Ouran Academy's student body was alight with excitement- sometime before the school day began, a portion of the music wing had been sectioned off. President Suoh Suzuru gave a brief announcement, beaming with unveiled pride as he proclaimed that an artist had been comissioned for a mural. He continued to politely request space and respect for the artist, as the up and coming creator was already fairly affluent in the art circles and known for taking their time.
"President! President!" called a student. Male. Kimathi, Yoshio. Born from two botanist families. Father was Waithaka Kimathi, who had travelled from Kenya to Japan and met the mother, Fujikawa Takamoto.(1)
"Call me King!" President Suoh cried.
"Who is the new painter? Tell us," clamored the eager students, eager to hog the now opened stage. "Tell us, tell us."
"Sh- Ah, they've asked to stay anonymous until the piece is complete," the man twiddled his fingers, masking his nervousness.
"She, she!" whispered the students. Their poor principal began to sweat in earnest. "He almost said she, so it's a girl!"
"You know too much!" yelped President Suoh, looking scandalized that his students had pried despite explicit instruction not to. The teachers watched from the sidelines, amused at their poor boss. It was almost as if he didn't know what their beloved students were like.
"This assembly is dismissed," Suoh said, laughing despite his earlier attempt at sternness. "Teachers, collect your classes and follow exit procedure… enjoy your day, everyone!" He clapped his hands a few times, then recited the school's informal motto; "Palma non sine pulvere!" (2)
A few students let out cheers, a larger amount gave half-hearted hollers, and some said nothing at all, still too asleep to properly muster the enthusiasm. Suoh shot all of them an enthusiastic, dazzling smile. Perhaps, if they saw his eternal youth shining through-
"Father!" Bounding through the head, easily seen was the blond head of his only son, Tamaki. "Father, who is the-"
Suoh raised a hand, fondly exasperated. "I cannot tell you the identity of the painter, Tamaki," he explained, watching his son deflate and then then slyly adding, "However, their mural will be just down the hall from your club room. I'm sure that, with time, they'll warm up to you. Perhaps offer them some of your charming French hospitality?"
His heart ached as Tamaki swelled with pride. Rarely was the French half of him intentionally brought up, and even rarer was it directly praised. It was difficult to even have these few stolen moments at school with him.
"You were worried about that empty wing all last year," Tamaki suddenly deduced. He turned to look at his father, sharp eyes- his mother's eyes - studying the new development. "But investing for a mural, even for an amateur artist… that means we're justifying using more of the school funds?"
Suoh grinned encouragingly at his boy to continue.
Tamaki did, his words slowly gaining traction as his excitement built. "Which means your funding plan went through, which means your expansion has gone through, meaning-" He beamed proudly at his father before launching at him in a hug. "Meaning your plan on allotting more scholarships in was passed! Congratulations, father!"
Suoh beamed, hugging his son back. He was getting on in his age, but he was no fool, well aware that the idea had been planted in his head by Tamaki. But his soft hearted son wanted only more access to education for their students- all of their students- not recognition. That Tamaki cared more for their students than he did about taking credit or appearing impressive, and that was, well, a relief. At that age, Suoh had been a hellion with a rebellious streak a mile wide.
Tamaki really was his mother's son.
So the first time any of their group saw her it was only at first her actions, then the crisp silhouette that her studio lights gave her.
The comissioned artist had covered the bottom half of her face with a bandana, wore a news cap to cover her hair ("If she has any," joked one of the twins, perhaps a bit unkindly) and a pair of loose fitting overalls, lightly splattered with paint. The sleeves of her button up were messily rolled up. On her little feet, for she was small in stature, were a raggedy pair of workman's boots.
The little artist stood in the middle of the hallway, just looking hard at the wall's dimensions. Around her the flow of students avoided her by instinct, and the artist pushed to the forefront of the crowd.
After a good quarter hour of eyeing and measuring with her fingers and tilting her head, the artist placed a pencil to the wall, and began to draw. Around her, the crowds thinned as students made their way into clubs or out of the school altogether. A few had paused, perhaps, in their every day trips to watch her work for bit. The artist wouldn't know, for she paid them no mind and instead focused intensely upon the wide, rounded strokes she was carefully making.
Tamaki, on his way to the host club from his last class, found himself watching the way her shoulders moved beneath the cotton. He watched the sleeves hug her arms, which looked strong and confident even as she had to stretch on the tips of her toes, drawing what appeared to be the horizon of her piece. To himself, Tamaki made the note to remind his father about providing her a proper ladder soon enough.
"Sempai? Are you going in any time soon?"
Haruhi's voice was enough to snap him out of his stupor; somehow, without his meaning to, Tamaki had reached the doors of the club room and was loitering about like an idiot.
"Oh, yes! Right, of course." Tamaki fussed, trying to regain his cool as he opened the door for Haruhi to enter first. Instead of coming in right away, Haruhi decided to stare at him for an unnerving amount of time with her cow eyes. Tamaki began to sweat as she glanced over to where he had been looking, then straight back to him.
"Oh!" Haruhi said knowingly, lightly pounding a fist into her other palm. "I see."
An embarrassed yowl made its way out of Tamaki's throat, and Haruhi laughed at him. He quickly began to stuff her inside of the club room, hoping none of the other girls in school had overheard- if one had, the rest would follow.
After starting an entire conversation with a few lines of dialogue (a simple 'Hello, ladies! What do we think of the painter on campus? Isn't she mysterious? Rather romantic, I think.'), Tamaki could agree to one thing: Haruhi was definitely a super villain of some sort. Haruhi was the absolute worst and she'd never be trusted again-
"Say," began Laurene Carmichael, an heiress to a Scottish oil company, "don't you think she's getting thirsty out there?"
Tamaki jolted like lightning had struck him. Haruhi's eyes gleamed.
"You know, Miss Laurene," Haruhi began to speak with slowly growing glee, "I believe you're right. Tamaki-sempai, you must know the most about her." Her words struck through Tamaki's back like a dagger. "Why don't you be the one to take some snacks out to her?"
Tamaki gave her a wounded look. The other hosts were now tuning in, especially the twins, who were quite easily able to catch wind of anything entertaining. The guests were all leaning forward in anticipation, some of them murmuring to one another.
"I hardly know her," Tamaki argued, knowing full well that it was no point.
"But you're the chairman's son," said Halim Sahenk, from a pharmaceutical company in Turkey. "If any of us have a reason to speak with her, surely it'd be you, right? Say your father asked you to look after her health."
Tamaki tried to pout at Halim, but her lips twitched in a smile and he returned it, despite himself.
A few of the other girls leaned in eagerly, peering at Tamaki's reddening face as if to guess his answer. Unfair, if anyone asked one of the hosts; Tamaki had never been able to tell the girls 'no' without good reason.
"She needs to work," Tamaki tried.
"Oh, but can't you imagine?" one of the girls sighed. It was Jola Dabrowski, whose uncle made a Polish fortune off of brightly colored furniture found in a number of wealthy, modern homes. Affectionately dubbed 'Jo', Jola was one of those girls who could be found with a romance novel tucked between textbooks. "Painting in a beautiful private school, only to be swept off your feet in a whirlwind romance?"
Yet another- for there was an index of names in every host's mind- girl piped up with a fond, exasperated suggestion of, "Maybe she just wants to do her job, Joey."
Marisol Delgado was born from a prosperous, sensible set of parents. The father, Romero Judas Delgado, was a famous fashion designer. The mother, Esperanza Julietta-Rosanna de Delgado, was a dedicated emergency surgeon. Thinking back, Tamaki could recall coverage of an event that Sra. de Delgado had abandoned the attendance of in order to operate.
(It was clear which parent Marisol took after.)
"Oh, but you should have seen him Mari," Haruhi piped up, setting the tray of refreshments on a nearby table and startling Tamaki out of his wits.
Haruhi had the terrifically accurate sway of a lawyer-to-be; this wit had only sharpened after joining the host club and having exposure to Kyoya. She would definitely say something that would ensnare the girls' attention-
"… just standing there, looking at her… transfixed," Haruhi's voice pitched persuasively, and the girls let out little cooing sounds.
Tamaki's mouth was set in an angered pout, but he swung himself from the couch and grabbed the tray, heading out of the door. He knew when he had lost.
Honey let out a thoughtful hum. "I don't think I've ever seen Tamaki so worked up about a complete stranger."
"He practically fled the room," Mori agreed, large frame shaking a bit with repressed humor.
"Well," began one twin, knowingly, "y'can't really blame him, can you?"
"When the girls've got an idea in their heads- " agreed his brother, finishing the sentence together,
"They're terrifying."
"You two," Haruhi lightly scolded, but noticeably didn't contradict them.
"You're the worst one," they informed her, laughing as they each dodged out of the girl's reach.
Kyoya sighed, finally shutting off his laptop and stretching. "Well then," he said, somewhat cross from whatever it was he had been working on, "are we going to go listen with the girls or not?"
The little artist knew exactly when he had began to walk towards her, Tamaki swore that she knew. Immediately her pencil had ceased moving, and she had swung around to face him, sharp brown eyes relentlessly scrutinizing him.
"Miss?" Tamaki called out, stopping a few feet from her workspace.
"What can I help you with, Suoh?"
He startled. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that she might know who he was; perhaps the artist had simply spoken with his father and recognized their shared features.
"I've brought you something to snack on while you work."
The woman glanced at the tray, and her entire countenance changed, gentling from the slightly tense form she'd taken prior. She took a cup from a saucer, met Tamaki's eyes, then slid the bandana from her mouth in order to sip at the hot tea.
He found himself staring at her, drinking in the first sight of her entire face uncovered. A small, pursed mouth where a light scar ran through one corner. The barely there bridge of her nose, strangely crooked. Her shoulders, previously tightly bunched, unfurled as soon as a sip had been taken.
Tamaki met her eyes. She had caught his staring; he cleared his throat.
"… there's another cup," the painter said, a rather pointedly extended olive branch.
"Ah, thank you." Tamaki took a seat next to her, gently clasping onto the other drink. The silence soon began to get to him. "So, what should I call you, fair-"
There was an abrupt commotion from down the hall, and Tamaki suddenly felt foolish for forgetting about his friends and classmates.
With a sudden shout, not only had the host club revealed themselves tumbling from behind the door, but their guests had as well. Clearly being caught eavesdropping, they were unashamed, instead lamenting about not learning the painter's name.
"I wanted to check her social media," pouted one girl. "Does anyone at least know her username?"
The painter looked confused, with a deep furrow to her brow. She set the cup down on the saucer, and slipped her face covering back up, seemingly unsettled without her anonymity.
"I'm very sorry about them," Tamaki said, pinching his nose. He was genuinely remorseful about disturbing her work. "I just wanted to bring you some refreshments and snacks. They mean well; it was actually their idea."
Ah, so the blond hadn't known either. That put her more at ease; nosy friends were preferable to a planned confrontation.
"We'll leave you be now," Tamaki vowed, much to the complaints of his classmates.
Her eyes glanced over them wonderingly before drifting back to her line work. Then, curiously, her eyes were drawn to the little tray of cookies and tea. She contemplated the group without anymore questions, and then came to a conclusion:
"Cricket."
They nearly fell over from their anticipation. "…Huh?"
"You can call me… Cricket."
Tamaki beamed at the woman. "How cute! It's nice to meet you, Cricket!"
Despite that friendly first day, 'Cricket' became more of a recluse than before; her working hours became erratic and avoidant. Students came in and would swear the hall smelled of fresh paint. They would swear, again, that more of the mural was completed than the previous afternoon- but this could never be confirmed, for Cricket was in habit of covering the majority of her work with tattered paint tarps.
Rumor circulated that she had obtained a key and was slipping in in the dead of night, just to paint.
When the students came in one morning to find her still there, still painting in the same dishevelled, stained clothes she'd been wearing the day before, the rumors were considered as good as truth.
When pressed by concerned guardians about lackadaisical security, the Chairman assured the parents that every night, the painter was assigned a patrol officer, and that all safety measures (for both parties, he stressed) were being followed precisely.
What was kept to a select group if people was that oft times, the artist and the officer would remain not a duo; Tamaki would show his face, sometimes under guise of checking up on her status, sometimes just as a friend to mix paints.
In the evenings, she didn't wear her bandana, and would often clutch a spare brush between her teeth. One night, when Cricket had swooped her arm up in too wide of an arc, the newscap fell from her head, and down came the tumbling waves of inky hair. Immediately she made to put it up, but Tamaki dared to gently touch her arm.
"Please don't," he said. "Just for tonight, I'd like to see you."
The flush on her cheeks was well worth the bold words.
Cricket was so reserved, so stoic in her concentration, and the conviction only grew with the passing days. After a full month had passed, Tamaki was gently requested to no longer attend her evening work sessions.
"But why?" he asked her. "Did I upset you?"
Cricket was quiet for a good while, able to get away with hiding her expression behind the bandana. "I need to concentrate," she finally said, carefully going over her words, "and you are very distracting."
The words sent a thrill through him. "Funny you should say that," Tamaki murmured, but said nothing more. He was further appeased at the promise that he'd be the first to see the completed piece.
With twilight's passing the Sun had laid down to rest, allowing only a few trickling beams of its light to pass through Ouran's tall, stunning windows. The smell of paint was thick and heavy in the air, obfuscating the near constant backdrop of foreign perfumes.
In short time the two teenagers stood before it. The painter's posture was as rigid as Tamaki had ever seen it.
"Here it is," she said, yanking off a single, large tarp to reveal her completed mural.
Tamaki felt whatever compliments he'd been ready to make catch in his throat, and he found himself blinking back tears as he stared at the green hills of his home country.
There it was, the foreign feeling of being at home. He revelled in it for a few, long minutes; basked in the imagery of familiar landscape until he felt as though he'd die from the intensity of emotion.
"How do you know of this place, Cricket? That… this place…"
"Your father comissioned me as a favor to my older brother," the painter explained. She stayed steadily planted in her pose, staring straight into Tamaki's eyes. "He wanted me to do a French landscape mural in the Music Wing. At my brother's suggestion I took a few months to go live in Roussillon, to make sure the piece was made by someone who really loved it."
Tamaki looked dumbstruck at her comment, and did not say another word. She took it upon herself to continue.
"It was obvious your father wanted this done for you. I just wanted it to mean something to someone. I hardly ever do landscapes." She glanced at the mural thoughtfully. "The two sentiments happened to coincide. It's a beautiful place, I can see why you love it so."
A soft, choked sound escaped the blond next to the woman, and she chanced a look at him. Tamaki had leaned his head forward, tears rolling down his cheeks, but he did not look away from the mural. Affection surged through her, lifting the weight of intrusiveness from her shoulders, and suddenly the painter realized she was free to do as she wished. The mural was completed, and her obligations fufilled. She no longer had to keep focused and isolated to cement the countryside in her memory.
After Tamaki regained his composure, he blotted his tears with a pocket square and stared searchingly at the painting. "There's no signature."
The artist shuffled to the side, and Tamaki found himself staring at a flat tray of black paint. He couldn't help but eye it with some apprehension, noting a lack of paint brushes. She went to hold his hand, and raised it above the paint.
"Sign it with me?" she murmured, looking into his intense gaze.
Tamaki said nothing, just let out a sharp breath, eyes locked with hers. But the silence got to him, and he blurted, "I've never felt anything like this," perhaps a bit foolishly.
"I'm not quite sure what I'm doing."
Cricket smiled brilliantly up at him, as if his offering of uncertainty was worth everything to her. "Me neither," she admitted, still holding his hand.
Tamaki spent a few more moments studying her, then gently unfurled his fingers, turned his hand over, and watched as she gently pressed the digits into cool paint. She followed suit with her own hand, and the two pressed their palms against a small corner of the mural.
"Palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss(3)," the artist mumbled. Tamaki had to ask her to repeat it, but she refused adamantly, feeling rather foolish. Instead, the woman dug out a paint towel from her front pocket and wiped her hand clean, then his.
So they tilted their heads and stared at the fields both loved, one from birthright and the other with an acquired admiration. The two of them simply stood and stared at the quarries, at the intense clusters of trees, at the famous cliffs. They drank of the memories made in France, but still wanted more.
"Tell me more about it." The painter spoke in French to Tamaki, much to his delight. Some of the pronunciation was off but completely understandable. "About your Roussillon." She said the words your Roussillon in a sweet and soft voice.
Tamaki was finally able to look away from the painting. He met her gaze, his eyes bright and glossy in the dying sunlight, and a startled little laugh escaped him. "Okay," he agreed, and sat down before the mural, still unwilling to leave its side for now.
"It was beautiful," he began speaking wistfully. "My mother took me on walks through the trails, when she was still able to..."
"Still telling that story, Chairman?" Professor Higurashi had come to stand at the Chairman's shoulder. She smiled, the kind of smile that further creased the corners of her eyes and mouth. "We just came back from France, do you miss it already?"
"Of course!" The Chairman whirled around to face her, still rather spry for his age. He lovingly tucked a greying curl behind her ear, then offered Professor Higurashi his arm. Professor Higurashi looped her arm into his perfectly, and used her other hand to fix the Chairman's tie. "You know it's my favorite story to tell, my favorite place to be."
Then, as if she had a hundred times before, Professor Higurashi placed her palm easily into the faded paint print.
The scattered group of girls gasped as some pieces finally alloted in place.
"No way," one of the girls hissed, clutching onto the arm of another girl.
"Yes way," her friend shot back, an eager high note in her tone.
"You mean to tell me," demanded a third, "that we've passed this painting every day for the last term without knowing this?"
The Chairman, with a rather goofy smile on his aged face, had placed his own hand in its proper spot.
Following the last few decades' pattern, they still fit perfectly together.
Just below their hands was a tiny plaque that read the name of the painting: Un Coup de Foudr(4). A Thunderbolt. Love at first Sight.
Painted by a Higurashi, Kagome.
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A.N.
1: These random descriptions of students were meant to pack a bit of culture into Ouran's campus. I had fun picking random places from across the ocean to learn about. Nothing important, no OCs or anything like that.
2: Palma non sine pulvere: "No reward without work/Dare to try"; motto of numerous schools
3: Palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss is a line from Romeo and Juliet. This is one of two references to the Shakespearean play.
4: Un Coup de Foudr is a French idiom for love at first sight, however it translates, quite poetically one might add, to "thunderbolt".