A/N: Sort of sequel to Masquerade Ends.
Was So
This was so they could be friends, this was so they wouldn't forget, this was so they could ride together on clouds and sing down the moon.
This was—was dead.
Tamaki watches the Host Club dissipate and remember that what was was just that. It was. He closed shut the piano, re-draped it in brocade and tulle, and walked out (not turning back). And so—
life went on.
-
She snaked her arms around his neck (snaked herself around his life) and whispered—hot breath and centuries—into his ear. She played him for keeps.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
Tamaki looked at her and sighed. And thought: this must be what heaven is like. Saw straight into her heart, past her short-cropped hair and boyish, coltish limbs, and knew her for her.
"Yeah, let's go, Haruhi."
She nodded and led him away from the barren sands they were once stranded on.
-
"I think Kyouya is jealous," she joked cheerfully (only it was not funny).
"Maybe."
-
Tamaki played at his graduation, a parting gift from one of the most brilliant students—of his year, of ever.
His father clapped, an enthusiast. And his grandmother scowled, a harridan. But underneath her scowl was a smile (and underneath the smile was another scowl). She downturned her lips and pretended to despise.
Him and his father and what the two did: wreak havoc upon her family. Sully the name, destroy peace & harmony and—
They stood for Kyouya (the other, the truly genius one of his year) to speak.
He cleared his throat, once, twice, and again.
Again.
They leave to begin.
—It all sounded so trite.
And so, Kyouya reinvented the speech, to make it permanent—everlasting in the dim caverns they called memory—and to make a statement. That was her idea, by far the best. Renge always knew best.
From the audience, Renge and Haruhi applauded like everyone else. Mimicking the tide of the masses, the undulation of fitting-in. Snug. They looked at each other and nearly burst out laughing.
It had been a solemn affair.
-
this was so they couldn't run away,
this was so—for the aged to
keep
remember, remember
keep
and hold and
keep
their shadows and broken thoughts
strung (high) together
alive
-
The hour struck twelve and the pumpkin shattered.
It hit the ground—loud and dramatic.
It wrote itself—an aria for the world to hear.
The pumpkin faded and so did they.
-
At the last party the Host Club will ever give, Haruhi felt her heart splitting in two.
It was quiet and private, reserved only for the Hosts (and two or three "special" guests). But still, she thought it was too vast, too spacious, and fallacious. And wondered why even now, they still kept all these secrets from each other.
She saw Tamaki and Kyouya acting foolishly (the first) and supervising the frivolities (the second). And she wanted (demanded) to know what they will do now
—now that the fairytale ended.
And to herself, she questioned if there ever really was a fairytale. That maybe it had always been a lie, a trick of the eye(s), a piece of wool they readily tossed over their heads.
(And whatever happened to Hunni and Mori?)
This was the second time, but it stung worse than ever. Stupid. Sentimental. She should have been accustomed by now, should have expected the emotions and notions. It was gone, was so.
Was so them, and herself.
To be like this, to depart anonymously (for all their banter and theatrics). When things counted, when their debonair touches mattered, they were subdued and understated.
-
She tore down the signs indicating, showing potential customers and unsuspecting teachers, the path to Music Room Three.
The Twins did nothing and watched as she burnt down castles and eviscerated dragons.
Story stopped, was so.