They never did talk to him the morning after. The 'low blood pressure evil lord' had a hangover that felt like someone was chiselling into his skull; they ran away when they heard him growl at Haruhi, low and guttural.

Evil. Demon. Disgusting. Base. Animalistic. Perverse.

As anyone might expect, it seemed that the rest of the day would not be good, or even alright.

He stayed in bed, unmoving. He didn't have the strength to get up, the voices screeching in his pounding head.

He doesn't make it to the razor blade that day, but only because he can't get out of bed. He declines food and water, punishes himself that way instead; it doesn't lessen his despair.

He breathes, skinny chest rising and falling shallowly, slowly. He is still and pale, if he held his breath one could mistake him for a corpse.

And he does. He holds his breath for a few seconds before drawing another; the aesthetic of death without the commitment.

He wishes for a longer taste. He wishes to stop breathing while asleep. Unconscious and unbreathing; not unlike a statue of Faust.

Faust and he share common ground. If there is a hell, he'd like to shake his hand when he is inevitably sent there for his torturous afterlife. They are both impressive scholars, dissatisfied by life. He hasn't sold his soul to the devil, but he doesn't believe in such things; although unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures does make for an attractive offer.

He sighs, almost wishing he could sell his soul for happiness, even if it would come at a cost. But then he remembers that he's -

Impure. Unclean. No soul to give. Twisted. Psychopath. Defective -

That he's Ootori Kyoya and doesn't believe in such things.

Instead of letting his mind rot in debauched fantasies, he gives up on the idea of emulating death, emulating Faust, and curls in on himself.

He's too warm, he's too cold. Too alone, wishes to remain in solitude forever.

He wishes to paint, he wishes to stay still and crumble away while his brushes lay snapped and splintered at the other side of the room.

Tamaki knew nothing of his true colours; they were not reflected in that piece. His true colours and black and murky brown, dark red blood and yellow puss defused throughout.

He is ugly in more ways than his face and body.

He wants them here, he prefers them away. The idea is fine, but fine ideas are rarely fine reality; ideas get corrupted in the harsh light of real life.

He wants Tamaki, Haruhi, Kaoru, Mori; hell, if he didn't have a headache, he'd want Honey and Hikaru, also.

He's fine alone. Monsters always dwell alone.

He wishes to meet Faust and shake his hand, say he understands; because he does. Oh, he does.


A/N: Hi guys! Chapters should be getting a little longer from here on (I hope).