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Heartslabyul's lounge room is much quieter during breaks. It would almost remind Riddle of his first year as Housewarden, but luckily, this silence is free from the tense discomfort and simmering rage of said year. It's a simple, empty quiet born from nothing more than an empty dorm, its residents having left for the winter.
Since there's little need to hold unbirthday parties when there's not even enough people for attendance, and there's no classes and no need for tutoring (outside of the occasional help he gives to the remaining students), Riddle finds himself with an excess of time.
Which is why he's sitting in the lounge after having returned from the school's library, flipping through a handful of educational texts before settling on the lone fiction novel he'd pulled out. It wasn't a classic, no, but the summary had intrigued him and he'd figured there was no harm in seeing if it was as good as it sounded.
He's just gotten to the first examination of the crime scene—it was a mystery novel—when one of his dormmates stumbles into the room and stops, stock-still, and stares at Riddle as if he's grown a second head. Riddle slowly slides in his bookmark, though he hesitates to close the book entirely. There's still some hope in him that this will all be nothing.
"H-Housewarden?" the boy says, sounding confused and a little terrified. If Riddle remembers correctly, the student is a first year, shy and easily overshadowed by his louder peers. He wonders what could've scared him in the few hours since they last saw each other. "You... You're..."
"What is it? Is there something you need my assistance with?"
"I, uh, well, no, but... I just..."
"You just what?" Maybe he should give supplementary lessons on public speaking.
"...I thought I just saw you outside the dorm... B-but, you, uh, were dressed pretty differently." The boy flinches, seeming to remember something unpleasant. He gestures at his own hair. "You were kind of mean, and you didn't seem to recognize me. A-and, uh, your hair... It was half-dyed black."
Riddle shuts his book. So much for hope. "Where, exactly, did you see him?"
Riddle rushes, not runs, out of the dorm with a hand over his wand. The description should be impossible, but magic can do very strange things. But where would he have encountered something that could do—what, a summoning from an alternative world? A manifestation of an alternate self, drawn from his memories of that dream?—whatever it was that created the sight that that student saw?
The library is the only possible place, Riddle thinks, as he exits the dorm mirror hall and reenters the cold. A shiver hits him as soon as he crunches on snow; mindlessly, he gestures with his wand and changes his outfit into his temperature-regulated dorm uniform, all without slowing his pace. There's thousands of books in there. It would be of no surprise if one of them could do this... But why would it be out? Why wouldn't it be behind protections?
He only slows his pace when he sees a figure in the distance. It's—of the same height as himself, Riddle thinks, though it's hard to tell from this far away. But the figure is a familiar red. Red, with an oversized fuzzy coat and a black cap and mismatched socks.
Riddle bites back a curse as the figure starts moving, running towards someone else. A tall someone else.
Snow flies under his feet as Riddle bursts into a wild sprint, desperate to reach either Floyd or his own Dreamself before the two can intersect. But it's all for naught: his Dreamself launches himself at Floyd. The two teeter for all of a second before Floyd topples onto his back, the Dreamself still on top of him. Riddle half expects Floyd to push the Dreamself off, or at least laugh or yell, but he's shock-still and quiet despite the uncomfortable way he fell. Riddle sees why when he gets closer.
His Dreamself is kissing Floyd. Moving his lips eagerly against Floyd's, breaking away with a quiet gasp before kissing Floyd's nose, cheek, jaw, and neck. "Floyd!" he says, sounding irritatingly overjoyed. "I didn't think I'd see you so soon!"
There's red lipstick transfers all over Floyd's dumbfounded, reddening face.
By the time Riddle comes back to his senses, his throat aches like he's screamed his heart out, his face burns with an all-encompassing heat, and his Dreamself is knocked a few paces away with Off With Your Head around his neck.
"What," Riddle heaves, "do you think you're doing?"
"What the fuck is this?" his Dreamself yells, clawing at the collar. Some part of Riddle shrivels at hearing his own voice swear. "What the hell? What—is this magic? What the fuck did I do to deserve getting collared like a dog?"
"You—isn't it obvious!" Riddle yells back. "You, you tackled and kissed Floyd—of all people! Of all people!"
His Dreamself looks even more offended. "What, I can't kiss my own boyfriend? Why the fuck not? And why the hell do you look like me, you dickhead?"
At the word "boyfriend," both Riddle and Floyd choke. Riddle makes the executive decision to bring that up later, preferably once Floyd is no longer around—if he brings it up at all—and instead focuses on the latter half of his Dreamself's complaints. "You," Riddle says, gripping his wand so tightly his fingers ache, "are the one that looks like me."
Floyd, on the other hand: "Hang on, boyfriend?"
At Riddle's insistence, they relocate to the school library. Hardly anyone visits during break—again, there really aren't that many students that stay behind during either break, and the ones that do don't bother going to the library—so there's less of a chance of yet another wayward passerby getting dragged into this stupid series of events.
His Dreamself and Floyd are sitting at a table. Riddle stays standing and stares both of them down.
The collar, having been removed, had left faint marks against his Dreamself's neck. They must be bothering him as he has yet to stop massaging the area. Floyd sits to the Dreamself's left with an empty chair between them. He still has lipstick marks all over his mouth and face and neck, and he's staring at Riddle's Dreamself as if he's having a field day.
"Goldfishie," Floyd whines, being the first the break the otherwise stiff atmosphere, "how come you never wear anything fun like that?"
"What do you mean, I always wear—"
"I would never wear anything as improper as—"
Riddle and his Dreamself fall silent, glaring at each other. Floyd cackles and says, "There really are two Goldfishies!"
Debating the merits of kicking Floyd out and handling this on his own (and how successful such an act would be), Riddle takes in a deep, steadying breath. "There shouldn't be," he says. "The fact that there is means we need to do something to send him back to where he came from."
His Dreamself scoffs. "How do we know you're not the one that needs to be sent back?"
"Because this is my world," Riddle hisses. He wants to add, I'm the original. You're the fake here, but he manages to bite back the words before they can spill out childishly.
The copy remains unconvinced until Floyd says, "Well, I'm not either Goldfishie's boyfriend, so I'm pretty sure that means this Goldfishie—" he points at Riddle— "is the real one." Then the copy stares at Floyd. His brows slowly furrow.
"You're being serious? You don't—you don't remember...?"
"It's kinda hard for me to remember something that never happened," Floyd says, rubbing absentmindedly at his lips, red lipstick transferring to his fingertips. "'Sides, the Goldfishie I remember is the one standing over there, so unless you wanna say that both me and that Goldfishie are the outsiders here, then you're the odd one out, Gold—uh." He stares harder at the Dreamself. "I can't call both of you Goldfishie. That's gonna get annoying real quick."
"That cannot be your main concern right now—"
"Then you can call me—"
Riddle and his copy stop and glare at each other again. Riddle, pointedly speaking first, says, "You can use my name the way I've been telling you to for the past three years. Or, you can at least assign me a different fish that isn't so insulting."
"Insulting?" his Dreamself echoes, incredulous. "Goldfish are known for being beautiful and—"
"The one I know can be Goldfishie!" Floyd interrupts. "You can be..."
His Dreamself says, smugly, "You can call me Riddle," but Floyd steamrolls over him and says, "Nah, no thanks," without even hesitating. He deflates.
"Then what about Rosehearts? Rose?" he says, pouting. "Or Rosegold? If you have to call me by a different name."
Floyd looks like he's about to argue on nicknames again, so Riddle clears his throat and says, "We're wasting our time with this. We need to figure out a way to send you back—wherever you were. There's no place for you here."
His Dreamself—or Rosegold, as it seems they're calling him now—crosses his arms and nods reluctantly. "I guess so. I already miss having a Floyd that remembers me, and there's plenty of other people that'll miss me if I stay too long."
"You know where we're gonna start looking?" Floyd asks. Riddle scowls, not knowing if it's good or bad luck that Floyd has yet to lose interest in this situation and is offering to help. "Did you figure out what got him here in the first place?"
"I'm not sure," Riddle admits, "but our best bet is to search this library. Either we find the object that sent him here, or we find a book that can help us send him back. For now, we can retrace my steps and go through the bookshelves for anything suspicious—something powerful enough to summon... Rosegold must have a strong magical signature, so it shouldn't be too hard to find."
"Assuming it exists," Rosegold mutters.
"Got it," Floyd says, snickering. "Lead the way, Goldfishie."
For better or for worse, Rosegold sticks by Floyd's side and only bothers Riddle by him overhearing the two's conversation. The two of them are laughing and Floyd is clearly enjoying interacting with a "Goldfishie" that's more lenient on the rules. Riddle hopes they understand the grace he's giving them by not demanding they quiet their voices in the library, though he has his doubts.
"Hey hey, what else is different about your world, Rose-Goldfishie?" Floyd asks. Riddle sighs and continues combing through the shelves, focusing more on the magical signature of the spines in front of him than on their titles. None of the ones in this row are particularly powerful, and most don't have a signature at all.
"It's hard for me to say what's different when I don't know anything about this world, Floyd." And Rosegold says Floyd's name so fondly it sets Riddle's teeth on edge. Isn't this an infringement on Rosegold's relationship with his Floyd? Not to mention that kiss. No matter the similarities, these two weren't dating; they were as good as strangers. "Is there anything specific you want to know about? Though, I suppose you wouldn't know where to start, either."
From the sound of it, Floyd is mindlessly tugging books out at random then sliding them back in, likely after checking the front covers. There's a tapping of nails on wood before he says, "How come you're swearing and wearing those clothes?"
"Because I want to. Why else?" Rosegold scoffs. "My question is why the hell that Riddle is so stuck-up and rude. He treats me like I spat in his drink."
"Then the hair was also just 'cause you felt like it?"
"Pretty much, yeah." Rosegold laughs. "Actually, fun story: I dyed it myself, but it turned out so ass Mom begged me to get it done professionally. They had to redye parts of it back to red since I did such a horrible job at the split dye."
Floyd doesn't laugh, or really acknowledge the story at all. Instead, he echoes, "'Mom?'"
"Yes? Is there something unusual with that?"
"You're callin' her 'Mom?'" Floyd clarifies. Riddle realizes he's paused his own search, but no matter how much he tries to redirect his focus, his mind stays on the conversation behind him and the pangs in his heart. "Not 'Mother?'"
"Why the fuck would I call her 'Mother?'" Rosegold says, disgusted. "That's so cold. And weird. I know we're a well-off family and we do go to social gatherings from time to time, but Mother is just so cold. I could never call her that."
Any hopes Riddle had of being forgotten are quickly dashed when Floyd calls out to him. "Yeah, Goldfishie. Why do you call your mama 'Mother?'"
"The answer doesn't matter," he replies, curt. "We should be looking for the source of Rosegold's misplacement, not chatting idly."
"Boo," Rosegold says. "You're so boring. No wonder you're not dating Floyd."
"What does that have anything to do with—"
"Oh, right. Why are you and your version of me dating?" Floyd asks. Riddle screams but otherwise doesn't disrupt the conversation with anything else. Forget what the two idiots behind him are doing, he needs to hurry up and figure out how to send Rosegold back.
He gives the shelf in front of him a quick glance-through, finds nothing of note, and stomps over to a different shelf that's irritatingly still within earshot of Rosegold and Floyd.
"We met when I was still following Trey through his classes," Rosegold begins. "I ran into you—that is, my Floyd—in the halls. You were enamored with my hair color and refused to leave me alone. Honestly, I thought you obnoxious at first." At this, Floyd cackles. Riddle privately notes that, apparently, Floyd remains a nuisance no matter the difference in circumstances.
Rosegold continues his recollections with a clear smile in his voice. "After that, we would run into each other from time to time, and eventually I realized how fun it was to be around you. You were always willing to go along with whatever I wanted—so long as you were in the mood for it, of course.
"My Floyd ended up falling first," he says. "He must've been desperate to be with me—" and here Floyd denies that any version of himself would be "desperate"— "because he confessed to me after I had been rejected."
"You got rejected? Wait, you confessed? To who?"
"Trey, of course," Rosegold says. Riddle very nearly marches over and beheads him. He wishes his Signature Spell was a muzzle instead, if only to shut this copy of himself up. No one had any right to know this, and the last thing he wanted was for this copy to tell Floyd.
But interrupting would only make him seem guilty. It's not as if Floyd would know that Riddle has held similar feelings. So, he braces himself and stays silent, humiliated all the while.
"My crush started when we were children, around the time we first met. But I never worked up the nerve to confess until a year ago. I got rejected, went away to sulk, and then you—my Floyd—found me and told me I should like him instead. Truthfully, I thought of rejecting him at first, but he ended up being a good kisser..."
Floyd doesn't jump to respond. Riddle wonders if his mood's dropped—what caused it this time? He doesn't speak until Rosegold prompts him.
"Nah, it's just..." At least Floyd sounds as embarrassed as Riddle feels. "That doesn't sound like anything I'd do." And then, "And Sea Turtle? Really?"
"Well, we're childhood friends and we've always been close... He looked out for me a lot, and I admired him. His baking is delicious, too, and he ended up rather handsome when we got older. Honestly, I'd be shocked if your Riddle's never had a crush on him."
Luckily, Floyd doesn't call out to Riddle to ask. Not that Riddle would've responded with anything but denial.
Besides, Riddle's so-called crush on Trey was never anything more than a fleeting childhood attachment. He was fond of him when they were both children, true, as Trey was his first friend and easier to understand than Che'nya, but he would've never called it anything remotely romantic. He had looked up to Trey—to both him and Che'nya, really—for knowing so much about the world outside of studying.
Though, admittedly, his attachment to Trey grew strange after he was forbidden from playing with them. In the few moments he had time to think, he would daydream about Trey knocking on his bedroom window, holding out his hand to invite him out again as Che'nya grinned behind him. He always imagined taking his hand and slipping out into the moonlit night, following his two knights to a world where he could climb trees and eat tarts. They would carry him back to the house, and he could fall back into bed, and then he could wake up and Mother would apologize and say he could have his hour of self-directed study back, and that, yes, of course he could spend it learning with Trey and Che'nya.
No amount of logic prevented these daydreams, though they did fade away as he got older. It helped that Che'nya would use his Signature Spell to visit whenever Mother wasn't looking, as rare as that was.
Seeing Trey again all those years later—and on a separate continent—was an honest surprise and by then any old attachment was long buried. To know that Rosegold hung onto those feelings until they became romantic, confessed and then was summarily rejected is... mortifying, to say the least.
"I don't feel that way about him anymore, of course," Rosegold says, sounding put off. "Honestly, I confessed less because I wanted to date him and more so that I could get it off my chest. I already knew he would never like me back. Besides, as close as I am to him, my Floyd's always been more fun to hang out with. He never complains when I sneak into classes."
"Why would you need to sneak in?" Floyd asks. "Do you really skip classes just to follow Sea Turtle around?"
"Well, now I follow you, or you skip class to hang out with me. Unlike your Riddle, I'm not a student here."
"...You're not?"
"I don't go to school at all, actually. I hate studying, so Mom and Dad home-schooled me and found a way for me to graduate early."
"But NRC's pretty fun, and it's not like you have to be crazy good to attend here," Floyd says. "You just gotta be picked by the mirror."
"There was no chance I would've been picked," Rosegold says, sounding irritated. "After all, I don't have magic."
And your mother is a housewife that never stopped you from playing with your friends, your father is a novelist that always had time for you, your parents never argued and always loved each other, and no one ever had the magic that spurred them to push you so hard, Riddle thinks, bitter. Rosegold really is just like his Dreamself.
Floyd says, "You're the complete opposite of Goldfishie."
Rosegold scoffs. "Does that mean he loves school? I mean, I guessed that he had magic, but how could anyone love studying?"
"I dunno if he loves it, but Goldfishie's always studying so he can get stronger."
"Uhg, I bet that's why he's so boring. He only ever thinks about his homework."
This bookshelf is a bust, too. Riddle ignores the now silent duo and begins combing through the next shelf, still finding nothing. It might be time for him to search the restricted section. As Housewarden, he has special access and said section is guaranteed to have books with strong enough magic to do something like this. Though he hasn't visited in recent weeks, he can't dispel the possibility of a delayed spell...
Finally, Floyd speaks. "You keep saying Goldfishie is 'boring,' but I dunno why'd you think that."
"...What do you mean?" Rosegold asks. Riddle finds himself echoing the thought. "You can't be serious. He's obviously boring as hell. I bet he's never broken a rule in his life!"
"So?" Floyd says. He sounds truly fed up, like he's hit the rock bottom of his mood. Riddle shouldn't feel so vindicated that Rosegold was the one who dropped it. "The way he's so desperate to follow his rules is what's fun about him. And he's super strong, too. He could fling me around the room as a first year. You don't even have magic?"
"There are plenty of ways to be strong outside of magic—"
"But are you strong?" There's a dull thud. Riddle's now too far away to check what it was. "What, do you do martial arts or something?"
"I... Well, no..."
"Are you good at anything?"
"I—I'm good at fashion? And—what does this have anything to do with—"
"Because I like Goldfishie because he's strong. He's strong as hell, he's a Housewarden, and he's unexpected and fun. I don't know what your Floyd sees in you, because to me, you're the boring one."
There's a sharp click of heels against wood before Floyd calls out, "Goldfishie?"
Riddle startles and calls back, "What is it, Floyd." Floyd makes his way over to Riddle's aisle, pokes his head in and says, "I'm gonna take a lil' break. Be back when I'm back in the mood," then walks off without waiting for a response. Riddle watches him go and realizes, belatedly, that Floyd's ears are as red as his own face feels.
He knows Riddle was listening, then.
Refocusing on his search, Riddle realizes he hasn't been actively checking the past several rows and sighs. He'll have to backtrack and comb through the shelves again. Maybe now that Floyd and Rosegold won't be distracting him, he'll actually make some progress.
The footsteps approaching him quickly prove otherwise. Rosegold nearly walks past the row before he spots Riddle. "You seem awfully happy," he says. He's pouting with his arms crossed. "Are you sure you and this Floyd aren't dating?"
"I am," Riddle says. "And don't lean on the shelves. Do you want to topple them?"
Rosegold scowls but obediently steps away. "I don't get what anyone sees in you."
"Am I supposed to be bothered by that?"
"Aren't you?" Rosegold says. "I know I'd be bothered if I was a boring, rule-obsessed twat no one liked."
"Clearly Floyd likes me enough," Riddle mutters, not quite brave enough to say it any louder. He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter what you think. This isn't your world, and you're not me."
"Aren't you?"
"...What do you mean?"
"It's just," Rosegold begins, as he starts leaning against the shelves again, "We're both Riddle Rosehearts, aren't we? How the hell can you be so different from me?"
"Does that really—"
"Is it because your relationship with Mom is weird?" Riddle's teeth click shut. Rosegold scoffs. He says, "Why else would you be so formal to her?"
It's more than that, Riddle thinks, just as he also thinks, it's nothing like that. Or maybe "weird" was the right word to describe the strained, suffocating, loving relationship between him and Mother. Not that he'd ever admit it aloud.
To Rosegold, he says, "She wanted me to."
Riddle knows without looking that his copy's scowl is fierce.
They walk through a few more shelves (finding nothing, unfortunately) without Rosegold's unwanted chattering, though Riddle's skin prickles at the weight of his glare. Floyd doesn't return, either, and Riddle wonders if he's lost any interest he had in today's disaster. It'd be far from the first time Floyd rammed his nose into Riddle's business, only to flee just as abruptly.
Though this time he was the one dragged into this. The Rosegold-Floyd kiss flashes in his mind. Then the smeared lipstick transfers scattered across Floyd's face and neck. He better have washed all of that off before wandering around campus, looking like he just—
His internal monologue is unceremoniously interrupted by something dark clouding his vision. Riddle sputters and swipes at the object, only for something else to be tossed over him. He spins on his heal and glares at Rosegold.
"What," he snaps, noting the lack of coat and hat on Rosegold. Rosegold steps closer to him, yanking the hat out of Riddle's hands and forcing Riddle's arms through the fuzzy jacket, somehow managing to do so despite Riddle struggling so hard they fall to the floor.
"You," Rosegold hisses, "should at least dress a little less lame. I don't care if your mom is why you're like this, I don't understand why you wouldn't try to rebel at all. Sit still—I'm doing your makeup."
"You will do no such thing—"
"Who gives a shit!" Rosegold grabs Riddle's chin and roughly begins jabbing a brush at Riddle's eye. Riddle only stills to prevent Rosegold from accidentally gouging it. "I refuse to accept that any version of me would be so, so—lame!"
"There's nothing wrong with the way—"
"At least try it." He swipes at Riddle's eyelid with force just shy of painful. "I'll even put on your stupid princeling outfit if you'll try on mine."
"It's the Housewarden uniform."
"So?" He switches to the other eye. "I bet you dress like that every day. I bet you've never worn a skirt."
Most guys haven't, Riddle thinks, eyeing the fishnets on one of Rosegold's thighs.
Slowly, Riddle eases back and lets Rosegold do what he wants. It's almost relaxing, in a way, though his irritation sparks every time he sees that mirrored face. This is the Riddle Rosehearts that grew up outside of the house. Who spent time with his friends, whose parents spent time with him. It's hard to not imagine all the ways his childhood could have gone differently, when Rosegold is the manifestation every wish he's ever had.
"Why do you have your makeup with you, anyway?" He asks, as Rosegold rummages through his jacket's inner pockets and pulls out two sticks: a rose-capped lipstick in a deep red, and a regular-looking one in a slightly darker shade.
"In case I need to reapply it?"
"But all of it?"
"It's convenient, and it's not like I do a full face," Rosegold says, sounding a little embarrassed. "Not that you'd understand; you and your Floyd aren't together. Yet."
"What does that have to do with anything? And there's no yet." Rosegold rolls his eyes and applies the lipstick. Riddle waits until he backs off, switching between lipsticks, before continuing, "Floyd and I will never have that sort of relationship. We're not even friends."
"Uh-huh, sure," Rosegold says, blending the lipstick with his finger. Riddle hopes his hands are clean. "Your Floyd—"
"He's not mine."
"Your Floyd," Rosegold repeats, louder and with a pointed jab at Riddle's lips, "acts similarly to mine."
Riddle quiets. Rosegold takes out a small makeup remover and swipes it at the edges of his work. Then he says, "My Floyd's not a gushy-sweet lover, you know. He's still kind of a dickhead. But he listens and looks after me, and he's gotten better about pushing boundaries. And your Floyd reminds me of him—except," Rosegold huffs, "he hates me. Only the Seven would know why."
"It shouldn't be a mystery," Riddle says. "You're not me."
Rosegold's face scrunches, again, but he visibly stops himself from saying whatever his first thought was. Instead, he says, "What the hell did Mom do to you to make you so different?"
And Riddle, maybe feeling a little more generous, says, "She all but locked me in the house and had me study every waking moment. It's made me everything I am today."
"That's... Mom would never..."
"But Mother did," Riddle says. Rosegold sits back. Riddle wonders if he understands. Sometimes, Riddle himself doesn't.
The two sit in silence, Rosegold deep in thought and Riddle exhausted from the past hour he's spent with his copy. Rosegold continues his work by weaving a heart-shaped braid into Riddle's hair, then by sliding on a few of his ear cuffs (not all of his earrings are piercings, as it turns out) and adjusting the hat on Riddle's hair. Riddle almost dozes off.
Though, he comes to when he realizes Rosegold's taking pictures with Riddle's phone.
"Why don't you use your own?" Riddle doesn't bother arguing against getting his photo taken; spending time around Cater would do that to most.
"Forgot it," Rosegold says. "It wasn't in my jacket, so it looks like it didn't come with me."
Riddle lets Rosegold mess around with the camera—he even dutifully sits through a selfie with his copy, the two of them looking like twins in the phone's screen, and Riddle wonders if this is what it's like to be Floyd and Jade—until Rosegold gets bored of that, too. He sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Riddle, flipping through the photos he's taken and deleting more than half of them.
"I still don't—" Rosegold begins, haltingly. For once, it seems like he's being careful with his words. "You can still wear stuff like this. You know that, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just because Mom's—not the greatest, or whatever, here—doesn't mean you can't still do what you like." Rosegold gestures at Riddle's face. "You're a student here, right? That means you've got months where you can wear whatever."
"We have a uniform."
"Then on your days off."
"I'm always busy."
"Fuck, then make time, or something. I don't know."
Riddle looks at Rosegold's petulant face and sighs. "Why are you so insistent on me trying this? Why can't I be happy with what I have? Your tastes don't necessarily—"
Rosegold smears his fingers across Riddle's cheek, leaving behind a tacky transfer of lipstick. "At least try something more fun," Rosegold says. "Ask Floyd; if he's anything like mine, he'll love to dress you up."
"And make a fool out of me," Riddle says, scrubbing at his cheek. He's only made it worse; now it's smeared all over the back of his hand, too. "I've tried out different styles with some of the others. I know what I'm comfortable with."
"Screw comfortable. What about doing what you want?"
I've been trying, Riddle thinks. I've been trying to do what I want. But it's hard when part of me still wants to do whatever it takes for Mother to be proud of me.
Their break has gone on long enough. Riddle gets to his feet and returns the hat and jacket. Mercifully, Rosegold takes them back without a verbal complaint.
"I'm going to go looking for Floyd," Rosegold says. "I want to see how he'll react to—"
Cracks crawl across Rosegold's face. Between one blink and the next, he shatters like glass, the pieces melting into the air before they can hit the ground. Riddle stares at the now empty space, a little horrified.
In the distance, Floyd calls out, "I think I found it!"
Riddle, eying Floyd's find, says, "You couldn't have waited to show us before you broke it?"
On the table lies the shattered pieces of an ornate hand mirror. Though the frame looks to be a metal of some sort—maybe bronze—it had shattered in the same lines as the mirror itself. Riddle lifts the pieces and examines them; on the back, there's a few lines of scrawled text. The handwriting feels distantly familiar; the mirror itself, more so.
"I wanted to see what would happen," Floyd says, without any guilt. "'Sides, I thought you wanted him gone?"
"I wanted him safely returned." The wide-eyed expression on Rosegold's face in the split second before he shattered didn't bode well. Did it hurt? Or was he merely surprised? "We should've looked into things more before jumping to breaking it."
"But it worked, didn't it?"
"I suppose it did." Summoning a towel, Riddle wraps the pieces and turns to leave. "I'll be taking these back to the dorm." Then, stiffly, "Thank you for your help."
"If you're just gonna be looking at it, why don't you do it here?"
"I have an idea on who it belongs to."
"Then I'm coming with, Goldfishie."
Why, Riddle thinks, but he guesses it's only fair. Floyd had been dragged into this by accident, and in the end, he'd been the one to find the source. There would be no harm in him seeing the conclusion, too.
"Fine," he says. "So long as you behave yourself."
The first-year that had notified Riddle of this whole debacle is in his room—alone, since his roommates had all left to their families. He looks ready to quiver out of his skin when he answers Riddle's knock; he visibly jolts when he meets Riddle's gaze and sees Floyd towering behind him.
"Pip, was it?" Riddle asks. He had finally remembered the boy's name.
"U-Um! Why... Why is he also..." the boy stammers.
"He got dragged into things," Riddle explains, "and wouldn't leave. Are you going to let us in?"
Meekly, the boy steps aside.
The room is well-kept, at least. Riddle has scolded the four occupants of this room for the mess they've made before; it's only now, with everyone else gone, that the room is so orderly. Pip must've been overwhelmed by his messier roommates.
Riddle settles on the floor in the center of the room (none of the desks are large or open enough for all three of them to crowd around) and unravels the towel, revealing the shattered mirror. Pip's face goes pale.
"Will you explain what this is?" Riddle asks, evenly. It helps that it's not Pip he's upset with.
"It's..." Pip braces himself and sits across from Riddle, folding his legs neatly under him. "It's... my brother's Signature Spell."
Riddle nods. The handwriting had jogged his memory: Pip's brother was once a Heartslabyul student. He was a third-year when Riddle became Housewarden, and had also been one of many near-repeaters. It was only after Riddle forced them to attend classes, do their work, and study that their grades improved. He hadn't had a Signature Spell back then. To Pip, he asks, "Can you explain to me how it works and why it was here?"
The boy looks a hairsbreadth away from crying, but he nods with white-knuckled hands and a weary weight to his shoulders. "I don't really understand how it works, either, since he's never explained it to me, but... As far as I know, it allows him to imbue magic into reflective surfaces and show people an alternate self." His eyes dart between Riddle's face and the broken mirror. "But it's always been—reflections. Illusions. At least, that's what me and our parents thought..."
Nothing that would leave lipstick stains long after Rosegold's disappearance, Riddle thinks. He's still not entirely sure if Rosegold was, truly, an alternate him with his own life or a manifestation of his Dreamself pulled into reality, but the things Rosegold left behind stayed behind. Riddle's hair was still braided, and he could still feel the weight of product around his eyes and on his lips.
"And how does it work?"
"He... He finds a mirror, or, or a reflective surface of some kind, and imbues his Signature Spell into it. Whoever looks at it will see a reflection of their inner self... That's what he's told us, at least. It looks like, if he carves into the mirror, he can create a more powerful reflection. But that still doesn't..."
"Explain what gets left behind, does it?"
"No, not... not really." Pip's eyes continue to dart between Riddle's face and away. "It's possible that he knew someone else and they layered their Signature Spells together, or maybe... no, never mind."
"Might as well say it," Floyd cuts in. Pip curls further into himself. "You never know, maybe it'll be helpful."
"I, w-well, maybe—I don't really know the theory behind this, or if there's any way it could be possible, but, uh," Pip's stammering continues, his nerves scrambling his words, until he slaps his hands over his mouth and breathes deeply.
"There's this... layer of magic over the whole island," he says. He's staring down at his lap, fiddling with his fingers. "I... I don't know the details, but I've heard there was a powerful spell cast last year that could be the source of it. It's possible that magic interfered with the already unstable application of the Signature Spell—or Spells, plural—that were cast on the mirror—which was already infused with magic before anything else was placed on it.
"I've heard illusion spells—or anything that deals with the mind, really—can be particularly powerful and convincing. But for it to store your appearance, character, and inner self, and then transform it into something that can move independently... Just what is my brother's Signature Spell...?" Glancing up, Pip flinches and stammers, "O-Of course, I'm only a first year and none of my classes have gone in depth in any of these theories, so, uh, I could be completely incorrect—"
"It's possible," Riddle admits. Remnants of Malleus' Signature Spell could be powerful enough to influence other spells, particularly if they relied on the same image of the "self." Magic dealing with mind or soul could be unpredictable on the best of days, after all.
Pip may be smarter than Riddle realized. Most first years come in with only the barest understanding of magic; many had never even heard of a Signature Spell. If he's currently familiar with illusion theory, then he's far beyond his classmates. "Have you done independent study?"
"Just a little... I've been interested in magic ever since my brother's manifested, so..."
Riddle says, "I'll have to prepare a reading list for you," and Pip flushes scarlet. Though, he's fighting a smile, so he can't be too unhappy. "Regardless, thank you for your help. I'm assuming your brother put you up to this?"
"His brother?" Floyd echoes. Pip nods, while Riddle explains, "His brother was a third year when I became Housewarden. I had to be particularly strict with him or else he would've repeated a year."
"He... doesn't have the fondest memories," Pip says.
"I'm not surprised." Riddle knows he wasn't the best of leaders during his first year—his Overblot alone is enough proof of that. "I imagine he's not the only one to hold a grudge against me."
"B-But!" Startled by his own outburst, Pip shrinks back, shakes his head, then visibly braces himself as he continues, "I... I don't know what it was like back then, b-but... For what it's worth, I really, um...
"I really look up to you, Housewarden," Pip says. He's refusing to meet Riddle's eyes, and his face looks hot enough to burn. "You... you know so much about magic, a-and you do what you can to help everyone else reach their full potential..."
"Aw, Goldfishie, you have a fan," Floyd coos. It's embarrassing enough that even Pip glares at Floyd for it. "Sure doesn't explain why you helped your brother with this, though."
"I... I'm sorry. My brother is..."
Riddle understands, he thinks. "It's alright. We can't choose our family." Pip nods, slowly, though the shame on his face remains. "But come to me the next time your brother tries anything."
"O-Of course."
"We're lucky that this attempt was rather harmless, all things considered."
"Yes, that's true..."
"And perhaps we can work towards discovering your Signature Spell together," Riddle says. Pip's head snaps up. "That'll be good way of getting back at your brother, don't you think?"
"I-If you're really sure!"
"I am."
Riddle and Pip work out a meeting time—really, Riddle would've preferred starting then and there, but Floyd was growing impatient and he'd rather shoo Floyd out before he did something stupid—and head out, leaving Pip alone.
"I still don't get what he actually did," Floyd says, sprawling on the couch. Riddle twitches; he had, naively, assumed Floyd would be leaving. "Sounds like it was all his brother's doing."
"He was the one that showed the mirror to me, which was likely how the mirror knew to create—or summon—Rosegold." Riddle hadn't thought it too odd at the time. Pip had claimed the mirror was a lost item, and it had seemed rather benign, if ornate. Any nerves he had were brushed off as mere shyness, and Riddle let Pip know where he could store it until classes resumed and they could find its owner. "You breaking the mirror is likely what fractured the connection and disrupted the spell."
"I thought that was obvious."
"I was saying it to keep the record straight," Riddle says. He crosses his arms and looks down at Floyd. Then he squints. "Why did you never wash off those lipstick stains?"
"What? Oh," Floyd says, dumbly, rubbing at his cheek. "I forgot."
"How could you forget something like—"
"And how come you're wearing his makeup, Goldfishie?" Floyd grins. "You think that kid thought you were the one that gave me these?"
"He was the first to see Rosegold," Riddle snaps. "Besides, my makeup isn't smeared at all."
"It's a little uneven, though."
"It is?" Riddle pulls out his phone to check, and sure enough, the eyeshadow on his left eye spreads further than the one on the right, and the eyeliner on both eyes is wobbly. That Rosegold, forcing him to wear this outlandish look—he didn't even bother doing it well!
His lips, at least, look fine.
"Why're you wearing it at all?" Floyd asks, squinting. Abruptly, he stands and reaches for the braid in Riddle's hair, his fingers running gently over its shape. "Wait, are you wearing earrings, too?"
"He made me." Riddle swears to delete the selfies on his phone as soon as he can. "He all but tackled me and forced all of this onto me."
Floyd's hand has migrated to Riddle's ear. It's a little ticklish. "It looks good, though? Dunno why you're embarrassed."
"I look like him."
Humming, Floyd grips Riddle's chin and tilts his face up, as if he's examining the quality of Rosegold's work. "You look like Goldfishie. See? Rose-Goldfishie didn't get mad like this."
Riddle swats Floyd away to the tune of Floyd's cackling. "Isn't it time for you to go back to your dorm!?" he shouts. Only knowing the makeup would look worse if he tried to rub it off now stops him from scrubbing his hand over his face. "There's nothing left here for you to entertain yourself with!"
"But you're here?"
"I'm not a toy!"
"But you're fun," Floyd says, and Riddle wonders if he's imagining the fondness in his tone. "You're way more fun than that other Goldfishie."
Outrage stalls Riddle's words. His face grows hotter and redder, and Floyd's grin gets bigger and bigger, until eventually, Riddle spits out, "But you're still wearing his marks." The words extinguish his temper; he nearly bites his tongue in his haste to shut himself up.
"Huh?"
"It's nothing," Riddle says. "You should get going. I—I have—there's nothing—you should leave."
"Goldfishie?"
"It's nothing. Forget it."
Floyd does not forget it. He stares at Riddle with narrowed eyes—and reddening ears?—until, eventually, he puts Riddle out of his misery and says, "Then why don't you replace them?"
"What do you..."
"You're wearing lipstick right now, right?" Floyd says, as if it's a completely normal thing to say. "So, go ahead. Mark me up, Goldfishie."
Your Floyd acts similarly to mine, Rosegold had said. Watching Floyd blush, the tips of his fingers twitching with nerves, Riddle wonders if this is what his copy had meant. He steps closer to Floyd. Floyd's eyes dart down, then up.
Riddle steps between Floyd's legs, grabs Floyd's chin much in the same way Floyd had done to him only a moment ago, and rubs the makeup remover he'd summoned over Floyd's cheek. Floyd jolts and looks so disgruntled, Riddle can't help but laugh.
"Were you expecting something else?" he teases. It's a good thing Floyd can't hear how fast Riddle's heart is beating.
Floyd just groans, the tension leaving his body. "Goldfishie—mhmp." Riddle rubs at Floyd's mouth, shutting him up; then he wipes away the smear on Floyd's nose and neck until the only red left on Floyd's skin is the red of his flush. "You know what I meant," he mumbles.
"I did," Riddle admits. And to prove it, he kisses Floyd.