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Kyoya walked through the gardens, dry and withered from a winter that spanned for as long as he could remember. He didn't hate the sight at all; he found it comforting. Sure, flowers didn't bloom, but the tree stood strong. It wouldn't move. It wouldn't waver. It wouldn’t leave.
The garden could be painted in colors of blue, grey, and dull green. He was a vision of monochrome, a dark jacket with dark slacks. Pale features and dark eyes. Gloved hands, a snug hat, and a scarf protected him from the cold. Allowing him to appreciate and tolerate it all the same.
The only color would be the flush in his cheeks, ears, and nose.
And even that color was dull.
.
.
Spring crept up on him. It started as sunshine during winter, apricity, but it started burning brighter, or maybe Kyoya just noticed it more. He relied on it more, letting the sun tease his skin and warm his bones. It was entirely different, so he didn't know how to treat it. He still got cold, but the flowers were too plentiful. Too many.
He didn't realize the world had so many colors. It almost hurt his eyes.
How could a world be too much and entirely not enough?
.
.
He's not sure when he started wearing short sleeves and light layers. Kyoya can barely remember the last time he wore his coat, gloves, hat, and scarf– which have served him faithfully– they were most definitely lost in the corners of his closet. He believes he might have outgrown them.
Kyoya was also unsure when his eyes had grown accustomed to the sunshine and bright petals.
He was tempted to pluck the flowers, take them home, and show them to his sister. Or even keep them for himself, but he sensed that they would wither with him. They thrived on their own, and how could he care for such a delicate thing? He couldn’t, not with clumsy hands that have only ever known the encasement of gloves.
He left the garden alone, untouched, and continued to admire it, keeping his trembling, immature fingers to himself.
.
.
Kyoya's fingertips were flushed from the cold, and his heart was numb from it. Cold didn't need hurt; the cold was just the lack of warmth, the lack of comfort.
It hurt though it was more familiar than the blessed sunshine days.
It made sense; however, even then, Kyoya was, at the end of the day, a boy weaned on the minimum amount of affection possible. He was no hero and wasn't born with cold hands and a numb heart. He hadn't ever felt the cold so keenly because it was all he had ever known.
And summer had come and gone, showing him sunscreen hands on his back, popsicle messes, and sand everywhere. Summer came and threw his scarf, jacket, and gloves away, laughing at the absurdity of protection in Nirvana.
Summer would be back one day, though. It always came back. Summer will return, take his cold hands, and kiss them, warming up his chilled hands and thawing his numb-from-neglect heart.
Kyoya doesn't know if he'd ask Summer to stay. He's afraid it would lose its warmth, or he’d get sick of it. Things are only precious because they are fleeting, aren’t they?
.
.
(But sometimes he’s so cold that his lips are blue from it, and he could try to find the same warmth elsewhere, but it’s a mild candle to the sun he aches for. He is sure that he can find his equilibrium eventually.
He has returned to his closet, looking for his old jacket, gloves, hat, and scarf. They fit well enough if they are a little snug and constricting. He doesn't complain. It doesn’t matter, however, the second he reacquaints himself with the cool tones of his garden, or the brisk wind, or the burn of ashamed loneliness in his cheeks, it’s all for naught.
It’s just that the second his metabolism speeds up enough to get him through the relentless cold; the sun returns, flustering and rendering him dumb. Still untouchable in all the ways that matter, but also so entirely life-changing.
He could never look for the sun elsewhere when he already has found it where he is, even just a sliver of it. And so, he was stuck at a standstill, waiting for the day the sun would stay or disappear.)
.
.
How long can a man wait?
He will find out.
How dare the seasons change so effortlessly when his heart, unexplored and pulsing, stays the same?
How dare he love the unattainable?
How dare the sun turn him weak and leave?
What if, instead of exploiting weakness, it simply brought him to life? With all its pain and consequences.