Kyoya hated the silence that seemed to fill the car as he and his father were driven home, as well as the concerned looks Tachibana gave him, reflected in the rear-view mirror. It was almost suffocating, being trapped in such a small space with next to no sound, painfully awkward. How would his father act at home? How would they all act? God, he didn't know if he could take this much longer before he started pulling out his hair...
His leg bounced up and down quickly, automatically, and if it weren't for the woollen gloves that Yoshio had made him put on, he'd be picking at his fingers once more. He wanted to sleep, feeling all too tired, but he was too wired to have any hope of drifting off. It was like he was on some sort of caffeine high, and he couldn't come down. After all, there's only so much you can do if you're obsessive compulsive, and everything must be just so to prevent disaster.
Of course, he knew that flicking the light switches on and off sixty times wouldn't prevent a fire, but he still had to do it. His brain twisted up his logic to fit intrusive thoughts that only seemed to get worse.
The car pulled up, and Yoshio got out with little hesitation, probably feeling the effects of the stagnant silence all too much. Kyoya, however, couldn't get out until he'd removed that smudge off of the inside handle. It was only a fingerprint, but he didn't want to touch it with no idea of whether it was just the natural oils from someone's fingertips or something dirtier.
His hand wipes were removed from his satchel, one in his hand almost within the same second. It was automatic, and it was practised.
After finally managing to open the door and exit the car, looking away from his father and to the floor, he felt the uncertainty claw at his throat once more. You fix one thing, and then something else breaks; only, in this sort of scenario, you don't know what's broken and so you have to fix everything - over and over again. Rituals were a comfort, compulsions were completed to prevent what was portrayed in obsessive thoughts.
Still, Yoshio's gaze seemed to burn him with its intensity. He didn't look at his father's face long enough to distinguish the emotions behind that stare, but the default assumption was angry. Disappointed. Ashamed. There was little to no grounds for said assumptions - usually - but today was different. Today, he'd punched Tamaki in the face and made a fool of himself. Today, he unravelled. Today, he was undeniably different, and that wasn't okay.
His father never said that, but he felt it. Kyoya wasn't normal, he was divergent. He was gay, he liked skirts and dresses, he had all these impulsive and violent thoughts swirling around his head... He wasn't someone that could be called an ideal son. Expectant parents never daydreamed about having a child like him. He wasn't the perfect golden boy, far from, and he was disappointed in himself for not achieving that standard.
"You had your gloves on," His father pointed out, his voice just sounding tired. Tired of the day, tired of Yuzuru's concern, tired of having a freak like him for a son. The list could go on, too, "You wouldn't have to touch it..."
"But I had to clean it," He answered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if he himself actually understood it, which he didn't - not really. He had to clean it because, otherwise, he and the rest of his family would get sick? It didn't work like that, over-sanitation was much worse as it compromised the immune system - didn't give it the opportunity to fight of viruses and bacteria by itself, making the host much more susceptible to illness. But he still had to clean it; like he had to keep writing to avoid hurting someone, like he had to switch the light switches on and off so there wouldn't be a fire, like all his food had to be separate or he'd get sick.
It made no sense, and that was the problem. That was the divide between him and everyone else. No one really understood. There were those who treated him better than the rest - Fuyumi, Yuuichi - then there was his father and Akito. They both wanted what was best for him, of course, but the opinions they had on how to help him were so different. They clashed, almost constantly, and it stressed everyone out.
His brother said that tough love was best; stop him from acting on his compulsions, mix his food, stop him from relying on those crutches. His father, however? Well, his approach was probably best described as coddling. If it didn't hurt anyone, including Kyoya himself, then it was acceptable. Not desired, of course, but what could you do? If it eased the anxiety, then it was alright; who cares if he's weird?
Still, however much Kyoya relied on his compulsions as a crutch, he didn't like that approach, either. It felt like he was a child. Like he wasn't nearly an adult, and he'd never have the capacity to have his own freedom and move out. That he was going to be regarded as a patient for his whole life, needing some sort of caretaker to stop him from clawing the veins and arteries out of his forearms or from drinking bleach in the hopes of cleansing his insides.
That obsessive thought had only ever gotten stuck in his head once, but still. Burning from the inside out, purified by fire; it felt too much like something his aunt would read from that damn Bible of hers.
But sometimes – most times – life was just… disappointing. He was going to be the same as he'd always been; a world where his thoughts weren't seeped in blood and violence seemed so far away. It didn't seem possible, much less likely, and he caught himself scratching at his arm once more as he thought about it; not that he could do any damage with the soft wool of his gloves between his nails and his skin.
"Kyoya… Kyoya, talk to me," His father tried to prompt him, sounding so worried that it made Kyoya sick. This was what he did; freak out over nothing and then make everyone else worry. It wasn't fair to them. Just because he couldn't get his head on straight didn't mean that they should be left to pick up the pieces, "What's wrong, Kyoya?"
He just kept shaking his head, the scratching providing no cathartic release of his swirling thoughts and emotions, everything blurring together into some undersaturated mess of colours. He was surprised he didn't pass out; even if it was all in his head, it all seemed like the world would tilt sideways and fade to black at any moment.
"Kyoya, come on, you need to calm down," Yoshio tried to soothe, but Kyoya just shook his head again, wool-clad fingers twining in his hair and yanking. The dull pain was something but not enough, tugging harder and harder until his father managed to pry apart his grip on the dull strands. Yoshio held his hands in his own, so tightly that Kyoya couldn't pull away, the wool rubbing against bitten, calloused skin almost painfully.
"You need to talk when you get upset, not hurt yourself," His father's voice was so… pained. Subdued, but so plainly, blatantly upset that the guilt fell to the bottom of Kyoya's stomach like a rock, "I'm trying, Kyoya… Can you please try and do the same? Meet me half way?"
The sad thing was, he couldn't. He couldn't, and that was supposed to be for everyone's sake, not his own. So people wouldn't get hurt, get sick, or die. He couldn't let them. He couldn't be alone, he couldn't let that happen.
He was the only one who should be miserable, and he hated that his father was only being dragged down by the whole thing. It made him wonder if he really should try to meet his father half way; take his pills, use his fidget toy, talk… But he wouldn't succeed, and everyone would just suffer the consequences. His father shouldn't be his carer, however. He didn't deserve that.
After all; like mother, like son.