa, you’re speed-walking like you’re on a mission. Everything okay?”
“Yes! ” Deuce answered automatically. “I mean—yes I’m just—”
Just what? Before he could finish the thought, Cater had already fallen into step beside him, matching his pace with casual ease.
“Hey, did you hear about the unbirthday planning meeting earlier?” Cater continued. “Riddle was this close to losing it over the seating chart. Again.”
Deuce blinked. “The… seating chart?”
“Mm-hmm. Apparently someone moved a teacup half an inch out of place. Tragic” Cater said with a soft laugh. Cater hummed thoughtfully. He glanced at Deuce sideways. “You look stressed, though. Class was rough?”
Deuce hesitated, then shrugged. “Professor Trein’s lecture.”
“Ah.” Cater winced sympathetically. “Say no more. That man could drain the joy out of magic itself. #boring !”
Deuce laughed—softly, surprised that the sound came out at all. His shoulders loosened, just a little. The words washed over him, pleasant, distracting. Too distracting.
“Well, I have to go now” he said, flashing a peace sign. “Good luck surviving the rest of the day, Deuce.”
“Thanks, Cater-senpai.” Deuce replied.
Cater waved and turned down another corridor, already tapping away at his phone. Deuce took two more steps before stopping. He stood there, staring at the wall. Silence rushed in. What was he doing? He searched his thoughts, rifling through them like drawers thrown open in a panic. Classroom. Ace. Worksheet. Someone’s name— He lifted a hand and pressed it hard against his face, knuckles digging into his cheekbone. Idiot.
“Focus” he muttered under his breath.
Two seconds. Just two. He closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled.
Right.
Senpai.
Kitchen.
His eyes snapped open.
Deuce turned on his heel and hurried down the corridor, pace faster now, almost desperate. He didn’t stop again until the warm scent of sugar and baked dough reached him. The kitchen. Trey Clover stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, methodically stirring something in a bowl. He looked up as the door swung open.
“Deuce?” Trey blinked. “What’s wrong?”
Before he could think better of it, Deuce's legs gave out beneath him. He dropped to his knees on the tiled floor with a sharp sound, hands braced in front of him, head bowed low.
“T-Trey-senpai!” Deuce blurted. “Please—please help me!”
The spoon slipped from his hand, clattering against the bowl.
“Deuce—!” He rushed forward immediately, crouching down. “Hey, hey—what are you doing? Get up!”
“I messed up” Deuce said, voice tight and shaking. “I forgot an assignment. I had an extension and I still forgot and I—I don’t know what to do and Professor Trein’s going to kill m—”
Trey’s expression shifted, shock giving way to something softer—and deeply uncomfortable. He looked around the kitchen, then back at Deuce, clearly mortified.
“First, you don’t have to kneel !” Trey said, reaching out and gently gripping Deuce’s arm. “Please don’t do that. I’m not—this isn’t—” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Of course I’ll help you” he said. “I can’t believe you thought you had to beg.”
Deuce looked up at him, eyes wide.
“Y-you will?”
“Yes!” Trey said firmly.
Deuce ended up sitting at the small kitchen table, shoulders tight, worksheet spread in front of him like evidence. The smell of tea and something sweet lingered in the air, warm and domestic in a way that made his chest ache faintly. Trey stood beside him at first, reading over the paper.
“…Hmm” he murmured after a moment. “You definitely needed help with this.”
Deuce braced himself, fingers curling into his sleeves. Instead of explaining, Trey pulled out a chair and sat down across from him.
“Alright,” he said calmly, already reaching for a pen. “Let’s get this done.”
And then—he did.
Trey worked fast. Not rushed, but efficient in that quiet, practiced way that came from years of knowing exactly what was being asked. He skimmed the worksheet once, then began filling it in, neat handwriting flowing without hesitation. He referenced a book Deuce hadn’t even realized was open on the counter, flipping pages with one hand while writing with the other.
Deuce watched.
He wasn’t being guided. He wasn’t being corrected mid-thought. Trey was just… doing it. Completely. As if it were obvious that this was what Deuce needed right now. Deuce swallowed.
“…I can explain this to you later” Trey added gently, without looking up. “ I hope we can study it together another time. But, right now, lets focus on getting this turned in.”
That made something in Deuce’s chest loosen—and tighten at the same time. Trey paused briefly, pen hovering. “How do you even forget doing this assignment?” he asked, not harsh, but genuinely baffled. “Every first-year knows this one. It’s, what—forty percent of your grade?”
Deuce flinched anyway. The thought came sharp and reflexive. He forced himself to breathe. Tried again.
I didn’t forget on purpose, he thought. I knew it mattered.
“I did write the new extended date” Deuce said quietly, almost to himself. “But I… forgot where I left my notebook.”
Trey finished the last line, set the pen down, then finally looked up at Deuce. “If you have trouble remembering deadlines” Trey continued, tone practical rather than scolding “it’s better to put them straight into a calendar. Not on a loose sheet of paper.”
Deuce nodded immediately.
“When I don’t have my phone on me” Trey went on, half-smiling, “I’ll write it on my hand. Just something obvious. That way, when I get back to the dorm, I remember there was something important I didn’t want to forget.”
Deuce stared at his own hands, pale against the table.
“…That makes sense” he murmured.
He nodded again, firmer this time. Trey slid the completed worksheet toward him.
“There” he said. “You’re are all good.”
Deuce picked it up carefully, like it might fall apart if he wasn’t gentle. “Thank you,” he said, voice low but sincere. Trey smiled, a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Anytime… Well, no, not anytime. Sometimes,” he replied, voice a little tight. “But next time—let’s catch it before it gets this close to deadline, okay?”
With the assignment completed on his hands he bolted, feet pounding across the dormitory hall, heart hammering in his chest. The halls of mirrors blurred past him, reflections of hurried students and swinging doors flickering in his peripheral vision.
By the time he reached the corridor outside the classrooms, he spotted Professor Trein, calmly adjusting his gloves before the next class. Deuce skidded to a stop, breath catching, and called out “Professor—!”
Deuce stopped short, heels skidding slightly against the floor. He bowed so quickly it was almost clumsy, both hands extending the worksheet forward, arms stiff, head lowered.
“I—I’m sorry for being late” he said, words tumbling over each other. “If you could still accept it, please—”
Trein glanced at the paper. Then he shook his head.
“No” he said simply. The word landed like a physical blow. “I was clear about the deadline” Trein continued, tone firm but not unkind. “Extensions are not indefinite. You should have planned accordingly.”
Deuce straightened slowly, the paper still frozen between his hands.
“I understand” he managed.
Trein nodded once, already turning away. “That will be all, Mr. Spade.” And just like that, it was over.
Deuce stood there for a moment longer, long enough for the hallway to feel too wide, too empty. His arms dropped. The paper trembled slightly in his grip. That was it. The minimum grade. Forty percent gone. And another twenty percent—Ace’s part of the group assignment—still hanging over them like a weight. The thought made his throat tighten painfully. He turned away before anyone could see his face and walked—no, dragged himself—back toward the dorms.
His steps slowed with every turn, shoulders curling inward, head lowered. It didn’t matter anymore. Today was already ruined. Right before entering his room, Deuce stopped. Trey. He found Trey near the kitchen again, wiping down the counter. Deuce bowed deeply, deeper than necessary, knuckles white at his sides.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For wasting your time senpai.”
Trey looked up, startled.
“…Hey” he said. “You didn’t waste anything.”
“I couldn’t even turn it in” Deuce continued, voice tight. “It didn’t matter in the end.”
Trey sighed softly, his expression turning thoughtful as he leaned back in his chair. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes unfocusing for a second. “Yeah” he admitted. “I figured that might happen.”
The words hung there, heavy but unsurprised. Deuce didn’t react. His gaze stayed fixed on the desk, shoulders slumped, like the outcome had already been decided hours ago. Trey opened his mouth, then closed it again. He frowned slightly, thumb tapping against the side of his notebook. It wasn’t the kind of thing he suggested lightly. He hated putting Riddle into situations like this.
“…As a last option” he said slowly, carefully, “we could try something.”
Deuce finally looked up, eyes dull, unfocused. Waiting—but not expecting much. Trey hesitated again. His jaw tightened, then relaxed. He exhaled through his nose.
“I’m not saying it’ll work,” he added quickly, like he needed to soften the idea before it landed. “And it’s not exactly… standard. But it’s been done before.” He glanced away for a moment, then back at Deuce, voice lower now.“If you’re okay with it,” Trey continued, “we could talk to Riddle. Riddle might be able to issue a formal request. Like a housewarden exception. I’ve heard of it being done before—sending an official letter to the professor.”
Deuce didn’t react at first.
“…Is it worth trying?” Trey asked gently. “If you want, I can help talk to him first.”
Deuce stared at the floor. He felt hollow. Heavy. But he nodded.
“…Okay.”
They walked together to the Heartslabyul housewarden’s room. Deuce barely registered the path, the doors, the familiar decor. His thoughts raced too fast to settle on anything useful. The conversation between Trey and Riddle blurred together—formal, clipped, sharp at the edges. Deuce stood off to the side, hands clenched, listening without really understanding. He caught fragments.
A sigh.
Riddle pinching the bridge of his nose. A muttered complaint under his breath.
“Thank you, Riddle,” Trey said. “I’ll leave Deuce to you.”
The door closed behind him. Riddle turned and pointed sharply to the chair in front of his desk. The room felt unbearably orderly. Every object on Riddle’s desk was aligned with precise intention—papers squared, pen parallel to the edge, teacup placed just far enough from the books to avoid even the possibility of a spill. The symmetry made Deuce acutely aware of how out of place he was, hunched forward in the chair, shoulders tight, hands twisting together in his lap like they didn’t know where to go.
“Sit.”
Deuce obeyed immediately. Riddle folded his hands neatly atop the desk.
“By Rule 750” he said coolly, “An academic exception may be issued by a housewarden. However, it also requires sufficient justification to be accepted by the professor.”
Deuce’s thoughts scattered instantly.
Riddle’s fingers tapped once against the desk.
“What is the motive?” he repeated.
Deuce’s chest tightened. The silence deepened, pressing down on him until his shoulders curled inward without him noticing. His gaze dropped to the floor, tracing the intricate pattern of the carpet because looking at Riddle felt impossible.
“I—” His voice came out rough, strained. He swallowed hard and tried again. “I don’t… think I have a good enought...reason.”
Riddle’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, Deuce braced himself—for reprimand, for sharp words, for disappointment spoken aloud. Instead, Riddle exhaled slowly through his nose.
“If you require assistance, you may begin by explaining what occurred.”
The shift was subtle, but Deuce felt it immediately. His fingers clenched tighter.
“Riddle-senpai… I dont even know if its worth it” He bowed his head, the words scraping painfully out of his throat. “I’m just… dumb.”
Riddle’s brow twitched.
“The day they gave the assignment, I arrived late. ” Deuce said, the words rushing now, uneven and breathless. “I wasn’t informed. I didn’t even know it existed.” He swallowed, throat burning. “When the due date came, not even Ace mentioned it. I came to class with nothing.” His hands curled into fists. “Nothing ! ”
Images flashed through his mind—standing there empty-handed, the paperless desk, the way Trein’s gaze had lingered on him just a second too long.
“When I requested the extension,” Deuce continued, voice wavering, “ I swear I wrote the new date down, but forgot my notebook somewhere and after the weekend I didn’t remember it being for today. I swear I had it in my mind, I thought I had more time to do it .” He shook his head faintly, as if the motion could clear the static in his skull.
“Plus the instructions were confusing,” he added quickly, defensively. “They were different from the original task. I kept mixing them up.” His shoulders sagged. “Trey-senpai had to do it for me. Like completely.” His voice dropped. “And today, the professor didn’t even remind me to hand it in after class.”
The words trailed off. The room fell quiet again. Deuce stared at the floor, eyes stinging, chest tight and hollow all at once. Shame crept up his spine, hot and familiar, curling around his ribs until breathing felt like effort. This always happened. Too slow. Too late. Too messy. Across the desk, Riddle remained silent—but his expression had shifted. Sharp, precise, calculating. He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes narrowing in measured focus.
“That is not an explanation of pure incompetence,” Riddle said finally. “It is a pattern.”
Deuce flinched, a small, involuntary jerk, as though the words had hit him physically.
“A recurring one,” Riddle continued, gaze unwavering. “Late arrivals. Missed information. Forgotten materials. Difficulty tracking changes to instructions. Failure to retain deadlines even after writing them down.”
Deuce stared blankly, mind flickering over each accusation in fragmented flashes—he hadn’t even considered that his struggles happened this often, let alone formed a recognizable pattern. He wanted to nod, to explain, to say something—but he couldn’t bring himself to fully agree. Surely it wasn’t that frequent. Surely it didn’t happen that consistently. His chest tightened, a quiet protest rising in his mind, even as the truth gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
Riddle watched him closely, reading the hesitation, the disconnect, without comment.
“I am not asking whether you are careless,” Riddle said, his tone steady, unyielding. “I am asking whether this has happened before.”
Deuce blinked, mind scrambling to assemble memories he usually shoved aside. Forgotten assignments he had meant to turn in, random deadlines that had slipped past, arriving late to classrooms he couldn’t quite remember—fragments of overlooked tasks and lost schedules. The anxiety that had been a low hum in the background of his life—the constant tension of never knowing when an evaluation would appear, whether he had the right materials, or if he was even in the right classroom—pressed in on him now, sharp and undeniable.
The clock ticked on. Riddle closed his eyes briefly, as if organizing his thoughts. He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the desk. His gaze softened—just barely.
“I asume I'm correct” he said, “ Then, how often does this happen?”
Deuce’s fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeves, nails catching slightly as if the pressure might anchor him in place. How often?
He thought of the amount of assignments he started late at night, the page still blank while the clock crept forward, his mind jumping restlessly from one idea to another without settling. Of notes taken in class that began neatly, only to dissolve halfway down the page into arrows, half-sentences, margins crowded with thoughts that made sense only in the moment. Of reminders written on scraps of paper—corners of worksheets, the backs of envelopes—that disappeared almost as soon as he put them down.
He remembered standing in front of his locker, staring at the jumble inside, knowing something important was missing but unable to pinpoint what. There were smaller things, too. Forgetting to respond to messages he fully intended to answer. Walking into a room with a purpose and leaving empty-handed
It wasn’t every day. That was the worst part. Some days he was fine. Those days had become his proof that nothing was actually wrong. That the other days were simply failures of will. But when Riddle asked the question like that—calm, precise, impossible to deflect—Deuce couldn’t ignore the truth pressing at the edges of his thoughts.
Too often.
Often enough that he planned his life around the fear of forgetting. Often enough that he double-checked, triple-checked, and still missed things. Often enough that the effort it took to keep up left him exhausted long before the day was over.
His throat tightened.
“I…” His voice came out rough, barely audible. He swallowed and tried again. “More than it should.” He pressed his lips together, then forced himself to continue. “Like… a lot…” he said quietly. “Since I was a kid.”
Riddle’s gaze sharpened, but he said nothing. Deuce swallowed.
“I forget things” he went on. “Not on purpose. I really do try. I write them down, I tell myself not to mess it up this time, I swear I do—but then something else happens, or I get distracted, or I think I still have time, and suddenly it’s too late.” His shoulders curled inward.
“My mom used to remind me of everything,” he added, a faint, almost embarrassed huff escaping him. “Homework. Appointments. Deadlines. She’d leave notes everywhere. On the fridge. On the door. On my bag.”
He stared at his hands. “I thought that was just normal. That I was just bad at remembering stuff on my own.”
Riddle’s fingers tapped once against the desk again—not impatient this time, but thoughtful.
“And when those reminders were no longer present?” he asked.
Deuce let out a humorless laugh.
“I messed up” he said simply. “A lot.”
The word hung between them. Riddle leaned back in his chair, studying Deuce with an expression that was no longer disciplinary, but analytical—like he was rearranging pieces of a puzzle that had finally started to make sense.
“You are aware” Riddle said slowly, “that repeated difficulty with attention, memory, and task execution—despite genuine effort—is not a moral failing.”
Deuce’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.
“What?”
Riddle met his gaze steadily.
“You keep framing this as a lack of discipline,” Riddle continued, voice calm but with a faint edge now. “As laziness. As irresponsibility. Those are consequences, not explanations.”
Deuce’s chest tightened, a familiar coil of anxiety settling in his stomach.
“But if I just tried harder—”
“You have been trying harder,” Riddle cut in, firm but not harsh. “Relentlessly so.”
The words landed heavier than any reprimand could have. Deuce’s breath hitched; a lump formed in his throat. Riddle stood, moving around the desk with deliberate, measured steps. He paused at the bookshelf, letting his fingers brush over the spines of the books, anchoring himself in order before continuing.
“You were not informed of the assignment. You sought an extension. You attempted to complete the task. You asked for help when you realized you were struggling.” Each point landed with precision. “These are not the actions of a student who does not care.”
Deuce stared at him, throat tight, mind scrambling for a response.
“I still failed” he whispered.
Riddle regarded him for a long moment, eyes unwavering.
“Failure” he said at last, “is not the same as refusal.”
The silence that followed was different this time—weighty but not suffocating. Deuce felt the tension in his chest loosen just enough to breathe.
“I will draft a formal request,” Riddle continued, voice steady. “It will state that the circumstances warrant an academic exception, contingent on future accommodations.”
Deuce’s eyes widened.
“You… you will?”
“Yes” Riddle replied, adjusting his gloves. “A housewarden does not grant academic exceptions lightly. However—this situation is not as simple as neglect. Your efforts today, and in previous assignments, confirm that.” He paused, as if weighing each word. “I will be issuing a letter requesting an extension for your assignment due to mental health considerations. My apologies for the phrasing; bureaucratic language rarely captures nuance. But it should be categorized appropriately.”
Deuce exhaled shakily, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
“However—” Riddle added, inevitably precise. “This cannot continue unchecked. May I suggest undergoing an evaluation to better understand your cognitive patterns?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to his desk, already reaching for parchment and pen.
“You free to go now” Riddle said after a moment. “I will notify Professor Trein.”
Deuce stood slowly, legs unsteady. At the door, he paused, hand hovering over the handle.
“Riddle-senpai” he said softly.
Riddle glanced up, expression unreadable.
“…Thank you” Deuce murmured.
Riddle inclined his head once. Formal. Final. Deuce stepped into the corridor, the door closing quietly behind him. The hallway felt different now—still silent, still orderly, but lighter somehow. He leaned back against the wall for a second, eyes closing.
His heart was still racing.
Nothing was fixed.
Not really.
By the time Deuce reached his bedroom, his chest felt tight again—but not in the frantic, spiraling way it had earlier. This ache was duller. Heavier. The kind that settled deep and stayed there, sore with everything he hadn’t said and couldn’t fix.
He pushed the door open. It creaked softly and saw that Ace was there. The red head sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands. The room was dim, curtains half-drawn. Late afternoon light slanted through the narrow gap, catching dust motes suspended in the air. Ace hadn’t bothered turning on the lamp.
Ace startled, looking up quickly. “You—uh,” he said, rough. “You turned it in?”
Deuce’s chest sank.
“No” he admitted.
Ace let out a short, humorless laugh. His shoulders slumped further, like the last of his energy had just given up.
“Guess today just sucks all around.”
Deuce stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. The soft click sounded heavier than it should have, and his chest tightened again, like the ache had decided to follow him inside.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, voice rushing over the words. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with the group assignment. I… I understand that you were already stressed, I even wasted Trey-senpai’s time too. I messed everything up.”
Ace stiffened, a flicker of tension crossing his shoulders. “Hey.” His voice was sharper than Deuce expected. Ace lifted his gaze, eyes locking on him. “Don’t.”
Deuce froze. “Don’t… what?”
“Don’t do that thing,” Ace said, a sharp edge in his tone, “where you take everything and stack it on yourself like it’s all your fault.”
“It is my fault,” Deuce insisted, voice cracking. “If I hadn’t forgotten—”
“You didn’t forget because you’re careless” Ace said. The words came out rough, like he had to tear them loose. “You forgot because—because that’s how your brain works sometimes.”
Deuce froze. Ace laughed bitterly, folding his arms. Silence stretched between them—thick, uncomfortable, pressing in from all sides. Ace rubbed his arms, restless, like standing still hurt.
“After you left” Ace said finally, voice low, careful, “I really tried to fix our part before turning it in.” He shook his head, a faint grimace twisting his features. “But I kept screwing up the citations. Couldn’t focus. Everything went fuzzy. Sometimes our brian just fo stuff lilke that” He gestured vaguely, hands hovering over the space between them. “It was supposed to be in pairs. There were like… two different sections this long.”
Deuce’s chest tightened. His stomach turned over, a knot of guilt coiling so tightly it hurt to breathe. I left him alone. I made him deal with all of it by himself. Ace stopped talking after seeing Deuce’s gloomy expression, letting the silence stretch, his gaze dropping to the floor.
Silence for 5 seconds, five seconds that felt like eternity for Ace.
“I did talk to Riddle-senpai ” Deuce said quietly. His fingers twisted together nervously. “Trey-senpai took me. He suggested it…”
Ace blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“And?” he asked carefully. Ace’s fingers stilled where they had been fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. His posture tensed just slightly.
Deuce swallowed hard, throat dry, heart thudding against his ribs.
“We… wrote a letter for Professor Trein to review my case” he began, voice low, measured. “To give me more time. And… it might be accepted” he added, almost hesitating, “…with conditions.”
Ace tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Yeah? But how you convince riddle to do it?”
Deuce met his gaze, steadying himself, forcing calm into the tight coil of panic that had begun to twist in his stomach. “We mostly talked, Riddle senpai said… me failing isn’t the same as refusing or something like that” Deuce replied, each word deliberate “And that… trying and still struggling doesn’t mean you don’t care.”
Ace didn’t respond immediately His eyes softened slightly, and for the first time since Deuce had walked in, the tension around his shoulders seemed to ease just a little.
“…You serious? That is so good ! I hope professor Trein undestands tho”
Deuce nodded. Once. Then again, like he needed to convince himself too. Ace let out a sharp breath and dropped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. One arm flung over his eyes. The laugh that escaped him was fractured—half relief, half disbelief.
“Wow!” he muttered. “Guess Riddle really does have a heart.”
Deuce hovered awkwardly near the foot of the bed, hands twisting. Deuce shifted, then finally lowered himself into the chair across from Ace. The wood creaked softly beneath his weight, unnervingly loud in the quiet room. Late sunlight spilled through the window, catching on dust motes that drifted lazily in the air, slow and unhurried—like the world had decided to move at a pace he couldn’t keep up with. Outside, distant voices carried in from the courtyard: laughter, footsteps, the ordinary rhythm of life continuing on without him.
Ace leaned over, laughter tugging at the corners of his mouth, and ruffled Deuce’s hair, messing it up as if that could make everything lighter. “So, you are joining the… ADHD group, or nah?” he asked, teasing but soft.
Deuce let out a small, awkward laugh, rubbing at his head where Ace’s fingers had tangled in it. “I didn’t even know something like this existed” he admitted finally, voice low, hesitant. His fingers curled against his thigh, knuckles paling slightly. “I mean… I knew you had it. But I can not really undestandt it...” He paused, searching for the right way to put the thought into words. “I just thought—” His throat tightened. “I thought this was how everyone felt. Like you were just… bad at things everyone else somehow found easy.”
Ace’s expression softened, and he leaned back just slightly, letting the teasing slip into something warmer, patient. He didn’t reply right away, letting Deuce’s words hang in the sunlight-flecked quiet, giving him space to realize he wasn’t alone in feeling this way.
Ace finally looked at him. There was no teasing in his expression. No pity. Just something tired and familiar, like he’d heard those words before—maybe even said them himself.
“That sounded so edgelord Deuce, it even surprised me! But… to be honest, me too. I felt it too, for a loooong time.” Ace watched him for a moment, fingers worrying at the edge of the blanket. “I don’t wanna diagnose you or anything, sorry for being me to say this to you... but… you kinda… I think you do have some form of divergent attention.” He looked like he was choosing his words carefully, rearranging them in his head before letting any slip out. He hesitated, then added “Do you feel like trying something that helps with that might… help you too?”
Deuce shifted, then finally lowered himself into the chair across from him. The wood creaked softly beneath his weight, the sound cutting through the quiet room more sharply than it should have. Ace watched him for a moment, fingers worrying at the edge of the blanket. He looked like he was arranging his thoughts carefully, turning them over again and again before daring to let any of them out.
“There’s… stuff, you know” Ace said slowly. “Like therapy. They can help you organize things—your schedule, your head.” He hesitated, the words catching. “And there’s medication too… I don't know, maybe it could help.”
Deuce didn’t answer right away. His gaze fell to his hands, resting uselessly in his lap, fingers drawn tight with tension. His thoughts scattered the instant he tried to gather them, colliding, slipping out of order before he could make sense of any of it. I’m not sick, he thought, sharp and defensive. I don’t need that !!
Today had just been bad. One bad day. Maybe two. All right—maybe the whole week had been bad. But everyone had bad weeks. Everyone messed up sometimes. That didn’t mean there was something wrong with him. He did not need to medicate himself to be able to study, to function, to exist. That felt like he was… cheating, somehow.
“I don’t need help with my studies. Or my life" Deuce said at last, voice stiff. “I’ve been fine for this long— And I can continue living this. I'm sorry for all of this situation, but maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe I’m just stressed.” His fingers unclenched slightly, flexing against his thighs. “I just… need to be more careful. Take a step back. Relax for today.”
Ace didn’t correct him. Didn’t tease. Didn’t push back the way he usually would. Instead, he watched Deuce for a moment longer than necessary, his expression unreadable. Something in Deuce’s tone—too defensive, too practiced—seemed to settle uncomfortably in his chest.
Because Ace also had said those words before.
He sat up again, elbows resting on his knees, gaze dropping to the floor. He rolled his shoulders once, a small grounding motion, like he was bracing himself against an old weight.
“I’m not saying you need anything right now” Ace said quietly. “I just—” He paused, exhaling slowly. “I recognize that look.”
Deuce frowned slightly, confused, but didn’t interrupt.
“You do know” Ace continued, voice low, careful, “it’s not normal to be anxious every day. Are you… like scared of needing help? Or being dependent? Or not knowing how to handle it?”
Deuce shifted, fingers curling into his lap, tension rising. He wanted to say no. That he was fine on his own. But Ace’s gaze didn’t judge—it just… waited.
“When I was a kid” Ace went on, voice dropping, “They made me take meds every day. No questions. No breaks.” His fingers clenched into his pants, knuckles paling. “I hated it. Felt like I wasn’t me anymore. Like I was quieter. They said it was for my own good” he added, voice low.
“Teachers. Doctors. Hell! Even my mom. And maybe it was. But no one ever asked how it felt.” His jaw tightened. “Everyone just seemed relieved by this… new Ace. Like I was easier. Quieter. It fixed everything around me—but not me.”
He shifted, shoulders lifting in a small, uneven shrug. “So when I first arrived the first thing I did was stop the treatment. Or… started skipping. Only took them when I really needed to. Tests. Big assignments. Days like today.”
Deuce swallowed, his chest tightening painfully, a lump forming in his throat he didn’t know how to push down.
“But It’s my choice” Ace said, voice firmer now. “Deuce, we’re not kids anymore. No one’s hovering over me, forcing pills into my hand like before. We get to decide what we do with our own brains. What helps. What doesn’t.”
He looked directly at Deuce, then snapped his fingers lightly to pull his attention back when it wavered. “And you should at least try. You might learn things about yourself you’ve never had the space to notice. You can test what works, what doesn’t—and Deuce, honestly? Screw what anyone else thinks. Get that paperwork. Accept the accommodations, even if you’re not sure you ‘deserve’ them yet.”
Deuce blinked. Accommodations? The word still felt foreign. Ace noticed the hesitation and leaned back, his tone softening.
“It doesn’t make you less capable. And can help you in situations like this” He glanced at Deuce, not quite meeting his eyes. “Sometimes it’s a pill. Sometimes it’s sending an email asking for an extension. Sometimes it’s telling Riddle to remind me about a deadline so I don’t pretend it doesn’t exist. And that’s fine. You get to choose how to handle your brain—and still be you.”
Deuce’s chest loosened fractionally. Ace smiled faintly, shrugging. “You learn. You adapt. You take responsibility for your life… and you ask for help when you need it. That’s part of living your own life.”
Deuce didn’t move. He didn’t have to. He felt something shift—an acceptance he hadn’t allowed himself before. He didn’t have to do everything alone. He could take help when necessary, decide for himself, and still be whole.
For the first time, the idea that help could be a tool, not a judgment, didn’t feel impossible.
And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t failing on purpose.
For now, that was enough.