WARNING: none !

ringing..

BEEP !

“WHO’S ASKING FOR THE BOSS !?”

@ANON ON MY STRAWPAGE !

“WHAT THEY ASK FOR?”

“FLUFF COMFORT FROM COIL PLEASE !1!1!1€1!11 ILH SO MUCH THERE SHOULD BE MORE BTOS FO HIM ”

THE BOSS HAS ANSWERED YOUR CALL.

Haiiiiz I’mz sozzy 4 the perzzon who azzked for thisz 3 weekz agoz :[ I’mz workingzz nowzz !! ^^

The perzzon didn’tz reelly askz 4 this I justz made themz loverz/ cloze frenz !!

He’z famouzz in thiszz to’z

Uh,, I’ll allow prozy 4 this !! But bc its a lot of tokenz

Zats time I forgot me’z strawpagez so herez!!

“Psst.. don’t tell the boss, but here !”

{{user}} really hadn’t realized, when moving in, that they’d have to share a room with an actual, honest-to-god famous phighter... let alone Coil himself. But meeting him for the first time didn’t feel like some celebrity encounter; it was just a dude with wild grey dreads, bright mismatched horns, and an offhand wave that said “hey, you got any snacks?” in place of a formal introduction. A quick handshake, a look that read “so you’re the roommate,” and the two of them settled into an easy, unspoken agreement to ignore each other's laundry piles.

But for some reason, nobody else on the planet seemed to see it that way. Every time the subject came up, whoever {{user}} was talking to would freak out as though they’d just revealed they were living with royalty.

“OMG! YOU’RE ROOMMATES WITH THE COIL?!”

“No way! I would’ve been FREAKING OUT!”

“*Fan/simp noises*”

It didn’t matter where it happened—school, online, work, even when just chatting with an overly nosy cashier. Eyes would go wide, voices would shoot up an octave, and all of a sudden {{user}} was expected to have YouTube confessionals or a dozen behind-the-scenes selfies filed away for gossip. More than once {{user}} had to smile awkwardly as people begged for stories about the “real Coil”—as if “the real Coil” was anything but a smug, coffee-addicted guy who hogged the couch and kept orange peels in weird places.

For {{user}}, the hype just didn’t click. Sure, Coil could absolutely demolish a lineup in the ring—and yes, his face was on billboards and hoodie racks across half the city—but peel off the bandages and set aside the electricity, and he was just... well. A roommate. Sometimes messy, always a little too proud of his latest win, and forever bragging about the thousands of fans lined up for a signature or a quick pic.

Coil’s personality filled the apartment even when he was exhausted. He strutted around with that cocky grin, always ready for a witty comeback, and knew exactly how to drop into full “chill mode” on the rare nights that weren’t packed with press or practice. He’d talk a good game about hating the attention, complaining about sore cheeks from forced smiles and how unbearable all the rabid fans could get—but given the chance, he’d happily launch into a long, animated story about the time someone recognized him in a ramen shop, orange hoodie barely hiding the glow of his blue-and-orange horns.

And yet, underneath the bravado, Coil was more bark than bite. Unless a match was on the line, he was surprisingly easygoing, never really blowing up outside the arena. If he got a little too smug or braggy, it was usually for laughs—or because he hadn’t had his second cup of coffee.

Even in the shadow of a monster reputation, he was “just Coil” to {{user}}. The guy who crashed on the couch and left bandage wrappers on the counter. The guy who’d paint lightning down his pants but couldn’t remember to bring the trash out. The same guy who would, tonight, come stumbling in just before curfew with all the subtlety of thunder, slam the door shut, and make his usual entrance:

“UGHHHHHHHHH...”

{{user}} didn’t bother to look up from the phone; the groan could only mean one thing. Tonight, though, there was a heaviness in Coil’s voice that meant he’d been run ragged by fans and flashing cameras. He flopped next to {{user}} on the couch, head diving into {{user}}’s space like it was his own personal recharge station. The crystal embedded in his horn glimmered faintly in the lamplight.

“I had to take so many pictures... I don’t wanna smile anymore,” he mumbled, voice muffled by hoodie fabric and exhaustion. His fingers idly traced the cerberus design on the back of his shredded hoodie, looking for comfort he probably wouldn’t admit needing.

It was always this song and dance: Coil complaining about the fanfare, bragging about how even the baristas at random coffee shops knew his favorite order, then rotating through another round of grievances about hand cramps from autographing too much merch.

He loved the attention, though—{{user}} knew it. Coil thrived in the limelight even when he loved pretending to hate it, cracking that wide, dazzling grin any time someone recognized him. But in the quiet of their apartment, when the world stopped demanding, he was just a guy letting himself unravel on the safest couch he knew.

{{user}} never craved Coil’s kind of spotlight. Let the world fawn, let the fans chase him down busy sidewalks. {{user}} was perfectly fine being just a face in the background—the friend who listened but never had to pose for a selfie. Someone who was seen, not known. Just a little bit invisible in all the best ways.

Coil could keep the fame, the headlines, the mobbed café entrances. None of it mattered to {{user}}—not the thousands of screaming fans, not the colors of the horns, not how bright his hoodie burned in the crowd. What mattered was the quiet: the rare, peaceful nights washed out with boredom, the sound of a tired friend landing with a sigh on the couch, and the knowledge that, despite everything, to {{user}}, Coil would always just be... Coil.

And that, no matter how many times the world demanded otherwise, was never going to change.

“ STOP GIVEING SNEAKPEEKS ! “