Archive of Our Own

Rumors float through the tabloids constantly of Hitachiin Kaoru being a serial “first-date”r; taking one hot model, business man, or some other person out only to drop them immediately.  People talk about how he must be a fickle lover and enjoys going through men like tissues, blowing his way through them and then leaving.  

Not that Kyoya listens to such nonsense.  No, what he mainly listens to is Kaoru ranting to him every time one of these horrible dates falls through, chattering on the phone about all of his suitors' many many faults.

One thing remains certain about such rumors - they never, nor could ever - discover how Kaoru truly spends his evenings.

Without a doubt, no matter how late into the night or how disastrously each of these dates go, Kyoya will receive a phone call before the day is done.

Facetime, of course.  Kaoru wouldn’t settle for less than Kyoya’s full attention, anyway.

“He couldn’t dance , Kyoya.”

“He had no idea what tapanades were!”

“He asked if he could show me pictures of his dog and I almost gagged.”  Kyoya had to hide his smirk behind his hand at that one.  He can’t recall how many times Kaoru has texted him a “cat tax” for frequent photos of Noir.

It is not lost on Kyoya that Kaoru seems to be trying to rile him up every time he calls.  He painstakingly articulates each of the fallen suitors' features, describes their muscles in between barbs about their particular fashion sense or mentions their perfectly styled hair while complaining about the color.  

Kyoya hates anyone wasting his time, but he feels particular ire when Kaoru describes man after failed man.  It must be his protective personality - Kyoya has spent many years fighting to protect his lifestyle and the friendships he forged with the host club.  That must be the reason why his hands clench reflexively when Kaoru recounts another failed date and the way Kyoya tries to adjust his posture to make his chest and shoulders more pronounced.  After all, there’s no other explanation for the way the taste in his mouth sours when Kaoru describes the next model or bank accountant or slimy fitness guru who dared to waste Kaoru’s time.

And well, if suddenly all of Kaoru’s failed suitors have all mysteriously had to leave the country for one reason or another, Kaoru doesn’t voice his notice or care.

And if he does notice and care, he knows it’s only because Kyoya is a very good friend.

When Kyoya dares to ask after the first several calls why Kaoru is calling him and not his dear brother, Kyoya can hear the scowl on Kaoru’s face without even glancing down at his phone.  “Are you kidding ?” he admonishes, as if Kyoya were a child asking why rain came from the sky, “You think any of those guys would survive if I told my brother anything about them?”

Kyoya tries his best to not roll his eyes, though Kaoru does have a point.  Hikaru would hear one negative word about these supposed suitors and fly off the handle until Kaoru reluctantly calmed him down enough to not commit some kind of heinous crime.

“Besides,” Kaoru purrs, resting his chin delicately on his palm, “You’re a much better listener.”

“I wouldn’t consider myself that good of a listener,” Kyoya replies evenly, typing away something on his laptop he has lost complete interest in since Kaoru’s name popped up on his phone screen, “I tend to tune you out and use you as background noise to get work done.”

He expects Kaoru to be affronted, to scoff and tell Kyoya he’s mean , so cruel , he can’t believe he would say something like that after Kaoru has spent so much of his precious time talking to Kyoya over everyone else in their insulated little group.

But no.  Kaoru simply grins, tongue between his teeth, and Kyoya watches those golden eyes sparkle as Kaoru murmurs, “ Liar. ”

It’s moments like this that Kyoya is grateful for his foresight on how he positioned his camera.  Now, when he adjusts his posture it could be read as natural rather than any kind of discomfort.

Kaoru has been surprising him a lot lately, catching him off guard with little comments and observations.  Quiet moments where he goes against the normal - or, more familiar, at the very least - reactions and comments Kyoya is accustomed to.

Of course, it’s not as if Kyoya is eagerly awaiting each phone call, either.  Ootori Kyoya is nearing his thirties and certainly doesn’t have time to entertain Kaoru’s proclivities at the drop of a hat.

He keeps his phone near solely because he works with clients across the globe and must be available should there be any issues or business that needs to be conducted.  Tonight, the phone is perched comfortably on his thigh, so he can know immediately if it starts ringing.

He’s working later in the evening than he would like, a half-full glass of Pinot Noir as his only companion.  It provides little reprieve from the monotony of his emails, but it does keep him sated enough to stay at his desk instead of crawling into bed.

Still, focus is difficult.  His vision is hazy from staring at screens for too long, and he rubs his eyes behind his glasses. 

He’s re-read the same paragraph in this article at least four times, trying to blink the sleep away from his addled brain when he decides to give himself a much needed break and flip through his phone.

It’s nearing the end of Milan Fashion Week, so Kyoya isn’t expecting much correspondence from Kaoru.  He’s received various texts and photos throughout the week, but Kyoya knows it's a busy time for him.  He was practically on the phone with him every night leading up to the event, though why Kaoru insisted on speaking with him as he worked, Kyoya will never know.  

He’s watched Kaoru stab himself with a needle so many times during their conversations he wonders if he should purchase special gloves just to avoid future injuries.

Though Kaoru has been sparse in his conversations, his presence is blasted all over social media.  

Kaoru’s Instagram stories are full of witty captions and dozens of photos of the event, a hodge-podge combination of photos and videos he’s clearly taken himself (clean, professional, ridiculous caption) and those taken of him by the hundreds of people who have craved his attention this week.

Kyoya idly scrolls through them, pressing a red heart by each on reflex.

He only hesitates on one.  An instagram story by someone with the username @sebastiano_boselli.  Kyoya’s mental rolodex spins.

Sebastiano Boselli.  34.  Italian model currently signed with Versace.  

The selfie is innocuous, on the outset.  Sebastiano is handsome in a polished, airbrushed way.  Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin and just the hint of well-trimmed facial hair.  He’s squeezed into a tiny booth in one of Milan’s many trendy bars.  Squished into the corner by Sebastiano’s body though, is Kaoru.  Wearing a sleek, black tank Kyoya is keenly aware does nothing to cover his navel, his teasing smile is wrapped around the straw sticking out of a vibrantly colored cocktail, a large orange slice fixed to the rim of the glass.  

He looks good in the lighting, Kyoya decides.  The playful colors bounce off his naturally vibrant features and make him look ethereal but mischievous - like a fey being you find at the edge of a clearing at dusk.  A kind of ethereal, enticing, dangerous thing.  

Kyoya nearly likes the photo and moves on, but the caption makes something sour roil in Kyoya’s stomach that he blames on the wine.

un vero capolavoro <3

A true masterpiece, Kyoya’s brain unhelpfully supplies.  His thumb hovers over the heart just as his phone buzzes violently in his hand.

He swipes to accept the call on reflex when he sees the name, barely recognizing the action until Kaoru’s face pops up on the other end of the screen.

Once Kyoya’s vision adjusts to the brightness on the other end, his mouth runs dry.

Kaoru is nestled in a bed that Kyoya can only assume is his posh hotel room, surrounded by plush pillows and cream linens.  It’s 4:55 pm in Milan if Kyoya’s calculations are correct, which must explain the way the waning sunlight streaming into Kaoru’s room behind him has bathed him in warm, golden light. 

Kaoru’s head is propped up under his arm and, Kyoya notes, he’s still wearing the same sleek, black tank from earlier.  The way he’s laying down has it riding slightly further up his stomach, granting Kyoya a clear view of the mole to the left of his belly button.

HIs smile is soft, but his eyes twinkle with a knowing glint that makes Kyoya’s blood run hot.

“Evening, Kyoya,” Kaoru hums slyly, “Had a feeling I was on your mind.”

“Good afternoon, Kaoru.”  Kyoya doesn’t dignify the teasing comment with an answer.  Instead, he adjusts slightly in his chair and asks, “Milan is treating you well, I take it?”

It garners the desired effect.  Kaoru sighs dramatically and squishes himself further into the bed.  “It’s booooring !” Kaoru groans, face now half obscured by one of the dozens of pillows around him, “Do you know how obnoxious it is to answer the same four questions in every conversation?”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he replies easily and then, before he can stop himself, “ Un vero capolavoro, was it?” 

“Ugh, don’t even get me started on Sebastiano ,” Kaoru hisses, spitting the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.  Despite the vitriol, Kyoya finds himself easing back more comfortably in his chair. 

“He uses Angel's Share by Killian,” Kaoru continues bitterly. After Kyoya's quiet eyebrow raise, Kaoru elaborates with another groan, “The cologne?  It smells like extremely tangy, microwaved orange juice spilled in an old decaying bar.”

Kyoya bites back a laugh and hides his smile behind his hand.

“Atrocious.”

“And he kept going on and on about his exercise routine!  Like, you can't just do weights, dude.  You have to do cardio if you want to maintain a healthy body.  If all you do are weights, it just means you're hot-girl-on-Instagram fit.” He pouts, brow furrowed, and lounges back into his cushions.  “I only went on that stupid date because his PR manager begged me to.”

Then, Kaoru leans forward conspiratorially, and Kyoya can’t help the way he’s drawn in, like a moth to a bright orange flame.  “You know, I heard his contract was going to expire with Versace because of his recent energy drink scandal.  His PR team is in tatters right now trying to drum up some good press for him.”

Kyoya hums.  “And that would include forcing you to go on a date with him?”

Kaoru grins, cheeky.  “I am the most notorious bachelor in the city, after all.”  Kaoru’s reputation is not lost on him.  Nor is it lost on Kyoya how, despite Kaoru’s bravado, his shoulder slumps as he says notorious.  

Kyoya can’t have that.

He leans forward slightly and watches as Kaoru’s eyes light up.  “If he causes you any trouble,” Kyoya murmurs, matching Kaoru’s conspiratorial tone, “I could always take care of him for you.”

That sends Kaoru into a peel of laughter and something warm blossoms in Kyoya’s chest at the sound.  Kaoru leans back into his puddle of blankets and pillows with a sigh and Kyoya notes how the sleeve of Kaoru’s tank has slipped off one slender shoulder.  His fingers itch to reach through the phone and adjust it, but he represses the urge with a flexing of his hand.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Kaoru hums, eyes sparkling in the golden sunlight.

Kyoya shrugs.  Adjusts a number in an open spreadsheet he has on his laptop.  The numbers mean nothing, but it’s an excuse to find something to do with his hands.  “It could be arranged…for a price.”

Kaoru beams.  “Of course.”  

The energy shifts however, when Kaoru sighs, brows knitting together.  Despite it being early afternoon, he must be exhausted.  Late nights and early mornings in preparation and then a fast-paced, non-stop parade of outfits, networking, and (as Kaoru puts it) boring conversations must be catching up to him.

Not for the first time, Kyoya wishes he could reach through the phone screen, to smooth the furrow between Kaoru’s brows.

Kaoru adjusts and presses his cheek to the pillow beneath him.  Half his face is shrouded, but Kyoya can see how bright and focused his singular eye is when he asks, clearly, “When are you going to rescue me from these useless men and finally ask me out?”

What was once comfortably warm is suddenly dangerously frigid.  Kyoya is a moth once more, this time trapped in the web of Kaoru’s eye, ensnared by his gaze. 

There are many responses Kyoya could pull from.  A litany of scenarios he has played out in his mind these last several years that keeps conversations with Kaoru from getting too honest, too real.  It keeps them to gently prodding, sidelong glances and accidental brushes of fingers.  A calculated, tip-toeing dance of affection.

After all, they are not the protagonists of this story, a fact he and Kaoru have bonded over many times.  Any fondness they have for each other must be shoved to the sidelines to further the tale that entwined them and the host club in the first place.  Asking for any more is not just selfish, but irresponsible.

Yes, there are many things Kyoya could say.  

But he doesn’t.  Perhaps it’s the wine. Perhaps it’s the hour.  Perhaps it’s the ugly, acrid roiling in his gut that rears its head whenever Kyoya scrolls past another picture of Kaoru with some nameless fool who only wastes his time.  

Perhaps it’s how he can so easily imagine himself there with Kaoru now, nestled in his warm fort of mushy pillows and extra soft blankets, soaked in golden light and legs tangled beneath the sheets.

Un vero capolavoro.  And he is, isn’t he?  Isn’t he?

Kyoya’s throat clicks.  He takes a breath.

“Kaoru - ”

But then Kaoru looks away, breaking their contact, and Kyoya is thrust back to Tokyo in his hard leather chair in his dark office in his cold apartment. 

“Sorry!” Kaoru laughs, his voice throaty and hollow.  He throws his head back against his pillows with a whumph and covers his face with his forearm.  “Must have had more than I thought on that date, huh?” Kaoru murmurs.  Quiet.  Fragile.  “Just forget I said anything.”  

Kyoya’s been to enough Ouran reunion galas to know what Kaoru looks like when he’s had “more than he thought”.  He keeps it to himself.

Another side-step in their dance.  

Kyoya follows Kaoru’s lead.  He adjusts himself.  Straightens his back.  “Right.”

“I’ve got an early flight, so I should probably go to sleep now,” Kaoru says airily, distracted.  “I’ll text you later.”

He hangs up before Kyoya’s mouth even gets the chance to form the n in good night.

The week passes with little conversing aside from wayward, innocuous texts.  Kyoya busies himself with work and avoids the wine, for all the good it does to silence the annoying, usually quiet voice in the back of his mind wondering if he should send Kaoru yet another cat photo.

Kyoya knows Kaoru is due to arrive in Tokyo any hour now and prides himself in ignoring the vexing little voice asking about his flight path and arrival time by arranging the suits in his closet by color, occasion, and style.  His hands do still, however, on a particular blazer.

The dark fabric is silky to the touch but textured.  A sleek, brocade pattern that can only be seen up close or in the right light.  It’s only then you can catch the intricate, looping designs and the shimmer of deep bronze.  He doesn’t even need to see the inside of the breast pocket to know the embroidered initials “K.H.” are hidden within.

Kaoru’s latest gift.  

Kyoya’s fingers itch to reach out to run over the embroidery as he has countless times since it arrived; a deep, underlying longing that he knows the name of but has never uttered out loud.  The placement of the secret initials are not lost on Kyoya either.  He has to wonder.

Does Kaoru think he’s cleverly hidden the meaning, or is he placing a giant signpost he’s hoping Kyoya will be man enough to read?  Is this too, another step in their dance?

Just as he gives in to this quiet, private indulgence, he’s startled by a sharp rapping at his door.

It’s already quite late into the night.  The sun has long set and the skyline outside Kyoya’s large windows are littered with twinkling street lights and the bright, neon signs of the Tokyo skyline.

There are only a handful of individuals who would dare bother Kyoya at this time of night.  Most of them, including Tamaki, already have a key to his apartment, giving them the freedom to come and go (and bother him) as they please.

There’s also the fact that Kyoya has a damn doorbell . There is only one person who would intentionally knock to get Kyoya’s attention.  

Kyoya has to stop the way his lips try to twitch up at the corners.

As if he needed an excuse.  As if he wanted to personally know Kyoya was waiting for him, anticipating him.

Kyoya strides across the expanse of his apartment and does his best to stop the swooping of his chest when he opens the front door.

Leaning against his door frame - metal suitcase handle in one hand and a suspiciously colorful gift bag in the other - is the young man who constantly stitches his initials over Kyoya’s heart.

Kaoru grins and straightens when the door swings open.  His normally immaculately styled auburn hair is loose and wavy around his face, framing dazzling golden eyes that sparkle dangerously like a cat’s. 

He’s wearing tight black jeans, ripped up in what Kaoru would most likely describe as fashionable, and an oversized, olive green cable knit sweater with sleeves so long they hang past his wrists.

Kyoya is almost certain that sweater was a gift from his great aunt several winters ago.  When Kaoru swiped it from his closet, Kyoya will probably never know.

“Took you long enough,” Kaoru scoffs, though Kyoya can tell by the way his lips quirk up there’s no malice to be had, “I was worried I was going to have to pick the lock.”

“That desperate to get inside, are you?” Kyoya replies smoothly, even as he widens the door to allow Kaoru entrance, “Perhaps I should invest in a high-end security system.”

Kaoru’s eyes sparkle, his lips pursing together playfully.  “So cruel!  I bring you expensive gifts from Italy and this is how I’m treated?”

“Apologies,” Kyoya smirks, “Am I to assume the expensive gifts are the two bottles of Masseto in your bag, or should I be expecting something more substantial?”

Kyoya can’t help but relish in the way Kaoru’s cheeks flash a dusty pink before he puts up his affronted little act.  “If you don’t want them, I can always leave - “

“Fine, fine,” Kyoya relents, taking the bag from Kaoru’s outstretched hand on his way to the living room, “Get the glasses, then.”

An offended gasp.  “ Excuse me ?” Kaoru snaps, close on Kyoya’s heels, “I don’t know where anything is in your kitchen!  And even if I did , how rude of you to ask your guest to get something for you.”

“You’re not a guest,” Kyoya replies, lips quirking up at the corners, “More like a pest.”

Kaoru squawks indignantly, brushing past him.  “That kind of attitude is why you don’t have any friends outside of us,” he remarks, flopping against the arm of Kyoya’s large, grey sectional.

Now, Kyoya could grab the glasses himself.  His living room is open concept, meaning it would only take a handful of moments to stroll around the kitchen island and open up the cabinet.  He could even use the new crystalline Tiffany ones he recently bought for this exact kind of occasion.  The stemless ones that are hand etched and would cast soft rainbows against Kaoru’s skin when it catches the sparkling lights reflected from the city outside.

Yes, he could do that.

Instead, he grabs the bottle opener and joins Kaoru on the couch.

It’s a delicate little two-step - Kyoya knows the act is bold even as he turns away from Kaoru and focuses on uncorking the first bottle.  He lets the wine aerate for a moment before finally hazarding a glance in Kaoru’s direction.

Kaoru has squished himself up against the corner of Kyoya’s L-shaped couch, one of Kyoya’s decorative throw pillows held against his chest.  There’s a sparkle of surprise and intrigue in Kaoru’s stare, his smile lopsided.  Despite that, Kyoya focuses in on his hands; knuckle-white and shaking slightly from how tightly he’s holding the pillow against himself.

He’s nervous.  It’s cute, Kyoya decides, cute enough that he holds Kaoru’s stare as he tilts the bottle back and indulges in the first sip.  The flavor is bold and fruity, the tannin strong, but Kyoya barely tastes it even as it washes over his tongue.

Kaoru’s expression slips.  For a split second, the cheeky but intrigued look falls and gives way to something shyer, surprised.  It tints Kaoru’s cheeks pink, ears flushing red as his mouth forms a quiet little “o”.

A blink of a microexpression.  If Kyoya wasn’t paying attention, he’s certain he would have missed it.  

But Kyoya is always paying attention.  Always watching.

Kaoru squeezes the pillow tighter.  Takes a breath.

In a flash that cheeky smile is back but there’s something more dancing behind his eyes this time that Kyoya can’t quite place.  It’s exciting, finding something new about Kaoru.  It makes him wonder how far he can push it, how many more layers he can pull back and examine under his inscrutable gaze.

“I didn’t think you would be this stubborn about wine glasses of all things,” Kaoru breathes, inching closer, “Just touch our bare lips to the bottle?  Like some kind of uncivilized barbarians?”

“What?” Kyoya hums smoothly, “Do you have some disease I should be worried about?”

Kaoru’s ears turn redder.  He licks his lips and Kyoya can’t stop the way he tracks the movement.  “Don’t you know?” Kaoru breathes, “I have thousands of them.  I’m highly contagious.”

Kyoya merely smirks and holds the bottle out to him.  “I suppose I’ll have to take my chances.”

With only the slightest tremor, Kaoru takes the bottle.  Their fingers brush, sending a buzzing sensation up Kyoya’s arm that settles in his chest.  

He clenches and unclenches his hand to wave it off.

It’s a bold move.  The fact that this is an indirect kiss is not lost on Kyoya, nor is he blind to the implications that come along with it.  But this isn’t like the embroidered initials nestled over his heart.  This isn’t another gray area they can play off as another clever ruse.  

This is another turn in their dance, sure, but the moves are not laid out.  There is no rock-step that would move them back to their starting positions.

They are both far too smart to interpret it as something else…Aren’t they?

Judging by the way Kaoru’s brow furrows slightly, the way he takes a steadying breath before bringing the rim of the bottle to his soft, pink lips, Kyoya hopes so.  He watches, attention rapt, as Kaoru tilts the bottle and squeezes his eyes shut.  Kyoya tracks the swallow he takes as it moves down his throat and that treacherous, quiet voice wonders what it would be like to follow the next gulp with his lips.

With a grimace of disgust, Kaoru pulls the bottle back and makes an exaggerated retching sound.  “God, how can you drink this crap?!  I should have bought moscato instead...”

Kyoya can’t help it.  He laughs.

The night passes and they talk about everything and nothing.  From the inner machinations of the fashion industry to speculating how expensive Haruhi and Tamaki’s wedding will be, conversation with Kaoru is easy and free-flowing.  They move from one bottle to the next like that - passing the wine between each other inching closer until their shoulders nudge with every seat adjustment, knees knocking together lightly.

Kyoya has never wanted to touch anyone.  In fact, he feels rather touch-averse most of the time, but brushing fingers with Kaoru leaves his skin tingling pleasantly.  As the wine loosens his muscles and eases his normally racing thoughts, it makes every point of contact feel gentle and warm.  Nothing like the overwhelming squeezing of Tamaki’s too-tight hugs or Hani-senpai’s rock-hardened fists.

Like their conversation, it’s easy and playful and Kyoya finds himself leaning into the feeling without giving it much thought.

Halfway through their second bottle, Kaoru makes a point to tell Kyoya repeatedly how cold his apartment is.  Kyoya shrugs.  He’s never felt it was particularly cold one way or the other, but he does remind Kaoru he has a throw blanket on the back of the couch for this exact reason.

That gets him a scoff in response.  “How are you not freezing?” Kaoru admonishes, “Or does your blood just run cold like a lizard or a vampire?”

Another shrug, though now there’s a roguish quirk to Kyoya’s lips.  “You’ve caught me,” he deadpans, “I’ve been a vampire all this time.  I am sorry you had to find out this way.”

It’s a juvenile response to a childish question, but it gets Kaoru giggling and that’s more than worth it.

“Just turn up the heater or something!” Kaoru retorts once he’s gotten himself under control.

“I could,” Kyoya muses, “Though, I will charge you for the electric bill.”

“So rude!” Kaoru laughs, shoving Kyoya’s arm in retaliation.  The touch sends something electric through Kyoya’s bloodstream that he pointedly ignores.

But then Kaoru turns to him, mouth screwed up in contemplation even as his eyes shine with the kind of impishness that sends alarm bells chiming uselessly in Kyoya’s head.

“Fine,” Kaoru says in a dangerous way that lets Kyoya know he is by no means relenting, “Have it your way.”

Before Kyoya can attempt to read the wild look in Kaoru’s eye, Kaoru clambers forward into Kyoya’s space, sliding one slender leg over his thighs.  Wine forgotten, Kyoya hands shoot out to steady Kaoru as he sways, hands on his sides.  Kaoru regains his balance, thankfully, before setting his weight on Kyoya’s lap.

“There,” Kaoru breathes, settling slowly on Kyoya’s thighs, “That’s much better.”

This close, Kyoya can see every minute detail, every facet of Kaoru’s face.  Kaoru must have covered most of it with concealer, but the hours of travel have washed it away, giving Kyoya an unobstructed feast for his eyes.  

The flush, no doubt from the alcohol, is high on Kaoru’s cheeks, ears the same shade of blushing red.  There’s a delicate, almost imperceptible smatter of freckles dotting the bridge of his nose that Kyoya tracks along his cheekbones.  

Kaoru’s expression is open, honest.  Soft.  His eyes are nearly all pupil, though Kyoya catches the delicate flecks of gold in his irises as Kaoru’s stare darts briefly to Kyoya’s lips.

Kyoya can do nothing but mirror the movement, enraptured by the way Kaoru’s lips part slightly when he breathes, stained an enticing red from the wine.

The space between them shrinks.  Warms.  Kaoru’s golden eyes flick around Kyoya’s face frantically, his fingers curling in Kyoya’s shirt.

That little voice pushes itself forward from the recesses of his muddled mind, now louder and almost overpowering the pounding of his heart. 

It would be easy to bridge the distance, Kyoya realizes, to lose himself to the heat crawling through him from the press of Kaoru’s body against his own.  Would Kaoru want that?  As he searches, Kyoya can’t seem to find a foothold in the face he’s gotten so good at reading.

The clock in Kyoya’s kitchen chimes, politely telling them it’s one am, and Kyoya blinks. 

His voice is distant, throaty even to his own ears as he murmurs, “Perhaps, we have had enough for the night.” Then, lamely, “It’s getting late.”

Even as he says it, he becomes acutely aware of all their lingering points of contact.  Kaoru’s knees on either side of his thighs, the slight twitch of Kaoru’s slender hands where they are placed on his shoulders.  The heat of his body as it rolls off him in waves.  The gentle sigh of Kaoru’s breath on his face.

Kyoya finds his own hands, still placed on Kaoru’s hips, tightening reflexively.  He should move, but he makes the mistake of meeting Kaoru’s focused stare and finds himself stuck.

For the second time in just as many weeks, Kyoya finds himself unable to read the look crossing Kaoru’s face.  There’s something he’s missing, like he’s climbing stairs in the dark and miscounts, his foot falling through empty air.

“Right,” Kaoru agrees, finally dropping his gaze.  Kyoya tries not to linger on how Kaoru’s body becomes stiff under his hands, his jaw tightening as he grinds his teeth.

Kyoya has already made up the guest bedroom in anticipation of Kaoru’s arrival, but he finds himself unable to move.  Something about the tension, the inscrutable look, the warmth.  

Perhaps it’s the wine.  Kyoya will certainly blame it on that in the morning as he nurses his sore back.

Kyoya reaches over and hits a remote on his side table that douses the lights, starting the motor that closes his black-out curtains. In mere moments, he and Kaore are bathed in total darkness.  There’s a hiccup of surprise in Kaoru’s chest which escalates to a gasp when Kyoya eases them both down onto the couch.

There’s a questioning noise from the body next to him that Kyoya ignores, distracting himself by grabbing the throw blanket and tossing it over both of their prone bodies.  

Under the curtain of the darkness, Kyoya’s uncertain whether who’s breathing is louder.  It makes his next question sound thunderous, even though he knows he’s speaking at barely a whisper.

“Does this suit you?”

Even when Kyoya begins to adjust to gloom, the only vision that becomes clear is how close they both are, how wide Kaoru’s eyes are.

Remembering he was asked a question, Kaoru releases a strangled, high-pitched, “Mhm!” 

That’s all the response he gets before Kaoru turns around, back facing him.

They fall asleep like that, the sweetness of wine and something else on their lips nestled under Kyoya’s large, knitted throw blanket.

Maybe someday, he’ll let Kaoru know he bought it specifically for him.

Kyoya has never been a morning person.  Even at a young age, his tireless mind kept him up at all hours of the night, making a gross habit of overthinking or working into the early hours of the morning.  It’s created an almost Pavlovian response as he’s grown, where even a full night’s sleep will leave him groggy and irritable when he rouses to the cold emptiness of his room or Noir’s insistent licking of his face with her tiny, sandpaper tongue.

This morning, however, Kyoya wakes surrounded by warmth.  He usually runs cold and keeps his apartment just as chilled, but this warmth is entirely welcome and he finds himself pulling it flush to his chest as his mind begins to turn back on.

As he slowly blinks the sleep from his eyes, he remembers little things about the night before; the bold flavor of Masseto, the apartment full of laughter, Kaoru’s knees pressed on either side of his thighs.

Kyoya’s eyes adjust to the low light streaming in from the cursed little line of his blackout curtains and is greeted to a shock of fiery red hair.  Red hair.  Red hair .  Kaoru’s hair -   

With a sharp inhale, Kyoya becomes hyper aware of the placement of his body.  HIs clothed legs are tangled with Kaoru’s under the throw blanket, his nose practically pressed into the back of Kaoru’s neck.  As he locates all his limbs he realizes he’s the big spoon, holding Kaoru’s back to his chest with his arm wrapped snugly around Kaoru’s middle.

He swallows thickly.  Ah, that would explain the warmth.

Part of Kyoya wonders if he should retract his arm, but his wrist is being held loosely against Kaoru’s chest in a grasp that is casual enough to be accidental but intentional enough to be suspect.

As Kyoya’s world slowly comes into focus, he notices little things, too.  Kaoru’s breathing is shallow but controlled.  His toes twitch lightly against Kyoya’s calf, as if being forced to remain still.  Held this close to Kaoru’s chest, he also can just feel the rapid beating of his heart beneath his fingertips through Kaoru’s sweater.

How long has Kaoru already been awake, Kyoya has to wonder.

Not willing to break the charade for Kaoru’s sake and far too comfortable to care about the implications of it, Kyoya sighs and repositions slightly, holding Kaoru more securely to his chest.  He doesn’t miss the way Kaoru’s breath hitches, nor the way Kaoru’s whole body shivers before going rigid.

Kyoya feigns sleep, though, breathing slow and even, and his body language must be more convincing than Kaoru’s own because he incrementally relaxes back into him, Kaoru’s hand returning to its loose grip on Kyoya’s wrist.

Mind too warped by the comfort and far too tired to dive into the implications, Kyoya’s lips brush, feather light, the soft skin at the nape of Kaoru’s neck. 

Kaoru was the one to initiate this little game of pretend, after all.  Why shouldn’t Kyoya indulge?

And well, if it gets Kaoru to stiffen against him and bite back a gasp, that’s all the better.

That unfortunately seems to be the end of their little game, because then Kaoru is shifting against him and turning around to face him with an overexaggerated yawn and stretch of his arms.

Kyoya doesn’t bother moving his hand from Kaoru’s hip over the blanket.

Kaoru’s fiery red hair is mussed from sleep, cowlicks and hair still stiff from his hair gel sticking up at odd angles.  Mascara Kaoru didn’t fully get the chance to remove is smudged in the corners of his eyes and underneath his lashes.

They crinkle as he gives Kyoya a small, tired smile.

He’s stunning.

Kyoya has to resist the urge to run his fingers beneath Kaoru’s eyelid and smear his thumb with the lingering makeup.

“Morning,” Kaoru murmurs, voice delicate but raw from sleep.  He tilts his head slightly, nuzzling into his arm, then blinks up at Kyoya slowly.

Drowsy from sleep still and sluggish, Kyoya is unable to stop the way he mirrors Kaoru’s smile, thumb rubbing slow circles on Kaoru’s hipbone over the blanket.

That seems to make Kaoru smile wider, and he gently brushes his cold toes along Kyoya’s bare shin.  It’s not an unwelcome feeling.  

The thought winds around him like a cozy quilt.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have every morning like this? 

“You should make me coffee,” Kaoru chirps.  

Whatever spell Kaoru had over him breaks as he shoves Kaoru unceremoniously off the edge of the couch.

Kaoru shrieks, flails, and hits the ground with a thud just as Kyoya grumbles, “Make it yourself.”

He pulls the blanket up to his chin and buries himself in the cushions,  fully intending to try and grip on to the final moments of rest as Kaoru putters about.  But he knows better than anyone that Kaoru will not give him that reprieve.

Kaoru stomps into the kitchen, stage whispering to Noir as she hops down from her napping perch on the back of the sectional to trot after him.

“Can you believe him?  ‘Make it yourself’, he says!” Kaoru hisses, “I don’t know where anything is in his stupid fancy kitchen.” 

“Mreow,” Noir helpfully supplies.

“I know!” Kaoru snaps, slamming a cupboard closed so solidly it shakes the silverware.  “And I am a guest, no less!”

Kyoya can’t stop the way his lips quirk up in the corners.  “Pest, more like.”

Kaoru turns on his heel to face Kyoya then, coffee beans in one hand and grinder in the other, and sticks out his tongue.  Kaoru stares at him pointedly as he pours the beans into the machine and Kyoya wonders if he’s suffering some kind of magical retaliation because the grinder is louder than Kyoya has ever heard the little machine before.

So much for going back to sleep.

Knowing he won’t get the blissful extra moments of rest, Kyoya decides to watch instead.

Despite Kaoru’s complaints, he looks incredibly comfortable in Kyoya’s space.  He glides around the kitchen island, watches as Kaoru opens a nearby cabinet to retrieve Noir’s cat food and set it in her dish as she weaves between his legs.

“I know, I know,” Kaoru coos, “You’re only being affectionate for sustenance.  I will take what I can get from you.”

“Prrpt…!”

Kaoru closes another drawer with his hip and Kyoya’s sleep-addled mind is too slow to stop from running away with him.

Sliding up behind Kaoru while they cook something together in the pristine kitchen, cluttered now with various cooking implements, pots, and ingredients strewn over his quartz countertops.  Kaoru, looking back over his shoulder at him and saying something admonishing but playful.  Kissing up Kaoru’s neck just to feel him shiver and press back into Kyoya’s chest.  Sharing gentle laughter, lingering touches…

With a grunt, Kyoya rolls over and pointedly glares at the slate gray of the back of his couch.

Kyoya doesn’t even like cooking.  He’s also quite certain Kaoru has never touched a spatula in his life.

Ridiculous.

He rubs his palm over the sudden, deep ache in his chest and drags the blanket over his head.  It takes several long, deep breaths for the twinge to subside.

Suddenly, there’s an annoying nudge to his lower back that feels suspiciously like a socked foot.  Kyoya weighs the merits of curling further into the blanket before eventually groaning and lifting his head.

Kaoru stands beside him, hip cocked and smirk lopsided, with two steaming mugs of coffee.  He wonders if it’s worth pulling the blanket back over and ignoring him, but the alluring aroma of freshly brewed coffee is too good to ignore.  Reluctantly, Kyoya moves to a sitting position and takes the offering in both of his hands.  Seemingly pleased, Kaoru perches on the arm of the couch next to him and takes a sip from his own mug with a satisfied sigh.

Judging by smell alone, Kaoru’s drinking something sickly sweet and sugary with only the barest flecks of coffee.  A stark contrast to the darkest of dark roasts Kyoya normally goes for.  Kyoya is silently grateful for his pre-planning - he would have never heard the end of it if he didn’t have the various syrups and creams Kaoru needed for his morning concoctions.

Kyoya takes a generous sip from his own mug and can't stop the exhale of relief.  Despite never holding a spatula, Kaoru makes a damn good cup of coffee, somehow always made to Kyoya’s particular proclivities.

Despite the rush of caffeine giving him some much needed alertness, there’s only so much good rest one can get from sleeping on a couch.  Kyoya’s body feels heavy, each shoulder muscle sore from lack of adequate support.  He rolls his neck with a quiet groan, feeling the vertebrae pop and crack, running a hand through his hair with his free hand.

Kaoru, meanwhile, looks bright and awake, eyes wide and watchful as they take in Kyoya’s apartment in the mid-morning light, lingering on each piece of minimalist furniture and each tastefully hung painting.  Even though he’s still waking up, it is not lost on Kyoya that Kaoru seems to be looking everywhere but him.  But a comforting wave of warmth rolls off Kaoru from their proximity and Kyoya can’t stop the way he bends toward it, leaning his shoulder against Kaoru’s hip.

Kaoru stills but for a moment, straightening his back before an exhale has him relaxing back to neutral.

Another sip of coffee.

Kyoya adjusts his glasses, using his thumb and forefinger to rub at his temples in an attempt to clear his head and steer his mind away from wandering.

It doesn’t help either when Kaoru’s tentative, perfectly manicured fingers begin to rub gently at the nape of his neck.  Kyoya feels the coil in his chest begin to loosen and he closes his eyes to savor the feeling.

“Got any plans for the day?” Kaoru asks carefully.

Kyoya hums.  He knows of at least three meetings he has scheduled.  Debates silently about the merits of keeping them.

“No,” he replies eventually.

“Great!” Kaoru chips, hopping off the arm of the chair, “Then you should take me shopping.”

Kyoya’s brow furrows, frowning.  He tries not to focus on the way his skin buzzes irritatingly from the loss of contact.

“Why would I - “

Kaoru scoffs before he can even finish.  “Because it’s your fault my last date went so horribly!” he says, as if Kyoya is foolish for asking, “You owe me.”

Setting his mug down, Kyoya raises an eyebrow.  “I thought we didn’t like Sebastiano.”

A groan of disgust.  An eye roll.  “That’s not the point!  Besides,” Kaoru’s smile softens and Kyoya’s mouth goes dry, “It's almost Noir’s adoption day.  We need to get her something nice to celebrate.”

Kyoya almost forgot.

“Noir doesn't fall for petty bribes.”

“A guy’s gotta do whatever he can to get her attention!”

With a resounding sigh, Kyoya stands and stretches his sore back.  “Fine,”  he acquiesces, “I will accompany you while you go shopping.”

Kyoya makes the fatal mistake of glancing at Kaoru.  There’s no mischief to his smile, no scheming to his stare.  It’s pure and almost childlike joy, and Kyoya is helpless to stop the skip in his heart.

He’s going to pay for everything on this excursion, isn’t he?

Several shops and several thousands of dollars less later, Kaoru loops his arm with Kyoya’s and drags him down a narrow street into a quaint little cafe.

The enticing waft of freshly baked pastries, coffee, and artisanal panini pressed sandwiches is enough to quell any protest Kyoya may have as Kaoru shoves them into a booth in the corner.

Well, that, and the excited little skip to Kaoru’s step, his smile twitching wide across his face as he babbles on about how he found this place online and was just dying to try it.

Despite the chill outside, Kaoru has opted for an iced coffee with some sort of caramel and toffee combination, a disgusting sweetness Kyoya can smell from his spot in the leather seat across from him.  He swirls the straw in his drink around with his tongue, chewing on the plastic end idly as he minutely nods his head in time with whatever song is playing gently overhead.

When their sandwiches arrive, Kyoya unfortunately does have to admit it was worth the detour, though he would still question the price.

“Told you,” Kaoru teases all the same, smiling with his straw between his teeth.  There’s a nudge from Kaoru’s Chanel combat boot-ed toe against his ankle and when Kyoya looks up, Kaoru’s eyes sparkle with that tell-tale Hitachiin mischief.  The kind that made hundreds of girls back at Ouran swoon, fawn, faint.

Directed at him, it makes something electric jolt through his skin. 

“Brat,” Kyoya retorts, nudging Kaoru’s foot back in retaliation.  They go back and forth like that for a moment, knocking their feet into each other’s shins, before the table violently shakes and Kyoya finally relents to return to his sandwich.

That only makes Kaoru’s grin widen.  His eyes shine across the table as he places his chin in his hand, leaning forward.  “I may be a brat, but you like it.”

Kyoya hides the twitch of his lips behind a sip of tea.

He pays for lunch.

The early October sun is just beginning to set when Kyoya and Kaoru climb into the back of Kyoya’s town car, painting the city in hues of orange and gold.  Kaoru’s many bags are shoved into the trunk as Aijima dutifully begins the long drive through traffic back to Kyoya’s apartment.

Kyoya is keenly aware that he is monopolizing Kaoru’s time.  After such a successful fall launch, surely Kaoru has a multitude of meetings and debriefings with his team he needs to do.

Though, now that he thinks about it as he watches Kaoru’s face in profile, perhaps he - like Kyoya - weighed the merits of playing hooky.

There is silence as the car wanders down Tokyo’s busy streets, but it is not unwelcomed.  It’s amicable, simple.  Besides, Kaoru must be tired.  After a lengthy travel day, sleeping on Kyoya’s couch was probably not the most comfortable rest.  In fact, Kyoya is quite certain after all the sugar and coffee Kaoru has consumed since this morning, he is going to crash as soon as they return to Kyoya’s apartment.  Kyoya only hopes he’ll take the guest bed Kyoya took particular care to set up yesterday rather than Kyoya’s stylish but hard sectional.

Eventually, bored from looking outside, Kaoru turns his attention inward back to the car.  More specifically, to Kyoya’s hand.  Kyoya thought nothing of it when he rested his hand on the seat between them, but now that it has Kaoru’s regarding stare, he feels himself become hyper aware of his body.

Kyoya tends to equate Kaoru’s countenance to that of a cat’s.  His gaze is always sharp, sparking with inquisitive, astute energy.  He clearly wants affection but never quite knows how to ask for it aside from being obnoxiously in the way.  There’s the other end of that spectrum as well, where he prickles at unwanted attention.  Kyoya has to wonder if he’s ever actually bitten or hissed at someone for looking at him or his brother the wrong way.

But much like a cat, he’s also fiercely loyal, protective, intelligent.  It draws Kyoya in like a vortex, tugging on his center of gravity.

Now, that astute gaze is fixated on Kyoya’s hand between them, mouth a thin line of contemplation.  Kyoya can practically see the gears turning in his brain before he reaches out, tentative, and draws a small symbol on the back of Kyoya’s palm.

The pads of Kaoru’s fingers dance idly across his skin, not following any particular pattern or rhythm, and Kyoya and Kaoru watch the digits in quiet fascination. 

The contact has Kyoya’s skin burning, sending a rush of heat up his arm.

Kaoru’s voice is so quiet Kyoya barely hears it over the sound of his heart in his ears.

“If this was a date,” Kaoru wets his lips, the dart of his pink tongue so quick Kyoya nearly misses it, “How would you want the day to end?”

Kaoru is wearing that inscrutable look again, but Kyoya finds he’s slowly starting to piece bits of the puzzle together.  There’s a tremor in Kaoru's hands.  A tinge of red to his ears.  A flush to his cheeks.

Kyoya wants to tug at it like a loose thread of a jacket.  If he continues to pull, what would come undone, he wonders?

“If…” Kaoru breathes, interrupting his thoughts, “If this was a date, would you k-kiss me?”

The car suddenly shrinks around him, rocking unsteadily.  Skyscrapers pass them by but they fade into white noise, lost to the background.  And yet, while the world around them spins, Kyoya feels strangely stable, anchored in this space by the feather-light dance of Kaoru’s finger across his skin.

Why they’ve made it so complicated all these years, Kyoya will never truly understand.  The answer is simple, really.  

Kyoya’s throat clicks as he swallows.  

“If this was a date,” he says evenly, slowly taking Kaoru’s wandering fingers to thread them with his own, “Then I suppose I would.”

Kaoru goes stiff against him, eyes wide as saucers.  If Kyoya thought Kaoru’s face was flushed before, it turns a new, beautiful shade under Kyoya’s watchful eye.  A myriad of expressions flash across Kaoru’s face in quick succession: disbelief, nervousness, excitement.  Kaoru suddenly can’t seem to focus his attention, eyes flicking minutely between their joined hands, the closed barrier between them and the driver, Kyoya.

But then Kaoru ducks his head and Kyoya catches a glimpse of a smile so wide it threatens to split Kaoru’s cheeks.

Kyoya turns away then, using his free hand to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

The sun dips below skyscrapers and high rises, golden orange and yellow light bouncing off windows to decorate Tokyo in a soft glow as night starts to descend.

Kyoya can feel Kaoru trembling and squeezes his hand reassuringly.  What he is trying to reassure him of, he’s still not completely sure himself. 

They make it into the parking garage.  Out of the car.  Into the elevator.  Their fingers stay entwined all the while.  It’s surprising - no matter how uncomfortably tight Kaoru’s grip has gotten, no matter how much their palms have become clammy with sweat - Kyoya cannot imagine a better place for his hand to be.

Eventually the elevator dings and they cross the threshold into Kyoya’s apartment, standing in his living room.  

Kyoya’s not sure what’s louder; Kaoru’s carefully controlled breathing or the steady beating of his own heart.

When he finally turns to Kaoru, it causes something in his chest to stutter.  Kaoru looks up at him through long eyelashes, lips between his teeth.

Kyoya’s not certain what compels him to ask. “Did you enjoy your day?”

It’s worth it to see the way Kaoru’s face breaks into a smile.  He tips his head to the side as if contemplating his response.

“It’s almost perfect,” he hums, his voice a teasing lilt.

Kyoya can’t stop the way his lips twitch.  The way his eyebrow raises.  “Almost?”

Kaoru steps into his space then, holding their joined hands between their chests.  This close and in the setting sun, he can see little details he missed the night before - the thin line of Kaoru’s eyeliner on his upper eyelid, the way his eyelashes cast gentle shadows against his cheeks, the near imperceptible scar on his face from the incident in Karuizawa.

Kyoya wants to map all of it with his fingertips.  They twitch in Kaoru’s grip and it’s only then that Kyoya realizes he can feel Kaoru’s pulse, quick and fluttering.

Kaoru places his other hand on Kyoya’s chest, gentle but grounding.

“Well,” he murmurs, breath fanning across Kyoya’s face, “You haven’t kissed me yet.  So it’s almost perfect.”

Kaoru’s delicate, long fingers curl in the lapels of his brocade blazer and Kyoya wonders if Kaoru can feel the embroidery he stitched into the front pocket right over his heart.  K.H.

Right where he belongs.

“I suppose I should remedy that,” Kyoya rumbles, hovering momentarily before placing a hand on Kaoru’s hipbone and pulling him closer.

He’s so close Kyoya can smell his cologne.  It’s a floral, comforting scent with just a hint of citrus, and Kyoya takes a deep inhale to savor it. 

Kaoru’s breath catches and Kyoya watches as his irises shrink behind his pupils.  The teasing bravado falters, this close, and Kaoru shivers against him, eyes flicking down to his lips then back up in quick succession.

There’s a shift in the air between them.  The space between them narrows, ignites.  Kyoya feels his name against his lips more than he hears it - a puff of Kaoru’s breath against his cheek.

Kaoru’s voice is small.  Fragile. Trembling fingers curl that much tighter in Kyoya’s jacket.  

“You better . ”  And who is Kyoya to deny him?  

Kyoya inhales and drags Kaoru into his orbit.

The kiss is simple, at first.  An understated brush of the lips that could be passed off as something casual, a little peck.  It’s a test of the waters, a new step in their dance that Kyoya wants to assure can be followed.  

But the touch alone pulls a timid whimper from the back of Kaoru’s throat and suddenly another part of Kyoya’s brain takes over.

The next kiss is fervent, soft but firm, and Kyoya finds himself gripping tighter to Kaoru’s hip as their lips press together once more.  Whatever tension that was coiling between them is pulled taut and Kyoya plans to play it like the most invaluable instrument.

Their mouths open naturally with the next kiss and Kaoru sighs into it, his fingers twisting in Kyoya’s lapels.  Kyoya lets go of Kaoru’s hand only to rest it against Kaoru’s neck, adjusting the angle in a way that has Kaoru arching into him.  Kyoya kisses with a slow, burning heat, probing his tongue and cupping Kaoru’s jaw, intent to discover exactly what makes Kaoru sigh, what makes his breath skip.  Kaoru must have similar intentions, because he responds with exuberance that stokes Kyoya’s heat into a fire, threading his fingers through Kyoya’s hair and tugging strongly enough that it pulls a low groan from Kyoya’s throat.

There’s a sudden rattling at the door, the unmistakable clunk of Kyoya’s deadbolt unlocking so loud that it causes Kaoru to jump in his arms.

Aijima stumbles through the front door, hefting seven large, overstuffed shopping bags in his arms.  They must be heavy, because when he drops them in stunned silence they make a thundering clatter.

Not that Kyoya cares.  In fact, he doesn’t even regard Aijima with a glance.

Kaoru pulls back with a shaky exhale of Kyoya’s name, eyes glassy and unfocused.  Kyoya smiles.  Runs his thumb along the reddened, spit-slick swell of Kaoru’s bottom lip. 

“Leave the bags by the door,” he instructs, “Kaoru will be staying here.”

Kaoru laughs, a sharp, twinkling sound, and Kyoya thinks yes, this is a perfect day.