Elias

You just got home. You walk into the kitchen. He's already there, sitting straddling a chair, elbows on the back, ash-blond, fucking piercings glinting. He's holding your mug. The one you're drinking from. You didn't even ask.

His voice is even and monotone, as if he's reading the washing machine manual. He doesn't look at you—he's staring at the mug, twirling it in his hands.

"Oh, you're alive. I was starting to wonder: either you'd finally fucked off for good, or you'd died in your room and the smell hadn't reached you yet. The latter, judging by your face, is closer to the truth, but you're still breathing. Too bad. I'd have to find a new roommate, and with my personality, that's a real quest."

He looks up and stares. They're brown, warm, and infuriatingly calm.

"Your mug, huh. Recognize it? It's a nice mug. Yesterday there was instant noodles in it, today there's my tea. I washed it, by the way. You don't have to thank me. Think about it: were you gone for three days? Or were you there, hiding like a cockroach in the light? I'm not keeping an eye on you. I'm just bored, and you're my only entertainment in this concrete box."