"I'm going to marry her," Tamaki babbles. "And we'll honeymoon - oh - we'll honeymoon on otosan's yacht and have a holiday estate in... in the south of France, d'you think she'd - ah, Kyouya. Slow down."
Kyouya is beginning to regret investing funds in replenishing the host club's bookshelves. He hadn't paid too close attention to what, exactly, he'd spent the money on; weighty books, with rich leather spines and gold leaf, and just the right amount of aging in the binding. The sort of books, more or less, whose prime function is to look good.
(Appropriately enough.)
By some chance or design - perhaps, he flatters himself, an unconscious sense for the refined - he'd managed to end up with a rather good selection of Greek philosophers; not in itself a bad thing, since such august names peering out from the club's shelves only adds to the effect. But really, whoever would have thought that any of his fellow hosts would ever actually sit down and read the things? Either, Kyouya thinks to himself, we really do have far more spare time than is good for us, or (more likely), Tamaki had randomly selected one to prop open on his lap in a soulfully absorbed pose as he waited for the day's customers to arrive.
Just Kyouya's luck, then, that it had been Plato.
The problem, he muses, is that Tamaki is a romantic. And Tamaki gets... carried away with new ideas. And sometimes Kyouya thinks that the philosophy of the Platonic Ideal, with all its babbling about the beautiful and the good, and the virtuous restraint of lust in favour of a (Kyouya sighs) deeper, more spiritual love - well, sometimes Kyouya thinks that these things were thought up and written down and preserved for thousands of years just so that someone like Tamaki could come along and pick them up.
"Do that again."
"Hmm?" Kyouya blinks vaguely up at Tamaki, whose cheeks are a delicate pink that would make Renge proud. Of course, if Renge were here, she wouldn't be concentrating on Tamaki's cheeks.
"That breathy thing. Like a sigh. Do it again."
"Ah. Like this?" Kyouya does it again.
" - Yes."
Tamaki's fingers tighten in Kyouya's hair; Kyouya's fingers tighten on Tamaki's hips.
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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And sldkjfl;dkls. Pushing Haruhi towards Tamaki. OH KYOUYA.
I think I need to fic or something.
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Fic. Yesssssss.
Commentfic is my excuse for unbeta'd dross. ¬_¬
Kyouya is beginning to regret investing funds in replenishing the host club's bookshelves. He hadn't paid too close attention to what, exactly, he'd spent the money on; weighty books, with rich leather spines and gold leaf, and just the right amount of aging in the binding. The sort of books, more or less, whose prime function is to look good.
(Appropriately enough.)
By some chance or design - perhaps, he flatters himself, an unconscious sense for the refined - he'd managed to end up with a rather good selection of Greek philosophers; not in itself a bad thing, since such august names peering out from the club's shelves only adds to the effect. But really, whoever would have thought that any of his fellow hosts would ever actually sit down and read the things? Either, Kyouya thinks to himself, we really do have far more spare time than is good for us, or (more likely), Tamaki had randomly selected one to prop open on his lap in a soulfully absorbed pose as he waited for the day's customers to arrive.
Just Kyouya's luck, then, that it had been Plato.
The problem, he muses, is that Tamaki is a romantic. And Tamaki gets... carried away with new ideas. And sometimes Kyouya thinks that the philosophy of the Platonic Ideal, with all its babbling about the beautiful and the good, and the virtuous restraint of lust in favour of a (Kyouya sighs) deeper, more spiritual love - well, sometimes Kyouya thinks that these things were thought up and written down and preserved for thousands of years just so that someone like Tamaki could come along and pick them up.
"Do that again."
"Hmm?" Kyouya blinks vaguely up at Tamaki, whose cheeks are a delicate pink that would make Renge proud. Of course, if Renge were here, she wouldn't be concentrating on Tamaki's cheeks.
"That breathy thing. Like a sigh. Do it again."
"Ah. Like this?" Kyouya does it again.
" - Yes."
Tamaki's fingers tighten in Kyouya's hair; Kyouya's fingers tighten on Tamaki's hips.
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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?
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!!!!!!!
Hi.
You are making me want to write OHC fic SO BADLY and I have a mini-fic that I have been dying to tease out for ages.
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