Archive of Our Own

The first time was in his second year of middle school.

Kaoru didn’t do it out of anger, or depression, or any negative emotion. In fact, despite how small his world was, he considered himself happy. As happy as he could be, that is, living as a shadow to your twin, never being your own person, always being seen as an expendable, a second option, a replacement — okay, so maybe his middle school years kind of sucked. Still, he wasn’t upset over it. Because he never knew a way of life that was anything other than this.

He wasn’t even sure where the idea came from. Maybe he read it in a book, saw it in a movie, in an online forum; it didn’t matter. The idea was there, and so was the drive to engage in a taboo act. There was no doubt that both Hitachiins lived for socially-shunned behavior — pulling devious pranks; their Host Club act now was the best proof of their love for inappropriate conduct — but even Kaoru knew this was different from a dangerous prank. It was different from underage drinking and drugs, because there was nothing to gain, no good feelings to be had, and he didn’t even have a reason to engage in it. He just wanted to.

In their room, in their closet, second shelf, third box to the right, was a smorgasbord of tools. Scissors, tape measures, calculators, rulers, compasses,

A box cutter.

Strangely lucid voices in his head would always poke and prod him into these things. Usually they were fine; it didn’t happen often when he was a child, and when it did, it was just simple things like a greeting or an idea for a game. Kaoru knows now it’s just his own imagination, but back then, the thoughts echoed in his ears so clearly that he swore someone was saying them to him, someone who wasn’t his brother (which lead to a lot of confusion, his brother asking who he was talking to when no one was there).

Now that he was a little bit older, and now that he had come to just accept this as normal, his thoughts only became louder. It still didn’t bother him much, though. Like living with tinnitus, you get used to the constant background noise. And if anything, it was kind of cool to him to be able to imagine voices so vividly — it made him very good at identifying people not by face or name, but by sound. It also made him very picky about the music he liked (and so he tended to listen to lyricless songs, e.g. video game music).

Anyways.

He wasn’t sure why he decided to listen to his thoughts that day specifically. Maybe because they were louder than the rest, or maybe because it wasn’t a one-off suggestion but a constant flood. Maybe because deep in his chest, he really wanted to just try it. Like the justifications a lowlife would spout lighting the cigarette: “One isn’t gonna kill ya.”

He applied that same logic to himself. One wasn’t going to kill him. One cut across his thigh wasn’t going to kill him. He swore that’s all it would be. He was just curious to know what it felt like to be cut by a blade. He was weirdly fascinated by the idea of seeing his own blood. So, he tried it when no one was around to watch his depravity, not even Hikaru.

And it hurt. A lot. 

It stung, it made his hands tremble, and he didn’t even manage to draw blood. Just an angry red line on his thigh yelling back at him, “What are you thinking?”

And, yeah. What was he thinking? This was stupid. It didn’t feel good, because of course it wouldn't. He got his wish; he found out what the sensation was like, end of story, never speak of this again.

But lowlifes rarely stop at one cigarette. That’s rule one.

He did it a few more times throughout middle school. Not for any particular reason. When his brain kept shouting at him to do it, or when he had a lot of pent up energy, he’d give it a shot again. He hated it every time in the moment, yet something about the knowledge of what he had done to himself was exhilarating, and so he kept coming back, daring to push the limits more and more. He couldn’t be too careless about where he cut — he wore a lot of different clothes, slept almost naked with his brother sometimes, and there was the rare occasion where they showered together. He didn’t want Hikaru to be aware of this, because just like the voices, Hikaru wouldn’t get it. He’d be confused and worried; he’d get the wrong idea. Yes, Kaoru was aware this was self-harm. He knew he shouldn’t be doing it. But that’s why he did it. It was taboo. It was wrong. And the thought that he was doing something bad got his blood pumping.

He didn’t really care, either. It was his body. So what if he gave himself a few cuts? He made sure to wash them off with water. He was being careful about it.

Things were different once the Host Club began, though.

Never was injuring himself a practice he indulged in commonly. And once the Host Club rolled around, that became even less so. He now had an outlet to do reckless, provocative things, and so he didn’t feel such a strong need anymore. Plus, in all honesty, his life was a lot better. He had friends. He had a purpose. It just wasn’t super appealing anymore to cut up his body like he used to. It made him honestly wonder why he did it in the first place.

But the second rule of addiction is that if you think you can quit at any time, you can’t.

His thoughts left him alone for a while there. Maybe with how busy being in the Host Club left him, he didn’t have time to dwell on any frivolous hallucination of someone saying ‘hi’ or ‘look here’ to him when there was nary a soul but himself and his brother.

They got really, really loud again though. When patterns in his life began to click into place, ideas of a future graduating from high school were rapidly approaching, new people entering their lives, changing them, and leaving Kaoru to wonder just how long it would last.

Just how long would this happy little fantasy last? What happens when they must leave high school and pursue their own lives? What happens when his brother is no longer there by his side, off to do bigger and better things?

Just when will Hikaru realize that, too?

He doesn’t mention it to his brother. The way the days are passing by, how he is noticeably becoming more open and independent. Kaoru is happy for him. He wants Hikaru to have a happy, successful life. He’s also extremely jealous, and scared.

It’s a fear that consumes him, at least partly. (Your friends are going to move on— your brother is going to move on— he’ll want to be his own person soon— you have to figure out what to do from here on out— you have to learn to live without them, without your friends— you need to build your own future. Alone. Independent. What does your future look like? What does your future look like? What does your future look like?)

It’s a little maddening, the constant chattering, and so he picks up his old habit. When the voices in his head get too loud, or his body is full of electric energy he can’t quite explain but needs to release or else he feels he may vomit it up, he reaches for that box cutter again, and again, and again.

He goes for the thighs, usually. Sometimes his pelvis. Anyplace boxers will at least cover up. He draws a line, an X, sometimes just goes crazy. Never stabs himself, though. He’s much too cowardly to try. It hurts like hell, and he has to bite his tongue down to not hiss in pain, sitting on the edge of the toilet seat with shower water sprinkling to cover any cluing sounds he may involuntarily make. Plus, it’s an easy way to clean up afterwards.

It’s been so long since he’s done it, but Kaoru soon finds himself growing addicted to the feeling. He’s not sad or depressed; stressed, maybe. He just likes the feeling. It’s galvanizing, it gets his blood pumping. Seeing his own blood seep from a slim cut that he made on himself makes him feel like he’s going to faint from ecstasy.

He isn’t doing this because he’s hurting. He’s doing this because he enjoys it.

(Rule number three: you don’t actually enjoy this. You’re just addicted.)

He does something he hasn’t done since he was in elementary school.

“I’m not gonna do that. Why even suggest it?”

“Stick your hand on the stove top,” he said. Even for Hikaru, that’s kind of a mean and odd thing to randomly suggest, especially first thing in the morning.

Hikaru hums curiously next to him, sliding one of the pancakes that had been prepared by their maids onto a plate. “Do what?”

“Put my hand on the stove? I’m not stupid.” Because he’s not. Cutting is one thing; burns just aren’t fun to deal with.

Hikaru gives him the most bewildered, incredulous stare he’s seen from him in a while. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“I just said I’m not going to. And anyway, you’re the one who told me to.”

“What the hell are you saying? I said literally nothing to you.” Hikaru’s frown of perplexity morphs into something more concerned. “Are you feeling alright?”

Kaoru barely hears him, because it sounds like something different in his head. Something that’s unintelligible, like a foreign language. It said, ‘something something now’. Now what? Actually, it doesn’t matter — his brain is playing a dirty trick on him, and he fell for it. He thought he had learned better by now.

So, Kaoru shakes his head. “Sorry, it must have been my imagination.”

“You… imagined that I told you to put your hand on the stove? And believed it?”

He wasn’t a fan of the look Hikaru was giving him. Like he was almost scared.

“I’m probably just really tired,” Kaoru forced a chuckle. “Haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“Okay…” if Kaoru was anything but Hikaru’s brother, he’d probably be rolling his eyes and calling him a psycho. Some nutcase off his meds.

“Have you maybe considered that, just maybe, this isn’t a normal way to live?” he thinks, and he genuinely cannot begin to guess if it’s a voluntary thought from himself or not.

It’s also not uncommon for addicts to begin to lose sense of themselves. Not necessarily a rule, just a noteworthy footnote.

He said something earlier, about how he’s happy to see Hikaru becoming more independent. He takes that back. He fucking hates it.

Kaoru can’t understand why it’s only him who’s having trouble moving on. He’s allowed him space with Haruhi out of politeness, but he can’t help the envy and rage and fear burning in his gut. He doesn’t want to lose Hikaru — the one person he’s had his whole life, who he loves more than anything. He knows it’s a childish fear. Hikaru probably isn’t going to leave him. They’ll always be close. But things won’t ever be the same, and the thought sends Kaoru haywire; the thought that he’s lagging behind while his brother will have a girlfriend, be off to college, and have the support of their family. What the fuck will Kaoru have? The voices in his head? A box cutter? Their family never gave much care to him since he isn’t the eldest, which on one hand did give him a lot less pressure to succeed and more options for his future than Hikaru, but it also meant his family just didn’t care as much about him. They didn't love him as much.

To be fair, they didn’t give a shit about them to begin with. At least it felt that way. They were barely around to raise their own kids, how would they not feel like only tools to them?

He had the Host Club, sure, but they’re moving on with their own lives, too. And once high school ends, they have no obligation to stick together anymore. He’ll be back at square one with his brother, but even that isn’t true, since his brother is leagues ahead of him in this.

Maybe he could focus on the good things in life, focus on getting through school and getting the job of his dreams. But he can’t. Dreams are becoming more lucid. Nightmares are indistinguishable from reality. Thoughts are becoming louder. Suggestions are beginning to feel like orders. And the only thing that can quickly drown them out is singeing pain from a blade. It makes him feel so, so high. Makes him euphoric. Every time he sees his own blood, he can’t quite explain it. He’s not getting off on it, or anything. He’s not aroused by hurting himself. But it’s an irrefutable rush similar to a roller coaster ride. Simulated life-or-death. The fact he so easily has the power to take his own life away, and the fact he teases himself with that power — it makes him feel truly alive. It makes him realize just how fragile his own life is, how little his problems matter. He could kill himself at any moment. He’s not going to, and he doesn’t want to nor has a reason to. It’s just that idea of power, of a threat, that makes him feel light-headed. He loves it. He loves it.

He begins aiming elsewhere. His sides. His upper-arms. Places he could cover easily with a tee-shirt. He needs to keep going, he needs to cut deeper, because it’s fucked up but he loves seeing his own blood. Proof that he’s alive, that he’s living, that he’s truly and really here on earth. The pain is his testimony, and the blood is his evidence. But it never feels like enough. It only shuts his mind off for a little bit, and that window of time becomes increasingly smaller each time. He’s only satisfied for so long. It’s not enough.

It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough.

The fifth and final rule is that it’ll never be enough.

Now, he can barely sleep. He can’t sleep anymore. His thoughts are too loud. His urges are too strong. He has to shove headphones over his ears and blast music until he thinks he’ll be deaf, because that’ll be better than having to answer to every benign ‘hi’. To every little ‘look here’. To a relentless stream of ‘stick your hand on the stove top’. To a constant, never ending loop of ‘What does your future look like? What does your future look like? What does your future look like?’

He can’t take it. It’s starting to drive him mad. It’s the fifth blaring suggestion of Jump out the window and hundredth repeat of Hey, Kaoru, hey, Kaoru that causes him to snap.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Kaoru screamed as loud as he could, clutching at the headphones around his ears, praying by some miracle that his thoughts will stop running wild if he tells them off aloud.

His shriek elicited quite the reaction from his brother, who jolted upwards in bed like he was electrocuted. Clearly having snapped him from his slumber, Hikaru sounded half-awake and disoriented but deeply alarmed and panicked. “What’s happening? Are you okay? Kaoru?”

Kaoru Kaoru Kaoru Kaoru Kaoru Hey Kaoru

Kaoru gritted his teeth. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I just— go back to bed, Hikaru.” Kaoru scrambled out of bed, throwing his headphones onto the ground without caring to turn his mp3 player off to stop the music from blaring. Hikaru’s dizzy panic was only exacerbated by this action.

“Kaoru! What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Kaoru had to almost stop himself from laughing pathetically. He is sick. Just not in that way.

“I’m fine,” he says again. “I just need to use the bathroom.”

“You’re clearly not okay,” Hikaru replies. He rolls out of bed sluggishly so he can pick Kaoru’s mp3 player off the floor and shut it off, since the music was grating on his nerves. Kaoru is somewhat thankful for the newfound silence, but at the same time, it just gives his brain more of a reason to badger him.

He looks to the bathroom nestled within their large room. His eyes meet with the nearby adjacent window.

Jump out the —

“I’m not fucking doing that!” he yells, nearly forgetting Hikaru is in the room with him. His brother jolts back at the sudden outburst.

“I didn’t say anything,” Hikaru murmurs, sounding genuinely fearful.

He’s scared. Of him.

“Fuck,” Kaoru hissed out. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just— rough night.”

“Kaoru, what is going on?” Hikaru approaches him with eyes full of trepidation and concern and love for his little brother. Every ounce of worry is in his voice when he says, “You’re not acting right.”

“I need to use the bathroom,” is all Kaoru mumbles before he walks in and shuts the door. He doesn’t care to hear Hikaru’s weak protests.

Once the light is flipped on, Kaoru searches for that alluring blade hidden away in a basket buried in the sink’s lower cabinet. Once his fingers make contact with its plastic sheathing, he doesn’t hesitate to roll his shorts up and get to work as quickly as possible, hooking the blade onto his already abused skin and dragging it along as forcefully as he can muster with trembling hands, watching the blood well up along with the blade’s motion. This process is normally freeing, exciting, exhilarating; all Kaoru feels right now is cold dread and anxiety tight in his chest. He just needs these thoughts and voices to fuck off, and this is the only way he knows how. He’s not doing this for fun. He’s doing this because he needs to. It’s a medication.

It hurts more this way, without the touch of elation; without that euphoria. There’s no flood of endorphins to numb the pain, only panic and fear pushes him to keep making marks in his own body; his legs, his arms, his pelvis; until all, finally, is blissfully quiet. Kaoru almost cries with relief.

Incessant knocking rips him from his moment. Has Hikaru been doing that the whole time?

“Kaoru! Kaoru, are you okay? Open the door,” he’s urging. Had he locked it? He doesn’t exactly remember that.

“Just a moment,” Kaoru calls back woozily. For once, the sight of blood is having the opposite effect: he feels faint and nauseous. He manages to get back on his feet, wipe the blood from his cuts, and wash the blade before shoving it back in the cupboard. He then opens the door.

Hikaru's eyes are wild, worry written all across his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Kaoru answered, and he feels much more at peace now that he can say that honestly. “Sorry about that. I had a nightmare and was kind of half-awake.”

Well, his whole life feels like a nightmare he’s half-awake for, so at least it's apt.

Hikaru doesn’t seem to buy this so easily though. “You seemed pretty awake to me. Besides, who can fall asleep with such loud music blasting in their ears?”

“Me?” Kaoru weakly suggests.

His older brother sighed. “Kaoru, I’m really worried. You’ve been kind of… weird these past few days. I’m getting scared.”

“Look, I understand. It’s just… some stuff. I’m working through it.”

(Working through it, or adding to the problem?)

Hikaru’s eyes go wide. “What stuff? Can I help?”

“Uh… well…”

On one hand, Kaoru knows he definitely needs help. On the other hand, he’s terrified to know just what is wrong with him. He feels like he’s going insane, and maybe he is — and then what will they do? Send him to a mental hospital? For how long? He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want his brother to see him as some sort of freak. But how much longer can he put up with this? These aren’t the harmless lively thoughts he once had as a kid. They’re getting dangerous now. They’re driving him to hurt himself. He’s not doing it out of his own volition anymore. Maybe he never was.

(Is addiction really ever a choice?)

Before he can think of a proper answer, Hikaru’s fretful expression turns to one of shock. The change is seemingly out of nowhere, and it causes Kaoru to frown. Hikaru isn’t even looking at him. He’s more or less looking down.

He’s almost afraid to ask, but. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re bleeding. There’s blood running down your leg.”

“Huh?”

Kaoru looks down and, sure enough, a steady, thin stream of blood is rolling down his leg from under his shorts, leaking off his calf. He swallows hard and suddenly feels very, very dizzy. “I’ll— I’ll go bandage that—”

“How did you get hurt?” Hikaru asked, looking scared. “That’s… that’s a lot of blood. Oh, no.'' Fittingly in a twistedly humorous sort of way, Hikaru himself sounds a little faint. “Kaoru, sit down. I’ll grab the first-aid.”

“Hikaru, I can—”

“No, no, sit down. Don’t move.”

“But…”

Kaoru’s voice dies in his throat since Hikaru is already running into the bathroom, wildly searching for their first-aid kit while Kaoru stares helplessly at the trail of blood flowing steadily off his foot and beginning to stain the carpet. He takes a deep breath.

Hikaru is going to lose his mind if he finds out what he’s been doing to himself all this time.

When his brother re-emerges from the bathroom with the white kit in question, Kaoru decides to be upfront instead of prolonging his own suffering. Not that it matters much. The world feels like it's moving in slow motion.

“I— Hikaru, I—”

“I told you to sit down!” Hikaru stressed. “Come on, sit on the bed, let me look at it.”

“N-No! I… Hikaru, I can’t… let you do that.”

His twin looks perplexed at the outburst. “Why not?”

Kaoru grits his teeth. “I… because… you wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t understand? What’s there to understand?”

A tense air was easily detectable between the two boys. Hikaru barely needed to read the aversion on Kaoru’s face to tell that. His own tone became serious and grave; it was less of a question and more of a demand. “Kaoru, what’s going on?”

“Look, it’s… I… don’t take this the wrong way—” Kaoru stepped back cautiously, gesturing lightly with his hands as if to downplay the whole thing, “I’m not a danger to myself. I swear. I don’t want to die, or anything like that. I’m not doing it because of that. Not at all. I just—”

“What the fuck are you saying?” The growl in the back of Hikaru’s throat makes fear spike in Kaoru’s stomach. Though he asked a question, Kaoru can hear the rhetoric in it, and ergo does not answer. It’s not like he needs to, anyway; it’s clear Hikaru knows what Kaoru is trying to say.

“I just— it’s… a curiosity, okay? I’m not… I mean, it’s kind of like…” an illness? A drug? An addiction? “... A vice.”

“You’re… You’re seriously trying to tell me that you’re doing this to yourself?”

“More… or less. Yes.” Kaoru gulps. “It’s not a big deal, though!”

The air is thick and time is slow. Kaoru feels like he’s able to relive his entire childhood and more; recounting each and every time he ever put the blade to his skin. Every time he snuck out from Hikaru to do it, every time he thought about it during school, or the club, or how gory the thoughts would get when he was stressed, when he was sad, when he felt alone.

More than once the thought “This probably isn’t good” taunted him. It was always met with “Of course it’s not. That’s why you do it at all.”

Hikaru finally spoke. His voice was dangerous.

“Let me see.”

“H-Huh?”

“Let me see,” Hikaru reiterated, emphasizing each word with importance. “I want to see what my little brother is doing to himself.”

There’s a sneer behind the words. Kaoru doesn’t know what it means. His mind is too haywire to think. “That— I don’t really… want you to…”

Hikaru, however, gives very little choice in the matter. He drops the first-aid kit on the ground and approaches Kaoru who starts off by inching back before full-on sprinting away from his brother. In a way, it’s not unlike their usual games of tag; chases around the house as one tries to catch the other to exact revenge on a prank. Except this time it’s not like that at all. It’s scary, Kaoru is scared. He’s not too sure what’s happening, because his head is spinning and somewhere in the back of his mind a thought taunts him: “You won’t have to worry about your brother leaving you if he kills you first.”

He doesn’t get very far, anyway. His legs ache from the cuts, and plus with the dizziness, Hikaru catches him quite easily, pushing him down onto the bed, pinning him there. Kaoru gasps and chokes on what feels like a sob in his throat.

“Let— me go—” Kaoru cries. Tears begin making a mess of his face, and between his now blurred vision and the darkness of their room, he can’t see Hikaru’s expression. He can only feel his hands forcing him down and rolling the pants of his blood-stained legs up, inspecting the multiple lacerations that go up his thighs, disappearing under his boxers with a promise that there’s plenty more underneath. Hikaru at least has the decency to not rip his brother’s boxers off, but even without, he’s able to see an abundance of messy, bloodied lines, some fresh from minutes ago, others old and scarred from days, weeks, maybe longer. It’s obsessive. The lines, the intensity, the frequency; it’s obsessive. Like an artist compelled to draw the same picture over and over again. It’s an art. A very, very bloody, twisted form of art.

Finally, Hikaru lets him go.

As soon as his hands are off of him, Kaoru curls up and muffles his sobs into his arms. He wants to stop crying. It doesn’t make him look good in this situation at all. It makes him look even more unstable and manic. He wants to appear calm and cool and explain himself, but he can’t. Tears won't stop flooding.

“How long?” Hikaru asks. It’s not gentle in the slightest. Kaoru only cries harder.

After Kaoru fails to answer him due to the sobs wracking his body, Hikaru demands again, louder, “How long?”

“Y-Years?” he hiccups, because he’s unsure if this started in middle school or high school or earlier. He’s not too sure if it started the moment he picked up that blade or the moment his thoughts got a little too vivid. He just isn’t sure. So instead he cries, he cries and begs almost incoherently through jags, “Ple-ease don’t ha-ate me.”

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Hikaru barks accusatively, and Kaoru can’t decide if he sounds pissed off beyond belief or scared out of his mind. It’s probably both.

“N-No!” Kaoru wails. “I-I just liked how— how it felt! I-It made e-everything quiet. I-I felt happy. I don’t wanna die!”

The last part is slurred out incredibly childishly. He sounds like a crying child who’s in trouble with his parents. Much like trying to run in a nightmare, trying to talk while you’re sobbing is impossible. It comes out unintelligibly.

“Don’t hate me,” he begs again, because it’s all he can think to say.

Hikaru doesn’t say anything to prove or disprove this notion. Kaoru dares to pull his face out of his arms and to look up at the figure looming over the bed. Though his face is thoroughly soaked with tears, his eyes are a bit clearer, and he can at least make out Hikaru’s expression. He feared disdain and anger and disgust, but he got none of those. Instead, Hikaru looked properly horrified and heartbroken; he was crying, too.

Instead of a verbal reply, Hikaru leaned down. From there, he pulled his twin into a fearsome hug, as if afraid Kaoru may disappear at any moment. Kaoru coughed at the sudden, aggressive embrace squeezing his chest, but Hikaru doesn’t lighten it. A somewhat embarrassing squeak emanates from Kaoru as Hikaru presses a kiss to his cheek, which isn’t a new gesture — just unusual. He can’t really remember the last time Hikaru had done that. Middle school, maybe? The elder sibling quickly buries his face into Kaoru’s neck afterwards, breathing coming out in trembling gulps. Kaoru feels the wetness of tears against his skin.

“I’m so sorry.” Hikaru sounds broken saying it. Kaoru isn’t even sure what he’s apologizing for. Does he blame himself for all of this? Does he feel regretful for yelling? Does he feel at fault for not having known about it? Is he simply sorry that his twin is fucked up in the head?

And the thing is, he doesn’t stop. Kaoru hears endless apologies whispered into his skin, each one progressively more off-key than the last, until it just devolves into sobbing. He doesn’t let Kaoru go.

They’re like this for a little while.

A knock on the door.

“Kaoru, what’s the hold up? We’re gonna be late, and you know how mom gets about that.”

“Yeah, just… just a second.”

The sound of a running faucet can be heard. Kaoru frantically swipes the box cutter under it to wash away the thin trail of blood painted on the edge before turning his attention to his thighs. He still feels a little dizzy looking at it: it’s the first time he’s ever drawn actual blood. It’s not a lot, just a tiny sliver of red beading into small droplets along the cut. But it’s still incredible to him.

He’s never done that before. He’s never seen his own blood like this, drawn by his own hand. His hands are shaking. He feels like he might pass out. It’s…

Euphoric.

A grin spreads across the boy’s lips in a twisted sort of satisfaction. Look at this. He did this to himself. Wow, that’s so fucked up. Wow.

He might have laughed if he wasn’t acutely aware that Hikaru was right outside the door. A tiny squeak in his ear tells him he should do this more often.

“I should,” he mumbles in agreement.

As he begins to quickly dress back into his school uniform, he hears Hikaru’s sing-song voice outside the door once again.

“Kaoooru,” he calls innocuously. “Who you talkin’ to in there?”

“Myself, dumbass,” he calls back. It’s not a lie.

But before he can leave the bathroom, he realizes with a shot of panic and equal shot of annoyance that he got a smudge of blood on the sleeve of his uniform.

Ugh, these stupid Academy uniforms. Why do they have to be white? The high schoolers get to wear blue. Shouldn’t all the uniforms be blue, then? Or green, like the elementary school? Anything but white.

He doesn’t have time to throw it in the wash, though. So, Kaoru rolls his sleeves into makeshift cuffs. Call it fashion sense, or whatever. He finally steps out of the bathroom.

“There you are, come on.” Though he announces this, instead of instantly bee-lining out the door, Hikaru takes a moment to look at him with a searching frown. “Why the cuffs?”

“I got a stain on one of them,” Kaoru answered. Again, it’s not a lie.

Of course, Hikaru doesn’t catch on. Not that Kaoru wants him to. He just grins, patting Kaoru on the shoulder. “Gotta be more careful. These things are hard to wash, you know.”

“That’s what maids are for,” Kaoru replied with a careless shrug.

The sentiment earned a chuckle from his brother, who agreed rather unsympathetically, “Yeah, it’s their problem.”

Kaoru laughs along with his brother as they leave their bedroom. He doesn’t feel any remorse for his actions, and in fact, he feels like he’s walking on air. It’s like a high.

He knows somewhere deep down, he should feel guilty. Maybe even scared. But he doesn’t.

(Lying by omission is still lying.)

Kaoru let’s Hikaru clean his wounds in silence. All of them. The ones on his thighs, the ones on his pelvis, his arms, sides, stomach — he’s since retired to mere sniffles. And while he’s not crying per se, Hikaru’s the one now wiping tears from his eyes excessively. Maybe it’s the pain of seeing his little brother so fucked up. Maybe he’s crying because Kaoru is fucked up. Who knows.

He bandages them with care and conduct. He’s gentle. Neither of them speak, and somehow Kaoru’s brain is empty for once. He wordlessly observes his older twin work on him like he’s a fragile glass sculpture.

Once all is said and done, Hikaru closes the first-aid and leaves it discarded to the other side of the bed, quickly finding space to cuddle up next to Kaoru and hold his brother close to his chest. It’s a possessive gesture, one that tells Kaoru how afraid his brother really is without saying anything.

Well, anyone would be scared if someone they loved were hurting themselves like this, even if it’s not out of a desire to die or self-destruction. Somehow, Kaoru thinks it’s that very exception that makes Hikaru all the more scared. At least when someone hurts themselves out of emotional pain, it’s easy to explain and get help for. What the fuck do you say to something like this? Who hurts themselves for fun?

(Well, it doesn’t feel very fun anymore.)

Kaoru sighs against his brother. Hikaru isn’t saying anything, so he decides to say something first. “I’m sorry for letting this get out of control.”

“It’s not your fault. Don’t say that.”

(It’s a very common debate. Those riddled with addiction are nothing by weak-willed lowlifes who chose this for themselves. But how many people really choose to voluntarily destroy their own lives like this?)

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Kaoru is maybe inclined to agree, inclined to say “Well, it wasn’t my idea”, but those nagging voices in his head are very much his own, they come from him, and therefore they are him. Even if he’s learned to hate it.

In that sense, he really was only doing this because he had the overwhelming thoughts and urges to do it. If he cut out one half of the equation, it was probable he could reduce this madness by a steep margin. After all, he wasn’t a little kid anymore — he’s since come to realize the way his brain works isn’t normal. People don’t have loud thoughts like he does. If they did, he was sure he wouldn’t be the only person struggling with this. Back then at least he could make the excuse that he was just a kid with an overactive imagination. But he was sixteen now, and they were louder than ever.

He had to suck it up: he wasn’t normal. He used to like being abnormal and provocative, and sure, when it’s an innocent prank or habit he doesn’t have an issue with it. But it’s not that anymore. It’s actively hurting him — it’s a problem.

“I don’t think I’m normal.” It’s kind of an obvious statement and, to be honest, neither he nor Hikaru are very normal people. But it’s clear in his tone and in context what Kaoru means to say.

“We can fix you,” Hikaru promised.

“But— I…” Kaoru quickly shut his mouth once he realized he didn’t have anything of real substance to say, or at least he failed to find an adequate way to explain himself. With a moment to think, he says, “I’ve just lived like this for so long. I don’t know how to change it.”

Hikaru nods silently with understanding, hugging his brother closer. “Isn’t that how life felt for us though, before the Host Club? If that could happen… we can fix this.” he breathed deeply; the air in his lungs trembled. “I won’t let you stay this way.”

Kaoru bit his lips and hummed softly. He wasn’t too sure how they could ‘fix’ this — fix him — how long it would take, or if it would even work. But if a miracle like the Host Club could happen for them, then maybe Kaoru could regain his footing in life. Maybe.

He’s not a pessimist. Just a realist.

Addendum: studies have shown that nearly all patients admitted into rehab report a better quality of life after the first six months.