A/N: Written for April's request at hcflashfic (livejournal), to vampydirector.

Stranger Things Have Happened
Do I attract you?
Do I repulse you with my queasy smile?
Am I too dirty?
Am I too flirty?
Do I like what you like?
Mika, "Grace Kelly"

She's still a mystery. Five years later, Fujioka Haruhi is still a mystery.

He is good at keeping promises. He promised they would be friends forever, and they are. At least they keep in touch, her in TokyoU, him helping his empire raise. It's the weirdest thing since Host Club was founded by a flamboyant French-Japanese drama-king, and in coalition with a sullen shadow-king. Honestly, not even that alliance could rise up to the oddity of theirs: a lawyer-to-be being the friend of the-head-of-the-Kasanoda-yakuza-branch-t o-be. Well, as they said, stranger things had happened.

They have established a schedule, during the last year. He can't remember exactly when this routine started, or who initiated it. Probably her, upon realising that all her Host Club friends were leaving, attending their growing business, not bothering to keep the flame of friendship alive for so long. Of course, some of those boys, now men had to go through marriage, arranged pettiness that Haruhi always hated. A few of them even tried to propose to her, in fact: Tamaki, politely refused because Haruhi didn't want the headache that was a marriage with the Suoh heir, and because Tamaki still viewed her like his daughter—which wasn't prime for a marriage to work, in her (and Kasanoda's) humble opinion—a fact which Suoh confessed a few years prior, when he told Haruhi, crying dramatically, that perhaps the only reason he had asked her had been because he wanted to keep her close (Haruhi had smacked his head, called him an idiot, Tamaki sulked, hugged his precious 'daughter', and the drama was over); and the second, Hikaru, a bit more difficult for Haruhi to refuse, and Kasanoda Ritsu still remembers that year. It had been a months after Tamaki's proposal, when Haruhi talked to him over the phone, laughing, less-than-amused over Hikaru's marriage proposal—"It's all a game, you see," she'd said, voice cracking. "It's a game of seeing who keeps the natural one, for hell's sake, they're still kids, Ritsu-san. I can't deal with kids. I have my father already for that."—or maybe not that amused, now that he thinks about it. The point is, two marriage proposals that were denied, soon enough all the Host Club moved on with their life. Haruhi stayed put.

"I depended too much on them, in the end," she would tell him, on a rainy day. "I thought I wanted to get away from the loudness, and now it's quiet. I hate quiet."

So, the quiet opened its doors to their routine. Each Thursday, they have lunch. It doesn't matter where, or how they are dressed—it's probably the lack of formality which makes Haruhi so at ease around him—that day, they lunch together. Even if he has to drive all the way to Tokyo, or if she has to take a train to wherever he is, they meet. The lawyer and the mob. Well, not all of the mob, just the leader. Which is probably even worse. Men would die under Kasanoda's gaze. Haruhi just shrugs lightly, and eats her shrimp with a calmness that even Buddha himself envies.

It's probably why he's finding himself smirking whenever he's near her. He'd smile, trust us, but Ritsu finds that he still can't pull out that facial miracle. A smirk suffices, Haruhi often thinks, trying to squelch down the bugs (not butterflies, Haruhi is too much Haruhi for those clichés) in her stomach.

The routine is usually monotonous, many have said. This is not their case. He finds himself picking clean shirts when he goes to meet her, and when it's some special day, he even picks a flower from his garden. Haruhi finds herself donning a better pair of jeans, a nicer shirt when she meets him, and maybe some perfume, but not many; on the cheerful days, she spends two minutes staring at her tiny vegetable garden—tomato plants, and rosemary, both from him—before closing the doors behind her with a small smile. They never know what to eat, which means lunch normally turns into dinner, with the time it takes them to decide which restaurant to pick. However, they try to vary in their meals, a bit of everything: Japanese, Hindu, American, French (Haruhi is not a fan of escargot. Neither is Kasanoda), Spanish (he wants to grow a patch of saphron, to remember that dinner) and so on. The locals are usually medial-class, because he likes them more—no need for modals, being a prim priss, and so on—and because she feels at ease—no need for seeing him be a prim priss, it doesn't suit him anyway, and no need to mask all her tiny squeals of pleasure at the meal.

Today, or should we say, tonight, is not any more special that the rest of Thursday nights they have a late lunch. Only that it is, since it's his birthday. And he is aware of all the henchmen waiting for him with a surprise party back home, in honour of his honourable 21st birthday, but really, all the partying he wants is right in front of him, sipping on some sake he ordered for the occasion.

"So, how does it feel?" she asks, her cheeks tinged with pink—which makes her look sweet, young, and brings back memories of when he first found out she was a girl.

Haruhi in her humble underwear, looking over her shoulder with wide eyes, and in the space between her arm and her side, a small lump shows—she's a girl, I can't believe she's a girl, I wonder if those are real, what the fuck is a person like her doing, playing transvestite—him the proof of what would end in dreams. Dreams that still last today, only this time, with a more mature Haruhi, taller, slim and still modest in all her curves, but not any less beautiful, in her wonderfully natural way. He shakes his head, shifting in his seat, and looks at her. "How does what feel?" he asks, voice a bit husky.

"Being a year older?"

"The same way it felt last year, when you asked me the same question, and the same way it felt the year before that, too," he answers, eyes trailing down the neckline of her dress—Haruhi is sporting a cleavage. This is new. In all their five years as friends she'd never worn a cleavage. That milky patch of skin just tantalizes him with glimpses of what he can't have, unless he wants to trespass the boundaries of their friendship. And he won't, if it's rejection he'll get.

"Don't pretend you didn't look for wrinkles this morning, Ritsu," she says, smiling fleetingly at him.

Okay, she got him there. Maybe he did. "I did not." He had three new wrinkles, near his eyes, and they were not laugh-lines.

"Mmmmhmmm," Haruhi nods, leaning over him and plucking a hair from his head, "and look, the first gray hair!"

"That's just from stress!" he protests, rubbing his head, irritated. "Don't take pokes at my age, it'll be your turn soon."

She grows quiet, leaning her chin on her palm, and looks at him. The position makes her breast push together, and he has to drink some sake to keep himself still. "Ritsu," she whispers, his name like sin on her lips…and why does she say it like that?

"Yes?"

"My birthday isn't on a Thursday."

"I know."

She takes a shrimp, and nibbles on it. His eyes follow the moves. He forgets she's talking till her lips move. "…just Thursdays."

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, I think we should see each other on more days, not just Thursdays."

"Oh. Okay."

It takes a while for the true meaning of her words to register. He chokes on his food, and this time it's her, the one with a smirk on her lips. "Are you alright?" she asks, her voice low and—oh, hell, she's trying to seduce me.

"Fine," he answers. He looks in her eyes, still young and wide. Still blunt like she was, honest as well, when she rejected his feelings. It reminds him, really, of why he never really gave up on said feelings. On why he doubts he could. "So…other days? Like…"

"Dates."

"Ah. I see. Well…uhm…Haruhi…"

"Don't tell me you're shy over this. We've been practically dating for five years or so now, Ritsu. We just called them friendly gatherings, but really, I enjoy your company more than all the rest of my friends, and I want to give this a try."

"…..Isn't the GUY supposed to say all these things?!"

"I also want to kiss you very much. Have, for some years now."

"There you go again, stealing my lines!"

She laughs, pats his hand condescendingly—he doesn't mind—and continues: "How does this Monday sound to you?"

"Uhhh…."

"In fact, how does taking the party to my apartment sound to you?"

"Haruhi!"

"What?"

"You're…what…"

"I'm making you indecent proposals, yes. Are you going to take them?" Oh, and she's smiling slyly at him now, and he wonders how come he didn't see it before. Really. What a dumbass.

So, he does the only reasonable thing: he raises his hand, and answers with a word that pretty much sums it all up:

"CHECK!"

They get married four years later, status be damned. They never went with the normal rhythm of things, which is okay.

After all, stranger things had happened.

::end::