Work Text:
(The question, when asked, was always an innocent one. It wasn’t Ranka’s fault that Kyoya disliked answering it.
Regardless, Kyoya always tried to be honest when it came to describing his family. People never believed your boasts if they found you were telling lies.)
His father was well-liked. He was personable, but pragmatic - and the pinnacle of success. He’d been Kyoya’s role model since Kyoya could lift his head.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ootori,” said the photographer who had let them in. “It shouldn’t take us too long. We’ll just get everyone positioned and take the photo, and then I’ll have you go talk to my colleague over there for your article.” The colleague in question nodded his greeting, then bowed.
“It’s wonderful to meet you both,” said Yoshio, bowing shortly in return. “Thank you so much for taking the time to work with us today. I look forward to seeing the fruits of your labor.”
His mother was a busy woman. She was magnificently beautiful, always well-dressed and poised, and from a powerful family. (Kyoya’s blood ran blue in two straight lines.) And she was very cultured.
“Hello, dear. How is Dubai?” Yoshio asked blandly as his wife blew into the studio on expensive platform heels.
“Let’s get this over with quick, Yoshio, I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be,” she said. She glanced around the room. “My, Kyoya, you’ve grown. How old are you now?”
“Fifteen, madam,” he replied easily.
His oldest brother, Yuuichi, was everything their father had hoped he would be. He’d graduated at the top of his class from Ouran Academy, and had earned high grades throughout earning his MD, plus a Bachelor’s in business. He married high and already had a son on the way - which, yes, meant Kyoya was going to be an uncle. No, he wasn’t excited. He wasn’t bothered either. Truly, he was simply indifferent.
Yuuichi politely entered the room, pregnant wife in tow. She gave the family a smile framed perfectly by her stylishly cut hair. “So sorry, are we late?” said Yuuichi with a short bow. “Please excuse us, Minori was experiencing some morning sickness.”
“Not at all,” Yoshio waved off. “One mustn't rush a lady with child.”
Minori expressed her gratitude. Kyoya wondered, meanly, if she had a personality under all that sweetness. But it wasn’t her fault she was present, when others weren’t.
“Now that everyone’s here, if we wouldn’t mind getting into position for the photo?” said the photographer hopefully.
“Of course,” agreed the oldest son, and hurried his wife further onto the set.
Fuyumi, his older sister, was married as well. Thankfully, her matrimony was to a man she loved and who loved her in return. Kyoya had attended her wedding, of course, and it had been beautiful; she’d planned it perfectly. Fuyumi was also the kindest of them all, and therefore the angriest. (In truth, Kyoya respected her fiercely. If her arrangement with Shido ever turned sour, there would be hell to pay from at least two people: Fuyumi herself, and her little brother.)
“I hope you won’t feel too lonely without me in there with you,” fretted Fuyumi in the car outside. Perhaps it was to continue to feel included, or perhaps it was for Kyoya’s sake, but Fuyumi had volunteered to drive Kyoya to the studio from school herself… Perhaps it was both.
“I won’t,” said Kyoya.
Fuyumi sighed, knuckles turning white on the wheel. “I wish I could go in there with you, at least.”
“You should probably go back to your family, Onee-chan.” Kyoya opened the car door.
Akito, his second brother, was… driven. And intelligent.
The Ootoris who had arrived early - meaning Yoshio, Kyoya, and Akito - sat in the lobby while waiting for photographer and journalist to finish setting up. Kyoya was working through his math homework. Akito was gearing up for a fight.
“I’m just saying, I think I could handle the upcoming project just as well as Yuuichi, if not better! I’m almost through medical school, I already have my bachelor’s, and my grades are just as high as his--”
“If you want it so badly,” said Yoshio, idly flipping through the day’s newspaper, which he’d apparently brought with him, “you and Kyoya can compete for it.”
“Are you serious?” argued Akito. “I have to compete with a first-year in high school? I’m more than a decade older than him!”
“But you’re not the oldest,” dismissed Yoshio.
Then the door to the studio set opened, and Kyoya closed his notebook.
The photographer lined them up, with Yoshio tall and steady, then his oldest son and his son’s wife on his left, and his own wife on his right. On her right was Akito, and Kyoya next to him. Still miffed from earlier, Akito rested his hand on Kyoya’s shoulder in a brotherly fashion, and pushed down painfully.
“I know you can stand taller than that, Kyoya,” said Yoshio, looking into the mirror opposite them.
“Yes, sir,” said Kyoya, and exerted his spine harder against Akito’s pressure.
And finally, of course, there was Kyoya. The third son.
The photographer snapped the picture.