ephemeral

by NiNA_eN

she wasn't cruel, she loved them all.

Ephemeral

(e-phem-er-al) (adjective)

(1): Lasting or existing for a markedly brief time

Evanescent; Brief; Short; Fleet; Fleeting; Fugacious; Fugitive; Momentary; Passing; Short-lived; Temporal; Vague; Temporary; Transient; Transitory; Episodic; Flitting: Impermanent; Volatile

Fujioka Haruhi was the type of person who rarely rested and seemed to always be on her feet. However, after much cajoling, bargaining and puppy dog eyes, she was finally inclined to sit down. Or lay, rather, as it was a warm evening and she reclined – uncharacteristically but very comfortably – on their deep blue sofa.

There had been a great deal of argument over that sofa, Tamaki and Hikaru wanted red (for obvious reasons, a bright, bold, sensuous colour that near-blinded her), the others differed – but she had put her foot down. She rarely coveted but this one sofa, with its warm azure shade and firm yet plushy exterior drew her deeply and when the others saw how much, they had to give in. The two who'd supported her all this time smiled.

She lay, limbs all stretched out, seemingly relaxed yet her brows were furrowed ever so slightly and her shoulders were hunched just the teeniest bit – both of which Mori immediately noticed. Her head lay in his lap for she'd found it to be soothing, and he went straight for that little knot in her back, his long tapered fingers confidently, not suavely, moving in a certain massage technique he frequently practiced on her, having realized just how effective it was on this nocturnal occurrence.

Honey lay at her feet – or rather, by her stomach. He guarded it vigilantly, not trusting the others at all. At night he often shoved their slumbering bodies away to curl up against her front, his no longer small hand covering her still-presently flat tummy lightly. It lay on her stomach now, a comforting presence that meant just the littlest more.

Hikaru and Kaoru guarded her feet – or, more accurately, Kaoru, for once taking the lead, had her petite indefinitely feminine feet curled up in his lap.

Hikaru sat by his side, on the edge of the armrest.

Tamaki and Kyouya leant over the back of the sofa. They'd once resented this position yet now they did it with ease.

The hand struck twelve and, with a silent clockwork precision, Haruhi reached out an arm to switch off the TV with a remote control. She sighed quietly, just the smallest of sounds; her eyes were tired yet a warm glow suffusing her almost golden pupils said that she was satisfied with this life.

A hand at her face stilled her and she turned her head to meet soft saphirien eyes. Haninozuka Mitsukuni, leaning forward with his other hand still resting on her belly, smiled as he gently smoothed away the crease between her brows, traced the light shadows beneath her eyes. She closed her eyes at the sensation, her lips genuinely curving upwards. It was sweet pleasure next when, not unexpectedly, a pair of warm soft lips caressed her own. Her light moan became a soft whimper as he withdrew all too quickly and she opened half-lidded eyes that whispered need.

His own whispered understanding and he swept her up into his arms, bridal-style. He was no longer the small loli-shota she'd known him as as a teenager; the years had matured him to a stature just above her own and his form had filled out, not in a bulky overly muscular way but rather lean, lanky almost.

He was rough at first, vicious almost yet it was a vigour with which she matched, meeting eagerly and repeatedly, then it faded into his usual beautiful tenderness that always took her breath away. Both times it was sweet and wondrous and pleasurable; and that night, like all the other nights, Haruhi fell into a deep sleep.

In the stillness of the room the two had vacanted, Morinozuka Takashi opened his eyes.

He'd always known and he did not doubt that Haruhi knew that he knew. Or, at least, suspected.

It was visible in the way he rarely held her, only the mere touches; on the arm, the shoulder, her head, and the simple kisses, her cheek, her forehead, and, on the most specific occasions, her lips.

The cheerful clatter of the following morning was unconvincing to everyone but Haruhi.

Having received her daily cup of coffee ("three sugars and double cream, please," Honey chimed in as well), she sat down at their seven-chaired table. She paid no heed to Hikaru's sudden and rather noisy entrance – not even when he snatched her up rather violently and kissed her full on the lips.

She did not bother to reprimand him; almost a whole year of practice had taught her to set down her coffee without spilling a drop.

Upon seeing absolutely no response as usual, he bit his lip and rushed out, unconsciously following Kyouya's steps, who'd exited earlier that morning at her entrance.

Kaoru did not go after his brother, to no one's surprised. Instead, he hesitated at the door.

Having sent an almost forlorn look after the younger Hitachiin, a brilliant smile now exploded almost unnaturally onto Suoh Tamaki's face as he strolled – stumbled at first – towards the house's only female resident, bearing a bouquet of (on closer view, half-strangled-looking) red roses and spouting poetry too flowery to bear so early in the morning.

His daily antics were toned down noticeably when the eldest member of their household pushed back his chair. His voice was bright and bubbly as he chirped, "Right. I'm going now!"

He skipped over to Haruhi for a goodbye kiss.

Time seemed almost to slow down as, kiss over, their eyes met, seeming to convey an almost melancholic sort of message and they shared a look only they could understand.

The moment ended abruptly as he bobbed up again.

"Bye bye!" he cried, in a cutesy tone familiar to the host club days and he leapt towards the door.

As he half-bounced, half-walked past him, Kaoru could have sworn he'd heard "look after her for me, yeah Kaoru?" His head whipped up, almost snapping his neck in the process, and he caught a sad smile before the door closed in his face. He stared at it, thoughts of horror and shame yet honour rose in his mind – but he didn't know what to feel.

His reverie ended when the loud pleading tones of a certain half-French man reached his ears. Sagging, leaning against the door for support, he watched as Tamaki asked Haruhi out to dinner and as usual, she blatantly refused. He could almost pick out the tiny tremors of desperation at the continual refusals for they succeeded very rarely.

Around this time, Kaoru would step in – and he did succeed. Well, sort of.

Haruhi took his silently offered hand and he could detect now a tone of gratefulness as the once-president now started on one of his "diabolical redhead trying to seduce my precious princess!" rants.

Haruhi was quiet, even more so than usual, and he cast her a look that was part longing and part sorrow.

Later on, as he lay beside Haruhi, swathed in a multitude of silk sheets ("They're too fine for me" "We're taking them then" "Mitsukuni!"), he watched her subconsciously reach out in her sleep. Her brows slanted as her hands scrabbled uselessly.

Sighing, he reached over and pulled a certain pink stuffed rabbit to her. He saw her face relax, her lips curve and the way she cuddled Usa-chan fervently to her face; and felt the sorrow overwhelm him.

She wasn't cruel, she was incapable of it. He knew she genuinely loved him, loved all of them – but he also knew who she had given her heart to. It hadn't registered fully in her brain yet, he knew, because Haruhi was a clueless person, even at twenty-one.

But he saw it in the kisses, the touches, the looks they shared.

It was obvious to all of them.

Hikaru hated that bed.

Going into that bed every night, it was absolute torture, the smell of her and him.

Hikaru had become particularly attuned to their scent, mingled together with their sweetness and his own bitterness.

So he is rough, he kisses her suddenly, hugs her unexpectedly and dresses her in his clothes on their nights together.

But he couldn't erase that smell.

It was becoming stronger.

Tamaki offered his bear.

She deadpanned, saying its brown eyes would scare her, as she arranged the bed.

Tamaki wailed and as he buried his face in Kuma-chan's fur, he thought, he knew, that unconsciously she had already chosen the pink rabbit anyway.

Even so, he is selfish, he is scared and he would rather have a bit of her than none at all.

When the taller man tackled her in a hug, she started (but didn't drop the bunny she'd been holding) and when she asked him what was wrong, he didn't answer.

He couldn't give up.

He burst into the room, shouting.

The occupants looked almost scared, it was not often you could see Ootori Kyouya with his hair unkempt, glasses crooked, shirt half-untucked and being held back by three male nurses.

"Kyouya, calm down."

Kyouya almost glared at this blonde youth, the man who, despite being shorter and thinner, stood resolutely in his way.

He hated this man, with his collected features, tidy appearance and unshaken stature.

"I want to see my wife!" he yelled.

"So do I," he replied calmly.

He couldn't stand it, how could he be so calm?

For once in his life, Kyouya does not understand.

So he shouted, he fought back, he struggled.

In the end, his opposition stepped forward and with a quick hit of the flat of his hand, knocked him unconscious.

Kyouya woke to large doe-like brown eyes, toffee curls and chubby flying hands.

"Say hello, Sakura-chan," said the now mellow voice of the one who had knocked him out.

Kyouya stared at this man, this small blonde man.

"I'm sorry I knocked you out, Kyou-chan," his voice was light, no regret, simply understanding, and for a moment he regretted aggravating this man.

Because, in this moment, he could see the tousled quality of his hair from where he had run his fingers through – just about make out the trembling of his hands, the almost invisible shadows under his eyes and the very faint creases of his clothes.

He looked back at the bundle in his hands.

She was the absolute vision of her mother. She bore no visual resemblance of blonde-haired, brown-eyed paternity.

And yet it did not matter.

Because he understands.

It's useless to try.

At this moment, I think this may be my proudest piece. I'm trying to add a new sort of feel, sort of flavour to my stories, I hope this one worked! I think the maturity between this piece and my other stories have improved a lot (well, hopefully.)

The components of a good story, I think, are characteristics, situation, emotions and relationships; and the way you manipulate them to fit together. I hope I portrayed each well enough and balanced them OK.

The reason of the title is simple. It describes the feelings of Haruhi, Honey, Mori, Kaoru, Hikaru, Tamaki and Kyouya; the happiness of the balance they thought they'd found in being able to be all together – and then the deterioration at the discovery of internal strife, imbalance and the gradual progression of others' relationships, the emotional instability at that.

I think the whole HaruHostClub thing is very interesting because there's a lot you can play off it; you get all these simmering emotions and the clash of different personalities. Though I seriously dislike both Kyouya and Tamaki; I don't mind them as part of the equation (well, I try not to) because their manipulative/underhanded/flowery/persistent attitudes forward the plot. I just hate it when they end up on top, I don't think they deserve Haruhi.

This can be read as a separate piece from My Sweet Craving, my first HaruHoney fic, but if that ending dissatisfies you may read this as a continual, an insight to the future.