Imagine a scenario where you’re friends with Illuga: meeting up with him in Piramida City, you tell him that you’re currently seeing someone. While listening to you shyly describe the man in detail, Illuga can’t help but feel a sense of deja vu.
Illuga dips his head down and hums thoughtfully. Kind of mysterious, yet very much a ‘sweet-talker.’ Huh. Sounds like someone I know. He slowly turns to you, who’s taking spoonfuls of the meal he’s cooked. Surely, I’m overthinking this, right? There’s just no way.
“Say, if ever you guys get together, when will you let me meet this person?” Illuga asks curiously.
When you glow in embarrassment, he just blinks. “S–soon enough? I mean—we’re just. . . um, on the talking stage. Nothing big is happening yet!” You put a hand on your heart. “I promise, if we do make it official—I’ll tell you immediately who it is!”
And really, Illuga doesn’t mind the wait. He has matters to attend to; you have your own matters to attend to. If you’re not ready to tell the world yet, it’s absolutely fine. He understands your privacy.
However.
He just didn’t anticipate it’ll be this early.
When Illuga makes his way into the Final Night Cemetery with supplies as usual, he expects to see his colleague admiring his gemstones placed on his long table yet again. But what greets him isn’t a case full of shiny stones. Instead—
—he finds his said colleague hunched a little over his table, coddling what seems to be a figure of a person, with their hands on Sir Flins’ chest.
It’s a familiar Individual in fact, that when Illuga slows down, his eyes go wide in recognition and in disbelief.
It’s you.
You are on his table.
You are perched on Sir Flins’ table, and you are being coddled on by Sir Flins, just outside Sir Flins’ porch, and—
Illuga halts in his tracks.
“F–Flins, hey, didn’t you tell me that you had errands today?” The face you have right now, it was the same face you had when you were talking about the person you were currently seeing someone half a year ago. So that could only mean that Sir Flins was—
“Just a little longer, my light,” Sir Flins says, his voice low. My light? Illuga’s not dense—he knows about terms of endearment, and he certainly knows that Sir Flins’ voice is dripping with so much fondness, his jaw literally drops. He hasn’t even heard Sir Flins speak like that before. “Won’t you allow me to indulge you a little longer?”
Flins tightens his hold around your waist, and by the Moon Goddess—Illuga feels like he’s intruding. He should just come back later and leave them for a while without being noticed. But then it backfires when he accidentally makes a sound. So much for stealth, when he’s aware that he’s gonna get caught anyway. Especially when Sir Flins is around.
Two heads snap at his direction, and Illuga stills. ( If Sir Flins hasn’t even seen him yet, then can Illuga deduce that he was way too distracted with you that he didn’t even sense his presence? Or was Sir Flins just pretending? )
You flinch when you meet his incredulous gaze. “A-ah! I-Illuga—“
And Sir Flins, despite the circumstances, remains composed. “Oh.” He closes his eyes and smiles. He doesn’t even move an inch. “Well, hello there, Young Master. To what do we owe the pleasure?” ( He was totally pretending! )
It baffles Illuga every time how Sir Flins manages to stay calm. Illuga’s not even at the spotlight, yet he’s the one embarrassed! From there, Illuga can already assess that Sir Flins is already comfortable being at such a position, and so shamelessly, too! As if this is just a normal day for him!
Illuga sighs. You look like you’re about to explode.
there’s heat in contact, in fleeting touches, in hands that linger. there’s heat that embraces the dance of tongues, and there’s heat when you lie there, skin to skin.
with flins, though, there is heat in all the places he does not touch you. there is heat in distance, in resistance.
“thank you,” you say. he’s escorted you back home again, after all. gratitude is the absolute least you can offer in return.
your home isn’t far from the flagship, settled near the edge of nasha town. it’s small, a little roughed up, and perched just high enough to escape what could’ve been a convenient commute home. you need to climb a slightly rusty, albeit stable, ladder to reach the front door. there, you’re met with your efforts to make the place look more homely: small potted plants, a string of fairy lights slung messily across the eaves, and a tattered doormat. it once had a clearer image of a smiling robot printed onto it.
flins doesn’t mind the ladder, nor does he mind the rust that lines it. he doesn’t mind the messiness of the fairy lights, the way the print of your doormat wears out, and he definitely doesn’t mind the flowers. each time he comes, he checks to see if the frostlamp he’d given you still sits with its flower neighbours.
flins doesn’t mind at all. he’s with you, so how could he?
“ever so grateful,” he teases, and the lighter tips of his deep blue hair seem to chuckle with him, tickling the dark material of his coat. “i must remind you that this should not be considered a favor, miss. i quite enjoy our conversations on the walk back.”
you giggle, tilting your head at him. “is that so? then, our conversations at the flagship aren’t enough satiate you, mr flins?”
you’re not one for formalities, but the nickname, despite starting off as a way to humor him, stuck longer than you’d expected it to. miss y/n, miss y/n, miss y/n. in the face of your insistence that he can just call you y/n, his formality prevails.
so, surely, it’s only fair that he should be mr flins if you have to be miss y/n.
“hardly,” is what he says in response. “my apologies, miss y/n, for coming off so selfish, but i’m not sure if i’ll ever be satiated.”
you feel your breath hitch.
flins has never touched you, and you’ve have never touched flins, and there is so much heat in the lack of it all. there’s heat between your fingers when he passes you his cup, beckoning you to take a sip of his wine. there is heat when he plucks your coat from the rack, setting it atop your shoulders. there’s heat in the small gap between you while you walk home, like the fabric of his coat reaches to brush the fabric of your own.
“that would imply that i’ve had enough of you, and i am not one to lie, you see.”
but you don’t need to touch him. not now, at least. because when he’s looking at you like this, golden eyes burning into your body, raking over the contours of your face, your lips, the way your clothing drapes over your frame, you don’t think he needs to touch you any more than he is already. his lips are slightly parted, but not enough, as if to conceal the words he truly wishes to say.
“i see,” you hum.
with flins, there is heat in all the places he does not touch you. there is heat in distance, in resistance.
“i suppose i’ll have to satiate you forever, mr flins.”
and, for now, at least, that’s enough heat for you.
Original Work
After a lengthy flight and continuous battles as he's tried to find his way home, Youngblood is… Tired. His jet wings are tattered, his metal body is tied together by spare scrap, flextape, and spite. When he inevitably finds Draconis at his new rest spot, a battle ensues. However, there's no winning on either side.
Word Count: 5758
Originally published on June 26 2021, last revised June 28 2025
[Ao3 Link]
Header featuring art by @akaiitori / Cloud banners by @firefly-graphics - link
The cold was harsh. Not that he could feel it, but his lenses were frosting around the edges, and his joints and chest were making odd noises underneath his thick black coat. The metallic flaps of his wings made a ruckus with each gust, which wasn’t entirely unexpected due to the sloppy repair work he had just struggled through. Still, it was unnerving, and he could feel each of his primaries barely holding on, threatening to snap off at any moment. Can’t complain, he quickly reminded himself. You got yourself in this mess.
Still, he wondered what he looked like now. Scratches and torn pieces of mismatched skin, scratched paint and burnt clothing on areas without dermals. At least his coat was… complete enough. His thunderous modern engine had been enough to cause a scene, but this older one was somehow even louder, and seemed to sputter at random. It didn’t matter, the Youngblood was as bold and daring as he was stubborn (which was just another word for foolish), and he was determined to arrive home. Regardless of his state. He could even feel a smirk forming at the thought of his comrades’ reactions.
Flights like these were quieter than most days at the base, but that didn’t mean Youngblood ever grew lonely during them. He and the sky had grown well acquainted, one of the few things that hadn’t changed, always welcoming him as if he were a child wrapped in a thick, blue blanket. A reliable companion through the passage of time. This night it was black, a deep dark purple with changing hues all too familiar even to his compromised vision. After everything he'd seen, the countless times he'd taken to the sky above and soared over its vibrant colours, he'd never grow tired of looking at them.
The clouds were practically invisible, only appearing when they shielded the bright thin moon, or whenever he flew too close. They moved lazily, carried slowly by the strong wind currently kicking his ass. Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like for those currents to carry him like that. Not that he had thought of abandoning his course, not at all. But when he looked up softly, staring at the dimming yet everlasting splendor of the stars above him, he couldn’t help but wonder how things could’ve gone differently.
Should he have gone back to retrace his past on his own, or at all?
Should he even be alive, after what had happened? After being gone for so long?
Was he even ‘alive’ now, or at any point? Part of him doubted it. But…
…Would he have been proud of what had become of his beloved machine?
His chest ached. He frowned as he accelerated. No point in thinking of that.
The sun had begun to peek out from behind him, causing him to let out a worn-out groan. The plum colour that had previously tinted the sky, which he had grown very fond of, was beginning to give way to a gentle peach hue. His will faltered, becoming aware once again of the incessant noises coming from his chest and wings, as well as the arms currently holding them open. The tower inside him that held his resolve began to tilt a little, just by an inch, but it was more than enough for him to pull his wings back and begin a slow descent. The once-dark clouds had changed to a distractingly brilliant pastel colour, but they eventually began to clear to reveal the ruins of an ancient city.
Youngblood had been there before, he recognized the holes running around the perimeter, and even on the few remaining panels of some buildings. The tracks of an old, gigantic abiote that had once roamed these grounds and claimed them as her home. He quickly steered in order to avoid one of the last remaining skyscrapers, marvelling at the infrastructure visible through its crumbling shell. Would all of the city look like this?
He sped across the skyline, only slowing as he approached its faded border and beginning to slowly circle it like a vulture, eyes trained on the terrain. All the streets were cracked or missing pieces, and the few remaining houses lacked roofs, or most of their walls. Yikes. Strong gusts of wind kept knocking him off balance, making it hard to keep his wings’ position, and the blinding yellow colour of the morning was beginning to shine through above him. With a sharp tilt of his wings, Youngblood turned and flew into the current rather than against it, continuing to look for a landing spot without further mutilating his wings and body.
After another slow lap, he spotted it; a minor highway that wasn't completely buried in rubble. With renewed hope he accelerated, holding his wings straight and moving towards it. His coat strained against the wind, and he smiled as he heard the all-too-familiar sound of low height speed. He quickly turned to adjust his position, having gone a little too far out, but paying little mind. In a swift movement, he repositioned his arms and prepared for a rapid dive, mentally planning out the route ahead of him and bracing himself for the sheer disaster of a landing he was about to go through. With the street quickly approaching, he pulled his wings back further and opened them against the wind, thrusting his heels out in front of him and quickly making contact with the ground.
Although he regained his footing soon after touching down, his entire body snapped and stuttered. The uneven ground beneath him made his feet and landing gear groan as he sped forward in the road, and the debris had churned up dust all around him. Despite the poor control he had of them without his arms, his wings were now pressed against his body as he attempted to get a comfortable hold of his balance. Evading all the garbage and rubble was difficult, but he remained mobile enough that it wasn’t too disastrous. He guided each spin and swirl with his hips, avoiding the bits of building or the dead, fallen lamp posts that no longer sparked threateningly towards him, instead standing silently and casting intimidating shadows with the light that managed to sneak through the city's ruins. Youngblood smiled, the wind caressing his hair with the fervor of a long lost lover, its roar on his ears an accompanying mournful symphony. There was a low whistling inside his chest that worried him a little, but he dismissed it as the wind filtering through, as it had done many times before.
Finally, once the speed began to die down, he allowed himself to look around as he vaulted between the last of the automobiles, mere husks without engines. Good grief, an actual decent landing? How he wished they weren’t as rare. Bright brown eyes sparked with recognition at the scratches in the pavement, although the rest of the street was lifeless save for the whispers and squeaking of the critters (presumably rodents) that had taken over the area, and were currently sprinting out of the way. Looking around was difficult with all the dust he had picked up, but the darkness was constantly at odds with the orange beams of sunshine that were filtering through and assaulting his eyes.
He stumbled, leaning back further with a shake of his head. He quickly moved to regain control, grasping at the ends of his coat and holding open to help slow down. It was a balancing act, avoiding rubble while trying to stay steady enough for his speed to continue to slow, and even though he was skidding with a horrifying noise, it could be considered a win. Youngblood looked back, delighted by the tyre prints that seemed to dance incomprehensibly on the ancient concrete. Only a lamppost had shattered, while the rest of the ruins remained as it had been before the rude interruption of their very important activities.
Not realizing he had slouched when he came to a stop, Youngblood stood straight, rolling his shoulders back as his wings clicked comfortably into his back. Considering the last few days, this small haven was more than enough of a victory for him, and he would deal with any rain or bullshit later. The metropolis had the atmosphere of a forest, although one constructed of rotting alloys and infrastructure rather than any substantial plant life. The amount of bird calls grew after the morning call, and the moss and plants in every nook and crevice of the earth seemed to become brighter as well. He grinned as he looked around, admiring the "tree tops" that would be the remains of once-cherished structures, some overtaken by vines, others with just enough of a roof to cast an imposing shadow. The sky was a brilliant blue, with hardly a cloud in sight, likely thanks to the previous wind currents.
He reluctantly averted his gaze, turning with a huff towards the city center, stretching and feeling all his joints cry and groan as he began his stroll. It reminded him of the “good old” days, when any single movement caused a cacophony of noises. With each step, however, he realized he didn't particularly miss those days all that much. Youngblood continued for a few minutes, looking straight ahead and scanning the remaining buildings for signs of any possible shelter. Flying required too much energy and he sorely wanted to recharge, but with all the damaged cables lying silently in the concrete, he doubted anything would still be working. There were a few apartment buildings with what appeared to be stable floors at the bottom, but the tops swayed too much with the wind for his liking.
Another heavy step forward, and his heavy boots made a loud cracking sound. He looked up at the light post above him, unexpectedly standing straight unlike it’s siblings around them. Youngblood slowed his pace, mentally confirming that, yeah, anything that could somehow provide electricity would almost certainly kill him. It didn't matter; he'd be found and yelled at in no time while his body was being repaired. It was bound to happen one way or the other, wasn't it? He chuckled as he leaned down to pass beneath another fallen post. Worst case scenario, he had a battery he could use on Loketh's b-
The bag.
There was a slap that probably resounded for miles as Youngblood’s hand slapped onto his backside. He abruptly came to a halt, and a tenseness settled on his shoulders. The lights of his pupils were bright, and time seemed to slow down as he stood motionless, thinking. Remembering. He slouched back and began frantically grasping at his right side, his motions causing a startling whirling of joints that drove him insane.
The motions abruptly stopped once he made eye contact with it, barely belted onto the inside of his coat, and he reached out, giving it a hesitant grope to confirm its contents. He relaxed his shoulders from their stiff position as he felt the familiar, rectangular shape. It’s good. Everything was fine, and perfect, and nothing had ever been wrong in the world, ever. He couldn't take a deep breath to calm himself down, but the calmness he felt from seeing the old handmade leather pouch should be enough. He used his better hand to tie it around his waist, instead of the broken pocket of the dark coat, and resumed his pace with a calmer demeanor but faster motions.
Youngblood was about to completely relax, looking at the animals scattering and parting way for him on the ground, when he heard glass crackling under a shoe. His eyes shot back up as he came to a halt and turned around; his tension hadn't returned, but he had seen enough. A shadow scurried behind a building, almost entirely obscured by the rubble and lamppost he had just passed, but he recognized the colours on it’s stupid jacket.
"You’re here?” He called out, irritated. “Again?”
Though his body was currently an amalgamation of old and new technologies, his voice had retained its original brash, boisterous tone. The scurrying continued, and the shadow moved through a structure to his right. He let out a groan, eyes closed, and head jerked back towards the sky. The figure continued to move around him, doing its best to appear intimidating.
“Look, bud.” Youngblood began, turning his head back to face it. It tripped in surprise, not expecting to have its location discovered immediately. It was almost funny. Almost. He lazily followed its movements.
"'I'm not really vibing with this whole... cat and mouse thing. Well, I think you're supposed to be a skink, or something." The figure began to walk faster, racing from door to door, opening to opening. Youngblood’s initial amusement faded into a neutral expression.
“Okay, reptile, whatever.” He groaned out, stopping the visual chase in resignation. “Just… Could you kindly leave me alone today? Please? We can fight tomorrow and you can beat the shit out of me then! Or anything else you want to do— Or need!"
They appeared to come to a halt somewhere hidden, but Youngblood knew better. He groaned and glanced around again. It wasn't typically so simple, but he took mental note of where he had last seen it and continued walking.
Maybe his friend would be normal and courteous for once.
There was no more noise of someone scurrying about the wreckage around him, just light footsteps on pavement. He pretended not to hear them, staring at his own shadow as he carried on forward. Perhaps he was mishearing, and the distant footsteps weren’t actively gaining speed towards him. Or maybe the exit to the area was by going past him. Everything was alright, surely—
crrrrRRRAAAAAACkle tinkle tinkle
Okay, cool.
The footsteps were sprinting towards him.
He watched his shadow on the ground closely, the lone silhouette soon joined by that of his enemy as it sprang into the air, one of its blades poised to impale him.
He hurriedly dipped to the right, allowing the blade to slide between his left arm and torso.
With a loud yelp, the figure landed over him abruptly, and Youngblood gave it no time to recover, quickly grabbing it by the neck of its coat and throwing it across the street in front of him. The blade clanked onto the concrete.
“It’s broad. Fucking. Daylight!” Youngblood roared, towering over him. His eyes were flaring brightly, engines growling in time with the snarl on his face. “You can’t even look around?!”
“I can see you, I can hear you, you are not subtle— Y-you already blew me up! A couple of days ago! I just want to. Decompress. Rest a little. Is that too much to ask for?” The figure flinched at the last inflection, and his shoulders fell. He allowed himself to exhale some steam. “We’ve been at this for months. I don’t care if you follow me, I care less if you attack me. But don’t insult me by just stepping on hazards like that.”
The figure remained silent, and he huffed.
“I know you saw it.” He grumbled, feeling as if he was scolding a child. “I’m very sure, actually.”
A few seconds of silence were all that answered him. Youngblood had finally decided to continue walking, but the figure began to lift itself off the ground. It hastily knelt, jerky movements easily showing its rage. The large amount of dirt it had disturbed and picked up after its mediocre attack wasn't enough to shield either of them in shadow, and Youngblood finally got a good look at it— At him.
All he remembered from their previous encounter were the horns on his helmet, but this time he could tell it was painted a dark red with matte black details. Youngblood attempted to scan his eyes for any clues but, naturally, they were hazed out by the dark visor. The white pupils were visible, though, at least enough to identify it. Draconis.
Good fucking grief.
Whatever group the lizard was with always wore basic camo, maybe black if they were feeling spicy, but the red jacket and decorated bike helmet were very distinctive. It likely meant he was at least slightly important to them.
"We’re not fighting." He stated, gentle but stern, and did his best to ignore the way Draconis turned indignantly towards him. Youngblood simply moved to walk past him, looking on ahead towards the deserted street.
Regardless of its execution, it was always difficult to shake off the nerves after an ambush. Usually he would’ve at least been amused, would have enjoyed the hunt and the chase of battle that such a formidable foe would bring. But his encounter with the Draconid, who was apparently little more than an amateur stalker, had only served to irritate him. Even now, he could hear him shuffling and growling with the subtlety of a highway billboard.
After his initial scare, Youngblood kept his bag and his axe safely fastened to his hips. Their jingling, although loud and obnoxious, was nothing in comparison to the rhythmic creaking of his joints with each heavy footstep, or even the grumbling that escaped from his former adversary. Each step away heightened the anxious feeling of eyes boring onto his back, but he continued facing forward, barely slowing to step over a particularly large piece of concrete that was on his way.
He soon found himself stopped on what remained of an intersection. He glanced around, trying to figure out where he was. Calmly surveying the area before him, he tuned back in to the noise of the morning. Or rather, he noticed the silence around him, and turned to see what had caused the other machine to become so quiet. However, he was nowhere to be found.
Youngblood felt like prey for the first time in a long time, and it immediately set off alarm bells in his head. Draconis had gone far too quiet, far too quickly, and if this kept up it could easily grow into a problem. There was a tight lightness on his shoulders, and he separated his feet casually so as not to reveal how flighty he truly felt at the time. Concentrated on the noise around him, he kept his entire body and head still, only moving his eyes with any slight movement he detected. Every small readjustment of his posture felt much heavier than it should have. Still, as he focused more on his surroundings, Youngblood was taken aback by the giddy smile that had grown across his tattered face.
A crack on a building to his left.
He barely had time to turn and block the attack, stopping the blades with his most mangled arm. His pain sensors were turned off, thankfully, so the blow wasn't as agonizing as it would have otherwise been. Youngblood looked up into his opponent's visor, barely making out Draconis’ snarl against the reflection of his own white pupils and brown eyes. Youngblood quickly shoved him off to the side, and Draconis managed to stick the landing and slide backwards, his stance unwavering.
Youngblood lowered his head, staring him down. His shoulders rose, engines quietly roaring as a signal to back off. Draconis was hunched over, clutching the handles of his weapons and almost hugging himself, but he quickly responded with what appeared to be a glare. His helmet cast a shadow over his eyes, but it did little to conceal his irritated movements as he readjusted.
"Enough." Youngblood spoke dryly, lowering his head even further. His smile had morphed into a wide, bitter smirk, and a hand reached for his axe handle. “Let’s stop, now.”
The words appeared to give Draconis pause. He had leaned forward, possibly getting ready to strike, but had not made any move to do so. One of Youngblood’s hands gripped the handle of his axe firmly, and Draconis shifted his weight backwards, giving no answer and loosening his grip on his blades. It seemed like an eternity as the dust settled between them, staring each other down in defensive confusion.
The orange hue from the morning had faded from the city, revealing the true nature of the disrepair that surrounded them. Youngblood moved into a standing position, his hand still unyielding at the handle as the wind played with his tattered sleeve.
“That’s not up to you.”
Draconis' voice, and body, were trembling. He got back into position quickly and re-entered the fray, blades in hand with a grip that threatened to break them as he charged. The brief pause gave Youngblood just enough time to unhook his axe and almost fully open it, locking it into place with a wide swing forward.
When Draconis spoke, something heavy rang in his chest; it was the first time hearing his voice, but for the time being, he was only concerned with finishing the fight. His steps were much heavier, and he could feel his engines inside him burning like a fire in his heart.
Draconis' first move was a sharp slash forward, which was premature enough that Youngblood could simply jolt his head back. His joints argued, and he noticed a light in the corner of his eye warning him against rash movements. He didn't even need to look; he knew what it said, and he knew that he needed to act quickly before losing any ground, so he readied his axe and struck.
He took a powerful swing at his opponent and was pleasantly surprised by the immediate block. The strength was still enough that Draconis was sent flying back onto the side of the building he had just ambushed from. Youngblood moved closer to him, his steps slow and heavy as he lurked and waited for an opening. He wanted to play cat and mouse? Well, he’s game.
Draconis pounced after a few seconds, inevitably receiving the same block and shove treatment. Giving chase was simple, but getting a hit in? That was the worst part. The little fucker was too slippery, he was easily half his size, and his large axe was too slow. And the few slashes those twin blades landed on him were devastating.
In better circumstances, those swords wouldn’t be able to compete with his brute force. Even in his mangled state, he could tell Draconis was scrambling. He was using his much smaller size to his advantage. It was much more difficult to wind up for an axe swing when your enemy was practically on you, already stabbing and slashing at whatever he could reach. Youngblood’s movements were slower, accustomed to lengthy battles against larger and wilder machines. His state left much to be desired. And yet, possibly thanks to Youngblood’s quick blocks with the knob and handle of his weapon, Draconis still wasn’t brave enough to go for a real attack, reducing himself to mosquito slashes around his legs and torso.
But Youngblood wasn’t totally helpless. From his few axe swings, he had noticed his adversary’s leather jacket had started to tear, and his helmet visor was now donning a few good scratches. Youngblood wasn't sure if he was smiling or snarling, but he had long stopped paying attention to himself. He finally took his chance and went to slice the damned pest in half, his heavy footsteps ringing loudly against the pavement.
He did not expect a complete, successful block.
Draconis held the axe by the handle with both of his swords, his stubborn, cocky stance practically a taunt. Youngblood pushed, using all the strength he could muster without collapsing into himself. Draconis' legs threatened to buckle. He pushed further, knowing it'd be a miss but destabilizing enough to guarantee at least something. He didn't want the hit. He didn't even care about winning. He was just so fucking tired.
Draconis yielded, and Youngblood had a few milliseconds of satisfaction, leaning forward and putting his entire weight into the attack.
He did not expect the blades stabbing onto his chest and hip.
Though shocked, he managed to land a punch, smashing a portion of Draconis' visor and forcing him to flee. It was more of a windup than a retreat; Youngblood tried to stand and give chase, collapsing again.
The kid had done something alright; according to what he could read from all of the alerts ringing on his head. Though thankfully missing the fuel tanks inside of him, he still managed to sever some of the connections to his leg. He could fix it himself, at least enough to be able to move. It wouldn't be the first time, all he needed was some time. Time for his body to quickly rebuild the severed connections.
With the approaching footsteps, however, he quickly realized that was exactly what Draconis would not let him have. He clutched his axe and tried his best to kneel.
The Youngblood was not going out whining.
Running in, Draconis slashed one of his blades at him, a clumsy move that Youngblood quickly moved to block. As soon as the axe’s handle connected with it, Draconis swiftly stabbed forward with the second blade. It became lodged on his shoulder and tore up his coat, prompting a growl and Youngblood to pull it out with his unoccupied hand. His body yelled at him even more.
The shorter abiote drew back and ran back into the dust he had just kicked up. When Youngblood attempted to move, he was quickly slashed at, and he couldn’t find what angle the attack came from. He felt disoriented, between the dust around him blocking out his goggles and the broken lenses, the ringing noise that each slash brought out from his body, the numerous warning alerts ringing in his head. At least those were beginning to die down, as his body became more reactive.
When he tried to stand, he barely had time to see Draconis lunging forward, aiming for his chest and forcing him to block with his own arm. Youngblood attempted to swing, but Draconis dashed to his side quickly, throwing out another slash. Pushing himself backward was enough to avoid the hit, even if it made him stumble.
Examining his coat sleeves, Youngblood groaned. He didn't enjoy playing defense, but there is not much else to do when your opponent is acting like a mosquito. Draconis charged in again, quickly met with an axe swing and sent flying back. This was not going to end well, but throwing him back into rubble might buy him some time.
He was excited, in a way. This was the abiote he remembered fighting. But, unfortunately, his body begged for rest. He couldn’t let him stab through his engines, but dodging direct hits to his chest was growing more and more difficult.
A second passed, and Draconis pounced. Youngblood used his axe to stop one of the blades, allowing the second to pass through and sending sparks against the axe’s handle. His skin ripped and the titanium scratched as the blade barely impaled his neck, and Youngblood used a hand to choke the draconid before it could pull back again. He could see the white pupils widen through the missing glass off the visor, long since shattered, and he was delighted at his surprise as he smashed him against the concrete and threw him away like a ragdoll.
His leg was still mostly unresponsive, but stepping on it was possible, so he used that to sprint (or limp) after him. He gasped with each step, exhaling steam and making a raggedy sound as he tried to cool down. The clarity was blinding as he finally stumbled past the dust cloud, and he quickly found his target, attempting to stand and gather himself.
Youngblood struck again as soon as he was within range. Draconis scurried away, avoiding the blow, while the axe shattered the ground and remained stuck on the concrete. His eyes darted around, and he oblivious to the huffy snarls escaping him. He wouldn’t be able to pull his weapon out in time, a fact that spun in his head as he struggled to locate his adversary.
The crunching of glass revealed him once more, this time from a broken windowsill above and behind him. Youngblood turned in time, grabbing the crossed blades poised to end him. They both fell, Youngblood onto his back from the strength of the attack, and the weight Draconis pushed onto him as he tried to free his weapons. He was abruptly kicked off, and Youngblood threw the blades away.
He could hardly stand, especially in comparison to Draconis, who appeared to have landed on his feet. They had come to a new halt, and all Youngblood could do was sway in an attempt to stay upright.
The wind blowing through the streets was soothing. The area was now in shambles, as if that was a possible new descriptor for the ruins, and the dust was settling quickly. The sun on top of them was now allowing the city to show its true colours of white and grey, and the birds had long since quieted. The only melody that rang through the empty street was the harsh sputtering of Youngblood's engines.
“Why?” Youngblood broke the silence. His tone was neither demanding nor questioning. If his words could be classified as one, it would be more of a breath.
“You’re my assignment.” Draconis only received a dry chuckle, which prompted a barely noticeable head tilt.
“So impersonal… Am I— Am I your thesis, Draconis? Do you guys get a grade on it?”
“Don’t stall. Talk is pointless.”
“This whole fight is pointless. I thought—” YB coughed out a plume of steam, finally succumbing and falling on a knee, using his right arm to hold himself up. Still glaring at Draconis. “I thought I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”
"Well, I can see why. Shockingly enough, you’ve lost." Youngblood cackled, reveling in the frown he could barely make out on Draconis.
"I haven't, yet." And now it was Draconis' turn to laugh, albeit with more of a contemptuous snort. Youngblood was satisfied enough; at the very least, they still gave the new kids some emotional freedom nowadays. He remembered the days he spent as an emotionless killing machine, completely under human control. And, as he thought of his pursuit of freedom from them, he moved his gaze to the handkerchief tied to his hand for the final time, sadly smiling to himself. At the very least, you can't say I didn't…
try?
The green fabric was torn.
Draconis said something, but it went unnoticed. He'd kept his hand closed for so long, but there was still a visible gash in the center of his palm. It was his fault, wasn’t it? He knew the last block was dangerous, but he still did it.
Youngblood cupped it in both hands, huddled against himself. It could have been lost, it could’ve been completely mangled and irrecoverable. It was his fault. From the corner of his eye, he saw Draconis begin his approach, and his movements appeared angry.
As his core trembled, his eyes raced over the surface of the torn cloth on his hands. Youngblood's mind raced, a sensation he was all too familiar with. It was his fault. Sorrow engulfed him, flooded him. It consumed his entire being.
It was his fault. He had no business leaving in the first place.
It was his fault. He could’ve, should’ve turned back long ago.
It was his fault. He’d lost before, he’d allowed part of himself to be blown up and he still kept fucking going.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
It was his fault.
A blade was against his neck. Youngblood tiredly looked up to Draconis’ broken visor. Something was said, but Youngblood could only focus on softly caressing the frayed cloth in his hand. And soon enough, he realized. The rage began to build inside of him, the tide of sorrow that had washed over him began to rise, its waves driven mad. As a snarl took over his face, the engines began to roar once more. Youngblood saw Draconis step back, saw the sword falter, but he paid no attention as he abruptly stood up, grabbing his neck and lifting him. He couldn’t hear the clang of the blade hitting the floor.
His hands were trembling, but he quietly tucked what was left of his handkerchief away while the other figure struggled.
Youngblood was wrong, but at the same time, he was so right.
He fixed his gaze on Draconis as he tried to wiggle free of his grasp.
It was entirely his fault.
Youngblood slammed him to the ground with incredible force.
He slammed him down once more, before throwing him against a wall. Draconis tried to scurry away, but was quickly met with a knee to the face that sent him falling back. The pathetic display only made the Youngblood angrier.
Youngblood could only feel the hatred roaring inside in his chest as the assault continued. He was deafened, he was blinded, and he was seething. Draconis tried to fight back but couldn’t hold him back any longer. He simply charged and tackled him again, not giving any time for him to get back up and maintaining the upper hand.
He was blinded by rage, terrible wails and screams escaping him as he slammed his fists against Draconis' helmet. It was his fault. Everything that had happened.
His right fist connected, fully breaking open the helmet. It was his fault.
His left fist collided with an audible crack. Draconis could barely even try to protect his face. It was his fault.
He could see the brown eyes that kept slamming shut and desperately pleading him to stop, he could almost hear yelling, but he could not, would not stop. It was his fault.
And as he continued, his screeches turned into sobs as he maintained the onslaught.
He didn't know what he was doing when he closed his eyes, but it was easier not to see as he heard horrible cracking and felt hands attempting to stop his own.
His punches lacked power. His body was exhausted. And, eventually, he stopped. Draconis wasn’t moving anymore, and his own chest ached with unbearable grief. When he opened his eyes, he saw the helmet's chrome shell splintered into pieces all around him.
★ fucking your friend’s ex is not okay, that’s for sure. but sometimes, right now, things don’t have to be okay. sometimes, right now, they only have to be fair. an eye for an eye, a body for a body. that’s how it works, that's how it’s always worked. you, and flins, sure as hell know that now.
🐈 notes 𐙚
★ fem reader ★ modern!au, university!au ★ bff’s ex 2 lovers ★ minors/ageless blogs DNI.★ toxic relationships described (not with flins) ★ minor blood mention ★
You were quiet on the way back home. Too quiet.
Flins, more due to his fascination in you, and less due to his overall tendency to observe, had immediately picked up on it.
Upon being notified of the arrival of an old-looking coin, Flins had insisted that you accompany him to his usual antique store. The transaction was fast, efficient, with the ever-needed small talk occuring briefly beforehand. You were in and out in under 5 minutes, and, to Flins, the outing was a huge success.
Unfortunately, the success he’d revelled in was fleeting, because a strange, uncomfortable silence had captured you the moment you’d left the store. He noticed it, your reluctance to speak, how he’d been the one to carry the weight of the conversation. You, walking beside him, offered brief responses. At times, you would only nod your head. You hadn’t complained about how cold it was, nor did you scold him for spending so much money on an old coin. Those two factors were odd enough to justify Flins’ suspicions on their own. What struck him as most perplexing, however, was your lack of opinion on how the cat he’d walked past had hissed at him.
“They seem…more agitated than usual today,” he’d remarked, expecting you to tease him for such an unfortunate encounter.
He’d expected you to tease him, to shoot back with a “who knows, maybe they’re allergic to you too”, but you’d said nothing. Instead, all he’d earnt was a short, fabricated giggle. Flins felt his heart sink at the idea of ever upsetting you. The fact that the risked seemed realer than ever only made him feel worse.
“Hm?” You responded. “What are you talking about? I’m not upset with you, Flins.”
And that was the truth, you weren’t upset with him.
You were, however, seething with jealousy.
“In fact, I feel fine, but I’m sure the lady at the counter feels the best between the three of us. It makes sense, though, since you so graciously decided to entertain her obvious flirting for five minutes straight.”
If you were ruder, and perhaps a generally unreasonable person, you probably would’ve said it to his face. You probably would’ve said it in the store, right in front of that lady. You’d make sure to say it sharp, cutting off whatever she was saying about how her shifts are ‘barely tolerable without him stopping by”. You could recall how hard you tried not to scoff right then and there.
Unfortunately for you, and fortunately for everyone else involved, you were not that type of person.
So, instead, you settled for a half-truth.
“You haven’t spoken much,” he pointed out. It was clear that he’d seen straight through your lie, ever-perceptive as he was. “And that’s perfectly alright, y/n. If you simply wish to listen, or if you’d rather we enjoy the walk in silence, then I do apologise for my question.”
“No, I- don’t apologise, Flins,” you said. “It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong.”
He nodded. “It puts my heart at ease to know that. I take it that you are certainly content, then?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“I see. Are you able to promise me that?”
Ah, he’d got you there.
If it was anyone else, you, in your persistent attempts to save face, would’ve just lied, moving on with your day with a bitter taste on your tongue. Jealousy, as natural as it was, had always filled you with a deep, burning shame. It was a stupid feeling, and even more stupid in Flins’ case.
The two of you weren’t dating, so really, the lady behind the counter hadn’t done anything objectively wrong. If you tried to confront her, she could’ve asked you if Flins was your boyfriend, and what would you say to that? Lying again was an option, you could’ve said “yeah, he is”. That, however, would lead to an intimidating walk back home. There was even a risk of him correcting you, and saying “no, I’m not”. You’d rather have her kiss him on the lips than meet that fate.
Your one viable option would’ve been to fall silent, submitting to an immediate loss. This option would also prompt an intimidating walk back, reinforcing the idea that your situation was not a favourable one. It was only a stupid one.
It was difficult to lie to Flins’ face, as ironic as that might sound. You groaned, bringing your hands up to shield your face. Those golden eyes were always so knowing, so piercing.
“I- ugh…I’m not upset with you or anything,” you grumbled reluctantly.
Flins had caught the weight you’d added onto ‘with’, humming to himself in acknowledgement.
“But you remain upset nonetheless, no?” He inferred, his footsteps slowing. “Regardless of whether or not I was the cause.”
“…yeah, I guess. But I’m not, like, upset upset. It’s really nothing you should worry about.”
He chuckled.
“A remark made in vain, my heart.”
Leather had met the pads of your fingers, his hand intertwining with yours in an instant; he’d stopped in his tracks to bring you to a halt with him. The pair of you stood on the incline between Teyvat’s campus and the downtown area: a long, stretched out road, forest lining the pavements that sandwiched it. The road was busy from morning till night. The pavements, too, matched its popularity, with the route being the easiest way to get to and from campus in between classes. It was common for students to stop by to grab lunch, to head over to the Angel’s Share, or, more realistically, to skip their lectures entirely to head downtown.
Flins, often bothered by the foot traffic, had shown you an alternate route. It was a desire path, one that cut through the forest area that surrounded the road. Though slightly time consuming, it avoided the congestion on the pavements, getting you into campus via the side gates instead of the main one. The most noteable benefit of this route, however, was that it gave you more time to spend with him. Standing there, hand in hand, you recognised a particular tree, one that he’d had you pushed up against a few weeks prior. You tried to blink away the memory of his lips on your neck, the roughness of tree bark against your back.
“What kind of man would I be,” he sighed, turning your body towards him, “to let you walk beside me feeling troubled? That is not in my nature.”
“I know.” You pouted. You leant forward, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. The hand that had rested on your waist shifted to the small of your back, and he wrapped both arms around you, pulling you close to him. “It’s seriously just dumb, Flins. I’m embarrassed.”
“You shouldn’t be. Never around me, my heart.”
“I know… I’m making it bigger than it is, anyway. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. He placed his palm against the back of your head; the weight of his forearm against your back was comforting, warm. “Please, tell me what troubles you, nightlight. All I want to do is make it better.”
You paused, taking a deep breath.
This was so embarrassing to admit.
“The lady at the antique store…” you murmured, eternally grateful that he hadn’t moved your head back from his shoulder.
“Ah, Mahla?”
“She definitely wants you, Flins.”
A pregnant pause stationed itself between you two.
You internally recoiled at your own words, groaning into the fabric of his coat. It was frustrating; you couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d fluttered her eyelashes at him, how he still insisted on maintaining the conversation. The whole encounter had you fighting the urge to walk out the store. Sure, you couldn’t really blame Flins all that much. You knew he was polite, naturally charming, with a built-in tendency to draw smiles from anyone he spoke to. That, however, only served to be part of your problem.
Whatever embarrassment you’d felt quickly took the shape of defensiveness, and you, for whatever reason, felt the need to explain yourself before he could even open his mouth.
“It’s so obvious!” You lamented, making sure to speak a little firmer this time. You’d drawn back from his shoulder, allowing him to see the way your brows were furrowed, how your lips curled into an irritated pout.
“She was flirting with you so hard. There is no way you didn’t notice that. She said that you look better everytime you walk in, and she said she missed you. Are you serious? The cashiers at the grocery store never tell me they miss me, and I’d like to think I’m pretty polite too! That is so not a customer service thing, that’s an I-Want-To-Fuck-The-Customer service thing!”
“My heart-”
“How often do you even go there for her to miss you? How does that work?”
“If you’d let me-”
“Also, does she have your phone number? You said you got a call about that coin. You are not going to tell me you gave her your number, Kyryll. I’m so serious right now.”
It was foolish of you not to see it coming, not to feel that familiar, agitating quiver in his shoulders. Before you could even finish your string of accusations, Flins had sharply turned his head to the side. The trees around you did little to soak the sounds of poorly-stifled laughter, the jagged breath leaving his lips. It was impossible to miss, really.
You, frozen in place, could only stare at him in disbelief. His small attempt at redirecting his laughter was futile in taming your irritation.
“Kyryll, you cannot be fucking serious right now.”
“I- no, my heart, I do-” he tried, somewhat, to speak in between his chuckles, “I do apologise, hah- I truly… I truly do apologise. It was not my intention to-”
You shoved him back, ignoring both the heat spreading across your cheeks, and his wide, amused grin.
“Save it, oh my god,” you spat. “You are seriously so mean.”
“No, sweetheart, I-”
“Nope.” You’d already turned on your heels, trudging up the makeshift path. You tried your best to pay no mind to the laughter behind you, the forced throat-clearing that tried so hard to bring an end to it. “You said I didn’t have to be embarrassed, now you’re laughing at me.”
Hurried footsteps trailed behind you.
“No,” he insisted, picking up his own pace, “not at you, my heart. Please, I could never laugh at you.”
“You’re laughing at me right now!”
“I most certainly am not.”
His downfall laid in your act of turning around to check. He, unsurprisingly, was still laughing. The sight of his poorly-hidden grin had only compelled you to walk ahead even faster than before.
“Go tell your Mahla to tell you a joke,” you hissed. “I’m sure she’d love to see you walk in again. You get so much better looking every time you do, after all.”
“Aah, I see. Could that comment be the source of your troubles?”
“Could that comment be the- do not act dumb right now. She was flirting with you right in front of me! That comment was one of many.”
Flins thought you looked cute like this. Of course, he would never want to cause you distress; he cared about you too much for that. In a good world, he’d keep you happy at all times, smiling, sweet, tucked comfortably against his chest. He’d keep your mind free of all troubles, of as little as a seed of doubt in regards to his affections.
However, in all honesty, he couldn’t deny the fact that your frustration was slightly endearing. The way you rambled at him, scolded him, your pretty, pouty lips, it was all because you liked him enough to be a little angry with him.
Flins liked that, you liking him.
“I apologise, nightlight,” he called out to you. The intense urge to kiss you was searing through his chest. “I did not intend to enable her behaviour, nor did I intend to forget that you’d rather have me all to yourself.”
You blushed, turning to him with narrowed eyes.
“You are not teasing me when I’m already mad at you.”
“Teasing you?” He raised his eyebrows. “Was my assumption made in haste? If you would rather share me, then please, do tell.”
“You’re a massive prick, you know. Everyone thinks you’re some gentleman, but-”
“Ah, there it is.”
He was by your side, having caught up swiftly due to his height. Flins didn’t miss the small smile on your lips, nor were you actually annoyed at the one on his. These games, the back and forth, the teasing remarks: everything about being around Flins was easy, comfortable, even in moments that had started with difficulty. Any jealousy you felt had melted with the sound of his amusement; it dripped into the soil below you, taken back into the earth. There wasn’t much in the air aside from his laughter, your laughter, the mingled smell of wet grass and tree bark.
“You’re terrible,” you persisted, grinning to yourself, “I won’t ever, ever forgive you. You’ve betrayed me, and I’m hurt.”
“Then,” said Flins, “I suppose I must apologise forever.”
You giggled, speeding up. The pair of you, like fools, were jogging through the forest, weaving between the trees. The route back to campus had been long forgotten, along with your 3pm lecture, the old, expensive coin tucked into his pocket. You ran from him, a rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins. April’s winds were cold and they grazed the plush of your cheeks, dulling the heat that he, so easily, brought to your entire body. The trees around you knew his name. They knew yours, too.
“Forever is a long time, Kyryll!” you’d yelled into the stretch of forest.
For a moment, you thought you finally lost him. You were tucked behind a particularly thick tree, scanning your surroundings for a flash of azure, for the quiet jingle of the metallic detailing on his coat. Flins, you’d realised midway through your sprint, was intimidatingly fast. It was most likely due to the length of his legs in comparison to yours, but regardless of reason, it was definitely an unfortunate advantage for him.
Your breathing formed small, translucent clouds before your lips, fingers resting against a patch of rough, slightly damp, bark. Almost a minute had passed since you’d called out to him. You considered calling out again, stepping out from behind the tree, but he was swift in saving you the effort.
From behind, a strong pair of hands landed on your hips.
“A long time with you is all I could ever want.”
Your noise of startle was muffled by his lips.
He pressed a sweet, short kiss to your mouth, moving to litter multiple kisses across your entire face. You felt him against your forehead, your cheeks, the underside of your jaw, then back on your lips. The speed of his movements felt ticklish on your skin.
“Flins, ah- that tickles!”
“I apologise,” he said solemnly, ignoring your protest to slot his lips into yours. You’d hummed into him, relishing in how gentle he was. “Do you forgive me?”
“No!”
“Aah, well that won’t do.”
He extended his assault to your neck, the exposed part of your collarbones, back to your cheeks, your lips, your forehead. You could feel his smile against your skin, the warmth of his breath when he chuckled at your squirming.
“Flins!”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“You’re- aah! You’re tickling me!”
He kissed your forehead.
“Forgive me, I truly am sorry.”
Your right cheek.
“I am the most sorry man in the entire world.”
He moved to your left cheek, smiling bright, that addicting glint of affection gleaming in his golden eyes.
“Y/n, my heart, I truly am-”
“-so fucking sorry, Kyryll.”
Your throat feels tight.
You’re soaked, and the wind turns your dress to ice against your skin. You’re not sure if this is the third or fourth voicemail. You don’t remember how long it’s been since he drove away, how long you’ve been standing outside your house. His empty, dull eyes remain ingrained into your head. The silence in his car, how much worse it felt when he’d broken it to speak. You stand there, stained with all the hurt you’d caused, with your phone clutched against your ear.
“Please,” you whimper, your vision blurred with tears, “please just call me back.”
What really happened between you two, that night at Nefer’s pregame?
Is it reliable, Yelan’s account of it all?
Is it truthful, Nefer’s confirmation of the events?
No one can be sure, certainty, in more cases than one, is impossible to reach. The questions and doubts had plagued Diluc far longer than he could bear, and there was nowhere to put the turmoil they’d brewed within him.
It doesn’t take Ajax long to find him.
“Diluc, the fuck is your problem?”
Diluc stands in the parking lot, exactly where he’d stood with you a few moments prior, where he’d exercised a futile, vain attempt at convincing you to return home with him. He’s soaked through, drenched from head to toe, and his coat hangs twice as heavy across his shoulders.
April’s rain keeps up its onslaught, pouring down relentlessly on all that lies below it. The leaves beg for mercy, clinging to their branches, as the harsh, unforgiving winds tear at their bodies. Trash cans lie toppled on the ground and their contents lie strewn across the asphalt. A few empty takeaway boxes skitter along the parking lot; they slap against the windshield windows of unlucky cars. Tonight, everything is moving.
Everything aside from Diluc, who stays completely still, waiting for Ajax to get to him. He’s immobalised by his own guilt; that guilt that once burnt so bright, that seared through him for months, now ice cold in the spring rain. The guilt he’d been carrying for weeks finally feels louder than the storm around him, than the wind that howls, roars against his ears.
“Speak up, redhead. What the hell was that?”
Ajax’s voice cuts sharply through the rain. He approaches fast, steps heavy, features contorted into something between anger and disbelief.
Diluc doesn’t answer. Not yet.
He watches Ajax come closer, the rise and fall of his chest. His right hand, subtly, curls into a fist by his side, hanging tense by the hem of his sports jersey. The sight only agitates Diluc further, if ‘redhead’ being used to address him wasn’t enough.
“You know my name,” he spits. “Don’t call me that.”
“Save the tough guy act. I didn’t fuck you up earlier because I didn’t want to make a scene. Don’t start thinking I’ll show that restraint again.” Ajax leans forward, arriving at a halt before the taller man, eyes narrowed. “I’m asking you a question.”
“And I’m telling you to use my name.”
Diluc straightens, unmoved by Ajax’s attempt at intimidation. The tension between them thickens, and it’s sharp enough to slice through, rain seeping into every part of them that it can reach. Diluc isn’t someone who succumbs easily to his emotions. He prefers to diffuse situations rather than let them fester into something ugly, choosing a tactical retreat over a pointless advance. He’s strong, strong enough to handle Ajax if he were to engage, but fighting has always struck him as a childish solution. When conflict rises, violence is, and should always be, the last resort. That’s what Diluc believes, and it’s a belief he’s always stood firm in.
And yet-
“-why don’t you ask me again, Ajax? I assumed we were all adults here, but I still feel the need to remind you to act your age.”
He hears it: the edge in his voice, the not-so-subtle bite. It betrays his stance, his beliefs, and he’s painfully aware that provoking Ajax is the easiest way to prompt a physical altercation. His words come out like barbs, the kind meant to leave scratches on Ajax’s skin.
And they do.
The expression on Ajax’s face implies that he’d felt those scratches physically.
“You’re fucking weird,” he spits, “You know that, right Diluc?”
Diluc, again, doesn’t answer.
“I don’t get you,” Ajax continues. A dry, humorless chuckle leaves his lips, the sound of it making Diluc’s eye twitch. “Yelan doesn’t get you, Nefer doesn’t get you. Fuck, I would say that you don’t get you. You think dragging y/n out like that makes you some fuckin’ hero, or what?”
“You went too far, and you know you did,” his opponet hisses, sour, in response. “You got personal. It’s obvious that you just wanted a chance to play around with her. I’d bet money on the fact that whatever plan Yelan gave you was the last thing on your mind. What, did you think I would stand there and let you speak to her so-”
“Oh, you wetwipe, you’re worried about y/n? Sweet, angel y/n? Because she’s done nothing wrong in her life, and this whole plan is just some fun little game between us?”
Diluc is no stranger to retribution. He knows it like the back of his hand.
It disappoints him that he, so foolishly, had allowed revenge to mimic its shape, to trick him into participation. Revenge is not the friend that retribution is, and it never, ever will be.
“Ajax,” he groans, pressing the heel of his palm to his furrowed brows, “this…this is so messed up. Am I the only one who thinks what we’re doing is fucked up?”
“You agreed to it. You didn’t think it was messed up back then?” Another, humorless chuckle falls from Ajax’s lips as he draws back, running a hand through his wet, ginger hair. “You are so obsessed with seeming like this righteous, perfect guy. None of this is righteous, it’s just fair game.”
Retribution is fair, proportional; it concerns itself with peace, with the restoration of justice.Retribution rights wrongs in the most lawful way it can, ensuring the correct delivery of relief for those who deserve it. Diluc can respect retribution. In fact, he often encourages it.
Inversely, revenge is indulgent, personal. Revenge does not care for the law, nor does it care for peace. It, at its core, is concerned with that addicting, momentary satisfaction, a violent justice disguised as a remedy. It’s promise of medicine to numb the wound, no matter how the medicine may be sourced.
The wounded crave relief, and the wronged crave revenge.
For that reason, he understands you now.
The wounded crave relief, and the wronged crave revenge.
For that same reason, he’d understood Yelan back then.
But still, still, he can’t run from the grating persistence of his own doubts, the questions that claw at him long into the night. Everything had been so sudden, so uncharacteristic; it was all so unlike you, so unlike Flins, everything that he’d been told. You, humiliatingly absorbed in Ajax, so pliant in his rough, reckless hands. You loved that man, truly, even if he did not love you. Flins, ever so gentle, ever so principled; Flins was, and still is, everything Diluc wishes he could be. Surely a man like that harbours morals that stand strong, iron against the crash of waves.
Yet despite these pressing thoughts, Diluc never knew you well enough to contest Yelan’s account. He never knew Flins enough to question Nefer’s certainty. He still doesn’t, and that’s the price he pays for being so withdrawn, so reluctant to step beyond the social circle Nefer had built around him. Even now, he has no substance to his doubts aside from from that feeling, that burning intuition, and that one, simple question.
What really happened between you two, that night at Nefer’s pregame?
Revenge is not the friend that retribution is, and Diluc is not one to find comfort in strangers.
“Do you believe her?”
“What?”
“Yelan,” Diluc clarifies, his voice low. “Do you believe what she told you about those two?”
It’s been well over a year since Nefer’s pregame, more than enough time for Diluc to realise just how flawed his timing is, how often he speaks up only when it’s already too late.
Ajax only blinks, disbelief flickering across his features. It seems as though he, too, finds the issue in Diluc’s timing.
“Are you stupid?”
“Ajax-”
“You’re not actually saying you think that whole thing was a lie.” His tone is incredulous, dressed with daggers that jab at Diluc each time he speaks.
“We were all fucking wasted,” Diluc snaps. “Yelan was probably five drinks in at best, you were too. And I don’t even want to try and guess how many bottles Nefer stole from people that night. How do you know she heard them correctly, or if she heard them at all?”
“What does that have to do with-”
“Use your head. You don’t think it’s weird that none of us ever asked them anything? That we never confronted them? You don’t think jumping headfirst into this fucked-up plan without a single question could’ve been an oversight?”
Diluc knows he’s being hypocritical, that criticising the others’ lack of confrontation is rich coming from him. He, just like the others, had every opportunity to speak to you, to speak to Flins. He, just like the others, harboured an autonomy that could’ve saved everyone all the hassle, all the hurt, and yet he remained stationary, still. Time, as it always does, had moved swiftly past him.
Ajax opens his mouth to shoot back, but something in Diluc’s tone, controlled, firm, and all too steady, makes him hesitate. For the first time tonight, his tongue comes to a pause, subject to a tiny, minuscule seed of doubt. Diluc catches it, that flicker in his expression. Barely there. It flashes just for a second before it’s gone.
“Yelan isn’t a liar,” he spits, decicing to double down. “She told us exactly what happened, and Nefer backed it up. Why the hell would they lie to us? You think that shit would benefit anyone?”
The rain slides down his face in cold, steady lines, soaking into the deep red of his hair, into the dark brown of his clothes. The silence Diluc holds isn’t passive, but intentional, long, heavy enough that Ajax feels it land somewhere deep in his ribs. Deep, oak eyes bore holds into blue ones.
Ajax’s fingers twitch, the hand that’d balled into a fist losing its structure. He looks away for the briefest second, jaw shifting like he’s grinding down a thought he refuses to let form.
“…Even if we moved a little fast,” he mutters, voice tightening with a poorly-masked reluctance, “it doesn’t matter now. You can’t pretend you didn’t know what you were getting into.”
Diluc holds his silence, and the rain speaks for him. It patters against the asphalt, steady and merciless, the only rhythm in the empty lot. It falls onto Ajax’s clothes, his hair; the weight of the water sits on him as uncomfortably as it sits on Diluc. The rain can feel something different in Ajax, something that lies beyond the anger he shows, the scorn, the malice that lines his frame. It falls, pit, pat, pit, pat, and spells it all onto the top of Diluc’s head.
“It sucks, doesn't it? To feel like she one upped you like that.”
For a heartbeat, something dances across Ajax’s face at his words. It’s something wounded, something human, and Diluc has never seen it worn on a man like him.
“That- what? That isn’t the point.”
“We’re doing all this without knowing whether or not they really deserve it. This is the entire point.”
“Don’t bring this shit up,” Ajax mutters. He scoffs, scowls at Diluc, but it’s noticeably weaker this time. His voice crumbles at the edges, and for once, Diluc catches the way his breath hitches. “Whether or not I’m hurt means nothing right now, it was ages ago. She made her choice, and so did Flins.”
“Did they? Or did we make that choice for them?”
A problem shared is a problem halved.
Diluc, tormented so relentlessly by his guilt, by his doubts, sees the weight of it on Ajax too. It’s a subtle sight, easy to miss and obscured by the violent rainfall, but the redhead spots tremble in his hands, the tilt of his brows. His lips, curled into a bitter scowl, bleed with something foreign. It seems that even uncertainty can be contagious.
The storm doesn’t wait like Diluc does.
There is no mercy in the silence Diluc consistently, like he’s addicted to doing so, holds; it is not kind. Diluc is quiet because he’s hoping, because he’s waiting for Ajax to verify his doubts, that unbearably uncertainty. The rain drums against the ground with its relentless, overwhelming rhythm. It seems to rattle Ajax, to slap the wet strands of his hair against his face, tearing, biting at the fabric of his jersey. It urges him to speak up, to confess, to stand there with Diluc and feel the weight of all that’s happened.
Ajax inhales sharply, as if he might continue, but the words that burn with truth find themselves tangled up in his throat. There is weakness in vulnerability, and yet, the strength of it prevails.
It seems that he is still yet to realise it.
“Fuck you, Diluc,” is all he says, retreating into a weakness that he swears is strength. “What’s done is done. This conversation is useless, and so are you.”
But his conviction doesn’t land in the way he wants it to, not tonight. Not with the hurt Diluc had pulled from behind his ribs, not with the storm that shakes him so violently. Not after he remembered what you’d done, why he’d even agreed to take part in this plan to begin with.
And Diluc notices this, the shake in his voice, the teeth that sink into his bottom lip. He sees, for the first time, Ajax’s first, and most visible, loss:
realising too late that he’d lost you that fateful night, watching you slip away again, so long after the two of you had already ended things.
He’s vulnerable, open, andthis time, Diluc is not a slave to his own cowardice.
“Get in the car,” he says firmly.
Ajax’s jaw almost drops in disbelief. The wind, for a second, seems like it stills. Everything holds its breath.
“What? Why the hell would I-”
“Don’t question me. Are you in, or are you out?”
A beat of silence settles. Ajax swallows, jaw tightening as he grits his teeth.
“What…,” he mumbles, “what the hell are you trying to accomplish here? You think there’s any way to undo what we’re doing, what they did to me?”
What they did to me.
Diluc doesn’t have to listen close to catch the way his voice cracks.
“Answer me, Ajax.”
The storm roars around them, the rain slicing down; the winds bite, nip at their faces. Every second counts, and so does every moment, every glint of every eye, each quiver in every lip. Diluc, as unwavering as time, will move with or without Ajax. If he decides to remain still, standing here in the violent April rain, Diluc will move regardless. If he decides to move, to swallow his pride and get into the car, Diluc will move regardless.
Diluc, as unwavering as time, will move, and he will scorn all accounts of previous hesitation as he does so.
Ajax exhales sharply.
A reluctant nod finally betrays him.
Outside, muffled music sept through the thin walls of your bedroom, a bassline rattling faintly in your chest. Laughter spilled from the living room, punctuated by the occasional clink of bottles and the holler of someone announcing a new round. You recognised the voice as Kaeya’s, and emitted a soft hum of surprise that he’d actually agreed come to the same event as his brother, Diluc. You could see the flicker of coloured lights through the small space between your door and the ground, people passed in and out of Nefer’s pregame. Their voices overlapped, loud and incoherent.
Flins perched himself on the edge of your bed, making sure to be careful as to not jostle your laptop. The Reese’s bowl had wobbled dangerously from the added weight, but you caught it with an effortless hand, settling it on your nightstand.
You sat comfortably against your headboard, knees pressed to your chest, watching the way his golden eyes scanned over what you’d already written. For someone who’d claimed he wouldn’t stay long, Flins had a tongue tailored to flattery. He’d spent the first few minutes praising the strength of your essay, insisting that you hardly needed his assistance at all.
He said that, and then proceeded to edit every single sentence he laid eyes on. The sight made you want to scoff in amusement.
“Only this one paragraph,” you reminded him, narrowing your eyes, “and then you’re gone. You have to promise me that.”
Flins smiled faintly, his expression softening the usual sharpness of his features. “Your command is my law, Miss.”
“Really? You’re just going to agree to that without a single objection?”
“Well,” he started, leaning slightly closer to get a better look at the screen, “technically, the rest of your essay could…improve.”
You deadpanned.
“Improve?” You echoed, scoffing at his choice of words. “You were just acting like my essay was some masterpiece like…five minutes ago. Thought I ‘hardly needed your assistance’, or whatever.”
Flins straightened slightly, attempting a dignified expression.
“I said it was good, Miss,” he clarified, “not untouchable.”
“Oh, I see. So you’re here to fix my technically-good-but-secretly-bad essay? Is that it?”
“I am here because it is quieter in your room,” he said plainly. “My grade in this module only serves as an added bonus, you see.”
You feign offence, huffing at the cheeky smile he quickly tried to wipe off his lips.
“So you’re not here out of the kindness of your heart? You’re using me for my room?”
He pretended to consider it, bringing a finger to curl over his chin.
“I suppose one could argue that assisting a classmate in distress is a noble act.”
From this close, it was impossible not to notice things you hadn’t when he was just a voice behind your door. His hair, a curtain of deep cerulean, darker near the crown and brightening toward the ends, spilled over his shoulders as he leaned forward, brushing the small of his back in a smooth, silk-like fall. His skin, pale, contrasted sharply with the black quarter-zip hugging his frame.
“Classmate?” You folded your arms over your chest. “You didn’t even realise we did the same course until ten minutes ago.”
“That is true,” he conceded, voice warm with quiet laughter. “But I realised eventually. That counts for something.”
“So, what, you just barge into my room, insult my paragraph, and claim you’re doing a noble deed?”
“If the paragraph is in need of rescue…” he said, peering up from the screen to meet your eyes, “then yes, I believe that makes me something of a hero.”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he said, fingers already rearranging your sentences, “you are still letting me help.”
For a moment, his eyes lingered on you, and you felt it. You looked away quickly, focusing on your knees again, but the warmth in your chest refused to fade.
Flins worked in silence after that, or at least, what appeared to be silence on the surface. Beyond the closed door of your room, Nefer’s pregame pulsed like a heartbeat, thumping against all it could reach. Laughter, the clatter of bottles, the bass from someone’s speaker rattling faintly through the floorboards. Every few minutes, a burst of voices swelled down the hall before fading again. You sympathised with the agitation Flins had carried while standing outside your door, why he was so willing to edit a long, boring essay.
Inside your room, the air felt strangely still, a stark contrast to the constant movement outside your door. The yellow glow of your lamp made the sharp lines of Flins’ face seem softer, human in a way you didn’t expect. Dressed in all black, he looked almost out of place in the cozy mess of your room: the bowl of Reese’s, the rumpled sheets, the clothes half-spilled from your wardrobe.
And yet, he didn’t seem uncomfortable; he, if it wasn’t your mind playing tricks on you, looked as comfortable as ever.
Diluc: I’m coming to yours. I’ll be there in 10 [9:32pm]
Diluc: I know it’s not a good time but this is important [9:32pm]
You don’t object to the notifications on your screen, nor do you agree to them.
The wind howls, violent, and you feel limp enough to move with it. If it blew any harder, if you felt any worse, you’d surely be lifted off your feet, tossed up into the air, sent far, far away. You hadn’t gone into your house since Flins had dropped you off, feeling immobilised by the ache that spreads from your chest to your toes to the tips of your fingers, pulsing at your temples. Your dress, helpless, continues to soak up the rain that beats against it. That expensive dress, the one you’d bought to look pretty in for him, is practically destroyed from all the water it falls subject to.
You miss him.
You miss Flins so much that it hurts.
What swirls more viciously than the April wind is the guilt, the shame, the regret inside you. The three of them dance, the heels of their feet pressing painfully against your head. They bump and crash against the walls of your brain, they spin at the bottom of your stomach. The bruises they leave in their wake paint his face in greens, purples and yellows. His hollow, golden eyes, once shining so bright, now burn in your memory, empty and dry.
Tell me, please, that Yelan is lying to me. Tell me she’s lying and I promise I’ll believe you.
You’re not sure you’ve ever felt worse than this.
You wish you’d just lied, cursed her name, her whole existence in that car. You wish you told him you loved him sooner, confessed to how badly you wanted to be with him. You wish you could take him back to that antique store, that stupid store where stupid Mahla would surely flirt with him again, just so you could say, firm and certain, that he was your boyfriend. It would make her lay off him, you know it. And surely, right after that confrontation, he’d tease you on the way back home. He’d tease you about wanting to keep him to yourself, and he’d be entirely right about it. You’d pretend to get mad all over again, just like you always do. And Flins, ever so loving, ever so gentle, would kiss it all better, just like he always does.
The thought makes you feel sick, because there is no ‘always’ left for you.
Saliva collects along your tongue.
Diluc: Sorry in advance btw, but the drive is short [9:35pm]
Diluc: I told him not to speak to you [9:35pm]
When he finally arrives, driving right up to your doorstep, the headlights flash bright against your driveway before you can even process it. Exhaust fumes mingle with the wet spring air, and all your ache is displaced by a chill of shock.
“…Diluc?” you murmur, your voice barely carrying over the wind.
He leans slightly out the window, damp coat clinging to his shoulders. “Hey, uh, just get in. We don’t have a lot of time.”
You swallow, shivering, and make the mistake of glancing at the passenger seat through the open window. Your stomach drops. You realise that you probably should’ve given more of your attention to the contents of Diluc’s texts, the reason behind that odd, seemingly out of place, apology.
“…I am not getting in your car, Diluc. Are you fucking crazy?”
Rolling his eyes, Ajax lifts a hand in mock surrender.
“I don’t want to be here either,” he mutters.“Relax.”
“Then why are you?”
“Strawberry Shortcake over here made me get in,” he scoffs. “Don’t start thinking I came because I’m thrilled to see you, cause I promise that’s not what it is.”
“Asshole, if you came all this way just to piss me off, then why don’t you get out here?”
“Excuse me? It’s pouring down with rain. I get that you’re cool with being all depressed out here, but I’m not trying to increase my risk of a cold any more than I already have.”
“Real manly, Ajax. What ever will you do if the common cold were to strike?”
Diluc’s eyes close in frustration. Serious or not, it’s as if arguments form the singular patch of common ground between you and Ajax, the one place where you both speak eye to eye. Nothing about the pair of you align aside from the fact that you disagreed, and so did he, giving rise to possibly the worst dynamic Diluc has the misfortune of witnessing in real time. Again.
“Can the two of you just argue in the car?” He sighs. “Because we don’t have all night.”
You hesitate, teeth clenched.
You hadn’t given yourself much time to reflect on how messy, how confusing, this evening had become. Diluc showing up, demonstrating that frantic, perplexing persistence of his. Ajax, sitting smug in the passenger seat, lounged way too casually for such a tense situation. The storm, pressing in from all sides, relentless against your soft, cold skin. It’s a lot, too much, for one night, and one of it makes any sense.
It doesn’t make sense that Diluc would display such fire when diffusing the situation between you an Ajax, only to insist that you get into a car with him right after doing so. It doesn’t make sense that Ajax’s hostility had melted into something more lax, something almost casual, as if he hadn’t just been thrown like a rag doll by the man who drives the car he sits in. It doesn’t make sense that you’re even here, that there’s a tiny, tiny seed of curiosity, tempting you to comply with him.
Your head is pounding trying to process it all.
“What…what is happening, Diluc?”
You can’t even begin to untangle how this all started, how everyone seemed to know everything before you did. Ajax, showing up at the Arts building at the worst possible moment. His pointed remarks, his odd pattern of speech, the way he’d asked so directly if you were dressed nice for a date. Diluc’s arrival, how he’d pushed Ajax so violently against that door. His agitation, how harshly he’d pulled you out of the building, how frantic the look on his face was. That comment, the slip of his tongue.
“…And I know you’re waiting for Flins to get here.”
How the hell did they know?
You think about what had Yelan said to Flins, how she, somehow, caught wind of your initial plan. You think about how much she knew, how much about this whole situation she’d bothered to explain to him. You think about Nefer, your best friend, and realise that Yelan was your best friend once too.
It’s a lot, too much, for one night. Your head is pounding trying to process it all.
“Y/n, please just-”
“This is so fucked,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “Are- are you not getting that? You want me to just get into your car with him?”
Ajax snorts. “You’re acting like I bite.”
“You look like you do.”
“Sorry? What did you just-”
“Ajax,” Diluc groans, digging his elbow, hard, into the man’s side. A loud wince of pain sounds through the car, leaking out from Diluc’s open window as he turns to you.
His eyes catch yours through the never-ending rain, wide, taut with an urgency you’ve only started to see in him today. His fingers grip the edge of the steering wheel, as if it ties him to his sense, keeping him from saying something he shouldn’t. There’s a tension in his shoulders, the way he leans just slightly forward; the look of him scribbles a silent plea that you read clearly.
Just get in. Please.
His lips part, as if to speak again, but no words leave. All you gain is that desperate, restrained intensity, the one you fail to understand every time you see it. You swallow, the heaviness of it all perched on top of your chest.
“You…you have so much to explain.” You, with reluctance slowing each movement, step towards his car, opening the door to the backseat. You keep your gaze down, attempting to sit down in a way that doesn’t involve you tripping over the wet, dripping hem of your dress. You grunt when you feel the tip of your heel catch against his car. The entire procedure seems to be more convoluted due to your haze, that obstructive irritation you feel. “And you better explain properly, Diluc. I don’t want to see any of that crazy shit from before. I mean it.”
“I understand,” he says, sighing in relief when he spots you settled into the seat through his rear-view mirror, “and I promise I will. I’ll explain everything, start to finish, to both of you.”
Both of you?
You stare at him incredulously, the quiet click of his car door sounding as you close it.
“Both of us? What the hell is there to explain to Ajax?”
“Dumbass,” you hear your ex, who’s clearly recovered from Diluc’s assault, sneer from the passenger seat, “he’s not talking about me. Could you look away from me for even a second, or are you really not over us?”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“I’d like to think I’m pretty entertaining when I speak.”
“Yeah, you’re real funny, aren't you?”
“I can be funny. You wanna see something funny?”
“Please, entertain us,” you mutter, too tired to argue.
You catch his grin, malicious, in the rear-view mirror.
“Turn right, y/n.”
You do.
Flins, shielded by the darkness of Diluc’s car, looks right back at you.
The silence stretches.
Rain hammers against the windshield, the windows that surrounded you, thumping against the body of Diluc’s car. The heater hums softly, but the tension is palpable; it presses down, and you feel your words glue themselves to the inside of your throat.
Those golden eyes, once again, glint, but this time with something more alien than what you’re used to. They gleam with a focus that makes you feel exposed, spread out, like every thought and misstep of yours lies bare before him. Strands of cerulean fall by your hands, resting so close, yet so far, to your fingertips. The hum of the heater, the rhythmic hammer of rain against the windshield, even the faint squeak of the wipers, all fade into a distant murmur as your chest tightens.
Diluc drives in tense silence, jaw set, hands gripping the wheel. But Ajax doesn’t wait for you to process Flins’ presence, for your mind to catch up to the new situation. Ajax never waits for anyone but himself, after all.
“Flins,” he calls.
The man beside you snaps his gaze away from your rain-soaked frame, peering over at the passenger seat with an air of irritation, once you hadn’t seen in him before. He furrows his brows, his gaze meeting Ajax’s in the mirror.
“You prick,” he continues, sharp, surgical, “did you fuck my girlfriend that night at Nefer’s?”
Your stomach drops.
Flins freezes beside you, and you feel the color drain from your face.
In the dim light, your wide eyes meet his, both of you grappling with disbelief, with shock, with the impossible weight of the accusation.
You speak at the same time.
“What?!”
“Your structure is stronger now,” he said, drawing back from your screen, voice low enough that you barely heard it over the muffled bass outside. “I’ve finished my-”
Someone dropped a bottle, and a chorus of “OOOHHH!” erupted down the hall, cutting through Flins’ words. He grimaced, frowning at the sudden noise, before turning back to face you. However, you were still held away by an all-too-familiar laugh, one that rang through the walls longer than that of the others in the living room.
It was Ajax, and he sounded wasted.
You were upset- no, annoyed, that he hadn’t come to your room even once. From the sounds of it, and from the distinct lack of his presence in your room, he’d started drinking with the others immediately upon arrival, the clash and clink of bottles against the kitchen counters audible through the unfortunately thin walls of your room. You’d messaged him earlier in the afternoon, informing him of your unlucky situation. It wasn’t often that all of your friends could go out together at the same time, with everyone having such different university timetables. It wounded you to know that the one night you all could’ve, you were stuck in your room, in a jail of your own making. Ajax, in the moment, had seemed to sympathise. Clearly, though, his sympathy did not extent to physically checking on you, and it pissed you off.
“It’s very loud out there,” Flins murmured, pulling you out of your trance.
“It’s a pregame,” you huffed. “Tends to get loud, you know.”
“Yes, but you seemed a little drawn in by it for a moment.”
That made your breath catch. He noticed it, that drift, he flicker of disappointment you hadn’t voiced, the split-second you’d spent lamenting Ajax’s absence. You weren’t sure how, or if he’d even caught onto what exactly you were thinking, but his words settled on you with an alien weight.
“Don’t analyze me,” you muttered, pulling your knees in closer. “I needed your help on this essay, Shakespeare, not in general.”
Flins’ lips curved, just barely, into something quiet, something so small that you could have missed it if you weren’t looking directly at him. But the room felt it. The air tightened around that faint smile, like something had pressed a thumb to the center of your spine. Heat rippled beneath your skin, not warm exactly, but charged, a tension that came from the discomfort of being read too easily, too gently, by someone you’d only just met.
“I wasn’t analyzing,” he assured you, lowering his head. “You simply… seemed uncomfortable. I do apologise if I offended you with my comment. That was not my intention.”
You stared at him.
“Why would that offend me?”
“People dislike being seen at the wrong moment,” he said simply.
Your heart skipped, once, sharply. You weren’t sure whether he meant it deeply or casually, and you realised quickly that with Flins, his tone made it impossible to tell. He was right, a little too right, as ironic as his words might’ve looked when placed against your situation. If anything, you were hardly ever seen at all, not by the eyes that mattered most, at least. It felt like gazes would pass straight through you, like you were hollow, a shell of the woman you want so badly to be. People dislike being seen at the wrong moment, he wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t.
You didn’t feel as if there was any wrong moment for someone to see you, having spent so long feeling invisible.
Outside, someone screamed Nefer’s name, followed by a loud, concerning crash. The hallway lights flickered, but here, in your small pool of lamplight, things felt still. Weirdly still.
Flins closed the laptop, placing it gently beside you.
“You did well,” he said, and it wasn’t flattery this time. It was soft, earnest, draped with the honey that dripped so easily from his voice.
You swallowed, unsure of why that mattered.
“And,” he added quietly, tilting his head just enough for strands of blue hair to fall forward, “I am ever so grateful towards your hospitality. I prefer this room to… all of that.”
You picked at a loose thread on your blanket, eyes flicking toward the door as another wave of laughter crashed through the walls, almost as if to punctuate his point. You noticed the way his shoulders tensed, the slight twitch of his brows.
“So…why’d you even come?” you asked, words edged with curiosity. “You seem more bothered by this pregame than I am, and you’re not even out there.”
Flins rested his elbows lightly on his knees, the dim lamplight catching on strands of blue hair as they slid over his shoulder. His expression shifted, small, almost imperceptibly, into something tired.
“I came for Yelan,” he reminded you. “She wanted me here and I…wanted to make her happy. I just…didn’t think I would feel this overwhelmed by it all.”
You blinked.
It was a simple answer, and yet complex all the same.
“You don’t like this kind of thing?” you pressed.
“Not particularly, but I can tell that she finds great enjoyment in it. I’d acted on the assumption that that was enough.”
Enough.
The word brought an unexpected tightness to your throat.
It reminded you of too many nights, too many versions of you, sitting at a bar you hated, smiling at people you barely knew, letting Ajax drag you around like a prop in the performance of his life. All these versions, perched somewhere unimportant like a trophy, had wondered when your efforts would finally be enough. You’d swallowed your dislike so he wouldn’t call you boring. You’d forced yourself to have fun so he wouldn’t be disappointed. And yet, yet, yet, it was still never, ever enough to satiate him. There was always something missing, something that had kept him from really loving you. No sacrifice of yours could morph you into what he needed.
Sacrifice, sugarcoated as love.
You recognised it in an instant.
“It gets tiring,” you murmured, more internally than to him.
He looked up.
“Please, do elaborate, if you don’t mind doing so.”
“Y’know, changing out the usual parts of yourself for ones you’d think he’d like more,” you said. “The more you give up, the less of you there actually is. And then, it’s like…like he isn’t even loving you anymore. He’s loving whoever's standing in your place.”
Flins had stilled at your words.
You were talking to him, sure, but it was as if you were sitting in Flins’ place, listening to your own, heavy confession. You thought of Ajax, of all the sacrifices you’d made, all the futile, useless attempts at garnering the affection of someone who was already your boyfriend. It made you feel that deep burn of humiliation, self-pity. It was one of your, admittedly few, moments of self awareness.
The fan hummed faintly above you, and even the hallway seemed to quiet for a moment, as if listening in to your hushed conversation, as if witnessing something forbidden.
“Do you… feel like that?” you asked.
His brows lifted, caught off guard.
“My apologies,” he spoke slowly, golden eyes holding yours with newfound intensity, “but I don’t seem to…understand your question fully.”
“That it’s not you in the relationship,” you clarified, oddly invested in a relationship that was not your own. “That she’s… loving someone else, someone who stands in your place, and you’re sitting in the back of your head watching it happen.”
Silence.
Flins’ gaze drifted toward your open window before he spoke, his voice softer than the breeze slipping through it. He didn’t speak for a long while, maybe even a minute, offering your words as much attention as he could before answering.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I suppose I… feel off about a lot of things. Yelan is a wonderful woman, and she is ever so good to me. She is. I just don’t know if…”
He inhaled slowly.
“If what I feel is love. At least, not the kind that she deserves.”
Your heart sank in a strangely mirrored ache, because you knew that feeling, you knew it too well.
Ajax’s fading affection, the one you tried so hard to ignore, to push past, to mend. Your forced smiles, the hollowness between every kiss, and suddenly, painfully, you thought of Yelan. Loving, sincere Yelan, doting on a man who didn’t feel the same way towards her, who’s affections sat still, fading. It was a future you were already living, a future you wouldn’t wish on anyone. In front of you, for the briefest of seconds, you saw Ajax in Flins’ stead.
The words left you before you could filter them, raw and instinctive.
“Break up with her then.”
Flins’ head jerked slightly, startled.
You felt the heat rush into your face as the weight of what you said hit you.
“I- I didn’t mean-” you stammered, waving your hands defensively. “I mean, I did, but not like- god, not in a weird way. Just- fuck, oh my god.”
You’d told Flins, someone you’d only properly spoken to today, the boyfriend of one of your closest friends, to break up with her. Guilt had struck you like a dagger to your chest as the realisation dawned on you. He appeared to match your fluster, unsure of what exactly to say in response.
“It’s…it’s quite alright, Miss,” he tried to say, though his voice gave in to his uncertainty, “I understand that you did not intend to come off…so…”
You pulled your knees closer, embarrassed, searching his expression for offense, or anger, or anything sharp. The air in your room was thick, and the breeze that cascaded through the open window did little to combat it. It only stirred the curtains, brushed against your skin, cool, in contrast to the heat burning across your cheeks.
Flins sat very still.
You could see him turning your words over, as if examining them from every possible angle, deciding whether their sharpness was meant to wound or warn.
His fingers flexed once against his knee before he spoke.
“I don’t believe you meant any harm,” he said. “It registered more like… concern, perhaps more concern than I’m accustomed to. So please, do not fret. I understand you.”
Concern.
If only he knew.
You exhaled shakily, trying to steady yourself.
“I just,” you started, attempting to reword, to justify your sudden outburst, “I’ve seen what it does to people. Staying when the love isn’t there anymore, it changes you. Makes you feel like shit, like, all the time, even when things are supposed to be good.”
His eyes lifted to yours, something vulnerable flickering beneath their usual composure.
“And you think that is what will happen to us?” He asked. “To Yelan and I.”
You swallowed. You knew how much weight your words would hold, and how vital it was to speak carefully, honestly.
“I think,” you said carefully, “that if you already feel this uncertain, then pretending will only hurt both of you. Eventually, at least. It always happens.”
Another crash sounded down the hallway, glass, maybe, but it felt distant, muffled by the thick quiet that had settled between the two of you.
“Everything moves, with or without you. It sucks to watch it all go past when you’re stuck in the same position. That’s why…moving is good.”
Flins looked down at his hands, turning one palm upward, as though seeing it for the first time, as though seeing himself under a different light. That warm, yellow lamp light, shining so intensely from your desk.
“You speak of it as if you’ve lived it,” he murmured.
Not yet, I haven’t moved yet.
Your chest tightened, but you didn’t answer.
Not because you didn’t want to, but perhaps because you didn’t need to.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the low hum of the fan above, and the faint thump of music leaking through the walls, dull, far away, unimportant.
Flins drew a slow breath, the rise and fall of his shoulders steady.
“You’ve given me much to consider,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent. Then, after a beat, “and… I appreciate the honesty, Miss. Truly.”
You weren’t sure what to say. You weren’t sure why your heart was beating so hard. But in the dim glow of your lamp, with the party raging on outside your door, the two of you sat there, suspended, wrapped in a tension neither of you dared to name. And in that small, still pocket of warmth and lamplight, something between you shifted, subtle and inevitable, like a needle turning toward a new direction.
“No problem, Flins.”
That night, the night of Nefer’s pregame, Yelan had stood outside your door, drunk, a vodka cranberry clutched in her hand. She listened to you and Flins speak through the thin wood, to your voice say something she could never unhear.
“Break up with her then.”
Four months later, sober, composed, Yelan had stood in front of Flins and listened again, witnessing him do exactly what you’d told him to do.
“I… don’t feel that we are right for each other, Yelan. I think it would be best for us to stop seeing each other.”
As if her pain needed sequels, as if the universe insisted she relive the moment from every angle, Nefer had added her own blade two months after that, right after Yelan confessed what she’d overheard.
Nefer had laughed. Actually laughed.
“Oh my god, I knew it. That makes so much sense.”
“What?” Yelan blinked.
Nefer only smiled, throwing one leg over the other as she lounged back into the couch.
“Heard her fucking someone before we left that night,” she said, barely suppressing a grin, “didn’t realise she had your man in there, though. Sucks, babe. You should probably do something about that.”
And that, that was all Yelan needed to hear.
The plan was simple. Or it should have been.
If you and Flins liked each other so much, then the two of you should be together. But only long enough to ruin each other, only long enough for it to hurt. Only long enough to tear away every fragile thing you both thought you deserved, your morals, your trust, your dignity. Yelan didn’t think either of you deserved anything.
Nefer, thrilled by the messiness of it all, volunteered instantly. Diluc had to be involved, she insisted. He never went out anyway, and besides, he loved revenge or whatever it was he always spoke about. Revenge, she said, was something Yelan deserved.
If Yelan wanted it to cut deep, really deep, she’d have to sleep with Ajax.
He’d broken up with you, so, according to Nefer, it wasn’t worse than what you’d done to her. In fact, it was necessary; it was the only way to push you toward Flins again, especially now that you knew how heartbroken Yelan was after the breakup. Even though you, allegedly, had already slept with him, surely you wouldn’t do it again after seeing her sorrows. You weren’t that bad, so you needed a push.
Ajax, of course, would be down for it. All Yelan had to do was tell him what she’d heard that night. That would convince him easily.
The plan grew tangled, convoluted, and yet, at its core, horribly simple.
Nefer took charge.
Alhaitham would be going home soon to visit his parents, according to Diluc. Kaveh, finally unsupervised, would inevitably throw a party. Nefer would nudge him in that direction, and, knowing Kaveh, knowing his affinity towards a good time, he wouldn’t say no.
Once the party was set, the steps were easy.
Ajax would arrive first, and he needed to be with someone, anyone. Flirting, kissing, it didn’t matter as long as it shook you. Diluc would arrive sometime after, then Nefer, dragging you along.
You would see Ajax, and you, as expected, would be upset at the sight of him. Nefer would notice and would push a shot into your hand.
And then another.
And another.
You were terrible when you were upset, even worse when alcohol was available.
Yelan would arrive just as you started to spiral, and she’d text Ajax. Diluc, during all this, would be checking doors, waiting to update her on which room was free. They’d slip into the one he found unlocked.
Later, when you were drunk and pliable, Diluc would take you into that same room, under the guise of taking care of you.
Under the guise of taking care of you.
That was step one of convincing you to sleep with Flins.
Step two was Nefer.
She’d shame you, corner you, pull you apart piece by piece. She was good at that, making you feel small, feel guilty, feel pathetic, especially after everything you’d been through with Ajax. Under enough pressure, you’d crack. You’d give in. You’d agree to sleep with him.
And Flins, so enchanted by you since that night in your room, so willing, so weak, wouldn’t resist.
After that, it was effortless.
Yelan would tell Flins that you’d only done it to make Ajax jealous, that the whole thing was a ploy, that your interest wasn’t real. He would confront you, and you would deny it. Of course you would. Your denial would only prove her point; you were a liar, after all.
And if you did confront Yelan, if Flins did admit that she’d said something, it didn’t matter.
Because you had still slept with her boyfriend.
And in Yelan’s eyes, and Nefer’s eyes, and, eventually, in everyone’s eyes, you would always, always be the one who was wrong.
Not Yelan.
Never Yelan, no matter what strings she pulled.
Yelan’s manipulation, Nefer’s tampering: every calculated step lies bare before you, lingering, heavy and sharp, pressing against your ribs.
Aside from Diluc, who recounts how this all came to happen, no one speaks.
The heater hums softly, a weak contrast to the storm of thoughts rattling through your head. Rain drums against the roof and windows, relentless, but it’s nothing compared to the pounding in your chest, that sick feeling in your mouth. You feel the absurdity of it all, the grotesque choreography you’d been dragged into, the sheer baselessness of the accusations that had set it into motion.
At some point, though you can’t tell when, Flins’ hand had found yours, leather intertwining with your cold fingers.You’d gripped back instictively, tight, as if holding on could keep you close to some small piece of normality. His hands were firm, grounding, just like they always have been.
Diluc continues to speak, recounting each agonizing detail, each cruelly intricate move of a plan you never asked to be part of. Every word feels like a small hammer, banging against the disbelief swelling inside your chest, drilling nails into your heart.
Even Ajax stays silent, his usual smirk, his teasing remarks, all gone. He sits stiffly, eyes downcast, letting the weight of the story press against him in quiet resignation. He doesn’t meet your gaze, nor does he meet Flins’. Diluc, too, refuses to look at you. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he seems almost fragile, diminished by the enormity of everything he’s revealed.
The air in the car is thick, hot from the heater, stale from the closed windows, and electric with your fury.
“This explanation still lacks clarity.”
Flins is the first to speak up.
You peer over at him. Ajax, finally peeling his eyes from his lap, watches Flins through the mirror, biting the inside of his cheek when he sees that Flins is already staring right at him.
“That still doesn’t explain the picture,” he says.
Diluc flinches. Ajax jolts. Neither of them say a thing, and something heavier, something more poisonous, overcomes the tension in the car.
“What picture?” you ask, but Flins doesn’t look at you, keeping the fire he holds in his eyes fixed on the mirror, on Ajax.
“The one I was sent before our date,” he says. “The picture of you and Ajax. Together.”
You nearly choke on your breath.
“Huh? What picture? I never- I never took a picture with him.”
“You didn’t, but clearly, someone else did.”
Diluc shifts in his seat, tension coiling through his shoulders. It’s a detail he’d left out on purpose, a detail that he, ever so hopeful, had prayed that Flins wouldn’t pry into. His prayer had fallen on deaf ears, however, because if there was a god watching, it certaintly was not an unjust one.
“Yelan had asked me if I planned on seeing you again, and I’d told her I did. I told her I intended to pick you up from the arts building, after your supervisor meeting. That…that was the moment she brought it up, that you had slept with me for Ajax. That you… were seeing him behind my back, and that this whole thing was a way to draw him back to you.” He exhales, a faint tremor in the breath. “She said she could prove it if I did not believe her. I- I should not have agreed to see the proof, but… I did.”
Slowly, painfully, you turn towards the only two people in the car who have not spoken. Ajax stares at his lap. Diluc stares down at the floor.
You feel the first spark of dread crawl up your spine at their silence, because there is only one person who could’ve taken that picture.
“Diluc,” you say, your words fragile, helpless, “did you take that picture?”
He doesn’t move. The silence lasts too long, long enough to become an answer on its own, long enough for the spark to blossom into a flame, into a fire, as if he’d turned away from the steering wheel to set you alight completely. He, after what feels like the longest pause of your life, gives you the smallest nod, and your breath catches.
You remember it, you see it, and you hear it again, that one, odd remark.
That incomprehensible tone, the-
-got it, Diluc.
That had sounded so much like-
-got it, Diluc?
A confirmation.
A moment they had orchestrated around you.
Ajax was asking if Diluc had gotten the picture.
Diluc shifts, guilt radiating from him in thick waves, but you barely see him. Your mind is still forcing you through the memory.
Ajax stepping toward you, closing the gap between you. Too close. You, screaming right back at him, asking him what he was doing there, combatting any insult he’d tried to throw your way. The picture must’ve been taken at an angle, somewhere behind Ajax, somewhere you wouldn’t be able to see the person taking the picture. From there, from that angle, the two of you would look close together, closer than two exes should ever be. From there, from that angle, it would seem as though Diluc materialised, appearing out of thin air.
None of it was chance, none of it was coincidence. They had timed it down to the second.
Your throat closes.
The silence in the car felt swollen, heavy, almost impossible to breathe through. Diluc’s wordless confession sits on your skull like a weight, and the longer no one spoke, the more it pressed against you, bruising something that had never been bruised like this. You stare at him. Ajax sinks further into the backseat, avoiding your eyes. Flins, beside you, still holds your hand, though his grip had gone loose, shocked. The truth rattles through him just as violently.
When you finally spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper.
“You knew.”
Diluc’s jaw tightens visibly in the rear-view mirror. He does not meet your eyes.
“You knew I wasn’t seeing Ajax,” you say again, louder. “You knew exactly why I was at arts. You knew I wasn’t meeting Ajax, that I was waiting for Flins. You knew all of it.”
Something snaps, sharp and hot, deep in your chest.
“So why,” you demand, “did you still take that picture?”
Diluc stays silent.
Your heart hammers painfully against your chest, your voice rising without your permission.
“I trusted you,” you say, voice trembling with anger. “You… you are the rational one, the one who thinks before acting. You’re the one who would never attach himself to drama or… or whatever this is. And then the second Yelan says something, you throw out every moral you claim to hold and go along with it. Like you’re some fucking lap dog.”
“I was conflicted,” he splutters. “I-I didn’t want to believe her, but I couldn’t dismiss it all either. She…she was just so upset, y/n. And Nefer-”
“That is not conflict,” you shoot back. “That is cowardice, and you are the biggest coward in this car.”
Ajax exhales sharply.
Flins lowers his head, shading his expression behind a curtain of blue hair.
You press on, the hurt burning through every word. “You knew it was wrong. You knew it was cruel, and you still did it. You still went to arts. You still took the picture. You still sent it. You let her frame me as someone who would do something vile, and you let her manipulate Flins into believing it all. You let all of this happen because you were too scared to pick a side.”
Diluc’s voice is barely audible in the midst your outburst.
“I…I regret it, really. I regret it all.”
“You should,” you laugh, hollow. “You think regretting it makes it better?”
His hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles pale.
“You were the last person I expected this from,” you say quietly, your fury melting into something worse, something softer. Hurt. “Ajax? There’s nothing about his involvement that surprises me.”
You miss the way Ajax’s body tenses at your words, and, inversely, the way Flins relaxes at your display of hatred towards him.
“But I thought you had a spine, Diluc. I thought you had principles.”
Diluc winces like you had struck him.
You’re not entirely sure why you feel so betrayed, so harmed, by the person in the car you’re probably the least close to. It’s not as if you and Diluc were ever close friends, nor did he ever owe you any degree of strong loyalty. If anything, the only person he owes loyalty to is Nefer, having been so close to her for such a long time. It makes sense, to some degree, that he would go along with this plan if she was the one to rope him into it. You’ve seen it first hand, how convincing Nefer can, how Diluc is rendered so powerless against her onslaught of wishes, requests. You’ve seen it first hand, the way she looks at him, and the way he does whatever he can to compensate for the fact that he does not look at her the same. It makes sense if he felt like he owed this to her.
But still, still, it’s just not fair. You’ve always been fond of Diluc, you’ve always admired his character. He, up until now, was the more rational half of Nefer, the voice of reason in a whirlwind of chaos, and it was a comfort to witness such an anchor in the midst of the brittle, uncertain personalities that tainted Teyvat’s campus. You thought, you believed, that Diluc was good.
“Guess I was wrong about you.”
You lean back, breath shaking, eyes stinging, and the heat continues to rush through you. Your hold on Flins’ hand is loose, barely there. You’re not sure if you want to hold onto anything at all.
Yelan’s dorm is 5 minutes from where you are.
The car falls silent again, a silence shaped by guilt, disbelief, and the sharp, undeniable truth that something between you and Diluc had fractured forever.
Flins had practically carried you down the hallway, one steady hand braced at your waist, the other guiding the wall whenever your steps wavered. You were drunk in the way that softened every thought, loosened every emotion, your laughter feathering through the quiet corridor with a lightness that laid at odds with your unsteady balance.
This was the last time he’d let you stay this long at the Angel’s Share, he noted to himself.
He nudged the door open with his shoulder, leading you into his flat. The warmth of his room had greeted you first, then the faint sweetness of an old candle, and then the familiar give of your body as you slumped against him with a soft, helpless sigh.
“Come now,” he murmured, composed, his voice a practiced tether against your drunkenness. “Sit here, if you would.”
You dropped onto the mattress with the graceless weight of someone who had ceased negotiating with gravity long ago. The bed bounced once beneath you, and you stared at the movement with slow-blinking wonder.
Flins lowered himself in front of you, fingers steady as he reached for the zipper of your coat. The moment his knuckles brushed your collarbone, you leaned closer, hands sliding clumsily to his shoulders.
“You’re so…” You paused, searching for the right word through the fog in your mind,“ you’re so sexy. Like, you’re the sexiest guy I’ve ever been with.”
He froze, eyes lifting to yours. There was the faintest shift in his expression, surprise, maybe, or something he didn't permit himself to name.
“Arms up,” he instructed gently, choosing to ignore your words.
But you didn’t move. Instead, you cupped his face in both hands, palms pressing warmly against his cheeks. You smooshed him in between your palms, ignoring the little grunts he’d released in response.
“Flins,” you whispered, staring at him with that unguarded intensity. “Look at me.”
“My heart, I am looking at you.”
“Take it off me,” you breathed, leaning in, eyes glossy, “please. Please. I want you to take everything off me.”
You were drunk, too drunk, and more drunk than he’d ever seen you. He knew it was his own mistake to let you get a fourth cocktail. He’d tried to protest, really, warning you that you were already drunk enough, but you’d seemed to simply enjoy the taste of it, waving away his warnings with a dismissive hand.
The words hit him like a spark, quick and burning. Something flickered through his golden eyes, something fragile, almost pained, but he swallowed it back immediately, smoothing his features with effort.
“No,” he said, low but firm, peeling your hands away with a gentleness akin to regret. “Not while you are in this state, sweetheart.”
To his panic, your lips wobbled instantly.
“Am I ugly?”
“What? Of course not,” he pressed out, a crease appearing between his brows. He guided your chin upward with two fingers, his touch warm and controlled. “You are not remotely so.”
“Then why-”
“You are intoxicated,” he said simply, “and I will not take advantage of that.”
You blinked at him, your expression drifting in and out of hurt. But slowly, you nodded, soothed more by the sound of his voice than the meaning behind it. He placed a glass of water in your hands, curling your fingers around it until you managed a few uneven sips. When he took it back, you reached for him again, fingertips pressing into the fabric of his shirt.
“Kyryll?”
“Yes?”
You let your head rest against his shoulder, breathing in the minty scent of his cologne, the warmth of him. And then, softer, more sincere, like a confession, right against his ear.
“Kyryll.”
His breath caught, a barely perceptible sound, but it was there. The muscles of his back tensed at how you sounded, so breathy, so light, and he swallowed. Hard.
You repeated it, softer, your voice thick with affection.
“Your name is so pretty. Everything about you is pretty.” You exhaled a slow, drunk sigh. “I want to say your name forever. I want you forever.”
His hand, mid-movement as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, faltered, stammered.
For a long moment, he only looked at you, at your red, flushed cheeks, your soft, glinting gaze, your sincerity laid bare, shining in the dim light of his bedroom.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost careful.
“I… would not object to that.”
You smiled, slow and hazy, and whispered his name again.
“Kyryll.”
Your body gave out then, folding forward without warning, sleep dragging you under. He caught you before you could fall, easing you back onto the pillows, adjusting the blanket over your legs with the kind of tenderness even he hadn’t expressed before this. He lingered at your bedside, watching the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your lips still parted slightly from the last word you’d spoken. His name.
Only when he was certain you were fully asleep did he allow himself to whisper, barely above his breath:
“In the morning,” he murmured, fingertips brushing your temple, “you may say it as you please.”
You didn’t stir.
“Please, refrain from addressing me by my first name, if you can. It is quite intimate to me.”
“Come in with me and fucking talk to me properly, Kyryll.”
“Don’t call me that.”
At the memory of his harsh tone, the way he’d spoken to you in that car, Flins can only squeeze his eyes shut. He does so hard, painfully, as if force alone could shatter the moment into pieces small enough to breathe around. He can still hear his own voice, cold in a way he had never intended, cold in a way you didn’t deserve, distancing itself from the one person he never wished to hurt.
He walks in silence beside you now, steps measured, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. His chest aches with the thought of how small you looked back then, how your voice cracked, how you still tried to reason with a man who had already convinced himself to stop listening. He remembers how you cried, how you told him you loved him, and how he’d said nothing in response. He doesn’t deserve to think of the warmth in your voice when you had once giggled his name. Not when he had stolen it back from you. Not when he’d compelled you to speak to him like you had to speak to Ajax.
Diluc and Ajax had stayed in the car. The hallway to Yelan’s dorm feels too narrow, too dim, the lights buzzing overhead, and you do not slow. He follows you without question, without a single attempt at control, because this is yours, your wound to open.
He swallows hard as you stop in front of the door.
“Y/n…” he murmurs, something apologetic climbing his throat, but the words die there. There is no space to say them, not yet.
You ignore him, raising your hand to knock.
Once, twice, then three times.
No answer.
The silence behind the door is infuriating, hollow, almost mocking. You stare at the wood, at the faint scratches near the handle, at the chipped paint Yelan always said she would get around to fixing. Your pulse pounds at the back of your tongue.
You knock again, harder, more desperate.
Still nothing.
A heat spreads through your chest, anger, betrayal and exhaustion, all tangled into something sharp and rising.
“Open the door,” you warn, but your voice is trembling, too weak for the feeling swelling behind it. Flins shifts beside you, and for a second, it sounds like he might speak, but you don’t give him the chance.
You slam your fist into the door, loud enough to echo down the hall. A dull ache spreads through the area that makes contact with the wood.
“Yelan,” you snap, “open the door.”
Silence.
Your jaw clenches. Your knuckles sting.
Then, you hit it again, louder, your whole body behind it this time. You hit it again, and again, and again, and you’re pounding on her door repeatedly, paying no mind to Flins’ expression of surprise, the way he checks to see if the others in the dorm had been alerted by the noise.
“Yelan,” you hiss, voice cracking with fury, “open the fucking door.”
Flins straightens, posture sharpening with tension, but he doesn’t touch you, he doesn’t interrupt, not when he can feel the fury radiating off you in waves. Your banging continues to echo through the hallways, vibrating through the wood of the door, and comes to a halt only when you hear it, that soft click.
The door opens only an inch, but that’s all you need.
Yelan’s voice slips through the gap, annoyed.
“What do you want?”
You don’t give her the chance to widen it. You shove the door open, and it swings too quickly, the edge catching her cheek, and she stumbles back with a small, startled cry.
“OW, what the-”
“You think you can play in my face like that,” you interject sharply, stepping into her room with an unmovable conviction, the anger in your chest spilling over faster than you can contain it, “and then lock yourself in here like nothing happened? What is wrong with you?”
Yelan presses her fingers to the side of her cheek, wincing at the feeling of something cold, wet, seeping onto her fingers. When her eyes finally lift to meet yours, she freezes, something in her expression faltering. It collapses entirely when she sees Flins hovering in the doorway behind you, his face cold, still, unmoving. He looks at her with nothing in his eyes.
Yelan, a lump forming at her throat, understands everything in that moment.
“Who told you?” she asks.“Who told you what happened?”
“Diluc,” you answer, and the name hits her like a blow, a blow she should’ve seen coming. “He told us. Both of us.”
You watch her face change. First disbelief, then panic, then anger, all fighting to display themselves across her features. She takes a shallow breath, arms folded across her chest like brittle armor.
“You’re crazy,” you speak again, voice trembling with a fury you cannot settle. “You are actually insane. All of this, all of this over nothing.”
Yelan laughs, not amused, but shaken.
“Over nothing?” she fires back. “Please, get a grip and look at yourself. You slept with my boyfriend.”
“I didn’t,” you snarl.
“You did. Nefer told me you-”
“Well, Nefer lied.” You step closer, voice rising. “And you just ate it right up, knowing how she is.”
The words hang between you, fragile and almost laughable in their weakness. Your throat burns, your hands clench at your sides, your pulse thumping through your veins. You catch Flins’ eyes out of the corner of your vision; his expression is taut, patient, his hand hovering near yours but not quite reaching, as if he knows he cannot smooth over this moment for you.
Yelan stares at you. Slowly, deliberately, her eyes widen, a flicker of incredulity rippling across her features. The disbelief is sharp, cutting, and for a heartbeat, you fear she might laugh. Her lips twitch ever so slightly, not with amusement, not with ridicule, but with the faintest betrayal of what she’s feeling.
“So you’re saying Nefer just lied…just like that?” Yelan asks, her eyes narrowing, disbelief still tangled with a fragile hint of hope.
You struggle for words, for the truth that feels too weak, too strange to convince her.
“You know how she is,” you finally admit, your voice softening despite yourself. “You know she does things like that. She twists things, tells people what they want to hear if it keeps her at the center. She does it to everyone.”
“I am not everyone,” Yelan says, cracks piercing her voice, her breath catching. “I am her best friend. She… she wouldn’t try and hurt me like that.”
“I was your best friend too,” you cry, throat tightening at the weight of your own admission. “And I wouldn’t try to hurt you either.”
The words hang between you like smoke, fragile, almost invisible. You can see it in her eyes, the way disbelief wars with shock, the way she can scarcely reconcile this defense with the truth she’s believed for so long.
‘Then why did you?”
“What?”
“Why did you?”
You blink, confused.
“Yelan,” you mumble, “what are you talking ab-”
“Break up with her then.”
Flins’ head jerked slightly, startled.
You felt the heat rush into your face as the weight of what you said hit you.
“I- I didn’t mean-” you stammered, waving your hands defensively. “I mean, I did, but not like- god, not in a weird way. Just- fuck, oh my god.”
Your silence is both Yelan’s victory and her loss. She watches you silently, like she can see it all click into place in your head.
“I just- I’ve seen what it does to people. Staying when the love isn’t there anymore, it changes you. Makes you feel like shit, like, all the time, even when things are supposed to be good.”
His eyes lifted to yours, something vulnerable flickering beneath their usual composure.
“And you think that is what will happen to us?” He asked. “To Yelan and I.”
Yelan wonders why he’d even asked, why he didn’t back out of the conversation, why he didn’t berate you, a stranger, for telling him to break up with his girlfriend.
“I think,” you said carefully, “that if you already feel this uncertain, then pretending will only hurt both of you. Eventually, at least. It always happens.”
She wonders why you didn’t just say ‘no’, given the opportunity to take it all back, why you’d insisted on planting that seed into his mind.
Flins drew a slow breath, the rise and fall of his shoulders steady.
“You’ve given me much to consider,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent. Then, after a beat, “and… I appreciate the honesty, Miss. Truly.”
And Yelan, teeth gritting together, can only scorn the two of you for what you’d done to her.
You’re speechless, and Flins is speechless too. Her echoing of your words, of that sudden, raw outburst from over a year back, brings you to a deep, uncomfortable pause. There, in the cavern of silence you’re caught in, only one, intense feeling greets you.
Guilt.
For a moment, as your eyes fall to the lower half of your own body, as if to check if you are really you, you wonder if you would’ve done the same in her place. You wonder if you would’ve craved it too, revenge, a violent one, one that would rupture her entire life. You wonder how you would’ve felt, keeping it all inside, dealing with the loss of a close friend and an even closer lover. You think about how Yelan must’ve felt, knowing that one day, possibly, Flins could break. That one day, between the kisses, between the sex, between the sugar-coated words, he could bring it to an abrupt, painful halt. Just as you’d told him to.
Guilt.
You think over her plan, how badly she wanted to hurt you, how badly she wanted to hurt Flins. You consider that still, even now, you are nowhere near as hurt as she was back then. You wonder if this, really, was a retribution that took the shape of revenge, if all that she’d done, all that she’d roped you into, was proportional to what you’d caused.
Was it?
“Yelan, no,” you begin, voice shaking, almost trembling under the weight of your own guilt. “It wasn’t- it wasn’t meant to be like that at all. I-” your words falter, swallowed by the sudden heaviness of the moment. You take a breath, you try again. “You cannot be caught in a loveless relationship, Yelan. You…you can’t stay there. It fucking hurts to stay there.”
Her eyes flash, sharp, unmoving.
“Cut the bullshit,” she says, the words clipped, precise, carrying more sting than you expected.
You step closer, the heat of your own desperation pressing against your chest.
“All I did,” you admit, voice raw, “all I did was care about you. The whole time I spoke to him, I was thinking about you, Yelan. I was scared that the same thing I had to go through- lying there next to someone who didn’t love me, to feel it, to feel that fucking indifference…I didn’t want you to go through too.” You feel the tears well at your eyes. “There’s nothing that cuts colder than a man who doesn’t love you, Yelan. Especially when you love him.”
For a moment, your words linger in the air before they reach her. Her arms cross, her lips press together. Her eyes are still hard, but there’s a faint flicker of something else, something smaller.
“You just project,” she mutters with a sharp edge. “You drag everyone else into the mess you’re caught up in. Flins isn’t as horrible as Ajax, and I’m not as weak as you.”
The words land like stones in your chest. You flinch, your shoulders stiffening.
“What the fuck, Yelan?” you manage, hurt lancing through your words, raw and unguarded. Flins, who reacts to her low blow just as you do, brings a hand to your hip. It snakes around your waist, and he tugs you back against his chest, keeping you there, secure, against him.
Mint.
The action bringing a newfound fire to Yelan’s expression.
“Don’t act all upset now,” she spits, eyes piercing yours. “You know it’s true. Stop pretending you didn’t have ulterior motives when you said that. You wanted him right from the start. You fucked him, I know you did.”
You feel the burn of guilt in your throat, hot and relentless. And yet, even as your chest aches with disbelief at how she sees it, you understand. You see why she thinks that way. You realise it’s all too easy to misread, how both of you lose in this scenario.
“Yelan, please. Please, just believe me.” It hurts to speak, and you want to just hug her, to cry with her, to somehow go back and make sure none of this ever happened between you two. “I’m so, so sorry for what I said that night, I know it was fucked up. I was wrong, I know it, I feel it. I should never have tampered with you and Flins, no matter what I felt about it. I should have backed off entirely. I hurt you, and I’m so, so sorry for that, I seriously am.” You bring a hand up to your face, swiping the tears away. “I would never… ever mean to do that to someone I care about as much as I care about you.”
Yelan is crying too.
“But I really,” you press, you press with as much conviction as you can, “really didn’t fuck Flins. We didn’t do anything that night. Please, just believe that much. I won’t ever bother you again, Yelan. We don’t have to speak ever again. Just please, know that nothing happened that night.”
She stares at you.
The sharpness in her gaze softens just a fraction, conflicted, almost moved, and yet, the world between you remains tense, taut, unresolved. She stays hurt. Regardless of the truth of the situation, what good does it serve to the current one? Flins’ grip on you is tight, protective, and his silence is one that exists only to permit your freeflowing emotions. He, standing here the whole time, has only been thinking of you, how you’re feeling, how you’re reacting to it all.
And Yelan, who also stands in front of him, who’s also so troubled, so wronged by it all, feels like he hasn’t even seen her.
She swallows, resignation sitting heavy at her stomach.
“Well… none of this matters anymore, does it?”
“What?” you whisper, caught off guard.
“You love him, don’t you?”
Your chest tightens. The question stops you, freezes you in place. You didn’t expect her to ask you so directly.
You do. You do love him, but it feels cruel to say it here. All of this is so raw, and Yelan still stares at you with a mixture of hurt and disbelief, waiting, anticipating your answer, an answer she already knows. To tell her to her face that you’d fallen for her ex boyfriend, the one that she’s convinced you took from her to begin with, is beyond your capability. Even amidst this plan of hers, the mockery she’d made of you, how she’d roped in Ajax to make it sting so much more, you could not bring yourself to be so mean.
You don’t say anything.
Her gaze shifts then, slow and deliberate, towards Flins. You notice how her shoulders tense, how she bites the inside of her cheek, how her hands curl slightly at her sides. And yet, even in the heat of it, he doesn’t waver. His eyes remain locked on you.
“Do you love her?” she asks quietly, voice tight, but firm, unflinching.
He doesn’t look up.
“But I promise, I swear I’m still here because I love you.” You sobbed, hands gripping against the leather of his car seat. “I really, truly love you, Kyryll.”
He’d made the mistake of staying silent before.
He won’t make it again.
“I do,” he says without hesitation. The words fall flat, but final, like a verdict landing in a courtroom,
Yelan exhales slowly, the sound barely a whisper, like the air itself is deflating around her. She turns away. The dorm feels suddenly enormous, hollow even, despite the memory of it being full of people, laughter, noise. Now, it is only Yelan and the remnants of what was: her disappointment, her hurt, the echo of betrayal lingering in the corners. Her shoulders slump. Her gaze lingers on the space she had imagined you and Flins never crossing.
“Okay,” she says after a while, stripped of any fight. “Then, both of you should leave.”
She doesn’t watch you move. She doesn’t even glance at you while you shift back, letting Flins guide you out the doorway. Yelan’s voice follows you as you depart, just loud enough to hear, cutting across the tension like a blade.
“I don’t forgive you,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “and I don’t expect you to forgive me either.”
Fucking your friend’s ex is not okay.
You’d like to think that most people would share the same opinion, that the easiest way to paint yourself stupid is to be intimate, physically or emotionally, with Flins, Yelan’s ex boyfriend. It’s not just girl code, it’s really just general decency.
You have more of an understanding of how normal, good people get themselves into that situation to begin with. You’ve experiened moments where you’ve looked at Flins, having witnessed the tears, the sobbing, having been informed of the ugliest parts of the relationship, and thought to yourself ‘wow, he’s exactly what I want’.
You’re firm in knowing that no one can be free from their own hypocrisy, whatever hypocrisy that may be.
Diluc, ever the self-righteous, collapses under his own cowardice and betrays the very principles he holds so dear.
Ajax, so determined to win, masks his own weakness as strength, failing to see the losses he calls victories.
Yelan, bitter at the thought that you could’ve crossed a line with Flins, will chase her revenge in a way that is almost poetic in its cruelty, dragging herself into a spiral of retaliation.
Nefer, well, you’re not sure if anyone has her figured out.
You’re firm in that fact you’re not a normal, good person. Not entirely, at least. Normal, good people don’t fuck their friends’ exes, and that’s exactly what you’ve done. Not only that, but you walk with him now, your hand held in the cold leather of his gloves.
Final Night Cemetery was tucked into the corner of the city, isolated from the busier, bustling environment downtown. You and Flins move down the road towards it, the area empty, quiet, a barren road surrounded by forest. It’s far from Yelan’s. It was a little far when he’d driven you there from your place. Tonight, however, the distance doesn’t register to you. You just walk, and so does he. Neither of you speak, and neither of you know how long it’s been since you started walking.
The soft crunch of leaves sound from beneath your heels, your dress wet, the hem still dripping onto the pavement below you. The rain had stopped while you were in Yelan’s dorm, and all that’s left in its place is stillness, as if the weather, too, had finished its performance. Your hair has never looked worse, you have never looked worse. There’s streaks of black mascara lined down your cheeks, and you’re certain that most of your makeup had been washed away by the rain anyway, leaving you feeling uneven, raw in the moonlight. You smell like rainwater and faint, sweet perfume.
And yet-
“-your dress is beautiful. You are beautiful.”
For the first time in what feels like centuries, you laugh.
“Flins,” you breathe, allowing yourself to smile, even if it’s only for a moment, “don’t try and flatter me right now.”
“I am not attempting flattery, my heart. I speak only what I truly believe.”
You scoff, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “I look like someone ran me over, then came back to check if I was alive, and then ran me over again.”
This time, Flins is the one to laugh, low and warm, a sound that wraps around you, holding you in place. His hand tightens around yours. Without warning, he spins you gently, the movement smooth, practiced, almost effortless. You catch on instantly, letting your body follow his rhythm, the motion dizzying and exhilarating all at once. His feet guide yours onto the open, empty main road.
The night air presses against your damp skin, brushing the chill of your wet dress against your legs, but Flins’ presence counters it with an unbeatable warmth, radiating the reassurance he brings to you so easily. Even in the emptiness of the street, even under the pale glow of distant streetlights, the shimmer of moonlight on wet pavement, he seems to bring his own kind of light; it’s bright, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. The world narrows to the sound of your steps, the soft scrape of leaves, and the rhythm of your bodies moving together. Time slows, and you let the tension of the night loosen. For a moment, nothing else exists except this, just you, him, and the quiet, endless road stretching ahead.
You dance with him, to the soft breeze that flows past and the crunch of leaves, to whatever music nature can give you in that moment. You dance with him for a while, for a long while. You let yourself feel close to him.
When the rhythm slows, and you find yourselves drifting, spinning less and simply walking, the trees watch the two of you continue your journey down to the cemetery, hand in hand. The quiet stretches between words, comfortable in its own way, the night wrapping gently around you. The stars peek through breaks in the clouds, tiny, cold points of light above the wet, glistening road. The moon hangs low, a pale witness to the weight of everything left unsaid.
Flins’ eyes meet yours, attentive, and for a moment he says nothing. Then, almost as if testing the space, he tilts his head slightly, voice gentle, but measured.
“What occupies your thoughts, my heart?”
You don’t respond immediately, caught between wanting to speak and wanting to let the world remain still. It’s nice like this, just walking with him, sitting still in your ignorance. Stillness brings a different type of comfort, the one ice brings to bruises on your knees.
But stillness is no good, and time will always move. You see it in the way a leaf falls from a tree up ahead, how the rock under your shoe shifts to the left of the pavement when you step on it. Time will move, and things will change. You cannot be still with him forever.
“I’m not sure,” you admit after a while. “There’s a lot to think about.”
The words feel clumsy, insufficient, but honest. You don’t really want to think at all.
He nods slightly, as if he understands more than you can put into words, and keeps walking at your side, hand warm in yours.
“I am thinking of you,” he says softly.
You blink.
“About me?”
“Yes. About how you feel, and about what you want to do now.”
You swallow hard, realising the weight of his gaze, the patience in his tone, and how perceptive he has always been, never missing a detail of you. You saw it the first time that night at the pregame, when he read you so clearly, and you see it again now, like he’s made to know you. His presence steadies you, and you realise, with a mix of surprise and clarity, that you’ve been thinking about him too, just never properly, not the same way he’s thinking about you so deeply now.
You’re thinking about the warmth of his hand in yours, the soft scrape of leather against your skin. You’re thinking the minty scent of his cologne, the quiet safety of walking with him along empty streets, the comforting emptiness of the cemetery where you had once been together. You’re thinking about all those little aspects of him, all the things that complex to make him; you think about Flins just as he thinks of you. Despite everything, he remains profoundly dear to you, constant and unshakable, already a part of your heart. You swallow.
“I feel like a bad person,” you confess, voice low, almost swallowed by the night. “I think… I am a bad person, for what I caused. Even if it wasn’t intentional.”
You let your grip on his hand tighten slightly, the cool night air brushing against your damp skin. The road stretches ahead, empty and quiet, the moonlight catching on the wet pavement in soft silvery lines. Trees line the sides of the road, their branches whispering faintly in the breeze. Everything feels suspended in this fragile, delicate calm, like the world is holding its breath for you.
Flins says nothing too soon, letting the words hang. He walks with you in step, careful not to crowd you, letting you speak, breathe, and feel it all.
“Would you… would you still have broken up with her if I hadn’t said anything?” you ask after a pause, hesitant.
He stops for a moment, the moonlight catching the edges of his face, sharp and thoughtful. He repeats your words quietly, almost to himself, as if weighing them, turning them over.
“If you had not spoken,” he mumbles, “you believe I would have acted…differently?”
You nod faintly, uncertainty tightening in your chest.
What if you hadn’t said anything to him that night? What would it have meant for you, for Flins, for Yelan? You wonder if you’d still be in your house, Nefer to your left and Yelan next to her, curled up on the living room couch. You wonder if the three of you would still laugh together, if your phone would buzz and, for a moment, you’d feel that weight at your stomach, wondering if Ajax had finally decided to speak to you again. You think about a lot of things. You think about how different the ratio of stillness and movement would have been, and if that new ratio would have been better than the one you hold in your hands now.
“I would have,” he says finally, certain. “I believe that you served to catalyse a decision that was already brewing inside me. Had you not spoken to me, it would have taken me longer to do the right thing.”
You exhale through your nose. He’s right, and from what he’d told you about his feelings towards Yelan, you know that it would’ve ended between them regardless of your interference. It would have been stretched, delayed, and painful in a different way. You can’t tell if it would have hurt more or less than this, so you say nothing, following him silently as he begins to walk again.
“Am I a regret to you, y/n?”
His question brings you to a pause.
“What?”
Flins, standing in front of you now, keeps his hold on you firm. The strength of his grasp contrasts the weakness, the softness in his eyes, as if his sense and desire sit at war with one another in his head.
“If you could turn it all back,” he continues, speaking in a tone that tells you he doesn’t even want to ask, “would you?”
If you could turn it all back.
You think of Yelan again, the friend you cared for, the friend you’d wanted to protect. And yet here you are, walking away from her dorm, knowing that no matter what explanations, apologies, or truths you present, there are no clean fixes to what had transpired. You’ve hurt her, maybe irreparably, and the thought eats at you. You’d only ever wanted to shield her from pain, and now you’re the one leaving puncture wounds on her heart.
Diluc’s betrayal still coils in your thoughts, a bitter pill you struggle to swallow. How could someone you respected, someone you once considered so moral, allow himself to be manipulated so easily? You wonder how much of it was cowardice, how much was misplaced trust, and how much was carelessness. The thought makes your chest ache.
Ajax, too, feels impossibly small in your mind, a man you’d tried so hard to leave in your past, now tangled into this present-day web of lies, fabricated truths. He’s not innocent, not by a long shot, and yet you also cannot hate him completely for his involvement. You wonder how must’ve felt, hearing from Yelan that you had slept with Flins while he was in the other room. It’s complicated to consider, and the conflict within you is maddening.
And Nefer.
Nefer.
She haunts the edges of your mind, everyone’s minds. Every twist, every lie, every manipulation that has led to this point stains your brain like a poison. You can’t fathom her motivations, you can’t understand how someone could create such violent storms so casually, so perfectly, a woman orchestrating a symphony of destruction.
Flins steps closer to you.
Mint.
“Listen to me, please,” he says, urgency hidden beneath the calm. “Do not let me become one of your regrets, y/n. I would rather be nothing to you than a regret. Tell me, please, if I am starting to feel like one.”
And then you look at him, right into his golden, gleaming eyes. You look at the only constant, the only unshakable presence in the mess you find yourself dragged into. His hand is still in yours, and just holding it feels like a tether to sense, to something good, something unbroken, and the conflict it causes is unbearable. You feel the weight of everyone’s mistakes, the cruelty, the weakness, the lies, and then you feel him, so warm, so steady in the palm of your hand.
You exhale, letting the tension slip, and fold into him, holding him close.
“Don’t you feel like a bad person, Flins?” you murmur, resting your head against his chest.
You hear his heartbeat. It’s fast, thumping against his chest.
The cold night air fills your lungs, the wet fabric of your dress clinging to your skin, and you let the memories settle in, heavy but necessary. You feel the raw truth of the night, the cold residue of betrayal, the remnants of guilt and heartbreak, And yet, even amidst it all, even with your chest tight and your thoughts spiraling, you realize that somehow, somehow, Flins makes it feel bearable. He makes it feel manageable.
You feel his fingers press to the underside of your chin, and he tilts your head up to meet his eyes.
“I will be bad,” he breathes, looking lost, utterly consumed in you, “and I will be terrible. I would be the worst man in the world if it meant that I’d be the best man in yours.”
Without thinking, you kiss him, soft but certain, a quiet declaration in the moonlight. He tastes different against you this time. The secrecy that’d clouded your mouths no longer lingers between the dance of tongues, the slight clash of teeth, and his lips taste sweeter than before. It all feels better than before, better than it’d ever felt.
“I love you,” you whisper against him, and you feel your words as clearly as you feel his hand on your back, a palm cupping your cheek, keeping you close to his face. “Selfishly, I love you.”
He presses his forehead to yours, his breathing warm against your nose, holding you tighter. For a long moment, the world outside the road, the people, the accusations, the lies, they all melt into the ground. There is only this, only now, and the certainty of the person beside you.
“And I love you.”
You don’t need to be good, not fully. You’re not sure if that’s possible, and you’re not sure if anyone is. So you still, and you let yourself be what you are right now, and you move, kissing him once more.
Time, unforgiving, unwavering, moves with you.
“Hey, Itto. Did you hear?”
“Huh?” He blinked, rubbing the back of his neck.
Nefer strolled closer, Diluc following a few steps behind. The evening air was cool, and the faint scent of damp leaves hung around them, mixing with the distant hum of the city.
“You’re going to Kaveh’s, right?” she asked, tilting her head with a mischievous glint.
Itto raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, why?”
Nefer leaned in slightly, voice low, playful.
“Well… there’s that table at his place, right? The big one, taking up way too much space. Neither Kaveh nor Alhaitham really like it, but it’d be such a waste to just throw it away after all that money they spent.” She spread her hands in mock helplessness, displaying a small, fake frown.
Itto tilted his head.
“Uh…okay?”
“So, if it got broken…it’d be helping them, right?” She continued, watching the ends of Itto’s lips curl upwards. “ It’d be making room for something better.”
Itto’s grin grew, and he leaned back a little, suspicious. “You sound like you want me to break it.”
Nefer laughed, a bright, teasing sound that made him blink.
“Well, I can’t imagine anyone strong enough to handle it besides you,” she purred, letting her fingers brush lightly against his bicep, a long, sage nail peeking past the end of his short sleeve. “Kaveh is too careful, and even Diluc…” She gestured toward the man behind her, who let out a sharp scoff, “…he’s nowhere near as strong as you.”
Itto’s cheeks flushed, a mix of amusement and fluster.
“You’re… something else, Nefer.”
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “I’d hate to leave Kaveh without someone capable. He trusts me, of course, but I simply couldn’t do it myself. I’m sorry if this is too much of a request, but I wanted to ask if you’d be willing to put those big arms to use.”
This interaction had fuelled Nefer’s fit of giggles for the entire duration of the walk from campus to downtown. Diluc, who walked beside her, found the sound of it more grating with each step they took, failing to understand the amusement she found so consistently in deception.
“Lighten up,” Nefer, rolling her eyes, had groaned. “It’s like- impossible to be happy around you, you know. You’re like a fun sponge, sucking up everyone else’s joy. It was funny.”
“What was funny?” Diluc snapped, a little harsher than he would’ve liked.
Nefer raised her eyebrows, a slight twitch in her left eye indicating that she did not appreciate his tone.
“Relax. If your little boyfriend’s table is that important, should’ve just kept it a secret entirely.”
Diluc sighed, defeated, as he always was around her.
“A good friend buying a nice table is nothing secretive,” he’d grumbled, wishing he’d never told Nefer about Alhaitham’s most recent, and most expensive, purchase. “I was just trying to speak to you about it normally.”
“That’s cute.”
“Drop it.”
Diluc’s thoughts drifted to the table, to the conversation he hadn’t wanted to start. He felt a faint pang of regret for ever mentioning Alhaitham’s purchase. A simple piece of furniture, and yet here it was, the center of some elaborate scheme he hadn’t anticipated. He wondered if Itto would actually follow through, and if Kaveh would erupt when he saw it broken. The thought made his stomach tighten, a quiet, gnawing anxiety creeping up his spine.
He glanced at Nefer. She was, as usual, tapping away on her phone, her expression perfectly composed, the picture of contentment. There was no guilt in her eyes, only mischief, and a satisfaction that had always unsettled him.
He shook his head slightly, forcing the tension from his shoulders, but couldn’t resist speaking up.
“Why do you lie so much?” he asked, keeping his voice measured. “It just makes stuff weird, Nef. I don’t get it.”
The street was quiet now, only the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a soft evening breeze. Diluc exhaled slowly, watching her, feeling both exasperation and an odd warmth. Somehow, even when she was reckless, even when she spun trivial things into something huge, there was a confidence and a contentment in her that he couldn’t help but notice. The thought that she thrived in this little mess, that she found joy in it, left him uncomfortable and envious all at once.
Nefer didn’t look up from her phone, but he could see the small smile on her face as she shrugged.
“Life’s boring without a little mess, Diluc,” she said softly, her voice teasing, yet firm. “We all jumped in puddles as kids, after all.”
Diluc couldn’t stop himself from thinking that, in some small way, Nefer was alluding to something beyond what her words spell out plainly, turning an ordinary table, an ordinary night, into something he couldn’t forget.
a/n for anyone who cares :p
in a perfect world, one where i am not in uni, this wld have been 10 chapters long. i would've loved to go into way more detail abt everyone's personalities, pasts and experiences with one another, but alas, i can only subject you all to so many words and waits. that being said, i hope this was okay, and i do apologise if the pacing felt a bit too fast paced. i'll make sure to improve with each piece!
if any of u have read my other stuff im sure u know im open ending final boss HAHAHA. i can't stop writing charas that are not 100% good or 100% bad. i wonder if they Did fuck... If nefer For real lied again or if she dropping Truth bombs.. hmmm...
and finally!! thank you so so sincerely to everyone who's been reading, leaving messages, or just enjoying this as a whole. i seriously love you all!!!!!!!! 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ togeteher..We Arw 7amplight..
I apologize if it's weird to reblog/comment like this . I was using a draft to gather my thoughts on specific parts so i could more accurately represent my breakdown in a pretty, summarized comment but I truly cannot handle it. I am only just starting (at the kitten picture comment right meow) but I will make a cut below.
Leather had met the pads of your fingers, his hand intertwining with yours in an instant; he’d stopped in his tracks to bring you to a halt with him.
dog why did i start tearing up at this already . I can only come to the conclusion that you've somehow bewitched me
the cutesy start of it with flins laughing is also SO adorable ghhghgh
“You’re terrible,” you persisted, grinning to yourself, “I won’t ever, ever forgive you. You’ve betrayed me, and I’m hurt.”
“Then,” said Flins, “I suppose I must apologise forever.”
i have been sitting here for a solid minute, my hand opened in the air yet clenched with tension, trying to figure out what proper ocmbination of words i can use to describe how i even feel about this line. i am POINTING . POINTING!!!
“Y/n, my heart, I truly am-”
“-so fucking sorry, Kyryll.”
OP WHEN I GET YOU
It doesn’t take Ajax long to find him.
“Diluc, the fuck is your problem?”
DILUC GO GO GO GO GO GO SIC EM KILL KILL KILL
“Oh, you wetwipe, you’re worried about y/n? Sweet, angel y/n? Because she’s done nothing wrong in her life, and this whole plan is just some fun little game between us?”
DILUC PLEASE COME ON MAN-
Diluc is no stranger to retribution. He knows it like the back of his hand.
It disappoints him that he, so foolishly, had allowed revenge to mimic its shape, to trick him into participation. Revenge is not the friend that retribution is, and it never, ever will be.
Never fucking mind holy shit. Holy fuckign shit. Tying this into his like retribution theme (?) is so genius and sick. Your MIND???
The silence Diluc holds isn’t passive, but intentional, long, heavy enough that Ajax feels it land somewhere deep in his ribs.
I would post the next like 5 or so paragraphs if I could. I'm obsessed with this scene I think. I could write a thesis on everything I love about it. Your use of imagery is immaculate, the fucking slow doubt creeping over Ajax. Diluc just staring at him, strong enough that his silence speaks more than trying to actively argue. Absolute Cinema
Diluc, as unwavering as time, will move, and he will scorn all accounts of previous hesitation as he does so.
I LOVE IT HERE
“Ajax,” Diluc groans, digging his elbow, hard, into the man’s side. A loud wince of pain sounds through the car, leaking out from Diluc’s open window as he turns to you.
thank fucking god [i am slowing down on tidbits cause i am locked the fuck in, but please know i love the banter between ajax and the reader]
“I can be funny. You wanna see something funny?”
“Please, entertain us,” you mutter, too tired to argue.
You catch his grin, malicious, in the rear-view mirror.
“Turn right, y/n.”
You do.
Flins, shielded by the darkness of Diluc’s car, looks right back at you.
The silence stretches.
BRO??????
“Heard her fucking someone before we left that night,” she said, barely suppressing a grin, “didn’t realise she had your man in there, though. Sucks, babe. You should probably do something about that.”
fell to my fucking knees. NEFEEEEEEEEEEER!!!! I FEEL LIKE I'M WATCHING THE MOMENT A HEIST MOVIE EXPLAINS THE CONVOLUTED PLAN AND MASTERMIND AND IT'S JUST A PERFECT LITTLE THREAD TO PULL THAT UNWINDS IT
You thought, you believed, that Diluc was good.
“Guess I was wrong about you.”
i just . i
i'm chewing through my fucking table like a rodent. these reveals are so fucking good and everything is so well like . planned out . i don't know if taht's a good compliment but please just know i am like . oging insane about this. the fact flins' fingers reach for yours in the car while this is all being explain. i finally properly understand the commenters talking about kissing bricks
He lingered at your bedside, watching the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your lips still parted slightly from the last word you’d spoken. His name.
I FINALLY UNDERSTAND THE COMMENTERS TALKING ABOUT KISSING BRICKS . EXCEPT IT'S LIKE A BOULDER HAS CRASHED THROUGH MY WALL
He’d made the mistake of staying silent before.
He won’t make it again.
“I do,” he says without hesitation. The words fall flat, but final, like a verdict landing in a courtroom,
head in my hands head in my fucking hands head in my hands
i love . how you write flins . so fucking much. i love how you write dialogue . i love how you write characters . i love how you weave narratives . i am going to go insane and i need to be put down like a dog
“I will be bad,” he breathes, looking lost, utterly consumed in you, “and I will be terrible. I would be the worst man in the world if it meant that I’d be the best man in yours.”
what if i walk into the wilderness and never come bcak . what if i allow myself to be raptured . what if i just completely lose it. what if i already am
i love it here i love it here i love it here [he types, sobbing]
“Life’s boring without a little mess, Diluc,” she said softly, her voice teasing, yet firm. “We all jumped in puddles as kids, after all.”
Sorry For taking forever every pony ｡°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°｡ I will post the final Part to a body for a body Tomorrow (really late at night Possibly early the morning after) 😓 #ForgiveMe
Thank U again to everyone who left a comment btw this Has been the highlight of my month on a real
★ fucking your friend’s ex is not okay, that’s for sure. But she’s slept with yours, and now, you’ve slept with hers. you’ve tasted his lips, his skin, the flavour of his affections. you wonder how long until Flins tastes the bitterness of revenge on your tongue.
🐈 notes 𐙚
fem reader ★ modern!au, university!au ★ bff’s ex 2 lovers ★ nsfw content , minors/ageless blocks DNI.★ oral (f!receiving), fingering, (mentions of) handjobs, ★ toxic relationships described (not with flins) ★ descriptions of something akin to a panic attack ? ★ minor blood mention ★ mentions of death
🍦just in case 𐙚
i would like to apologise. happy reading
At times, more often than not, you think about the balance between indulgence and discipline.
“Mmgh, Kyryll…that- that’s so good.”
Your voice, a centimetre over a whisper, leaks from your lips like a song.
“Mm,” is all you hear in response, followed swiftly by lewd, wet slurping. Flins licks a flat stripe along the seam of your dripping cunt, his lips and chin glinting with your arousal. His lips are redder, soaked, warm breath grazing the skin of your inner thighs as he licks between your folds, a large hand gripping the plush skin of your leg.
“Kyryll,” you whine, “oh my God.”
A life that runs on discipline alone is bleak, and yet a life that’s laced with indulgence subjects you to a violent, destructive hedonism. You wonder where to draw the line, where exactly you should stop. There’s always a point where it’s wrong to keep indulging.
“Aniołku,” he murmurs, planting a soft kiss right onto your sensitive bud. You catch the way he peers up at you from between your thighs, how those half lidded eyes, usually so bright in the light of the sun, darken with the stain of his lust. It’s impossible to tell how many orgasms he’s already pulled out of you, how long you’ve been lying there, fingers gripping your own sheets. They move to tug on the strands of azure that insist on finding purchase between your legs, tangled into the strands. “You’ll give me one more, won’t you, love?”
One more.
You can’t remember how many times he’s said it.
“Can’t… Kyryll, I-I’m too- ohhh…”
He wastes no time in showing you that you can.
If your friend sleeps with your ex, then surely, certainty, it’s only fair to sleep with hers. She’s the one that started it, after all. How much should you berate yourself for playing a game that someone else dragged you into? Revenge is a form of indulgence, really, one that spites discipline. It’s one that soothes the part of you that burns with betrayal, the part of you that she’d struck so mercilessly. She slept with Ajax first.
“Pleas, ‘m so sensitive…”
Yelan had it coming, you tell yourself often. She’s the reason you’re here, falling apart, hair sticking to your skin. If she hadn’t fucked you over, Flins wouldn’t be here, eating your pussy like its his death row meal. It’s a revenge you deserve, anyway.
Your chest is rising, falling, your eyes squeezed shut. He takes two, slender fingers, pumping them in and out, curling them to prod that sweet, spongy spot inside you. He’s been finger fucking you for maybe an hour now, long digits sucked in by your greedy hole. The noise your wetness makes with each quick pump is obscene, dirty. His lips spread webs of salvia against your clit, along the plump folds of your cunt. It’s the perfect way to get you even wetter, to taste you infinitely.
You hear him moan against you like he can feel it all too.
Flins drinks the way you clench around him, how your body trembles and shakes. You taste so sweet against his mouth, your thighs so plush against his head. He could spend the rest of his life between your legs.
“One more,” he pleads, but only briefly, right before taking your clit between his lips again, burying his face impossibly deeper into you. His low groan sends vibrations through your core when you tug on his hair, whimpering strings of his name. You feel his knuckles slam against you with each thrust. The slurping sounds coming from him are downright nasty.
Your pussy is swollen with how long he’s worked on it, spit on it, and sucked it all right back out. Flins, you’ve come to realise, is absolutely pussydrunk. He eats you out like it’s the only thing he’s made for, whether it be morning or night, dusk or dawn. Somehow, always, he finds his way back there, head trapped between your legs, his tongue lapping up all that you leak so desperately.
“W-wait,” you gasp, bucking your hips into his face, “…Kyryll- I- hah, oh- ‘m gonna…”
You feel it, that buildup in your stomach. It’s a pressure you hadn’t felt much before, but one that Flins brings to you with ease. Every. Single. Time.
“H-Haaah, wait, wait, waitwaitwait-“
Surely this is okay.
And if it can’t be okay, then it has to be fair.
Certain instances of indulgence can remain outside the bounds of hedonism, but when they can be justified. You, surely, can justify this.
Can’t you?
“Mmh,” he groans, voice muffled against your clit, “let go for me, love. Cumming so pretty.”
Regardless of whatever justification you can think of, you know the truth deep down. You know that Flins lies beyond your discipline, beyond your sense; he sits at the core of all that could be hedonistic about you. In truth, there’s nothing about him you want to restrict yourself from. Not his sculpted, handsome face. Not his glinting, golden eyes. Not his charming, dashing smile. And never, ever his skilled, addictive tongue.
The pressure at your stomach finally snaps.
You moan his name like a whore, letting it stretch into a long, helpless whine. You squirt, hard, right onto his mouth, your wet cunt throbbing with each splurt that pulses through you. Flins, beyond satisfied with his work, pulls you closer into his face. You hear him swallow, huffing between each slurp, taking his tongue between your messy, fat folds. He doesn’t waste a single drop, curving his tongue to drink up every last bit that you give him.
Your body shakes at the extra stimulation, the feeling all too much. He really is insatiable when it comes to you.
“B-baby, too much,” you stutter between your gasps, pushing on his forehead, “m still so sensitive, Flins. C-can’t anymore…a-ah!”
Sensing your limits, he detaches his mouth from your pussy with a wet “pop”, his heavy breath fanning warm against the skin of your inner thighs.
The sun outside lingers in the sky, slightly lower than its peak, as if offering the pair of you some privacy. You’re completely naked under him. It’s not often that you even let hookups see you bare like this, tits out, the nipples sensitive from having been toyed with.
Flins, however, is anything but a hookup.
He shouldn’t be, you know that, but that does nothing to change the fact that his company carries so much meaning, that his touch carries fire when it lands on your skin,
Pushing himself up and off his stomach, Flins looks down at you, dark eyes admiring the mess he’s made. You’re fucked out, visibly overstimulated. Your hair’s tangled under your head, the feeling of the knots slightly uncomfortable against your pillow. The entire area around your inner thighs is drenched, soaked, wet with a mix of his spit and your juices.
Despite the intensity of his gaze, it doesn’t lack his usual glint of affection. It’s the glint you see so much in him, when he speaks sugar into your ears, when his arms wrap around you tight, pulling you into his chest. You can’t imagine Flins without the honey that drapes his character, painting him so sweet.
“Oh, my flower,” you hear him coo, almost as if he’s worried. The hand that was once gripping your leg moves up to cup the plush of your cheek. He hovers over you, pressing a wet, slick-soaked kiss against your lips. “How fortunate am I, having you like this? You are too good to me. I didn’t go too overboard, did I?”
“N-no…felt so good.” You frown a little, your eyes still glossy from all the pleasure he’d pulled from you. “Made such a mess on you, ‘m sorry.”
He only chuckles in response, leaning in to slot your lips together. You taste yourself on him, enough for it to feel like you were the one between your own legs. His thumb rubs comforting circles against the skin of your cheek. When you wrap your legs around his waist, you can feel his hard, clothed cock rub against you. He must feel it too, because his lips lose their rhythm, stuttering for a moment.
“Don’t want you to leave.” You pout, pulling back from him. “Stay with me here, just a little longer, Kyryll. Miss you.”
“Miss me?” he laughs. “How needy, nightlight, and all for me. I must be the most spoilt man on earth. Everything about you is astonishingly captivating, you know. You tempt me too much.”
“Can I tempt you intotelling your friend to see you another day?” You pout. “Let me help you out, at least. You’re hard. Just want you all to myself for a bit longer.”
You feel his cock twitch at your words. He buries his face into the crock of your neck, humming softly when he finds a comfortable position there to rest on. There’s a mix of sweat, mint and flowers that lingers on your skin. He breathes it all in deeply, addicted.
“I do apologise, nightlight,” he murmurs, pressing a light kiss to your earlobe, “but it would be ill mannered of me to alter our plans so hastily. I shouldn’t delay my own departure too much.”
It’s 10am.
Flins, stirring by your side at 9, had told you he had to leave to meet up with a friend of his. He’d forgotten to mention it to you prior to falling alseep. It was a confusing turn of events, in all honesty; Flins had never let an arrangement like that slip his mind before, especially after saying that he’d have free time to spend with you. Your house is free till 2pm, after all. You’d found this out last night when you saw Nefer’s text, informing you that she’d be crashing at Diluc’s for a day.
Despite having spent so much of your time with him already, the secrecy of your arrangement paints Flins as something fleeting, scarce. You couldn’t help but feel a little sad when he told you you couldn’t spend the morning together. It’s not often the two of you are able to play house in the mornings, after all, and it’s one of your favourite things to do with him. There’s something strangely domestic, homey, about the man beside you.
Flins, who took quick notice of the pout on your lips, had wasted no time in compensating you for the troubles he’s caused through his mentioned departure. It’s a compensation that seems to also act as a reward for him. You wouldn’t be surprised if he eats you out purely for his own enjoyment.
You sigh, defeated. It would’ve been too selfish of you to pull him from his friends anyway, especially when you’re not even his girlfriend.
“Okay,” you mumble, “that makes sense, I’m sorry, I’m just being clingy right now. You’ll tell Varka I say hi, right?”
“Of course, my heart. Will you think about me while I’m gone?”
You smack his bare chest, rolling your eyes at that quick tongue of his.
It’s not like you ever really stop. Since the day you decided to involve yourself with him, Flins has managed to tuck himself into each fold of your brain, stain each corner of your mind. It’s way too much to tell him that, though, so you opt for a “maybe” to save yourself the embarrassment. You came five or six times from his tongue and fingers alone. Indulging him too much might only paint you desperate, and that’s the last thing you want for yourself.
“You shouldn’t miss me too deeply,” you hear him say. Flins shifts to lie beside you, pulling your bare body against his chest. You can feel the way his warm breath tickles your forehead, how his hand slowly smoothes over your sides, running down to your hips. They linger at the curve of your breasts on the way back up, thumb grazing your hardened nipple. It makes you emit a quiet noise of surprise. “We’ll be spending the evening together, my heart, won’t we?”
You nod. “Of course we will, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I bought a new dress just for you, you know.”
A wide smile curls onto his lips.
“Oh? Is that so?”
“Mhm. You went to all that trouble to get us a reservation. I can’t look a little prettier than usual for you?”
Uyuu Restaurant.
It’s a little past the usual downtown area, further into the main city that surrounds Teyvat’s campus. Despite having opened not too long ago, the restaurant’s business skyrocketed along with it’s positive reviews. The food, ambience, and service are still praised to the ends of the earth, with critics from outside the city travelling in just to try the food. You’d planned to go there with Nefer and Yelan after yet another positive review had popped up, but unfortunately, it seemed like everyone else in the world had the same idea.
The restaurant was fully booked every single day. Though they do reserve a few of their tables for walk-ins, the queue that forms outside is disgusting to even look at, let alone to consider waiting in. You’d tried everything, from booking two months in advance to trying to convince a guy in the line to switch places with you for money, and yet your efforts were to no avail. Everyone seemed too eager to experience Uyuu.
Yelan had quickly given up, claiming that she didn’t care enough to go through all the effort. Though Nefer did seem persistent in wanting to go, she lacked the action to back up her desires. So eventually, you, too, had accepted that you’d live the rest of your life without trying it even once.
You have no idea how Flins managed to get you both a table.
“There is no moment where you aren’t beautiful,” he speaks, almost stern, “strikingly so. I can hardly imagine that you can get any more bewitching than you already are, and yet you serve to prove me wrong every time. I cannot wait to see you in that dress.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, unsure of how to deal with the heat that rises to your cheeks, “you talk way too much, you know.”
He notices your fluster, but bites back a grin to furrow his brows in feigned hurt.
“Well then,” he sighs, pushing himself up to lean on his forearm, “I can be certain from your words that you must be aching for me to depart already. If that is the case, then I suppose I’ll just-“
“Huh?!”
“Take my leave.”
“What?!” you gawk, groaning at the way he chuckles at your frown. Your hands grip onto him to pull him back down into your neck, as if he’d disappear with the click of his fingers. “Not yet, what the hell? You’ve got like thirty minutes till you actually have to leave.”
“Does the continuity of my speech not trouble you? You really are my angel, you know. Allow me to put you at ease with my absence, my heart.”
“Stop that, you know I didn’t mean it.”
He only shrugs.
“I can’t be sure, y/n. It seems as though you’d be happier with your silence than with me.”
He’s joking, and you know he is. You can tell by the way his lips are curled into a small, mischievous grin, how his tone houses no sorrow. Those pools of gold, shining with amusement, peer at you from between the cerulean blue that falls on his forehead, and he waits for you to bite back. Flins, as formal as he may be, is no stranger to jest. He’s picked up on your habits, how you tend to snap when you’re flustered; it’s your way of dealing with the heat his words bring to you. He knows that there’s never any venom in your teasing, how they’re all bids for his attention, masked with a tougher outer shell. Flins is perceptive, and he’s good at knowing you, playing along.
But, unexpectedly, you can’t help but feel a little saddened by his words. The mere thought that maybe, possibly, he could think that you would want to be anywhere but by his side fills your heart with an aching pain.
You’ve been more sensitive to the idea of upsetting him as of late. You’re not sure if it’s because you know him more now, or if it’s that slow, creeping buildup of guilt inside you. You feel it at your stomach when he’s silent, at your temples when he looks away, as if the wind would whisper the truth of why you pursued him to begin with. You already feel bad enough that he still doesn’t know.
“I wouldn’t be this happy with anyone but you,” you say, your confession of guilt lacing each word with an unfamiliar heaviness.
Your sudden sincerity brings pause to the playful conversation.
Sunlight leaks through the gaps in your curtains, accompanied only by the quiet chirps of the birds outside. It’s one of the first sunny days of the month, as if spring had finally decided to offer everyone a break from its usual streams of rainfall. You love sunny days more than the rainy ones. The sun’s greeting, to you, is the promise of a good day, the prospect of joy shining onto your skin, bleeding into the cells. You see the mischief fall from Flins’ face upon processing your words. In its stead, a softness you don’t quite recognise dances at the centre of his eyes. You can tell that you’d caught him a little off guard, and in truth, you didn’t mean to sound so grave with your statement.
“Sorry.” You blink, a little embarrassed. “That- I sounded way too serious, that was my bad. I know you’re joking and everything, I just- I just wanted to tell you-’’
“Do you mean that?”
“Huh?”
“That you wouldn’t be happier with anyone but me,” he repeats. “Do you mean it?”
Flins, down to his core, is not a liar.
He hates it; there’s something about deception, manipulation, that he finds overwhelmingly disgusting. With only the exception of politeness, of white lies that harbour the sole purpose of preserving someone’s content, he cannot imagine himself ever lying to anyone. Honesty, alongside chivalry, stands tall as one of his core values.
The ache of hypocrisy mirrors that of guilt. Your confession only intensifies it.
It’s not Varka he’s meant to see at 11, after all.
“Yeah,” you say, and he feels his chest tighten at the confirmation, “of course I mean it. I’d never lie to you, Kyryll.”
You, leaning in to take his lips into yours, kissing the apology right into his mouth, feel your chest tighten at your falsity.
11am nears, and nears, and nears, but the two of you pay it no mind for a while. You stay there, tangled in bedsheets, strands of hair, and endless, breathless kisses, soured with a mix of all that you keep from one another.
“Y/n? You need to eat something. Open your door already, I’m starting to worry.”
Life will always go on, and time will always march forwards.
Unforgiving, unwavering, everything will continue it’s journey, even if you decide to remain stationary. Throughout all that changes in life, the one constant is the assurance that the world will not stop for you; there will always be movement, with or without you. The concept is a devastating one, yet brilliant all the same.
You’d felt the devastation of stillness in moments of helplessness, the brilliance of movement in moments of hope. You remember it clearly, your stillness. It was, as expected, your deepest moment of devastation. That stomach churning breakup.
“If you keep this up, you’re gonna end up making yourself sick, you know,” Nefer warned, concerned. “Don’t let him do this to you, y/n, come on. He’s just some fucking guy. You know that. We all know that.”
Nefer’s voice was muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, the door that’d been shut for almost 38 hours straight.
You didn’t say anything in response. Your eye twitched at her words.
In that moment, curled into the comfort of your duvet, your blinds shielding you from the sun’s embrace, you’d wondered if Nefer had ever been in love. You’d wondered if she’d ever felt the rush, the warmth, the stillness and the movement of it all. You’d wondered if she’d experienced the devastation, the brilliance. Your phone remained clutched in your grasp, Ajax’s contact displayed miserably on the screen.
Of course, there’d been countless occasions where Nefer had expressed interest in a guy: someone in her course, a boy who sat opposite her in the communal study areas of the library, the hot barista working at the campus cafe. But those didn’t count, not to you, and definitely not in that moment. You weren’t thinking about them. All you wanted to know is if she’d ever been violently, instatiably in love. Destructively so.
“Ajax is not worth all this,” she’d called from across your door. The mere mention of his name sent pulses of hurt through your entire body. “It was a long time coming, y/n. He wasn’t good for you. This is the best thing that could've ever happened, and…”
Even if Ajax was just some fucking guy, it wasn’t as though you felt just some fucking love.
No, of course you didn’t. Not you. You’d felt all your emotions along with all of his too.
Her words trailed off into a blur of this and that. You couldn’t be sure if she really was just mumbling, or if your brain had finally given up trying to process it as a means of self preservation.
It all felt too pointless, too known; your heartbreak hadn’t convinced you that Ajax was perfect, not at all. You knew he wasn’t. You knew that he was terrible for you, that each low had easily outweighed its corresponding high. You knew that this breakup had to happen, that there was no way you two would’ve been able to work it out. As hurt as you were, the last thing you’d let happen was for your heartbreak to render you blind-sighted. You and Ajax were over, and deep down, you didn’t want it to start again.
That realisation was what burnt through you so viciously. That helplessness, the definitiveness of it all. Knowing, believing, that he really was gone, that nothing about him was made to fit in the palms of your hands. A man who’d seen the deepest parts of you, who’d tasted the most intimate nooks, now reduced to a mere stranger, a face to avoid out in public. You felt sick at the thought of it all.
Nefer had given up after a few minutes of no responses. You heard the way she’d trudged down the hall, back into her room, an air of frustration carried in each step.
It’s weird, the concept of movement and stillness. Sometimes, your movement is your stillness, and your stillness is your movement. Life, unforgiving, unwavering, will only wait for you to make the distinction yourself. There is no hand that points you to the right path. There is only the path that you create with each footstep you leave.
One call was all it took, one drunk confession.
“Still love you.” Ajax, voice trembling across the line, was crying. The sound of it made your stomach church, your heart ache, despite all the times he’d remained so cold hearing it come from you. “Can’t breathe without you, baby. I feel like shit, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat, taking little notice of how you’d started crying too.
“You- you can’t just…you can’t do this to me, Ajax. You can’t just call me like this out of nowhere. You broke up with me. It is so fucking selfish to-”
“Call it what you want, call me what you want, but say it to me in person. Let me see you, please.”
“Ajax.”
“Y/n you’re all I want,” he hissed, a choked sob erupting from the back of his throat. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be more fucking sorry than I am right now, than I have been for the past week. I- I’m always caught up in my own head, and I know I can be a dickhead. I fucked up bad, y/n. I know you deserve better, but I- just let me be that better, please. I wanna be better so bad, baby.”
Your voice felt strained. It was painful to even speak, the stings of your vocal chords aching as a warning. Each time you’d speak, they’d speak right back to you, causing that tightness in your throat. Your body was begging you to move, to end the call and save yourself what it would bring.
“You had two years to be better for me,” you spat, almost hatefully. “We’re over, Ajax. You said so yourself.”
A long, bitter silence settled itself between the pair of you. Though your hurt had not rendered you blind-sighted, it had surely rendered you stupid. It was senseless to even answer his call, to not have blocked him straight after leaving his house. Ajax was never one to take a loss, after all. How could you ever have thought he’d let you get your way?
“Tell me you don’t love me,” he said through gritted teeth.
“What?”
“Say it, y/n. Tell me you don’t love me and I won’t ever call again. I swear.”
You were shaking with anger. It pained you to hear him cry, to listen to him sound so wounded. It wasn’t often that you’d see him be the one so torn up from your relationship. Being there, helpless on the other end of the line, a part of you was glad that you hadn’t fallen subject to his sorrows prior to the phone call. You were always the one crying to him, begging him to resolve whatever had happened. It was an infuriatingly well-maintained dynamic, leaving you feeling stripped of all autonomy, all of your self respect, throughout the two years you’d spent together. It was, admittedly, slightly satisfying to be on the receiving end of desperation.
“You’re not being fucking fair, Ajax.” Tears soaked into the bottoms of your pyjamas, falling consistently from cheeks down to your chin. “This- this is so messed up. You’re so messed up for calling me like this.”
“Then open the door and fix me,” he said. It sounded more like a command than a request. “Do what you want with me, do anything you want. Just open the door, y/n, let me see you.”
It’s weird, the concept of movement and stillness. Sometimes, your movement is your stillness, and your stillness is your movement. Life, unforgiving, unwavering, will only wait for you to make the distinction yourself.
Life, unforgiving, unwavering, had watched you move towards the door to your house. It watched you move into Ajax’s arms. It watched move to the bedroom, move to strip him of his clothes, move to strip yourself of your own.
Life, unforgiving, yet forgiving all the same, had watched you remain completely still, unmoving, while everything else continued it’s journey.
Your modules continued to stack with assignments, unfinished, untouched, and a lot of them unsubmitted. Your friends continued to go out without you, to house parties, bars, new restaurants downtown. The sun outside continued to rise and fall, as did it’s companion, the moon. And, of course, Ajax continued to drain you of all you had left, to remind you why you should’ve never picked up his phone call.
Time, as certain the feeling of stone against tongue, will move with or without you. You’d learnt that the hard way.
Flins, like most of the campus population, worked part time to provide himself with a disposable income. Textbooks weren’t cheap, and neither was accommodation, so it only made sense for him to apply before even moving in for his first year. His job, however, was anything but your conventional struggling-student side gig. You’d found this out 2 months into seeing him, of course, entirely due to your own tendency to pry.
“You- you work here?!”
Flins could only chuckle softly at your shock.
Final Night Cemetery.
It was tucked into the corner of the city, isolated from the busier, bustling environment downtown. Despite its lack of close proximity to campus, the cemetery was by no means of little regard to Teyvat’s students. The area was avoided in physicality, yet visited constantly in hushed conversations, ones that carried whispers of hauntings, sometimes even murders. You’d always wondered what idiot gave it that name, ‘Final Night Cemetery’. Perhaps it was a way to make it sound like a peaceful, final night, a beautiful dance of moon and stars before the skies lulled you into an eternal slumber.
Well, that was just Flins’ attempt at an explanation. You saw it more as a “do not enter, this will be your final night” type of warning.
Standing there, facing the entrance, you felt unsure of whether the cold grazing your skin could be blamed on February’s winter winds, or 23 ghosts passing through you all at once. Flins, who stood opposite you in his long, black winter coat, seemed annoyingly entertained by your terribly masked fear.
“I do,” he said, offering you a small, reassuring smile, “merely as one of the groundskeepers. There are a few others who, I’ve been told, have worked here far longer than I have, but they all remain strangers to me still. It feels as though I’m the only one working here most of the time.”
You blinked, still reluctant to move further inside.
“What, like, they just give you most of the work?”
“Yes, it has appeared so for a few years now.”
You failed to understand why he seemed so content with that arrangement.
“And you’re just… cool… with that many night shifts? At some scary ass cemetery?”
“I am,” he affirmed with a grin, nodding his head.
You sighed, hands coming up to rub at your upper arms. Okay, you knew for sure that it was February to blame, and not 23 ghosts passing through you all at once. The winds grew colder, blowing the strands of your hair into your face. You felt goosebumps surface on your skin.
“You’re crazy, you know. How are you the favourite already if there are other people who’ve worked here way longer? This place seems like one of those…more close knit establishments. Y’know, cause not many people would wanna work at a cemetery between classes.”
Flins only hummed in acknowledgement, stepping a little closer to you.
“Well,” he mumbled, his voice rather hushed, “I’ve been told that most of the ghosts here have taken a liking to me. Maybe that could be the reason behind their decision.”
You froze, staring straight at him with wide eyes.
“Ghosts?!”
You weren’t sure why you reacted so strongly to his statement. It had to have been the tone of his voice, the way he’d said it so seriously, like letting you in on a dire secret of his. You were never one to believe in ghosts, in anything even remotely supernatural. As much as you would’ve loved to justify this by claiming to be a woman grounded in logic, in reality, it was more to do with the fact that it was too scary to even admit that ghosts could be lurking about. Acknowledging their possible existence only felt like an invitation. You were better off insisting that ghosts did not exist at all.
Flins, inept in his ability to keep a straight face when subject to your reactions, had started laughing right after your fear-struck shriek. It was full, caught into the palm of his hand, and encased the cold of the night in what could only be described as a deep, comforting warmth. You wanted to be more annoyed, you really did, but something about his entertainment had kept you from your usual irritation. His eyes had curved into crescent moons, a hand brought up to shield the lower half of his face, as if trying to maintain even some degree of politeness in his jest. It didn’t do much to keep you from seeing that wide, dashing grin he’d often wear around you. His long, blue hair hung by his sides, laughing with him in the way they’d move about in the wind.
He was so handsome, so much so that the whole display ended up working against his favour.
His laughing had soothed your annoyance, sure, but he was good-looking enough to frustrate you anyway.
“Fuck you,” you spat, rolling your eyes at him. “I seriously don’t find you funny at all. I mean it.”
“That is quite alright, Miss.” He lowered his head solemnly, letting his laughter melt into quieter, smaller chuckles. “Would you say that I’m more inclined to be charming?”
“Wh- huh?!”
“You’ve become quite frequent company as of late, y/n, so I am asking you if you find me charming. I wouldn’t want to get the wrong idea, you see.”
It was impressive, and much to your misfortune, how often Flins was able to bring a blush to your cheeks. Sugar stayed sat at the tip of his tongue, coating his words as they left his lips. No wonder his compliments were ever so sweet against your ears. He was kind, warm, yet mischievous and teasing all the same. While a lot of the men in your life had also housed quick tongues, smothering you with their half-assed attempts at getting into your pants, Flins was different. It didn’t take much analysis to come to that conclusion.
Flins was careful with his speech, deliberate. He took the time to think his words through before subjecting you to them, crafting each sentence to fit snug against its receiver. As he’d mentioned to you before, the man before you often avoided intrusion, and much preferred invitation. It was a preference that gave birth to his keen observation, the way his eyes watched you with purpose, studying everything that you were willing to show him. Over the course of the 2 months you’d both spent together, he’d compiled a mental database for you: what you like, how you joke around, what kind of compliments made you smile the most. Flins, ever the gentleman, didn’t let a single detail slip his mind.
You clicked your tongue, looking away from his gleaming, golden eyes.
“Why don’t you have your fun figuring that out yourself, Shakespeare. Just know that I wouldn’t come to some creepy cemetery with just any guy.”
“I can only be thankful, then.” His voice was gentle in the wind of the night, sincere. Carefully, while watching for any signs of discomfort, he stepped even closer than he had before. Flins loomed over you, in more of a protective way than an intimidating one, his height casting a slight shadow over your body. His coat was zipped all the way up, covering the bottom of his chin, the sleeves ending just over his wrists. You could see the clouds forming at his mouth with each breath that escaped his lips.
“You aren’t too frightened, are you?” he asked, brows knitting together. He was less teasing this time, more concerned. “I can sympathise with the fact that most would rather steer clear of places like this. Should you feel any discomfort, you must tell me, y/n. I wouldn’t mind at all.”
Sugar, sat on the tip of his tongue, his words ever so sweet against your ears.
“You’re here,” you murmured, feeling warmer when you looked up to scan his face. His skin, smooth, pale in the cold of the night. His eyes, glinting, not needing any light to brighten them. “It’s always comfortable with you, Flins. Wouldn’t have come all this way if it wasn’t.”
You felt it, slowly. Gloved fingers locking with your bare ones as he, tentatively, took your hand into his own. Neither of you could bite back the smiles that crept onto your lips at the action, at the small, affirming squeeze you gave him. You wondered if he felt the same warmth in his chest that you felt.
“Well then,” he said, lifting the back of your hand to his lips, “allow me to escort you through, Miss.”
౨ৎ
Each fact you’d learnt about Flins only served to make your affections grow larger. With your somewhat pessimistic attitude towards human nature, it was shocking to meet someone so likeable, so earnest. Flins, to you, seemed to be the walking definition of goodness.
He was crouched down in front of one of the headstones, placing a singular flower atop the grass around it. You, sat cross-legged on the free patch of grass beside him, watched quietly. The leaves that embraced the flower paraded a deep, vibrant blue, a lighter pink staining the area the petals bloomed from, the tips of them too. He’d called it a ‘frostlamp flower’, realising that this was your first time ever seeing one.
“Raiden Makoto,” he read, peering over at you. “The lady who tends to leave flowers here has not come in quite some time.”
You hummed, “no?”
“No. I can only hope that all is well for her. After all, I can assume that her persistence in adorning this headstone with flowers was due to a personal loss of hers.”
“That poor lady.” You frowned. “Did she come by every day?”
“Hmm, give or take. I can’t work 7 days a week, so I wouldn’t be able to answer your question with much conviction. All I can say is that I’ve seen her each time I’ve had a shift. She used to come by at 9pm exactly, and leave at 10.”
You gazed down at the screen of your phone in your hand.
9:01pm.
You looked back at him, crouched in front of the grave, a palm pressed against the grass to steady himself against it.
“Do you…” you started, tilting your head at him, “leave these flowers here for her?”
It was a pointless question, one that you’d asked for the sole sake of hearing him answer it. The pair of you had walked around the cemetery grounds for a while, mindless chatter filling the still, silent air. While you walked, Flins would often stop in front of particular headstones, leaning down to adorn it with a frostlamp flower, before returning to resume whatever conversation the two of you were having. It was quick, an automatic action of his, and one that he hadn’t spoken much of until now. This was the first gravestone he’d stopped at properly, gesturing for you to make yourself comfortable next to it. Raiden Makoto’s grave.
“I do.” He nodded. His eyes, once again, shifted to fix onto the headstone before him, along the smooth carvings of the lady’s name etched into the stone. “For a while, I wondered if I was overstepping. I couldn’t be sure how the lady would feel about me being here, especially if Miss Makoto was someone very dear to her. We’ve never spoken, after all. I am merely a stranger to her, one of the groundskeepers at best.”
The moon hung full in the sky. You, despite sitting in the midst of a chilling, February wind, felt warmer than ever before. Comfort washed over you, the same comfort you’d get from being inside a cosy, winter cottage, eating hot, home-cooked food. Flins, somehow, had melted most of the cold that tried to consume you, like bringing cold hands to thaw at a campfire.
“I couldn’t bring myself to leave it unattended, this headstone. During my shifts, I often leave frostlamps beside the graves that seem lonelier than the others. It felt…unfair, I suppose, not to include this one in my rounds. Whoever it was that came by so often seemed to want Miss Makoto to have some company, so I find myself here a lot, in truth. I tend to stay for the full hour.”
“That’s very kind,” you said, “not many of us would think to do that for people we don’t know personally.”
“And that is perfectly okay, Miss. Death is not too welcoming of a concept to surround yourself with, after all. As much as I persist in my own habits, I can understand why others would have their reservations.”
“You seem to understand a lot about people.” You smiled, more to yourself than at him. The more you began to hear from him, the closer he crept to your heart. “You’ve understood that lady enough to stay here by this grave. I don’t think I’ve come across a man kinder.”
“You flatter me,” he chuckled, flashing you that charming smile of his, “there are surely many men kinder than me.”
“I beg to differ. You should let yourself feel good about this, Flins. You’re probably one of the only ones who does this for them.”
You tilted your head a little, gesturing towards the headstone. Despite your insistence, Flins only shook his head, ever so humble, and lowered his gaze to the frostlamp flower laid atop the grass. A single, gloved finger reached out towards it, dragging itself against its rich, blue leaf, the blossoming pink petals. He stayed there for a while, arm outstretched, entranced, as if the flower had taken him elsewhere, somewhere far away from where the two of you sat.
“I do what I can only hope others would do for my own mother, you see. I believe that you should always practice what you preach.”
He spoke with no sorrow, yet with the sincerity of a thousand promises. You felt your heart clench at the sight of him, the smile long gone from his lips.
“Flins.” You frown. “I’m so sorry, I-”
“There is no reason to be, angel. Please, do not fret for my sake. I do not intend to dampen your mood, or your spirits.”
Flins, drawing back his hand from the flower, once again returned to meet your gaze. The sound of rustling filled the air as he shifted around, maneuvering himself to sit opposite you, crossing his own legs over one another. Long, blue hair, a blue that appeared to be a distant relative of that of the frostlamp’s, draped over his shoulders, pooling at his thighs. Those golden eyes you’d grown so accustomed to held you in their embrace. They reassured you, wordlessly confirming his content.
A beat of silence had passed before he spoke again.
“My mother passed when I was very young,” he said. You, a little bolder than you usually would be, reached out to take one of his hands into yours, holding it against your knee. “My family moved from my hometown, Hyperborea, soon after her passing. I haven’t had the chance to visit her grave myself since. I suppose…working here makes me feel closer to her, sometimes, at least. There is some comfort in believing in ghosts, as scary as some might find them.”
“Is it far from here?” You asked, rubbing your thumb against the leather of his gloves. His lips, thankfully, curled at the ends at your action. “Hyperborea?”
You hadn’t heard of the name before, and could only assume it was beyond the bounds of your personal travels.
He nodded. “Quite far, truthfully. Despite the distance, and the inconvenience it could cause my family if I ever left so hastily, I’ve considered returning at times. I’ve wanted to spend a few years there, to get used to it all again. It’s a thought that comes to me whenever I attend to the graves in this cemetery, you see. At times, doing so makes me wonder if my mother ever feels sad that I haven’t been able to leave a flower for her, even though I spend so much time picking them for others.”
It was true that he hadn’t appeared at all sorrowful upon initially informing you of his mothers passing, but you didn’t miss the swift, brief flash of sadness on his face, the subtle twitch of his lips. It became quickly evident to you that Flins would never want to subject you to what he hid within him, that flash of sadness, the grief that he’d suppressed so well. Knowing of his struggles filled you with an ache impossible to ignore. You let his hand fall from your grasp, and instead reached out to cup his cheek in your palm. His skin felt smooth, cold under your touch, as you tried to move yourself closer to him.
Aside from your first passionate encounter at the back of his car, the two of you had, wordlessly, agreed to resume your arrangement at a slower pace, almost as if to take a step backwards. It wasn’t often that you’d be so forward, ever so mindful of Flins’ reserved, withdrawn nature. But that night, seeing him so vulnerable, so raw under the light of the moon, it was as if your soul was yearning to latch onto his, so soothe whatever ache he’d felt at his chest.
Flins, appearing to reciprocate your sudden affections, had pulled you onto his lap, realising that the distance would’ve been difficult to close if the two of you remained seated as you were. His arms rested comfortably around your waist, his head laid against your chest. Your heartbeat was steady against his ear, as if to let him know how comfortable you felt, how easy this all was. You, once again, smelled that familiar, minty cologne, the fresh scent of shampoo on his scalp. A hand came up to massage his roots, while your chin rested comfortably on top of his head. You could hear him sigh at the sensation, his breath warm against your skin.
The moon above you watched, as did the stars.
“With how you act, Flins, I can only assume your mother is just as good as you are.” Your words tangle into the strands of his hair, tucking themselves under each strand of cerulean. “I can’t imagine that she’d ever have an issue watching her son grow into such a gentle, beautiful person. There’s no reason at all for her to feel anything but pride seeing a man like you.”
You felt him stiffen in your hold.
You remained quiet, still, when you heard the first, quiet sniffles escape his nose. You remained quiet, still, feeling the wetness gather at your chest, the slight tremble of his shoulders. You remained quiet, still, feeling his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you remained quiet, still, while he cried, and cried, and cried, his face hidden from the ghosts that had supposedly taken a deep liking to him.
If these ghosts really did exist, you couldn’t blame them for wanting the man to be around so often. It wouldn’t be a surprise to you, not at all. You found yourself wondering if Makoto, resting under her gorgeous headstone, under the blue of his frostlamp flower, felt the same ache in her chest as you, seeing him so sad. You found yourself wondering if the ghosts of Final Night Cemetery, in the cold of that February night, had wrapped their arms around you both, trying their best to hold him too.
“Kyryll,” you heard him whisper, so soft that you’d almost missed it. His lips tickled the skin on your chest as he spoke. “It’s my first name. No one knows of it aside from my family. And you, now.”
Flins, Kyryll, was, and is, undeniably beautiful.
Your dress is long, its hem hovering over the skin of your feet. It’s not often that you spend a lot of money on clothing.
You know yourself well: your habits, your preferences, the more annoying consistencies about yourself. You’re painfully aware of how often you’d grow tired of your wardrobe, wanting to refresh your entire aesthetic with each new ‘event’ of the year.
New years, new you. Birthday, new you. Thanksgiving, new you.
It doesn’t matter if the ‘event’ is a small one; you’re embarrassingly prone to sudden surges of self improvement. For that reason, you’ve come to learn that it’s easier on your wallet stick to cheaper clothes, thrifting. It saves you enough money to buy more clothes when you please, while also satiating the present urge to shop.
Uyuu Restaurant, however, calls for an investment.
Well, in truth, Flins is the main motivation behind your investment.
The extractor fan in the girls’ bathrooms whirrs quietly above you, your reflection staring back at you nervously. Flins is picking you up for your date at 7pm, straight from the supervisor meeting you’ve had from 5-6. You’d received Elzer’s email a few minutes before Flins left your house, informing you that, due to ‘unexpected timetable issues’, your usual 2pm meeting would have to be moved into the evening. As frustrated as you were with the sudden rearragnement, Flins had assured you that it would be fine, and that he could pick you up from outside the Arts block.
“I could drive you back home,” he’d offered, frowning at your visible distress, “that way, you’d have some time to change.”
You only shook your head, sighing.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to do that. I’ll bring my stuff and change in the bathrooms. We’ll probably run late if you drove me back to mine anyway.”
Flins, accepting your logic, had nodded in agreement.
So, here you are, packing your lipstick back into the small makeup pouch you carry in your purse. Even though you and Flins had become more than familiar with one another, you can’t contain the nervousness that settles at the pit of your stomach, the anticipation towards his reaction to your new dress building up with each passing minute. Of course, you don’t doubt that he’ll shower you with his ever-so-sweet string of compliments. You imagine the feeling of kissing him again, how he’d sound calling you beautiful, praising all that he’s able to praise. You think about what he’d wear, how he’d look in a smart, black suit. A blush that rivals that of your makeup’s rises to your cheeks at the thought of him, as it usually does whenever you think of him.
The time reads 6:45pm when you leave the bathroom, moving to sit on one of the benches near the building’s entrance. It’s not the first time he’s come to pick you up from the Arts building; he usually doesn’t park, and lingers in his car right outside the building.
“What kind of a man would I be, making you walk after me?” He’d said to you once, refusing your suggestions to park the car nearby.
You: you on the way, handsome? [6:45pm]
You: I’m by the exit rn, lmk when u get here :p [6:45pm]
In truth, you’re a little surprised that Flins hasn’t already texted you himself. Ever since he’d left to go see Varka, it’s been radio silence from his end. He hasn’t checked to see if you’d finished your meeting. He hasn’t sent you any weird-looking rock that he’d found to add to his collection. He hasn’t sent you any pictures of cats passing by him on the street, lamenting his own, terrible allergy. Flins hasn’t said a single word, nor has he opened any of your previous messages, the ones asking him if he’d told Varka that you said hi.
It’s weird, but you push the feeling down.
He’s with his friend, after all, and he seemed more eager to see him than usual when he’d mentioned it to you in the morning. It shouldn’t be surprising that Flins is offering his attention to other people but you; that’s just how a normal person balances their platonic and romantic relationships. You shouldn’t get too invested, to the point of worrying, at least, over a guy that you weren’t officially dating anyway.
You, a woman who does not let herself need anyone, should know that. There’s no point overthinking it. Your only job now is to wait.
So you wait.
6:56.
And you wait.
7:15.
And you wait.
7:50.
Until waiting starts to feel foolish, and the reservation is a matter of the past.
He’s an hour late, and he hasn’t answered any of your texts. Delivered, delivered, delivered, yet painfully unreceived. To add to your growing anxiety, each call rings through fully, taking you slowly, agonisingly, to the beep of his voicemail, to that agitating automated voice. It’s taunting you, you think, with the way it repeats its useless, purposeless advice.
“Please leave a message after the tone.”
“Fuck your stupid tone,” you hiss, ending the call before it begins recording a voicemail. “Where the hell is he?”
You call once more, then twice, until the third call starts to feel foolish, and reaching out to him is a matter of the past. You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling that tightness in your chest. This is weird, really weird, and there’s no way you can push the feeling down anymore. Flins has never outright ignored you like this, especially not when you call him. It’s a running joke between you, though not one devoid of truth, that Flins always picks up from the first ring. Anytime, anywhere. He never leaves you waiting when you call him.
“Eager,” you’d said to him the first time, giggling at how quickly he’d answered you.
“Is that so surprising, Miss, when you consider who I’m answering the phone to?”
Flins always picks up from the first ring. Anytime, anywhere. He never leaves you waiting when you call him.
“Relax,” you mutter to yourself, bringing your fingers up to massage your temples. Your heart is beating fast, and it shouldn’t be, you tell yourself it shouldn’t be. The Arts building, aside from a few professors tucked into their offices, is completely empty, the only present noise being the muffled murmurs of other students who, you can only assume, are also having supervisor meetings.
“It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s a stupid restaurant anyway, and you can get a reservation some other time. None of that matters. He’s probably just caught up in something right now, anyway. He’ll see your texts when he’s done, and he’ll call you back, and he’ll explain why he was gone for so long, and-”
You hadn’t noticed the entrance to the building swing open. You hadn’t felt the cold, rush of air that’d entered the halls. You hadn’t even heard the footsteps.
“A lot of coping from your end, you know. Seems like old habits die hard, even after so much time has passed.”
Your blood runs cold at the sudden voice.
It’s not Flins’, no, but one that’s all too familiar, and yet completely, entirely, foreign. It’s a voice that hasn’t addressed you directly in a long time, a voice that had cried, promising you another fresh start. It’s a voice that had soothed, telling you about all the love it held for you.
And it’s a voice that damaged, destroyed, telling you how much it hated you. At times, in moments where you’d needed it the most, the voice would cease to reveal itself entirely.
April’s winds walk in with Ajax through the entrance of the building. His footsteps are heavy against the floor, syncing up with the violent beating of your heart.
“Wow,” he muses. He stands opposite you, scatters of freckles littered across his face. He’s more tan than usual, though you’re not sure how he’s managed that in such a sunless winter. “No hello? It’s been a while, y/n. I would’ve thought that after everything we’ve been through, you’d at least wanna-”
“Don’t speak to me, Ajax.”
You lower your gaze. You’re ashamed of the way you’re unable to look him in the eyes when you say it.
Ajax stands tall before you, dressed in a pair of grey joggers and his old football jersey. ‘Childe’ is printed onto the back, a large ’20’ placed underneath the name. He, despite the venom in your tone, finds himself amused at the way you snap at him. That grating, condescending laugh sounds into the hallway, bitter against your ear. It’s cold, empty, and nothing like the way Flins laughs.
“Missed you saying my name,” he says, and you grit your teeth at it. “Come on, don’t be like that. What, I can’t speak to you at all now? We’ve known each other for years.”
“And we haven’t known each other for long enough. I told you not to speak to me.”
He exhales through his nose, furrowing his brows with a small, challenged smirk. He’s smiling, grinning at you from above, as if this interaction is the highlight of his entire week.
Ajax was, and still is, a man that hates losing. He’s never been one to back down in the face of difficulty, in the face of struggles, finding himself trudging through it all headfirst. It’s a trait of his that you once admired, when your love had watered it down to a burning ambition, determination. Now, you realise, just as you’d realised whenever the two of you would argue, how poisonous his ambition is for those caught in the crossfire, that violent, destructive crossfire between Ajax and his goal.
“You look good, y’know,” he purrs. “That’s a real cute dress you got on. You going somewhere tonight?”
The heat that consumes your body is unbearable. You snap your head up, falling subject to those soulless, empty eyes of his. You wonder if he’s ever had a glint in his eyes, if those shallow pools of water hide anything beyond them at all. It’s a little scary to be around, to fall under a gaze that seems like it passes straight through you. Ajax himself, in truth, is a little scary to be around, and you can’t deny the way your heart pounds against your chest, as if it’s trying to break free and escape from the hellish scenario you’ve wound up in.
You swallow again, attempting to man up in the face of his perplexing level of amusement.
“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound as firm as possible, “what’s it to you, anyway?”
“You goin’ on a date?”
“I don’t see why that’s any of your-”
“Where’s he at?” Ajax interjects. His smile only widens, arms crossing over his chest as he tilts his head to the side. Taunting. “Didn’t know you had a little boyfriend, y/n. You’re making me real jealous, if I’m honest. You over me?”
You feel nausea begin to form at how he mocks you straight to your face, ruthlessly, uncaring. It’s something you’d put up with for 2 years, and something you’d escaped for 1. It felt odd, backwards, to experience it all again.
“Why are you even here, Ajax?” You ask. Your tone is a little more desperate than you would’ve wanted it to be, like you were begging him to explain himself. “Why- ugh, what the fuck. You-”
“Just wanted to apologise to you. Y’know, for fucking Yelan and everything. I would’ve said so earlier if you’d welcomed me with a nicer reception, you see. You make things pretty difficult for yourself, y/n. Like I said, old habits die hard.”
His words feel like daggers churning at your stomach.
You recognise the phrases, the not-so subtle similarities, how what he’s saying to you mimics the things he’s said in previous arguments, back when you needed him.
You make things pretty difficult for yourself, y/n.
It was his go-to line, the one he’d use to shoot stems of doubt through you with ease. He was never too flirty with other women, you only thought that he was. It was a side effect of your insecurity, after all, one of the moments where you’d make things pretty difficult for yourself.
He never spoke to you with a weird tone, you only thought that he had. It was a side effect of your overthinking, after all, one of the moments where you’d make things pretty difficult for yourself.
You blink, dumbfounded. Ajax, however, is only more and more entertained the longer he’s able to speak to you. You’re not sure why you don’t stop him, why you don’t just shout at him and tell him to leave you alone. Your legs feel frozen in place, your voice caught up in your throat.
“I feel bad about it,” he continues, pleased that you haven’t been able to put up much of a fight against him, “must’ve been pretty awkward for you to walk in on us like that, I get it. But, y’know, you probably should put some of the blame on strawberry head carrying you right into it all. Diluc should get his ears checked before he walks into a room next time. Matter of fact, think he should check up on a lot of things, really.”
“Shut up, Ajax. Diluc helped me out a lot that night.”
“Yeah? How kind of him. Sounds like he’s a real hero.”
“Wh- what?” you splutter, perplexed at his choice of words, the almost script-like recital. “What the hell are you even talking about right now? Why’re you speaking so weird?”
You’re crying, but he doesn’t seem to pay it much mind. He never has, after all.
“I’m only making conversation,” is what he responds with, a shit eating grin dancing on his lips. His voice carries that infuriating cool, that agitating stability, as if talking to you right now is the most natural thing in the world. You look away from him, resolve shattering, finding yourself unable to hold onto his piercing gaze any longer. Your eyes dart aimlessly around the halls before landing back onto the screen of your phone, grasped tight in your left hand, still open on Flins’ chat.
You swallow.
There’s a low buzz in the air. You can only assume that it’s Ajax, still speaking at you, his words muffled into a blur of this and that. You really should’ve stayed looking at him, you think, because no amount of emptiness, no lack of glint, could make your heart sink like it does when you finally see Flins’ response.
Flins: we need to talk. [8:04pm]
The time at the corner of your screen reads 8:25.
A soft, low ringing sounds into the air. You’re not sure if it’s the building, or if it’s only in your head.
“…so freaked out over nothing. It’s just me, seriously. You’re… but I haven’t even…”
You’re barely able to make out what Ajax says through the thump of your heartbeat banging against your eardrums. You’re aware of your own breathing, of each short, shallow breath you take. Your cheeks are wet with your own tears, dripping onto the fabric of your expensive, pretty dress. The dress you’d picked out especially for Flins’ eyes.
“Hey- hey. Are you even listening to me right now? Helloo?”
Your dress feels a lot tighter than usual, suffocating. You don’t know how you’d put up with his voice for 2 years straight. Right now, under the clinical, white lights of the Arts building hallway, each word that falls from his lips burns your skin like fire. It hurts to listen to him, physically.
“Are you ignoring me? You are seriously no fun at all, y/n. Always so fucking boring. All I wanted to do was-”
“Leave me alone,” you spit.
You don’t process the speed at which it all happens. You’re standing up, forearm pressed to Ajax’s upper chest, his face contorted into an expression of shock, surprise. You shove him, hard, with a force you don’t quite recognise, and watch the way he stumbles backwards, his sneakers squeaking against the ground in their attempts to balance his large frame. You shout something, something mean, and he shouts right back, moving to close the distance between the pair of you. He’s screaming in your face, and you’re screaming in his, strings and streams of the same insults you’d both return to time and time again.
Selfish.
Unbelievable.
Crazy.
Ridiculous.
It feels like you’re back there, standing with glossy eyes in his dimly lit room. He’s on his phone, barely looking at you, only bothering to meet your eyes when you raise your voice, when he senses challenge, difficulty. He looks at you when he wants to win, when he wants to see you lose.
Your voice strains, and your sobs try their best to hide themselves at the back of your throat. He’s arguing with you with that same, wide smile, the smile that serves as a reminder that he, in all his spite, in all his hate, always wins, no matter what the situation may be. You’re the one who’s crying, not him. You’re the one who’s so agitated, not him. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around, waiting for over 2 hours, for her date to arrive. Ajax, as much as it pains you to admit it, is not the loser of the evening, and he knows it.
You don’t even know when, or how, Diluc got there, pushing Ajax against one of the empty office doors. The impact sends a loud bang through the empty halls, the door’s hinges rattling with the heaviness of the blow delivered against it.
“What the-”
“That’s enough, Ajax.”
You stand there, silent, as the redhead draws back from his assault. He keeps a large arm pressed against the man’s chest, keeping him still, stationary. Ajax is pressed against the door, a short stream of red trickling from his left temple, from where you can assume he’d hit the door the hardest; the blood stains the tip of his ginger hair. The hallway, once filled with meddled, incoherent webs of insults, quickly falls subject to a deafening silence. Even the ringing in your ears had ceased, your heartbeat returning from your ears to your chest.
You can’t see the expression on Diluc’s face, his back is facing you, but you can see how heavy each breath is, how his shoulders rise and fall so visibly.
As expected, a few professors peek out of their offices. You hear the sounds of doors opening, hushed murmurs of confusion, before one of them decides to speak up.
“What’s going on out there?” The voice calls, booming through the empty halls. “Has something-”
“Everything is fine. Not to worry.”
Diluc’s voice is stern, firm, and just as loud as the professor’s. He doesn’t look at the owner of the voice, and instead keeps his eyes fixed on Ajax, boring holes into the man before him. Ajax, much to your surprise, only stares back, letting a small, sly smile curl onto his lips. The blood that trickles down his head gathers at the corner of his lips, quickly lapped up by his tongue. You grimace , remembering the gross habit of his.
“Got it, Diluc,” he mumbles, clicking his tongue.
You can’t help but furrow your brows at his words.
He says it weird, different to how you’d usually say it. You don’t miss the way his voice raises at the end of his sentence, how he’s been speaking so odd, so different, the entire time.
Got it, Diluc?
Despite your observations, you don’t have much time to ponder , because a strong hand wraps its fingers around your wrist. You yelp as Diluc tugs you forwards, forcing you to stumble out of the arts building with him, straight into the cold of the night that waits outside. Ajax calls out to you both, shouting something you can’t quite make out in the harsh April wind that engulfs you, but Diluc ignores it. He’s heading quickly, too quickly for you to keep up comfortably, towards the staff parking lot next to the left of the Arts building. The trees outside sway violently, each leaf fighting to hang onto the branch it stems from. It’s raining, and the wind pushes each drop of water to fall onto your skin harder than it would’ve on its own accord. Your feet stumble over themselves, catching onto the fabric of your dress. You’re failing to match his pace, and his grip on your wrist is uncomfortably tight.
You have never, ever, felt so much in such a short period of time.
“Wait- Diluc, what the hell are you-”
“I need to speak to you, y/n,” he states plainly, finally turning to meet your eyes with his frantic ones. “Let me drive you home.”
You aren’t close to Diluc, nor have you ever been. Throughout the years, the majority of your interactions with him were limited to nods of acknowledgement, polite waves when you’d cross paths on campus. You’d come to learn, through a passing comment from Nefer in the midst of one of her nonsensical rambles, about how much Diluc hated small talk. He’s awkward, introverted, and more inclined to withdraw into himself. Small talk, for Diluc, was a mere hassle, a pause in your consistent stream of day to day activities. It was a nightmare for him, being friends with Nefer, a woman who practically knew the entire student body.
For that reason, you never tried to speak to him too often, making a conscious effort to limit your interactions to simple, wordless encounters. He, if instict had serves you right, had always seemed to appreciate your favour. Diluc is quiet, after all, a man of few words, and even fewer outward emotions.
The red-haired man in front of you is not one you recognise.
“My car’s here,” he says after you don’t respond, “just- just tell me your address. I’ll drive you there, and I’ll explain everything. You-”
“Diluc.”
“There’s a lot to get through-”
“Diluc.”
“But if you just- if you give me some of your time, I promise, I’ll-”
“Diluc, what the fuck are you talking about?” You snatch your wrist from his grip, letting it smack harshly against your thigh. He stares at you, eyes wide. “I’m so confused, man. Why was Ajax even there? Why were you there? It’s like 8pm, and neither of you even have classes in the Arts building, what-”
“You have to let me drive you home, y/n.”
His persistence renders you speechless once more.
You imagine yourself banging your head against the hood of his car, frustrated out of your mind. Diluc, ever so level headed, ever so firm, has never sounded as outrageous as he does right now, red hair sticking flat against his head in the rain.
“I know it sounds unreasonable,” he continues, sensing that he’s coming off ridiculous, that you’re probably confused out of your mind, “I know you’ve had a horrible evening, and I know you’re waiting for Flins to get here-”
You freeze. You hadn’t mentioned Flins’ name to anyone in months.
“How do you-”
Once again, Diluc takes your wrist into his hand. He makes sure to hold it comfortably this time, loose, housing a look in his eyes more pleading than you’d ever seen in anyone. April only continues its assault on those under its skies, commanding its winds to damage, to surge, to brush against you both rougher than any wind ever had. The rain keeps your hair stuck against your face, while the wind does its best to move it.
“I’ll tell you everything, I promise, y/n. Fuck. I- I didn’t- it wasn’t meant to be this bad. They told me it was all some stupid- I didn’t think they’d actually- I’m sorry. Seriously, I am so, so sorry. I fucked up, I- just- please let me drive you home before-”
Diluc, really, should’ve spoken to you months ago.
He should’ve spoken to you at Kaveh’s party, taking you to throw up outside instead of Alhaitham’s bathroom.
He should’ve spoken to you at the communal study area, when Nefer was so busy showing you all the clothes you could borrow from her.
He should’ve told you after he’d let Ajax and Yelan into his flat, called you while he sat alone in the living room.
Diluc, really, should’ve spoken to you months ago, and yet he never did. There’s a deep, wounding cowardice in leaving important words unsaid.
Diluc knows it’s too late when he hears the notification on your phone, when he sees the way you bring your screen to your face, the way your expression falls, and the way you, once again, snatch your wrist from his grasp. You’re walking away from him before he’s able to call out for you, to tell you to let him drive you back instead.
You, feeling your heartbeat against your ears again, find no place to pay him mind.
Flins: Here, outside Arts. [8:35pm]
You probably look like shit right now, you think. Your brand new dress is soaked from the rain outside, sticking, uncomfortably cold, against your body. Your mascara had run, leaving long streaks of black and gray lining both your cheeks. Your hair’s a mess, assaulted by the April winds outside; a few strands drip onto your clothes, while the others maintain the heat of your straightener. Everything about you is dishevelled, uneven. Flins hasn’t said a single thing about the dress you’d wore for him.
In fact, Flins hasn’t said a single thing at all. No apology, no explanation, no sweet, sugar coated words. Aside from the two of you, the only other thing present in his car is a long, agonising stretch of silence, one that overpowers what had settled in the midst of Diluc and Ajax’s violent confrontation. His radio is off. There’s no distinct mumble to tame the tension between you. The windows are closed shut. There’s no wind, but truthfully, you’re a little grateful for that fact.
Flins hadn’t opened the door for you when you ran up to his car. He stayed seated, still, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him, one, gloved hand gripping the steering wheel. He didn’t respond to your meek ‘hey’, nor did he offer you as little as a nod of acknowledgement. He, straight from the start, had been uncomfortably quiet, his winter coat, once again, zipped right up to the top. It shields half of his face from your vision, stripping away the usefulness of your peripheral.
Slowly, with each passing second, you begin to wish you’d taken Diluc up on his offer to drive you home instead.
You, carefully, turn towards Flins. His jaw is clenched, tight. His eyes don’t shift when he senses your movement.
“Kyryll,” you call, a tremble lacing your words, “what- what’s going on right now?”
He, as expected, says nothing, and you swallow. You blink back the tears that well in your eyes.
That silence, the ignoring, the way he refuses to meet your gaze.
Everything about tonight feels all too familiar, and you hate it.
His full name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. His father had named him after one of the more respectable nobles in their hometown, Hyperborea. He’s an only child. His mother had passed when he was 5, leaving him to grieve with his father and his grandparents. The family had left Hyperborea soon after his mother’s death, with his father unable to remain in a place that was stained with the smile of his late wife, his nightlight. His father was the only one to see his mother’s grave, leaving a single, frostlamp flower before the headstone. It, Flins had been told, was her favourite flower. Flins, as a form of compensation, and as a way to strengthen his memory, was gifted his mother’s silver lantern necklace. He hasn’t taken it off since the day he was given it.
Flins had taken a liking to collectibles, antiques, from an early age. He liked history, and he liked stories; he liked knowing that everything, despite ceasing to physically exist, continues to live through words, through memory, through the singing of songs in a dimly lit bar. Everything leaves a mark, and whether or not that mark is physical is beside the point. Antiques carry the whispers of all who’d owned it before, the touches of all who’d held it. They promise him a story, they promise him life, even if the life it promises fails to materialise before his eyes. He knows it’s there because it has been there. The silver necklace around his neck had once rested against his mother’s skin, after all. It promises him life, her life, even in the face of death.
Flins was kind to the dead, to the ghosts that set sad eyes over their neglected graves. Memory was what kept people alive, after all. There’s less dead people in the world than people assume. He made sure to remember, to learn, to trace his fingers over the carvings of their names. He made sure to ingrain it into his mind, to feel the person that had once been there, as if they were to sit themselves right next to him, watching him place a frostlamp flower before their headstones. At times, whenever he was free, he’d talk to the graves. He’d tell them about himself, about how he longs to feel the winds of Hyperborea on his skin. He’d ask them about his mother, if they knew of her, if they liked her as much as he did. He’d confess that he hadn’t spoken to his father in a long, long time, that grief had taken him as selfishly as death had taken his mother. The ghosts, despite their silence, had listened to him every single time.
Flins was a man tainted with the hands of death, with the sadness, the grief on its palms. And yet, despite it all, through it all, he’d only ever greeted you with a smile.
That charming, dashing smile, that full, warm laugh.
It had felt so easy to be happy around you, after all. His necklace had never felt warmer against his skin.
“I feel that it would be best for us to stop seeing each other, y/n. I hope you can respect my decision, and that we can part ways with no further trouble.”
He’s stopped his car outside the entrance to your house. A gloved hand remains gripping the steering wheel, his head still facing the road before him. He doesn’t look at you while he speaks, nor does his tone house any particular emotion. His words linger in the air, waiting for you to grasp them for yourself.
It’s painful, so painful, and all too familiar.
You blink, your vision blurred by the tears at your eyes.
“What? Kyryll, I-”
“Flins,” he interjects firmly. “Please, refrain from addressing me by my first name, if you can. It is quite intimate to me.”
You feel your heart sink to your stomach at the correction. Your throat burns, stings, like there’s thorns wrapped around the insides.
“What’s going on?” You cry, desperation mingling with the hurt you feel. “Why- why aren’t you looking at me right now? Look at m- I don’t- we were fine this morning, Kyryll- why aren’t you looking at me?”
It’s painful, so painful, and all too familiar.
He keeps his eyes on the road.
“Please, y/n. I want you to leave. It’s late, and I wish to get back home before it gets any later.”
I want you to leave.
Flins, ever so clingy, so addicted to your lips, to your touch, to the way your body fits so snug against his. You can’t believe the words leaving his mouth, so cold, stone-cold. There is no sugar that sits at the tip of his tongue. There’s nothing at all, everything feels empty, abyssal, like his words pass right through you.
It’s painful, so painful, and all too familiar.
“If you want to go home, then take me with you,” you hiss, narrowing your eyes at him. You notice him tense at your words, how he shifts uncomfortably under your sharpening gaze. “If you want me to go inside, then take me inside. Come in with me and fucking talk to me properly, Kyryll.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why?!”
He doesn’t elaborate, nor does he ask you to leave again.
You’re met with silence, with eyes that refuse to meet yours, and you’re taken back to that dimly lit room once more. You feel desperate, helpless, as if you’re miles away from him, despite having him right next to you. Flins, for the first time, feels unimaginably out of reach, as if he’d disappear if you even tried to touch him, to hold him, to feel those warm, soft lips against yours. It was only this morning that you’d felt him, the beating of his heart, the warmth of skin to skin, his lips, hungrily, selfishly drinking from your core. It was only this morning that you’d had him in your palms, promising him of your love, feeling the weight of him atop your tongue.
So why, why, is it all so different right now?
“Look at me,” you say. He doesn’t listen. “Why aren’t you speaking to me, Kyryll?”
He doesn’t tell you to stop calling him that, nor does he correct you with ‘Flins’. All you’re met with is silence, and it’s painful, so painful, and all too familiar. Your chest feels unbearably tight. You wonder if he hates you, if the mere sight of you makes him disgusted. You must look terrible, beaten from the rain’s assault. Your dress must be ruined, along with your makeup, the hair you’d tried so hard to style just for him. Why would he look at you in this state? Was this really something to blame him for?
“Talk to me,” you cry. You feel it, that feeling you’ve been trying so hard to free yourself from, the feeling you’ve worked to heal from for over a year now. You feel that pull at your chest, the way your heartstrings strain and tug, the way your heart beats so rapidly, so panicked. You feel the thick air of that dimly lit room seep into his car. “Even if it’s to say you hate me, I don’t care. I just want to hear you. I need to hear you, Kyryll.”
This time, you know you have sounded this pathetic before.
You’re consumed in it, encased in it, the feeling of needing Flins.
He, alarmed at the phrase he’s heard from you before, tilts his head towards you. He’s not facing you fully, not at all, but it’s more than what you’d had to work with before, more than enough. Those golden, gleaming eyes glint with the gloss you hold in your own, the remnants of dried tears staining his right cheek. It makes you pause, it makes you question it all. You hadn’t noticed that he, too, had been trying to blink back his own sorrows as he drove you home.
“Kyryll, what’s the matt-”
“Is it true, y/n?” He asks, his voice losing its usual stability, its deliberation. “That you’d slept with me in attempts to satiate your own, selfish need for revenge? Tell me, please, that Yelan is lying to me. Tell me she’s lying and I promise I’ll believe you.”
Fucking your friend’s ex is not okay.
You’d like to think that most people would share the same opinion, that the easiest way to paint yourself stupid is to be intimate, physically or emotionally, with the ex of anyone you’d call a good friend. It’s not just girl code, it’s really just general decency.
You’re not even sure how normal, good people get themselves into that situation to begin with. There has never been a moment where you’ve looked at a friend’s ex, having witnessed the tears, the sobbing, having been informed of the ugliest parts of the relationship, and thought to yourself ‘wow, he’s exactly what I want’.
Nope, not once, and you were firm in the fact that you wouldn’t ever think that either. You were firm in that fact because you were a normal, good person. Normal, good people don’t fuck their friends’ exes.
Normal, good people don’t do what you’ve done to Flins.
Normal, good people wouldn’t sit where you sit right now, your heart aching at the way he stares at you with so much hurt in his eyes, so much betrayal, waiting for you to lie to him once more, to tell him that Yelan’s a liar, that you’d never, ever do that to him. Your words are caught in your throat. You can’t say anything to him.
It seems, from the way his shoulders drop, from the way he swallows the lump in his throat, that your silence serves as enough of an answer for him.
“Y/n,” he says, moving to look ahead of him once more, “leave, please.”
Your blood runs cold.
“Kyryll-” you try to plead, breaking free from the guilt, the regret that choked your throat.
“Leave.”
“I like you, I seriously, seriously like you. I like you so m-”
“I don’t want to hear this, y/n, I mean it.”
“There’s nothing about you I don’t like, please. I couldn’t name one thing wrong with you, not one. You’re- you mean more to me than- than anyone else, Kyryll. No one’s made me feel what you make me feel. No one’s treated me how you treat me. You- you’re so patient with me, you’re so kind, and I know I don’t deserve that right now. I-I fucked up. It was stupid to rope you into all this, but I promise, I swear I’m still here because I love you.” You sob, hands gripping against the leather of his car seat. “I really, truly love you, Kyryll.”
He, once again, turns to look at you. For once, for the first time, you find yourself wishing that he’d just stayed in his original position, his head turned away from your gaze. His golden eyes are empty, abyssal. He doesn’t say a single word in response. It’s painful, so painful, and all too familiar.
He doesn’t believe a word that comes from your mouth.
I feel a little bad ending it like this. My fault, guys. I will however promise a part 3 grand finale Final Chapter. I swear. I did not intend for this to become a bit of a mini series, hahaha
Summary: Dainsleif is contemplating if he should join the fight or not. You go and help him think it out.
AN// I’ve never written for him before but we’ll see how this turned out xD I might even add him to the characters I write for bcs I’ve been meaning to write for him for so long aghh
“Revenge, responsibility, necessity.”
Dainsleif stood upon a cliff, eyes gazing at the far horizon. Far away from any crowds in order to sink deeper into his thoughts, as bad of a habit as that had become. The loss of memories didn’t prevent him from coming across situations that surfaced something he thought to have been long gone from his mind. Hearing of Rerir’s return had stirred these memories, of the uncertainty of what had gotten over him that night.
He was grateful, of course, for the help Nefer had provided him with. He’d known the risks and possible outcomes long before even daring to request such things. And maybe if Rerir wasn’t such an acute problem he would have been able to have peace of mind after. But with the current information and situation at hand, he couldn’t help but keep finding himself deep in thought. Regrets clouding his judgement.
That night, if he’d decided not to ask Rerir to join him and the others, what would have that changed? If he had asked anyone else, Rerir wouldn’t have been there to be swayed by the abyss. Dainsleif couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret when imagining the differently played scenario. Rerir would have been elsewhere if only he had chosen otherwise.
Dainsleif had found himself thinking this over multiple times in the past, wondering why the man he’d trusted so much back then had betrayed him so suddenly. He wasn’t stupid and knew that he could have sensed the betrayal coming if there had been signs, but there had been none. But it all made just a little more sense now. For better or worse, he blamed himself.
This moment of thoughts clashing was interrupted by the sound of a pair of boots coming closer. Dainsleif’s attention was on the intruder instantly, at the ready to find the most convenient excuse to get back to what he’d been doing before. But before he was able to open his mouth he was interrupted again. “Word has it you’ve been sulking.” Your familiar voice filled the silent space he’d found for himself. You somehow managed to make the situation sound pitiable, more than he had imagined it to be. “I’d prefer ‘deep contemplation’” He answered after a soft ‘ehh..’ had left his lips. An attempt to make the situation sound better. “What exactly are you doing here?” Dainsleif moved on, hoping you would as well.
He watched you settle on the same cliff’s edge, the cool wind blowing against the helm of your clothing. It wasn’t that your presence was unwelcome, he knew these people weren’t hostile. But he had a habit of being suspicious, only a natural reaction of the mind after having lived beyond his years. “Everyone busied themselves with other matters, so I slipped out here.” Your answer didn’t seem to satisfy him, gaining only a subtle raise of a brow for an answer. Waiting for you to continue with a more pleasing one. “Oh, I knew you’d be here.” This only made him more curious, so much so that he found himself thinking a little more clearly. He’d tried his best to hide his tracks, but maybe he’d gotten his guard a little too low while staying here. “And what gave away my location? The inability to keep my ‘sulking’ to myself?” He answered, leaning himself against the side of the cliff. Position a little defensive, but he wasn’t seemingly pushing you away either. The question though, it seemed to shy you away a little. The next answer not coming out with as much confidence. “I…asked around…”
Dainsleif huffed, a sigh mixed with a subtle chuckle. The realisation of someone seeing him made him take note of taking better care of his tracks… “Dangerous habit…” He mumbled, mostly to himself. Leaving it unclear if he’d been talking to you or himself. He drew in a breath, wiping away the confusion he’d caused. “Though I suppose the one to find me would be the one always listening.” His gaze finally turned fully on you, arms crossed over his chest. He was so difficult to read like this, leaving you uncertain if coming here had been a mistake. “I meant no offence, I swear…”
Dainsleif’s expression softened, if only slightly. His head turning back towards the cold horizon. “None taken,” he replied with a subtle shake of his head, dismissing the topic.
“But if you came to stay, I hope you brought better conversation than my brooding.” It took a moment for you to form an answer. Precisely because of the topic you’d joined him in for. “You see, I didn’t come for idle chatter.” You grimaced a little, tiptoeing over the topic. But in the end, you knew he was aware of what you wanted to talk about, there was no use in hiding it. “...You know they’re all wondering if you’ll come or not..” Dainsleif chewed his lip for a moment, eyes unmoving. “And they sent you to convince me?” He asked, but there was no true question in his words. Like he was convinced that was the truth all along. “I came of my own volition.” You answered soon after with a firm tone, so quickly you almost wished you hadn’t. Hoping the swift answer wouldn’t make him doubt your sincerity.
Dainsleif wanted to believe you were honest, but something in him wouldn’t allow him that comfort. In truth, he didn’t know these people and they couldn’t possibly hope to understand him and therefore care what he was up to. But something in the way you had said that caught him off guard, making him turn back to you. “Then why take the effort and come when I’m preoccupied?” He tried one last time to shoo you away without actually asking and begging you to, that low he refused to sink. Though what he got in return was a smirk and a subtle laugh, “with what, sulking?”
Dainsleif arched an eyebrow before going to rub hub his face. “Contemplating.” He said again through his hands, trying to make himself sound a little less pathetic. His guard was truly low, a little too low for his comfort.
“So, are you joining?” You pressed the matter again, refusing to give up. This was a matter on everyone’s minds, not just his. Dainsleif was silent. He had his reasons for hesitation on joining the attack, and it weighed heavily on his mind. Enough so that he didn’t see a reason to not share his thoughts. “Truthfully, I’m not sure. It’s conflicting.” He finally answered, hands lowered back over his chest along with a deep breath.
Dainsleif waited for you to answer, to say anything so he wouldn’t have to. 500 years of travel, loss and solitude meant he wasn’t quite tuned to sharing his thoughts in the open like this. But when there was no answer, he began talking. “It’s not only about fighting Re- The Rächer of Solnari. But facing the failures of my past.” He spoke the private thoughts out loud, confliction clear in each word. “And yet if I don’t act now, what kind of legacy does that leave for us today? For Khaenri’ah…”
The image of Rerir being allured by the Abyss before him was still clear in his mind. Even as the happiest memories he held for his home slowly faded and corroded away with the curse, he could never forget that. How confused he had been for why Rerir of everyone would have betrayed him like that. How silly he now felt when looking back. How he had missed any signs of Rerir being unwell, how he clearly was a person who could have been swayed-. But now that the truth was finally revealed, a part of him felt responsible enough to be a part of putting an end to what had transpired that night.
A groan escaped Dainsleif’s lips, accompanied by a pained sigh. “I should have seen it coming, known he was unwell.” In his mind, there was no redemption for those mistakes. No excuse that could fix what he had ignored. “It went overlooked because I trusted him…” Dainsleif’s voice had grown heavier. It was as if he was solely blaming himself for not being able to save his home, like the thoughts still haunted him. Even more now, that the truth of that night had become clearer.
You could see the suffering worth multiple lifetimes cross the man’s face, but you couldn’t help but to think ahead. There was no use in going over the mistakes of the past when there was still something he could do right in the present. “There’s still people out there who you can save, you know. Not just the people of the past.” You reminded him, a hopeful change of course. But it seemed like he wasn’t so easily swayed. “This is not sorted so easily,” he replied coldly. Not out of malice but in order to protect himself. Of course the lesser evil would have been to come along, but did he have the right to banish the person he had failed by his own actions?
You stared at him for a good moment. It didn’t take friendship worth hundreds of years to see that Dainslaif wouldn’t change his mind with sheer comfort. He was a man of action, had been and you had hopes that maybe he still was. He had led the immediate attack when his brother had been attacked, so perhaps the urgency now would awaken the same kind of heroism in him. “The schedule is set. If we fail now, the consequences will be dire.” There was no other advice you could give him. This was not only about revenge and grudges, but necessity. Even if it was all three for him.
The sky had covered itself with thick clouds, intricate snowflakes falling down upon the land slowly. You took a seat by the edge of the cliff before it would get covered in snow, eyes glued to the far horizon. “You don’t have to choose now, I just thought I’d help.” No threat in your words, just slight urgency.
You could feel his eyes on you, but by that point you had realised that he wasn’t going to shoo you away. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken understanding of this. Your suspicion was only enhanced when you heard the heels of his shoes and soon watched him take a seat near you. The choice would come in due time.
gn!reader, slightly angsty, religious themes, kinda religious guilt?? not really the word for it tho. blasphemy.
“Are you in love with me, Dain?”
“What?”
“Are you in love with me?”
There is no solace in devotion, nor is there comfort in belief. The clasped hands that sit below whispered prayers have always served him better by his sides.
Dainsleif does not believe in God, and in turn, God does not believe in Dainsleif.
It’s a complicated relationship, because it’s not as though he denies the existence of a higher power. No, he doesn’t deny that at all. The lines on his palms are too purposeful, and the skin on his body too detailed. The patterns of each snowflake so different, and you, lying beside him, far too beautiful.
Dainsleif does not believe in God, because God has never believed in Dainsleif. He knows that. He knows that as well as he knows the lines on his palms. God has never cared for the pleas that fell from his lips, the tears that pooled at his eyes. God has never cared for the bruises on his knees, the ones that he’d gained from begging, from reducing himself to submission. God, throughout it all, has never, ever cared for Dainsleif. He knows that as well as he knows the lines on his palms.
It’s a silly question to ask, he thinks. He’s not sure why you even did. You’re lying beside him, half of your face taken in by the plush of the pillow it sits on. The only sound in his room is the quiet whirr of the radiator to the right of his bed. He’s sitting up, and the headboard feels slightly cold against his bare back. The night is long, but thankfully, it is still. He wonders if God is watching.
“Okay,” you say.
Dainsleif realises only then that he’d left you to sit with your own question for too long. He turns his head to you, to the small frown that curls onto your lips, and a tinge of regret blooms at his chest.
“Sorry, y/n,” he mumbles, reaching out to thread his fingers through your hair. Though you don’t respond to his quiet apology, he sees your eyes close at his touch, feeling the way he runs his hand through the strands. The pads of his fingers press lightly against your scalp, gently massaging the area until he manages to coax a sigh from your lips.
“It’s okay, don’t apologise.” Your eyes remained closed, one hand under the pillow while the other rests beside you. “You never say it anyway. Just tell me to stop asking.”
Dainsleif has only prayed once. He remembers it, and God, as uncaring as God may be, remembers it too. A brilliant display of desperation, a painting of all the sorrows in his heart. Dainsleif was knelt down, bartering with loss, as if loss’s greed did not triumph Dainsleif’s need. Dainsleif has only prayed once, and he will never, ever pray again.
He’s not sure why he can’t tell you he loves you; it’s true that he does. In fact, he might love you more than anyone else. He might even love you more than the palms of his hands, the ones that have served him better than anything watching from above. Dainsleif can barely look your way without feeling blinded, maimed by a light that shines more intensely than the light of God.
He feels faint when he kisses you, dizzy, like your tongue traces spells onto his tongue. He feels warm, flushed, when you lie sprawled across his chest. Skin to skin, heart to heart.
A lot of time passes after you speak, and it brings a comfortable slumber with it. He can tell from the way your soft snores accompany the whirr of his radiator, when his eyes graze over the rise and fall of your chest. There’s some guilt in letting you fall asleep upset, but he takes note to make it up to you in the morning, when the sun that rises will sit in the sky, envious of the way you shine brighter.
Dainsleif does not believe in God, because God has never believed in Dainsleif. God, throughout it all, has never, ever cared for Dainsleif.
But you, you have always believed. You, throughout it all, have always, always cared. He knows that. He knows that as well as he knows the lines on his palms.
“I love you,” he says. You don’t catch it through your sleep.
For the first time in years, and of his own betrayal, the words leave his mouth like a prayer.
i’ll write this into a full fic eventually. but i have to stop writing hopping lol i promise i’ll upload the 2nd part to my last flins fic before that ♡
w.c 18.7k (again, my apologies. everybody yes EVERYBODY will have lore )
🍲synopsis 𐙚
★ fucking your friend’s ex is not okay, that’s for sure. but if she’s slept with yours, and you haven’t slept with hers, where does that place you on the leaderboard? under her, probably, and that won’t do. your best remedy, at this point, is to get under flins instead.
🐈 notes 𐙚
fem reader ★ modern!au, university!au ★ bff’s ex 2 lovers (lol) ★ alcohol usage ★ nsfw content , minors/ageless blocks DNI.★ car sex, fingering, fingers in mouths, handjobs, unprotected sex ★ reader is freaked the hell out ★ flins is freaked out ★ in truth, everybody freaked out, sorry ★ horrendously messy (if you didn’t gather that from the synopsis) ★ toxic relationships described (not with flins)
🍦just in case 𐙚
im worried flins is a little mischaracterised, so my apologies if he is. it was a bit difficult to integrate his personality into a plot like this :( childe x reader, but he’s ur ex. all pairings in this piece r for plot progression only !! time writing smut Ever, bear with me (°¯᷄◠¯᷅°) please disregard any typos , i might have missed a few
“You want me to fuck Flins?! You are out of your mind, Nef.”
“Oh, please. Why are you acting like I haven’t posed a pretty reasonable request? How much of last night do you remember?”
The knuckles on your right hand are red. To make matters worse, a whisper of a bruise is settled near the top of your arm, threatening to grow into a gross, purple splodge. The roots of your hair sting to the left of your scalp, and to top it all off, your head is pounding. Bad. If it were to ache any more, your best bet at taming it would be with horse sedatives.
“Uh,” you murmur, “some of it, I guess.”
You’re in an absolute state. Nefer would’ve been better off asking you how much of last night you want to remember. That way, you could answer with a simple “none of it”.
“Some of it?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not crying right now, so clearly, you don’t remember enough of it.”
You groan, slipping back into your bed. In your moment of pettiness, you pull the sheets over your head, as if the duvet would be enough of a defence against Nefer’s blazing glare.
“I’ll give you a rundown,” she sighs, her voice sounding muffed on the other side of the linen. “Trust me, I think it’s in your best interests to remember it all. You should stay home this week.”
“Stay home? I have classes, Nef.”
“You also have a pretty tarnished reputation. Give people time to forget it, unless you’d rather be there to listen to them talk about the punch you landed on Ajax’s nose last night.”
“What?!” you shriek, ripping the sheets off yourself. You stare at her with wide eyes, but Nefer only snickers, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. The depth of your social rupture, only then, begins to dawn on you.
Two vodka cranberries, six Jägerbombs, and a party that your ex boyfriend was definitely going to be at. You’re not sure what part of you was convinced that you could somehow, miraculously, enjoy an uneventful night. You are sure, though, that you’re willing to surgically remove whatever part of you it was.
“So, will you finally let me remind you?” Your best friend prods. You’re not sure if you even have a choice in the matter, but you decide to play along anyway, exhaling in defeat. “By the time I finish, you’ll probably call Flins without me having to make you do it.”
“Just get it over with, Nef. Go on.”
“Alright. But I’ll tell you right now, you’re gonna hate it.”
10pm.
Even though Kaveh’s invites mentioned that the party would start at 9, the entire place looked as though people had been going at it for hours. It was packed.
The music was blaring and the bass of it rumbled through your blood. That was enough to tell you that Kaveh had managed to rope Xilonen into it. It was a good idea on his part, and enough to indicate that Alhaitham had most certainly left campus for a while. There was no way in hell that he would’ve been okay with a party of this magnitude, and you started to sympathise with his logic when Arataki Itto, the football team’s quarterback, threw himself directly onto the beer pong table. It collapsed to the ground with an ear-splitting crash. Kaveh was mortified.
“Shit, Itto- fuck. Dude?! Alhaitham bought that- fuck, oh my god. He’s gonna kill me.”
The majority of Kaveh’s distress, much to his misfortune, was drowned out by roaring laughter, cheers and whistles in favour of Itto’s “signature dance move”. You weren’t sure if Itto was aware that he would be the one paying for the damage, but you didn’t have the time to wonder too long. Itto wasn’t your issue, and neither was Kaveh’s table.
That night, along with almost every night before it, your issue was Ajax.
Your issue stood with his back pressed against the living room wall, an arm slung around Kaeya’s shoulder. The pair of them were speaking eagerly to two girls, both unfamiliar to you, with wide, sly grins. The blonde one of the pair leaned forward, placing both arms on Ajax’s chest, before whispering something into his ear. You watched the smirk creep onto his lips, mumbling something back to her, before pressing his mouth against hers.
Yeah, some things never did change. From across the room, you were glaring daggers into him.
“Fuck, oh my God, Ajax. Don’t stop, please.”
“Fuck, Ajax. Shut up. Please.”
You could summarise the two years you spent with him into just that.
“When’s Yelan getting here?” You asked, trying to focus on anything but your ex boyfriend standing a foot away from you. It wasn’t often that you and Nefer went anywhere without her.
Upsettingly, Yelan had been more distant as of late, busied tremendously with the demands of biomedical sciences. As a result, she only came to events that aligned with her own schedule. Even though she had promised to make an effort this time, you weren’t sure if Kaveh’s party met the mark for her.
Nefer only shrugged, telling you that she had no idea, and that you might as well just get more drinks while you waited for her.
“Jägers?” She grinned. “Heard Diluc’s mixing for Kaveh tonight.”
And that marked the start of the end, if deciding to go to the party wasn’t enough to begin with.
Even Nefer doesn’t remember how exactly it all went wrong so fast. In her words, “it just did”.
Diluc was holding you up. Amber tried her best to call Kaveh over from across the room, shouting things you couldn’t make out. You were dizzy, slurring your words, and unreasonably unwilling to drink the water that Jean kept trying to bring to your lips. In short, you were an absolute nightmare for everyone involved.
“Y/n, I really just need you to drink this water,” Jean pleaded, desperate to nurse you back to health.
“Mmgh…he used to swim, y’know. ‘Jax. And- and one time, he wanted to fuck in the pool, so-“
Nefer delivered a swift smack to the back of your head. “Do not embarrass yourself right now. Just drink the-“
“Nef, I’m gonna throw up. I’m gonna be sick.”
“Oh my God.”
It was commendable, the speed at which Diluc carried you across the room, right over to an already-exhasperated Kaveh, who kindly directed you towards the nearest bathroom. It was, much to his dismay, an ensuite bathroom. Alhaitham’s.
“Diluc,” Kaveh mumbled, “just make sure she doesn’t throw up on his bed. Please, man.”
“Of course, I’ll try my best.”
“I’m so dead when he gets back, dude.”
Diluc could only sigh. It had only been 3 hours since people started pooling in, and Kaveh looked as though he’d turn back time to stop the party if he could.
“Yeah, I… don’t think I can be of much service for that issue. Hang in there, buddy.”
You were taken prompty to Alhaitham’s room. It was unlocked, thankfully, so you didn’t have to suffer with your nausea for too long. You were just grateful that you’d be out of Ajax’s line of vision, especially in a state like this.
That ache to get back together with Ajax had long departed in the time you managed to maintain no contact. What didn’t depart, however, was your bitterness, your anger. Because how could you just forget? Those empty, blue eyes, looking at you with nothing in them. Those wandering hands, those skilled fingers, knowing how to do everything but hold you right. You resented yourself for not putting him in his place, and you resented him for being out of it. It quickly became evident that Ajax was never the potential you saw in him, no matter how hard you tried to help him. Eventually, you were forced to just accept it. You remember the way he’d rolled his eyes at you when you returned all of his belongings, packed neatly into a box.
At first, you heard it.
“Fuck, oh my God, Ajax. Don’t stop, please.”
Then, you saw her.
Yelan.
After that, your fist, straight onto Ajax’s nose.
“OW-”
And after that, your palm, slapped across Yelan’s cheek, and her hand, balling a fist into your hair.
Diluc had swiftly backed out the room.
“Hey,” he called out, almost regretfully, “Kaveh? She didn’t throw up or anything, but you need to come over here. Fast. I think we need a few more hands on deck.”
Kaveh, standing opposite Diluc, considered dropping out entirely.
The first time that Flins met you was at Nefer’s pregame, albeit in a less-than-conventional way.
He was not the type to go to clubs.The man’s interests didn’t stretch far beyond the comfort of his own home, a nice dinner downtown, or the usual bars he would frequent. Clubs were not his thing, and it took some convincing to get him to come to Nefer’s.
“Babe, please,” Yelan pleaded, pressing a kiss onto his lips. “I want you there.”
He hummed, content with the feeling of her arms wrapped around him. An attentive hand ran through the locks of her hair.
“Would that make you happy, my heart?”
“More than anything. It’s no fun at those clubs without you there anyway.”
Correction: it took no convincing to get him to come.
While Flins was not the type to go to clubs, he absolutely was the type to indulge his woman. Chivalry was a core value, after all. Of the two facts, the latter was an easy way to bypass the former, Yelan came to discover.
And that’s how he found himself there, one foot into your bedroom, a hand still latched onto your doorknob. You raised an eyebrow, perplexed.
“Landlord said we don’t have room inspections until next month, man,” he heard you mutter.
The living room housed about 14 drunk strangers that Flins had never seen before. Yelan was among that group, too preoccupied with whatever Nefer was saying to pay him much mind. The music was loud and cheesy, and all he wanted was to find an empty, quiet room. Just to tame his growing irritation for a while.
Unfortunately for him, the first room he chose was in fact occupied.
There you were, sat cross legged on your bed, laptop perched atop your thigh. Placed next to you was debatably the largest bowl of Reese’s that Flins had ever seen, and in front of you, an ominous spread of papers. Your room was quiet, slightly cool with the breeze that flew in through your open window; it was a stark contrast to the living room he’d been trying to escape from.
Flins was not the type to go to clubs, and he was absolutely not the type to barge into the bedrooms of strangers.
A soft “ah” fell from his lips, ears burning red, as he slipped back outside. He cursed himself internally. How undignified of him to even fall into such a situation.
“Miss,” he spoke through the gap in your door, riddled with embarrassment, “I offer you the sincerest of apologies, truly. I did not intend to disrupt you, nor did I want to cause you any discomfort, and if I did, then-“
“Slow your roll, Shakespeare. You’re all good. Too loud out there, or what?”
It was strange, almost impressive, how the concern in your tone had melted so quickly into indifference. Flins, still hidden behind your door, found himself too burnt out from the noise around him to pay much mind to the fact that you’d just called him Shakespeare.
“Very perceptive, Miss,” he admitted. As if to punctuate his point, a loud screech sounded from the kitchen, causing him to wince at the volume of it. “That would be the issue at hand. I’m not too accustomed to these settings.”
You emitted a noise of amusement. “You’re a university student unaccustomed to pregames?”
“Well, I suppose you could say that. I don’t usually find myself too keen to attend, you see.”
Flins was always a man of solitude, simplicity. He liked to stay indoors, arranging and rearranging his extensive collection of antiques, collectables. He busied himself with books, historical fiction, and old, outdated newspapers.
That was enough for Flins. Pregames, clubs, music loud enough to grate against his eardrums: he struggled to enjoy it all. He often found himself wondering pretending he didwas something he could sustain long-term. Even then, standing by the door of your room, his body felt heavy, his temples tight. He really just needed a quiet room to sit in.
A beat of silenced passed. You seemed to be thinking over his words before responding.
“So, you’re trying to find somewhere to chill?”
“Something like that…” he mumbled, peering to his right. He could barely make out a single face through the dim lights of the hallway. A part of him felt unreasonably wounded that Yelan had not come to find him, seeing as though they’d been apart for about 10 minutes now.
“Alright, Kafka. Let’s strike a deal.”
He hummed curiously, choosing to ignore your choice of nickname. Again.
“You seem pretty…linguistically apt,” you continued, “so, how about this? I got an assignment due at 9 in the morning tomorrow. Started it a couple hours ago, that’s why I’m in here and not out there.”
He chuckled, “aren’t you caught in quite the misfortune, Miss.”
“Well, for your information, I’m practically done with it.”
“Oh? Well, then. I can only applaud your conviction.”
“Or,” you mused, grinning to yourself, “you could put that vocabulary to use and rewrite my weakest paragraph for me. I’ve been trying to fix it for the past hour. That’s all I need to do before I can submit this.”
He thought over your request. Despite the nature of your nicknames, Flins could find some flattery in the fact that you’d requested his aid purely on the basis of his everyday speech. It was sweet, cute.
“An intruiging solution,” He chuckled, wanting to humour you a little, “though I must ask. Would I earn a mention in your bibliography? I feel as though I deserve some payment in return.”
“Alright, Orwell, don’t push it. You can earn a few minutes in my room while you finish writing. No drunk people, no noise. That’s the deal.”
He paused, conflicted.
Flins was not certain that Yelan would be okay with him speaking to a random woman through the gap in her door, let alone laugh with her, humor her. Deciding to seek solace in the room of another woman registered as the easiest way to start the hardest argument. A pang of guilt hit his chest at the thought of her reaction to the scenario, and a little fear at the thought of her anger.
“Ah,” he started, “my girlfriend is here tonight. I’m not sure how she’d feel about me being in another woman’s room without-”
He heard a small squeak.
“Fuck.” You gasped. “Oh my gosh, no. I was- I was not trying to flirt with you or anything. Did I come off like that?”
“Not at all, Miss,” he assured you, sensing that you’d felt accused by his withdrawal, “I did not assume that you intended anything but what you’d requested, truly. It was rude of me to even try to enter a room without having asked Nefer first. I do apologise again.”
“You apologise a lot.” Once again, your concern had melted into indifference, and he felt himself ease. “Besides, I don’t mind. You’re the first person I’ve heard speak in the last 3 hours. My boyfriend’s out there too, just for the record, but even he hasn’t come to speak to me yet.”
“Boyfriend?” Flins could sense the subtle edge to your tone.
“Yeah,” you confirmed, “Ajax. Some people know him as Childe, though. I’ve been telling him to drop that lame ass nickname.”
Only then did it all click into place. You were not just some random woman, and he should’ve connected the dots way earlier.
“Y/n?” He asked, testing his own hypothesis.
He heard your ‘huh?” before you even responded. You were one of Yelan’s friends, Nefer’s roommate. He was no stranger to your description, Yelan’s praises of your wit, your dry sense of humor. He really should’ve known the second ‘Shakespeare’ left your lips.
“You would be a friend of Yelan’s, correct?” He continued, sensing that he must’ve looked a little creepy just saying your name like that. “She and I are together.”
This time, he heard a long “oooooh” from inside.
“Flins?” is what you said after. “Oh my gosh, no way. I don’t know how I didn’t realise earlier. Yelan always says you speak like you’re being graded on it.”
His eyes widened. “Does she?”
“No, I’m lying, sorry. That was me again.”
Flins deadpanned, quiet. A fuller, louder laugh leaked from the gap in your door. As much as he wanted to be offended, he enjoyed your lighthearted stream of humour. You seemed refreshingly easygoing. He didn’t take notice of the way his lips curled into a small smile.
“Forgive me for my jest, but I feel inclined to assume that your wit fails to extend to your assignment? Since it seems that you’re finding some difficulty in completing it, Miss.”
“Rude.” You scoffed. “I’m not even sure how I’d apply wit to a paper on the Bauhaus school. Doesn’t really strike me as too humorous of a research topic.”
He blinked. “You take Art History too?”
He recognised the topic instantly, having submitted an assignment on it a week ago. While it wasn’t too bad of a research topic, it was painfully time consuming. The man found himself wincing at the thought of starting it the night before the deadline.
You, somehow, didn’t seem as bothered.
“Yep,” you replied with a casualness that felt a little misplaced to him, “unfortunately. Why, do you take it?”
He nodded. “I do. I assume I’m correct in thinking that this is the paper we have to submit for Professor Elzer?”
Another beat of silence passed. You didn’t say anything for a while.
“Flins,” you spoke, voice firm, “what did you score on Elzer’s last assignment?”
“90, if my memory serves me correctly.”
Movement could be heard, followed by the rustling of paper, before your door swung open fully. The yellow lamp light engulfed him. He felt that same, chill breeze flow through the open window. There were clothes discarded in front of your wardrobe. His eyes stopped scanning your room the second they accidentally landed on a lacy, black bra. He blushed, and so looked at you instead.
Skimpy, blue pyjamas draped around your smaller frame, and he (regretfully) found himself blushing again.
You stood in front of him, laptop in hand.
“Look,” you sighed, bringing your free hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate to be like this, but I really cannot flunk this paper. Elzer’s been on my ass lately because I- well…”
“Keep submitting things last minute?” He deduced.
“Yeah.”
Flins was staring.
Yelan had mentioned that you were pretty, and he, unfortunately, found himself agreeing with her. You were pretty, and it was a raw, authentic type of pretty. The same pretty you would find on a hot summer’s day, feeling the first drop of cold, sweet rain on your forehead. Refreshing, familiar.
He averted his gaze.
“You don’t have to come into my room,” you clarified, smiling sheepishly, “but, and I know this is a crazy ask, would you be able to edit it out here? Just this one paragraph, I promise. I can give you my laptop and…I could bring over a pillow for you to sit on, or…”
You trailed off, sensing that your request was a little more than unreasonable.
Flins witnessed the regret flash across your face. You stepped back, shaking your head, and opened your mouth to take back your words.
“Sorry, nevermind, I-“
“I can do it,” he cut in.
Nefer’s playlist began its third loop of the night. Bodies, unfamiliar, crowded around each other, dancing. Meddled conversations became nothing but pure noise, flowing from the living room into the hallway. To top it all off, Yelan was still nowhere to be seen. Flins’ phone had not buzzed once. No texts, no calls. He was, at the least, frustrated.
You tilted your head to the side. It seemed as though you didn’t expect him to agree at all.
In truth, he didn’t expect to agree either, but his better judgement had fallen at the feet of his irritation. He needed some quiet.
“You sure?” You smiled, reassuring in your words. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble for you, would it?”
Flins offered himself another look at your room. A hot summer’s first drop of rain, a warmly-lit room with a cool breeze. Refreshing, familiar.
No drunk people, no noise.
“No, Miss. It wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” he said, captured by the light of your lamp.
It’s funny how things work, how time moves. No one can predict what shape fate will take.
Flins realises this 2 years later, sat at his desk on a cold, January morning. It’s the first time he’s seen your name displayed on his phone, despite having exchanged contact information after he’d helped you with your entire essay at Nefer’s. He’s surprised, because you never call him. Not that you would’ve ever needed to, of course.
He listens to the way you giggle across the phone, nervous, as you make the same request as the one you’d made 2 years prior. You want his help on the essay you’d both been set recently. Only if he’s willing, that is.
“It wouldn’t be too much trouble for you, would it?” you ask.
“No, Miss,” he says, just like he did the first time, “it wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
“Oh my God, Nef. What if I forgot how to suck dick.”
Nefer had only stared at you in disbelief; you really were unbearable in your moments of unreasonable distress.
“Are you serious right now?” She hissed.
“Yes! He’s gonna be here any second. What if- I suck him off and he tells me he hates me because I’m terrible at it.”
“I doubt that would happen, y/n.”
“Okay, what if he’s huge and I choke in the unsexy way. Like, a really gross gag, and he gets icked out.”
“Well-“
“Or worse, what if we’re fucking and he- wait, what am I even working with? Anything over 6 inches is just a hassle. Does he have a big dick?”
Nefer mentally scorned your ability to convince yourself of the least convincing things ever.
“Find out,” is all she’d said to you, offering you an encouraging wink. She promptly shut the door behind her. You were left alone in your house, awaiting Flins’ arrival, a deafening silence settling around you.
You didn’t pay Flins much mind the first time the pair of you had interacted. Of course you didn’t, you had no reason to. At the time, he was Yelan’s boyfriend, after all.
So when he does arrive, 6pm on the dot, you find yourself with more reason to pay him all the mind in the world.
“Good evening, Miss.”
Underneath his coat, Flins is dressed in a deep, navy quarter-zip. His trousers are black, wide, and you can just make out a small, silver necklace hanging at his neck. It looks thin enough to carry a pendant at the end, but his zipper is up too high for you to be sure.
“Let me get that for you,” you say, watching him take off his coat. He thanks you kindly, handing it over.
“You have a lovely house,” he muses, taking the opportunity to look around. “I must say, I do prefer being here when I’m able to see it clearly.”
You giggle, “no pregames today, don’t you worry.”
“I am ever so grateful.”
“You wouldn’t mind if we worked in my room would you?” Your fingers fumble with the tag of his coat, trying to fit it onto the hooks before you. The fabric houses a distinct, old smell. By no means is the scent negative, though; it reminds you a little of a bookshop.
“Not at all,” he says. “We can do whatever you want, Miss.”
Soon, you’re both sitting cross legged on your bed. You’d handed him your laptop, the screen displaying what you’d already written for another one of Elzer’s horrendous assignments. The man opposite you is quiet, preoccupied with proofreading your essay. He’s so focused that he fails to take notice of your continuous, blatant staring.
Flins, along with being taller than you, is also larger proportionally. It makes sense, aligning with basic biology, but it isn’t something you took much notice of until now. You peer at his large hands, the pen sitting between his long, slender fingers. Locks of curlean pool at your sheets, resting at his shoulders before bleeding into a waterfall at his back, at his sides.
What’s most noteable, though, is his cologne. It smells fresh, a little minty, and only complements how gorgeous he is as a whole. Flins is breathtakingly handsome, painfully beautiful. It shocks you that you’ve never noticed it before. You take your own pen into your teeth absentmindedly.
His fingers are long.
You think about what they’d held, what they’d felt, where they’d-
“Y/n. Did you hear what I said?”
You snap your gaze back up.
He’s looking at you, both eyebrows raised to punctuate his question.
“Huh?”
Right now, the only easy one in the room seems to be you. You’re a little embarrassed, aware of how horribly you’re playing off the fact that you were just lost in his appearance. You could’ve easily just said yes, or asked him politely to repeat himself, but no. You, with all your intellect, landed on ‘huh’, the most obvious display of your distraction.
Flins, ever the gentleman, does not let you wallow in shame for too long.
“Not to worry,” he assures you, sensing your fluster, “it was nothing important. All I said was that it’s pleasing to see you start your essay a little earlier this time. If my memory serves me correctly, you’d cut it quite short the last time I was here.”
“Still remember that, huh?” you sigh.
The locks of blue move up and down with each nod of his head. “How could I forget?”
In between his speech, he moves to highlight a few of the sentences on the word document, still focused on the whole reason you’d called him over.
“Oh my gosh,” you groan, pressing your palm against your forehead, “don’t even remind me about it. It’s been two years, and I still remember how anxious I felt starting it so late. Elzer is no joke.”
“Well,” he notes, “it seems unlikely that a woman like you would fail to learn from an experience like that. You’re a clever girl.”
You’re a clever girl.
Heat rises to your cheeks.
Flins, you deduce, is remarkably easy to speak to. He harbours an obvious talent for flattery. It’s an unexpected contrast to his intimidating attractiveness, the dark clothes that adorn him. Each word that rolls off his tongue grazes your ears like fire. It melts away the tension at your shoulders, the nervousness at your stomach. Slowly, but surely, you gain more confidence.
“Looks like you’ve also learnt your lesson since then. It’s nice to see you actually knock before coming in this time.”
He shakes his head, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Must you bring that up?”
“It would be a waste not to. That was so funny, Flins. You were one apology away from just sending me money as compensation. You’re cute.”
You test the waters, only to be surprisingly pleased when he doesn’t seem to be bothered by your quick comment.
“Cute, hm? In truth, I still feel embarrassed when I recall it all,” he admits, “I can only hope that editing your essay was enough to redeem myself for that.”
You remember how it felt when you received your first, high score. Elzer’s module was by no means difficult, but by all means tedious. You still don’t know what compelled you to select it to begin with. The boredom it cursed you with had bound you to fits of procrastination, lethargy, until you’d look at your phone and realise your work was due the next day.
Due to this, it never surprised you when you earnt yourself mediocre, if not bad, scores.
“You did more than redeem yourself.” You take your pen out of your mouth, flipping it to point at him with a smile. “Thank god it was you who walked into my room. It could’ve been someone drunk, or worse, stupid. Who would’ve thought that it would be Elzer’s descendant in the flesh. My lucky day.”
He laughs. As his body rocks slightly, you catch a shine of silver hanging at the bottom of his pendant.
“You flatter me, Miss, truly. I’m happy to know that my help was of use to you. The last thing I want to do is intrude without purpose, after all.”
“Well,” you say, “I wouldn’t be too opposed to your intrusions, if I’m honest.”
You swallow, taking a large, deep breath in.
Flins, with slightly wider eyes than before, flaunts an unreadable expression. He’s a bit taken aback by your directness, and you bite your tongue to try and calm your nerves.
“You… wouldn’t?” you hear, the words quieter than his previous ones.
In your last relationship, getting Ajax worked up was something that felt like second nature to you. You’re still not sure if that could be attributed to your talent for flirting, or his talent for getting his dick hard every hour of the day.
Flins, however, is strikingly different to Ajax. The more overt, obvious approach you’d take with your ex isn’t something that would apply to someone like him. While Ajax revelled in lust, desire, bold displays of attraction, Flins presents as the exact opposite. Despite his smoothly integrated compliments, he’s noteably more withdrawn, reserved. You could go as far as to say that he’s modest in his nature.
“No.” You take another, deep breath. “You’re an attractive guy. I don’t see why it wouldn’t be more of a benefit.”
The pen that once sat between Flins’ fingers now lies atop your sheets.
Your comment lingers in the air for a while. All you want to do, at this point, is convey your attraction. While the ‘attraction’ in question would have been more synthetic prior to his arrival, you can’t deny how real it feels now. He’s hot, overwhelmingly so. You can’t help but return to the thought of his hands.
Flins observes you, his gaze carrying something you can’t quite place. Golden eyes glint under the warm lamp light, and the stretch of silence that settles lasts for what feels like centuries.
“I tend to avoid intrusion,” he says plainly.
You briefly, but sincerely, consider the benefits of telling him to just kill you.
“Oh,” is all you say.
Whatever confidence you’d managed to accumulate dissipates instantly, replaced by a numbing sense of humiliation, regret. You’re backing yourself up against your headboard now, trying to increase the distance between you two. The man’s words are firm, as deliberate as all the rest, and weigh on your body like stones atop glass. Flins has just turned you down to your face, after you were the one to make the first move. You wince a little, becasue you’ve always hated making the first move.
“I’m sorry,” you splutter, “that was too much from me, I don’t know why I-“
“It’s quite alright, Miss.”
“Did I make you uncomfortable? If you want, we can-“
“I tend to avoid intrusion, as invitations suit me better. I wouldn’t like to do anything without knowing it’ll be well received, after all.”
You blink, silenced. What the hell was he even saying?
“I- I’m sorry?”
He’s biting back a smile, trying, and failing, to conceal the amusement that he’s so clearly earnt at the expense of your pride. A quiet “mmh” falls from his lips, a noise that you can only assume is a shard of the mirth he (poorly) hides. All it takes is one glance at your blank expression for him to crack. The quiet that had suffocated you a few seconds ago dissipates, corroded by the way he chuckles into his hand.
Your hands move up to cover your face. Relief finds you quickly, but embarrassment follows suit.
“Fuck, Flins,” you scoff at him, letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding, “don’t ever do that again. That was so mean.”
You catch the way his shoulders quiver a little. “Did I embarrass you?”
“Yes, dude. Do not ever, ever do that again. I wanted to die for a second.”
“Die? I must apologise sincerely, then.” You hear him shift on your bed. Still, you refuse to move your hands away; they stay glued to your cheeks, your eyes closed underneath them as a countermeasure.
“I failed to consider that your interest would compel you to such extremes if left unsatisfied. Had I known, I would’ve probably entertained you instead.”
You burn at his tone.
“Can you stop talking?”
“Is that what you desire?” he prods, and you can hear the smug expression he must be wearing. “I’m not too sure how well I can help you with this essay if you limit my speech. Your request might pose a few issues for the both of us.”
“Flins, shut up.”
“As you wish, Miss.”
Again, you groan loudly into your hands.
Despite his usual, withdrawn disposition, it’s important to remember that Flins is a man that has been romantically involved with women. From that fact, you really should’ve concluded that he’s able to tease, to flirt, and that you wouldn’t be exempt from the fluster that swallows you whole now. Your first mistake was thinking that he would be too polite to mess with you like that. He’s still a guy, at the end of the day, not a robot programmed to formality alone.
Your second mistake, though unbeknownst to you, was thinking that he hadn’t indulged in a few stares of his own.
“Forgive me for being so forward,” you hear him announce. This time, you reluctantly peel your palms from your face to meet his eyes.
“God, what is it now?” you grumble. The blue-haired man only simpers at your irritation, visibly humoured by it all. You find yourself a little impressed at how well he takes your annoyance in his stride. Your pointed remarks seem to do little to scratch his skin, no matter how many you hurl at him.
Flins sits up straighter, leaning ever so slightly forward.
“You want me to help you with this essay,” he says, taking a finger to point at the laptop placed between you both, “and then, you want me to return home. After that, you and I will not speak further. That is, until you either wish to tell me what score you attain, or if you need my help again. Could you confirm that this is what will happen after we part today? I wouldn’t want to get the wrong impression, you see.”
You’re completely dumbfounded by his words.
Yelan wouldn’t speak about Flins very often. The times that she did, it would be to describe a date they’d been on, the quality of the food at the restaurant, what dress she wore and how much it cost her. Of all the things that she’d conversed about, her boyfriend’s character barely made the cut. Yelan was a woman who valued her privacy, segmenting her life into distinct, separate sections. Friends, boyfriend, family, work.
You’d spent some time wondering which one of her categories “fucking your best friend’s ex boyfriend” falls into.
“Does speaking so politely make you feel better about messing with people?”
He presses a finger to his chin in feigned contemplation.
“I suppose so, but only slightly.”
“You seriously suck,” you spit.
Again, Flins just chuckles at your sharp comment, admirably unaffected by it all.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he reminds you, too entertained by his little game to back out of it.
You can’t help but regard Flins as a complete and utter threat to your pride, your ability to consider yourself a well-spoken woman. Here you are, stuttering over your words, flustered out of your mind, while he’s able to just sit and watch it all unfold before him. He’s spent he past few minutes subjecting you to a heat you hadn’t felt in a long time, one that strips you of that quick tongue of yours.
It’s clear that despite your wit, your stream of clever remarks, the steadiness and deliberation of Flins’ voice triumphs all that you could pose against it.
Your head is plagued with a mixture of annoyance, admiration, and an overwhelming feeling of attraction. You can’t believe that you thought you’d be the one tempting him, teasing him into taking your clothes off you. If he asked you to undress yourself right now, you’d submit with haste. Nefer’s plan seems to grow more enticing with each second that passed, more for the sex part, and less for the revenge part.
Golden, glinting eyes watch you curiously.
“No,” you say.
Flins releases a noise of confusion. He moves to lean back, but you’re quick to move forward when he does so. A few strands of his hair tickle the palms of your hands as they press into your mattress, offering you more leverage to lean close to his face. You stay there for a while, trying to control your rapidly increasing heartbeat.
Finally, to your immense satisfaction, you see a light pink start to collect at his cheeks, at the bridge of his nose.
“No, that’s not what’s happening after we part today.” You smile. Not wanting to push any further, you retreat back to your original position, lounging against the headboard of your bed. This time, though, you make sure to carry confidence in your body language. You refrain from tucking into yourself, head tilted to the side, and your eyes remain fixed on the two pools of golden honey that gaze back at you.
You begin to feel the smallest, slightest tinge of jealousy, knowing that Yelan was the one he’d been fucking for so long.
Flins is taller, larger than you. His fingers are long. His cologne smells like fresh mint. His lips are smooth and his is face chiselled, sculpted. If you look close enough, you can just about make out the sharp collarbones under his quarter-zip. He flirts like its built into him to do so, overt and covert simultaneously. His words are enough to tell you everything and leave you wondering. He looks at you like he’s able to undress you with his eyes alone.
You don’t think you’ve come across anyone sexier than this.
“I want you to help me with this essay,” you say, taking a finger to point at the laptop placed between you both, “and then, I want you to go home. After that, I’ll call you. I’ll ask you what you want me to wear to the date we’re going on this Friday, and I’ll make sure to wear your favourite colour. Could you confirm that this is what will happen after we part today?” You smile at him. “I wouldn’t want to get the wrong impression, you see.”
The glint in Flins’ eyes is one you’ve never, ever seen before. He’s smiling, but the curl of his lips is by no means teasing, nor is it mischievious. To your relief, he seems to be genuinely pleased at the turn of events.
“Yes, those plans do seem correct,” he says after a while. A finger moves absentmindedly on the touchpad of your laptop, and he shifts his gaze back down to your screen. The sound of keyboard tapping returns to the confines of your bedroom. You, revelling in your own success, let yourself relax. “In the interest of saving time, I’ll let you know now that my favourite colour is purple.”
“Noted.” You grin.
Checkmate.
Fuck Ajax, and fuck Yelan too.
Diluc and Nefer can barely bring themselves to believe what had happened when you speak to them the next day. The three of you sit in the communal area of the university library, laptops and notebooks scattered messily across the table.
If it were up to you, you would’ve only updated Nefer on the current state of affairs, the heat in your bedroom, that glint in his eyes. But she’d told you over the phone that she and Diluc were working on a project, one with a steadily approaching deadline, and that it was fine for him to hear anyway.
“He won’t snitch you out,” she’d giggled. “Besides, he’s the only other person that saw it all firsthand, remember?”
You groaned at the memory. As much as you didn’t want people to catch wind of your Fuck-Her-Ex gameplan, you’d concluded that it would probably be good to speak to Diluc. You owed him thanks, and apology, for how he’d handled you at Kaveh’s party. You’d rather say thank you sooner rather than later.
And you did, sincerely, straight upon arrival. He seemed a little bashful at your display of gratitude, but assured you it was nothing to worry about.
Now, Diluc sits opposite you, mirroring Nefer’s expression of shock. The pair of them have been silent for almost 30 seconds now.
“That happened?!” Nefer squawks, leaning back into her chair, one leg thrown over the other. Her expression is that of excitement and disbelief. “No fucking way, he never seemed like the type to be like that. Atta girl, you caught him fast.”
You blush. “Who would’ve guessed.”
“It’s cause you’re sexy,” she states simply. Nefer turns to Diluc, jabbing him with her elbow.
“Ow- Nef.”
“You agree, right?”
“Sorry?”
“Do you think she’s sexy?”
Diluc can only splutter something incoherent in response.
It’s not uncommon for Nefer to pester him. You’re always surprised to witness how constantly unprepared he is, even despite the fact that he’s been friends with her for way longer than you have. The blush that he wears almost matches the red of his hair, and you giggle at the nervous look he steals from you, checking to see if you really did expect an answer from him.
Knowing you owe him one from Kaveh’s party, you just shake your head.
“Leave that poor boy alone, Nef.”
She rolls her eyes, still giggling to herself, “you two are so boring.”
Nefer doesn’t waste any time in moving next to you, describing the multiple tops, skirts, and dresses available in her wardrobe. She pulls up her phone to check if she has any pictures wearing them, eager to help you prepare for your date on Friday.
Diluc, sitting opposite you two, stays quiet. He watches Nefer, the way she encourages you. He notices the excitement in your eyes, the smile on your face, and looks down at his feet, cursing himself internally.
“Hey- hey! Can you stop walking so fast? Dude, just-“
The three of you turn your heads to the source of the voice.
Alhaitham walks swiftly past your table. Behind him is Kaveh, who appears to be struggling to keep up with his roommate’s, clearly deliberate, pace.
“I know you’re still mad, but can you please just send me yesterday’s notes. I can’t find the lecture online.”
“You could throw a party and see who has the notes there.”
“Alhaitham.”
You do maim me with your disbelief, Miss.”
You’ve been in Flins’ car for 10 minutes, driving from your house to downtown. It’s one of those moments where you feel eternally grateful for his social skills, because the two of you haven’t stopped speaking from the moment he’d opened his car door for you. Flins is ever the gentleman, after all. The bouquet of roses he’d handed you sits comfortably on your lap.
“She’s smarter than you?” you snicker, peering over at him with raised brows. With eyes still fixed on the road, a single hand gripping the steering wheel, Flins can only smile fondly in response.
“It must sound ridiculous,” he voices your thoughts, “but I’m not one to lie. Miss Aino is truly the smartest young lady I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. She can build things, you know.”
“No way.”
“The last time Ineffa left her in my care, she’d spent almost an hour speaking to me about the robots she wishes to craft. I must say, the Uncle-Flins-Killer isn’t my favourite, but I suppose it’s the price I pay for keeping all the snacks away from her.”
His smile only widens when he hears you laugh. The streetlamps that line the streets carry the same, warm light as the lamp in your room. They cast gold onto the pavement, the streets. As per your request, the passenger seat window is slightly open, allowing a comfortable breeze to flow into his car. As it moves, it picks up a few strands of your hair, compelling them to dance atop your skin, tickling your neck, your lips.
Flins, who could only occasionally afford to steal glances at you, thought it made you look as beautiful as ever.
“How cruel of you,” you tease. “As formal as you are, you’re pretty mean, you know.”
“Mean?” He repeats, offended. “You’re not referring to what I’d said in jest the other day, are you?”
“Jest? Please. I was considering asking you to leave my house and never come back. That’s how embarrassed your little joke made me feel.”
You watch the way Flins taps the leather of his steering wheel, amused.
“How unmannered of me,” he sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to work hard to earn your forgiveness, then. What would best suit your fancy? Another date? Or would you prefer for me to drop to your feet and beg for your forgiveness instead? I don’t mind.”
You deliver a quick punch to his arm.
The drive continues for a further 15 minutes. To your surprise, he ends up driving past the downtown area you’re so accustomed to, and continues up an emptier road near Teyvat’s campus. It’s steeper, surrounded by large, leafless trees. Through his windshield, you’re offered a full view of the full moon, which sits proud in her blanket of sky. Flins hadn’t given you much detail on what the two of you would be doing on your date.
“Please, wear whatever you’re most comfortable in,” he’d suggested, and so you did.
As the road’s incline increases, you lean back against the passenger seat, letting the breeze brush over the fabric of your top. Flins, appreciating that the road had become a simple, straight ascent, turns his head ever so slightly.
The first drop of rain on a hot summer’s day. Refreshing, familiar.
You’re beautiful.
“Take a picture, Shakespeare.” You smirk.
He shakes his head, unphased. “I would if I could, truly.”
You didn’t even know that a viewpoint like this existed near the university. You’re able to see the entire campus, the stretch of the city that surrounds it too. At the peak of an oddly tall incline, a convenience store sits at the edge of it’s parking lot. It’s understandably empty, and ironically inconvenient, but you appreciate the quiet that swallows you. You’re sitting in his car, sending a quick text to Nefer, who’d been spamming you for the entirety of your journey.
You: he just went to grab us some snacks [10:33PM]
You: sorry 4 not replying [10:33PM]
You: we spoke 4 that entire time. omg. this is crazy [10:34PM]
Flins returns not too long after you send your last text. In one of his hands, he carries a small, plastic bag, containing enough snacks to have costed him at least a 20. In his other, two slushies, one red, one blue, resting snug in their holders. You’re quick to help him, taking the drinks from his hand while he settles back into the car.
“Tell me, which drink would be your favourite?” He asks, starting to unpack the plastic bag. Knowingly, he places a bag of Reeses on your lap, before placing the rest on top of the closed glovebox.
“Blue.” You grin.
He mirrors your glee on his own features. “That works out conveniently, then. Mine is red.”
Flins’ favourite, in truth, is also blue.
You realise that there’s a lot about Flins that doesn’t align with what meets the eye. He’s more formal than the average person, ‘speaking in email’, as you’d said to him. He, for the most part, dresses in dark, simple colours, with the majority being cool-toned. His clothing pieces are smarter than they are casual. From this, you incorrectly inferred that he’d’ve taken you to some fancy restaurant, one of the more expensive ones that opened outside of campus. Flins had struck you as the type to stick to formal settings, being a formal man himself, so you were a little surprised upon seeing what he’d actually planned.
The current setting is by no means disappointing, though. Despite it being the complete opposite of what you’d anticipated, you find yourself preferring it to a sit-down dinner. There’s a large sense of ease, of fun, in the air. Seatbelts off, you’re both leaned against the doors of his car, talking, snacking. You learn more and more about him as the minutes tick by.
“I’m allergic to cats,” he confesses with a grave expression. There’s a deep sense of sadness in his words that only makes you laugh at how serious he sounds. “Don’t laugh, y/n.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Is it not a sad fact? You don’t appear to sympathise with me.”
“No, of course. It’s very sad, Flins.”
“I find them unbearably endearing, and yet I’m unable to house one myself. People overlook the privileges they have in their day to day lives.”
“Poor you,” you coo, keeping yourself from planting a kiss on his cheek.
Of course, being as socially apt as he is, Flins gives you plenty of time to speak about yourself too. You talk about your friends, how you'd met Nefer on your first day at university, and how long it took you both to grow so close. She and Diluc had both transferred from the same high school; it was a fact that had inititally deterred you from speaking to her too much.
Eventually, upon taking more and more interest in your character, Nefer started to do most of the heavy lifting, pushing her way into your inner circle. She’d ask you to have lunch with her, to help her with her assignments, to come shopping with her for her next date. She was, and still is, remarkably sociable, and it didn’t take long to loosen up after that. You’d apologised to her for your distance soon after she’d made it into your circle. You often felt intimidated around people who were already close to someone.
“Is that so?” Flins comments curiously. The straw of his drink rests at his bottom lip, which is tinted slightly redder than it usually is. You only nod in response, a little embarrassed at your habit of withdrawing from people.
“Yeah,” you intone, “I dunno. It might sound stupid, but it just makes me feel like I’m stepping into something I’m better off avoiding. A finished house doesn’t need anymore bricks, and no one wants to feel unneeded.”
The blue haired man hums with acknowlegdement.
“An astute analogy,” he says. “I take it that most of your companions make you feel needed, then?”
You reflect on his question before answering. It would align with your analogy to asnwer with “yes”, but the more you think over it, the more you feel that “yes” would fail to represent your social situation. To claim that you need someone is a bold statement to make, in truth. It’s a bold statement to claim that you need anything at all, aside from air, water, food and housing. You don’t think there’s anyone in your life that you need, only people that you want to be around, company that you enjoy.
You don’t need anyone.
“They make me feel wanted,” you voice after a beat of silence, returning from your contemplation. Flins, interested at the fact that you’ve corrected yourself, sits up a little straighter. “I think that’s a better word for it, now that I think about it. People don’t need me, nor do I need anyone.”
“I see. Forgive me for the way this may come off, but your words do strike me as strangely definitive. This is the first time I’ve come across someone to voice this opinion so strongly. I assume, then, that you’re very comfortable in the fact that you do not need anyone?”
You pop another piece of candy in your mouth. “Hmm, I guess so. It’s not that I think needing people is bad or anything. Some people do, and that’s okay. It’s just…not for me. I’m used to telling myself that.”
“How often do you?” He asks.
“Every day,” you admit with a humourless chuckle. The taste of blue raspberry floods your mouth. You’re glad that he’d gotten one of each flavour instead of two of the red ones. It might’ve been of benefit to let him know much you hated cherry flavoured things, but luckily, the issue hadn’t risen anyway. “It was kinda the only way I could feel better about stuff after my breakup.”
Flins quirks an eyebrow, clearly engaged in the conversation, yet too polite to pry without invitation. You tap the straw of your drink against your lip, biting onto the wet, blue tissue of it.
You remember it so vividly, the feeling of needing Ajax.
When the two of you would argue, he, at times, would punish you by refusing to say a word for days, sometimes even weeks. You swore you could feel physical pain from it. Your chest would tighten, as would your throat, like he’d stripped the oxygen directly from your lungs. You needed to breathe.
“Talk to me,” you’d cried, gripping his wrist in desperation, “even if it’s to say you hate me, I don’t care. I just want to hear you. I need to hear you, ‘Jax.”
You don’t think you’ve ever sounded more pathetic than when you had to beg your way to resolution.
If you were lucky, Ajax would speak to you after that. He’d apologise, bringing you into his warm embrace, kissing the top of your head. Into your hair, he’d whisper about how stupid your argument was anyway, how he was too petty, that he could never, ever hate you.
Other times, he wouldn’t say anything. He’d just look at you with those empty, abyssal eyes.
At the worst of it, he would speak to you. He’d lean back against his bed with his phone in hand, the screen tilted away from you as he typed. At the worst of it, Ajax wouldn’t even spare you a glance.
“Okay,” he’d say, biting back a mocking smile, “I hate you.”
His woulds would slice you like blades, and you took it. You only nodded, because you needed him. You can’t do much to refute what you need.
Flins doesn’t notice the way he grips his drink a little tighter upon hearing this, and neither do you. You’re too preoccupied in recounting the way Ajax would act anytime the two of you fought, along with how petty all the arguments were to begin with.
In truth, Flins was not a complete stranger to some of these accounts. Near the end of his relationship with Yelan, which aligned with the second year of your relationship with Ajax, she would often tell him about these fights. After comforting you, after telling you that you deserved way better, that Ajax was a dickhead anyway, she’d find her way back into Flins’ arms, a cheeky expression atop her features.
“You won’t believe what happened this time,” she’d start, a little more excited than sympathetic. Flins had noticed this, but chose against commenting on it, opting to just kiss her forehead and listen.
Now, sitting in front of you, he feels guilty. He can see the way these arguments affect you, how they bleed into your perspective, your values. The quiver in your voice is a telltale sign of the hurt Ajax had put you through, and he hates it. Though it’s not his fault, the fact that he recognises some of the fights you tell him about makes him feel invasive, creepy. It’s not something that he feels Yelan should’ve shared with him, and he’s surprised, yet flattered, that you’re even telling him about it yourself.
“I can’t date a guy like that again,” you huff, pitying yourself a little.
“Don’t ever,” is all he says. He sounds more serious now than he did when informing you of his cat allergy, and it brings a small smile onto your lips. You nod, as if to promise him you won’t. “Men like that never cease to disappoint. It is a shame, quite frankly, that they’re able to get their hands on wonders like you.”
Moonlight leaks into the car through its windows. There’s a warm feeling that spreads at your chest at his words, the sincerity of them. Your smash-and-dash plan has long departed, and instead, you’re completely absorbed in Flins’ company. Those large hands that you’d gawked over house small, shallow scars. He got them while working a warehouse job during his first year of university. That long, black coat, the one which carries the distinct smell of books, was a gift from his dear friend Lauma, who now attends a different university a couple hours north from Teyvat’s campus. The necklace he wears around his neck holds a small, silver lantern on the end of it. He tells you it was a gift from his mother, but does not elaborate any further on the matter.
Much akin to the antiques he collects, Flins is a man coated by the dust of his own history. Everything about him carries a story, a meaning, and you find yourself eager to read all about him.
“Could I ask you something, y/n?”
You raise an eyebrow, slurping up the last of your slushie. It’s way past midnight now; the two of you had been speaking into the depths of January’s cold, winter night. How fitting for Flins to ask permission even after you’d opened up to him about things not even Nefer knows of.
“Go for it,” you permit. You try to keep an air of cool to your tone, but a small weight settles at the pit of your stomach when you look at him. Flins looks worried, hesistant. He takes a while to speak after you give him the green light to do so.
“Do you… find this odd, at all?” He gestures at you, then back at himself. “I don’t mean to make this uncomfortable, not at all, but I do find myself wanting to ask you. I’ve been intimate with one of your closest friends, afterall. I am, admittedly, surprised to see you interested in me.”
He’s careful to revoke any judgement from his tone, but despite his best efforts, guilt’s fire warms your entire body.
You wonder if he thinks lowly of you for going for your best friend’s ex like this. He’s not aware of the true intention behind your pursuit, what Yelan had done to prompt it all; it wouldn’t surprise you if he just thinks that you’re a bit of a snake, a shady friend. To make matters worse, in the midst of your mission, you’ve come to realise that you want more from Flins than just the sex, the revenge. The thought of parting with him fills you with a deep sense of dread. You’re more than reluctant to just leave him be.
The situation is odd, no matter what angle you try to look at it from. Regardless of what Yelan had done, it doesn’t make your actions any better. Fair, maybe, but not better.
Flins regrets voicing his question the moment he sees the frown on your face.
“I apologise,” he says quickly, not bothering to wait for your response, “that was ill-mannered of me to say. I hope you don’t feel that I-“
“Do you think we’re doing something wrong, Flins?”
You feel guilty, really guilty.
Even sitting in his car, separated by the mountain of snacks sitting on his glovebox, you feel like a traitor. It perplexes you to the ends of the earth, how Yelan was able to do what she did to you. She hadn’t expressed as little as an apology. On the contrary, she’d fought back after you slapped her off Ajax. The pain at your hair, the bruise on your arm. Ajax, blood dripping from his nose, watching you and Yelan fight each other. Curse words and names piercing through the thick air of Alhaitham’s room. Nefer’s plan for you to get your revenge. Flins, an innocent roped into your revenge.
You failed to realise how fast your mess had grown into an even larger one.
Fucking your friend’s ex is not okay. Normal, good people don’t sleep with their-
“Of course not, my star. That is not at all what I wanted to imply. I don’t think I could ever feel wrong around you.”
You look up.
From across the car, you look more beautiful to Flins than anyone has ever looked. He knows that, and he knew that 2 years ago too.
Flins, drink discarded on the floor of his car, sits with outstreched hands. He peers over at you expectantly, waiting. You swallow, and your actions overshadow the doubts that claw at your heart.
You’re crawling over to him clumsily, pushing a few chips and chocolates onto the ground with each movement, until you’re curled onto his lap. He turns his body towards the dashboard, and you’re sat on his right thigh, legs slung over his left. You can feel the way his chest is pressed to your side, carrying that fresh smell of mint. Your arms wrap loose around his neck, feeling his warm, pale skin against your own.
He secures you against him, a strong, firm arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel your heartbeat on your tongue.
“Is this okay?” He whispers. You feel his hot breath against your earlobe when you nod, sounding a ‘yes’ so quiet that you can only pray that he hears it. “If you do feel uncomfortable with our arrangement, I wouldn’t think anything less of you if you were to withdraw from it, y/n. Just tell me. All I need is for you to feel alright with everything.”
He informs you of this mindfully. The air in his car is thicker now, warmer. You wonder if he’s able to hear the way you breathe so shakily. His thigh is firm against you, as is his chest. You can feel it through his thin, black shirt.
“I…feel a bit guilty,” you admit. Flins’ grip around your waist loosens considerably, compelling you to continue, “but not- I don’t want to stop. That’s not what I’m saying.”
He nods, though with uncertainty.
It’s true, you do feel guilty, even with the context of your situation. But you realise, sitting right on his lap, feeling the way his heart beats against your skin, how his breath tickles your earlobe, that your guilt pales in the face of your desire.
Flins is so caring, so attentive. He scans your face for any sign of discomfort, hesitation, and acts accordingly to his observations. You feel dizzy with how close you are to him.
He speaks to you kindly, even when you snap at him, when you make a pointed remark. He’s patient, sweet, like the honey you always wished you could taste on Ajax’s tongue. There’s no part of you that’s strong enough to back away from him, to tell him that this is wrong, and that it’s best if you part ways. As bad as it does feel to be intimate with your best friend’s ex boyfriend, you can’t help but submit to a more alien, foreign sensation, one that warns you that it would feel more wrong to part from him.
It tells you that the only thing that’ll feel right is to get even closer.
Flins keeps his golden, intense eyes fixed on you. He takes note of your flushed face, the slight furrow in your brows, how you wriggle so slightly on his lap. You’re unbearably beautiful, sat on his lap so pretty, dusted in your own fluster. He curses his body, praying you don’t feel the way blood rushes so rapidly downwards.
His hands are at his sides, and there’s heat where he doesn’t touch you. You burn under the pressure of nothing at all.
“I could take you home, y/n,” he mumbles, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’s not sure if you can feel how warm he is, even though he tends to run cold. His heart is beating almost violently against his chest. “I apologise, I feel as though I misread-“
“God, Flins,” you breathe, turning to face him fully, “I just- I need you to touch me, or something. Anything, please.”
In all your haze, the heat that pools between your legs, you don’t even know how you make it to the back seat so fast. Flins wastes no time in indulging your request.
You’re straddling him, legs pressed onto the seat on either side of his thighs, while those large hands of his grip your hips, rocking you back and forth against his throbbing crotch.
“Fuck,” you hear him groan, half lidded eyes boring into you.
A quiet whimper drips from your parted lips, and he catches it with his tongue before pressing it further into your mouth. It’s loud, wet; the sound of the kiss alone makes you blush. Your hand moves down to grab at one of his wrists, gripping it tight.
Flins is so polite, so composed. You can tell that he’s holding back, restraining himself for the sake of your comfort. He’s moving at your pace, keeping you from his.
You part from his lips just to lean into his ear, nibbling at the soft lobe. He hisses at the feeling of your teeth sinking into him.
“Flins…” you whine, taking note of the way you feel him harden against your clothed core, “use your hands on me, please.”
You can feel the way he smiles, a quiet, airy chuckle leaving his lips.
“Use my hands?” he repeats, voice laced with amusement. The hand that rests on your back moves to the top of your head. Gently, he grasps a handful of your hair, tugging you back into his line of vision.
You’re sat on top of him, cheeks flushed. What remains of his saliva coats your lips. They’re slightly redder now, swollen, hiding a glimpse of the blue that your slushie left behind on your tongue. Soft, quiet pants leave your lips each time you rock your hips against his.
Flins has never, ever seen someone look so needy, so pathetic in front of him like this. You’re begging him to touch you, so cute in your request, at the back of his car.
“Where do you want me to touch you, angel?” He coos, planting a gentle kiss at the column of your neck. “You’ll be good, won’t you? Show me where you need me.”
You do as he asks. The hand that grips his wrist moves it away from your hips, slipping it under your skirt. You close your eyes, guiding his fingers to press on your clothed core, right above your clit. His cock throbs under his trousers at the contact, the wetness. You’re completely soaked through.
Flins, satisfied with your guidance, decides to take over. Long, nimble fingers slide your panties to the side. You feel him push two fingers into your tight, aching hole.
“Oh, fuck, Flins.”
Warm lips find purchase at your neck while he plunges his digits in and out of you. He moves quickly, curling his fingers against that sweet spot inside you.
“H-Hah! Oh, oh, Flins, right th- aah…”
He feels completely entranced by your warmth, your wetness, the way your pussy sucks him in so greedily.
“How lewd,” he remarks, picking up the pace. Wet, squelching sounds accentuate his point, and he smirks at how you scrunch your nose at it, embarrassed. “So wet, so divine, and all for me. How lucky am I to have an angel so needy for me, so desperate for me to touch her like this. I must be the luckiest man in the world.”
Your cheeks burn. “S-stop talking…”
He smiles against your neck, sucking the sensitive skin below your jaw.
“How could I ever?” He bites down gently on your skin, earning a quiet yelp. “Your body demands every praise the heavens can offer it, and yet, even those seem to fall short.”
Your scent is addictive, dizzying; he tastes you, your sweet sweat touching the tip of his tongue.
“You are wickedly beautiful,” he says so sweetly, so sincerely. To contrast his honey-soaked words, his eyes move shamelessly, filthily, over your chest, and his free hand is quick to pull your shirt over your head.
It’s all a sight to behold. Flins remains fully clothed, while you fall apart on top of him, as bare as ever. The cold air hits your chest, your pretty tits shielded from it by a lacy, black bra he swear he recognises. Your skirt is bunched up by your lower stomach, panties soaked, pushed to the side, while his fingers continue their assault on that sweet, spongy spot inside you. Flins presses his thumb against your clit.
You swear you see stars.
“That…” you gasp, leaning forward. You rest your head on his shoulder, burying your face into his neck. A knot starts to build at your stomach, quickly growing into something bigger. His fingers are so long, reaching parts of you that you could never reach with your own. They curve, hitting repeatedly against your gummy, spongy wall. “Oh, Flins. Don’t stop, please- ah, hah-“
“Look at you,” he whispers into your hair. The way he litters kisses onto your temple, the top of your head, fails to align with his mean, painfully delicious pace. “You bewitch me impentiently, my star. Indulge me, would you? Let me hear you again. Won’t you make me happy, my sweet star?”
“Mmh, I want to,” you sigh, lost in the bliss he brings you, the trance his words trap you in, “I want to so bad.”
You whimper into his ear, and you hear him hum in response to the sound, satisfied. He’s fingering you so good, speaking to you so well, but you’re still so, so greedy.
So selfish, so desperate for it all.
You need more from him, more of him; your body aches even with the contact you’re already getting.
A quiet “hm?” leaves Flins when you lift yourself up, his digits falling from your pussy with a wet squelch.
He looks down at his hand. His fingers glisten in the light of the moon, coated to the knuckle with your wetness. You watch, looming over him, as he brings them up to his mouth, letting his tongue lap up what’s left of your juices. He groans inwardly at your taste, sucking his fingers dry.
“Mm,” he hums, his sweat sticking his deep, blue hair against his forehead, “your taste is riveting, my star. If you’d allowed it, I would devote the rest of my life to drinking from you.”
“Need it,” is all you manage to say before you’re pawing at his clothed cock, your fingers working hastily against the zipper of his trousers. He bucks his hips, allowing you to pull off his boxers with his jeans, his hands gripping the hem of his shirt before he pulls it off himself.
For a moment, it’s all way too much to take in; you feel faint with your own desire. His cock springs up, released from the confines of his boxers, and slaps back against his stomach. He’s more lengthy than he is girthy, his pink tip tickling his belly button. It leaks with that warm, translucent dribble of precum you wanted so badly to see, to taste on your tongue.
“Fuckk,” you draw out, hands wandering over his bare chest, the outline of his abs, “so hot. God, you’re so hot. I need it, Flins.”
He opens his mouth to speak, to, once again, captivate you with that quick tongue of his. But this time, you’re quicker. You stuff two fingers into his mouth, pressing down onto his warm, wet tongue. His eyes widen, surprised at the sudden intrusion.
“Suck them,” you plead, pouting at him. You shift to sit back down on his lap, letting your free hand grip the base of his length. The throbbing between your legs grows stronger when you hear him whimper, eyes squeezing shut as your thumb swipes his precum off his angry, sensitive tip. You’re enchanted by the sight, seeing him like this. You push your fingers deeper into his mouth, listening to the way he gags on them.
“Yeah, fuck,” you breathe, marvelling at how his spit starts to collect at your knuckles. He’s looking at you, brows furrowed, quiet whimpers leaving his mouth each time you handle him so rough, moving your fingers in and out. “You’re so fucking hot, God.”
Though he prides himself on his eloquence, he’s in no position to deny the appeal of your vulgarity. His body reacts to it before he does, the pink tip of his cock leaking more than it already has. Your words are primal, like it’s coming straight from your soul when you voice it, and he loves it. He loves the way you lack a filter, telling him exactly what you’re thinking.
Flins runs his tongue between your middle and index fingers, sucking on them, looking at you with a small smirk playing on his lips. You look beguiled, entranced, as you stuff your fingers into his mouth further.
Your free hand continues to pump at his length, squeezing it ever so slightly, just to hear the noises you earn from doing so. He’s panting, moaning against your finger, bucking his hips into your hands further. You squeeze him, rubbing your thumb on his tip each time you bring your hand up.
He grunts with knitted brows, eyes squeezed shut, the delicious noise slightly muffled by your fingers.
“I like this,” you breathe, brows furrowed in concentration. You jerk his thick cock with more fevour. You feel his teeth sink onto your digits, a stinging pain spreading across the skin. “I like this so much, Flins. Love touching you like this, seeing you like this.”
If you speak any longer, he’s certain he’ll cum straight onto his own chest.
He grips your wrist, dragging your fingers out of his mouth. A line of spit connects them to him still, but he pays it no mind. He’s too busy gripping your hips to lift you off his lap. He pants, breathless, as he positions you above him.
“M-My star,” he calls, slightly out of breath. His own spit coats his lips, dribbing slightly on his chin. Lovingly, a hand moves to cup the plush of your cheek. “I- I don’t have condoms with me. If you wish, we can bring this to a pause. I- ah- ohhh, God.”
You, as impatient as ever, had already started to lower yourself onto him. Your cunt swallows him, greedy. Wet, gummy walls drag against each vein, each curve, each patch of his skin. Flins, for the first time, emits a full, loud moan, throwing his head back against the seat. It bleeds into your ear like a song. You look at him, watching the ways his lips part, sweat trickling down his exposed neck. You’re feeling everything at once. The pleasure, the relief. The guilt only makes it all the better as you sink down lower and lower.
“Oh,” he coos, bewitched by the sight of your tight, hungry cunt, taking his cock right to the hilt, “that’s it, my sweet star, aren’t you talented. Look at you, so stunning, taking me in my entirety like this.”
“Flins,” you whine, tears gathering at your eyes. You feel so full, so good. Water drips from your eyes, rolling onto your cheeks at the feeling of it all.
“Oh, my angel. I’m right here.” He’s leaning forward, kissing away each tear that falls from your eyes. He does this over and over again, until he finally finds his way to your sweet, plump lips, slotting his own into them. You can taste yourself in his mouth, mixed with the subtle remenants of his cherry slushie. You’ve never liked the flavour, in truth, but you swear it tastes mouthwatering off his tongue. You’re forced to draw back, breathless. “You truly are a sight to behold, my star. Mere words cannot convey what you do to me, how ardently you corrupt me.”
“Wanna move,” you whine, barely able to make out what he’s saying to you. “Want you to move, baby, please.”
“You do?” His length twitches inside you.
“Yeah, yeah.”
His hands grip your waist once more. Flins lifts you up, raising his own hips as he does so. Then, slowly, he slides you down onto him. Relentlessly slow. Painfully slow. You release a shaky breath. You can feel him, every curve, every branch of each vein that lines his length, drag against your walls. He repeats his motion, again, and again, and again. Slowly, sensually. A thick ring of white begins to form at the base of his cock. You whimper softly, half lidded eyes gazing into the ones that look back at you.
“F-faster,” you plead, pressing your forehead against his. “Flins, please.”
You try to bounce down on him yourself, to set that rough, fast pace your core burns for, but Flins is quick to still you. He anchors you down with a strength you didn’t know he harboured. A soft kiss is pressed to your lips, brief, as if to apologise for denying you.
“Easy,” he hums, exhaling with closed eyes as he moves you up, then down, as slowly as ever. “Must we rush, nightlight? You are such a sweet thing, after all. How delightful you feel, wrapped around me like this, glowing so bare. All for me.”
Up, then down, then up, then down, until you start to match his pace on your own. You grind down on his cock, moving back and forth, before coming back up again. The movement sends shockwaves through his length, concentrated at the sensitive tip. You can tell by the way he twiches, whines, how only a sliver of gold can be seen on his eyes, hidden by his eyelids.
You bring a finger up to trace his wet lips, mystified.
The windows of his car are fogged, the air inside thick, stained with the smell of sex. Flins presses his thumb against your clit, rubbing slow, rhythmic circles onto you.
“A-ah, mm…”
“Good?” He queries, pressing another brief kiss to your cheek. “Speak to me.”
Your core feels like its on fire from all the stimulation, pleasure shooting through you in shockwaves each time you bump the head of his cock.
“So good,” you breathe. You grind on him, back and forth, clenching each time you do. Up, down, back, forth. You understand his preference for this pace the longer you keep it up, feeling that familiar knot in your stomach, its buildup catalysed by Flins’ careful attention to your clit.
You feel it all so fully, so intentionally. His lips bite the skin on your neck, his free hand toying with your hardened nipples.
“Fuck,” you hear him whisper against you.
His fingers tug, pull, before his lips move to take a nipple into his mouth. You whimper. You can feel the vibrations against the mounds each time Flins hums into you, groaning at the way your pussy clenches so deliciously around his thick length.
This is the first time you’re having sex like this, sex that’s slow, patient, chasing something aside from the lust that lingers. Your glossy eyes can only watch the way he suckles at your nipple, moving to the next one after, as if he’s afraid to leave any part of you neglected. He’s careful, deliberate. It makes your high approach quicker than you anticipated.
“Close…” you whimper, grinding yourself at an angle that pushes his head against that sweet spot. Your head spins at the sensation. You clench tighter around him.
Flins is too lost in his own bliss to catch your warning. You move so rhythmically above him. Your skin tastes like sugar and blue raspberry greets him with every kiss, his favourite flavour. Your pants, your heavy breathing, the quiet moans and calls of his name. Flins, Flins, Flins. He feels as though you’ve hexed him, wrapping the locks of your hair around his heart. The pleasure spreading at his lap is heavenly, and so are you.
“Aniołku,” he hisses quietly, tilting his head up to kiss you again.
You’re an angel in his eyes, a whore between his hands, sweet as sugar in his mouth. Up, down, back, forth. Stands of his hair stick to your waist, as if every part of him wants to be on you. You’re not sure how much longer you can last. Your climax chases you with haste, threatening to reach you at any second.
“F-Flins.” Your hips stutter, your hole clenching tight. “Fuck, I- I’m so close. Please, pleasepleaseplease-“
“My star, please, look at me. Let me watch you come undone.”
His pace quickens ever so slightly, tip pressing against your sweet spot just a little harder than it usually does. You open your eyes.
All you see is gold as your orgasm crashes onto you. A long, stretched whine of his name leaves your mouth, followed soon by a wet, thick warmth filling you all the way to the brim.
Diluc brings his hands up to massage his temples. This is not how he wants to spend his Friday night.
There’s a distinct, uncomfortable feeling at his chest, and it’s been lingering for a few months now; the feeling grows harder to bear with each day that passes. It troubles him when he wakes up, it troubles him when he goes to sleep. It chips away at the values he tries so hard to keep himself close to. Diluc can’t be sure how long until he decides to back out of it all entirely.
Nefer lies sprawled on his bed, the faint hum of his tv mumbling in the background. She’s on her phone, as she is most of the time, zooming in onto something he can’t quite see from where he stands. It’s an issue resolved quickly, though, because she turns around with a smirk, an arm extended towards him.
“Oh, they’re definitely fucking,” she snickers. Diluc squints, and upon closer inspection, he realises that it’s your location on her screen, a little sign above it indicating that you’d been there for 4 hours now. He doesn’t recognise the area too well, but it’s not hard to notice that you’re in a parking lot. “Crazy, don’t you think? I didn’t think she’d be that skanky about it.”
“Nefer,” he sighs.
Diluc’s been friends with Nefer since childhood. Of the two of them, she’d always been the more outspoken one, the more sociable one. While Diluc prefers to maintain his seclusion, Nefer brings the noise into his life, along with the friends, the fun. It was something he, despite his initial irritation, grew to appreciate over the years. He knows that without her, he would have definitely ended up alone for his highschool years. Aside from the company of his brother, Kaeya, but he reckons he’d rather just be alone.
The only downside, however, is how drama trails Nefer’s shadow with unwavering persistence. It’s the same one he finds himself so tangled in right now.
“What?” She spits, narrowing her eyes at his accusatory tone. “You’re acting like I slipped a camera into her bag. It’s just funny to see her actually go through with it all.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “Hm, it’s funny to call her skanky too?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She sits up. “Did I disrespect your lady, ‘Luc? I’m sure you can have your turn after she’s done with Flins. With how she’s been acting lately, I don’t think she’d mind if you asked for a round.”
Diluc grimaces. He isn’t sure why he still tries to argue with her.
“You’re ridiculous,” he spits. Nefer doesn’t say anything, and instead returns to her previous position, rolling her eyes at the sound of him leaving the room.
The doorbell rings while Diluc’s pouring himself a cup of water. He drinks it, slowly, hoping that the cold would soothe his burning guilt.
He’s not close to you. He never has been. Sure, you and Nefer are quite close, but your path rarely crosses with the redhead’s. The only times he’d really interacted with you were at parties, scenes where you’d be too drunk to form any bond of substance anyway. Aside from that, you’d smile at him when you walked past him on campus, a polite gesture of acknowledgement. He always appreciated how you figured he’d rather not converse in small talk, and opted for more wordless greetings instead. It was nice, perceptive.
And now, here he stands, complicit in something that’s anything but nice. He wonders why he even agreed to begin with.
The doorbell rings again. His eye twitches at the muffled voice that sounds through the wood of his door.
“Can this dickhead take any longer? Fuck, man. Call Nefer.”
He really, really wonders why he even agreed to begin with.
Diluc places the empty cup back in the sink, upset, but not surprised, that the water did little to improve his declining mood. He walks over to the entrance of his dorm, opening the door with an air of reluctance.
“Come in,” he mutters, heading back inside before anyone can respond, “Nefer’s in the room to your right.”
“Is this really necess-’’
“Shush!” you hiss, slapping a hand over Flins’ mouth. It’s pretty easy to ignore his muffled grumble of protest, but your resolve weakens when you feel him start to kiss your palm, your wrist, moving all the way down to your elbow. There’s a subtle glint of mischief in his eyes, and before you know it, he’s drinking up any threats you could throw his way. Slowly, he moves his lips against your soft, plump ones, taking his time to taste you all over again. The hand that should’ve stayed over his mouth is instead tangled at the roots of his hair. He has you perched on his lap, your legs wrapped tight around his waist. You can feel his sense of victory from the way he smiles into the kiss.
This is the eighth time you’ve had him over without telling Nefer.
You know that you should tell her, that it’s worse for you to keep it all a secret, but you feel physically unable to come clean. Especially now that it’s been so long, a whole three months after he’d fucked you in the back of his car. That, if you’d followed Nefer’s original plan, should’ve marked the end of your little situation with Flins. However, much to your misfortune, and to your delight, it had done everything but end.
You’re aware that it would’ve been safer to call it quits with Flins. It would save you from a considerable amount of social rupture, and from the burning guilt that lingers still.
But how can you when he looks at you with those gleaming, golden eyes? So full, so loving, warmer than your lamp light. How can you when his hands hold you so right, so snug against his chest, making you feel the way his heartbeat dances in tandem with your own. How can you when he fucks you like he loves you, like you’re the only person he sees, like you’re the only person he’ll ever see. You feel dizzy under the spotlight of his affections. His sugar-coated words work wonders on you, as do his lips, his fingers, the way his tongue dives into your heat. You’re addicted to it all.
It would have been safer to call it quits, sure, but God does it feel better to keep it going. Flins means too much to you, and he’s worth way more than the revenge you were after initially.
The footsteps outside your room grow distant. From the sounds of it, Nefer’s already walked past your door, making her way to rummage around the living room instead. It puts you at ease, but Flins pays no mind to your observation. He’s too busy kissing your jawline, your neck, the skin just above your collarbones. Ever since you’d started spending more time with him, you noticed how he’s clingier than you would’ve imagined him to be.
“Relax,” you giggle, flicking his forehead. He’s quick to react to it, drawing back from you with a small pout.
“My apologies,” he sighs, visibly troubled by the (miniscule) distance between your chests, “have I overstepped, nightlight?”
“No, handsome, you haven’t. And what did I tell you about apologising so much? Makes me feel bad for messing with you.”
“I apologise with the upmost sincer-”
“Stop,” you snap, and he just chuckles, stealing another quick kiss from you.
“You must tell me when I grow too persistent,” he says. “Should you not, I can’t imagine that I’d part from you on my own accord.”
It’s not long before you hear your front door shut, indicating that you and Flins finally have the whole house at your disposal. You’re quick to pull him off your bed, dragging him to the living room. The pair of you are barely able to enjoy for it long, seeing as Nefer refuses to attend her lectures most of the time. Your roommate had mentioned to you earlier she’d be going to a new bar that’d opened downtown. Diluc had landed a job working as the bartender, so you weren’t surprised when she’d told you about the plans with more excitement than usual.
“Please come,” she’d whined, distressed the moment you informed her that you’d rather stay home. “He’s never gonna give me a free drink, he knows I rinse him, but he can’t say no to you. Please, don’t be boring.”
“I’d rather not, Nef. I’m sorry.”
You and Diluc aren’t close. Even if you did go to the bar, the likelihood of you having the balls to ask him to make you a free drink at his first shift was low. Very low. You told yourself that Nefer wouldn’t have benefited from your presence anyway. You shook your head again, firm in your decision to stay back.
“Ugh,” she groaned, “what could you even do at home that’s so much more fun?”
Flins, was the first thought that came to mind, but you’d just shrugged at her.
Your kitchen carries the quiet sizzle of oil against fish. The smell of garlic and lime wafts over from his position in front of your stove, accompanied by the occasional scratch of spatula against pan. Flins flips the salmon onto its side, brows furrowed while he tries to get the perfect sear. You watch him, your light pink apron tied tightly around his waist. He’d promised to cook you his signature dish. You would’ve been a fool not to remind him of this offer when you found out Nefer was going to be out.
“So,” you start, legs swinging back and forth over the edge of the counter, “how many other bitches have you cooked for?”
Flins isn’t surprised to hear your question. Overtime, he’s grown accustomed to your teasing remarks, your bids for attention. In fact, he’s learnt to be disgustingly prepared in the face of your nonsense.
“Well,” he hums, focusing most of his attention on adjusting the stove’s heat level, “I tend to lose count, my dear. I can only apologise for my poor memory. Would you feel at ease knowing that you’re my favourite among them all?”
Immediately, nothing is funny. Everything is serious.
“What?!”
“I only jest,” he laughs with a grin. The sound of it mingles with the whirr of your extractor fan, the sizzle of his cooking. Your kitchen sounds like home, and smells like one too. “How could I ever look at anyone but you, aniołku?”
“Angel,” he’d translated in his car, exhaling at the feeling of your bare tits pressed against his chest. “My apologies, moonlight. My mothertongue tends to slip in moments of passion.”
His words, as always, bring a blush to your cheeks.
You, ever so stubborn, stand your ground nonetheless. You’re a little annoyed at how well he’d played along with your game. As much as you did want a reaction from him, you feel unreasonably annoyed at his response. Just like you always do whenever he plays along.
You’re not sure what you even expect from him, really, because you have a habit of calling him silly when he takes you seriously.
“Whatever,” you sigh, defeated. For the sake of your own peace, you choose to ignore the small chuckle that escapes his lips at your quick submission. “You’re lucky you’re such a smooth talker.”
“You seem to enjoy the way I speak more often than not, sweetheart.”
“Don’t try and flirt with me. I’m annoyed at you still.”
“Alright, alright. My apologies, nightlight.” You hear the click of the stove as he turns off the heat. The pan of salmon is set aside, spatula placed against it. “I can only hope that the quality of my meal will aid me in garnering your affections, and your forgiveness.”
You only scoff, rolling your eyes at his ever-constant formality.
“Well, then, better hurry up and start plating, chef.”
He smiles. “Yes ma’am.”
“So, are they together, or what?”
The Angel’s Share is busy tonight.
Nefer sits on one of the tables on the upper floor of the building, sipping the fourth free daquiri she’d managed to pry from Diluc’s hands. He knew what she’d be after the second the woman walked into the building, sharp eyes carrying a determination that he could only wish she’d put into her assignments. To save himself an earful for the night, he complied without protest, sliding drinks down the wood of the bar. Of course, these were drinks that Diluc paid for out of his own pocket. There’s no such thing as ‘free’, he’d tried explaining to her. Nefer, however, didn’t really care as long as it was ‘free’ for her.
“You’re being real sweet,” she teased, fingers curling around her second glass of the night. “Why is that? Do I look better than usual, Diluc?”
Diluc displayed the blankest expression he’d ever worn in his life.
“Just take your drink and leave me alone, Nef. I don’t have time for all this when I’m on the clock.”
Nefer, pleased that he’d saved her some effort, also complied without protest. She’d mananged to score 4 glasses before he finally turned her away, mumbling something under his breath about being fired soon. The risk of that was not of much interest to Nefer, though. She’d grasped the fourth drink with a small smirk, making her way upstairs without another word.
“No way they’re together together. As if Flins would be able to put up with her for that long. He’s already gotten his dick wet, anyway. There’s no need to-“
“I hate to burst your bubble,” Nefer interjects, running a finger along the rim of her empty glass, “but those two have been fucking for three months now. I have a feeling I haven’t heard anything because there’s more than just the sex to talk about.”
“Are you serious?”
“No way.”
“Way,” she continues, giggling to herself. The conversation itself isn’t funny, not at all, but the slight haze that clouds her head makes it seem so. “I’ve heard it, you know. They think they’re so sneaky, but all that secrecy seems to die the second they get on each other. It’s so annoying, you know. All I hear is oh, Flins, fuck! Oh, that’s so good, oh, right there, right-“
“That’s enough.”
Nefer’s enthusastic recreation comes to an abrupt halt.
The fourth daquiri is finished, and a sad, empty cup sits in front of her. All that interferes with the thick silence that settles across the table is the indistinct chatter from downstairs, mumbles of conversations that are all of lighter heart than the one taking place above them.
Ajax snorts, the rum and coke in his hand doing little to help how serious he should be acting right now.
“Someone’s pissed,” he snickers, his entertainment only reawakening Nefer’s fit of giggles. “Lighten up a little, would you? We’re all here for a nice drink, after all.”
“We’re here to finally finish this,” Yelan sneers, delivering a swift, hard kick to Ajax’s shin. She ignores the way he hisses at the pain that shoots through his leg, refocusing her attention on Nefer. “What the hell, Nef? Why wouldn’t you tell this me earlier?”
“Tried to. You don’t answer your FaceTimes.”
“Cause I’m fucking busy.” Yelan slides the empty cup over to the side of the table, as if that’ll make her points register faster. “You know that.”
“Exactly.” Nefer shrugs. “So, I didn’t think that adding onto your plate would be the best idea. Why are you so annoyed, anyway? This whole thing was your idea.”
Yelan gawks at her logic, dumbfounded. Ajax, now fully recovered from Yelan’s assault, watches the interaction with masked amusement. He leans back against the wall, his drink clutched in his hand.
“Wh- you cannot be serious right now.”
“What? What did you even want me to do?’
“I wanted you to tell me that my ex boyfriend is still boning that bitch, Nefer. I didn’t think I’d have to spell all that out for you. It’s been three months, I only needed her to have sex with him once.”
“Okay, fine. Your ex boyfriend is still boning that bitch. In fact, by the sounds of it, boning isn’t the only thing they’re doing in there. Would you like information on that too, or do I have to book you in advance?”
Yelan, tense with anger, glares daggers into Nefer.
“You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s been trying, and failing, to sleep with her best friend for years now.”
“Excuse me? Diluc?!”
“Oh, please, don’t act like this is new information. We all know it.”
“It is not like that, relax. Why the hell would you even-“
“Oh my God,” Ajax groans dramatically, housing a volume louder than the two women beside him. He’s successful in capturing the attention of both Nefer and Yelan, who pause their heated argument to shoot him irritated glances. He, however, pays no mind to these looks, taking another swig of the drink he’s still yet to finish.
“Who cares,” he spits, “seriously. Why would you guys even invite me out tonight if all you wanted me to do was watch you argue over the most useless shit ever.”
Yelan narrows her eyes. “You should check your tone.”
“And you should tell Flins the real reason why y/n was so suddenly interested in sleeping with him,” he retorts quickly, “is that not what we came here to do, or are we shelving it until you’re done picking fights with each other?”
Nefer, growing agitated, looks over at the bar downstairs. She mutters something about another drink, but it’s nothing Yelan cares enough to pay much mind to. She’s more focused on the fact that Ajax is right, and she knows that he is. She’d planned on messaging Flins the moment they’d all arrived at the bar, and yet, caught up in her own fear, she hestiated, slipping her phone back into her pocket.
A long, deep sigh escapes her lips.
It’s been a long time since she and Flins have spoken. She still remembers, painfully, their last conversation. Flins’ formality, that politeness he always harbours, did little to dull the pain of his words. After all, there’s no nice way to tell someone you’ve fallen out of love, no matter how sweetly you try to say it. It’ll always come out bitter, rotten, like a fruit that dies from the inside out. Even after a year, it all still feels just as painful, just as unfair, as the first time she heard it leave his lips.
And it’s all your fucking fault. She burns when she remembers that it is.
“Look,” Ajax says, “if you’re gonna pussy out, then fine. ’M gonna go grab another drink, let me know when you man up.”
Nefer’s eyes glint at his words. “Let me come with you. I want another drink too.”
“Are you sure you should be having another drink?”
“I don’t ask why you cheat,” she slurs, the alcohol she’d already consumed catching up to her, “don’t question me either.”
“Wh- sorry? Cheat? I do not cheat.”
The pair of them bicker as they make their way back down to Diluc, who, having spotted them from behind the bar, prepares himself for the worst conversation of the night.
Yelan sits alone, quiet, and she seethes, bleeding fire. She’s angry at Nefer, at her carelessness. It’s at times like this that she wonders whether she cares more about issues, or the drama that the issues bring. She’s angry at Childe, at his stupidity, how he speaks without thinking beforehand. And she’s so, so angry at you, at how you’re the one who has Flins right now, how you’re the one who’s always seemed to have him.
For the first time in over a year, she opens her phone, scrolling all the way down her messages.
She clicks on that unsaved number, the one that she doesn’t need a contact name for her to recognise.
The small, silver lantern at the end of his necklace is cold between your fingers. You hold it carefully, studying the intricate details, the delicate carvings on it. It’s well made, each shape cut into the material with precision. A small, metal flame engulfs the entirety of the lantern body, its tip hooking onto the chain.
“So pretty,” you mumble, letting it fall back against his bare chest. It glints, as if to say ‘thank you’.
The two of you lie tangled under your bedsheets. Moonlight leaks through your window, pooling at your feet, letting the top halves of your bodies fall subject to the dark of the night. Locks of cerulean hair sit scattered along his side. A few strands fall onto his back, while the others drape over his stomach. You reach out to one, twisting it between your finger, marvelling at its shade through your sleep-ridden eyes. It’s late, and you’re tired.
Flins is quiet, and you notice it. It’s not all that strange; he can be quiet a lot of the time, moments where he’s tired, or when he doesn’t have anything of substance to say. But it feels different now; he’s a little more quiet than usual tonight.
“Hey,” you say. He seems to snap out of a trance. His eyes widen for a second before returning to their original size. He presses a light, long kiss against your forehead, humming in response to your call. “Where were you just now?”
You hear him chuckle into your hair, “right by your side, nightlight.”
“That’s not what I mean, Flins. Are you thinking about something?”
You wait, and wait, but he doesn’t respond. The only thing that speaks is silence.
It’s not often that he’s able to spend the night at yours. It’s risky, tedious; he’d have to leave early in the morning the next day, making sure to depart as quietly as possible as to not wake Nefer on the way out. This could have been possible, if the two of you ever slept at a normal hour. Nights with Flins would be just like this one: the two of you, tangled bare, skin to skin, talking about everything and nothing into the depths of the night.
He knows a lot about you now.
He knows that you prefer savoury to sweet, that you absolutely hate tomatoes, but they’re fine to eat when they’re in something. He knows that your favourite colour is pink, even though you tell everyone that it’s black, since that’s the colour that looks the best on you. He knows that Nefer is the only person on campus who you’ve formed a close connection with, because she’s the only one that broke past the superficial, surface-level friendship you offer to most. He knows that Yelan was once a friend like that too, but now isn’t.
He doesn’t know why exactly.
You know a lot about him too.
You know that he doesn’t enjoy food enough to have a distinct favourite, and that his tongue is better suited for wine. You know that he gets upset when animals don’t seem to like him, because he thinks they must sense something bad inside him. You know that he offers to babysit Aino so much because he can’t wait to have a daughter of his own. You know that he hasn’t spoken to his mother since he was five, and that the necklace is all he has left of her.
And you know that he’s definitely quieter than usual tonight.
You don’t know exactly why.
“Flins,” you call again, troubled by the prolonged silence. This time, you move your hand to cup his cheek, taking a thumb to rub at it slowly. You feel him relax a bit, tilting his head to kiss the curve of your palm. He looks at you, pools of gold swallowing the concern you hold in yours.
“I’m here,” he voices, peering away from you. “I didn’t intend to trouble you, nightlight, I apologise. I seem to be a little caught up in my own thoughts.”
“That’s okay, baby.” You nod, moving close to press a soft kiss against his lips. He exhales through his nose at it, furrowing his brows when you pull back. “Just wanna know what you’re thinking about. You look a little sad, that’s all.”
“Sad?” He repeats. “No, not at all. Sadness is not what holds me, y/n, you need not fret.”
“Okay,” you respond, and you wait. He’s realised that you’re not going to retreat from him, that you’re waiting for him to either share his thoughts, or tell you he doesn’t want to.
Flins pauses, taking a moment to gather his words. It would be stupid, ignorant of you not to know how much he prioritises coherent speech, smooth deliveries, so you let him. You let him take a moment, and then another, and then another, until he finally knows what it is that he wants to say.
He breathes in, then exhales a long, steady breath.
“How long must secrecy shroud us, nightlight?” is what he asks you.
This time, you’re the one who’s quiet.
Flins lets his gaze bore into you. His hand, which rests on your hips, rubs circles into the plush skin around it. It moves up, running over your bare waist, your stomach, the curve of your chest. He’s in constant awe of you, how stunning you are. He’s considered, more often than not, that you’re not real, that you’re a star sent down to him, a gift from the moon herself.
It’s not that he minds too much that you’d rather keep it a secret. He likes you too much for that. If you wanted him to start coming to your house in a hazmat suit to hide his appearance, he’d do it. If you wanted him to anything, he’d do it. He can’t think of a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for you, actually.
But he worries, deep down, that the depth of his affections isn’t mirrored in you. He worries that he’s a lot, too much, that the size of his love will one day suffocate you. He worries that you still think that this is wrong, regardless of whether or not it really is. Selfishly, he wants to strip you of anything that could make you think ill of him, of what you had with him, no matter what that may be. Selfishly, Flins wants you in your entirety. He wants your soul wrapped around his, engulfing it, like the flame around a lantern.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You throw a leg over his waist, and he wastes no time in pulling you closer, feeling the way you hide yourself into the crook of his neck. “Did I upset you, Flins?”
“No,” he says quickly, ever so assuring whenever he catches you slip into that firey guilt, “not at all, nightlight. I could never, ever be upset with you, aniołku.”
“I- I don’t want to keep you a secret, that’s not- there’s nothing about you that I would ever want to hide, Flins. I swear, I-“
“Do not let my questions plant seeds of trouble in your mind, my heart. The last thing I want is to cause you any distress.” He presses his lips to the top of your head, letting his free hand tangle in the strands of your hair. You sigh at the feeling, soothed by his long, slender fingers moving against your scalp. “Oh, my sweet star, you know how much you mean to me, don’t you?”
You breathe in deep. There’s comfort in his scent, in the smell of bare skin, coated in a faint, minty cologne.
“I do,” you say to his skin, as if it’ll take in your words and send them straight to his heart, “I feel it. No one’s ever made me feel it like you have, Flins.”
He’s quiet. You feel the way his heart beats faster. It beats so hard you wonder if it’s trying to break free from his chest and leap straight into yours, just so it can sit with the heart it longs to hold. His hand is still, unmoving at your roots. His lips stay pressed against your head, eyes closed, like he’s trying to freeze himself into the moment, lying here with you.
“I don’t think there’s anyone that’s taken my heart like you have, Flins.”
He taps his finger against your head, right at the roots of your hair, four times. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
I, love, you, too.
That’s all he needs to do, and that’s all you need to feel, before you let yourself doze off in his arms. The cold, silver lantern lies comfortably in between your chests, your hearts, like a lovechild placed between a mother and father. Night falls, and so do his insecurities. Your words are more than enough to quell his doubts, to ease his mind, and he finds himself drowsier than before.
Flins, after a while, takes his phone into his free hand. His insomnia had always been his biggest enemy, trapping him within hours that should’ve met his slumber instead. He positions the screen behind your head, preventing the light from pulling you from your sleep. He scrolls absentmindely for a while, checking different marketplaces for available antiques, different collectibles.
And he freezes.
He blinks, as if to check if he’s really seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. Your breath is warm against his neck, rhythmic, unaware, and the moon outside can’t do much to warn you of what’s to come. Flins, slightly numb, opens his messages.
Yelan: see me tomorrow. I’ll be @ yours at 11am. [1:11AM]
Yelan: there’s smth abt your new bitch that u should know. [1:11AM]
Everything good must come at a cost, after all. Diluc was always right. There’s no such thing as ‘free’.
this is my official cliffhanger apology. i do have the next part 75% completed, so it'll be out later this week!
i must clarify the fact that i love yelan, nefer, and childe. they're my babies, truly, i feel a little bad writing them like this. i hope this was up to par, i know a lot of ppl enjoyed my last piece so i can only pray this lives up to it. in truth, i'm not sure how i feel about this, it's my first time working on a story like this one. and smut, lol. thank you everyone who did read! i appreciate your comments and support so much <3
overview: so apparently, your way of getting a good night's sleep isn't by drinking a warm beverage or meditating — it's by a certain ratnik. interesting.
wc: 2.7k
notes: a prequel of sorts because i have a dynamic in mind between flins and the reader c: reader is implied to be mute. plus flins and the reader are being cute. enjoy!! ( also there's a tiny flins anecdote spoiler in the end!! )
These past few nights, you’ve been miserable.
Perhaps it was because of stress – you may be worried over the outcomes that unfortunately involve your career, or other personal things, like the complexities of your relationships with your closest people. Of course, applying the principle of cause and effect, with you stressing and multitasking multiple issues, it’s not surprising you’re not having enough rest. You’re not having enough sleep, and that sucks, because not only does it affect your mood, but also your performance.
You’re used to this. It’s life, after all, and not everything’s perfect. You’ve tried countless methods in all your years of living, temporary solutions so you can NOT overthink the results at night, just so you can crash out. And one of these methods include tiring yourself out by occupying the physical tasks in your job.
But alas – this is a different matter. What was previously mentioned isn’t considered a solution anymore, and this frustrates you, when it was always so effective.
So one day, by the moon goddess’ blessing, the opportunity arose. It was not incidental. You truly cannot hide anything to those who deeply care about you.
You’ve made a routine for yourself. On an off day, you’d go fishing in Final Night Cemetery – a great spot for fishing, actually, despite the nature of the location, and the one who resides here can attest to that. After filling enough fish in your bucket, you were supposed to wrap it up by giving some of your catch to Flins out of gratitude, and finally go your way, but alas, the man did not allow you.
Gently.
And politely.
With vague gestures and nods, you confirm to Flins that yes, and unfortunately so, you’re not sleeping well lately. And yes, you’re well aware that it is obvious in your person — you know that you don’t have enough time to use concealer when you’re always in a rush, so your eyebags are prominent.
And the yawns. You really can’t stop the yawns sometimes.
You really tried to, but the man raised a knowing brow.
There’s an ending to this story. Give the fish to Flins, then leave. It’s as simple as that. And when you come home, you’ll prepare and preserve the meals that will fill your belly for the next two nights. And also, you’ve thought of a new solution this time for your slumber disaster, and you can’t wait to try it: maybe it’s time to turn to alcohol.
But Flins seems to notice what you’re planning, and he expresses his disapproval gently. And politely.
You question the world – how on earth can he do that when you can’t even say anything? How can he read you so when you are not even uttering a single word?
Then it hits you as you realize: you’ve been staring at the random tavern bulletin board in the graveyard, specifically at the poster that mentions a new stock of Dandelion Wine. Perhaps you could’ve reacted differently, perhaps your eyes lit up at the idea, and the vigilant Flins saw that.
So in front of the dancing ghost that seemed to linger, Flins offered to help you sleep. You don’t know why you immediately accepted, out of all the people in Nod Krai, when Ineffa was there, who was familiar with these types of things. Especially when Jahoda yapped about meditating, and holding Ineffa’s hand—
Oh.
Are you going to hold Flins’ hand?
Oh.
Unfortunately, you did not hold Flins’ hand. It wasn’t even part of the equation, much to your dismay.
Flins tells you what his fellow Lightkeepers have done before: why not run around the Final Night Cemetery? It does help regulate the body’s circadian rhythm. It also reduces stress, so this may get rid of the thoughts plaguing your mind. You jogged a bit, and nodded to acknowledge the ghosts who saw you.
However, even with that small exercise, it still doesn’t work.
Flins takes you to a room. He has countless tomes with ancient script and he figures that maybe the drowsiness will come to you if you ever tried to immerse in one. The tension on your shoulders will immediately leave once you are transported to the world of literature ( or perhaps even research. ) It still doesn’t work.
He serves you some smoked fish slices that you could eat, because he did hear that stuffing yourself with too much food can make one heavy-eyed, but as much as you loved Flins’ homemade food, even seafood can’t save you on this one. You seem to become more active than ever to consume more of Flins’ fish.
So now you find yourself sitting beside him in his working space, about to give up. Maybe you’re going to be stuck sleepless for a while until your body gives out. Flins is still in thought, pondering over what he can do. You listen and listen—as if you can answer him anyway, or even make your own comments—but this. . . stillness, this peaceful moment that you both share in his home, in the darkness and silence of the cemetery, seems to do the trick.
No huge efforts or whatsoever.
When he tells you about his ancient tales, or about his fellow lightkeepers, miracles finally shine upon you, and soon enough, you drift off to the sleep that you’ve so desired.
It was nice.
Really nice.
Because after being an insomniac for so long, to relieve it felt like removing yourself from the shackles of stress. It felt as if you could finally breathe again.
And this would’ve been much, much nicer if you were lying in your bed in your own quarters. But you weren’t.
As you stir, you begin to gain a bit of consciousness. It’s a little chilly, but there’s a heavy piece of material placed on top of your body to keep you sufficiently warm. Then your back is pressed on a metallic surface, which kind of hurts a little, but it’s fine. Though your head is perched on something soft.
And then you feel it— cool fingers, running through your hair comfortingly.
Time has passed, and it takes you a few seconds to be surprised by these motions. This is not a common occurrence. You definitely do not sleep in metallic places. And no one ever pets your hair while dozing off.
You quickly open your eyelids. It’s blurry, at first, but once your sight adjusts, you are baffled by what you are witnessing.
There’s a handsome man with blueish purple hair and yellow eyes above you. The same HANDSOME man you’ve been crushing on for almost months now is the one you’re currently. . .
. . . laying on.
Oh.
Oh. Gods.
You feel your cheeks steam at the epiphany.
You’ve been laying. On Flins’ Lap!
He’s a little taken aback to see you fully awake. But then, he smiles lightly. “Hello there. It seems that I was successful in my aid? Who knew that the mere act of retelling ancient tales has finally led you to succumb to dreamland?” He continues running his fingers through your hair, and your heart skips a beat. Oh. Did he stop earlier, when he sensed that you were about to rouse? “Have you slept well? Surely you did, since you looked so peaceful.”
If you had the voice, you could’ve yelped—but you did not. Instead, you blink multiple times, with your mouth gaping and closing like a fish, until you instantly rise to a sitting position. Turning to him, you open your mouth to ask, but then again, you can’t— and oh. He’s. He’s still smiling.
As if he finds the whole ordeal amusing.
You shake your head. Possibly not. You don’t know what he’s even thinking. Maybe he’s making fun of you. Flins can make fun of you, since he can be quite a tease sometimes.
You bow your head, not even sure where to look, or even what to even say, and—
“Do not fret, Miss.” He calls your name so softly, and you can feel your cheeks heat up more. “I did not mind it.”
You look up at him, still flustered. Then, you gesture to the coat that’s wrapped around you like a blanket. It’s the very same coat that Flins usually wears when he’s out there, patrolling and fighting the Wild Hunt.
“Oh, that? My, you were simply cold. You are a guest. I have to ensure that you are comfortable, hence the coat being draped all over you. I did promise to help you sleep, after all.”
You cannot fathom what you have deemed was impossible. You and Flins have respected each other’s boundaries. You two have never trespassed to the point of intimacy. Never in your wildest dreams you’ll find yourself laying in Flins’ lap, when you could’ve just probably laid your head on his shoulders ( which makes you tremble a little because even that seems improper ), or Flins handing you his coat, which is the same coat you wished you could wear one day.
This is the first time. First time you’ve slept in his lap, first time to have Flins’ coat embrace your form, and first time to see Flins. . . coatless.
The things he’ll do just to help you. You do not think you deserve this at all. Doesn’t he usually do his nightly patrols at this time? Wait, what time is it, even? He should’ve just left you here or even wake you up so he can go do his duties. He’s a responsible Ratnik, after all!
And, and more importantly, his coat! Again, his coat that he always wears, that is probably his most treasured clothing, and—
You hear Flins chuckle softly. Your heart performs somersaults at the sound. “Your reactions are always so endearing. You do not have to worry so much.”
But—
He sighs, though it’s clear that it’s not out of annoyance. “Come here. For that amount of overthinking, you may find yourself in a pickle and have a difficult time sleeping again.” Your eyes go wide like the ancient coins he collects at this. Flins is. . . offering? Again? “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Now you’re just incredibly flabbergasted. You don’t know what to say.
You look at his lap. It’s welcoming. Inviting, even. Though the circumstances are rather. . . unorthodox, because Ineffa would most likely tell you to sleep somewhere more comfortable, like a couch or a bed filled with the softest of pillows, it seems that a part of you thinks that a cemetery filled with active ghosts and Flins’ lap can suffice.
You did manage to sleep, after all.
Though, this is. . . quite inappropriate, ‘no? You shouldn’t just lay on his lap again like an– an improper person! What will the others say? You already fish in Flins’ home, taking advantage of how it’s a great fishing spot, and then also sleep in his home? And in his lap, no less?
You do not want to impose!
“Oh, enough of that,” Flins smiles at you reassuringly. He knows you so well he’s answering what’s inside your head. “You are sleepy, are you? Do rest again. I insist.”
You look at him again. Questioning. As if it’s really okay.
“I’m certain,” Flins smiles wider, and pats his thigh. Oh. “Come.”
Again, you cannot fathom this. At all. This wasn’t definitely in your bingo card, that’s for sure. Is this what the Hotdog from Speranza has been telling you? That this is your fortune—your lucky fortune?
Flins offering himself—ah. Goodness. You should not just finish it at that, not without context. Or else you’re gonna combust.
Flins offering himself so you can get a good night’s sleep again. How very thoughtful of him. And very, very kind of him.
So you comply, just shyly. It must’ve amused him more when you seemed nervous. And a huge part of you just wanted to bury yourself and accompany the tombstones.
You look away, aware that he’s still staring at you once you’ve placed your head on his lap. Flins chuckles again.
“There’s no need to be so embarrassed—in fact, shouldn’t this call for a celebration? You’ve finally acquired what you have been wanting. A good nap.”
He’s right. But then again, you think – should you really sleep on his lap? ( The ghosts would probably be so irritated by the amount of overthinking you’re doing – it’s obvious that this just makes it worse. ) Like the shoulder—isn’t the shoulder more appropriate than the lap?
Then, Flins gently takes your chin, causing you to gaze up at him. “Ah, but isn’t it part of the requirement? You seemed to relax more when you clung to my thigh.”
You proceed to stare at him. He did not have to say it like that!
He just chuckles once more.
“Really, I do not mind. It actually pleases me to know that you’re snug enough to let your guard down in my presence. If anything, I’m honored.” Flins remarks.
He’s honored because there are already impressions about him. And they’re mostly not friendly. According to Lauma, animals are scared of him. Even people you know are wary of him.
He lives all alone, in a cemetery no less, and mingles himself in the dark. Before you can even see the rest of his body, you’ll spot his yellow eyes first. His yellow eyes that you’re sure are glowing from time to time.
But that’s not only the Flins you know. He’s kind, very chivalrous, and refined. . . He’s always so happy when you give him more fish, or shiny stones that you find in your journey. And it’s cute how he’s always so confused when you fix some mech that he thinks is so complicated.
And he’s so much more. There are still details and stories that you can’t wait to learn from him.
Maybe this—you in his lap, and him tending you—is one of the things that will mark as one of the milestones in your friendship with him. The trust you both have in each other is admirable. It’s something to be ridiculously prideful over.
Plus, you like him. Romantically. Enough said.
He interrupts your train of thought. “Now, shall we begin once more? Do you have any requests for me?”
Requests?
Well. . .
You did like the thing. So, bashfully, you put your hand on your hair. He seems to have gotten the memo.
“Of course.” And his cool fingers return to your locks, delicate and careful, evidently not aiming to hurt, but to soothe.
“Anything else?”
You stare at him, wondering if he’ll understand.
“My ancient tales?” You nod. He smiles softly at that. “Duly noted.”
And as Flins retells you a story, you can’t help but take deep, relaxing breaths. You are not sure yet of the effect he has on you, but one thing’s for certain: he can make you feel things.
His calming, gentle voice. The warmth of his coat that smells so much of him. And the way he caresses your hair—it certainly lulls you. It slowly pulls you back to dreamland.
Soon enough, you find your eyelids getting droopy. Your breathing slows.
Then, you close your eyes.
And before you can retire for the night once more, you hear him ask, his voice mellow.
“…May I propose a suggestion?”
You respond by peeking beneath your eyelids.
“In one of the books I’ve read before - I can recall one of the main heroes finding solace when they had their own restlessness. Sleeping became unchallenging when they became more intimate with their chosen person.” You wait for him to elaborate, feeling yourself drowsy by the minute as he continues to stroke your head. “The main hero laid their head on a character’s chest - and it simply did the job. According to the hero, they slept better than ever. Would you like to try it next time?”
There is a next time?
In a sober state, you would’ve hesitated and felt embarrassed. But now? You feel as if you’re floating in the air.
Lying in Flins’ chest?
It doesn’t sound so bad.
You nod.
It doesn’t sound so bad at all.
“Well then, consider it a promise,” Flins says, enraptured, and you finally close your eyes once more. He stops caressing your hair, and you, already asleep, fail to see the genuine fondness in his eyes. “I will be looking forward to it. For now, I wish you a good night’s rest. See you tomorrow, my dearest companion.”
( You dream of him smiling so tenderly, and raising a finger on his lips. A couple of meters away from the two of you, there is a curious white dog walking towards Flins’ workspace, with bones between its teeth. )
🪽 you remind yourself everyday that your fate does not involve you being in love with your best friend. No way, not Flins. No star, moon, sun, or sky could ever change that. You were certain of it.
w.c 19.6k (my apologies, this is for the people who want a full, slowburn flins read)
🍲synopsis 𐙚
★ the universe has its own way of bringing you what’s meant for you. the moon will watch all that unfolds below it, calling upon its stars to follow suit. but you and flins have been taking a while, a long while, and drastic times call for drastic measures. you’ll find your way to him, someway, somehow, again and again (and again, just one more time).
🐈 notes 𐙚
fem reader ★ modern!au, university!au, timeloop!au ★ best friends 2 lovers !! ★ alcohol/being drunk ★ quite angsty at times, sorry, but i do redeem it with a happy ending. 99% angst+fluff!! ★ slowburn of slowburns, kinda ★ no explicit smut, but it is suggestive enough. mdni ★ angry love confession in the rain, if anyone makes it that far >:)
🍦just in case! 𐙚
there is some kaeya x reader and flins x columbina here, but it’s for plot progression purposes, lol. you’ll get your boy eventually, promise ;) some brief mentions of Lauma x Nefer too, but it’s genuinely Two lines. some charas could be a little ooc for the sake of the plot, sorry!! i made flins enjoy sparkling water, hope no one is too upset
“Never fret, starlight, and never ever fear; stardust will fall and soak up all your tears. Look below, starlight, don’t forget to look up high. Remember, you can put your trust up there in the sky. Trust the moon, starlight, trust its friend, the sun. Don’t let your wishes turn to stone, sitting on your tongue. Starlight, starlight, it won’t ever be too late. Call upon the stars, let them guide you to your fate.”
As pretty as the poem is, it isn’t really tangible.
You remind yourself every day that your fate does not involve you being in love with your best friend. No way, not Flins. No star, moon, sun or sky could ever change that. You were certain of it.
As if compelled by the poem, you sit gazing out of your window. The moonlight leaks through your curtain, pooling at your sheets, sitting on your chest, your shoulders, the left side of your face. A light so bright would usually strain your sleep-ridden eyes, but not tonight. Tonight, your gaze remains unfaltering, focused. The moon looks back at you, and so does each star. Knowing, waiting. You don’t catch the way you’re utterly lost in it all.
Flins, however, does. In fact, he never misses it.
“Quite the poem,” he mumbles softly, lips curling at the edges, “and quite the reciter.”
His words pull you out of your trance. You’d completely forgotten that you’d set Flins (or at least, the little digital version of him) against your windowsill, half of his face peering at you curiously from the screen. The time at the top right of your phone glares at you accusingly, flashing a “1:11AM”. You wince.
“Fuck, it’s late, Flins.”
“Mphmm,” he murmurs, “not to worry. At times, I find myself wondering how you’re not acquainted with my sleep schedule yet. This is relatively tame in comparison to the hours that usually house me.”
“You should put less effort into speaking so fancy and more into fixing your sleep schedule,” you snap back. He simply laughs, a light laugh, parts of it disappearing into the back of his throat as sleep tries its best to claim it.
“My speech is weird?” he says, and his face comes into frame fully this time. He’s lying down, deep, azure stands of hair painting the white bedsheets below him. The moon outside your window appears to be visiting him too, because the right side of his face is what’s illuminated by it, moonlight dripping into his gleaming, golden eyes. “You maim me with your words, y/n. After all these years, ‘weird’ is the adjective you choose to attribute to it?”
“Well, yeah.” You roll your eyes. “We’re on FaceTime and you’re acting like I’ve set you a word count to meet by the time I hang up.”
“You love it when I speak to you, do you not?”
“Dickhead,” you spit, to which he just laughs. It’s fuller this time, more awake, and you watch the way his eyes curve into crescent moons. The moonlight lies on him, embracing him. It stains him like it loves him, and you swallow.
“My apologies, truly. You make it easy to tease you.”
“So?” You retort. “Teasing is my thing. Aren’t you meant to be the polite one? Just stick to your whole manner-upkeep thing. You’ve kept it up since we were 5, don’t start copying me in your 20s.”
“As you wish, starlight,” he murmurs, the smile that lingered from his laugh still resting atop his lips. You roll your eyes at the nickname, the one he’d stolen from the poem he insists you read to him again and again and-
“-again, just one more time,” he always says, an unreasonably effective way to persuade you into recital.
You’re not too sure what exactly about the poem causes him to fixate on it so much, and why he can’t just read it himself. There’s been nights where you groan, telling him you’re too tired, fatigue causing you to snap, warning him that you’d “hang the hell up” if he “kept pestering you about a stupid poem”. That was one of the few times you’d ever seen a flash of hurt in his eyes, a sight you dealt with quickly, apologising for your tone.
You still aren’t sure, however, if he was more upset at the fact that you practically called him a pest, or the fact that you called the poem stupid. A weird, deep weight settles at your chest when you recall the event. It tells you it’s the latter.
“Let’s call it a night,” you say, and you see him nod in response. “But seriously, Flins. You gotta start sleeping earlier than this.”
“Noted, I promise.”
“Good.”
It’s quiet again, and neither of you hang up. It’s only when his lips curve into that small, sly smile, when the mischief in his eyes sparkles brighter than the moonlight that fills them, that you wish you’d had the strength to do it first.
“Indulge me, will you? Again. Just one more time.”
You just sigh, too tired to argue with a persistence that burns more violent than than any flame. Ever so courtly, ever so mannered; this is the one instance where Flins will push, press for what he wants. In all 15 years of your friendship, you still can’t figure out why.
And there’s never enough time to sit and try either, because before you know it, you’re speaking again, just one more time.
“Never fret, starlight, and never ever fear…”
You and Flins had been best friends for as long as you can recall, a dynamic that could have only surfaced from some form of divine intervention. You concluded these findings to him one time. He chuckled at your words, agreeing that some type of magic must be weaving your friendship together so tight. You burn bright, while he runs cold. You spark and crackle, while he soothes and dims. The sun and the moon, he’d said to you in the same conversation. It was undeniable how different you two were.
However, your distinctions never became divides. You two remained attached at the hip, and it was hardly intentional. He wanted to study Art History, you wanted to study Physics. Silently, without consultation, the two of you had applied to the University of Teyvat. Then noisily, over the clink of drinks and confetti stuck to the bottom of your shoes, you’d both celebrated your acceptances.
You made friends quickly there. Lauma, the gorgeous, soft-spoken girl in the room opposite yours, and Lumine, the level-headed, kind girl in the room to your right, were two particularly noteable friends. The three of you had decided to do a “girls night” on your first day in, slipping into your room in your newly bought pyjama sets, giggling and laughing into the night. You’d give the world for the pair of them.
But back to the topic at hand, you noticed this magic, this divine weaving, early into your enrolment. It was when Lauma asked you and Lumine if she could bring two friends over to have dinner at your dorm. You both agreed, eager to meet new people so early into your university experience. Who would mind a few new faces?
“Lauma, this is your friend?!”
Imagine your disbelief when that all-too-familiar flash of azure walked himself into your kitchen. Flins peered over at you, politely (re)introducing himself, as if he didn’t know you at all. A second man, slightly taller, broader, stood next to him, dirty-blonde hair swept back, appearing to mirror the amusement that Flins himself carried.
The man beside Flins introduced himself as Varka, and soon, the slightly odd situation melted into an evening of delicious food, card games, and a noise complaint from campus security. You made two notes that night: ask people about their degrees before anything else (you had no idea that Lauma took art history), and never let Varka take more than 3 shots of fireball.
Flins, too, made two notes that night. Never letting Varka take more than 3 shots of fireball was obviously the first one. It must’ve been for Lauma and Lumine, too.
His second note was one that he’d taken later into the night, after witnessing how the 4+ card that Varka placed had stacked, coming all the way back to him. You were near tears with laughter, leaning into Lumine’s shoulder. Varka’s desperate pleas fell on Lauma’s deaf ears. She placed yet another 4+ card down. You lost it.
The second note was, without a doubt, the most important note he’d taken.
You were practically curled into Lumine’s side, Lauma moving to join the two of you while Varka began to threaten to end the game. His warnings of “I swear, I promise I won’t play” and “Flins, let’s just go back home” did nothing to water down the way you drowned in your own joy. Your amusement, the utter ridiculousness of Lauma’s dear friend Varka: it all held you in a tight embrace.
Flins watched, quiet.
He could listen to your laugh again and again. And again, just one more time.
Or maybe, selfishly, for the rest of his life. If you’d let him, of course.
But he’s always known better than that. His fate does not involve him being in love with his best friend.
You caught onto it quick, her little crush on Flins. You caught onto it from the moment you met her, from the way she looked at him when he walked in with you.
Columbina, a sweet, stunning young woman. Her voice was soft, her appearence following suit, as did her demeanour. Though admittedly a little weird, with her interest in taxidermied animals and collecting empty snail shells, she was delightful for the most part. Besides, she did mention that she would never taxidermy the animals herself, and the snail shells always ended up in some type of handmade jewellery. She was willing to share her notes with you, signing your name onto the registry for the seminars that sleep kept you from.
What kind of a friend would you be if you hadn’t helped her out in return?
It was obvious, she was obvious.
You saw it all unfold from the way she tried to keep Flins by the doorframe of a lecture hall that wasn’t his, asking about what rocks he’d collected recently. Would any of them would look nice on the necklaces she makes? If he did see any nice stones, he should be sure to let her know. She’ll give him her number, if that was alright with him. If he wants, she could make him something to hang off the zipper of his coat, too.
It was cute, the whole interaction, and Flins did little to withdraw from it. Instead, he appeared equally as enthusiastic, passing her his phone to let her type in her number, smiling that same, warm smile you’d grown so accustomed to. Her hobby sounds wonderful, truly brilliant. Of course he’d let her know. The zipper charm seems like too much trouble, and she shouldn’t worry herself with it.
The pair of you walked side by side after your lecture ended; he always insisted on walking with you afterwards. With a quick bye-bye to Columbina, whose eyes remained on Flins a little longer than usual, the two of you headed off to meet an allegedly “starving-to-death” Varka (his words, not Flins’) for lunch. Flins was quiet, as he ususally was, while he walked.
“She’s into you,” is all you said. You looked up at him, expecting a response, but he said nothing. The murmurs of students filled the air. His eyes, golden, stayed fixed ahead of him. You were surprised at his silence, and dug your elbow into his side, earning a soft “aah!” from him.
“Must you resort to violence?” He winced, expression pained. “I am nothing but kind to you, starlight.”
You deadpanned at him.
“Did you even hear anything I said?”
“Could I ever ignore you?”
“Then what did I say?” You challenged.
“That you reckon the ever-so-kind Columbina is interested in me. My apologies. I didn’t have much to add to your words, so I didn’t add anything.”
He looked at you that time, smiling. It was cheeky, but not sly, and you saw that usual glint of mischief in his eyes as he said it. You’re not sure if it was your mind playing tricks on you, if the thick air in the room affected you, but you tensed up. The teasing mood you had approached him with was melting off your bones.
There was something about his tone, the way he addressed her. There was something about the way he said that she’s interested in him, even though you were the one to suggest it initially. But it was just a comment anyway, right? You didn’t think that an offhand comment would sound so different coming from his mouth instead of yours.
Something bloomed at your chest. Your words felt stuck at your throat, but not for long.
Because why would you struggle talking to Flins, anyway? That’s your best friend. And your fate does not involve you being in love with your best friend.
You agreed with your own logic, shaking the odd sensation away.
“Reckon,” you laughed, even though it came out empty, “please. I know she likes you. You don’t think she’s cute, or what?”
“I never said that,” he replied quickly. Too quickly.
Again, something bloomed at your chest.
“Well, what are you saying?”
His lips curled upwards, and he shook his head. In moments like this, Flins was as hard to read as ever. It frustrated you beyond belief, not being able to read the boy who’s grown into a man right before your eyes. His smile was always warm, his eyes always glinting. And sometimes, annoyingly, that’s all it was. Sometimes, all you had was his surface, as if there was a part of him that backed away from his own skin, tucking into a deeper part of himself.
You were back in reality, a harsh one, when you heard his voice pierce through your thoughts.
“Miss Columbina is beautiful. I’ll admit that much to you, since you insist on prying. I wonder if she’ll really go through with that zipper charm she offered to make me.”
And again, something bloomed at your chest. You were at a complete loss for words.
Luckily, though, you didn’t have to say a thing in response. You internally thanked the Archons for bringing an extrovert like Varka into your circle, who, upon seeing Flins through the mass of students, lunged forward and gripped his shoulders viciously. You giggled at the expression of urgency written across his face, a dramatic heave leaving his lips. The students around him glared at the suddden movement.
“Did I not tell you I was starving to death?!” He exclaimed, narrowing his eyes at both of you. You giggled, letting an apology fall from your lips. Flins followed suit. “Gosh, you two took forever. Come on, let’s go eat already. I got a friend with me waiting on you two to get here.”
Flins hummed, confused, “a friend? Who?”
“Alberich.” Varka leaned close to you both, his voice melting into a whisper. He shot Flins a knowing glance before turning to you, grinning. You raised an eyebrow.
It’d been a weird day, so you somewhat appreciated the alleged prescence of a new person. It would be a good way to take your mind off the bloom, the tension in your body that kept returning. To take your mind off Miss kind Columbina, too, even though you were the one to bring her up. You regretted it a little, but why would you? Eventually, Flins would be interested in someone. It should be more in your favour that Columbina, a friend of yours, would be the one to receive his affections.
“Now, you didn’t hear it from me,” Varka said, placing a hand on his chest, speaking more to Flins than to you, “but I’m pretty sure he’s got a thing for your starlight over here. That’s why I brought him. Don’t make it obvious that I told you though, okay?”
You didn’t notice it (because why would you), but you weren’t the only one feeling that weird bloom in your chest.
It returned, again, and again.
And again, just one more time (but not to you).
Lauma didn’t look the most pleased upon hearing about your double date. Unfortunately for you, neither did Lumine.
“Kaeya? You mean Alberich? And…Columbina? The girl in your lectures?”
You chose to ignore Lauma’s tone, which didn’t exactly help the growing anxiety at your stomach. What also didn’t help was the look she and Lumine shared, quickly, as if afraid that you’d catch it. You did, though, and you chose to ignore that too.
“Yeah…is- is that bad?” Your doubts captured you quicker than you’d’ve liked to admit. “He’s a friend of Varka’s. We all had lunch together a few days ago, and, well, we’ve been talking a bit. He seems nice, and he’s cute.”
And you weren’t lying. Kaeya Alberich was cute, and he was nice. He was a smooth talker, you could catch his interest from the moment you’d sat down at the cafeteria table. He’d asked you a lot about yourself, your course, your aspirations, your plans after your final year. In return, he’d shared some of his own information, across a late-night phone call, of course. It was the first time in a while that you’d called anyone but Flins, who’d messaged you halfway through your call.
Flins: No poem, starlight? [1:11]
No, you thought, no poem tonight.
The moon hadn’t entered your room; the stars that usually hung in the sky ceased to show themselves. Instead, it was just you, you and Kaeya. In between you, a fit of giggles, laughter, small confessions of attraction. And in between that, a date, which quickly became a double date. And deep within that, in a place you wouldn’t dare venture, that bloom.
You felt it the first time upon hearing your own suggestion leave your mouth.
“Flins and Columbina.”
You felt it the second time after your own words settled, dawning on you.
And again, just one more time, when Kaeya chuckled from across the line.
“That sounds perfect, pretty. Honestly, it makes me feel way better about this whole thing. Varka made it seem like you were into him.”
You… into Flins? Surely, certainly, fate was not that cruel.
“What?!” You shrieked, heat rising to your cheeks. “No, oh my goodness. Flins and I aren’t like that, never have been. He’s my best…”
You trailed off, and Kaeya just laughed, assuring you that there was no accusation in his assumption. The conversation, thankfully, shifted onto the plans: meet by the statue of Morax at the centre of campus, then walk up the steep incline, all the way to the peak of the mount beside the geography department. As much as you hated the inclines and hills that Teyvat’s campus was built on, you and Kaeya both agreed that it ended up having a benefit after all: that stunning view. With a grin, he remarked that you’re “more stunning than the view would ever be”. You blushed, though heatlessly.
As the call continued, moonlight began to pool at your sheets again, shining on your skin. Your phone buzzed.
Flins: I’ll be awake until late. If you aren’t too tired, call me when you’re done. [2:32]
“Argh!”
The wretched bottle of sparkling water sprays itself directly into Flins’ face. You don’t miss the way it shoots into his nose, laughing to yourself at his misfortune. He swings the bottle to the side, letting the remaining spurts of water fall onto the concrete below him.
“Oh my god,” you gawk, ignoring the way he glares at you for your lack of consideration, “you’re drenched, Flins.”
“It appears so,” he deadpans.
“Why would you open it that fast? Didn’t you hear the way it was hissing?”
“Apologies. I was merely trying to charm you with my clumsiness.”
“Watch it,” you snap.
Smiling to himself, he pulls out a pack of tissues from the front pocket of his backpack, attempting to dry himself off as best as he can. The tips of his bangs stick to his pale forehead, beads of sparkling water dripping off the tip of his nose, down to the bottom of his chin, and onto the wooden bench the pair of you sit on. He swipes a droplet off with a long, slender finger. He licks it off. His tongue swipes the pad of his index. You watch him, unaware of your own transfixion, and even more unaware of how his gaze eventually meets yours.
You’ve always had a bad habit of looking at him too much.
“I most certaintly will try. You’ve been kind enough to lead me by example, after all. This whole watching thing seems to be your forte.”
You break free from your trance. He’s looking at you, smiling softly. Despite his teasing remark, there seems to be no mischief in his eyes, the kind that usually glints bright whenever he makes a comment akin to the one he’d just made. In its stead is something you can’t quite place, something alien, or maybe something familiar, but all too indulgent for you to even consider it.
Flins is and isn’t, and both categories are firm ones.
Flins is well-mannered, well-spoken. Always has been, always will be. You’re not too sure how he sticks to such an eloquent flow of speech, especically when those around him speak so different. He keeps his composure no matter the circumstance. You admire it. You’ve considered taking a leaf out of his book more often than not.
Flins is smart, extremely so. Always has been, always will be. Never have you witnessed him score anything below a 90 on his essays, never has his voice wavered during presentations. In seminar discussions, he offers more than less. You admire it.
Flins is your best friend. Always has been, always will be. It’s something you have to remind yourself for a reason that seems too obscure, but you’re glad. You’re glad that he’s always around. You’re glad that the challenges of adolescence did nothing to waver your friendship, and you’re glad that somehow, miraculously, your university friends intertwined into one, big friend group. You’re glad that he’s your best friend.
Flins most definitely isn’t anything more. Not to you. Never to you.
“Are you with me still, starlight?”
Your eyes widen. Your cheeks burn when you realise how much time has passed since he’d spoken. You’ve just been staring, lost in your own thoughts, and even though he didn’t look amused before, he was most definitely trying to hold back his laughter now. Great.
“Just- ugh. Whatever.” You try your best to brush him off. “Sparkling water hasn’t appeared on the most recent issue of Vogue. Keep it in you, not on you. Make sure you’re fine for the date, okay?”
He hums lowly, not saying anything further. You raise an eyebrow expectantly.
“Hm?” He blinks, once, twice, before finally realising that you’re waiting on him to speak. “Oh, yes. My apologies. Of course, don’t worry, y/n, I’ll most certainly be there.”
“You better be. Besides, I’m not the one who should be worrying. You wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, right? Kind Miss Columbina. I’m sure you’re too polite to fuck up courting someone as sweet as her. Don’t mess it up, Kyryll. ”
He just nods, chuckling.
“I won’t, starlight, especially not with kind Miss Columbina.”
You offer him a tight-lipped smile, unable to meet his eyes, for whatever reason that may be. Flins’ phone buzzes, and he’s changing the topic, speaking to you about something you can’t quite catch. Something, something… 96…bravo…articulate. Your mind is hazy, and that alien feeling, the one that’s simultaneously all too familiar, is now at your chest. It blooms uncomfortably.
For the first time (or maybe not), hearing starlight leaves an aftertaste on your tongue. It’s bitter, and you keep tasting it. Again, and again (and more times than you would’ve ever wanted to taste it).
Your fate does not involve you being in love with your best friend.
You wonder what tastes more bitter.
Flins is good looking.
You know that, and you’re sure that he knows that.
Despite his preference for solitude, with the exception of being beside you, it wasn’t uncommon for him to be approached in highschool. Confessions, date proposals, promposals. The week leading up to Valentines day was a sight to behold, with Flins’ locker stuffed with heart-shaped, red envelopes. Mind you, it wasn’t as if you didn’t receive any either. Ayato Kamisato from your music class had slipped 50 dollars into his envelope before giving it directly to you. You found yourself wondering if the first time you tasted that bitterness, felt that bloom, was when you watched Flins open the letters.
He didn’t follow up on any of the letters, and you both used Ayato’s 50 to go out for dinner.
Flins is good looking, you know that, and you’re sure that he knows that.
So why does your breath hitch when he’s outside your dorm room, dressed in his usual, long black coat, hair tousling down by his sides? He looks better than usual, neater. You spot a turtleneck sitting snug against his skin, and he’s holding flowers in his hand that most definitely aren’t for you. You feel that same bloom, stronger than ever, when your eyes focus on the boquet, the arrangment, the bright, rich lilies that peak out from the pink tissues that surround them. You barely remember that he’s still there, standing before you. You don’t notice him stepping closer.
Eyes golden, they sparkle with something you don’t even try to focus on. You’re too busy dealing with the bloom thats taking up whatever space you have between each lung. Admittedly, you’re thinking of Columbina, how she’d be dressed tonight. You imagine her in a short, white dress. Then, you imagine her in that same dress, but this time with pink accents. You think about what perfume she’d wear, if she’d go for a sweet one, a fruity one. You wonder which one Flins would prefer. You think about him smelling it on her, against her neck. You almost think about him with his lips against wherever her perfume sits. Almost. The bloom at your chest seems to try to pierce through your heart to stop it.
“Going above and beyond, huh?” You feign confidence, straightening up. Now was absolutely no time to be lost in thoughts, and such unreasonable ones too. Your date was in an hour. Why would you even care? It didn’t matter what Columbina would wear, how she would smell. And it mattered even less what Flins would think about it.
All you are is nervous for your date, very much so.
Trying to recover from the stretch of silence he subjects you to, you gesture towards the bouquet in Flins’ hands. His eyes don’t follow.
“How much were these? Gosh, even I’m impressed. She’s going to be so happy when she sees that-“
“You look beautiful,” he says. It’s quiet, but firm. Simple.
You catch it. It’s not difficult to, not at all. With the intensity he holds in his eyes, you would’ve caught it if he merely thought it. This isn’t the first time Flins has complimented you, ever the gentleman he is. And admittedly, it’s also not the first time it’s made your heart stop for a while. So for a moment, a split second, you indulge in it. In him, a fate that is not for you.
You blush, you almost smile, and then it’s all there before you know it.
The bloom. Columbina, taking a hold of his bouquet, smiling bright. His lips, pressed to her neck, her lips, the top of her head, anywhere he can reach, and everywhere she wants him to reach.
The image repeats again, and again, and again. You feel a little ill.
“Should you be saying that?” You blurt before you can stop yourself. ‘The prettiest girl tonight should be your Columbina, no?”
For once, you seem to catch him off guard, because his eyes widen. Whatever space he tried to close starts to materialise all over again with each step back he takes, an expression of what appears to be guilt scribbled across his face. It departs as quickly as it arrives.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s sincere, regretful. You bite the inside of your cheek at his tone, at the distance, wishing you’d chosen your words more carefully. “I didn’t intend to cause you discomfort, y/n. I was just trying to compliment you. Nothing more, of course.”
He shouldn’t even need to clarify it, it’s weird that you made him. He’s your best friend, he always has been, always will be. And above that, he has always been kind. The ever well-mannered, well-spoken Kyryll. Of course he would think to tell you that you’re beautiful before your first date in God knows how long. You want to slap yourself.
“No, I-“ you start, stopping before the shake in your voice becomes evident to him. “I didn’t feel uncomfortable. Sorry, I- thank you.”
He’s quiet. The lilies in his hands taunt you, the petals spell a name that isn’t yours. You, unreasonably, pray that Kaeya’s either got you a different set of flowers, or none at all. You pray that whatever perfume you decide to spray isn’t even in Columbina’s room. And you almost, almost pray for one last thing. Almost.
The thickness of the air thins when Flins smiles that warm smile of his, moving further into your room to settle the bouquet atop your bedsheets. After doing so, he looks at you, tilting his head to the slide.
“You appear to be troubled, starlight,” he deduces. “Nervous?”
“Nervous,” you laugh, confirming his suspicions. Somewhat, at least. Even you’re not sure what, or who, is making you nervous.
But he’s nodding, listening to you.
“You shouldn’t be.” He says. “I’ll be there too, you know. Was it too presumptous of me to assume that this double-date arrangement was to prevent any anxiety?”
You shake your head. “No, you’re right.”
“Of course, I know you.”
“Suppose you do, but that’s not the only reason.” You try to contest. You’ve always been a little annoying about that, never wanting to let him be entirely right. It’s more a you thing than a him thing, though. “Columbina really likes you, you know. She even left our lecture early to finish making that zipper charm for you today.”
“Did she? How endearing.”
You swallow.
“Yeah,” you mumble quickly. “This is good for you. 20 years and you still haven’t bagged a girlfriend even once. This could be your big break, I’m saving your life here.”
“And in turn, am I saving yours? I’d love to remind you that you haven’t been with anyone either. It seems to me that no one has ever piqued your interest long enough for it to blossom.”
And he’s right. Somewhat, at least.
“Everyone’s boring,” you retort. You can barely make out his raised eyebrow through the darkness of your room. There’s a small part of you, claimed by your hedonism, that wants to inform him that he’s probably the only one who isn’t boring at all. But you don’t say that, because the much larger part of you is not at all hedonistic. It’s realistic, logical.
“It’s always the same with guys. The same lines, the same dates, and always the same outcome.”
Flins hums curiously.
“And what might that outcome be?” He queries. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve yet to reach an outcome.”
“I always reach an outcome, and it’s that there’s no outcome at all. Flins, I swear, there never is one. You talk to a guy, he’s interested for a while, and then your free trial ends. It’s like you have him for a couple weeks before it’s someone else’s turn. Again, and again, and again. I’m tired of things that repeat like that, seriously. I just want something to be different.”
Your hedonism knows exactly what difference you crave.
Your logic knows that it cannot be attained.
“So, you land on Mr Alberich. He’s different then, I suppose?”
And fate, ever so solid, knows that it will not budge.
“Dunno,” you say simply, trying to navigate his question, “but he’s cute. And right now, that’s all he needs to be. He can be different after the date is over.”
Flins is quiet, looking at you unreadably. The silence that settles is probably 10 seconds long, at least, but he emits a sound of satisfaction, content with your response.
“I see. I feel that your words are quite reasonable.”
With that, the pair of you leave your dorm, making your way down to the centre of campus. It’s a little early, 20 minutes before the designated meeting time, but Flins had suggested a longer route to ease your nerves. He spends most of the walk sharing his troubles, how he’d forgotten his laptop, unable to go through with his presentation. Miss Ping adores him, though, so she offered to let him present the following week. You share your own account of the day, laughing about Lumine and Varka running late for their class. You remember that Lauma, too, had her presentation, and ask Flins how it went. He assures you that it was brilliant, and you make note to congradulate her. The walk is nice, and so is the conversation. It’s always been like that with Flins.
“You know, y/n, when change fails to reach you, sometimes it’s you that has to let it.”
As his words settle, you look at him quizzically. You’re about to turn the corner into the main square. In your peripheral, you see them, Kaeya and Columbina, but Flins’ words carry more weight than the doubte-date itself. You don’t turn towards them, nor do you may much mind to Columbina’s “Flins!” as she makes her way over, walking faster than Kaeya does. You do pay all your mind to the man beside you, as you always do, time and time again.
“What? What the does that even mean?”
He looks back at you. He, too, pays no mind to the two that approach, focusing most of his attention into drilling holes into your eyes with his own, as if that alone would give you the answer to your own question.
You want to- no, you need to ask him what the hell he’s talking about. Confusion riddles you with haste, and your brain whirrs, trying to decipher his words. When change fails to reach you? It’s you that has to let it? Let it do what?
Unfortunately, given the cirumstances that you yourself had set up, the next voice to speak is not your own. The moon shines, bright, too bright, and the stars gleam in the sky with frevour, maybe even anger. The sky above watches with great intensity, observing what unfolds below it. It’s knowing, waiting, as it is again, and again, and again.
“Flins, oh my gosh. Are those flowers for me?”
You bite down on your lip, hard.
“Of course, Miss Columbina. I tried to find the ones that looked nearly as nice as you.”
You swear you taste blood.
You’re sitting with Kaeya at the top of the mount, perched comfortably on his left thigh, your legs slung over his right. One of his arms holds you close to his chest, while the other rests on your knees, tracing circles over the fabric on your long, black skirt. It’s cold. The wind blows a little harsher than you anticipated, and there’s a stillness in the air that only ice can mirror. Tonight, there is no heat, no fire either. It’s you, and it’s Kaeya, and it’s the moon. The only indication you have of Flins’ presence is Columbina’s soft giggles, something you can only hear if you really focus. You make your best effort not to.
Most of your date had been a blur, honestly. Columbina took the flowers, beaming. Flins pressed his lips to the back of her hand. Her dress was in fact white, completely, the hem grazing the bottom of her knees, her hair tickling the sides of her waist. You could smell her perfume, sweet, not fruity, and you could only assume that Flins could smell it too.
“You look beautiful,” he’d said. That time, he did intend something different.
You were just glad that Kaeya was ever the gentleman himself too.
He had got you flowers, a bouquet of roses and peonies. At some point, while the four of you sat crossed-legged by the statue, he’d woven one into your hair. You were glad, choosing to focus on the feeling of his fingers weaving through your hair, not whatever Columbina was whispering into Flins’ ear, earning a quiet chuckle from him.
How gross. You swiftly turned away, facing Kaeya entirely.
Luckily for you, compliments were something that came natural to him, building on his tongue like snow that falls from a winter sky. You were stunning, and the flowers looked better on you than in the bouquet. Was it all the time that you dressed up like this, or was it just for him?
“Shut up,” you laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. He pressed a hand to his chest, eyebrows knitting together as he feigned hurt. “Are you saying I looked terrible when we had lunch?”
“I mean, terrible is a bit of a stretch.”
“Kaeya!”
“I’m playing.” He grins at you.
The ascent to the mount was divided. You and Kaeya walked ahead, hands intertwined. Flins and Columbina trailed behind, too lost in their conversation about animal bones to keep up with the pace you’d set. They’d been talking about it for an hour, and you wondered if you could ever talk to Flins about something like that for so long. He sounded so interested. His eyes never left hers, and he listened carefully, attentively. It’s a topic you would’ve never had in common with him.
The bloom in your chest warned you before you heard it for yourself.
“Your hands are quite cold, Flins.”
“Well, how grateful am I that you’re able to warm them for me, then.”
You winced. Yeah, that was enough of a push. You gripped Kaeya’s hand tighter, leaning into him, dragging him up the hill a little faster.
So here you are, sitting on his lap, the mount overlooking the lake that runs along the side of your campus. You’re looking at him with a quirked eyebrow, drawn back so he can see the perplexity in your eyes. The conversation so far had merely been about post-uni plans. His older brother, Diluc, had wanted to start up his own business from your second year of university. The pair of them had been working together on it for a while now, and despite Kaeya’s offhand remarks on how Diluc is “way too serious” and “a pain to work with most times”, he seemed to care about Diluc deeply. You found it funny, and his brother remained the topic of conversation for a long while.
It was Kaeya decided it to steer it towards you.
“So, how long have you known Flins?”
“Don’t tell me you’re still on that?” You jest, earning a sheepish smile from him. You bring up your previous phone call, the one where he mentioned that he thought you were into Flins, and you swear he tries to play off his embarrassment. “Are you jealous, Alberich?”
“Me? Please. You’re sitting on my lap right now, anyway. Columbina was telling me that you were the one who set those two up. Either I’m good right now, or you’re just stupid.”
You nod, moving your hands to the fingers that traced circles on your knee. He stops, and instead weaves your fingers with his own. You are freezing cold, and for some reason, his words strike you a little personally.
Fate would never paint you stupid, surely.
“Yeah, she’s been into him for a while now,” you say, recalling the events which lead you to invite her to your double date. “Those two talk forever whenever he comes to get me from my lectures. It’s a shock to me that he hadn’t already asked her out himself.”
“Yeah? Why didn’t he?”
“Noooo clue,” you groan, dragging out the ‘no’. “He’s always been a weirdo with that stuff. Tons of girls have liked him, super pretty ones, but he just never seems to care. Says he’s busy.”
Kaeya snorts, “busy with art history? First time I’ve heard of it.”
“Kaeya, you take business. Not too much from you.”
He pouts, yet submits.
It was an annoying mystery, Flins’ indifference towards potential matches, one that you’d prodded him on on multiple occasions. Though, as he is whenever he backs into himself, he never gave you any indication of why he was so indifferent, why he cared so little about them all. It was a miracle that he agreed to this date, now that you think about it.
“You can never be too busy for a pretty girl, trust me.” You feel Kaeya’s thumb run up and down against the back of your hand. The comment is directed at you a little, and you giggle. He grins.
“When a guy wants something, he goes for it. Guess Flins just needed a push, huh? He’s going for it for sure tonight.”
You grimace.
“The hell does that mean?”
“What, you think they’re still over there talking about rocks and bones?” He snickers. “That guy’s a smooth talker.”
“More like a weird one. You have any idea how exhausting it is to have some fun when you’re speaking to the Oxford dictionary? I don’t think there’s a single text abbreviation I haven’t had to explain to him.”
“So, he’s the Oxford dictionary, and you’re…”
“Probably the urban dictionary.”
He laughs, full, and you feel the vibrations against your body.
You’re still freezing cold. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve blamed it on the moon, because she’s staring at you, hard. So are her stars. So is her sky. There is an audience surrounding your stage and no one is clapping. Everyone, however, is watching.
“Well, then it’s good that the Oxford dictionary has found someone just like him. She talks a little weird too, but by now, they’re probably way past the talking part.”
Your heart drops at his words, and, again, you feel a little sick. The moon observes your reaction carefully.
Kind Miss Columbina, ever so beautiful, with her sweet perfume, with her warm hands.
With your Flins.
The bloom pierces you again, and you recompose yourself. You think of fate, and you berate yourself for even thinking that he is, or was at any point, your Flins.
“So should we,” you say.
Kaeya blinks. Once, twice, and even a third time.
You swallow before speaking again. You shiver in the cold. You need to carry your usual confidence, your conviction, your intensity. That’s what always keeps you warm, and you’re starting to feel sick of the wind that envelops you both.
“Cat got your tongue, Alberich? If you don’t want to, then that’s fine. Just thought that it would be a shame to let those two beat us to I-“
The night is cold, you know that now, and it just keeps getting colder. The grass is cold against your back when you fall onto it. Kaeya’s hands are cold as they settle at your waist, gripping your hips. Kaeya’s tongue is cold against yours, lapping, dancing. Kaeya’s nose is cold when it brushes your skin. Kaeya’s lips are cold when they settle on your neck, softly sucking the skin. And above all, your entire body is cold- no, freezing. But you fight it.
Your hands tangle into his hair before you shift one to the back of his neck, pulling him in deeper. You whimper a little into the kiss when he slips his tongue back in, not because he earns it, but because you want him to hear it. You want to prove something. You want him to leave this date thinking you’re prettier than any star in the sky. That you really are starlight.
It’s a performance, and you and Kaeya are centre stage, intertwined before the moon and all her stars. You don’t know when his hands slip under your shirt, thumb grazing over your belly-button, stroking the underwire of your bra. You don’t know when your fingers start tracing the outline of his abs. You don’t know much at all aside from the fact that you need to keep up with his pace, because he’s kissing you with frevour. It feels nice, he kisses good, and its clear that he wants to. It’s clear that you want to. But it’s still cold, like you’re not even there. It’s like you’re all the way up there, up there in the sky, sitting among your own audience, watching. Waiting, but not knowing. There is no heat. You’re not even fully there.
Your performance, despite all of your efforts, falls short. The moon, the stars, the sky: your audience is still. They’ve watched it, along with all your other performances, again, and again.
And again.
And so she, the moon, speaks.
“Do you want this, y/n?”
The voice that presents the question isn’t Kaeya’s. It’s not Flins’. Hell, it seems to emerge from your own head, but it’s not your voice either. Any normal person would be confused, maybe even scared, at the sudden intrusion.
But not you, no. The voice is all too familiar, despite you having never heard it before.
You’re kissing him a while longer, both of your hands wandering wherever they please. The grass tickles the skin of your neck, the places where you’re sure he’s left marks. You can’t help but wonder what Flins would think of them.
When Kaeya draws back, a thin string of spit connecting your lips, you look right past him. You look right up to the sky, and you’re not sure if you speak it or think it.
No, I don’t think I do want this.
And it’s then, finally, after however many ‘agains’, that the moon decides that it’ll observe you, knowing, waiting. Just one more time.
You blink. Then you blink again.
Moonlight pools at your sheets, sitting on your chest, your shoulders, the left side of your face. A light so bright would usually strain your sleep-ridden eyes, but not tonight. Tonight, your gaze remains unfaltering, focused. The moon looks back at you, and so does each star. Knowing, waiting. You barely catch the way you’re utterly lost in it all.
Flins, however, does. In fact, he never misses it.
“Quite the poem,” he mumbles softly, lips curling at the edges, “and quite the reciter.”
His words pull you out of your- wait.
What?
Moonlight pools at your sheets, sitting on your chest, your shoulders, the left side of your face. When did you even get into bed? Your eyes, flashing with urgency, stare at the screen of your phone. Your confusion only intensifies.
1:11AM.
You can only stare at nothing as you try to piece together what you can.
“Did…” you start, “did I fall aslee- no. Did Kaeya take me back, or did you?”
“Take you back? From where?”
It was a pretty decent guess, a pretty reasonable inference. Surely, either Kaeya or Flins had taken you back, since you can’t recall coming back on your own. Did the kiss get you that dizzy, did the weather get you that cold? Had something happened to you? How bad could it have been for you to not remember a thing about your journey back home? How did the date end? Did Flins take Columbina back home too? Was she with him, beside him in his bed?
The last thought has you snatching your phone into your hand, scanning what you can make out on the screen. Flins, unfortunately, looks equally as lost, and fortunately, equally as alone. You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding before setting him back onto the windowsill.
“The mount?!” You snap, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “From the double date, Flins. I was- I was just with him. You were with Columbina?”
“We’d made those arrangements for later, starlight. At 10 tonight, no?”
What?!
You shake your head, “no, what? We were…we…I was with Kaeya just now. You-”
“Sweetheart,” he says, and if your brain hasn’t already blown a fuse, it definitely does now. He looks concerned, his expression serious. You let your eyes caress the dark bags under his eyes, the slope of his nose. Your gaze finds purchase at the tip of his cheekbones, his neck, what you can make out of his bare chest on the screen. As if the cold of the mount had never claimed you, you feel warmer than ever.
There’s too much to think about, too much that’s confusing you, and to top it off, the ever chivalrous Kyryll decides to debut yet another nickname that makes your heart stop. Sweetheart? Since when did he decide to introduce that? You don’t even want to look at the expression on his face, flustered out of your mind, and confused all the same.
“It seems as though your anxieties conquer you with ease. You’ve been with me this whole time, y/n.”
You’re still lost, unsure, but there’s a small part of you that finds some solace in his words. Your shoulders drop, losing the tension holding them up. If he’s right, and you are just disorientated, then you really have been with him the whole time. You, him, and most definitely not Columbina. There’s a pang of guilt at the relief you feel from it, but its not long before perplexity pays you another visit.
“I…” you murmur, making feeble attempts to gather your words, “what were we just talking about?”
“Call upon the stars, let them guide you to your fate,” he repeats. He’s lying down. The moon outside your window is visiting him too. The right side of his face is illuminated by it, moonlight dripping into his gleaming, golden eyes. All over again, and he’s stunning.
“You’d graced me with yet another brilliant recital of the poem I hold so dear to my heart. However, I must admit, you did seem to lose yourself in it this time. You still seem a little lost now, y/n.”
Call upon the stars, let them guide you to your fate.
“Huh…” you say, more to yourself than to him.
It’s late.
You’re tired, he’s tired, and you’re definitely sitting in your room. The date, according to his words, and the time on your phone, is still yet to happen. Also, most importantly, he’s looking at you. Watching you, studying you, yellow eyes holding yours tightly. He’s alone in his room, and so are you. Your room lacks the chatter about animal bones, there are no flowers in your hair, and the sweet smell of perfume is nowhere to be found.
“Kyryll,” you say, and he hums immediately upon hearing his own name. It’s not often that you use it, and so it serves you a purpose: you use it when you convey sincerity, seriousness. He’s come to know your habit well. “Are your hands cold right now?”
He peers at you quizzically, failing to understand the purpose of such an odd question, but presses his fingers to his bare chest anyway. You watch him, quiet.
Never fret, starlight, and never ever fear; stardust will fall and soak up all your tears. Look below, starlight, don’t forget to look up high. Remember you can put your trust up there in the sky.
“Yes, they do seem to be.”
Trust the moon, starlight, trust its friend, the sun. Don’t let your wishes turn to stone, sitting on your tongue. Starlight, starlight, it won’t ever be too late.
“Okay.”
Call upon the stars, let them guide you to your fate.
You smile, then you yawn, and you tell him it’s time to call it a night. There’s some relief in knowing you’d just conjured up that double-date, that none of it had really happened anyway. For whatever reason, maybe due to fatigue, or university burnout with your upcoming exams, you’d hallucinated some elaborate plan. The flowers, the conversations, the feeling of Kaeya’s lips on yours. No wonder why you felt so cold, despite the heat of the situation. It was cold because your room is cold, and it felt cold on your skin because it was never really there.
Flins, as if on cue, speaks.
“Indulge me, will you? Again. Just one more time.”
You don’t think much of his words, because he always asks you this. Again, and again, and again.
As if to taunt you, you come to realise how fleeting your relief really is.
Your morning lecture is the same, exactly the same. Columbina is next to you, saying the same things she did before. She speaks about how excited she is, what she would wear, and leaves 20 minutes before the lecture’s end, to-
“-finish that zipper charm I’m making for Flins,” she beams.
You just look at her, horrifed at the way you knew exactly what she would say. The morning starts off bad, and the sense of dread builds up within you with each similarity you witness. Lauma telling you about her presentation, again. Varka and Lumine running late to their class, again. Flins, walking you from your lecture, sparking water in hand, again. The weight of it finally settles at the benches outside of your lecture hall.
“Argh!”
The wretched bottle of sparkling water sprays itself directly into Flins’ face. He swings the bottle to the side, letting the remaining spurts of water fall onto the concrete below him.
You are completely dumbfounded at the situation that’s unfolding before you.Your blood runs cold, and your head feels hazy. It all happens exactly the same as it did before, exactly how you remember it. Sparking water, dripping from the tip of his nose, down to the bottom of his chin, and onto the wooden bench the pair of you sit on.
His tongue, swiping the pad of his finger.
You, staring hard at it all.
“Again..?” you think out loud, eyes wide. You didn’t mean for it to be as loud of a comment as it became. Flins houses an expression of confusion upon hearing it, turning to face you fully.
“Again?” He muses, clearly unsure of what you mean. His tone only adds to your distress. “This is the first time I’ve been assaulted by my own beverage. Apologies, I was merely trying to charm you with my clumsiness.”
Your palms come up to press against your temples.
“What the fuck…” you mutter.
No, no way. No way that this whole thing could be a coincidence. Dreaming of a date is one thing. Dreaming of cold, meaningless touches, of jealousy, of the flowers he’d bought, of that sickeningly sweet perfume. Fine, whatever. You’d rather brush that all off as a dream anyway. But this? Seeing the similarities, finishing people’s sentences, predicting their direction. Every last word, every last action. You know what’s coming constantly, and you feel crazy.
You look around, searching for something, anything, that’s different from what you already know. The sun hangs bright in the sky, right where it is in your memory. The bottle of sparkling water rests at the side of the bench. And Flins, trying to hold back his laughter, catches you staring longer than you should be. Again.
“Just…” you test the waters, playing into it, into whatever is going on, “make sure you’re fine for the date, okay?”
You’re not surprised when at first, he says nothing.
You’re not surprised when he soon apologises for his lack of response, assuring you that he’ll “most certainly be there”.
You gulp.
“Don’t…uh, don’t worry about me. You wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, Kind Miss Columbina. You’re… too polite to fuck up courting someone as sweet as her. Don’t mess it up.”
You’re not surpised at all when he just nods, chuckling.
“I won’t, starlight, especially not with kind Miss Columbina.”
It isn’t any less bitter on your tongue the second time.
His phone buzzes, flashes on, and displays a bright “4:00pm” on its screen. A notification rises from below it, and you can make out a small “96” on the subject line of the email that it shows. Leaning in closer, right before he takes it away from you, ever so humble about his academics, you see the text below it.
“Bravo! A fluent and articulate piece, Kyryll, with content richer than all I’ve seen this year!”
Something, something… 96…bravo…articulate.
No, you’re not surprised.
You are truly, utterly horrified.
It’s been three days.
Well, it’s been one day, just three times over. Each time you hear it-
“-quite the poem, and quite the reciter-“
-you feel your stomach churn, a reaction you’ve never got from hearing Flins’ all-too-familiar voice.
The first cycle was a cautious one. You moved through your day acting exactly as you had before, only with a few, sublte dialogue changes. You wanted to confirm your suspicions. Flins still did not have his laptop, and did not present. Lauma, however, did, and it was brilliant. The bouquet of flowers in Flins’ hands were lilies, wrapped with pink tissue. He wore a turtleneck. He thought you looked beautiful, but had only meant to compliment you. Nothing more. You took the long route to the main plaza. Kaeya was there, and he got you roses and peonies. Flins kissed the back of Columbina’s hand. Kaeya weaved a flower into your hair. The air was cold. Flins kissed the back of Columbina’s hand. You all made your way up the mount. Flins kissed the back of Columbina’s hand. Columbina was holding Flins’ hand. Flins kissed the back of Columbina’s hand.
It was safe to say that reliving that double date for the second time was not nearly as enjoyable as the first. Kaeya’s lips were still cold, and the audience remained unimpressed. Flins kissed the back of Columbina’s hand.
The second cycle was a desperate one. Back in your room, back in the moonlight, you screamed at the top of your lungs. You were horrified, realising that the loop had restarted again. Flins, looking the most worried you’d seen him, was practically about to grow wings and fly over to your dorm before you made up some elaborate excuse. Something about thinking you saw a ghost out of your window.
“They’re harmless,” he’d insisted, ever so firm in his belief that they really do exist.
“Can they try and be less scary looking too, maybe?”
“You demand so much from those who have already passed.”
In this loop, you’d called off your date entirely. Kaeya was understandably disappointed, and so you offered to reschedule, warning him that the ‘sickness’ you made up on the spot would surely spread to him if you’d gone today. You didn’t go to your lecture in the morning either. You knew how it would play out, and the thought of hearing about that stupid zipper charm put you in a worse mood than you were already in. You would stay back at the dorm that day, enclosed into your own room.
At some point, Lumine had knocked on the door, asking when you’d leave to meet with Kaeya.
“I’m, uh, really sick.”
You could practically hear her smug expression from the other side of your door, “mm, yeah, alright.”
“I’m serious, Lumi.”
“I believe you,” she said, not believing you at all.
Much to your disappointment, though not to your surprise, Flins was at your door at 9, dressed in a black turtleneck, and his usual long coat. In his hands, a bouquet of-
“-lilies, do you think that would be appropriate?”
You were curled up in your bed, sitting in your pyjamas instead of the black skirt and black top you’d worn for your date the last two times. Your hair wasn’t done, neither was your makeup. Seeing him look so good when you looked so rough kept you frozen in your misfortune. Sure, you weren’t really sick, but with how the past few days have treated you, it wouldn’t be long till you really were.
He looked at you like he did every other loop, intensely, golden eyes gleaming. He held your eyes for as long as you let him, and a little longer after that, and a little longer after that.
“They’re cool,” you said, too annoyed to meet his eyes once you’d finally pried your own away. “Flowers as beautiful as the person you’re giving them to, or whatever.”
“Hmm, how poetic. I like that.”
“Learnt from the best,” you huffed bitterly, not that it was for him to understand anyway. So when the conversation died, and the ever well-mannered Kyryll excused himself from your room, you turned to scream into your pillow. You wanted the cycle to end, truly, but it pained you to know that it could end with him going on that stupid date anyway without you, on his own date with Kind Miss Columbina.
“Who gives a shit,” you muttered, giving the most shits, before forcing yourself to sleep it off at 10pm sharp. You didn’t want to know how the date would go, nor did you want to check her instagram story. You didn’t want to know a single thing. All you did want to know was why all of this was happening: why your day starts with that same, stupid poem, that you have to read to the same, stupid man, who goes on that same, stupid date.
It was stupid, the whole thing, you concluded.
The third cycle, well, you weren’t sure what that one was. To put it simply, all you did was anything, and between that was everything. You went to your lecture hall, made a beeline for your teacher, and asked her if you could lead the lecture yourself. She’d narrowed her eyes at you, about to scold you, before you recited the 45th and 46th slides word for word. She never uploads them beforehand.
You convinced Flins to drink his sparkling water on the way back from the lecture. As expected, it splurted into his face, in front of the mass of students that tried to walk past. A chorus of laughter erupted around you two, much to his misfortune, with a few students stopping in their tracks to snicker to their friends, pointing at his soaked, blue hair. As funny as the whole concept was, you did feel bad, and so you gave him a hug from the side, pulling him through the crowd faster. It appeared to be a perfect remedy for his embarrassment. After making your way out of the crowd, you clung to his arm a little longer than you usually would’ve, had your day not been looping. He didn’t seem to mind. Not one bit.
Feeling bad for the minor evil you’d directed at your best friend, you repented to the universe by sending Lumine a text, reminding her that her class was in fact at 4, not 4:30. She expressed more gratitude than you’d ever seen from her, and she and Varka could afford a leisurely walk instead of their usual sprint.
You didn’t bother changing anything about Lauma. She was the only one who seemed to have a good day by default in every loop. You loved her enough to leave her to it.
“You look beautiful,” Flins said, again, the bouquet resting comfortably in his grasp.
Over the course of the loops you’d experienced, you’d grown to hate that bouquet. The arrangment was basic, everyone liked those flowers anyway, and it wasn’t even all that nice. It was as if you’d placed yourself in competition with it, staring it down with fire in your eyes, like you had something to prove.
“How beautiful?” Was your response that time, directed more at the flowers than at Flins. Your words registered in your head a little too late, and you snapped your eyes back at him, away from the stupid flowers, cheeks burning with embarrassment. You just flirted with him, and quite overtly, too. You best friend, a fate meant for anyone but you, said nothing for a while. It was the first time you secretly hoped, prayed, that the cycle would reset again that night, that it would work in your favour and save you from the regret coursing through your veins.
He, however, seemed more than okay with your response, and you revelled in his statement that you were in fact “more beautiful than he could ever express with words”.
But the feeling was fleeting, as was your initial relief, because the only other thing you were able to revel in that night was in the fact that the smallest animal skull belonged to that of a bumblebee bat. Whatever the hell that was, anyway.
Cold lips, cold touches, cold grass, before-
“-quite the poem, and quite the reciter.”
You’re back.
Again, and again, and again.
It’s been three days, and also one day, three times over. You’ve never been so exhausted in your life.
You wake up half an hour early, sending Flins a text before hopping into the shower.
You: Laptop in your bag? :p [7:23AM]
Columbina’s words blur into nothing until you catch the “zipper charm” phrase, followed by her quick departure. You watch her leave, her white jumper snug around her frame, pink ribbon woven into her hair, and think about the bumblebee bat. For the remainder of your lecture, you scroll through its wikipedia page.
You message Lumine while you walk to the bench with Flins, reminding her that her lecture starts at 4, not 4:30. She thanks you earnestly, but you don’t open the message to check. You just know she has. Your arm is linked with Flins’. He, again, doesn’t seem to mind. Not at all. In truth, wouldn’t have minded in any of the loops, or outside of them, either.
The sparking water spills all over the bench, onto the ground below you. The only difference this time, however, is that you’d offered to open it for Flins, twisting the cap with an outstretched arm. A few of the droplets land on your skirt, but it’s nothing compared to how soaked he gets in every other loop. You hand over what’s left in the bottle, mumbling something about how it’s probably better that he has to drink less of that despicable drink, before asking him to show you his presentation on his laptop. You just wanted to check that he really did remember it this time.
“What a mess, you saved me there.” He smiles as he says it, so sincere that it almost, almost, sounds like he really knows you did. Hope bubbles at the pit of your stomach while he, on the laptop he has with him, runs through something about the renaissance era.
Your hope is crushed at 4pm by the buzz of his phone.
“Bravo! A fluent and articulate piece, Kyryll, with content richer than all I’ve seen this year!”
There it is, the loop indicator you were quietly praying wouldn’t surface.
“Aren’t you clever,” you tease, grinning at him. It’s not often that you speak about his intellect directly to him. At the most, you tell Lumine, or Lauma, usually in the form of a complaint.
“Some people are just born smart, I swear. Flins got, like, basically 100 on his last project. It’s so not fair. I have to finish this all in a night. I can’t be the stupid best friend.”
“Y/n, you’ve had three months to start this project.”
“Shut up, Lumi. Shouldn’t you be finishing your own project?”
“Isn’t it about time you started yours?”
“Lauma!”
Flins can only laugh, bashful; he knows it would be futile to deny your claims. There’s something less humble in placing yourself below what people know you to be, especially when the evidence is overwhelming. He nods, he thanks you sincerely. Ever so well-mannered, your best friend is. Ever so smart.
“Seriously though,” you continue, tracing circles onto the wood of the bench, “I feel like if I was in your head for a day, I’d know exactly what to do.”
He furrows his brows. Folding his laptop shut, Flins places it carefully back into his backpack. You wish he knew how much of a favour you did him this morning, just so you could rub it in his face.
“Must you be in my head for that? I’m always at your disposal, y/n. If something were to trouble you, you could easily just come to me. You’ve got my head for more than a day.”
You hum.“Yeah…but…”
“But?” he presses.
You pause, contemplating for a moment, before you speak. Fuck it.
“Okay, how about this. Wanna answer a hypothetical?”
Flins smiles, and you see him lean closer to you across the table. He’s always been a deep thinker and, without a doubt, a brilliant conversationalist. With his reputation in his course, along with how valued he is by all of his seminar leaders, you’re not sure why you hadn’t tried this earlier.
“Ask me, starlight.”
You hold his gaze.
He’s real pretty, Flins. It’s why you always stare, why you always watch. You love his long hair, how it tickles your skin when he hugs you tight; it barely even looks long from the front. You complimented it one time, telling him he’d scored the best of both worlds. He remembers that compliment still.
Under the layers of coats and hoodies he’s never seen without, Flins is lean. Most wouldn’t expect it from an art history nerd (your words, not anyone else’s), but at times, when you’re fast asleep and he’s wide awake, he spends his time at the campus gym. He never cared too much for his body composition, but a late December study session, sometime during your second year of university, convinced him that it was worth the investment.
“It’s crazy how built Varka is,” you’d said absentmindedly, scribbling down the last of your notes. “I don’t blame Itto for bugging out over it. Varka’s got the build of a greek god, it’s hard for anyone to compare to that.”
It was a particularly confusing lecture that you were rewatching, so you didn’t look away from your laptop. Flins however, sat opposite you, felt a bloom spread in his chest.
Varka?
The blonde wasn’t too sure why Flins was less willing to hang out with him that week. He was even more surprised when he caught him at the gym, hogging the lateral pull-down machine for way longer than he should’ve.
It was after your exams had finished, after your second year had come to a close, that you all decided to go out to celebrate. That time, and only that time, did you all allow Varka access to the fireball bottle, so long as he split the entire thing with Flins. Lumine had already gone back home, excited to spend time with her brother, so you and Lauma had a bottle of Malibu to split between you both. She was drunk quicker than you’d ever seen her, and you pretended not to hear what she was saying about Nefer. You shared a knowing look with Flins, a promise to somehow set that up before you all graduated for good.
You still can’t recall how Flins got as wasted as he did, and you know it’s bad when Varka was the one sobering up to take care of him. Slung over the taller man’s shoulder, he was muttering nonsense, slurred protests against his own (forced) departure. You offered the bouncer an apologetic smile before hopping into the uber with Varka and Flins. Lauma had found Nefer in the club, and you were too considerate to interrupt.
The alcohol, conveniently, had caught up to Varka by the time he stepped foot in his dorm. He was slumped on the sofa, knocked out, and you were left to your own devices to handle a very drunk Flins. He was in bed by 3 in the morning. You arrived at the dorm at 2.
“Mmh, my shirt is…”
“I know,” you sighed, exhasperated. You were already rummaging through his wardrobe for a replacement. “Some guy spilled his drink on you.”
“Asshole,” he slurred.
You snorted, finding Flins’ rare moments of vulgarity more amusing than anything else.
“Trust me, you made your opinion very known. If Lauma hadn’t seen you, you would’ve beat that guy half to death.”
“It’s because I’m strong, love,” he mumbles tiredly, missing the way your ears turn red at the nickname, “like Varka. Maybe even stronger.”
“Sure,” you said. After what felt like forever, you’d finally found a shirt that looked comfortable enough to sleep in. You made note to berate him for filling 90% of his wardrobe with hoodies.
“I wasn’t trying to humor you, love. You don’t think I’m strong?”
“Oh, you’re very strong.”
“You don’t sound like you mean it.”
He was pouting. He looked like a kicked puppy, and you fought back the urge to plant a fat kiss on his forehead. You were slightly tipsy yourself, and it made everything feel all the more intense.
“I mean it, Kyryll.” You walked over to him, tossing him his shirt. It landed over his face, muffling his groans. He clawed at his own face a little before peeling it off, moving to pull the wet one over his head. You turned away, back to him, and he laughed.
“You can watch me, you know. I like it when you look. It’s not as if I work out for anyone else.”
You still can’t recall how Flins got as wasted as he did, and you know it’s bad when Varka was the one sobering up to take care of him. You scolded him, telling him to “watch his mouth” and “sober up fast”. That was all it took for you to finally leave his room, mumbling a “goodnight” you weren’t even sure he heard, before throwing yourself onto the sofa in their living room. Wide awake from Varka’s loud, drunk snores, you mulled over his offer.
“You can watch me, you know.”
Helplessly, hopelessly, you wished that you could’ve heard it from him sober.
“I like it when you look.”
But the moon was shining through the windows of his dorm, pooling at the carpet under the coffee table.
Your fate does not involve you being in love with your best friend.
Not at the end of second year, and still not now.
“You’re caught in a time loop, and the day we’re in right now keeps repeating. You’ve tried a bunch of different things to change the outcome and break the loop, but it keeps repeating anyway. So, tell me, what’s your next step?”
“Have I already made it known to you?”
You blink.
Flins looks serious, and from glancing at him, you can tell that he’s planning on answering your question as well as he can. For whatever reason, this happens to be his starting point.
“Uh, no. Not yet.”
He hums. “I assume, then, that this hypothetical comes with the notion that I am completely stupid?”
“You are NOT stupid, WHAT?!” you exclaim, ableit with more defense than you would’ve liked to let slip. His eyes glint with both confusion and amusement, and he laughs, his eyes curling into the crescent moons you never grow tired of seeing. Sure, you hadn’t just told him about your situation outright, but you have your own reasons. It’s a crazy thing to bring up to someone, and most definitely has a less than 100% sucess rate. Whenever the thought would cross your mind, you would brush it off, deeming it a complete waste of the day. There were more productive ways to get out of the loop, surely.
“Just- okay, whatever. Answer my question properly.”
“Okay, okay,” he surrenders, raising both hands in the air in submission, “my apologies, starlight. But I will attest to my own statement. I really would make it known to you, that would be the first solution that would come to mind. There’s not an issue in the world I wouldn’t speak to you about, after all.”
You huff at his words, slightly jealous at his more rational way of dealing with a situation that is very much irrational to you. “Well, what if I didn’t believe you?”
“Would you, or would you not? This is your hypothetical, direct me towards the answer you wish to hear.”
“Let’s say I don’t,” you suggest, brows knitting together in thought, “then what?”
He’s quiet for a while, caught in his own contemplation. Selfishly, you take the moment to watch him, to let your eyes dance all over his face. He’s real pretty, Flins. You snap your eyes away from his lips the moment you see them part to speak.
“Then nothing.”
Then nothing.
Your first instict is to turn towards the sky. Silently, yet as loud as ever, you beg for the loop to reset right now. You’re not sure how long before you explode from your own frustration, or if the impact of it will take out Flins with you. So really, it’s a kind request for the greater good. Neither of you will get hurt if the loop just so kindly resets right at this very second.
The sky does not submit to your dramatics.
Flins, noticing that his response was less than satisfactory, decides to elaborate before you get the chance to insult him.
“Not believing me wouldn’t be an outcome,” he continues, easing into himself once he sees you break out of the frustration-trance he’d accidentally trapped you in, “so it’s pointless to even consider that an outcome.”
“Yeah? Why’s that? I could just not believe you. Could call you a crazy lunatic.”
It’s a challenging statement, a prod. You don’t know why you like to argue with him, or why you love it so much when he indulges you and lets you. Flins will always return to your pointed words with his calm, composed ones, his brilliant answers, the ones you can hardly ever continue to argue with for long.
“First and foremost,” he starts, “I’d have evidence. If we stick to what you’ve suggested, a situation where I’ve supposedly been caught in this time loop for a while now, then surely, certainly, I would have compiled enough evidence to prove it to you. Predicting what you’ll do, what someone else will do, what someone else will say, even telling you something I could never have just known by myself. It all works in my favour, not yours. I have the entire day at my disposal. And if somehow I found myself unable to bypass your stubbornness the first time I try, there’s always a tomorrow. Or rather, there’s always today. Why should I fret when I can only really succeed?”
Or rather, there’s always today.
His stance on this hypothetical is nothing revolutionary. Any normal person would’ve come up to this conclusion at some point throughout their time loop journey, so you feel a tinge of annoyance that you needed Flins to guide you there. It’s a place that you’ve been at this whole time, a conclusion that’s been inside you, ignored, discarded of. It didn’t seem tangible until he put it into words, laying it out like a map before you and taking you with him, continent to continent.
“Secondly,” he resumes, more interested in your question than you would’ve anticipated, “I’d be quite wounded if you didn’t believe me at all. I’d understand if it was Lauma, or Varka, or Lumine. Definitely Lumine, in fact. I cannot begin to imagine a world where I seek you out in a moment of genuine need, only for you to turn me away. That sort of behaviour doesn’t come from you, starlight.”
And it doesn’t from you either, Kyryll.
You’re overcome with a feeling you don’t know the name of, and you stare at him without trying to hide it. You stare at his eyes, those bright spheres of gold, his nose, the smooth bridge of it, how it twitches softly when he breathes in. You stare at the way his hair frames his chiselled face, the way it runs down his back like a waterfall, a few loose strands settled atop the bench. And when you shift your eyes to his lips, finally, you’re back in highschool all over again.
It’s valentines day, 6pm, at a restaurant that was suggested in one of the many letters he’d received. He’d taken you instead, claiming that he cared little for the valentines day festivities, that he’d rather just spend time with you. As he always did. You agreed, grinning, Ayato’s 50 clutched in your fist, and soon the pair of you indulged in debatably the best food you’d ever shared.
You were chewing on a particularly large soup dumpling, trying to prevent any of it from spilling from your lips. You swallowed it with some difficulty. Assuming he’d be busy eating too, you looked up at him to do what you did best: watch.
To your surprise, he was already watching you.
You stared at his eyes, his nose, the way his hair framed his face. Your eyes shifted to his lips, to a fate that you could only pray was for you, just for you. A fate you prayed for again, and again, and again.
You wanted to kiss him.
You wanted to kiss him so, so bad.
And he would’ve let you. He would’ve let you kiss him again, and again.
And again, just one more time. As many times as you’d like to.
Everything about the date is less bearable this time. You curse yourself for being the one to set Flins up with Columbina. You curse the sky for trapping you in a time loop where you have to see them both together like that. Again, and again, and again.
Flins looks good, even better than usual, despite it being the exact same look that you’ve seen so many times already. You peer at him with eyes that aren’t as shy as they ususally are. You notice his cologne for the first time too, a new layer to the same day. You smell it on him when you pull him into a tight hug. What better way to thank him for calling you beautiful?
“Mmh,” you hear him mumble into your hair, clasped hands resting at the small of your back, “the perfume you’re wearing is…quite addicting, I have to say.”
You feel your heart beat against your ears, the rustle of his bouquet drowned out by your heartbeat.
“You like it?” The hedonistic part of you asks, the part that opposes fate, the part that wants to just crash your lips against his. You know he does, he’s practically spelled it out for you. You just want to, need to, hear it again.
He’s quick to indulge you, as he always is.
“I like it, y/n.”
You draw back to flash him a smile.
The walk to the main plaza is, for the most part, quiet. In this loop, he’d made it to his presentation. Varka and Lumine were on time to their class. You already know Lauma’s done well on her presentation, so you don’t feel the need to ask him. The only sounds are his footsteps mingling with your own, that irritating rustle of his bouquet, and the quiet blow of that cold, cold wind. It whispers to you, as if carrying the moon’s warning, as if it’s reminding you of the night that’ll soon unfold.
“Troubled?”
You aren’t surprised that he picks up on it, on the haze that clouds your mind.
“Maybe, just slightly.”
First, second, third or fourth loop; it doesn’t matter, really. Time itself is a blur, but Flins is as constant as ever. Attentive, doting, kind. He knows you better than anyone else, after all. It’s an insult to think that he wouldn’t pick up on the reluctance in each step you take, the slowing of your pace, the way you try to busy yourself with the scenery you’ve never once cared for before. You’re trying to take your mind off something, and he realised it a mere 3 minutes into your walk. All he needed was to wait for the right time to pry.
“And why’s that, starlight?” He asks, hoping that right now is right enough. You’re a good distance away from the corner that turns into the main plaza. There, Kaeya and Columbina wait. There, Columbina would spot Flins before Kaeya spots you. There she’d run up to him, gushing at that wretched, stupid bouquet of flowers. And there, he’d plant a kiss at the back of her hand, the kiss you’ve wanted on your lips time and time again. The kiss you’d imagined, curled up in your bed, cheeks flushed with shame, at 13. Then again at 14. 15, 16, 17. The kiss that hasn’t missed a day in your mind. The kiss that she gets in a fraction of the time you’ve waited.
It’s not fair to be mad at her, to think of her as anything less as what you are too. She likes him, and so do you. You could consider that you’re one in the same.
But you’re not, and you know that, because she makes her feelings known, and you do not. She makes the effort to reach out to him, and you do not. She looks at him kindly, speaks to him so sweet, as if honey was dripping right off her tongue. You’re rougher, meaner, teasing him any chance you get, scolding him whenever he’s annoying, rolling your eyes when his speech drags longer than it has to. Sure, you’re both still close, closer than he and Columbina are, but there’s more nuance to closeness than people want to admit.
There’s closeness between friends, and then there’s closeness between lovers.
It doesn’t take long to figure out which one you are.
It doesn’t take long to turn the corner either.
“Y/n.”
There’s closeness between friends, and then there’s closeness between lovers. It doesn’t take long to figure out which one you are. You’ve been figuring it out for your whole life, again, and again.
Until tonight, because doubt strikes the rules that sit like concrete in your mind. Doubt strikes the walls of the title that governs you both so strict, that wretched title. Best friends. Doubt strikes the very idea of fate itself, the idea that you could never, ever be his, that he could never, ever be yours. All that it fails to strike, or perhaps doesn’t dare to, is his message from the first loop, the one it’s taken you four (one) days to understand.
When change fails to reach you, sometimes it’s you that has to let it.
Sometimes it’s you that has to let it.
Most times, it’s you that has to let it.
Right now, it’s you that has to let it.
Your eyes are wide, and you open your mouth.
The bouquet rustles before you speak.
It stands proud, triumphant, in his extended arm, and all you can do is watch it fall into a pair of softer, gentler hands.
“Flins, oh my gosh. Are those flowers for me?”
You lose him, straight from your hands this time.
“Of course, Miss Columbina. I tried to find the ones that looked nearly as nice as you.”
Again, and again, and again.
Kaeya can sense your foul mood.
Not that it’s difficult, though; it was practically bleeding from every pore in your body. You didn’t want to hear about the bumblebee bat, despite your newly-formed database of knowledge on it. You didn’t want to see her whisper into his ear. You didn’t want to hear him laugh at whatever she said, nor did you want to know what it was that she said. You didn’t want to hear about his cold hands, or how he was glad that she was warming them up for him. You didn’t care to subject yourself to it all a fourth, painful time. Why should you? What would you gain? The day would loop again, and you’d probably just start it feeling worse than usual. So you’d taken Kaeya to the peak of the mount before you even saw Flins kiss the back of her hand, walking straight ahead, not daring to look back.
You’re trapped in a hell that you yourself created, realising too late, hesitating too much, and you’ve never been so furious at yourself. Flins was right there, waiting, expecting. If you’d told him, demanded him, to turn back, to take your hand and sprint back to your dorm, or his, whichever was closer, he definitely would have.
Maybe, he would have.
You get even more annoyed when you catch yourself hesitating over your own thoughts.
“I can walk you home, you know. Don’t feel obligated to be here.”
Yeah, Kaeya can feel your foul mood. You catch it in the slight awkwardness he houses in his tone.
“If you want me to leave, say it,” you snap, fingers uprooting the blades of grass below you. You pick them one by one before dropping them back onto the ground.
Kaeya sighs, smiling knowingly.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says with a softer tone this time. Wordlessly, you’re convinced to turn your head, meeting his gaze. He’s sitting next to you in this loop, a respectable distance away, the moon glinting above him. He doesn’t try to reach for you, he doesn’t try to touch you. From the moment you’d reached the top of the mount, you hadn’t spoken a single word to him. He let you wallow in your own silence, choosing to busy himself with the sight of the lake before him. He didn’t try to speak to you, and, with some difficutly, he didn’t turn to face you when you cried. You’d been crying for a few minutes now, quietly, like the crying was happening inside your chest. The bouquet of peonies and roses sits silent beside him. It doesn’t rustle like the lilies. It doesn’t interrupt you.
When do you look at him, he frowns at your tear stained cheeks, the redness in your eyes, the twitch of your nose when you sniffle. You catch a glimpse of it all, reflected in his pupils, and it only makes you feel even more pathetic.
“I’m sorry, fuck.” You dry your cheeks with the back of your hand, lowering your head in shame. “I’m being such a bitch right now, Kaeya. Seriously, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, you’re all good. I think I’d be pretty upset too if the person I liked was speaking to someone the way Flins was speaking to her.”
You don’t have the energy to argue with him, or to question the matter-of-fact tone he carries while he says it. It just feels good to have him recognise your struggle, to sympathise with it. It makes you feel slightly better. The moon watches the two of you, knowing, waiting to see what you’d do today.
“Mm, it’s fault anyway,” you admit. It feels bad to say out loud, but you know it’s true. It is your fault that this loop is even this loop to begin with, a date that you’d set up for him. It is also your fault that the loop keeps repeating, that you refuse to face him with courage, conviction, despite the universe offering you the chance to try again and again and again. “I set them up. I could’ve just told him I didn’t want him to go on this date, but I never do.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I’m a pussy,” you say simply. You can hardly believe that you’re talking to your date about the guy you told him not to worry about. He snickers at your words, and you giggle at the ridiculousness of it all, and the moon shines bright, the air lighter. The audience doesn’t appear disappointed tonight, nor does it appear judgemental. The stars, the moon, and the sky look down at you with sympathy, concern. It’s still cold tonight, but not the uncomfortable cold that had met you in the previous loops, the ones that scold you for your stupid thoughts, your neverending doubts.
Your audience recognises your development, and so settles for watching, observing. Nothing more, nothing less. There is no wind atop the mount.
“You could tell him now,” Kaeya suggests.
You glare at him incredulously. “What?”
“What?” He repeats, seemingly unaware of his terrible suggestion. “You could.”
“Yeah, I could, if I was the biggest prick in the world. I know I told you I’m being a bitch right now, but I really don’t want to be one, Kaeya. You know how awful I’d have to be to set up a date for Columbina, then go and crash it myself?”
He taps his finger on his chin before raising both of his eyebrows.
“I would say….hmmm…just about as awful as you’d have to be to tangle yourself in unrequited love just because you’re too scared to face your own feelings.”
Ouch.
You feel a little attacked now.
“Since when are you so educated in what I feel?”
“Uhh, I’d say since Varka told me to go on this date with you. You know, so that Flins could finally grow a pair and stop you.”
You stare at him. You don’t say anything.
“Or maybe since Lauma us all that you definitely liked him since you were 18. From what you’d told her, at least.”
You keep staring. You don’t say anything.
“Lumine reckons it was way before, but she made me promise not to say anything to you, and I feel a little bad even bringing up her n-“
“You assholes.”
Kaeya, ignoring the venom that laces your words, falls back into a fit of laughter. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until both of you have tears on your cheeks. You can’t place exactly when you started to laugh with him, but you did at some point, covering your face with both your palms. You are mortified at the revelation. All your friends knew, and none of them thought to ask you about it any further? Well, it isn’t as if you would’ve ever admitted it, which is probably why they never bothered, but still. You can’t help but feel slightly betrayed by them all, Lauma and Lumine in particular.
“They all know?!” You shriek, completely humiliated. “And you were put up to this? Varka’s a dickhead, and so are you.”
“Hey, hey! You were the one trying to convince me you actually liked me enough to come on this date. And, I distinctly remember you telling me that you and Flins aren’t anything to worry about. Cmon, now. It’s a blessing that I’m not actually trying to date you, I’d be fucked if I was. Either you’re worse, or we’re both even.”
His words pull you through a rollercoaster of emotions, but by the end of the ride, you find that you aren’t in any position to disagree with him. He’s right, and honestly, you’re relieved that you don’t have to worry about hurting his feelings.
“So,” he resumes, amused at the fact that you’re still covering your face, “just tell him, please. If you want me to be honest, it’ll make my mission more of a success. Next time I see Varka on the pitch, I’ll have a great story to tell him.”
You sneer, “is that all you care about?”
“Well, do you want me to be honest, or be nice?”
“Kaeya.”
“Starlight,” he spits back, regretting it when you reach out to shove his arm. It’s not enough, though, not for what you’ve gone through tonight, so you reach out to shove him again.
He lets you.
The interaction is way better than the ones you’d had with Kaeya in the previous loops. He’s more human now, more natural. You don’t mind the idea of seeing him around more often, now that you know he doesn’t want to date you anyway. No expectations, no pressure, but the air fills with all the threats in the world towards Varka, Lauma, and Lumine. You couldn’t believe that they’d seen right through you so easily. Surely you’d concealed your feelings better than that. You ask him if they’ve spoken to Flins, but he just shrugs, telling you he has no clue. You make sure to take his words with a grain of salt, and you sit with him a little longer, letting him tell you things about Diluc that you already know. After about an hour, you take him up on his offer to walk you home, just as you feel the drizzle of rain begin to fall.
The pair of you decide to walk down the less steep side of the mount, turning left instead of heading straight down. The route is slightly longer, but both of you would rather arrive at home later than than not arrive at home at all. You didn’t want to risk the slip, and neither did he.
“Big game coming up,” he’d said, as if you even cared about why he didn’t want to take the steep route down, “can’t risk it. We’ll lose for sure if I’m not there, our team can’t do it without me.”
“I’m telling Varka you said that.”
“Do not.”
Kaeya walks ahead of you, offering to take the lead. That way, he’d said, if there were any slippery patches, he’d fall before you, and in doing so, would save your life. You could only roll your eyes in response, letting a dry “thanks, Alberich” fall from your lips as you both carried on with your descent. It wouldn’t matter too much if you fell. The loop would reset, the mud would disappear, and you’d be back in your room. Moonlight pooling at your sheets, at your chest. Flins, sitting quietly on your windowsill, all alone. All yours.
There was something comforting about the loop now, about knowing that at the end of it all, you begin with him. That there’s a verison of him, the loop version, that will always come back to you. All alone, all yours. Again, and again, and ag-
“-let’s turn back.”
“What?”
Kaeya’s stopped in his tracks, facing you. He’s a little closer than he was before, so much so that you’re barely able to see in front of you, and you back up from him.
“What are you-“
“Let’s not go this way. It’s slippery, like, really slippery. You’ll fall for sure.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Kaeya.” You try to move past him, but he moves too, blocking you. You furrow your brows. “Dude, move.”
“Y/n, I seriously think that we should-“
“Kaeya, move.”
Your fingers clutch his sleeve, harshly tugging him to the side, freeing your field of vision from the blockage. In front of you, the moon shines bright, too bright. Blinding. The stars burn, they sear the sky. The rain falls down on you harder than it did a second ago, soaking your top, your skirt, the strands of your hair. You scrunch up your face at the wet feeling, but from the looks of it, she doesn’t seem to mind nearly as much as you.
No, the rain barely registers to her, because the Kind Miss Columbina is too preoccupied by Flins, who leans in close, his nose brushing against hers. The bouquet lies comfortably on the ground, looking at you, waiting for you to see it. Each petal waits in anticipation. You can’t look away from it, from the way his hand moves to cup the plush of her cheek, the way his thumb brushes against it, up, down, up, down.
Again, and again.
And again, just one more time, right before he leans in further. He’s going to kiss her. His lips would slot so perfectly against hers. You realise they must have in every single loop.
Your logic tells you that it’s Kaeya that calls out to you. Your hope, what’s left of it, tells you it’s Flins. The wind and the rain, ever so violent in their natures, tell you to keep moving, regardless of who it is that calls out. They tell you to keep moving all the way down the mount, all the way back to your dorm, until you can’t move any further.
You’re about 15 minutes from your dorm. The side route from the top of the mount down to the bottom is more tedious than the one that goes straight down, so it’s taken you longer than it usually does to get back home. No matter, though. You’ve passed by the statue in the main plaza, the heels of your shoes clacking against the stone of the ground. The loop would reset soon anyway, so there’s no real need to get home quickly. But despite that fact, despite it all, your body moves like it can’t stop moving. It moves like it’ll break if it stops, as if stopping would keep you still in a moment you want to rid yourself of as soon as possible.
You wonder how you’re even going to face the loop again, his face on the screen of your phone, without seeing the way it fits so snug against Columbina’s. You wonder how you’d link your arm around his, walking back from your lecture, knowing that it would soon find purchase around her waist. You wonder if there’s even any point in the loop at all. With how low your morale is, how awful you feel, you wouldn’t be surprised if it just ended there, leaving you to walk all the way back home, no matter how long it takes you.
As the voice calling out for you grows louder, the moon shines brighter, and your feet move faster.
“Y/N!”
Faster.
“Stop running, Y/N!”
Faster.
And you’re sprinting, away from him, away from her, away from everything that’s been happening. You run, just like you always do, just like you always have.
Again, and again, and again.
But you’ve never been the only one to fall into these loops, these webs of repitition. Habit keeps more than one slave, after all. It’s as greedy as it is persistent.
Flins follows suit, his pace unwavering, unfaltering, chasing after you. The further you stray, the closer he nears, just like he always does, just like he always has.
Again, and again, and again.
“Y/N!”
It’s a ridiculous sight, one that the moon, the stars, and the sky have watched for years and years. This painstaking push and pull, the stubbornnes, the denial, the cowardice. And finally, tonight, they watch the climax of it all, unravelling as Flins begins to catch up with you. The stars gleam in his favour. The moon watches him, knowing, waiting, and it watches you too. The rain ceases to halt its assault on all that rests below it.
You only make it to the courtyard of your accommodation before he’s caught you. Strong hands grip your arms, turning you to face him. Flins is drenched, more drenched than he has been in every other loop, and it’s the first time that you’re drenched with him. He says something to you, but you don’t hear any of it. You’re so upset, so angry.
“Fuck you,” is all you can choke out. “Seriously, fuck you, Kyryll.”
“Y/n, just-“
“No, I don’t want to hear it.” You’re wriggling in his grasp, trying to free yourself from it. It’s to no avail, though, because now that Flins has you, right here, right now, he can’t imagine another instance of letting you go. He’s done it one too many times, again, and again, and ag-
“-let me go, Kyryll. I don’t want to see you.”
“I can’t,” is all he says. His voice isn’t as loud as yours, it’s not as pointed either. He’s afraid that if he tries to speak with any more force, you’ll hear the way it shakes, the way it trembles. The last thing he wants to show you now is how his words refuse to leave his throat, how he has to push them out with force, with a conviction that he finds hard to reach.
Your palms are pressed against his chest, against the wet, black fabric of his coat, and you push. His hands remain on either one of your arms, gripping the wet, black fabric of your top, and he pulls. The two of you, for once, stay fixed in the same position. The usual push and pull does not work like it normally would. Push does not wait for pull, and pull does not wait for push. You have a feeling that everything is done waiting. You are, and Flins most certaintly is too.
Everything, all of it, has to happen right now.
“You’re so weird,” you cry, the strength you’re using to push him dissipating. “You talk weird, and you act weird too. I don’t get you.”
Valentines, all the way back in highschool.
“I don’t get the way you think.”
Games night, while you laughed at Varka mourning the idea of his uno win.
“I don’t get the names you call me.”
Before he stripped off his shirt, drunk out of his mind, insisting that you watch.
“I don’t get why you always come back like this.”
When you’d first brought up Columbina’s crush, something you’d only done to see if he would reciprocate.
“And I don’t get why you always make me read that stupid fucking poem.”
He’s always looked at you the same, waiting, knowing, praying for the green light. And it’s that look that you’ve always ignored.
“All I want is to keep you for myself,” he hisses, pulling you into his chest completely.
Your palms slip, and you’re pressed against him now, your faces mere inches apart. His breath is warm against your cold, wet face. He’s looking at you so deep, so loving, so sad, that you could say that he’s the one who’s always burnt bright. That he’s the one who sparks and crackles. He stands before you, a blue flame, a display of outward composure, an inward heat that rivals all its competitors. You’d never seen him like this, so dishevelled, so hungry. He looked like he would starve if you slipped from his embrace.
“It’s selfish of me, but it hurts- no, it kills me to know that I can’t have you, to think that there’s a chance that you won’t let me.”
“Why…why wouldn’t I, Kyryll?!”
He scoffs, “because you never do. You have never, ever let me. You- you insist on pushing me away, on keeping me at bay, and you expect me to break past what you build between us. I try, y/n, you know I do. I try to get closer, I try to bring you to me. But anytime I do, you just stray like you don’t even want to be there.”
You wince at the hurt in his voice. The anger you’d felt initially mingles with regret, realisation, and you’re pulling yourself closer. You’re on your tiptoes, your lips pressing against his jawline, and then his cheek. You push yourself up and reach the corner of his mouth. You litter light kisses all over his face, like bandages atop open wounds. Something keeps you from his lips, though. Amidst the guilt that riddles you, the rain that pelts down onto your body, you try to make out if it’s the water that coats his lips, or if it’s Columbina’s lip gloss.
“You don’t act like you like me, not enough. Not enough for me to tell you all of this without wondering if I’ll scare you away.”
“You would never scare me away,” you try to reason, but his expression is still hurt, maimed. Your words, your lips, they do little to put him at ease. The pair of you stand as close as ever, grasping each other, as if it’ll all fix itself if you hold each other tight enough. “Kyryll, nothing could keep me from you like that.”
“The only thing that’s keeping me from you is you, y/n.”
“I…” you pause, and you think, and you realise. Flins watches it all happen in the way your eyes reflect it. He hates the way he’s speaking to you, he loathes himself for it. It’s so harsh, so messy, so unlike him, and it’s exactly how he feels. It’s exactly what he needs you to know, to see, to feel. He has no choice but to leave little to the imagination.
“I’d tear down anything to get to you,” he murmurs, and it’s almost a whimper against your skin, a prayer to the sky. His nose rests against yours, lips hovering over your own. They brush each other once, twice, but not a third time, because he pulls back to get a clearer look at your face. You whine a little, disappointed, moving closer again. “But-mph, I- I can’t do a thing if it’s you that stands between us. I wouldn’t lay a hand on you, starlight. Not you. Never you.”
And with that, always you.
From all the way when you were 5, hearing a poem about the stars.
To the time you both were 16, spending Ayato’s money on a Valentines dinner.
To the time you were both 18, celebrating your acceptance into university.
All the way to now, where you stand in front of him in all your glory.
You are stubborn, and you can be mean. You tease him every chance you get. You get annoyed by him more often than not, and you’re quick to tell him to shut up when he starts to waste his words.
And Flins cannot comprehend how much he loves you.
“I like you so much,” you say, your voice losing all the power it carried when you first cussed him out. You regret it now, more than you could ever express, but he stills at your confession. “I really, really fucking like you, Kyryll. I’ve always just wanted you to tell me you liked me too. I’ve always just wanted to kiss your stupid, stupid face, even back we were kids, at that stupid dinner you could’ve taken any other stupid girl to.”
“But why would I, y/n? I took my favourite stupid girl because she’s the only stupid girl I would’ve wanted to bring.”
For the first time in what feels like forever, centuries, you catch that sly smile. You see that glint of mischief in those golden eyes of his.
“I’m not stupid,” is all you can mumble back, pouting.
“You are sometimes, starlight. You can be stupid enough to think that I had time to kiss Columbina when I was so preoccupied trying to catch up with you. Or even to think that I’d be able to go through with it at all.”
That’s all you needed to hear.
You lock your lips with his. They’re soft, wet, and he tastes like everything you’ve ever wanted to taste, with a hint of rainwater and salty tears. He hums, pleased, and his tongue moves against yours slowly. He pulls away for a split second, just to catch his breath, to catch a peek at you in such a state, before diving right back in. Your back is pressed against the wall of a building you don’t recognise. Flins, ever the gentleman, places his palm on the back of your head, shielding it from the solid surface he pushes you onto. You’re chest to chest, soaked from head to toe, lip to lip, tongue on tongue.
You’re not sure how many times you’d imagined this happening, how many times you’d had dreams of him having you like this. His hands wander, and his touch is electric. You to arch into him, telling him wordlessly to touch you more, everywhere, all over. Your entire body is on fire in the rain, and you tug on his hair with one hand, the other cupping his cheek, keeping him near. You wouldn’t want anyone else to kiss him like this, ever. You wouldn’t want to anyone else to kiss you like this, ever.
“Mmgh, only- you.” Is all you can get out before he’s lapping you up again, a hand resting just under your chest. It’s weird, how new it feels to touch you like this. He’s seen your body in tight dresses before, in skimpy club outfits. He’s felt it too, hugging you when you cry, holding you close, arms wrapped tight around your waist. You are nothing new to Kyryll, but he has never had you in the way he has you now. He can’t deny how new it all really is, but he handles you like he’d practiced every night, like he trained his hands to settle exactly where you’d want to feel them.
“I love you,” he prays, straight into your mouth, and you hear it while he moves his lips to your neck. He sucks at the skin just below your ear, nipping at it, causing you to gasp.
Again, you hear it.
His tongue soothes the areas he bites, running over them before finding another patch of skin to taste.
And again, you hear it. It scolds you for ignoring it the first two times.
“Do you want this, y/n?”
The voice is all too familiar, and this time, you have heard it before.
Selfishly, you keep Flins on you a little longer than you know the moon usually allows. You stay on his lips, never getting enough of the way he tastes.
When he pulls back, dazed, you look right past him, right up at the sky. You look at the moon that’s been watching over you from the moment you were born, over each cycle that it had trapped you in, waiting for you to make your way into his arms. You look at the stars that sat, gleaming, waiting for you to tell them what you really, truly desired. And fate, poor fate, who you shunned and misunderstood for so long, mutilated by your fear. Fate watches you with adoration, relief. You swear you can see it smile.
You open your mouth to answer, to tell Flins you love him too.
But you blink.
Then you blink again, before-
-moonlight pools at your sheets, sitting on your chest, your shoulders, the left side of your face. A light so bright would usually strain your sleep-ridden eyes, but not tonight. Tonight, your gaze remains unfaltering, focused. The moon looks back at you, and so does each star. Knowing, but no longer waiting. You barely catch the way you’re utterly lost in it all.
Flins, however, does. In fact, he never misses it.
“Quite the poem,” he mumbles softly, lips curling at the edges, “and quite the reciter.”
He’s lying down, deep, azure stands of hair painting the white bedsheets below him. The moon outside your window visits him too, because this entire face is illuminated by it, moonlight dripping into his gleaming, golden eyes. Today, tonight, you see him more clearly than you ever have.
The loop’s reset, you’re sure of it, but you still feel breathless, flushed. The cold that always greets you upon returning to your bed melts at the fire that burns from everywhere he’s touched you, and more from everywhere he’s yet to. You look at him, the little version of him on your phone. You remember how badly he wants you too.
“Quite the audience,” is what you choose to say in response.
He smiles. You remember the way his lips fit so perfectly against yours.
“Kyryll,” you call, ready to ask him a question you already know the answer to. He hums in acknowledgement, refusing to peel his gaze from yours. It’s intense, golden, and you realise how it’s exactly the same gaze that he’d subjected to you against that wall, under the onslaught of rain, before kissing you with a frevour you didn’t know he had in him. “Why do you like it so much? This stupid poem.”
You’ve always known, really, no matter how many times you’d pushed the answer down. He’d told you everyday with his eyes, in his repitition, in his firey persistence. Though he’d frowned the last time you called his dear poem stupid, he doesn’t tonight. No, in fact, there’s nothing on Flins’ face that would indicate that he feels anything short of content.
“I must admit, my persistence in hearing your recital can’t always be attributed to the quality of the poem.”
Flins is looking at you, settled comfortably on your windowsill. The moon outside shines bright, letting its light swallow your entire face whole. The stars blink, gleam, on their blanket of sky. Everyone, tonight, seems more content than usual.
“It’s you I like so much, starlight.”
You’d lived through this day, again, and again.
And again, you conclude, just one last time.
Today, you know exactly how to get to tomorrow.
Hope this was ok, !!!. Apologies for the lack of a tag list, I didn't anticipate this to turn in the direction it did while I wrote it, and it reads quite MDNI. So to avoid any unnecessary trouble, I decided to just post this as it is, no taglist. As you can see, my teaser segment didn't make the final cut in the end. Sorry! All love, though, hope everyone who did read this enjoyed it !!
requesting some viego or pyke HCs with a sick reader who is all like "no i'm fine i swear" but girl CLEARLY ain't. swain bonus if you wanna? love ur work!
Sick!Reader HCs with Viego, Pyke & Swain
Viego isn't gonna let you get away that easy, you aren't fooling him. Will literally pick you up and make you rest, you WILL be going to your nice cosy bed with a cup of tea, a handmade lunch and the best medicine money can buy, you do not get a choice about it. You will also be cuddled until you feel better, it's not like he can get sick, he's your 24/7 nurse and if you ask for literally anything he'll go get it (tbf that's true the rest of the time too). Also, he's so worried the whole time, please cooperate and put him out of his misery, he hates seeing you uncomfortable.
Pyke trusts you to know your limits up to a certain point, and after that point you're going to make good choices if he has to drag you kicking and screaming. You're going to bed and you're drinking plenty of water and he brought you medicine, yes he knows it tastes like salty lemon juice and bile, you're drinking it anyway, this is not a negotiation. He has a lot of weird folk remedies that are inexplicably super effective, are absolutely vile to taste, and somehow always involve fish parts. It's bizarre but it works. He'll stay with you the whole time though, and he has a way of stroking your hair and humming that makes you instantly fall asleep no matter how uncomfortable your symptoms are.
Swain’s getting you daily check ups from the Imperial physician, you're not arguing with him about your health, you're arguing with the person with the ten year medical degree + fifteen years practice and honey you're outclassed. He can't really take time off work to look after you but he makes sure you have everything you need to the highest quality before he leaves, and he actually finishes work on time, which is an act of god with the amount he's got in his plate on any given day. There WILL be a bird following you around the whole time he's gone though so he'll know if you're on your bullshit and you WILL be hearing about it later. And possibly pecked if you're trying to do something you really really shouldn't. He'll read you a book to make up for it though, he has a very soothing reading voice.
Hey!! hope you’re doing well! anyways, if you could do a val x fem or gn s/o and what their favorite part of or thing about them is? (doesn’t need to be nsfw or anything like that! whatever ur comfortable with!) sry if this doesn’t make any sense🥲
Summary: Their favorite thing about you
Including: Chamber, Yoru, Cypher, Sova, Omen, Phoenix, Gekko, Iso
Notes: I'm doing mostly alr & thanks for requesting<3 Let me know if I understood it correctly!
Chamber loves how accepting you are. You embrace all versions of him, the flirty Chamber, the serious Chamber, even the insecure Chamber he usually doesn't show to anybody. You don't judge him for his past mistakes. This makes him want to show the same amount of support for you.
Yoru's favorite thing about you is your competitiveness. He tried to tone his competitive streak down when you first met, but ever since you told him you didn't mind, you two compete in every. little. thing. The others think it's too much, but you two couldn't care less because it's fun.
Cypher loves your laugh. He's used to everyone being wary of him and his cameras, but then there's you, laughing heartily at his antics and his humor. It easily has become his favorite sound and it's so satisfying to hear.
Sova's favorite thing about you is your honesty. You always let him know your honest thoughts about everything and never hold back, even if the truth could hurt him. Because of that, he's able to trust you with his life.
Omen loves your hands. When he feels cold and empty, which is all the time, your hands that softly caress his cheek and hold his fingers, bring back the warmth he has once felt. It comforts him and temporarily gives him inner peace.
Phoenix's favorite thing about you is your nose. He's a menace, he likes flicking it whenever he passes you and he thinks it's charming how it scrunches up in response every time. He also loves planting kisses on it.
Gekko loves your creativity and helpfulness. That you're offering to brainstorm with him whenever he has new ideas for strategies on how to use his crew in a battle or even sketches for a new tattoo, means a lot to him.
Iso's favorite part is your eyes. Regardless of your eye color, he likes how bright your irises shine whenever you speak with him. It's a subtle sign of the affection you feel for him, which he also has for you.
agszc and the flowers they'd give as well as why they would give them?
໒⦂ 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄.
notes. hey queen, my knowledge in flowers is baby level but!!! we’re gonna see which flowers the boys would give based on themselves and their love<3
genre. fluff
for @melukonova <3
ft. sephiroth, cloud strife, zack fair, genesis rhapsodos, angeal hewley
gender neutral! reader.
ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. orchid.
+ reasoning. orchids come in a variety of symbols next to the obvious luxury and beauty, such as strength, mystery — even charm and refinement. more importantly, they bring across how lucky you are to be able to love your special someone.
+ sephiroth had always thought himself to be deplorable for as long as he could remember. growing up, he had countless reminders of how unloveable he was even in spite of shinra’s hero treatment of him. when he met you, however, somehow you had brought this ray of light into his suffocating darkness and had loved him in spite of everything. he was just so lucky to have you in his life — it was imperative he showed you his gratitude. and so, from the many books he read in his days, he’d decided that gifting your orchids was the best way.
+ “it took awhile to find you these, given the state of midgar.. but the search was worth the while. as i recall.. lovers gift one another flowers as an expression of affection, do they not?”
ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. gardenia.
+ reasoning. gardenia is the type of flower you would use to confess when the words don’t quite reach your lips. basically, an unspoken confession to convey your love. furthermore, it represents purity and expresses beauty towards the receiver.
+ cloud strife.. was never really the best with words, feelings and emotional expression. he preferred to think of himself as an actions kind of guy, and his confession to you boiled down to exactly that. with all the worst behind him, and the whisper of advice from his parted friends, he would have set out one morning to sector five to purchase a few gardenias. flowers and their meanings didn’t come easy to him, but the words he’d received told him these were the ones. the blond’s only hope was that his message would be received and returned.
+ “here, got these for you on the way back from my delivery, they’re um.. gardenias. make sure to change their water every other day or so, if you want them to last, of course..”
ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. daisy.
+ reasoning. daisies represent an innocent, cheerful and pure form of love. the kind of flowers you would pick fresh from the garden or a patch of grass to bring to the person you cherish most. they can also express true love, beauty and simplicity.
+ zack fair was true to his nickname — a puppy. despite his want for leaving the countryside to join SOLDIER, the days he would spend back home were all filled with memories that he would forever carry with him. a few that stood out most were the times he’d race up to you with a handful of daisies. despite their messy condition, and the apology he would laugh out for tripping on his way to you, his actions are filled with sincerity and love.. even if zack might not know what he’s given to you. with time, however, he will have realized the depth of his gifts.
+ “ahaha, sorry y/n! i didn’t see this rock on my way over, and i might have ruined the flowers a bit.. but they still smell nice! and i tried to salvage the good ones, y’see! peak condition!”
ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. aster.
+ reasoning. asters, according to myth were associated with a goddess that wept because there weren’t enough stars. the tears that fell became the star shaped flowers we call asters. on the contrary, they symbolize love, charm and sensitivity.
+ genesis rhapsodos — born poet, forced to soldier. flowers and their meanings didn’t fall far from the tree for a man with vast knowledge of the arts, literature and beauty. as someone with a keen interest in loveless, having analyzed and noted it to memory, asters came to be his first choice in conveying his love for you. the gift of the goddess, he would have concluded, and a perfect fit for the one who has captured his heart — you. and so, on his way back from a mission, a singular aster would have occupied his red, gloved hand as he presented it to you.
+ “a gift from the goddess for my beloved.. as flowers have long since disappeared off the face of midgar, amidst the filth and industrialization. are you pleased with my findings?”
ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. alstroemeria.
+ reasoning. alstroemerias convey loyalty, devotion, support and.. honor. the type of flower you give to remind someone of their strength when they fall on hard times. but, it is also said that receiving an extra sweet one, meant you were beloved.
+ angeal hewley wasn’t exactly one for frivolous love, a stark contrast otherwise, to his friend. the romance department just never really called his attention.. well, at least until he met you. somehow you sparked feelings in him that he wasn’t sure he was even capable of feeling strongly towards another person. it was strange, different.. but a good kind of different. however there was a downside — that being his lack of experience. his familiarity with romance was minimal, but he was determined to provide! and with outside help, he was acquired flowers.
+ “these are alstroemerias.. a mouthful, i know. but they used to grow back where i grew up, in banora. they said the sweeter ones are best to gift to your beloved — so here you are.”
notes. several hours of research and inconsistent writing later, i was able to finish your request.. love how NOBODY had roses but like anyway, this is the end results for agszc with flowers woop
↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask
Op characters with a clingy/handsy drunk? let's go
suggestive in Sanjis, Luffy, Brooks, DEFINITELY in Namis and Frankys and maybe Usopps? Mostly vague stuff, on that note would you guys actually be interested in like nsfw stuff? I know I'm really toeing the line here and i have drafts but I'm nervous to post😭.
Feel like this could be ooc in some places but who cares😻(me :()
Luffy
Giggles a lot, he finds it so cute and it really makes him feel warm in his chest. He can't get enough of you to be honest. Like this man loves physical touch but be warned he will think it's a sudden new level in your 'friendship'(read:in love with each other) and start acting that affectionate all the time. Willing to carry you around and also wrap himself around you so you can walk with him just there, yes this includes to the bathroom-
Zoro
Adores it. I think he actually loves affection and physical touch but just doesn't say it because he thinks it's obvious (it's not). So when you come up to him, wobbly and on your 6th drink, and just practically throw yourself into his arms hes just like :/). Makes sure you stay nice and close to him because he doesn't want you clinging to anyone else, and he always makes sure you drink water before bed even if bed involves falling asleep on top of him.
Sanji
Makes him nervous to be honest. Usually he's the forward one in the relationship but here you are untucking his shirt just to shove your hands up it. He absolutely will shriek if its in front of other people, and he's trying to wrangle your grabby hands but he really enjoys it so his resolve is so weak. Tries to satiate you by being affectionate back but it just makes you worse and he ends up taking you to a more private area so he at least doesn't have to blush in front of others.
Nami
She thinks it's so cute. Let's you do whatever you want as long as the people around you are comfortable and you've said it's fine(when sober ofc), but she doesn't really care about people seeing until you start trying to either get undressed or undress her and then she takes you to a private space because she's ever so slightly possessive. Listen for a girl who didn't have much, you add a lot of value to her life and she wants to treasure you properly, she doesn't trust anyone else to appreciate you the way you deserve.
Usopp
Surprisingly confident. You come up to him with this big dreamy smile and you're practically falling over yourself so he just- scoops you up. Front piggyback style yk, he's got one arm under your ass supporting your weight and the other one is holding his drink, listen this mf is strong okay you think a man who can build a boat isn't strong? Fool. He just lets you do what you want to be honest, one of your hands is tucked in his back pocket, the other is trying and failing to undo his overalls and he's just like "You okay honey?".
Robin
She's flustered. She's not that used to physical affection so it makes her really giggly and blushy, though she's still quite confident in her words and actions, she's fr twirling her hair around her finger. She has quite a high tolerance for alcohol but she actually gets a bit similar when she's drunk, she's more reserved of course but she just melts into you like butter on a hot pan. The crew always take so many pictures because they think it's so cute, literally every celebration you two just end up cuddling and then it sorta turns into a big cuddle pile with the crew because seeing her relax gets them emotional.
Franky
Oh baby you are looking in a mirror. He is just as bad if not worse- when he gets drunk he is a massive flirt and a massive tease. He's so giving in relationships and usually you don't have to ask twice but being drunk will mean he wants you to practically beg for a kiss. Half because he thinks it's funny and half because he's a horny bastard- Though if you get upset then he immediately drops the teasing, even when drunk he's so considerate of your feelings and your boundaries.
Brook
Doesn't mind at all but prefers to be in private when you're like this.
Quick headcannon that his bones are more sensitive than skin because there's less external protection-
Lets just say one time you touched a sensitive area in public and he will never get over the reaction he had or the fact that other people saw it. So you go to room jail as soon as you start trying to practically crawl inside his clothes to be as close as possible. He's not mad though, he giggles the entire way, he's just very shy about his interests.
Jinbei
Flustered as hell but makes him feel really secure in your relationship. Also, he lowkey loves being able to bring it up to tease you later, like he pulls an uno reverse when you're sober and you're just like omg omg omg- He's a sneaky guy fr, does so many unexpected things in a relationship. Don't get me wrong though he'd never let you do anything inappropriate, even when drunk he's very aware of boundaries and social etiquette so if he notices you getting a bit grabby then he takes you somewhere private for both your benefit and the people around you.
Sabo
Oh baby. This man is feral don't even start. The first time he experiences it, it's actually really unexpected, it's quite early in your relationship so you havent been too affectionate yet, but you come up to him and just sit down. On him. And you can practically see his brain melting out of his ears, his face goes so red you think he's going to pass out but the second you stand up, drunk and lowkey sad, he snatches you back down. You wanted to sit there, you are going to sit there now you have no choice. (You do but would you want to get up?)
Ace
Menace. Cannot even state how much of a menace. He's so physically affectionate that it usually flusters even the most confident people, and this is while sober, so if you start getting clingy when drunk he just becomes obsessed. But he absolutely hates it if you're like that with other people so once you start getting to that stage then he's whisking you away to your shared room, usually you stick to him like glue anyways but the crew love to wind him up by coaxing you away from him with food and funny stories.
Fanfic is Cinema @kezelreads - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
