A/N: So...this is dark. I really want you to be warned. You can flame it if you want, but don't say that I didn't warn you.

That being said, this is part of my sadistic streak. It also is a semi-sequel (if you squint) to Au Lait. Kinda but not really. So...this is more for me, but I like it enough to post it.

Disclaimer: Definitely don't own

I Lied

It was bright light that woke me up, tired and bleary-eyed. I wasn't used to waking up when the sun had already risen. But then, I hadn't expected to wake up at all.

What was worse was that I could still feel pain in my chest, and even though my mind was static, I was still thinking a million miles a minute. I eyes closed and opened them again, trying to blink out the stinging light. When I tried lifting his arms, but the pain was too much. As if my wrists were broken and dangling downward.

"Kaiba-sama, you're awake."

I heard ice clinking into a glad, and then water pouring after. It hurt to think, and it hurt that I didn't recognize the voice right away. When Roland came into my view, I was considerably less confused but every cell in my body pulsated with dread. "I am…"

"Here, water." Roland eased me up, and then he helped ease me back. It was around then that I felt the cold against my palm. "Drink up. You lost a lot of fluids last night." The irony was lost upon me in that moment. I took a few sips of the water before putting it aside. Every moment since I had woken up had left me in a state of shock, as if my heart was going to burst from my chest, or someone was going to tell me this was all some grand, deflating dream. "I had a doctor come to you; you're still at the estate."

"I see."

Roland sat beside me, upturning towards the patch of the ceiling that I hadn't looked away from for more than a moment. "I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist."

"That's not necessary."

"I thought not."

The air was less pensive and, the more the silence grew, drew stagnant. Unmoving, as though we were stills for a photo. Roland clasped his hands together, itching in his seat. He didn't mind waiting with me, and he didn't mind watching me the whole of the time. That was his job—security.

"What time do you remember last?"

My eyes closed, and I searched the crevices of my synapses for that fleeting little memory. "I'm not sure," I replied. "I shut down and never left the lab."

"I see. Well, you were tipsy at least."

My elbows drew back, crinkling the white sheets and pushing at the pillows. I kept weight off my sore hands and wrists. The more I pushed and fought, the more I realized that it would be difficult to keep myself in the sitting position. And all the while, Roland never moved from his place, knowing that I was going to do this on my own. As I wavered, I felt the locket beat against my chest, knocking against my breast as a reminder that there was someone that this would impact.

"Mokuba doesn't know yet." Roland said, reading me.

"You didn't tell him?" I asked. Once I was up, my shoulders relaxed, and my back slouched. Despite my best efforts, my head leaned forward, and I was left to stare at my lap.

"I wasn't sure how to address it," Roland said. "You don't have a protocol for self-harm."

I flinched. After lifting up his body, I realized that the heaviness I felt never went away. My stomach shriveled and caved up into my chest; my heart blipped against his ribcage as if it weren't even there. Most noticeably, I was cold. Unlike usual, my arms were uncovered.

Looking down, and it seemed was the only place that I willed myself to look, I was forced to see the bandages wrapped around my wrists and looped around my thumbs. Like his wrists were splinted from a bad fall. "I snapped."

The room dimmed as clouds covered the sun for the briefest moment before uncovering again. The bedroom was just as orderly as I kept it. Every line was crisp, as if drawn that way. Like a sticker placed down on a dollhouse. Everything was…perfect.

Objects were perfect; moments were perfect; people…people weren't perfect. The pangs hit me as soon as my mind started clearing up from the shock of waking to a world that had continued on. As if I expected it to stop without me there. I was just a figurehead of a large corporation. I was no messiah. I was no savior. I was nobody in the long stretches of time.

My thoughts were lucid as ever. All the success in the world, all the perseverance and torture of stepping myself up into a position of grandeur had suddenly collapsed in on my. My empire crashed down on me, brick by brick, tearing at every piece of open flesh and chipping the bone when it got deep enough. All consuming; after a while, I reveled in the fact that this industry had chewed up and spit out better men than myself.

"Kaiba-sama?"

Roland broke my chain of thoughts. "When will Mokuba be home?"

"Not for another few hours."

My lips pursed. "He thinks I'm at the office?"

"I would believe so," Roland replied.

My guts clenched. Resolve wasn't so hard. This wasn't a matter where I could pull my sleeves down and blow it off as a small knick or bruise. Not like all of the other little pricks and prods that were littered in the divots of my body in places so inconspicuous. "He needs to know," I said. "I'll tell him. Don't bother him at school. No need to interrupt his studies."

"Understood, sir."

I lulled, finally pulling my head out of droop and leaned back, closing my eyes again. Roland called me tipsy. The dull ache behind my eyes said otherwise. Was it kindness, calling me tipsy? I must have been somewhere between two and three glasses of wine. In fact, I remembered more details the more I woke up. It was a pinot grigio. I hated red wine. I drank slowly through the night, working on a few projects here and there. There were plenty of thoughts floating in my head, but very little motivation; very little concentration. Nothing was working—it hadn't for quite some time, in fact.

Nothing except me. That's all I did anymore; it was all I ever did, in fact, but the last few weeks I felt like it was the only thing to draw myself out of my own misery. I kept those feelings of dread at bay because the ideas were enough to stave them off. Then one day, even they dried up.

My mind became a rat's nest. Infested with nothing but dark thoughts. I kept getting headaches, and would press my hands against the sides of my head to push them out and keep them away. It just made the headaches worse. I tried being smart about it; not giving into the normal temptations. Not listening to my inner self as it gave up hope.

I must have gotten too drunk and everything just gave way.

"You leave the lab like it was?" I asked. I turned to climb out of bed; my head spun. Roland stood up, ready to brace me. I steadied, and began to walk towards the door. I was still in my dress pants and undershirt from the night before. I stopped, holding against the wall for support.

"I did. Are you going down there?"

"Yes…"

I wandered down to the lab in the basement. The lights were off, but I could see everything in an outline. Flicking it on, watching the lab come to life, I could make out more. The wine bottle, and tipped over glass. The closer I got, I could see the fine details. The glass was cracked, and there was still a small bit of wine in the glass, unable to drip down like the rest that was on the floor. There was also a knife on the floor, its blade covered in blood.

My blood.

But that wasn't the only thing with my blood on it. Some was smeared on the worktable, the rest of it dripped over the sides and onto the floor. It had dried and congealed to a dingy rust color. Almost like someone had used finger paint over the surfaces. I tried to recall how long it took before I feel off the stool.

I reached down, picking up the knife. It was hard to grip and hold onto things. My hands seemed to feel things only some of the time. I wondered how deep that I had cut.

Dizziness struck me hard. I sat down on the stool, leaning against the worktable. My fingertips were at my forehead, making small motions as a headache began to egg on again. My head dropped, trying to get it out of my eyes, and I looked to a magazine that had been hidden underneath a stack of panels I had been using. I eased it out, staring at the page that it had been turned to.

On the bottom of the page, there was a picture of myself and one Jounouchi Katsuya. Someone was inside the coffee shop with us; they had a camera phone, because the picture was far too grainy to be anything else.

Nothing happened at the coffee shop, we just talked. It was an indication, though, of deeper things. And the speculation in the magazine was more than enough. It didn't hurt me, but it lingered in my mind for days after I had seen it.

The magazine, as I closed it, was at least three weeks old; old enough to fade into people's memory.

Hours later, I had probably paced a majority of the house, walking without direction or purpose. The aching in my head faded, but my wrists throbbed. I didn't know if it was easier to keep my arms crossed or to let them hang by my sides, because then I didn't have to see them.

The last hour, I lingered in the living room. Roland had changed the bandages so they no longer looped up over my thumbs. It let me get a good look at the deep marks that I had made. They were grotesque. Reddish-purple, blackened bruises surrounding them. My hands and fingers were pale. Roland informed me that the doctor had stayed for several hours to make sure I stabilized.

Before, he said I was lucky that he had the inkling to check on me. In the middle of the night, he felt as though something was awry in the house and went to check on me. It couldn't have been too long after I had passed out.

The black car pulled into the drive, and I got closer to the door, ready to greet Mokuba. He hopped out of the car, his bookbag hanging off one shoulder. My hands hung at my sides again; I had dressed in less wrinkled clothes. The shirt I had bled on had been disposed of. The lab was cleaned.

I tugged on the ends of my sleeves, feeling as they snuggly fit over the bandages. The door opened, and I forced a smile on my face.

Mokuba's bag dropped heavily against the ground. "Nii-sama?"

"Hey, Moki."

"What are you doing home?"

I shrugged. "I…took about half the day to myself."

Mokuba smiled too. "That's cool," he came up and hugged tight. I, reluctantly, let my arms down and hugged him back. My heart stopped, and I expected that he would feel the difference, or see the difference in me. But I supposed that maybe part of Mokuba was still ignorant, if only because he was young.

"I love you, nii-sama."

"Love you too, kid."

And he didn't. With my sleeves down, there was nothing to see. Nothing to sense. Nothing that I should let on.

And for a few seconds, the pain faded away. The thoughts went away. And I almost forgot about what I had done in the night.

"So…that mean you'll be home all night?" Mokuba asked after he pulled away. I nodded. "Cool, so…we get to eat dinner together."

I nodded. "Yeah. I'll make you something nice."

Mokuba shoved me. "You never cook, nii-sama."

"Call it a special occasion."

After that, Mokuba ran off, telling me that he would be right back after thundering up the stairs. I could feel as Roland was walking up behind me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before I let it go and opened my eyes again.

"You handled that well."

I didn't budge from my place, or said a word. After so many moments of silence, Roland finally said to me: "Katsuya Jounouchi is on hold, by the way."

I contemplated it for a second. What did I really have to lose?

But I was at a loss. Now, there were two things in my life, pulling at me and prodding me to show me that there was more to my life than what I was about to throw away. It made me sick just a little bit. Still, I said:

"Patch him through."

A/N: This is supposed to be a one-shot, even though I could probably turn it into something. I hope it was okay, even for all its darkness. I think I threw a little logic out the window, but hey.

Hope you enjoyed. KenSan out!