Disclaimer: It's not mine. The characters belong to… I forgot and I don't want to go look, but it's not me.
Dark. And cold. The stone floor beneath him dug into his knees, leaving marks that would surely have shone purplish-red if exposed to more light than was provided in this dim and dismal room. As it were, had his eyes been open, he would scarcely have been able to pick out the pattern of the hard floor beneath his knees, much less to see the door, both his escape and his torture, his heaven and his hell. The door was never locked, and frequently left cracked open, more to remind him of the freedom he couldn't have than out of a real need for light.
Today it was closed, barring him from any contact with the outside world. The lack of light, the unending darkness, was infinitely preferable to that single thin strip of light, a beacon reminding him both that there is hope and that his situation is hopeless. But it also usually meant that today would be a bad day. The walls of this room were soundproofed, and with the door closed, virtually no sound could escape. He was reminded of this frequently, told that the room had been thoroughly tested for its soundproofing, that no one would hear him scream. Knowing the nature of the owner of the room, he was not hard pressed to believe this.
But his eyes were closed tightly, blocking out everything around him, imagining he was somewhere far away, somewhere, anywhere, but here… His exhaustion, having accumulated over the past few days, was near overwhelming, and his eyes being already closed, he began to drift, dozing lightly. His somewhat dreamlike state produced visions of freedom and things thus associated: sprawling fields, butterflies, the stars, and the face of the one who, to him, represented the very core of freedom.
His eyes flew open as the door swung inward, flooding the small room with light. He recoiled deeper into the corner in which he was huddled, deeper into himself, as the figure - indistinguishable in the sudden, blinding light - advanced. He was frightened, but only vaguely. He'd long ago stopped caring what happened in this room, long ago stopped telling himself it would be over soon, and he could go home, back to some semblance of normality. No, he'd long ago given up on that. It would never be over. He would never be free.
A pair of shoes stepped into his field of vision and stopped. Shoes? He'd never known him to wear shoes before… A hand reached out, causing him to flinch as it settled on his shoulder. The hand was cool and slightly calloused, far removed from the icy smooth touch he was accustomed to. His head jerked up just as another hand joined the first, gently pulling him to his feet. He smiled faintly in relief as the face briefly came into focus, just long enough for recognition. The hands left briefly, and he swayed on his feet. One returned, steadying him, as the other continued with its original task. Soon, the chains that had bound him to this hell fell away, and his savior stood, beckoning him forward, toward the door. His first few steps were awkward, the result of a stiff and aching body. Stepping into the brightly lit hallway, he raised a hand to shield his eyes. The taller man walking beside him offered a pair of sunglasses, which he gratefully accepted, thinking briefly how amusing it would have been under alternate circumstances.
The room into which they entered was located at the end of the long hallway, as far removed from his prison as was possible. The walls were painted a blinding white, not softened at all by the harsh fluorescent lights, but anything was an improvement. The door clicked shut behind him, and he turned slightly to catch the clothes that had been carelessly tossed his way. He dressed quickly as the man collected his coat and keys, and soon they were once again walking down the hallway, all the way to the other end this time, and out into the bright sunlight of late afternoon.
The car ride was silent, save for the soft classical music playing in the background. Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu, he thought, and Pachelbel's Canon in D.
The time passed in a blur of vague relief, and soon, the car was pulling to a stop. He opened his door and stepped out, knowing the man would not follow him. He went to close the door, but paused at the last second. Leaning back inside the car, he reached up a delicate hand and removed the sunglasses, folding them gracefully and placing them on the passenger seat. He smiled softly, a small, sad smile that didn't reach his eyes, a quiet thank you to the first person who'd ever cared what happened to him.
He closed the door quietly, having received, as always, a rather impassive response. The car drove away and he watched the receding taillights until they were no longer visible; only, he knew if he squinted, they would be tiny pinpricks in the distance, just barely there. He sighed, not bothering to make the effort, and turned to face the house. He took a few measured steps toward it, not walking quickly but not lagging, head held high and shoulders squared, trying to appear as he always did, cool, calm, collected, when inside he was fighting not to fall apart, fighting to remain in control, to keep everyone believing that he was fine.
And he was, he told himself. He was absolutely, completely fine, and anyone who said any different needed to take a second look, because who could say he wasn't fine when he could smile day after day and not break from the effort it took? How could he not be fine when he could dredge up small kindnesses for those in need, when he could excel in school and uphold his duties as the leader of the student council with hardly any trouble at all? No one could say he wasn't fine, because no one saw past all that. No one saw the pain and emptiness in his eyes, the way his smile never reached them. No one noticed his fingernails, kept too short so he wouldn't bite them in agitation or distress. No one noticed that he seldom sat with anyone at lunch time, begging off on account of nonexistent student council duties so he could retreat to an empty classroom where no questions would be raised when he didn't eat. No one noticed that he'd gotten thinner, his clothes looser, the hollows of his cheeks more gaunt. No one noticed the slight furrow between his eyes from frowning too much; nor did they notice the lack of the small lines around his eyes that indicated frequent laughter.
No one noticed, because no one cared. Their own petty happiness meant more to them than the thinly veiled suffering of another. They should have seen through it, he knew they should have, but they didn't, and it was better that way. As long as he could go on being the perfect, charming Prince, everything would be fine.
The door of the house slid open soundlessly. He stepped inside and toed off his shoes before turning to close it. His hand closed over the handle and began to slide it back the way it had so recently traveled when it was ripped from his grasp. Standing just over the threshold of the now fully open door was someone he didn't particularly want to see right now.
"Yo, rat."
Kyo smirked at him, trying to rile him, to anger him enough to draw him into yet another fight. He was so tired of this, so tired of only fighting. Why couldn't- He shook his head. No, no chance. He sighed again, following the other outside.
A/N: Sorry the ending was kind of abrupt… I couldn't think of anything. ' Anyways, review please! If I get good reviews, I'll post more. I think the next chapter will be more Kyo… But only if you review!