(I meant to post this earlier whoops)
Thanks to Lunarella2903 for favoriting and to havarti2 for two favorites!
The only consistent thing about the clock now is its inconsistency, the way it ticks erratically, like my breathing after a performance, like my heart when I catch sight of the whole host club, not just Tamaki, standing at the curtain call at my second show. Like the cadence of reporters' voices.
"Naoki Mai?" I am cornered in the emptied lobby. A young man with a baseball cap and a camera and an older woman with a microphone in one hand, a Bluetooth speaker over her ear, and a voice recorder in the other hand.
My sixth show ended half an hour ago. I'm out of my costume and makeup, my glasses hanging askew on my nose, my hair disheveled. I've taken to walking out between and after shows with my crutches because my leg and hip hurt too much after vigorous dancing.
"I'm from Spotlight Weekly-,"
"The theater magazine!" I squeal in excitement, dropping one of my crutches. The camera guy rushes to pick it up and I thank him, my face red.
Spotlight Weekly! A theater magazine!
"Yes, the theater magazine," the woman laughs at my zeal. Heat curls up my throat and settles on my cheekbones and forehead. "Well, Mister Mai, we want you for the cover of our next edition."
"M- Me?" I stutter. I'm sure I have cotton balls shoved in my ears, though I can't remember putting them there.
"Yes, Mister Mai. Do you mind if we interview you?" She sways over to a cushioned bench and pats the seat next to her with a smile. I hesitantly lower myself next to her.
"I guess."
She flips the recorder on and hands it to the guy with the camera. She takes out a little notepad, a golf pencil, and places the microphone on the arm of the chair.
"So, Mister Mai, where did you get your start?"
My throat dries, and I swallow. This isn't really any different from what the hosts do. It's the same charm with less, ahem, blatant flirting. I force a smile and say with almost a rasp to my suddenly too dry voice, "I took ballet since I was six but the first role I got was in Swan Lake."
"Tell us how you got your disability."
I blanch. "Sorry?"
She gestures with her scraped up dull blue pencil to the crutches resting against the wall. I nod and continue, face heating up, "I, uhm, a car crash. On my way to my debut performance."
"And how has it affected your dancing?"
"Well, it was hard to dance at first. I didn't really have any confidence. Then, I met some friends and they taught me that I could do anything I set my mind to. When Captain- sorry, the producer of this show, called me, it was because of that I accepted the audition. She didn't know about my leg at first and I actually fell in audition and she almost called an ambulance but I got the role anyway."
She scribbles something down on her notepad. "Tell us about these friends."
"I made a deal with a host club at my high school, Ouran Academy. If they would teach me how to be confident enough to dance with a prosthetic leg, I'd help them out at their club. It was actually kind of fun, and I just somehow got closer to them."
"I heard there was a drug scandal involving that club. Care to elaborate?"
Here, I pause, and collect myself. My words come fascinatingly easy. "The host club at Ouran actually found out that the company that made my prosthetic was smuggling drugs through their products. We meant to turn it into the police," a lie, "but there was a mix up and we ended up in court. But- I mean, it's really okay, since we never actually really had drugs."
She raises a pencil thin black eyebrow at me but only says, "What did you have to do to prepare yourself for your current role?"
"I know a few people who embodied the kind of attitude I wanted to display onstage, so I just pretend to be like them." I laugh nervously, strained, when she scribbles in her book again.
"Is there anything you'd like to say to aspiring athletes or performers out there with disabilities like yours?"
"Yes, actually." I straighten a bit with this one. "Uhm, just, you know, do what you love and don't let anything hold you back. Whether it's age, injury, self-consciousness, your disabilities don't define you. You're not invalid. You just have to work a bit harder than everyone else." After a pause in which I chew my lip, I continue, "I met a little girl at my first show intermission. She had a muscular disease and had to get her foot amputated but still wanted to be a ballerina. And, uhm, wherever you are, I know you're going to be a fairy too one day, so keep at it and don't give up."
The journalist tucks her pencil away, closes her notepad, and stands. She shakes my hand and departs.
In the resounding silence, I run my fingers through my hair and smudge my glasses. I was a tad more honest, and a bit more dishonest, than I would have liked.
But Spotlight! They wanted me!
I grin into my hands before collecting my crutches under my arms and leaving.
_.-X-._
It was Tamaki's idea. Then Kyoya's. Then Haruhi's. Tamaki suggested a celebration party after I showed them a copy of Spotlight Weekly with a shot of me in my sparkly Puck costume and a bright subtitle that read, "Page 3, the Story of the Disabled Dancer, Naoki Shun Mai!" Kyoya suggested something more toned down, said in an exasperated voice, and Haruhi suggested something very, very toned down.
That's why we're eating pizza in the club room late into the evening. The light is orange and the floor is cold under my hands. Tamaki and Hikaru, the loud one, I know, are fighting over the last piece of peperroni.
"But there's a whole other half a pizza!" Haruhi is sighing. "Just eat sausage!"
"Eat sausage," Kaoru snickers. Hikaru stops fighting Tamaki long enough to laugh, and watch as Tamaki shoves the whole slice halfway into his mouth. The screaming starts anew.
"What does that mean, Kao-chan?" Honey asks from Mori's lap, biting into a cinnamon stick.
"Nothing, senpai," Hikaru acknowledges when Kaoru won't answer, shoving sausage pizza into his mouth.
"Oh, okay," Honey singsongs.
"I'm going to tell him," I announce.
"Don't," Mori warns lowly.
"Hm?" Honey hums from around his cinnamon dessert as Tamaki rejoins the pizza circle, this time dragging Kyoya, who was in a corner table and ignoring all the food.
"Nothing, senpai," Haruhi reaffirms, death glare set on me. I shrink into my blazer. The twin sitting directly next to me- Kaoru, maybe, or Hikaru- nudges me.
"A game!" Tamaki announces grandly, startling me.
"What kind of game, boss?" The twins chorus.
"What do commoners play at pizza gatherings, Haruhi?" Tamaki asks, leaning into her with his shoulder.
"Figure it out yourself," she mumbles.
"Truth or dare!" The twins blurt. One chugs the rest of his soda, tightens the cap back on, and spins it wildly in the middle of the circle before anyone can protest. It lands on Kyoya.
"Kyoya-senpai," the spinner twin(-ner, I rhyme, with a laugh at myself) leans across the circle. "Truth, or dare?"
"Considering who's asking, truth."
"What are you always writing in that notebook?" He asks energetically.
"Monetical values, sums and differences corresponding to the rise and fall in club popularity, the sway in the teen interest market, the influence of the feminine fanbase, and daily losses, mostly due to," he pauses to glare at Tamaki, "outlandish proposals that hardly pass as ideas."
There's silence, until the loud twin simply says, "What?"
"Kyo-chan is looking at money," Honey sings happily, stuffing cake into his mouth. I have no clue where he got it.
"Oh," the twin says, and sits back. "That's boring. Spin, Kyoya-senpai."
He does, annoyed, and the bottle stops at Tamaki. His violet eyes widen and his tongue hangs out like a puppy. Kyoya sighs and asks, "Truth or dare?"
"Truth!"
"Boo," the twins chorus.
"Are you mentally capable of being quiet for more than half of an hour?" Kyoya practically spits.
"Hm…" Tamaki ponders. "I don't think so." And leans forward to spin the bottle. It lands on Honey and Mori. The former is already asleep on the latter's chest, and when everyone notices, the volume in the room drops significantly.
"Truth or dare?" Tamaki stage whispers to Mori.
"Truth," he whispers back. I can tell because the twins, who are closer, both roll their eyes.
Suddenly, said twins lean over and stage whisper, "Do you have a crush on Haruhi?"
"HUH?" She screeches, only to be shushes by practically everyone.
"No," Mori answers coolly. The twins sit back smugly. I am left reeling about what that means, but have no time to answer as the bottle lands on Kyoya. Again.
"Truth," he says immediately. The twins stick out their tongues.
Mori just calmly asks, "Are your glasses fake?" To which the twins sigh.
"No," Kyoya answers, and spins. It lands on Tamaki. Losing interest, I rest my elbow on my knee and my cheek in my hand.
"Truth," Tamaki says. The twins practically groan.
"Have you ever kissed anyone in this room?" And he knows. I know he knows. Because he looks directly at me. I choke on my breath.
"Forfeit!" Tamaki blurts.
"Forfeit is," the twins smirk, and raise a cinnamon stick high in the air, "the pocky game with someone Kyoya-senpai chooses."
Tamaki scowls, not a good thing on him, and takes the cinnamon stick.
Kyoya says viciously, "Naoki," and I choke again.
"F- Fine," I speak past the curl of embarrassment crawling up from my stomach and scoot on my knees closer to Tamaki.
The churro-like dessert is warm and soft and cinnamon sugar sticks to my lips and coats my tongue. I've never really enjoyed sweets all that much, but the smell of cinnamon is a whole other story. Not to mention the way it tastes on Tamaki's lips when we meet in the middle and hesitate far longer than we should. When I pull back, I have a whole new appreciation for cinnamon and the last of a warm brown dusting of it clinging to the corners of my mouth.
It takes me a second to remember to observe the faces of everyone in the room. The twins' mouths are dropped open, Haruhi is staring neutral with one eyebrow raised, Mori is looking on dispassionately, and Kyoya is smirking. Smirkingsmirkingsnirkingsmirkingsmirking tiktiktiktikti-
And the little bit of space is closed again, but there's no churro this time, and the cinnamon is still there, but gone off my lips now. And maybe I'm supposed to do something with my hands but maybe I'm not and before I can decide my mouth is left lonely and cinnamon-less and Tamaki is back where he belongs and Mori is clapping stoically and the twins are laughing and I'm blushingblushingblushing.
"I think I like cinnamon," I laugh out loud to ease the tension. The twins snort simultaneously and Tamaki is blushing and Kyoya is putting something sneakingly suspicious away.
I think to myself, I should get more magazine interviews and more pizza parties and- yeah. More kisses.
_.-X-._
Summer. After nearly thirty shows and a whole lot of press and box tickets, the ballet is finally over. Shows for the summer venue are just beginning to start, mostly children's theater and community productions.
The twins have a pool. They're splashing one another with water guns. Haruhi, in a ruffled bikini, which is strange for me because she's only ever in masculine clothes, is being pulled by Tamaki towards the edge. Mori is doing laps with Honey on his back. Kyoya is reading on a lounge chair, glaring up every time the twins' water battle gets close to him. I'm sprawled over an inflatable float, my metal leg off and wrapped securely in a bundle of towels.
A sudden arc of water splashes against my neck and face. My prescription sunglasses fly off and with a dull plop! land in the pool. Sputtering, I lean over the float to chase them downwards.
I have all the chapters for this story written, so it's really going to be over soon. Thanks to everyone who's still reading this!
Also, I'm already working on yet another Ouran fic (Looking for a good beta) so stay tuned!
