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Tamaki feels the warm sunlight on his face even before he opens his eyes. His nostrils subtly flare upon his slowly blooming consciousness as he registers his surroundings—the always crisp, sharp, clean scent of Kyouya’s room; the hints of lavender and sage in his sheets; the bitter black coffee that he drinks every morning.
He’d gotten Kyouya a Keurig for his birthday last year, something to keep in his room so he wouldn’t have to walk so far to the kitchen. In front of their friends, Kyouya had smiled warmly and thanked him, placing the gifts in the comically-large pile of stuff from the other hosts. Of course, he’d somehow persuaded Haruhi to give Kyouya something to compliment his own gift—a starter pack of coffee, 48 k-cups of various brands and flavors—peppermint mocha, pumpkin spice, hazelnut crème, the like. It was a good gift—thoughtful, practical, and it saved the poor little girl from feeling totally inadequate in light of the other presents of Louis Vuitton bags and Prada shoes (those gifts being from the twins, naturally).
In private, Kyouya had thanked him a more delicious, intimate way.
But that’s neither here nor there. The coffee—Tamaki opens his eyes and blinks up at the other boy. Kyouya’s shirtless—always a welcome sight that gets Tamaki going no matter the circumstances—and cross-legged on the bed, insulated travel mug in one hand, other stretched out over his laptop, sleek and expensive, only personalized by the little pineapple decal on the back—a goofy souvenir from Tamaki’s first trip to Hawaii after he’d moved to Japan in middle school. Pineapples—the symbol of friendship...and Kyouya had come to school the next day, with the sticker on the back of the Macbook, never saying a word about it.
Tamaki smiles at the memory, remembering how giddy he’d felt when he’s seen his simple sticker put to such personal use. He reaches out to Kyouya’s leg—his lower half is, unfortunately, swaddled in sweatpants a size too big—and pets across his slender thigh.
“Good morning,” says Kyouya quietly, brows furrowing as he clicks to a different window. “Stocks are down a little.”
Tamaki clicks his tongue. “Ah.”
Kyouya shrugs, sips his coffee, clears his throat. “S’fine. I’ve already been on the phone with my personal broker this morning, who has of course been in contact with the hospital board. We won’t lose much, if any.” He gestures broadly. “It’s so easy for them to move our investments around, sell a few dozen shares. I’m not worried.”
Tamaki frowns. He’s taken economics classes all his life, but he’s still not as smart as Kyouya in all of this. “Should I be worried?”
Kyouya shakes his head, pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, takes another long drag from his cup. “I checked with the Suoh investments first.”
It’s a small detail, trivial—it really is. But the fact that Kyouya thought to check with Tamaki’s family holdings in whatever thousands of businesses they have a stake in, before checking with the Ootori stocks...it’s a lot to Tamaki, and he bites his lip, sniffs hard, and grips Kyouya’s pants leg.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
“Don’t mention it,” and Kyouya looks down at him, and smiles.
Tamaki’s heart clenches in the best way. His best friend—boyfriend—is so damn beautiful, he doesn’t know what to do. Tamaki is beautiful himself, of course—he knows this, but he’s mixed, a blend of two wildly different nationalities, ethnicities. Kyouya is a hundred percent, purebred Japanese, and Tamaki can’t stop staring at his slender face, his beautiful dark eyes, his silky black hair...
“What?” Kyouya’s pretty wide mouth upticks at the corners, his trademark smirk. He sips his coffee.
“I’m in love, can’t you tell?” asks Tamaki quietly.
Kyouya snorts. “Again with your flowery sentiments.”
Tamaki hums. “You’re gorgeous,” he says simply. It’s like saying the sun is hot—true, and an understatement, all at the same time.
Kyouya’s face stays void of emotion, but he exhales as though he’s been punched in the gut. Tamaki is so free with his affections, his compliments—it's overwhelming, when you’ve been ignored your whole life, and effectively painted into a box you feel you can’t escape. He shuts his laptop and twists, setting it on the bedside table, along with his insulated coffee mug. He turns over on his side, lying down outstretched, and opens his arms.
It’s the only invitation Tamaki needs to scramble into Kyouya’s warm embrace.