He doesn't let anyone see him without his glasses.
The Shadow King is forever guarded. He hides behind walls of glass, as clear and dark at once as his smile. They are his ultimate mask, one no-one ever questions, one that is hooked into his facade of a personality as securely as they rest behind his ears.
Without them he is only Kyoya. No third son, no Otori, only a boy.
He needs his guards. He needs his crystalline windows with their carbon fibre frames and silver hinges. He could wear contacts, of course. But he needs the physicality of his glass eyes. They betray nothing, their only emotion is the glint of movement.
Without them he is unprotected, blind, too vulnerable.
Others wear glasses to let them see the world. He wears glasses to let the world see him. They are his customised one-way-window to the world. He sees them, in precise and devastating detail, but all they see is the reflection of who they believe him to be.
Kyoya hides behind his glasses. With them he is powerful and wealthy. His father's son, who's sharp lenses only magnify his stare, who takes a what might have been a handicap and makes it into a tool.
With them on it is so much easier to hold back his smile, to look pitilessly on the crueller sides of life, to view the world with the hard gaze of an Otori businessman. Profits. Games. Manipulation. Never mind the heart.
With his glasses he is capable of anything. He is money, business, facts, cold amusement. Without them he is prone to laughing impolitely, speaking before he thinks, and taking near-profitless risks.
When he takes them off he takes his duties with them. And when he looks in the mirror then, he sees a high school student, no-one important, smart but not funny, top of the class maybe but nowhere near where he wants to be. He sees a younger brother, a long-suffering friend, a boy. Without them he is only sixteen.
He doesn't often look in the mirror, unless he's wearing them.
Then he sees a Host Club king, a top student of Ouran High, a son of Otori. Someone high-flying girls fall over, someone commoners can't decide whether to stare or swear at, someone who sees the beauty of a painting first in its price tag. He sees someone darkly beautiful and not a little frightening. Suave, powerful.
Without them it is too hard to be who he needs to be. Who he has made himself out to be. Who everyone – except him – believes him to be.
Who he might be without his glasses is irrelevant, he thinks as he slides them on. Without them he is too damn pretty. He looks too young.
He glances down at his watch, brought into hard focus by the glass. Eight forty two. The car would be waiting.
