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1. R-O-S-E
Making crossword puzzles becomes the closest thing to a hobby Riddle has within the four walls of his room.
It’s not quite a break from the grilling lecture hours, or the searing inky letters over white parchment paper, but it is a way for his mind to unwind. Mother pinches her flawlessly plucked brows together, not quite disapproving yet not approving either, and reluctantly allows him the respite.
It’s not a lie that he does it to put into practice all the knowledge his parents and tutors drill into him, but Riddle also genuinely enjoys it. Scrambling his thoughts to think of a clue, rifling through his books to look up hard words, the scratching sound of his pen gliding over the paper, and crossing, stitching the words together in a maze-like puzzle. They’re the most fun Riddle has in the entire day. When he finishes, he swells with pride.
Solving it is less fun. Riddle attempts to take the questions seriously, but it’s a futile endeavour when he already knows the answers. His enthusiasm damps.
It would probably be much more fun if another person solved it. Then Riddle could observe them as they struggled with it, stomach tingling with glee and lips almost bubbling with a smile. He can easily picture Trey’s face, scrunched with focus, and Che’nya staring at it upside down with a blank gaze. And Riddle would then laugh and help them, just like they did when they played croquet or they gave him that delectable tart…
—ah, he’s thinking of them again.
He sighs, setting the crossword aside.
It’s been more than a month already, yet every afternoon there is a gaping, aching hole in his chest. Each second of his earlier free study time tickles as slow as lidocaine viscous, and his loneliness is stifling, almost suffocating. It slaps him when he catches a glimpse of the empty garden how badly he yearns for Trey and Che’nya’s sunny smiles and warm touches. But his window remains untapped, the yard stays empty, and there is no laughter nor kind nudges in the Rosehearts household.
He’s grateful for the extra lessons Mother piles on him. They are a good way to occupy his thoughts from straying to the tightness in his chest.
Riddle picks up the crossword, examining it before neatly storing it in the folder he keeps beneath his desk. It’s heavy, thick with unfinished crosswords. One puzzle after another, more than thirty already. How long would Trey and Che’nya take to solve them?
Surely enough for Riddle to make thirty more.
Riddle’s eyes linger in the crossword puzzle buried in the back of the folder, almost shamefully. Unlike the other pristine pages it is a little wrinkled, the ink slightly smudged.
Riddle promptly seals the folder shut and shoves it in its place. Enough dilly-dallying. He must study and follow the rules.
He can always make another crossword tomorrow.
2. C-A-T
Reuniting with Trey in Night Raven College is an unsettling surprise.
Or at least, Riddle calls it unsettling, for what other name could there be to all of his body’s responses? He minutely sways in place when he recognises the face behind round black glasses, older and leaner but still brimming with the kindness of the soft-spoken child that invited him to play a croquet game. His heart skips a bit when their gazes cross. His stomach lurches, his hands tremble, his mouth dries. It cannot possibly be healthy. Riddle spends his first night in Heartslabyul revising the symptoms of heart failure, as unlikely as it’d be.
Riddle had caught flashes of Trey and Che’nya the scarce times he’d gone out to accompany Mother in errands. The family car always dashed by the Clover’s patisserie in less than a second, but sometimes Riddle glimpsed, past the looking glass and the sparkly cakes, a gangly boy with a bush of green for hair, or Che’nya’s mischievous grin before he pounced on a stolen tart slice. He made sure to keep his expression aloof lest Mother gleaned it and changed their route, but his lips never failed to twitch with a smile.
Yet this is the first time Riddle can look at him unrepentantly, free of Mother’s vigilant eyes. Trey towers over a good portion of the dorm students, and there still is the smallest dimple on his cheek when he laughs.
Trey never approaches him though, despite recognition flitting over his face.
It stings. Whatever soaring hopes he harboured plunge into the deepest despair.
It is to be expected, after all. Trey and Che’nya only played with him for less than a month. Children’s hearts are a fickle thing. They probably moved on quickly, and why wouldn’t they? Riddle clung to their memory in his loneliness, but they had each other, and probably a hundred friends more.
Still, when Riddle challenges the feeble dorm leader and wins with only a flick of his wrist, he names Trey his vice dorm leader. Perhaps it is a lapse in judgement. But Trey acknowledges him, treating him with unfailing courtesy and aching distance, fulfilling his duties as vice dorm leader with praise-worthy diligence. As someone from Heartslabyul should. As someone from Riddle’s dorm should.
The only familiarity that exists between them is the way Riddle’s name rolls in Trey’s tongue, softly, a childhood memory from times long past. Riddle doesn’t know if he should be overjoyed or affronted, so he keeps silent just as Trey says no words about their past together.
Riddle clings to his only anchor: rules. And he’s in luck, because there are hundreds and hundreds in Heartslabyul. He memorises and enforces them. Just as he thrived with rules, he’d make sure his dorm would excel with them.
He stops making crosswords. He stops yearning. He stifles the pang in his chest whenever they prepare for an Unbirthday Party and an unresisting scent wafts from Trey’s tarts, sweeter than honey, crowned by glazed strawberries glittering brighter than sunlit rubies.
Riddle already has everything he could ever need. His grades, his dorm, his rules. Why would he need anything else?
3. C-L-O-V-E-R
(15:12) heyo riddle, hru? would u like to hang out? itd be nice to catch up (=^･ω･^=)
(15:14) trey’s around 2 so if ur not bored w/ him the three of us could hang out nya~
(15:15) but it can be just us two if u want to, i wont tell ( ⓛ ω ⓛ *) (=｀ω´=)
Riddle stares all winter break at Che’nya’s text messages, even when the spelling errors and strange emojis grit on his nerves. He stares until the phone screen sears into his retinas and Mother confiscates his phone.
The holidays trickle by as slow as molasses. Mother frets, and when she frets she rants and fusses and clutches his life with an iron fist. Riddle appreciates her concerns (after all, overblotting is no trivial matter) but her frenzied worry ends up preventing him from talking to her. Each time Riddle nudges their conversation towards what he wants to say, that perhaps both of them had been wrong, that rules and grilling study are not the headmark for success, she derails into yet another snide remark about Night Raven College. Riddle dutifully keeps quiet, then. It’s more comfortable to fall into their usual dance. He knows he will get nowhere with her like this. What does he even have to win? He’ll just try again next time.
Next time for sure.
Only once do they pass by the Clover patisserie. It is close to Yule, so the bakery is overflowing with clients. Noise spills out of its closed door, warm air wisping out in rivulets of steam. Children gather with glittering eyes, hovering over the crystal and pressing their red tinged noses to the glass, enraptured by all the cakes. Riddle can almost smell the sweet vanilla and the crispy roasted nuts and—
“How irresponsible,” Mother spits with a wrinkled nose, lips pursed in a displeased frown. Frost coats the edges of her hair. “They’re feeding them poison. Some parents truly don’t care for their children.”
Riddle drills his gaze into the ground, balling gloved hands into fists. He says nothing. It’s not worth it, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He knows she won’t be amenable to any rebukes now.
He will do it later.
Relief washes over him when winter break is over, followed by a twinge of shame and guilt when Mother hugs him, grips his arms and sternly tells him to take care of himself. He thanks her when she returns him his phone.
Riddle returns to Night Raven College with the same luggage he had when he went away, except for an extra folder with smudged, yellowed papers he’d packed on a whim. His old crossword collection, dug out by his guilt and yearning, awoken by the leftover blotches of his despair and regret. It is the first thing he shoves beneath his desk in Hearslabyul too, after allowing himself an instant of rumination. He resolutely doesn’t think about it when he talks with Trey after a month of abyssal silence, and Trey in return says nothing about it, ever the peacemaker.
Life in Heartslabyul lulls into its usual rhythm. Presiding over The Vocal Dance Championship Organisation Committee leaves Riddle gratefully busy, enough that he can fall asleep without coldness seeping into his chest when his thoughts stray to those unread messages. There are more important things to focus on right now. Anything else—it can wait.
Until it can’t.
“Oh, Riddle. How’s life been treating mew?” Che’nya asks with that sempintern grin of his. With his lopsided shirt, white as the snow dusting the statues of The Seven, he’s severely underdressed for the weather. “Last time we saw each other was last year’s Unbirthday Party, wasn’t it? We ended up not seeing each other over the holiday break.”
Che’nya’s nonchalance is a kindness, one Riddle is not sure he deserves. “Oh yes…I’m sorry for not responding to your message over break. Not much has changed with me.”
Che’nya’s grin doesn’t falter, but his ears droop just the slightest bit. Trey intervenes before Riddle can wallow in guilt, offering empty promises to catch up later.
At least when Riddle offers a half-hearted scolding, Che’nya seems to perk up the slightest bit before vanishing.
4. C-R-O-Q-U-E-T
A brush with death, Riddle discovers, does wonders for re-evaluating one’s priorities in life.
In the pits of Tartarus, just shy of the ominous green glow of the Gate of the Underworld, he does not think of his grades when his knees buckle and the world sways. He does not think of the rules of the Queen of Hearts or the ones Mother had painstakingly ingrained in him throughout his childhood. When Azul’s strong arms prevent him from toppling over and let his life force be sapped away, he thinks of sun-warmed grass and saccharine sparkling tarts and child-like laughter. He thinks of unsolved crosswords. He thinks, I wish I could have told them how important they are to me.
I wish we could have been friends again.
Riddle’s chest swells with the same feeling when the world doesn’t end and they return to the wide expanse of Night Raven College’s campus, a cloudless sky donning a capricious cerulean shade. Trey and Cater fuss over him like headless chickens, but it doesn’t feel like Mother’s overbearing fretting; it rather showers him with warmth, even as he has to straighten his back and remind himself of the rules—havoc of reunions aside, he has to go to a doctor.
The afternoon finds him dozing in an infirmary bed, swaddled in soft cotton sheets after long, exhaustive examinations. He’s on the brink of sleep, spots dancing behind his eyelids over the gentle warmth of a dipping sun, when the chair beside his bed scraps against the tiles and someone sits down in it.
“—he’s asleep now.” It’s Trey’s voice, low and relieved. Riddle stills. “Yeah, I spoke with the doctors earlier. He’ll be fine, he just needs a lot of rest.” A pause. “No, I think it’s best if you don’t come here. Madam Rosehearts will be coming…ah, you know I’ll steer clear too! Don’t go saying it’s unfair, Che’nya. She hates us both.”
Riddle’s sleep-addled brain takes a while to understand Trey is talking on his phone. Moreover, he’s talking with Che’nya. Did he tell him what happened? Had Che’nya been concerned? Does he want to come? Riddle still doesn’t know how exactly Che’nya slips into Night Raven College with all the barriers woven in place, but he hasn’t done much research on the matter, either. A part of him had been…touched, that Che’nya had frequented Heartslabyul enough to know about the dorm’s situation. Many times, Riddle had wondered if he’d done it because he was looking out for both him and Trey.
“Of course they are going to call her, she’s his mother. Yeah, I hate the old hag too…wait, I shouldn’t have said that. Well, what did you expect? She’s the best physician in the Queendom…”
It takes all of Riddle’s self control to not burst out in giggles.
Trey’s voice washes over him like a cool balm, and although Riddle stops paying attention (Rule no. 112 of the Queen of Hearts, you must not eavesdrop on private conversations), thoughts still swirl in his mind, as loud as trumpets. Brushing one against the other, they all agree on the same thing.
To rekindle the flame of friendship with his two childhood friends.
There must be a way, he reasons groggily. A manual to research, steps to follow. A clear set of rules on how to recover your relationship with two sort-of-estranged childhood acquaintances. It shouldn’t be too hard, should it?
They still care for him, don’t they?
I will do it, he promises himself, giving in to the tug of the inviting darkness, tucked in warm and safe. I will follow the rules I must, to at least—
He falls asleep, mid-thought. Instead of dreaming about the horrors of S.T. Y. X. and Phantoms, he sprints in an afternoon doused with gold, chasing the backs of the friends he wasn’t allowed to grow up with.
5. T-A-R-T
Riddle needs help.
It’s the conclusion he reaches when his research amounts to nothing. Books, papers, studies: nothing offers a straight answer for his predicament. He even braves the murky, churning waters of the internet and finds not a single clue except for popping ads and too-colourful silly articles. So weeks later after making his resolution, he renders himself to the remaining option, his last resource.
Asking for advice.
The problem is who he could ask from. Trey is obviously not an option, and Cater is similarly discarded due to their closeness. The rowdy first year duo of his dorm is out of question as well—he’ll be damned if he ever shows weakness in front of his underclassmen. But his seniors are not an option either. It leaves his fellow second years, and of those, Riddle is not sure if any will offer good advice.
His study session with Azul and Kalim is spent mulling over the matter. The library is quiet and empty, the gilded sunlight of the late afternoon pouring over the tall windows and hitting the stray specks of dust drowsily floating in the air. He’s so distracted that he stares at his book unseeingly and almost topples over a vase of ink.
“What’s gotten into you today?” Azul asks, pale eyebrows knitting together after Riddle blinks at one of Kalim’s questions and keeps silent. “It’s not like you to space out, Riddle.”
“Yeah, you’ve been really distracted.” For once, Riddle doesn’t have to chastise Kalim into lowering his voice. It is soft and concerned, bleeding sincerity. “Is something wrong?”
Riddle stares at them. He can dismiss their worries and chalk this incident to whatever trivial excuse he may conconct. Kalim takes everything in stride without thinking twice, and Azul knows better than to pry and meddle when there’s no benefit for him. But the two of them are also dorm leaders the same year as him, and out of everyone, they might…
“I…” Riddle stammers, heat rushing to his cheeks. He clears his throat and attempts to regain some composure. Breathe in. Breathe out. “I might need to… ask you two a favour.”
Since both of them are leaning over the table, it’s easy to spot when their eyes widen in surprise. Azul recovers first, coughing out a laugh and splaying his fingers wide over his chest with one hand, the other reaching out to his side in an elegant arch. “Why, but of course! There’s little I would not do for a fellow dorm leader and friend.”
Kalim’s smile is more genuine at least. “Yeah, Riddle! Tell us, what can we do for you?”
“I need… advice,” Riddle grits out. He crosses his arms and grasps at his elbows, attempting to pay no mind to how his skin crawls. “I… how can you…”
What is all this undignified fumbling? Riddle recalls Mother’s sharp remarks to formulate questions in a poised and clear manner. He jolts to a straight back, letting out a rattling breath. “How does one reconnect with childhood friends, exactly?”
Kalim blinks. Azul’s confident posture deflates. “What?”
“How does one…mend a friendship?”
Silence stretches over them.
Riddle slouches, losing bravado. He drills his gaze into his forgotten notebook and its half-finished notes. “This was a mistake. Apologies for interrupting our study session with such nonsense—”
“It’s not!” Kalim cuts him off with a note of urgency in his voice. Riddle lifts his head sharply. “I was just a little surprised. Riddle always looks so put together, I didn’t expect you to ask us that…”
Azul clears his throat, nodding. “As Kalim said, I was not expecting that. Although knowing you, I should have known of all things you need help with, it is a matter of the heart.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. The metal flamework glints gold with sunlight, painfully earthly compared to the translucent sheen of his fair skin and light eyes. “Well, I cannot assure you I will give you sound advice.”
Riddle flicks his wrist over his collarbone. “Then you cannot complain if you don’t receive something in exchange.”
Azul grimaces. The ghost of a grin threatens to pull Riddle’s lip upwards.
“Ah, but it’s weird to hear Azul say that,” Kalim muses, “you are childhood friends with Jade and Floyd, right?”
“I assure you, those two are not my friends. They are childhood acquaintances that will dispose of me the moment I’m no longer interesting.”
Riddle frowns. “That seems a little hard to believe, judging by how close you three are.”
“It’s the truth,” Azul shrugs, offering an easy smile just the slightest bit strained at the edges. “Anyway, this is of no relevance. What matters is Riddle’s conundrum. But if we are to offer insight, perhaps a little more context would help?”
Kalim nods enthusiastically. Riddle balks. His courage is close to fizzling out, and he doesn’t know if he can put that side of his life to words, to leave it naked for them to see and poke and judge.
“It’s okay, take your time.” Kalim covers Riddle’s hand with his and squeezes comfortingly. It is as warm as the sunset dressed yellow outside. Riddle inhales deeply.
In his exhale, the words spill out of his mouth.
Riddle speaks of a sheltered childhood managed to the seconds, and of two rambunctious children that dared to tap on his window and invite him to play. For a month, they brought him the taste of playtime and carefree laughter. His mouth tastes sour when he retells the careless mistake that ripped them away from him.
It’s a summary, a pale imitation of the real thing, brushing over the events as if he were spinning a bedtime story. He doesn’t tell them everything. He doesn’t speak Trey and Che’nya’s names aloud nor the joy they brought him. He keeps silent about the crosswords he made thinking of them. He doesn’t say a word regarding the pulsing headache that he had for days due to how he’d bawled his eyes out after Mother exploded in rage.
But it is the first time he shares the story with anyone.
Azul and Kalim are attentive listeners for once, barely interrupting Riddle. When Riddle voices his wishes and doubts, he wraps up with, “perhaps I should leave things as they are. I’m barely someone in their lives now. I never even knew them back then.”
Azul purses his lips thoughtfully. Kalim shakes his head. “No. I think you’re mistaken.”
“Pardon?”
Kalim is oddly serious. The light that filters through the windows is more red than gold now, and it sets his eyes ablaze. The shadows in the bookshelves’ corners stretch, the library growing cooler and emptier.
“You have to see them again! What you had back then was special for you. I think… no, I’m sure it was special for them too!” Kalim says earnestly. His earrings chime with a pleasant jingle when he leans over the table and points upwards with his index finger, sticking out his thumb. A smile blooms on his lips, unfurling not unlike roses do. “It’s an affinity that only comes by chance, and couldn’t be begged for. Whether that bond should continue, it’s three parts fate and seven parts courage!”
Riddle sucks in a sharp breath. It doesn't help much. He's lightheaded and breathless as if Kalim had knocked the air out of his lungs.
“Kalim,” Azul gapes, stunned. “W-well…I guess you are from a noble family after all…”
“Eh? Ah, I don’t know what you mean, but thank you?” Kalim laughs. His eyes crinkle and curve into crescents, the lines of his face terribly soft. “I read that in a book back home, once. But ah, what it basically means is that it depends on you, Riddle. You should reach out and talk to them!”
“What?”
“Hm… Kalim does have a point,” Azul says slowly, cradling his chin, “fate played its part with you, but there’s nothing stopping you from seeing them and telling them what you told us today, is there?”
“But—”
“It’s scary,” Kalim concedes, not unkindly, “but you’re one of the bravest people I know, Riddle! You can do it!”
How was it that Kalim said? Seven parts courage? It feels like so much more now. But when Azul nods in agreement with a smirk, the embers of bravery stir up in Riddle’s stomach.
Night falls not long after. They’re shooed away from the library with barely any work done—yet for once, Riddle does not mind. Kalim hooks arms with them, one on each of his sides, and they walk together through chilly yards and open-aired corridors to the cafeteria.
Azul halfheartedly grumbles about payment. Kalim’s laughter echoes against the stone. The stars peek out from the cloaked heavens, a grinning moon sailing through them.
Riddle bites down a smile. Perhaps that wish of his to have more friends is not as far-fetched as he thought.
6. F-R-I-E-N-D-S
For such a little place, Sage Island’s town is always abuzz with activity. The breeze carries the tang of salt, along with the crowd's chatter and the melody of crowing seagulls. If Riddle strains his ears he might catch the hum of the ever-shifting sea, and the grunts and cackles of fishers returning with baskets brimming with freshly caught fish.
Although the sun is high in a cloudless sky, shy of scorching, Trey and Che’nya seem comfortable beneath the shade of the patio umbrella spread over their heads. Cater had helped Riddle choose a suitable venue in town after being sworn to secrecy, pouring over hundreds of reviews online. They settled on a nice café, nestled in a busy street yet quiet enough to be pleasant.
Che’nya purrs in delight when their order arrives, purple furred tail swishing idly. The waiter sets down Trey’s iced coffee first and Che’nya’s towering ice cream second, Riddle’s strawberry shortcake last. It clinks against the table, fresh and delectable, but the strawberries look a bit dull.
They exchange stilted pleasantries as they eat. Riddle’s stomach is a knot of nerves. Courage, he reminds himself sternly, sitting straighter.
“Riddle,” Trey says after his fifth sip of coffee. Ah, so he will nip it in the bud. Riddle braces himself. “Not that I’m complaining about this, but I was wondering if there was a reason for…”
Trey trails off. Che’nya licks at his spoon, almost nonchalant except for the way his ears snap to attention. Riddle clears his throat primly, smoothing his wrinkless pants. “I… I wanted to give you two something.”
It is hard to move with the ice in his veins, but Riddle stiffly manages. He digs out a folded paper from his bag and sets it on the table. Trey hesitantly takes it, face melting in puzzlement when he unfolds it.
“Is this...a crossword?”
Riddle wants to bolt back to Night Raven College and hide away with the dorm’s hedgehogs. But he forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat, tame his unbridled heart and nod.
Che’nya tilts sideways, his big eyes sparkling with mirth. “We should solve it!”
Trey chuckles, touching the side of his glasses with his right hand. His attention flutters to Riddle. “Should we? Do you even have a pen—?”
Riddle sets one on the table with a sharp clank. Trey’s mouth seals shut. Che’nya claps his hands together, shimmying closer to Trey to have a better look at the crossword.
“Alright, so the first word… ‘a prickly bush or shrub that typically bears red, pink, yellow or white fragrant flowers, native to northern temperate regions’.” Trey blinks. A grin curls his lips upwards. “Well, this one is easy. It’s a rose.”
He scribbles it on the empty squares. Che’nya squints at the paper, gripping the handle of his chair. “Let meow see! Second word… ‘small domesticated carnivorous mammal with soft fur, a short snout, and retractable claws. It is widely kept as a pet or for catching mice’—” Che’nya cuts himself off, face lighting with understanding. “It’s mew!”
“You’re not small,” Trey chuckles, but he dutifully writes down c-a-t in the three empty spaces.
“Nor domesticated,” Riddle quips. Che’nya hums, preening with victory.
“Ah, let’s see… third word. ‘A herbaceous plant of the pea family that has dense, globular flower heads, and leaves that are typically three-lobed’.” Helplessness soaks Trey’s smile. “I actually have no idea.”
“Aren’t you in the Science Club, Trey?” Riddle prods. The amusement soothes his nerves, thawing his frozen blood. Che’nya cackles.
“Trey, how come you never told meow you were in the Science Club?”
“I… it has come up when I’ve talked about the guy that makes explosive experiments,” Trey argues, crossing his arms. “So no idea either, Che’nya?”
Che’nya shakes his head, happily swallowing another spoonful of ice cream. Trey sighs, begging Riddle for help with his eyes. Riddle decides to be magnanimous and take pity on him, and he taps at his left cheek. Trey’s brows pinch in confusion. Che’nya bursts in peals of laughter.
“Nya, that’s purr-ty clever.” At Trey’s puzzled stare, Che’nya leans back to elaborate. “It’s a clover.”
Trey’s mouth opens in a wide circle in realisation, shrivelling in a sheepish smile once he gathers his marbles and writes the word down. He quickly passes to the next one, clearing his throat and ignoring Che’nya’s snickers. “‘A game in which players using mallets drive wooden balls through a series of wickets set out on a lawn…’. Ah, that’s croquet.”
When Trey jots it down, Che’nya’s big golden eyes flash to Riddle, and it’s only then Riddle realises a smile stretches his own lips wide.
Che’nya leans sideways to read the next puzzle, his wide grin an easy, tender thing. “‘An open pastry case containing a filling’... nya, what say you, Trey?”
“I’d be a shame to my family if I did not get this one.”
Riddle’s smile falters, then. After writing down t-a-r-t, Trey and Che’nya read the last instruction in silence. Riddle already knows what it says though. He’s known for many, many years.
(pl.) a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection.
His chest clenches as he remembers when he made this crossword.
It was the first ever crossword he made, the night before Mother had barred him from ever seeing Trey and Che’nya again. He’d giddily traced the lines of the puzzle and carefully chosen the words. He couldn’t pick something too hard for their first ever crossword!
In the end, he’d forgotten about it in the thrill of going to the Clover patisserie and tasting his first tart ever. Afterwards, it was too late. All the other crosswords Riddle ever made were built on fantasies that his window would be tapped again, or Mother would change her mind and graciously forgive her raccuous son. But this one was meant to be in their hands and solved by them.
Riddle can pinpoint the moment understanding dawns upon them. Che’nya’s eyes soften into pools of molten gold, and a smile springs unbidden in Trey’s lips. It’s not one of his courteous, conciliatory smiles either. It’s a full-blown carefree, boyish grin.
Riddle’s shoulders sag with relief when Che’nya laces his fingers together behind his head, leaning back. “That was purr-ty fun. And meow ice cream was delicious. How about we repeat, nyan?”
“That sounds nice,” Trey agrees, “although I must admit, I expected something harder.”
“You can count on it,” Riddle assures, emboldened, “my collection has over three thousand—”
Riddle clamps his mouth shut, his face a furnace. What a careless slip! It is basically an admission that… that he…
“Three thousand meetings… that sounds purr-fect,” Che’nya drawls, licking the last of his ice cream from the glass. Stains of it stick to the corners of his mouth and the edges of his cheekbones like whiskers.
Trey chuckles. “Now, now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But I definitely…wouldn’t mind that.”
“We have a lot of time to make up for, nya?”
Riddle can’t quite stifle his twitching lips when Trey hands him the solved crossword puzzle. The first crossword puzzle of his that’s been solved. If he blinks a little faster to mask the prickle behind his eyelids, well...he hopes the shade of the patio umbrella is enough to cover for him.
His stomach flutters when he sees the last word scribbled in the crossword, right at the centre of it. Friends.
He might just need to make a lot more crosswords now.