Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are some people you just can’t help but fall in love with. 

Call it fate, call it biology, call it hormones—whatever you want to blame it on. Personally, you’re inclined to go for biology. After all, for you this whole mess started at birth, the day the doctor took a prick of blood from your tiny newborn finger and, after running the typical panel of neonatal tests, stamped that final seal on your birth certificate. 

Your parents never lied to you about your presentation—how could they? Even at six, the school had you all wearing little bracelets, so that you’d be used to them by the time you were old enough to go to the upper school. You still remember it now, the little purple band, the sterling pendant that dangled from it. The way it glimmered in the light, that tiny letter B taunting you as the boy you liked responded to your confession by pushing you down on the playground.

“Why would I like you, (Y/N)?” Yuri crossed his arms, squinting down at you as you tried to push back up onto your little elbows. A few of his friends gathered behind him, assembling to enjoy the scene. “You’re just a stinky beta.”

“I’m—m’not stinky.” You let out a little sniffle, dragging the back of your hand across your nose, and to your horror you heard him laugh. “I’m not!”

“Yeah, you are,” one of his friends chimed in, a dainty omega girl with silky hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion. Mimi, you think her name was. It’s funny, now, to think about. How even then, at such a young age, it was so clear to you that some people were pretty and some were not, and you couldn’t help but feel as though you fell decidedly into the latter category. “Look at you, rolling around in the mud like a little piggy! Oink, oink!” Even snorting in an exaggerated fashion, she was adorable, and you felt tears begin to well up in your eyes. You opened your mouth to offer up another half-hearted defense, when you were interrupted by another voice behind you.

“You should leave her alone.” Another little girl. The bullies fell silent; when you turned, you saw why. With the sun behind her, the light shining out from her silhouette like a crown, or a halo, her eyes dark and serious as took another step forward, she looked like an avenging angel. Or, like, the six-year-old equivalent. 

“Yeah? Why?” In spite of Yuri’s attempts to match the newcomer’s attitude, you heard his voice waver. “You can’t tell us what to do, Haruhi. You’re a beta too.”

“Well.” Haruhi tilted her head. “That doesn’t matter until we’re bigger. So you can’t tell me what to do, either. So you should leave me and (Y/N) alone or else I’ll tell Miss Ria and she’ll give you time out again, and then you won’t get to take from the prize drawer at the end of the week.”

The entire small crew paled, and slowly fizzled away. You heard whoops, little bubbly laughs, fading into chatter as they were distracted by other schoolyard activities. You were still sniffling when you felt Haruhi kneel down besides you.

“Are you okay?”

You gave her a wet nod. “Yeah.” You hiccuped, and then immediately broke down into full tears. “What if they’re right?”

“They’re just mean. They’re not right about anything.”

“What if they’re right about me? Maybe nobody’s ever gonna like me, because I’m a beta.”

“But your mom was a beta, probably. Or your dad. Or both. And they still had you.”

“No.” You shook your head with a wail. “My mom’s an alpha, an’ my dad’s an omega. What if there’s something wrong with me?”

So many children tend to cry whenever someone else is crying. They’re so young; they can’t help it. But Haruhi was calm as she made her next point. Quiet. “My mom was a beta, and she still had me. And my dad’s an alpha, and he loved her more than anyone else, so.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She patted your shoulder stiffly. “I think lots of people will like you. I like you.”

You looked up at her. Even blurred by tears, there was something about her, something so odd and gripping about those dark, sad eyes. “I like you too.”

After a moment, she smiled. “Want to go on the monkey bars?”

There are some people you can’t help but fall in love with. The question is: when do you figure it out?

Chapter Text

One would think that, by twenty-two, you would maybe have the whole independent adult thing figured out by now. 

“Have you seen my copy of Pride and Prejudice? ” You pick up a shirt off the floor and chuck it into the hamper. It misses. You ignore it, too busy scanning the rest of your room. It looks like a hurricane passed through. Half because you’ve spent the past five minutes tearing it apart in search of the missing book, and half because…well, evidently, you haven’t figured out the independent adult thing, in whole or in part, very well at all.

Your roommate’s in the kitchen when you walk out, pouring over a textbook, as per the usual. “Morning,” you greet her. 

“Morning.” With her eyes fixed firmly on the page, she pushes a mug of green tea in your direction. You accept it mindlessly. “I thought you took it to bed with you.”

“So did I. Last minute annotations. But it was gone when I woke up.”

“Did you leave it on the nightstand?”

“Nope.”

“Under the pillow?”

“I shook out the whole bed. Nothing.”

“Backpack?”

You dash back to your bedroom, balancing the mug haphazardly on the pile of books next to your lamp. Backpack, backpack, where is your backpack…. aha! You hit the floor, peering under your bed. Bingo. And sure enough, zipped in the front pocket, is a well-worn copy of P&P.

“You’re a genius,” you call out to Haruhi, and finally take a sip of the tea as you return to the kitchen. Green, as always—you’re not a coffee person, but you need the caffeine. Ideal temperature. Steeped to perfection. “My hero. When’s your first class today?”

“Don’t have any.” 

“Lucky.” The mug of coffee by her left hand is almost empty already. “Did you sleep last night?” For as long as you’ve known her, Haruhi has had an almost freakish ability to complete inhuman amounts of work without succumbing to illness or fatigue. 

“I slept enough.”

“Haruhi.” You plop down in the chair across from her, and point to the fridge. “What did we say about sleep this semester? On the goal chart?”

The goal chart in question is a sheet of looseleaf magnet-ed to the freezer, where you’ll both be forced to see it in the morning, with a Venn Diagram drawn in faded orange Sharpie. It’s got things like 7 hours every night on Haruhi’s side, keep room clean on yours, and a big, bold LESS CAFFEINE scrawled in the section where the circles overlap. Clearly, you’re both off to a great start.

“We also said you were going to stop signing up for classes on Humanities Hill.” She angles her phone towards you. 8:48. 

“Shit.” You scoop up your backpack, plant a kiss on her head, and head for the door. “Love you. See you later.”

“Have a good class.” 

When you glance back, you see she’s finally looked up at you, away from the book, with a rare Haruhi smile. Subtle. Perfect. You’re blushing as you walk down the stairs.

Then you take another look at your phone, and take off sprinting down the sidewalk.

According to Google Maps, Humanities Hill—the cluster of buildings on the far side of campus where most of the English and Philosophy department hold court—is about a fifteen minute walk from your cramped one-point-five-bedroom apartment (you’re pretty sure your room was originally intended as a walk-in closet)—and that’s without a thin layer of snow on the ground, and the wind blowing full-force into your face. You somehow make it in nine. The seminar table is almost full, with only a few seats left. You slide into one by the windows, between a pretty blonde girl and a scruffy redhead with glasses and a manbun.

“I’m assuming you’re (Y/N)?” he asks, ticking off a box on the tablet in front of him when you nod. “Great. We’re just waiting on one more person, but I think…” He checks the watch on his wrist. “Yep. Let’s get started, and they can catch up when they get here. Awesome. So!” He claps his hands, and the general chatter in the room dies down. “Hey everyone! Welcome to The Radical Dynamics of Jane Austen. Abe here, I’ll be leading the class. I’m a third year post-doc fellow at Ouran, doing crossover work in the English and Gender Studies departments. I mostly work with Professor Sara Suzuki, if you’ve ever taken any of her classes.” A murmur of recognition ripples around the table. “Awesome. This is my second time teaching the course, so I’m looking forward to being able to share with you guys whatever insight I can, and also to hear what you have to say, and hopefully get some fresh perspectives. This field is always super relevant, and changing, and it starts here, with conversations like these.”

As everyone goes around the table introducing themselves—and as the caffeine kicks in—you feel the excitement well up in you. You’ve wanted to take this class since you were a freshman in the undergraduate school, and took a lecture about A/B/O in world literature with Professor Suzuki. Back then, you’d been attending Ouran on a pre-med scholarship. Suzuki was a trailblazer in her field; back then she had already won several awards for her research, and in the present-day you’d heard rumors floating that, at thirty-six, she was already being considered for tenure.

You remember what it felt like to see her speak. The realization that, not only was this something that people could study—this was something people studied and took seriously . You’d finished out your pre-med degree, but—with no small amount of encouragement from Haruhi—had decided to take a risk and apply to Ouran’s graduate program in humanities anyway. 

And, by some miracle, you’d gotten in. 

Which meant applying for boatloads of other scholarships, sure—and upping your shifts at the cafe down the block—but it also meant you got to be here . In rooms like these. Even a full semester in, you can’t help but feel the happy glow of having accomplished the impossible.

The blonde—Olivia—finishes introducing herself, and nods at you. You beam. “Hi everyone! My name is (Y/N), and I’m a first year grad student here, as well. I went to Ouran for my undergrad degree, and I’m just—”

You’re interrupted by a loud bang from the direction of the door. All eyes turn. 

“Ah. Mr…” Abe glances down at his attendance roster. “Ootori. Nice of you to join us.”

Chapter Text

Ootori. The name seems familiar—from where, you aren’t sure. You certainly don’t recognize the face attached to it. The newcomer is tall and dark haired, with equally dark eyes peering out from wire rimmed glasses. He’s disconcertingly sleek; the oddly formal suit he’s wearing (to a nine a.m. class, no less), the wingtip shoes, the aristocratic delicacy of his features. The only unpolished thing about his appearance is the tips of his ears, slightly reddened from the cold.

“Forgive my lateness,” is the only thing he says as he crosses the room to take the lone empty seat on the other side of Abe.

“No worries. We were just going around and introducing ourselves.”

“Ah. Yes.” He sits, shrugging off his jacket to reveal a crisp white button down underneath. “My name is Kyoya Ootori. Second year. I’m not in any of the humanities departments, I’m simply taking this class to fulfill some requirement—my advisor told me I needed to diversify my courseload. So.”

He leaves it at that. After an awkward pause, Abe clears his throat. “Well! We’re happy to have you. Hopefully you end up finding something of interest in our work this semester.”

Kyoya makes a noncommittal hum in response, solidifying your budding dislike. He can’t even pretend to be a little invested? It’s the first day!

Abe launches into a discussion—a brief summary of the book (as though you all haven’t read it a dozen times); a few talking points to get you all started.

As you listen to your classmates talk, jumping in a few times to add a point of your own, you can’t help but let your attention drift over, again and again, to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Douchey. He hasn’t spoken up even once. Hasn’t taken any notes. You notice he doesn’t even seem to have a copy of the book with him.

All the while, you’re running his name over and over in his head—where have you heard that before?

Something Olivia says catches your attention: “To be honest, I don’t really get why this book is applicable to this class. They barely dig into the topic of presentation at all.”

Your reaction must show on your face, because Abe turns his attention to you. “(Y/N)? What do you think about that?”

You open your mouth, then close it, drafting up an argument in your head. It's not all that difficult to find the words—after all, your application essay for this class centered around this exact topic. “I think that's a common misconception. But I’d argue that the first proposal scene alone is one of the most complex examples of intersectional discrimination in any of Austen’s work, if not the entire Regency canon.” 

Olivia tilts her head. “Really?” 

You nod, relieved to have been met with curiosity and not disadain. “The first time he proposes to her, it’s framed as an act of charity. A pity ask.” She purses her lips. You notice, for the first time, the little pendant at the base of her throat—three silver Ωs, embedded with little pink stones (her birthstone, if you had to guess). Just like that, your enthusiasm dims slightly—and you choose your words even more carefully. “And I think the reasoning behind her refusal is actually really beautiful. From the text, we learn that it’s been a few years since Elizabeth has been confirmed to not go through heats or ruts. But Lizzie herself never draws attention to it, or shows any shame. It’s only her mother and society that seem to have a problem with it. To say yes to Darcy’s first proposal wouldn’t just be a rejection of her values—it would be a rejection of her own sense of self worth.”

“Still, I’d argue that the first proposal is the more honest of the two.”

You were expecting a rebuttal from Olivia (you’d been on campus long enough to recognize a Triple-O necklace when you saw one—and nobody was more protective of traditional dynamics than a sorority-pledged omega). But she’s completely silent; the voice that chimed in was lower, more melodic. You look over to see Kyoya looking straight at you. 

“What?” you ask.

“After all, it is a pity ask , is it not? She’s a defunct omega—” You flinch at that. Here we go . “—from an impoverished family—”

“A beta,” you interrupt.

His brows lift. “They never use the term.”

“Because the term hadn’t yet been invented.” You catch a snicker or two from your classmates, prompted by your defensive tone. Deep down, you know that every word you say is just placing more of a target on your back, but you just can’t help it. And besides—who cares? A few laughs are nothing. You’ve dealt with worse before. “It wasn’t coined for a few years after Austen’s death. Decades more, by the time it was considered a medically sound diagnosis.”

Kyoya rolls his eyes. You bite your tongue. “Very well. She’s a beta from an impoverished family. Either way, she won’t be capable, to his knowledge, of giving him children. And, to top it off, she has no sense of propriety. Is it any wonder his aunt objected to the match?”

“But that’s what makes it so powerful when he finally comes around,” you say, patiently as you can muster. “He’s bucking both societal standards and his own internalized prejudice.”

“To what end? It’s a worthless match. She has nothing to offer him.”

“Love. A match of minds. Traditional dynamic compatibility isn’t everything.”

He mutters something—too low for you to be absolutely certain of what it was he said. But if you had to place a bets, you’d be pretty sure that the words “typical” and “beta” were included somewhere in there. You can’t stop the note of anger that enters your voice as you ask, “Excuse me?”

Abe claps his hands. “O kay , well. Looks like that’s all the time we have left for today. Don’t forget to check the syllabus before our next meeting; and I know it’s the first day, but your proposal for the final paper is due in two weeks! That might seem early, I know,” he chuckles, in response to a few groans, “but it’s with good reason. The Jen T. Goodwin scholarship contest deadline is a week after you submit that paper, and the parameters are the same—five to seven pages, double-spaced.” That catches your attention. The JTG is the biggest writing scholarship the university has to offer—ten thousand dollars. You’ve come in second place every year you’ve submitted (to the same guy, you’re pretty sure), but hey, you were an undergraduate then—surely you’ll have a better shot now that you have a Bachelor’s degree under your belt? “The sooner you hand something in, the sooner you can get feedback, so it’s never too early to start thinking about a good topic.”

You’re almost lightheaded with annoyance as you zip up your bag and make a beeline for the door. God. College ought to have been better than high school—less people you'd grown up with since infancy, no more identifying bracelets announcing your presentation to the entire world. You’ve managed to make it through most classes without being outed. But you can’t bottle your frustration when people start to shit talk betas just for existing—and being so overzealous about beta rights is almost always a dead giveaway.

One would think that being a beta would make things less complicated—and in many ways, it does. Or in a few key ways, anyway. While betas aren’t unheard of, they aren’t exactly common, either. Less than one percent of the global population, according to modern statistics. Even in the present, with modern-day presentation-reassignment treatments increasingly available to the public, that number has stayed low (though that may be thanks to the difficulties of full gland removal. Easier to transition to being an omega, or an alpha, like Haruhi—hormone treatments are so much less invasive than surgeries, and better studied, too. And trans betas have even less treatment options, due to the risks of long-term cycle suppression).

In any case—you’ve long been accustomed to being one of two, maybe three betas in any given lecture hall, and the only beta in most seminars you’ve taken. Sitting in silence in a corner of the room during junior high, during the Health class unit in first cycles. And, of course, watching as, one by one, your peers had their own first heats and ruts. Most would just disappear for a few days, a week. Occasionally longer. But there was one kid you remember who started his in the middle of the day, without a pre-heat to warn him. The class was evacuated quickly, as soon as the teacher took notice, which only took a matter of seconds. But you were at the tail end of the line, and for a moment you and the boy locked eyes. You’ll never forget it: the sweat running down his brow. The pain and confusion in his voice.

But, worst of all: the look in his eyes.

Blank.

Hungry.

Helpless. Absolutely helpless.

After that day, you had an easier time coming to terms with your presentation. Softened the sting of being the odd one out, of all the jeers and taunts and snide comments made by your classmates. Even the jokes in sitcoms made towards betas didn’t bother you as much. By the time you reached college, you’d developed a sense of pride, even, in your status. Let the world laugh. You’d never have to deal with suppressants, or unexpected cycles, or the stereotypes associated with either of the Big Two presentations. A little loneliness was a small price to pay for all of that.

Plus, it’s not like you were always alone. You had Haruhi, after all. Nearly 20 years of friendship—from the playground days, through her transition, through the death of your parents, to living together throughout all of college—nothing had ever been able to come between you.

Or shake your crush on her, it seems. 

Even now, the thought of seeing her later this week has you feeling a bit calmer. You and Haruhi often go days without speaking. It makes sense—you're both fairly introverted, and your schedules, at odds at the best of times, are downright hellish this semester, what with class and work and all. Besides, you've been friends for long enough to be able to fall into a silence that feels comfortable, rather that stifling (like an old married couple, the lovesick part of you can't help but chime in).

But no matter what, the two of you always carve out time to do something special the first Friday of the semester. Movie night, usually, with popcorn and face masks and pedicures. Already you can’t wait, your excitement causing you to pick up the pace slightly. You’ve almost reached the door when he cuts in front of you. Ootori. Kyoya. “Excuse you,” you mutter.

He turns—not fully. Just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those eyes, the glint of his glasses, before he turns back to greet the bubbly blond-haired boy waiting for him in the hall.

Or, at least, you think that’s what he does. It’s sort of hard to tell, because all of a sudden you’re lightheaded for real, and your vision is blurring and gravity feels wrong and the floor the floor the floor is right there—

Chapter Text

You wake up to a bright light and a high-pitched beeping and what feels like a bag of sand under your head. 

A few shifts later, you realize it’s actually a pillow. A stiff-to-the-point-of-uselessness pillow, but a pillow nonetheless, because you’re lying on some kind of cot. The ceiling above you is a painful shade of white; the walls, too, and as you blink the leftover sleep from your eyes, you realize that the beeping is coming from a machine to your left—a heart monitor, attached to you with various wires connected to your finger, arm, chest.

“Hey, you.” In your dizzy, drowsy state, the sound of Haruhi’s voice feels like a balm to the ache in your head. You turn to see her sitting to your right, looking uncharacteristically concerned. That has you nervous—it takes a lot to rattle Haruhi. “My advisor meeting ran late, so I only just got here, but the nurse said they brought you in twenty minutes ago. All you alright? What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” you say—half out of habit, half because you actually aren’t quite sure. What did happen? How did you get from the classroom to the student hospital? “Nothing serious. Really.”

“You’re hooked up to, like, ten different machines. It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“She fainted,” interrupts a new voice—this one familiar, too, but in a way that makes you tense up automatically. “You’re the emergency contact, I imagine?”

“Roommate.” She stands, and sticks out her hand. “Haruhi.”

“Kyoya.” Your eyes are already fluttering back shut from exhaustion, so you can’t see whether he accepts the handshake or not. “She fainted on her way out of class. Is this a common occurrence for her?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I can hear you talking about me,” you say. They both ignore you.

“Any history of stroke, seizure, anything like that?”

“I’m ba-aack,” sings a new voice. The door swings shut behind him with an audible thump that has your eyes opening, ever so slightly, to see the blond boy from the hallway. “It took me ages to find the vending machines, and everything there looked so sad and tasteless, Kyoya, it really was tragic—Oh, you’re alive!”

“Awake. She wasn’t dead before.”

“No thanks to you.” He kneels before you and holds up a bottle of electrolyte drink, offering it as though it were a freshly-plucked rose. “On Kyoya’s behalf, as a token of apology.”

“It isn’t my fault she fainted,” Kyoya says, clearly trying very hard to keep his patience. “I wasn’t standing anywhere near her.”

“Exactly. You didn’t even make a move to catch her, and then maybe she would have hit her head and then maybe she would have died, and then where would we be?” The blond boy turns back to you, and flashes you a dizzying smile. “You must forgive my friend. You’d think someone of his pedigree would have better manners, and yet…”

In your most lucid moments, you’re not sure you’d have a good response to a sight like this: the most audaciously good-looking man you’ve ever met in your life, kneeling at your bedside like some knight-errant out of a book. As it is, this is not one of your most lucid moments. So instead of saying anything at all, you just blink at him a few times. He smiles more widely still, and presses the bottle into your hand. 

“Drink up, then,” he says brightly, popping to his feet. “You’ll need it. I used to have fainting spells before my heats, too.”

You almost do a spittake. “What? No, I—this is—”

“People faint for reasons other than heats, Tamaki.” There’s an edge to Kyoya’s voice—not unkind, but stern—before he turns back to Haruhi. If you had a better opinion of him, you might think he was shutting down the conversation to avoid outing your presentation. “So, you said she doesn’t faint often. No strokes, seizures—any history of anemia, maybe?”

Haruhi purses her lips. “She used to have low iron count, but not anemic levels—but she isn’t great at remembering to take her multivitamin. Maybe that could be it.”

You’re still looking at Tamaki over the rim of the energy drink bottle—so you see his face when he hears her speak for the first time. The head turn; the flushed cheeks; the look in his eyes. 

You know that look. You’ve been wearing one like it for the better part of two decades.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He even sounds breathless, somehow. As though he weren’t just standing in place. “Miss…”

“Haruhi. We’re roommates.” She says it in the way only Haruhi can—as though she’s completely immune to his looks and charm (which, knowing Haruhi, she probably is)—before turning back to you. “Okay. You look fine enough to me, so I’m going to go see if we can get you discharged. Did they leave any paperwork here to fill out?”

Behind her, Kyoya lifts up a clipboard—but before he can so much as open his mouth, Tamaki leaps and grabs it from him. “Here! I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t thi—”

“I’ll read out the questions, and write down your answers—that way you can keep an eye out for a nurse or doctor.”

She glances back at you. “I don’t know if I should leave (Y/N) alone.”

“Kyoya can stay with her.” He looks over at him, his eyes pleading.

Kyoya sighs. “Happy to.” 

Before you can protest, Tamaki claps his hands, practically glowing. “Perfect!” He offers an elbow to Haruhi. “Shall we?”

If you weren’t so out of it, you’d swear you almost see the hint of a smile rise to her lips. She ignores his elbow, but walks with him through the door. You can hear his chattering fade as they disappear down the hall, leaving you here. Alone. With Kyoya.

He clears his throat, clearly about to say something. You interrupt. “You really don’t have to stay here, you know.”

“I know,” he says. “But your friend’s right. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone until they’ve figured out what’s wrong.”

“What’s there to figure out? I fainted. I’m here. I’m fine.” You hold up the electrolyte drink. “I’ll hydrate, go home, and sleep it off.”

“You’ve never fainted before?”

“No. So?”

“It can be a sign of a deeper underlying condition. Blood pressure, heart function, things like that. Normally I’d wave it off as a sign of an approaching cycle, but…”

He trails off, and you raise an eyebrow. “But?” He shrugs, and you laugh, sitting up straighter in your bed. “But we’ve already established that I’m a ‘defunct omega,’ so you know I don’t have a heat or rut coming up. Is that what you were going to say?”

He sighs. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean anything. From how disinterested you seemed in the class as a whole, I’d be surprised to find out you put any thought into your comments at all.” 

“What makes you think I was disinterested?”

You give him a look. “Your little speech about how you were only taking it to fulfill a requirement, for starters.”

“Would you have preferred I lied?”

“I would have preferred you not announce to the world your disdain for the humanities, and for betas in particular.”

He scoffs. “Now you’re just projecting. Just because you clearly have some sort of beta persecution complex, that doesn’t give you the right to assume—”

“Assume what?” You feel fire rising in your throat. You push the blankets off of you, and stand, slowly walking towards him. “Maybe I do have a persecution complex; maybe I am making assumptions. Because I’ll tell you this: when I look at you, what I see is a spoiled little rich boy, probably a pedigreed alpha, raised from birth with the assurance that your opinion matters more than that of anyone else in any room you walk into; and because of that, somewhere along the road you decided that it didn’t matter if you learned manners or friendliness or basic human empathy, because all of that silly sentimental nonsense was below someone of your intellectual prowess.” You tilt your head, eyes locked on his. “Tell me, Mr. Ootori, is that an unfair assumption?”

“I—” You see a flush creeping up his neck, and you stop where you stand, half-pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. He takes a step in your direction, then, and you realize how close you really are. Behind you, the machine picks up in tempo. He’s breathing more heavily, and you’re half aware that his chest is rising and falling at the same rate as yours. He swallows. “You—”

“Looks like you’re good to go!” 

The two of you stumble away from each other as Tamaki all but bursts through the door, Haruhi and one of the nurses trailing behind him. The nurse and Haruhi both rush to your side. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

As they help you back to the bed, you say, dizzily, “Tamaki said I’m good to go.”

“Pending a check of your blood pressure and other vitals.” The nurse takes a glance at the heart monitor, which, as you lay back down, is starting to return to normal. You think she’s going to require you stay for another few hours, maybe even overnight, but as she surveys the room, something changes in her expression. “Ah. That’s nothing to worry about, then.”

“What?” Haruhi asks.

“No standing up too quickly, and reduce stress as much as you can, for the next day at least. But other than that, I don’t see anything of concern.” She bends down to pick something up, and places it in your hand. The sports drink. “Finish that before you head out, alright sweetheart?” You nod, and she smiles. “Alright, then. You all have a good one.”

She heads out. You sip the sports drink, trying to blink away the dizziness. When you’re back in focus, you see Tamaki step towards you.

“Good to meet you, (Y/N). Feel better soon.” He flashes a small smile at you, and then a brighter one at Haruhi, waving as he walks out the door, Kyoya close behind. The latter doesn’t turn back to look at you. You aren’t sure why that leaves you feeling disappointed.

Haruhi clears her throat. “How are you feeling?” You nod. “Good.” She comes over to you to help you sit up slowly. It brings your heart rate even closer to normal. Haruhi always does, somehow. You suppose it makes sense, given how long you’ve known each other. Crush aside, you’ve known each other practically since infancy. Since the death of your parents, she’s the closest thing to family you have left.

“You know,” you say, playfully as you can, “I think the blond one might have taken a liking to you. You should have seen the way he looked at you.”

“I know,” she says. “I gave him my number.”

Chapter Text

“God, another flat white?” You grit your teeth together as you tack the order sticker to the cup and pass it off to Hikaru. “Fucking grad school hipsters.”

“Says Miss matcha latte, please, with oat milk and a pump of vanilla? ” 

“I don’t sound like that.”

“One, yes you do,” Kaoru chimes in from your left, grabbing the cup from his twin. (He’s right. You absolutely do.) “And two, you’re just pissy because Haruhi’s missing your super-special, super-roomies slumber party thing.”

You snatch the cup back from him, and push past to the steamer. “It’s a movie night. And it’s tradition. We’ve done it every year since we were eight.”

“So? It’s not like you’ll never see her again.”

Hikaru nods. “You literally live together.”

“Every year,” you repeat stubbornly. “For almost two decades.”

“And I’m sure you’ll do it every other year for centuries to come.”

“Kaoru’s right, (Y/N). Look at it from her perspective.”

“I am .”

“You sure? Because last I checked, it’s not every day you get asked out by an incredibly rich, incredibly good-looking omega.”

“He wasn’t that good looking.”

“But he is rich,” he counters. You open your mouth, and he raises his hands. “I know, I know. Saint Haruhi would never care about something so superficial as looks or money.”

“Probably she just likes that he’s assertive enough to ask her out to her face.” Kaoru leans against the counter next to you, crossing his arms, and leans in, staring at you almost as hard as you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with him. “Instead of, I don’t know, pining after her for years …”

“Shut up.” You look at the clock, and shove the finished drink at him. “And start closing out the register, while you’re at it.”

You escape to wipe down the empty tables, stacking chairs on them once they’re clean. The last customer takes her drink and, mercifully, immediately leaves. You lock the door behind her.

“Someone’s in a rush to get out of here,” one of the twins calls over the counter. You roll your eyes, though it’s more out of affection than annoyance. Or at least equal parts affection and annoyance. When they first started working at Ground Up (one of the busier coffee shops on campus) two summers ago, you were primed to dislike them—the class clown energy, the endless quips and banter.  And you, as the most senior barista on shift, had the joyful task of trying to wrangle them into model service workers. In hindsight, maybe you were a touch too strict. You can’t imagine they liked you all that much back then, either. Those first few weeks in particular were so isolating—the way they talk to each other is almost like a secret language. You suppose that’s one of the perils of sharing a womb for nine months.

But at some point—somewhere between arguing about an espresso machine malfunction, and Hikaru walking in on you crying in the supply closet after a particularly stressful shift—they must have decided to adopt you, or something.

Of course, that doesn’t mean they tease you any less.

But it’s never mean spirited. And it’s nice to have that camaraderie. To be included in their secret language. And besides—no matter how much they may annoy you sometimes, there’s a special tie that forms between a couple of poor kids having to deal with the same stuck-up trust-fund babies coming into the cafe, day in and day out. You guys are trauma bonded, in a way.

“Remind us again why you haven’t asked her out?”

“I—”

“Ohhh, shit, that’s right—you don’t have a reason!” Kaoru cuts you off. “You’re just a wimp.”

Then again, being trauma bonded with them means they know all of your deepest, darkest secrets. Which gives them tons of material with which to be annoying as hell.

“I’m not—” You stop, and sigh. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“Mm hm.”

“And besides, it’s not like I haven’t told you before.”

“Right.”

“Fine! Fine.” You pause your chair-arranging to face them, ticking off reasons on your fingers. “I don’t want to ruin two decades of friendship. The last thing Haruhi or I need is a relationship when we’re already swamped with school and loans and all of that crap. I’d rather ask her out after school, when we’re employed and financially stable. Odds of college sweethearts lasting are zero to none already, and I don’t want to sour a perfectly good relationship with pointless arguments.” All that endless bickering. For some reason, your mind flickers back to your arguments with Kyoya—in class, at the hospital. The memories alone are enough to set that familiar fire of rage alight in your chest, send the blood rushing through your ears.

“But don’t you think—”

You put a chair up onto a table with such vigor that it ends up slipping right back off, crashing to the ground so loudly that you actually jump. They both rush to your side.

“You okay?” Hikaru asks, as his brother puts the chair up properly. 

“I…I have to go.”

“...Okay.”

“I told Haruhi I’d be back in time to help her pick out an outfit,” you say. They both groan. You turn away from them, wiping down another table that you may or may not have already wiped down two minutes ago.

“(Y/N).”

“This is starting to get sad.”

“I mean, it was sad already.”

“Really sad.”

“But c’mon.”

“Guys!” You whirl around with your hands in the air. “Really. It’s not a big deal. She’ll go out on one date with him, and then she’ll get bored, and then…” You notice them exchange a look. “What?”

“Tamaki Suoh can be…a lot,” Hikaru starts. You snort.

“Yeah, I noticed. That’s what I mean, they’re nothing alike at all—”

Kaoru shakes his head. “What we mean is, he can be persistent.”

“Single-mindedly persistent. And charming.”

“ Really charming. When he sets his sights on a goal—”

“And right now it sounds like his goal is to romance Haruhi—”

“He won’t stop at anything.”

You roll your eyes. “So? Haruhi’s not going to get fooled by some…some insincere rich guy who’s just trying to smash.”

“I said romance ,” Hikaru repeat. “If he asked her out, it’s because he wants to date her. As in, a real relationship.”

You think back to the way he looked at her in the hospital. Sure. You suppose that makes sense. “Okay.” You cross your arms. “But, I mean, that isn’t only his call to make. She has to like him enough to want to date him.”

“Yeah. And clearly, she already does,” he points out. 

You open your mouth, then close it. Uncross your arms, then cross them again. “How do you know so much about this guy, anyway? I’ve never even heard you mention him before.” 

They exchange another look. An infuriatingly unreadable look. It's the kind of look that reminds you—no matter how good friends you may be, you didn't share a womb with them, and you'll never be able to read their secret language completely. 

“We’ve had a lot of classes with him,” Kaoru finally volunteers.

“Yeah. That.”

You give them an odd look of your own, before returning to cleaning. “Whatever.”

They sigh in unison. “It’s really not healthy for you to be fixating so much on one person, (Y/N),” says Hikaru.

“You think I don’t know that? Trust me, I’d love to just be able to go on dates with people.”

“I don’t think you do, though, is the thing.” Hikaru hops up to sit on the table you’re wiping. You stop, but avoid making eye contact. “It’s starting to feel like an excuse, at this point.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Like, as long as you’re so focused on not-dating Haruhi, you don’t have to go through the stress of actually dating anyone.”

“And then you don’t have to open up to anyone, which means you don’t have to worry about getting hurt.”

You plop down in one of the remaining chairs, and raise your eyebrows at them. “What is this, one of your psych projects?”

“I mean it! And hey, look—if you want to be single, then stay single. But don’t do it because you’re stuck in a one-sided unrequited whatever.”

“And if you do have to be stuck in a one-sided unrequited whatever, why not switch it up? Pick someone else for a change. You don’t have to automatically be in love with the person you’ve known the longest.”

“Yeah. If that was the case, Hikaru and I would be screwed.”

You let yourself crack a smile at that. “Fine. I hear you, okay? I don’t necessarily agree with you…but I hear you.” You glance at your watch. “Shit. I have to run—you guys can put this last chair up, right?" You grab your bookbag off the floor and take off. "And don’t forget to take out the trash!” you call over your shoulder.

As the door closes behind you, the twins look at each other and shake their heads.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you don’t want to revisit the black dress?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? It’s a classic for a reason. You can wear the blue blazer for color?”

She shakes her head. “It’s a date, not a Model UN conference.”

Right.

You came home from your shift at the coffee shop to find Haruhi in her room, and her room looking so messy that it might as well be your room. That was an hour ago, and it’s only gotten worse since then. An hour of her turning down everything you suggest; trying on every possible combination of clothing she owns; trying on the few articles of your clothing that she wouldn’t drown in. 

Your phone buzzes—your group chat with the twins.

Thing 1: y/n. come out.

Y/N: Im busy

Thing 1: busy doing what, sniffing h’s dirty laundry?

Thing 2: EW

Y/N: Youre absolutely vile

Thing 2: ignore him

Thing 2: but also…..come out

Thing 2: pregame in 5 @hikarus place

Y/N: Homework

Thing 1: booo.

Thing 2: its literally friday are u kidding

Thing 2: get your ass over here and lets go frat hopping

Y/N: Ew x a million

Y/N: You know i dont do frats and ALSO i have HOMEWORK. 

“How about this?”

You lock your phone, toss it on the bed. Look up. “Oh.”

You recognize the long-forgotten camisole, simple ivory silk. Must have found that at the back of a drawer, though God only knows how it’s so wrinkle-free. She’s tucked it into the dark, slim-cut dress pants (the pants you’ve mended for her at least once a year through college—cheaper than buying new ones, after all), and adjusted it to be just the right amount of baggy. Really, it’s not that much different from what she usually wears. There’s no reason for you to feel as though your heart has made a play for your esophagus.

But then she turns back to look at you, and something about her eyes, something about the arc of her neck, something about her smile, her smile, her smile —faint and familiar and more vulnerable than any you’ve seen—something about it has you lost for words. 

Though the smile quickly disappears when she sees your lack of reaction. After all, you aren’t usually the stoic one. “Oh good? Or…”

“Yeah. No, yeah, it’s perfect.” You cross to the dresser, doing your best to seem very interested in the slim selection of costume jewelry you two have amassed over the years. 

“Really?”

Your eyes meet in the mirror. And it’s funny, because you and Haruhi have been friends for years and years. Nearly two decades, at this point. You’ve seen each other through every year of school, through every major life milestone, through first kisses and funerals and everything in between. 

But here’s the thing: you can’t remember the last time you ever saw her looking anything close to insecure.

You look down at the little gold hoops you have in your palm. You walk over to her, and place them in her hand. “Really.” 

She swallows, and nods. Outside, you hear the sound of a car door opening and shutting. Haruhi turns back to the mirror to start putting in the earrings. “That’s probably him. Could you—”

“Already on it.” You stop at the door. “You know he’d be an idiot not to be into you, right?”

There’s a short moment of quiet. “Thanks, (Y/N).”

After awkwardly greeting Tamaki at the door (her brought her a small bouquet and a single rose for you, which, you begrudgingly admitted to yourself, was very considerate), giving him a half-joking version of your typical “hurt her and you’ll be sleeping with the fishes” speech, and closing the door behind them (because you’d already forbidden yourself from torturing yourself by watching them walk to the car), you check your phone again.

Thing 2: here btw

Thing 2: its raining pls come get me

Thing 1: y/n. 

Thing 1: are you still playing dress up with haruhi.

Thing 1: you ARE aren’t you.

Thing 2: y/n just say youre coming so hikaru can come unlock the door

Thing 1: you know the door code, dumbass.

Thing 2: oh yeah

Thing 2: k im in

Thing 1: y/n. pls come save me from this idiot.

They must have started drinking, because the next text was twenty minutes later—and significantly less comprehensible.

Thing 2: look if ur.not gonna pregame at leastt meet us out

Thing 2: hango n ill drop the addres

It’s not far from your apartment; just a seven minute walk. Which you could probably make in five.

No! No. You are not going out walking alone, in the middle of the night, only to ruin your only sneakers on some filthy, sticky frat room floor, come home too exhausted to even take off your makeup, and wake up tomorrow morning smelling like sweat and beer and other unmentionable fluids. That is the last thing you want or need.

Thing 2: u promised back in aaugust youd come out with us atl east onxe

Thing 2: onxe

Thing 2: ONCE

Thing 2: cmonnnn

That last text was five minutes ago. Surely they wouldn’t have left for another party that quickly?

Chewing on your lip, you type:

Y/N: Still there?

Chapter Text

“There’s my girl,” Kaoru crows as soon as he spots you. At a look from Hikaru, he amends, “Our girl,” and pulls you into a hug. Low in your ear, he says, “Not Haruhi’s, but…”

You push away. “If you’re going to be a dick, I’ll just head home.”

“Noooo,” he whines.

“Ignore him, (Y/N).” Hikaru pops around your other shoulder. “He was three shots in before he even reached the pregame.” 

“Yeah, which means she has some catching up to do!” Kaoru offers the red solo cup currently in his hand, full of whatever godawful concoction the Thetas have thrown together this time. 

You shake your head, and he pouts at you. “You know my rule.”

“Never drink the jungle juice,” the three of you say in tandem. 

Kaoru rolls his eyes, but takes the cup back, at least, knocking back most of its contents in one gulp. You can’t help but wince. Kaoru’s always had the strongest capacity for liquor of anyone you know, which makes you incredibly concerned for his health past graduation. “Spoken like someone who’s never really lived,” he says.

“Spoken like someone who wants to have a working liver when I’m thirty.”

“There’s some canned drinks in the kitchen, I think.” Hikaru says. “Want us to show you?”

“Nah, you can stay here. I’ll be right back.”

You push through the dark and sweaty room and are relieved to make it to the kitchen, which isn’t quite empty but is at least marginally less crowded. You pop open a watermelon seltzer and try to breathe.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

You almost jump at the sound of his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Kyoya says. He’s leaning against the counter, looking relatively casual in a sweater and slacks. Not exactly frat-party attire, but at least it’s a departure from the suit. “You know overconsumption of alcohol can lead to fainting.”

You roll your eyes, and take a sip of your drink for good measure. A few sips. If Kyoya Ootori is going to try and engage you in some section-asshole-pedantry in the middle of a Theta party, you’d like to be as drunk as humanly possible. “I appreciate the concern, but I doubt one White Claw every three months is going to make me blackout.”

“You don’t drink a lot, then.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Maybe.” If it was anyone else, you would think he was teasing you. But he sounds so serious. Everything he says sounds so serious, and its seriously starting to get on your nerves.

“What, you had me pegged as an alcoholic?”

“Never mind.” He moves to take a sip of own drink, and you raise a brow, looking from the (mostly full) cup to his face. “Vodka and Sprite,” he says by way of explanation. You can tell by the wince on his face after he sips that he’s telling the truth. “Terrible.”

You can’t help but laugh. “What were you expecting, scotch? Or apple juice?”

“Right now I’d take either,” he says. “Gladly. It’d be leagues better than this.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Vodka and Sprite?”

“What you’re doing here,” you correct him. “I’ve never seen someone who looks like they’ve been to less parties in my life.”

“Unlike you, a true connoisseur,” he says, eyeing your can. “How you can make it through one of these with nothing but a White Claw every three months is beyond me.”

“Oh. No, I was dragged here by some friends. I’m not really a party person, either.” You angle your head in the direction of the living room/dance floor. “I wish I was. I mean, they’re good if I’m in the mood, which usually involves being drunk off more than a seltzer.”

“How do you feel about shots?”

“What happened to overconsumption of alcohol can lead to fainting? ” He shrugs. You blink up at him. “I’m not opposed.”

He reaches over your shoulder, and you flinch before realizing that he’s just trying to get at the drinks on the kitchen island. Only at fancy-ass Ouran would the Greek life kids be able to afford a house like this, you can’t help but think. You step aside to allow him better access, and take the opportunity to get a better look at him. He’s not bad-looking. He doesn’t have the type of vitality that Tamaki has, nor is he intimidatingly buff; but he’s tall, and well-dressed, and his shoulders press against the fabric of his shirt in a way that implies a bit of lean muscle. His face looks as though it should be committed to paint (knowing the type of wealth he comes from, it probably has, several times); the smooth, pale-velvet skin; the slim, curved nose, arriving at an offensively delicate point at the end; the dark eyes; the bow-drawn lips; and all of this framed by a defined jaw and well-shaped cheekbones and that strikingly dark hair. 

If only he weren’t such an ass.

“Tequila alright?”

You clear your throat, looking away before he can catch you staring at him. “They have salt and lime?”

“They must.”

“Then yeah. Yeah, that’s great.” 

He hands you an empty cup and goes about cutting a few lime slices. You take the opportunity to pour your own shot, and wait for him to finish. Ass or not, you have to admit that this particular interaction is going well. Even if it started out with him questioning your drinking choices. “To becoming party people,” he says once you’re set up with the salt and the lime. 

“To becoming party people.” You touch your cup to his, lick the back of your hand, down the shot, and find your eyes meeting his as you suck on the slice of lime. For some reason, it brings a smile to your face. You certainly didn’t expect at any point tonight to find yourself in a frat kitchen, taking tequila shots with Kyoya Ootori, of all people. “Does this mean we’re not enemies anymore?”

Now he raises a brow. “Were we ever?”

You snort. “I mean. We didn’t exactly get off on the best foot in class.”

“I hardly think a difference in opinion makes us enemies. It made for interesting conversation, at the least.”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

You point at him. “You’re one of those devil’s advocate guys. Is that it?”

A little crease appears between his eyebrows. “What?”

“You just like to argue for fun? You get off on it? Is that how you think normal people communicate, just pointlessly debating all the time?”

“We were having a discussion. In a discussion seminar. What’s pointless about that?”

You roll your eyes. “Can we take another shot? Whatever looks like it’ll taste the worst.” You know by now that if you want to get really fucked up, you have to go for the cheap stuff.

Once that shot’s been downed, you clear your throat. “Okay. I just…you really didn’t feel like there was any bad blood between us? I mean, okay, what about the hospital the other day?”

He pauses. “What about it?”

“We…well. I sort of jumped down your throat.” You take a breath, then a sip of your seltzer, then another breath. “So I guess that was my fault. Sorry about that.”

“Forgiven. Though, for what it’s worth, I wasn’t holding it against you.”

“Nice of you.”

“You didn’t seem to be having a great day.”

“Well. Mondays, you know?” You tip your head back, enjoying the buzz that is rapidly taking hold. “Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays…Saturdays. Sundays. Hard to pick a least favorite.”

“Sounds miserable.”

You shake your head. “I’m exaggerating. It’s not actually that bad. But the first week of the semester is always the hardest.”

“And the second week. And the third, the fourth, the fifth.” When you focus your unsteady gaze on him, you’re delighted to realize there’s something like a glint in his eye. He really is teasing you. “And so on, and so on.”

“Sounds miserable,” you parrot back at him, and he almost cracks a smile. “Well. At least Tamaki and Haruhi—”

“Kyoya? What are you doing hiding out—oh.” Olivia stops in the kitchen doorway, and takes in the sight of the two of you. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You respond to her closed-mouth smile with an uneasy one of your own. Olivia seems nice enough, from your little exposure to her, but sorority omegas always make you nervous. 

“I thought you were grabbing us drinks,” she says to Kyoya, winding an arm through his. If you weren’t already tipsy-on-the-way-to-shitfaced, you’d swear you see him tense slightly. “But I see you found Little Miss Joan-of-Arc here.” 

Your smile freezes on your face as she turns back to you. “(Y/N),” you offer. 

“Yeah, I know. Crusading against the big bad alpha-omega industrial complex, or whatever it is, right?” 

She laughs. You join in, if only because you don’t know how the fuck else to respond, and those two back-to-back shots were definitely a bad idea. Kyoya doesn’t laugh. She notices.

“What? I’m just joking. It’s funny. (Y/N) doesn’t care, right (Y/N)?” 

“Yeah.”

“See?” She cocks her head. “Y’know, it’s so crazy, I feel like I know everyone at Ouran. But I, like, didn’t have any idea of who you were until Monday. Are you a transfer?”

“No, I actually went here for undergrad before—”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen you, like, out. At any benefits or anything.”

And there it is.

There’s no denying—Ouran is a nice school. A private university, an elite and expensive private university, where scholarship students are few and far in between. And the elite tend to flock together. So it’s no wonder that Olivia (Freidmonte, a Google search after that first class revealed, and a literal fucking diamond heiress) would know all of the other rich kids (aka ninety percent of the student body) from benefits and balls and whatever else rich people did to pass the time.

Olivia’s not stupid. She’s probably put two and two together and figured out that you’re just too poor for her to have taken notice of before. But it seems, from the way she’s clinging to Kyoya with a grip that would put an anaconda to shame, that she’s probably just annoyed that a lowly beta on a scholarship would have the audacity to talk to her boyfriend. Drunk or not, you know when you’re not wanted in a room.

You clear your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…I just…I have to meet some friends out there. Sorry.” The room is starting to spin around you—in a drunk way, not a fainting way, you’re pretty sure—as you make your way out of the kitchen. “See you in class,” you mumble. Neither one of them responds.

Being in the louder, crowded room almost immediately makes you want to throw up, so you push through to the nearest door, which leads to the backyard. It’s not far enough into the season to be cold; a leftover summer evening, a gift in these early September days. 

You stumble down the creaky wooden stairs and collapse with your back against the house, and absentmindedly take another sip of your White Claw, before realizing with a groan how that’s definitely not going to make you any less drunk.

Oh, well. You’re too thirsty to really care. 

“Having that good of a night, hm?”

Not Kyoya this time; someone you don’t recognize. Or rather, someone you do, but not by name. “Oh. Hi…”

“Reese.”

“(Y/N).” They offer a very ring-heavy hand, which you shake. If you were more sober, you’d try to get a better look. Heavy jewelry bothers you to wear, but you always like seeing it on other people. And the sight of one particular ring rings some bell in your memory as to where you know Reese from. “Oh. You run the beta frat, right?”

If you were drunk, you wouldn’t have said that at all; especially not that bluntly. You’d spent years dodging Epsilon Phi’s recruitment efforts. They seemed nice enough, but you couldn’t justify carving out the time or the money (or the interest) to take part in Greek life. But it seemed like a nice space, as far as frats went. Friendly. Full of people (of all presentations) who didn’t think that betas ought to fade into the background.

One only had to look at Reese to demonstrate that. They were probably the best-looking person you’d seen in your life, right up there with Tamaki Suoh; they even had similar tanned skin and beaming eyes, though their hair was bright copper and closer-cropped than Tamaki’s. Wearing a bright, tastefully low-cut purple shirt and high-waisted jeans, with the aforementioned jewelry (in addition to the rings, you blearily clocked several necklaces, bracelets, and at least one cartilage piercing). “We don’t really call ourselves that, but yeah.”

“Sorry. Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” To your horror, you’re getting a little choked up. Something about the slog of the week; the reality of Haruhi going on a date with a guy who is, by all appearances, perfect; Olivia; Kyoya; those two-and-a-half drinks—it’s too much. 

“Hey! It’s not a big deal, really. You’re fine.” They peer at you with what you dimly register as concern. “Are you okay? Do you need some water?”

“M’fine.”

“Yeah. Water. C’mon, the kitchen’s this way.”

“No, no, no,” you say, clinging to some vague idea that Kyoya and Olivia might still be there. After some coaxing, you do allow them to get you to the (blissfully empty) kitchen, find you an unopened bottle of water, and get you to divulge the names of the friends you came here with. 

They disappear, but you only have all of thirty seconds to feel abandoned before they return with the twins, who fuss over you and determine immediately that you should probably go home. Even though it’s, like, ten in the evening. 

This part of the night is the fuzziest, even as you’re living through it. Stumbling down empty streets. Crashing through your front door. Crouching in front of the toilet with one twin holding your hair back. Being tucked into bed on your side. The door; Haruhi’s voice; the door again, and quiet. Someone leaving pills and water and a big blue bottle on your nightstand. Sleep, curling around you.

And then, while you dream: flashes of warmth and witty remarks and dark, dark eyes.

Chapter Text

You roll into the kitchen sometime after noon, bleary-eyed and drier-mouthed than you’ve been in months. To your relief, Haruhi is there; on the table, a steaming mug of tea and a plate of peanut butter toast.

“You’re an angel,” you groan, collapsing into the chair opposite her.

She turns a page in the student newspaper she’s reading. “Big night, huh?”

“Mmph.” You take a tiny bite of toast, relieved to feel your stomach immediately settle. Nothing to soak up a hangover like good ol’ fashioned carbs. “Speaking of big nights, how was your date?” You try to imbue the words with some girly, friend ly teasing. Between the headache and your tongue getting all mucked up with peanut butter and dry bread, you’d estimate you’re maybe half successful.

“Well. I’m seeing him again tonight.”

You choke. The tea sort of helps, but you can’t help but sound just slightly hysterical when you ask, “Oh? That’s—that’s good! I mean, the date must have been really good. Or really bad, ha ha.”

“Yeah. We had to cut the night short, and I…” She closes the newspaper. “Is everything okay?”

Panic. Cold and immediate, blooming in your veins. “What do you mean?”

“Hikaru.” She goes an uncomfortable amount of time without blinking. You know that’s just a normal Haruhi-ism, and it’s one of the things you love about her…but it’s also just as unsettling now as it was when you were six. “When they brought you home last night, I was surprised you’d gotten so drunk and he said I should ask you about it in the morning.”

“Right.” You are going to murder Hikaru. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s just…”

You are going to murder him, and yet…for better or worse, Hikaru has presented you with an opportunity. A chance to be brave. For some reason, you are struck with the conviction that you will never have a better or clearer or more reasonable time to explain everything you feel for Haruhi than right now, right here, at this table.

This is it.

You can do it.

You can do it.

You look up at Haruhi. Meet her gaze. Steady, solid, and stoic as always.

And you say, “It’s just been a while since I’ve had anything to drink.” 

She stares. 

You shrug. “Forgot what my limits were, I guess.”

Silence. Not a comfortable silence at all.

“I’m sorry you you had to come home early,” you say. Anything to fill this deadly space. “To look after me. I was really okay, I just—the twins were being overdramatic. You know how they can get.”

“I know.” She worries her bottom lip. “You seemed really fucked up, though. I don’t think they were wrong to be concerned, especially after the fainting on Monday.”

That tugs at your memory…something from last night. A comment. You can’t remember exactly what.

In the present, Haruhi is still looking at you. You muster up an apologetic smile. “You’re right. I should have been more careful. I will be more careful. Although,” you add, raising the tea and the toast, “for what it’s worth, I think I drank enough last night to get me through the rest of the semester, so. No more big nights in my near future.”

She nods, rewarding you with a tiny, perfect smile of her own. “Good.” She goes to pick up the paper again, then pauses. “(Y/N).”

“What?”

The tiny, perfect smile deepens. “He’s so easy to talk to.”

The next week or so feels like you’re sleepwalking. 

Monday: Wake up. Drink your tea. Wave goodbye to Haruhi. Sprint to class. Try to avoid eye contact with Kyoya and Olivia; succeed around forty percent of the time. Ignore the embarrassment-induced dizziness that washes over you when you pass by Kyoya on your way out. Go to your shift at Ground Up. Put up with your daily quota of roasting from the twins. Go home. Eat dinner with Haruhi. Go to sleep.

Tuesday: Wake up. Drink your tea. Wave goodbye to Haruhi. Go to class. Go to your shift. Try to avoid thinking about Haruhi and Tamaki; succeed around thirty percent of the time. Wish the twins were at work with you to distract you from all of the Haruhi-and-Tamaki related thoughts. Go home. Listen to Haruhi shyly gush about Tamaki. Go to sleep.

Wednesday: Wake up. Drink the tea Haruhi left for you. Catch up on all the work you didn’t do Monday and Tuesday. Try to avoid thinking about Haruhi and/or Tamaki and/or Olivia and/or Kyoya. Succeed around five percent of the time. Watch too many episodes of some trashy reality tv show without actually processing any of it. Try to ignore the fact that Haruhi doesn’t come home. Go to sleep.

Thursday: Wake up. Brew your own tea. Pour it out when it turns out awful. Drag yourself to class. Have a meeting with Seminar Leader Abe where he gently and thoroughly tears your midterm paper proposal to shreds. Run to work and spend the five minutes before your shift crying in the supply closet. Endure pokes from the twins and think about all of the things you don’t want to think about on loop until you can go home and eat dinner (alone) and take a Benadryl and try, try, try to sleep.

And so on and so forth.

The week after that passes more or less the same. Bringing you to yet another Friday night waving goodbye to Haruhi and Tamaki as they ride off into the sunset. Another Friday night ignoring texts from the twins begging you to get out of the house.

Thing 1: y/n, i’m starting to seriously worry about you.

Thing 1: we both are.

Thing 2: fr nobody has THAT MUCH HW get your ass out here

Thing 2: dont make us come drag you out

An empty threat; they’ve said as much before, but they’ve never actually followed through.

Thing 1: y/n.

Thing 1: you cant just wallow like this forever.

As if to prove (to them, to yourself, to everyone) that you’re not wallowing (even though you totally are) you force yourself to do a little self care night. A long shower, your comfiest pajamas. A face mask.

And, of course, your laptop. You weren’t lying about having a lot of work to do. Especially since Abe eviscerated your paper proposal; you basically have to start from scratch. “Don’t get me wrong,” he’d said at your meeting. “I’d accept this from a worse student. But I’m going to be picky because I think you’re capable of more.” 

Which, as far as roasts go, is about as nice as you could have asked for. 

But it still stings. Especially seeing as how you want so badly to win this scholarship. It’s a matter of pride…and of finance. Which means you’re going to have to rise to the bar Abe has set for you. 

You head to the scholarship website. In the past, you’ve always avoided looking at the entries of the person who beat you. Skimmed them, sure, but you couldn’t bear to do a deep reading. You don’t even remember their name. But that’s held you back; not properly analyzing their work has kept you from properly eviscerating your own work, which has kept you from getting better . You don’t have that luxury anymore.

Your mouse is hovering over the Past Winners! tab when—

The doorbell rings. 

More accurately, it makes a sound like a hornet getting electrocuted; in any case, you frown. Not at the hornet sound. That’s normal. The doorbell’s been broken for as long as you’ve lived here. But you can’t imagine who would be at your door at this hour. Haruhi left not twenty minutes ago, and besides, she’s never lost a key in her life. Maybe the twins, finally making good on their promise to drag you kicking and screaming to another frat?

You peer through the peephole more out of curiosity than any real intention to answer. Immediately your stomach turns. You yank open the door on angry instinct alone. “What are you doing here?” 

Instead of answering, Kyoya holds out a bottle. 

You don’t take it, but squint at the label. “ One-A-Day multivitamins. ”

“Haruhi had found this in her bag and was worried about you.”

He’s still holding out the bottle. You take it. “I…don’t follow.”

He sighs. “The fainting.”

“Fainting?”

“She said you’re forgetful, about taking an iron supplement. Worried that might be why you fainted, and then that made her worry about you being home on your own, and so…”

“And so she and Tamaki used that as an excuse to get you out of the house,” you finish the sentence for him.

He nods. “Presumably.”

“What, they don’t have some kind of fancy dinner or something planned?”

“Eating in. He cooked.”

“He cooks?”

“Beautifully.”

Of course he does, that motherfucker. “And… you guys didn’t communicate this ahead of time?”

“Tamaki’s allergic to calendars,” he says. “Or any other form of advance notice.”

“Right.” You could have guessed that. It seems they have a similar dynamic to you and Haruhi (though you’d like to think you’re not quite as scatterbrained as Mr. Tall, Blond, and Gorgeous).

Its pouring outside; he’s crammed himself as close to the wall as he can get without actually touching it. It’s too dark now to tell if there’s a car behind him. He doesn’t even seem to have an umbrella. 

You aren’t quite sure what to make of Kyoya Ootori. In seminars you do your best to debate him more politely than you did that first day, but he comes at you with a fire that makes restraint increasingly difficult (which, in turn, elicits stronger death glares and snarkier comments from Olivia). You don’t remember much of that party a few weeks ago, but you do vaguely recall somehow making a fool of yourself, and pretty sure he was involved. And, of course, you can’t see him without being reminded of Tamaki and Haruhi.

In short, he is the very, very, very last person you want to see.

On the other hand…you do some mental math. Tempting as it is to shut the door in his face, doing so would place you squarely above him on the Assholery scale. And however much he remembers of that party, he doesn’t look like he’s here to make fun of you. If anything, he looks as uncomfortable as you feel.

Though that might be more due to the rain and cold of it all.

You sigh. “Are you just going to stand there, or…”

A crease appears between those slim, dark brows. “Are you inviting me in?”

“What are you, a vampire?” He doesn’t say anything. “Yes, okay, come in.” You hear him shut the door behind him as he follows you in. “Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee?”

“…It’s eight p.m.”

“Just trying to be polite,” you mutter. 

“Thirty seconds ago you accused me of being a vampire.”

“And?”

“And then immediately invited me in anyway.”

That gets a laugh out of you. “Well. I’m not exactly a prime target for blood-sucking, since apparently my iron levels are so fucked up that I can’t be left alone for one night without a babysitter.”

“Or a multivitamin.”

“Right.” You don’t stop opening and shutting cabinets. If nothing else, it gives you an excuse to avoid eye contact while you try to figure out what exactly you said to him that night . “Do you want water?”

“You’re very persistent.”

“I wasn’t raised to welcome a guest empty-handed. Expected or otherwise.” You shoot him a look that you hope doesn’t come across as unkind, but he’s not really looking at you. He’s too busy taking stock of your tiny living-dining-cooking-etc room. You put down a glass of water on the table in front of him anyway, before turning back to finish up your tea. “You sure your girlfriend will appreciate you being at another girl’s house this late at night?”

“What?”

To his credit, he looks genuinely confused. You grab your own mug and sit down at a safe distance away (which, given the size of your place, is the same distance no matter where you sit).  “Olivia.”

“Oh. No, she’s not my girlfriend.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Does she know that?” 

He smiles. Subtly, but still—it’s there. “Her father wants to make some sort of business deal with my father, I think.”

“Oh, okay. I get it.” You blow on your tea, and take a sip. It’s weak. Tastes like plain hot tap water. You put it down. “The follies of being super mega rich. You’re forced to be besties with all the other super mega rich kids, huh?”

“Something like that.” 

“Mm.” Based on how long he’s been standing, he must have appraised your apartment ten times over. “You can sit, you know.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He gingerly perches on the edge of one of the chairs. “This is…nice.”

You shrug. “It’s an overpriced broom cupboard. But it’s home.”

“It’s just the two of you here? You and Haruhi?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s been just the two of us since kindergarten, basically.”

His brows lift. “Really?” You nod. He’s finally picked up the water. “Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

He raises the glass to his lips and, just before he takes a sip, says, “Your feelings for her.”

Chapter Text

You feel like you’ve just been electrocuted. Looking at him, you meet a gaze that is more personal than you’d anticipated. “What—I—sorry, what?”

He swallows, puts the glass back down. “You do have feelings for her, right?” His tone is completely casual, as though he didn’t just read you for filth in less than five words. “I’m impressed you’ve managed to make it work as roommates in spite of that. You dated, what, in high school? Or—”

“No, we never dated. I mean, she was my first kiss, but, like…not in a serious way. Just like. Sometimes you practice kissing with a friend, you know?” You can feel yourself babbling, but you have no idea how to make it stop. “And I don’t—there’s no in spite of, because there’s no…”

“So you’ve never talked about it, then.”

You shake your head. ”Nothing to talk about.”

“I think we both know that’s not true. Anyone in the same room as you two for more than five minutes would be able to—”

“Okay, okay!” Your cheeks are warm and the room feels somehow even smaller than before, and he won’t stop looking at you with those damn eyes. “Enough about me—how about you and Tamaki? What’s the story there? You meet at Ouran, or what?”

He purses his lips, clearly weighing whether or not to give up his line of questioning. You bite the inside of your cheek. “Junior high,” he finally says, and you sigh, relieved. “He was a new student. My father wanted to get to know his father, and asked me to show Tamaki around.”

“Similar circumstances to Olivia?”

“Only this time, it stuck.” He chuckles. “I got stuck. With him. Every class, every lunch period; every day after school.”

The idea of it brings a smile to your face: tiny, stoic Kyoya being trailed around all day by tiny, histrionic Tamaki. “Talk about opposites attracting.”

“That’s magnets. Tamaki's more like superglue.” That gets a full snort out of you. “You’ve met him. He’s…bubbly. And persistent. Once he’s decided he’s fond of someone, he clings to them for life.”

“So I’ve heard,” you murmur, remembering what the twins said the other day.

“Well.” He shrugs. “I just happened to be exceptionally lucky that he decided he was fond of me.”

Something changes with this last sentence; something about his voice, his expression, is overall demeanor. A softness that you haven’t yet seen in him.

But a softness you recognize nonetheless.

“Oh.” You clap a hand over your mouth, and fully stand up. “Oh. My. God.”

“What?”

“You. You’ve got it bad.”

“I—”

“I’ve seen that look. I invented that look. You love him, don’t you?”

He scoffs, not quite convincingly. “Everyone loves Tamaki.”

“Not romantically. But you do. Oh my God! No wonder why you looked like you couldn’t wait to get away from Olivia at that party.”

No mistaking it now; he is one hundred percent, unmistakably blushing. “I think you were too drunk that night to remember much of anything.”

You shake your head, delighted. “Not this. I remember this, crystal clear. What is she, like, a beard? But Tamaki's an omega, so that shouldn’t matter—”

“Olivia isn’t my beard,” he says sharply. You shut up immediately. Clearly you’ve struck a sore spot. He takes a deep breath, and continues. “I have nothing to hide, thank you. Yes. Yes, Tamaki and I have had a long friendship, and there were points where I maybe wanted something more, but…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. “But?” you prompt him.

A long moment passes. “I waited too long.” He smiles. Fully this time. It’s the saddest smile you’ve ever seen. “Just like you.”

That hangs heavy in the air. Mostly because you don’t want to agree with him, but you also can’t protest.

Although— “I mean. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s been a couple of weeks; they’re hardly getting married.”

“You don’t hear the way he talks about her,” he says glumly. “I mean, I’ve seen Tamaki through dozens of relationships, long and short. He always falls head over heels. But there’s something different about this. She…grounds him. They’re incredibly balanced.”

“I know what you mean.” And you do. You’ve seen Haruhi off on every date she’s gone on since middle school; you can’t recall ever seeing her smile the way she does now. 

Except in pictures, maybe.

From before her mom died.

“It’s just…fuck.” You shake your head. “Fuck.”

“Pretty much.”

You purse your lips. “Do you drink?”

He gives you an odd look. “You really don’t remember anything about that night? Friday, a few weeks back?”

“I remember exactly as much as I’d like to, which is pretty much nothing.”

“Except that you thought I was…dating Olivia to conceal some hypothetical feelings for Tamaki.”

“I never claimed to be right one hundred percent of the time.” You pull out some wine from the cabinet. “Fair warning, this is probably going to wreck your rich-boy tastebuds. But it’s great for taking the edge off of heartbreak.”

“Heartbreak feels a touch overdramatic.” You turn to him with the bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, your expression a question. He signs. “I’ll take an extra heavy pour.”

“Greedy.” You give him his extra heavy pour, and a slightly less heavy pour for yourself. You clink glasses.

“M’dad.” All of the earlier decorum is gone; Kyoya is all but sprawled across the bed. “He doesn’t approve of Tamaki’s pearntige. Parentage. Pa-ren-tage.”

“What?” You sit up, knocking the second empty wine bottle onto the floor. When did you move to your bedroom, again? “You’re both fancy-schmancy prep school kids. What’s to disapprove of?”

“Tamaki’s mom wasn’t married to his dad. “Probably they’d’ve gotten rid of the baby, but his wife-wife couldn’t have kids of their own, so they figured might as well…” He waves his hand. “Might as well…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. And my dad doesn’t want those genes in his grandchildren.”

“Aren’t you the second kid, though? Doesn’t that matter?” He looks at you quizzically. “Sorry. I hate-Googled you yesterday. After I finished hate-Googling Tamaki. There’s nothing bad about that asshole anywhere.”

“It’s ridiculous,” he agrees. “He’s ridiculous. Yes, I’m the spare, not the heir. But I’m still part of the family. It’s part of, um…part of being born into the dynasty.”

“So you find someone you like, they’re in the right social circles, they follow arbi…arbital…arbitrary presentation-based mating traditions from, like, the fifth century or whatever, and he decides it’s a no-go just because Tamaki’s dad decided to cheat?” He nods. You let out a long breath, slumping back down on the bed. “What the fuck.”

“I mean, we could’ve dated. Probably. But it would’ve ended when I had to get engaged.”

You shake your head. “Backwards.”

“Yeah.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth it? Still? Better to have loved and lost, something something…”

”Maybe. But I doubt he was ever even interested.”

”You never tried, though.”

He shrugs. “Too late now.”

“So. Okay. Do you just…not date, then?”

“I date.” He shrugs again. “Not seriously. Not too casually, either—you have to be careful who you fuck at Ouran, because everyone’s hungry for money and everyone’s eager to kiss and tell. But I have friends.”

You laugh. “Friends.”

“Friends help each other out with cycles, sometimes,” he insists. “It’s normal. And better than most alternatives.”

“Well.” You let your head loll back. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Obviously.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re missing out on something?”

“Yeah.” It slips out before you can think twice.

“Really?

 He sounds…almost surprised. 

“I mean, not always.” You’re not sure why you’re being so honest. You’ve never even told Haruhi this before. “Not even most of the time. But I’ve wondered.” You look at him. That piercing gaze, back on you again. Even drunk, you’re bewildered by how deep his eyes seem to cut you, and you turn away, suddenly embarrassed. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Such a shame. Olivia would have a field day with that one.”

You giggle. He joins in, and you realize that, whether you want to or not…you like Kyoya Ootori. You like being around him.

You want to be his friend, even.

“You’ve got to stop leading her on,” you tell him between fits of laughter. “At the very least, for fuck’s sake, argue with me a little less in class? Every time you acknowledge my existence, she gives me this look like…I don’t know. Like she wants to burn a hole in my skull.”

“She does not.”

“She does! I swear. I don’t care if you use a fake girlfriend to make Tamaki jealous.”

“It’s not—”

“I know, I know,” you cut him off with a hand on his arm. At least, you aim for his arm, but somehow miss and hit his face instead. You pull your hand away like he’s a hot stovetop. “Sorry.”

“I was going to say, I’m not trying to lead her on. Jus’ got to tolerate her for business’ sake.” He sighs. “At this point, I could use a fake girlfriend to get her off my back.”

“And make Tamaki jealous.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t protest immediately. Instead, he shrugs. “It wouldn’t hurt. Has that ever worked for you and Haruhi?”

“As if. I haven’t dated anyone seriously since…god, since undergrad at least. So who knows?”

“Well. You give it a try, and if it works you let me know.”

You settle into a comfortable silence. You know he’s joking, but some gear has been set off deep in the drunken recesses of your brain. “We should date.”

He stiffens next to you. “What?”

"To make ‘em jealous." You roll over on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Two birds, one stone. I’m a genius.”

You weren't prepared to have your face this close to his. He isn't wearing his glasses. Pale skin; dark brows, finely arched. The wrought-iron line of his lips. Your pulse quickens. His eyes flicker down and up, taking stock of your expression, and he opens his mouth. For a second, you think he might be considering it.

But then he laughs. “You’re wasted.”

“Yes, and I’m a genius.”

He shakes his head, pressing his hands to his eyes. “I’m going to get you some water.” He stands up, and heads for the kitchen. You fall back on the bed, giggling uncontrollably at your own stupid idea.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow and inhaling deeply. Fuck, you can’t remember the last time something smelled this good. Maybe Haruhi bought a different detergent. You’ll have to ask her in the morning. Whatever it is, you feel warmer and fuzzier and sleepier than ever. You’re dimly aware of Kyoya moving around in the kitchen. It’s a comforting soundscape. Footsteps. Cabinets opening and shutting. Water running from the tap. 

By the time the water turns off, and the footsteps start back down the hall, you’re already drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

You wake up in your own bed, which is good.

You’re also surrounded by empty wine bottles and cups, which is…less good. 

Doesn’t matter. You can clean those later. Right now, you let your eyes flutter back shut, planning to get whatever additional sleep you can before your alarm goes off. You smooth your cheek against the pillow, which seems almost to be rising and falling beneath you.

Oh, shit.

Not a pillow; a chest. A person. And all you have to do is let your gaze wander ever-so-slightly upwards to confirm that wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, that person is none other than Kyoya Ootori. He stirs. Slightly. He must have felt you move your head. 

“Kyoya,” you whisper. He doesn’t respond. You try again. “ Kyoya.”

His arm tightens around your waist, and you feel his chin against the top of your head. Before you can even consider what you’re doing, your eyes close again; your leg curls over his hips, your face tipping up to rest against his neck. 

The panic and embarrassment you should be feeling? Nowhere to be found. It’s buried beneath half a dozen layers of a deep, heavy calm, too powerful to fight. You let out an involuntary hum of contentment, pressing your hips more firmly into his, and—

He jerks awake. 

The sudden movement shakes you out of your fog, and simultaneously the two of you leap to opposite ends of your creaky twin bed. He hits the wall; you fall off, You scramble ungracefully to your feet. “I didn’t—um.” You grab his glasses from your nightstand, and toss them at him. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

And with that, you bolt from the room.

“What did you do?” you whisper to your reflection.

In your early college days, when you went out more, you took a specific pleasure in going to the bathroom, mid-party, and looking at your face in the mirror. Examining it. That is me, you would think. That is me and I am drunk, wheeeee--

Now, you find yourself doing the same thing—regrettably sober.

You look down at your clothes. Pajamas. You do remember putting on your pajamas. You remember opening the door; opening the wine; passing out after Kyoya left for water. You don’t remember him coming back.

So you didn’t sleep together, then, you just…slept.

That calms you down a bit. You set about actually brushing your teeth, washing your face, combing your hair. 

When you get out of the bathroom, you half expect him to be gone, but he’s still here. Leaning against the doorframe to your closet-sized-bedroom, holding two steaming mugs. He is also dressed in yesterday’s clothes, rumpled but still obviously expensive.

“Coffee?” he asks. You take the mug to be polite. “I called a car.”

“Oh. Good.” He sips his coffee. You put yours down on a little shelf built into the wall. “I’m sorry about…all of that.”

“All of what?”

“You know. We don’t have a proper guest room, or anything,” you improvise, trying to convey your intended meaning without flat out saying sorry for snuggling up to you in the middle of the night like some kind of drunk koala. “I mean, we don’t have a couch. Or, like, any floor space whatsoever. So I appreciate you being cool with sharing the bed.”

“I’m the one who showed up unannounced.”

“At Haruhi’s request. And besides, I invited you in,” you say, and how has this become an argument over whose responsibility it was that you woke up cuddling? “And then proceeded to foist alcohol upon you.”

“I think you foisted more alcohol upon yourself than on me,” he says, his voice wry. 

That’s true—you drank more than him, and you’re a lightweight to begin with. Oddly enough, though, your head feels entirely fine. “I’ve had much worse nights out. Out and in.”

“I’d agree. This was one of my better nights in, as of late.” He checks his phone. “And it seems H and T are still occupying my apartment, so. As much as I regret imposing on you, I can’t say I’m not grateful.”

“Right.” You lean against the wall, and slide down until you’re sitting more comfortably on the floor. “What a shitshow.”

“You know, coffee might not fix a broken heart, but it’ll at least do something about the hangover.”

You shake your head. “I don’t drink it. Sorry. Not that I don’t appreciate it. It was nice of you.”

“A grad school student who doesn’t drink coffee? I didn’t have you pegged as that much of a masochist.”

“Guess you had me pegged wrong. But I do drink tea.”

“Noted.” His phone buzzes again. “Car’s here. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. Monday. In class. Right, it’s Sunday already. Christ, all the unfinished work you have to get done…

You nod, giving him a small smile. “See you tomorrow.”

“Thank you again for the hospitality, (Y/N). Especially the wine.”

“Wait!” You stand up, reach out a hand. Without having to be asked, he hands his phone over, still unlocked. You text yourself his name, then pass it back to him as the two of you walk to the front door. “There. Now you have my number. Feel free to shoot me a text if you ever get sexiled again.”

“Thank you.”

“Not going to return the offer?”

He shrugs. “I strongly doubt Tamaki would elect to stay here in the face of…” He peers back over your shoulder at the world’s tiniest living room. “Literally any other option.”

“Fuck off.” You can’t help but grin as you say it.

He smiles as the car pulls up. “Have a good afternoon, (Y/N).” And with that, he’s down the stairs, down the sidewalk, and gone.

Afternoon? You look at the time. Sure enough, it’s a quarter to one, which means… shit. Shit!

It takes you ten seconds to yank on shoes and a coat and take off running.

“Sorry, sorry!” You get around the counter and scribble your name on the clock-in sheet just as the hour turns. At least the rain washed away the last of the snow and ice, which made your sprint slightly easier than it would have been otherwise. Kaoru regards you with amusement. 

“Careful there, (Y/N),” he says, “You’re only exactly on time .”

“Ha, ha.” You’re trying to slip your apron over your head while simultaneously tying your hair back. It is not going well. “You look like hell.”

“Why, thank you.” He pretends to flip hair back over his shoulder. “And in last night’s clothes, no less.”

“Worth it?”

“Never. It was that Zeta guy. The one from last semester.”

You freeze. “No.”

“Yeah.” 

“White Boy Dreads?” He nods, and you groan, tipping your head back. “Kaoru. Even you have better taste than that.”

“I missed the first half of this, but no, he doesn’t have better taste than whatever it is he did. Especially not after ten shots of Fireball,” Hikaru says. He yanks on one of the ties of your apron as he passes by, freeing you from the tangled mess you’d gotten yourself into. “You don’t look much better yourself. Are those pajamas?”

You look down. Silky white sleep set with little pink and purple hearts all over it, check. Bra, uncheck. Heat rushing to your cheeks as soon as you realize—check, check, check. “Shit! Is it that obvious?”

“Apron covers most of it. Stay behind the counter, you should be fine.”

“Right. Perfect.” You rub your eyes and shake your head, trying to wake yourself up. Trying to focus. “Remind me to never keep alcohol in the house ever again.”

“Hungover? On a Sunday? ”

“More importantly,” Kaoru says, “what I’m hearing is that you’d rather drink alone, in your shoebox of an apartment, than with us.”

“I wasn’t alone,” you say, “and besides, I wasn’t planning to get drunk, I just—”

“You weren’t alone?”

You freeze. “What?”

“Well. It’s just interesting, because…” Hikaru pauses to open his phone, and gives it a few taps before turning the screen to you. “I have it on very good authority that Haruhi was out of the house last night.”

You look at the picture — a beautiful candlelit dinner — then back at him with an unamused expression. “So by very good authority , you actually just mean Tamaki Suoh’s Instagram story ?”

He locks his phone, and slips it back into his pocket. “Fess up, (Y/N). Who were you with?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter? You get laid for the first time in ages , and it doesn’t matter?”

“Nobody got laid last night!” Your gaze slides sideways. “Except for White Boy Dreads.”

Hikaru wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, Kaoru. Really?”

“Not the point. (Y/N) —”

“I should check on the register,” you say, and escape before he can get any further. You’re not exactly in the best mood to be receiving customers right now, but at least a perfect stranger won’t ask you anything more personal than whether or not you’re out of croissants. "Hey there, welcome to Ground Up."

"(Y/N)?"

"That's what it says on the tag—oh." It so happens that the person on the other side of the counter isn't a stranger. Or not a perfect stranger, at least. Bronze hair, bright smile— "Hi. You're—"

"Reese."

You nod. "Yes! I know. Sorry, I'm just—” such a mess this morning “—I, uh, what can I get started for you?"

"Flat white with oat milk, if you have it?” You try to keep your face neutral, though you catch Kaoru snickering in your periphery. “And…” Reese scans the pastry display. “I don't know. I'm stuck between the pumpkin bread and the Danish. Which would you recommend?"

"Hm. I’d usually say pumpkin bread, but…” You shift to a stage whisper. "This is the end of last week's batch, so it's not as fresh."

They chuckle. "Danish it is, then."

You pass off the marked up cup to Kaoru, and wave off Reese when they offer their debit card. "Don't worry about it."

"What?” They try offering it again. “No way."

“Please.” You shake your head, keying in the code to cancel the transaction. "It's the least I can do to pay you back after you rescued me the other week."

"And after you forgot my name this morning."

"I didn't—" They tilt their head, and you realize you're being teased. "Well. I knew it started with an R, at least."

"Honestly? Grateful for even that." You share a small laugh. They tuck their hands into their pockets. "Hey, I'm actually glad I ran into you here. I don't want to overstep, but..." 

“Oh?”

They hand over a different card—a business card, almost, but instead of their name and number, it's the name of the beta frat.

“Oh.” You hold it like you would a live slug. Then you remember yourself, and try to school your expression into that of someone who doesn’t feel as though they’re holding a live slug.

“We’re having a meeting tonight. Not a meeting-meeting, just this thing we do every other Sunday—I mean, usually we burn through a couple of agenda items for the first fifteen minutes, but after that it's just, like, a study hall. But more social.” When you don’t respond for a few seconds, they add (with a chuckle), “You don’t have to be a card-carrying member, I swear. Zero pressure. But it’s a good time, and I think you’d really fit the vibe.”

You’ve spent so much time avoiding Greek life at Ouran. And while half of it has to do with an actual distaste for frats themselves…you’d be lying if you said that was the only reason. 

There’s no shame in being a beta. You know that. You’re the first to proclaim that. Why, then, does it feel like that proclamation applies to everyone but you? 

For all your determination to not feel shame in your status, you’ve never felt comfortable taking up space in all-beta rooms. You don’t apply for beta-only scholarships. You at least have attended some rallies and donated to some fundraisers over the years, but for the most part school and work kept you so busy that anything else had to fall by the wayside. But it makes you feel like a sham. Like you’re all talk and no walk. 

You’ve tried to comfort yourself sometimes with the thought that academia isn’t nothing—this degree is the start of an entire career, an entire life, dedicated to the examination of dynamics. The work that Professor Suzuki and Abe and all the researchers like them are doing—the kind of work you want to do—is the type of thing that informs policies for decades to come. 

So no, academia isn’t nothing. It is, however, incredibly slow. Any progress you make will be subtle. It won’t come to fruition for years down the line. 

And…does it make you a bit of a hypocrite, this not-so-subtle avoidance of all beta spaces? 

You know your answer to that—yes. It’s just hard to shake this…this fear. The feeling that you’re not a good example of what a beta should be. The feeling that you should be happier. More content. More at peace with who you are. In truth, the idea of sharing a space with people who are so entirely secure in their—your identity—made you feel deeply inadequate.

Better late than never, right? 

You finish bagging their Danish, and move to hand it over the pastry counter to them. “Sounds cool.”

“Great! Hope to see you there.” They toss a few bucks in the tip jar, ignoring your protests. “Cool outfit, by the way,” they say over their shoulder on their way out.

You look back down at your pajamas, and immediately bury your burning face in your hands.

“Reese Barlow was your mystery date?" Kaoru lets out a low whistle. "Damn. Now I'm really embarrassed about settling for White Boy Dreads."

“The fact that you weren’t embarrassed before is embarrassing," Hikaru says from your other side.

“There was no mystery date, we just—hey!” That last bit is in response to Hikaru plucking the card out of your hands, and Kaoru grabbing your wrists to keep you from stealing it back. You hate it when they team up on you. "Cut it out!"

“ Epsilon Phi Cozy Quorums ,” Hikaru reads. “Oh. So they were just…recruiting you?”

You get your wrists back from Kaoru, and Hikaru hands you back the card. “I guess.” 

“You gonna go?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” You shake your head, and put the card on the counter, next to the register, which you open to re-sort the bills. It’s rare to have a lull in the cafe during the afternoon on a weekend—part of the reason why you always make a point of arriving ten minutes early, to get ahead of the work rush—and God knows the twins aren’t the best at keeping things organized. “I have all this work I meant to finish last night—”

“Before you got distracted by your mystery date, right.”

You shoot Kaoru a glare. “And part of it is a paper that I’m also going to be submitting for this scholarship contest thing?”

“I thought you’d already won every single contest in the school.”

“Yeah, but this one—it’s the Jennifer T. Goodwin scholarship? It’s, like, the biggest one in the department. So it’s not just the money, it’s the prestige—although the money would help, obviously.” You sigh, flipping through a stack of ones as you think of all the free time an extra ten thousand dollars could afford you. “I could travel to other universities for document research, I could replace my laptop, I could cut back on my shifts at the cafe…”

“Less shifts at the cafe? You absolutely cannot win this scholarship,” Kaoru says. 

“Absolutely not.”

“We won’t let it happen.” 

You roll your eyes. “Don’t waste your energy on sabotage. I’ve lost it every year I’ve been here. Don’t know why I’d expect this year to be different.”

“Jennifer T…oh! I have heard of that, actually,” Hikaru says. “That’s the one Ootori wins every year, right?”

You freeze while shutting the cash drawer. “Who?”

“Kyoya Ootori. You know him, right?”

“Why would she? The only people she even talks to are us and Haruhi.” Kaoru hip-checks you as he carries a tray of replacements to the pastry display. “And apparently Reese Barlow, now.”

“Yeah, but Kyoya and Tamaki live together. And if he keeps beating her in this humanities scholarship thing, they must have had a class together at some point.” Hikaru turns to face you. “You ever run into him, (Y/N)?”

According to the card Reese gave you, EpPhi’s monthly shindigs take place in the old church on the end of campus, which is A) a bit creepy, location-wise, and B) doesn't exactly ease your concerns that you're about to be indoctrinated into some kind of cult. 

But when you walk into the basement, you're met with an airy, well-lit space. Paper lanterns are stacked atop every open surface, in soft golds and blues; against the back wall, a line of foldout tables have been set up and laden with food. The rest of the space is filled with overstuffed chairs, couches, beanbags; plush-looking rugs where a few people are sitting crosslegged with plates of food in front of them. 

"(Y/N)!" Reese waves at you over from the main table. "Glad you could make it!" 

You walk over to them. "Yes! Sorry I'm late, I just—" 

"No worries. You came at a good time; we're pretty much done with all the boring administrative stuff, so now people are just mingling while we wait for the Trips to show up. Go on, get some food." 

The who? you want to ask, but they're already gone to greet someone else. You grab a plate of snacks and make your way over to the nearest empty beanbag. 

You weren’t going to come. It’s like you told the twins—you have work to do. As soon as you got home from your overlong shift at the cafe, you sat down with your laptop and forced yourself to read every single winning entry Kyoya had ever submitted to the JTG.

They were all brilliant, dammit.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You know he’s smart, obviously. And he wouldn’t have gotten first prize if the essays weren’t any good. But…God, it’s just so unfair. Not only does he clearly not need the money, but you’ll never forget what he said the first time he walked into your Austen seminar. Where does he get off, submitting to prestigious awards in departments he clearly doesn’t give a shit about?

And all of this is complicated, of course, by the fact that you have hung out with him in depth, and are finding it increasingly difficult to dislike him.

He hasn’t texted you since this morning. Not that you’d expected him to. But you did maybe want him to, loathe as you are to admit it. You spend all day at the cafe with the twins, and Haruhi’s text chain with you has mostly been reduced to her letting you know that she’s going to be out of the house again. You’re lonely.

And so—after many failed attempts to rewrite your own essay submission, after scrambling together a discussion post response for your class tomorrow, and after checking your empty message inbox an embarrassing number of times, you dug the little card out of your pocket and headed across campus. To make some new friends, maybe.

Of course, you didn’t exactly get to where you are now by being a social wunderkind. 

So you resign yourself to people watching. The room isn’t overly crowded, but there are a good number of people here. Reese, of course, talking to a group of newcomers by the window; people standing and chatting at the food table, people with laptops in one corner, people coloring in posters in another.

“First time?”

“Hm?” You turn. A girl—shorter than you, with long, honey-colored hair and a well-tailored red pantsuit. “Oh. Yeah. That obvious, huh?”

She laughs nervously. “No! I mean, I’m new, too. New-ish. This is my second one. It’s really fun, though, everyone’s really nice. Sorry, I am off to the worst start—Reagan.” She sticks her hand out for a firm, if fluttery, handshake; her hand feels so light, almost delicate, in yours.

“(Y/N).”

“Yeah—I think I saw you present at SecGen last year? Sorry, not that—I mean—God, I sound like such a creep—”

“Chill, Ri.” Another girl, tall and dark-skinned with close-cropped curls and the prettiest eyeshadow you’ve ever seen. “But yeah, we were both definitely at the panel. You fucking nailed it.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm. Your advisor last year had submitted your thesis project—which combined your interests in medicine and the humanities—to a university conference hosted at Ouran, one of the biggest academic events of the year for people studying secondary gender dynamics across fields. Being selected as an undergrad was a huge honor. Probably the biggest honor of your academic career. “Oh. Thanks. I’m sorry, I have the worst memory for faces—”

“Shut up, you were the one up on the stage. Don’t expect you to remember a couple of faces in the crowd. But you’ve met Reagan now—forgive her the fangirling. I’m Lou.”

The conversation flows more easily than you would have expected. They’re both undergrads, you find out—seniors, so one year below you—and waiting to hear back from engineering job interviews (Lou) and med school applications (Reagan). You don’t envy them. You remember the anxiety of being a senior and not yet having any concrete plans for the next year.

“I’m going to miss Ouran, though,” Reagan sighs. 

Lou snorts. “I’m not.”

“Oh, come on. When else are you going to get the chance to live somewhere this beautiful?”

“Beautifully racist, sexist, classist…” Lou ticks off on her fingers. “Look, will I miss waking up every morning and looking out my window to see buildings that look like literal castles? Yes. Am I going to miss being micro- and macro-aggressed at every quarter hour on the hour?” She shakes her head. 

A wave of relief washes over you. “Yes!” 

She looks at you. “Aren’t you literally going to school here? For several more years?”

You nod fervently. You love the twins, but sometimes it seems as though they occupy a different reality than you, in terms of struggling through Ouran. It’s nice to meet someone who gets it. “I thought it would be better in grad school, but if anything it’s so much worse. I mean, I love the work, but it’s just…”

Lou shakes her head. “And that’s where we differ. God help me, I wouldn’t go into academia if I had a gun to my head.”

“As opposed to engineering, that famously easy field,” quips Reagan.

Lou holds up her hands. “As long as they pay me and they don’t assign me any five to eight page papers with one inch margins on some niche topic I don’t give a flying fuck about, I’ll be happy.”

As you all share a laugh over that, you’re struck by the warmth in your chest. Yes, you’re dirt poor and overworked and losing your best friend to a man who knows the difference between sauvignon blanc and chardonnay, and also losing this one fucking scholarship contest over and over again to a man who also knows the difference between sauvignon blanc and chardonnay. Yes, you are going to have to pull an all-nighter trying to rework your paper proposal into something salvageable to show T.A. Abe tomorrow. And somehow, in this moment, you are bothered by none of it.

“Hope you guys didn’t start the party without us!”

Until you hear that voice, and turn to watch as Olivia Freidmonte walks through the door.

Chapter Text

“Olivia!” Reese goes over to her with a hug. “Perfect timing.” 

“Now that?” Lou whispers. “That I will definitely not miss.”

"Does she—" You look from her to Olivia, back and forth. "I mean, do they come here a lot?"

"Oh, yeah. Look I'm all for uniting forces or whatever. And most of the Triple O folks are super sweet—"

"Plus, they can organize the shit out of a fundraiser," Regan adds.

"—True. But I went to high school with Livvy Freidmonte, and unless she's changed since then…" Lou shakes her head. "I know a first-class bitch when I see one. I wouldn't trust that girl as far as I could throw her."

"Really?" you ask. "What exactly—"

"Alright, everybody!" Reese claps their hands together, and the room settles down. "Let's get started. Re-started. For the new folks, this is Olivia Freidmonte; she's one of our siblings over at Triple O, and our head coordinator for collabs! Olivia?"

"Hey there!" Olivia is all smiles and pep as she waves at the crowd. "So stoked to be here. Now, as most of you probably know, the Winter Wonderland end-of-term music festival last semester was a huge success. Between ticket sales, merch profits, and voluntary donations, we raised twenty thousand over the span of two days, all of which went directly to fund arts education programs at high schools in the surrounding areas."

A round of applause, which you find yourself joining in on. Whatever your personal feelings on Olivia may be, twenty thousand dollars in two days? You can't help but respect it.

"Looking into the future…the good news is, we're less than two weeks out from our spring fundraiser! Bad news: thanks to a little fire snafu, Grand's is closed for repairs all month. So we're on crunch time to find another venue. It's a smaller event, very lowkey; ideally we want to find somewhere closer to campus, with a kitchen or at least a fridge we can use to store food, mix drinks, stuff like that." She scribbles a phone number on the board. "Just shoot me a text if you know of a place. This is a great opportunity to…"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Regan whispers. "She seems super nice."

"You just think that because you're super nice, Ri," Lou whispers back.

"I'm just saying! High school was a long time ago."

"Yeah. I don't know. (Y/N), you're in the same year as her, right? You must have crossed paths. What do you think?"

As you open your mouth to say something, Olivia's gaze falls on you. You freeze. It feels as though time slows to a halt: she pauses in her presentation for a moment. Her smile falters. Her eyes narrow slightly.

Then, as though nothing happened, the smile is back on her face, and she continues on, just as peppy as before. You let out a breath, before remembering that Lou and Regan are still both looking at you, waiting for an answer. You give them a tiny smile. "No comment."

As the evening winds down, you have to admit: you had a pretty good time. Olivia ignores you, to the point that you begin to wonder if you imagined her noticing you during her presentation entirely. You trade numbers with Lou and Regan, offering to answer any questions they might have about surviving senior year, and promising them you'll consider coming to the next Cozy Quorum. Overall, as you exit into the cool early-spring air, you're feeling pretty good.

"(Y/N)!"

"Hey!" You turn to Reese with a smile. "Thanks for inviting me. This was actually really cool."

"Not so bad, right?" You nod. "Now, listen, I swear I didn't have any ulterior motives when I ran into you this morning, but…"

You try to pay attention. Really, you do, but your head is too scrambled. If Haruhi isn't home (it's a Sunday, so probably she is) (on the other hand, she doesn't have any classes on Mondays…) (does Tamaki?) then you only have to worry about dinner for yourself, which means eggs. Or, no, you were supposed to pick up eggs today. Chips and dip, then. And then the paper proposal. Technically you have until the end of class, but you really should email it by morning—were you assigned an early morning shift at the cafe tomorrow? No, an afternoon one.

Your phone buzzes, and you can't help but glance down and see it's from an unfamiliar number, and you're suddenly too distracted to—

"—think?"

"Hm?" Reese is looking at you. Shit. Your cheeks heat up immediately, mortified as you are to be caught so blatantly zoning out. They don't seem to have noticed, though, so you take a crapshoot and give them your most enthused nod. "Right! I mean, yes, absolutely."

"You are a lifesaver." Reese claps. "This is perfect. Let me just put you in touch with—there she is."

Before you can stop them to ask whose life you're saving, and how, and what exactly you just agreed to, they tap someone on the shoulder. That person whirls around and—oh, wouldn't you know, it's—

"Olivia, this is (Y/N). (Y/N), Olivia. You're both first-year grad students, I think?"

"We've met," the two of you say simultaneously. She sticks a hand out, which you accept. "(Y/N) and I have a class together, actually. Some gender-studies thing."

"The Radical Dynamics of Jane Austen," you supply. This handshake is going on for way longer than is comfortable.

Reese nods, possibly sensing the tension, but eventually deciding to bowl through it anyway. "So. (Y/N) works at that incredible coffee shop on the corner of Oak and Whitley, and apparently it's free two Fridays from now, which means…"

Olivia's look of disdain explodes into an overenthusiastic smile. "Oh, my gosh! Seriously?"

Before you can say anything, Reese nods. "I'll leave you two to work out the details—but, (Y/N), seriously? Thank you. I owe you one." With a wink—to you? To Olivia? Who knows!—they're gone.

"Well." Olivia looks you up and down. Between the necklace and the blowout and the perfectly coordinated pink outfit, it’s like looking at Evil Elle Woods. “You’re just popping up everywhere, aren’t you?”

You meet her fake smile with one of your own. “Could say the same about you.”

“Oh, the Trips all love EpPhi. We throw mixers all the time. It ’s so awesome that you’re here now, too !” The smile she gives you practically shows each and every one of her perfectly square, perfectly white teeth, making you feel even more like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. "I didn't realize Reese was finally able to get that due waiver program rolled out."

"Hm?"

"Oh, you know. Greek life can be so…you know. Old money. Reese is super dedicated to trying to diversify—" (somehow, she manages to make that sound like a bad thing) "—and I guess it's working."

"Oh, no. I'm not joining. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with joining." Why are you trying to explain yourself? If Olivia's decided to dislike you, nothing you say is going to win her over. "I just came to check it out. It was cool, though—your presentation was great."

She scrunches her nose at you. "Thanks. Well. Even if you're not pledging, that just makes it even nicer of you to get so involved."

"Oh, no, I'm not—"

"No modesty, please. You're a total lifesaver. Anytime we have insider contact for a venue, it's always, like, an executive whatever, and half the time they don't have any idea what actually goes into putting together an event like this. It'll be so helpful to have the perspective of, you know. A lower-level employee."

You are so, so tempted to just say it was all a big mistake.

But the cafe calendar is empty two Fridays from now. And Reese, who has been nothing but nice to you since you met, seems kind of desperate for you to say yes.

Not to mention, all special events at Ground Up get logged as overtime hours—meaning, double pay.

Double pay plus tips.

So, with no small amount of reluctance, you nod. "Mm-hm. Right." This fake smile is beginning to hurt your cheeks. You clear your throat. "So! We should, um, set up a time to talk through specifics, right? I have a shift at the cafe tomorrow afternoon after class, if that's a good time. That way you can get an idea of what the space looks like?"

"Perf." The gap between her words and the way she looks at you while saying them is starting to make your head hurt. She passes you a card. "Here's my number."

"Great." She's already halfway down the street, clearly just as eager to get away from you as you are from her. "See you in class!" you call after her. Your phone buzzes again—a two-minute reminder of the text from earlier. You swipe it open.

unknown: Shockingly, I did not get 'sexiled' tonight.

unknown: Hopefully this doesn’t mean you’re sleeping on the front porch.

A smile rises to your mouth unbidden. You create a new contact with the number, and then type:

Y/N: I have a bed of my own, you know.

You're shutting the front door of your apartment behind you and kicking off your shoes by the time you get a reply.

Kyoya Ootori: I’m aware. 

Kyoya Ootori: It’s a good one. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.

"You're home late."

You look up. "And you're…home." You toss your bag under a chair and tuck your phone into your pocket as you sit down across from Haruhi, who's typing away furiously at her laptop. "Rewrite?"

"Prewrite." She takes a sip of coffee, then goes back to typing. I'm trying to get ahead on work for the next two weeks, so that I'm not behind when I get back."

It's not unusual for Haruhi to be on top of things—but missing class? "Get back from what?"

"Tamaki's heat is coming up this week. Thursday, probably. Kiera's heats were always pretty long." Kiera…ah, yes, that was two ex's ago. "Tamaki says his usually only last a couple of days, but I want to be ahead. Just in case."

You feel like you're moving underwater. Even blinking seems to take twice as long as usual. "Can't hurt to be prepared," you manage.

"Mm-hm." She takes another swig of coffee, finishing the mug. You grab it and go to brew her some more, if only to get away from the table. Seemingly oblivious to your general state, she asks, "What about you? Good weekend?"

"Weird weekend."

"Weird? Huh." She chuckles, but doesn't press further.

The coffee starts to drip. "That's big," you say. "The heat stuff."

"Oh, this is nothing. I should have it all done by tomorrow."

"A big step in the relationship, I mean. Like, spending a heat together." You lean against the counter, chewing on your bottom lip and shooting another text to Kyoya.

Y/N: My halfprice preowned fb marketplace boxspring is honored

Kyoya Ootori: Hang on, checking my clothes for bedbugs.

Y/N: >:(

Kyoya Ootori: Just a joke. I promise.

Y/N: I know

Kyoya Ootori: Okay, good.

Y/N: That was just the face i made when i realized there isn’t a bedbug emoji

"I mean." You shake your head, bringing your attention back to the present. "Are you nervous at all?"

She stops to think about it, head tilted slightly. "No," she finally says, turning to look at you for the first time since you walked in. "Actually, this is the first time I haven't been nervous to spend a heat with someone new. Is that weird?"

"No." The way she says it, so matter of fact, sends an odd pang of sadness through you. You think of how Tamaki looks at her. The way she looks talking about him. Kyoya's certainty when he talked about what a good match they were. "It's not weird at all."

"Really?"

You pour the coffee, and try to smile as you bring it over. "You know I don't know anything about how all of this heat stuff works. But I do know this guy makes you happy, so. As long as he's treating you well, I'm happy." At least that much is true.

"Mh-hm." She gives a little smile, but you can tell her attention is firmly back on her work.

Which reminds you, you should be getting to your own work. You give her a pat on the shoulder. "I'm gonna hit the hay."

She nods. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Anytime. Don't stay up too late."

"I will."

You share a chuckle at that. "I know," you say softly.

As you reach your doorway, she calls out, "Oh, hey—did Kyoya end up dropping off the vitamins the other night?"

You freeze. "Uh, yeah, actually. He did." She doesn't look up, and you decide to test whether or not she's actually listening. "I invited him in to hide from the rain, we split the bottle of vitamins over candlelight and smooth jazz, he ended up staying the night. Super romantic. We're madly in love now. Instead of fighting during class we just make out on the seminar table."

"Cool."

Yeah, she absolutely isn't listening to you. "Yeah. Cool." Probably this is some sort of karma, for how you did the exact same thing to Reese earlier today—mm-hm-ing and yeah, sure-ing your way through a conversation. But it still stings. "Night."

"Night."

Kyoya Ootori: You’re…sad that there’s no bedbug emoji?

Y/N: Thatss a lie, actually

Y/N: Id pay the emoji people every cent in my bank account to never ever create a bedbug emoji

Kyoya Ootori: Noted.

Kyoya Ootori: I hope you had a good day.

You smile.

Y/N: You too. 

Y/N: Enjoy not being sexiled. I'll see you in class tomorrow?

Kyoya Ootori: Likewise. See you then.

Kyoya Ootori: I actually have something I want to talk to you about in person, if you’re free after.

But by the time that last text rolls in, you’ve already washed your face and brushed your teeth and started typing away at your own laptop, phone face down on your nightstand.

Come morning, you've written a paper proposal that you're pretty proud of, actually. Abe was right—you are capable of more than that first effort.

Unfortunately, writing it did take you most of the night. Meaning you only got a few hours of sleep before your alarm went off. You skim your new notifications, only half processing them—until you see an email from TA Abe asking if you can swing by his office hours after class.

Shit.

Did he already read your proposal? Is it really that bad?

Whatever the verdict is, you’re not going to improve anything by skipping class. You drag yourself in and out of the shower, chug some decaf coffee—a placebo for dire situations like these—and run. When you get there, the seminar table is about halfway full. You slide into an empty seat by the windows. When Kyoya comes in, you give him a wave and a smile, which he returns. You're about to gesture that he should take the empty seat next to you—

When Olivia slides into it.

“Morning.” She pulls a lipgloss and tiny mirror out of her bag, touching up her already perfect makeup. God, you wish you were that put together. Even at nine in the morning, she doesn't have a single hair out of place. "Are you still free after class?"

"Yeah—I just have to pop by Abe's office hours super quickly, if that's alright?"

She gives you a thin smile as she snaps the compact shut. "Sure." Before you can respond, she's turned away from you. "Kyoya! Where did you disappear to this weekend? I was…"

You tune her out. It's too early in the morning to eavesdrop, you decide, especially on two-point-five hours of sleep. You'd estimate you have maybe five hours of awake time left in you before you crash, if you're lucky. And that's not even taking into consideration the sheer amount of energy you're going to have to expend trying to get through this meeting with Abe, and this meeting with Olivia, and your actual job.

Class feels ungodly slow. It's not boring, of course—how could it be? But your exhaustion makes you sloppy, combined with how on edge you are about your meeting with Abe. You try your best to keep a low profile. Kyoya must be able to sense you're a bit out of it, because he goes a little easier on you than usual. Or maybe that's just because he remembers your conversation from this weekend, and because Olivia is literally sitting smack in between the two of you.

In any case, you're relieved to make it through class more or less in one piece. When it's done, you stand up, ready to follow Abe and a few other students to his office elsewhere in the building. As you make it to the door, a wave of dizziness overtakes you, and you stumble.

"Woah." Kyoya is there, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." You blink. "Sorry, I just had to pull an all-nighter last night."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's nothing." You wave a hand. "I've been taking my multivitamin, so. Iron for days, over here."

He chuckles. "Glad to hear it." He sticks his hands in his pockets.

As he opens his mouth to say something, you glance a ways down the hall, where Olivia is giving you the death glare to end all death glares.

"—work?"

You blink again, and look up at Kyoya. You get the sense that he's expecting you to say something, though you have no idea what. You're about to ask what, but then, there, behind Olivia, Abe disappears into his office. "Work. Yes, office hours and then work. I have to run—sorry—but I'm all good, I promise!"

He says something else, you think, but you're too far down the hall to hear him. Oh, well. It probably wasn't anything important.

You walk into Abe's office just as another student is leaving. Abe looks up and waves you over. 

“(Y/N), hey! Great timing. Have a seat—this’ll only take a second.”

You drop your bag and coat and sit. He’s busy pulling up something on his tablet. You feel more and more like you’re about to throw up with each passing second.

“So,” he finally says. Your stomach clenches. “Got your email. I only had a chance to give it a cursory lookover this morning, but…” He turns off his tablet, puts it onto the table, and gives you a smile. “It’s really good work, (Y/N).”

Your heart leaps into your chest. “Really?”

“Really. Look, I’ve read all the JLT essays for years now, and you’ve always been solid. But this is a step up.” He gives you a thumbs up. “Good job pushing yourself, kid.”

There’s still a lot to do, of course—the deadline for the assignment, and the contest, is less than a month away. But it’s a step in the right direction. It’s amazing what the tiniest bit of academic validation can do—you feel like nothing could possibly bring your mood down.

Not even Olivia, who's in the hall when you come out of Abe's office, still chatting with Kyoya. When she sees you, she waves to you, then leans in closer to Kyoya to say one more thing, her hand resting on his chest. You do your best to look disinterested. The last thing you need to do is give her any more reason to think the two of you are fighting over Kyoya.

After a few more giggles and another long touch to Kyoya's arm, she bounds over to you.

"Sorry about that," she says. "Let's walk?"

You give her a nod, and a tight smile of your own. As she grabs her phone to shoot off a quick text, you can't help but take one glance back at Kyoya. Kyoya, at the other end of the hall. Kyoya, who you still can't quite figure out.

Kyoya, who's looking at you, too.

The planning part goes relatively painlessly. Olivia might be the most organized person you've ever met, with an event binder perfectly sectioned and highlighted in a rainbow of sunset tones. She has all of the forms needed—some for you to sign, others for you to pass along to your upper manager—and knows all of the right questions to ask about time, spacing, cleanup, fees.

"You're really good at this," you tell her, and you mean it. With her help, you've accomplished in five minutes what would take most people hours—weeks, even—to get done. She shrugs. "No, seriously. It's really impressive."

"Oh, this is nothing. My mom is involved in, like, a billion different charities, and I'm the oldest, so I got roped into helping out when I was, like, eight. And all of the planning for this was done already. All there really is to do is transplant all of the catering and things to the new venue. Reese was right about using this place. It's cute."

Was that…a compliment? Not to you directly, but still. "You think?"

"Yeah! Tiny, but cute."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. She turns a page, seemingly very interested in the binder as she asks, "So, like. How do you know Reese?"

"Huh?" You were expecting her to ask you about Kyoya. But in the twenty minutes you've spent walking to the cafe, and now sitting here, she has yet to bring up his name once.

"I mean, I'm by EpPhi a lot, and I've never seen you around there. And you said you're not pledging or anything."

"Right." This is still a territorial thing, then—just after actual territory, this time, not romantic territory. "No, yeah, I just—we ran into each other at a party, and I guess they were looking to recruit people for the open-night meetings?"

Before she can answer, you hear: "Livvy!"

Both of you look up and are immediately crashed into by a couple of red-headed whirlwinds.

"Hey guys," you say, once Kaoru has released you from his iron grip. "Oh, shit, am I late?"

"What? No way. You have, like, five whole minutes before our shift even starts." Kaoru says, ruffling your hair before turning to address Olivia. "Miss Freidmonte. Never thought we'd catch you on this side of campus."

You look back and forth between them as they start chatting. Before you can ask any questions, a new voice says, "I came here expecting to see one friend, and here's four!" Brighter than the twins, even. "What are the odds?"

Tamaki, radiantly cheerful as always. When he finishes hugging Olivia and each of the twins, he sweeps you up into a bone-crushing hug of your own. "(Y/N)! Long time no see."

"Oh!" You do your best to smile as he pulls away. "Hi!"

"I hope these three aren't giving you a hard time, are they?" He playfully bats one of the twins on the shoulder. You let out a confused laugh.

"No, we just—Hikaru and Kaoru and I work here, and Olivia and I were just going over a project—what brings you here?"

"Oh, Haruhi wanted some coffee, and I thought it would be nice to come say hello! Since I'll be stealing her from you for the next week," he laughs.

"Hi." Peeking out from behind him—Haruhi. She gives you a little wave, which you return. "I'll be out of the house tonight."

"Oh, yeah," you say, your brain almost entirely blank trying to process all of your different worlds colliding at once. "Totally. No worries."

"I picked up eggs, though. And some more tea."

"Thanks. That's—"

"Haruhi," Tamaki interrupts, "have you ever met Olivia?" As the two shake hands, he claps his own together. "So many of my favorite people, all in one place! And (Y/N), you said you two were working on some kind of project, right? Sounds fun."

"Yeah," Olivia says, flipping back a few pages in her binder. "The EpPhi-Triple O joint fundraiser next Friday? We're having it here—you guys should totally come!"

"Next Friday? I might be out—heat leave."

You're shocked once again at how casually he says it. Even more than that, how casually everyone else responds. "Oh, totally," Olivia says, with a sympathetic nod.

"First heat together, huh?" Hikaru says. "That's exciting!"

You are going to be ill if you have to sit through another second of this conversation. You glance at your phone, desperate for some excuse. "Two minutes! I should start getting ready for work." You grab the stack of papers to be signed. "Liv—Olivia—thank you for…" You wave the papers. "I'll email these to you?"

She nods, only half paying attention as she continues explaining the fundraiser. Good enough. You get up to go. Haruhi gives you another muted smile as you leave, and Tamaki another blinding one.

As you walk away, you turn your attention back to your phone, scrolling, scrolling…and see another text from Kyoya. One you'd missed, last night.

Kyoya Ootori: I actually have something I want to talk to you about in person, if you're free after.

Huh.

It was sent a while after his last text to you, too. You start typing.

Y/N: Sorry I missed this. I'll be at Ground Up until 5

Y/N: Is everything ok?

You backspace that last text, but send the first. Almost immediately, three dots pop up as Kyoya starts typing out his response…

Then the three dots disappear.

You stare at your phone.

It can't be anything bad he wants to talk about, right? That's what you tell yourself as you go through the motions of manning the register, checking mobile orders, rinsing shakers. If it was something urgent, he could have told you as much. But you can't imagine anything he'd need to talk to you about that couldn't be discussed over text.

Olivia's still at her table, which isn't exactly helping your nerves. Not that she's looked your way since you went to go clock in. She's still pouring over her binder, cross-checking a page with something on her laptop, occasionally marking something in highlighter or Wite-Out. More fundraiser stuff, probably. Or homework. Tamaki and Haruhi are still here, too, on the other end, sitting at a table pressed up against the windowed wall. It's probably a bit creepy, you know, the way you can't stop sneaking looks at the three of them, but it's either that or keep thinking in circles about Kyoya.

Which you're still doing.

Maybe…maybe it's the breaking heat news?

That's the only thing you can think of. Yeah, surely that's it—you've set yourself up as someone he can complain to about Tamaki and Haruhi, after all. Maybe he just wants to have a vent session. God knows you could probably use one, too.

"Hello? Earth to (Y/N)?"

"Hm?" You look over to see Hikaru putting order stickers on cups and sliding them over to his brother.

"You've been washing out that one shaker for, like, two minutes straight."

"Oh." You shake your head, grabbing a towel to dry it off. "Sorry."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Nickel?" Kaoru immediately tries to one-up him.

"Dime?" Hikaru counters without missing a beat.

"Quarter?"

You roll your eyes. "Livvy, huh?" They both just shrug. "So you guys just know everybody, now, is what I'm gathering."

Kaoru snorts. "We don't know everybody. You just happen to know nobody, which is why it seems like we know a lot of people by comparison."

"That's true," Hikaru says. "Although, she said you're helping her with this fundraiser thing?"

"Yep."

"(Y/N)!" He slaps you on the back so hard you almost drop the cup you're holding. "Look at you, going out and socializing! Trying new things! Can you believe it, Kaoru?"

"It's not a big de—"

Kaoru places a hand over his heart and sniffs. "They grow up so fast."

"You guys—"

"I'm just so honored we get to see it happen." They both step away from you, wearing identical expressions of mischief. "Although…"

You cross your arms. "What?"

"You still won't tell us who your mystery date was on Saturday."

"Oh, my God."

"You know, I just…" Hikaru lets out a huge, exaggerated sigh. "I thought we were friends, (Y/N)."

"No." You shake your head, turning away from them both, even as an unwelcome smile plays at the corners of your mouth. "None of that."

"I thought the countless hours we spent toiling away here meant something."

"I guess not."

"Kaoru, not you, too," you groan. "Guys. Seriously. We had this conversation. You thought it was Reese Barlow, right? So, sure. It was Reese Barlow."

"Nice try," says Hikaru.

"Yeah. No way we actually fall for that."

You press your lips more tightly together. They look at each other and sigh in unison.

"Such a shame," Hikaru says, shaking his head. "I guess we'll just have to ask Haruhi."

Your head snaps up. "Sorry?"

They both nod towards the far corner of the cafe, where Haruhi and Tamaki are still seated.

"Yeah," Hikaru says. "I have to bring these drinks over to them, anyway—"

"But they haven't ordered anything," you say.

"I have to bring waters over to them." He grabs two cups and starts filling them. "Poor things. I'm sure they're parched."

You look back and forth between them. "Wait—"

"Great idea, Hikaru!" Kaoru crosses his arms, leaning back on the counter and looking altogether too pleased. "And it would be rude of you to not stop and chat for a few more minutes once you're over there."

"But—"

"My thoughts exactly." Hikaru finishes putting the glasses on a tray and flashes you a bright smile.

You grab the tray from him and turn around, only for Kaoru to reappear on the other side of you. He easily reclaims the tray. "Hey!" you exclaim.

"Of course," he says, holding the tray out of your reach, "we wouldn't have to go to all this trouble if (Y/N) would deign to tell us herself." You put on your best poker face, lifting one eyebrow and saying nothing. He studies your face, and then nods. "Guess not." He passes the tray back to his brother, who is turning to leave when—

"Fine!" You make one more unsuccessful grab for the tray, and then give up with a huff. "Fine. For the record, it actually wasn't a date. And it wasn't even planned! I was ready for a quiet night in, catching up on work, when all of a sudden the door rings, and I open it to find—"

"Kyoya!" Tamaki's voice rings out across the coffee shop.

All three of your heads snap to look at the door.

Chapter Text

He's immediately accosted by Tamaki, of course, who runs up and hugs him, Haruhi trailing behind. It feels like the entire cafe is watching them—which is probably not too far from the truth, if only because Tamaki's greeting was loud enough to get everyone's attention and then some.

"First Reese, then Liv, now Tamaki and Kyoya," Hikaru says, peering over your shoulder. Like clockwork, Olivia is up on her feet and walking over to join the group. "Are we living in some kind of alternate universe? What's in the water this week?"

"And they didn't even come together," Kaoru whispers. "Any of them. Bizarro."

"What? It's a good cafe," you say absentmindedly. Out of the freezing classroom, Kyoya's able to take off his scarf, and for some reason you are hypnotized by the newly-exposed expanse of neck and collarbone. It makes no sense. It's just a neck, you remind yourself, even as some traitorous part of your lower brain conjours up the memory of waking up with your face buried in that neck, the warmth, the scent—

"Yeah, it's a good cafe when you're not drooling over Ootori's jawline," Hikaru says.

You come back to reality with a jolt, clearing your throat and doing your best to look very busy doing…absolutely nothing. You grab some steelware and start rinsing. When you glance back up, Kyoya is very gently trying to pull out of Olivia's grasp.

You shake your head. "Nobody's drooling," you say (though you do discreetly check your reflection in the shaker you're rinsing, just to make sure).

"Speak for yourself," Kaoru says. "You could cut glass on that guy's jaw."

"Anyways," Hikaru says. "You were saying—"

"I was saying nothing."

"Nothing about what?"

You give Kyoya a small, startled smile, and then bend your head over the sink and start scrubbing the steelware like your life depends on it.

"Kyoya Ootori, in the flesh? Never thought I'd see you around this side of campus," Hikaru says. "What can I get started for you?"

"Oh. I'll have a…tea. Green tea."

"Coming right up."

As Hikaru finishes keying in the order, Kaoru says, "I know you're probably just meeting Livvy, but humor me for five seconds by pretending you made the trek out here just to see me and Hikaru. It'll make my day."

Kyoya swipes his card. "Actually, I came here to see (Y/N)."

You freeze. The twins freeze. Everyone in the world freezes. You turn very slowly to face him, and smile. "Oh," you say. "Hi."

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” His sweater looks even crisper than it did this morning. You’ve somehow managed to already get a stain on your apron. The twins, who you’d think would still be whining at you to finish your story from before, are suddenly nowhere to be seen. A quick glance to either side finds Hikaru checking the mobile order screen and Kaoru cleaning the (just-cleaned) espresso machine. “You're here."

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Tamaki texted that he was here with Haruhi, so I thought I'd stop by—"

"And also you wanted to talk to me, right?"

"No. Well, yes, but we don't have to actually talk now. I know you're busy."

Hikaru pops up next to you from out of nowhere. "Actually, (Y/N), weren't you just about to take a break?"

"What? I got here like five min—"

Kaoru pops up on the other side of you. "And you'll be here until five! Such a hard worker." He waves. "Hi, Kyoya."

"Hi."

"Guys, its fine, I really don't have to—"

Before you've even finished your sentence, your apron is untied and pulled off over your head.. "What, you think the two of us can't keep the place running while you get a little fresh air? It's not like we're going to burn down the building. Go."

Kyoya follows you out the door. "You don't want to grab your coat?"

"Oh, no. It's totally fine." You're freezing. But all it takes is one look inside the cafe—one look at all of the people inside of the cafe—to motivate you to stay exactly where you are. You fold your arms across your chest, rubbing your arms for warmth, and try to ignore the fact that your breath is visible. "I technically only have five minutes, but if you need more time we could--"

"Five minutes is perfect," he says, his voice low and assuring. "And here." He takes off his coat, and passes it to you. When you try to politely decline, he extends it out again. "You're shivering. Please."

You accept it, and lean against the wall. Winter looks good on him. Fucking everything looks good on him, of course, but he is even more striking that usual, the contrast of dark hair and eyes and sweater against the clear grey sky.  Not unpleasantly so. Just enough for you to appreciate his height, to be aware of how close together you're standing, how intimate this feels. How his coat should smell like sweaty wool, but actually smells exactly as he always does, like pine and fresh laundry and a thousand other wonderful things you can't even put into words. How his cheeks and the tip of his nose are made pink by the cold, adding a bit of color to his almost monochrome palette.

His coat is comfortable, too, pleasantly heavy and just a bit too long. It clicks, then, that you're wearing Kyoya's coat, and Haruhi and Tamaki and Olivia and the twins are all able to see you with little to no obstruction, thanks to the cafe's damn glass walls. Your eyes flicker over to the other side of the glass again—

"Are they looking at us?"

They are. Every single one of them. You nod.

"Good. Look at me."

You obey without thinking. He's taken a step closer to you; instead of being taken aback, you feel an urge to lean in closer, and you do. "Why?"

He tilts his head. "You want them to think we're madly in love, don't you?"

"Sorry?"

"Tamaki was talking my ear off about a very interesting text he got from Haruhi last night—something about us making out on the seminar table?"

Last night feels like a thousand years ago. But through the fog of exhaustion and stress, you remember. "Oh my God. That was—" You shake your head. "This is a big misunderstanding. I'm so sorry, Kyoya, I'll—"

"It's okay. I think it's a good idea."

"—I'll explain the whole—" You stop. "Wait, what?"

"Well, maybe good is a bit of a strong word, but--" He leans forward, pitching his voice a bit lower. "Look. Our..." He glances back over your shoulder. "...mutual problem aside, you weren't entirely off base when you said I could use some help getting Olivia to back off." He sighs. "More to the point, getting our families to back off. Being seen with someone else in public, maybe even at an event or two, would be helpful. And you mentioned Ouran feeling like a closed club sometimes. This could help you meet new people. Make some new professional connections, maybe."

"Oh." You nod, still only half-processing what he's saying. When it clicks—really clicks—your eyes go wide. "So you think that I—that you and me—that we should pretend to—"

"Yes."

"And then they'll—"

"Exactly." He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, trying to read your expression. "You can think about it. And I understand if your answer's no."

At this point in the day, you have been awake for…longer than you have the energy to calculate. You are so tired that you'd swear on a Bible in a court of law that there are two Kyoyas floating in front of you. It's a miracle you're still standing; you have no idea how you're going to make it to the end of your shift (not to mention that the weight and warmth of this coat has you feeling like you're swaddled in a dozen blankets).

So that at least half explains why, without thinking it through very much at all, you say:

"Yes."

He blinks. "Really?" He sounds surprised, as if he wasn't the one who'd just asked you to fake date him.

"Yeah. Sure. I mean, you said it'll help with—things. For us both." You clear your throat, shake your head in a bid to wake up a bit. "So, yeah. I'm game. Do we—what's the protocol for this? Do we shake hands? Draw up a contract?" You laugh. "Seal it with a kiss?"

His brows furrow slightly—in a thinking way, not a displeased way. "All right."

You are still stuck on the (very funny) realization of how confidently you are able to discern the nuances of Kyoya Ootori's various brow-furrowing looks, so you don't quite follow that he's about to kiss you until his hand is cupping your jaw, and his lips are against yours, and holy shit you are kissing Kyoya Ootori.

Chapter Text

It's as though you're being heated up from the inside; you are dimly aware of your hands flying to his face, and the gentle press of a hand to the small of your back, and if there weren't fifty layers between you then you'd swear you could feel his heart beating in hummingbird time to yours beneath his thick wool coat. It's a kiss that feels new and familiar, all at once, and you make a quiet but embarrassing noise as he pulls you imperceptibly closer.

Then it's over, and you're looking at his face again, which is just as icily beautiful as before, if a little redder. You stand there, unsure of what to say.

"Your shift ends at five, right?" You nod. "Are you doing anything after?" You shake your head, still mute. "Great. I'll come pick you up. We can go over the terms." 

You find your voice just enough to say, "Terms?" You doubt you'll be managing anything more than single word sentences for a while. 

"You wanted a contract, right?" He leans back in to kiss the top of your head, then bends a little lower, his breath warm against your ear as he says, "Good job, by the way. They're all watching."

He gives you a smile—small, dimpled—and then turns to leave.

“Wait!” When he turns back, you swallow. “Tea.”

“What?”

“Tea. You ordered a tea, and—oh, God, I still have your coat—” You scramble to take it off, half stumbling. He steadies you with a hand to either side of your shoulder.

“You weren’t able to sleep at all between class and now, were you?” You shake your head. He takes in your expression and frowns. "Hm.”

“What?”

"You need sleep."

"I need to work."

"How much longer until your shift ends? A few hours?" You nod. He looks back up. "Alright. Come on.”

As you let him lead you back into the coffee shop, time seems to slow, allowing you to take in every detail. The ringing of the door chimes. A hand on the small of your back. The weight of a dozen eyes. Kyoya stops you in the entryway to drape his coat back over your shoulders, before striding towards the counter on his own.

Before you can follow (and get back to work!), someone calls your name. You turn and immediately are yanked into an enthusiastically lung-crushing hug, so tight you swear your vision is in danger of fuzzing. 

"I cannot believe Kyoya waited so long to tell me! I'm so excited. But I know you're working, so we don't want to bother you. But I also have to hear everything. " Moments before you have a chance to black out, Tamaki leans back, grinning. You nod, smiling as genuinely as you can, and his eyes light up even further. "Oh! I know! We simply must go on a double date! When I'm back from heat leave! Don't you dare say no," he says, in response to you opening your mouth. "I have to thank you, anyway, for letting me steal your roommate for a week. Though I suppose it's more of an even trade now, hah!"

"Yeah. Double date." You nod way too many times in a row. Your eyes slide over to Haruhi, standing just to his left. "That would be—I mean, if it's fine with you?"

"That sounds fun.” Her expression is unreadable. Is it just the usual Haruhi poker face, or does she really have no feelings whatsoever about her best-friend-slash-roommate having a secret lover? “I don't know Kyoya that well, either." 

"Yes, that's my fault for keeping you all to myself." Tamaki waves a hand. "But you'll like him, I'm sure of it. You have so much in common! You really have a type, (Y/N)."

You freeze. You can’t look at Haruhi. You also can’t look at Kyoya, who is still by the counter, having been sucked into conversation with the twins. You settle for keeping your eyes glued to Tamaki’s. "Hm?"

"The types of people you surround yourself with! Brilliant brunette coffee addicts." He beams down at Haruhi so brightly, you're surprised there isn't a Geiger counter going off somewhere in the room. His eyes flick up to the menu. "Oh! Speaking of, my dearest darling, would you like anything before we leave?"

In your many fantasies about what it might be like to date Haruhi, nowhere did pet names come even close to entering the equation. They just never seemed like her style—in fact, you're ninety-nine percent sure that she complained about at least one of her exes using them too often. So you'd resigned yourself to a life void of terms of endearment.

And yet, in response to Tamaki's sickeningly sweet tone, she just blushes lightly (and rolls her eyes, but again—only lightly)—and leans further into his side, looking up at the menu alongside him. "Yeah. Just the usual, I think."

“Of course.” He gives her a peck, and then turns to you. “Do you want anything, (Y/N)?”

God, why does he have to be so nice? “I’m okay.” You blink. “Actually, I really, really should get back to work, so—” 

Again, you walk into a chest. 

Kyoya’s, this time, back from chatting with the twins. He catches you again—a theme for the day, apparently—with one hand, and hands you a to-go cup with the other. “Let’s go.”

You automatically take a sip. Green tea. “This is yours. Also, I can’t leave—I have a few hours, remember?”

“I talked to the twins. You’re done for the day.”

Tamaki waves as he and Haruhi head towards the counter. “Bye Kyoya! Bye (Y/N)!” 

Behind the counter, the twins manage to catch your eyes. One of them (good God, are you really so tired that you can’t even tell them apart anymore?) holds up the tip jar, and the other gives you a big thumbs up. 

You return the gesture, confused, before turning back to Kyoya. “I can’t be done for the day,” you tell him.

“Hikaru seemed to think otherwise.”

“No, I mean—I need the hours, Kyoya,” you protest, though your legs move you closer to the door. Clearly your body is eager to get out of here, even as your head says otherwise. “I don’t have any sick days. If I miss this shift, I’ll have to pick up a triple later this week to get full pay.”

“You’ll get the hours.” Like magic, you’re in front of a car. He opens the door, and you duck in. He slides in next to you. “The twins are going to cover for you. And if your manager asks too many questions—which they won’t—you’re busy planning a very important fundraiser, which is set to bring the cafe plenty of business. Perfectly valid excuse.” 

“I…” You look back at the cafe.

“Do you want to go back?” You shake your head. “Then you don’t have to.” He buckles his seatbelt. “Well, at least not until your next shift. Which isn’t tonight, I hope?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good.” The car pulls away. “Seatbelt.”

“Hm?” You look down. “Oh.” With your non-tea-bearing hand, you fumble for your seatbelt. After ten or so seconds of doing so unsuccessfully, a hand closes over yours.

The entirety of campus could disappear in this moment and you wouldn’t notice a thing, because you are too busy focusing on the elegant movement of tendon and bone beneath his wrist; the warmth of his coat, still around you; the proximity of him leaning in so close to you, which shouldn’t be surprising because you literally just kissed him not five minutes ago.

Except for some reason, all it’s doing is making you wonder if he’s about to kiss you again.

He doesn’t. Of course. Instead, there’s a click, and then he leans back, on the opposite side of the car once more.

You swallow. “Thanks,” you manage, and then murmur it again when he passes you back the tea. You hadn’t even realized you had passed it off to him to begin with. You look at him, in hopes that you’ll be able to read something in his face. Some hint that he is even a little taken aback by all of this as you are.

Nothing. Not a single twitch of muscle. He isn’t even looking at you—with superhuman speed, he has managed to produce a laptop out of fucking nowhere, and is typing away at it as though this whole scenario were nothing but normal.

“I’ll drop you off at home?” he asks, not even bothering to look up.

“Sure? Haruhi said she’d be gone, so that’s good. Not that I’m avoiding her, I just…” Your vision fuzzes. You shake your head. “I don’t know if I can talk to her about…this…yet.”

“Fair enough. We should probably be sure to get our story straight. I’ve had a couple of thoughts about what…”

You try to pay attention. Or you would, if you had the energy to even try.

You remain conscious for about as long as it takes the car to make it to the end of the block.

It feels almost like a blackout. One minute, you’re in the car listening to Kyoya’s voice across an ocean of sound; the next, you’re lying down, feeling like a recently dug-up mummy.

You’re alone in the bed this time, which is not surprising and is doubly not disappointing. You’re still in your clothes from this afternoon, sans shoes. Based on how dark it is in the room, it’s somewhere near nighttime, at least. You scrabble blindly on your nightstand for your phone, to no avail. You do find a glass of water, though. It tastes like the goddamn fountain of youth. You down it in just a few gulps, and the remaining thirst spurs you to sit up, groaning.

Clomping into the kitchen, you squint at the stove clock. 6:30 , it blinks at you.

“Huh,” you say out loud. You feel like you were out for ten hours, minimum. Guess there’s something to be said about the power of a good nap.

“Sleep well?”

You whirl around. 

Kyoya is sitting by the window, barely illuminated from one side by the street lamps and by the light of his laptop screen on the other. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re still here,” you say.

“I was going to leave,” he responds. “But I couldn’t figure out how to lock your door from the inside without a key.”

“It doesn’t lock from the inside without a key.” You turn on the lamp next to you, and both of you squint in pain at the sudden light. “It’s busted. Like everything else in this overpriced cardboard box of an apartment.”

“Right,” he says. “Anyway. At that point, I figured I’d just wait until Haruhi got back.”

“It’s not even nine o’clock.” You cross the room to sit cross-legged on the other chair. “I’m assuming she won’t be back until the morning.”

He chuckles. “It is morning.”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

“You must have really needed the sleep.”

“And you didn’t? At all?”

He shrugs. “The floor wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re not serious.”

He stretches out one arm to touch his neck, wincing when there’s a light click. “Unfortunately, I am.”

You can’t help but let out a high, disbelieving laugh. “You should have hopped in the bed with me,” you say. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” You mean it as a joke, but it comes out more awkwardly than you planned. “I mean, what if Haruhi came back and found you sleeping on the floor?” Oh God, that’s even worse. You gulp down more water to stop yourself from saying anything else embarrassing. 

“Good point.” He does not sound like he is joking. You nearly choke on the water, and hope he doesn’t notice. “I suppose I could have played it off as a fight.”

After making certain you won’t suffocate on or spit out any liquid, you raise an eyebrow. “You’re telling me that you, Kyoya Ootori, are the type of man who would sleep on the floor if his girlfriend was mad at him?”

He huffs out a laugh, but doesn’t respond.

“Well, I’m not the type of girlfriend who would make my boyfriend sleep on the floor.”

He finishes typing a sentence, then looks up. “What type of girlfriend are you?” he asks.

You look back at the clock. “You want to get our cover story straight…now?”

“No time like the present,” he says. “You certainly seem more awake than you were yesterday.”

You shake your head. “It’s not even seven in the morning. I need a shower before I can talk fake dating.” Your stomach growls. “And food. Lots of food.”

He nods. “I know a place.”

“You’re never allowed to pick out a restaurant for us again,” you tell him.

Turns out, “I know a place” is not Kyoya-speak for 24 hour diner, but rather unspeakably fancy boutique restaurant that has no business being open at 6:30 in the morning.

The upside is that the two of you are pretty much the only two people here. And you have to admit that, despite the obscene prices, it’s hard to feel anything but alive/awake/alert/enthusiastic at the prospect of lemon-basil ricotta pancakes.

“You don’t like it?” he asks, brow furrowing. He’s still been typing away at his laptop the entire time you’ve been talking. “If they’re undercooked, I can ask the waiter to—”

“No,” you shake your head. “They’re divine. That’s the problem. I can’t get used to this and then go back to peanut-butter drywall granola bars.”

“You’re eating the drywall? No wonder your place is falling apart.”

You snort. “You leave my apartment alone.”

“You’re the one who called it an overpriced cardboard box,” he reminds you.

You roll your eyes. “Yes, but it’s my overpriced cardboard box. It’s not actually that bad. This is actually the nicest place Haruhi and I have ever been able to afford.”

His eyebrows nearly reach his hairline at that. “You know, if you need money…”

You hold up a fork. “Stopping you right there.”

“ Compensation is under my list of terms to discuss.”

“No. Absolutely not. I’m your fake girlfriend, not your fake sugar baby.” You take another bite. God, the food here really is incredible . “Besides, like you said—it’s not like I’m getting nothing out of this, right? Something something, social connections.”

“Yes, of course. But I imagine even that will be…tiring, at times. Maybe overwhelming. I want to make sure you’re being compensated for your time in energy in a way that feels adequate.”

You laugh. “You really want Olivia off your back that bad, huh? Are you sure the two of you have never dated? Hooked up, made out, anything?”

He makes a non-committal noise.

“Oh?” Your interest is immediately piqued. “That wasn’t a no.”

“Our social circle is…complicated,” he says. “Which is exactly my point. It’s complicated in a way you might not be used to. If you’re agreeing to be my plus one to certain events, family gatherings…”

“Let me guess: all that glitters isn’t gold?” you say, trying to finish the sentiment for him. “Beneath the shiny, sparkling facade of Ouran’s elite lies a dark, messy underbelly…”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “Not quite that bad,” he admits, fingers still click-clacking away. “But yes. People might look down on you. Passive-aggression. That sort of thing.”

You shrug. “I get plenty of that here already,” you say. “But sure, I see what you’re saying. If you really want to pay me back…”

It doesn’t actually take you that long to think of what you want.

“Help me out with school,” you say, before immediately wincing. 

“You seem to be doing just fine on your own,” he says.

“I want to do better than fine.” I need to do better than fine. You take a deep breath. “You’ve beaten me for the JTG scholarship every year, you know.”

“I know,” he says. “I recognized your name, when we met. Your submissions were very good.”

“Oh.” You didn’t expect that. “Thank you. But, wait—you’re saying you knew me? That first day of class? From the contest?”

“And your SecGen presentation," he says. "Your research on the implications of social stratification on medical outcomes across genders. You’ve been producing impressive literature since undergrad, and it overlapped with my studies in medicine, so I’ve seen quite a bit of your work.”

You blink. “You never said anything.”

“I did,” he says. “I responded to your points in class.”

You shake your head. “I mean, you didn’t introduce yourself or anything.”

“What for?” He keeps typing without looking up at you, his face as unreadable as always. “I knew who you were. I knew you were a good scholar. By the time class was finished, I was fairly certain you hated me, and then you fainted. And then we spoke again at the hospital, at which point I was absolutely certain you hated me. Not exactly the best moment to swap business cards.”

You squint. “But then you talked to me again. At that party.”

He looks up at that—not at you, but away from the laptop—and tilts his head, thinking. Then he nods. “Seemed like a waste not to at least attempt a better second impression,” he says, and returns to typing. “As I said, you’re a very good scholar. Which begs the question—what would I help you with? Our fields of study are completely different. I’m not even in the humanities department, technically.”

“And yet, you keep beating me out for this humanities-based award.” 

“By all rights, I shouldn’t.” He stops typing again. This time, he looks at you. “Do you want me not to submit this year?”

“What? No." Your face heats up. "I’m not trying to win on a technicality. I just want you to give me feedback on my paper.”

“That’s it?”

“You keep winning, which means you have some sort of perspective I’m missing. Whether I win or not, at least I’ll get better, right?” A wave of embarrassment washes over you. You bite on your tongue. Once it passes, you take a deep breath and try again. “Look. It hurts my pride, asking. But…” I really, really need the money.

Nope, you can’t say that; that would just make it sound even more like you’re asking him not to submit.

“It’s a very small ask,” he says. He pushes the laptop to the side, giving you his full attention for the first time since you ordered. “Yes, of course."

You nod, exhaling slowly through your nose. "Thank you."

"But surely you know I would have given you feedback on your paper regardless of whether we were dating or not. That can’t be the only thing you’re getting out of this.”

Dating. You know he means fake dating , but it still sends a little zing through you to hear the word, all the same.

God, this is weird. You should have taken the twins’ advice and dated normally throughout college instead of pining after Haruhi; then maybe you wouldn’t feel like an absolute lunatic trying to navigate this situation.

Haruhi. Right. “I’m getting to make Haruhi jealous, right?" you point out. "In theory. Although I guess you’re also getting that, with Tamaki…which, by the way, how exactly are we going to make any of that happen?”

“No way to guarantee it,” he says.

“Of course. I just mean a more general game plan. I don’t…” You bury your face in your hands. “How are we going to convince people?”

Hands on yours. He pulls your hands gently away from your face.

“Like this,” he says. 

He holds your hands in the middle of the table, playing with them. 

“We talk in class, like we always do.” Thank goodness he is looking at your hands, because that means he’s not looking at your face. You have no doubt you’re currently redder than the tomatoes currently adorning his eggs benedict. “Maybe you let me walk you to your classes, from time to time. Every so often, we go out to a restaurant and let people see us there.” He turns one of your hands over, running a thumb across your wrist. "People will talk," he finishes.

When he looks up at you, your breath catches in your throat.

You tug your hands back, clearing your throat and looking away. “Right,” you say. “Right. Totally. Well, all of that sounds good to me. Class. Restaurants. Take me to a few events, introduce me to some people who might be beneficial to me, career-wise. I really don’t need anything more than that.”

You can still feel his gaze on you, you think, and he sounds amused when he asks, "You're sure you don't want me to help out with your rent?"

"Ha, ha. Yes, I'm sure," you snap. “And we are going on normal dates. Places I can go fifty-fifty on."

"You do realize we will have to leave the house at some point?"

You give him a look. "Very funny."

"More to the point," he says, leaning forward, "we have to go to places where I might believably bring a girlfriend."

"Say we haven't been dating long."

"That's necessarily limited as an excuse."

"Limited?" You tilt your head. "Exactly how long will this be going on for?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"The desired results."

"Okay. Well, assuming we never..." You take a deep breath. "Assuming they never break up. What's our deadline? And how many events do you need a date for?"

"Just the one. In two months."

You think it over with pursed lips. "Two months seems reasonable."

He nods. "I agree."

"And then a no-fault breakup."

"Completely amicable."

“Okay.” You nod. “Okay. So. Family event, huh?" You spear another fluffy piece of pancake, waving it in the air as you talk. "Mind telling me what I'm getting myself into?"

"Nothing. Just a benefit for..." He takes off his glasses, and rubs a hand across his eyes. "Nothing important."

"Convincing."

"You won't like it."

"I'm a woman of my word, Ootori. Lay it on me."

He puts his glasses back on, and folds his hands neatly in front of him. "TDS."

The initials mean nothing to you. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"The Dynamic Society. They're..." He winces. "Well. They're pretty much exactly what they sound like."

"Traditionalists." He nods. "And you want to bring a dirt poor beta as your date? I'm sure they'll love that."

"Yes, well. I'm hoping we can leave those details out."

You raise an eyebrow. "Wait, for real? You want me to lie?"

"Is that a deal breaker?"

"No, but it does seem a little extreme. What, are people going to come up to me and start asking personal questions about, like, the date of my last heat?"

"You'd be surprised." At the horrified look on your face, he smirks. "Joking. But not that far off.”

“Fucking hell,” you mutter through a mouthful of pancake.

“I don't even think my father likes the TDS founders all that much, but they're high-ranking shareholders. Best not to rock the boat."

"You could just bring a different date. See if Olivia is free," you say waggle your eyebrows. He rolls his eyes, and you laugh, "Look, sure. I'll do it. If we're even still fake dating by then, anyway."

"Right."

"It just..." You pause. "It seems like a lot of trouble to go to," you finally land on. "Having to plan your entire life in hopes of maybe someday getting your dad's approval."

"You wouldn't understand."

 "Why? Because I'm a scholarship kid?"

"Yes," he says—bluntly, but not unkindly. "For my father, family is just an extension of business. I understand why you'd have a different set of assumptions—I'm sure your parents are thrilled just so long as you’re happy."

 "Yeah, I guess they were," you say.

Immediately, he goes white as a sheet.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"It's okay. It's been a few years. Almost a decade, actually."

"You were in…high school, then."

"Yeah. Freshman year." You chew on your lower lip. "Um. Anyway. Sorry. I didn't mean to kill the mood."

"Not at all." His hand covers yours. "I'm sorry," he says again, and you realize belatedly that a few tears have spilled over.

You tug your hand away. "It's fine. Really. I got to have them most of my life. And the rest of the time I've had...well. Anyway, it's probably for the best now. I can't imagine they'd be too happy to see all this."

"Seeing you about to marry into wealth?"

“Considering letting a man pay my rent,” you correct him. “Also, marriage? At least take me out to dinner first."

"I am. Tomorrow. At seven."

 "Wait. What? Where?"

 "I'll have the car come pick you up. And I'll send you something to wear."

"Kyoya."

"(Y/N)," he mimics you. It takes you aback, so much you can't help but let out a laugh of surprise. "You said you want this to be believable."

"I do."

"Then you're going to have to suffer through a nice dinner or two."

You give him a long look, lips pursed. When it’s clear he isn’t going to budge, you let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Well. If you insist ..."

"I do."

"Then, sure." 

“Excellent.” He hits one final key on his laptop, then shuts it. "I've just emailed you the contract."

"Contract? That’s what you were working on this whole time?" You look at him with raised brows. "Right. Guess that makes sense."

"Take your time reading it over. It's just everything we agreed on today. Stop clauses, rent payments—"

"Strike that."

"—noted—and attendance at select Ootori family events."

"No NDA?" you deadpan.

His brow furrows. "I included an item about maintaining discretion, mainly where the press is involved. I can't exactly stop you from confiding in friends or family. But if you'd feel more comfortable with a separate NDA—"

You wave your hands, shaking your head. "Kidding. Just kidding. Though, for what it's worth, I'm not planning on telling anyone."

"Glad to hear it. Neither am I."

“Well. In that case...” You stick out a hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Ootori.”

Chapter Text

Less than twenty four full hours into fake dating Kyoya Ootori, and you’re already beginning to worry whether or not this was a good idea. Already the food has spoiled you beyond belief; and though you (barely) managed to convince him you don’t need to be chauffeured door-to-door from the diner to your next class, he insists on walking there with you, and on carrying your bookbag for you. Cue an obligatory joke about whether or not you have bricks in there. But when you try to take it back, he pulls it playfully away, slinging it over his shoulder and out of reach.

“Lends authenticity to the charade,” he says. “Don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t know why you’re so convinced we’re going to get all this publicity. Nobody’s even looking at us.”

“Not obviously,” he says. “But they’re paying attention. Trust me.”

“Why, because you’re just that big of a campus celebrity?” you ask wryly. As if in response, your phone buzzes.

Thing 2: ootori’s walking you to an 8 am class? damn, y/n your head game must be-- [GUNSHOTS]

You rush to lock your phone, your face oven-warm, approaching bonfire levels when you look up at Kyoya to find him looking down at you.

“I stand corrected,” you manage.

“Word travels fast,” he says. “I’d have thought you’d know that already, given how much time you spend with the twins.”

“Who also know you. And Olivia, apparently, and Tamaki. Have I been living under a rock or something? It feels like everyone on campus knows each other.”

“It’s all just networking,” he says. You shudder. “Something wrong?”

“No. Yes. No, it’s just…” You sigh. “I know so much of academia—so much of the world—is about who you know. I just don’t understand how it gets done. The past four years, all I’ve really had time for are school and work. And even then, I’m fine with just meeting people and having a conversation, but as soon as I think of it as networking , it feels so…I don’t know.” You scrunch up your nose. “Disingenuous, maybe? Like you’re just talking to each other so that you can get what you want from each other. Like it’s transactional.”

“What’s wrong with that?” He gestures between the two of you. “I would say this is pretty transactional, wouldn’t you? You’re getting something you want. I’m getting something I want. But that doesn’t mean we can’t still treat each other as human beings. Or that we can’t genuinely enjoy spending time together.”

“You enjoy spending time with me? Be still my beating heart.” Reaching the door, you glance back at him over your shoulder. “See you tomorrow, I guess?”

“Not before?” he asks. With one hand on your elbow, he gently spins you to face him. 

“You can’t walk me everywhere between now and then.”

“Says who?” Not real! you remind yourself. None of this is real. The light weight of his hands on your arms. The softness in his eyes as he looks down at you. 

You clear your throat, trying to banish some of the warmth from your cheeks. “You’re telling me you have absolutely no classes, work, or other obligations between now and tomorrow night?”

He chuckles. “Fair point.” He slides the bookbag off his shoulder, and passes it to you. “Then yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You tilt your head down without thinking. And before you wonder why, you feel the pressure of a kiss against the top of your head. Easy. Instinctual. As though the two of you have done this dozens of times before. 

Not real , you repeat to yourself, making it your mantra as you wave goodbye and head in to class.

Word does spread fast. People say hello to you in class who you could have sworn didn’t know you existed last week. When you reach work, you walk straight back to the counter, stashing your bag and tugging on your apron and pretending to be oblivious to the eyes on you. It’s not everyone, of course—you don’t give yourself credit for being that interesting—but enough. Definitely more than usual.

To their credit, the twins do manage nearly a full minute's silence before they sidle up on either side of you.

"I just have to say," Hikaru begins, "I did not have you dating Kyoya Ootori on my bingo card for the year."

"Or dating anyone, really," Kaoru says.

"I—" you start.

"I'm not mad about it, though," Hikaru says.

"I am!"

"But—"

"Mad about what? This is phenomenal news. I am confused, though—does loverboy out there know about your forever crush on you-know-who?"

"More importantly, I am absolutely furious that she didn't tell us anything!" Kaoru crosses his arms with an exaggerated pout…before breaking back out into his trademark cat-that-got-the-canary grin. "So. Tell us everything.”

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer. “It’s still pretty new.” 

“A few weeks new, or a few months?” Hikaru prods.

How about few hours? “Weeks,” you settle on.

He squints, clearly doing some mental calculations, and then nods. “Right.” He grabs a marker, and turns to the calendar pinned up on the wall. “Then I’d estimate you have probably a month left. As an outside estimate.” 

“What?” 

“What are you-—oh, my god.” Kaoru grabs the marker out of his brother’s hands. “Not on the shift calendar, idiot.” 

“A month until what ?” you repeat.

“Ootori’s relationships tend to have a short shelf life,” Hikaru says, tapping dates on the calendar with his bare hands in lieu of the marker. Besides him, Kaoru seems to have lost focus, and is attempting to balance the marker on the end of his nose. “Like clockwork. Which, again, for you? Perfect.” 

Huh . “Good to know.” Makes sense. You did, after all, agree to a two-month expiration date for this relatio— fake relationship. 

“Don’t take it personally,” Hikaru assures you, taking your expression as disappointment. “It’s just his M.O. I mean, you know the guy—he’s just not the type to get attached. Which makes him perfect for your post-Haruhi rebound.”

Kaoru, still swaying to keep the marker centered, squints. “Does it count as a rebound if they never actually—” 

Hikaru waves him off. “Point is—he’s the kind of guy who you can have a fun time with without worrying about hurting his feelings.” Without warning, his hand shoots out and grabs the marker back from his brother. “Exactly what you need.”

Kaoru pouts at the loss of his toy, but makes a quick recovery, turning to you with that trademark spark of mischief in his eyes. “Speaking of fun…how much fun is he, exactly?”

You immediately clamp your mouth shut. 

He rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Keep your secrets. But once you’ve called it quits with him and no longer feel this sense of loyalty or whatever, I expect to hear all the juicy details. In between drying your tears.”

You cross your arms. “Why do you assume he’s going to break my heart?”

“You’ve been pining after Haruhi for ages, sure, but that at last means you have the capacity to pine,” Kaoru says. “Lover girl meets avoidant boy. Tale as old as time, blah blah blah. I welcome you to prove us wrong, though. A little heartbreak would probably do Ootori some good; it can’t be healthy to have all of those walls up all the time.”

“I think she’s already well on the way to breaking his heart,” Hikaru points out. “I can’t remember the last time Ootori openly dated anyone. Total opposite of Tamaki. Kissing you in front of the coffee shop? In front of Livvy Freidmonte?”

Your gaze drifts back over to the shift calendar. That, plus the mention of Livvy Freidmonte, reminds you of something even more critically important than your fake-love-life: your real finances. “Oh! Before I forget.” You clasp your hands below your chin. “Work the fundraiser with me next week? Please? You’ll get overtime pay. Plus tips.” 

Plus plus, every time you work a shift with the twins you all earn three times as many tips as usual, without fail. You don’t know what kind of magic spell they’re weaving over your customers, but you’re not too proud to take advantage of it.

They groan in unison, but you hold strong with the puppy dog eyes. 

“You’re going to owe me so many details of how Ootori is in bed,” Kaoru says warningly, as his brother adds both of their names to the work calendar for that day. “No holds barred. I’m talking graphic enough to make it difficult for me to look at him for a few days.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

“I mean it! By the time you’re done, I’d better be able to draw a picture of his dick from memor—”

“O kay , that’s enough. I have—I mean, that’s not—” You clear your throat. “Going back to…whatever, I don’t expect him to have feelings for me. That’s fine. I’m just taking your advice, you know? Date casually. Have a good time. Get over the old crush.”

“Very nice, very nice,” Hikaru says, nodding approvingly. “Very healthy.”

Healthy. Right. 

You toss a towel at him, and get on with the rest of your shift.

The afternoon of your date with Kyoya arrives with bright sunlight and a box on your front stoop. A big box. You drop it on the couch, and then immediately pull out your phone.

Y/N: what did you do

Kyoya Ootori: if it’s not to your taste, you don’t have to wear it

Opening the box confirms your worst fears: it’s a dress. Pale blue silk, the softest thing you’ve touched in recent memory (except for Kyo— nope , no point in letting that thought go anywhere). A neckline that just skims your collarbone. A hem that just passes your ankles. The accompanying shoes are simple silver heels, kitten height.

It’s beautiful. Tasteful, of course. And, no doubt, ungodly expensive.

Y/N: no tags? are you trying to give me a heart attack

Kyoya Ootori: would it make you feel better if I said it was a loan?

Y/N: is it?

Kyoya Ooroti: If you don’t like it, I can send over something else.

Y/N: don’t you dare

You are going to eat so carefully tonight.

Snapping a quick picture to forward to the twins, you lay the dress out on your bed and head to the bathroom to start getting ready.

There are many things you've come to expect from your apartment. Terrible insulation, for one. Suspicious rustling noises in the wall after midnight. The doorbell. The half-broken lock.

What you don't expect is to turn on the shower and be met with a sputtering stream of something thick and dark and red. That particular detail is just a touch too Amityville Horror for your liking.

Once you've stopped screaming, and once you've wiped off your wrist with a towel, you spend forty five minutes trying to hunt down your landlord. Then another twenty circumventing all of his explanations as to how this could still totally be absolutely normal. Finally, you convince him to come take a look himself, at which point his eyebrows nearly reach his hairline, and he calls another buddy of his to come check out the same.

"Ah, yep." The plumber gets his head back out from under the sink. "Busted pipe. Lotta clay in the ground around this area—that's what accounting for the color, see?"

"And how much will that cost me, Billy?" your landlord says, arms crossed over his chest. But there's a good-naturedness to the way he says it. As the two of them bicker lightly, you are relieved to realize that no, you will not be financially on the hook for this; and, in fact, your landlord seems more concerned that you not be angry. Billy will have it taken care of in a few days. What the hell, he'll knock fifty off the rent for the month to make up for the inconvenience.

  "You have a couch you can crash on," he asks, "right?"

Chapter Text

Y/N: Code red

Y/N: Any way i can stay with you guys a few days

Y/N: Shower crapped out

Thing 2: no

Y/N: Ok rude

Y/N: Id do it for you!!!

Thing 2: i would never ask you to

Thing 2: because *I* have more sense than to set foot in your death trap of an apartment

Thing 2: let this be a lesson to you that you should MOVE OUT

Thing 2: and, more importantly, i have dates lined up every night this week, and i’m not cockblocking myself because you refuse to live somewhere with functioning pipes

Y/N: Hikaru. Save me hikaru.

Thing 1: don’t you have, like, a mega rich boyfriend

Thing 1: just stay with him

Y/N: I cant do that

Thing 2: ….why not

Y/N: I just think we should both have space

Y/N: Its so early on

Y/N: And its not gonna be serious. Like you said: shelf life, expiration date

Thing 2: all the more reason to get the most out of it now, while the going's good 

Thing 2: unless you don't want to

Thing 1: is something wrong?

Thing 1: is he bad in bed or something

Thing 2: i have it on good authority that that's not the case

Y/N: STOP thats not the problem

Y/N: I just dont want to inconvenience him

Thing 2: oh y/n. my sweet sweet idiot

Thing 2: trust me. a man who sends you a dress like THAT is not concerned with being inconvenienced

The restaurant is classy, but not overly fancy; small tables, low lighting, a bar running along the entire right wall. Kyoya is at the table already. You slide into your seat, and try your best not to sound out of breath. “Hi! Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

"You look..." He hesitates.

Before he can continue, you raise a hand up to stop him. “Don't lie to me,” you warn him. 

"I wasn't planning on it," he says. "And there's no need. You look very nice."

"That's a stretch, considering the day I've had." You run a hand back over your hair. You did your best (you had to wait for your upstairs neighbor to get home before you could beg a shower off of them), but it’s definitely frizzy, and no doubt looks even frizzier contrasted against the perfect silk of your dress. Your one hope is that the chic, dim lighting might offer a blurring effect. Of course, when you look up at him, he looks perfectly crisp, perfectly dressed, perfectly unmussed. You sigh, then shake your head. "Sorry. Thank you for the dress, by the way. It’s beautiful."

"What was wrong with your day?"

You thank the waiter who promptly comes to fill your wine glass, taking a grateful sip. "It's nothing," you say, shaking your head as you put the wine back down on the table "Enough about me. How was your day? You know, I don’t really know that much about, like, the day to day of what you do outside of our class time together. And, you know, pining after—”

“I work for my father’s company.”

You stop short. “Already?”

“Not in the full capacity I’ll be expected to after graduation, of course,” he says. “But it’s never too early to learn the ropes. And it helps me get the most out of my courses. Has done since undergrad. I knew everything I was learning had real-world applications, because I was applying them to the real world as I went. Now, my research projects are directly connected to the company.”

It’s embarrassing to ask, considering you already know he knows what your research is about. But you have to find out somehow. “And your projects are…”

“Broadly, I focus on the adaptation of various medications and procedures based on secondary gender,” he says. “Historically—as I know you know—most medical practices we use as standard are based on research done on alpha physiology.”

“Right. They were considered the default, leaving betas and omegas to the wayside.”

“But, of course, each gender has its own specific endocrine makeup, and that’s complicated further when we get into cases of transition between them, as well as intergender biology. If your research covers the sociological correlates of reduced positive health outcomes for betas and omegas, mine tackles a similar issue from the biological side."

You blink. "I had no idea."

"It's taking a while. We're studying some pre-market drugs, medications that are awaiting administrative approval for public use, things like that. So we're a while away from publication. But it's interesting work. And you? What are you working on?"

You look down at your plate.

“My undergrad advisor was, um. Not ideal. Took a more than few of my ideas and published them as his own. So I'm sort of between projects right now."

"What?"

"It's not a big deal, I'm sure it happens all the time—"

"(Y/N). That's a clear violation of academic policy. Did you report him?"

"Obviously not."

"Who was he?"

"Doesn't matter. He retired. Pretty suddenly. Last year." Kyoya's eyes flick diagonal, and you can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to think back on any professors he knew of leaving last year. You rush to continue, "It was for health reasons, I think, which I feel kind of bad about."

This is the first time you're saying any of this out loud, you realize. You had told yourself it was because you were afraid Haruhi would do exactly what Kyoya is doing, and insist you report him. But why, then, say it now? To someone you've known only months, compared to the years you and Haruhi have known each other?

You clear your throat. "So, like—theoretically this is a great chance for me to start work under a different professor. It’s just that I need to build up a little more of a body of work. I’ve had some success with the research I’ve published so far, but no on-his-feet advisor means no recommendation letter. I have until the end of the year. Plenty of time to go."

"Who have you reached out to so far?"

"I—" You look down. "Nobody. Yet."

"Why not?"

"I just. I have to beef up my resume a little bit more." You have a list of names—Professor Sara Suzuki at the top, of course—but you can't bring yourself to reach out to her yet. Not until you can make it obvious what you're bringing to the table. Just one more accolade of sufficient size.

"Your previous advisor's plagiarism aside, you've built up a good roster of published work on your own already. And—(Y/N), I really wish you'd consider reporting him. Even after the fact, you should be able to get that work back."

"Who would believe me?"

"I believe you."

"Yes, for some reason, even though we've only met this year and—"

"And you know I've read your work. You know I'm familiar with your work. I'll concede we met more recently, but—"

"It's my word against his, Kyoya," you say, gently but firmly. "He was tenured before his resignation. Even if I do contest it, then what? Odds are nothing would change, except that I would forever be the girl who leveled fake accusations against a respected researcher in the field. I don't want that tied to my name."

"I still think—"

"Can we just drop it? Please? I'll talk about literally anything else. Like the weather."

"(Y/N)."

"Or the menu," you say, opening yours and scanning it. No prices listed. You try not to imagine them. "What's good here?"

A pause. "Everything," he says finally, and you relax, relieved that he's letting the topic go. A minute of studying the menus goes by before he closes his. "You said you had a bad day, but you didn't say why."

You wave him off. "Just a little snafu with the pipes, apparently. Thank God Haruhi isn't home."

"Your pipes?"

"The landlord's fixing them, don't worry. Should be better in a few days. I'm on good terms with my neighbors; they've already agreed to let me shower upstairs."

"Don't do that. Come stay with me."

He says it as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You wonder if maybe your conversation with the twins left you prone to hallucinations. "What?"

"Tamaki's away.” He lets the obvious, painful reason why sit unspoken between you for a moment before continuing, “And we have a guest bedroom, anyway. Hasn't been used in ages."

"That's…really generous of you. But I can't inconvenience you like that."

"What inconvenience? If anything it'll make the plan easier. We can strategize. And if people notice us going home together a few nights in a row, surely that can only help?"

"You gonna leave your blinds open?” You tilt your head. “Let the paparazzi catch photos of us eating breakfast in bed?"

He lifts one brow. "You can even steal one of my sweaters to really seal the deal.”

The waiter appears almost as if by magic. "Are we ready to order?"

You point to a salad at random, rather than butcher the pronunciation. After Kyoya orders, and the menus have been cleared, you stare at him a moment. “You’re serious about this?”

He nods.

You purse your lips, nodding, and can’t help but laugh. “From first date to moving in together in less than a day. People will say we’re in love.”

When you look back at him, his eyes are twinkling, and his mouth just barely curled at the edges with that tiny, perfect smile. “Couldn’t have planned it better if we tried.”

Chapter Text

"…really matter?"

Your ears prick up from the bathroom. You finish brushing your teeth, spit and rinse, and then pad out into the living room.

You hadn't gotten a chance to see much of anything last night—after Kyoya showed you to your room, you were so exhausted you fell into bed without even getting a cursory tour. Now, in the light of day, you see his and Tamaki's apartment is exactly as you'd have predicted: spacious, beautifully appointed, and impeccably clean. It's modern, with sleek countertops and mostly minimalist furniture. Lots of white and beige. But there are just enough homey touches to keep it from feeling sterile: a brightly colored throw blanket crumpled over one arm of the sofa, an upright piano with well-worn keys and a basket of sheet music in the corner. You approach it for a closer look.

The door out of the apartment is slightly ajar, and you see Kyoya's outline in the hall. Who he's talking to, you can't tell. Gun to your head, you'd guess a woman. Both voices are too muffled for you to understand what they're discussing. But the seriousness of tone translates. They aren't fighting…but you'd place money on it being something more than casual neighborly small talk.

As the door opens, you fix your attention on the piano. Kyoya comes in alone, holding a stack of mail, which he brings over to the kitchen island. "Good morning."

"Morning."

"How'd you sleep?"

"One night on that mattress may have just cured an entire academic career's worth of back and neck problems."

"Good to hear."

If he's not going to volunteer information about his mystery visitor, you're not going to pry. It's none of your business, anyway. You tap a finger on the piano, gently playing one note over and over. "I didn't know you played."

"Hm? Oh, I don't," he replies from the kitchen sink, where he's filling up a spray bottle. "Tamaki."

"Right." You immediately stop plunking the one key. "Of course. Jack of all trades. A real Renaissance man."

He turns off the faucet, and walks back into the living room. "You can say that again." He approaches a large potted plant in the corner, and spritzes it. "Music. Languages. Baking. He left us bread, by the way," he adds, nodding at the counter. You groan—no wonder the place smells amazing. "He volunteers with charities in his spare time. If he was capable of keeping a plant alive for more than two days, I'm not sure he'd have any reason at all to keep me around."

"So the plants are yours?"

"Oh, no. They're Tamaki's." His mouth contorts into something that could be a smile or a wince. "He brings them home, I keep them from certain death."

"Hm." You reach up to brush a finger against a vine that dangles from a hanging pot above the piano. "Seems like you're doing a good job."

"I have to. He can't stand seeing anything die, even a plant. Especially a plant. He brought a cactus our first week here—killed it in two days. A cactus." You snicker, and are pleased when his half-grimace is broken by a real, proper chuckle. "He was inconsolable for days, and then immediately brought home the fiddle-leaf over in the corner. And I immediately went to the library to check out any and every book I could on indoor gardening."

"Wow. And even that wasn't enough to clue him into the fact that you had the hots for him?"

The smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "He loves so…loudly," he says. "Which is good. It's one of the things I—" He stops, and clears his throat. It doesn't escape your notice how the spray bottle is hanging limply at his side. "It's one of his better qualities. But I think it can make him blind to the opposite. Some people love quietly."

"Yeah. I guess." You think of Haruhi. The green tea in the morning. The peanut butter toast when you're hungover. How, when your parents died, she would come over every day for a week with homework from the classes you'd missed, and sit with you silently while you finished it. "But…I don't know. I think all love is loud when you're showing it to the right person."

"Oh?"

You shrug. "The right person will see you seeing them. No matter the volume."

"That's a nice thought." He sprays the next plant, pausing in between spritzes to examine the leafs, turning over one and plucking a few. "Though it does draw into question exactly why we're doing this whole fake dating thing, in that case."

"Get me employed, get your family off your back. Or something like that."

"Speaking of—" He nods at the kitchen counter. "You made the news. Congrats."

"Huh?" You dash over. Sure enough, the page he's left it open on—there's an black and white photo of the two of you leaving dinner last night. "I—that's news?"

"Wait until they catch onto our new living arrangement." The familiar note of amusement is back in his voice. However embarrassed you may be at your fake-dating life being a news item, you can't deny you're relieved to see Kyoya lifted from his moment of ennui. "It's good. Means the plan is working."

"Yeah." You bite your bottom lip. " Thank you again, by the way, for this."

"For…mutually agreeing to pretend to date?"

"No! Yes. For all of it. Like, this? Letting me crash? Thank you."

"Of course."

"Seriously. It's too much." You can't stop babbling. “I swear I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

“(Y/N)," he interrupts. You close your mouth. "You need a place to stay. I have an extra room. We both need to convince people that we are investing in spending as much time together as possible. If anything, I would say this is a fortuitous turn of events, wouldn’t you?”

You smile slightly. “Next you’re going to tell me you paid off my landlord to make this happen.”

"Oh, no," he says, deadpan. "You've discovered my evil plan." You laugh as you pull on shoes, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "Where are you off to?"

"Work. Where else?"

"Wait."

He starts walking towards you. Your heart immediately takes off racing. Is he going to kiss you goodbye? But no, the two of you are alone. But he's reaching back to tug off his sweatshirt, now—

"As promised." He tosses you the sweatshirt. He's wearing a short-sleeve shirt underneath, of course, of course. "It's a little chilly. And if anyone sees you wearing it—"

"Good for the story." You let out a nervous chuckle, running your thumbs over the fabric. "Right! Right." You don't put on the sweatshirt right away, hugging it to your chest instead.

"And there's a key in the pocket. In case you beat me home." He starts walking away, back to finish watering the plants. "See you tonight? I'm busy until seven, but free after."

"Tonight," you agree. You wish the slowing of your pulse as he gets further away from you wasn't accompanied by the slightest bit of disappointment. "Don't go fake dating anyone else while I'm gone. At least not while I need a place to crash."

He turns back, and gives you one last glimpse of that tiny, devastating smile. "I'll do my best."

"Not to say I told you so," Kaoru crows as soon as he sees you walk in wearing the sweatshirt. "But I totally told you so."

"And to think you wanted to crash on one of our couches." Hikaru shakes his head. "Insane."

"You were right," you admit. You tug off the sweater and tuck it into your backpack with no small amount of reluctance. Because of the weather, of course. Not at all because it smells like fir and detergent and—yeah. Just because of the weather. "This makes so much more sense. Tamaki's gone for his heat, and they have an extra guest room, so—" You freeze, and bite your tongue. Shit.

"(Y/N)," Hikaru says, and you squeeze your eyes shut. "This isn't the fifteen hundreds. You don't have to pretend to sleep in different rooms."

"Yeah," Kaoru tags on, "we aren't, like, your spinster aunts. Ruin your modesty all you want."

You reply with an embarrassed smile, relieved your immediate slip-up didn't completely ruin the ruse. "I know," you mutter. "Anyway. Enough about me. What have I missed?"

"In the…five minutes we were working without you? Mostly just Kaoru bitching about his midterm assignment."

"Hey you try designing an entire fashion line out of recycled plastics," Kaoru says. "And my budget's about the size of the tip jar, because my professor hates me. I'm going to fail."

"You are not going to fail," you coo, patting him on the shoulder. "You're very talented."

"I am," he says, sighing dramatically. You roll your eyes. "I'm also much too pretty to be working this hard. I should take a page out of your book, (Y/N), and get a rich boyfriend."

You raise an eyebrow as you finish tying your apron around your waist. "And yet I'm still here, working the same shift as you."

"Good point. Ootori really needs to up his sugar daddy game." His attention shifts to a point behind you, across the counter. "Oh, hey—Livvy!"

You plaster a smile on your face, and turn back around.

"Hey guys!" Today Olivia is in pale purple, perfectly coordinated as always, and carrying a huge box which she slams on the counter. You try not to flinch. She scrunches her nose as she turns her smile to you. "Hi, [Y/N]. Just wanted to drop these off, for next week. Let me know if anything doesn't fit, and I can have my tailor pop over to make adjustments."

"Oh, great!" You pull the box towards you, wincing at the weight. "Um...what are they?"

"Uniforms! Themed, for the event next Friday. Spring in Paris—isn't that so fun? Anyways—I'll be back later in the week with decorations and such." Before you can ask anything else, her eye slides to a corner of the cafe. "Gotta go. Let me know how those uniforms fit! Bye!"

And with that, she fluffs off to where Reese is sitting at a table with a book. They seem pleased to see her, if surprised, and she's pulled up a chair and struck up a conversation with them in five seconds flat.

How on Earth are those two friends, you wonder? You get the frat/sorority collaboration, of course; it's just funny, seeing sweet, genuine Reese getting all buddy-buddy with Olivia. But then again, Olivia seems to be strategic with her snideness. So maybe she's just been careful not to show that side to Reese. Certainly she's been nicer to you the past week or so, ever since you offered to help with her fundraising event.

You peek in the box as you put it back in the staff room. Black. Probably something standard issue, then—maybe with little berets or something, if the theme is Paris. You'll worry about that later.

Before you return to the register, you pull out your phone, and draft a quick text.

Y/N: just checking in! everything good?

Haruhi: everything's great. should be back in a few days

Great, you type, then backspace. Miss you, you try—then immediately delete that, as well. What can you say? What is there to say?

What do you want to say?

You settle for liking the message, then tuck your phone back in your bag. That'll have to do. She won't mind; she's probably busy anyway.

The thought sends a little twist through your stomach, but not as much as you'd have expected.

Eight hours later, you arrive back at the apartment and dramatically slump to the floor.

"Long day?" Kyoya asks from the kitchen.

"Could have been worse," you grumble, and then pull yourself back up to standing. "Just busy. Good for tips, at least. And we're more prepared for Olivia's thing next week. You?"

"Could have been worse. Debrief over dinner?"

You wince. "I do want to hear about your day…but I don't know if I have it in me to get all dolled up two nights in a row. Not feeling particularly photogenic or public-facing, at the moment."

"I assumed." He holds up a takeout bag. "I figured you might want food waiting for you when you got home. We can order other stuff if there's nothing here you like."

You feel a surprised smile creep over your face. "I'm not picky."

Even if you were picky, Kyoya's taste in food, as always, is immaculate. You barely restrain yourself from licking your fingers. "Not to shoot myself in the foot, but I feel like I'm getting way more out of this whole fake-dating situation than you are, just based on the food alone." He snorts. His phone buzzes for the umpteenth time this night. He glances at it, but doesn't answer. "You don't want to get that?"

"It's just Tamaki. I don't need to respond."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "I almost feel like I should be jealous. I've heard from Haruhi all of once."

"It's research-related," he says. "One of my main vectors of study right now is not just heat suppressants but—heat easers, for lack of a better term. Finding best practices for mitigating the worst side effects. Tamaki has been generously providing me with data points for years now."

"Heat easers?"

"Holistic measures, to add onto proper medication." He looks down at his plate. You don't miss the way the tips of his ears go pink as he continues, "Different apparatuses. Different positions."

"Oh." You feel your cheeks heat. "Right. Totally. For sure."

"Also diet, sleep schedule, etcetera," he rushes to add. He clears his throat. "I can't rely on anecdotal data exclusively, of course, but it helps to know what to aim our focus on when it comes to clinical studies. And he's very good and consistent at providing data."

"How magnanimous of him," you say, for lack of anything else to say.

He shrugs. "Initially he proposed it as a fair trade. In exchange for seeing him through his heats."

You nearly drop the dumpling you're holding. "Wait, what?"

Kyoya looks up to see you staring at him, mouth agape. "What?" he says, his tone perfectly neutral.

"You mean to tell me the two of you have slept together? Not only slept together, spent heats together? Multiple?"

He turns back to the food, pushing more noodles out of the container and onto his place. "You say that as though its strange."

"This isn't, like—I'm not shaming you. I promise." You take another bite, then shake your head. "I just can't believe it's never come up before now."

"Why would it have come up?"

"Because it feels relevant? And because it is strange! A little, at least!"

"It really isn't."

"Did you know you liked him? When you offered?"

"I didn't offer. He asked. And yes, at the time, I knew I had feelings. But he didn't."

"And you said yes."

"I didn't expect anything from him," he says carefully. "I hoped, of course, but mostly I just wanted him to feel safe."

"Why would he ask you, though? If he didn't…I mean, the two of you had been friends forever. Wasn't he worried about making things weird?"

"(Y/N)," he says, so gently you would almost feel condescended to, if it weren't for the careful way he chooses his words. "Forgive me, but I think this is just a part of cycle culture that you haven't been privy to."

You realize what he's saying, and your mouth clamps shut. You nod. You but don't fully succeed to keep the bitterness from your tone as you say, "Right. Of course."

"I don't mean…" He sighs, then puts his plate down, turning to fully face you on the couch. "Think about it: if you knew you were going to be spending a week in a vulnerable position like that, would you want to be alone? Wouldn't you want it to be with someone you trusted?"

His eyes are bright, sincere. For a moment, you imagine those eyes above you. Seeing you be vulnerable.

Your mouth is dry. The back of your neck feels warm. You swallow, and nod, and immediately redirect your attention to your plate. "Right. Yeah."

"I guess it's just one of those things that makes more sense when you're in it."

"No, yeah. I get it." You clear your throat again. "I, um…y'know, I'm really beat. I think I'm going to take a shower and crash." You stand up and begin clearing away the empty takeout containers.

"Of course. I hope I didn't—"

"No," you say quickly. You force yourself to look up at him again. There's a slight divot between his brows, and you feel a twinge of guilt. "I'm really not judging you," you say and mean it. "Promise. You're right. It's just something I have no frame of reference for."

Of course." He opens his mouth again, as though he's about to say something else, then closes it. When he opens it again, you find yourself almost bracing yourself for what might come out. "There are towels in the closet. Next to the bathroom."

"Oh!" You stare for a second, then nod too many times in a row. "Right. Yes. Thank you."

You've never taken a shower so cold. You're shivering as you climb back into bed, but in a strange way, it feels good. Needed, almost; though it is a little annoying when the shivering doesn't stop even after you've climbed under the sheets and comforter, and added a throw blanket on top for good measure. Socks help a little, but just barely. You toss and turn for a while before opening your eyes. Moonlight sifts in through the gauzy curtains, painting the walls and furniture silvery grey. And there, slung over the desk chair, is the sweater you'd borrowed today.

You get up and pull it on. The faint scent of fir trees and fresh laundry falls around you, and almost immediately, you feel better. More settled. Climbing back into the sheets, you curl up on your side and close your eyes.

You fall asleep nearly as soon as your head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

The days with Kyoya pass quickly. You go to class; read old research papers that got you acclaim, and wonder if there's a way you can get back to that. You go to work, and endure relentless teasing from the twins. Olivia drops off more and more boxes for the fundraises—decorations, placards, favors—until the little back room is full twice over. You endure this, too, if only because you know it'll be over in a week and a half, and because it does make life more pleasant, not being on her bad side outright.

Occasionally you are hit with a chill down your spine; or an uncomfortable flash of warmth; or a dizzy spell that forces you to place a hand to the nearest wall for balance. They aren't too bad, though you know Kyoya would likely be concerned if you told him. So you don't tell him. Mostly because you know the cause—your anemia, popping up again. Every time it happens, you promise yourself you're going to remember to take your iron supplements again.

You inevitably forget, of course. But it's the thought that counts?

It's easy to forget, anyways, because there's always some more pressing matter at hand. Like work. Or school. Or cooking (you'd mentioned offhand a recipe from the newspaper that had looked particularly good, and when you got home that night all of the ingredients were waiting in the fridge; cleanup from the ensuing food fight took ages. At least the food turned out…decent. What you were able to salvage of it, anyway). Or takeout on the couch (you hadn't been able to salvage that much food), accompanied by conversations that feel minutes long, but inevitably have you checking the clock to see it's hours past midnight. Or sitting in the same room, quiet, you on your laptop and him on his, both of you typing away in perfect rhythm.

In short: you feel well-fed and well-rested and more productive than you've been in weeks. Months, maybe. So maybe it makes sense that you feel the teeny, tiniest bit of disappointment when, as you kick off your shoes in the doorway Sunday night, your phone buzzes in your pocket before you've even gotten a chance to greet Kyoya.

You glance at it, then up at him. "Landlord texted. Shower's back up and running."

He blinks. "Good timing," he says after a moment. "Based on passed cycles, Tamaki and Haruhi should be back tomorrow night."

"Perfect." You match his slow nod. "So."

"So."

"So." You clear your throat. Why are you lingering? How rude. "I'll get packed then, so you can have your space back for a night—"

"You don't have to rush out," he says quickly.

Your heart flutters. "Huh?"

"Or—you can. You probably want to go home, I'm sure. But…"

"But?"

He sheepishly steps to the side of the kitchen counter, revealing a variety of food containers. "I got ingredients. To bake," he says. "That recipe you had liked. The earl grey cake. If you want, we could bake them and still have time for you to go home. Sleep in your own bed."

You pick up a box of baking soda, pretending to examine it. "Optimistic, after the way our last kitchen endeavor went."

"Baking is easier than cooking, no? Defined quantities." He shrugs, flipping a bottle of vanilla in the air and catching it neatly. "It's more a chemical reaction than anything."

"In that case…" You purse your lips, then nod decisively. "I think my thirdhand boxspring can wait one more night. Let's celebrate a successful week of fake dating." You toss him the box of baking soda. "Cake and wine?"

He smiles. "Cake and wine."

The cake turns out noticeably better than your attempt at chicken marsala. Over-iced, for sure; you take advantage of the variety of food colorings and create little bowls of pastel pink, yellow, blue. Mixing them all together creates something that looks a little bit less rainbow than sludge…but it tastes good! And by the time its cooled off enough to ice and eat, you're both too tipsy to be anything but excited at the prospect of cake. You both collapse on the couch with huge slices weighing down your plates.

"Back tomorrow." You laugh—you can't help it! "I still can't believe you've spent a heat with him!"

Kyoya rolls his eyes, though he seems more amused than anything "Not this again."

"Multiple, even! And you're so…casual about it."

"Friends help each other out with heats."

"Yeah, but I'm sure it helps if there are no one-sided feelings involved. I'm just saying, you're stronger than me. I can't imagine offering to spend Haruhi's heat with her," you say. The truthfulness of the statement slams into you as soon as the words leave your mouth. When you were younger, it was an easy fantasy to have, of course. But in the past few years? You genuinely can't even imagine offering. "I mean, not—you know," you stutter, still trying to piece together your thoughts as you piece together your words. "Not platonically."

"Haruhi never asked?"

You scoff. "Why would she? I'm a defunct omega, remember?" Your tone is more playful than biting, leading him to roll his eyes again.

"Oh, c'mon. I don't—you don't—" He waves a hand. "Most people don't actually care about that. Having someone to platonically spend a heat with is more about logistics, anyway. Making sure they have food and water. Stuff like that."

You squint, studying his face. "Dare I ask how it was?"

He takes a long, slow sip of wine, savoring. "It was fine," he finally says.

"Just fine?"

"I've had better. I've had worse."

"Wow."

"It was good! Solid. He seemed to enjoy himself, which was the most important thing." He lets his head loll to the side, meeting your gaze. "But I guess if he had enjoyed himself more, he wouldn't have been so keen to stay friends after."

"And he never asked you again?"

He grimaces. "He did. But after the first couple of times, I tried to make sure I was busy. I guess I'm not so much stronger than you," he says wryly, then sighs, running a hand over his eyes. "Having to be so close to what I wanted, knowing it would never really be within reach…I couldn't do that to myself forever. It was better to give myself some distance."

"Not that much distance," you say, gesturing to the apartment.

"I've made my peace with it. More or less."

"Heavy on the less. Otherwise why would you have me here?" You You know, we never actually did much strategizing on how we could make either of them jealous."

"Not much we can do while they're gone."

"Well, yeah, but they'll be back soon. We could…" Your search for an end to that sentence comes up fruitless, and you wind up just laughing. "I don't know!"

"They both strike me as exceptionally difficult people to make jealous. I know Tamaki is, at least. He's very loyal to the people he dates. And very public about that loyalty."

“Yeah, well. I guess it's like you said—he loves loudly. And he's certainly big on PDA. Unlike Haruhi. And unlike you.”

“Unlike me?" He furrows a brow, and sits up a little straighter, putting on a tone of exagerrated offense. "I recall an occasion not too long ago where I kissed you, on the mouth, in a very public setting.”

“And you haven’t since.”

“You haven’t asked me to. Do you want me to kiss you again? In public?”

“No! I mean. Not that—I was just wondering because, um. That event thingy. The TSD—STD—”

“TDS?”

“Yeah, that—they won’t want us to kiss or anything, right?”

“No. In fact, I’m fairly certain they’d prefer we avoid skin to skin contact all together.”

“God, traditionalists are weird.”

“Tell me about it. Ironically enough, I'd bet the only people who would expect any kind of PDA from us would be—"

“Tamaki and Haruhi," you say in unison. You laugh, then look at him.

Really look at him.

The first day you met, you couldn't imagine him with any expression beyond stony and deadly serious. But it's so clear now that joy suits him better than just about anything else. The light crinkling of the eyes. The familiar flush of alcohol that dusts his cheeks and ears and the tip of his nose. And the smile. You can't stop your gaze from tracing back and forth along the curve of his lips, and maybe it's this that makes you say, "Maybe we should practice. Make sure it looks real.”

"Hm?"

"Practice kissing," you clarify. As soon as the words are out, you clap a hand over your eyes. "Is that stupid? Maybe that's stupid."

"I don't think it's stupid."

You peek at him through your fingers. He looks pinker. But maybe that's just the alcohol in your veins talking. "Really?"

He shakes his head, then takes another sip of wine. "Yeah, I want to make sure—especially if—I mean. Yes. It should look real."

"Cool."

"Cool."

"Cool." You nod. Hold his gaze.

Neither one of you moves.

"Okay," you say. "Okay! So, um." You take another sip of wine, and put your glass down on the table; he follows suit, finishing his entirely, before the two of you turn to face each other head-on. You reach out first, touching his glasses. "Is this…" He nods, and you remove them, placing them next to your wine glass. "How blurry am I?"

He cracks a smile, breaking the hush that had fallen over the room. "A little fuzzy around the edges, but not too bad."

"Okay." You laugh, and lean in a little closer. "How about now?"

"Better."

Closer. "Now?"

"Mm." His voice falls in volume to match yours.

You lean in slightly closer, so that your face is barely an inch from his. "How about—"

You're cut off by his lips against yours.

You've only kissed the one other time. Since then, it's been small touches only: hand holding, forehead kisses, a hand on the small of your back as he escorted you out of the restaurant. But you can't deny that—despite how innocuous all of those moments were—they've only served to fan the flames. To make you wonder what it would be like if he kissed you again.

To make you want to kiss him again.

Every detail is achingly familiar, from the hand cradling your head to the way he smiles against your mouth. The urgency breaks over you like a wave. The kiss at the coffee shop, though it sent a shiver through your spine, was decidedly public-friendly. This is…not that. The kisses deepen, going from closed-mouth to open. Somehow, between him pulling you into him and you pulling him into you, you end up on top of him, straddling him.

Just then, he breaks away.

"I'm sorry. I just—I have to ask," he starts (and no, you were not imagining it before—he is definitely redder than before). You try to catch your breath, wondering why on Earth he has stopped kissing you/what on Earth you might have done wrong/what on Earth you can possibly do to make him kiss you again. "Did I…" He clears his throat. You fight the urge to scream with impatience, especially as he begins to speak again as slowly as possible, as though he is carefully and painstakingly discovering each new word as he goes. "Was there anything in particular about our first—other—kiss that felt—that made it look…not real?"

A smile that can only be described as goofy blossoms across your face as you shake your head.

"Good," he says, expression matching yours, and he pulls you back in.

If the alcohol was making you flushed before, now you could just about catch fire. Every point of contact between the two of you burns with want. His hair between your fingers, the movement of his chest beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt; the press of his thighs to yours where you're straddling him. You roll your hips against his out of instinct, and spend a half-second worrying whether that was too far before he matches the movement, and your brain glitches out for a moment.

Something is happening to you. Something beyond your control. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the late hour, the week you've had, the stress of school and shower issues and unrequited crushing.

But it's also just—Kyoya. The teasing, and the smiles, and the way you feel so comfortable around him. So at ease. The scent of him, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of his body pressed against you, so cool and firm and alive, and you find yourself letting a little whimper into his mouth before you can stop yourself.

The sound seems to set off something in him. In the both of you. Your hands trace a line down his neck, shoulders, and start pulling at his shirt. The hand pressed against your back lowers to the hem of your shirt—his shirt, the loan—and his fingers dance against the bare skin of your hip for a moment before lifting up, and—

The door clicks.