Two or Ten Thousand Miles

It's been ten years. Kyouya gets a call in the early hours of the morning and stares at his phone, freezing at the sight of the caller's name. (Kyouya's POV)

Two or Ten Thousand Miles

The call that wakes me registers a bright purple glow. For a moment, I stare at the piece of technology vibrating at my bedside. Two nanoseconds later and I freeze.

I feel his eyes on me.

His purple, mischievous, all-knowing eyes. Eyes that would crinkle, positively light up with joy at the stupidest reason.

I say his name, those three syllables hovering in the air.

I suppress a shudder and let out a breath. I throw back the covers and sit up.

Ten years ago, I would have pressed a button and reprimanded him without a second thought. Even then, despite my temper, I know he'd find a way to win, he'd definitely find a way to worm himself out of trouble. Even now, even if he wouldn't try—and I would never admit it to his face—I'd let him have his way. It was still true. Or I assume it would be. I could no longer promise that I knew him completely enough to know how he'd act.

I know that it is two in the morning. Not by the time on my mobile phone's screen; I haven't looked at it closely enough and my glasses are sitting quietly beside my bedside lamp. The lack of sunlight filtering through the curtains, the stillness of the whole house, the quiet darkness of my room and the beginnings of a tension headache at a point between my eyes tell me I'm right.

My laptop's lit screen, some five meters away from the foot of my bed, tells me I was working just before I threw in the towel and dozed off. Remembering the exact sentence I last typed (for an email to the medical director of a large hospital in Tokyo) tells me it hasn't been ten minutes since I rested my eyes. I'd been awake for some fifteen hours—nothing out of the ordinary. I had mastered this type of schedule since high school.

It's been ten years since I was in high school.

I give my phone a wary, sharp, somewhat hesitant look. My phone won't stop ringing.

I remain motionless where I sit.

The shrill sound makes my ears bleed. The sound reverberates in the room, loud and annoying, testing the very limits of my patience. I swipe my glasses, bang them on in irritation, adjust them for proper fit and stop.

I stop myself from entertaining the barrage of thoughts that threaten to overwhelm my senses. I can think of a thousand different scenarios, situations and reasons for this call.

I also know that not one of this given thousand reasons could be anywhere near what this call is about.

I massage my brow and sigh.

Without a word, I pick up the vibrating annoyance and run a finger over the name of the caller on the screen, my lips a straight line.

I can't believe he hasn't changed his number in all these years. Idiots really never change their spots, I smirk. Sadly.

Ten years.

My smirk vanishes.

I never called him in all of ten years. He never called me. Not that he could. I never gave him my new number.

People...people just drift away after a number of years. They fail to figure in everyday life. They stop becoming fixtures in everyday living. He went to America and I remained in Japan. I participated in business, he found his calling elsewhere. He never sent me text messages or called or emailed me in the past. I sent him one email and never heard back from him.

My thoughts go back to my phone.

I never intentionally kept my number from him.

And still, I never made it a point to make it available to him either.

I vaguely wonder from whom did he get my number, but I brush this trivial thought aside.

It does not matter.

I mean, would it really?

After...this long?

I thought it was certain. That he'd never resurface. That he'd never return.

I never thought the day when he would call again would ever come.

I never thought I'd be awoken again by his boundless energy, the striking sunshine, the great blinding glow of his personality, the warm, childish playfulness of his voice, that self-serving but oddly enough selfless ego of his, a mask so perfectly made and worn.

Ten minutes pass, and my phone still clamours for attention. I have just generated ten reasons to ignore this call.

I won't take this call. I can't take this call. I do not need to take this call. I don't want to take this call.

But really, the thing is...

I won't know what to say if I do.

For a minute, I look back at how I knew him at Ouran. Remembered how I initially hated him, despised and loathed his place of power as the Suoh heir, as a complete and utter dumbass, as a simpleton who ranted and raved about visiting places in Kobe, Nara, and Osaka, as a spoiled, annoying, ignorant piece of work. Reminisced about how I came to see, with my very own eyes, that hidden, soft, refined but sad, overtly cathartic part of his soul. Remembered how he made magic, masterfully weaved music together with his delicate fingertips, from which grief, love, loss, sacrifice, and positivity flowed. Thought of how much I valued him—no, not just a source of income in the host club. Not just as a rival—who always showed me that despite his grades being second to mine, he reigned supreme—in the hearts of those who lavished attention, concern, and understanding on him, virtually anywhere and everywhere he went. He was a classmate. He was someone my father told me to handle carefully for business reasons. He became a mainstay in my everyday life then. He became a friend. He became my friend. My friend. My best friend. There is certain possessiveness in these two words.

He showed me the other side of the world.

He opened my eyes.

He revealed a lot of things to me:

How it was possible to hide one's true self behind an extravagant smile.

How it was possible to turn one's back on one's potential if it meant competing with one's older brothers.

How it was possible to go beyond my frame and become a grander, more ornate, more magnificent masterpiece.

How it was possible to understand another human being.

How it was possible to have fun.

How it was possible to live.

How it was all possible.

I swallow. I swallow down a lot of bitterness, regret, longing, an sense of loss, of loneliness, a flash of pain in my chest.

I will...try to take this call, I say to myself rather weakly.

I scowl. No, I definitely will.

Besides, Ootoris never shy away from pressure. Ootoris face everything head on, I sternly rebuke myself. Ootoris always weather anything thrown their way. Always.

Despite this new found resolve, my heart starts to race in my chest.

"Yes?" I say in a businesslike manner, trying to repress and restrain all the emotions swirling up inside me. My voice sounds alien to me, calm and cool on a level that feels strange and removed and yet, barely discernable but nonetheless there, are undertones of anxiety, fear, and a dash of unexplainable excitability.

"Kyoya."

The voice at the other end of the line says my name. It isn't a question. I breathe a sigh. Of disappointment.

I have known this person for about close to as long as I have known the blond I was expecting to be on the line. He won her heart. She became his wife. She is my best friend's wife. She is talking to me right now.

"Haruhi?"

In spite of myself, I lick my lips. I tense and untense my facial muscles in succession, a nervous tic I've developed in recent years.

She utters a sound that affirms that she has heard me. A feeble, pleading, horrid sound. A small, wispy, almost silent voice. A prayer made by a dying person.

I start to break out in a cold sweat. My grip tightens on my phone. I am getting scared. I need to distract myself lest I lose control.

I focus on my breathing. I close my eyes and just breathe. Then, I open my eyes slowly. I focus on the sound of her voice. I notice that it has remained the same. But right now, her voice is pregnant with uncertainty and that unnerves me.

She falls silent. My voice fails me and I wonder to myself, what exactly should I be doing?

We both wait for the other, holding our breaths, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Haruhi." I break the silence suddenly.

Her voice is nervous: "I got your number from Hani-senpai."

"It's no problem," I answer dismissively. "I'm sorry I never got the chance to give it to you personally," I add apologetically. "I should have—"

But she cuts me off. "It's fine, really." Her voice then trails off into silence.

I straighten up. "Your address...is it still the same?"

They had moved into a comfortable, two-storey house in a quiet, laid back neighbourhood years ago after they had come home from America with college degrees and with a modest amount of money saved up from working. They had chosen and bought their house with their hard earned money—both Haruhi and Tamaki did not accept any sort of monetary gift from anyone at their wedding. They just wanted to have fun and be happy with special people on a special day.

The house was a painted a mellow yellow, and had white and beige accents. A small wooden gate flanked by a small lamp on either side led to the doorstep. The fence around the property was an immaculate white. At the back of the property was a large, well-tended rose garden. Tamaki himself pruned and watered the bushes. To a side, a small vegetable garden bore much produce. This little plot of land was Haruhi's little escape. One of Antoinette's puppies, called Victoire, frolicked in the lush grass. Fresh laundry hung from a clothesline. In the parlor, a baby grand piano sat spectacularly, keeping pictures of both friends and family found on the mantle company.

I heard this all from Hani, who had gone to both the wedding and the house warming party, and had shared pictures from both events.

I had been attending a global business conference in Singapore during that time.

I had sent a blank check as a gift in my stead.

Tamaki sent a personalized note to thank me for my generosity days later.

I had had two back-to-back conferences afterwards. I was not able to thank him for the note. I found it some months later when I was clearing up a mess on one of the extra tables I kept in my office. I thought it was too late to write to him about it and so I decided not to.

From around that time, I never heard from him in any shape or form any more.

I had been as cold as that check. Blank, unfeeling, uncaring.

I had kept my distance. He had reached a hand out to me and I did not take it in my own.

I had stayed away.

I had virtually abandoned him.

"Are you still there?" Haruhi's voice brought me back to earth. "Moshi moshi?"

"Hai." I answered. "Sorry about that."

Haruhi knew me too well. I knew she knew I was troubled but she soldiered on. We both were at this very moment.

"Are you familiar with our address? You've never visited. Do you know how to get here?"

I swallowed. Yes, I, in ten years, had never visited my best friend's house. I had never had tea with him and his wife. I had never heard him enchant at the piano again. I had never bothered.

I...just...never did.

"I do. Hani-sempai told me where it is. I'll see you in half an hour."

"But...it's two forty-five in the morning." She faltered. "I just realized...I shouldn't have called at this hour. You must've been sleeping. I'm really sorry."

We both know she has a good reason for calling me over to their home. It was this important if she had to call now.

"I've been awake all this time," I said, trying to sound somewhat cheerful. "I was working on some reports for Father." And then: "Don't worry, I just finished everything some five minutes ago. I don't feel particularly tired either."

Haruhi laughs, sounding equal parts embarrassed to have disturbed me still and at a loss for words. "You should really try to sleep well, Kyouya." Then, with an afterthought, she adds, "Sempai," and the mischief in her voice very nearly breaks my heart. She sounds so much like him. She is trying to be strong. She is such a brave, determined, wonderful wife. She sounds so world worn and yet so hopeful. I steady myself.

"Sempai, indeed," I chuckle. "I haven't heard that in a long time."

She laughs. "It's been so long," she laments.

"Too long, I agree." My voice barely registers as a whisper as I try to keep it from cracking. The dam in me is threatening to give way. I swallow and take a deep breath.

"Thank you for this, Senpai," she whispers back. "Only you can help him."

I know. And I am sure now.

I blink back some moisture in my eyes and clear my throat. "I'll see you both shortly."

I end the call. The tension headache I had been nursing has subsided. I cross to my closet, pull out a pair of jeans, a shirt and a cashmere sweater. I dress then pocket my phone, along with my keys, my wallet and my heart.

It's the last item that I should never leave home without.

Be he two or ten thousand miles from me, I'll find him. I'll seek him out. And I'll be the person he can rely on.

I'll knock some sense into him, rub his back when he cries, make him some tea, listen to him without irritation or with the full intention of trying to interrupt him. I'll sit beside him. I'll make up for ten years with ten lifetimes.

I decide to care and keep on caring for my best friend, known dolt, charmer and narcissist, I'll do that more and more until I can no longer walk up to him and smack him up the head.

He did the same for me when it mattered, and more.

I decide this all in ten seconds: Tamaki's stuck with me whether he likes it or not.

Only Haruhi can possibly do anything about it, but I'm completely certain she'll agree to this proposal. Or it'll be a problem. A very big, messy problem.

I run a hand through my hair to flatten it out and walk out of my room.

Mommy's coming, Daddy.