#ramonespost

He is just Riddle. Your little heart.

You hold him, whispering into his ear, telling him that you’re here for him, that he doesn’t have to be perfect and that he won’t hurt you by needing help. You promise him strawberry tarts and a midnight tea party for just the two of you, with honey instead of sugar cubes, even though it goes against the rules.

Eventually he raises his head, a tiny smile on his face, red eyeliner streaming down his cheeks. You snort and wipe it off with your sleeve, gently helping him up, holding his hand tight to let him know that you’re still there.

ACE

Ace’s tears are silent.

You can always tell something is wrong with Ace when he’s quiet. The boy—though you love him—never shuts the fuck up. So when you hear a knock at your door late at night after a day of unusual silence, you’re expecting him. You don’t ask, because he won’t tell.

All he wants you to do is be there with him, to make him pretend nothing is wrong.

You sit on the floor with him basically in your lap, one hand in his hair, your chin on his shoulder. Unlike Riddle, he doesn’t want movement. He can’t have his hands be busy. Instead they are clenched over his face, nails digging into his palms. You take them gently,

pacing your fingers with his in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself. He doesn’t react, but you know he will be grateful later.

Leaning close to his ear, you whisper a stupid joke. A choked laugh bursts from him and you see a tiny bit of that typical Ace grin, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Soon enough, it will. It always does. He’ll stay the night with you, hiding away from his frustrations with Riddle and who knows who or what else, then be his regular beaming, bouncing-off-the-walls self in the morning. He doesn’t have to thank you—he shows his gratitude through making you tea and breakfast. You eat it, even if it tastes bad, because you know he put his whole heart into it.

DEUCE

Deuce doesn’t want hugs or jokes or comfort—he just wants to be around you. He’ll

come to your dorm and sit on the floor with you and Grim, completely silent, holding a card game or something of the sort. Nothing strategy based—you and him will just play War for hours in silence. Grim usually leaves thirty minutes in, but you stay because you know.

You know that something is wrong.

And sure enough, not long after Grim leaves, you can see the poker face Deuce had kept up for the past hour slipping away, his cheeks reddening, lip trembling. He keeps turning his head to cough, but you’re not stupid—you know he’s wiping away tears he doesn’t want you to see.

You give him a soft smile, then place down another card; the Two of Spades. He quickly plays another over it and plucks it from the floor, giving you a strained grin. You keep playing, not because you want to distract him but because continuing will let him know that you care, that you are trying.

After all, playing to win will keep him there longer.

Sure enough, you win and he demands a rematch, and when he wins that you see his familiar triumphant smile and his single dimple.

Deuce doesn’t need hugs or jokes or comfort—your presence alone lets him know that everything is going to be okay.

TREY

Trey hates feeling like he’s bothering anyone, but he knows that he can go to you in

times of need. After all, you were there for him before.

He comes to you late in the evening. You open the door expecting it to be Ace or Deuce but instead find him there, eyes swollen and red, holding a tiny chestnut tart for two.

The two of you sit on the couch, lit by just a candle, sharing the tart off of the same plate. It’s a little salty, but it’s not the oyster sauce that he always jokes about. No, you know why it’s salty, and he will tell you all about it. He leans against you, the words flowing from him. He isn’t crying—his tears have long been spent—but you can hear the pain in his voice. The pain of watching Riddle dig himself into a hole of perfectionism again, taking out his frustration on everyone around him. The pain of taking the fall for all of Heartslabyul’s complaints.

He can’t deal with it all by himself.

So he comes to you. You talk over a chestnut tart, just like the one you all made together at the beginning of your stay at Night Raven. He falls asleep on your shoulder and you stroke his hair, taking off his glasses and brushing stray tart crumbs from his lip. He’s so vulnerable around you, as if he is laying bare his heart in the palms of his hands.

Even in his sleep, you can feel him smile when you squeeze his hand.

CATER

Cater is always quite a bit to be around. He is loud and expressive and always wants

to show you something. He is always taking photos with you. Some he posts, and others he doesn’t. You see those ones in profile pictures and on lock screens and home screens, a constant reminder that he wants to see you.

He is very whiny when he’s upset. He’ll come to you pouting, giving you puppy eyes, and wrap his arms around you, practically hanging off of you until you both fall over into a pile of limbs. He acts like it’s a joke, like he’s just eager for your attention, but you can tell when something is up and pull him close, just staying there on the floor with him, listening to him talk.

Eventually his poker face tires and he admits that he needs you, still with that whiny tone, though you can tell he’s dead serious. You take his hand and go to your bed, laying down with him as the little spoon, your nose buried in the back of his neck, his hair tickling your forehead. He is on his phone to distract himself, but his hand squeezes yours. You talk to him, asking him about his day. He always tells you what’s wrong

Cater can’t hide anything from you.

He couldn’t hide that he doesn’t like sweets, he couldn’t hide that he wants to be around you when he feels down, and he sure as hell can’t see the worried look on your face and not tell you why his smile is dimmed.