WARNING: Tamaki angst resides below! I cannot guarantee that he comes out in character, because I felt like this was a serious moment for him (and we all know he doesn't have many of those XD). Thanks for waiting so long everyone for an update! Oh, and Abregine, if you're reading this, thank for the push forward ;). I needed that!

10. It's Go Time

As soon as Kyouya stepped out, door closing behind him, Tamaki's smile dropped. His smile wasn't as authentic as Kyouya's was today. He kicked off the covers, getting to his feet. The cold medicine mitigated his fever, tore down many of his debilitating symptoms like fatigue and weariness, so he felt decent enough to move about without falling or passing out.

He would rather die, though, than face what he had to face. He would like to be unconscious for it, in that dreaming place that people enter when they are between sleepiness and wakefulness. His family was breaking up, no matter what he did.

He made Haruhi cry.

He rubbed vigorously at one eye, feeling the moisture collect along the surface of his eyeballs. It would well over, and round off into a little droplet. Like the rain outside. He could hear it, that nasty stream of gross weather. It matched his mood. He felt much like a storm. Twisting and convulsing, sending shivers of electricity through his body and into the ground. Rumbling with his own sadness. Pouring himself onto the floor.

He made Haruhi cry.

How could he do that? Even as he stepped out of his pajama bottoms, slipping his legs into loose jeans, he wondered he how could have let that happen. She was dear to him. Haruhi was the only girl he wanted to be with all the time; in the morning, afternoon, evening, after school, before school, lunchtime, noontime, midnight, dawn, twilight, moonlight, under it glinting in the silver stands of stars, he in a suit, she in a dress, dancing, twirling, loving, being loved, hugging, kissing, running his hands over her, lips feeding on her own, foreheads together, breath becoming one, kissing kissing kissing-

"RGAAH!" Tamaki plastered his hands against his ears, hoping to funnel out the soundless noise, the hypnotism that fed these thoughts through his head. Tears pattered freely as he blinked, making dull noises as they hit the carpet of his bedroom. Pit, pat, pit, pat. It was no use; he couldn't pretend any more.

Kyouya was right.

Hikaru and Kaoru were right.

Haruhi was right.

They were all right..

He wasn't-... Haruhi's father.

But then, what was he to her? A senpai? An upperclassman? Was that all? He thought back to the other day, alone with her inside her house, watching her from his lounging space on the bed. What she said to him.

Just because I don't like you pretending to be my father…doesn't mean I don't like you at all, senpai…. I mean, you're my friend.

Friend. He meant something to her, at least. Even if it was just a little. Would she go to the trouble of smiling at him? Of chasing after him on a carriage and putting herself in danger? Would she continue to be in the host club if she didn't care about him? He wanted to say no, of course not, but a debilitating lack of confidence overshadowed him. Tamaki was a self-assured person, apt to be beside himself when giving his word. But there was a nagging doubt in his mind. He could find no feasible evidence of her feelings.

Haruhi cared about the club, not him. The sacrifices she made were for the club because she liked it. That didn't guarantee her affections towards him. She probably cared for everyone else, except him. He was always causing her trouble, and she was sure to let him know it too. She would complain, gripe about his incessant hugging, commentate on his pretentious plans and flatly refuse to take part in some of them. He could think of a few times when she got angry with him. She seemed to put up with him, just like she did with her father. He wasn't a joy, he was a burden to her. Who wanted another father anyhow? For Haruhi, one certainly seemed to be enough.

"Heh-!...Heh-.." Tamaki pressed the edge of his wrist to his nose, his eyes narrowing, squeezing out tears. What's worse of all was the damn cold. It was, he concluded, the physical manifestation of his guilt and love. Maybe it was fate that he got sick, because it started a stringing chain of events. One to another, and another, and another...

"Heh-ESSKCHII!"

He could not say when it all started, as he slipped his head through the collar of a t-shirt, rubbing his nose. He remembered the first day she arrived in Music Room 3 naturally, but he couldn't for the life of him recall what had transpired to leave him so-... helpless. So hopelessly infatuated with her. He hadn't stopped to think about it until now, but he left all his flanks open. He was unguarded against her, completely defenseless, and he didn't mind. Not at all. He should be bothered by it, how open he had become. But he had always been that way. He had no masks. Tamaki could only offer himself, bare and sensitive, to the world he loved so dearly. Did that make him weak, or all the stronger? He didn't usually think about things like this. It never used to matter before. It shouldn't matter to him now, whether he would get his feelings hurt or not, but it did.

He was afraid.

Tamaki was afraid of being honest with her. With himself.

He wasn't her father, he was her friend. A good friend. Best friend? No. She didn't have any of those, did she? Haruhi felt so far away when he watched her. Even when he hugged her, he could never seem to reach. Today, he had closed that gap. It hadn't been there. Hugging her on the floor of her kitchen, listening to her breathe, remembering that night at the beach, and those short moments in the air over the bridge when he held her in his arms... she was obtainable.

The young Suoh shimmied his feet into his tennis shoes, ignoring the laces and not wasting his time with socks. If he wanted to get out without delay or explanation, he had no time for extras. After a short analysis of the situation, Tamaki decided that "friend" wasn't good enough. If he was her friend, then so was everyone else in the club.

Kyouya.

Honey-senpai.

Mori-senpai.

Hikaru and Kaoru.

His blue eyes narrowed, his fingers cinching around his doorknob. He wore nothing but the barest clothes, the quickest things he could find to slip on. The rain drizzled outside. Friends wasn't good enough. Tamaki didn't want to be just like everyone else she knew. He didn't want to be what just anybody could mean to her. He wanted to be special. If Tamaki couldn't be her father, he would be something just as important to her. Someone who loved her as much as Ranka did.

His feet carried him out of his room, across the landing, down the stairs. When he heard Shima coming around a corner, he felt no panic. He merely turned and sidestepped into a bathroom, lingering in the darkness of the small space, waiting for her to pass. He felt numb. He couldn't feel what he was doing, and he was glad of that. The only thing he wanted to feel right now was Haruhi in his arms.

He made her cry.

He would fix that.

He would show her, even if that meant destroying himself, his family, in the process.

Even if it ruined everything, he couldn't keep hiding. Kyouya was right.

By tonight, it would be finished.

Kyouya held the tissue box in one hand, and pushed open Tamaki's door with the other, staring down at the box.

"Here, Tamaki. These apparently contain lotion to ease dry skin and sore-" He paused when his eyes befell an empty bed. Mussed pajamas on the floor. No Tamaki.

"Tamaki?" The Ootori peeked into the adjoining bathroom, and then around the other side of the bed. "Tamaki."

No answer.

The tissue box was crushed as his hand tightened around it. The cardboard groaned. Kyouya gritted his teeth. "You dumbass," he said, spiking the box to the floor. "When I said confess, I didn't mean now."