Pretty

Okay

When Kyoya stirred, he found himself rather disorientated. He remembered having this intervention sprung on him, remembered that he'd gone to get some water, and everything went dark. Fuchsia spots danced in front of his eyes, and next thing he knew he was on the ground. He might've hit his head, there was an ache that felt like something trying to chisel away at his skull, but he wasn't sure.

What he did know, however, was that he actually felt warm. For a while now, it was like the chill had locked itself under his skin, frost replacing his bone marrow, but it wasn't there now. He just snuggled closer to the source of that delicious heat, wanting more, eyes tightly closed against the light threatening to pierce his skull and eyes painfully. There was also the case to be made that, as long as he was asleep, he didn't have to deal with any of the repercussions this was sure to have.

"What am I meant to do?" He heard someone say, but he couldn't tell who. It was all distorted, fading in and out and he wasn't sure he even wanted to know at this point, "Do I call the nurse? An ambulance? I mean, we know what it is. The stubborn jackass didn't eat lunch, wouldn't let me give him anything... Fuck."

Tamaki? He did remember the blond idiot being more incessant about how good the soup was than usual, trying to convince him to have some. Still, it was a fast day, and he couldn't spare the calories. It was maybe a little too far to push, but it all looked so neat and perfect, everything lined up in his journal and feeling so happy. Zero calories is good, negative calories are even better, but the jog he'd taken that morning was probably what pushed him over the edge.

"I don't know. I wasn't expecting him to just... collapse like that. I thought we could actually talk it out before it got to that point, but I guess we left it too long."

He was fine, they shouldn't worry so much. He was just... He didn't know. He didn't know anything. But it made him feel better than he had in months, every pound dropped feeling like an accomplishment, every goal he hit a rush of pride. Goal weights change, his body changes too, but he couldn't hate it. He didn't think of himself as fat, not at all. It wasn't like that, even if he knew - logically - that this was an eating disorder.

He wasn't dysmorphic, he just knew he could go thinner. Knew that another pair of ribs could emerge through his skin, that his hipbones could be sharper, that the hollows of his collar bones could still be deeper. Numbers were nice, safe, and always had been since he was young. Statistics, probability, profit. Usually the numbers were better the higher you went, but this was different. You go lower, and lower, and he hit one hundred and twenty pounds at break-neck speed and the adrenaline to match.

Still, people went for an even hundred, maybe less. It didn't matter that he was almost six foot, one hundred pounds sounded like pure dopamine. A surge, a high, a smile that strained his lips and made his cheekbones ache. It was the control he'd so often longed for - tiny portions, denying what others couldn't, neat figures all written in his lovely journal - but the sense of unpredictability that he'd sought from the host club - losing more and more, dizzy spells, cold, lanugo. He needed it, and a host had to look a certain way.

He couldn't be muscular like the other boys, having a delicate frame and sickly constitution, but he could be small. He could be thin and light, breakable. The ladies loved it, lusted after it, were jealous of it. He could be this. He was pretty, but also common. Black hair, glasses, nothing too special. A good bone structure, but an icy personality. While he understood that the "cool type" had its charm, you had to be beautiful to back it up. He was just good looking, whereas the others were almost ethereal.

He groaned when another stab of pain washed over him, burying his face into what he could now feel was a muscular pain of legs, feeling all too stiff and sore.