Everything was digitised and promotional these days, and Kyouya hated it.

He wasn't a Luddite by any means, not at all; he was a doctor who had been trained to use the most modern equipment after all, and he knew that this was the true era of technological advances. It was spell-binding to see patents survive an accident or illness that would have taken their life just two decades ago.

However, he could live without those… things. Screens, like posters, used to advertise people in their desperate ploy for friendship – or, in the most pathetic cases, love. He didn't agree with it at all, so therefore abstained from the digitised shackle around these gormless people's wrists; routing them into the virtual world and away from their own as they routinely shattered other people's privacy by looking up a stranger's personal details. It made him vaguely sick.

Maybe he was a bit of a Luddite, actually.

But the whole thing was pathetic and rather invasive, that was his thought on the matter. Years ago, meetings had the opportunity to happen by chance.

Well, not for him. For Ootori Kyouya, every meeting was calculated; but his point still stood.

He huffed as he continued down the frosted pavement, his own thoughts agitating him, but that was when he saw him.

He saw his on one of those damn Temp-Terminals. His red hair was vivid and mussed artistically, parted to the left, and his skin is pale with hints of freckles. He looks at the camera and his hazel - almost golden - eyes seem to stare into Kyouya's soul. His smile is a sweet, yet coy affair and tilted in a fashion that is as intriguing as the rest of him. His pose is a sideways glance, the curves of his neck soft and beautiful; and Kyouya wants to trace them with his fingertips, his lips, his tongue -

And then he's gone. As quickly as he appeared, he vanished; even Cinderella had enough decency to leave her slipper on the palace steps.

For the first time, he wishes that he had worn the wrist-band. He wishes to meet him face-to-face, even if the Temp-Terminals were the reason for that meeting.

He wishes. He wishes as a pain routes in his chest, in the heart he neglected to the point of which he forgot he had one, and he makes his way back home.

As he walks in the cold, mid-December snow, back to his one-bedroom apartment and his cat; he wonders if he is the truly pathetic one in this modern era.