A/N: I don't know what it is, but I love an 'arranged marriage' plotline. Something about starting a couple off on the 'extreme' difficulty setting just appeals to me. This story is a bit different from my usual fare as I'm setting things during the manga instead of post-canon.
The difficult thing about trying to set a story which follows the events of the manga is that Bisco Hatori looped time back on itself at least twice over the course of the series. I'm taking that as the freedom to arrange the timeline as I need to. The story starts off in summer, after the battle of Kuruizawa and before the School Festival.
Warning up front - this is rated T for a reason. I don't do explicit scenes, but married people will do married things and there will be other T-14 content and references to potentially triggering situations. I may or may not put a warning in front of an particular chapter depending on how spoilerish it would be.
Last, but not least - standard disclaimers apply. Ouran and it's characters belong to Bisco Hatori. Support the mangaka - buy the books or the DVDs.
If you like, please R&R
"I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity."
– Edgar Allen Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
Natsumi stared up at the building looming above her. It was big.
No, not big. That was the kind of crappy, weak-ass adjective writing teachers went ballistic over. It was immense. Sprawling. Lavish. Something that bore more resemblance to an Edo era palace than a family home. And more than just a tad foreboding.
Who the hell was this guy?
Beside her, two men dressed like extras from The Matrix stirred restlessly, as if any minute they'd take matters into their own hand and knock on the door themselves. Surprisingly, they hadn't shown the same enthusiasm in dropping her off as they had in escorting her into the car idling behind them. Probably had orders not to do anything that would make her look reluctant.
Why had Grandfather even thought they were necessary? It wasn't like she had anywhere else to go other than where he wanted her to. She hadn't even tried to run away from that *cough* school *cough* he'd consigned her to for the month before her fateful sixteenth birthday. The place which had all the cheer and light of a standard Dickensian orphanage. The place which might as well have had the word 'Wayward' in between "The Satori School for" and "Girls."
Probably the henchmen were only there to guarantee she'd show up. To make sure it was known that he hadn't been the one to break the contract.
Natsumi sucked in a lungful of air, threw back her shoulders and clutched the envelope in her right hand, adding more wrinkles to the once flawless paper. Enough equivocating - might as well get it over with. Hopefully, she'd be able to figure out a way not to have to be here for long. She'd been expelled from thirteen schools in three years, how hard could it be to get thrown out of a stuffy-looking place like this? The only trick would be in making sure it was the other party who had to pay for breaking the agreement.
Piece. Of. Cake.
Stepping up to the pair of gleaming wooden doors carved in intricate patterns she looked around the frame in vain for anything as prosaic as a doorbell. Giving up with a shrug, she knocked.
The door opened before she'd rapped more than once. An elderly, kimono-clad gentleman opened the door just enough to block further entry and peered down at her with the pomposity only an old family retainer could muster. Scanning her from the bright pink bangs (roots grown out after a month without access to hair dye), down the God-awful, shapeless, navy sailor fuku (the height of fashion back in the Taisho era), to the tips of her ugly-as-sin penny loafers, his face took on a level of pinched disdain that rivaled an English butler.
"Can I help you?" He drawled in a voice that said he would gladly help her as far away from the door as was humanly possible.
His look, like she was something scraped off the bottom of a shoe, acted as a giant needle poking into the balloon of anger which had been roiling in her gut ever since the headmaster had called her into his office this morning and told her of her fate. She bristled – he had no right to cast judgement on her. She wasn't the person insisting she be here. She hadn't been the one to drag a sixteen-year-old girl halfway across Japan so some old guy could get his rocks off. She wasn't the person in this scenario who should be regarded with contempt.
"Oi, gramps!" She threw his condescension back at him with force. "I'm Yoshida Natsumi and I'm here to marry Morinozuka-san. Gonna let me in now?"
She almost laughed at how quickly his face recomposed itself into implacability. "Of course, Yoshida-sama, please come in." The no-longer-sneering man bowed low, hitting the exact degree to show respect to the future wife of his master and not a centimeter further.
Her trepidation fled under the weight of the thinly banked rage settling over her like an old friend. Turning her head to call out over her shoulder, she waggled her fingers at her bodyguards with a smirk. "Thanks for the escort, boys." They melted away silently back to the limo, dropping her single piece of luggage on the doorstep as they departed.
Natsumi stepped over the doorstep into an entry way every bit as archaic as the exterior of the house. With her luck she'd wandered into some K-drama where crossing the threshold had thrown her back a thousand years in time. One with an arrogant, entitled jerk male lead that she'd end up falling for instead of the far more preferable, gentle, honorable second lead. Because time-travel apparently induced stupidity even in educated women who should know better.
Thankfully, a pair of sneakers amidst the cluster of shoes in the doorway assured her she was still in the twenty-first century.
The - butler? Majordomo? Grand Vizier? - provided her with a pair of guest slippers before ushering her down the wood-floored hallway. Ignoring his not-so-discrete attempt to hurry her along, Natsumi took the time to examine architecture she'd never seen outside of a historical site - where the crowds and harried school teachers trying to move their charges back outside before they destroyed a piece of their national heritage infringed on her ability to stare about like a yokel.
The hallway was bordered on the left side by two pairs of closed Shoji doors. Her hands itched to open them and peer inside, but she doubted her escort would allow that –even if she was his future mistress (alleged). Opposite the second set of doors, a hallway branched to her right and, if she craned her neck just so, she could see it led to a set of stairs leading up to the second floor.
When she finally conceded to complete the journey down the main hall, they emerged onto an engawa running the length of the exterior on the rear side of the house. The screens along the outside wall had been thrown open in the faint hope a summer breeze would stir the heavy air and defuse the heat of the August day.
Natsumi irritated her companion further by stopping to look around with blatant curiosity. Who knew when she'd get such a chance again?
The engawa headed off left down a corridor which looked long enough to fit at least three 18-mat tatami rooms before it veered at another 90-degree angle to run along the east wing. Not side, wing. That was the kind of house this was – it had frickin wings.
The three sides of the house formed a blocky 'U' which framed a courtyard landscaped in - surprise, surprise – traditional Japanese style. Paved stepping stones led off in multiple directions, quickly disappearing behind flowering shrubs and brightly colored maples. Between the obscuring leaves, she caught a glimpse of water, hints of statuary and, far off in the distance past the edges of the house, larger trees that beckoned her to climb up and settle in their branches with a favorite book. It was like something out of a fantasy or a child's fairy tale.
It was almost enough to make her wish she could stay.
The retainer made a grumbling, coughing sound in his throat – a not so subtle hint that he wanted her to be somewhere else. Story of her life.
Opening a set of doors on the right, he gestured her to precede him into what was, for this house, a small room - merely eight tatami mats – containing a table, some cushions, and a beautiful, seasonal floral arrangement in an alcove set into the north wall.
"Please have a seat, Yoshida-sama. I will alert Morinozuka-sama to your presence." He crossed the room and opened the pair of screens on the outside wall which lead to another engawa and yet another garden. "I will bring you some tea while you wait."
Repressing a sigh at the lack of comfortable furniture, she dropped into seiza as gracefully as possible. "Don't bother," she replied more curtly than she intended. The beauty of the house had dispelled the resentment which had been carrying her through, leaving only agitation and a slightly queasy feeling behind.
Bowing, he exited the room and closed the doors behind him, leaving her with nothing to do but stare at the garden and brood. Well, try to brood. It was hard. The landscape beyond the open doors wasn't exactly brood-worthy. A good brood required sun-dappled forests brimming with shadows in which anything could lurk. Or jagged mountain peaks and gray skies threatening storms. Not a bunch of rocks that had been raked and combed within an inch of their lives. For Chrissake – there was even a thing that went 'doink.'
The steady 'doink' of the bamboo as it hit the rock echoed like the over-loud ticking of a clock as she waited. And waited. And kept waiting.
*gurgle, gurgle, gurgle – DOINK!*
*gurgle, gurgle, gurgle – DOINK!*
At some point the sound switched from annoying to relaxing and she settled deeper into seiza. She could hold this position for hours. Say what you would about Catholic nuns, but the sisters at her boarding school in Switzerland had nothing on the headmaster at the last place. A man whose beliefs about discipline would have fit right in with the Imperial Japanese Army.
In the background, she heard the faint sound of voices coming from the room opposite her seat. Her intended groom? Probably. The room she was in screamed 'antechamber' and the room beyond was most likely his private domain.
The paper in her hand rustled as she gripped it even tighter.
*gurgle, gurgle, gurgle – DOINK!*
*gurgle, gurgle, gurgle – DOINK!*
The entire journey here, she had studiously avoided thinking about the cause for it. The reason she had been unceremoniously rousted from bed to find out she was leaving yet another school – although this time not at her instigation.
The sadistic, son-of-a-bitch abbot had practically gloated when he'd informed her that 'Due to your continual defiance and obstinacy, your grandfather, Maeda-sama, has determined that your need for discipline exceeds that of even this establishment. It pains me to admit that I agree. You don't need a school – you need a husband with a firm hand who can curb your recklessness. Your grandfather has arranged a marriage for you with a good family. One known for their adherence to the old ways. I encourage you to, for once in your life, accept your fate with graciousness and cease heaping dishonor on your family.'
*gurgle, gurgle, gurgle – DOINK!*
*gurgle, gurgle, gurgle – DOINK!*
The worst thing was that she couldn't even disagree with what he'd said. Every accusation was true – she was rebellious, stubborn, rash, wild… Between the fourteen schools she'd passed through from middle school until now, she'd heard all of that and more. And she'd deserved every one. But if whatever bastard Grandfather had found actually used that 'firm hand' on her, she'd take a knife to him.
The greasy, oily cannon-ball in her stomach grew heavier.
She couldn't believe she'd finally done it. Finally pushed her grandfather too far. Finally forced him to act. But… did he have to do this? Had she really been that irredeemable? That much of a disappointment? She couldn't even answer that – he hadn't communicated with her in any way since she was six. No letters. No phone calls. Not even a stupid, chain email. The letter clutched in her hands was the closest she'd got, and even that was addressed to someone else.
*gurgle, gurgle, gurgle – DOINK!*
*gurgle, gurgle, gur...
"Natsumi-chan!" The door to the other room slid open to admit another traditionally dressed gentleman. "I'm so glad you've finally come to visit!" Taking a seat opposite her, he gave a smile that could warm a room in December. "I'm sorry we weren't prepared for your arrival, your grandfather didn't inform us he'd finally agreed to let you spend your summer break with us."
Natsumi reeled, trying to process that this seemingly good-natured man was her intended. And that he was implying an acquaintance with her that went back further than this morning.
Noticing her confusion, his smile turned a bit sheepish. "Ah… sorry, I forgot that you most likely wouldn't remember meeting me. I'm Morinozuka Akira."
Before she could stammer so much as a 'nice to meet you' the doors to the hallway opened again, admitting a young woman carrying a tray with a tea pot, two cups, and a bowl of what looked like homemade rice crackers. She was wearing a yukata. Of course.
Natsumi was tempted to slip out her cell phone just to double check that the bars still worked.
While the servant prepared the tea, Natsumi took the time to study the person she was meant to spend her life with. He was… much better looking than she'd expected. For his age. He had to be at least forty, maybe fifty. Dark hair, kind eyes, a slight resemblance to Sanada Hiroyuki, with a dignified bearing that didn't come across as arrogant. Not at all the type of person who she would have expected as needing to arrange a marriage.
But then, it was probably his tastes and not his looks which had necessitated taking such a step.
Thanking the servant for the tea, Natsumi sternly reminded herself that it didn't matter that something about him reminded her of the smell of cedar, the sharp crack of bamboo staves, and the weight of a large hand ruffling her hair. It didn't matter that he had a fatherly smile and sympathetic eyes. Any middle aged man who contracted to marry a sixteen-year-old girl was nothing less than a stone cold pedophile. He didn't deserve any deference from her. Any cooperation.
The maid departed and Morinozuka gestured at Natsumi to drink her tea. Selecting a rice cracker from the bowl, she bit into it. Definitely homemade – and very tasty – but it didn't settle her stomach. She could feel it, that dark, churning mass of emotion deep within, driving her to do… something. Anything. Anything that would make it stop. Anything that would let it ebb for just a little while.
"Does my grandfather owe you money?" She cursed herself the minute the question left her mouth but knew she wouldn't stop now that she'd started. She never could. Akira's eyes widened and she pressed on before he could reply. "Or did you pay him instead? I'm just curious, what does a teenage bride go for these days?"
The way his eyes crossed as his tea went down his wind-pipe was immensely satisfying to watch. For the first time since the day started, she felt a slim margin of control over her own life.
Morinozuka pounded on his chest with his fist and discretely coughed into a handkerchief. "I think... I think there's been a mistake. Natsumi-chan, are you..." He paused to thump on his breastbone again. "Are you under the impression that I'm your fiancée?"
The feeling of control vanished like mist. "Ano… are... aren't you?" The letter in her hands grew more creases as she wrung it like the neck of a chicken. "I… I just…" The nausea was back, this time tinged with panic. She'd been so caught up in fighting against her grandfather's edict, in lashing out at being married off to a pervy old man, that she hadn't even stopped to consider what it might mean to offend him. If he threw her out, if it were her fault that he threw her out, would there even be a place for her to go to?
Recovering from his coughing fit, Akira settled back on his heels, his face rearranging itself from startled to empathic. "Natsumi-chan, just what did you're grandfather tell you?"
"He didn't tell me anything." She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "The headmaster only told me that I was leaving school to be married."
She saw his fist tighten against his thigh and he turned his head to the side so she couldn't see his expression. Under his breath, he muttered what sounded like 'stubborn, old goat' before turning back to face her. "That letter you're holding onto for dear life, is that meant for me?" he asked in a tone generally reserved for talking people off a roof.
She nodded, sliding the crumpled paper across the table towards him. Opening it, he silently read though the contents, his mouth thinning into a straighter and straighter line with each word. "Damn that man," he said when done, shaking his head back and forth.
"Please, drink your tea." He motioned her to imbibe with the palm of his hand. "I would guess this has all come as a shock to you. Allow me to try and straighten things out. For one thing, the marriage contract wasn't arranged by your grandfather, but by your father, and it's not with me but with my son, Takashi. Don't worry." His eyes twinkled benevolently. "He's about your age. The two of you have been betrothed practically since birth."
Mention of her father threw her, made it impossible to hold on to the fury she'd been using as armor. She didn't remember much, she'd been so young when he died, but she'd filled the hole he'd left with countless girlish fantasies built around him. Around 'what if.'
"Your father was my kohai both at university and on the kendo team." Akira's face took on the distant look old people had when they started reminiscing. "He was one of the finest kendo-ka I've ever competed with. Or against. In my family, arranged marriages are the norm and, when I discovered Ryuu-kun's firstborn would be a girl, it felt like destiny."
His jaw clenched, slightly – but enough for Natsumi to register his annoyance. "I don't know why Maeda-san never told you any of this. You shouldn't have had to find out this way. Normally, you would have spent some of your school breaks with us. The two of you would have grown-up together. Gotten used to each other. But your grandfather refused every invitation…" With a sharp shake of his head, he cut himself off.
One deep breath later, the clouds had been chased off his face and the sunny smile returned. "Anyway, the past is in the past. What matters is that you are here now." He brandished the letter he'd been holding in his hand. "And it looks like your grandfather plans for you to stay. It's a bit late in the school year for a transfer, but I'm sure we can arrange for you to attend Ouran Academy with my sons despite that." Natsumi heard a faint 'scuff' from the hallway and Akira turned towards the door. "That must be our Takashi now. We can talk more later, I'm sure you have several questions and I would very much like the chance to get to know you better."
She was saved from having to respond to his uncomfortable solicitousness when the door slid open yet again, revealing a definitely-not-middle-aged man standing on the threshold. Unlike everyone else she'd met, he wasn't dressed as if he was starring in a period drama, although the black slacks and royal blue dress-shirt still smacked of formality. Then her eyes drifted up to his face and all thoughts of his wardrobe vanished.
He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.
Damn it. Not handsome – another weak-ass adjective. Weak was NOT something this guy deserved. Besides, handsome just didn't cut it. His attractiveness wasn't the androgynous, pretty-boy look everyone seemed to go for nowadays. His was old school. A real, old fashioned manliness that wouldn't be out of place in a Kurosawa film – like a young Nakadai Tatsuya or Hayakawa Sessue. In short, he was the man of her dreams.
Or rather, the men.
The dark, slightly disheveled hair of Mr. Darcy framed Rochester's stern looks and heavy brow from under which the gentle eyes of Gilbert Blythe peered out. Nose, cheekbones, and chin gave him a mien which balanced the stoic reserve of John Thornton with the patient steadiness of Almanzo Wilder, yet his soft, full lips held a hint of wildness and temptation to sin worthy of Heathcliff himself. And his body? Oh lord, his body was ALL the adjectives – from alluring right on down to yummy.
Natsumi's heart dropped right past the pit in her stomach, through the floor, and accelerated down towards the center of the earth. If this was supposed to be her fiancée, she had to be careful. Had to make sure to keep him at a distance while she tried to figure out how to get out of this and still have a place to call... no, not home. Her grandfather's house had never been her home in any sense of the word. Until she found a place to keep the rain out, then. Because if she didn't? If she let him get too close - it was going to hurt like hell when he abandoned her.
It always did.
Chapter titles are taken from common tropes. I'll put the explanation in the notes.
Chapter Title Trope Referenced: "The Thing That Goes Doink," used '...to establish that a Big Fancy House belongs to a family that is both traditionally Japanese and exceedingly wealthy...' (ref. TV Tropes)