So this is, in fact, chapter 1 of the happy-ending-arc. There will be a chapter 2 (or a chapter three, depending on how you're counting) following it before I start writing posting the unhappy-ending-arc. Please note that the two arcs are totally separate - they are mutually exclusive possible paths from a single starting point (being, in this case, Brick). Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please leave me comments and concrit! :D
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Kyouya does not touch his food. Haruhi finishes her whole plate. The bill comes, and when Kyouya says, "Expensive," it is the first word that has vibrated the air between them in half an hour. He pays, an especially generous tip, because he is so, so damn sorry.
Outside the restaurant there is an alcove, of stone that never dries, in between the wooden sort of arbor that frames the door and the concrete-and-plaster bumpout of addition, the kitchen. He pulls her by the upper arm until they are standing in the space of one person in that alcove where it is always at least five degrees cooler than the rest of Tokyo. This is the way every night ends, at this restaurant. He pulls her here, and she always moves heavily, like she wasn't expecting it, not resisting, though, just not helping. Like she always is. Always. He always kisses her, tilts her head up, tilts his head down, straight. The angles are tight; no room for triangulation of necks. It is always a brief kiss. It is always the kind of kiss he longs to give her more of. He doesn't kiss her tonight. He tilts her head up, tilts his head down, straight, and brings his mouth to her ear.
"When?" I need to plan how my heart breaks. Give me a timeline. I need to plan this, Haruhi.
"I made an appointment for next Tuesday." The faster the better. Like ripping off a band-aid, Kyouya. Just let me get this done. She breaks away from him, and it's like he was never holding her at all. She walks down the road in the direction of the subway stop, a quarter mile away. She places each foot deliberately, in those tottering heels that no pregnant woman should wear after the first trimester, out dignity if nothing else, and he sees what she is doing.
---
He finds out, because it is habit. He doesn't bother questioning the merit. He doesn't care to scrutinize his motivations. If she were anyone else, he would find out. So he finds out. It is a respectable clinic. Not connected to Ohtori at all; it's a controversial procedure, and Ohtori won't have anything to do with it. It's an independent practice, in fact. A busy one, well-reputed. He ascertains that she did not get the first available appointment. She is going in at 8:30 in the morning for a surgical procedure. Which means she must be at least two months along. Must have known over a month before she told him. No. No, not likely. She told him as soon as she knew, and she checked as soon as she had a reason to. He works through the improbabilities and he recognizes the mistake. He shakes his head at the computer screen, at the details of Haruhi's appointment. It was so unlikely. Shouldn't have happened. Shouldn't have happened. He makes one mistake and this is how big it blows. Blows, blows, blows up. Like a pustule. Like the Plauge, and the scent of posies and crematoriums. No. No no no. It's a child.
"I'll have to pay for it, of course." He speaks out loud, so his thoughts don't get lost in the screaming. "She'll probably be there until the afternoon, and she'll likely have to miss an extra few days of classes. I'll have to hire a note taker for her. I'll get in touch with the students with disabilities department tomorrow. I can't imagine secrecy will be too expensive. None of this should get out of hand." He closes tabs, erases incriminating searches from the browser history, closes the laptop.
Places elbow on laptop, removes his glasses, leans the bridge of his nose against two pinching fingers. "What am I doing?"
---
He walks into his father's office at 9 o'clock Monday morning. He gave five minutes' notice. He does not address the secretary. Walks straight in. Unbidden. Yoshio is in a meeting with his two older sons. He has not bothered to dismiss them. Four eyes swivel at him, and two opaque white lenses. His brothers keep their faces politely blank, and he can feel their curiosity, their nascent triumph, emanating from their silk ties, their pores. "If Kyouya is urgent, it's a problem. If it's a problem for Kyouya, it's a solution for us." He is disgusted by them, and they are not important. His father regards him with mild surprise. Practiced.
"This is sudden, Kyouya. I hope you've had no trouble with the Minami Group – I know you had a meeting with them this morning about-"
"You know what this is about, Father." He will no longer tolerate civility. He wishes this to be known. "I am breaching the terms of the contract. I want to know how you intend to penalize us."
In the room there are four dark points that matter, and four glass ovals and a few trim inches of wire and roughly six cubic feet of grotesquely irrelevant air between them. Assessment moves in vectors. Threats move in rays, beginning at the immovable points on the grid, following complementary slopes until they intersect and form closed circuits. The older brothers feel lost again, and this is comforting to them. In a room with Father and Little Brother, they are always a little out of their depth.
"You are aware, Kyouya, that it is not just our contract you are disrespecting. We will discuss this when all the family heads are present. Bring your wife." No civility. No threat. Kyouya realizes: he, also, is afraid, with decisions to make.
This lets him smile when he says, "Yes, father." Hai, otou-sama.
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She walks into the clinic at 8:15 Tuesday morning, fifteen minutes early, like they told her to, and his chest steers her back out. His hand on her abdomen, then her waist, then her back. She realizes there is a shiny black car in the parking lot.
"Don't worry about the cancellation fee. I've dealt with it." Did you really think I would let you do this? I wouldn't blame you if you did.
She tries to say his name, but can't. She stutters the first consonant a few times. They are nearing the car.
"We have to be at city hall in forty-five minutes. Tamaki and Ranka-san will meet us there. Breakfast is waiting for you in the car. We have a meeting with my father at 10:30. You'll have changed into appropriate clothing before then, of course." Please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes. He stops, because they've reached the car. He makes as if to open the door for her but does not. He bars her from it. Looks directly at her, angling his neck downwards, as if to kiss, because she did not stop walking until he took his hand off her back, and now there is barely enough room for both of them in front of the car door. "You will marry me, won't you?" Please say yes.
She's looking up at him, but he doesn't know how long it's been since she looked up, since she stopped staring straight ahead, at the sky line, the car, his chest. He can't truly see her. Perhaps his glasses are dirty. "But… Kyouya, what will your father do?" Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. She's touching the fabric of his shirt (he wore worn clothing, comfortable, neutral colors, because he wanted to match her) and he's convinced that it's about to explode.
"That's what we're meeting him at 10:30 to find out." Her brow expands from concern to illumination. She is practically glowing. Maybe that's why he still can't see her, can't take in her anatomically ridiculous, delicious eyes, her sweet, clean face, the way she's smiling at him with her whole body. Maybe that's why the sight of her passes directly into his long-term memory, is imbued in the place of the mind that processes happiness, without ever touching his retinas. Because she is too bright. He is trembling and he has no idea where his hands are. "I bought you a ring. It should suit your taste. A platinum band with 3.5 carats worth of diamonds embedded around the circumference." Please say yes please say yes please say yes… "If you don't like it-"
"I'm sure I'll love it. You know my taste, Kyouya." I said yes already.
He kisses her, the simple kind, the honest and vulnerable kind, the kind he will pay any price in the world for the right to give her more of. He knows where his hands are. One is framing her cheek, supporting her jaw, wrapped like a conch shell around her ear (can she hear the surge, the blood riding tides through his fingers?), and the other is on her abdomen, where their baby is, and so he feels he is kissing their baby too.