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It started innocently enough, really—as innocent as hiking Riddle's blood pressure up can be: chasing him around the library or slacking off deliberately when paired up with Riddle for class, what with that self-important smirk on his face as he leered up at the boy, baring his teeth, fully aware of the vein he was about to pop on his forehead—the prominence of that bulging and the shine of those fangs intertwined in a positive correlation.
Eight in the morning. By now he has gotten used to sucking in his breath and shutting his eyes everytime he hears the lull of that Goldfishie! or the galling, abominable timbre of let's play, hey, hey, c’mon; thus, he inferred, he would surely have the patience to survive today's antics as per usual. Riddle had paid it no mind, turning a blind eye and speaking no evil accordingly, when a pair of mismatched eyes glared at him at the library in the morning twilight. They shone as they blinked, agonisingly slow and one after the other sequentially—as haphazard and disorderly as the face they belonged to—and Riddle made a point to avoid all and any contact therewith. His eyes stuck glued to his textbook, highlighting this and that about what plants reacted with what spells, and even though the brilliant yellow of his marker had ended up emphasising the entire paragraph as its hue reflected the very gaze that perplexed Riddle, he remained as stubborn as ever.
Yes, surely he will get bored, he pondered. Riddle's shorthand writing had spiralled into senseless, vacuous, vacant loops and squiggles by this point; as he stared holes into the unintelligible curves of ink, he sensed the hollow stare eyeing him soften considerably. Resisting the urge to meet Floyd's gaze, he sighed: this will be a long, long Saturday. (Maybe it would have been an easier time had this boorish buffoonery confined itself to weekdays, and yet he had the unfortunate predicament of attending a boarding school.)
Ten in the morning. He supposed he was lucky that Floyd had remained in the library after he packed his stationery and books up, and yet the feeling of his eyes on Riddle's back lingered well within the strange tightness in his chest. It was far different from the all-enveloping, hungry feeling of fear he was familiar with at home—when he did look back at his classmate earlier, from the swell within his solar plexus emerged a certain bizarre heat that reached all the way over to his décolletage; back then, his mind must have been playing the same sort of practical joke on his eyes as Floyd had been, for he swore he noticed the corner of his mouth shift slightly upwards, and the eyes staring him down had in them the glimmer of the rising sun. He had turned his back, then, and promptly tapped his heels on the creaky wooden floors as he walked off in the fresh blue of the morn's still.
He almost dwelled on it now, realising it has been quite some time without Floyd's bothering him; initially he was convinced that surely it must have been all planned out specifically to get on Riddle's nerves, but then again, it was Floyd Leech he was thinking about. He must have gotten bored, indeed, but why stay ever so quiet? The merman's presence was always a roaring, thunderous occasion, heard from at least two hundred metres or so away; he imagined, furthermore, that Floyd must have gone back to bed—no. No. No, since when does this concern him?
Riddle pursed his lips into a thin, stern line as he put his helmet on and headed towards the stables. With some paperwork for Heartslabyul's operations filled out and a letter to his mother sent out—his report card promptly attached therewith, in order to reassure her of his performance lest she loses faith in him—he could now tend to Vorpal, mayhaps take her out for a morning stroll before lunchtime rolls around.
Only on a peaceful morning like this can he let loose without the presence of others, he mused; the next unbirthday party is scheduled for next week, unruly first-years are yet deep in slumber and he still has an hour or so to relax. He ran the soft bristles of his brush over Vorpal's mane, petting her silken-smooth head and feeling her lean into his touch everytime he muttered a good girl. With the wind whistling a quaint melody through the stable-doors and the warmth of Vorpal's pleased face beneath his palm, Riddle felt every muscle in his body loosen in a rare instance of peace.
That would have been the case had Vorpal not neighed cheerfully, voice decibels louder than her usual content sighing. Shifting his gaze to the direction she faced, then, Riddle made out a lanky, tall silhouette outside the stables, before promptly hearing a terribly grating sound that only vaguely resembled a neigh.
“Floyd,” he exhaled.
“Ah-ha! Goldfish really recognised me so fast!” The mirth in his eyes was unmistakeable as he leaned over the stable fence to pet Vorpal, and the horse, in all her glory, eagerly keened for his touch in turn. Since when does she like Floyd?! Surely this must be a form of mutiny… “I thought it'd be fun to tease ya again, but I kind of drifted off once you left the library.”
“Why would you even do that…” Riddle grumbled in response, huffing. “Such a pointless activity. Just staring me down for no reason.”
Floyd laughed, then, as Vorpal tried leaning closer to his arm outside the stables. “Well, I saw ya in the hallways and thought you looked nice today! All relaxed 'n such. I never see you like that, y’know, all soft.”
And with that, the world stopped for an instant. The breeze no longer sang, Vorpal's huffing had ceased abruptly, and the only sounds resounding within Riddle's eardrums were the throbbing of his pulse paired with the faint reverberation of Floyd's even breath.
“I don't see why that'd be your concern.”
“I mean, I see Goldfishie quite a bit in class, yeah? You're always fun to pick at when you're so serious,” it was as though Floyd saw no anomaly within what statements emanated from him, “but I wanted to see what you're like when you aren't. Just for myself.”
His breath hitched. “Hehe, Goldfishie! You're turning all red!”
All of a sudden, the pallour of his face was swept over by the rosiness of a feeling far too distinct from his characteristic anger for his comfort. “That's beside the point! Do you truly wish to torment me now, despite my obvious relaxation?!”
“No,” the answer came out far too swiftly, a rapid-fire exchange of tempers, “I'm just interested in you, is all.”
Huh?
“Interested?!”
“You're a fun one is what I mean, hehe.”
Ah, very well, Riddle thought; false alarm it was, then. (He chooses against heeding the slight pang in his chest. Since it is a most illogical occurrence, it surely must be naught but his blood pressure rising, what with how perturbed he is).
“In fact, I want you to relax more, Goldfishie!”
“And who are you to tell me what I am to do?”
“Someone who thinks it'd be fun.” Floyd's face remained tranquil, and that mismatched gaze of his was focused on Vorpal as he ran his long fingers through her mane. For once, his motions were ever so gentle, leaving her coat as pristine as it was; together with the sincerity of his features as the pale sunlight flooded his face on such a freezing morning, awake amongst a campus entrenched in sleep, the picture painted before Riddle made his heartbeat thump ever louder in his chest. Could he have been nervous? Perhaps unsettled by the image of Floyd with his usual façade evaporated?
He cleared his throat. “Well, then—I will go back to relaxing accordingly, and I'll see you in class, Floyd.” As he shifted upwards, taking his leave, he felt those eyes on him again; locking Vorpal's stable door with one last headpat for her, he felt a hand reach out to his wrist.
“Not so fast, yeah?” There it was: when Riddle turned around, he once again saw that asinine grin plastered on his classmate's face. “I wanna see you all gooey-loosey! Let me help out!”
…Floyd? Help out?
“Well, yeah,” he pouted in response; it seemed Riddle's bedazzlement had escaped the confines of his brain, “we can play like we did last time! Play some basketball, dance, the works!”
Riddle grimaced. “Not again, and not for five hours straight… That isn't exactly relaxation.”
“What is, then?”
He stared, then, with his expression falling surprisingly vacant. What does Riddle find relaxing? It has been so long since he had a day off—if not studying, tending to his duties as the Housewarden, or spending time at the Equestrian club, all he had been up to was rethinking himself and his character. His overblot some months ago had earned him a plethora of food for thought, room for development, even; it leaves a bitter taste in his tongue to this day, realising what he had put others through and how pathetic he had been in the aftermath thereof, choking on his sobs like he was five and being punished again. Unconsciously, so many things in his life piled up one on top of the other; exhaustion blended into disappointment, churning and swirling into a monstrous mélange of self-hatred and determination to improve within his gut more and more as the days passed by.
He decided, then, that what the hell—why wouldn't he indulge Floyd for one day? If he gets on Riddle's nerves far too much, he could always collar him. (Which, arguably, does not happen as often as it did before; Floyd had stuck himself to Riddle like a bored puppy in pursuit of enrichment to shake off a particularly egregious case of zoochosis for so long now that they have been classmates that he had grown to… tolerate Floyd. Find him a likewise interesting specimen, mayhaps—even now he was unpredictable, and, in some… rebellious way it intrigued Riddle. Not that he would admit as such openly, at least not at the moment, and not begrudgingly.)
Floyd still stared at him, tilting his head to the side with a pout—ah, he really looked like an overgrown puppy…—evidently expecting a swifter reply.
"...Very well. How do you feel about hedgehogs?”
Noontime. If one had informed first-year Riddle that he would have led his infuriatingly airheaded classmate, who bothered him at any convenient moment, to his dorm's hedgehogs, his beloved little creatures, and let him feed them… he would have their head promptly without time for one to open their mouth. And yet, he now observed Floyd—once again surprisingly, uncharacteristically, almost, delicate with his motions—as he took a dead, dried cricket and kindly placed it in front of a couple of hedgehogs as they chirped with delight. Out of nowhere, then, he spotted a hoglet, a tiny thing, as it crept up towards Floyd and climbed onto his lap.
“Hehe! These things are so tiny…”
“Be careful with them. I'm unsure if you have a lot of experience with smaller animals, so…”
“I don't,” Floyd cut him off and stroked the soft, rounded needles on the baby hog's back, “but this is fun! I thought they'd be borin' ‘cause they're so tiny, but they're so quick when they scurry around…”
It struck him, then, that it wasn't that frequent of Floyd to go rambling on about his experiences and opinions; not in front of him, anyway. He would whine about how dull things are, poke and prod at Riddle's patience, but never be so open and sincere—pure, even, in his glee at discovering land-dwelling creatures. A pang of something, an emotion he had no name for, buzzed in his chest: was he truly always so stern that nobody felt comfortable opening up to him normally? He remembered even Ace mumbling something about wishing Riddle would smile more, an offhand and hushed whisper. Was it his demeanour, then that failed to demonstrate the world that his seemingly austere and brusque character was the only way he could show he cared? This, too, was a recent development in his mind; spurred on by the shame of his overblot, the yearning in his chest to do better, be better, guided him in his duties and self-realisation. But he supposed it guided his personal relationships alike, to an extent, now.
His voice emanated softer than expected. “I didn't think you'd have fun with this—with me—either. I would have assumed you'd get bored and leave.”
“I don't wanna miss any chance to see Goldfishie nice and kind like this!” Floyd teased in exchange, baring his teeth once more. Riddle rolled his eyes in turn. “Guess it can be kinda fun, too, learning more about land and such.”
“Well,” the Housewarden felt a strange ruddiness creep up onto his neck once more, sheepishly, “if you ever want to continue it, y-you may contact me—”
A rustling came crashing into their picturesque moment in the form of a mop of ginger hair and a moderately loud huuuuh? And yet Floyd, an airhead as ever, kept on stroking the hoglet before lifting it up into the air; turning his head, Riddle came vis-à-vis with visibly surprised Cater and Ace.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted the two, “I wouldn't have expect you to be up and about by now. Cater, don't you usually dedicate time to Magicam on Saturdays?”
Ace's face was twisted into a slight grimace, eyebrows raised and in his eyes the suffering of a martyr; Cater's eyes bulged slightly, and his fang poked out of his mouth slightly as he smiled at him awkwardly. “Yeah, but, y’know…”
“Housewarden,” Ace blinked, a comically exaggerated gesture as if shaking sleep off, “do you know what day it is?”
“Saturday!” Floyd perked up, still playing with the pup. “Hi, Crabby, Sea Bream!”
Cater's eyes darted between the two sat on the ground as his jaw slowly unclenched and dropped; most hedgehogs had scrambled off and back into their burrows at the intrusion, and the rustling in the bushes was a resonating consensus of their skittish nature dictating their reflexes likewise. Ace's face reflected the very same notion, as if he was about to crawl in with the critters and hide away from whatever horrified him so.
“It's Valentine's Day, Housewarden.”
“Well, there is nothing planned in Heartslabyul for the occasion.” Riddle furrowed his eyebrows ever so slightly, yet perplexed at their astonishment. “If there are any matters you have to attend to, by all means, go ahead. I will summon you for next week's unbirthday party.”
Floyd chimed in. “Oh, oh! There's a thingie goin’ on at Mostro Lounge tonight, if you bring someone with, Azul's gonna give you a discount!”
“And I take it you'll be working that shift, then?”
“Ehhh… maybe if I feel like it…” Riddle glared at him with visible chagrin. “Goldfishie, you're back to bein’ no fun! What happened to you being all sweet?”
Sweet. Ace and Cater had exchanged glances once more, Cater's hand nearing his mouth to cover what seemed to be a smile of shock rather than anxiety; Ace's jaw dropped far enough for him to dislocate it. Behind them, Riddle could see a commotion stirring up as more students seemed to emerge from the dorm… how troublesome.
“Seriously, what is it with you two? What about Valentine's Day?”
Ace picked his jaw off the floor. “So, are you guys, like…?"
Evidently unimpressed with his exclusion from the conversation, Floyd had rested his chin on the crown of Riddle's head. “Hey, hey, Goldfishie! Say, what if I work that shift if you come with?”
There came a resounding What? from all parties present. Aside from the very smug eel, that is. Riddle then tilted his head upward, successfully shaking a now-pouting Floyd off as he exclaimed something about boring!
This was truly too much for Riddle to comprehend. Valentine's Day? Are he and Floyd “like"? Come along to Mostro Lounge? And then, as the gears began shifting in his head, he felt as though steam was coming out of his ears.
“It is not like that, I assure you.” His voice has regained its usual austerity instinctively; Ace had stepped away from Riddle, in turn, and he attempted to ignore his stomach dropping at the observation before he softened his tone. “Floyd was just tormenting me as usual.”
“Goldfish is too strung-out, riiiight? Wouldn't you guys say so?” Cater, ever wise, kept this mouth shut; Ace made an exaggerated gesture of nodding his head vigorously. “So, I wanted him to relax a bit! He's nicer when he's happy!”
“Wouldn't we know,” their underclassman huffed in exasperation. He straightened out reflectively when faced with Riddle raising an eyebrow at him. “I, I mean—”
Cater clasped his hands together. “He means he's happy someone's, uh, taking care of our Riddle!”
“You know that doesn't make it sound any less… like that, right?"
“One more word about the matter and it will be off with your head.”
“Y-yes, Housewarden!”
Six in the evening. He could not believe he went along with it—since when does he care about whether or not Floyd went to work? In fact, he did not even enjoy Octavinelle's atmosphere, and he dreaded meeting Azul tonight, as well; surely he would start being all faux saccharine until Riddle grew irate. And yet there he was, swirling a straw through the strawberry smoothie that Mostro Lounge surprisingly put up as their Valentine's Special, sat behind the bar.
“It's very generous of you to have joined us tonight, Riddle,” Jade beamed from across him as Floyd skipped off to a customer, “I'm surprised you could get Floyd motivated to work. He seems to enjoy your presence—and truly, so do we all at Octavinelle.”
“Jade,” he wants to say you know it's because I'm bringing in more customers for you, what with the rumours floating around now! Because of some nosy first-years listening in! Even if they were beheaded promptly. Instead, what comes out is a simple: “enough.”
This truly was a long, long Saturday.