Chapter Text
Riddle Rosehearts did not believe in routine because it was comforting.
Routine was practical.
Efficient.
Predictable.
Routine was the reason he arrived at the train platform at exactly 7:42 every weekday morning, carrying a leather satchel and an umbrella whether rain was forecast or not. Routine was the reason he revised lecture notes before class and ate lunch at reasonable hours and remembered deadlines weeks in advance.
Routine, importantly, was not emotional.
It certainly had nothing to do with a tiny cafe tucked inconveniently between a used bookstore and a flower shop five minutes off his normal route.
Nothing at all.
The bell over the cafe door rang softly when he stepped inside. Warm air rushed over him immediately - coffee, sugar, cinnamon and the faint sweetness of baked fruit. It smelled embarrassingly pleasant.
“Morning, Golfishie~”
Riddle froze.
“I have repeatedly informed you,” he said, removing his gloves finger by finger, “that my name is Riddle.”
Behind the register, Floyd Leech grinned like he’d been waiting all morning for exactly this response.
“Mm, but Goldfish suits ya better, it has a nice little ring to it.” Floyd was leaning halfway over the counter despite being clearly in the middle of wiping it down, teal hair tied messily back beneath a black apron. There was flour on one sleeve. Somehow.
There was always something disheveled about him.
Most cafes employed polite university students with tidy uniforms and customer service smiles. Floyd looked like someone had dragged him unwillingly out of the ocean and handed him an espresso machine.
He looked, irritatingly enough, unfairly good in rolled sleeves.
Riddle ignored this.
“Your professionalism remains appalling,” he replied.
“Aw, c’mon. You still came.”
“I came,” Riddle said crisply, “for breakfast.”
“Mhm.” Floyd’s smile widened. Like he knew something. Which he absolutely did not.
Riddle had been visiting the cafe every morning for approximately four months and seventeen days.
Not because of Floyd.
Certainly not.
The strawberry tarts happened to be exceptionally well made. That was all.
The crust was delicate, the filling balanced - not too sweet and the strawberries tasted fresh instead of artificially sugared into unpleasantness.
Riddle valued quality. That did not make this emotional.
“The usual?” Floyd asked.
“…Yes.”
“One strawberry tart.” Floyd tapped at the register lazily. “And?”
Riddle frowned. “And tea.”
“Wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?”
“You get annoyed easier when you skip breakfast.” Floyd leaned his chin into his palm. “ So today you’re gettin’ tea and cheese toastie.”
Riddle stared. “You cannot simply decide what I’m eating.”
“I can if I’m right.”
“Which you are not.”
Floyd tilted his head. “You had a long night studying.”
“…How would you know that?”
“Got eyebags.”
Riddle reflexively touched beneath one eye. He immediately regretted it.
Floyd laughed outright. “Cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“Sure, Goldfish.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” Floyd said lightly, already turning toward the kitchen, “you keep comin’ back.”
Riddle opened his mouth. He closed it. Then he opened it again. Nothing sufficiently devastating arrived. Because unfortunately—
Floyd was irritatingly difficult to argue with before eight in the morning.
The cafe was called Mostro Lounge. A terrible name. An utterly dreadful name. Riddle had told Floyd this once. Floyd had laughed so hard he nearly dropped a tray.
“It’s funny watchin’ ya look offended by a building.”
“I am not offended,” Riddle had replied stiffly.
“You look offended.”
“I simply have standards.”
“Mhm.”
Then Floyd had placed a strawberry tart in front of him with unnecessary gentleness and said, softer this time. “Still came anyway.”
That—
That had been unfair. Because there had been something warm in Floyd’s expression for exactly half a second. Something oddly sincere. Then he ruined it by adding—“Maybe you’re secretly obsessed with me.”
Riddle had nearly thrown a sugar packet at him.
Today, the cafe was quieter than usual. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The morning rush had not yet begun. Floyd came over and placed a plate in front of him. A strawberry tart, earl grey tea and annoyingly—
Cheese toast.
“I didn’t order this.”
“On the house.”
“I don’t accept charity.”
“Ouch,” Floyd pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “ Thought we were friends.”
“We are not friends.” Floyd looked delighted. “Ohhh, we’re at the denial stage today.”
“There are no stages!”
“Angry denial stage.”
Riddle inhaled slowly. Then exhaled very carefully. “You are exceptionally aggravating.”
“Yeah, but ya keep sittin’ at the same table every day.” Floyd smirked mockingly.
His usual table, near the window in a secluded corner with good lighting and convenient access to power outlets. Entirely practical reasons and definitely didn’t have anything to do with the perfectly angled view of the till.
“…coincidence,” Riddle muttered.
Floyd snorted. “Sure.” He lingered there for another moment. A moment too long. Most baristas took orders and moved on. Floyd seemed to exist according to entirely separate rules of customer interaction. “You got exams soon?” He asked suddenly.
Riddle blinked.
“Yes.”
“You nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I am perfectly prepared.” Riddle argued because who was Floyd to tell him what he was and wasn’t? How dare Floyd walk into Riddle’s life and accuse him of being a liar when Riddle wouldn’t ever dare tell a lie. It’s barbaric!
“You always say that,” Floyd muttered and then suddenly paused to study him for a second. Then, unexpectedly reached over and set a tiny wrapped candy beside the plate. “Bonus sugar.” He said casually.
“…What is this for?” Riddle frowned.
“So ya don’t look like the world’s gonna end.” Floyd jokingly responded.
The words landed strangely. Softly. Riddle didn’t know what to do with softness, especially not from Floyd. Especially not when Floyd usually sounded like he was seconds away from causing emotional destruction for fun.
“Thank you.” He whispered quietly, unsure what to do with himself.
Floyd blinked, actually blinked like he hadn’t expected gratitude. Then he grinned again—smaller this time. “Anytime, Goldfish.” He replied casually as he walked away.
Riddle stared after him. Which was inappropriate and definitely unnecessary and absolutely not because Floyd had smiled like sunlight catching on water. What a ridiculous thought.
Entirely ridiculous.
Riddle focused on his tart.
Three weeks later, Riddle realised something horrifying. Floyd remembered things, diminutive things that most would easily forget but of course Floyd would be an exception to this. He had remembered that Riddle hated overly bitter tea and that he preferred corner seats rather than those in the open. He remembered how he liked strawberry desserts but disliked excessive amounts of frosting, where it would overpower the taste of the strawberries and even went so far as to remember Riddle’s exam schedule. Even worse, he remembered when Riddle skipped a day.
“You were gone yesterday.” Floyd ambushed him as soon as he entered the cafe, which caused the bell attached to the door to ring, immediately notifying Floyd of his entry.
Riddle looked up from removing his scarf. “I had obligations.”
“You sick?” Floyd asked with confusion plastered all over his face, mixed with something else. Riddle had almost thought he saw a glimpse of care but he pushed that thought away due to its absurdity. Why would Floyd care? After all Riddle was just a customer among many others Floyd annoys on a daily basis.
“No.” Riddle responded.
“Mad at me?” Floyd asked with even more confusion seeping into his features.
“What?” Riddle answered in shock. Was Floyd actually this affected by Riddle’s absence?
Floyd leaned over the counter. “Thought maybe ya got tired of me.” Floyd said amused with not being at fault for Riddle’s unexpected absence.
The statement appeared as a joke but something strange sat beneath it. Riddle felt the sudden urge to further reassure Floyd.
“…No.” Riddle hesitantly replied.
Floyd paused before smiling brightly. “Cool,” He said and then immediately shoved a strawberry tart at him. “Eat.” He said rather fondly.
Riddle narrowed his eyes. “You are oddly forceful,” He stated before grabbing the plate off Floyd.
“You forget meals,” Floyd answered with a hint of worry.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“…That is irrelevant.”
“Nah,” Floyd rested his chin on his hand. “Can’t have my favourite customer passin’ out now can we?.”
Something unpleasantly warm happened to Riddle’s chest.
Favourite customer.
That—
Surely Floyd said that to everyone. Riddle was nobody special.
“Don’t overthink it,” Floyd added instantly. Riddle nearly choked.
“I was not overthinking.” He said rather quickly.
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face says nothing.”
“Your face says aaaaahhhhh feelings.”
Riddle stood up halfway. “I am leaving.” He said indignantly.
“You haven’t eaten!”
“I despise you.”
“You really don’t,” Floyd laughed.
The first genuinely bad day happened in November: cold rain, a missed train and poor exam results that led to a sharp phone call from his mother that left something sore lodged beneath his ribs.
“You need to do better, Riddle."
“You’re slipping.”
It was late and he felt absolutely exhausted but yet he found himself outside the cafe. He opened the door, wishing to not be perceived for just once in his life. He wished for a moment of peace. Just a moment because Riddle knew he would never fully be able to escape and live freely but it was nice to dream. He would find himself often fantasising about a different life where he made his own choices but yet the more he dreams the further it moves out of his grasp.
The doorbell rang overhead.
Floyd looked up instantly. He frowned like actually frowned. “Hey.”
Riddle froze.
“…Good afternoon.”
“You okay?” The question came too fast. Too immediate like Floyd had been waiting.
Riddle hated that something in his chest almost cracked at it. “I am fine.” He croaked out.
“Liar.”
“I said—
“Sit down.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Sit.” Floyd said calmly but his face had said otherwise. Floyd pointed toward the window table firmly.
Riddle, annoyingly, listened.
Ten minutes later—
A tray appeared in front of him, consisting of tea in his favourite type of mug and a strawberry tart with extra strawberries arranged carefully across the top.
And a sticky note.
You look sad today. Eat sugar about it.
Riddle stared at the note for a long time afraid that it would crumble in his fingers if he let go.
He stared for so long that he didn’t realise a small smile had found its way onto his face. He looked up and made eye contact with Floyd, who was currently wiping down some tables and saw a look of relief wash over his features.
Riddle quietly folded the note into his coat pocket.
For no particular reason.
When Floyd sat across from him during break, neither mentioned it. Rain streaked down the windows and the cafe hummed softly around
“You don’t gotta tell me stuff,” Floyd said eventually, stirring iced coffee lazily. “But ya looked kinda miserable.”
“…I had a difficult day.”
“Mm.” No pressure. No questions. Just listening. Riddle found himself speaking anyway. Not details. Nothing personal.
Only—
“…Sometimes it feels as though no matter how much effort I put forth, it is insufficient.” The words sounded smaller spoken aloud.
Floyd watched him quietly then shrugged. “That sucks.”
Riddle blinked. “…What?”
“It sucks.”
“You work hard,” Floyd said. “Anybody makin’ ya feel like that sounds annoying.”
Riddle stared.
Because—
No lecture. No fixing. No expectations. Just sympathy. Warm and uncomplicated. Something inside him hurt unexpectedly.
“You’re weird,” Floyd added.
Riddle nearly spluttered. “I beg your pardon?”
“But in a fun way.”
“That does not improve matters.”
“You smile more here.”
Riddle stopped. “…What?”
Floyd looked briefly embarrassed. “Dunno.” He looked away.
“Makes me happy.”
There was silence, terrible silence that held a sense of danger. Because suddenly the café felt warmer than usual.
And Floyd’s expression was softer.
And Riddle—
Riddle did not know what to do with the way his pulse stumbled.