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Riddle had never thought much about warmth.
It was just something that was there. The temperature in his house was carefully controlled, as everything in its walls was. His attire on excursions was specifically selected for the weather, as well as for propriety. He ate the food his mother prepared, and then what she deemed acceptable from the cafeteria’s menu. The hottest thing he experienced was a proper cup of tea, and even that was blown on until it cooled enough to drink without a chance of scalding one's tongue. There were few fluctuations. He stayed hydrated, he dressed properly, and any fevers were swiftly dealt with and subsequently recovered from. He cast fire spells, but never burnt himself. The heat was just a thing, something he studied in his textbooks, or heard his classmates complain about while lying in the sun. He barely spared it a thought, other than as a fact of the universe.
Until he found himself kneeling in the mud of the gardens, cheek burning.
He had been hit. He, Riddle Rosehearts, the dorm leader of Heartslabyul, had been punched in the face. And it had been so unbearably warm. He shivered, though one could convince themself it was from the rush of fury that burned his insides, and not a sudden chill.
His hand touched his cheek, pitifully cool against the heated flesh. His eyes were wide, his mouth parted, childishly shocked, and yet he couldn’t regain control of his expression. Trey and Cater crowded around, fretting and fussing and fearful, and yet their hands hovered over his clothed skin, never touching. Never warming.
He cast his gaze upwards.
Haloed by the sun, he was the picture of righteous fury, hair turned to fire in the glow and eyes darkened like smoldering flames. His expression was flattened, somehow exhausted, but the set of his brow did not waver. His fist was still raised from the punch he’d just thrown, converted from a weapon to a signal of his frustration.
Ace Trappola.
In the moment, Riddle told himself it was only anger that seized his chest when he looked at him. It was certainly only frustration at the blatant rule breaking that heated his gut so unusually. It was nothing about how the first year looked down his nose at him. It was nothing about how he’d touched him, entirely unfraid, like he was a regular human being. A miserable tyrant, yes, at least in Ace's eyes, but still just another student. Riddle’s crown lay on the grass between them, his staff loosened from his fingertips.
Ace hadn’t won a single thing, had lost the duel, had broken the rules, so why was Riddle still on his knees? It was a nearly comic reversal of their positions just a moment ago in the duel, or earlier in the cafeteria, or past curfew in the kitchen on the night before classes. This brat was scolding him, calling him a baby of all things.
It was unacceptable. It was unthinkable. His throat tasted of bile and something metallic. Ink?
Riddle could not stand for it. He yelled, because what else did he do? Ace turned his nose up at him, uncaring, and Riddle’s face burned red hot.
The next minutes are lost in Riddle’s memory, a haze of blot and screaming, horrible anger and bitter sadness, and so much hopeless fear. And then, warmth.
Trey held his hand, comforting even with the gloves in between skin. And Ace scolded him again, though his own eyes were shining and teary, his own cheeks flushed red, though Riddle wouldn’t fool himself into thinking it was for him, of course. It was a normal reaction to a life-threatening situation. Emotional irregulation was well recorded in times like these. Riddle remembered his own gasping sobs and apologies. His mother would never approve of such a display, but nothing in Riddle could regret it.
And yet, lying in the bed of his dorm room, weeks after the incident in question, Riddle could not stop thinking about it. The hour only grew later, his schedule well disrupted, and yet his mind refused to relent.
Why could he not clear his mind of Ace Trappola?!
Riddle’s cheek ached, heated, though any bruising had long since faded. Whether he closed his eyes or stared up at his canopy, the same image came to mind: Ace Trappola looking at him.
He shivered despite the reasonable layer of blankets he was curled under. Something in his stomach fluttered. It was so odd.
The image was not always the same. Sometimes the look in his eyes was joyful or admiring. Sometimes it was scornful or angered. Sometimes his expression was twisted in fear or pain. (Those were Riddle’s least favorite, turning the swirling in his chest into solid nausea.)
And then even stranger were the dreams, daytime or otherwise. Imagined memories that had not occurred, or some makeshift scenario he couldn’t help but mull over, despite their sheer impossibility.
Quiet moments with the first year, private or personal, and all incredibly unlikely to occur. And to Riddle’s deepest shame, each had a…element of touch.
Nothing obscene! It wasn’t like that…it wasn’t. He just couldn’t help but remember the warmth of his hand upon his face, as hate-filled as the gesture was, and it was leeching into his imagination. Entirely unpleasantly, of course (There went the fluttering in his stomach again).
A brush of the shoulders when helping him study. A touch of fingertips when passing the kettle for tea.
Little things. Simple things. Casual things. Things he couldn’t be hoping for.
And worse were the closer moments. When he imagined what it would feel like to have his head rest on his shoulder, or his breath ghost his skin. The possibility of their hands intertwined, their foreheads touching, arms embracing. A hug…when was the last time he had experienced that? When had he last given one? What would it feel like…?
It would be so warm, he imagined.
And recently, he had felt so unbearably cold.
Something in him ached, differently from a sore muscle or an overworked head. He felt like a child again, sitting in a room too large, waiting for someone who would not arrive, for arms that would never embrace him.
He turned on his side and curled up into a ball, an unbecoming habit he couldn’t shake. The blankets on the bed curled with him, though they provided more weight than warmth. His clock read the time, its hands ticking in the faint light of the night, far later than he wished it would be. He really needed to sleep. His duties wouldn’t stall for simple fatigue.
He closed his eyes.
And then snapped them open a mere moment later, panting lightly, the image of a boyish smile and red eyes fading from his eyelids.
This must be some kind of curse.
What other explanation was there? Why wouldn’t Ace Trappola leave his mind?!
The worst part was he didn’t feel sick. Or even bad. He felt warm, from his core, branching out from his chest and abdomen. It was an enticing feeling, comforting, like one of Trey’s bakes straight from the oven. How could an imagined held hand bring the same feeling, truly it was absurd! But exhausted as he was, with the hours ticking on, Riddle had to admit temporary defeat to this strange phenomenon.
Maybe it was inelegant or uncouth, but if it meant some sleep…perhaps a few hours of odd dreams could be acceptable.
He would break this curse another day, of course.
Just when he was more…well rested.
--
(And if he couldn’t look Ace Trappola in the eyes tomorrow without his face reddening, it was just an unfortunate side effect. Ace didn’t have a clue what he’d done wrong, saying so when Deuce very unsubtley elbowed him in the side and whispered to ask him. Despite the prickling embarrassment and the butterflies in his stomach, it was a pleasant morning.
Perhaps he could even sit beside him at breakfast the next morning.
Maybe their shoulders would even brush.
The thought brought an unconscious smile to his sleeping face that night.)
