Kyoya will only remember that night in flashes of time.
Blood soaking into a towel. Flashing lights that glare in his eyes. The squeak of wheels against the polished floor. The long streaks of black they leave behind as they carry Tamaki away.
He doesn't get into the ambulance. He can't. He makes his way back to the Host Club stiff-legged and lost.
Kyoya doesn't realize he is sitting down until Haruhi taps on his arm and he has to look up to address her.
"Why don't you go to the hospital," she says, softly. "I'll clean this up."
Kyoya knows what she is talking about, knows he should offer to arrange a cleaning crew, knows that hours from now he will do that to ensure the Host Club is pristine once more.
But for right now he is just glad that someone else can act, can make decisions.
He gathers together the ragged remnants of his notorious composure, wraps himself in it like the silvery shock blanket they threw over Tamaki. And gets to his feet.
Oh, his bones ache.
"Very well," he says. His voice is even and flat. "I will-" And here he stops.
"You will go to the hospital," Haruhi answers. "You will keep a watchful eye over our Tamaki and ensure that when he wakes up he receives a proper scolding for scaring us like this."
Haruhi's expression gives nothing away, yet Kyoya can see the fear in her eyes to echo his own.
Kyoya allows himself one blink, one breath of weakness, before steeling himself again.
"I will keep you informed."
A nod is her only answer.
They each turn to their appointed tasks and set themselves for the night to come.
Kyoya's car is in its usual place and he gives his driver direction to the hospital, the rest of the ride is spent in silence as they move smoothly through the streets.
When they arrive at the hospital Kyoya is ushered to the waiting room. Due to the status of patients treated here it has been fitted with every luxury, more like a corporate break room than what it really is but it is still a hospital and for the first time in his life Kyoya feels a slight disgust at the pretense.
Kyoya doesn't pace, such shows of impatience are beneath the future head of the Ootori family, but the landscape painting on the wall allows him to trace and retrace the lines of hillside and forest.
His eyes travel that path three times, then four. He almost completes the fifth when the door opens.
He does not recognize this doctor, they are a nonentity in scrubcap and mask, white jacket draped over them that almost completely hides bloodstains.
They should change before greeting the families of their patients. Imagine how distressing it might be for a visitor to be reminded of their loved one's injury. Kyoya wonders if there is a policy regarding that.
They travel down the hall together until Kyoya finds himself deposited neatly in front of Tamaki's door.
He has a room.
He is alive.
The relief that washes over Kyoya is nearly enough to sway him on his feet but he firms his spine, nods his thanks to the doctor, and steps in.
Tamaki looks like a prince. He has his mother's coloring and his father's charisma. It can be difficult to look away from him at times.
It is something Kyoya almost forgets on a daily basis, when all of his attention is taken up by school and his family legacy and Host Club activities. Tamaki's own antics, the way the other boy is never still, the jokes and performances that become like a dance. All serve to disguise him.
And now in this moment of stillness he is a prince asleep.
Kyoya allows himself one moment to be weak, to step closer to the bed. He rests his hand on top of Tamaki's own, its warmth now only reminding him of how cold it was before as if the thick white gauze only inches away from Kyoya's own fingers was not beacon enough.
Tamaki's bangs are in his face, brushing softly over closed eyelids. They shift with every breath.
Kyoya does not push them back.
He takes the chair against the wall and watches that gentle rhythm until he too is asleep.