When people talk about the calm before the storm, this isn't what they usually envision; but the metaphor is still applicable. However, the peace he felt might not be followed by a storm. It was more like the ocean pulling an unresponsive body down into its depths, limbs swallowed by water and flesh picked apart. Something violent yet gentle, ebbing away without a single witness.
He actually liked that image of slowly sinking down to the sea floor, laying in the sand and being scavenged by the creatures down there, contributing to that famed circle life goes in. You're born, you consume, and then you die and get consumed yourself. There's something karmic about it. Even if not everyone gets what they deserve in life - good or bad - we all have that similar end; not with a bang but fizzling out as something wholly unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
Such would be the fate of Kyoya Ootori. His friends and family might shed a tear, might morn the empty husk of a boy that had died long before he stopped breathing, but they'd move on. They'd heal in a way he couldn't. He'd become a distant memory, a rotten, fruitless branch of his family tree only existing in some half-interesting stories and the photographs in dusty albums that wouldn't see the light of day again.
At first, it might be too painful to look over pictures of that chubby boy with big, sparkling eyes, but then it would fade but the photos would stay hidden. What was the point of talking about the skinny boy in the room down the hall, to the left, who withered away as he collected dust? There's no point. There's no moral to the story, except perhaps that some people are just forced to be miserable their whole lives, whether it be by circumstance, genetics or just chance, and they often don't live that long.
His fingers clenched against the cool leather, breathing hard but not dangerously so. There was one question, one he wanted answered; how long would Kiyomi and Daisuke remember him? His darling niece and nephew had seen him less and less, Fuyumi often texting that they missed their uncle Kyo, but… He didn't have the energy, didn't want them to see him in this state… It wasn't like he wanted them to know that their uncle wasn't the fun, happy person they thought he was, nor did he want them to live with the fact that Kyoya was so weak as to hang himself.
Disregarding the guilt laying in his gut like lead lining his intestines, he took agonisingly slow, hard steps towards his desk chair, dragging it towards the closet doors. The squeak the wheels made was harsh, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck standing on edge. It was like nails on a chalkboard, and he had to wonder how the maids hadn't noticed.
Or maybe it was the knowledge that, in a moment, he wouldn't have to feel anything ever again. Everything seemed to be too loud, too bright, too much in general. Eternal rest, they called it that for a reason. He didn't want to be viewed as some sort of martyr, that was the opposite of what it should be; he was sick and died. You don't see those who bravely fight their illness get the praise and adulation that someone like him gets in the eyes of the media. People just assume life is enough, so beyond their family and friends, most people are never any the wiser that they existed.
One foot on the chair, feeling something akin to what someone feels as they await the gallows. That was pretty much what it was, he supposed; hung for his crime of… existing. He looped the belt through its buckle, tightening the makeshift, leather noose around his thin neck and closing the end in the closet door. He tugged it a few times, making sure that it was stuck, not wanting it to come undone and drop him to the ground, alive.
He couldn't quite seem to catch his breath, despite his mind being clearer than it had been for months. He was apprehensive, wanting to just... get it over with, but finding it hard to just kick the chair out from under him. It would be so abrupt. Or, worse, it wouldn't be quick; a painful, drawn-out choking and spluttering, his lips turning blue and brain cells dying as they were starved of oxygen. Not pleasant, pain is escapist, but not in this context; the body never accepts something when it would actually be useful.
He had to think; how to break his neck? If he did it right, he'd die immediately and mostly painlessly, and that was what he honestly preferred the thought of. He didn't want to asphyxiate himself. Still, if he did... He supposed a death was a death, but he'd still rather it be a less painful affair.
Time was up. All he had to do was kick the chair, fall heavily. That should do the job. He took a breath, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the birds outside. A lovely, peaceful soundtrack to the moment that helped keep his calm. The world might've been beautiful, but it obviously wasn't for him.
It was like it was now; hearing the birds but being shut inside a dark room, curtains drawn. He could be exposed to a sliver of the nice things but could never seem to fully experience it. Or maybe he did and just didn't appreciate it. What a waste of a life, a squandered sack of flesh, blood and organs that would be better received by others. He couldn't do anyone any good by living, but maybe dying was the way. Strip him down to only his parts and let someone have the life he never wanted.
Swallowing all of the creeping hesitancy, he finally kicked the chair out from beneath his feet. The fall was fast, especially compared to the minutes before that passed with all the haste of several years. It was the sudden stop at the end, however, that proved he'd made an error in his spontaneous, half-baked "plan".
His neck didn't break.
All of the pressure went straight on his larynx, resulting in some awful, strained choking. His feet kicked and flailed, failing to get purchase on the ground, a few inches away. This was it. He was going to die painfully. His hands clawed at his neck, the skin around the belt a vivid red, like the patch of blood soaking through his trousers.
Everything was fading, though. It was still an end, even if it was a painful one. His vision darkened, hearing going in and out of clarity. He was going to die, to rest, and he would never have to open his eyes and suffer through another day again. It was going to be calm.
Distantly, he heard the door open, but nothing was quite working right; the clock skipping forwards and backwards and stopping completely, his head feeling as if it had already come apart from his shoulders. It was confusing, and he was so tired...
His father's face was in his line of sight then, the pressure had, at some point, been relieved from his throat and something hard was behind his back. Something solid.
"Sta... th me," His dad began, muffled voice panicked and urgent, but Kyoya was far too tired to listen. Besides...
The inky blackness he now saw was so calming.