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Kyoya couldn’t remember what they were celebrating any more. It was something anyway, and this thing was at his own house, away from prying eyes and video cameras and his family who were away on business. So Kyoya had nothing to worry about, he could let himself relax and forget, just this once.
It had started with Tamaki bringing over wine. They weren’t technically old enough to drink, but Tamaki had apparently forgotten that as he went on and on about a dessert wine that his family had made, way back when they were still in the wine business. Tamaki was thrilled at having found it, never thinking to see it again, and it was old too, something he remembered from his youth, something he’d try at dinner with grandparents.
The thing about dessert wine was that it was sweet, and the sweetness hid the alcohol and Kyoya had never had any dessert wine before. He got drunk almost immediately. But they’d all been in his living room, sprawled out on the plush white wraparound couch that seemed to wrap around endless. Kaoru was on the soft, sheepskin rug, lounging, not quite drunk talking to Haruhi, perched on the edge of an armchair. The light overhead was low, soft they called it, but it was bright enough to see.
Kyoya had stopped drinking some time ago, forcing his glasses to Tamaki, who was right beside him and really too close and too warm.
Kyoya pushed his face away, but Tamaki’s entire body was leaning into Kyoya’s side, not unpleasantly. They both stank of wine but it was a delicious smell, something that made him want more.
“You’re too close,” Kyoya said.
“Sorry,” Tamaki snaked his arms around Kyoya’s shoulder and buried his face and warm, wet nose in side of Kyoya’s neck. Kyoya was tingly, but it might have been the wine.
Hikaru kept looking at them, kept trying to make rudimentary deduction and Kyoya might have hissed at him, but he was drunk and so shouldn’t be doing anything rash. In fact, he was too drunk to be here with Tamaki, in front of all his friends where he might let something slip. Kyoya dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Kyoya said, hauling Tamaki to his feet. Tamaki clung to him even more, forcing Kyoya to support them both as they strolled and staggered out of the living room and through the empty halls of the Ootori Manor. Kyoya liked empty space. He liked close spaces too, but for different reasons. With open air and emptiness, there was nothing to stop you, nothing to hold you back and everything was free, so much possibility. With close spaces, everything was tight around you, holding you in, securing you.
“That was good wine. I’m glad my dad found that vintage. Maman and I didn’t have a lot of other wine, because of forgery, but we always had our own, and it’s nice to remember…” Tamaki mumbled half into Kyoya’s shoulder.
“Sorry, did you say forged wines?”
“Hmmm. It’s a big problem. Do you want to hear about it?” Tamaki’s breath was hot and wet and sticky on Kyoya’s skin. Kyoya suppressed a shudder. He couldn’t keep holding them both up much longer. He was tired, and still drunk and his foot kept slipping on the tiles.
“Of course I want to hear about it,” Kyoya said, enunciating carefully. He knew what it was like to have a million things to say and no one to listen to. As a child no one had wanted to listen to him talk about military strategy or the Classics, or Greek literature like the Illiad.
It was the kind of thing that ate at you, having no one who wanted to talk about your interests. It made you feel annoying, and then it made you feel stupid, like you didn’t have anything to say that was worth listening to.
Kyoya lead them outside, to a stone bench that overlooked the garden. There were no roses or extravagant, tropical orchards here. Just a stone bench on crest of a downward slope that lead to a pound and a wandering path of magnolia, camellia blossoms and fragrant honeysuckle that wafted over to them, even by the back door.
It was dark outside, but the pound glistened and shone in the night lights, the moon glinting off its dark and shiny surface.
Tamaki hummed, but didn’t say anything until they were both slumped on the bench, looking up at the stars. Kyoya braced his warms on the back of the stone and leaned into the rock.
“You’re pretty,” Tamaki said, staring at the light. Was Tamaki talking to him? Or to the burning stars too far away to hear him?
“How do you forger wine?” Kyoya asked. Tamaki immediately leaned into him, head on Kyoya’s shoulder, just above his heart.
“There’s lots of ways. See one problem is people collect wine, without drinking it, so you could just forge the bottle and label, which isn’t hard since people can forge hologram money and stuff, et alors tu—I mean, so you take like, some cheap wine and you put it in the bottle and sell it. Some vintages can go from 300,000 Euros to 1.4 million. S’a lot.” Tamaki looked up at Kyoya, then shifted, so his nose was pressed just under Kyoya’s jaw.
They were both drunk, Kyoya told himself, forcibly not reading anything to Tamaki’s actions, or Kyoya’s inability to stop them.
“Is that all?”
Tamaki yawned, and this time Kyoya did shudder.
“No. See, a lot of rare vintage, well people don’t know what they’re suppose to taste like, really, because they’re rare so very few people have tasted them. So they approximate. How long the wine was –thing—” Tamaki made a gesture “I don’t know the Japanese word, marinated isn’t right, how long the wine sits, whether it’s in light or dark, age, lots of things can influence how it’s supposed to taste, so the wine tasters and other had an approximate knowledge. But you can buy cheap old wine and new wine that meets those criteria and mix them and the wine tasters say, ‘well this meets the idea of it’s taste’ and then BAM you can sell it and it’s a forgery. My aunt was the wine taster in our family. I mean my second aunt, my mom’s cousin.”
Kyoya listened as Tamaki went on and on about specific wine forgers, how some were caught with carbon dating, how others were never caught at all. Tamaki talked and talked as Kyoya’s head cleared, as the cold started to press in, as Kyoya realized he could hear music coming from inside. Tamaki’s head should be like wise clearing. Not sober yet, but maybe not drunk exactly.
Tamaki didn’t move. His breathy was less sticky sweet, but just as hot on his throat, and he was still insistently pressed into Kyoya’s side.
“And so the Greek wine forger said that wine was supposed to be shared and that’s what God would have wanted.” Tamaki nuzzled closer to Kyoya. Kyoya looked down at him, but his eyes were closed.
“I’m sure Dionysus would have said the same.”
“Do you know a lot about Dionysos...?”
“Yes,” Kyoya said. Tamaki’s arms squeezed where they were wrapped around Kyoya’s waist. Kyoya’s gut leapt, then seemed to sink. He wasn’t sure what to do exactly, wasn’t sure if this was the right thing, if there was a right thing. All he knew was that Tamaki was here. And because Tamaki was here and willing to listen, Kyoya talked about Dionysus. He talked about all he knew about the Greek Gods. He talked about the leaders too, he talked of Achilles and Patroclus and then he talked about the Romans and their emperors and their knock-off gods.
Tamaki listened to all of it, sing songing into Kyoya’s throat as music drifted over them. One of Kyoya’s hands came to rest of Tamaki’s, the other tentatively dropped from the bench to Tamaki’s back.
When Kyoya was finished he sighed, breathing in and out, looking at the pinpricks in the sky, white against midnight black, almost blue.
“Neither of us are drunk enough for this to be meaningless,” Kyoya said. Tamaki stiffened for a moment “maybe meaningless is the wrong word. Unconscious might be better.”
“I know,” Tamaki said. For the first time since sitting down he lifted his head to meet Kyoya’s, bumping their noses, Kyoya’s wet and cold, Tamaki’s warm. He paused them, with Kyoya’s fist buried in the back of Tamaki’s sweater, Kyoya’s other hand threaded between Tamaki’s fingers.
Tamaki’s smelt like sweat and salt and Kyoya licked his lips, angling his head so their mouths brushed. Tamaki’s mouth was soft, and pliant like Tamaki himself was.
As gently as the stone bench would allow, Tamaki guided Kyoya down until Kyoya’s back was flush with the stone seat and Tamaki’s tongue was at his Adam’s apple, and then his lips were at Kyoya’s jaw and their was Tamaki’s open mouth on his.
It was weird at first, disconnected, a series of pleasant but separate events, but then Kyoya’s fingers gripped Tamaki’s hair, nails dragging over scalp, and Kyoya repositioned them, stopping Tamaki from drawing back.
They were kissing. Chaste kisses mingled with tongue, long kisses mingled with short. The hard press of Tamaki against him, moving with him, was the only constant. That and the music, something in English.
They kept kissing, but Tamaki started talking too.
“I really like you,” Tamaki said. Kyoya tried to mumble the same, but his face was pressed to close to form clear words.
“Wah--?” Tamaki’s question was cut off by Kyoya’s mouth, but then he was pulling away and Kyoya sighed.
“I really like you,” Tamaki said. “I don’t…I don’t…I mean it’s not just physical. I like being close to you and cuddling and listening to you talk.” Tamaki’s voice was so quiet, so intimate.
Kyoya’s heart was hammering in his chest, telling him to lie, or maybe try to avoid answering all together. This would be the last time they’d ever get to do this, and Kyoya should enjoy this, not waste it with words. Tamaki would go off with Haruhi soon and—
“I mean it. I like you. I…I…I think we should date,” Tamaki’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I know you might think I should run off with someone else, but I want to be with you.” Tamaki forearms were braced on either side of Kyoya, but his hands and fingers were long enough to caress Kyoya’s cheekbone.
“I love you,” Kyoya whispered, almost to himself “but you should—”
“I can make my own decisions Kyoya.” Tamaki leaned in, leaving a hair width between this mouths, but stopped short. “I don’t want this to be the last time we’re like this. I want to hold each other and—” Kyoya kissed him, if only to shut him up. There was only so much sap he could take.
The stone bench was starting to be uncomfortable and Kyoya shifted, banging his knee on the back and swearing.
“Maybe we should move somewhere more comfortable, like you’re bedroom.”
Kyoya’s face heated up and his gut felt like it’d been knifed. “I don’t want—”
“Only this,” Tamaki said, nosing Kyoya’s cheek. “Only this, just somewhere that’s not rock.” They’d been gone for an hour at least, probably more, and if they headed up to Kyoya’s room, someone was bound to come looking for him and they were bound to find him with Tamaki. This wasn’t going to be some well kept secret. This wasn’t going to be something they could avoid the next day. But Tamaki was stroking Kyoya’s face and Kyoya had lost his glasses at some point, or maybe they were on his head, but with Tamaki backlit by the moon, smiling like the sun with the stars in his eyes, Kyoya could think of nothing else he could ever want.
“Only this,” Kyoya agreed, and sat up.