![]() ![]() Kazuya just thinks it looks strained, an expression pulled tight over lips that want to frown. The teacher looks concerned for a few moments, but she smiles reassuringly. He pastes on a dumb grin just because, tiny fingers curling tight enough against his palms for trimmed fingernails to cut crescents into the lines of flesh. ![]() ![]() "What about gray?" he asks, and a kid nearby bursts into a flurry of giggles, muttering something that sounds similar to "like an old man?". Kazuya frowns, all tightly coiled frustration and thinly veiled trepidation, and it's the first time he's ever sensed that there's something truly wrong with him. He keeps it to himself at first, content to observe, and it becomes an issue only in kindergarten when there's a group activity where the teacher instructs them to divide into groups based on hair color. Instead, the world's bleached blinding shades of gray. They say that the sky is blue, that the grass is green. They speak of colors occasionally, at school. ![]()
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