Kyoya tries to stand prim and poised and proper. Back straight and head high and shoulders back. Just like he got taught. (Ootori's don't slouch, Kyoya). He tries to ignore the twisting, insistent tugs from his bladder.

He really, really does.

But he really needs to pee.

He's been standing out in the cold for over an hour now, bundled up just like that teddy bear Fuyumi bought him, wrapped in his big puffy jacket. It's edging into winter, and his cheeks are pink and sore from the wind. Kyoya won't complain though, because he's determined to be the bestest, most well behaved eight year old he can be.

Today is an important day. Father is opening a brand new hospital, so he has to be on his best behaviour. Yuuichi told him so, and Yuuichi knows everything.

That means no wandering off on his own, no making a fuss or being childish. Needing to pee during father's speech is childish. It's bad, and Kyoya can't be bad today. He's going to be a big boy, just like Akito and Yuuichi and make father proud of him.

Kyoya knows his father would be mad at him if he walked away. The thought alone has kept him rooted in place of a dangerously long amount of time. But he reasons that his father would also be mad if Kyoya were to wet himself in front of all these people and their flashing cameras and cold smiles. And maybe... maybe if he didn't know Kyoya had sneaked off, then he wouldn't be mad. Maybe he could go so quickly that nobody would even notice he'd gone, he was pretty fast.

He takes one peek at the man, sees that he is deep in his speech and not looking in his direction, and shuffles a couple of steps to the side.

No reaction.

Fuyumi is staring into space on the man's other side, with Akito and Yuuichi both attempting expressions of interest, and falling somewhat short.

None of them are looking at him.

Kyoya pushes his luck, and scoots away even further, until he can step off the makeshift stage. When nobody makes a move to stop him, he turns on his heels and walks towards the building opposite, where he knows the toilets are because Fuyumi had shown them to him earlier. An encouragement to relieve himself before the event started.

At the time, he'd shrugged her off and puffed out his chest, indignant and ruffled because, he wasn't a baby, Fuyumi!

She'd chuckled and left him be, and Kyoya regrets not listening to her earlier.

He regrets it even more when a hand catches his arm and steers him away. He assumes at first it's one of his security detail, but then notices he's being dragged away from the hospital (but no that couldn't be right), from his siblings, his father, from the crowd and the cameras and the dead stares (why why why what's happening?), and that the hand isn't friendly or familiar at all.

The grip is hard, firm- painful.

Kyoya yelps, but the hand doesn't loosen.

None of his bodyguards- none of his family- would hurt him. Never, never. Not ever.

Panic blooming in his chest, Kyoya twists, catching sight of an unfamiliar man and the open door of a car twenty feet away.

The man grins at him, and it's twisted and wrongwrongwrong.

Shivers run down his spine.

"Come on. Be a good boy for me now."

(Be a good boy, Kyoya. Don't cause trouble.)

Kyoya isn't stupid.

(I'm not a child!)

He's read stories, seen news reports. They've had policemen come to his school to talk to the kids before. He knows what's happening. Knows, and is so so scared.

(He is a child.)

Tiny feet dig into the ground.

They do nothing but annoy the man, who tugs his arm and sends the boy stumbling after him.

"No!" Kyoya says, voice hitching into a loud whine. He tries to wrestle his arm free, kicking and pushing against the man's body in a helpless, desperate attempt to wrench himself away. "No, no, let go!"

No luck.

"Stop it, you little brat."

"Let go!" He tries to flop down onto the ground, dead-weighting into the man's hold. He sags for a second, knees slamming into the ground and drawing a choked cry from the boy. Then the hand starts crushing his arm, grinding his bones into fine dust. He's dragged across the ground until Kyoya forces himself back to his feet, little legs littered with scrapes and oozing blood.

Kyoya screams as he continues to fight. He isn't quite sure if it's words or not, but resolves that it doesn't really matter.

All that matters is attracting attention, making as much noise as possible (somebody help), kicking and struggling and fighting for all his reedy limbs and weak muscles were worth (sorry, try again). Desperation coating every shrill shriek that escapes his lips. He's eight. He's eight years old and he can't do much, but he could at least do this.

He hears twittering in the distance, a raised, muffled din of noise.

(Help me please help me I'm so scared please somebody)

A stale hand wraps around his mouth and his waist, roughly hauling him off his feet. Thick fingers squeeze his cheeks in a way that approaches unbearable. His breath splutters, and he chokes, coughing and gagging around the invasive appendage, screams muffled.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up."

Kyoya stops screaming immediately.

The man's eyes are wild and feral, flashing with anger. He looks like something out of a nightmare, face pinched and pulled and twisted as he hurries to the car, and Kyoya knows he'll die. He knows and he doesn't stop kicking, and maybe that's why the pressure on his jaw doesn't lessen.

The door is closer now. Far too close.

He's going to be forced inside and taken far, far away, and he's never going to see his family again.

He wants to go home.

Kyoya feels tears streaming down his face (big boys don't cry, Kyoya), cold and sharp against flushed skin. His feet pedal the air in front of him, trying to catch on the door frame, to prevent himself from being shoved into the darkness, doing everything he can to delay the impossible.

(Please, somebody help me please god somebody help)

A hand snags his collar.

There is a rush of air, then the sickening motion of falling.

His heels tap against the ground (gentle), arms windmilling as he tries to keep his balance.

He's scooped up into an awaiting pair of arms (comfortsafetyprotection) in less than a second, the barest glimpse of a rage filled face (familiar, loving) disappearing from his vision, his raised fist connecting heavily with flesh.

Kyoya thinks about struggling, trying to breathe past the hammering of his heart (goingtodiegoingtodiegoingtodie), and then he recognises the pine-like scent and strong, firm hold.

"'Jima?" He croaks, choking on what was possibly a sob.

Aijima clutches Kyoya tighter to his chest (he's home), running faster from the scuffle unfolding behind them. He can hear Tachibana grunting, and the harsh sound of flesh on flesh. Punches, connecting with sickening force. (He's glad he can't see.) "I've got you, buddy. You're safe now, Jima's got you. The bad men aren't going to hurt you."

Kyoya sobs harder and shoves his face into the crook of the man's neck.

His chest hurts (Stop, please it hurts), it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and he can't breathe.

"I on-only wanted to go to the- the toilet."

Aijima rubs a comforting hand on his back and hitches the boy higher in his arms. "Oh, baby." He soothes, filled with such heart-breaking fondness. (He's not a baby. He's not.) "It's okay. Everything's okay. I'll take you, you'll be fine."

Kyoya's jaw aches. His arm still throbs from the punishing grip.

He can't breathe.

He cries, relentlessly, not knowing how else to deal with the mashed up whirlwind of emotions flying through his head. "Toilet." He begs, his bladder twisting painfully. "Toilet, 'Jima. Please, I'm going to-"

"I know, I know. Just hold on a second, baby, I've got you."

(Breathe, Kyoya. You're safe, I've got you. Breathe.)

Shut up shut up shut the fuck up.

(Kyoya, you need to breathe, baby.)

He's not a baby. He's not. He's not he's not he's not.

(Breathe, it's okay. Just breathe.)

Stop.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Darkness.

A/N: So here's a short little drabble I wrote while procrastinating life. If I get inspiration I may add a second fluffy chapter to comfort our poor traumatised baby, but for now I'll leave it as it is.

Semi-connected to an event mentioned in Stalker, which I promise I am still working on (just very slowly!).

I hope you all are staying safe and healthy in these crazy times. For my readers still on lockdown, if you're in England like me, or anywhere else; STAY HOME. SAVE LIVES. WASH THOSE HANDS.