Tamaki's fingers tighten in Kyouya's hair; Kyouya's fingers tighten on Tamaki's hips.
"A white wedding," Tamaki resumes, breathless. "Daddy will wear white as well - I think it suits me better, don't you?"
"Aa," Kyouya agrees, not looking up. His fingers are tangled in Tamaki's belt-loops.
Poor Kyouya, Tamaki thinks, as he rambles on, doing his best to provide distraction at what, from his observance, tends usually to be a rather awkward point for the other boy. Kyouya never can quite seem to meet his eyes afterwards, and it's all - well, it's all terribly sad, Tamaki thinks.
Of course, it must stem from his childhood. Such a loveless, competitive environment, with one's every action being judged and weighed, and - assessed. And then there's the host club, of course. Tamaki knows Kyouya enjoys juggling the accounts and spinning everything together and... whatever else it is he does, but Tamaki worries, sometimes, about how the hosting affects poor, lonely Kyouya. Because here Kyouya is - here Kyouya comes, every now and again - looking, of course, Tamaki's heart whispers to him, for some form of affection, yes, indeed some human contact that he will not be judged or paid for.
The sheer swell of heartbreak and sympathy threatens to positively overcome him, and his Haruhi-centred monologue stutters to a halt as his fingers tighten again, involuntarily, in Kyouya's hair. The sadness, though, then trips and stumbles over the little jump in his stomach when Kyouya looks up - something, perhaps, about the way Kyouya's face looks, tightened into that familiar expression of prissy disapproval even as his lips are still red from - well. His stomach isn't the only thing that jumps, but Tamaki would be a frightful cad if he asked Kyouya to go again, considering.
He smiles fondly, and tugs the dark-haired boy to his feet.
"We can talk about Haruhi later," Tamaki says, his hand creeping down (and that's better, perhaps; thinking of his Haruhi at times like these does tend to turn into thoughts of doing this with his Haruhi, and that always makes him feel terrible for sullying her so). "Would you like me to...?"
"Maybe later," Kyouya replies stiffly, and pushes his glasses up on his nose.
Tamaki nods understandingly. His hands go to Kyouya's shoulders instead, and he meets Kyouya's eyes, steady and unwavering, as he squeezes his shoulders affectionately.
"Of course," he says kindly.
The problem, Tamaki muses, as he watches his friend let himself out of the dim room, is that Kyouya is a stoic. Still, if he, Tamaki, cannot be here and do this for poor, lonely Kyouya, his very best friend, then he wouldn't be much of a prince, now, would he?
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"A white wedding," Tamaki resumes, breathless. "Daddy will wear white as well - I think it suits me better, don't you?"
"Aa," Kyouya agrees, not looking up. His fingers are tangled in Tamaki's belt-loops.
Poor Kyouya, Tamaki thinks, as he rambles on, doing his best to provide distraction at what, from his observance, tends usually to be a rather awkward point for the other boy. Kyouya never can quite seem to meet his eyes afterwards, and it's all - well, it's all terribly sad, Tamaki thinks.
Of course, it must stem from his childhood. Such a loveless, competitive environment, with one's every action being judged and weighed, and - assessed. And then there's the host club, of course. Tamaki knows Kyouya enjoys juggling the accounts and spinning everything together and... whatever else it is he does, but Tamaki worries, sometimes, about how the hosting affects poor, lonely Kyouya. Because here Kyouya is - here Kyouya comes, every now and again - looking, of course, Tamaki's heart whispers to him, for some form of affection, yes, indeed some human contact that he will not be judged or paid for.
The sheer swell of heartbreak and sympathy threatens to positively overcome him, and his Haruhi-centred monologue stutters to a halt as his fingers tighten again, involuntarily, in Kyouya's hair. The sadness, though, then trips and stumbles over the little jump in his stomach when Kyouya looks up - something, perhaps, about the way Kyouya's face looks, tightened into that familiar expression of prissy disapproval even as his lips are still red from - well. His stomach isn't the only thing that jumps, but Tamaki would be a frightful cad if he asked Kyouya to go again, considering.
He smiles fondly, and tugs the dark-haired boy to his feet.
"We can talk about Haruhi later," Tamaki says, his hand creeping down (and that's better, perhaps; thinking of his Haruhi at times like these does tend to turn into thoughts of doing this with his Haruhi, and that always makes him feel terrible for sullying her so). "Would you like me to...?"
"Maybe later," Kyouya replies stiffly, and pushes his glasses up on his nose.
Tamaki nods understandingly. His hands go to Kyouya's shoulders instead, and he meets Kyouya's eyes, steady and unwavering, as he squeezes his shoulders affectionately.
"Of course," he says kindly.
The problem, Tamaki muses, as he watches his friend let himself out of the dim room, is that Kyouya is a stoic. Still, if he, Tamaki, cannot be here and do this for poor, lonely Kyouya, his very best friend, then he wouldn't be much of a prince, now, would he?