Alright, so here goes my first ever Kyoya fic!

Alright, I have a few comments to make. First, my character is based a little bit off of my own personality, just because I've found that my inner self is...rather interesting. It's a bit like looking at yourself, and Maria came to life when I thought about what would happen if I was whisked away to Ouran and I was more extreme in my emotions and anger than I already am. No, this is not self-insertion, and no, this is not me trying to be perfect. You will learn quite quickly that Maria is not that kind of character. I made her that way on purpose because my other stories are very Mary Sue-ish and rather disgusting in some ways. People aren't perfect no matter who they are.

With that in mind, please also keep in mind that, although I love Ouran High School Host Club, I do have some characterization problems. Kyoya is freakin' hard to write, and let me tell you, getting him to say things isn't hard...getting him to say things in the right way, with the right kind of vocabulary and the right tone, is. So cut me some slack, make some suggestions, and overall, just do what you came here for: read for the simple enjoyment. Many of you who write Kyoya will agree that he is hard and that it is hard to find a fic that puts him completely into perspective and stays true to him enough to satisfy. I have a hard time, anyway.

So, any OC's are of course mine, as well as this story. Characters belong to Bisco, and any other things mentioned in here belong to their respective authors/owners.

So without further ado, onto my first fic, which I hope you will greatly enjoy!


Art Studio Four. My sanctuary. My favorite room in this God-forsaken place filled with rich snobs and snooty bitches. I'm not at all like them—I'm American through and through, here on a scholarship. Yep, I'm just your normal, everyday, stupid commoner who doesn't possess any sort of tact or manners, so I've been told. Whatever, I don't care what these upper crust assholes and bitches have to say, I like the way I am. I like the ability to say what I feel when I feel like it. I don't care if no one likes it, I don't need them anyway. They all just want to screw me over anyway.

If you can't tell yet, I'm quite the pessimist. I'm also very fluent in sarcasm, which I'm sure you'll find out very quickly.

I push my very much American light brown hair out of my face. My complexion, not quite as white as many of these pasty, weak, dishrag, upper crust humanoids, is marred with the occasional mark of acne. Being 17 and all, it makes sense. Just past the average puberty age in America, so the raging hormones are starting to die. Though in all honesty, I don't think they were ever a problem in the first place. I'm concentrating on the work of art in front of me—a sketch of one of the many vast gardens in this place, Ouran Private High School. I happen to have my hair up in a ponytail at the moment, so that it's out of my way, and because I tend to do a lot of movement when I draw, paint or sculpt. My bangs are the only thing that hang in my face, and they're rather long. Unable to afford the uniform at this school, I show up in clothes I'm used to wearing in the states: jeans, a comfortable T-shirt, and my favorite pair of walking tennis shoes. I stand out like a sore thumb amongst these fuddy duddies, but I don't care.

Oh, and I'm extremely apathetic, in case you haven't noticed by now.

Worst part is, I'm in class 2-A, the highest class of second years, because of my 'outstanding academic performance', as the school has dubbed. If it weren't for the fact that this school is filled to the brim with geniuses, I'm sure I'd be top in the class. However, settling for third doesn't sound like such a bad idea anymore, considering that these people probably had private tutors and I got here on my own sweat, tears, and frustrations. I'm proud of that fact, and I try to make sure anyone who tries to tell me that I'm 'lesser' know that I got where I'm at because I'm good at something, not because mama and papa are shooting green out of their earholes.

That's right, earholes. My own, one-of-a-kind, made up word. And I love using it.

I suppose it's because somewhere deep down, I want to fit in, but it doesn't seem very likely at the moment. I stick out, I'm apathetic, and admittedly, I am very rude to a lot of people. I guess it's the conniving American in me, or the way my mother raised me, but I don't care. I don't care what people think, what they say, what they do, because they don't matter. All that matters in the world of the poor and underprivileged is using what you're given to the best of your abilities and giving up the dream of having everything you want, because it's not going to happen. You can only ever rely on yourself, no one else, to help you. My mama and papa are poor as can be—before I was born, they were living on welfare. My father has worked his entire life to get to where he's at with little more than tech degrees in mechanics and electric work. My mother used to be an accountant, but she gave that up when she decided to have kids. She spent all of the years I've grown up taking care of my sisters and I. I have two younger siblings, one in high school, another in middle school, and we're poor. Poor monetarily, wealthy with love, and in reality it's all we need. It's all we've ever needed. We all made sacrifices and have had to give up on dreams, but hey, that's life. Something these hoity-toity prick bastards could never understand.

I'll be the first to admit I'm jealous. Of course I'm jealous. How could a poor person not be jealous of the rich? After all, when someone has everything you want, you loathe them. It's a given. Even if they never harm you, never do anything to you, you envy them and loathe them. One of the seven deadly sins that occur so naturally because of the class systems of the world of democracy.

Sometimes, I wonder if China has the right idea.

So how does poor, apathetic, angry-at-the-world, rich-loathing me get into the prestigious Ouran Private High School? I'm here on an academic scholarship, but my fine arts scholarship pays for the housing. After all, what poor family can afford to send their oldest daughter to Japan? I used what little money I've saved up over the years to fly myself here, and the rest was paid for by my fine arts scholarship. I do mostly drawing and painting—pretty average stuff. It impressed the prestigious art teachers here, enough to where they wanted me to come just so they could have the 'honor' –their words, not mine—of being my teachers and artistic cultivators. I personally thought it was a load of whack, but I can't say I'm not grateful they gave me the full room and board plus stipends scholarship. If not for that I'd still be in that shithole of a school in the middle of nowhere outside of Las Vegas.

I'm not very involved here, in all honesty—there's just not that much to do. Aside from complimentary private lessons from my teachers and the occasional run to the bookstore or cafe around the corner from my apartment, I'm pretty much bored to tears. Schoolwork is mediocre at best, though it's better than what I was getting in the U.S. I was lucky enough to start learning Japanese from a very young age, though I'm 100% German-Irish descent. I've moved a lot of places in the U.S., met a lot of people, and I've always been a secret otaku. I draw my own manga from time to time, I watch anime avidly, and now I can do it without the English subs. It's just a skill I learned slowly over time. On my own, I bought books where I could and checked out books just so I could learn. When I reached high school I was able to take Japanese language courses, which really helped. I speak it fluently, to sum things up, so the opportunity to leave the wonderfully fantastic America and come to the even more spectacular Japan, with their hot boys and amazing Yaoi conventions, was one that I took up instantly. My family was so happy for me, and my mother told me I had to take advantage of the opportunity, so I did. Once in a lifetime, she said. I'm here for the remainder of high school, and once I finish I have a higher chance of getting into Tokyo University—my dream school—with a full ride. Needless to say, I'm glad this opportunity came into my life. I didn't want to be stuck in the ho hum, humdrum, bland life I've always had. This is definitely a welcome change.

"McMillan-san, why are you still here? It's rather late...you should be heading home." My teacher, Mr. Okizawa, had always been so kind. He's like my father away from home. He's been looking out for me since I arrived. I turn to him and smile.
"No, I think I'll stay a while longer. Thanks, Okizawa-sama." I say, going back to my easel. I know that he would like to leave for the day, but he knows that leaving me alone is perfectly alright. If anything, he comes back in the morning to find me either in the same place or at least the sight of the room rearranged and reorganized.
"Alright then. I'll bid you good night. Be sure not to forget that Ishizu-san wants you to check the music wing as well as the art wing today to make sure all of the doors are locked." I nod to him, wiping a bit of sweat from my forehead, knowing full well that graphite and rubber shavings are no doubt painted across the top of my face now.

"I won't forget. She is paying me for this job, after all. Good night, Okizawa-sama." I say as he waves to me. I continue sketching, and once finished with the first draft, decide that I've hurt my back enough and pack up. I clean and reorganize the room, then leave and lock the door behind me. I roam the art hallway and lock all six art rooms. I move down the hallway, turn left, and follow the outdoor connection between the art and music hallways. I come to the music rooms, and one by one I start to close them. It isn't until I hear beautiful piano music that I stop my process. I walk further down the hallway, turn, and hear the music getting closer. Curious—having been in choir and band in high school—I wanted to know who it was that was playing so beautifully. Snobby or not, I had to know. It was in my nosy nature to know who was creating such beautiful art so late in the day.

I don't even bother looking at the room number I walk into. Instead, I quietly—almost silently—open the door and slip inside. I set down my large art case, as well as the clangy keys, and tiptoe forward. I manage to stop at the back of a couch before my jaw drops, and for good reason, I assure you.

At the piano sits a blond boy, probably about my age, who is strikingly handsome. His hair is shining, shaggy, but nonetheless trimmed and well-manicured. I bet his absence of split ends could put my hair to shame. His eyes were closed, but the soft, sad smile told more of a story than I think his eyes could. He was in his own world, loving the music he was playing, caressing it beautifully with his fingers. It was as if those keys were his canvas, and the paint was the sounds he produced. I closed my own eyes, and it was as if I was connected to the music. It seemed to pull me in, invisible strings wrapping around me and gently lurching me along with every phrase.

"Tamaki, it seems we have a visitor. An admirer of yours, by the looks of it." At the smooth, suave sound of a voice behind me, I jump out of my skin—figuratively, of course—and manage to get my clumsy self to tumble over the back of the couch and land on my bottom.

Curse gravity and my long legs. I hate you both.

"Miss, are you alright? Are you hurt at all?" I look up into the face of the blond boy and stare into deep blue eyes. However, my current situation has made me a bit sour.
"No, I just fell over the back of a couch. No big deal, happens every day. I'm totally okay." The sarcastic tone in my voice is thick, which means my accent is as well. I feel like a total idiot right now, but I was caught off guard. Guess that's what I get for intruding.
"...Really? You should be more careful then...are you sure you're not hurt?" He asked, and I sighed, standing up.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Maybe my ass will be bruised tomorrow, but I think what's hurt more is my pride. That was a pretty embarrassing tumble I took." I say admittedly. No use trying to hide it or say 'I meant to do that, I really did'. It's useless by now.
"Such coarse language doesn't suit an exotic beauty such as yourself! Tell me your name, my princess, so that I may know the illustrious face in front of me!" He's now on one knee, holding my hand, almost about to kiss it. I guess now wouldn't be the time to tell him about the amount of sweat, graphite, rubber shavings, and grease on those fingers. Though it would be funny to see his reaction.

"Maria. Maria McMillan. And...could you possibly stand? You look like a fool kneeling like that." I say, and I can tell I've wounded his pride.
"You hurt me with your words, princess. After all, I'm only here to serve you!" He says, standing to his full height. I swear that I see an abundance of flowers and sparkles as he spreads on arm wide, the other on his chest, in an introductory and dramatic manner.

So he's one of those. The insanity surely makes sense. As much as I love being an otaku, these types of men make the clichés in the stories come to life. You'd think it would make me giddy. In reality it's a little more like it disturbs the hell out of me.

"Tamaki, I think that's unnecessary. She doesn't seem to be taking your flattery." That same suave voice startles me yet again, and I put a hand on my heart. He's still behind me, I realize. I turn around to see him, and quite honestly, I find this guy even more attractive than the blithering idiot behind me.

He was taller than me, which was a plus—being five foot eight inches has its disadvantages in this oriental country—and drop dead gorgeous. I wasn't sure if I was open mouthed and drooling, but if I wasn't, I was certain it would happen at any moment. Sharp contours and high cheekbones in his face screamed blue blood. His prim appearance made me wonder just how much the pair of spectacles on his face cost. Probably a fortune, since the lenses were surely made of diamonds and the frame crafted with pure onyx and silver. Looking past them though, I saw deep gray eyes, stormy, and they reminded me of a dark and stormy day in Missouri. Beautiful as they were, they were amazingly cold and analytical as well. He was slim, of course, being a teenage boy. In his hands were a black pen and a little black notebook. In all honesty, he's making me wonder if I'd been wrong when I'd said the raging hormones were no longer a problem.

"Could you not sneak up behind me? I hate that..." I mutter, looking away from him apathetically. Can't let him think that I'm thinking about jumping into the sack with him. That would be just downright creepy. Curse my dirty Yaoi and hentai crazed mind. Make me an internal creeper, go ahead.
"I'm sorry, McMillan-san, but you did come into this room unannounced. This room is closed off after hours." I shrug.
"I know that already. I'm the one that locks this place up, after all." I say, rolling my eyes in order to keep them off of the intellectually enticing man. However, the temptation is too much to resist. I look him in the eyes and, though he isn't surprised, the dark look in his eyes has lightened slightly.
"Oh, I see. We were just leaving, so you may continue about your business. You're an employee here, correct?" I shrug, uninterested.
"In a way. I get paid so I have a little extra money. I'm an art student here." I say simply, internally hoping he doesn't have any more questions for me. That way I can be on my way.
"You don't wear the Ouran uniform. How can you be a student?" I sigh, frustrated already. My extremely thin patience is wearing even thinner with every word that comes out of his mouth.
"I can't afford a uniform. I'm on academic and art scholarships here. I'm from a poor family in the U.S. I can't afford a uniform." I say, my voice surely getting testy and bitchy by now. He's aggravating an already sore subject. I don't like him already.

"Oh, my apologies. I didn't realize. I apologize if my words offended you." I turn to him, cocking an eyebrow.
"What makes you think you offended me?"
"You became rather defensive and upset after my questions. I figured I had upset you." I shake my head, sighing.
"I'm not that easily frazzled. I've been here long enough not to let the prejudices of the upper crust bother me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get home. I have a ton of homework to finish." I say, turning my back and walking toward the door.
"Your name was...what again?" I turn back to the bespectacled boy and cross my arms. He's got his notebook open and his pen ready to write.
"Writing a book or what? Why so many questions? I'm not that frickin' interesting." I say, picking my things up. I turn the blithering blond idiot who I have been ignoring since talking with this boy in front of me.

"I must say, sir, you play beautifully. I'd like to hear you again sometime, if that's alright." I say to him, and his eyes start to sparkle.
"Anything for you, princess. Name a time and I will be here to play to your heart's content!" I roll my eyes at this whole 'princess' mantra, but continue anyway.
"Well, I'm free all afternoons after school is over. If you practice every day, I'd be more than happy to bring my work into this room and listen to you while I work. Is that alright?" I ask, and almost immediately he answers me.
"Yes, yes! Of course, princess, come to this music room every day if it pleases you! We can clear an area for you to work your magic, and I'd be more than happy to play for you! Do not hesitate to bring your beauty around us! We would be honored with your presence!"
"Right..." I say, dragging it out in sarcasm. This guy is a piece of work for sure. I turn to leave, and yet again that smooth voice stops me.
"You never did reiterate your name, miss." He says, an analytical look in his eyes. Purely information to him, nothing more.
"Maria. It's Maria McMillan. And what's the name of my interrogator?" I ask, cross my arms as my art case hangs across my body, my hip thrust out to the side. I'm clearly being sassy to him, but he seems to take it well. Good, he's not offended, not like I care, but it's one less thing I have to deal with.
"Ootori. Kyoya Ootori, McMillan-san." I turn to the blond next.
"And you?" I ask him. He smiles dramatically and elegantly, flying over to me—literally—and landing on one knee. He takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, then continues.

"I, princess, am Tamaki Suoh. It's a pleasure to make you acquaintance, Maria-chan. I look forward to spending many afternoons and evenings with you." I pull my hand away from him, wipe it absently, and nod.
"And this is music room...?" He stands with a brighter smile.
"This is music room three." The sterner, smoother voice answers for the blond idiot in front of me, who in turn gives him a look of disbelief.
"Right. Music room three. Got it. Make sure to lock the door on the way out. I'll get in trouble and get a paycut otherwise, and I don't want that." I say, turning my back and leaving the room.

God, it's been a long day. I feel a DNAngel rerun is in order for tonight after homework.


Okay, so that's the end of the first chapter. So what do you think of Maria? What do you think of her as a character? How do you see her fitting into the story? I've already got eight more chapters, well, nine actually, that are written and ready to go. I don't have a beta so anyone who wants to be one can just ask. This is my first Kyoya fic, and though I have written others in the past, this is the only one I've ever published. Constructive criticism is appreciated!

All yours,

B-chan :)