A/N: this one snuck up on me. Apologies for lack of linkages and the seeming unrelated-ness. I've been in a scattered, drabble-y mood as of late and this is reflected. First bit is before the days of the Host Club. Others are set during or after.
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.
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There are days where Tamaki will sit and write poetry in the sands of any beach he goes to for what seems like hours, so focussed and dedicated, all in the language of his mother.
With a laugh, he will explain how Maman never let him get too close to the water back at home whenever Kyouya would care to comment on this particular fascination of his.
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Lately, it feels like in just a few days or months or years, his best friend has become any sane person's nightmare, or a silent-movie version of it. Everything but the words.
However, calling Tamaki sane would be an insult if there ever was one as any sane person would know when to stop after one look at the youngest Ohtori in his present state.
"Why should you understand, Tamaki?" is the final bit he receives during this episode of Kyouya's. "You were nobody's third child."
Instead of admitting that he had often wished to be somebody's third child, Tamaki muses aloud that a little tea might do them some good.
He makes them two cups of a liquid that possesses the colour of blood and the scent of flowers. Rosehips, hibiscus…and he cannot identify anymore The bitterness makes him wince after each sip and he watches the smoky red residue left by the imported teabags on the base of the cup to get the taste off his mind. Watching Kyouya is not an option. Kyouya has left the room, or the building—or the country—Tamaki would never know for certain but he knows that Kyouya will return, even if only because of the fact that Kyouya has drained his cup.
In Tamaki's own attempt to finish off the drink, he firmly intends to maintain a straight face and not grimace, fails, and makes a mental note to never serve this flavour to their guests in the Third Music Room.
Regardless, a part of him cannot help but reason that if love could be liquefied, it would not taste far from.
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It feels as if many days have gone by but the King cannot completely awaken.
He makes another trip to the sands and waits for his friend, his shadow, to return to his right mind—or just return—and prays that it happens soon because the colours are starting to hurt his eyes and the voices sound eerie and garbled.
If anyone were ever to ask, he would not be able to answer for the life of him precisely when co-existence had blurred into co-dependence but only that it had.
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After Kyouya has finished mourning his losses, he counts his blessing much as he always does.
Strangely predictable, thinks Tamaki, as the bespectacled boy comes right around and etches his name in the sand beside Tamaki's own, before it.
The surf approaches, crashes against the shore, and takes everything else away.