Haruhi still stood in the hallway, looking dead on her feet. His searching eyes asked the question before his mouth could form the words and she answered, "Melon soda," with a laugh. He knew better than to ask more, knowing enough about Saeka to know that denying her such a thing was a brave mistake indeed.

She slipped a small, warm hand in his and he leaned comfortably back against the wall, pulling her to him. He wondered if other couples wasted time exchanging pleasantries, prattling on about their days at work and at home, about the neighbors and politics and weather. Kyoya had never been that patient; a textbook Otori. Her tired eyes sparkled as he placed his hands on her waist, claiming her mouth with his own.

It hadn't always been this easy.

It had been a marriage of convenience. He had been out of college and working for his father for 3 years when he received the call. He hadn't kept in touch with Haruhi but sparingly since his graduation (though you had no trouble keeping in touch with the rest of your friends, his conscience nagged) but he knew exactly whose voice he was hearing the moment he answered. She had told him that a piece of paper was too formal, too impersonal. She wanted to personally invite him to her wedding.

The elegant stem wine glass full of ice water in his hand snapped upon hearing her words. If she heard the shatter of delicate crystal, she said nothing. He had been sitting at a swanky café where he usually sat and made small talk with other important businessmen as they came in for lunch. Shooing away the waiters that tried to help him clean it up, he sat and listened in a stunned silence, for once forgoing the effort of maintaining a dignified, blank face.

Although normally not one to babble, Haruhi had begun to tell him how he proposed. Where he did it (in Paris) when he did it (on a gorgeous spring day as the sun set) and the plans for the wedding itself. She told him about the church where it was being held ("Truth be told, I'd rather just do it here with my friends and dad and let it be done,") and how the reception was going to be huge and full of important people and she'd probably throw herself off the steeple from boredom. He laughed dryly, his throat sticking at the foreign noise escaping his mouth. Even if she was rambling and excited sounding, a rarity for her, her blatant nature was ever the same. She told him she had called him first and then would call the rest of the members of the Host Club. She said his invitation was in the mail, personally designed by Kaoru and Hikaru's mother who was sworn to secrecy from her boys (a task she enjoyed and carried out with relish).

Her voice betrayed a slight annoyance – or perhaps hurt – that Kyoya had remained close with everyone in the club except her. "But," she said, her voice smoothly transitioning back to normal, "sometimes mothers and daughters grow apart."

They met for dinner in February before the wedding in June. She had wanted to catch up and he, having found no way to dodge it with a polite lie as Haruhi had checked with his secretary first, agreed. He made a mental note to fire his secretary and assure that she'd never work in the northern hemisphere again. She chose a tacky little sushi restaurant and he held his tongue, having promised her no commoner jokes until she was married. Otoris didn't break their word but the plastic bamboo he was sitting on was trying his patience. He fought the urge to throttle the waiter when his tea was served in a plastic monkey's head.

After dinner, they decided to go for a walk in the unseasonably warm, almost humid air and had ended up in a park. Though the dusk was thick with the promise of rain, it was pleasant enough and Haruhi was eyeing the clouds above with minimal apprehension. "Even his mother is going to be there," she said quietly. She toyed listlessly with the buttons of her sweater, sighing a little. "If his grandmother says anything, I don't know what-"

Her phone cut her off. She answered it, smiling as she mouthed an apology to Kyoya. He watched her, hands in the pockets of his impeccable charcoal suit. Her hair was to her shoulders now and it suited her. Everything does, he thought. Her face, previously a rose-tinted porcelain, seemed to drain of color as he watched. Her mouth was slightly agape and she seemed entirely oblivious to the impending storm. A cold breeze picked up and he cast a glance at the sky, frowning slightly.

"Haruhi," he said quietly. "I think it's going to r-"

Thunder rumbled overhead as the moon was obscured by thick, ominous clouds. He watched her face and she showed no reaction, no sign of even being aware that she was standing in the company of a man who didn't particularly want to climb into his Mercedes soaking wet.

She closed her phone and put it back in her purse, her face blank (though now a delicate shade of green). The rain came down slowly at first, and then gathered speed and force until sheets were driving down around them. He called his driver and put a hand on her arm, trying to steer her to the street where the black sedan would momentarily appear.

At the touch of his fingers on her arm, she looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. Another clap of thunder to shake the heavens succeeded lightning as it forked across the sky. She clutched her stomach, still wide-eyed. Was she going to be sick? "Haruhi, you'll catch something! Let's go!" He half-yelled over the din of the rain and the thunder. He gave her arm another tug, starting to shiver as his clothes soaked through to his skin.

She turned to look at him, her eyes blank. He'd never seen her so calm (or perhaps vacant) in a storm nor had he seen her ignore thunder like this. She spoke in a small voice, like that of a child, and looked vaguely as though she were a drowned person as he gave up trying to move her to the waiting car.

"Senpai," she breathed. There it was, the renewed use of formalities. He had barely allowed himself to enjoy being just Kyoya for the evening. She spoke in a flat tone sounding as though she were merely repeating what she'd just heard: rehearsed, level, lifeless. Her expression was the ghost of her normal self, her voice just a smoky wisp of the radiance it had exuded before. Another bolt of lightning reflected in her enormous eyes as she tried to speak. He leaned in close, afraid that the smoke would dissipate before he could hear it.

"There's been an accident."

The circumstances that followed were by far the most surreal thing Kyoya had ever experienced. He had carried Haruhi to his car and they went to the hospital where she met her future father-in-law. Feeling rather unsure of what to do with himself, he had called the entirety of the Host Club. And, as Mori walked through the door to complete the set, Kyoya had slipped out quietly.

A week later, the rain still hadn't let up. A mass of black umbrellas sheltered an even bigger mass of black-clad mourners, all shivering in the biting wind and wincing as Pradas and Blahniks were flecked with mud. Haruhi stood at the front by the preacher who was drowned out by the rain entirely. A frail-looking blonde woman clutching a handkerchief stood next to Haruhi. Their faces were mirrors of one another, looking similarly drowned though still quite dry.

Each Host Club member and both of his parents stepped forward to lay a white rose on the casket before it was lowered. Haruhi's was red. Honey burst into to tears, muffling them into Mori's jacket as they watched the casket descend. Kyoya watched her twist her engagement ring around on her finger, her arms crossed against herself protectively. He had been thinking of something to say, anything to say, disturbed at his continuing helplessness and inability to articulate a single phrase, however impersonal it might be. Indeed the only things he could think to say to her sounded oddly detached. Sterile.

A hand touched his shoulder and he felt rather than saw his eldest brother join him under his umbrella. Masahiro indicated him to follow, gesturing to a waiting limousine. He climbed in and upon seeing the passengers, felt that nothing could have surprised him less. He met his father, Akito, and Fuyumi inside, clearly waiting for him. His father spoke as though the man they had just watched descend to a watery grave was perhaps a great uncle, perhaps a stranger. Certainly not a best friend.

"Kyoya, I once said that Fujioka Haruhi would make a suitable bride for you."

Fuyumi stifled a sob, rocking backward and forward slowly. Kyoya maintained an expression of polite interest as though his father was remarking about the

miserable weather and said nothing.

"The Suou family is of impeccable breeding and of incredible financial importance and power. It wouldn't be…prudent to bring this up in the near future but she is expecting a child and it would be bad for everyone involved if the former bride of the heir to the Suou throne bore a child alone, out of wedlock."

Kyoya nodded vaguely, more of an involuntary jerk than anything else. He was listening but his father's voice was washing over him like the rain outside – just steady, cold, white noise. Masahiro and Akito surveyed Kyoya, watching their little brother for weakness or objection. Fuyumi watched him through bleary, wet eyes full of something that looked an awful lot like pity.

"Before March is over, you will ask her to marry you and she will agree. This favor to the Suou family will create a great, ah, debt - for want of a better word. It will forge a lasting bond between our families."

Below the layers of numbness, Kyoya felt a ripple of understanding. He had waited his entire life for his chance to jump at the throne, to outshine his brothers and become the successor to the Otori dynasty. He had plotted carefully, always planning and always a step ahead. He had perfect grades, was more astute and persuasive than his brothers, and read people like the Sunday paper. He was always just behind the finish line, waiting for something to vault him across, something to help him break free of the frame to which he was confined. He had envisioned his chance to come in the form of a business deal, of persuading some company to sell, of finding a way to dominate a new market. He knew he'd marry into another wealthy, powerful family and have a son and begin the cycle anew. But instead, here was his golden ring to grab. His golden ring, however, used to dress like a boy and was carrying his best friend's child.

In a small church in Kuruizawa, Haruhi got her wish. She was married in a quiet ceremony in a white dress that had to be let out a little around the middle. Only her close friends and family attended. She wore her old ring on a long chain around her neck, tucked carefully into her dress; the new one ostentatiously perched on her left hand, a physical (and incredibly unnecessary) reminder that weighed her hand down. She smiled in pictures and posed willingly with Kyoya, biting back the urge to scream all day. Her hair was curled and set, her make up immaculate. Kyoya was a knight in shining armor, never having failed more miserably in his life at looking cool and composed. He laughed easily and smiled wide. Haruhi held a glass of champagne at all times, dumping it onto the ground periodically to get a new one. Appearances must be maintained.

"She'll make an excellent Otori," Kyoya's father said, raising his glass to the unlikely couple.