Work Text:
I can't love you how you want me to
I can't love you how you want me to
I can't love you how you want me to
Bite The Hand by boygenius
Tamaki usually needs, and usually gets, his failures spelt out for him. So that there is no mistake. His missteps are always just that, missteps. Accidental. He doesn't want to hurt. But he does.
Everything has changed.
The club can feel it, even though Tamaki and Kyoya comport themselves in much the same manner as before. Tamaki certainly feels it. He feels it every time he measures and tracks the space between him and Kyoya. He feels it whenever they are alone together for more than a few minutes and the secret, the before, rises between them and makes Kyoya move even further and makes Tamaki think of a million things he could excuse himself to do.
Being alone with Kyoya is different.
Tamaki constantly catches himself reaching to be tactile with Kyoya. Tamaki constantly catches Kyoya Tamaki's aborted movements, and Tamaki has memorized, and is haunted, by the hurt and self-loathing that flickers across Kyoya's face. Too brief to pinpoint. Unless you're Tamaki. Unless you know.
But their friends have a sharp eye, and soon enough, Haruhi is sent Tamaki's way.
Haruhi, a girl, who is safe.
Haruhi, so very lovely, who any man would be privileged to love.
She finds him by the fountain where, once upon a time, Tamaki had fished out her wallet. She finds him when Tamaki has Kyoya's words swimming his head, an agglomeration of forget it, we're the best, and you're pretty.
She says something to catch his attention but Tamaki misses the words. He looks up at her blankly.
She's so very pretty.
"Tell me what's wrong, senpai," Haruhi says, not an order but permission.
"I don't think I did anything wrong. But, Kyoya is hurting, and it's all very awful, and I don't know what to do, how to fix it."
"Tell me, Tamaki."
Tamaki does. He tells all.
It's important that everyone know that Tamaki cares for his friends. And that when he says he loves them, he doesn't mean it like that.
Tamaki doesn't know what to do after what happens, so he waits a bit, hoping clarity will strike. He waits all afternoon, and then a day more, and then the weekend is almost gone and Tamaki can't stand not having cleared this with Kyoya. Can't stomach walking into the academy and not being allowed Kyoya.
So he goes to Kyoya's mansion.
At the end of the day, Tamaki has no right to push himself into Kyoya's space. His home. Not anymore, if he ever really did. His permission was always Kyoya's easy, if not thorned with insults, reception of him. But now, things have changed. Tamaki knew it was so when he felt apprehension heavy in his chest before he stepped onto the grounds. But, if he doesn't push closer, would Kyoya just spiral out of reach? Even if Tamaki doesn't understand, can't understand, doesn't he owe it to Kyoya to try. Wouldn't that mean something?
Once upon a time, Tamaki would have barged through that door and claimed all of Kyoya's attention as if it was his birthright. This time, Tamaki knocks.
So, of course, Kyoya wasn't expecting him.
So, of course, when Kyoya grants permission to enter he doesn't know who he's granting it to.
So he has no time to steel himself--- and if Tamaki's mind were less of a jumbled of confusion, guilt, and low-level simmering repulsion, he would have granted Kyoya at least that, but he didn't think of it and he doesn't--- and Tamaki sees Kyoya's face slacken, crease with pain, and then smooth over.
"Forget it," Kyoya says, face impassive. "We don't have to talk about it. In fact, if you have any desire to keep our friendship somewhat intact then you'll pretend it never happened."
"Okay," agrees Tamaki. "Yes." Kyoya looks relieved until... "Just..."
"No," Kyoya snaps. "Forget it. Tamaki."
"You kissed me, Kyoya."
Kyoya's eyes flicker around the room, as if it's bugged, and he's practically vibrating his tension. The shirt he's wearing is thin, so thin that Tamaki can make out the exact details of his chest, if he were so inclined. Tamaki doesn't know where he's allowed to look anymore.
"Leave," Kyoya says lowly. "Or, I swear, Tamaki."
"I do love you, just not---," Tamaki tries.
Kyoya crosses the room to be closer to Tamaki, and Tamaki, for the first time in forever, has to force himself not to back away. He used to inhale Kyoya's air; now, he's afraid to breathe.
"I was drunk," Kyoya says, quieter now. Pleading, almost. "I was drunk, and you were in drag."
Tamaki had told himself that, too. But...
"You called me by name, Kyoya." Tamaki tries to read his face, his handsome face, and then, scared of what he might find there, he looks abruptly away. "You knew it was me. That's why I... Kyoya, I just need you to know how I feel."
Kyoya's laugh was jarringly loud, in comparison to his previous frantic whispers, but it still doesn't register over the blood rushing in Tamaki's ears. His face has never felt this hot before. He's sure of it.
"I know how you feel, Tamaki. Everyone does! You're hardly the mysterious typ---."
"I love you," Tamaki interrupts him, heart lodged in his throat. He looks up, spitting the next words out quickly. Kyoya is frozen, mouth open around aborted words. "As a friend. My dearest friend. My closest friend."
And that's all doesn't need to be said, but Tamaki says it anyway.
"I know that," Kyoya says, very very pale. "I know that more than anyone."
"Okay."
Kyoya nods once, jaw working, and Tamaki searches desperately for words to say. Kyoya's biting his lip, working it to pinkness, and Tamaki looks away abruptly. Dread is cold in his chest, something heavy is pulling at his gut. The air between them feels too thin, and any possible movement feels like it might be explosive.
"I'll see you in class," Kyoya finally says. "Goodbye."
"Okay," Tamaki breathes, or more like, the words are punched out of him. "Goodbye, mon ami."
Kyoya doesn't say anything else, gaze set on the wall, and Tamaki walks quickly out the door. His mind races. Is Kyoya watching him go? Were they standing too close? How could his heart be lodged up his throat, but still racing, still keeping Tamaki perpetually red-faced. How? How?
On a good day, Tamaki doesn't think about his flaws and failures. He doesn't sit with criticism even though he takes it to heart. Life was movement; love was elastic. In fact, even if a day starts to sour Tamaki does all he can to turn it right around. Life is fairy tale; magic is good. This works out for the most part. It works up until Tamaki is confronted with his failures, and forced to swallow them. To look into the eyes of his crime. Tamaki doesn't want to hurt anybody, and he especially doesn't want to hurt his friends, Kyoya, but he does, and he did.
"You kissed me," breathes Tamaki, feeling too cold and too hot all at once. His face heats, and Tamaki wants to cover the color, cover his mouth, but his arms feel too heavy. He can't move. He can barely breathe.
Kyoya---previously wine-drunk and soft, sweet, and kissing Tamaki--- freezes, and seems to sober up immediately. His face losing all its rosy hue.
(Tamaki pointedly doesn't think about how he, not as uninhibited, let him, for longer than he had processed it.)
Kyoya swallows hard, as if looking for the words, and maybe he finds them, since he looks up, with wet, shining eyes, and Tamaki can't stand it, and so, leaning forward abruptly, he says, quickly, seriously, urgently:
"I forgive you."
Kyoya's breaths are coming quick, and he leans back, before simply scrambling away. He's on the other end of the couch before he's standing behind the arm. His movements were frantic, jittery, and clumsy in ways they never were before.
"I need to go," Kyoya says, sounding a bit stiff and a bit choked. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't, I didn't mean it."
Tamaki wants to believe him, but he knows when Kyoya is lying. He knows.
Kyoya grabs his bag and coat gracelessly, and flees the room.
"I forgive you," Tamaki repeats to no one.
His lips were tingling like crazy. The tightness in his chest choked the breath right out of him.
Tamaki knows his flaws in an abstract sort of way. They've been spelt out for him enough times. He has many, many, costly whims, and he knows that Kyoya has paid the price for them before. But he was never ready for this.
The club does drag and it's a hit like Tamaki knew it would be.
Haruhi, never one to linger after club hours, had been a particularly large hit. (Second, only to Tamaki himself.) She had wearied of the heavy dresses quickly and was glad to change and excuse herself the second the clock struck true. Some sort of version of Cinderella there. The twins left quickly after, walking and talking business with some of the guests who liked the designs and were interested in buying some for themselves. Hani cited a promotion at one of his favorite bakeries, and just like that both he and Mori disappeared as soon as they wiped the makeup off their face.
It's just Tamaki and Kyoya in the room.
Tamaki, still dressed and dolled up, looks over at a remarkably immaculate Kyoya. He was wearing his uniform so neatly, it was as if he had never been in drag. Kyoya was good like that, turning things on and off, becoming anew with Tamaki. He can keep up.
He keeps up so well, that Tamaki likes slowing down with him---to make it up to him.
"You should change," Kyoya advises, looking up briefly from whatever he's calculating on his ledger. "Our limos will be here any time now."
"They won't," Tamaki says easily, grinning wide when Kyoya looks up sharply. "I told them to hold off an hour, or two."
"Tamaki."
Tamaki leans down and reaches into his bag, luxuriating in Kyoya's attention, and pulls out the bottle out proudly. "It's your favorite."
Kyoya raises a brow and scoots closer, to better examine the label. He scoffs, "It's your favorite."
"Our favorite."
"You're ridiculous," Kyoya tells him, even as he stands and moves to retrieve the glasses they keep in the cupboards. "Why on campus of all places."
"Because we're invincible!" Tamaki cheers. "Nothing is going to happen to us. Say it. Say 'we're the best'."
Kyoya returns with the glasses and a reluctant smile, but his eyes are soft. Bright. Tamaki feels that warm his chest.
"Say it, Kyoya," Tamaki demands. "Say it, or I'm drinking alone. And if I get alcohol poisoning then..."
"You're an idiot."
"We're idiots, then."
Kyoya rolls his eyes, and sets the glasses down on the table. "I think that has to be the only explanation some days."
Tamaki pours both glasses, not wanting to waste time.
He hands Kyoya his glass first, after stealing a sip, and their fingers brush over the stem. Tamaki doesn't think anything of it, then. He will later. But not then.
They talk as they sip.
Gradually moving closer. Tamaki doesn't know who moves closer to who. He wishes he knew, but he doesn't.
They drink, and slowly, Kyoya---faster to succumb to drink-- is pinking and getting looser. Tamaki adores seeing his friend like this. Light, young, and unburdened. Free, and unreserved.
Tamaki sets their wine glasses down when they're officially out. (Truth be told, there was a portion or two left in there, but Kyoya doesn't need any more.) Kyoya was laughing at his every other sentence, but sweetly, not edged with anything other than giddy joy, and Tamaki was frankly addicted.
There, right there, Tamaki can get Kyoya to do anything.
"Say we're the best," cajoles Tamaki. "C'mon, mon ami."
Kyoya's face was open with wonder when he agrees, "We're the best."
They have another conversation, slightly disjointed from the previous one, and Tamaki wishes he could recall it exactly.
"I'm taking you to France one day," Tamaki tells Kyoya. "You're going to love it. Mother is going to love you."
"Tamaki," Kyoya sighs. "You make it so impossible..."
"Impossible to what?"
And Kyoya leans forward the few extra inches needed and slides his lips over Tamaki's.
Tamaki's friends are objectively attractive. He's always thought them all very, very pretty. He knows this. They know that about him.
Less known fact is that Kyoya is also one of the first of his peers that he saw not on TV. That he interacted with. So, Kyoya set the bar very, very high. And, ever since, Kyoya has been the bar, on attractiveness in Japan, on attractiveness in general, and that doesn't mean anything.
The club is making noise somewhere to the left.
Tamaki is grudgingly unlacing the corset back of Kyoya's dress. Purple suits him so well. Kyoya opted to wear a undershirt under the dress, and it's slightly damp with sweat, but Tamaki doesn't mind it one bit. He much rather do this than one of those mischievous twins. What if they sneak a photo and have Kyoya, compromised, in their next pervert website feature?
He slides the dress of Kyoya's shoulders and moves to help him step out of it, but Kyoya moves away, dress still hanging off his biceps.
"I'm good," Kyoya tells him. "Here, I'll help unlace you."
"No, I'm going to stay like this."
"Why?"
"I don't want the day to end yet."
Kyoya rolls his eyes, but it's softened by the smile tugging on his mouth.
His lashes are coated dark and curled high. His lips are tinted a husky deep rose-pink, and his cheeks are pink and glittering. He looks like a doll. Like, an idol. He looks like the kind of princess that some men would have gone to war for, back when wars were about love and desire, back when violence made a bit more sense.
"I'll help you take off your makeup," Tamaki volunteers.
"I got it," Kyoya says, turning around and towards the mirror, inspecting his face critically.
"I know," Tamaki says, moving closer with the wipes. "I want to, though you make a pretty girl."
Kyoya makes a pretty girl, but he's a boy.
He's a boy.
Kyoya looks at him through the mirror. His expression is hard to read, for a moment, but then, simply, he says, "You're pretty, too."
He's Tamaki's friend.
Bite The Hand by boygenius