AN: It's really short, unfortunately. But I'm hoping to get through 'J', and go on a posting spree before I leave for my month long language immersion summer camp. (which will entail absolutely no internet or any such electronic freedoms.) First time writing from Ryu's perspective. I'm not really sure about it, to be honest. What do you guys think?

Disclaimer: Kamen Rider Double doesn't belong to me. I don't even own the DVDs, they're too expensive.

Spoilers: Ryu's background is explored here, so if you don't know who that is yet...

Ice

It's the littlest of things really, things that he had never even noticed before, things that don't mean anything to anyone but him now. It might be because there is no one to distract him, no one around to fill the silences with laughter and smiles, a tug on the sleeve, a hug wrapped around him.

The quiet seems to amplify every single trivial moment, making everything heavier, making every second longer, and he knows that it's not logical, but he can't argue with the constricting sensation that settles around his ribs, or the way the sounds of the ticking clock seem to stretch painfully in his ears. It's not enough to suffocate, but sometimes-.

Alone in his apartment, lying flat on his back in bed, his throat dry and scratchy – he might be coming down with something, but he really couldn't care less, he'll be going to work tomorrow regardless because if he isn't working then he honestly doesn't know what else to do with himself – he clears his throat a couple of times, carefully, trying to swallow.

It doesn't exactly hurt, not really, but he can't seem to get the irritation to go away, so he gets up and heads over to his apartment's kitchen area. He goes to his cabinet, takes out a glass, opens his freezer, takes out the ice cube tray, and drops three cubes into the glass. Then he walks over to the sink, and fills it with tap water.

The ice cubes rattle together, the water sloshes, seeping into the crevasses. The water is warm, the ice isn't.

snap. snap. snap.

He stops, locked in place, staring, eyes riveted, the sound filling his head with ridiculous clarity, the sound of creaking ice, straining, about to crack, before it does, fracture lines streaking through the cubes, a splintering sound that is engraved in his mind, his heart, and his memory. He might have mentally berated himself for being so stupid, but he honestly can't even think now.

His hand goes numb, fingers slackening, and the cup slips out of his now loosened grip, tumbling to the floor, water spilling, splattering onto the floor tiles, and the glass shatters. It seems to collapse, breaking again and again and again and-

He still hasn't moved. He stares down at the broken glass, the small fractured pieces, all scattered, everywhere, the ice.

His eyes are dry, he's sealed those away, he tells himself. He doesn't have the time, the luxury, to let himself wallow in his own weakness, his own failure. It's just thermal stress, he says to himself. It's a simple matter of the ice expanding and contracting, because of the temperature disparity. It's just a broken cup. It shouldn't bother him, it doesn't mean a thing.

So he doesn't cry, he doesn't do anything at all, other than walk over to get out his dust pan, sweep up the mess, and throw it into the trash. He doesn't do anything about the cuts on his feet. He doesn't bother to get another cup. He just walks away, and lies back down on his bed. He stares up at his ceiling, and tries not to think about the necklace around his neck.

He doesn't put ice in his drinks anymore. He always drinks them lukewarm.

And he carries on.