Heady and Sure, Morning

By Kay

Disclaimer: Ouran! Ouran! I don't own you, Ouran! Budum.

Author's Notes: A Kyouya x Tamaki fic, although you can decide for yourself whether or not it's one sided. Takes place directly after the last episode of the anime, although I steal a few ideas from the manga. I actually don't like this piece. It borders on OOC, if not falling into it, on Kyouya's part. I usually like writing Kyouya as a little less... poetic, more practical. But apparently Kyouya's had too much wine and it's been a stressful day, so what the hell. XD

I hope someone enjoys this! Thank you so much for any constructive advice or feedback. And of course, simply for reading!

After they dance, and dance, and dance the night away, the entire world falters on its axis and leaves Kyouya uncharacteristically dizzy on his feet. He stumbles to the table and drinks the punch, barely tasting its delicate flavors. It's sticky on his tongue, thick like syrup. The stock market needs checking at eight. The Kurosaka line is premiering in Amsterdam at noon. This is what Kyouya is thinking, standing there at the punch bowl, clutching a crystal glass lined in pink and still somehow dry-mouthed.

Tamaki's laughter floats above the crowd.

'You had your chance to be done,' Kyouya says to himself, 'and you didn't take it. You didn't even hesitate.'

This means nothing.

'He would have come crawling back.'

The tempo of the music swells, sighs, and basks low to the ground. Kyouya presses a hand to his chest because it hurts, somehow, and then steps away for some air. It wouldn't do well, for an Ohtori to fall here.

He doesn't remember where it started.

Tamaki is tactile; some people breathe oxygen and Tamaki breathes other people's oxygen. He thrives on the single touch—the first brush of fingers, the electric slide of cheek upon cheek, envelopment and abandonment and security. Kyouya is exposed to that strange, frantic energy of here and skin on cloth on skin on cloth immediately, and despite having been raised in a world where distance is properly maintained, he quickly grows accustomed to it. Tamaki is the most expressive person he knows. His voice, his arms, his eyes. Tamaki doesn't have emotions, he is an emotion.

Sometimes, Kyouya finds himself reaching out first.

Is that where it began? Twisting around to touch Tamaki's shoulder, perhaps, in irritation, to get his attention, a mistake—there's no way of telling. Kyouya only becomes aware of a stirring hunger in his belly, a snake without bones to fill its stomach, when the spring finally comes to Ouran. He doesn't understand it, but then he does, and nothing is the same. He recognizes the gnawing ache. It grows like an unruly child, breaking things and making continuous excuses.

And oh, how he blames Tamaki. The curve of his instep, the fine bones of his ankles. The long eyelashes and red mouth and rounded ears.

'You want him sprawled out and unsteady. You want to show him what it means to people who don't understand this sort of dance—that for us, a kiss is not just a kiss, a smile is not just a smile, and when you take my elbow, close enough to feel the flutter of a heartbeat, where it hidden there, this is not—'

Kyouya would devour all of Tamaki. He'd study every inch of flesh and find it perfectly unwanting, and flush Tamaki with wine until he shone.

He swallows and finds the atmosphere unsatisfactory; like drowning, Kyouya can't seem to fill his lungs safely. The party is louder as a background noise than it is to have actually been there—someone shouts, another giggles as though uncertain of whether or not it's allowed. Kyouya feels walled away from it, now, separated from the courtyard of the school by its towering walls and a certain degree of maturity. He puts his head between his knees and inhales.

He's still smiling and he's not sure why.

'It doesn't matter that he's staying. Nothing's going to change.'

He needs to check the stock market at eight. At noon, the new Kurosaka line opens in Amsterdam. His father has requested breakfast together, to discuss what has happened with the company. His sister will be visiting for dinner. The decision between the building of the software companies nearby will be released in the afternoon. Kyouya is going to take over the Ohtori business.

Everything is going to change.

Kyouya is a very composed person. He finds himself laughing, softly, despite this—now see, he is what's changing.

The purple columbines of the garden are due for weeding. He laughs harder, and behind him, Tamaki says, "So this is where you are."

If it were about quenching his lusts, it would be a simple matter. Kyouya understands attraction. He's been brought up to appreciate the aesthetics of life—for instance, how crisp a modern painting's edges should be, the suitable length of sleeves for formal dinner attire, and the pale neck of a woman above a collar. Though rarely does something move him, he knows enough of the principle of how to move on from such futile and insubstantial desires. Many things can be bought. Others can be tarnished until they are no longer desirables at all.

But Tamaki comes like a tanuki under the moon. He steals Kyouya's glasses and courts him with terrible Czech love poetry, never knowing that he is, in fact, a thief, or that he speaks of the heart when he's talking about trying and succeeding and you.

It is utterly frustrating and ludicrous.

Kyouya knows there is no merit in using Tamaki and throwing him out when his purpose is wrung dry. Furthermore, the idea disquiets him. He recalls—when sipping water at dinner, when opening his front door, when glimpsing pianos as they gleam under drifting sunbeams—the feel of tea soaking his knees in his jeans and how the evening light had made harsh the bruised violet of Tamaki's eyes. At the most inconvenient times, the memory plagues him. How it felt to have that in his hands—a frame that contains an insane force, the will that drove Kyouya to believe and the strength that backed Kyouya when he could not.

Ridiculous. But yes, if he could, Kyouya would run that thread between his teeth. Whatever undercurrent of luck that runs through Tamaki's blood, he would taste it and seek out its nuances, until it could be contained and stoppered and darken with age. In time, Tamaki's essence may become bitter instead of light. It might be worth more then. It might be worth less.

It's not love. Kyouya isn't so naïve. He understands what power is, and what it means to create from destruction.

He would give Tamaki the crown of the emperor and take his city down to ruins within the next day. That is who Kyouya is. And that is how he wants, even when he hates himself for it.

"Yes," says Kyouya. He thinks, 'Right here.'

Tamaki steps into the moonlight, which washes out his features and makes him sickly-pale. His hair, his eyes, his lips—they become too bright in comparison, garish like a caricature. He smells like wine, though he's had none. Kyouya wants to push him against the column of stone behind them and lick the line of his throat.

"What are you doing back here?" Tamaki tilts his head, a smile curling around the natural curve of his face. "You looked like you felt ill."

"No. But I wanted the air," Kyouya tells him. He straightens and presses a stray lock of his hair back into place, smoothing it behind his ear. Even with Tamaki, disorderly as he is, Kyouya can't stand to be anything but perfect. "The real question is why you felt like you had to follow me for such a trivial errand."

"To make sure Kaasan is all right, of course."

"Tousan should mind his own business." But despite his intentions, the words are not harsh. Kyouya pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, calmly considering the uneasy shift of Tamaki's feet, one after the other, when he speaks. "Haruhi?"

"With the twins." Tamaki makes a sour face. "They've been hogging her all night! It's not fair."

Then perhaps he realizes. "I see," says Kyouya. It doesn't bother him, Tamaki's eccentric enthrallment with Haruhi. There are more frustrating things, and Kyouya understands in his own way. Haruhi is very much of what Tamaki misses about France—honesty wrapped up like a gift, the potential for a warm hand. Besides, when it comes down to it Tamaki is standing here with Kyouya.

He thinks about that and then wonders if Tamaki knows it, too.

"Kyouya," says Tamaki, "I want to hear it."

When they had first met, and Tamaki was still chasing after the twins, they had trouble communicating. Even after the evening where the tea was wasted on the carpet and Tamaki unraveled all of Kyouya's hate with a flat stare, they were left on uneven platforms. Tamaki had said, "You're my best friend." Kyouya heard static. Tamaki had said, "We're going to make a host club."

Kyouya said, "That sounds imbecilic."

Tamaki told him, "It can't be just any student. The host club is special! They're going to be our nakama, like family. You wouldn't just want anyone to be close to you, right?"

Kyouya hadn't wanted anyone close to him, period. He listened, though, sipping at his green tea and turning the possible profits over in his head. Tamaki spoke of bonds of men. Kyouya responded with inquires of budgeting. Tamaki elaborated the principles of a host. Kyouya demanded opening figures. Tamaki eagerly outlined the costumes he had in mind. Kyouya laughed at him. Then Tamaki leaned over the kotatsu and folded his hand over Kyouya's, skin overly hot from cupping the tea cup.

He'd said, that night, "Wouldn't it be fun?"

Kyouya said nothing. But for the first time, he'd heard Tamaki and understood exactly what he meant. He'd thought, perhaps mistakenly, that like most of Tamaki's fixations it would eventually be dropped like a hot potato for the next.

(It's still here. So is Kyouya. He understands Tamaki much better now, though, so it's no longer a surprise.)

"Beg your pardon?" For a surreal moment, Kyouya can't comprehend the meaning behind the question and so his mind comes up with a multitude of answers, none of which fail to end the swell of discomfort in his stomach.

"I want to hear it from you," Tamaki elaborates. He bites his lip, but his expression steels. "Haruhi said… she said, you didn't mean what you said. About the host club bringing you nothing but trouble."

Is that what this is about? Kyouya sighs and faces him fully, putting a hand on his hip and dangling the other. His entire body is tired of this, of everything. "Yes, and?"

"Is it true?" Those eyes beseech his, unwilling to accept anything but the truth. Kyouya wants to laugh at them, but it would give his position away. "I thought… It's just that, when you said so, I could see…"

"What you see can hardly ever be trusted. Idiot."

"Then…?"

"The host club costs me quite a bit of trouble." He pauses, unsure of how to phrase it. "But it's also worth it. The benefits outweigh the risks. I wouldn't do it otherwise." 'It's fun.'

Tamaki, too, has learned to understand Kyouya. What he hears—however much of it is made up on Tamaki's part, no doubt—is enough to placate him. Some unidentified tension drains from his shoulders. He ambles towards Kyouya with more grace than ambling should afford. "Kaasan, are you going to come back to the party?"

"No. Not just yet, I think."

"Can I join you?"

Kyouya lets his silence speak for itself. Then Tamaki looks at the sky, breathes delight in the way only he can, and says, "The stars are so amazing!"

It's not the sky Kyouya looks at. He has no use for burning balls of gases too many miles away to count. But he looks at Tamaki, and he looks at Tamaki under the stars, and he looks at Tamaki under the stars because it's amazing.

Because Kyouya plans for every road, he knows exactly what would happen if he were to tell Tamaki.

Tamaki would not accept his feelings, unyielding as they were. Tamaki would be horrified. Tamaki would patronize him. Tamaki would pity him. Tamaki would preen. Tamaki would apologize and then nothing would ever be mentioned again, and something would die. Tamaki would find a way for them to resolve it amicably and something would live on. Things would be worse or better than before, things would stay the same, things would change forever.

Tamaki would return the sentiment in whatever way he chooses fit. Tamaki would never become Suoh heir because Tamaki, as much as he tries, cannot keep a secret. Tamaki would ruin both their businesses. Tamaki would manage it somehow with Kyouya's instruction, but there would be all manners of other things—fiancées and universities and homes and suspicions. They would see each other every evening. They would see each other once a week. They would find time on monthly visits, when Tamaki was in Japan and Kyouya not barking out orders. They would fracture, depart, and find each other again every few years when nostalgia won the best of them.

Kyouya cannot bear the idea of an older Tamaki gazing at him over a wine glass, eyes soft and aged and longing.

Every road ends where it begins. Kyouya imagines a line in the sand and builds bricks over it, coughing in the grit and wishing he were strong enough not to need a wall at all.

Kyouya knows the sounds of the night when Tamaki plays them. The world seems to wrap around Tamaki, marking each imprint with a glimpse of him. The chirp of crickets bend to his humming. The rustle of leaves found in how he ruffles his hair into something unmanageable. The moon, swallowed by his cheekbones, the hollow well of wind caught when he clears his throat.

He is, to his own disgust, an appalling romantic. Tamaki has insisted this on several occasions; someone of passion can't be without romance. But Kyouya likes to keep the truth of the matter to himself. He is practical. But not everything obeys Kyouya's instructions, including himself.

So that's why he does it, when Tamaki turns, fairly brimming over with joy and smelling like river water yet. Not because Kyouya's planning for it, or wants it, or even thinks of it more often than a few minutes every other day, an afterthought behind budgets and costumes and breakfast. Not because he's doing the right thing, or the wrong thing, or even necessarily entering those factors into it. Kyouya does not consider the consequences—in the end, he's considered them more than enough and it's all for naught. Some things are irritatingly natural.

It's because it's Tamaki—and when he says, "Kyouya," it's like all the world is focused on the third child of a family's company that has swallowed him whole. It's because Kyouya is warm, and a little drunk, and neither of those two factors are related in the slightest.

"Kyouya," says Tamaki. "Do you—"

And Kyouya kisses him, and it is good.

If Kyouya has to be honest.

If he must—if that is what it comes to—then the justifications and rational objects don't matter. This can't happen. This won't happen. This shouldn't happen. This is going to happen. This is this, and this is him. What does it all come down to?

If Kyouya has to be honest, no one else will do.

He buys his father's company and completes his dream. Within moments, a phone call and a car leaving for the airport sweep it under the rug. Kyouya isn't an idiot. All the investments in the world, and it only took a boy and a kotatsu to wreck his ambitions, his plans, his disappointments. The world is disturbingly bright, as if a curtain has been yanked aside. He feels unseated. Disassembled.

He knows—he feels—he is, with Tamaki, completely—

"I'll see you to the head of the family," Kyouya grates, clutching Tamaki's collar with his fingers. He can still taste the wine on Tamaki's breath intermingled with his own. The metallic tang of saliva, the brittle aftertaste of addiction. His heart is lost in that mouth, now. So much of Kyouya gone.

Tamaki's face is almost too close to see. "Ah," he breathes into Kyouya, trembling only a bit. "But will you see me?"

Kyouya smiles.

In all things, Kyouya Ohtori is heady and sure. Every risk will pay off or destroy you. In all things, take the gamble.

The End