Things were never perfect for him, of course, so it wasn't much of a surprise that he crashed the next day; spirit in a bloodied, crumpled mess that was starting to rot. That basically summed up how he felt in that moment. He was less dizzy, managing to eat more of his dinner than he had in weeks, but he just felt nauseous and slow. Just… tired.
Those thoughts were pesky also, refusing to leave him alone. They were violent, intrusive, and left him shaky and… scared. What if he actually did something? He had painkillers and sleeping pills in his ensuite, there was strong rope in the garden shed, he had a million and one leather belts. Even Hotta shaved with a fucking straight razor, which would be more than easy to take to his arms or throat.
This was messed up. He was messed up, and he didn't understand because he shouldn't want to die. It didn't make sense. He wasn't happy, but life was good.
He was failing his classes, becoming a smear of dirt on the Ootori name.
But it was fine! He'd get better, he'd drag his grades out of the gutter, and he'd ask if he could redo any work that did go towards his final grade; it was still fixable. Besides, it wasn't like a couple of bad grades were enough to commit suicide over. You get one life, and then it's whatever lies after – if anything does.
Briefly, he remembers when he was a child and he put on his choir uniform every Sunday, believed in God and heaven and ran fast enough so the devil couldn't catch him. It's not like his father was religious, more that it was something that his British grandmother did. It was simply a tradition, and grandmother was the nice one, not like his grandfather; his father always looked so… scared around the man. Well, as scared as he ever looked, he supposed. But he digressed, this wasn't a discussion on parental failings, it was deciding whether suicide was even worth it.
He was a burden. That was a good reason.
Japan's attitude towards suicide had a certain duality; it was taboo, and frowned upon, unless the person recognised they were a burden. Then, it was seen as the right thing to do. Granted, it was an extremely old attitude to have, times changed, but… He was a burden. He was nothing but a child his mother and father had conceived by accident, and someone without a place. You could argue he had one in the host club, but… Not anymore. He didn't do anything. He… He was nothing but a burden, with this thing in his head.
Maybe before that, too. Maybe he always was one. In that case… Maybe…
He wandered through the school day in silence, pondering his usefulness and, essentially… Whether he deserved to live. It wasn't like he was truly living, anyway; he felt pretty dead inside. Nothing but a hollow shell with a quiet voice and a forced, absent smile. It'd be like… deleting an unwanted file on his laptop; no one mourned it, after all.
Maybe he was oversimplifying this. After all, it's not as if he should commit suicide, because he shouldn't take it so lightly. If he made it that impersonal, then he was actually going to do it. He was going to kill himself. That's it, game over. It wasn't like he believed in the bible anymore, but it certainly wouldn't be heaven waiting on the other side.
"Hey," A heavy hand came down on his shoulder and he practically jumped out of his skin, the room swaying for a second before the three Tamaki's in front of him merged into one once more. Some minor dehydration, malnutrition, that was all, "You look tired, and I can tell you haven't been focussing today… Go take a nap in the back."
And thus, he was sent away. A childish thought to have, but it just kept jabbing at him. After all, he thought that he, Kuze and Kanan got along like a house on fire until they both up and left him; their parting gift the realisation that he had no real friends, and that he was swimming with leeches. In a cruel twist of irony, now he was the leech among the swimmers.
It's depressingly hilarious how life turns out sometimes.
He stood, feet unsteady for half a second until he digs his heels in, forcing himself to move towards the back room and the plush couch within.
"Oh, and Kyoya," Tamaki calls at his back, and he turns around like the obedient little love-struck puppy he used to be – and, sometimes, still is, "You know… You can tell me if anything's wrong. You're just… You're so pale, and thin… Well, even more so than you usually are. You'd tell me if… If…"
If you were dying.
The words hang in the air, almost physically tangible, and Kyoya has to consider his answer. Is he dying? The answer Tamaki wants to hear is no… Or is it? No, Tamaki wants him alive. Tamaki loves him, even if it's not like that. Tamaki would never want him dead. However… The answer is looking more and more like a yes as the hours tick passed, and he doesn't want to lie. He's sick of lying.
"Come on, spit it out," He says instead, and Tamaki looks like a fish with the way his mouth is opening and closing, until Kyoya gets his desired outcome for the first time in what feels like forever.
"Nothing… Nevermind," Tamaki waved away, visibly deflated. Despite the nagging guilt Kyoya felt… relieved. You could say that he dodged the proverbial bullet, but it feels more apt to say he side-stepped straight into its path.
He just went to the back room, painfully obedient, and dropped down onto the spare sofa that resided there. It was still good, but there was a small tear in the seam that needed to be stitched up; the slightest flaw relegating it to be hidden away. Wasn't that a cheery observation to overthink completely?
He more fell to the side than anything else, eyes closing and still despite the sloppy sprawl he was currently laying in. He didn't even move to loosen his tie. He just wanted to sleep, really. If he was asleep, then he wasn't overthinking every little thing…
He didn't know how long it'd been when he heard the door creak open, groggily blinking his eyes open once more to be faced with Kaoru, a look of worry etched on the redhead's features. There was a pause when their eyes met, something tangible but indistinguishable in the air. Really, he just wanted to go back to sleep, but there was something in the way Kaoru shifted his weight from foot to foot; something awkward, which meant this was probably important. Besides, he liked Kaoru's company; it just so happened that there wasn't much to be had recently.
Breaking the near-trance, Kaoru walked over and perched on the edge of the sofa, right next to Kyoya. He bit his lip, and Kyoya was nothing but patient in waiting for the opening statement – both out of politeness and procrastination. He didn't really want to talk about anything heavy, not now, but he would. Kyoya Ootori, despite what seemed to be popular opinion, was not selfish.
"So…" Kaoru began, voice soft and tentative, "I just wanted to apologise. I guess I've kinda been avoiding you lately? Not on purpose, but yeah… I shouldn't have done that. You're sick, and I was just being selfish; it's disturbing and upsetting to see you like this."
Kyoya just blinked up at him, groggy mind fumbling as he tried to process the feelings of hurt, rejection, and general confusion at the fact he hadn't even realised. Still, there was gratefulness. Gratefulness that, if Kaoru was apologising, then they could spend more time together. Tamaki might've been his best friend, but there was just something about Kaoru that made him feel… warm. Like he was laying somewhere quiet, intimate, the sun shining on his face and lush grass against his skin.
"Can you… say something?" Kaoru prompted, laughing nervously, "You're a good friend, Kyoya; I don't want to lose you because I did something stupid."
"It's fine," He answered, too faint but immediate, "I… I have been sick, for a while now. I don't know if I'll be well again. It feels like I'll never get better. It feels like it's been years, but they passed by in a few hours. I'm a mess right now."
That was another thing, telling the truth. More than that, spilling his guts. His tongue was looser, his mask thinner, and he felt afraid but not at the same time. It wasn't the full truth, not the admission of what said sickness was; no mention of depression. It was three words; Kaoru, I'm depressed. But he couldn't say it. He couldn't be a useless Menhera, like her. He was too much like his mother to begin with, he didn't need to hear that as well. He just stared at the waistcoat Kaoru was wearing, a lovely, rich purple, and tried to dissociate from those feelings.
"Then I'll be here for you… We all are, y'know," Kaoru breathed, hand raking through Kyoya's hair, "Jeez… When was the last time you took a shower? Your hair's greasy, but it's like you just dumped a load of dry shampoo in it…"
"I've been too tired," He sighed, cheeks burning as he screwed his eyes shut, "I can barely brush my teeth sometimes… My homework's incomplete, late, and just plain awful. I don't know how to get the motivation for anything I used to do… It's pathetic."
"No… You're sick, I… I was rude," Kaoru sighed, hand still stroking through his disgusting hair, "It's not healthy, you should at least try and take care of yourself, but I get it. You're always falling asleep, so I guess it makes sense."
Yuuichi worked himself to the point of fainting, Akito had a temper, Fuyumi was a doormat, his father was too stern and too close to giving up, and his mother was sick. What was going to be his fate? Was he going to be miserable when he grew up?
He was. He had no right to be, but he'd fallen, and that diamond mask turned out to be nothing but glass, shattering and cutting him to ribbons in the process. No one ever saw the scars, both metaphorical and real, because he didn't let them. Kyoya Ootori was strong. He wasn't little Kyo-chan anymore, who cried because he didn't have any real friends.
He was Ootori-san. He overworked himself until dizzy, got angry over stupid – reasonable – things, was wrapped around Tamaki's little finger, too stern and commanding of his friends…
And he was going to kill himself.
The realisation made it hard to breathe, but he didn't let on. He pulled together what shreds of his mask remained and acted the part of himself once more. It wasn't completely convincing, not by his own standards, but it was passible, and he found that he didn't care so much about perfection anymore.
"Maybe you should get back to the club, the girls will surely miss you," He suggested, closing his eyes once more and placing his head back on the under-stuffed cushion. He focussed on his breathing, feeling as if he was submerged underwater as he tried to keep it slow. As Akito said, all those years ago, they had to be normal to counterbalance it all. Besides… He didn't want Kaoru to see him like that. To see the blood pouring from him along with the colour.
"Right…" Kaoru breathes out, unsure but with a taint of relief, and the hand leaves his hair. The pressure at his side elevates, he has more room to not breathe, and he hears footsteps, "See you, Senpai; I'm here if you need me."
With that, the door closes, and he can't remember when it was ever truly open to him. He just lets himself breakdown, breaths too fast and too shallow, the oxygen refusing to enter his lungs. He's choking on air, like he did as a child, feeling like the walls of the small room are closing in and crushing him. Really, it's realisation. The realisation that he has power over his own life; successes and failures, but also its span.
He could die right now, if he wanted to. Some part of him does.
Tears that are clear – still not blue – and salty ran down from his eyes, and he bit on his hand to try and muffle his hyperventilated sobbing. It was alright, he was safe, he was fine; but he wasn't. He did this to himself, and that was a crushing thought. He had the power to die just as he had the power to live, but he couldn't do that to his friends; he couldn't leave them alone.
Because isn't that how this started, being left alone?
Of course, he had to go home eventually. All he could really do was try to hide his face as he bolted from the room, down to the car and all but fell into the back seat. It was completely without grace, but who really cared? The act was unusual, would be questioned tomorrow, but he didn't want them to see that he'd been crying. Irrational, but it felt like he had to. Like if he ran, he'd be safe, when in reality it was different; all it did was make his head spin.
"Master Kyoya?" Tachibana questioned, peering at him through the rear-view mirror. He didn't raise his head, keeping his gaze aimed at the floor, silent as to not let his voice give it all away. True to form, after a few moments of silence, he heard the rustle of Tachibana's usual newspaper as he folded it and placed it on the front seat. The car started, and that was that, no instruction needed.
After all, why would Tachibana need instruction? The man was more of a father to him than his own was, after all; nuances were all he needed. He was a good man, and one of the things that kept Kyoya rooted to this life like an anchor; something he was both grateful and frustrated with him for. If he could leave, waltz out the door into… anything else, he would. However, there was Tachibana, Hotta and Aijima there at the door, stopping him without even realising it.
"Kyoya?"
That second inquiry, barely able to be heard over the rumble of the engine, was enough to get him to at least look up a little. Any other time, he'd tell Tachibana to keep his eyes on the road, but right now… He could barely form the words.
"Are you alright? You're shaking…" Tachibana observed, their eyes meeting in the reflection. There was concern, and a little fear, and a small half-sob managed to escape him, "You've been crying…"
"I'm sorry," He murmured, so small and scared, "I… I'm not alright. I don't think I'll ever b-be alright. I… I'm breaking, I… Bana…"
He was so close to breaking down, so close to sobbing his heart out once more, despite the pounding in his head. Crying hurt, talking hurt, living hurt. It was all pain after pain, and he had to question what it was all for. He had no will and no motivation, he was nothing but an empty shadow drifting through his life, and it was all so distant to him. Why try? Why should he keep floundering when all he wanted to do was let himself drown, too tired of fighting the current pulling him down?
"Hang on," Tachibana intoned so gently, pulling the car over to the side of the road and parking up. The door opened, pushed closed without much force, as if the noise would just shatter him more than he already was. Tachibana could see the blood, could see the wounds, and it was all laid painfully bare.
His own door opened, and a strong hand rested on his bony shoulder, concern coming off his dear bodyguard in waves. "Please, Kyoya… Tell me what's wrong. Why are you crying?" He murmured, and Kyoya just gave an awfully wet, ugly sniffle in response. It was just them, gentle circles rubbed along his shoulder in an effort to soothe him, and the truth just… spilled.
"I want to die," He stated, thick and frenzied and so horribly truthful, "I want to die, I've had enough, I want to just stop breathing… I-I can't handle it, Bana. I can't do it anymore. I want to die… I… Help me… Help…"
Tachibana's strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a desperation-tainted hug, and it was like he was a little boy again. Back when he sobbed because he fell off the swings and scrapped up his hands, not because he wanted to commit suicide. Back before he knew a person could want to die, before his mother got really bad.
"You're alright… You're here… Breathe, Kyo, breathe…" The older man repeated, over and over, like he was reciting a mantra. He swore he could hear the other man crying, and that guilt lodged itself in his chest again, and he thought he'd die right then and there.
Because he wasn't alright. Kyoya Ootori had never been alright.