Perhaps it was that the world was just too bright.

He had thought, mistakenly, that it would darken when Dino died. He had believed, wrongly so, that the sun would slip beneath the clouds and mourn the man lost.

But the summer had marched on just as hot, just as bright, and it was he that mourned instead, curled aching on the bucking horse's bed, twisting the sheets with his hands and curling, ever curling, into a circle. Like a cat in the sun, like a babe in the womb.

Some part of him had assumed, incorrectly, that Dino would just be around forever. Who cared if others passed, if comrades fell to the waves of violence and magic, who minded if they lined up fifty mafia men and shot them, falling bleeding into the fountains.

It was Dino, the Cavallone, who had disappeared into the night, quietly, without any sign of a struggle. No sign of a fight. He had gone so easily, as if he were sleeping, as if his eyes were closed.

Kyouya stared at the sheets, intricate, smooth patterns of white and gold, keeping his eyes narrow. Half closed. He had not cried yet, not yet, because that would mean admitting it was finished and through. The Vongola had all wept upon hearing the news; Tsunayoshi had broken down, and his friends with him, and Kyouya had turned and walked up the stairs, down the hall, into Dino's bedroom and laid on the bed there for three days.

And the sun kept rising.

It was wrong, that the world may keep spinning without him. That Tsunayoshi's gang of friends could return to the Vongola mansion and resume their lives, pausing only for the funeral Kyouya did not attend. There had been no body to retrieve. There was nothing in the grave. It was unfair, that Squalo had fallen over screaming and wailing and had to be dragged, kicking and biting, away from the grave, while he lay on Dino's sheets and was silent.

It should have been anyone else. It should have been any one of them.

It was not.

He needed no clock to tell the time; the seconds poured past him one after the other, and he knew it was nearing four in the afternoon now. Romario would come to the door soon, tell him dinner was being prepared, and then nothing. And why wasn't he with the Bronco when it happened? Just one more thing to make him angry.

Right on time, Romario rapped at the door, and Kyouya did not move. He had not slept these three days. His old favorite pastime, the best way to spend a sunny day; he no longer relished the warmth of the sun on his face and chest while he dozed. There would never be anything like it again.

There would never be anyone like him again.

The door opened behind him, and Kyouya did not move. Romario had not disturbed him in three days. Everyone had left him alone, letting him mourn; Yamamoto Takeshi had come in on the day of the funeral to check on him, but nothing else. There was nothing to be done for Hibari Kyouya, the young man mourning his lost sunlight.

Perhaps it was that the world was just too bright, and without a sun to gaze upon. Perhaps it was just too unnatural, that light could shine upon him even when Dino was gone.

He didn't know what to do without him.

No, there were plenty of things to be done after Dino's passing. He should return to Namimori and check on the Foundation. He should check his phone messages--probably, there were a lot of them now--but he had no desire to move anymore. He had become as stone, lying carved upon the sheets, left by some sculptor who had been so stupid as to forget to carve his pair.

Romario must have thought him sleeping, for the man did not disturb him. He heard footsteps, into the other side of Dino's quarters, and the curtains were thrown open in there. He did not gaze in that direction. His carved eyes could only stare ahead.

Romario, or who he assumed to be Romario, continued through the suite, throwing open the curtains in order. As he neared the bed, glass crunched under his shoes, from the vase Kyouya had flung into the wall in a rage three days before. Romario opened the last set of curtains, and then walked over to the bed, mattress dipping as he knelt one leg on it to look down at Kyouya.

"Oh, I thought you were asleep."

In a single movement, he was up, eyes wild and skin prickling, mouth hanging open. Dino, dead man, ghost, smiled at him, tilted his head to the side. He was badly bruised, and cut up along every inch of available skin, but he was there, too solid to be an apparition, too bright to be a dream.

"Kyouya?" Dino asked. His eyes felt so hot. Was this it? His turn to cry? Neither of them moved, until the first hot tear dropped down Kyouya's face, and then Dino rushed forward and grabbed him in an embrace. "I'm sorry," Dino whispered, "they had to think I was dead, I--"

Kyouya grabbed at Dino's dirty, torn sleeves, squeezing his eyes shut and savoring the feeling of being held for just a moment--then he shoved Dino off, punching at him blindly, striking him wherever he could reach. Dino grabbed his wrists and pulled him into another hug.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm back."

"You idiot."

"I know."

"I'm going to bite you to death."

"I know you will."

It was the weakest threat he had ever made.

Dino held him at arm's length again while Kyouya wiped his eyes. "Kyouya, you've really been up here for three days? Romario says you haven't even eaten anything!"

"That doesn't matter," Kyouya groaned.

"Oh, it does matter! Look, you barely even bruised me."

"Don't mother me."

"Come on. I hear dinner is almost ready."

Kyouya fought him, but Dino pulled him from the bed, dragging the sheets off behind them where they fell crumpled to the floor.The sunlight hung behind them in the windows, glowing gold in the afternoon as Dino hauled his student from the bedroom, off towards promises of meat and wine.

The world was too bright, but it was right.