#alloyd

Clean!❤️❤️❤️

TBH I JUST WAS TRYING TO PRACTICE DRAWING CHIBIS, BUT THEN I REALIZED THAT IT LOOKS LIKE AN OFFICIAL MERCH LMAO😭😭

Alan didn’t notice Floyd until Floyd stopped trying to be noticed.

Before then, Floyd was just another unpredictable variable in the already unsteady equation that was life at Night Raven College. Alan was focused on surviving—literally, some days, thanks to Grim’s appetite for chaos—and trying not to dissolve in the deluge of magical terminology and cultural whiplash.

So when Floyd Leech stopped picking on them—stopped calling them "Brickface" and poking their cheeks to try and see if they’d break—Alan noticed. Not immediately. But eventually.

The library was unusually quiet for once, with the usual suspects off doing... who knew what. Alan was buried under three books, face unreadable despite the storm of confusion in their brain.

From the corner of their eye, they noticed a tall silhouette drop into the seat across from them with a thud.

“Yo,” Floyd said, chin in his palm, staring. “You always look like that when you’re reading?”

Alan blinked slowly. “Like what?”

“Like someone stuck a stick in your brain and stirred it around.”

“...Accurate.”

Floyd cackled, and something shifted. Alan didn’t smile, but they tilted their head a little in amusement. Floyd noticed that too.

“Which one of those books made your face cramp up first?”

Alan slid one across the table. Twisted Wonderland: A Sociohistorical Account of Cross-Realm Governance. Floyd didn’t even look at it before shoving it back.

“Boooring,” he declared. “You ever try... y’know. Watching the reenactments instead? They got vids for that.”

Alan stared at him.

Floyd stared back, grinning wide. “What? Shrimpies don’t use their eyes where you’re from?”

Alan’s lips tugged at the corners. Not a full smile, but enough to pique Floyd’s curiosity.

From there, it just... happened.

At first, it was talking.

Alan, disoriented by Twisted Wonderland’s history, found Floyd’s way of explaining things absurd but vivid.

“Okay, so imagine this—big scary mer-shark guy swimming around with a crown made of teeth, right? He’s like, ‘I wanna rule everything!’ But then—boom! Some boring land wizard throws a mountain at him. Bam. End of war.”

Alan: “...That makes more sense than what I read.”

Floyd beamed, proud and a little smug. Alan blinked, registering how easy Floyd made the abstract feel.

“Teach me math like that.”

Floyd blinked. “Math?”

Alan nodded. “I suck at it. If you make math sound like sea monster fights, I might actually retain something.”

Floyd cackled again, elated. “You’re weird. I like it.”

Then it became doing.

Alan didn’t know how they ended up learning parkour from Floyd. One minute, they were walking back from alchemy class, and the next, Floyd was halfway up a tree.

“C’mon, Shrimpy!” he called, waving from a high branch. “Don’t be scared. It’s just gravity.”

Alan looked up, sighed, and then began to climb.

They slipped. Twice.

The third time, they made it halfway. Floyd reached down with one hand and pulled them up without effort.

“You’re funny when you mess up,” he said. “You make this face like—” he scrunched his features into a perfect mimic of Alan’s deadpan frown, “—‘I meant to fall. That was part of the plan.’”

Alan gave a light snort. “It’s called grace under pressure.”

“I call it Brickface Deluxe.”

Alan elbowed him. It didn’t do much.

Floyd started dancing out of nowhere during a study session. Not gracefully—just wild, chaotic, full-body movement to a beat only he could hear.

Alan blinked once. Twice. “...Are you okay.”

“Nope!” Floyd grinned and grabbed their wrist, tugging them to stand. “C’mon, Shrimpy! Shimmy like a sea slug!”

“I don’t know how a sea slug shimmies.”

“Then make it up!”

And, to Floyd’s absolute delight, Alan did. Stiff, awkward, barely moving—but they tried. When Floyd laughed, it was genuine and bright, not mean.

“Your face is red,” he pointed out after they collapsed back into their seats.

“Shut up.”

“Eeeh~ I like seeing you like that.”

~~~

Floyd started watching for the little things.

Not just the times Alan stumbled or fumbled or lost their cool—but the tiny things. The second-long pause before they said yes to something new. The brief smiles they didn’t realize they made. A soft huh when something genuinely interested them.

Those little reactions made Floyd’s chest do something weird. Like someone tickling his ribs from the inside.

One day, after Alan successfully transfigured something without turning it into pudding, they let out a relieved breath.

Floyd caught it and grinned. “Happy, Shrimpy?”

Alan turned to him. “Yeah.”

Simple. Honest. That’s what Floyd liked.

They didn’t fluff it up with fancy words or wait for a dramatic pause. Just said what they meant.

So Floyd did too.

“You’re cool, y’know?”

Alan tilted their head. “You’re cooler.”

Floyd blinked.

Then grinned like he just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

“Aw, you’re sweet when you’re honest.”

“I’m always honest.”

“That so?” Floyd leaned forward. “Then say it again.”

Alan blinked. “You’re cooler.”

Floyd’s grin widened. “Nah, not that one.”

Alan paused. “...You’re impressive. Smart. Weirdly good at explaining stuff. I like hanging out with you.”

There was a moment of quiet.

Then Floyd let out a pleased hum, leaning his head on Alan’s shoulder.

“You’re my favorite Shrimpy.”

“You say that to everyone.”

“Only the ones I mean it for.”

Alan didn’t smile.

But their hand, resting at their side, shifted closer. Just enough for Floyd to lazily entwine their fingers.