It had been a week since they became roommates.
Julian sometimes felt like he was living in Antarctica. Cold. Isolated. Quiet. He joked to himself that just talking to Thomas might give him a cold-his roommate's aloofness that intense.
Meanwhile, Thomas lived like he was allergic to chaos. He needed order. Clean surfaces. Silence. Everything in its place.
Julian's things were not in their place. They were everywhere-on Thomas's bed, under the desks, crumpled under chairs, tossed onto furniture. So Thomas had created a set of rules. Julian followed some. Others? Not so much.
One morning, Thomas watched Julian casually shrug off his jacket and throw it over the back of a kitchen chair.
"Can you not?" Thomas said, irritation edging his voice. "You always put your stuff everywhere."
Julian gave him a sheepish grin and grabbed the jacket. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Mr. Coldy. I forgot-you don't do mess."
"I wrote the rules down for a reason. Can you please follow them?"
Julian rolled his eyes dramatically. "Fine, fine. The rules of the Cold Kingdom, I get it. Maybe I'll just follow some of them."
Thomas just stared at him, expression unreadable.
"Maybe try practicing how to put things in their right place," Thomas muttered, returning to his cup of tea.
Julian smirked. "If I organize things, I'd have to look too closely."
Thomas didn't respond. He was used to these little deflections.
Later that day, Thomas stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. The room was quiet-Julian wasn't around. But, as usual, his side of the room was a mess. His bed was undone, blanket tangled and half falling to the floor, pillow barely hanging on.
Thomas sighed.
Then he noticed something left behind on the bed: Julian's sketchbook, open. A pencil resting beside it.
He paused.
Curiosity tugged at him as he walked closer. The open page held a half-finished sketch of a man-broad shoulders, downturned gaze, serious expression. It was sharp. Familiar. Something about the angle of the jaw, the shape of the brows...
Thomas closed the sketchbook.
Then he hesitated.
And opened it again.
The first few pages were filled with linework-buildings, mountains, oceans, starless skies. All in pencil, none of them colored. All of them quiet. Steady. Like someone trying to hold the world still.
Only that one drawing-the one left open-featured a person.
Thomas stood there, flipping slowly through the pages, something tightening in his chest.
He smiled faintly, almost without realizing it. It had been so long since he looked at art this way.
When he was a child, he used to paint with his grandfather. Back then, he used to laugh, hands stained with watercolor and joy. Every brushstroke had felt like breathing.
But then his grandfather passed away.
And color stopped meaning anything.
He'd stopped painting. Stopped drawing. Stopped looking at the world with awe. Without his grandfather, even colors felt gray. His rainbow-the one who could bring light even to storms-was gone.
Since then, he buried himself in books and silence.
He gently closed the sketchbook and placed it neatly back on Julian's bed. Then he returned to his desk, sat down, and opened his laptop-trying to shake the ghost of old memories.
But just as his fingers touched the keyboard, his eyes flicked toward the kitchen.
There it was.
The painting on the wall-Julian's canvas. The one Thomas had secretly added stars to. A starless sky that he'd felt compelled to complete.
He quickly looked away and focused back on his laptop.
The door opened.
He didn't turn.
Only one person entered like that.
"Hello, Mr. Coldy!" Julian called out, loud and cheerful as always.
Thomas didn't even glance up. "What do you want?"
"I stopped by the convenience store to grab food."
"And?"
Julian walked over, holding out a small paper bag. "I got something for you too."
Thomas finally turned to look. Julian was smiling, casual, warm. Thomas took the bag without comment and placed it on his desk.
"That's it?" Julian asked. "No 'thanks'?"
Thomas said nothing.
Julian leaned over the back of his chair, grinning. "Say it and I'll go back to my corner."
"Move," Thomas muttered. "We're not close."
"Nope. Say it first."
Thomas sighed, defeated. "Fine. Thanks. Now go."
"You're welcome, Mr. Coldy." Julian sauntered off to his side of the room, flopping onto his bed with a dramatic sigh.
"What a tiring day," he mumbled, staring up at the ceiling.
Thomas waited, expecting more noise, more chatter. But silence settled in.
He looked down at the paper bag Julian had handed him. Slowly, he opened it.
Inside were a bottle of iced tea and garlic bread.
Thomas froze for a second, eyebrows drawing together.
Garlic bread.
His favorite.
He stared at it. How did Julian know?
He pulled the contents out and placed them gently on his desk. Unfolded the bread wrapping. Opened the tea. Took a bite. A sip.
Then he turned to glance at Julian.
Julian was sprawled out on the bed, arms and legs spread like a starfish. Already half-asleep.
Thomas turned back to his desk and resumed studying.
He stayed like that until midnight, quiet, focused-but every so often, his eyes would drift toward the sleeping figure across the room.
Eventually, he shut his laptop and stood.
He walked to the kitchen, rinsed his cup, and reached for the bread wrapper-but forgot to toss it out. He was too tired to care.
He returned to bed.
The next morning, Thomas woke to the sound of water running, the clatter of plates, and... the faint smell of something burning.
He squinted against the sunlight, rubbed at his eyes, and shuffled into the kitchen.
There was Julian, multitasking: cooking, humming, washing dishes with one hand while flipping something in a pan with the other.
Thomas leaned silently on the doorframe, hair tousled from sleep.
He just stood there.
Watching.
Not saying anything.
There was something strangely warm in the way Julian moved-clumsy, chaotic, but full of life. Like the opposite of everything Thomas built his world around.
And for a moment, he let himself feel it.
Just a moment.
Julian turned his back to set a glass on the table and froze when he noticed a tall figure leaning silently against the doorframe-arms crossed, eyes fixed on him.
"Oh-hey! Good morning, Mr. Coldy!" he greeted, grinning.
Thomas closed his eyes and sighed.
"Take your seat, Mr. Coldy, so we can start eating."
Without a word, Thomas walked over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Julian took the seat across from him.
Silence settled between them as they ate. No conversation. Just the quiet clinking of utensils. Thomas kept stealing glances at Julian when he thought he wouldn't notice.
Thomas finished eating first and waited patiently, watching as Julian chewed the last bites of his food.
Julian stood up and reached for Thomas's plate, but Thomas caught his hand-firm, almost instinctual.
"What?" Julian asked, blinking.
"I'll wash them," Thomas said flatly.
"Oh. Okay." Julian stepped back and poured himself a glass of water.
Thomas gathered the plates and took them to the sink. He turned on the faucet and began washing. A moment later, Julian appeared beside him, grinning.
Thomas glanced over. Cold, quiet eyes met eyes full of mischief and warmth.
"What?" he asked.
"Can you wash this too?" Julian said, holding out a greasy pan.
"Just put it there."
"I'll dry the plates," Julian offered, grabbing a clean towel.
Thomas handed him one plate after another as he finished rinsing. Julian dried them quietly. Their hands brushed once. Neither said anything.
After the last plate, Thomas dried his hands with a towel-just in time to hear Julian scream.
He turned quickly.
Julian was jumping around the kitchen, pointing frantically.
"There's a huge spider!" Julian shouted, practically levitating. "Kill it! Kill it!"
He ran toward Thomas and clung to him.
Thomas stared, unamused. "It's just a spider."
Julian hid behind him, clutching the back of his shirt.
"Kill it! Please!"
Thomas sighed again. "I'll kill you if you don't stop grabbing my shirt. It's wrinkled now."
"No! Not until you kill that thing! It's huge!"
"I don't want to." Thomas tried stepping forward, peeling Julian's fingers off his back.
But Julian clung harder.
Thomas sighed again, staring up at the ceiling like the universe was testing his patience.
Thomas grabbed Julian by the wrist and pulled him-firm, effortless, like dragging a doll-right out of the kitchen.
"It'll go away," he said flatly. "Don't act like it's bigger than you. It can't eat you whole."
Julian huffed, still tense. "You talk like you're not scared of anything."
"Maybe I am," Thomas replied, voice low. "Now get your hands off me."
Julian stepped back, reluctantly releasing his grip on Thomas's wrinkled shirt. He looked away, clearly embarrassed.
"You're not helping," he muttered.
"Yeah," Thomas said simply, turning to head back toward the kitchen. "I know."
Julian stayed behind in the hallway for a moment, arms folded, brow furrowed. He was annoyed-but under that, maybe something else too. Maybe it stung that Thomas didn't laugh or comfort him like most people might.
But then again... Thomas wasn't like most people.