A/N: A really self-indulgent AU I decided to write and post after some recent events, both on this site and with my own mental health. Don't make the mistake that I write what I write to be "edgy", I have a lot of issues and it's easier to accept them after writing out my feelings, and I see a lot of myself in Kyoya. Also, the fact that I portray him as gay does not make me a fujoshi only interested in HOT YAOI. I'm queer. I'm gay. I see Kyoya as queer-coded, as does his English VA. Also, insulting a person's character after saying "with all due respect", is not respectful. If you don't like, don't read. Simple.
It was late. He could hear the crickets and cicada bugs chirping outside of his window, having called the Sakura tree right outside his window home for a good couple of months now. The sun had long since set, the moon high in the black, almost inky night sky, undisturbed by the light pollution; unlike the house they used to live in. The more rural area really was beautiful, his father citing that the fresh air – fresh start – would do him good.
He wasn't quite sure about that, but it was definitely pleasant. The garden, the stars, the balcony outside of his bedroom - even if the doors were locked by his father before the man went to bed, for peace of mind. It was just so peaceful. He could breathe, and that was certainly an improvement. He could sit back, clear his head, and focus on getting his education back on track.
Honestly, he shouldn't be up this late, but he got distracted by his sketchbook and what was supposed to be a doodle turned into a fully coloured, digital sketch. Dark eyes stared back at him from his computer screen, a slight smile quirking glossy, painted lips and glasses fogged with watercolour steam. It was actually something somewhat sweet, reflecting the atmosphere of that day.
The household had finally settled down from the stress of moving out to what was essentially the middle of nowhere, and so it was something close to normal. His father was in his study, focusing on the paperwork that had built up while he was looking after him, and Kyoya just... wandered. Trees, green leaves parting in the warm breeze and dappling the ground with golden light; it felt calming.
He stretched his arms above his head, shoulders and back cracking with that odd sense of satisfaction, stiff from hours hovering over the graphics tablet. He was feeling tired, but proud.
It had been a couple of years since Kyoya first started his little art blog, noir-nightmare, and it had grown rather popular over that time. His skill increased, as did his follower count, and he... slightly regretted that Edgy Fourteen-Year-Old™ branding. Still, he was kind of stuck with it - at least until he could actually come up with something better. He wasn't that great at coming up with URLs, apparently.
He wanted to post what he'd finished and go to bed, too tired to wait up for notifications and the surge of praise he'd latched on to in his darkest moments. His ego needed stroking every now and again, he sometimes needed positive reinforcement to just keep pushing on. It'd worked for a while, at least…
He sighed, picking at the bandages wrapped around his forearms with a frown. The wounds underneath were itchy, as skin tended to be as it healed, the stitches due to be removed in under a week. Fifteen stitches in the right, eighteen in the left. It was a wake-up call, in a way, different from the smaller, lighter scars that littered his arms and thighs. It wasn't to dull the pain, it was an end. A full stop. Nothing more, nothing less. Dulling the pain was one thing, but being so depressed that he actually attempted... That was much more serious in his eyes.
His father was horrified, of course. He didn't know about the isolation, the not eating, the cutting... They might have both cried, not that either of them would admit it out loud.
Still, as Kyoya went on his Tumblr to post the first piece he'd drawn since his attempt, he just went on his page to... stare at it a little. The post. After what was essentially a goodbye speech, his explanations and last words to his followers, his open suicide note to the blogosphere, was another text post. This was simple, three words that carried so much weight; unfortunately, I survived.
That really was what he felt at the time. He hated it, cooped up in that sterile room with the other children, not old enough to qualify for the adult's ward. He was subjected to the sound of wails and children's television that made him want to jump out of the window, but it set him on the right path. He was taking steps to fix his mental state. He had meds, and a therapist.
He was starting a new school, where no one would know him. A clean slate.
Honestly, that was the most stressful thing at the moment. He knew he could catch up with his peers, but it was pressure. Despite his insistence of the contrary, he didn't do well under pressure.
He was also on a meal plan. He had to drink disgusting, powdery milkshakes to make up some of his calories and protein. He had to get better, had to recover, with all of his coping mechanisms torn away because they happened to be "unhealthy". He didn't know how else to survive. He didn't do these things because he wanted to die; self-harm and suicide has two very separate intents. He wanted to feel, to live… Just to keep going with a semi-colon rather than a full stop. Cutting himself was preferable to, say, jumping off the roof.
Still, he couldn't say that. He knew it wasn't right. Instead, he had to get healthy. Gain some more weight, take his pills, sleep enough… He had to heal.
He sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, finishing off his post with a small caption before unceremoniously flopping on his bed.
The little boy stared out of his window, gazing at the stars and thinking of how they'd burnt out long ago. He felt such a kinship with them. He toed the line between living and dead, appearing as if he were breathing to all those around him but knowing the truth. It made him feel warm, even as his tears fogged his glasses.
Sleep; enjoy your sickly sweet nightmares and melancholy dreams.