On a small hill above the village of Bristlecone, beneath a small raincloud and, more immediately, a medium-sized tree, there sat a small house with a small car in its shadow. In front of the house stood a man. There was color in his eyes (red) and his face (brown) and perhaps in his hair, which was a more alive-looking sort of black than anything else in his surroundings, but his clothes and his house and his car and, indeed, the very hill upon which he stood were all cast in shades of black and white and grey, and so the village below, come to think of it. Though it was raining, the man was perfectly dry, and the mud that filled the footprints that traced his path from the front door had failed to stick to his shoes.
He looked into the sky and said, "Huh."
Behind him, the door creaked open and shut. "Oh, of course it wouldn't affect you."
"Good morning to you too," Sauvage said without turning around. "I thought you were still asleep."
"I was," Roman said, "but as you may be aware, the bed is much colder without you in it."
"How could I possibly know that?"
"Well, you could ask." Roman's arms wrapped around Sauvage's shoulders, a comfortable weight, and Sauvage tried not to be visibly unsettled by the dark grey cast of his hands. It was in keeping with the washing-out of the rest of the world, but it was also much creepier on a person somehow. Especially this person.
"You're going to get wet," he said to Roman.
"I have been wet many times before, and survived. I'd be more worried about the rest of this."
"Mm." He could feel Roman's antlers brush his cheek, smooth and cool, Roman's face resting against his shoulder, and every time they touched like this he caught himself trying to drink in as much of it as possible, as if it were his last chance, even now. It had only been a few months since the flood. A few months, he was learning, was not enough time for him to get used to being loved. But it was too early in the morning for that train of thought, and there were indeed more pressing concerns. "It doesn't affect me? I'd thought I could see my own colors because they're mine. No?"
"No, I can see them too, and not my own. It's rather disorienting."
"That's just because you're not wearing your glasses." It was a feeble joke, and received the silence it merited. Sauvage looked out over the hills, their rise and fall and roll and eventual ascent into mountains, and everything he saw was shades of grey. "So it isn't something changing my perception, either. It's...I don't know what this is. Color isn't physical in this way. How would one remove it?"
"Powerful magic, I suppose. There's plenty of it out there that doesn't follow any recognizable rules." A pause, and Sauvage tried not to tense up, because he knew what was coming, and Roman said, almost inaudible against his back, "Is there any chance that it could be you? Unintentionally, of course, but..."
"No."
"All right," Roman said. "That's almost too bad—much as I admire your self-control, at least we'd have a lead on doing something about it if you were responsible."
And that was it. No hint of doubt, in the words or the voice, no uncomfortable shifting of position, and he hadn't been ready for this part; he stood braced against nothing, with a warmth holding him up where he'd expected to fall, and someday he hoped he would get used to it, because to get used to it meant feeling it every day of his life.