#1: You have a stupid crush on Jade Leech, arguably one of the worst people to have feelings for. Jade Leech is the type of person to leverage any crush for his benefit, let alone a crush on him. And confessing is the quickest way to get rid of your pesky feelings, something you’re very eager to do.

#2: After this, summer break will begin and school will be out of session. ‘Distance makes the heart grow fonder’, as they say, and your feelings will absolutely compound if you don’t confess now. The break works in your favour though, as you won’t have to deal with repercussions until September comes back around. Best case scenario, everyone will forget by the time you return to school. Worst case scenario, you’ll at least get two months free of awkwardness and teasing. Which leads to:

#3: Jade will 100%, absolutely, undoubtedly reject you. He’s the type of person who only makes choices that benefit him, and you have nothing to offer. And though humiliation sucks, a one-and-done micro-moment of mortifying rejection is a small price to pay for emotional freedom.

It’s not that you want to confess to Jade Leech. It’s that you have to.

So with that airtight reasoning in mind as the ceremony finally comes to a close, you rush through the sea of eager students, your destination not a where but a whom.

The moment he’s within reach, you grab his sleeve. “Jade.”

He freezes; the crowd doesn’t. Even Floyd and Azul vanish in the flow of people. Still, though students shove past you ceaselessly, you stand strong.

“Prefect?”

You realize you’re cooked when Jade turns to face you. His eyes are wide in shock—adorably so—and surprise is a rare expression to see on Jade. It’s affecting you more than you’d like to admit.

“Um, could I talk with you?” you ask sheepishly, just as someone shoves you from behind. Luckily, you manage to right yourself before crashing straight into Jade, sparing yourself the extra embarrassment. “Preferably somewhere less busy?”

His expression morphs back into his usual: a coy, composed smile with eyes too scrutinizing for anyone’s comfort.

“Of course.” You repress a smitten grin at the sound of his voice. Soon, you won’t have to do that consciously anymore, and that thought is exhilarating. “Let’s be on our way, then. Stay close to me, Prefect.”

And you obey, never once dropping your grasp of his sleeve so as to not lose him.

It’s in the courtyard, beneath the apple tree, that Jade finally stops and you release his sleeve. With most students staying in the hallways and subjecting themselves to traffic jams by foot, only a sprinkling of smarter students pass through.

“What is it you’d like to tell me?” Jade asks, heterochromic eyes glimmering in the dappled sunlight. For a second, you almost forget that you’re here to be rejected.

Besides him, the scene isn’t picture-perfect: trampled apple blossoms decay beneath your feet, a brawl has broken out in the hall nearby, and you’re coated in sweat from being smushed in the crowd earlier. It’s pathetic and imperfect, which makes it perfect for your purpose.

You take a deep breath and brace for impact.

“Um…” you start, looking anywhere but his perfect face. “Well, y’know…”

Jade doesn’t rush you, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. He’s perfectly patient.

“You probably know this already, but—oh Sevens, I’m regretting this even now—so I… ah, fuck it.

“I have a crush on you,” you blurt.

…

…

…

“Do it quickly, please,” you add once the silence stretches five seconds too long for your liking.

“...Do what quickly?”

Jade’s seeming ignorance simultaneously baffles and infuriates you enough to make you look back up at him. The cunning smirk that you expect is nowhere to be found. In its place: pure, genuine confusion. Which confuses you.

“Uh… reject me?”

“Did you not just confess that you liked me?” he questions slowly. “Why do you want me to reject you?”

“Why wouldn’t you reject me?” you counter. “Just get it over with.”

And with that, the confusion washes from his face, and the composed smile you’d been expecting in the first place reappears.

“And if I were to decline? What would you do then?”

“Then I’d be fucked!” you think aloud accidentally.

The cutest chuckle leaks from his lips and rattles your heart in your chest. You slap your hand over Jade’s mouth before he can inflict more emotional damage on you.

“Oya oya?” you hear muffled against your palm, Jade’s eyes crinkling with mirth. “Quite forward of you~”

With your other hand, you hold an authoritative finger in his face. “Stop it. Quit being charming and cute. Just turn me down, please.”

As you feel his lips pull into a sharp grin, your hand flinches away on the off chance that he bites you à la Floyd. But Jade is quicker, catching your retracting hand in his own.

“No.” He says it firmly, a stark contrast with how gently he strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. “I’ll see you soon, Prefect.”

Jade leaves you with a pat on the head, a rejected rejection, and a mess of thoughts and feelings. Somehow, in all your overoptimistic deliberation, you’d neglected to take into account your crush’s stubbornness and affinity for playing the long game.

Kicking at the wilted apple blooms under your soles reveals the small mushrooms sprouting underneath.

Fuck.

Deuce is the first of your friends to find out how unsuccessful you were in your mission, him and his mom having very generously offered you and Grim a place to stay for the summer.

“You’re cooked,” Deuce helpfully comments while you’re settling into the spare room. Grim, on the other hand, has already crashed on the floor. “Jade’s totally stringing you along!”

You groan your entire soul out your throat. “I know.”

“Just DM him and reject him yourself!”

“mMMmmmm…” you whine. “Fiiiine…” You unlock your phone for the first time since passing through the mirror at NRC and open the Magicam app. For all the mental and emotional turmoil that Jade put you through today, you don’t expect him to spare you the satisfaction of replying to your DMs right away.

Well, it's not the first time you've been wrong about him.

Jade messaged you first. 42 minutes ago, to be exact.

Good evening, dear Prefect :) Where would you like to go for our first date?

You place your phone face-down on the dresser and place yourself face-down on the floor.

You lie there for a good minute before Deuce’s concern catches up to him. “Uh, Prefect…? You good?”

You flop about like a fish. “uUurGghhhHhh.”

“Wait, is he blackmailing you? If he is, I’ll teach him a lesson.” Bless Deuce’s sweet delinquent soul. “Just tell me. It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not that,” you groan into the hardwood before lifting your head. “It’s worse. He’s asking me on a date.”

“WHAT?!” Deuce practically screams. “He’s totally playing you! Or else he’s gonna bring you up a mountain and we’ll never find your body! Tell him no!”

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh. “Okay.”

Jade, I'm gonna have to reject your rejection of my rejection. Sorry for bothering you. Have a good summer break 👍

“Done,” you update. “I think he’s literally in the ocean so he’s probably gonna leave me on sent—oh Sevens he read it!”

Deuce leaps across the room to see your screen.

“Oh fuck, he’s typing!” you shriek, causing your friend to glance around warily and Grim to flip over in his sleep. “Oh shit, oh fuck.”

You shove your phone into Deuce’s hands. “W-What? What do you want me to do?” he sputters.

“Just—! If he sends something bad,” you instruct, “don't tell me what it is, just block him.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

You wait in charged silence for what feels like an eternity. Then:

“Prefect?” Deuce treads carefully.

“…what.”

“What counts as ‘bad’?” And slowly, he turns the screen toward you.

It’s a single sentence.

Even if I want to date you as well?

Yeah, that's bad.

Really bad.

Your first date is at a summer fair in a coastal town of the Kingdom of Roses.

You try to bail on Jade, really, you do! Or well, you try to convince yourself to bail on him.

He’s taking advantage of your naïveté for his amusement, whispers your brain as you agree on a time and place.

Tell him you don’t like sleazy schemers like him, it advises while you thoughtfully pick out your cutest outfit.

Say you got food poisoning and can’t meet him; the thought rattles through your mind on the 1-hour bus ride to the date spot.

Even as you arrive at your destination, your self-preservation endures. Even at the sight of Jade in a casual t-shirt and jeans, checking his phone for messages from you, It’s not too late to turn around!

Unfortunately though, your heart has been a whole lot louder than your mind lately. That fact becomes especially clear when Jade spots you: his eyes gain a twinkle to them as they meet yours, effectively shutting down every blaring alarm in your head.

“Hello, Prefect. You look lovely.”

“Um, thanks,” you respond choppily. “So do you.”

And because you’re in the palm of his hand and he knows it, Jade holds out said palm for you to take. “Shall we?”

It’s your Cinderella moment; of course you take it. If you’re this deep into a bad decision, you might as well go all in and enjoy yourself before the clock strikes twelve.

The date is… really nice.

You make pleasant conversation. About your hobbies, about your summer plans, about the shenanigans of the past school year. You tell him about the summer job you got to earn your keep at Deuce’s, and Jade tells you about the mesocosm he’d made with flora from Sage’s Island. He’s voluble when it comes to his interests, and you’re equally receptive when your guard is down. Together, you’re peak yappers.

“Are you hungry?” Jade asks when you (try to) subtly eye the food stalls.

You chuckle bashfully. “Just a little. It smells really good.”

“Good. I’m quite hungry myself,” he replies. “If you don’t mind finding us a seat, I’ll be back in a moment.”

And so you plop yourself down at a clean table for two, and wait for your date to return. With little else to do, you pull out your phone for the first time since meeting up. The notifications you’re met with—both the nature and the quantity—give you whiplash.

96 missed calls, 114 texts from Deuce, 201 from Ace, 1049 from your first-year group chat and counting. All spread across the past two hours, all with the gist of: ‘ARE YOU STILL ALIVE???’

You simply open your camera app, stick out your tongue and shut your eyes in a play-dead face, and snap a selfie. Into the group chat it goes!

baymax!: Prefect! Hi! ass: oh tahnk sevens he hasnt killed them yet doos: Are you in danger????? Do you need help???????? 🍎: damn i lowk thought deuce was lying about you going out with jade lmao You: no deuce i’m chilling dw he’s actually super sweet got that DAWG in him: You don’t know what he’s thinking. Call us if you feel something’s off “WAKASAMAAA”: DO NOT let him take you to a secondary location. You: guys i’m fine lol [ass started a video call] You: bruh what do you want ass: just pick up dude ass: gotta make sure

When you do pick up, everyone’s already there. “Hiii~” you greet.

Your friends collectively sigh in relief. And then they start drilling you with questions.

“WHY???”

“Did he make you sign an NDA? Or some other life-binding contract?”

“He hasn’t poisoned you or anything, right? Don’t eat anything he gives you!”

“Guys, it’s fine,” you laugh. “He’s getting us food now.”

“Don’t let your guard down! That’s how he’ll get you.”

“Oh Sevens, they’re cooked. He’s stringing them along.”

“You sure have a lot of faith in me, huh?” you sigh. “It’s just one date, guys. We’re not dating.”

“Is that so?” Jade’s voice croons from behind you. You scream. Your friends scream. Jade chuckles, laying out a feast-worthy spread of street food onto the table.

Your stomach drops at the sheer amount of stuff he bought. “Jade—this is so much. How much did this cost?”

“It’s my treat,” he assures you quietly, while your friends yell at you through the screen not to fall into his loan shark trap. “Don’t worry about it.”

“PASS US TO THE EEL,” Ace articulates loudly, but Jade gently takes the phone from your hand himself. “Listen here, Leech,” the redhead threatens. “If you do anything to the Prefect—”

“You’ll be sleeping with the fishes,” Deuce finishes, “and not literally.”

“Of course,” Jade smiles politely, and you groan in pure mortification. “Rest assured that I have no ill intentions with the Prefect. I’ll do nothing against their will.”

“That means nothing! It’s you, so they’re gonna be willing either way!”

“ACE!” you scold, snatching your phone back from Jade. “Appreciate the concern guys, but I’m fine. BYE.” You hang up and bury your face in your hands, quietly screaming. Jade laughs, whether at your friends’ passion or your mortification or both, you’re not 100% sure.

“Your friends care very deeply about you,” he giggles, finally taking the seat across from you.

“Yeah. Um, just ignore everything they said. They’re really spirited,” you plead. “Sorry about that. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“No need to apologize,” Jade reassures you. “I find it very endearing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s the truth.”

A particularly loud growl cuts you off before you can refute him again. From a stomach. Your stomach.

“Please, dig in,” Jade invites, unfazed. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

Despite everything, your embarrassment quickly dissipates as you two work through the buffet, exchanging reviews for each dish as you go. Even when you’ve eaten your fill, Jade is still ravenous. It’s impressive how a cute boy like him can have such a boundless appetite and daintily pat his mouth with a napkin like he didn’t just effortlessly Kirby-inhale three times as much as you did.

It’s annoyingly charming.

Bellies full, you slip back into easy conversation, and before you know it, the sun has nearly fully set. Lingering copper sunlight skips across the rippling surface of the sea, tinting the town with warmth (as if your rose-tinted glasses weren’t enough).

“The last bus back to Clock Town leaves in 40 minutes,” Jade alerts you. “Would you like to check out the rest of the stalls before we part ways?”

“Sure, let’s do that!” You slip your hand into the crook of Jade’s elbow as he offers it, the gentleman. “We still haven’t seen the vendors or the game stalls.”

You browse the pop-up vendors selling magical trinkets, handmade charms, jewellery, all sorts of wares, but nothing catches your eye nor Jade’s. And as you walk through the area of game stalls, you begin to think that you might have the same luck here, too.

Except a gasp from Jade stops you in your tracks. Like you, he’s equally frozen to the spot, but his gaze is trained on one particular game stall: what looks to be… Dance Dance Revolution? Well, to be more specific, it’s not the game that entrances him, but the prize.

It’s a jumbo mushroom plush. Like, you-sized-level jumbo.

“Wanna try?” you ask him.

It takes a moment for Jade to come back to his senses. “Ah, no, no need.” But the stiffness in his posture betrays his reluctance.

“C’mon,” you coax, tapping your fingers on his elbow. “Let’s do it.”

Unfortunately for Jade, his two years of experience with legs never prepared him for the impossible gauntlet that is Dance Dance Revolution. Five seconds into the game, it becomes clear to everyone that Jade’s dream of winning the mushroom is nothing more than that: a mere fantasy.

Well, not if you can help it. The second he steps off the platform, you’re up. Failure is not a possibility, let alone an option.

Your legs move unlike ever before. Even as you’d run for your life from overblot monsters, your legs never had this speed. Even as you were training for your VDC audition, your legs never had this level of coordination and precision. The omnipotent Spirit of Dance Dance Revolution has possessed your body.

And so, naturally, you win the game. The stall owner’s jaw is dropped, the passersby are applauding, and your date stares at you with so much wonder that you chuckle a little.

Jade is so adorably awestruck when you pass the mushroom to him, you almost forget how bad of an idea he is. Well, either way, at the moment, he’s perfectly harmless with both his arms wrapped around the giant stuffed stalk.

“Thank you,” he whispers, more tenderly than you’d ever thought possible for him.

“It’s my pleasure. You’re the one who bought me an all-you-can-eat buffet earlier, anyways.”

“Fufufu, I’d told you it was my treat,” he hums. “There was no need to repay me.”

“It’s alright, I’d rather not leave with debt anyways.” You do, after all, know that being indebted to the trio from Octavinelle is bad news, regardless of how sweet Jade seems. “Speaking of, my bus leaves in 10 minutes, so I should probably get going.”

“I’ll walk you to the bus stop, then.”

And so, as your bus approaches in the distance, your Cinderella moment comes to a close. Both of you got this date out of your systems, so now Jade’ll find you boring and leave you alone, and now you can die knowing what it’s like to go on a date with Jade Leech. All’s well that ends well, right?

Except, you find yourself thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad to miss your bus if it meant spending a little more time with Jade. The next bus comes at 6 in the morning; you know that would be a seriously bad idea. But you also think that if Jade asked you to, you’d still do it.

So in a last-ditch attempt to save your soul, you ask again, “Can you reject me now?”

He laughs. “No.”

“Hm. Worth a shot.”

“Instead, actually…” Jade starts, his hold tightening around the mushroom, “would you be interested in doing this again sometime?”

You waste no time in your reply.

“Yes. I’d love to.”

Draped across your dorm couch like a swooned Victorian lady, Ace sighs, loud and dramatic.  “Maaan, this year’s entrance ceremony was so boring.”

“That’s a good thing, Ace,” you deadpan from the floor.  “Riddle would’ve had everyone’s heads if last year repeated itself.”

“Ehh, probably.  But the Headmage could’ve at least made his speeches shorter, couldn’t he?  It’s not like anyone's actually paying attention.”

Deuce throws a pillow at his head.  “Just because you weren’t paying attention doesn’t mean nobody was!”

“Yeah, Ace!” Grim snickers.

You scoff lightheartedly.  “You weren’t listening either, Grim.  You literally slept through the entire thing.”

The accused whips his head around at you, betrayed.  “W-Well!” he scrambles.

At the flash in Grim’s eyes, you realise: Oh no.  You should not have drawn attention to yourself.  Not when you’re equally culpable.

And here it comes: “At least I wasn’t making goo-goo eyes at Jade Leech the whole time!”

“Yeah,” the redhead snickers as your face heats up, “I guess you can’t get any worse than that!”

Deuce throws a second pillow at Ace—“Be nice!”—but he doesn’t disagree.

Nor do you have any dignity left to deny it, yourself.

“Hey, look on the bright side: he’ll probably break up with you soon,” Ace assures.  “He’s gonna be too busy being a vice-housewarden and thinking about his internship!”

“Oh right,” Deuce and Grim collectively realise with their single shared brain cell, while your heart drops a couple storeys lower than you'd like.

Ace’s argument is a good one—a great one, even—but you've already thought of it before, many times, in fact.  And it’s good news!  You should feel relieved that you’ll finally be free from Jade’s emotional clutches, especially considering how your goal in the first place was just that.

The issue: you're in too deep.  When you’d first gotten into this mess, you were only a few rungs up on the ‘whippedness’ ladder.  You were ready to jump off of your own accord and just sprain an ankle or two, metaphorically.

Now, you're too high on the ladder, about to be shoved off before you're ready, and you’re gonna break both your legs and maybe your back.  And it almost feels like it's not a metaphor anymore.

Instead of voicing any of your inner turmoil, you argue weakly, “We're not even together.  There’s nothing to break up.”

The trio stares at you, in varying degrees of confusion, shock, and exasperation.  Not even a peep.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you add.

“Aren't you dating?” Deuce asks, absolutely dumbfounded.

“Sure, but it’s just dates.  I could go on a date with Ace, and it wouldn't make him my boyfriend.”  You ignore the latter’s disgusted grimace.

“So it’s a good thing then!” Grim responds a bit too abrasively.  “Jade can’t actually dump you, so he’ll just ignore you forever!”

Your heart dips even further.

“Ghost,” Ace adds very helpfully.  “He’ll ghost you.”

Unable to sink into the floorboards at will, you settle for tugging your ceremonial hood over your face.  “Yeah,” your voice breaks.  “Yeah.  Great.  Thanks, guys.”

The very next day, Jade himself shows up to your door before class.

You know that trope in those TV shows, when a cop shows up to someone’s wife’s door, takes off his hat, and solemnly implies in ten words or less that she’s now a widow?  Well, you sure feel like the wife here.

But as you scan his expression for any hint of impending emotional doom, Jade’s polite smile betrays nothing.

“Good morning, Prefect,” he greets.

“Morning, Jade,” you parrot without any heart.

His gaze lingers on your face for an unsettling amount of time, probably to watch the light leave your eyes as he dropkicks your heart into the sun.

This is it.  He’s about to tell you he never wants to see you again.

You square your shoulders and steel yourself for his next words…

“Are you ready to go?”

…which were not what you were expecting.

You nearly collapse in relief.  “Oh, uh, yeah,” you exhale, bracing your spine up against the doorframe.  “Grim?” you turn and call, “it’s time to go!”

A blur of grey shoots past your legs and out the door upon noticing your company.  “Stay safe, Henchhuman!  I’m outta here!”

The eel simply laughs at your furry ward’s blatant fear of him.

Before this, Jade has never come straight to your door to pick you up, so Grim absolutely thinks he’s about to kidnap you or something.  Maybe you should be concerned that your so-called ‘boss’ is so quick to abandon you, but as you spot him in the distance periodically glancing back, you’ll choose to be grateful for the privacy instead.

As if magnetic, your fingers interlock with Jade’s, and oh Seven—

Why does this feel so right?

His hands not clammy or uncomfortably warm, his skin smooth like silk satin but still seemingly unbreakable…  If you really focus, you can feel the dim pulse in his fingertips humming into the back of your hand.

Wouldn’t it be nice to do this every day?

You blow up the tracks of that train of thought and drive it full-steam off a cliff.

It’s not until you arrive at your classroom that you finally begin to slip your hand from Jade’s grasp.

But when you step past the threshold, you fail to suppress a squeak as you’re abruptly tugged back by the same damn hand (which apparently did not fully slip out of Jade’s), straight into his chest.

“Just a moment,” the bastard croons into your ear.  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Your legs buckle, but Jade holds you firmly against him.  “No?” you sputter.

He simply hums.  And then he tips your chin and fucking kisses the top of your head.

“Have a good class, Prefect.”

You distantly hear Deuce, and Ace screaming (“PREFECT, NO!!!” and “WHAT THE FUCK?!!” respectively) down the hall from where they witnessed it.

Jade finally lets you go, and you do, in fact, collapse.  Ace and Deuce scream even harder, and oh hey, Grim’s here too.  “Stay with me, Henchhuman!  I’ll reverse the curse, don’t worry!”

As your friends all panic over the curse that Jade must’ve cast on you, the latter crouches down to your level, amused as ever.  “Are you alright, Prefect?”

“Yup,” you croak, too dazed to notice the hand (the same.  fucking.  one.) that he’s offering you.  “Bye, have a good class~”

“You’re positive you don’t need me to bring you to the infirmary?”

“Uh huh.  See ya…”

On your knees, as the world spins around you, you make a new realisation:

Jade’s not dropping you cold turkey.

He’s gonna build you up, and drop you only when it’s most interesting for him.  Which, by definition, means when it’s most inconvenient for you.

You’re so not ready for this.

For three months, through homework and prefect duties, through midterms and finals, you walk the line between indulging your yearning for Jade and holding him at arm’s length.  It is exhausting.

Every morning, Jade walks you to class.  Every afternoon, he walks you back to your dorm.  You still go on little dates every few weekends.  And every time you two part, he kisses the top of your head.  Which is also fairly mortifying when you’re surrounded by your schoolmates, but that’s beside the point.

The pesky eel has whittled your certainty down to a sliver, so much so that you eventually ask your friends, “Do you think Jade… actually likes me back?”

Their response: a homogeneous blend of grimaces, “Nope”s, and “Don’t go there”s.

“Cool, cool, that’s what I thought too.”

You need to get yourself out of this predicament before your emotional fate is actually officially, irreversibly, terminally out of your hands.  That means breaking off this… thing with Jade before winter break.

So, drunk on desperation and sleep deprivation, you devise a gameplan:

Step 1: Hold yourself accountable.  Tell your friends that you’re breaking things off with Jade and do not let them down.

Step 2: Meet with Jade.  Schedule a time and place.

Step 3: Finish the job.  Say: “This has been fun, but I’m breaking off whatever this is between us.  Stay away from me until the end of time, please and thank you!”

Emotional freedom in three simple steps.  It’s a foolproof plan!  (And if it feels like you’ve been through this song and dance before, no, you have not.)

At 2 am the day before winter break, you start with Step 1.  Opening your now-second-year group chat, you cursorily text a declaration:

You: i’m gonna break things off with jade today. wish me luck guys

then immediately turn your phone on silent before anyone can respond—if anyone’s even awake (Someone probably is.  Your money’s on Ace)—and conk out instantly.

You jolt awake to the sound of knocking on your bedroom door.  

“Hello?!” you bark.  It’s light outside, and Grim still lies beside you, fast asleep.

“Good morning, Prefect,” the most enchanting voice seeps through the seams of your door.  “You must've overslept your alarm.  Are you decent?  May I come in?”

“Uh, yeah!” you bark out reflexively, scrambling out of bed.  “Wait, no—wait—hold on!  I'm in my pyjamas!”

The door cracks open, and in pops the eel plaguing your mind 24/7.

You both stand there like two cowboys in a standoff.  Jade looks you up and down with his usual smile.  You glare at him.

“Jade.  Out,” you command, closing the gap in an attempt to shoo him out.  He doesn't budge, even when you start shoving against him.

“Fufufu, so this is what you look like when you wake up,” he comments, immovable.  “How cute.”

“Out.”

“Alright,” he chuckles, taking a step back.  But then he places a hand on your head, smoothing your hair down.  “You have bedhead, Prefect.”

You almost lean into his touch.  You nearly forget that you have a plan to follow.  You just barely remember that you're breaking things off with Jade today.

Do not let him change your mind.

Channelling your inner black belt, you seize the wrist of the hand petting your head.  “Are you going to Kalim’s party tonight?”

Eyes wide in surprise, Jade slowly retracts his hand.  “Y-Yes,” he stutters out.  “The Lounge will be closed today, so I expect I will be.”

“Good.  I have something I need to talk to you about.”

He tenses.  “…Should I be concerned?”

“No,” you sigh.  “It’s nothing to you.”

“I see.”

“I’m gonna make you late, so you don’t need to walk me to class today,” you continue when Jade makes no move to leave your room.  “And you don’t need to worry about walking me back, either.”

“…Are you alright?” he enquires after a moment.

You almost laugh.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ll see you later, okay?”

To your chagrin, Jade stares right into your eyes, probably in search of answers you refuse to verbalise.  To shake off the intensity, you dart your eyes in every direction but him: eye contact with Jade is a terrible idea no matter which way you look at it, especially now.

“Have a good day,” you add awkwardly, crossing your fingers that he’ll actually leave soon.

After far too long, he backs away.  “You too, Prefect.  I’ll see you later, then.”

Step 2, done.

As you watch Jade walk alone down the path to the main school building, you’re hit with the nagging feeling that you’re missing something.

Did you forget to do your homework?   No, you weren’t assigned anything for the last day of classes.

The dishes, maybe?   Did you neglect to do those last night?   That’s not it.

Is it someone’s birthday?   No, that’s not it, either.

After 20 minutes of hard thinking, you realise: it’s the kiss.  Jade didn’t kiss you goodbye this time, and it feels horrible.

You’re experiencing fucking Jade Leech kiss withdrawal.

You scream into your pillow.

You show up to Kalim’s party in the evening, fully ready to land the final blow.

The only issue: Jade isn’t here.

You haven’t seen him, none of your friends have seen him, none of the other students you’ve asked have seen him.  He hasn’t texted you, either.

Jade fucking stood you up and it’s totally psyching you out.

You text him

hey where are you

only to get left on read.  He knows.

You call him, even though you don’t expect him to answer.  And sure enough, the phone rings once, twice, three times…

He actually picks up.  To your utter surprise.

“Where are you?” you hiss.

For a silent moment, you think that he might just refuse to humour you, might just hang up now.  But the eel sure has a thing for subverting your expectations.  “…I’d rather not show up for something so… unpleasant.”

“What are you talking about?  Who said anything about ‘unpleasant’?”

“Perhaps you should be more selective in what you tell Grim,” the bane of your existence answers, “seeing as his favour can be bought with just a few cans of premium tuna.”

“Ugh, I'm gonna strangle him.  Why do you have to be so difficult?  Can’t you spare me just this once?”

“I…” He pauses.  “That… wouldn’t be in my best interest.”

“Jade, you’re actually starting to piss me off.  I’m not gonna let you keep stringing me along for your own fucking amusement,” you snap, “and you refusing to show up isn’t gonna change my mind.”

“…Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks softly.  “‘Stringing you along’?  And here I was, thinking that we were both enjoying ourselves.  Was I mistaken?”

You scoff.  “Yes—no—UGH,” you groan, then try again.  “I’m just gonna come out and say it: you know I like you; I know you don’t actually feel the same.  So I have no reason to keep playing along with you.”

For what feels like a minute, the line is quiet.

“Hello?”

“…I’m here,” he breathes.  “I… You were right.  I think we should discuss this in person.  Have you left Scarabia already?”

“No,” you huff.  “Grim’s still stuffing his face, so I’m waiting in the hall.”

“Good.  I’ll be there in a second.”

“Are you here?”

“Perhaps,” he hums, and you hear the music and chatter of the party grow louder from his end of the phone.  “See you soon.”

Sure enough, Jade takes no more than a minute to find you.

You’re the first to speak.  “So what is it that we needed to discuss in person—”

“You’re wrong.”

Caught off guard by his uncharacteristic brusqueness, you flinch.  “Uh?”

“About how I don’t feel the same.  You’re wrong,” he repeats.  His usual polite mien is nowhere to be found, leaving only raw sincerity.

A nasty bout of hope seizes your heart and clogs your throat.

“If you’re truly set on parting ways, then I can’t stop you,” Jade continues, voice level, “but if the basis of your choice is my supposed lack of… fondness for you, please consider sparing us both the unnecessary misery.”

You scoff shakily.  “Say it straight, Jade.”

“Very well.  I return your affections, Prefect.”

Heart beating a thousand beats per minute, eyes wholly unfocussed, you find your consciousness peeling away from your body and brain.  “…Okay, I’m gonna get going now~” a voice rings in your ears—your voice.

“Where are you going?”

“Dunno…”

Jade steps closer to you and places his hands on your shoulders, maybe in an effort to ground you.  It doesn’t work.  “Shall we continue this conversation later, then?”

You hum.

“Alright, I’ll give you some time,” he whispers, turning to leave.  “Have a good night, Prefect.”

But before he can get far, your hand snags the sleeve of Jade’s blazer.  “…You’re forgetting something.”

“Oya?  And what would that be?”

No words come out, but to your chagrin, your other hand rises…

and points straight at the crown of your head.

What.  Is.  Wrong.  With.  You.

Luckily, with a shake of your head, you do manage to snap out of your stupor before he can honour your request.

Less luckily, not in time to stop him; only enough to feel his lips meet the exact spot where you’d pointed just a second prior.

The touch of his lips is like a shot of epinephrine, the way the warmth diffuses through your bloodstream, head to toe.

Or maybe it’s an injection of poison, killing you slowly but surely.

Well, if this is death, Great Seven, does it feel nice.

You’re dead.

You really died.

Or at least you’re about to.  Because the Grim Reaper is currently in the act of busting down your bedroom door to get to you.  (After that incident with Jade, you started locking your door at night, thank Seven.)

The paintings on the wall swing like pendula.  The junk in your drawer rolls about like water in a hot pan.  You even discover tuna cans that Grim (yours, not the Reaper) hid at some point, inching their way out from beneath furniture with each shake of the room.

But your bed is so comfortable right now…

“Shrimpyyyyy,” whines from behind the quaking door.  “Open sesame!”

…Oh, it’s Floyd.  Which might actually be worse than the Grim Reaper.  But to Floyd’s credit, you would prefer seeing him over his brother right now.

“What do you want, Floyd?” you whine back.  “Go away.”

The pounding only gets more aggressive.  “Open up!”

“No.  Let me sleep.”

“Okaa~ay!  I’mma kick down your door!” Floyd threatens.  “In 5, 4, 3…”

“FINE,” you groan, dragging yourself out of the warm embrace of your duvet.  “I’m coming, I’m coming.  Don’t wreck my house.”

You swing the door open, glaring at the eel on the other side.  “What.”

“Fix Jade,” he blurts, pouting.  “He’s broken.”

Unimpressed, you try to close the door, but Floyd shoves his way past you and into your room.  “That’s just normal Jade,” you sigh.

“No, he’s being weird!  He’s ripping up flowers and speaking in tongues!”

You yawn.  “Sounds normal to me.”

Floyd grimaces.  “Eehhhh… Is Shrimpy always this stubborn?  No wonder Jade’s having such a hard time courtin’ ya.”

“Wha—He’s not—” you sputter, and Floyd takes advantage of your blue-screening to throw you onto his shoulder.  “I’m not—!”

“Uh~huuhhh,” he dismisses, already in full stride.  “Save it for Jade.”

Remember when you thought you’d prefer seeing Floyd over his twin?  Well, you take that back.  As much as Jade likes to make life difficult for you, at least he wouldn’t haul you—clad in only your pyjamas—across campus in broad daylight while it's snowing.  Probably.

After a long, uncomfortable trek on Floyd’s shoulders—shoulders, plural, because he would just toss you onto the other shoulder when one side got tired—you finally make it to Octavinelle.

With little regard for your flailing body, your captor skips down the hall to his twin’s door and kicks it open at the tail end of Jade’s mutterings.

“Got a delivery for ya~”

“…me not,” Jade finishes quietly, attention fixed on the picked-bare flower stem between his fingers.  “Ah, Floyd, you've brought the Prefect.  What a pleasant surprise.”

Though his distaste is directed more at his brother than yourself, Jade’s sarcasm is obvious.  His tone is curter than he uses with you, gaze sharper than what you’re used to, but Floyd is nonetheless unfazed.  He throws you onto Jade’s bed.

Which already has Jade on it.

You are on top of Jade.

“Floyd—!  You—!” you squawk, rolling off of the bed, off of him, hitting the floor with an impressive thud.

Over the edge of the mattress, olive and gold eyes scan over you in fleeting concern.  “…Floyd.”

“You’re welcome!” Floyd spits back with equal irritation.  “Someone needed to fix you before we go home!”  And then he bursts into abrupt giggles, bounding out of the room with the door left just slightly ajar behind him.

The door is still open.  You should follow him out.  Just leave; Jade didn’t invite you here in the first place.

But you don’t.

You stay, sprawled out on your crush’s rug, surrounded by a dense dusting of snow-white petals.  From the sheer amount of them, Jade must’ve plucked over forty giant daisies bare.

The sound of your heart pounding in your ears almost drowns out his murmur.  “Do you need more time?”

You’ve heard Jade weave sarcasm into polite words.  You’ve heard him excitedly info-dump about a passion of his.  Just yesterday, you even heard him nervous and raw.  But to this extent?  Never.

You sit up.  “…I need you to be transparent.”  Your voice is shaking.

“You don’t actually like me, do you?  Or maybe you find me interesting or fascinating or whatever.  But you’re gonna get bored of me, aren’t you?

“If you know this won't go anywhere, then just tell me now,” you plead.  “Please.”

Jade slips off the bed and kneels down to your eye-level—not that it matters when you don’t have the courage to meet his eyes.

Everything depends on his next words; you'll go all in if he says one thing, all out if he says the other.  You might as well just bet your life on a coin toss.

He chuckles without humour nor coldness, “You truly have no faith in me, do you, Prefect?  Since you insist on doubting my feelings, allow me to set the record straight now: I sincerely care for you, and I don’t expect that to change.”

You collapse back onto the floor with liquified muscles, all stress and heartache draining from your bones, gaze falling on the man-sized mushroom plush propped up on a stool in the corner of the room.  Jade has dressed it up with a bow tie.  You throw a hand over your eyes before you can be overwhelmed by the adorable sight.

“Cool, just making sure.  Uh, I… don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Oya?  And you had such a succinct plan to break up with me.  Perhaps you should get into the habit of making contingency plans.”

You guffaw dryly.  “I plan for the worst case scenario so if it doesn’t go according to plan, I can be pleasantly surprised.”

“Are you, then?” Jade asks.  “Pleasantly surprised?”

Your hand begins to fall asleep; you shift your arm back down to a comfortable position.  The sight you’re met with—of Jade smiling back at you with such relief and fondness—ignites the answer in your throat.  “I am.”

The two words come out more watery than you’d expected, and apparently more than Jade had expected too, because he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re crying,” he notes.

You wipe your eyes with your hand.  “Oh.”

Pulling out a handkerchief, Jade gently blots away your tears.  “May I safely assume that these aren’t tears of sadness?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, closing your eyes as he pats over them, “sorry.  I just…  I’m super relieved?  I'm not always such a big crybaby, I promise.”

“I know,” he reassures, stroking your hair.  “Though you are a very pretty crier.”

“Jaaade,” you whine, tossing over in embarrassment.

“Oya?  Why so shy?”  He pokes your exposed cheek.  “You act as if we haven’t been dating for the past five months.”

“We haven’t had a label for the past five months.  I’ve been preparing for you to dump me,” you correct.  “Not that we have a relationship to dump in the first place.”

Jade’s fingers brush down to your cheek.  “Shall we fix that?”

“…You wanna be my boyfriend, Jade Leech?”

“Very much so,” he replies in full seriousness.

And so, your fate sealed, Jade gives zero resistance when you pull him down to your side.  He wraps his arms around you, you press your cheek against his chest.  The heart within beats faster than you’d expect.

You still have a question left unanswered, though.

“Jade?”

“Yes?”

“What’s with all the petals?”

He tenses, just barely, just for a millisecond before he melts back into you.  “It’s… a fortune-telling practice.”

“Huh,” you twitter, amused.  “I would’ve thought you’d only need one flower.”

“I would,” Jade agrees, “but curiously, each of the daisies I’ve come across so far has had an even number of petals, and I happen to be looking for a result different from what those ones suggest.”

You chuckle.  “You gonna keep picking?”

He hums, nestling into you as if the floor with your company is the most comfortable spot in the world.  “No need.  I have my answer.”

It's impossible for a person to exist without ever having heard a love song, read a love story, watched a romcom, any or all of the above.  Even so, none of the heart-wrenching melodies, flowery words, or dramatic confessions could ever have prepared you for the pure paradise you’ve been living for the past two months since making your relationship official.

(Wow!  Who knew that life could be so happy when you’re able to love freely!)

Admittedly, Jade hasn’t treated you any differently from how he did before he’d officially become your boyfriend.  He’s always been courteous, considerate, and only a touch concerningly sketchy.

The real difference?  Your ability to actually enjoy it all.

When it comes to you, he somehow always knows, even when you don’t.  The second before your stomach growls, he already has a snack at the ready.  When you feel particularly touchstarved, he wraps you in his arms.  When you trip on a crack in the pavement, he nonchalantly pulls you upright like a knight in shining armour.

And now, you don’t need to worry about declining Jade’s offers, or dodging his touches, or dissociating while in his presence lest you fall further for him.  Now, you’re safe leaning in.

Your friends, on the other hand, are… worried, to say the least.  It’s nothing new; they’ve been this way since before you even started dating Jade, but you thought they’d at least get used to it by now.

Apparently, you were wrong.

Last week, they tried to inconspicuously block you from spotting Jade in the halls.  To no avail, of course: it's impossible for a barricade of guys lined up shoulder-to-shoulder to not arouse suspicion.

Yesterday, while you and Jade walked hand-in-hand through the courtyard, Sebek Red Rover’ed his way right through your joined hands.  You hadn’t even seen him coming.

And today, as Jade walked the path to Ramshackle to meet you in the morning, Epel leapt out of a bush to football tackle him to the ground.  Luckily, the blanket of snow cushioned their fall, but in an ideal world, you wouldn’t have a boyfriend-shaped imprint on your lawn at all.

Naturally, you pull said boyfriend inside to warm him up, and the feisty little perpetrator sprints off before you can question him, let alone scold him.

“How cruel,” Jade laments without any real chagrin, pouting and shivering in an exaggerated show of pitifulness.  “With my fragile disposition, I’m afraid I have hypothermia.”

“You grew up in subzero waters, you melodramatic eel.”  You tenderly brush the snow from his nose and lashes.  “But I'm sorry I let it get this far.  I’ll talk with them today.”

He preens under your touch like an overgrown cat.  “If anything, I find it most reassuring that you have such loyal friends.  As for myself, however,” he puts back on a dramatic pout, “my nose is still so terribly cold, it'll be frostbitten if I leave it be.  Won't you please remedy that?”

His frigid cheeks nestled comfortably between your warm palms, Jade’s expectant gaze is impossible to ignore and equally impossible to misinterpret.

So you lean in, bringing your lips ever closer to the tip of his nose…

and cup your hand over it.

“Ah, how romantic,” the eel sighs dreamily.  Like this was what he'd wanted all along.  “I'm feeling much better already.”

“Happy to hear it.”

As if it were a campfire, everyone gathers around the gaming setup that Ortho brought over.  Not you, though—you lurk in the corner—until the robot cinnamon roll himself shines the spotlight on you.

“Prefect!  You’ve been standing there for twelve minutes, and you’re exhibiting physical signs of anxiety.  Are you okay?”

At your silence, the other former first-years (now second-years) pause their game and turn to also look at you.  “Ugh, how do I say this…”

You huff, shuffling closer to sit crosslegged on the floor before them.  “Jade.  You guys are bullying him.”

Seven pairs of eyes blink at you; you blink back.

When they give no verbal response, you press on.  “I know you guys have your thoughts about him—and I get it, I do—but he’s also my boyfriend now.  And you guys are my friends, and I care for you all, so… what’s going on?

“Has he done something to you recently?  Am I not spending enough time with you guys?  What… What do you need for this to work?”

The seven pairs of eyes blink at you again, then at each other, then at you again.

Sebek breaks the silence first.  “Does he care about this as much as you do?”

“About what?  The teasing?” you assume.  “No, definitely not.”

“The relationship,” Ace corrects.

It stings, your friends’ lack of confidence in you and your judgement.  But on the other hand, you know it comes from a place of care and concern.

Jack clears his throat.  “You really care about him, Prefect.  If he doesn’t actually feel the same way, that’s a problem.”

“He does,” you say desperately.  “You’re just gonna have to trust me on that.  He hasn't done anything sketchy since we started dating, and believe me, I’ve been looking.”

“It ain’t that we don’t trust ya, Prefect,” Epel responds.  “It’s him we’re worryin’ about.”

You sigh.  “I get that, but we’re together now.  Could you guys play nice, just for my sake?”

The seven pairs share one more look.

“I’ll think about it.  Especially if he brings tuna.”

“Alright…”

“Sure.”

“Fiiiine.”

“Of course!”

“If you insist.”

“But if anything does happen, we’ll be here.”

“That’s all I'm asking,” you smile.  “Thanks, guys.”

Sure enough, one day passes without incident, then two, then three, and before you know it, Valentine’s Day rolls around.  And boy, have you been preparing for this day.

You’re armed and ready with chocolate.  So.  Much.  Chocolate.

Chocolates filled with caramel for your friends.  90% cocoa dark chocolate for other friends.  Hollow white chocolate eggs coated in a thin layer of milk chocolate and with a surprise toy inside (the best kind), for other other friends.  Slightly-botched-but-still-edible homemade chocolates for your distant acquaintances.  Severely-botched-so-you-leaned-into-it-and-added-laxatives chocolates for your enemies.

And last but far from least, homemade mushroom-shaped chocolates for the boyfriend, in four different flavours.

Once you've personally delivered your greater haul to the doors of each of your friends, all that’s left is Octavinelle, home of your ultimate recipient.  You find Azul and Floyd working in the Lounge—busy with the influx of customers expected during a Valentine’s Day promotional event on a weekend—and give them their gifts: a set of your finest, most potent laxative (jk.  or am i) chocolates for Azul, an assorted pack of novelty chocolates from Sam’s for Floyd.

As for Jade, he'd somehow managed to convince his housewarden into letting him take the day off.  The details aren’t worth fretting over: you’re simply grateful to have him to yourself today.

Funny enough, as you walk down the hall toward Jade’s room, it feels as if someone’s watching you.  But each time you turn, nothing’s there.  Hmm.

You tuck the box of chocolates coyly behind your back and tap your knuckles twice against the door.  He’s been waiting for you: if you couldn’t tell from the haste in which he opens the door, then the antsy little smile on his face would surely give it away.

“Hi, Jade.”

“Hello, my dear Prefect.  Do you have something for me?”

“Well, aren’t you cocky,” you grin, withdrawing the heart-shaped box from behind you and placing it in his waiting hands.  “Happy Valentine’s.”

“Happy Valentine’s,” he parrots, lifting the lid with a tiny gasp.  “Mushroom-shaped…?”

“Did I go overboard?  I almost put them in a mushroom-shaped box too, but I was worried you’d think it was Mushroom Day, not Valentine’s.  For the record, I know you’re more than just ‘mushroom man’, but—”

“It’s perfect.”

A cacophony of thumps and yelps from down the hall draws away your attention.

You sigh like a weary parent of seven when you spot them.  “I told them to behave—”

“It’s alright,” Jade chuckles, merely withdrawing into the room to grab a stack of… envelopes?  “Allow me to handle this.”

“Jade Leech, if you’re blackmailing my friends, I will fry you alive.”

“I'd do nothing of the sort!” he laughs, prying off the hand with which you'd subconsciously gripped his arm.  “No need to worry.  I’ll be back in just a moment.”

So you watch from the doorway as your boyfriend eerily approaches your dogpiled gaggle of idiots.  They’re too far and Jade’s voice too quiet for you to hear, but as the latter hands them the ominous envelopes, their feelings are clear as day.

You follow your friends’ journey of expressions, beginning with fear, morphing to confusion, then shock, and settling into joy before they roll off of each other and shuffle back down the hall with such excitement you’d think they won the lottery.  Ace even throws you a quick thumbs up.

Your eel returns with a satisfied smile, summoning a pouch that couldn’t fit in his pocket.  He presents it with a flourish: magical sparkles and pink hearts that float about like bubbles in the air.  “And for you.”

“Jade…”  You gingerly take the sachet and open it, revealing chocolates in your favourite flavour.  But that aside: “Did you just pay my friends a dowry?”

“My, such marital language!  I had no idea you’d set your sights so far ahead.”

Your blood runs cold.  Too much.  “Wait, I—Not like—!”

“To think that we haven’t even had our first kiss yet,” he prattles on, ignoring your protests completely.  “Marriage!  How scandalous, fufufu.”

Right.  It’s near impossible to weird out (or outweird) Jade Leech.

Your face contorts into a cringe, whether at his antics or at yourself for finding him even remotely charming, indeterminable.  “Alright, buddy.  I’m starting to think you’ll never experience either of those things.”

“And if it wasn’t enough to tease me with the dream of marriage, you threaten to deprive me of your affection.  Poor, unfortunate me, to have fallen for someone so cruel.  Boo hoo.”

Your grimace is impossible to maintain as his brows furrow and his lips press into a dramatic, irritatingly adorable pout.

His.

Lips.

…Nope.  You’re not about to reward him for his bullshit.

You press a chocolate into his mouth and nudge him away by the forehead.

“You sure live up to your name, Leech.”

“There’s no one I'd rather be stuck to,” he hums with his mouth full, “though I did intend for these chocolates to be eaten by you.”

If you tasted him now…

…Nope x2.

You stash away the sweets and leave, holding your hand out beside you until Jade inevitably catches up to you and slips his fingers into yours.

“Now this feels familiar, doesn’t it?”

You squeeze Jade’s mittened hand in silent agreement.  As you walk hand-in-hand through the harbour, you’re reminded of your first date in the Kingdom of Roses.  Though this time, instead of summer fare and games, it’s… lovey-dovey stuff.

Each shop has a Valentine’s promotional deal, game stalls host challenges for couples to test their bond, pop-up vendors sell charms for ‘everlasting love’.  And people actually showed up for this bogus.

You could’ve sworn there weren’t this many people on this tiny island, but everyone must’ve come up from RSA since they’re mushy like that (ew).  Can’t relate, you think, ogling your boyfriend whenever you think he’s not looking.  (He always is, to both your embarrassment and your pleasure.)

Jade gestures with your joined hands at a nearby booth.  “They’re giving out free lip balm at that booth there.”

“Free?”  Enough said.  “Lead the way.”

When you reach the front of the line, you realise that it’s not exactly for free, per se.

“So here’s how it works,” the brand ambassador explains.  “I’m going to give one of you a cotton swab with a secret flavour, and the other will have to correctly guess the flavour for you to get your free lip balms.  Sound good?”

The Chapstick Challenge.

“Excellent,” chirps your scheming boyfriend, clearly unsurprised by this information and far too pleased with himself.

“Uh huh,” you grumble, exercising your nastiest side-eye.

You snatch the cotton swab yourself before Jade gets any more ideas.  For a split second, you consider applying it to yourself… but no.

Grasping his chin with your free hand, you trace his lips with the applicator.  Frictionless, it glides over the peachy skin and leaves behind an even film of balm.

“You slimy eel,” you whisper, deep in concentration.  “You’re not chapped at all.”

Smug eyes are what you expect to see when you look up.  Instead, his eyes are blown wide and dazed.  Heh.

“Here goes!” you announce louder than needed.  Then, angling yourself to block the worker’s view, you bring your face ever closer to Jade’s, lips ever closer to his…

Just enough to catch a whiff of the balm.

You whip back around before your lips can touch.  “Lavender vanilla?”

“Yes, that’s right!  Here’s your prize!”

You’re forced to tug your eel by the hand to get him moving again.

“I’ve fallen for a tease,” he sighs after five minutes.

“Well I’ve fallen for a swindler,” you titter back.  “C’mon, my swindler, I know you’re hungry.  Let’s go get some food, hmm?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Because Fate hates you, you happen to lead your boyfriend into a pasta restaurant where the owners greet you so warmly, you're now morally obligated to stay and order something.

And of course, because Cupid hates you too, this restaurant has a promotional deal: finish a bowl of one (1, singular) ultra long spaghetto with your significant other to get 30% off your meal.  Jade’s eyes regain their light (read: cunning gleam) upon hearing this.  You, on the other hand, do not want to have your first kiss over a literal noodle.

But 30% off the meal…  And the only conditions are that you finish in under five minutes and eat from one end of the noodle?

Of course you accept the challenge, to your eel’s poorly concealed excitement.

So the waiter brings out the manhole-cover-sized dish, Jade bites one end of the noodle, you the other, and the timer starts.

End held between your lips, you glance casually at the waiter, who stares back at you with bewilderment.  You glance back at Jade, who stares back at you with determination.  He’s already halfway through the pasta by the 1-minute mark.

You feel just a little bad when the intact end of the noodle slips from your lips, vacuumed straight into the maw of your resigned boyfriend.

“Uh, wow…!” the waiter nods, baffled.  “You finished in 2:11, so I guess that’s a success?”

“Sorry for being a poor sport,” you chuckle.  “I’m sure you guys expect your participants to kiss, but my boyfriend here is just ravenous today so I thought he’d appreciate the extra portion.”

“Oh, n-no, that's fine!  A lot of people try the challenge with their friends and we don't ask them to kiss, obviously,” the waiter rambles.  “Uh, I'm just shocked that he ate all that on his own… and so quickly?  It takes pairs at least four minutes!”

“And he’s still hungry, believe it or not!”  Being seated side-by-side, it’s easy to peck Jade on the cheek.  “Incredible, isn’t he?  I’m so lucky to have him.”  You pointedly play up the goo-goo eyes, amused at the way his eyes glaze over in defeat.

Of course you’d like to kiss him.

But so would he, and it’s good to make your eel work for what he wants, just once in a while.  Enrichment’s healthy!

Jade’s resolve is wavering just a little.

“Look over there, my loving Valentine,” he notes with sarcastic monotony, “it’s a kissing contest.”

Subtle.

“So it is.”

“I’d imagine it would be very cathartic to express one’s affection so freely.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would.”

He stops in front of you, eyeing your lips.  “Oya?  Then what are we waiting for?”

Smirking, you clasp your bare hands behind the eel’s neck; his amber eye shines ever brighter with hope.  But to his chagrin, your attention is pulled elsewhere.  “Wait, there’s a photo booth!”

“Ah.  I’ve heard about those.  I’ve still yet to try one.”

“There’s a first time for everything!” you pipe, beelining for the amenity.

It’s four photos to a strip and two copies are printed: you take one and sunnily slot the other between your eel’s frozen fingers.

The first photo is comedically tacky, as intended.  Your right and Jade’s left hands form the stiff, distinct shape of a heart; you don the most awkward grin you could muster, he wears his signature polite-and-nothing-more smile.  It looks like you’re both terrible actors being held at gunpoint to play the role of a lovey-dovey couple.

The second photo shows the aftermath of performing such a terrible (albeit deliberate) display: the left half blurred with candid laughter (yours) and the right half still and calm (Jade).  He’s smiling, genuinely, half-lidded eyes fondly trained on your dynamic visage.

The third photo is a snapshot summary of today.  Jade leans in toward you, his desires clear, and you press your fingers over his lips in a gentle rejection.  He looks at you with acceptance and affection; you look back with an amused grin (and equal fondness).

The fourth photo is Jade’s favourite.  Well, actually, he hasn't seen it yet.  But once he regains his senses, you have no doubt!

After all, it's the picture of your first kiss: chaste and sweet and picture-perfect.

You wake in the morning to a voice message from Floyd in the middle of the night, whining about how his brother is broken again; Jade won’t stop giggling and grinning in his sleep.  And sure enough, when the former swung his phone closer to the source of the sound…

“…mmm…again…fufufu…”

Cute.

Cute.

You make sure to download and back up the recording in at least five different locations, for safekeeping.

Stupid Ace jinxed you.

“He’s gonna be too busy being a vice-housewarden and thinking about his internship!”

That’s what Ace said back in September!

…Okay, maybe it’s not Ace’s fault.  But it’s also not Jade’s fault.  Nor is it yours.

It’s everything else’s fault.

The arrival of spring marks the beginning of a storm of projects, labs, and mock exams leading up to finals in June.  And on top of all that, your boyfriend has vice-housewarden duties and the Lounge and internship applications to worry about.

‘Worry’, of course, being relative; he seems to be managing just fine.  And that’s the worst part, ashamed as you are to admit it.

Because he’s fine without you.

Does he miss you even a fraction as much as you miss him?

Would he be just as happy if you’d never confessed to him?

Oh Seven.  If you’re like this already… how are you going to manage next year when you’re even farther apart?

You should be happy for him, happy that he’s doing well; you should have more faith in your relationship, be less insecure and clingy and insufferable.  But as the weeks pass and your paths cross less and less, catching the rare sight of him from across the hall feels more painful than it should.

You don’t tell Jade any of this; no need to make a mess of things when he’s got more important things to deal with.  At the very least, it can wait until after exams are done.

And things could always be worse!

Case in point: the annual Starsending ceremony being thrown into the mix.

First off, finals season and the weeks leading up to it are already stressful.  As fun as it is to wish upon a star, unfortunately, finishing that essay worth 35% and due in five hours might just take higher priority.

Plus, you'd completely forgotten this tradition existed.  It's only your second year in this world, after all, so excuse you for not being used to all the new customs.  You also didn’t make a wish last year, so the memory of the ceremony must've been thrown to the back of your mind—buried under all the overblots, perhaps!

It certainly didn’t help either to receive the reminder no more than a week before the ceremony.  The three unfortunate souls chosen to be Stargazers will have their work cut out for them.

And just who are the selected Stargazers?  (Take a guess!)  The horoscopes this year landed on November 5th—Jade and Floyd’s birthday—

and your birthday.  Congrats.

One after another, Crowley assigns you the position of Stargazer, the role of drummer in the ceremony itself, and the traditional Stargazer uniform (which is very… attention-grabbing).

“…Do I really have to wear this outside the ceremony?”

“Why, of course!  Haven’t you heard of the phrase, ‘dress for success’?” the Headmage replies with theatrical enthusiasm, then sobers.  “A Stargazer out of uniform would leave a lasting bad impression.  I'd be sure not to forget it.”

You shudder.

By the time you’ve gotten changed and swapped Grim’s ribbon to match, Jade has already magically donned his own uniform, and Floyd is… nowhere to be found.  No surprises there.

But back to Jade: your eyes skim right over the uniform itself and hone in on b a r e   s h o u l d e r s .

The muscles flex, rolling back in a smooth wave, taunting.

“My,” Jade giggles coyly behind his naked hand, “your gawking has me feeling incredibly flustered.”

Voiceless, you tug the dropped sleeves of his cape up and over the curve of his shoulders; they fall helplessly back down to their original position, ornate embroidery framing flawless skin.  Damn it.

The eel cocks his head, chin resting against loose fist.  “Is there something wrong with my appearance?” he coos, like he doesn’t already know.

You lean forward, muffling your exasperated groan in layers of (boyfriend) material.  Your heart has been aching lately, but the sweetness in Jade’s chuckle and the way he cradles your head against him soothes the sting. 

Through luck and madness, you somehow survive.  Three unit tests, an alchemy practical, Starsending ceremony rehearsals, the collection of hundreds of Wishing Stars, and you’re still alive.

Between your reputation (respected as the dependable Prefect and/or feared as Jade Leech’s partner) and threats incentives (brandishing Grim as a flamethrower and/or mentioning your boyfriend by name), the latter went smoother than you’d expected.

The process is simple: confront the target, demand they declare their wish, witness their Wishing Star light up with magic, collect it, and hang it up on the designated tree behind the school.

By Friday, all the stars have been collected and hung but Jade’s; a total happenstance—or so you thought.  He clearly had different plans.

When the eel opens his door to you the next morning, you're hit with a small but uncharacteristic bout of fear.

“…Jade.”

“Yes, my star?”

“Seven,” you flinch at the new, festive pet name, and his gleaming eyes crinkle into delighted crescent moons.  But nevermind the nickname, “Why are you wearing that?”

The ceremonial clothes.  Pretty shoulders out there for all (you) to see.

“To collect your Wishing Star, of course.”

“No,” you drawl incredulously, “I’m collecting your star.”

Silence from Jade; the cattish grin on his face speaks for itself: Plans change.

You squint back.  “Well, Floyd took my wish already.”

He hums, unconvinced.  “Your wish, or Grim’s wish?  I’m aware that the Headmage provided only one Wishing Star to share between you.”

“It’s worth more to him than to me.  I don't mind.”

“I do.”  He slips a jagged weight into your open palm, supporting your hand with his own.  “Make your wish.  We’ll light it with my magic.”

Void of magic, the magestone—Jade’s Wishing Star—is dark save for the hairline veins, smoky white, running through the mineral like rippling seafoam.  Each of the uneven edges presses a soothing kiss to the nerves in your fingers.

A dismissive chuckle breezes past your teeth.  Laying your heart bare for a casual tradition isn’t exactly an appealing idea.  A throwaway, then: “I wish you’d wear normal clothes.”

The dusky glasslike stone stays unlit.

Jade titters, “Come now, don't waste our wish.”

“What do you mean?  That’s what I want.”

He tips your chin to meet his eyes.  “It’d be a shame if we resorted to my unique magic to know your true wish.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” he concedes, returning his hand to cradle yours.  “I’ll be saving that for a more important question.”

You get a rush of tingles for some indiscernible reason.  “Ominous,” you laugh.

He sighs sweetly.  Such softness in his gaze, you’d think he was looking at a particularly freaky mushroom but no, he’s looking at you.

Oh.  It's the way he looks at you that gives you the tingles.  And also maybe the way he touches you.  And—

Great Seven, you've been dating this eel for almost a year now; shouldn't you be less lovesick by now?  Less distraught when you're apart?  Less smitten by his mere existence?

This whole tradition, these Wishing Stars are purely symbolic.  It won’t matter whether you wish to grow another 20 centimetres in height, or to do well in your finals, or for Jade to cover his damn shoulders.  A silly wish won't overwrite reality.

But something about him makes you want to wish wholeheartedly anyway.

What to wish for, though?

‘For your internship to be fruitful’?  Only a fraction of what you truly want.

‘To live the rest of my life in your arms’?  …Tone it down a notch, pal.

‘That Azul would stop giving you so many shifts at the Lounge’?  Okay, now you’re just griping.

You sigh, “I don’t know how to word it.”

“Is that so?” he hums with an impish grin, removing his hands.  “Or are you simply self-censoring?

“Would it help if I told you that I love you?  Or that I suffer in your absence?”

´(º—º)`

Kaput! goes your heart, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH goes your brain.

“Jade, what—”

“I suppose I’ll suggest something, then,” he interrupts.  “Do let me know if I’m on the wrong track.

“‘We wish for the next year to be kind to us, and for any time we spend apart to pass in the blink of an eye.’  Is that alright?”

With wide eyes, you nod.

“Wonderful.”  He places his hands back around yours and recites the wish; this time, the star sparks alight like striking a match.  You’ve watched this process over a hundred times now, but it feels different this time: more brilliant, more meaningful.

The glowing centre of the magestone shines gold like Jade’s left eye, and at the pointed edges, fades into a soothing teal the same soothing teal as Jade’s hair.  Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

You open your mouth.  “Jade—”

“Shall we go hang this—”

“Shush for just a second, will you?!” you bark, shaking him like a broken vending machine by the lapels of his cape; obediently, his mouth snaps shut.  “We’re not just breezing by that!”

“…by what?” your eel feigns innocence.

Even as you glare at him—him with his knowing, expectant, self-satisfied little smile (stupid, stupid, stupid)—you can’t even manage to find him any less adorable.

“I hate you,” you lie, but the sweet kisses you press to his cheeks, his nose, his forehead each confess I love you, I love you, I love you.

 Just before meeting his, your lips bespeak your true reply: “I love you too.”

Crowley’s year-end homily feels shorter this time; maybe that’s because you now have the clarity to actually listen.  He probably reuses the same script every year, not that it's particularly remarkable: “What a pleasure it’s been to foster the academic progress of so many fledging mages!” and “This year has been fruitful for all of us!” and whatnot.

With the conclusion of the ceremony, you scoop Grim up and follow the flow with your clump of friends, yelling to each other about your summer plans as to be heard through the raucous crowd.

When you spot your boyfriend waiting for you in the courtyard and announce, “Bye, guys!  Have a good summer!” your friends are all sunny smiles and laughs.  Not a hint of stress to be found in your group, no concerns for your judgement, no suggestions or offers for alternative plans. Even Grim, who’s coming with you, has (close to) no complaints.

“Have a good summer,” they simply parrot, “invite us over sometime!”

One year ago, you confessed to Jade Leech.  You did it with logic at heart, but faulty logic in practice.

And yet as he peers back at you with adoration in his eyes, one hand jingling a pair of keys to a flat—to your flat in Ultramarine City—and the other hand outstretched for you to take, you can’t help but wonder why you ever doubted this contingency at all.

initial concept inspired by schoenpepper’s “Jade Leech and the Three Breakups” (deactivated; reblog to view the full fic) and cannedpickledpeaches’ “Sad Poems but I Choose to Interpret Them as Happy” :)  honourable mention to rel124c41’s many masterful fics (like this one, this one, and these ones) which simultaneously fed and fuelled my cravings for jade :’0  sorry for being so annoying but her works were genuinely the biggest reason i could finish this mess with any sanity remaining whatsoever

edit: oh my god i forgot to fix the part after the kiss where it's implied jade and floyd are still sleeping in the same bedroom. please pretend one of the following:

a) floyd felt like sleeping over and so jade let him stay

b) floyd barged into jade's room at 2 am and the latter slept through it

Jade’s inclinations are hardly static.  Manhole covers, for instance, used to fascinate him to no end.  The moray’s interest has since shifted to mushrooms and the mountains; he might someday grow out of that too.  Today, however, his thoughts mainly revolve around a future with you.

“Jade.”

“Yes, my love?”

He knows with certainty that he’ll never tire of sharing a bed with you, though, as you snuggle impossibly closer to him under the sheets, pressing your lips to the delicate skin by his Adam’s apple.

“Do you ever think about marriage?” you whisper.

For all his fixating on it, Jade didn’t exactly expect you to be the first to broach the topic.  Your grin blooms against his throat as he swallows.

Contrary to the flightiness of his pulse, however, his reply is placid: “Of course.”

“Oh?  Tell me more~”

As endearing as it is, won’t you set aside the teasing and humour him just this once?

“You first,” he counters.

…You do think about it… don’t you?

“I haven’t even graduated yet.  It’s a little early to be imagining this, isn’t it?”

Jade’s blood freezes over.  ‘Early’…?  Perhaps; does it matter?

Do you not want this as much as he does?

Do you want this at all?

“But I do it anyways,” you continue, cutting through his spiraling worries.  “Too much, probably.  It'll be a whole ordeal, after all.  I think your mom’ll want to be involved in the planning—not that I mind; she’ll be a big help—but a spring or summer wedding would be nice; catching a cold from our Trials doesn’t sound particularly fun…”

Your passion is so infectious, your vision so vivid, Jade forgets you're not already engaged.

He’d best amend that.

Deciding on the ring is easy.

Deciding on when and where to propose is easy.

But restraining himself until the right moment is the most torturous endeavor Jade has ever undertaken.

‘Marry me’ sounds delicious yet sits nauseatingly on the tip of his tongue; he wishes he could spit it out.

You’ll smile at him, and he’ll want to say it.

You’ll comb your fingers through his hair, and he’ll want to say it.

You’ll wake up in the morning, and he’ll want—more than anything—to say it.

To stave off the urges, Jade doesn’t keep the ring on him, but it’s a futile effort: the words threaten to spill regardless.  Still, you’re worth more than a self-indulgent impulse, so he’ll swallow the nausea time and time again.

You’d said it was too early to consider marriage when you haven’t graduated college, so he’ll wait.  He’ll wait until then, and not a moment longer.

After your graduation ceremony, in privacy, Jade finally liberates the words:

“Will you marry me?”

The phrase doesn’t feel as good as he’d expected; the relief doesn’t come.

For the look on your face, as Jade kneels before you with a ring, is one of horror.

“W-Wait, Jade,” you choke out, “Jade, hold on.  Stand up.”

He can’t.  He can hardly breathe.  When you realise that, you lean down and gently tug him upright.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like this…” you mutter.

No, it wasn’t.

He thought he was certain.

He should have bought you 99 roses, not 24.

He should have waited at least one more day to ask for your hand, even if it killed him.

He should have, he should have—!

“Gah, I’m supposed to be the one asking you!  Why’d you have to go and beat me to it?!”

…What?

Sensation slowly returns to Jade’s body.  He feels your hands on his cheeks.  He sees the fondness in your eyes rapidly shifting to concern.

“Oh Seven, I scared you, didn’t I?” you startle.  “I’m so sorry!  I didn’t mean to, I promise!”

He opens his mouth to ask the question again, but it’s gone; no sound comes out.

You understand nonetheless.  “I’ll marry you, I’ll marry you!  Of course I will!  How could you ever doubt that?  Oh, Jade, I’m so so sorry—”

When your eel’s legs inevitably buckle and he collapses atop you in relief, he has no desire to move, nor do you have the heart to tease him for it.

Frankly, Jade doesn’t care about how it happened.  After all, you’ll marry him, and that alone is enough for him to die happy.  You’ve always been one to break the mould, though; that’s what drew you together in the first place.

A second proposal happens just one day after the first, this time by your hand, wearing your own engagement band from his proposal yesterday.

“Jade Leech, will you marry me?”

Whether you proposed with paper rings or onion rings or nothing at all, Jade’s answer wouldn’t change: he’d marry you; he’d marry you a million times over. But it’s platinum, the ring you present to him—his ring—durable and timeless to outlive you both.

Beyond life and death, your love will remain.

“There’s nothing I want more.  Let’s get married, my love.”

His first instinct is to question Kalim. It wouldn't be the first time he's taken or moved Jamil's stuff without asking.

But when asked, Kalim replies, "Your hoodie? Hmmm... I don't think I took it…"

So it wasn't him.

"But now that I'm thinking back, maybe…?" he continues. "But I don't think so! But maybe..."

Or it probably wasn't him. Jamil will just have to take his (first) word for it.

The next suspect is Jamil's roommate. Not because the guy is particularly suspicious, but because they do share a room, after all. Things tend to get mixed up in a shared room.

His roommate's underwhelming reply: "The red one you usually wear? Nah, sorry, haven't seen it. Have you asked Housewarden Kalim if he knows where it is?"

"He doesn't. But thanks.”

Jamil's final suspect is you. The possibility is too far-fetched though; you've never taken anything from him, you have no reason to do so, and you haven't even been to his room recently (all of the above to his well-concealed disappointment). So he decides against bothering you about it.

In short: your boyfriend really has no idea where his hoodie has gone. But no matter, he has a spare. It's a generic solid black and made of a cheaper material, but it'll do as a temporary replacement until he finds his usual one.

As Jamil makes his way to class, you’re the first to remark on the change.

You skip up to him from behind, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You look good in black,” you whisper, running off toward your class before Jamil has the chance to respond. Not that he’d have the composure to respond anyways, even if you’d stayed.

You look good in black.

You look good in black.

You look good in black.

Your compliment echoes through his mind all day, during class, during lunch, during club, during chores. Though you’ve been together for a little while now, Jamil’s still not immune to your charm.

He doesn’t even mind that he has to wear his spare for the next few days. Of course he doesn’t mind: you like how he looks in it.

It isn’t until next laundry day that the hoodie is finally found.

“Turns out, I did have it!” Jamil’s roommate chuckles, holding it out to him. “My bad, bro. I guess it ended up mixed in with my laundry.”

“It’s fine,” Jamil sighs, taking the article back. “Just glad it wasn’t actually lost.”

As Jamil tosses it into his own laundry pile, he catches a whiff of the fabric and the image of you materializes in his brain: clad in his hoodie and your usual pyjama pants, you’re lounging around Ramshackle, nestling adorably into the plush clothes.

He wishes he could’ve seen it in person—wait, what is he talking about? He shakes his head to dissipate the thought. That was just a fantasy; you didn’t touch the thing, you haven’t even stopped by Scarabia recently. But still—

Jamil retrieves the hoodie.

…No, it’s just wishful thinking.

He throws it back into the pile to be washed with the rest of his dirty laundry.

The moment he pulls it out the dryer, Jamil plunges his nose into the clean fabric. It smells of nothing but fresh laundry.

Good. I don’t want lingering scents on my clothes. It would be bothersome if it still smelled after washing.

That’s what Jamil tells himself.

But deep, deep, deep down, against all logic, he hopes that it was miraculously you whose scent was on his hoodie, and he wishes it still smelled of you. He would sooner shave his head and smack Kalim across the face with the chopped-off ponytail than ever admit that, though.

II.

It’s laundry day again. Among other things.

On top of laundry, Jamil still has to tutor Kalim, fill out paperwork for the dorm (on Kalim’s behalf), cook up a feast for yet another party that Kalim is throwing tonight, and then look after himself. But a never-ending to-do list is nothing new for your boyfriend. 

He deeply appreciates how you come to Scarabia to help him shoulder the load, though. When Kalim begins to get sidetracked during homework, you nudge him back in the right direction. When Jamil is busy duel-wielding pans on the stove, you help him wash and chop ingredients. When Jamil needs just a second to breathe, you’re there to massage his shoulders.

He has you to thank when he finally reaches the bottom of his to-do list, and slightly ahead of schedule at that. All he has left to do is his laundry, so you supervise Kalim on his behalf in the meantime.

But of course, Jamil can’t get through a single day without something going wrong. His go-to washing machine was busted a few days ago by his dormmates, so Jamil now has to use a different, less reliable machine. And because he hasn’t vetted this one, he can’t say for sure whether it’ll eat his socks or not.

Well, good news: the machine does not end up swallowing his socks. 

Bad news: it eats his basketball jersey instead. Which is objectively and significantly worse.

When Jamil realizes the jersey that he definitely put into the washing machine will not be coming out of said machine, he has to consciously restrain himself from collapsing into a sulky ball of exasperation.

He has a basketball game tomorrow.

But fortunately, as unlucky as Jamil is, he is equally as prepared. One perk of being a second-year Basketball Club member is that he still has his old jersey from last year. The design is slightly different so he won’t match with his teammates, but it’s certainly better than nothing.

“Hey, what’s with the weird jersey?” Ace is annoyingly more observant than Jamil would like to give him credit for and just as nosy.

“Laundry mishap,” Jamil replies bluntly, focussing on warming up. If only Ace would do the same.

“Hah!” the redhead barks. “I guess even the Great Jamil makes mistakes~”

Great Jamil simply glares. “It was the machine.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”

How are you friends with this guy?

NRC vs. RSA. It’s only an exhibition game so it technically doesn’t matter, but losing now would crush the team’s morale in the long run. Plus, it would be very satisfying to make RSA taste defeat for once.

Unfortunately, playing against RSA is always an uphill battle, and it doesn’t help that Floyd isn’t in a basketball mood (he didn’t even bother showing up). Thus NRC’s slim chance of victory is basically banking on Jamil. No pressure.

The bleachers are filled almost exclusively with RSA students, which is strange considering it’s an away game for them, and yet not strange considering their notorious school spirit. Though Jamil lacks the time to find you in the sea of goody-two-shoes, he has full faith that you’re here. You never fail to support him, a fact that gives Jamil a comforting sense of security.

Three quarters into the game, RSA is in the lead. It’s not impossible to make a comeback and Jamil makes sure to gradually close the gap with all the time he’s on the court, but it’s clear that NRC is losing steam.

And then, when he shoots a beautiful 3-pointer in the last couple seconds of the quarter, Jamil hears you over the buzzer.

“WOOO SWIIIISH!!! THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND!”

He whips his head around, scanning the crowd for you. And then he spots you…

“I LOVE YOU, JAMIL!!!”

…wearing his jersey. The one that the washing machine ate. Or that he thought it ate.

He doesn’t know if he feels more embarrassed or flattered.

The second you lock eyes, a cheeky grin blooms on your face and you exit the bleachers. On the same wavelength, Jamil makes his way to meet you outside the gym.

“So it was you.”

“Straight to the point, huh?” you chuckle, and Jamil’s heart skips a beat. “I knew you had this spare, so, y’know. Took it out of the washer when you were busy.”

“I’m the only one wearing the old design,” he sighs. “It’s not uniform.”

“If it bothers you that much, I could theoretically give it back to you now,” you offer, “but I’m not really wearing anything underneath…”

Jamil feels his face heat up. Hopefully you’ll just attribute his flush to physical exertion, but the way you smile at him so sweetly indicates otherwise. He’s not gonna let you win, though.

“Then we’ll swap.” Grasping the neckline of his jersey before you can catch on, Jamil slips it over his head.

Overlooking the jersey in his outstretched hand, you sputter, blatantly ogling your boyfriend’s bare chest and abs. While intense attention usually makes him uncomfortable, it’s different when it’s from you.

“You took my hoodie too, didn’t you?” he probes, feeling a hearty dose of pride at the way you fluster. You giggle guiltily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Once you finally manage to collect yourself and change jerseys, Jamil hums in satisfaction at the sight. His clothes suit you.

“The last quarter’s gonna start,” you remind him nervously, pushing his rightful jersey into his hands. “Kick their asses, okay? I’ll be cheering you on!”

Needless to say, NRC wins the game. All thanks to the MVP Jamil, fuelled by your encouragement and the image of you in his jersey.

You don’t return it after the game, and Jamil doesn’t ask. If you were to bring it up, he’d simply say he forgot about it. He didn’t, of course, but please don’t question his claim.

(And please wear the jersey to all his games.)

III.

Following the two occurrences of his clothes going ‘missing’, the thought of you wearing his stuff plagues Jamil’s mind for weeks on end.

In every one of his thoughts and dreams, you’re wearing something of his. A t-shirt, sweatpants, tank top, sweater. Any or all of the above. Each time he puts something on, he no longer thinks about how he looks in it and instead thinks about how you’d look in it.

To Jamil’s dismay, it gets to the point where he’s almost shocked to see you in real life wearing your own clothes. And with the weather getting oddly frigid as of late, the sight of you layering every piece in your measly wardrobe is not only shocking, but concerning.

One particularly frosty Tuesday morning, Jamil finally decides to bring up his concern.

“I’m guessing you don’t have winter clothes,” he notes pointedly, eyeing your outfit. With what must be four t-shirts layered (read: stuffed) under your button down shirt, topped with your uniform blazer, this truly has to be every article in your possession. He casually takes hold of your bare hands. “Or gloves.”

Your freezing hands nestle into the warm embrace of his own mittened ones. “It’s fine,” you smile, nose flushed. “I’m inside pretty much the whole day.”

“Your classes are on the other side of campus,” he points out incredulously. “And then you have to walk all the way back to Ramshackle—does Ramshackle even have heating?”

You stay suspiciously quiet.

“You’re going to catch a cold. I’ll come by in the evening to give you warmer clothes.” His warmer clothes, that is.

Beaming at him, you sniffle. “Thanks, Jamil. I’ll try to stay inside as much as I can until then.”

After the day’s classes, your boyfriend abides by his word, putting together a care package of thermal socks, thermal underwear, gloves, a scarf, a toque, an overcoat, and his softest sw—wait, where’s his sweatshirt?

Jamil is mid-search when he remembers:

His significant other is a clothes thief. A wardrobe raider. A closet crook.

He sighs and makes his way to Ramshackle, incomplete care package in hand, knowing that it’ll be complete once it gets to you.

Wasting no time to prove him right, you open the door wearing it. And just like that, you’ve got Jamil’s heart in your sleeve-buried hands. You look so innocent and precious despite how you literally stole the clothes from under his nose. How ironic.

“Jamil?” you prompt after a moment, smirk barely repressed. “You coming in?”

Right. Coming in. You need stuff. The stuff he’s brought with him. Right.

“Yes,” he manages, somehow without any hint of fluster. “Now shut the door quickly before the cold gets in.”

Per Jamil’s ask, you close the creaky wooden door behind him. 

“Here.” Jamil holds the package out to you, forcing himself to meet your eyes. The way your expression visibly lights up has him fighting the urge to turtle up in his hood and pull the drawstrings taut.

You gently take it from his hold, your brilliant smile unwavering. And then, to your boyfriend’s elation dismay, you lean in to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thanks,” you chuckle softly, turning to make your way upstairs. “I’m gonna go put these away, but I’ve got the fire on. Get yourself warm, ‘kay? Be right back!” You whiz away and Jamil makes quick work of shedding his jacket and shoes, hanging the former on your coat rack and swapping the latter for the designated pair of slippers you’ve set aside for him.

As he enters the lounge with the fireplace, Jamil notes that Ramshackle is actually warmer than he’d expected (not that the bar was high), a huge relief for him. You’re at least safe from freezing while in here, especially if you sit by the fire, like Jamil is right now.

“I’m gonna make some hot chocolate,” you call out. You must’ve returned downstairs while Jamil was distracted. “Want some?”

“Please,” he answers, trusting you enough that he doesn’t avert his gaze from the flames.

Minutes later, you deposit a cocoa-filled mug into his hands and plop yourself onto the nearby couch. The frigid wind taps a tree branch against the window, the muffled conversations between Grim and the resident ghosts can be barely heard through the cracks in the wood, and the fire crackles quite excitedly, but you and Jamil otherwise stew in comfortable silence. And then you take a quiet breath.

“Love you, Jamil.”

Jamil’s head shoots up and he takes in the sight of you: on your front, drowning in his baggy sweatshirt, feet kicking around slowly behind you.

Your squished cheeks resting in your palms, Jamil finds himself feeling a new way.

As a member of the Basketball Club, Jamil has front row seats to the questionable behaviour of Floyd Leech. One of the many things that Jamil never understood about the menace was his frequent urge to squeeze. 

But with the way your eyes soften so sweetly as he stares into them, Jamil can’t help but realize:

Now he understands.

Jamil notices three new things the next day:

You’re appropriately dressed for the subzero weather. In his clothes, of course. Each time Jamil catches sight of you, he has to fight the urge to smirk and brag.

You’ve changed your phone background to a picture from yesterday: a selfie of you in Jamil’s sweatshirt, with said Jamil wrapping himself around you. Your smile in the photo is infectious.

One of his t-shirts has gone missing. He gets the feeling he knows who’s responsible.

Wrong, apparently.

You get stuck rereading the same five-sentence explanation for ten minutes straight, trying and failing to understand the awkward wording, before giving up on that approach.

So you attempt a practice question.  Your answer ends up being so wrong that you think you’re looking at the wrong chapter on the solution key.  But at least you’re not as bad as Grim, who honestly wrote 2 x 4 = 9 as his final answer for a question about derivatives!

(…On second thought, that’s arguably more concerning than reassuring, and you should really stop comparing yourself to a cat who’s learning math for the first time in his life.)

Forty-five minutes later, it’s less like you’ve ‘landed among the stars’, and more like you’ve landed in a nearby pothole, miraculously lower than where you’d started.  But despite it all—

“C’mon Henchhuman!  Let’s go eat cake!” Grim pleads for the umpteenth time in the past twenty minutes.

—you have a party to get to: one to which Riddle personally invited you.

“Alright,” you agree at last, masking your eagerness to escape the clutches of calculus.

So you fix up your appearance, Grim psychs himself up to stuff his face, and you both set out for Heartslabyul with a skip in your step: Grim, because he’s a bottomless pit, and you, at the thought of seeing a certain red-haired housewarden again.

As usual, the unbirthday party is perfectly nonsensical and perfectly pleasant, each of your five senses pleased. The weather is sunny but not too hot, the mild aroma of tea and Trey’s baking carries on the gentle breeze, said baking is delicious, and joyful chatter fills the air.

The cherry on top?  An absolute sight for sore eyes: Riddle Rosehearts.  Each glance you get of him makes you get 1% happier.  (Currently, you’re 189% happy.  Is that how math works?  Probably not; who knows; who cares.)

It’s a double-edged sword, though, because you’re looking at him too much: you know you are, but you can’t help it.  Countless times, you’ve zoned out and realised you were staring.  And when you’re not doing that, you find your ears automatically honing in on his voice, his hums, his laughs.

Riddle even catches you staring at him.  Multiple times.  Could you play it off and pretend you’re not?  Sure, it’s probably humanly possible, and Riddle would probably be none the wiser, but each time you make eye contact, you panic and avert your gaze in the most conspicuous way possible.  And in case he doesn’t catch you whipping your head around at neck-breaking speeds, your face heats up and you get noticeably jittery.

The embarrassment doesn’t stop you, though.  It’s a small price to pay for looking at the prettiest guy in existence.

At the end of the party, you do your part and help clean up.  Taking a manageable stack of dirty dishes, you make your way to the dorm kitchen.

“Prefect, you don’t need to do the hosts’ duties.”

You jump, though luckily without fumbling any dishes.  That’s the voice that’s been at the forefront of your mind for the past two hours.

You chuckle nervously, turning to face him.  “Riddle!  You scared me.”

“Ah, I’m sorry!” he blurts, uncharacteristically clumsy.  “I didn’t mean to.”

Then, in a one-two combo of confusion, someone swoops in and snatches the pile from your arms.  “Hey—!” you squawk, whipping back around to see Cater, traitorous chore thief, zipping away toward the kitchen.

But the gentle hold around your wrist freezes you in your tracks, and you swivel back around (again) to the sight of Riddle growing redder by the second.  “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Uh?” you say very eloquently, the butterflies in your stomach taking over your brain.  As the housewarden’s complexion fades into the colour of his hair, you realise that you might be in trouble for a different reason than your own personal feelings for him.

“About your grades in math class,” he finishes, affirming your worries.

Anything concerning your math grade is fundamentally bad news as it is.  But in combination with Riddle, notorious despiser of bad grades, you’re actually going to shrivel up and die in pure misery.

As he kindly releases your wrist, you contemplate your two options: let Riddle crush both your self-confidence and your heart as he scolds you for your mathematical ineptitude, or run away right now and avoid him until the end of time.  Neither option sounds particularly good, but you're not in the mood for running.

Your next best bet is to try and soften the blow.

“I promise I’m trying.  I just can’t…” you trail off in your defense, feeling the shame sink in.  “Even when I put hours into studying, it doesn’t get me very far.”

“I believe you.”  Your eyes snap up to meet his shining gaze.  “You’re a capable and responsible student in your other classes, so I doubt that it’s an issue of effort,” he doesn’t hesitate to assure you, but it somehow doesn’t make you feel much better.

As cute as it is, Riddle’s sweet little smile is extremely unsettling given the circumstances.  You reflexively grimace, making him flinch in regret.

“Yeah, I guess I seem pretty dull, huh?” you sigh self-deprecatingly.  “You probably find this stuff really easy—”

“Ah—That’s not what I meant at all!” Riddle interjects.  “What I meant was: I believe you’d be capable of doing well in the class with just a bit of direction, so I wanted to offer myself as a resource.”

You openly gawk.  “Wait… what?  Seriously?”

If it was at all possible, he manages to look even more bashful.  “It’s no extra work for me.  I take measures to ensure that the students of Heartslabyul are comfortably passing in all of their subjects, and… well, to put it kindly, Deuce would benefit from some academic support.  

“He’s the one who suggested extending the tutoring sessions to you,” Riddle prattles on quickly, as if defending himself, “which I agree is a good idea to help settle his nerves and make him more receptive to learning.  And of course, I still owe you a lot for putting up with my… behaviour earlier this school year.”

Well, even if it was all Deuce’s idea and you were just an afterthought, you’re still touched.  And more than that, you’d never turn down an honest opportunity to improve your tragic grades, nor one to spend more time with Riddle.

“You’re sure that it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle?” you confirm.  “I know you’re really busy as it is.”

His smile reappears, a welcome sight this time.  “Not at all.  It would be my pleasure, truly.”

And just like that, you suddenly feel as though you’ve just won the lottery.  Pressing your cheeks between your hands, you manage to subdue the urge to scream in excitement and relief, but not the grin that you feel blooming.

“Riddle, I really needed this,” you laugh.  “You have no idea.  Math is killing me.  You’ve gotta be, like, my academic angel or something; you’re so sweet.”

“Right!” he squeaks.  “Ahem.  Then we'll likely have our first session next week.  I’ll have Deuce forward you any messages from me, and vice versa.”

“Or,” you suggest, “would it be more convenient for you to contact me directly?  Do you have my number?”

Though Riddle’s complexion has mostly relaxed back to its usual pale tone in the past couple minutes of chatting, he all of a sudden flushes again like a red-lit Christmas tree.  How have you managed to offend him so fast when he was in such a good mood?

“Or not!” you quickly backtrack before he can harshly reject you, waving your hands around like an awkward lunatic.  “Either's fine with me!  Whatever you prefer.”

Riddle stands there, face still concerningly red, gorgeous grey eyes wide as ever.  He’s beautiful but terrifying.  Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you have to resist the overwhelming impulse telling you to run for your life.

“NO!” Riddle shouts a bit too loud, making you recoil.  “I mean, no, I don't believe I have your number.  I’d like it, please—That is, it would be more convenient to communicate without a middleman.”

You sigh in relief.  “Okay, awesome.  Uh, do you have your phone on you?”

“Ack!  I don't…” he deflates, bashful.

“That’s fine!”  You open the contacts app on your own phone and hand it over.  “Here.”

Riddle accepts it delicately with both hands, entering his number into a new contact with the concentration and determination of someone defusing a bomb.  When he hands your phone back to you just as gingerly as he’d taken it, your focus falls on the icon he selected for his contact.

“Aww, you picked an emoji!” you note, ignoring the uncomfortable clench of your heart in your chest.  Fitting, because the particular emoji he picked was ❤️.  Not that he means anything by it (though you wish so much that he did).

“F-For the Queen of Hearts, of course.”

“Of course,” you agree politely, texting a quick ‘hi riddle :)’ to his freshly added contact.  “Okay, I sent you a text.”

“Thank you,” he responds softly.  “I’ll send you the details later this evening.”

If Riddle was aware that you already follow each other on Magicam and that you didn’t have to exchange numbers at all, he certainly makes no indication of it.

Speaking of ‘aware’, you’re hyperaware that a certain cursed cat companion of yours is objectively more in need of tutoring than you are, but Riddle hadn’t explicitly extended his invitation to him.

That’s not without reason, though.  You can imagine the disaster: Grim, turbulence cranked to the max; Riddle, steam coming out his ears as he comedically layers collar after collar onto the former; and you and Deuce, unable to learn a single thing with all the distraction.  Nobody would benefit, and poor Riddle would probably actually die from the stress.

Yeah, it’s probably a better idea to keep Grim out of it.  But just to doublecheck:

“Grim,” you ask, “would you want to be tutored by Riddle?”

“What’s in it for me?”

You scoff lightheartedly.  “Passing grades?”

“That’s it?  No tuna?  Pass.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” you chuckle.  “We’ll get your grades up some other way, then.”

Leading up to your first tutoring session, there were two things that you were afraid would happen:

1) Your incompetence would disappoint Riddle, making him hate you for the rest of eternity.

2) You would humiliate yourself by getting caught drifting off into Riddle-themed daydreams, which leads back to the first scenario: he’d hate you for the rest of eternity.

In other words, you have to lock in.  You emotionally cannot afford to make a fool of yourself in front of your crush.

Miraculously, when the day comes for your first session, you do manage to lock in.  Twitchingly alert and stiff as a board, you will yourself into absorbing every bit of instruction, answering each of the housewarden’s guiding questions with the intensity of a cadet in boot camp.  You’re certain you would appear absolutely insane if not for Deuce also sharing said intensity, but either way, Riddle seems pleased—if not a bit surprised—at your… enthusiasm.

At the end of your allocated hour, Deuce packs up his study materials at the speed of light, and books it to his track and field club practice at the same speed.  He doesn’t even give you enough time to respond to his rushed “See you tomorrow, Prefect!” before he’s gone.

Which leaves you 1) confused out of your mind, and 2) alone with Riddle.

In theory, this is a great opportunity for getting closer to him.  In practice, you are so afraid of doing something that’ll permanently crush all of your chances of him ever liking you back.  Romantically or otherwise.

“Prefect—”

You spring two feet in the air like a cat startled by a cucumber, and the redhead just gazes at you in wide-eyed shock.

“Sorry!” you laugh, pressing a palm over your pounding heart.  “I’m just really on edge.”

“…So I’ve noticed,” he comments softly, bafflement clear in his voice.  “Am I…  Um, is there a reason for your anxiety that we can resolve?”  

So sweet.

“Probably not,” you shake your head—slowly, to admire his mien of concern—“I'm just trying my best to stay focussed, is all.”

A tiny darling smile makes its way onto the boy’s lips, and your heart pounds even faster once you spot it.  “You’re doing an excellent job.  Keep up the good work, Prefect.”

Like a gong, his praise echoes through your skull and permeates your whole being.

You absolutely cannot falter now.

Not that you ever doubted Riddle’s abilities, but you’d only thought about how you would improve.  Not by how much, nor by when.

Needless to say, you hadn’t expected to shoot up to 5th place in your class after only six sessions with Riddle in three weeks.  Even Deuce bumped up a rank or two!

And perhaps even more miraculously, though Riddle never tutors him directly, Grim’s grades have somehow improved too.  He’s still at the bottom of the class, of course, but going from 51% to 59% counts as a win in your book.

The cherry on top?  It was Riddle himself who delivered the news, along with his congratulations.

Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: [Attachment: 1 Image] You: wait You: is this real??? Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: Congratulations, Prefect :) Your hard work is paying off. You: AHHHHHH You: RIDDLE TYSM I COULDN’T DO IT WITHOUT YOU Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ You: omg You: did cater teach you that 😭 Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: Yes You: so cute (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

Riddle doesn’t reply—not right away, anyways—instead going through a minutes-long cycle of typing, then stopping, then typing again, then stopping…  With each repetition, your agonising anticipation gradually evolves into embarrassment… and then eventually regret.

Oh Seven.  Him not replying must mean he knows you’re into him and that he’s grossed out by you.

You put your phone down, trying to put it out of mind.

And then pick it up again, contemplating how you’ll play it off and pivot the conversation.

Except he responds.

Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

You black out.

Miraculously, you’re not “bad at math” anymore: you’ve gotten to the point where even Ace can’t make fun of you for being mathematically inept.  And that’s saying something.

However, that’s not to say that you enjoy math now.  If anything, it's become somehow more stressful, which you didn't think was even possible.

“How can you get good at math and still be scared of it?” Ace cackles, having found his new angle for teasing you.  “That's like a bear being afraid of a goldfish!”

Grim promptly joins in on the laughterfest, but you quickly put an end to it with a brief, yet effective, cold glare.

It doesn’t matter how much you hate calculus.  Now that you’ve come this far, you can’t afford to slip.  Especially with Riddle watching you and backing you up.

“You two have no right questioning my relationship with math,” you sigh, only half joking.  “Not when I’m the one helping you study so that you don't have to be drilled by Riddle himself.  You’re welcome, doofuses.”

“Yeah, thank you!” Deuce dutifully supports you.

“See?  This is why Deuce is my favourite.”

“Yeesh,” Grim shivers.  “Anyone else notice Riddle’s rubbin’ off on my henchhuman?  You're getting scary!”

You can’t help but guffaw at that claim.  “What?  What’s that supposed to mean?  No I’m not!”

“Yuh huh, you’re spending too much time with him,” Ace agrees.

“I literally only see him for tutoring.  And unbirthday parties.”

“Don't you have extra meetups with him outside our joint tutoring sessions?” Deuce (the traitor) notes.

“That’s just extra tutoring.”

The redhead gawks incredulously.  “For what?  You’re already at the top of our class now, and you hate math.  If anything, Loosey Deucey here should be the one getting extra tutoring!”

Loosey Deucey puts Ace in a retaliatory chokehold—playfully, of course.  Strangled with love.

“I’m not good enough yet,” you answer matter-of-factly.  And somehow, that's the end of the conversation.

Until just twenty minutes later, when you leave your study buddies unattended to grab drinks from your fridge, and Ace screams so loud you'd think he’d spontaneously caught fire.

You return, drinks in hand, to the three of them huddled around your phone.  And in that second, you know.

“Why the fuck,” Ace begins the dreaded question, equal dread dripping from his voice, “is there a heart beside our housewarden's name?”

“Okay, hold on,” you plead as calmly as possible, concealing your own panic, “before you jump to conclusions, I did not put that there.”

“Who did, then?” Deuce asks.  It’s a perfectly reasonable question, but you hate it nonetheless.

You deflect just a little.  “It was just for the Queen of Hearts.  Don't make it weird!”

Ace gapes.  “Wait, did Riddle do that himself?”

“I just said don't make it weird!”

Ace and Deuce share a quiet look of understanding.  “Bold,” the former comments.

“Wait, Prefect, do you like him b—” Deuce cuts himself off, then restarts.  “Uh, do you like Housewarden Riddle?”

Okay, once again, you've got two options here: lie and say you don't, and risk getting teased relentlessly if your friends find out; or tell the truth as casually as possible, and hope that they don't overreact.

You ultimately pick the latter.

“He’s cute and really smart.  And he’s worked hard to improve his temper,” you shrug, crossing your fingers that nobody senses your nervousness.  “Don’t look at me like that.  He’s sweet!”  He’s perfect goes unsaid.

“Prefect,” Ace says more grimly than you’ve ever heard from him, “you need to get your brain checked.”

You scoff.  “I don’t meet his standards either way, so just drop it.”

They share another look.

“What's goin’ on?” Grim asks, not at all keeping up with the veiled conversation.

“We’re finally gonna catch a break,” Deuce responds at the same time Ace replies, “We’re all gonna die.”

“Fine,” Grim grumbles, “keep your secrets.”

Your disdain for math has made your life hell since the start of school, but you’d kinda expected your problems to resolve themselves once your math skills improved.  Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

Each time you open your math textbook, each time you pick up a pencil to start on a problem, each time you attend a tutoring session with your crush, for Seven’s sakes, your heart rate spikes.  And not in a ‘I’m so excited for this!’ way, moreso in a ‘oh my holy fuck I’m about to shit my pants in fear and then promptly pass away’ sorta way.

You feel like that all the time when you do math.  And you do math often, because you can’t risk falling behind and making a fool of yourself now.

It’s at an unbirthday party, two and a half months into your tutoring arrangements with Riddle, that you notice the change.

You don’t look at him anymore.

Where just a glance of his face used to brighten your day, it now makes you want to curl up and die, even though you still like him.

Just two seconds of eye contact with him has you almost burst out in tears, and that’s when you decide that you’d better leave early.

“Grim,” you notify your not-cat, “I’m not feeling very well so I’m gonna head back to Ramshackle.  Could you let Riddle know for me?”

“Alright, henchhuman, but I’m staying for the food!”

“Of course,” you smile.  “Enjoy yourself.”

Grim returns to Ramshackle a couple hours later with a package of goodies—half of the contents already devoured during his trek back to the dorm—and a note:

Dear Prefect, Grim informed me that you weren’t feeling well.  I’m sorry to hear that.  If you need anything, please let me know. I’ve packed some pastries for you from the party, but considering Grim’s boundless appetite, I’m not sure they survived the journey to your dorm.  In the case that they didn’t, feel free to stop by Heartslabyul and I’ll ensure that you receive your share. Sincerely yours, R.R. ♡

Is it possible for such a sweet note to make you feel even sicker than before?  Apparently so.

It’s not Riddle’s fault, and that makes you feel worse.  He’s never so much as raised his voice at you while tutoring, nor been anything less than forgiving when you make a mistake.  Yet you feel like you’re letting him down when you do.  You feel his standards like ten tonnes on your shoulders, and you want to throw up.

He’s perfect.  And as hard as you try to be enough for him, you always find yourself falling short.

This isn’t what you want—you like Riddle, and you like liking him.  But the dozens of math meetups have worn you down, and at some point in that series of sessions, that sickening feeling somehow became associated with him.

So, problem-solver that you are, you decide on a solution to make yourself feel better:

Avoid him at all costs, and just admire him from a distance.

It’s a logical solution: If you never see Riddle up close, you’ll never see his disappointment, and what you can’t see can’t hurt you.  Therefore, you’re invulnerable.  Foolproof reasoning.

And guess what: your reasoning works!

Or at least it does until Riddle reaches out to you after your fourth bailed-on session, because apparently he wants to be seen.

Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: Are you alright?

His intentions are kind, you know that.  But the idea of seeing him now, of seeing disappointment plain on his face…  Especially after so many missed sessions?  Yeah, no thanks.

You: yup!  thanks for asking :) You: ik this is kinda out of the blue but You: i don’t think i need tutoring anymore You: thank you so much for getting me this far!!  i’m so grateful seriously

You almost don’t care about his response at this point: the thought of never feeling this way again is so freeing.  But he types for so long that it becomes suspenseful, and you start wondering what his reaction will be.

Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: I see.  It’s been my pleasure, and I’m happy that you’ve become so proficient.

Oh thank Seven—

Riddle Rosehearts ❤️: Could we have just one more one-on-one meetup before we stop completely?

Fuck.

You owe him that much, you suppose.

Your walk to Heartslabyul for your final meetup with Riddle feels more like a walk to the gallows, the study materials in your bag as your ball and chain.

He asked you this time to meet him in the tea garden, as opposed to the private study room where you’d usually meet.

When you arrive, Riddle is waiting for you, stationed beside a table for two.  The fear in your stomach is so overwhelming that you genuinely consider turning around and bolting, dignity be damned.

But you step up, accepting the hand he offers and taking the seat that he courteously pulls out for you.

You try to act normal as best as you can, as long as you can.  You can’t.

The clothes against your skin feel too itchy and hot.  Simply breathing takes all of your effort.  Riddle’s mouth is moving and sound is coming out, but you can’t understand what he’s saying at all.  At your lack of response, Riddle’s nervous smile drops into a pout.  His brows furrow.

You’ve let him down.

That realisation reverberates through your body, knocking you off any semblance of balance or control.  Your breathing gets too quick, too shallow, too uneven, your own diaphragm no more obedient than a rabid animal. 

Nothing in your body is in your control anymore.  You can barely process the sight of Riddle flailing his hands around in a panic.

He doesn’t deserve to be put in such an uncomfortable predicament.

You try to get up and leave, but your legs have gone numb from hyperventilating: one second you’re standing, and the next, you’re collapsed on the well-maintained lawn.

Time skips ahead in blinks.  Have ten minutes passed, or two hours, or five seconds?  Beats you.  But at some point, you ended up wrapped in Riddle’s slender arms, the pressure grounding you more by the minute.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he hushes, the soothing hum of his voice rolling over you like steam.  “It’s alright.”

As you regain your senses, it’s impossible to not notice the wet patches where your tears have stained Riddle’s otherwise pristine uniform, and you find yourself feeling even more guilty.

“I keep doing this to you…”  You pull away just enough to wipe your eyes.  “I’m so sorry.  You don’t deserve this.”

He nudges your hands away to pat at your eyes with a clean handkerchief.  “I don’t remember you crying on me before?”

At that, you start apologising profusely and sobbing harder, to Riddle’s obvious horror.

“Ah!  I mean, I don’t mind either way!” he scrambles to backtrack.  “Please don’t cry!”

“You’re such an angel, always looking after me,” you blubber.  “You were right, it doesn't matter how much effort I put in.  I’ll never be good enough.”

“What?  When have I ever said anything like that?” he asks, perplexed.  “You’re plenty good.”

A watery, sardonic chuckle crackles from your throat.  “Ha, thanks.”

“I mean it.  I don’t know what silly standard you’ve set for yourself, but I can’t imagine any that would be impossible for you to reach.”

What an ironic thing to hear from the boy himself.

You two sit in silence for a while, Riddle dutifully blotting away your tears the whole time.

Fuck it.  You’re this far in the negatives; you’ve got nothing much more to lose.

“Y’know,” you murmur, “I really hate math so much.  But I thought you’d like me a little better if I wasn’t so bad at it.”

For the first time, he pauses in his handkerchief duty.  “Me?  Why does it matter to you what I think of you?”

You look way off into the distance, as far away from Riddle as possible.  “This is a terrible time to tell you I’ve got a crush on you, huh?” you sigh, resigned.

Despite being out of your line of sight, you feel him straighten, no doubt readying himself to let you down as gently as he can.

But twenty seconds later, he still hasn’t moved, still straight as a stick.  You finally glance back at him, and bad idea!  Because he’s beet-red and staring right into your soul.  You look away in that same second.

“Um,” you sniff, the scent of tears burning your sinuses, “you don’t—”

“Ifeelthesameway!” Riddle blurts.

Wait.

What?

“Ahem.  Actually, that’s what I’d invited you here for…”

“Wait,” you interject in plain shock, throwing any remaining sliver of decorum out the window, “are you misunderstanding me?  Because I said that I have a crush on you.  As in, like, I like you.  Romantically.”

You can’t help but return your gaze to him.  He looks insane—face glowing red like a hot iron, cowlicks standing at full attention, uniform soggy with your tears, and a look of pure confusion on his face—and yet so lovely.

“…Yes?  That’s what I interpreted,” he confirms slowly.  “Um, I invited you here today in hopes of courting you?”

Oh.  My.  Seven.

“Wait, wait, but the math—What about the math?” you stammer.  You don’t even know what you’re trying to ask.

“‘The math’…?” Riddle parrots, equally struggling to make sense of your incoherent question.  “Today wasn’t going to be a math—oh!  …Yes, I’d originally proposed tutoring so that we could spend more time together.”

“What?  You approached me about tutoring months ago.  Did you…?  Were… you?  Then?”  The concept of Riddle liking you back, especially during that time, is unfathomable.

“Prefect,” he mumbles, “I’ve liked you since my overblot…”

“But I sucked at math!” you squawk.

“How… is that relevant…?”

You’re almost offended at this point, shaking your head in disbelief.  “You’re the picture of perfection, and I couldn’t even compute a limit?  You’re objectively way out of my league!”

The housewarden’s brow furrows.  “Me…?  That’s what I think about you!”

“But math—”

“Prefect,” Riddle interrupts, “I don’t know what your fixation on math is about, but I personally don’t care whether or not you’re good at it.”

“Oh,” you say very elegantly, fully shaken by shock.  “Seriously?”

“Of course.”

“Seven,” you breathe.  “Could we start fresh, then?  Without the math?”

He giggles, clear and bright as a bell.  “If that’s your condition for courting, then I don’t mind at all.”

Surprisingly, for as quick Ace and Deuce had been to hone in on that red heart on your phone, they still haven’t realised that you and Riddle are dating.  You’re not hiding your relationship from them, but you’d like to see their reactions when they find out on their own.  You just didn’t think it’d take this long.

Having gotten together a month ago now, you and Riddle have taken to pecking each other goodbye.  Riddle, gentleman that he is, kisses your cheek.  You, more uncouth, tend to kiss him on the lips.

Ace finally catches the latter happening.  You haven’t even looked away from Riddle yet, but you know it’s Ace. How do you know it’s Ace?

Because he screams.  Loud.  And then gags a little at the end.

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!” your boyfriend yells on the spot, still somehow less loudly than Ace’s banshee cry.

When you turn your head to witness the collar clamping around your friend’s neck, you realise that Deuce is also there.  He’s just more polite, gawking in silence, jaw dropped to the floor.

“Ah, Deuce,” Riddle addresses, immediately calmer upon shifting his focus away from Ace, “good work on your recent math test.”

The shock remains clear in Deuce’s eyes, but he manages to reply despite it.  “Uh, thank you, Housewarden!  I couldn’t have done it without your help!”  He glances at you, looking like a deer in headlights.

Yeah, you’ve since ditched all tutoring sessions with your boyfriend, including the joint ones with Deuce, but it’s for the best.  Deuce gets focussed help, you don’t get math trauma from Riddle, and your one-on-one tutoring time slots turn into mini-dates.  It’s a win-win for everyone except for Ace, who could use a good humbling once in a while.

Grim still has no idea that you and Riddle are an item.  He literally sees you two cuddle and kiss on the regular.  He’s just not fully aware of the implications, or maybe just doesn’t care as long as it means Riddle brings more sweets to Ramshackle.

(And so, after destroying you academically, mentally, and emotionally, in order of sequence, math finally took mercy on you and brought you this cute boy.  Cady Heron had it easy compared to you.)

How you managed to pull the pinnacle of wife boyfriend material is beyond you. All you know is that you love him, and he loves you. That’s all that matters. End of story!

Except, there is one downside to dating Jamil, because he still is him after all, vice-housewarden of Scarabia and main servant to Kalim Al-Asim. Which unfortunately means that “free time” is a concept completely foreign to your beloved boyfriend.

Though you two spend as much time together as possible, you hardly ever have time alone with him. And with Jamil being PDA-averse, that means Jamil-kisses are rare, which is tragic considering how both of you are so heinously touch-starved.

But it’s okay! Because that means that Jamil-kisses are guaranteed whenever you two are alone. And boy, do you take advantage of that fact.

The second you’re alone, you’re all over each other, instantly, without fail. It’s almost embarrassing how whipped you are for him, but he’s so worth it. You steal him away to empty rooms and closets between classes, you convince Coach Vargas to let him skip on PE, you lie about needing his assistance when Kalim might actually need his help. It’s all fair game.

Right now, Scarabia is having yet another party, but that’s none of your business; you’re not there. You’re in Jamil’s room, with Jamil, making out with Jamil. The second you’d pulled him past the threshold and locked the door behind you, you’d snapped together like a pair of magnets. Lips and hands all over each other, Jamil wouldn’t be caught dead like this in public.

After who-knows-how-long of you two sucking face, Jamil speaks up again. “We should get back to the party,” he pants as you nurse on the soft skin by his throat, “Kalim and Grim probably need us.”

“Hmm,” you hum, kissing his jaw, then his cheek chastely before slowly pulling away. “Okay,” you whisper, gently fixing his hair and clothes as he does the same for you.

“Done?” you ask. “Do I look presentable?”

“Almost,” Jamil replies, breathy. He wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb, making you grin. And when you look into his eyes, all you see is love. “You’re good now.”

And then he leans in to kiss you one more time.

“Whoa there,” you laugh, dodging his lips. “You had your chance earlier.”

Jamil pouts. “I’m your boyfriend.”

“Yes, and a good boyfriend wouldn’t mess up my appearance right after it’s been fixed,” you counter.

“So I matter less than your appearance now?”

“Yes,” you joke. “Come on, let’s go back.”

Jamil sulks the rest of the night.

You didn’t expect him to take your little joke so personally. But the next time you pull him aside, Jamil acts… strange.

“Did you need something, Prefect?” he demands instead of wordlessly kissing you like he should.

“Uh, yeah?” you stammer, perplexed.

“Please make it quick. I have a lot on my plate right now.”

You’re not gonna just grab him and kiss him; he doesn’t seem in the mood. That would be weird. So you just stare, jaw dropped, dumbfounded.

His face betrays nothing. Jamil is completely apathetic.

“If you don’t need anything, I’ll be returning to my duties,” he continues. “See you around, Prefect.”

Your mouth stays agape as you watch him leave the room. He doesn’t even look back.

What just happened?

The second time it happens is equally perplexing.

Kalim is throwing yet another party at the oasis over the weekend, so of course, you have to come as moral support for poor Jamil.

About half an hour into the celebration, Grim, being Grim, decides to say, “There’s less water than last time!” And of course, Kalim, being Kalim, takes that as his cue to Oasis Maker all over the place.

So Grim is soggy, Kalim is sopping, all his dormmates are well misted, you’re soaked, and Jamil is drenched. You towel Grim off, Jamil does the same for Kalim, and then it’s Jamil’s turn.

You grab a fresh towel from the basket and make your way towards your boyfriend, ready to pat him dry. But just as you’re about to make contact, Jamil ducks away from you to pick his bangle off the ground. (When did he even drop it?)

You try again. He slips out of your reach, rushing to stop Kalim from crashing into a tree during a game of Marco Polo.

When you finally catch up to him, he snags the towel from your hands before you can dry him off yourself. “Thank you,” he says, “you should dry yourself as well.”

You nod, dumbly, blankly, wordlessly in shock. And then you drift back to the basket to grab yourself a towel.

Everything after that is a blur. You don’t remember what you did for the rest of the party, nor do you remember how long you were there. Now, as Grim fills the silence with endless rambling during your trek back to Ramshackle, you replay that moment over and over again in your head. Halfway there, it dawns on you.

“Hold on a sec, Grim,” you say, stopping to pull out your phone.

“Make it quick, Henchhuman!” he whines. “I’m craving some tuna to wash down all that fruit!”

“Yeah, just hold on,” you respond mindlessly, drafting a text to your boyfriend.

is this punishment for not letting you kiss me that one time?

you send.

You prepare to put away your phone as Jamil usually takes a while to reply to your messages. But he texts back immediately:

I have no idea what you mean. 

He clearly does have an idea what you mean. And you’ll take that as a yes.

Your new mission: Get Jamil’s resolve to crack.

After every Basketball Club meeting, Jamil lingers a bit longer than the other members for some solo practice. Such opportunities being few and far between, it’s nice that he has some time to himself.

Because of said solo practice, Jamil is generally the last one in the locker room, which is also nice. When your schedules line up, you usually swing by to squeeze in some extra time together.

Today, you would normally be busy at this time, and Jamil is fully aware of this. But you finished your tasks early just so you could give him a surprise visit. Emphasis on surprise.

As Jamil’s back is turned, busy opening his locker, you sneak up on him. You’re the epitome of stealth: you glide in on your tiptoes, you hold your breath. Not even a beastman’s ears could detect you coming. And once you’re within striking distance, you wrap your arms around him. He flinches.

“Hi, Jamil,” you coo sweetly, and he promptly melts in your arms. “I’ve missed you.”

For a second, you think that he might give in, but he tenses after a moment and slowly peels your arms off his torso.

“You saw me this morning,” he retorts, turning to face you. Arms crossed, brow raised, Jamil is serious about this little grudge.

Luckily, you’re equally serious about dispelling it. You drape your arms around his neck. “And?” you croon.

Jamil stares at your lips, then brings his gaze back up to your eyes. “And I’m sweaty,” he answers, twisting smoothly out of your embrace. “I’m sure you find me very gross right now. We don’t want me ‘messing up your appearance’ now, do we?”

“I knew it!” you squawk. “You are still stuck on that!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jamil replies apathetically, returning to his locker. “You just look so presentable right now, I couldn’t bear to ruin it with my sweaty self.”

This little snake!

“Jamiiiil!” you whine. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. Please, I really miss you.”

You continue to pelt him with profuse apologies as he changes clothes, responding with half-hearted “uh-huh”s and “sure”s, and then some more until he’s finished changing.

“Right. I’ll see you tonight then,” he tells you flatly, as if you hadn’t been groveling at his feet for the past five minutes straight.

You pout. “...see you tonight.”

And then Jamil swings his gym bag over his shoulder, and marches straight out of the locker room without you.

Mission: Failed.

Surprisingly, Jamil is the one to approach you this time.

“You have something on your face, Prefect,” he tells you.

“Hmm?” you question, wiping your face. “Is it still there?”

“Yes.”

You brush again. “Where?”

“On your cheek,” he replies, pointing at it, not touching you.

You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek. “Still there?”

“Still there.”

Scrub.

“Still there.”

You sigh. “Can you please just get it for me?”

“I’m in a rush right now, Prefect,” Jamil declines, leisurely walking away. “Check yourself in the mirror.”

When you do check, it’s one tiny speck of glitter.

Jamil Viper is every good thing under the sun, sure. But Jamil Viper is also awful. Jamil Viper is prideful. Jamil Viper is petty, stubborn, annoying, cruel, a total pain in the ass.

And he’s supposed to be your boyfriend!

To be fair, you wouldn’t kiss yourself in this state either, ‘this state’ being a frog. But still, Jamil’s being so un-boyfriendly right now!

Ace had badly botched a potion during class, and then upon discovering that he’d accidentally made an illegal transformation potion (“It was an accident!”), he’d decided that it would be a good idea to sneak it into your smoothie when you weren’t looking. Totally cliché, the quickest reversal is ‘true love’s kiss’, so naturally, Ace literally threw you at Jamil and cackled, “Have fun, Prefect!”

So here you are, sitting in Jamil’s lovely palms, staring at him with your beady little eyes.

“I’m not kissing you,” Jamil states plainly.

‘I know,’ you’d say if you could. If he refuses to kiss you as a regular, non-slimy human being, there’s no way he’d kiss you as a weird little frog.

That’s understandable, fine by you. But it’s no reason to treat you like this!

“It’s been a while since I’ve cooked frog legs,” Jamil teases, smirking. “It’s nice that the ingredients came to me for a change.”

Sevens, you hope he’s joking.

While in class, one pesky fly decides to terrorize your boyfriend. So, like the exemplary frog that you are, you dart your tongue out and snap it into your mouth. When you look back at him, he’s equal parts relieved and horrified, eyes bulging.

“And you expect me to kiss you with that mouth?”

You spit the fly back out. It scampers away unharmed.

“I will actually smush you,” he hisses through his teeth.

You spend the rest of the day either tucked inside the breast pocket of his blazer, or on his shoulder. Luckily and surprisingly, Jamil makes no moves to cook you or to smush you.

When it’s time for bed, he puts you on his nightstand.

“Don’t move from there,” Jamil commands.

So naturally, you ignore him and hop to his bed. He picks you up and sticks you back on the table.

“Stay.”

You spring over to him.

“Stop that.” He grabs you and plops you down on the nightstand.

You leap straight back into his hands.

“Prefect—” he rebukes, “If you don’t want to be crushed, then you’d best stay put.”

In response, you simply sprawl out in his palms, drinking in the feeling of his touch. And then you stick your tongue to his skin in a little froggy kiss, and let out a little beep, which is apparently one of the sounds that you can do.

Jamil promptly drops you onto the nightstand. “I’m washing my hands,” he announces as he leaves the room.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re in Jamil’s bed, human again, and Jamil is long gone.

Being sick seriously sucks.

Somehow, you’ve caught pneumonia, and none of your friends got sick with you. It’s a good thing! You’re happy for them, that they don’t have to suffer like you do! But also, WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE YOU. (It’s probably Grim’s fault, but him being a direbeast, he’s immune to sickness. Dammit, Grim.)

You’re coughing and fever-brained in your dorm, and Grim is off doing who-knows-what. You couldn’t care less right now; you’re too busy hallucinating that the Great Seven are dancing little jigs at the foot of your bed.

When they finally conga line their way out of your room, you’re left alone with your delirious thoughts. Namely, just how alone you are. Thank goodness you’re not completely alone; you have the ghosts after all, but they don’t really compare to a live person.

And you really miss Jamil.

You must’ve really hurt his feelings with your joke that one night! You need to apologize again, even though you’ve done it a thousand times already. A thousand times isn’t enough. You’ll apologize until the end of time as long as it means Jamil will forgive you.

Sorry, Jamil. I’m sorry, Jamil. I’m really sorry, Jamil!

You hack so hard it feels like your lungs will invert.

All of a sudden, your phone is in your hand, and you’re calling him.

“Prefect?” you hear distantly. 

“I’m sorry, Jamil! I’m—KHACK—I’m so so—KEUGHH—so sorry!”

“Where are you? I didn’t see you at school. Are you sick?” So many questions…

“I miss you…” you sob, then cough again. “I’m sorry!” Your vision’s all blurry now.

“It’s okay,” his voice rings out. “Where are you? Are you in your dorm?”

Cough.

“Are you in your dorm?” he repeats, slower.

“Yeah,” you rasp. You miss Jamil.

“I’ll be right there, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

“I miss you,” you cough out. “I’m sorry~!”

“It’s okay, Prefect,” he replies. “I’m gonna hang up now.”

You whimper very sadly and very loudly as he hangs up. And then you immediately pass out.

Even with the entire bottom of their face covered, this is the most beautiful person ever. An angel. The first thing you see after opening your eyes and it’s a gorgeous angel. The blurriness of the tears in your eyes really adds to the heavenly effect, too.

“So pretty,” you mumble.

The beauty looks at you with their piercing eyes and puts a hand on your forehead.

“You’re awake,” their fittingly melodic voice sings out.

“Did I die?” you manage between wheezes. “Where’s Jamil?”

“Sevens, you’re out of it,” they sigh. “I’m right here.”

“Jamil?” you parrot between coughs.

“Yes, Prefect. I’m here.”

You jolt upright, eyes promptly watering anew.

“I’m sorry, Jamil!” you cry. “I didn’t mean to—KEURK—to hurt your feelings!”

Jamil doesn’t say anything, simply rubbing your back.

You rub at your eyes. “Please don’t leave me…” you plead.

“What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, you’re—HAUGK—you’re gonna leave me cuz you don’t love me anymore!” you whine. “I’m sorry! I made you not love me anymore…!”

At that, Jamil grabs your face and stares right into your eyes. “Stop saying that,” he scolds. “I do love you.”

You pull his hands off your cheeks to cough away from his face. “You don’t let me kiss you,” you wail, “and you don’t even wanna touch me anymore…”

“I didn’t think you’d take it this seriously…” he grumbles. “You never tried to kiss me.”

“If I did—HRUGHK KUH—If I did, you’d get mad!” you accuse.

“I would not,” he retorts. “...If you kissed me, I would’ve folded instantly."

You stare at him with wide, watery eyes, and he averts his gaze. “I wish you would’ve kissed me sooner," he continues, mumbling, "so that I could stop pretending like I don’t want you to."

You have nothing to say to that. (You do softly cough, though.) But gently, you take hold of his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles.

“I love you, Jamil,” you rasp.

He takes a shaky breath. “...I need you to get better fast. I brought medicine, soup, everything you might need,” Jamil blurts. “Fast, okay?”

“Okay~” you agree. “Are you gonna leave?”

“Not yet,” he replies. “Kalim can survive on his own for a couple of hours.”

If it means that Jamil will take care of you, maybe being sick isn’t so bad.

Turns out, the power of love, Jamil, and modern medicine can curb a serious sickness in four days flat. The moment you got better, you and Jamil reunited like nothing happened, or better yet, like something good happened.

“Jamil—!” you gasp between kisses. “Sevens—!”

As much as you want to tell him to calm down, you refuse to make the same mistake that you did before. Besides, you’re not complaining.

One hand in your hair and the other up your shirt, Jamil kisses you like it’s a matter of life and death. “Shhh,” he purrs, making his way down your neck, making you hum.

Though your memory of being sick is fuzzy, you don’t regret whatever you did, because Jamil is now about twice as affectionate as before. (You can only hope that you behaved with at least some composure and didn’t cough all over him.) Plus, now, he steals you away almost as much as you do him.

In fact, for this weekend, Jamil has stolen you away to his home in the Scalding Sands. And you’re currently making out in his childhood bedroom.

By the time you’re done, you’re both out of breath, your entire upper body is kiss-bruised, and you’re happy as a lark. “I love you, Jamil,” you whisper as he holds you in his arms.

Jamil gazes back down at you, lovingly. “I love you too. And I’m very grateful that you’re not saying ‘sorry’ anymore.”

“...did I say it that much?”

He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Well… Am I forgiven, at least?”

Jamil simply leans in and kisses you. “Yes, I forgive you.”

Another wave of nausea washes over you—and out of you.  Kalim pats uselessly at your back; you appreciate the sentiment regardless.

“A ‘little’ of what?  Isopropyl?” you cough.  You should’ve asked this before drinking it, but hindsight is 20/20. And the desire for inebriation is blinding.

“Uh, I’m not sure!  I just grabbed a bottle.  Everything we have is good, though!”

You scoff and instantly regret it as it burns behind your nose.  “Yeah, I got that impression.”

“Are you feeling okay now?”

“Well, I think it’s all out of my system,” you chuckle weakly.  “I think.  Don’t wanna risk it.”

Draped disgustingly over the toilet, you watch Kalim leave your side and scramble aimlessly around the bathroom for a minute.  He’s somehow more directionless than you right now, and you’re hammered.

“I’ll go get Jamil!” he announces abruptly, decisively, and then sprints off.

You wonder if you should get up and rinse your mouth out, but the microscopic voice of reason at the back of your mind says not to get up without supervision.

You’ll just have to wait for Jamil, then.  Damn.

Even with your eyes shut, you know exactly when the vice-housewarden arrives by the bone-shaking sigh he releases the moment he sees you.

“Kalim…  What have you done…”

“Hey, it's my fault too!” you murmur blindly with a thumbs up, tone inappropriately chipper.

Kalim himself stands in the doorway, looking anxious as ever.  “No, don't say that, Prefect!  You didn't know!”

“It’s both your faults,” Jamil groans.  He nudges a cup of water against your knuckle.  “Here.  Rinse your mouth.”

“Is the Prefect gonna be okay?” Jamil’s other ward stage-whispers while you swish water.

“Yes.  Go back to the party,” the vice-housewarden sighs again, and you spit into the toilet.

“Really?  Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ll handle them.  Go entertain your guests.”  You feel Jamil’s tension instantly dissipate with the housewarden’s absence, but now what’s left of it is focussed on you.  “Drink.”

So you do.  Between sips, “Mmmm, water tastes really good right now~”

Arms crossed, he leans against the wall.  Judging.  “…How much did you drink?”

You don’t reply, too focussed on tasting your delicious water.  Oooh, quenchy.

“You didn’t check what Kalim gave you?” he tries again.

Tip the glass fully back and slurp down the remaining drops; you place it on the floor; you’re running out of distractions.

“Are you that irrespons—”

“Shut,” you snap.  “Wanted to get drunk tonight.  Got there.  We good.”

The heavy sigh you expect to hear doesn’t come.  All there is is the soft tumbling of a washing machine and distant laughter from the party.

Silently, Jamil picks up the empty cup.  “More water?”

“Mmm.”

Attentively, he refills it and hands it back to you.  “Thank you,” you blabber.

Even drunk, you’re all too aware of the intensity of his gaze on you.  So you stare back.  “You’re too pretty to be such an ass,” you say.

Caught between the compliment and the insult, Jamil scowls.  “Bold words from a drunkard who needs me to look after them.  I don’t have to do this charity.”

“I know, that’s what sucks.  I want to hate you.”

He scoffs, “Be my guest.  You’d be one of many.”

And that’s the issue, isn’t it?  You can’t.

You’d been charmed the moment you met him, and things only got worse as you spent more time together.  He was sweet and attentive and kind to you, and he gave you hope.  You’d spent late nights together, shared sweet nothings, relished the little meals he’d prepare for you despite having his hands full.

But apparently, it was all a façade.  He doesn’t like you, never has; you mean nothing to him, really.  You’d just been a pawn in his ballsy little scheme.

That realisation has you nauseous all over again.

 “I can only wish,” you laugh.  “That’d make everything easier, yeah?”

I still like you goes unsaid.  Though you suspect he understands when he pulls his hood over his head.

Instead, he diverts the conversation.  “Do you still feel nauseous?”  Smooth as always.

 “I don’t think so.”

“Good.  Let’s get you to bed, then.”

As you attempt to get up and nearly crack your head on the wall,“Prefect—!” he exclaims, his voice laced with more urgency than you’d like from him.  “Ugh, between you and Kalim, I’m going to have a heart attack by the time I’m 30.”

“Sorry~” you drawl with your eyes shut.  “But you don’t have to look after me, you know.  I know you don’t like me.  You don’t have to fake it anymore.”

You await a pointed assent from his sharp tongue, but it doesn’t come.

“Live to at least 50, okay?” you continue.  “I’m sorry.”

And you wonder if he’ll take you up on your offer and leave you to suffer on the cold bathroom floor.  But you feel his hand in yours, firm and calloused from unending servitude, and he gently pulls you up.  His hand feels nice; you’d felt it before but holding it now makes your heart clench in the most pleasant, masochistic way.

Time passes in blinks, and you soon arrive in your little dormroom, Jamil beside you to ensure you don’t black out and die.

“You should be able to brush your teeth now without wrecking your teeth,” you hear in the distance, already caught up in a half-dream state.

“Don’t wanna,” escapes your lips.  “Tired.”

But there’s a toothbrush in your mouth all of a sudden, and it doesn’t matter how you’re feeling because Jamil’s here for you.

You hate it.  You hate that he strings you along like this.

But he tucks you into bed propped up and you’re oh so tired, and the words just flow out: “I like you too much for my own good.”

And in the last moments of your consciousness, he pats your head.

“Me too.”

It's beyond plain loneliness, and it's not just the craving of warmth, either. You spend plenty of time with your many friends and even petting Grim's soft fur doesn't seem to satiate your touch-starvation.

Ace flicks you on the forehead and you feel as if you've been gently patted on the head.

Deuce nudges you with an elbow and you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Epel holds his hand out for a high five and you worry you might just start sobbing out of happiness and love.

But them being immature teenage boys, they'd tease the hell out of you if they found out, so you'd sooner keel over and shrivel up than ever let them know.

You haven't gotten this far, haven't pieced together your reputation of being an unstoppable-force-slash-immovable-object just to be exposed for how needy you really are. You've survived multiple overblots on the front lines, but the promise of one second of physical contact would have you on your knees. Ridiculous.

So you'll hold it together and move forward like the strong, independent prefect that you are.

Now that you've gotten used to juggling your responsibilities as a student, Grim's babysitter, and Crowley's errand-runner, things have actually started to get a little boring. You seem to actually have too much time on your hands, a phenomenon that you'd never thought possible.

You're scrolling on Magicam when you find it: an (unsolicited) answer to your prayers. A job posting for the Mostro Lounge.

"Ew," you say reflexively. You don't blame your subconscious for resenting the Mostro Lounge a little; having your entire house almost taken from under your nose does that to a person.

As you scroll by, you catch a glimpse of a number as the poster whizzes past the screen; a number that doesn't seem right. You scroll back up for a double take.

PAY: Depending on position, 20 to 25 thaumarks per hour + tips.

"What the fuck."

There's no way you're not applying, trauma be damned.

To be honest, you weren't really expecting to even hear back on your application. Some of your friends had applied as well, and none of them scored interviews.

But here you are at the Mostro Lounge, 8pm. Today was a long one: you had midterms for both magic history and animal linguistics, and had to study for another exam tomorrow, yet you still managed to rally enough energy to perfect your appearance and prepare for your interview.

The second you step foot into the lounge, Jade Leech spots you. If you were more awake right now, his piercing stare would probably feel more nerve-wracking.

"Welcome, Prefect," he greets politely as he approaches, donning a charming smile. "You must be here for your interview, yes?"

You really must be tired, because you smile back genuinely. Without thinking twice, without any of your usual wariness. "Yes, that's right."

His eyes seem to soften—or maybe that's a hallucination due to your exhaustion, or maybe just plain wishful thinking. "Right this way, then."

Led by the merman, you waddle past all the diners, right into the VIP room. Surprisingly, there's no one here except for you and Jade.

"Please have a seat," Jade offers, gesturing toward a couch.

"Thank you." You do as he says, and he sits opposite you. "Will Azul be coming?" you ask.

"Unfortunately, Azul is currently preoccupied with prior engagements, so I will be conducting your interview on his behalf." Jade cutely places his closed hand on his chin, and you fight the urge to fangirl a little. "Is that alright with you?"

"Of course, that's no problem." That might be an understatement. Though you wouldn't admit this either, you do have a bit of a crush on Jade. Listen, he might be a weird freak, but he's adorable and he's polite? What more could you ask for? Azul is even more of a weird freak, so you're counting your lucky stars that you're stuck with your crush and not Azul. You can only hope that you don't bomb the interview and humiliate yourself.

"Very well," Jade continues. "Shall we begin?"

The interview flies by. Jade explains the responsibilities of each position and asks maybe five, maybe ten questions, and you black out while you answer them. In the five minutes between you setting foot in the Lounge and starting the interview, all of your brain cells had already evacuated the premises. By the end of the interview, you have nothing left but a smile and a dumb stare. You hope at the very least that it comes off as charming.

"Those were all of my questions for you," Jade says. "Do you have any for me?"

"None that I can think of at the moment," you respond, and that might just be because your brain has ceased to function, but you continue, "you were very thorough with your explanations. Thank you."

Jade smiles back at you, eyes closed with satisfaction. "You did wonderfully, Prefect. We will be reaching out with our decision within the week. Thank you for coming in."

And with that, he stands, takes off his glove, and extends his bare hand.

You stare at it blankly.

And immediately grasp it.

To be fair, it starts off as a normal, proper handshake. Decently firm, sure, but normal.

His skin is smooth and just slightly cooler than yours, and holy shit does it feel heavenly. The feeling is indescribable, but it almost makes you want to sob. In a good way.

A second passes, then two, and after five seconds it becomes apparent to both of you that you aren't letting go.

You laugh awkwardly. "I'll let go now." You try to pry your grip from his gorgeous palm. Your hand refuses to listen. Your eyes bulge in disbelief.

"Uhh..." you sputter, trying again. "I'm so sorry. Holy Seven. I promise I'm trying to let go."

You glance up at Jade, half-expecting him to look weirded out, or at the very least confused. Instead, he looks amused. That's still hardly reassuring.

In a move of desperation, you bring your other hand into the fray. But you realize too late that you should've used that hand to grasp your own hand to pull it away. Not Jade's. Now you have two hands stuck to his one. Two hands sharing skin-to-skin contact with Jade's one hand.

"Oya oya, you must really enjoy handshakes, don't you, Prefect?" Jade teases.

"What the— I'm so so sorry. I don't know what's going on. I can't let go," you ramble. "I think you're gonna have to pry your hand out of mine."

Your grip isn't tight; Jade could remove himself without any difficulty. It's more of a mental block on your part than a physical one.

But when you look back up at Jade, you realize he's not going to be any help.

He laughs heartily, shoulders shaking. "But I'm enjoying this moment so! Surely you wouldn't deprive this poor moray of such a lovely experience?"

"Jade, this is so unprofessional on my part. I'm so sorry."

"Prefect," he manages between chuckles, "your interview is over. Relax."

You grimace, your hands still sandwiching Jade's. "We're still in the Lounge. And you're still on the clock."

At that, Jade moves to exit the VIP room, then the Lounge in its entirety, dragging you along due to your clingy hands.

"And now we aren't," he retorts casually.

You might actually start crying if you stay like this for any longer. Out of humiliation or love, you're not sure. Both, perhaps.

"Jade, I'm so tired right now. I literally don't know what I'll end up doing if you don't pull me off of you."

"Oya oya? You don't seem to have much confidence in yourself. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know—" you start, and then with your stupid, exhausted, non-functioning brain, you blurt, "I have a massive crush on you. I might end up kissing your hand. And once I do that, all bets are off."

Brain-dead, you don't have the energy to be surprised at your brazenness. You simply observe Jade's expression: his eyes go wide and his jaw slightly drops, but he recovers quickly with a catlike smirk.

"Is that so?" He removes his remaining glove with his teeth, pockets it, and places his hand on the (s)handwich. "Then please do both, while you're at it."

You relish the feeling of his skin on yours. Your heart feels like it might explode. And then, brainlessly as always, you obey, placing a gentle kiss on each of Jade's hands.

"Happy?"

"Very," he replies, eyes closed in contentment. "You're so very adorable."

"Um," you whisper, feeling your face heat up, "I've just now thought of a question for you."

"Hmm," Jade hums in acknowledgment. "What is it? I'll do my best to answer."

You sigh. "What's your fraternization policy?"

"Fufufufu," he chuckles. "There's no issue as long as it doesn't impede the fulfillment of our duties."

"Alright," you breathe. "Could you do one more thing for me then, Jade?"

"Of course."

"Could I have a hug, please?"

Without any hesitation or difficulty, Jade removes his hands from yours and wraps you in his warm and comforting embrace.

You may be touch-starved, but luckily, Jade doesn’t mind feeding you.