Chapter Text
Flins walked through the park on a frosty winter evening. Snow crunched heavily beneath his boots, drawing a quiet sigh from his lips. Winter in Nod’krai had been unusually harsh this year—nothing like the mild seasons before, when the temperature rarely dropped below minus ten. This time, even the farthest outskirts of Snezhnaya were buried under the cold’s dominion.
He tilted his head slightly as he stopped in the middle of the bridge, gazing down at the frozen river beneath him. The ice was cracked in places, glimmering faintly under the dim streetlights.
Flins buried his nose deeper into a black cashmere scarf and exhaled softly, watching his breath float upward into the dark winter sky. His gloved hands slipped into the pockets of his coat as he continued along the snow-covered path, walking toward the park’s main gate. He paused once more—this time to curiously observe two men arguing on the other side of the bridge, over a things he couldn't hear from this far.
Leaving the park behind, Flins stepped onto the main street of Nasha Town. Despite the freezing air, the place pulsed with life—crowds, laughter, faint music spilling from cafés. He waved to one of the street vendors who called out to him with a bright smile, and with unhurried steps, he made his way toward The Flagship.
Descending the narrow stairs into the basement, he pushed open the heavy wooden door—only to nearly collide with several people rushing out. One of the men bumped hard into his shoulder, immediately turning around with an angry glare… but the moment his eyes met Flins’s face, his expression changed completely. He muttered an apology and bolted off across the street, leaving his confused friends behind.
Flins frowned slightly at the strange reaction but let it go. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with its familiar dull thud. The bar was unusually quiet for a Friday evening. He let his gaze wander across the room—everything seemed normal, yet the silence carried an odd tension.
He made his way to the counter and took a seat on a tall stool in the corner—away from the few patrons gathered at the center. The barman, Demyan, wordlessly slid a glass of white wine toward him, greeting him with a lazy smile but no small talk.
Flins returned the smile, nodding in thanks. He lifted the glass to his lips, took a small sip, and rested his head on his hand, quietly observing the room. His coat hung from the chair behind him, revealing the black, elegant shirt he wore beneath. His long hair fell loosely over his shoulders, the fringe parting in the middle and slightly veiling his nose.
Then, the lights dimmed.
Almost all illumination vanished, leaving the crowd in violet-and-gold haze. A pale spotlight flared on the left side of the stage, revealing the first figure: a woman with reddish-blonde hair, wearing a white mask and an intricate layered dress of white and gold that reached mid-thigh. A black belt cinched her waist, from which small alchemical vials dangled like ornaments. Her legs were sheathed in porcelain-like translucent tights, her shoes—tall white platforms with golden clasps. A black choker adorned her throat.
She raised her gaze from the floor, her golden eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light, drawing a soft gasp from the crowd. Slowly, she lifted her hands to the keyboard before her and pressed the first note.
A second spotlight ignited in gold, revealing another figure—a tall man.
He stood hunched over his bass, then straightened with a faint smile. A long, blue coat reached his thighs; his smooth blond hair fell to his elbows, fading to almost white at the tips. A black high-collared shirt hugged his frame, a blue gem embroidered at its center catching the light beautifully. A thin, serpent-shaped band circled his head, biting into the side of his temple. His calm, blue gaze swept across the crowd as he raised his gloved hand and plucked the first note—welcoming the next arrival to the stage.
A third figure leaned lazily against the wall for a few heartbeats, unmoving, until he suddenly turned his head with a wild grin. Drumsticks flew into the air; he caught them with sharp precision and strode heavily toward the drums. His black sleeveless vest was frayed, his baggy trousers held together with red stitches and loose silver chains wrapping around one thigh. Heavy combat boots stomped against the stage as he sat down, tossing his short hair back before slamming the sticks down with manic energy—the crowd erupted.
Then came the last one.
Crimson light flooded the center of the stage. A man stood there, his upper body wrapped in black bandages crossing over his chest and a red coat. Without lifting his head, he began walking toward the microphone, each slow, heavy step synchronized with the bass’s low hum. His torn white hair swayed faintly, his long red coat trailing behind like a shadow. The air thickened with anticipation.
He stopped at the mic, his bandaged hands brushing over it delicately—as though he were touching a lover. Slowly, he raised his head, revealing a face partially hidden beneath black wrappings—only a sharp nose and one vivid pink eye visible, lined in deep black.
“Are you ready?” he whispered into the microphone, his voice low and raspy.
The drums exploded a second later.
The moment Rerir tore the mic from its stand and screamed the first verse, the entire room came alive. His voice was raw, furious, full of emotion. Rhinedottir swayed gently to the rhythm on her keyboard, in striking contrast to Surtalogir and Vedrfolnir, whose movements were fierce and unrestrained—her grace, their chaos.
The night was just beginning.
When the final chord echoed through the room, Rerir dropped the microphone with a dull metallic thud.
The crowd roared, but he only stood there for a moment, chest heaving, a faint smile tugging at his lips beneath the black bandages.
The stage lights flickered and faded, replaced by the soft golden glow of the bar’s lamps.
Flins remained seated, his wine untouched for the past half hour. His gaze lingered on the stage, where the musicians slowly stepped down one by one—Rhinedottir first, carefully lifting the mask from her face and disappearing backstage; then Surtalogir, tossing his sticks into the crowd with a laugh; and finally Vedrfolnir, who waved lazily before following the others.
Flins watched as the vocalist lingered for a few seconds longer, carefully scanning the crowd before his eyes met Flins’s. Then, just like the rest of the band, he disappeared backstage.
A few minutes later, Flins was sitting by the bar, his back resting against the wall as he slowly sipped a sweet pineapple drink he’d gotten from a stranger’s failed attempt at flirting. He raised the glass to his lips, his expression unreadable, when the stool beside him creaked under the weight of someone dropping onto it with a loud thud.
He turned his head slightly—and hid a faint smile behind his glass when he realized the newcomer was the same vocalist who’d been tearing his throat out on stage not even ten minutes ago, ending the concert with a raw, emotional song.
“The show was nice.” Flins said calmly, swirling his glass lightly and watching the ice cubes melt slowly into the pinkish-gold drink. It wasn’t to his taste—too sweet for his liking—but he wasn’t complaining. After all, it had been a nice gift from the girl who’d tried to hit on him earlier.
Rerir glanced at him from the corner of his eye, nodded once, then waved to the bartender. He leaned back on his stool, stretching his neck until it cracked, before suddenly turning his head toward Flins.
“What the fuck do you want? An autograph? Piss off. I’m not in the mood for that.” he growled, his voice hoarse from screaming on stage just minutes ago. His dispassionate gaze pinned Flins in place.
Flins tilted his head slightly, staring back at the vocalist with an unreadable expression. He set the glass down on the counter and slowly traced the rim with his finger, following the thin trail of water dripping down its side—never breaking eye contact.
“I don’t want anything from you. I’m just admiring the show.” he said stoically, watching as Rerir leaned a little closer, studying him carefully before turning away again. The vocalist took the glass the bartender had set before him—red wine, Flins assumed—and quickly pulled the black bandages off his face, tossing them aside on the counter.
To Flins’s quiet surprise, his face beneath was… unexpectedly soft. Sharp nose, defined jawline, but his eyes—soft enough that Flins could almost drown in them.
“This place fucking sucks.” Rerir muttered loudly, mostly to himself. After a few seconds, he turned to face Flins again, scanning the raven-haired man shamelessly from head to toe.
“Forty-minute delay! Can you believe that? I thought I was gonna rip my head off when I heard that! Who the fuck runs this shit?!” he snapped, clenching his fists against the counter. “So don’t you dare tell me the show was nice. It wasn’t.”
“This place is known for delays,” Flins replied, watching him with a catlike curiosity as he rested his chin on his hand, never looking away. “And I’d guess it wasn’t your fault—or anyone’s in the band. No point in blaming yourself. In the end, it turn—”
He stopped when Rerir suddenly leaned toward him, invading his personal space.
“Who are you?” the man asked quietly, his pink eyes boring holes straight through him. “I’ve never seen you here before. Don’t you dare talk about shit you know nothing about.” His voice dropped to a low growl as he moved even closer, noses almost touching. “Or this will end badly.”
“What happened to your guitarist?” Flins asked, unfazed by his proximity or the threat. “I heard he left the band, but maybe it’s just rumors.” He smiled faintly, lifting his glass toward his lips. “With that attitude, it might be hard to find a replacement, you know?” he murmured before taking a slow sip of the sweet drink, eyes closed.
“You—!” Rerir barked, grabbing the front of Flins’s black lace shirt and jerking him forward. “Who the hell are you to talk like that?!” Before he could say more, a hand landed on his shoulder—and a quick flick to the side of his head made him turn sharply. His anger faltered when he saw who it was.
“Oh my… are you causing trouble again, Rerir?” Rhinedottir asked softly, lowering her hand from his shoulder. Her gaze shifted to Flins, and a small, polite smile touched her lips. “I see you made it on time. Thank you for coming, and I hope you enjoyed the concert. I’m sorry you couldn’t perform with us tonight—as you can see, we didn’t have much time to organize after our guitarist left.” She turned her golden eyes back to Rerir. “Allow me to introduce you to our new guitarist—Flins.”
Rerir stared at her, disbelief and emotion flickering across his face before he looked back at Flins. He turned his head so sharply that a soft crack echoed from his neck.
“No. I don’t agree,” he said flatly, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “Our fucking guitarist just left! We can’t just replace him like he never existed!” His voice rose enough for a few people in the bar to turn their heads. Rhinedottir met his glare calmly, expression unmoved.
“So that’s it? We just take the first random guy who shows up out of nowhere? That’s our new lineup now?” he barked, standing abruptly from his stool.
“The decision was made by the rest of the band—and by me,” Rhinedottir replied quietly, placing her hand back on his shoulder and squeezing gently through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her gaze softened but stayed firm. “Flins is a friend of Dainslef, and you know how much I value his opinion. So no, he’s not some stranger we pulled off the street just to fill a spot. Calm down and sit.” Her tone left no room for argument, and she lightly pushed him down until he sat again.
Flins blinked a few times, watching the scene unfold with quiet fascination. Tilting his head, he observed Rerir sit stiffly on the stool, eyes fixed on the counter like a sulking child, his fingers trembling against the wood.
Slowly, Rerir turned toward him. His pink eyes were impossible to read.
As if feeling Rhinedottir’s gaze still on him, he let out a low huff, then extended his hand toward Flins. “Welcome to the band,” he muttered venomously, gripping Flins’s knuckles so hard that a soft crack echoed between them.
“Pleasure to meet you…?” Flins replied, tracing his thumb across Rerir’s knuckle and meeting his gaze with the unbothered curiosity of a cat. Rerir quickly pulled his hand back, resting it stiffly on his thigh.
“…Rerir.” he murmured under his breath, looking away, a faint flush creeping up his neck as Rhinedottir chuckled quietly behind them.
Flins glanced at her questioningly as she leaned forward, her golden eyes gleaming mischievously.
“I heard you’re looking for a roommate, dear Rerir,” she purred, sliding a set of keys across the counter toward Flins. “So—I got you one!”
Rerir turned toward her slowly, jaw tight. “No. No, I’m not.” he said curtly, reaching for the keys—but Flins was faster, lifting them by their ring and watching them dangle gently.
“As it happens, I’ve been looking for an apartment in Nod’krai,” Flins hummed, examining the keys closely. His gaze flicked to Rerir, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’ve always wanted a roommate.” he added with a soft, feline smile, hiding his face in his collar as a faint blush dusted his cheeks. His fringe swayed gently as he lowered his head.
The white-haired man opened his mouth as if to respond, staring at Flins in shock. His brows shot up before he managed a strained, incredulous laugh. “You expect me to let a stranger move into my apart—”
Rhinedottir interrupted sweetly. “Actually, it’s not your apartment,” she said. “It belongs to my sister—the one who’s letting you stay there. You don’t pay rent, so I think you can accept your new roommate, right?” Her tone dripped with sarcasm as she smiled at him.
Rerir’s nose twitched as he huffed and turned his head away. “Of course,” he said stiffly, voice tense. “You’re more than welcome to move in… who are you again?” he asked, turning back toward Flins, his tone dripping with venom.
Flins placed a hand over his chest and leaned forward slightly.
“Ah, of course—how rude of me. My name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. It’s an honor to live with someone I’ll also share the stage with. I believe it’s a wonderful opportunity to strengthen our bond and reduce any awkwardness within the band. I promise I’m not a troublesome person, and I’ll make sure to keep the place tidy, if that’s what you’re worried abou—”
Rerir opened his mouth again but immediately shut it, staring at Flins in disbelief as the man just kept talking. With a sigh, he raised a hand and turned toward Rhinedottir—only to find she had vanished.
He turned back to Flins, narrowing his eyes as he leaned closer.
“Listen to me, little one,” he muttered lowly, gripping the lace collar of Flins’s shirt and pulling him in. “I don’t know where the hell you came from, but keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you.” His voice was barely audible over the music. Flins tilted his head, locking eyes with him.
“Your little stupid charm might work on the rest of the band, but not on me. I don’t know what the fuck you want from me, but back off, alright? We’re not gonna be friends, so don’t come clo—”
“Why not?” Flins murmured, gently wrapping his hand around Rerir’s wrist, thumb brushing over the pale skin. His golden eyes shimmered faintly. “I wish to know you better,” he said softly, smiling just enough to reveal the hint of a fang. “You seem like an interesting person…” His finger slipped under the edge of Rerir’s thin turtleneck, tracing lightly along his tendon with a nail.
Rerir froze, glaring at him sharply before wordlessly pulling away. He finished his wine in one gulp, glancing at Flins from the corner of his eye.
“You’re strange,” he muttered, turning toward the crowd in the far corner of the bar. “…You can move in on Monday. I’ll have the place ready by then.” His gaze flicked back to Flins—impassive, but his flushed face betrayed him. “I’m leaving.”
He stood, grabbing his coat from the back of the stool. His eyes lingered on Flins’s face for a moment too long—especially on those piercing golden eyes—before he finally turned and headed toward the exit.
Flins blinked a few times, watching Rerir’s back as he left. Tilting his head slightly, he pressed his fingers to his own chest.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His usually steady heart pounded wildly against his ribs.
“What is this…?” he whispered to himself, tearing his gaze away from the door only after Rerir’s figure vanished behind it. His eyes wandered across the bar again, indifferent to everyone around him. It seemed the only person worth his attention had just walked out.