"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.
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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.