The Drifting Cloud

Kyoya is quiet when he emerges from the shower. His hair still damp, and he's wrapped in some woman's black silk robe; it hardly comes down to his thighs, and there's lace edging along the sleeves that stop just past his elbows. He doesn't say anything, just sits down and he's soft in a way that Red has probably never seen quite so obviously. Something glimpsed in pieces and fractions, hinted at and implied behind those hard walls Kyoya tried to keep between himself and the rest of the world. He didn't know if Red knew why he'd been ankle-deep in blood and corpses, and he couldn't bring himself to tell him, not outright, not without even a question, and it might still take more than that.

But if you were perceptive, there was a softness about him, something that hinged too far off his normal axis for it to be comfortable. Something in his grey eyes, in the curve of his shoulders, in the stillness and the silence and the utter blankness that seems to envelop him. There's the faintest kind of tremble in his shoulders, almost invisible unless you were actually looking for it. He knew he should say something, but he didn't know what. Three days ago the Machelli family- whom Kyoya had more or less just annihilated- had killed Dino Cavallone, the young Boss of the most profitable Family in the Vongola crime syndicate that currently controlled a large portion of the Italian Mafia.

He didn't deal well with loss. He'd tried to insulate himself from it, and yet he still ended up here, lost in his own head.