"Oh, Kyoya, mon ami," Tamaki whispers, his breath hot in Kyoya's ear. "You must know by now, this isn't about you, not really."
Kyoya closes his eyes, tries to will Tamaki away. It doesn't work. Tamaki's still pressed up close against him, blonde strands trailing over Kyoya's face, itching where they fall. Kyoya can feel the heat of Tamaki's body beside him, the smell of roses and lavender that he had always carried. He could almost believe this is the real Tamaki, for a moment wishes he could, but Tamaki is dead. It's been three months, and Tamaki is still dead. This is just a projection. Kyoya refuses to think about whose.
Tamaki - the projection - moves impossibly closer, crowding Kyoya up against the adjoining wall. "This isn't real, Kyoya," he breathes. Kyoya leans back, head hitting against the wood panelling, eyes closing, avoiding the sight of his best friend's face so tantalisingly close. "This isn't real. I need to bring my Haruhi home, to the real world."
Kyoya opens his eyes, caught by the passion in Tamaki's words. He's never been able to resist Tamaki, and they both know it. Knew it, Kyoya corrects. Tamaki's dead. The thought gives him the jolt he needs to slide out from under the projection, twisting until it is no longer him, but it, that is the prey. "Tamaki is dead," he whispers furiously. "No projection can ever change that."