He remembered a few years ago, when he had nothing but his family's shadow, leech-like classmates and kind bodyguards to hold close to his chest in the dark of the night. He always suspected something was wrong, of course. People don't just wake up to a world devoid of colour, wandering through each day like a ghost with an empty chest. Nothing tasted right, a bread roll for breakfast, lunch and dinner; served with a smile that made him feel ill.

Because he was okay, right? No, not really. It was all sweet - fake - smiles and soft voices. That was the pretty mask he wore and he fooled every fucking person. He drank his tea and took his showers scalding. Burnt tongue and red, sensitive skin. It was the only hint of colour, everything grey and washed out.

Then, Tamaki happened. He ran into his grey world and scribbled bright colours on the walls like a child, tore down that mask and gave him... colour. Joy. Red, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, purples... So bright, so... rainbow. So fucking ironic, really. Thinking of rainbows while staring at him. Still... It got better. He had friends - real friends. It wasn't that mutually beneficial crap he spouted... He loved them, they saved him. He probably would've hung himself otherwise, the note on his computer printed and laying in plain view on his desk.

Hence his fear when he opened his eyes to that dank, grey world.

It was numb, really; fear barely cutting through the layer of apathy that had settled over him. He felt tired, wanted to just curl up under his blankets and sleep. He just wanted to be alone, didn't want to go to school... He'd been feeling rough, but he thought he was getting the flu. He didn't even want to consider this.

Depression.

He really was a useless piece of shit sometimes... He was supposed to be happy. Things get better, they got better. Here he was again... He was so sure of it. Just laying there, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself to get up. The struggle was too familiar, and he hated it.

He hated himself, that never really went away. Why would it? It only eased when he drank his tea scalding hot.

"Sir?"

Tachibana.

He coughs, fairly convincing, and turns his gaze to the man he wishes was his father.

"'m sick," He says, hoarse edge to his voice that he's perfected, "Can't get up..."

Not a lie.

His dear, dear bodyguard frowns, crossing the room and pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. He just looked up at him, resisting the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch. Is he that deprived?

"You aren't warm..." Tachibana says, and maybe it's the dead grey of Kyoya's eyes that shifts the man's gaze into something softer, sadder. Maybe it's the exhaustion and dark circles that prompts him to continue, "I'll... call the school. Tell them you aren't coming in."

And then he's alone. Nothing but himself and the grey.

And he cries.