A/N: It has no plot, and is completely uninteresting. Author is too brain-dead to proofread it more than once, so it's probably much worse than her impression of it. Reviews are appreciated, but they don't have to be nice ones.
Word count: 1, 066
Real Dreaming
"I'm home!" Haruhi calls, entering the house, carefully kicking her shoes off her feet. She drops her bag with a quiet groan on the ground, and shifts her shoulders a little, sore. Haruhi tugs at the blue sleeve of her uniform, and smiles at her mother, who has come out of the kitchen, brandishing a sharp knife and wearing an apron. His glasses flash at her.
"Welcome back, Haruhi," Kyouya, Haruhi's mother, says, and he smiles. "How was your day?"
"Fine," Haruhi replies, entering the kitchen and putting her apron on over her school uniform. The normally invisible sparkles flash when she moves, and the pink frills at the bottom flutter. "I got a new customer today."
Kyouya doesn't respond, and stirs, carefully, the soup on the stove. Haruhi reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a wooden spoon, and Kyouya languidly slides out of the way, soon deftly chopping vegetables. His apron is white and pristine, and Haruhi notes that there really isn't a need for Kyouya to wear an apron, and she says so. Her mother, however, gives her one of those inscrutable momentary looks before answering, and replies that this is something that her father has insisted he do, in order to preserve the image of a classical family. He scoffs gently. "It isn't without its benefits," Kyouya says. "It protects me from when Tamaki spills food, which he does often."
On cue, the father bursts in through the door, shouting triumphantly. "I'm home!" he cries, and runs up to the daughter and the mother, squishing their heads together in a ruthless embrace. "Aren't you glad?" he asks, cheeks brimming with pink joy. Kyouya and Haruhi try to shake their heads, but they have no room to do so. Tamaki rubs a fatherly cheek against Haruhi's, until it turns an apple-red, and then, Kyouya manages to free them by tapping the tip of the chopping knife on the top of Tamaki's head. The father yelps and jumps away; a second later, he is curled up in one corner, skin blue and eyes brimming with water.
"Dinner is ready," Haruhi says, carefully laying chopsticks on their small, square table. Tamaki stands up instantly, depression gone, and grabs his daughter's shoulders, saying, "Call me father, Haruhi, call me father." Haruhi blinks at him. Kyouya taps two long fingers impatiently on the table, and then, seeing Tamaki's lack of focus, begins to eat, quickly, his long fingers stark white against the black chopsticks. Tamaki, hearing the sounds of food, also sits down and tucks his feet underneath the table, trying to playfully nudge Kyouya and Haruhi's toes, only to get kicked in the process. Tamaki begins to withdraw into a corner, mushrooms growing out of his head and the wall, but Haruhi sensibly plucks the mushrooms out of her father's head and places them into a brown paper bag, cheerfully deciding she'll use them the next time she cooks dinner.
Haruhi, like her mother, eats a lot. She takes great pleasure in eating, and it is apparent in the way she seems to see little else as food enters her mouth. Tamaki, a little unnerved by being ignored by both the mother and the daughter, resigns himself to focusing on dinner. He's awkward and knocks over the pot of tea, causing light green-brown liquid to spill onto Kyouya. Tamaki is all over the mother in a second, dabbing with a tissue, unable to decide whether he should run for a towel or continue using tissues. They create a small white pile by Tamaki's socked feet. Pushing his hands away, Kyouya stands up, and takes off the apron deftly. He glances at Haruhi, knowingly. Tamaki stands up again, stepping on Kyouya's foot, and Kyouya steps back. Tamaki stumbles forward again, flapping wet tissues in Kyouya's face, when he slips on a banana peel, and he and Kyouya fall to the ground in a mess of arms and legs. "Get off, Tamaki," Kyouya says, glasses askew.
Haruhi has moved on to her soup, which ripples. She shouldn't be able to see her reflection in it, since she's stirring it with her spoon, but she sees her own face, with uncharacteristically long hair and a girls' uniform. Haruhi frowns. Displeased with the soup showing her strange images of herself, she reaches with her chopstick, but finds that she has a bear-pencil in her hand instead. Then Tamaki walks over to the side of the room, crying her name, and flings the curtains apart, causing light to flood into the room.
"… Haruhi," Hikaru says impatiently, nudging her. He grabs her shoulders, and shakes firmly. "Haruhi," Kaoru begins. "Wake up!" the twins chorus. Haruhi blinks at them with round brown eyes.
The first thing she sees is her mother, Kyouya, who is looking down at her with a mixed expression of amusement, annoyance, curiosity, impatience and fondness. Then her father comes into view, and he forces his face into her view, effectively blocking out everyone else. "Haruhi!" he cries, and she recognizes this voice from her dream. "Haruhi, my daughter, you must be so tired. Just rest now…" Kyouya sharply interrupts, saying, "Haruhi still has a debt to pay."
"But, but!" Tamaki splutters, pointing at Haruhi. She slowly rises to a sitting position, and lifts her head off the head of the couch. "She's tired!" Kyouya pushes his glasses up with an index finger. "Indeed she is. Let us see if Haruhi would prefer to rest, or entertain her customers." He looks at her, glasses flashing. Haruhi shrivels a little.
"It's okay, senpai," she says, and stands up. The twins push Tamaki out of the way, and Hikaru gathers her into a hug, winking at Kaoru, who quickly joins in. The lord's squeals echo through the room. Haruhi squirms a little, as now Honey has attached himself to Haruhi's leg and is smiling happily, flowers swirling around his face.
Haruhi looks at Kyouya. For a moment, her eyes blur, and she sees him wearing a white apron. Then the illusion fades and Kyouya's expression is hidden beneath his bright glasses, and Haruhi turns her head to find Tamaki huddled on the ground. He's far away, but not too far away as to be out of reach. Haruhi looks down at herself, plucking at her shirt, glad that she's not wearing a pink apron.
… too real for comfort, Haruhi thinks.