Disclaimer: I do not own Ouran High School Host Club. However, I do own Michiyo Akiho, Michiyo Terasu, Michiyo Hajika, and Adelaide Schmidt.
Author's note: Reference to Prince of Tennis in this chapter, specifically Atobe Keigo. One more chapter until the kill Mary Sue-ness :)
Michiyo Akiho honestly treasured obscurity; however, she held pride even closer to her heart. And to keep everyone in awe of her prowess, she continued to be the insuperable and overworked tensai that she was—winning national and international track meets, destroying competition at piano events, and founding a start-up with power that rivaled countless full-fledged businesses run by adults. To form a truce between the rivaling forces of her heart, she sustained her reputation as the tensai out of school; however, she hid her identity while in the charge of the useless school, Lobelia, which her father strongly recommended her to attend.
"Akiho!" Dear lord, can that obnoxious woman ever stop talking?
"Amakusa." Akiho forced a gracious smile onto her generally stoic face.
"My dear! How come you have not yet joined the Zuka Club?"
"I apologize," Akiho gave a perfected fake laugh that made Benio swoon. Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. "But I have no time for such pathetic ventures. Good day."
"Is Akiho Corporation a part of Ootori Corporations yet?" Ootori Yoshio leaned backwards on his revolving chair placed behind his engraved marble desk.
Kyouya stayed silent, his sturdy frame melting a little like rock under pressure. He contemplated just not answering and walking out of the room; however, the two six feet some bodyguards standing at the doorway left that out of the question.
"No," Kyouya replied, a steely tone in his voice.
Yoshio stood up. Unlike Michiyo Terasu, the white strands in his hair were no indication of his weakening and age. His obsidian eyes locked onto Kyouya's melting ones, his own way of replying without words. I expect it soon. The head of Ootori Corporations always got what he wanted, and a small start-up was no exception.
Kyouya shivered imperceptibly as he looked at the ground; if he didn't get Akiho's company to his father soon, then he would lose favor and thus lose his shot at being the heir.
Whenever anyone asked Akiho how she managed to perfectly to excel in three major areas: athletics, music, and business, Akiho just smiled and said, "Hard work."
Hard work was her life, and her day: with all the self-inflicted stress in her life, she skipped over childhood and teenager-hood. With the stress every day, her schedule was pressed to the point where sleep was no longer an option. And without sleep, she was slowly disintegrating even before the prime of her life. One hour per day was dedicated to napping; the other twenty-three were for working, training, and practicing. Insomnia, photographic memory, and antisocial disorders were the only things keeping her going.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The blasted work phone decided to assault Akiho's ears at three in the morning, exactly halfway through Akiho's nap. Although irritated, she sat up straight and picked the phone up habitually, speaking in her best business voice.
"This is Akiho Corporations. Is there anything you would like?" In the middle of the night? This better be an emergency.
"Moshi moshi. This is Ootori Kyouya. May I speak to your boss?"
"It's me, Ootori. Would you like something?"
"I wanted to talk out my father's deal with you."
Amused, Akiho decided to humor him. "Yes?"
"My father agreed to buy your company for twenty-five billion dollars; twenty-five hundred billion yen. Is it a deal?"
"No," Akiho bluntly stated. Even in her sleep-muddled state, she could decide when someone was trying to rip her off or not; and this was the former.
"Could we negotiate it at the Host Club tomorrow? Say, four o' clock?"
"Yea. Totally dude." Akiho replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm and disgust.
Apparently, the third son of Ootori Yoshio didn't know the definition of sarcasm. "Really?"
"No." Akiho looked at her international clock.
"Why not?" Kyouya was exasperated; what was up with the one word answers and her unwillingness to accept his deal?
"I don't exactly plan on flying from Texas to Japan to discuss some rip-off sale with some idiot trying to win his father's favor. I've got better things to do; as in, anything." Akiho decided that she had enough with this useless discussion. "Call me later."
Yawning, she went back to work. It was impossible to sleep after waking up anyways. Scratch that, it was nearly always impossible to sleep.
"Akiho! Go to sleep, damn it!" A sleepy and agitated six foot tall black man in a pair of wrinkled boxers—what happened to the silk pajamas she bought him?—burst into the room and threw the poor girl onto the unused bed.
"Ooph! Coach!" Akiho's voice was muffled by the pillows he threw onto her head.
And heck, she had a race tomorrow.
Michiyo Akiho wasn't known for winning races.
Michiyo Akiho was known for destroying races—which she affectionately called "kicking gluteus maximus". And once she stepped onto the track, Akiho completely transformed.
"Aiko! Can I have your autograph?"
"Aiko! Aiko! Aiko!" Akiho swaggered, laughed, and tossed her ponytail back, chatting amiably with her coach about her latest sponsorship with Nike. On the track, she was no longer Michiyo Akiho. She was Aiko, the young star with no last name but with a huge fan posse that followed her to every race. Here, she had nothing to fear.
Akiho reveled in the simplicity and informality of track and field races. There were no attending bodyguards following each person (although hers still did, in the disguise of teammates), servants rushing around following their masters' every demand, and silk dresses. It was the track, field, bleachers, and her; in this scene, she could be anything she wanted to be.
"Our Open 200 meter champion, Aiko!"
"Our Open triple jump champion, Aiko!"
"Our Open 400 meter champion, Aiko!"
Akiho just shrugged at the congratulations and slipped the medals onto her neck. "Coach, how was that 200 meter?"
"Decent. You need to bring your knee up a bit more though; otherwise, you'll be stabbing the ground with those spikes. No one else may notice the minor issue, but that's what made you lose out on the gold medal to that woman during the Beijing Olympics. They're not cheap," her coach admonished. Ahiko looked at her silver and navy blue Nike spike shoes. Embellished with her track name "Aiko" on the sole, they were personalized to fit her foot and taste, and would cost a fortune to buy if the aspiring buyer was not Akiho herself.
Thing is, she was Akiho. And she had that fortune.
-Aoi