Pretty

Sick Jealousy and Anger

Takashi liked to think of himself as a good person. He was told he was polite, respectful, and he was a good friend to those he was close to. He was quiet, and anxious, but everyone has flaws. Still, recently, he was doubting those compliments he'd been paid more than ever.

Kyoya and he were friends, despite the both of them being introverted. They sat at the same table, drank tea, and Kyoya would work while he read; a companionable silence between the two of them. It was how they worked, no pressure from speaking about views and beliefs, but... They really were friends.

Which was Takashi's main source of guilt. He watched, he saw, they shared looks between them, but he never actually managed to push the words forward from the tip of his tongue. He pushed snacks towards his friend, but they were left uneaten as Kyoya's cheeks seemed to hollow before his eyes. Thinner and thinner, more and more fragile. He looked so small, almost as if his height had decreased with his waistline. His thin face made his eyes look bigger and more owlish than before. He wanted to scoop him up in his arms and just... help him.

Of course, this wasn't to do with Hikaru and Kaoru's theory that he had a "fetish" for small things. Kyoya never wanted to look vulnerable, but his appearance had changed almost drastically. He looked sad and hungry, frail and weak; the things Kyoya Ootori never wanted to seem. Because Kyoya was prideful, and he always felt the need to appear strong before everyone else.

Takashi knew what it was like, putting on that porcelain mask that looked so perfect, yet so easily breakable. He knew how it felt when you tried to cover up your self-destructive vices and coping mechanisms. He knew what it was like to hurt yourself in some effort to make up for your shortcomings or failures. After all, his hand still ached in cold weather, and the memory of his mother and father taking turns to help him bathe was all too fresh and embarrassing. No one said anything, even if Kyoya's lips parted and tongue pushed stuttered word fragments towards him. He didn't know if he just didn't hear the rest because of the blood rushing through his ears, or whether Kyoya Ootori actually had no idea what to say.

It wasn't really what their friendship was, worrying about each other. In their own, separate ways, they were supposed to be the strongest of the hosts, but no one knew how to act when chinks showed in their armour. Least of all themselves. In the end, his broken hand was never addressed as what it was, and Kyoya continued to push away anything he was offered - besides black coffee and green tea, that is.

He supposed you could say that they were enabling each other by letting all these issues stay silent and fester. Not quite, but they might as well. After all, they were both logical people with irrational coping mechanisms. His bruises, breaks and cuts, and Kyoya's bones slowly becoming more and more visible under his pale skin.

It was Haruhi, of course, who finally kicked them into action. The bold commoner teeming with common sense. She'd ran over to him and Mitsukuni, relaying her plan, before she ran off to find the others. An intervention. After all, how thin Kyoya had managed to become... before all this, Takashi thought it was reserved for drug addicts and the terminally ill. It was something that made him feel scared when he looked at his kohai. It was unnatural and sickening, the extent that he managed to hollow his body out to.

Still, sitting in class as both classes and free time seemed to speed by, yet drag at a frustratingly slow crawl... He felt jealous. He knew he shouldn't, that it wasn't fair, but he couldn't help it. Everyone was rallying around Kyoya, everyone was concerned, and that wasn't the case when it came to his... self-harm. It wasn't like he wanted to look as visibly sick as Kyoya, like he wanted to be that ill, but the awful voice at the back of his mind whispered about how concerned they'd all be if he became the stereotype. If he picked up a razor and cut his arms to ribbons, almost bleeding out and laying pale and prone on the hospital bed.

He didn't want that, though. He didn't hurt himself as some sick plight for attention, he did it so that he could atone for his own mistakes and earn forgiveness. From who, he wasn't sure – but it was still valid. It wasn't like he was some stupid teenager posting photos of their bleeding cuts on social media. He wasn't like that.

The bell rang, the boisterous noise of students exiting their class for the day cutting through his internal tirade. Push it down. The things he thought... They weren't nice, polite or kind. Angry words tainted with acrid bile, and that wasn't who he was. Wasn't how a Morinozuka should behave. Those people didn't deserve anything he'd just thought of them, it wasn't their fault, and... He couldn't be angry, shouldn't be angry. Because that wasn't what was needed right now.

Kyoya needed them all to be kind and supportive, soft and careful. He might not want to believe it, but Takashi could see that both his physical and mental state was more comparable to spun glass than the wrought iron the boy attempted to imitate. There was something tragically beautiful in its fragility, but you couldn't handle it with anything more than a featherlight touch.

He didn't even notice himself scratching until he saw Mitsukuni out of the corner of his eye, mouth pulled into an uncharacteristically straight line. Angry, red marks stung his forearms, and he quickly tugged his sleeves down to hide them. He didn't look at his cousin, didn't need to.

"Takashi?" Mitsukuni inquired, his tone somewhat serious for once, and he balled his hands into fists. His nails bit into his palms, and all was balanced – at least for now.

"Mitsukuni?" He mirrored, looking up from his hands with the stoicism perfected over the years. There was a moment or two, a faulter, words trying to be summoned when his cousin just didn't know what to say. He just continued the flat stare, and eventually the subject was dropped before it even began. How hypocritical, feeling jealous of the concern yet hating it when it actually came.

"We should get to club, Kyo-chan needs us..." He began, sadness tainting the words, and Takashi stood. He collected his bag, accompanied Mitsukuni as they walked to the third music room, and tried not to think about flaying the skin off his arms.

They all talked a little before Tamaki arrived with Kyoya, having been tasked to hinder him a little so that Haruhi could give the rest some instruction. Of course, this wasn't particularly needed, but it made the others feel more secure in the plan. After all, if someone – Hikaru – were to say something unkind, it would send it all crashing to the floor and leave them all picking up pieces. This was serious.

Kyoya's light footfalls were almost drowned by Tamaki's shoes clacking against the polished floor. Tamaki strode, owned the room as soon as he entered, but Kyoya was now almost shy in comparison. Small, slow and dainty. There was something close to alarm on his gaunt face, obviously having some sort of premonition as to what this was about. He had an odd sense for these things, so it would make sense.

Still, seeing his eyes widen and his teeth catch his chapped lip; the image was much more reminiscent of a deer in headlights than the youngest son of the Ootori family. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but Kyoya's breathing seemed harder – quicker and more laborious. Fear. He was pale-faced and frightened, despite his attempt at hiding it, but all it took was a few simple words to topple him from the knife's edge he balanced on.

"We're here to help you, Kyoya."

Tamaki's words triggered something, certainly. Kyoya brushed passed both himself and Hikaru, almost floating like the wisp of a boy he was. His steps were somewhat clumsier now, a little louder, and Kaoru asked what he was doing as if all the breath was taken from his lungs.

"I need some water..." Kyoya informed, hand pressed to his head. Takashi frowned at the slur in his words, the slump in his posture, but held back until he heard Kyoya's damning whisper, "Everything's dark... I can't see..."

The boy's body finally gave out, folding and crumpling like satin; thin and slow. Luckily, he managed to catch Kyoya before his head hit the floor, but this didn't put his mind at ease. He didn't just invoke the image of falling satin, he might as well be made of it for all he weighed. Bones pressed into his palms, scapula so prominent it was almost as if Kyoya had wings budding and growing under his skin. He was cold, like a corpse, and just as prone.

Tamaki went to call the nurse, but he didn't really register that. He just held Kyoya close, trying to give some of his body heat to his friend. Like a soldier cradling his fallen comrade.

After all, it certainly didn't feel like either of them were going to win their respective wars.