Waking was different in the cell. The lighting never got any less dingier; The air was never fresh. Sometimes one of them would lie to the other, and say he heard the wind. Then they would both strain their ears and listen. Sometimes the other would lie, and say it was a bubbling river.

"Okay," the other would say jovially. "We'll go look for minnows after this, then." And the two of them would build off of this, improvising a morsel of comfort.

Tamaki's parents were always a topic of discussion. Anyone in Kyoya's family aside from his older sister Kasumi was omitted, or perhaps had just never been present enough to mention.

They spoke of a vacation, a nice stay somewhere without so much concrete and metal. The ideas got more and more ludicrous; after defeating their kidnappers and turning them in for justice, they'd pack all of their things and leave. They'd invite Kasumi, and fly to France where the three of them would find Tamaki's mother and flee both the Ootori police force and the Suoh matriarch's wrath on prearranged jet ski's.

Kyoya scoffed. "We can't get away on jet skis," he said scornfully.

"And why not?" Tamaki shifted the weight off of his left knee, which had been a recent development. What he had done to incur the punishment Kyoya hadn't been conscious of, and Tamaki refused to tell him.

"The tanks don't fit enough gas to cross the ocean."

"We'll pack extras, then."

But then the days dragged on; the lights stayed dingy; the air stayed stale. Kyoya's hands were unbound, but he never spoke of escaping. There was little talk of rivers, of fish, of Kasumi and jet skis.

They were fed cheap instant noodles and given water that Kyoya swore was laced with a sedative of some sort, for he always felt lethargic after drinking it. It wasn't until he was awakened by Tamaki slapping him on the back that they realized how reckless their kidnappers had been; during the middle of the night Tamaki awoke to Kyoya choking on his own sick in his sleep.

The Yakuza didn't particularly care if Kyoya lived or died.

When the two came to the startling conclusion, they met each other's fearful gaze. Kyoya was still heaving from the ordeal, his body and fingers shaking from the fleeing adrenaline. There was sick painted down the front of his already disgusting jacket, so Kyoya shrugged it off and used the sleeves to clean his face, trying to get a hold of himself.

Tamaki's face was blotchy, with streaks of tears cleaning paths down his dirty face. His blond hair was mussed and oily from days without washing it.

"Thank you," Kyoya rasped. Occasionally he would cough, great and sticky sounding hiccups that would continue to the point of pain.

"It's my fault you're even here," Tamaki looked close to tears, but still had the mind to keep his voice down.

"If you had the keys to the door all along, why didn't you say so?" Kyoya tried, and felt his hands steadying a bit when Tamaki flashed a wan smile.

The truth of the matter wouldn't leave Tamaki, though: Kyoya wasn't a firstborn or an heir. His friend should have been safe- would have been safe, if it hadn't been for Kyoya's stubbornness. If it hadn't been for Tamaki's own stupid idea for a sleepover. If it hadn't been for his stupid infatuation with his best friend. If it hadn't been, if it hadn't been.

They were taken on a school day. It was at the end of the Host Club's shift, and everyone but Kyoya and himself had dispersed into their vehicles. Kyoya, in a debonair (and vaguely coincidental) manner, offered Haruhi the use of his car. He and Tamaki, Kyoya had mentioned to her, were heading out together. And so Haruhi headed out under the care of Kyoya's driver, Tachibana.

(At least, Kyoya later reasoned, their little friend would be safe. No one had been looking to attack the car of a family runt. This would not comfort Tamaki, and so he kept it to himself. Because Kyoya kept his comfort to himself, he also kept his grief stowed away for the brief hours of the night- or what they presumed to be night- where Tamaki would slump over in exhaustion, and Kyoya allowed himself to silently weep with his panic. Then he too would slump over, and he too would wake later, disoriented and frightened.)

It had been a rather fun day, all in all. The Roaring 20's meant that he had to put on a western cut suit (quite tacky, in his opinion) and some beautiful new Oxfords. The theme had been suggested by an American transfer, and had been quite the hit with the ladies, who had taken to dancing the Lindy Hop and waltzing with an eager glee.

Kyoya, who had been stuck fighting the windsor knot in his tie, had yet to come out of the dressing room. He had been talking about something insignificant, probably grades or something to do with tomorrow's activities, when Tamaki's replies had suddenly stopped coming from the other side of the dressing room. There was scuffling, a soft yelp. Kyoya stilled. For a moment the blood rushing in his ears made it hard to hear anything, and he leaned towards the door in concentration.

There. A noise. A distinctly heavy sounding thump. Without thinking, Kyoya peeked through the door. He couldn't see anything from this angle, but there were shadows stretching along the wall that rippled frantically. Shadows that numbered more than one silhouette.

And then, a quiet, beaten cry.

Kyoya did not think; he could not allow himself to. The moment he burst out of the dressing room with a prop baseball bat gripped in his hands, he swung. He just swung wildly at the men poised over Tamaki, beating them and cracking them in the ribs and sides.

(Days later, Kyoya would overhear their guards complain about pissing blood and feel vindictive, even as his own body ached with bruises.)

But they outnumbered him, and they rushed him into having to release his precious weapon. The last Kyoya remembered was the bat being tightly pressed against his chest and arms, pinning him, the shriek of electricity that jolted him when they tased him, the smell of burnt flesh where the prongs connected into his skin, and the terrible cry Tamaki had let out.

Whenever consciousness briefly returned, the two found themselves groggy and motion sick from being transported while asleep. The beginning had been difficult, but not impossible; Kyoya would still maintain the haughty disposition granted by pedigree, Tamaki would sulk. It became harder to keep up the facade every time, and it frightened Kyoya to think about what would happen when they would no longer be entertaining to the gangsters.

(He was right to have been worried.)

After all, everything shifted when a woman was brought in, trying to keep up with the man that was dragging her in by the roots of her knotted hair. She was small, probably around their age, and bruised and scratched up terribly. She looked very scared. When the gangster practically threw her into the room, the woman immediately skittered backwards and away from him, not even bothering to fully rise to her feet.

Nothing was the same after that.