It was Saturday morning, and Tamaki stood outside of the classroom. He was nervous, but excited. His portfolio was full of fun little drawings, and doodles that he did on his free time. No doubt this would be a gold star to Yuki's father. He would take one look at them, see his glowing potential. After all he had called Yuki last night, to which the white slicked back haired boy said he would put a good word in for him. Yuki had given his father a good word for Tamaki. He couldn't let one of his club members down. He would do Yuki proud, and prove to even himself that he could be the next Leonardo da Vinci

He wondered what Mr. Nakajima even looked like. He must have white thick hair just like Yuki. Pale skin, red eyes, devilish charm, wears a black stylish suit. A much older version of dear Yuki. Maybe even offer a sweet glass of wine to a friend of his dear son. He knocked on the door, and to his surprise he didn't open the door.

"Come on in." Said a gruff voice. Tamaki let himself inside. Inside the smell of paint filled the room. The ticking of a wall clock on the far wall. An array of amzing paintings filled the room. It was a rather tranquil room. He looked toward the center of the room. An easel sat in the middle of the room, and he saw the wooden frame of a canvas, and legs underneath it. "You caught me in the middle of my work." When he stood up, Tamaki was left in shock. He was not what he expected. He was a balding man, and was little hair he had left was extremely short and dark brown. He wore earthy colors. A green baggy shirt, and an open shoulder length shirt overtop of it. His jeans were baggy, and his boots were black. Forget commoner! This man looked like a straight up homeless man. His face showed it as well. His body as well as his face were worn, like he had struggled with a string of hard jobs in his youth. Wrinkles, with a hint of fatigue. Even though Tamaki was not exactly a hard working man, Yuki's father wore his rugged featured well. He was not a bad looking man. "Osamu Nakajima pleasure." He said without shaking hands or bowing. "My sin told me quite a bit about you." He sat back down tilting his head. "A host club? My son in there?" He smirked.

Tamaki chuckled nervously. "The ladies can't get enough of him, and he certainly seems to enjoy himself."

Osamu merely smiled with a nod. "It's good for him." He gestured toward the portfolio in Tamaki's hands. "Those some samples of your work?" He pointed towards himself. "If I may..." Tamaki handed the portfolio to him. He opened it up, as Tamaki held his breath. Please, let it be good enough. He flipped through the sketches. They depicted farm fields, and flowers. He kept a steely emotionless gaze. He grumbled under his breath, then looked up at him. "This is outstanding work, Tama-chan." He smiled.

The high schooler held his palms up to his face swooning at how much he complimented his handiwork. "You really think so! I worked so hard, hoping that a famous artist such as yourself would enjoy them!" He was soaking in his compliments and started imagining himself being adored by the public with every painting he shared with the world. "Obviously your so blown away by my work, you must be wondering why a genius such as moi would want to take a class when I'm already at this level." He said looking down upon the scraggly man. "To be honest, it would be quite a treat to have artists in the Host Club instead of one, wouldn't you think so, Mr. Nakajima?" He crossed his arms. "Besides, your son thinks I can't do it, but I'll show him!" He chuckled.

"Well, my son will have to be proven wrong another day. I will not be taking you in." He said closing the portfolio handing it back to the shocked blonde.

At this statement Tamaki felt like a porcelain geisha that had just been shattered with a baseball bat. "What?! What do you mean not take me in?" His mouth hung open.

He sighed. "Tamaki, you are a great sketcher, but that's not art. It's not that you used a pencil instead of a paintbrush. That's not the problem. You could use gold nectar from the Gods, but your putting a picture on a blank page, and calling it art. That's not art! Art is what you feel inside. Not to make money, or impress a teacher. Art is reaching into your inner soul, and splaying it on a canvas. It takes inner emotion to be an artist. You need angry work, passionate work, honest work. Work to show the good and the bad, and right now, I need to see some bad."

"Some bad?" Tamaki's voice trembled.

Osamu nodded his face blank. "I know it's tough, a pretty boy like you trying to find anything raw in this world. However if you find something to show me your inner depth, you might have some chance to make it into my class."

"P-p-p-promise?" He trembled tears in his voice.

"No, I can't promise, but I can take some perspective from your work, and see what you got." He said putting his hands in his pockets.

He fell to the ground hugging his ankles, groveling like a pathetic dog. "OH THANK YOU KIND SIR! YOU WON'T REGRET IT! I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT I GOT! I WON'T LET YOU DOWN!" He cried tears streaming. He heard a clicking sound and upon looking up he casually lit a cigarette. Tamaki covered his mouth and ran out of the room.

Osamu reached for the phone when he was all alone. He dialed a number, and on the other line Yuki answered with a "Hello?"

"Yuki you're grounded. No desert for a week."