I know I need serious therapy. No need to remind me. :P
Disclaimer: All I own are the fragile words that are gathered below this.
--
Close your eyes.
Take a deep breath.
And erase everything.
Every memory, every image, every person. Blank-faced relatives and low murmurs. Bolded letters and crumpled receipts. Delete it all. White-out every emotion, every sensation. The fog on your glasses, the violet eyes, and the relentless optimism. Let it all dissolve. Tear it from your very core, no matter how painful it might be.
Destroy it.
Destroy it before it destroys you.
After all, that is how the game is played.
--
He smiled. He was always smiling. From the very beginning, and right down to the very end. For a while it unnerved you; you had wanted nothing more than to slap that ridiculous grin off of his face. You'd imagine it falling to the floor, shattering into pieces, bleeding all over the antique French rug.
But you never thought it would really happen.
Cries of "It's too late" rushed past you in a whirl of red and blue, skidding to a clumsy stop. They died down then, the letters breaking away and spreading out to cover more ground. A few of them poked and prodded at you, rearranging themselves to form "Are you okay?" You ignored them. One of the letters – you were pretty sure it was 'O' – had tried to force you to your feet. Numbly, you attempted to obey the command, but found that you were physically unable to.
Your legs were still staring at the limp body in front of you.
It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. The sight had punched you square in the jaw, turning your face away. It had delivered a severe blow to your stomach, making you fall to your knees. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
You hated him.
You hated the way his eyes gazed unblinkingly at the stars dotting the sky. You hated the way his blonde hair turned gray underneath the night that covered him. You hated the way his cold hand was still clutching yours. But most of all, you hated the way he was smiling.
That idiot never stopped.
Even in death, it was there.
Broken.
Bleeding.
But there, none the less.
The smile moved out of your line of vision as you realized he was being lifted into the ambulance.
No. Don't. Don't leave me here.
Some of the letters came back, dressed as paramedics. Again, they tried to make you stand. It worked this time.
White-washed walls. Unfamiliar faces etched with fake concern. Familiar faces etched with grief.
None of it affected you.
You were just another young man with a pulse, lying in a hospital bed. Just another young man. Just another empty body.
Just Kyouya.
Erased.
Deleted.
Dissolved.
The way you were before he came.
Just the way it was before you ever truly lived.
Which was appropriate, you thought. Because Tamaki wasn't the only one who died that night.