It's approaching a month later when Kyoya feels the first creeping tendrils of unease finally take root.
Hanako enters the house as he is sitting at the table, quietly working through some maths equations. His father had copied the house key not long ago, so she could pop by and check up on him while Yoshio was at work. Kyoya had been vehemently opposed if only because he resented the idea of needing to be babysat when before he'd been free to roam the house, or stay with his siblings whenever he so chose.
And maybe she was playing the part of the doting girlfriend, or maybe she genuinely enjoyed his company, because she'd stop by fairly regularly, waiting alongside him for Yoshio to return.
Absently, Kyoya tracks the way she clutters about, kicking her shoes off by the door, bag tossed haphazardly on the couch.
He doesn't really recall what happened, not completely. He's too focused, an inattentive hand tousling his hair as he runs circles around a particularly difficult question. And then fingers are clicking in front of his face, Kyoya going cross-eyed to bring them into focus. When he looks up, Hanako's face is twisted with annoyance, hands returning to her hips now she has his attention.
"Finally! I've been calling you for ages. It's rude to ignore people, Kyoya."
"Ah, I didn't hear you." He apologises. "It wasn't deliber—"
"Why are there dishes in the sink?" She demands, acting as though she hadn't heard him speak.
"I'm sorry?"
"Dirty dishes. In the kitchen sink. Why are they there?"
Kyoya can't quite understand her anger. "Because they haven't been washed yet?" He supplies, confused. She glares at him as though he's deliberately being unhelpful. He kind of is, but maybe she shouldn't have interrupted his workflow. It's going to be a pain to get back on track after this. "That's where we keep them when they're dirty. Do you not do the same?"
"Why are they not done?" She says, through gritted teeth.
Dread curls in the pit of his stomach.
This isn't like the kind of playful banter he normally has with his father.
The air feels charged in a way that's wrongworngwrong.
Dropping his attitude seems like a wise course of action, so Kyoya opts for a brief explanation instead. "We have a system. Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays are dad's responsibility. The other days are mine."
She shakes her head, slowly, like she can't quite believe what she's hearing, and Kyoya feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "Honestly, are you that much of an ungrateful brat? Your father comes home from work, exhausted, and has to clean up after you? Go and do those dishes, Kyoya. It's the least you could do for him."
Ungrateful brat.
Indignation sparks in him, sharp and bright. Who was she, to come into his house, to interrupt the system that he and his father had lovingly, pain-stakingly crafted, and act like she knew better? She hadn't even been here for long.
Ungrateful.
She has no right.
No right to say that to him.
He frowns, fighting back a scowl. "Dad wants me to focus on my studies. Those are the days I get the most homework, hence our routine."
"It wasn't a request. I want those dishes done, Kyoya. Don't burden your father anymore."
"If he's unhappy about the arrangement, he'll tell me himself." Kyoya snaps back.
And then the slap rings sharp across his face.
All he does is stare, for a moment.
His cheek stings, smarting and blooming red, but it's not that bad. Not really. He's been punched harder before, by his friends, by the older kids in school that would pick on Tamaki, and then Kyoya when he tried to defend him— the ones that were chased off from one glare Mori shot their way.
It's the shock that has him rooted in place, gaping with surprise. The suddenness has unwanted tears springing to his eyes, which he hastily blinks back.
"That was to get your attention." She says, and it's not cruel.
Not even harsh, like she has been.
Just solid. Factual.
"You can't talk to adults like that, Kyoya. It's really not polite." There's a pause and then Hanako must have noticed the wet gleam in his eyes, for she softens. "Hey there, don't cry, kiddo. It wasn't that big of a deal, was it?"
Her hand finds his shoulder and rubs reassuringly. She continues in a light, conspiratory tone. "You're lucky I was the one that was here. Back in my day, you'd be punished so much worse."
He's frozen solid by the sudden realisation that he has just been slapped. That he'd never been slapped before and yet he just was. His father and mother had never even raised a hand at him growing up. That realisation is coupled with the dawning thought that slapping him is certainly not something Hanako should be doing.
"Hey, Kyoya. Are you with me?" She's smiling at him, and it's warm and friendly, so drastically different from her earlier demeanour that he almost wonders whether he'd imagined the whole thing.
But his cheek still stings, a steady, grounding reminder of what has just transpired.
Kyoya finds himself almost breathless and manages a shaky nod in return.
"Good boy. Now, why don't you go do those dishes and finish your homework in your room?"
Biting down on his lip, Kyoya slowly gets up, giving her a wide berth as he obediently heads into the kitchen.
He stays in his room until morning, tossing and turning the whole night.
He doesn't want to eat breakfast but he'd skipped dinner last night, and after poking and prodding at his face in the mirror, his protesting stomach wins out. There is a mark, sure, but the skin isn't even that red. He can play it off as sleeping funny and he does.
Hanako is sitting at the table, attention focused on her phone.
Kyoya keeps his mouth shut and his father is none the wiser.
After all, there's nothing really to tell.
It was a slap. Just a single, measly slap. And maybe it shouldn't have happened, or maybe it was simply a mistake. Surely it wouldn't happen again so there was no need to worry. Regardless, Kyoya's almost fourteen and he's not going to run crying to his father over something so small.
The next day, he comes home and is greeted by a blinding smile and a large takeaway cup of his favourite Boba tea. Hanako plays loud music from her phone and sings off key, miming air guitar in places that almost has Kyoya's drink spilling from his nose.
He chokes on laughter and after a while allows her to coax him up with her.
His father returns from work to find them both jumping on the couch like five year olds, belting out the lyrics to some old song at the top of their lungs. They freeze, guilty, and Yoshio only smiles, singing loudly with them from the kitchen as he whips up a quick dinner.
Through the hazy evening, filled with fading sunlight and laughter, the slap is all but forgotten.
Kyoya isn't a child.
He isn't going to kick up a fuss just because Hanako has a slightly different approach to discipline than his parents do.
It was just a slap, he reasons to himself. It wasn't even that bad.
You're just being dramatic, it's not like it's—
Like it's abuse or anything.
(And his father loves her. He loves her).
And Kyoya knows he can't say anything.
Nobody notices, because of course, there is nothing to notice.
She smiles and ruffles his hair, and is gentle and kind and so affectionate.
Kyoya dismisses it as a bad day. A momentary lapse in judgement.
He's hit people before. He's hit his siblings. Hell, he's hit Tamaki before.
But he was a boy then.
A child.
(He's still a child, he knows. Being almost-fourteen doesn't magically classify him as an adult by anyone's standards but he can at least be mature enough to keep his hands to himself when he's annoyed).
Still, he ignores it.
And when he drops by Fuyumi's house, Kyoya almost, almost manages to forget about his worries.
"You like her, then?" Fuyumi asks.
The question is both unexpected as it is abrupt, though Kyoya instinctively knows who his sister is referring to. He's currently on his hands and knees in the middle of Fuyumi's living room, toting his niece around on his back like a miniaturised show-pony and that gives him more than enough time to really think through his answer.
Kyoya dearly loves his sister, adores her with all his heart, but Fuyumi is, ultimately, the biggest goddamn snitch alive. If he so much as hints at being unhappy his father would know about it by sun-up, and that really isn't a problem Kyoya wants to deal with any time soon.
The slap comes to mind, unabidden. He feels his cheek warm damningly and wonders whether it's obvious.
"She's alright," Kyoya says, like he couldn't really care either way. "She bought me Boba." He adds, sensing that Fuyumi is looking for something a little deeper.
"Mango flavour?"
"Mango flavour," Kyoya confirms, eyes skirting slyly over to where Fuyumi is lounging on the couch. "I wonder who told her which one was my favourite?"
Fuyumi pointedly doesn't look at him, which is as much of an admission of guilt as he's going to get. Kyoya smirks to himself and plods forward, listening to Izumi's joyful shrieks of laughter as he jostles her around on his back. He's probably overdoing it a little, and Fuyumi isn't as vacant as she pretends to be. She knows he's bowing out of the conversation and for once she frees him without protest.
"Oh no," Kyoya announces to the room at large, in comical deadpan. "We're falling. Quick, Mimi, hold on tight." Kyoya teeters to one side, twisting enough that a giggling Izumi is safely flipped back into his arms, before flopping down onto the fluffy carpet. He lets his tongue loll from his mouth, ignoring Izumi's little hands prodding at his sides.
"Up, Kyo!" She singsongs, pushing her beaming face into his. He has his eyes closed, but he can feel how close she is, and has to stop himself from smiling. "Up, up!"
It's easy like this, Kyoya thinks.
Feeling normal, like the space he takes up is okay. Kyoya's tried too hard to grow up, denied himself of the childhood he deserves out of misplaced necessity. And Tamaki had been beside him, sure, the others, too. Cajoling him into living a little; just loosen up, Kyoya, they'd crow obnoxiously. But being here, cementing his status as the favourite uncle, it's so simple. And maybe it's because he gives Izumi every ounce of attention and affection he wished he could have given to himself; because he can't indulge himself, but if it's her, then he doesn't feel so guilty.
Kyoya rolls over and gives an exaggerated snore. "No, I'm sleeping. Don't wake me up, Izumi. I'm very, very tired."
Fuyumi is already chuckling. There's a suspiciously rustling on the carpet, and then Izumi launches herself onto him. Kyoya pops his eyes open, expert fingers seeking out all her ticklish spots. "Cheeky baby!" He mock-scolds, while she laughs and writhes with glee. "I told you not to wake me!"
This is how it should be, he thinks.
You have a kid and you don't fuck them up with whatever awful things you're feeling.
He thinks again of Hanako, of the rage in her eyes. The pain that blossomed in his cheek and the tell-tale mark left behind. Of the gentle way she ruffled his hair. How she consoled him with such sweetness.
Izumi's brown eyes shine back at him. With her flower adored pigtails and pouty lips, she's practically a clone of his sister in miniature form, save for her eyes. Sticking his tongue out at her, Kyoya lightly tugs on a pigtail, then does it again when she squeals and tries to bat at him.
Briefly, he thinks about anyone raising a hand against her. He's immediately disgusted and a flare of white-hot anger flashes through him, whippet-sharp. No, he'd never allow anyone to hurt his niece, wouldn't accept any explanation regarding the need for it.
Kyoya looks over at Fuyumi.
Hesitates.
He could tell his sister. Perhaps he could embellish the truth a little and seek out advice on behalf of an anonymous friend. My friend told me his mother slapped him the other day. It was just once but is it okay? It's not, is it? It's not, so what should I do? What should I do? Hanako got angry and slapped me, and it hurt. But it was only once, so that's okay, right? Dad loves her, so it's okay. It's not going to happen again, so I don't need to tell him, right? Right?
Would she believe him? If he could piece together the right words, if he could tell her the truth, would she even believe him?
It's a stupid question. Of course she would. Fuyumi hasn't ever doubted him, but still, Kyoya can't quite find it in him.
In the end, he doesn't ask.
It's not like anything else would happen.
Kyoya's birthday arrives with much fanfare, though none on his part. Obnoxious as ever, Tamaki counts down the days with such manicial, unearthly glee that one would be forgiven for mistaking that it was his own day of spawn that he was anticipating. For the most part, Kyoya just leaves him to it. There's no deterring Tamaki when he's on a roll, Kyoya's learnt that well enough from over a decade of friendship.
To the surprise of no-one, Tamaki ropes the remainder of their friends into his antics, some more enthusiastically than others. (Currently, Haruhi's dead-eyed, I'm-So-Done-With-This stares are the only thing keeping him going).
He wakes that fateful morning to dull sunlight. The soft twittering of voices sounds from somewhere in the house.
It's a weekend, which is both extremely fortunate, and also the main cause of all of Kyoya's current suffering. No school means he's avoided public humiliation for another year. However, no school also means that Kyoya's hellscape will begin the moment he steps outside his bedroom door, and likely continue all day.
He considers just rolling over and going back to sleep.
A familiar laugh erases that option. It's quickly hushed, but still, Kyoya could clock that sound from a mile away.
His friends may not be brave enough to wake him, but Fuyumi would relish throwing him out in just his boxers. Let it be known that Kyoya Ootori would cower to the whims of no-one... Except maybe his older sister. Fuyumi is a force to be reckoned with on a good day, with actual purpose behind her movements Kyoya shudders to think of what she could achieve. With that in mind, Kyoya changes with a tad more urgency than he usually would.
He's fully clothed with a comb in hand when a knock sounds against his bedroom door. "Kyoya, are you up?"
Ah.
The welcoming committee must be getting bored if they're sending his father in to deal with him.
"No."
His father chuckles and cracks the door open, peeking inside. As he approaches, Kyoya doesn't look up from where he's attempting to tame a stubborn cowlick. The wayward lock determinedly ignores his best efforts to force it into order. "I can't believe you let Tamaki bully you into holding a surprise birthday party." Because that's almost certainly what happened.
Yoshio looks almost offended by the suggestion.
"Who said I needed convincing? It could have been my idea. Though I do admit, your sister and Tamaki do make a remarkable team."
Kyoya groans, dragging a hand down his face. "You're the worst. They're going to be insufferable and you're enabling it."
"It's my fatherly duty." Yoshio tousles Kyoya's hair, effectively ruining all his hard work. "Now, stop obsessing and get out here. We've got a cake to cut and presents to give. Unless you want me to give them away?"
The stink eye Kyoya shoots him would be enough to incinerate any mortal man. Yoshio, however, is unaffected, and merely steers Kyoya through the door with a hand on his back.
Four separate party poppers explode in his face.
Drenched in confetti, Kyoya can only smile at the beaming faces of his friends and family as the chorus rings out, "Happy Birthday, Kyoya!"
It's not too bad, Kyoya decides.
Tamaki hugs him hard enough to squeeze his ribcage.
His sister proves to be Satan herself, pinching his cheeks and cooing incessantly, making certain Haruhi is within eye line every single time. His brothers do absolutely nothing to help him, not that he expected much from them anyways. He's caught Akito snapping pictures of his misery twice already. Still, it's not too bad.
Birthdays aren't really much of a deal, but maybe if it's like this, he can start to like them a little.
His father brings out a behemoth of a cake stacked with glowing candles. It's so ridiculously big that Kyoya wonders whether it could be classified as a small vehicle. Perhaps this is a new form of exercise? Cake-lifting? Simply transporting it requires more muscle groups than Kyoya can name.
The cake is set before him with an audible thunk.
He blows out the candles, all fourteen of them, and pointedly doesn't make a wish. From behind, he catches Hikaru shifting guiltily. (Likely weighing up the short-term benefits of pushing Kyoya's face into the cake with the inevitable long-term effects of the subsequent maiming and/or murder that will occur shortly after).
When the shove doesn't come, Kyoya relaxes.
Evidently Hikaru wants to live long enough to reach twenty.
Smart kid.
Hanako's hand brushes against his as she hands him the knife. Kyoya uses it to cut an even slice, and hands it to his father. Even with precise measuring, the block of cake is still large enough to knock out a burglar. Kyoya's pretty sure they'll all die of high blood sugar before they can get halfway through, and the thought doesn't worry him as much as it probably should. It's not the worst way to go.
The cake, once distributed as fairly as possible, is heaven on Earth. (Izumi pouts at the size of her slice; it being a quarter of everyone else's doesn't bother Kyoya, who would rather not have a sugar-crazed toddler bouncing off the walls for eight hours straight).
Still, Kyoya is absolutely the favourite uncle and will defend his position to the death if need be.
Coaxing her into helping open his presents takes no effort at all. The toddler plops herself agreeably into his lap and tears off wrapping paper with maniacal glee. It's adorable. Kyoya is wrapped around Izumi's pinky finger and he wouldn't have it any other way. Even if that means he spends ten minutes cleaning the mess off the floor afterwards. Ten minutes, because the twins keep laughing and showering him in wrapping paper confetti and making the job ten times harder than it needs to be.
They're eventually wrangled by Mori and Honey, who push them into the hallway.
"Hurry up, Kyoya," Tamaki calls. "Or we'll start without you!"
They're watching a movie, supposedly. Kyoya suspects the twins will talk through most of it. If not, Izumi probably will. Still, he can't quite find it in himself to be annoyed.
"I'm coming, I'm coming." Kyoya grumbles.
He's stuffing the leftover paper in the trash when a hand catches him under the arm. Kyoya jumps, reeling around to face a beaming Hanako. Clasped in her hands is a delicately wrapped present. "You forgot one," She says softly, then holds the box out to him.
It's the kind of gift that requires care.
Smooth, shiny red wrapping paper, all tied together with a fancy purple bow. It would be a disservice to tear it to pieces, regardless of whether his friends were waiting for him. Carefully, Kyoya pulls on one end of the ribbon, letting the silky material run through his fingers as it unravels. Hanako watches him intently until the maroon scarf is revealed.
"Oh," Kyoya says. "Thank you, this is really nice."
It's not a lie.
The scarf is thick and rich, soft in a way that's undeniably expensive.
Hanako's face lights up.
She takes the scarf from him, then carefully begins to wrap it around his neck. Nobody's done this for him since he was eight, and it's strange. A little uncomfortable, but not altogether terrible. "I'm glad you like it. It's getting colder, so you should wrap up warm. We wouldn't want you getting sick, now, would we?"
Her finger boops him on the nose.
On the nose.
Like a dog.
Kyoya's so absolutely bewildered that he barely reacts as she shuffles him towards the lounge. There's a hand on his lower back, and the doorway isn't nearly small enough to require standing this close. The hand lingers as she scans the room. Then Kyoya feels her fingers slide away as she moves to sit next to his father on the loveseat.
His friends and family are sprawled out on every possible surface.
Tamaki has carved an inch of space on the adjoining couch for him. He looks up as Kyoya enters and starts patting the cushions with such aggression that Kyoya literally sees his life flash before his eyes. Deciding that he'd rather not deal with that, actually, Kyoya makes a beeline for Haruhi, who's claimed their squishy bean bag on the other side of the room, and promptly makes himself her problem by sitting on her.
Had he pulled this stunt with anyone else, Kyoya would be eating carpet by now.
Since Haruhi is Haruhi, and therefore infinitely more patient than all of his friends combined (except maybe Mori), she just whuffs out a resigned sigh, then shuffles to make room for him.
There isn't much of it.
They end up squished together in the sizable divot at the centre. It's probably even worse than the couch would be in terms of maintaining his personal bubble, but one glance at the sulking form of his friend is all it takes for Kyoya to abandon any thoughts of retreat.
Besides, a small part of Kyoya thinks, the couch is really a bit too close to the loveseat.
It's not like Kyoya's avoiding it but…
But maybe he is.
And maybe it's the way Hanako keeps looking over at the two of them that makes him sink closer to Haruhi, something spiteful festering in his stomach. There's nothing really off about her expression, not that there's much of an expression to begin with; just an eerie, carefully controlled blankness, but Kyoya can almost taste the disappointment regardless.
Haruhi doesn't protest the blatant cuddling occurring directly in front of his immediate family and friends. She does, however, unsuccessfully try to flick away his new scarf from where it's attempting to invade most of her face and mouth. Kyoya had forgotten it was there. With a start, he unwinds it from his neck and tucks it out of the way.
Familiar music signals the start of the film—
—And Hanako's eyes barely leave him throughout it.
T/W: Physical Abuse (a slap, near the start of the chapter), mild gaslighting, some mentions of borderline creepy behaviour
Please let me know if I've missed any potential triggers
Any feedback would be much appreciated
