Kyoya adjusted his glasses with a sigh, entering his decidedly clinical room after a long day, full of Tamaki.
Dropping his bag on the table, he removed his homework, ready to complete it in the order it needed to be handed in. Some of it was challenging, but he finished it to the standard he always achieved, worthy of the top spot in Ouran Academy's 2A. It took approximately two hours, before he could move on to balancing the Host Club's accounts.
Adjusting the figures carefully and rearranging the cosplay order for the months, Kyoya was out of work to do. Emailing the relevant documents to Tamaki, the Shadow King slouched back in his chair, an unusual sign of relaxation from the youngest Ootori.
The room was neat and tidy but Kyoya straightened his laptop, papers and stationary on his desk until they were all parallel to each other, in the way he liked.
The next step in his night was to shrug off his blazer, loosening his tie and opening the first few buttons on his crisp, white shirt. Locking the door, the Shadow King proceeded to remove the shirt, slowly, long fingers lingering on the buttons, as though savouring the simple action. His trousers followed. Each item of clothing was placed on a hanger, which was hung back in the wardrobe.
Kyoya redressed himself in a crisp black shirt of the most expensive cotton, casually open at the neck, and black trousers. Leaning to view his hair in the mirror, he brushed the flyaway strands into submission and touched his glasses again – perhaps his only nervous reflex action.
A clink of crystal and ice filled the room as Kyoya poured chilled vodka into a glass, the sharp sting in his throat soothing his nerves. The emotionless room was filled with Kyoya's own anticipation and anxiousness, betrayed only by an occasional adjustment to his glasses or hair.
Finally ready, the Ootori crossed to his bathroom, retrieving a straight blade, cotton wool and a container of little white pills, which he set down on a glass table. Seating himself elegantly at the table, in a manner befitting his status and personality, Kyoya sighed again.
Thinking of all the accounts he remembered of suicides he shook his head. After such an orderly life, why should his death be any unorganised? He'd left the room as he liked it, his business in order and ever completed his homework. There was no more his father could expect of him. After so long as the youngest son, Kyoya was ready to give in to an idea that haunted him – his life had no further merit.
Sipping his drink, Kyoya savoured the burning sensation. He dipped the cotton wool into the remaining liquid, using the alcohol to sterilize his inner forearms and neck, ever the medic. This being done, he took five of the white painkillers, taken from a locked medicine cabinet in his Father's office.
As his sharp mind began to blunt under the influence of the pills and alcohol, Kyoya took up the razor. The blade swam before him, but a blink of the eyes allowed him to see properly. Pressing the blade gently to the centre of his wrist he drew a shallow line along the blue line of his vein, hissing softly at the pre-emptive cut. The slight sting steeled Kyoya's nerve, egging him on. Tracing the same line the Shadow King dug down, the blade piercing his vein, spilling thick, crimson liquid down into his hand, eliciting a groan of pain and regret – not for his actions, but that he was born third.
Before he had time to think, the second arm followed, but Kyoya neglected his neck, determining that the damage was extensive enough as to be irreversible. His life flowed from his forearms, emptying his head finally and decisively of the plots, inadequacies and repressed emotions that had haunted his life.
Kyoya lay back and sunk into the creeping darkness, finally able to let go.