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“Ughhhh, this sucks,” Ace groaned, lying on his bedroom floor and pouting up at the Prefect. He’d been collared again, something about black tea and croquet and being an asshole. It’s all he ever seemed to be recently, if not all the time. The Prefect looked down at him, their expression barely compensating for the lack of pity they held for him.
“You always do it to yourself, Ace,” they replied, turning to sit on his bed. He groaned, tugging at the bulking locket around his nape. It kept his head raised off the ground by a good bit. “You shouldn’t have mouthed off to Trey like that.”
“That doesn’t make it right, Prefect! He’s so. . .so—ugh!” Ace whined. The complete lack of sympathy irritated him beyond Riddle’s punishment. He was stuck like this, and it was his fault. But he couldn’t even admit that much.
Ace sat up, turning on his bottom to face away from the Prefect, being spiteful. They only sighed, pulling out their potionology homework and fishing in Ace’s bedside table for a pen. They were used to this belligerent behaviour from the card soldier, and were not going to let Ace stand them up, even if they knew exactly what he really wanted right now.
Eventually, Ace looked over his shoulder, still glaring, to see if the Prefect was paying attention to him; they were not. Muttering something irritable under his breath, he turned back around, studying the blastcycle poster Deuce had put up on his side of the room. He traced the outline of the words with his eyes, thinking about the Prefect the whole time.
“You know, you don’t have to treat me like this if you want attention.” The Prefect spoke up, making Ace jump a little.
“I-I’m not treating you like anything right now,” he replied, not looking at them. “I don’t even want to look at you, you’re being so unthoughtful.”
The Prefect hummed softly in response, shuffling some papers. It seemed it was only a matter of time before Ace broke.
As if on cue, the card soldier stood, turning with a dramatic sigh. He slinked over to where they sat, plopping down and sighing again, louder. The mattress creaked as he sat closer.
“Do you need something?” The Prefect asked, raising an eyebrow, though they knew.
“Not from you.”
“Okay.”
The Prefect continued their homework, scratching answers down as Ace breathed down their neck. They were used to it, and made no comment, deciding to let Ace drag it out as long as he wanted. The clock ticked by and Ace only inched closer, now and then making little sounds of annoyance as he was continuously ignored. At some point he couldn’t take it anymore, his hands sliding over their waist.
“Prefect. . .” he whined, pulling them closer in agitation. He hid his face in their neck.
“There it is,” they smirked.
“That’s not funny!”
“It’s very funny. You’re predictable.”
“Fine,” Ace snapped. “Ha ha, you’re a genius. Now, pay attention to me. I’m wounded.”
They chuckled, turning their head to brush noses with Ace.
“Don’t be mean.”
Ace huffed, lips tightening, but he gave in. Still tugging at their hips, he silently begged for them to lie down. One hand even left its place to steal the pen they were using.
“Wow, now look who’s not being considerate. I have to finish that, you know.” The Prefect pushed their papers to the side, kicking off their shoes and swinging their legs onto the mattress. Ace shifted, letting them get comfortable before settling on their chest. He pouted up at the Prefect, big red eyes peering up at them with attitude. Their hand went to his hair and his expression softened noticeably, making the former smile.
“Aww, don’t be like that,” they teased, their free thumb pressing to Ace’s lips. “You’re lucky I like you more than Professor Crewel.”
Ace pouted harder against the digit, brows furrowing. The Prefect’s hands moved to cup Ace’s face, studying the drawn-on heart that, on a good day, accompanied his signature smirk.
“I’m sorry you got collared, if that’s what you want me to say,” they whispered, stroking Ace’s cheeks with both thumbs now.
“Pff—it’s whatever. It’s not like it’s your fault or anything,” Ace grumbled. Nothing could ever be the Prefect’s fault in his eyes. Not seriously. He buried himself as deep as the locket would allow, the cool metal pressing into the Prefect’s collarbone, but he was determined to get the touch he felt he deserved after facing Riddle’s wrath and Trey’s disappointed frown.
They lay there, listening to each other’s soft breathing for a long moment. Ace stared up at their face, his eyes not leaving them for a moment. They were too mesmerising, too perfect, too beautiful to be real.
At the end of the day, Ace was only a boy, and a boy needed someone’s warmth on the days where the cuts stung the most. And today had stung, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He didn’t need all this anger, people yelling at him and hurting him endlessly, and that’s why the Prefect was his novocaine.
“What’s wrong?” The Prefect asked, noticing his somber demeanour.
“Nothing. I’m just. . .glad you’re here, I guess,” he replied, the collar leaving them in a comfortably awkward position. The Prefect smiled, leaning up where they lay to press a soft kiss to his forehead. He reddened, but his arms tightened around them. “Don’t. . .don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” the Prefect giggled. But they knew better than to sweep his words under the rug. It was enough, knowing he liked them enough to settle down for a gentle moment.
Though anyone would be a fool to think it would be smooth sailing with Ace Trappola from this first display of his affection. Boys like him always fought back where they could. He didn’t care if he had already lost to the Prefect; he would keep firing shots as long as his gun was loaded.
And maybe that was okay.
Every bullet was engrained with his messy love.