Have You Eaten Yet? @elic-606 - Tumblr Blog

Feb 15

hold on to the end, that's what i intend to do

a kyryll chudomirovich flins x gender neutral reader modern au.

overview: you think you've landed yourself a stellar deal when you find a decent apartment for college at the last minute, not until you get informed that you'll be having a stranger as a roommate.

wc: 13.7k

notes: hello! this is my last fic for 2025, and i wish all flins lovers a happy new year! yeah i definitely didn't sleep for this one, but it was lowk worth it. hope you enjoy this word jumble i made. i dunno. writing slump was temporarily healed i don't think i produced my 100% brain power over this one despite the word count. does this feel like flins? not too sure. i hope this fic also makes sense y'all. also based on this ask. saw their ask and here i am, adding the tags: roommates au, college setting, non-linear timeline, possible unreliable narrator, ambiguous relationships, slice of life, reverse comfort-ish

“So. What’s it like having a roommate?”

In the first place—you did not even plan to have a roommate, to begin with.

The story begins like no other: of course, considering how responsible you are, you’ve managed to find one decent apartment at the very last minute. It’s a couple of minutes away from your university, and honestly, you can’t believe you’ve landed a stellar deal. It’s neither too big, nor too small. It’s near a grocery store, too, so what more can you ask?

That is, until you’ve realised that having a roommate is part of the lease during the contract signing. It would’ve been fine if this was someone you knew in uni, but it was a total stranger. ( Now this explains why there were more rooms and bathrooms. )

Yes, yes. You certainly jinxed yourself by celebrating way too early. You guess it must have been The Doctor’s doing. Dude probably gave you an evil eye for beating him at League.

But since you’re desperate, and wouldn’t want to suffer by paying almost 5000 worth of mora for transportation every week, you give back the contract to your landlord with shaky hands.

Hello, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.

Welcome to my life.

Moving in has been a blur. Standing outside of your unit, you wonder when you’ll ever get to meet your roommate. You haven’t seen him during the contract signing, and it’s baffling how willing he was to even sign the lease immediately without even doing a background check. ( It’s not like you’ve done it, but for your own safety, you’ve come to learn that it was strange how you couldn’t find him on your social media. You even tried kyryll_1 or kyryll_123, or even flins_xcx and kyryllflins or whatever, but nothing came up. )

So yes—this roommate of yours? Definitely a mystery.

That is, not until you finally enter your unit with boxes filled with your belongings in your arms do you finally get to meet him.

It’s dark, but the light pouring from the doorway is enough to see through. You assume it’s around 6:30 pm already, and you’re a little glad to know that your roomie isn’t here yet. So you exhale a sigh, before bending down to place the boxes on the ground, and standing up again with hands on your hips.

“It’s going to be a new chapter in life,” you say, to no one in particular.

Yet a voice replies from the side, “It sure is.”

And there, in the corner of the room, sitting in a rocking chair, is a tall, ominous figure. The manifestation of your childhood nightmares.

The whole apartment quakes when you scream bloody murder.

It’s a great first impression.

The next thing you know is that the tall, ominous figure had marched over to you and pressed his bigger hand ( wait, is he wearing gloves? ) to your mouth to prevent you from screaming more. You thought that stress from deadlines would be your murderer, but it turns out it was going to be some man who you’re sure is definitely someone evil. ( You swear you saw his yellow eyes gleam, as if he was some predator. Or maybe it was because of the city lights coming from the window? Actually, you’re not even sure. )

The way he shushes you brings you uncertainty. He’s not even panicking from the noise you’re making. More like he’s being patient, and gentle, and—what the hell? Are you being treated like a child, or like a disturbed animal being placated before its death? Archons, is he going to eat you? Is this some kind of animal documentary film you’ve watched before where predators gaslight their prey thinking they’re going to be fine?

Gods, he’s really going to eat you, isn’t he? He’s going to maul you like a wolf. Suffocate you like a cobra—

“Shh, there, there. It wouldn’t be appropriate to bother the upstairs neighbors, I’ve heard they’re quite the pair.” Your muffled screams come into a halt—what does he even mean by that!? Isn’t what he’s doing INAPPROPRIATE? “Haha, forgive me for giving you such a fright; I simply thought it would be funny. But alas, you look as if your soul is being taken away from you.”

You ransack your mind—in what world is that funny?! Who’s some psycho who sits in the dark like that?! And apology your ass, he looks as if he isn’t repenting at it for all!

“My name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear roommate,” he says and you freeze in both recognition and horror.

This wacko guy is your roommate?!

Oh, archons.

It’s going to be a whole new chapter indeed.

You’re not used to having a roommate. Not at all. You greatly value your privacy, but really—desperate times call for desperate measures. They did say that it’s time to get out of your comfort zone, because you’ll get to know yourself better.

And honestly, your plan for getting out of your comfort zone was to live in an apartment all by yourself. You’ll have to rely on yourself further, and learn what it’s like being seriously independent. It just so happens that the universe has other plans, because the universe said, “Nah. That’s way too easy. Have a roommate instead.”

So after sharing an apartment with Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins for almost a year now, here are your thoughts with him.

#1. You seriously don’t know what’s wrong with him.

Exhibit A: The reason why he had been sitting in a rocking chair ( who even sits in a rocking chair these days? ) the first time he met you, was because he didn’t know how to put the lights on. He mentioned being reliant on some friends of his, the Miss Ineffa and Miss Aino were mentioned, but even then, you didn’t know who they were. Yet.

So before your arrival, he was just staring cluelessly at the ceiling—in the dark, like some lunatic—wondering how he would connect the bulb to the socket.

Flabbergasted as you were, you took the initiative. By stacking boxes, then hoisting yourself on top of said boxes to reach said socket, the roomie offered emotional support from below. It was interesting how fascinated he was when the light finally yet barely illuminated the surrounding area.

He went on a long ramble about how grateful he was that he had such a talented roommate, and though you’re overwhelmed by his praises, you just shrugged it off. It was nothing.

You had a feeling that he did not mind conversations, and you wanted to ask how come he was not knowledgeable with this stuff. But decided to drop it entirely when he was gazing at the other corner of the room for some reason.

Exhibit B: He sees things.

You have a theory that he has a unique sense of humor—perhaps wicked, even. ( See, Exhibit C, where this is elaborated further ). But he seemed to be not joking when he sensed that there were “spirits” living in the apartment you are sharing, not until he kindly told them to stay somewhere else. ( This explains the time he was gazing at the other corner of the room before. )

Flins is a yapper. You’ve grown accustomed to it now, and maybe you need a degree to comprehend the true meaning behind his words ( or maybe even read more because you had to do a quick akasha search about the meaning of vellichor ), but you’re not wrong in the aspect that he doesn’t lie.

He says the full truth—for he is sincere and honest. But there are times that his truths are hidden behind a veil, or if he’s particularly feeling playful ( you’re aghast that he knows how to twist or find loopholes in his words ), he’ll probably give you a riddle, to which he enjoys. Thank the archons he doesn’t do this often, though. You don’t have enough brain cells to partake in his whims.

Back to the point: when he said he can see spirits or ghosts or the paranormal, he really can. The fact is a little chilling, and even more so when he can even talk to them, because seriously, what the hell?

And he even thinks it's a normal thing for him, too. One day, while you were stirring your instant coffee inside the kitchen, Flins, who just came home from his class, told you that there was a ghost sitting beside a classmate of his, who seemed genuinely interested in her. Flins told them to politely back off because it was rude and disrespectful.

You had to process the whole thing after that, when he went to his bedroom to get a change of clothes. You’ve started to accept at that point that it’s going to be like that for the rest of your four to five years in college, unless you move out and find somewhere else, or even tell him that this wasn’t your ordinary ‘how’s your day’ conversation starter.

But since this apartment was ‘stellar’, you’ll just have to get used to your roomie’s yapping.

Exhibit C: His humor. Who thinks it’s funny to scare someone, you wonder, and answers may vaty if you ever ask your friends. One of them will probably mention those idiotic pranksters who risk their lives for the clicks, or while some may vote for Xiangling’s lady friend, who apparently is some heir to a funeral parlor.

Your candidate for this is your wonderful roommate.

He thinks it’s funny when you nearly had a heart attack when you noticed that this man was just walking beside you all the way home to your apartment. “How the hell are you so light?! Why did you not make any sounds!?”

He thinks it’s funny when he suddenly speaks up out of nowhere—especially when you’re just lounging and relaxing in your living room, watching some shitty pirated movie, not until his towering figure, for some reason, appears in his doorway, making you almost drop the bowl of chips on the carpeted floor. Then, he arbitrarily calls your name, before asking the most mundane thing of all. “Do you mind if I borrow your frying pan for a bit? I might cook some scrambled eggs tomorrow morning.” “Archons, Flins—you didn’t need to ask! Just clean it after, what the hell!” You know he’s aware of what he’s doing, yet it doesn’t show on his face anyway. The glint on his eye is a dead giveaway. “I’m most grateful for your generosity. Please, enjoy the rest of the film.”

And lastly, he thinks it’s funny when he sees an insect or tiny reptile or arachnid or whatever crawler that you hate, and jokingly throws it at you. “CHUDOMIRO- BITCH!” He’s not that low to commit to it, since he still has said creepy crawler on his hand, but he does have the audacity to look surprised. “My deepest apologies. It appears my hand has slipped.”

For that, you get back at him by grabbing one of his boxes that contains his precious rocks, threatening to flush it down the toilet. That was the very first time you’ve seen real terror in his eyes, and you don’t feel any semblance of guilt for enjoying that moment.

“Do you see this, Flins? Your rocks—”

“Gemstones,” he still manages to correct you, and you glare at him.

“Your kids are crying out, and they’re saying, papa, papa, help me, there’s a whirlpool, we’re going to be granules along with a bunch of feces. Papa, papa, help us.”

Flins has his hands in front of his chest, thoroughly disturbed. He’s probably disturbed by how his gemstones are nearly touching the toilet, or probably because of your voice acting. “S–surely, you’re not going to resort to this—“

“Oh, but it’s definitely going to be a resort for your rocks—“

“Gemstones—”

And your other hand quickly reaches for the lever of the toilet and pushes it down, the loud flush intensifying his fear more. If you squint a little harder, you’d notice how Flins was trembling a little.

“What’d you say?” your hold over the box inches a little closer to the toilet seat. You internally delight when he seems more alarmed than ever.

“I jest, I jest—please, do not throw them— anything but the box—“

“Okay. Then maybe I’ll flush the GEMSTONES, then. You did anything say but the box—“

It was quite hilarious how you kind of picked up a few Flins mannerisms, and used this against him.

But at least, amidst his. . . weirder traits, you’re glad that in #2, he has his own sets of boundaries. There were ground rules that you’ve both established—no one enters the other’s bedroom ( an obvious one ), everyone does their groceries and chores equally ( another obvious one ), and personal matters remain personal ( another, another obvious one ).

Thankfully, like any other human being with a brain, Flins doesn’t have to voice out what constitutes ‘personal matters.’

You don’t ask about the paintings he hides in his closet, and he doesn’t point out the pictures you’ve attached on your corkboard. You don’t question him about the bones he collects—and it’s kind of frightening how he doesn’t explicitly tell you or show you why he does it, but it’s probably related to his course—and he doesn’t provide any comment whenever he sees you coming home at later hours.

You respect him, and he respects you. It’s your life and it’s his life.

With this mutual understanding—you’re able to work it out, in spite of the stranger shenanigans you’ve found yourself in with him. To be honest, Flins was actually a decent roommate, even though he’s enigmatic and all.

Perhaps for you, the cherry on top was when Flins kept his mouth shut when he accidentally caught you exiting the bathroom with tear stains on your cheek. When you smiled at him, though wobbly, and greeted him a timid good evening. When Flins heedfully understood the assignment, as always, and smiled back at you softly.

And finally—

—you can’t deny the fact that your roommate is just attractive as fuck.

Time passes by—and before you know it, you’re in your third year. It’s an understatement when you say that a lot of things happened, because it truly did.

From chill parties that contain soft liquor and karaoke sessions to unplanned road trips for coffee and underrated sights, you’re now juggling between thesis revisions and other collaborative projects. You curse your freshman and sophomore self for complaining how you had it worse back then—those were nothing compared to what you have at the moment.

You bury your head on the pile of paperwork you have to accomplish. The blue light from your laptop screen that’s placed on the side of your desk strains your eyes, so you momentarily close them, before heaving a heavy sigh. These are never–ending, and sure, this isn’t avoidable since it’s midterms season, after all, but damn this is too much.

Last time you checked, it was 7:30 am when you rose from the sheets to continue writing the draft of your action plan with your groupmates on the goddamn akasha doc. Now instead of being bathed by sunlight, the moon peeking from the clouds gently kisses your skin—reminding you that it’s nighttime, and that you still aren’t finished with your academics.

You sigh again.

And then, a gentle knock.

It couldn’t be anyone else but Flins.

There’s another knock, before he calls your name. Though muffled, you hear him clearly. “Are you awake? It’s time for dinner. I’ve made you your favorite.”

Truly, many things have changed.

When you sit back and recollect all the memories you’ve had with the people in your life, especially with Flins, you’ll realize that your relationship with your roommate, in the span of almost three years, has changed.

It is evident in the way that Flins brings food back for you now whenever he’s invited to a soiree. Or to a grand opening of an art museum or a gallery, because apparently he’s classy. He’s connected with influential people, and he has a keen eye for art. Also, when he accompanies his good pal Varka to a bar, he makes sure to order some food-to-go if it’s available. You’re grateful that Varka, now aware of your existence because of Flins, is willing to buy more that can last you a week—even if you said to Flins that he, including himself, didn’t need to do all this.

The same goes for you. Though you've tolerated Flins’ unique personality, you’ve got to see what it’s really like to be with him. What it’s really like without the playful side that dares to make an appearance during worse moments, and for that, instead of keeping your distance away since you’re actually kind of freaked out by him, you actually enjoy his company now.

He’s nocturnal—it is obvious from the shadows of his eyes, but this confirms how many times you’ve seen him awake around 2 am ( this mostly happens when you get home late ). He did say that he prefers the night rather than the day, after making him participate in one shallow 20 questions game with you while browsing through random quizzes from TeyvatPop.

On one particular night, with finished takeouts scattered on the coffee table, you sat with Flins on the carpeted floor. Not the couch. Not the rocking chair. The carpeted floor.

You two got the chance to just. . . talk. Your conversations with him got more philosophical, and shockingly, more realistic.

You listened when Flins finally unraveled some stories from his past. You never thought you’d get to see the day. Or night, at this instance. But he had been homesick ever since moving into this apartment, but this change of scenery, this change of course, of direction. . . it was all necessary for his growth.

“One can’t simply let himself suffer by continuously dwelling in the past. One must learn to let go, how difficult it may be, for the only way is always forward.”

Bittersweet, but nonetheless true. You clinked your cup against his, and he did the same.

A quiet toast, yet it was the start of something new. This was where it would all take root and bloom.

It would be the shift—the change. It was inevitable as years passed.

So it’s not surprising at all that your relationship with him in the current present is widely different compared to your freshmen year.

He pulled harmless yet rage-inducing pranks. You threatened to donate his precious bottles of alcohol to your uncles so they can use it in family reunions.

Then you gifted him pretty rocks from your trip when you remembered that he liked said pretty rocks. Even if they were just two rocks you sought, he seemed genuinely happy. Though his only request was that you call them gemstones.

And now—he was cooking you your favorite food.

He cooks you your favorite food.

A development you’ve surely never thought to see.

Then, another knock. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, I am,” you answer, without taking your head off from the paperwork. You’re still a little burnt out. “Thanks, Flins. I’ll eat it later.”

And you think that’s the end of it when Flins doesn’t respond anymore, not until he speaks again. “Have you not eaten a proper meal today?”

Well. At the very least, you did eat something. Like biscuits and instant coffee. You can’t afford to lose time over eating when you still have deadlines to catch. “I did,” you tell him. “I did eat.”

“. . . And was it proper?”

“. . .”

He calls your name in disapproval.

“. . . No, Flins. It wasn’t proper.”

“Then I’m going in,” he says, after a beat of silence. The alarm in your head suddenly goes off, and you open your eyes immediately.

Fuck. It’s not locked.

And the doorknob is beginning to twist.

You rush to push your papers aside to make some space, throw some of your dirty laundry to the basket, hide the other mess of documents beneath your plush quilt, before managing to return to your chair and spray the area with your perfume.

The door finally opens wide, revealing your ridiculously attractive roommate, who looked as if he just got back home from class. Hair tousled perfectly even though the longer strands are draped like a jellyfish behind his back. The sleeves of his purple shirt are folded until his elbows, indicating that he did cook you something, because this was what he usually did whenever he was going to prepare a meal. His black vest and black slacks hug his figure in a way that makes you stare hard and swallow hard.

And his yellow eyes—big, yellow eyes, have previously made your knees go weak out of fear, but now?

It’s something else entirely.

He’s really handsome, yes. And it’s insane how this is part of the change: you being more attracted to him as the days go by.

You mentally shove those thoughts in the deepest parts of your mind. Not important. Focus on the present: Flins, your roommate, is frowning. Not usually a good sign.

“It’s a good thing that I did not find you on your deathbed,” Flins remarks, “It’ll be quite difficult to pull back your soul to your body.”

You flinch. This part of him? It did not change. Instead, it grew with him. You’re still evaluating if it was for the better or worse. It’s probably the latter.

You retort, “Hey now. Those are some pretty big words coming from someone who sleeps like a corpse.” One time, you wanted to invite Flins for some breakfast to this one diner that just recently opened. You almost called 911 after seeing him on his bed, eyes tightly shut, with his arms crossed over his chest, and his body frozen still. It was a haunting experience.

“You should try it one time. The sleeping position, I mean,” Flins smiles, before walking towards you with a tray that has your favorite food. You’re only noticing it now. Archons, you were way too invested with Flins himself you didn’t even see your favorite food first. Which is supposed to be the most important. Flins is important, but your favorite food is more important. “It’s quite comfortable.”

You shudder at the thought of Flins standing menacingly from the top, with a shovel on one of his hands. “You mean me laying in a coffin and beneath you? Uh, no thanks.”

He makes himself comfortable on the edge of your bed. Content, he faces you. “Hm? To which part?”

Your eyebrows scrunch. “What do you mean?”

“You laying in a coffin, or you underneath me.”

“What are you—all of them, Flins!”

He finally chuckles. “What a shame, then. I’d be more than glad to lay you in a coffin. They’re nice and soft, you know. I have no doubt you’ll be out like a light.”

“What the hell.”

This happens again—you skipping meals, and Flins entering your room ( you swear you’ve locked it ) just to bring you food.

During the first, second, and third time, you had no choice but to devour what he had brought; you were really starved and it was your favorites, after all, so you couldn’t look away.

Though you also think Flins is doing it on purpose, the part when he enters your room with your food. It’s an effective strategy—he makes conversation, and subtly entices you with the visually appealing meal he cooked at the same time. How can you not salivate?

And plus, it doesn’t help that it smells really good, too.

But at the fourth and the fifth? Though tempted, you had to convince Flins that you still had paperwork to catch up on.

“Please do not overwork yourself,” is what he tells you on the sixth day, after placing the tray on the side of your desk. He sounds stern, too, so you nod timidly at him, and he heads over to his own bedroom to study for his own exams.

Preparation for midterms is no joke. But you also don’t want Flins to get a little angry at you—even though it’s kind of hot. So you eat his meals anyway.

Still, the days pass. Because of your different courses, you two had different experiences. Flins’ exams started way early, and yours started way later. What’s new about this is that when you come home to the apartment, you often see Flins lounging in the living room now, and he never forgets to greet you so warmly while polishing his gemstone collection.

You wonder how many collections he’s got, and considering how this hobby has been going for a while, you assume that there may be more. There’s also the fact that he has a jewelry collection as well, and it always excites him whenever you ask him about it.

Sometimes you wonder again if he’s doing this on purpose, considering how much you've been in a bad mood recently because of the season. He doesn’t usually polish or just show his collections in the living room; he did prefer to display or admire them in his own quarters, but then again—this is probably part of the change or the shift.

And you do not mind it. Not at all. If Flins decides one day to tell you more all about his rocks or jewelry, you’ll take it and listen, even if you want to crash out. You’ll take it and listen, because there’s something so comforting about his voice after hard days in uni.

( Jokingly, you think that he’s like your very own Bob Ross—a chill artist with a beautiful mindset and tender voice that you can listen for hours on end just to relax. )

You continually get to see him throughout the period.

You’ve decided to pay him back by cooking him his own meals, yet he offers assistance anyway. Cutting or dicing, washing or draining—leave it to him, he’s got you.

When midterms season ends, you can finally allow yourself to breathe. You’re sprawled on the carpeted floor of your living room. Flins is nowhere to be found ( something about a coin auction or something ), so of course, you take this opportunity to indulge and be you.

Be you—a you without any responsibilities or whatsoever, so you imagine that you’re a mere couch carpet potato.

Fresh from the shower, fresh from pajamas, and fresh from—

“What?”

You stare, wide–eyed, at the younger man in front of you who’s currently examining Flins’ bedroom, after filling up the kitchen drawers, shelves, and fridge, with even more groceries. You’re not sure if this is even allowed, this spontaneous ocular visit from a guy named Illuga. Flins has probably mentioned him before.

But after one phone call from Flins himself, he confirms that yes, he is very much part of his life and is a close friend of his, and yes, it’s perfectly okay for him to wander around ( well, except your own bedroom and bathroom, that is ).

Though do please offer him a bit of your hospitality. Illuga might seem a bit too much, but he really means well, Flins had said, and you already had a pitcher of fresh, cold water and a glass for him. You’re not the type to judge people, but you just know that this guy is hella hardworking and determined.

“Wait, I’m sorry—what did you say again?” you question him. Illuga stills, before looking at you albeit a little flustered, then bows down.

“I apologize for my forwardness,” he says, and you can feel how genuine it is, even if you just met him for the first time. “I know I’m asking for too much, but—please take care of him.”

You tilt your head. Take care of Flins? You’ve already been doing that, though in this case, it’s more like him taking care of you recently, with your favorite meals and all. You snicker, “Mr. Illuga, he’s a grown ass man.”

A kind smile makes its way to his lips. “I am well-aware of that.” His gloved fingers drums over Flins’ desk. “The thing is, Sir Flins doesn’t want to admit it—but he’s actually really lonely.”

You blink at that. “He is?” Huh. How come? Flins? Being lonely? That doesn’t sound right. You dip your head down in thought. But doesn’t he prefer his solitude or alone time?

“Yes.” Illuga nods. “That’s why I was in shock when I heard he’s on a lease with you. Normally he’d go find an apartment somewhere else when he learns of that he’ll be sharing it with someone, so. . .”

You understand what Illuga means. Though you also understand why Flins had to do it—he did tell you that this was part of his growth, after all.

And for that, you can’t help but be a little giddy that you’re probably the only one on this planet right now who knows this.

“I suppose Sir Flins has yet to explain his reasoning,” Illuga accepts the glass of water you give him. “Based on what I’m seeing, I have an inkling that Sir Flins had already told you.”

You grin at him. “Not confirming or denying.”

“Mhm,” Illuga takes a sip. “Nor will I share his thoughts about you.”

Now that makes you pause. What. “He talks about me?”

Illuga laughs—a gentle, yet breathless sound. “Not confirming or denying.”

You stare at him. Illuga continues to laugh. Just like you, he also adopted some of Flins’ mannerisms—being mischievous and all.

Though you gotta admit, Illuga is nice to talk to.

You don’t remember how you and Flins started sharing your class schedules to one another, but it did happen on a random day.

There was a time when the stars aligned and allowed your lives to intersect, just for a bit, during sophomore year—it was when you were restocking the shelves and cabinets, until your eyes landed on a receipt.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” you ask yourself internally, before grabbing said receipt.

Fresh from a shower, Flins, clad in his darker attire, and still with damp hair, finds you, evidently troubled and horrified. He drops his gloved hands to his sides, the ends of his towel hanging around his neck. “Is something the matter, my dear roommate?”

You reveal to him what he already knows. His own grocery receipt. “What is the meaning of this?”

Flins humors you by putting his hand under his chin. “Ah. My grocery list. Fruits, fish, bread—“

“Yes, they’re obviously your groceries, genius, but why is it so expensive!? Look at this. A loaf of bread for 200 mora. An egg carton that only contains 6 eggs for 500 mora. Are you kidding me?!”

“Oh, yes. Though, you’ve lost me. What seems to be the problem?”

Appalled, you want to slam your forehead onto the kitchen counter, but you refrain from doing so. Flins is supposed to be the weird one in this dynamic you two have.

There’s no way he’s okay with this. How come he doesn’t even see how this is a problem?

Or maybe you need to be more understanding—he’s probably like this because he’s just hella rich ( see: rocks gemstones, antique, and jewelry collection ) that’s why he doesn’t even give a fuck. Where does he even get his money from, seriously? Actually, you don’t even know anymore.

“No, Flins—god. Do not shop at this grocery store anymore! It’s way too expensive there!”

“My goodness. You do not want to starve me, do you?”

You scrutinize him up and down in disbelief. “Starve!? Look at you—you’re the one starving yourself! You look way too thin in those clothes—!” Flins is not a big eater like Varka, or Varesa, or even Kaeya’s brother, Diluc. He eats in minimal portions, and you sometimes wonder if it’s one of the biggest reasons why he’s so pale.

“Forgive me. It possibly is because of my being having the tendency to wear more layered clothes.” His slender fingers press on the buttons of his collar. “Shall I undress to prove to you that I’m built? I fear you’ve forgotten already that I frequent the gym.”

What in the. “You go to the gym?! Since when—“

“Since a few years ago,” is his response. He looks down at you, the high standing collar of his jacket hiding his lips. “Now, that really is no good. It’s unfortunate you can’t remember that I told you I workout in my spare time. I’m more than ever determined to prove it to you right here, right now, that I am not thin.”

Though you are curious to see what his body looks like—you manage to listen to your brain. You manage to perceive what’s truly going on.

“Stop!” You put a hand up. “I know what you’re doing, Flins! You’re messing with me again, aren’t you?!”

And of course, with the way his eyes lower, it just confirms it. You don’t even have to pull his collar down to expose his tiny smirk. “I merely jest.”

“Sure you do,” You groan. Archons, why is he like this, you wonder. Stupid flexer. He probably wants to flex his build or something. “Flins, listen, okay? I don’t know what your lifestyle consists of—“

“I’m more than willing to share.”

“Okay, thank you, but still—the groceries you’ve bought are really expensive. It’s not even like college student budget friendly! You know how much groceries I can buy with these prices? Surely not around 10 or less. Maybe even 30 or more.”

“Is that so?” Flins hums. “I guess it is on me that I have not yet explored my options yet.”

“Surprisingly, yes? The local grocery we have nearby should be one of your options, and yet it is not,” you sigh disappointingly. “I don’t know what world you live in—“

“I’m more than willing to share.”

“Y-yes, I get it, but still. Allow me to introduce you to a new world this time.” You toss the receipt aside, before yanking a nearby paper bag with the Nasha Mart brand. “Student friendly public markets. Discounts. Coupons. With your talent in words, I’m sure you’ll beat the system in no time.”

“Oh?” Flins leans closer to you. “With my talent in words? I’m honored.”

Then, he rests his chin on his palm, keeping his eyes on you. “Do tell me more. I would love nothing more but to explore what I have yet to know.”

You thought Flins would get bored eventually, or even find the whole thing tedious—however, he really is willing to learn. So much so it kind of feels like you’re dreaming, because there’s no way a man is that interested in shopping for produce. He absorbed every information you’ve shared inside the bus, the street, and inside the market like a student with a thirst for knowledge.

“Sure, some grocery stores may have expensive prices, but are they of quality? Are they worth the cost?” you ask him, while carrying one of the eco bags you’ve recently purchased with him.

“I suppose not,” he says, again, with that tender voice of his.

He processed, he listened, and he applied; he got a discount, because he sweet-talked this one lady and you thought how sweet-talking was his second nature. He managed to at least get 5 packs of tomato sauce.

“Guess you’re going to eat a lot of spaghetti the next following days,” you tell him, on the commute home, and Flins’ laughter feels like music to your ears.

“Surely, you’ll not leave me feasting on my own?”

“Fine, Flins. I just have one request: the spaghetti better have mini chunks of hotdog on it.”

“With pleasure.”

That night—you learned something, too.

It’s already a given that he’s patient. Understanding. Chivalrous. You’ve come to learn this when you were in your freshman year, but what you did not expect is this:

Back at the market, while Flins is talking to the fish seller, you hear the other old ladies talk to themselves.

“What a fine young man he is.”

“His future spouse is lucky.”

“And he’s soft-spoken and very charming. He’s perfect.”

And man, when Flins double checks the eco bags that’s filled with more groceries and swiftly carries them by his shoulders ( you told him you can carry the load too, but he insisted that there’s no need to ), you can’t help but agree with them.

He then meets your eyes, and he sends you a smile—the one that absolutely makes your knees weak, and makes the older ladies swoon.

Damn it, Flins is not just attractive.

He is also fucking dreamy.

“No, no, no—listen, I think it’ll be my greatest invention yet!” The pink–haired girl says, looking at you, asking for approval. “A rubber ducky who knows how to clean, fight enemies off, and perform like a superstar! It’s just perfect. Let me show you the blueprint—no, the prototype!”

You smile at Aino, “I’m sure it absolutely will be your greatest invention yet.”

Aino just beams, before skipping happily to Flins’ bedroom, where she keeps her other luggage. Once she’s out of sight, you exhale heavily, and internally worry about the impending backlogs that you still have to catch up on. Then, you suddenly find Flins lingering by. He’s leaning over the doorway that leads to the kitchen, his lips curved upwards, and his arms crossed. Used to his uncanny appearances, you don’t even jump anymore.

“Who knew that you would grow quite close with Miss Aino?” He points out, and you feel sheepish. “A wonderful feat, indeed, being able to be great and responsible around children, since they’re quite the handful. It requires numerous amounts of patience with them, and here you are now, clearly favored by the little genius.”

Favored? You scoff, before hugging your legs closer to your chest. As usual, you’re sitting on the carpeted floor of the living room in your comfy pajamas. In the coffee table lies your academic papers and laptop, waiting for its own scholar. On the ground are pieces of graphing paper that contain pre–calculus equations and creative and unique designs hand drawn by Aino. Litwick and Lampent plushies are also set aside on the ground, abandoned for a while by its owner.

“You’re joking,” you tell Flins. “Between the two of us—you’re clearly Aino’s favorite. You spoil her way more than I do. You keep a stack of sweets just for her.”

And it’s confusing why Flins spoils her so. No, you do not mean about him being a softie to a little girl, you mean about the part where he allows her to consume godly amounts of sugar, yet he draws the line when you indulge yourself with instant coffee. There will be mornings or even evenings where Flins will raise the sachets of your favorite instant coffee higher up, aware that you won’t be able to reach it. It was ridiculous; you didn’t even goad him for his alcoholism ( though can you even call it that, when he seems to take his liquor well? when he knows how to drink responsibly? ), yet he limited your caffeine intake.

“Ah, but that’s just how it is with children,” Flins chuckles. “You need to make them happy, since they are just precious little beings. And sweets make Miss Aino happy, does it not?”

It’s a pure reason, and you can’t deny how your heart swelled with warmth at that. You lift your chin up at him. “Now look at you, huh. You’re proud that you’re her favorite.”

“You have no evidence.”

“Oh, but I do? Remember: freshman year. When you, I don’t know, came to our apartment with 5 year old little Aino in tow!?”

2 years ago, while you were reviewing your notes for a quiz inside your bedroom, there was a knock on your door. Opening it revealed Flins, who had his hand over a pink–haired girl’s head, who was hiding behind his legs.

Flins called your name. “—I apologize for the intrusion. I am well-aware that you have matters at hand, but is it alright if I ask you a favor?”

A favor from your freaky and wacko roommate? was your first thought before. It sounded absolutely terrifying for the freshman you, and you almost didn’t want to do it. And he has a kid with him. A freaking kid. Did he kidnap her or something?

Gods, you just hoped that he wouldn’t say that he needed you to hide her because her parents were searching for her.

“. . .W—what is it?”

“Well.”

Flins asked you to watch over Miss Aino for a while, since he had an urgent errand to run—he reassured you that he would be back as soon as possible, and Miss Aino wouldn’t be a bother.

There was truth in his words. Miss Aino did not bother you, and instead, she kept to herself—you expected that she’d be playing around clay, or dolls, but it shocked you when you saw her hold what you could presume was a triangle, and sorts of extremely complicated books.

But Flins didn’t return immediately.

Because of this, you got to spend more time with Little Aino. She was shy, a little quiet at first, not until you expressed interest in her own creations. Her eyes lit up at that, genuinely exhilarated that you wanted to see what she was making. You tried your best to understand what was going on as you assessed her doodles and scribbles, while she was munching on krumkakes and even sharing it with you.

And since you accepted that studying would have to wait, you opted for something fun. Something that would entertain both you and Little Aino.

A few meters away from her, you set down a couple of plushies—three starter Pokémon, which are Bulbasaur, Charmander, and Squirtle. Then, at the innocent little Aino who stared at the plushies with perplexed, round eyes, you questioned, “Which will it be, Aino? Which do you choose?”

And she was frowning. Deep in thought. She didn’t know what they were, of course, and you were anticipating her choice. “Hmm,” she hummed, a hand under her chin. It was adorable how she was assessing each plushie with her eyes—she was calculating it over, mulling it over.

You thought how Squirtle seemed a good fit for some reason, or maybe even Bulbasaur. Then you get your real result when you hear keys clinking. The doorknob of your apartment twisting.

And when the door opened, two pairs of eyes turned to the entrance.

Little Aino rejoiced at the sight of a familiar man, who almost looked as if he rushed to get here. She gasped, “I choose Flins!” And she ran toward him.

Flins blinked at the call, before smiling sweetly and softly at the little girl. He squatted down to receive her bear hug, and he chuckled along with her. “Hello there, Miss Aino. Did you have fun?”

“Yes! They were really nice to me!”

“Ah, so that’s how it went,” Flins closes his eyes, his smile still remaining on his face. “How endearing. So I am Miss Aino’s—what you call, it a ‘starter Pokémon’, then?”

You glance at the Pokémon plushies you’ve gifted to Aino as a present—the ones that remind you of a certain blue–haired man with eyes of molten gold. “Maybe. But don’t you think that story is enough to prove that she favors you?”

Flins opens his eyes again. “Perhaps.”

“Who knew that you’d actually be great with kids. Aino told me before that you wore pink wings for her seventh birthday despite having the penchant for black.”

“Haha, yes. She seemed persistent in getting me to wear such, and I had no choice. Though, I’m grateful for the compliment. Please do not forget that you are great, too, since you take care of Miss Aino so well. She’s always excited to see you whenever she comes visit.”

“Well, she’s lucky she’s got two academically stressed and extremely sleep-deprived college students caring for her well-being.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

You notice Aino re-emerging from Flins’ bedroom, and divert your attention to her. She calls your name many times, jumping and shaking you about a Knuckle Duckle, Knuckle Duckle—and you look at Flins again.

His lips deepen into a knowing smile.

You return it.

You do not give a damn in the slightest about Flins’ hobbies. Again, it’s part of the ‘ground rules’ that you and Flins abide by. He collects rocks gemstones, yes, he collects antiques, yes, and he collects bones, yes. You look to the other side if it’s not causing you any harm.

Though, it was petrifying when you were finally informed about it by Flins himself after accidentally seeing one of his ‘bone puzzle pictures’ displayed on the coffee table. This happened after finals in your freshman year.

A peek at the time, 5:40 pm. You usually did not go home at this hour; you tend to stay at a friend’s just to hang out, or at a coffee shop engrossed with rumors being shared to you by your coursemates about a problematic professor. Tonight was one of those days where you’d probably crash out in your bed or something, since class ended early, not until you opened the door to see your absurdly attractive roommate sitting on the carpeted floors, occupied with his bone puzzles.

The urge to run was right there when you locked eyes with his freakishly empty yellow ones. At that moment—you had wondered, why did he not have pupils? How did you miss it? Why were there sharp tools scattered on said carpeted floor? Why were there numerous bones—big ones and smaller ones on your coffee table?

Flins was seriously not beating the I’m A Killer allegations.

“Ah, good evening, my dear roommate,” He greeted you with a small smile, not even bothering to hide his bones. Instead, he gently situated his bone on said coffee table and motioned you to sit with him. As if this was a normal day for him. “I have gathered lots of bones today. It’s certainly a most joyous night. Would you care to join me?”

Since you did not want to die yet, you obliged with his request, even though you were internally freaking out. You should've gone somewhere else, like Nasha Mart or something, since you did notice that you were low on instant coffee. But you went through with it anyway, and sat beside him, not knowing where to put your hands.

And you were sure Flins knew this, knowing how seriously twisted his humor was. He probably enjoyed it even, since he was all haha and hehe the whole time.

It was a relief to hear that these weren’t human bones—though your hands still quivered when you picked up a piece of bone. “Ah, the Metatarsal.” Flins said, intrigued. “I’ll be bestowing you the reign to attach it wherever you want.”

It was disturbing how Flins seemed dedicated to this craft. He benevolently explained to you his fascination over bone collecting and puzzling, and the fact how he knew each and every part of bone that you lifted up. Again, you were not one to judge—if this was Flins’ hobby, it was his damn hobby. It was not harming anybody. At least, you hoped it didn’t.

And somehow, throughout that period, even you got a little. . . captivated over how he explained the process and the satisfaction it brought. You guessed that it must be because of his voice, or perhaps even because of his bizarre appeal that insufferably drew you in.

Though for your sanity, you surmised that it was the bones. Yes. The bones, weirdly so. Forming some sort of weirded evolution through fossils was cool. Yeah. That was why you got into it with Flins the first time he made you try doing his bone puzzles.

Yeah. You were now a wacko like him, too.

However, you had one question—where did he get these from? Surely, a college student like him who was also way too busy with his own academic life could get that many bones.

And then you got your answer in the form of a four legged mammal, when you were walking down the street, heading towards your apartment.

There were a series of barks—until you saw it for yourself.

A white dog. With a bunch of bones in its mouth. And Flins himself, who was carrying a plastic bag with meat.

Oh well you look at that, turns out one animal’s not afraid of him, you thought. Or maybe it’s because of the meat. . . huh. That explains the surplus of meat in the freezer. Thank the archons it’s not the inciting incident of some cannibal plot.

So, yeah. Amidst all that—you do not give a damn in the slightest about Flins’ hobbies. Not when it’s causing anybody harm.

Every other year—your parents get to visit your apartment. You can compare it to Illuga’s every other three months ocular, where he restocks Flins’ groceries and does a physical-emotional-mental-spiritual consultation with him, but at least your parents don’t do the latter part.

Instead. . .

“When are you getting into a relationship? You know your aunts have been talking, you know,” your mother says from the counter, storing pre–cooked meals in your refrigerator and putting your favorite childhood snacks on the drawers. You sigh from your rightful place on the carpeted floor, with your father comfortably sitting on the couch and sipping the instant coffee you’ve heated up.

If it’s not about careers, it’s about love. Your family members are always so nosy.

“They heard that Ororon’s got a girl. Or maybe a man, not too sure, but your Aunt Citlali seemed way proud that the kid got himself a lover that will ensure a roof on top of his head. Something about the veter’ians, like you know, curing pets.”

“They’re called veterinarians,” you correct her. “And Ifa? Wait. Aren’t they just close best friends? Don’t they call each other bros??”

“Really now? With the way they’re that close? Please.” Your mother stares at you, hard. “It makes me wonder when you’ll also get to date. Your friends are on their second anniversaries, ‘no? Like the Navia girl, and who was it—the one with the blue hair and eyes?”

“Furina?”

“Yes, her. If your friends could find love, of course, there’s no doubt you’ll find yours, too. You’re sure not planning to be cooped up all day with your college. There’s a whole world out there. You need to have fun at times. And we want grandkids.”

You almost choke on your saliva. You turn to your father, who was just guffawed. Insane turn of conversation, that’s for certain. You had to explain to your wonderful parents that you can’t afford to have kids because #1 you were still studying, and #2 you haven’t even graduated yet. Your mother can’t seem to care less—it has always been like that, after all, since mothers have the tendency to yap about their offsprings’ achievements. Apparently, Dean’s Listers or certificates from other achievements are getting way too overrated, and your mother and aunts are in a race whose child will get married and have a family first.

Then, your father asks, “Oh, and your mother was asking earlier in the car. It’s been almost three years now, hasn’t it? We haven’t met your roommate. Where is he, even?”

Right. Flins.

This has all been part of the plan—you do not really want your parents to meet him. They’ll probably freak out more when they do, knowing they’re more attuned to their strong emotions.

You’ve always managed to find a day where Flins is busy, and you’re more than grateful that he doesn’t mind you asking him about a specific day: “Hey Flins, are you out on September 25, at 7pm sharp?” and you send the date and time immediately to your parents once he says yes.

You suggest and find another day if he’s not.

But since this is part of the change—you hear an oh.

Speaking of the devil.

Your eyes go wide in shock when you find Flins standing on the doorway. Your parents follow your gaze.

It’s as if a tumbleweed has just passed, before Flins takes the initiative and speaks. He sends a polite smile. “I apologize for what I might have interrupted. I came back to retrieve my wallet.” He bows briefly. “I assume you must be my dearest roommate’s parents. It’s an honor to finally get to meet you.”

And it was already too late before you even got to cover your mother’s mouth.

“Young man, are you single?”

“Mom. No. No. He’s not a contender—he’s definitely not a candidate, no! Stop it!”

“What are you talking about!?” Your mother stares at you as if you grew two heads. She turns to the living room, where your father and Flins are certainly having the most interesting conversation of all. Fire-Water. “He’s perfect! He looks very respectful. And looks like a sweetheart. How come you’ve never introduced him to us?”

A sweetheart at first glance!? This guy gave me numerous heart attacks! “He’s busy. And—and what do you even see in him?” You pause in chopping carrots for a second. “He’s very pale. Cold to the touch. Probably not human. And he listens to classical music, specifically Tchaikovsky: 1812 Overture in E-Flat Major, No. 49—like who even does that nowadays? We have pop! Also, he writes letters. Poems. With a quill and ink. With a quill and ink where ballpens exist. Plus, he speaks as if he’s in the age where Shakespeare still lives. He only needed to say thanks when I helped him with a favor once, but no—he opted for I’m most grateful for your aid. You truly are very thoughtful, my roommate. And because of him, I use flummoxed in sentences, now, mom. Flummoxed.”

And your mother stares at you. Long.

Long enough for you to scowl at her.

“What?”

“For someone who’s against the idea of dating him, you sure do know a lot about Flins.”

You stutter. She’s right. You do know a lot about him. And you don’t know why you got so passionate when you were describing him to her. “Well—um. I-I was listing down his qualities? And—and we’re roommates. Of course I’d know a lot about him? Isn’t that normal?”

“Yeah, sure. And like your father, I also memorized what song he usually likes to play. It’s When I Met You, by the way,” Your mother sighs, relieved. “Oh, I guess there’s nothing I need to worry about, then. Who knew that being protective over their potential spouse runs over the family. Don’t worry dear, now we understand why you have been hiding Flins from us for almost three years.”

You can’t believe what you’ve just heard. You don’t like what your mother is implying.

And when Flins sends you a soft and knowing smile, after your father excuses himself to the bathroom, you don’t want to accept that your heart skipped a damn beat at the damn sight.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

“Flins, what the hell.”

Pets are not allowed inside the apartment. You don’t know how Flins managed to even bypass the guard—but you’re guessing that said guard is now also a victim of his sweet-talking, too.

The white dog, who apparently isn’t owned by even Flins himself, is ‘owned by itself.’ It is an assistant of his, the one who fetches other bones for Flins’ bone puzzle picture. You’re not sure where the dog even retrieves it from, and even if you did ask, it’ll only tilt its head or even lick your face.

Moreover, you’re glad that the dog wouldn’t have to file a complaint against his exploitative boss, because said boss is actually generous. The boss compensates his assistant with large amounts of meat, and you only wish that the dog isn’t overfed. Though adorable, you would rather not see a suffering animal.

In the present—the dog is sitting beside Flins, who’s patting its head from the rocking chair. Assistant he says, when he always looks at the dog so fondly. “It’s freezing outside. I couldn’t help but bring it in, as it seemed to be very cold, since it kept barking at me.” He turns to you. “It needs warmth. Once the blizzard passes, the dog may leave.”

Yeah, Nod Krai winds are incredibly not so merciful, especially when it’s winter. It’s unlike Mondstadt.

You learned it the hard way since your first year; stepping outside just to get to university was hell because you kept on shivering like a high-strung chihuahua. You got late for your class that day because you had to cover up yourself with more layers of clothing.

“I see, but aren’t you worried it’ll like, poop or pee?”

“It’s normal for dogs to urinate and defecate.”

You want to throw the pillow from your bed on his face. You grit your teeth and smile threateningly. “And if that dog urinates or defecates on my favorite carpet, you’re going to clean it up.”

Flins is not affected, however. Instead, he seems to be entertained. “Do not fret; the dog knows how to behave, especially since we offered him a place for the night.” Then, the dog barks again. “See? It even agrees with me.”

You grumble. “Okay. But if the guard and our landlady finds out that you brought a dog inside our apartment, let me stay out of it. I’m trying to sleep here.”

Flins nods. “Understood. I apologize for the inconvenience, my dearest roommate.” The dog then glances at you, and crawls to you excitedly. “Ah. It wants your attention.”

Bark bark. You sigh and kneel down in front of it, and put your hand on its head. Cute dog, you can’t deny, when it nuzzles on your palm. But you really don’t want to be troubled by the consequences of keeping a dog inside an apartment that were vehement in prohibiting pets.

“Flins, please name your dog. We just can’t call it it.”

Flins hums. “A request that I will consider. Perhaps you can name it.”

“Really? But it’s your dog.”

“It’s merely an assistant of mine.”

You purse your lips at him. “Okay. Fine. Uh. . .” You meet its cerulean gaze. Pretty unique eyes for a white dog. Oh. White dog. “White. Short for Walter White.”

Like always, Flins doesn’t understand the reference. “Excellent. I truly applaud you for your creative process in choosing a name.”

Yet somehow, his compliment feels like sarcasm. “Geez, thanks, Flins. Clap for me, then.”

He complies, and this infuriates you even further.

You seriously don’t know if he’s being serious or not. Not when he still has that outrageously attractive smile plastered on his face.

That night, you and Flins settled for a simple name. A name that just seemed right, to the point that even the dog concurred by barking.

Snow, short for Snowball—the white dog threw itself on Flins’ bone puzzle picture once, after all.

And it was hilarious because every time a friend of yours or his asks for the dog’s name, you’re always in the vicinity to introduce him to them before Flins does.

“Snow, short for Snowflake.”

“Snow, short for Snow White.”

“Snow, short for Jon Snow.”

Of course, Flins doesn’t stop you. Instead, he lets you be. He lets you have your fun.

He is, after all, not a party pooper—he’s a mischievous man who is supportive of your antics.

It is unlike you to display vulnerability with someone you’re not close with. But can you call Flins such a description after everything?

You did say that things have changed. You’ve grown close with Flins. You’ve started hanging out with him more, and you’ve started talking to him more.

But the part where you open up to him, express your own opinions to him—this is definitely something you did not see coming. When you first met him, you were sure, you’d avoid him at all costs, and yet at the second you want to fall apart, he’s the first thing that appears in your mind.

What have you done to me, your soul asks, when it sees Flins writing on his desk, with that stupid quill of his.

Flins meets your gaze. As always, it’s as if he’s always glad to see you, even if you guys see each other almost every day, considering how many vacant hours you guys have now. “Ah, good evening, dearest roommate. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Your mind supplies many things—hey, so, apparently your voice comforts me now. And I just had the worst day in uni. My professor humiliated me in front of the class and she threw my paper on the floor and called it trash. Is it ok if I stay with you and listen to you ramble about your stupid bones for a while?

But instead, the words that escape from your mouth are: “Why do you hide those paintings in the closet?”

Flins stills from his position.

You’re heartless, for even doing this. You don’t know why it led you to this position.

You did tell yourself that you respect Flins’ privacy, and he respects yours. Not once did he ever cross the line that separates your life with his. He’s that thoughtful and considerate after all.

But you’re not Flins.

Flins isn’t someone who caves into his emotions. Flins isn’t irrational. Flins isn’t reckless. Flins won’t risk an almost three year friendship just because they had the most stressful day ever at class.

So why?

This isn’t fair.

Flins has been very good to you, hasn’t he? So why can’t you?

When he doesn’t answer, you continue on. “You always look at it. You don’t think I’ve noticed, but I do. You’re always looking at it as if you want to pull it out.” Your throat feels rough, and for some reason, your eyes sting. Fuck. “Illuga visited me once. He didn’t say anything that would particularly expose you. All he ever wanted was for you to be okay. He’s a good friend. But something just bugs me. Something has been bugging me ever since. I don’t understand what goes on with his brain, but he asked me to take care of you. You, out of all the people in the world.”

Stop.

“Though, he did say something that did expose you. He told me you were lonely.”

Flins doesn’t react. He doesn’t even say anything. At least, not yet. So you, being you, take this chance to finally let go of what you’ve been keeping inside, even though this isn’t supposed to happen. There were ground rules. You do not care. You turn the other way. You’re not supposed to mingle with his own decisions in life. So just stop—

“You have Varka and his drinking pals. You have Illuga and Sir Nikita. You have friends to share drinks with. You have people around you who like being with you. So why did he say you were lonely?” You clench your fists. “It all didn’t make sense. How can even Illuga say such a thing when you’re clearly having the best time of your life? You have your poems. Your letters. Your stupid gemstone collection and bone puzzle pictures. So why?”

Why, you ask yourself.

When you’ve always known the answer all along.

You shut your eyes tightly. “Your birthday is on October 31st. Yet you’ve spent it all alone here for two consecutive school years. You never bothered to tell me for some reason, even though you know mine. Then you didn’t even reach out to me when you were incredibly sick. So incredibly sick that our landlady found you all passed out on the floor, when she was going to give you our bills.” You were so ashamed when you heard this from her the first time. You were not staying at the apartment that day—you were at home with your parents, and you were trying not to imagine that you left your roommate suffering all by himself. “And I—I know about the tickets, Flins. The tickets you kept from me. The tickets for that new art museum you wanted to go to. I was ready to say yes if you asked me to go with you, did you know that?”

And you wait for Flins to politely push you away. You wait for Flins to stand up from his chair and excuse himself. You wait for the silence that will soon follow in the next few days or months or years just because you cannot keep your mouth shut.

But it never comes.

Instead, you open your eyes, and there’s a handkerchief slowly wiping your tears. You haven’t even noticed that he was this close—but it was already a given, wasn’t it? He was lighter on his feet, after all.

And you haven’t even noticed that you began crying, too.

“F-Flins, I—”

“How lucky I am, to even have a roommate as attentive as you,” He says, genuinely full of gratitude, shocking you. No. This isn’t. . . you’re not supposed to be forgiving. Not now. “But if you must know—if you wish to know about the paintings, I am more than willing to share.”

“Wait, Flins, I didn’t mean to—”

Yet he turns around anyway. You watch as he saunters to his closet, and pulls out the box. The box that you’ve always wanted to check out for yourself, but did not since you did say that you respect Flins’ privacy.

And here he is—bare. Not pressured, nor threatened, but willing.

Flins shows you the inside of the box. There were lots of canvases that contained different paintings of snowy landscapes. Unfamiliar people. Moments. He picks up one and offers it to you—to you, who’s still conflicted.

“Flins, I’m sorry, you don’t have to—I was being stupid—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, and your heart squeezes in your chest. You search his face—if there is any lingering bitterness, or the need to validate, but you find none. Flins is really doing this out of his own will. “It is quite alright. I do not mind. Not at all.”

“But—”

He calls your name. Gently. Delicately. “Have I ever lied to you before?”

Your answer is immediate. “No. You haven’t.”

“So would you believe me if I said that I do not mind sharing this with you? Sharing my paintings with you?”

“But— I—” your voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to— it was—“

He calls your name again. “Shh. It’s alright. You are fine. We are fine.”

And it’s enough for you to go quiet.

You slowly give him a nod, and Flins smiles. He gestures to you to look at his artworks again, and you do. You two take your time, careful.

While listening to his words, you examine his unique brushstrokes and his brilliant use of colors. You feel the emotions every piece evokes. He tells you that he paints about his homeland, the nation draped in Snow and Ice. That he paints his neighbors, his closest friends, his favorite places, and his favorite spots.

And then he tells you that he paints these memories because he doesn’t wanna forget.

Homesick, he had said once, when you two shared a moment that one particular night. With your takeouts on your coffee table, and drinks between your hands.

When Aino visits the apartment again, Flins is nowhere to be found. You don’t really mind doing the babysitting, what you do mind, however, is Aino’s observations.

“February is coming, which means Valentine’s is coming.” Aino calls your name from the carpeted floor. “Are you going to give Flins chocolates?”

You pause in front of your laptop, before turning to her, dumbfounded. You, giving Flins chocolates? “Why should I?”

It’s Aino’s turn to be confused. “Aren’t you two a couple?”

“What? We’re not a couple,” you tell her, even if your cheeks are heating up.

“I thought you guys were.” Aino shrugs. “Oh well! But are you still going to give him chocolates?”

“No? Why do you think I should?”

“You like Flins, don’t you?”

You squawk. “What gave you that impression?!”

“I dunno. You look at him the way those women look at the guys they like in the movies Jahoda used to watch.” Then, Aino turns to her screen, showing Ineffa who’s currently video chatting with her. “Ineffa, do you think I should ask Durin for help? Do you think his brother and I should collaborate for a love potion?”

You can’t believe what you’ve just heard. A love potion? “For whom, Aino?!”

“For Flins. You want him to like you back, don’t you?”

“Wait, Aino—this—you’ve got it all wrong!”

“That’s impossible. I’m not named Aino for nothing. Aino, I Know. I know you like Flins! Don’t deny it!”

Then, Ineffa speaks. “Aino, that’s not very respectful. Do not make them uncomfortable any longer.”

“But it’s the truth, isn’t it, Ineffa? They clearly like Flins!”

“Based on my previous observation with them, I can say that there’s a 90% chance that they are, in fact, infatuated with Flins.”

What the hell. “No. You guys. I don’t like Flins that way, you got it all wrong—what—“

Yet the two seem to ignore you.

“So, Ineffa. The love potion? What do you think?”

“I understand the curiosity regarding love potions, Aino, but no such things exist.”

“What! Then that’s just boring!”

“And even if you did create one, it won’t work on Flins.”

Oh. Hearing that, you turn away sheepishly. That kind of hurts, not gonna lie. You get it, Flins won’t like you, even if you give him a love potion.

Wait. Why are you even thinking about this?

Sure, Flins is stupidly attractive and you seem to be observing him a lot lately, but that’s just how it is when you start to like your roommate—platonically, of course—who isn’t all freaky.

You return to your report and groan. Ugh. Kids these days. Making you ponder over things you shouldn’t be pondering about. You tune out Aino’s follow-up question, wait, really? Why won’t it work on Flins?

You put on headphones and did not bother to hear anymore of Ineffa’s voice.

Because a love potion will only work if the person being given one isn’t in love—

“Wait. I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Apologies. Let me repeat again. We have discount coupons for groceries.”

“Yes, I get that part—but the former part, Flins.” You hear shuffling on the other line. “Flins?”

“Oh. How I attained the coupons?”

You confirm with a hum.

“I told them that it was for the one who holds my heart,” He says, and there’s a familiar sound—the sound of groceries being checked out, one by one. “Since it’s Valentine’s Day—Nasha Mart is handing out discount coupons for couples.”

“And how did you even convince them that you are in a relationship?”

“Simple. I showed them our picture together.”

You go very still. Our picture together? “. . .You’re kidding, right?” We have a picture together? Why can’t you remember?

Then, it hits you—during Moon Prayer Night. He did ask you if you wanted to try the photobooth with him near the sugar-sculpture stall.

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Flins. We’re—we’re not a couple.”

“I am well-aware. But can you really say no to discount coupons, my beloved roommate? Though I suppose it’s a miracle they even believed me. Perhaps that’s just how they view us now, since we have been grocery shopping together more often. The odds are in our favor.”

“Huh?! And you’re okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“How about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes. Is it okay for you that the people around us think we’re together?”

“Uhh. . .”

“Hm?”

“I dunno.”

He chuckles, “You don’t know?”

“Flins, this is the first time I’m hearing this.” It’s actually not. “Let me process it.”

“Understood. If you ever do process it all—let me know. I would love to hear your thoughts.”

Why does he even need to know what you think about? “Okay.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Uh. Um. Have a safe trip?”

It’s quiet for a bit, until he speaks again. “Why hank you, my beloved roommate. I will.”

As you sit on Flins’ chair, you dip your head down to see him still holding your hand. His gloveless, exposed hand, clasped around yours.

Flins is breathing more slowly now—he’s finally at peace, and more content. Your heart stutters inside your chest when he unconsciously nuzzles his head closer to your palm.

This all began when you knocked on his door to remind him about breakfast. But he didn’t respond. Concerned, you knocked again—twice, thrice, until you forced it open, and saw him draped all over his sheets, sweating, flushed, and evidently in pain.

You didn’t waste time. With your hand feeling his temperature through his forehead, you confirmed that he was burning up.

And since you did not want a repeat of the past, or even remember your landlady’s story about him passing out, enduring all by himself, you shook him awake. His eyes were glossy and unfocused, hair sticky and disheveled, cheeks flushed and stained red. His chest was heaving up and down—his body desperate for more oxygen, and you felt your heart shatter at the sight.

One time, Flins had been like this. And you weren’t there.

You snapped out of it when he spoke, breathless and unhurried. “Forgive me. I—hah—this predicament of mine, I did not foresee. I-I do not wish for you to see me in such a state. P-please, continue on with your day, I refuse to be an even bigger cause for your academic delay any longer.” Ever so thoughtful he was when it came to you stressing over your deadlines, but you could never get yourself to leave. Academics be damned if he was going to suffer all alone again.

You fetched him medicine and water. It was difficult to get him to rise in a sitting position, but he managed when you assisted him. Flins, the stubborn man he was, insisted that he was fine, and he could drink his medicine and water all by himself. You had grumbled, but you let him do whatever he wished.

But after cooking him a hearty soup—a hearty mushroom soup, Flins’ fever had gotten worse. He needed nutrients, something in his stomach, so you begged him to wake up and made him eat, even if you had to spoonfeed him.

Stubborn, stubborn man; he said he could do it again, that he wouldn’t want to bother you, but the man was clearly exhausted.

The tables had turned, and he just had to get used to it. Thankfully, he relented.

And maybe it was still because of the anxiety, but you never left Flins’ side. Even as he nodded off, you never kept your eyes off of him.

Then, at one particular hour, he woke up. Seeing Flins being all sick was a new experience—he was obviously distressed; it was a sight that he really didn’t want others to see, and you thought, maybe you were one of the exceptions, when he reached for your hand and called for your name.

“I—I am,” He breathed, “Most certainly grateful.”

You feel your eyes sting again. He was still burning up. Yet you gripped his hand back anyway.

“I’ve got you.”

Flins nodded. Then, he leaned. He shut his eyes, and pressed his forehead on your fingers. “It’s—it’s strange how you quickly put me at ease. May I stay like this? Just for a little longer?”

And couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

Christmas break finally comes.

Like any other student, everyone’s been waiting to go home for the holidays.

Finally finished in packing some of your belongings, you turn to Flins who’s waiting patiently by the couch, still immersed with his bone puzzle pictures, while Snow is just snoozing beside him. You giggle when you see Snow’s reindeer ears and red round nose again, and this catches your roommate’s attention.

“Are you ready to leave?”

You nod. “Yep. Better get going before traffic. You know how it gets during winter!”

“Indeed. I wish you a safe trip.” He smiles at you, warm and still so, so gentle. “Happy Holidays and Happy New Years to you, my beloved roommate. See you next semester.”

You smile back. “Thanks, Flins.” Then, as you wrap your scarf around your neck, Flins stands up.

“I almost forgot one thing.”

“Hm?”

“Please wait here.”

When he enters his room and comes back out again, he hands you a rectangular piece of material covered in paper. You tilt your head in confusion. “What’s this?”

“One of my paintings,” He replies, and your jaw drops.

“No way.”

His smile widens. “Yes. I’d like you to keep one.”

Touched, you hug it closer to your chest. “Thank you, Flins.”

“You’re very much welcome.” Then, he finishes wrapping up your scarf for you. “Now. Off you go. You don’t want to get stuck in traffic, do you?”

“Right. Right!”

And this was the very first time it was hard to say goodbye, when you turned around, you took one last look at it again. He was there, patiently waiting, observing, with adorable Snow. So much has happened, you know that, and with all that change, with all that shift, who knew that you’d be missing your roommate in your third year, even if you haven’t left your apartment yet?

“Having second thoughts?” Flins asks in mirth.

You sigh, “And if I did—what are you gonna do then?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” He answers. “It has always been your decision. Not mine. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

But it does. To me. “And may I know your opinion?”

“Hm. Do you really wish to know my opinion?”

Do you?

You swallow. Should you? You shake your head. Maybe Flins is just messing with you again. You stick a tongue out at him. “You want me to get stuck in traffic, don’t you?”

He puts a hand on his chest. “Guilty as charged.”

You snicker, “Stupid.” Then, you sigh again, your chest feeling lighter. “I should really go now. I’ll see you in 3 weeks, Flins?”

Flins nods. “In 3 weeks.”

And you leave.

When you’re finally home, you indulge yourself by crashing on your childhood bed. The smell of gingerbread wafts through the air, and you can’t help but think how nostalgic this feeling is, as you make yourself comfortable.

You hear voices of your relatives, though muffled. Some of them make you giggle a little, because they’re arguing about whose son or daughter is the best again, and you just hope your mom won’t get as competitive as before.

Then, you turn to the side.

Flins. 3 weeks.

Before, you thought how short it was—freshman and sophomore you wanted a four week holiday break, but thank god that wasn’t granted. For you, in the present, a junior, even 3 weeks seemed a bit too much.

You pull out Flins’ gift from your bag, and you decide at that very moment to open it. You wonder which painting he has given you. All of them were very beautiful, and you consider receiving his artworks one of your greatest achievements this year—this just means he really does trust you more, amidst everything.

However, you don’t see snowy mountains and northern lights. You don’t see unfamiliar faces dancing and drinking, nor the hustle and bustle of his homeland.

Instead, you’re seeing yourself—a painted version of yourself, smiling so beautifully at the bones and gemstones you’re holding.

“Oh, look at me. I’m Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. I like bones and rocks.”

“Gemstones.”

“Whatever.”

You stare at the painting. You inspect every brush stroke, every color, every shade, and every tone, and you realize how Flins had painted you. How Flins treated this canvas—and your heart, your mind, your soul, can’t stop envisioning how his hand that was holding the brush, had been so tender and delicate in forming you.

He must’ve been very gentle when he applied your colors.

This is an artist’s portrayal of a person—this painting in front of you, is how he depicts you. How he sees you.

And you’ve never been more beautiful.

You turn at the door.

Flins.

3 weeks.

Scratch that. It’s not a bit too much.

You can’t do it.

“So. What’s it like having a roommate?” one of your aunts asked from the dining table, seeing you grab your coat in a hurry.

This is how the story ends: you, rushing over to the bus station and squeezing yourself in, just so you can get a seat. You run despite the rush hour, you run despite the cold weather, you run despite it all.

“I don’t recommend it. Especially if you don’t even know the person.”

It’s hella cold—your lungs are cold, your fingertips are cold, your cheeks are cold. But that doesn’t matter. Not when you’re desperate. Not when you want to see him.

“You’ll feel all emotions at once—you’ll get scared. You’ll get annoyed. You’ll get angry. You’ll get happy and guilty. It’s hard having a roommate who’s a stranger.”

The guard is surprised to see you back at the apartment. You immediately head over to the elevator, and waste no time in leaving said elevator once you arrive at your floor.

“So I don’t recommend it. I recommend you find other apartments instead, and find a lease that won’t require sharing an apartment with a roommate.”

“And what if you were given the chance? What if you were given the chance to find an apartment with no roommate?

And when you get to your door, you jam in your keys with your heart pounding, and your soul screaming.

Then, you smile at your aunts. “Honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It’s dark.

But you knew better.

“Flins!” You gasp for air, and there—you see him coming out of his room with wide, round eyes. There, the one that your soul calls for, is starstruck at your appearance.

Incredulous, he whispers, “. . .You’re here.” Then, Snow appears from the couch, and barks out loud, before pawing over to you.

You laugh, and pat Snow’s head. “Hello again, Snow. I’m happy to see you, too.” You look at Flins once more. “Hey, the light’s broken.”

It takes him exactly ten seconds to register it all in. Then, he returns your smile, albeit a little one. Though you know he’s most delighted at your sudden arrival.

He picks up one of the nearby scarves draped on his rocking chair and wraps it slowly, and tenderly around your neck.

Under the hallway’s orange glow, Flins’ forehead lightly comes into contact with yours.

“It sure is.”

additional notes: ty dear for making it here in the end c: i think i have much more to say but im typing this at 6:35 am. so i dont remember. but ororon and ifa were mentioned and if u were wondering if i ship them or not, i honestly dk i just searched genshin character generator and i needed a character in genshin who would be my sacrificial lamb that would be in a relationship for plot purposes. ifa appeared first & idk which chara to pair him with so i went with his bro. lol //shrug anw finally i made a flins modern au good grief. love u flins im so sleep-deprived. also now i remember. time check: 6:40 am. this is my least freaky flins yet and im so proud of it. hes just a silly little lonely guy in this one.

also pls tell me if i missed anything like if i somehow added a "miss" in there even tho its a gender neutral reader fic tyyy zzzzz HAPPY NEW YEAR FRFUCJK 💤

#flins x reader #genshin flins #kyryll #kyryll chudomirovich flins #roommate au #kyryll x reader #genshin #genshin impact

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