Tamaki was crying again.

It was getting easier to hear, now that Kyoya had grown accustomed to their new room- if only the ache in his head could follow the light and vanish. Though Kyoya couldn't see the blonde, the weakened movement of metal dragging across conrete told him he was alive; the sniffling spoke of his misery.

"Oh, Kyoya," Tamaki gasped, "My mother- my father-" before abruptly cutting himself off.

"We are not going to die," Kyoya said, very calm, but Tamaki would not listen. Kyoya curled an arm over Tamaki's broad shoulders. "Have faith. We are not going to die."

The beginning of their stay hadn't been so difficult; Kyoya had tried his best at maintaining snarky banter with their guard and Tamaki just quietly played along, enthusiasm cleverly muted at the sight of artillary holsters and cruel hands with rings.

Ease came with the expectation of a quick resolution. When their only objective was getting out and being able to return home, to go back to school, back to their group- that was… uncomplicated. It was simple: keep your head down and lie in wait. Their families would sort it out.

But then one of the yakuza dragged a woman into the room.