Ouran Koko Host Club, Hikaru/Kaoru, R, 806 words
When you're all grown up, it's not about the games anymore.
For LJ's hikaruxkaoru community's "Battle for P0rn Meme".
The Heart Knows Something Different
They should know better, Hikaru thinks sometimes.
People they know are getting married, having children, inheriting businesses to manage. They are not children anymore, lost in their fantasies and playacting, delighting audiences of girlish giggles and scandalized gasps. They have grown up, have graduated university with perfunctory degrees in art and business, with five years of modeling under their proverbial designer belts. No longer do they host extravagant parties to woo fainting females--now their parties are hosted to woo investors, business partners, big-name models, and the elite of the fashion design world where they've so easily slipped into the front lines, armed with a respected name and the wealth and talent to back up their boldness.
Hikaru designs in colors, bright and vivid, swathes of golden-brown set off with a dash of deep, wine red. Kaoru designs in styles, with an eye for clean cuts and sweeping lines. Together they create fantastical pieces, avante garde, pricey, wealth and imagination married together in rich cloth. Their customer base is select, for few can afford original Hitachiin pieces, but they still foist their designs onto Haruhi, whom they make the time to meet every Saturday for lunch, no matter their schedule.
She chides them for their childish stubbornness, telling them with exasperation that they should know better than to reschedule appointments with potential buyers, that she isn't that important. They are adults now, after all, and with that comes responsibilities.
Hikaru and Kaoru only laugh, still in sync, the same sparkle in their eyes when they tell her that she'll always be their number one model, and that she will always come first. She shakes her head, as she always has, but her smile is fond. They have not changed so much over the years that they do not love her, because they do. They have not changed so much that they are not still Hikaru and Kaoru, irrepressible, mischievous.
But Haruhi is right: they should know better. They are no longer in the host club, no longer free to slide their bodies close against each other, to hear the shrieks that signal their success. They are in an adult world, surrounded everywhere by watching eyes, by sly reporters who hunger for scandal to feed the masses—masses that prey on the doings of the wealthy to find some sort of justice in their own minds. Careless touches that linger and stolen, secret kisses in an empty hallway are all potential fuel for the end of the world, their empire and youth crumbling around them. They must maintain their reputations and keep them, if not spotless, at least smeared only with the dirty names of models, office assistants—names women across the world can spit out with disgust, hiding the envy in their hearts. They cannot risk each other.
But Hikaru has never found Kaoru more beautiful than now, with every breath shifting golden skin over bones, every movement feathering his hair against his cheek. Hikaru watches his twin and sees the grace of his naked body even under those layers of the finest silk.
Hikaru's throat dries when he catches Kaoru's amber stare weighing against his own—long and measured, filled with the same secrets Hikaru has to keep. He feels the streak of possessiveness, pride, lined with heat, when he catches sight of Kaoru's bare throat and collarbone, exposed by the gaping neckline of his shirt. Hikaru's eyes trace those delicate bones, the skin stretched soft and tight over them, remembering intimately the salty-sweat taste of it.
It shouldn't be this easy to come together, colliding like planets and exploding like stars. They should know better, they should be more careful, but what are words of warning when they can strip each other with hands trembling in need? What caution can they heed when they can end their workday, their long night of charming investors like this, in slick skin and warm kisses? Reality, even the weight of adulthood, is no barrier when instead Hikaru can skate his fingers over Kaoru's nipples and elicit high, whimpering cries. Reality can never stop him from licking a long wet stripe along the crease where Kaoru's thigh meets his body, already damp with sweat and smelling of musk, arousal.
And when Hikaru wraps his mouth around his Kaoru's erection and probes his fingers, long and searching, into Kaoru—
Maybe he should know better, maybe Kaoru should too; maybe they shouldn't be thrusting into each other, breaths ragged and cheeks flushed with desire—but Hikaru doesn't care.
Kaoru likes to tell him, afterwards when they are tangled together, sticky and drying, that Hikaru may think they should know better, but Kaoru does. He knows better than to doubt what they have, or whether they should want it, because he knows that this is how they were meant to be.
Feedback always appreciated.