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It had taken nearly a month for both Riddle and Floyd to finally clear their schedules for a proper first date.
Riddle had been anxious all morning. He’d planned every detail meticulously—choosing a day he knew Trey would be around just in case, triple-checking the weather forecast to avoid another rain-soaked disaster. And still, despite all the preparation, his nerves buzzed under his skin.
So when he saw Cater speed-walking toward him, he instinctively quickened his pace.
“Riddle, wait!” Cater called out, his voice light but urgent.
Riddle exhaled through his nose and stopped in the hallway, careful to keep his expression neutral, he didn’t want to snap unfairly.
“Do you need something?” he asked, just as Cater pressed a polaroid camera into his hands.
Riddle blinked at it. “What’s this for?”
Cater rolled his eyes dramatically. “To take pictures, duh.”
Riddle suppressed a sigh, inspecting the camera with mild confusion. “Yes, I gathered that much. But why are you giving it to me?”
“Because I know today’s your big date with Floyd,” Cater said with a grin. “Consider it a gift! Polaroids are super cute, great for keeping memories and, y’know, fun!”
“Oh.” Riddle looked down at the camera again, his tone softening. “That’s… actually very thoughtful. Thank you, Cater.”
“Eek! You’re so adorable!” Cater squealed and without warning, snapped a photo of him. The flash made Riddle flinch.
“Bestie going on his first date,” Cater gushed. “Hashtag cute. Hashtag totes adorbs. Hashtag wish him luck!”
Riddle lunged for his phone. “Please don’t post that!”
Cater held it out of reach, one arm raised high. “Chillax, dude. I know your mom’s cray-cray, this is going on my private account.”
“My mother is not crazy,” Riddle muttered, lips pursed.
Cater rolled his eyes again. “Sure, sure. Anyway, you better get going, lover boy. Don’t want to keep your date waiting.”
Riddle checked his watch and nearly cursed. He shoved the polaroid into his tote bag and turned on his heel, hurrying off.
“Have fuuun!” Cater called after him with a wave.
Riddle arrived at the meeting spot precisely fifteen minutes early, just as planned. He exhaled a quiet sigh of relief and settled onto the bench, folding his hands neatly in his lap as he began to wait.
“Whatcha waitin’ for, Goldfishy?”
“Ack!” Riddle yelped, nearly jumping out of his skin as a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind the bench.
He twisted around, heart pounding, only to find Floyd grinning wide behind him, clearly pleased with himself.
“When did you get here?” Riddle asked, cheeks flushed from the surprise as Floyd sauntered around and plopped down beside him.
“I figured you’d show up fifteen minutes early,” Floyd drawled with a lazy grin, “so I came sixteen minutes early to spook ya~.”
Riddle gave him a look somewhere between exasperated and amused. “You planned that?”
“Yup! I like watchin’ you try not to freak out. You're all stiff and twitchy, it’s cute~.”
Riddle sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
“And you're punctual~. Perfect match, huh?” Floyd teased.
“Anyways, where ya takin’ us?” Floyd asked, poking at Riddle’s cheeks with lazy amusement.
Riddle didn’t even flinch. He was used to it by now.
He hadn’t told Floyd anything about the date in advance, only that he should dress lightly, because there was a small chance they’d end up wet, and the weather forecast promised serious heat. Which is why Riddle came prepared, sunhat, sunglasses, sunscreen. All packed neatly in his tote bag, along with water bottles, a foldable fan, and a few other essentials.
He had to stop mentally reorganizing his bag. Focus.
The date location he’d chosen—after much deliberation—was the fair.
A pop-up fair had rolled into town for the week. He’d overheard Ace and Deuce raving about it and decided to look into it himself. The website promised plenty of attractions, games, food stalls, and even a water ride or two. Enough variety, he hoped, to keep Floyd engaged without causing too much chaos.
And, though he didn’t say it out loud, this would be Riddle’s very first time at an amusement park.
He glanced over at Floyd, who was currently poking at the brim of his sunhat like it was a puzzle.
Riddle cleared his throat and straightened his back. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Floyd grinned wide. “Ooooh, keepin’ secrets, huh? Mysterious Goldfishy~ I like it.”
Riddle looked good. Like, really good.
Floyd had to physically stop himself from pouncing him the moment he saw him. Every instinct screamed at him to scoop Riddle up and give him a good, tight squeeze.
Instead, he just stared.
Riddle was dressed in a plain white shirt, layered with a short-sleeved jacket patterned in soft floral prints. He wore fitted shorts that showed off just enough leg to make Floyd’s brain spark, and—perhaps the most dangerous of all—the cutest little sunhat perched on his head like it belonged in a painting.
Floyd's fingers twitched.
He wanted to lift him up, maybe spin him around, definitely bite his cheek a little.
But he didn’t. He behaved. Barely.
Instead, he reached out and took Riddle’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Soft. Careful. Just enough to feel the warmth of him.
He didn’t want to crush his Goldfish, after all.
Riddle didn’t even react. He just squeezed Floyd’s hand back, calm and natural, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Floyd's grin curled slow and lazy.
They made their way to the bus stop, fingers still loosely intertwined, and caught a quick ride toward their mystery destination. Floyd didn’t ask questions, he liked surprises. Especially when Riddle was the one planning them.
Once they got off, Riddle gave Floyd a firm look. “Close your eyes.”
“Oooh~ So secretive,” Floyd teased, but he obeyed, eyes shut as he let Riddle guide him by the hand.
As they walked, the air began to change. The smell of fried dough and popcorn drifted in. Laughter rang in the distance. Bells chimed. Music played, warped slightly by wind and distance. Fun sounds.
Carnival sounds.
Floyd tilted his head, already grinning. “Smells like something good~”
Riddle squeezed his fingers. “Alright. Open your eyes.”
Floyd blinked, then opened them, and his grin exploded into something wider, sharper, gleaming with mischief and delight.
Before them stretched the full spread of a pop-up fairground. Colorful tents. Flashing lights. Spinning rides. Cotton candy stands. Water games. Screams and music and motion in every direction.
“Wooooah,” Floyd breathed, pupils dilating just a little too wide. “You brought me to a fair?”
“I did,” Riddle said, straightening his sunhat with a small, proud smile. “I thought you might like it.”
Floyd turned to him with a look of pure glee. “Like it? Goldfishy, I love it.”
Floyd was having the time of his life dragging Riddle through the fair.
They hadn’t hit any of the intense rides yet—loop-de-loops, drop towers, anything that spun wildly through the air, because Riddle insisted they work their way up. Floyd was pretty sure that was code for stalling because he’s nervous, but he didn’t say anything. He was a dutiful boyfriend, after all.
So instead of teasing, he just kept grinning and tugging Riddle along by the hand, eyes glittering with every new game booth they passed.
“C’mon, Goldfishy,” Floyd said as they reached the bumper cars, practically vibrating with excitement. “I bet I can hit more people than you!”
He jumped into one of the carts with an exaggerated whoop, shooting Riddle a wide, sharp grin.
Riddle paused, the familiar flicker of competitiveness sparking behind his eyes. He adjusted the brim of his sunhat, expression cool, but his voice came low and firm.
“Prepare to meet your maker, eel.”
Floyd’s grin stretched even wider. There it is.
Riddle climbed into his own bumper car with all the poise of a general going to war.
What followed could only be described as glorious.
They tore through the ring like dueling chaos gods, Riddle surprisingly ruthless behind the wheel, his face a perfect mask of focus as he rammed Floyd's car head-on with almost surgical precision. Floyd laughed so hard he nearly lost control of his own cart, cackling every time Riddle came at him like a missile of pint-sized fury.
Other riders didn’t stand a chance. It became less about hitting random cars and more about chasing each other across the arena, their vendetta turning personal in the best, most ridiculous way.
By the time the timer buzzed and the ride powered down, both of them were breathless, Floyd from laughter, Riddle from unspoken adrenaline and triumph.
“I think I won,” Riddle said primly as he stepped out of the cart, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket.
“In your dreams, Goldfishy,” Floyd snorted, slinging an arm around Riddle’s shoulder. “You’re just lucky I didn’t flip your cart.”
Riddle rolled his eyes but didn’t shrug off the arm. “As if you could.”
A few more slow, tame rides later, and Floyd could feel the boredom starting to creep in like a slow tide.
He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. Riddle must’ve caught the subtle shift in his energy, because after the third low-speed spin-around ride, he finally sighed and said, “Pick a ride.”
Floyd lit up like a Christmas tree.
Without hesitation, he grabbed Riddle’s hand and took off, dragging him across the fairgrounds with the excitement of a kid on sugar overload. He didn’t go too crazy, though, just to the third tallest ride in the park. He had a plan. Couldn’t go scaring his Goldfish off too early.
This one wasn’t too bad. No wild loops or flips, just a tall steel coaster with some speed and swooping turns. A gateway thrill.
They joined the line, and Riddle—visibly hesitant but not backing down—reluctantly handed over his tote bag to the ride operator for safekeeping. The sunhat went with it. He looked almost vulnerable without it.
And that’s when Floyd noticed.
Riddle was still holding onto his arm. Not tightly, not desperately, but firm. Steady. His fingers curled around Floyd’s forearm like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded.
Floyd said nothing. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he grinned to himself, mood skyrocketing.
Riddle didn’t let go the entire time they waited. Not once.
Only when it was time to get into the coaster car did he finally release him, with a faint breath like he was steeling himself for battle.
Floyd glanced over as they lowered the harness.
“Don’t worry, Goldfishy,” he said, voice low and smug, “I’ll hold your hand after you scream.”
Riddle gave him a withering look, but his fingers twitched, like they were already reaching for him again.
As the ride began its slow, rattling ascent, Floyd leaned back against the seat with a lazy grin, taking in the view, and the soft, panicked muttering coming from the seat beside him.
“Why did I agree to this?” Riddle hissed under his breath.
Click.
“This is how I’m going to die.”
Click.
“Sevens, please protect me.”
Floyd nearly lost it right there.
He bit his lip to keep from cackling, shoulders shaking as he turned to look at his poor Goldfish. Riddle was clutching the harness like it was the only thing anchoring him to the mortal realm, eyes narrowed at the sky like it had personally betrayed him.
And the ride hadn’t even peaked yet.
Floyd’s heart swelled, equal parts affection and evil glee.
He leaned in just slightly, voice low and dripping with delight. “Aw, don’t worry, Goldfishy. If you die, I’ll carry your body back down and give you a real dramatic funeral. With flowers and everything~.”
Riddle’s glare was murderous, but his knuckles were still white on the harness.
Floyd snorted and turned his eyes back ahead, the peak of the first drop inching closer.
This was going to be so good.
To say Floyd was pleasantly surprised by the end of the ride would’ve been the understatement of the year.
Up until now, he wasn’t even sure Riddle could curse. The redhead spoke like a walking etiquette manual half the time. Polished, precise, and painfully proper.
But the moment that first drop hit—when the coaster pitched forward and the wind screamed past their ears—Riddle had snapped.
At first, it was a strangled noise, something between a yelp and a gasp.
Then came the words.
Floyd had to do a double take.
Riddle Rosehearts—prim and proper Riddle Rosehearts—was shrieking out a steady stream of curses so foul Floyd didn’t even know some of them. The kind of language that would’ve gotten a lesser student slapped with detention, or worse, a ten-paragraph apology letter to the ancestors of the person who was cursed out.
And he didn’t stop at the drop. Every twist, every turn, every whip of wind brought a new, imaginative obscenity from the redhead’s mouth.
By the halfway mark, Floyd wasn’t even watching the track anymore. He was watching him, face bright red, eyes wide with what Floyd could only describe as manic joy.
And then, somewhere in the madness, Riddle started laughing.
Full-bodied, breathless laughter, wild and unrestrained, like the fear had burned right out of him and left adrenaline and chaos behind.
Floyd couldn’t look away.
By the time the ride coasted into the final curve and slowed to a stop, Floyd was grinning so hard his face hurt.
“Well, damn, Goldfishy,” he said, turning to him with a whistle. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
Riddle was still catching his breath, hair wind-tossed and face flushed—but he looked alive. Lit up. Like something electric was still sparking behind his eyes.
He blinked at Floyd and muttered, “Let’s go again.”
Floyd blinked back.
Then he laughed.
“Oh hell yeah.”
They went on the ride once more, at Riddle’s insistence.
Floyd hadn’t even finished teasing him about his screaming fit before Riddle was already dragging him back into the line, eyes alight with the kind of wild energy Floyd usually saw in the mirror.
And after that?
It was a downhill spiral into chaos, in the best way.
Riddle was buzzing. Practically glowing. They hit two more high-speed rides in rapid succession, the kind with screaming drops, sharp turns, and spins that turned their stomachs inside out. Riddle rode every single one like a man possessed, tight-lipped before takeoff, then laughing uncontrollably by the end.
Floyd was both impressed and vaguely offended.
He’d expected Riddle to crack halfway through the first ride, maybe beg off for something tame and safe.
He hadn’t expected this.
“Didn’t know I was dating a closet adrenaline junkie,” Floyd muttered as they weaved through the fairgrounds, the lights spinning above them in dizzy patterns. He didn’t bother hiding the grin on his face.
Riddle glanced at him, still slightly flushed and breathing harder than usual. “I’m just making the most of the day.”
“Pfft. Sure you are, Goldfishy.”
Now they stood at the base of the final beast: the tallest, fastest ride the fair had to offer. It towered above the fairgrounds like a mechanical god, all blinking lights and rumbling steel.
The kind of ride that made kids back out of line and adults question their choices.
Floyd tilted his head back, eyeing the summit. “So... still feeling brave?”
Riddle stared up at it for a long moment. Then, calmly, he replied, “Lead the way.”
Floyd’s grin sharpened.
Now things were getting good.
Perhaps he’d taken things a little too far.
Riddle bit back a sigh as he handed Floyd another bottle of water. The plastic was cold against his palm, slick with condensation, but Floyd barely noticed, he snatched it with a shaky hand and downed it in greedy, animalistic gulps.
Sometimes Riddle forgot that the boy beside him, for all his unpredictable energy and boundless chaos, was still built for water, not for the thin air and dizzying heights of a steel monster scraping the sky.
The ride had been fun. Addictively so. Riddle had felt like he was flying, adrenaline crackling in his veins, laughter torn from his throat like it had a mind of its own.
But at the peak—at the absolute highest point, where the wind cut sharper and the sky felt too close—Floyd had swayed just a little too far in his seat.
And when they’d gotten off?
He’d gone pale. Slack-jawed. Eyes unfocused. Legs wobbly like he’d forgotten how to stand.
Riddle had caught him before he hit the ground.
Now, seated on a bench near the food stalls, Floyd was slowly coming back to himself, though his breathing was still a bit off, and he clutched the empty water bottle like it was anchoring him to earth.
Riddle sat beside him in silence for a moment, watching carefully.
“I didn’t think,” he finally said, voice quiet but even. “I’d get carried away.”
Floyd let out a breathless laugh, a little hoarse but undeniably amused. “No kiddin’. You’re scarier than me when you’re in the zone, Goldfishy.”
Riddle rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled another bottle of water from his tote and unscrewed the cap for him. “Sip it this time. Not chug.”
Floyd leaned his head against Riddle’s shoulder with a soft, dramatic groan. “Ughhh. Everything’s spinning. I can feel my brain sloshing.”
“You should lie down for a bit.”
“I should sue that ride for attempted eel-murder,” Floyd mumbled into his neck.
Riddle huffed. “You insisted on the front row.”
“You looked so excited,” Floyd said, cracking a grin. “Didn’t wanna kill the mood.”
“You nearly killed yourself.”
Floyd snorted, then nudged his nose against Riddle’s neck. “Still worth it.”
Riddle blinked, then sighed again—softer this time—and let Floyd rest there, curled like a tired sea creature on dry land.
“Next time,” Riddle murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Floyd’s forehead, “we start small and end small.”
Floyd didn't respond so they sat there for a while, just soaking everything in.
The noise of the fair had dulled into background ambiance, distant laughter, bells clanging, the occasional mechanical whir of a ride spinning overhead. The bench was slightly too warm from the sun, and Floyd’s head was heavy against Riddle’s shoulder, but neither of them moved.
It was... comfortable.
Unspoken, easy.
But eventually, inevitably, Floyd began to fidget again, subtle at first, then more restless. Fingers tapping his knee, foot bouncing, the occasional twitch like he was trying to wiggle out of his own skin.
Riddle noticed, of course. He always noticed.
Still, he didn’t feel quite comfortable hopping back on another ride just yet. Not when Floyd had nearly collapsed after the last one. No matter how fine he insisted he was now.
So instead, Riddle pushed up his sunglasses and said smoothly, “I’m famished. I want to see what foods they offer here.”
Floyd immediately perked up.
“Oooooh, yes! Let’s go find the greasiest, strangest thing on a stick and deep fry it.”
Riddle gave him a pointed look. “Or we could find something that won’t poison us.”
“Potayto, potahto~” Floyd grinned, already hopping to his feet and stretching his arms over his head like nothing had happened.
Riddle followed a beat later, adjusting the strap of his tote bag across his shoulder. “We’re getting water with everything.”
Floyd slung an arm around his shoulders as they walked off toward the food stalls. “Sure thing, Mamafishy~ Now let’s go get a funnel cake the size of my face.”
Riddle didn’t fight the nickname this time.
He just smiled.
They ate.
Or rather, Floyd ate, and Riddle did his best to keep up.
They sampled everything from fried skewers to over-sugary drinks to food items that defied logic and health codes. It was chaotic, excessive, and sticky with powdered sugar and salt.
Eventually, Riddle tapped out. Quietly. No complaints, just a soft, “I think I’m done,” as he pushed away the last half-eaten pastry with a small, polite smile. He didn’t say anything more, but his grip on the edge of the table lingered just a little too long, and his posture straightened too precisely.
Floyd didn’t push. He just nodded, scarfed down the last bite of his hot dog monstrosity, and stretched like a satisfied cat.
“Alright! Time for games~!”
They wandered off again, slower now, the orange-pink haze of the sunset bleeding into the fairgrounds like a wash of watercolor.
“Ohhh, a ring toss!” Floyd’s voice shot up an octave, eyes gleaming as he bounced ahead toward the booth. “I’m gonna win so many prizes, you’ll need a whole cart to carry ‘em!”
Riddle followed at a measured pace, brushing crumbs from his jacket. He eyed the booth, expression unreadable.
He’d done his research.
Statistically? These games were rigged. Toss angles, weighted bottles, misshapen rings, designed to make you lose just enough to keep trying. The logical part of his brain wanted to say something, to explain the math and psychology behind it.
But when he looked at Floyd, already holding a plastic ring and grinning like a kid about to break every rule in the book—
Riddle just sighed softly.
He didn’t have the heart to ruin it.
Riddle paid, again.
He’d insisted on covering everything today. From the bus ride to the snacks to the water bottles and game tickets. After the disaster of their almost-first date, he’d promised himself he’d make this one perfect. Or at least, as perfect as possible.
Floyd didn’t argue. He just took the rings with a bright grin and a loud, “Watch this, Goldfishy~!”
Riddle watched.
Watched Floyd hurl the first ring with wild confidence... and miss entirely.
The second hit the neck of a bottle with a soft clink—then bounced off like it had touched a force field. Floyd scowled dramatically, muttering something about sabotage.
Riddle’s lips twitched.
As Floyd squared up for his third and final throw, eyes narrowed in exaggerated focus, Riddle's hand dipped into his tote bag. His fingers brushed against the small polaroid camera Cater had given him.
He glanced up again, just in time to see Floyd flick the last ring, and this one landed. A perfect toss, bouncing once before settling neatly around the bottle’s neck.
Floyd blinked.
Then his entire face lit up.
He turned, triumphant, mouth already open to gloat—
Click.
Riddle pressed the shutter.
The photo slid out with a quiet whirr, the image slowly developing as Riddle held it between two fingers, lips curving into a rare, amused smile.
Floyd froze mid-celebration. “Did you just take a picture of me?”
“You looked excited,” Riddle said simply, tucking the photo away before Floyd could snatch it. “I wanted to remember it.”
Floyd squinted at him, suspicious. “You’re bein’ sneaky, Goldfishy.”
“I’m being sentimental,” Riddle corrected primly.
“Same thing~.” Floyd leaned in closer, looming with a grin. “Now gimme my victory photo. I need to hang it in my room. Right next to the one of Azul crying over his first B grade.”
Riddle held the photo out of reach with a smirk. “You can earn it, win me a prize.”
Floyd laughed, loud and wild, eyes shining.
“Oh, it’s on.”
True to his word, as they moved from game to game, Floyd only got better.
Ring toss, balloon darts, high striker, he tore through each booth with growing skill and increasingly chaotic flair, his pile of prizes growing until Riddle was forced to start shrinking some of them with a quiet sigh and a flick of his pen. At this rate, they'd need a second tote bag just for the spoils of Floyd’s ego.
By the time they reached the last carnival game—an old-school basketball hoop set, Floyd was practically vibrating with glee.
Riddle took one look at the setup and sighed, already preparing to size down yet another oversized plush. He tucked the polaroid back into his bag, adjusted his jacket, and watched the chaos unfold.
The moment Floyd picked up the first basketball, Riddle could feel the impending destruction. And sure enough—swish.
Then another.
Then another.
The stall worker’s expression went from bored, to impressed, to horrified in under a minute.
Riddle almost pitied him.
There was simply no way the poor man had been trained to deal with a Floyd Leech in full demon-mode.
Dunk after dunk, Floyd shattered the previous high score with reckless glee. Onlookers started to gather, murmuring and pointing, but Floyd didn’t even notice, he was too busy laughing, launching shot after shot with absurd accuracy.
When the timer buzzed and the scoreboard lit up with NEW RECORD, Floyd turned with all the swagger of a circus king.
“Aren’t I just the best?” he grinned, arms raised in triumph.
Click.
The flash went off again, and this time he didn’t even flinch. Just struck a quick peace sign as the photo printed and Riddle calmly caught it midair.
“Sure,” Riddle said dryly, sliding the polaroid into his bag with the others. “Now go claim your prize.”
Floyd turned back to the stall, scanning the wall of options with exaggerated deliberation. Giant bears, dragons, neon frogs.
Then his eyes locked on it.
“I want that one!” he declared, pointing dramatically at an absurdly enormous plush goldfish, its googly eyes slightly crooked and mouth gaping in eternal surprise.
The stall owner looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had brought him to this moment.
Riddle bit back a sigh. A fond one.
Of course.
“For you, my beloved Goldfish. A goldfish for my Goldfish!” Floyd announced with uncontained glee as he grabbed Riddle’s tote bag with one hand and handed over the monstrous plush with the other.
The plush was absurd, round, wide-eyed, and stuffed to maximum capacity. Its golden-orange scales shimmered slightly under the fair lights, and its stitched mouth hung open in an expression of eternal derp.
Riddle tried—tried—to maintain his composure.
But the moment he wrapped his arms around it, his lips cracked into a smile... and then he giggled.
Actually giggled.
It slipped out of him, light and unguarded, and he buried his face into the soft fabric of the plush to hide it, but not fast enough. His shoulders shook slightly with the sound, and the fish wobbled with the movement as he hugged it close.
It was ridiculous.
It was perfect.
The fish practically swallowed the entire top half of his body, his hat slightly askew, only his legs and eyes peeking out over the plush's wide head.
Click.
Riddle blinked, startled by the sudden flash. He glanced up.
Floyd was grinning like the devil, the polaroid camera in hand.
“Gotcha~,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction.
Riddle straightened slowly, clutching the fish with a hint of mock indignation. “That was unfair. I wasn’t prepared.”
“You were adorable,” Floyd replied, already shaking the photo as it developed. “Instant classic. This one’s goin’ in my shrine.”
“You have a shrine?”
“Not yet~ But I will.”
Riddle rolled his eyes, cheeks tinged pink, but he didn’t let go of the goldfish.
They ended their date night on the Ferris wheel, just like in that cheesy romantic movie Floyd had once caught Azul watching and pretending not to like.
It was the kind with enclosed booths, soft seats, dim fairy lights strung inside, and a little plaque that read “Couples Only.” Riddle had paid extra to make sure it was just the two of them. No one else. Private. Special.
Floyd thought it was cheesy.
And he loved it.
He lounged across the seat, arms spread lazily, head tilted to watch the way the lights below shimmered off the glass. But mostly, he watched Riddle. Because honestly?
He was pretty sure he was in love with him.
Not that it surprised him.
He’d known Riddle for almost two years now, and somehow, he’d never gotten bored. Riddle was fascinating, like a living puzzle that kept shifting, revealing new angles just when Floyd thought he’d figured him out.
At first, he’d just liked how easy it was to get under Riddle’s skin. How his face turned that perfect shade of red when he got mad, fists balled up, voice going high and sharp with indignation as Floyd poked and prodded.
But then he discovered something even better.
He could pull that same red—that same beautiful color—without making Riddle angry at all.
With a compliment.
With a look.
With a low, lazy “Hey, Goldfishy~” said just right.
And it spiraled from there. His fascination bloomed into something more addictive. Riddle’s laugh, his rare unguarded smiles, the fondly exasperated way he always said Floyd’s name like it was both a warning and a promise, it all had Floyd hooked.
He was whipped.
The Ferris wheel stopped at the top. The highest point, where the whole fair stretched out below them in a blur of color and light.
Riddle was leaning forward slightly, sunhat tilted back, his glasses hanging from his collar. The soft glow of the fair reflected off the glass around them, catching in his hair, outlining him in gold and firelight.
And Floyd… Floyd couldn’t stop looking.
He raised the polaroid camera without even thinking.
Click.
Riddle blinked in surprise, turning just as the photo printed.
Riddle looked like he was about to protest, but then he smiled. Slow, soft, real.
Click.
That smile knocked the air out of Floyd’s lungs.
So he lowered the camera, leaned in, and kissed him.
No teasing, no dramatics, just a kiss. Warm and steady. A kiss that said yeah, I’m all in.
And Riddle kissed him back, with both hands wrapping around Floyd's neck.
The lights spun far below them, but Floyd didn’t look.
He already had the best view in the world.