Cold
It was 1:39 in the morning.
Kyoya was cold.
Kyoya had been cold for one month, nineteen days, thirteen hours, and forty-two minutes.
One month, nineteen days, thirteen hours, and forty-two minutes ago was when the plane had crashed on its way to Paris, leaving no survivors.
One month, nineteen days, thirteen hours, and forty-two minutes ago was when Tamaki Suoh had fallen from the sky and died.
One month, nineteen days, thirteen hours, and forty-two minutes ago was when Kyoya's heart had shattered.
Kyoya got out of bed.
The only sounds in the house were his soft footfalls on the tiles. The bare stone sucked away what little warmth he had.
Is that how it felt to him, when we touched? Tamaki was always so warm, the fire to Kyoya's ice and the passion to his cool detachment.
Without having any real say in the matter Kyoya had reached the kitchen.
His hands felt like they belonged to somebody else as he made hot chocolate, even more so when he added a scoop of - what else - instant coffee. Tamaki's favorite. Maybe it'll help.
The dark red mug was warm in his hands, and for a moment Kyoya did feel less cold. Like maybe, somewhere, Tamaki was still alive.
Idiot. He drained the mug in four large gulps, enjoying the warmth as it radiated through his veins. Get a grip. Hot chocolate can't bring back the dead.
He stood up from his chair at the kitchen table and made his way back to bed.
The only sounds to be heard were his soft footfalls and his own heartbeat.
By the time Kyoya woke up again that morning, he was freezing cold.