A/N: Hiya! I decided to put the fanfics I've finished on my Tumblr account up, so here you go!
7 days, 168 hours, 10080 minutes
Why is he so tired…? Flynn swore he woke up less than five minutes ago. Turning over on the couch he pulls his blanket over his head, not sure what he's shielding himself from since all the blinds are closed. Deep down he know he should get up, knows he should at least call his job so they don't worry about him.
But he doesn't…
They probably already fired him, and if they hadn't then good for him. But right now the only thing Flynn cares about his getting more sleep, because sleep helps him get away from the real world. His fingers clinch the blanket around him when he hears a furious knocking at his door, but he makes no motion to see who it is. He already knows. Those knocks come every few hours, followed either by the voice of his friend and co-worker or his boyfriend.
"Flynn, please open the door. We're so worried about!" He hates hearing Estelle's frantic voice, but he merely turns over, body curling up into an even tighter ball, "Flynn, if you're listening, please-!"
"Flynn…"
His body tenses; a wave of guilt washes over him, because if there was one thing he regretted about isolating himself from society it was leaving Yuri behind. He feels like a complete bastard for turning his back on the person who comforted him when he most needed it, the one person trying their best to get him through this.
"You and I both know I could easily get into this house…but I haven't." This is true; Yuri knows the house like the back of his hand since it was their childhood playground.
So why hasn't he come in?
"I'll give you space if that's what you want, just…please say something."
Flynn tries to swallow the lump in his throat but can't, eyes blurring a bit as they welled with tears. He hates this, hates how he feels and hates how much he's hurting the people close to him. Flynn tries to get up but stumbles a bit, hands gripping the blanket around him as he slowly makes his way over to the front door. His feet drag against the carpet, tears still streaming down his face as he finally reaches his destination.
He just stands there, mouth opening a few times to say something but the only sound he can make is strangles and weak. He hadn't spoken to anyone in a week, so it's no surprise that his voice is so weak. Biting his lip in frustration, he tries again, though this time he ignores how terrible he sounds.
"Y-Yuri…E-Estelle…" His fingers are trembling as he places them against the door, "I-I…I'm so sorry…"
And that's his breaking point. He slides down to the floor and cries loudly, forehead pressed against the firm carpet as he continues to repeat 'I'm so sorry' over and over again. But he doesn't open the door, not today, not when he doesn't want to face the people he's hurt. Tomorrow, he'll definitely do it tomorrow.
It's been 7 days since his mother's funeral, 168 hours since he had shut himself up in her house and 10080 minutes since his spirit had broken.