Title: the shattered soul
Series: Ouran High School Host Club
Characters: Kyoya Ohtori, Haruhi Fujioka
Rating: PG13 to be safe
Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance. As usual.
Warnings: OOC-ness. Inaccuracies. Nonsensicality. Song lyrics.
postcards from italy.
ouran high school host club (c) bisco hatori.
postcards from italy (c) original owners; beirut.
…the shattered soul, following close but nearly twice as slow
in my good times, there were always golden rocks to throw
at those who would, admit defeat too late
those were our times, those were our times
He never thought that, in the span of these short years that he knew her, he would turn into such a horrible romantic.
After all, the prose about eyes and hair and stars and such were Tamaki's territory and field of expertise; not his. He was the one who stayed in the shadows, drew up all the strings, and waited to see what happens out of it. Not the one who got tied up like a helpless puppet, swayed by the whims of a puppetmaster who paid him no heed.
But everything's been said and done, and there was no turning back now. Because no matter how hard he tried to disregard it, it still doesn't change the fact that he thinks the stars pale in comparison to her eyes. It still won't change how when he sees her smile he can hear the angels' trumpets booming down from heaven. It still won't change how he looks at her and thinks that no one could ever compare, even the beautiful heiresses he has always been around since his youth.
He could do anything, say anything, deny everything, but it still won't change the fact that a smile from her makes his whole day and being on the receiving end of her glares make him suddenly cower into the darkness of a curtain and feel, irrationally, very small.
He doesn't know how it started, but he does know how it will end. Or, at least, how he thinks it should end. They will inevitably part ways, she to the law school she always pined about, and he to his father's company, maybe university, maybe marriage, he isn't quite so sure. But all he is so sure about is that she will never know, that she was never supposed to be his, even in his most fleeting and subconscious fantasies. And even if it makes his heart ache, it still won't change the fact that it was all true.
Because there was nothing else to do about the fact that he was just Kyoya Ohtori and she was just Haruhi Fujioka; something that the rarer, gentler and less ambitious part of him would say was simply enough. But he knows that it would never be enough, that the world would never stop revolving just because she stepped in the room, no matter how much he feels it does.
He loved her. Of course he did. How could he deny the truth when it stared him in the face each and every day with those big brown eyes and assaulted every cell in his body with that scent, that smile, that laugh…? How can he wake up to that realization and expect life to go on just like it always had been?
But he was an Ohtori, and things did not turn out this way. Things had to fall in neatly in place. He was not supposed to fall in love. Not like this, never like this. The Host Club, the 'friendships', the memories, the bridges forged in between – he was a businessman. He had no time to spend on such idle things. He had no use for feelings. As far as he was concerned, he was an Ohtori, and he had no use for his heart.
And so when Haruhi extracted herself from Tamaki's bone-crushing hug and looked at him and said "we should keep in touch", he shouldn't have said "I will" and meant it.
He didn't say it – actually, he did not want to say anything. But his subconscious did the answering for him, and he blanched when she smiled, and he realized that he actually did not want to let go of her just yet. Oh, how shameful.
The first time he writes to her, he is in Italy. Verona, to be exact, for some business arrangement or something – he travels on foot, takes a wrong turn, ends up at that wall, that misplaced altar of destiny populated by all those women. There is something about that balcony, about those letters, about the Shakespearian heroine who fought and died for her beloved, that reminded him of her.
That awakened that small voice in the back of his head, the one that wanted to "keep in touch" with her that graduation yesterday and an eternity ago, and makes it tell him: "what are you waiting for?".
And so he picks up one of those cards from the little stand in the corner of the café, takes out a pen from the pocket of his impeccably pressed suit, finds a surface he can legibly write on (he's long ditched the clipboard since graduation, after all – it still embarrasses him up to now about what exactly he wrote in it), and writes the address his subconscious has memorized ever since she gave him her address before he left, with a sideways glance and an uneasy laugh.
Now that he thought of it, it was…weird, how he'd always prided himself in being the only member of the Host Club not letting his world revolve around her. As it turned out, he was just the same as all of them – leaping fearlessly into the cold open waters without any knowledge of what they were doing, and now too far off from terra firma than they would have liked. And he didn't like it. He was admitting defeat, complete and utter defeat from her charms, and now he was half a world away from her and there was nothing he could do about it. Well, what would the others think of him now, he thought.
Kyoya looked down at the card in his hands. It was a postcard, plain and simple, a picture of the crossroads that he remembered passing on the way to Juliet's balcony. He knew that postcards were a way to show where the sender was, and he was…in a crossroads. How ironic.
In order to stop overthinking the reason to his actions too much and just get on with the task at hand, he scribbles down a mundane greeting to her, finds a mailbox, and drops it off as if he didn't send all his meager hopes along with it.
She sends him a postcard too, a card the same size as the one he sent out, handed to him by one of the blonde, brown-eyed Italian maids who took care of his family's house in the city. It is a tastefully-done picture of the Tokyo skyline; he could clearly make out which ones of the skyscrapers were his family's, and which were on the way to being bought by his family. It is this thought that keeps his visage calm and slightly amused even as he can feel his heart beating madly against his chest like a sledgehammer.
It is also that egotistic thought that gives him the presence of mind to thank the woman and close the door to his room calmly before turning the card around. He reads it, and he smiles.
She really hasn't changed, and it is the thing that he hates and loves the most about her. Haruhi Fujioka might be the only one who doesn't choose her words excruciatingly carefully when she was around him; she didn't play with her words and merely got to the point. After saying the expected – that she wasn't expecting him to send her anything, he could feel the red splashing itself across his cheeks liberally as he read the remains of the sentence – that was unexpected, but I liked it. I've really missed you, senpai.
There was a time, a feeble memory deep in his heart of hearts, when he had the sudden and unexplainable urge to just lay it all out there on the table and ask her to marry him. Again, it was impossible, and he knew that there was no chance that his plans would actually fall through. But, as much as he knew he hated to admit it, it was all worth it, if only for his mind's eye to see her in that dress, face glowing and resplendent, white floor-length gown clinging to and emphasizing just the right spots (…did she fill in yet? Or was she still the same as before? God, sometimes he shouldn't be thinking too much about the answers to his questions.).
It is a beautiful day in Milan, and a wedding ceremony has just ended in the Santa Maria delle Grazie. Rose petals litter the ground, spill out from the bridesmaids' hands and the childrens' baskets, painting the stucco grayness red, red, red. It is this shade of rose petals that remind him of that one music room all those years ago, the intricate tea sets, the fabricated feelings, and yet, the sheer honesty of it all. His father would never know of it, but there wasn't anything he wouldn't give to return to those simpler times; when he was still allowing himself the childish excuses of being pulled by his heartstrings to feel jealous when Tamaki or the twins held her hand, when he felt complete and utter bliss hearing his name from her lips.
It is clichéd, he knew. But still, it was the truth. However, just because it was the truth didn't mean that it was right.
Still, it did nothing to stop him from going to the nearest café, picking up another card – this one had the cathedral printed on it, but without the wedding party he'd been envisioning in it for the past half-hour (thankfully) – and thinking.
Haruhi, he begins. First of all, stop calling me senpai.
His father calls him one night, after he is done with all the business arrangements and with all the extra partnerships he has made on Italian soil, and therefore running out of excuses to stay in Italy. He knows that when he goes home, his father has a pretty little bride waiting for him. Some heiress from some big company that will be beneficial to them in the near future. He knows that it is all in the plan, that this is the fate that has been drawn out for those of his kind. And he knows that he shouldn't be running away from it, but he does.
"Son, when are you going home? The preparations are underway – you have to be home in a month. Remember what I told you, Kyoya." Make no mistakes. This is important. Don't disappoint me, son. He remembers, even if there is something deep inside him that hopes he does not.
He is supposed to answer "Yes". He is supposed to take the plane tickets he knows will greet him when he has his breakfast tomorrow, to fly back to Japan and marry whoever it is he is supposed to marry. He is supposed to build a family by hook or by crook, to make heirs worthy of his name, to work harder until there is nothing else to do but be better. He is not supposed to be thinking of a pair of brown eyes he bid farewell to years ago, not supposed to be remembering how she smells like strawberries and sunshine and perfection, not supposed to be thinking that she is smiling at him through every line she writes.
But he does, anyway, and he finds himself making his father a deal he would have never thought about if he didn't know her. Two weeks. He stays in Italy, "composes" how he feels about things. He knows it is a horrible excuse, but he doesn't care what his father may think. Two weeks. Then he goes back and forgets.
Hopefully.
He is in Venice this time, and still he sees red. Red juice spills from the strawberries he bites into, trickling down his arms like blood. It's unbecoming for such a rich heir, for an Ohtori especially, to eat with such reckless abandon, but he decides that he just doesn't really care. Then he remembers the last time he thought that way, in that fast food place in that commoner's mall, when he bit into the hamburger with gusto and her big brown eyes bore into his soul with their gaze. It was the first time of many that he'd vehemently denied that she meant anything to him. Which is, of course, a wrong course of action.
This is the thing with Italy – you eat and you sleep and you stroll and you drink and already they can call that a complete life. As long as you love and stay true to the simple things in life, everything will be okay – that is something that Kyoya will never, ever understand. He is not the kind to give up everything for love, or at least something that he thinks is love. He is not the kind of person who will give up calculated facts for risks, for chocolate brown eyes and warm smiles, for the feeling of his heart pounding frantically against his chest when a postcard from her gets handed to him in the mail.
He remembers the commoner's mall, the gelato stall they pass after 'depositing' the rest of the Host Club on the rooftop. He remembers the wistful look in her eyes, how they widened when he took her arm and asked the shopkeeper for a cup of strawberry gelato. He remembers her smile, and it is brighter than anything he has ever seen, and the sweet "arigatou, senpai" that flowed from her lips. It is the first time he's ever made somebody so happy, and the thoracic pump in his chest makes one beat after another and he's afraid of losing his breath. He's so intent on willing himself to breathe properly that he doesn't notice the spoon pushed in between his lips before he registers the tart sweetness rolling on his tongue. He looks at her then, and she takes another spoonful as if nothing happened, as if his heart didn't jump out of his chest and implode into a little pile of dust.
Two weeks have ended. He goes home and there is no more excuse to not follow through, but he cannot. There are the strawberry-infused dreams, the erstwhile fantasies, the big brown eyes following him in his dreams. The dreams that he shouldn't be having, but he does anyway.
His bride is beautiful, chocolate brown curls cascading down her waist, perfectly rouged lips set in a permanent smile of politeness. She is a million times more beautiful than her, a million times smarter, a million times richer, and a marriage with her would increase their company's worth a hundredfold. He shouldn't be feeling remorse about any of this. But he does.
And he must have not been good at hiding his secrets, because his father calls him one day, to "talk about this marriage".
For some reason, he finds himself scared about how this might turn out.
"Your fiancée eloped with her boyfriend yesterday."
It is something that his father says as soon as he enters the room, not caring if he's listening or not, and also something that makes him feel as if the world has been lifted from his shoulders.
His father goes on about how the girl's family felt so ashamed that they decided to go through with the partnership anyway, even without the marriage, but Kyoya is no longer listening. He remembers the last postcard he got, the last one he was holding onto when he boarded the last flight out of Italy-
As long as it makes you happy, Kyoya, then I know you won't regret it.
He doesn't even register his father standing up from the chair behind the table, walking up to him, before his hand is on the younger man's shoulder. "Go, son."
Eyes hidden behind spectacles widen and look at the older man grudgingly. Kyoya's father has never been partial to him – he was always and forever the underdog – but the tone of his voice, the tilt of his lips, the warmth of his touch remind him of when he was but a little child, and he'd thought about not being loved and he wanted to be, such childish thoughts – and wait, what exactly did he say-?
"Go, son." The older ma n smiles. "Be ha ppy."
A/N: Finally, it's done! (a ctua lly, it isn't, but i just wa nted to post it a lrea dy...) This was supposed to be some fluffy, type-madly-for-one-hour blitz fic with Kyoya and Haruhi and blue roses meaning impossible love (which I got from a Hetalia fic about England and an OC!Philippines, by the way) when I saw that Maidenchan has already done a lovely fic about that on one of the KyoHaru communities. So this ended up taking two weeks longer than I expected, and only grew into what it is now due to my love for the song "Postcards from Italy" and reading the book "Death in Venice". If you've read that, you can remember the scene with von Aschenbach and the strawberries. But I didn't make them rotten this time. Hehh, does that mean something?
Postcards from Italy – Florence and the Machine (of course)
Just the Way You Are – Bruno Mars
One More Chance – Michael Jackson
Lucky – Jason Mraz feat. Colbie Calliat