The steam from the shower clouded the bathroom as Kyoya stood under the spray, hissing slightly every now and then, his skin burned bright red from the heat. He'd just turned it straight up to ten without thinking, the act of just scorching his skin to feel something so ingrained that, at some point, it became something he just did automatically.

Usually, it dragged him out from under the murky water that swallowed him up some time ago, let him take a few breaths before he was submerged once more, but now… It was muted. It wasn't bringing him back, his skin itched for something sharper, more real. Hot water wouldn't cut it, scratching wouldn't cut it, he needed something more. He needed something to shock him out of it.

In some attempt to avoid adding more scars to his legs, to prove to himself that he wasn't some sort of freak who needed pain to survive this, he turned the shower right down. Freezing water pelted his back, and he gasped at the shock of the sensation, gritting his teeth against it before turning the temperature back up to scorching. The shock was enough to throw off some cobwebs, drag him to the near-surface, but his skin still itched for more.

This was ridiculous. God, he was such an idiot for even thinking about it. It was her thing to paint the bathroom red with her blood, not his. He went through a rough time in middle school, that was it. It meant nothing. He wasn't like that, and his obvious bid for pitying attention had gone on long enough. He was a fuck up, and an accident, but everyone knew that, so what right did he have to act like this? Absolutely none!

He would never do that to his father. He swore so, all those years ago, as his commanding and stern father broke down into sobs as he told his youngest child that they might have to say goodbye to his mother for the last time. He'd cried too but he was a crybaby. Still was, really; not much changes.

He picked up the razor on the side of the bathtub with shaking fingers, shaking breath, shaking everything. He wasn't really going to, was he? Just… Things were different; they were different, they were different, they were different.

That didn't stop him from attempting to force the blades from the plastic, grunting a little in upset frustration, a few cracks sounding beneath the sound of the shower. It was difficult, more so than he remembered it being, but he didn't remember what he actually used the first time; he thought it was a razor, but Tachibana informed him worriedly that it was a knife from the kitchen. He didn't know, why didn't he know, and why wouldn't the plastic just give way already?

He couldn't get it. His weak digits strained against the plastic casing, skin turning white and red with the force he tried to put on it. Still, his lack of energy and the meals he barely picked at seemed to have taken a toll on him, and he just couldn't summon the strength to actually break it.

He sobbed in frustration, trying so hard to just get at the thin sliver of metal that he could feel pinpricks across his fingers as he accidentally cut them up. It was pain, but it wasn't what he wanted; there was actually a difference between slicing your fingers without meaning to and fucking up your thighs because nothing else was going to help. He only did it once, but still. It was a tangible difference.

He gave up but didn't put the razor back. He didn't get back up to go find Tachibana and get help. He all but ground the blades against his skin, trying to get the scratches to just fucking bleed. He scratched at them also, trying to almost pick the skin apart with his nails, hoping that it would at least do something to hurt him.

Because… He was just like his mother. Some stupid menhera who needed to hurt.

"Fuck…" He swore softly, the quietest thing in the too silent bathroom. He was going to do this. He was actually going to do this, because he was shifting so that he was sitting down, those few scars and the red abrasions seemed stark against his pale – so, so sickly pale… – skin. It was accusatory, he swore it was, which was just so fucking insane and maybe he really was crazy. Guilt was tearing at him, and suddenly, he was fourteen all over again, crying in the bathroom and cutting himself because he had no friends.

It was all so pathetic. It wasn't like him, but what was he even like anymore? This was his new norm, and all he wanted to do was claw and cut his skin away. Maybe then he could make himself into something new, something better.

Get the straightjacket, he's gone now!

He pushed the blades against the skin of his thigh, as hard as he could, before dragging it across. God, it stung. He was choking back tears again, but this was the point, it was meant to hurt, he shouldn't be crying.

It wasn't like it was in that Netflix garbage Akito had put on one night. It wasn't a red river that ran into the bathtub, as if it could slowly fill to the brim and he could push his head under and breathe, and breathe, until he never breathed again. He couldn't drown himself in his own blood, platelets knitting in his throat and lungs. No, it was stupid, insignificant little scratches, the occasional beads of blood that running down his thigh like raindrops on a window pane.

It wasn't working as well as he thought it would've. It hurt, and there was blood, but there was nothing cathartic about it. There was no adequate feeling off… atonement, he supposed? Relief, at least. God, this was all so messed up, and he was sitting in the shower with small drops of blood falling from his skinny legs and into the water. His backside hurt because his own bones were pressing uncomfortably against his skin. He was a wreck, from his appearance to his grades.

He probably did use a knife last time, judging from how those cuts had bled and bled, scaring the ever-loving fuck out of him as he frantically pressed blood-saturated toilet paper against the wounds. But it just… wasn't helping. It wasn't helping, and everything was getting more frantic because he couldn't even cut right.

It was then the thought hit him, making what little that was in his stomach roll uncomfortably. Burning. That was the sensation that always seemed to snap him out of it; hot tea, hot water. But the shower wasn't enough. Water and tea didn't cut it anymore, he needed something more to cut through the dreary haze. Something burning bright…

My father has a lighter… Bottom desk draw in the office… A sick thought whispered. He really was losing it, hissing as some water from the shower dripped off his face and straight onto one of the "cuts". His fingers wound in his hair, and he tugged, trying to inch himself back from the line part of him wanted to cross, dragging him along as if he were some sort of doll in a child's hands. But still, he rose mechanically, turned off the shower, and threw on his dressing gown without drying himself off first.

It wasn't a comfortable walk down to his father's office. The dampness of his skin made the dressing gown cling to him uncomfortably, and there was water running down the back of his neck from his slightly-too-long hair. That, and there was the anxiety that always pricks at you when you're about to do something you know is wrong. Stealing his father's lighter was one thing, but using it to self-harm… He felt like he was going to vomit, not that there was much to lose in the first place.

But there was also the realisation that the itch under his skin wouldn't go away; not with tea, not with water, and not with the crappy razor. It might not be a good thing to self-harm, but… Wasn't that better than death? If he could survive, it'd be fine. It would all be fine because, hey, it's supposed to get better. It did before.

And then it got worse than ever before.

He shook the thought away, slowly pushing the door to his father's office, peering inside. It was empty, but he wasn't sure how long it'd stay that way… If he was quick, then it'd be fine; it was his house as well, he wasn't prohibited from leaving his room - quite the opposite, with Tachibana involved. His dressing gown even had pockets, he could slip the lighter in there, right?

He really, really hated this.

He slipped inside, knelt down by his father's desk, and opened the draw. Sure enough, the little silver lighter glinted at him in the low light, almost inviting. He just snatched it up and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking back to his room as quick as he could, surely looking suspicious.

Once he managed to get back to his room, after what felt like eons, still twitching slightly as he let himself slide onto the floor, back pressed against the door. He just… stared at the lighter for a while, heart beating too wildly in his throat as he tried to swallow it back down before he choked. It felt like he couldn't, shattered fragments and sharp shards lodging there, lungs unable to draw breath because of the obstruction.

More of the shower water dripped down, and he had to wonder for a minute why it was salty on his tongue. Odd. Because he really wasn't crying, he wasn't. Of course, in the past, that's what he'd always say in response to Akito's huffed "crybaby", even when snot and tears were very clearly streaked across his blotchy skin, as obvious as blue ink.

He opened the lighter, the small click seeming to echo around the too-large, too-empty room, piercing into his ears until the drum ruptured and left them bleeding, and him deaf. If only, sometimes; like the common phenomenon of his mother and father's moans, grating across him like nails on a chalk board as he shoulders his school bag and soldiers past to his room.

Was he really going to do this? Even as the water that was certainly not tears fell, he knew the answer in some odd feeling of calm. Everything seemed to quiet but that one impulse, and he sparked the flame to life, staring at it for a moment and burning faded colours behind his eyelids. It wasn't something quick. The process was torturously slow, in fact, but still.

The flame licked at his sickly pale skin, and he let out a shrill yelp in response, arm instinctively jerking away. It was blistering. The mark was angry and red, and there was a dull spark somewhere in his head. Pain is… something. Blistering, burning, fixate on those feelings and ignore the ones that tell you to jump, to hang, to take all of those lovely little sleeping pills a once, as if they were some sort of delicious candy. Focus on that spark, don't think of yourself as dead or on some horrific spiral you can't control until you inevitably fall from that mortal coil.

All he wanted was to be happy… Was it too much to ask for?

Hand going to his mouth, teeth clamping down on unmarred skin, trying to muffle the cries and yelps he made, he brought the lighter to his skin once more. He forcibly held it there, doing all that he could to stop himself from being a whiny little brat who was just being an attention seeker. Everything he could to spark that something behind his eyes to life once more. He took it away once more, his leg shaking a little from the shock, the reddened irritation and the red and off-white burn just seeming to scream at him "look how fucked up you are!"

Shit, he was such a mess. He was sitting on his bedroom floor, sobbing his heart out from the sheer frustration and pain of it all, self-harming with his father's lighter that he stole. Honestly, back when he was fourteen and stupid, he put the image of the cool type lighting up a cigarette to smoke as he hurt himself, smouldering end pressed to his skin and a stoic look on his face, on a pedestal. He didn't idolise it, didn't want to be like that, but he always thought that, if he fell onto that shameful coping mechanism, he'd do it with some twisted form of dignity.

Instead, he cut himself in the shower because he had no friends, and now he was burning himself with a stolen lighter because he was a useless spare. He was so, painfully pathetic.

You should just die.

Dying. That'd been on his mind so much, too much, and he knew he shouldn't but at the same time… it was enticing. Burning hurt, and there were only a few sparks. He could just… get it over with. He could slip into a peaceful rest, after only a little more pain. As far as he knew, there wasn't such a thing as a painless suicide. Still, resting was something you had to earn, so eternal rest would follow the same principal.

He bit his hand as he brought the lighter to his thigh again, and again, pressing the hot metal against it hard and rough, tears flowing as if his body was trying to put out the flame. Get it out of his head, get it out of his head! It was too much! It was all too much and he was cracking, crumbling, screaming silently and all too loud but everyone just stood there. Bystander effect - don't do a thing, because someone else will do it. It's not my job, someone else would do it!

How would they feel, seeing that you hung yourself? Pretty guilty. Not that you deserve the sympathy, but it could inspire them to be more proactive, to help someone actually worthy of it. Besides… This hurts too much. Doesn't it?

He shook his head, lungs filling with thoughts and unspoken words and every "I'm okay" that was similarly not believed but ignored.

Die.

He couldn't. He couldn't, could he? He was skinny and weak, he couldn't let his mind crack and splinter like this, skipping passed all the lines drawn in chalk and straight into the cold ocean, blood streaked against the rocks below. Could he die?

You want it.

He did.

Everyone would be better off.

They would.

No one will remember you as anything other than a cold-hearted bastard.

True.

Do them a favour.

He closed the lighter, flame snuffed out, and dropped to the floor as he struggled to his feet. He had to use the door to push himself up, leg smarting like all hell, and he hobbled over to his draws. He didn't need beams, or rope. Just a belt.

He closed his hand around the leather so tightly, he swore it burned. It was sickeningly pleasant, but then again, he always felt better with a plan in mind.

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