Tokyo
It's late afternoon on a chilly but fine early October Tuesday, and on the top floor of Ouran Academy's south wing, in an allegedly abandoned music room at the end of the north hallway . . . a meeting of the host club is in session.
Haruhi's not entirely sure why. Probably because no one's thought to stop them.
"Everyone knows I'm a girl, senpai," Haruhi had told Tamaki as he and the twins advanced on her with a ridiculous steampunk inspired Victorian ballgown, all corset and cogs. "Are you sure it's OK for me to still be a host?"
Tamaki had shot her a dark look, from under his top hat and brass googles. "Being a girl is no problem in these modern, liberated times, Haruhi," he'd said with a shudder. "Remember the Zuka Club."
Now, she supposes he had a point. She's been requested more than Tamaki today, which is lucky, because he's doing that thing again where he hides behind the sofa to watch her, his eyes big and sad . . . except for when he hides them behind his cell phone, to take another, almost certainly terrible, pic. Who's even paying for the tea and cake today? It's probably coming out of Tamaki's own pocket, she thinks affectionately. He never was any good at the practical side of the club, after all.
It's hard not to think about Kyoya when she's doing host club business. And if she's honest, it's hard not to think about Kyoya full stop. It's understandable, though, isn't it? Given that it was only yesterday she realised she might be in love with him.
"Are you feeling OK, Haruhi-kun?" one of the girls at her table asks, and Haruhi realises she's gone red.
She smiles instead, and the girls go even redder. It's all a bit ridiculous. "I feel great sitting with you all," she says, because it is fun even if it's stupid, and they dissolve into happy squeals.
When the girls are all gone, and the host club have changed back into their own clothes, Tamaki stretches out along a couch and puts his hand to his brow. "I miss Kyoya," he says with infinite gloom. "We put on a wonderful event – the host club sparkled – but it wasn't the same."
"There wasn't enough cake," Hani says, matching Tamaki gloom for gloom.
Mori's expression flickers imperceptibly – there was plenty of cake before Hani ate it all – and Haruhi hides her smile with a cough.
"Has Kyoya replied to anyone's messages?" Tamaki demands, suddenly recovering himself to sit bolt upright. "I send him dozens every day, and I haven't heard from him for at least a week! Are we sure he's alive?"
"You think he's dead, milord?" Kaoru and Hikaru chime in unison, sitting forward in their chairs with expressions of ghoulish interest.
"He hasn't replied to us either!" Kaoru adds, as if that's conclusive proof.
Tamaki falls into what appears to be a dead faint, apart from the fact that he's peeking.
"His family would tell us if he'd died, wouldn't they?" Hani says, his eyes widening as he clutches Usa-chan tight to his chest.
"Yes," Mori agrees, but he looks faintly worried.
"Maybe we should ask N-N-N-Nekozawa to c-c-commune with his s-s-spirit," Tamaki says from his prone position, with portentous dread. The atmosphere crackles with . . .
Stupidity. "He's not dead," Haruhi says firmly, before this tragic play in one act can go any further.
"O-ho!" Tamaki says, shooting upright again and leaning forward. "How do you know?"
YOU ARE READING
Kyoya Ootori's Guide to Self-Deception for Fun and Profit
FanfictionKyoya's fond of Haruhi. Very fond. But he doesn't dwell on it. He's far too busy networking at Harvard to think about his best friend's not-quite girlfriend. Unfortunately, back in Tokyo, Tamaki seems equally busy - on the important task of driving...
