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Summary
“I remember…” He grasps for words; he remembers, he still has, a sensation in his stomach like Tsukishima Kei is right, like he is necessary. Even as his face turns blurry, as if seen through a cloud of smoke, the feeling in his gut doesn’t go away. “I remember he blended with the ballroom, with soft colours and elaborate details.”
“Mm. See? Start with that.” Kenma hums again, “A boy like an affresco.”