A/N: I am blaming my lack of updates on the fact that I have had no classes this whole year. : ( I write the very best when I'm avoiding schoolwork. Don't worry though- I go to full-time classes this year starting in fall so all should be well once that gets going. Thanks to everyone for being so patient- and thanks to DarkPhoenixIncarnate for being my beta. You are extremely appreciated. XD
PS: For all of those who don't know, this is a sequel. Try reading That Kiss Was first. Things will make much more sense!
Host Club: Undercover Brothers
Hikaru's POV
Six years earlier...
The lights pulse soft blue and green overhead, perfectly in time with a techno beat that is both invigorating and relaxing. Each color flows over the runway in a decent impression of water. I'm so preoccupied with the light show that I barely pay attention to the six foot, six pound models strutting down the center.
"Mirrored shirts are so last season," Kaoru mutters next to me. I tilt my head to sneak a glance at him and see that he doesn't care whether I'm listening or not. "And look at those bows." A tsk escapes his lips, and I grin, not caring if I'm one of the only people here who's relaxed enough to do it. Seriously. Everyone else is focused on the fact that this is the most important show of the year. Designers are being judged, models who trip can be guaranteed a firing, and the critics are scrambling to nitpick.
Thank god my mother's not around to realize that I couldn't give a damn about fashion. Clothes are great and all, but I just can't bring myself to get obsessed.
My twin is another story. He would beg Mom to bring back sample dresses from the catwalk, only to study their minutest detail and rant over every flaw or plus as he saw fit. The men's styles, he wears himself. In fact, I am basically a giant life size Ken doll that he has been dressing for the past ten year or so.
It occurs to me that every fashion I see is the future of my closet. A man in a peach colored ascot and an apricot scarf glides by, momentarily blocking our view of the runway. I shudder.
Once he passes, something catches my eye- two identical shimmering blue dresses worn by two equally identical girls. Their straight, brown hair falls to mid-back, and I watch one of them lean toward the other, lip gloss sparkling, to whisper a comment. The other throws her head back, mouth open in laughter that I can't hear over the music.
"Neh," I murmur, elbowing Kaoru in the ribs.
"I know, it's too much," he whispers. "Why would they pair the chiffon with the white lace? Yuck!" He scribbles on a notepad, oblivious to what I actually want to show him.
I give up and return my gaze to the girls' position. They're gone.
"Yes, the stark white tableclothes, with the stenciled Ouran logo." All by itself, my pen doodles a cartoon of Kyouya lying on the ground in a puddle of his blood. "Uh-huh," I say, shifting the Blackberry to nestle more comfortably in the crook between my ear and my shoulder. "Right. No, lilies are for funerals. Use something that's more at the height of summer... like, I don't know, sunflowers?"
The woman on the other end of the line whines something back at me, but I don't hear her because I'm concentrating on adding a look of intense agony on cartoon Kyouya's face. I jolt back into focus to catch the end of it, the phrase "which would you prefer, sir?"
"Whichever you think is best. How the hell should I know? Am I a florist?" I snap. My hand clenches the piece of napkin I've been doodling on. The florist in question bursts into apologies that makes my head ache more than it is already.
A steaming cup of tea is set down in front of me, and I look up, still glaring. Whoever thinks tea could possibly fix this can suck my-
Kaoru smiles down at me, a personal sun that has its hands clasped behind its back. Then he leans forward, nudges the sugar dish toward me with one tantalizing index finger, and returns to the customers we're supposed to be entertaining, together, on the opposite side of the room.
Well. I didn't mean the sucking part, but...
I hiccup suddenly, having inhaled far too much air in one breath. What is it about him that is so wonderfully maddening? In my ear, the faint tinny voice of the florist continues to prattle on about wisterias and hydrangeas and impatients. "Yes, yes, that will all be fine," I interrupt before ending the call. Speaking of impatience...
I rub my reddened ear to erase the Blackberry imprint and pretend to make notes in my planner, all the while watching my twin from across the room like a dirty voyeur.
His hair is parted to the left today, reflecting that perfect red-orange in the late afternoon sun. The roots faintly reveal a certain aquamarine coloring from the latest costume party. (We never were able to get that out.) The frame of his body, which I personally think is slightly more lanky than my own, sprawls in the club chair with the least of care, and therefore the most amount of cool. The guests surrounding him certainly agree; they lean in, drawn to him almost as much as I am.
Every so often, one of them glance toward me and I have to fake looking embarrassed at being caught mooning before busily returning to my planner. Everyone is aware of my punishment- how could they not be? Gossip spreads quicker at Ouran than a Kool-aid stain on a white shirt, and (as per usual), Kaoru and I are using it to our advantage.
I huff a made-for-theater sigh and run a hand through my hair, making sure everyone is looking. They always love that move. It's the little devil motion of not caring.
With hurried motions, I stuff my planner and Blackberry helterskelter into my backpack and slouch over to join the table.
Before I can reach it, I'm intercepted by a certain eagle-eyed Shadow King.
"Are the flower arrangements complete?" His tone implies that he doesn't think so, and I bristle.
"Does Hunny eat cake?" I quip, sidestepping.
Unfortunately, he sidesteps with me.
"Today, he's eating cupcakes," Kyouya says seriously. I swear his gaze can lance right into your soul and disintegrate it from the inside out. He's never going to get laid this way. "Are the flower arrangements complete, or aren't they?"
"They're done." I roll my eyes. "You aren't the only one capable of benefit planning, you know."
He takes a step closer to me, and I flinch despite myself. "If you screw up this charity benefit," he hisses in my ear, "I will-"
"I know," I groan. "My children's children will be your slaves, my family name will be cursed, and any existing gods will torture me in the afterlife for all of eternity. I get it. Now, can you do me a favor and not hover? Your personal miasma is getting all over my happy, shiny benefit."
His face blank in that special way that means "I will feed your liver to piranhas", he steps aside, and I saunter past. Ahhh, the day finally has gone on an upswing. Angering Kyouya into livid speechlessness, check.
I drag a chair over next to my twin and rest my head on his shoulder with a sigh. The fangirls surrounding us 'awww' in helpless fits.
"Hard day at the office?" Kaoru asks. It's a question half meant in teasing, half sympathetic. He knows how much I hate organizing events like this.
"Terrible," I say, peering up at him from under my eyelashes. "Make it better?"
"How should he make it better?" a fangirl asks eagerly, and it's like throwing a single crumb to a flock of oversized, New York pigeons in yellow dresses.
"Kiss him!" the majority squeal.
"Feed him cake!"
"Rub his feet!" suggests another.
I like that last one, and I arch my eyebrows in a swift, quarter-second motion that clues him in.
"Would you like a foot-rub, Hikaru?"
"I would enjoy that very much, Kaoru."
The Host Club guests squeal, and I sense rather than see that we have pulled guests from the other tables to watch the 'special twin event' of the day. To them, this is an unplanned surprise that will delight and arouse them. It's actually a little sick. We're like a live porn movie that never gets to the good stuff, yet somehow keeps the viewers coming. A smirk escapes me at that double entente, but we're in the scene and I can't share it with Kaoru (though I want to!).
My twin kneels before me, holding me still with his eyes. A shiver, a thrill of anticipation runs through me, unfaked, and it's his turn to smirk. With deliberate and precise movements, he unties one shoe and pulls it off, then the other. Sure, I'm turned on, but I want to burst out laughing. I don't think anyone's untied a shoe so slowly in the history of the world! My expression, however, stays true to script. We may have written this one a while ago, but I never forget a scene.
Kaoru strips the socks off my feet, tantalizingly turning each one inside out as it leaves my toes. I wiggle them innocently. Around us, yellow dresses strain at the rib cages that hold frozen breaths. Oh yeah. We're doing it right. The room is completely silent; even the other hosts have ceased their entertaining. I hear the quiet chink of a teacup from across the room and know it's Kyouya, the only one utterly nonplussed. Hey- haters gonna hate, right?
Not that he should be hating, seeing as the upcoming event will (quite possibly) be the most kickass benefit ever thrown.
I'm in the moment, moaning sensually at each caress of Kaoru's strong hands. On another physical note, I reach to the table and pick up a saucer and cup of tea. I take a sip, holding both plate and cup at eye level to make it intense, and then rest both items in my lap while the performance goes on. Nothing like a little shielding to hide excessively realistic, erm, props. Kaoru notices and doesn't even crack a smile.
Then, from some corner of my mind, a smarmy know-it-all voice (which sounds suspiciously like Kyouya's) queries, "Have you confirmed that the decorators will be there at seven o'clock sharp?"
Bugger!
Who needs a shielding teacup plate when you have internal Kyouya nagging you?
What a cock-block...
Kaoru finishes my foot massage, and the audience cheers with the usual gusto, but that special element is missing in my opinion. As if on cue, my bag begins to croon, "Coming out of my cage, and I been doing just fine! gotta gotta be down because I want it all! It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?
"It was only a kiss. It was only a kiss..."
I fumble to pick up the call, snatching my phone up and button-smashing with dour enthusiasm. "Hello? Yes, this is Hitachiin..." I wave apologies to the fangirls, not daring to look at my twin. "The saloon doors are on backorder? But I specifically asked, and at the time, there were four in stock. What's happened?" I stride toward the outside patio, intent on continuing this conversation out of hearing.
While my right ear sorts out the stammered excuses of the supplier, my left picks up the almost-inaudible sigh from Kaoru.
I freeze, having almost reached the doors, and pivot to shoot him a pleading glance. He meets it with exasperation, and I realize this whole business has been wearing on him as well. Oops. My hesitation hangs in the air like Tokyo smog.
That's it. Slowly, the Blackberry descends, still clenched in my hand, to hang loosely at my side. My mouth opens, prepared to loose an apology of some sort. A quiet cough interrupts me- from across the room, Kyouya reminds me in one throat-clearing that I've dug my own grave, and if I would like to rise again as the undead and not the merely dead, I had better return the phone to my ear at once.
Sullenly, I turn my back to the room, Kyouya and my twin included, and press the damned device against my face so hard that it hurts. "Could you repeat that?" I ask, using my thumb and forefinger to pinch the bridge of my nose. "There was interference."
? years ago...
The only sound besides her gasps is the steady drip-drip-drip of the cracked faucet in the sink. She's sitting hunched over on the closed seat of the toilet in what must be the shittiest bathroom in all of Tokyo. And no wonder. The pulse of the music pumps outside, vibrating her organs inside her. She feels a bit nauseated. The time reads 3:30 AM.
Thankfully, she's high- so high that the situation isn't nearly as panic-provoking as it should be. She squints at the indicator held in one shaking hand, but there's no symbol. It isn't ready yet. A giggle moves its way from her stomach into her mouth. She clamps her free hand over her lips, killing the rising hysterics.
If this turns out to go how she thinks it will, she is in deep shit. Like, enormous shit. At this realization, her withheld giggles turn into a couple gasping sobs, then into hyperventilation. None of this would have happened if not for Evan, she reflects. This is definitely Evan's fault. At least, it is if it exists. If it doesn't exist, then it's not his fault, clearly...
Her thoughts are jumbled, mixed, and blended like raw ingredients in a mixing bowl. She drags her eyes to focus on the indicator again.
Not ready yet.
Outside her stall, the bathroom door slams open, and she jumps. A hysterical giggle bursts out, no longer contained.
"What the fuck!" a girl's voice screeches. "Somebody is in here, we can't-"
"Relax, girrrrrl," an unseen man replies. He sounds hot. "If there is someone, he'll enjoy the show."
"I am the show," she says stupidly and looks at the indicator again. Even the couple outside the stall is silent because it's unclear if she meant to say that bit aloud at all. They must decide she's just as high and fucked up as they are, because the sounds of moans and rustling clothing commence.
The indicator definitely, inconceivably displays a blue plus symbol. A plus? she thinks. Like, am I now plus one? Addition-wise?
She is completely fucked.
Lurching upright (and almost doing a nosedive for the floor thanks to her heels), she bursts from the stall. As if unaware of the pair copulating on the floor, she staggers from the bathroom while pulling her phone from the pocket of her leather mini.
She presses '1' to activate the speed dial. If she were required to actually dial a phone number at this point, she'd be completely shit out of luck. Someone answers the call on the first ring.
"Marcos? Is that you?" Her voice is wild, slurred, and a little amused. "Are you... get me?"
A voice thunders from over the other end of the phone. "Your mother is furious!"
She rolls her eyes. It's been a long time since she cared what her mother felt or did.
"Marcos, you're sooo funny. Seriously. I'm... dancing. I was, anyway, but now I'm all done." Pushing through people to get out the front entrance, she emerges into the cool air. "I'll be here, don't let me down..." She snaps the phone shut and sinks to sit on the sidewalk by the VIP line. People in the line are dancing, trying to impress the bouncer enough to get in.
Meanwhile, her head is spinning like a carousel, complete with screechy insane music and lights. A heave leaves her throat. Nothing comes up but a horrible burp that tastes of vodka, pineapple, and- oddly- cough drops.
"Did you taste that, kid?" she asks out of nowhere. Anyone watching would think she's just some attractive-in-a-crazy way, messed-up junkie who had a few too hits too many of something potent. And they would be right. But in this case she's actually talking to someone real- even if they happen to be only eight weeks old, two inches long, and about two thirds of an ounce in weight right now.
And growing...
A/N: Stay tuned!