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Tokyo is too bright at Christmas time. Slick smiles, advertising and special promotions, everything hard and commercial.
The weather is so cold, the climate arid, drying out the skin of Kyoya’s face and making his lips chapped. His required smiles pull at him more than they usually do.
He feels like he might have some sort of illness. Something that saps his energy, makes his limbs heavy. The days are short, the nights long, somehow he sleeps even more than he normally does.
Finals are over and winter break approaches. Kyoya will be top of the class again. There is an unopened envelope from Harvard in his top desk drawer, thick and heavy. He already knows what it contains. His early acceptance, his future secured.
They are in their final year. The host club takes up almost no time. Kyoya is used to it, the smooth ebb and flow of their wild shenanigans. There is no need to put in any extra effort. School is almost over. Soon they will all be moving on.
There is nothing to trouble him, and so Kyoya does not know the meaning behind this sense of intense pressure, this urgency he feels. He wakes in the night, drenched in sweat, his heart racing. He sits down to breakfast with his father and brothers, but the food is unappetizing, his stomach roils. He gets out of his car at school, and sees Tamaki across the courtyard. Tamaki waves at him, smiling his best, glittery smile. Kyoya feels something twist inside him, the pressure building, the sickness reaching a fever pitch. He needs to do something. He needs to do something or he is sure he will die of it. He just wishes he knew what it was.
~~~
They are reading The Great Gatsby for their English class. As they wait for the others in the club room, Tamaki reads passages aloud to him, his accent perfect, fluent. He has a gift for languages.
It’s peaceful. Only the two of them. The day is overcast, the sky heavy with the promise of snow. Tamaki’s musical voice rises and falls and fills the empty room.
“Kyoya,” Tamaki says, growing bored, draping himself over the back of Kyoya’s chair. “You haven’t told me all of our plans for winter break!”
Kyoya feels that he should be annoyed at this bold assumption. He will be very busy with his studies, his college preparations, the endless New Year parties that his parents will parade him through. He does not have time to plan a series of entertainments (though he always does, anyway). For some reason, his usual irritation eludes him.
He is about to make some suggestions when the rest of the host club troops into the room. Tamaki is distracted, racing away.
Tamaki fawns over Haruhi throughout their club meeting. She allows it. Kyoya presents the numbers, while nobody listens. The Hitachiins carefully pour sparkly confetti into Tamaki’s hair while Hani tries not to give them away by giggling.
“Let’s have a big event before the end of the year! A holiday party!” Tamaki suggests.
“There’s no time for that,” Kyoya says. “We’ll continue as usual.”
His voice is more short and abrupt than it normally is. Tamaki looks at him briefly. But then he turns to laugh at something Haruhi is saying. The conversation and chatter resumes around them.
Kyoya observes them all, as he always does. Hani reaches for the cake. Mori pours him more tea. The twins grin at each other, dusting confetti off their hands. Tamaki pines away over Haruhi, and Kyoya watches him do it.
~~~
In the Ootori household, breakfast is a time for business, and dinner is a time for family, when the parents dine at home.
More often, they are out for the evening, attending some formal function. Their father, polished in his tuxedo. Their mother, a society beauty, perfect in one of her kimonos. She has countless colors and patterns. Made from only the finest silk, light as air, each one costing more than a luxury car.
When their parents dine at home, their father dominates the conversation. His voice carries through every room.
He quizzes his sons about their progress in various areas. They answer promptly. Kyoya always answers last and his answers, he knows, are the least interesting.
At times, his father is displeased.
“Akito,” he chides his second son. “You should already have your choice of MBA programs. Why are you dallying in your applications?”
“I apologize, Father. I’ve been occupied with my medical school coursework.”
“Getting bogged down in the work you have now is no excuse for neglecting your future.”
“My darling,” Kyoya’s mother cuts in. “If I recall correctly, even you struggled in Professor Suzuki’s course.”
“That old dragon? Is he still teaching?”
Their father is distracted. Their mother laughs her usual polite laugh. Akito looks away. Outside, snow starts to fall.
~~~
In class the next afternoon, Kyoya watches Tamaki tap his pencil against the shiny wood of his desk. His friend is always moving to some internal rhythm.
Tamaki’s tie is loosened at the end of the school day, the top button of his shirt coming undone, a peek of neckline. Catching the eye of every girl in the room, no doubt.
The teacher has left them to their own devices. The classroom is buzzing with the breathless rush of winter break. Their fellow students move in groups, cluster, form patterns that reveal their intentions and desires. The degrees of their usefulness.
Tamaki tries to get Kyoya’s attention.
“Kyoya,” he says. “You still haven’t told me about our plans for the holiday! Are we going to look at the illuminations this weekend? What about holiday shopping together?”
Tamaki brings his pencil to rest against his lips and Kyoya’s eyes follow it.
“Stop bothering me,” Kyoya snaps. He feels too hot. They’re always turning on the heaters too high at this school. “I’m trying to finish this.”
He goes back to his notebook. He waits for Tamaki to turn away. They both listen to the snippets of their classmates in idle conversation.
“And where will you go during the break, Nakajima-san?”
“To my family’s chalet in Megève, the French alps are ideal this time of year.”
“Ah! It’s been years since our last trip to France! Perhaps this summer along the Riviera.”
Tamaki looks down at his hands.
Kyoya notices. He always notices because he always watches.
“Fine,” Kyoya says. “Let’s have a party.”
Tamaki’s eyes brighten.
~~~
At dinner that evening, Kyoya’s father slams his fist down on the table, glaring at his eldest son.
“Yuichi, you will not let them bring the drug to market before us.”
Yuichi bows his head.
“I apologize, Father. We are working as fast as we can, but even at this rate, we will not obtain the necessary approvals before our rivals do.”
“This is unacceptable!” their father roars.
“So you say, my darling,” their mother says calmly. “But you must remember that my dear friends the Kojimas have promised to hold the shipping lines. So even if your rivals go to production, the distribution will be delayed until your product is ready.”
“Ah, I had forgotten,” says their father, mollified.
Kyoya knows that his father will come home tomorrow with roses. Or, if the deal is big, with a red box from Cartier, or a set of the finest Mikimoto pearls.
His mother always looks happy. So thoughtful, she says, when she receives these gifts.
After dinner, Kyoya goes up to his bedroom. He takes a package out from underneath his bed, where he has been hiding it like a filthy magazine, and unwraps it from the brown department store paper.
There’s the jewel bright box, the festive bow at the top. Kyoya opens it. Inside is an ornament. Kyoya feels a sick, sick wave in his stomach when he looks at it, when he remembers the impulse to buy it. It’s not like him.
Silver, sparkling, a delicate snowflake. Sentimental, the foolish kind of trinket that his friend would adore.
But I won’t give it to him, Kyoya thinks. There can be no possible benefit.
~~~
Exams are over. Nobody is paying attention to the teacher. They are all waiting for the long holiday, waiting for their exam results. They watch a movie in English class. The Great Gatsby.
“A cultural experience,” their teacher says. “It is commonly thought to be a wonder of western cinema.”
Tamaki, typically, is transfixed the whole time by all that romance and tragedy. Kyoya is also transfixed, in his own way. The dark classroom is hushed and dreamlike, people are sleeping in their chairs, whispering in the background.
Tamaki leans forward, his school tie dragging over his desk, his expression intent as he watches the story play out. His beautiful, sympathetic eyes fill with tears as the music swells to a crescendo near the end. Kyoya finds himself flinching, startled, at the sound of the final gunshot. He realizes that he hasn’t been watching the screen at all.
~~~
In the club room, it’s only the two of them again. Kyoya frantically plans a large holiday event. Inspired by the jazz age, Tamaki’s latest fancy. There will be 1920s cosplay.
Kyoya is irritated. As usual, he has capitulated to Tamaki’s passing whim, and is left with all the work that accompanies it.
But Tamaki plays the piano, favoring him with Christmas carols while he works. Tamaki plays so beautifully, that sometimes Kyoya forgets where he is, who he is. Sing choirs of angels, he thinks. Oh come let us adore him.
“Christmas is a time for family,” says Tamaki, breaking off halfway through his song, starting his thought in the middle and expecting Kyoya to understand, as he always does. Kyoya always understands.
“Maybe in the west,” Kyoya says. “To me, it seems like an ideal time for corporations to encourage consumerism.”
“It’s a magical time!” Tamaki pouts. “Anyway...there are lights.”
Kyoya assumes that he is talking of the elaborate, million strand displays in the financial district shopping malls.
“We should look at them,” Tamaki says. “This weekend?”
“Perhaps,” says Kyoya.
“I have such fond Christmas memories,” says Tamaki wistfully. “I remember I used to love lying under the tree. The smell of it. The light through the branches.”
“Mm,” says Kyoya, not looking up from his laptop.
“Let’s try to reproduce that for our guests! I think we need at least twenty Christmas trees!”
Kyoya lets out a huff of breath. “So you say, Tamaki. I think one large one should suffice. But I’m willing to have it professionally decorated and it will look quite elegant.”
“Professionally decorated?” asks Tamaki. He stands up from the piano bench, he comes to sit beside Kyoya on the sofa, peering at his laptop. “That’s no fun.”
But then he spends long minutes clicking through the photos of tree designs on Kyoya’s screen, exclaiming over each one.
“Kyoya, you’ll decorate the tree with me, won’t you? At my house? You always do.”
Tamaki leans into his space. So close that Kyoya can see the rings of violet around his pupils, count his pale eyelashes. Kyoya’s eyes flicker to Tamaki’s mouth. Kyoya feels a wild sensation of losing control, skidding over ice, speeding toward a crash. He snaps his laptop shut.
“No,” he says. “I’ll be busy. I have to go.”
“But Christmas is a time for--”
“Stop bothering me, Tamaki!”
Kyoya pushes him out of the way, stands up abruptly, shoves his laptop into his bag. He walks out of the room and slams the door on Tamaki’s crestfallen face.
Then he is overcome with guilt. He knows that this time of year is difficult for his friend. Usually Kyoya has plans, distractions. Usually he’s already thought about all this.
He doesn’t know why he is so prickly, so harsh with Tamaki lately. He knows that he can have his father’s temper. There’s only a thin layer of cool dispassion over the roiling anger and jealousy underneath. And beneath that, much deeper, the rest of him, the parts of himself he shields from anyone else, the feelings he works so hard to keep inside but that are the center of him, the molten core of the earth, always waiting to erupt.
Kyoya thinks of his father’s face, drawn in anger, of his father making a tight, tight fist. This is how such things go. Violence received, violence perpetuated. Kyoya thinks that perhaps the only way he knows how to love is violently.
~~~
That evening, Fuyumi joins them for dinner. Everyone is pleased to see her.
“Fuyumi, you should not be here,” says their father, but without much bite. He rarely scolds his only daughter. “You belong in your husband’s house.”
Fuyumi looks down at her plate. This is why she never stays.
“He is so old fashioned,” says their mother. “Will I see you for tea tomorrow, my darling?”
Fuyumi smiles. This is why she always comes back.
Kyoya observes his mother, and he thinks that he understands her.
Kyoya’s mother goes out for her afternoon teas with her friends.
She teaches mathematics at the university, as her hobby.
She appreciates handicrafts, traditional teacups and pottery.
She is able to recognize and quickly identify antiques.
She likes to spend her mornings in her garden, where she spritzes her prize orchids with water imported from the Swiss alps.
Yoshio Ootori’s elder sons take after him. They are loud and bold, firm in their decisions. Even Fuyumi is outspoken, quick with her opinion. Kyoya’s mother is different. She is thoughtful, considered, rarely seen. A shadow.
~~~
The host club's 1920s themed Christmas party is a massive financial success. There’s mistletoe. A line of girls wait eagerly, hoping for Tamaki’s kiss. They pay for the opportunity to wait.
“Does this bother you?” asks Haruhi. In a tone that indicates she herself is bothered. But it is unclear what part of it troubles her.
“No,” says Kyoya. “Profits are up. Why should it?”
They are standing in the kitchen. Kyoya is tallying the tea to be ordered, writing in his ledger.
“You’ve been too hard on him lately,” she says. “I don’t think you need to be.”
Haruhi has that unstudied prettiness, the kind that people fall over themselves for, resplendent in her jazz age look. She is the kind of person who knows how to love.
“Why should it matter to you?” Kyoya asks.
“I’ve had enough of taking care of people,” says Haruhi, with her usual brutal honesty. “But I think you like to do it. At least with him. With all of us.”
“Really?” Kyoya asks, his voice is flat and unamused.
“Yes,” she says, smiling, setting the coffee pot on a tray. “He seems sad. I don’t think you will allow it to continue.”
He finally gives her the benefit of his annoyed look. “I don’t think I can do much about it.”
Haruhi sighs. She says, “You’ve always been good at redirecting his attention.”
~~~
That night, Kyoya dreams of Gatsby, blond and pining. He dreams of the elegant parties. He dreams of the girls, always girls, fluttering butterflies in his friend’s periphery. He dreams of what it feels like to always watch. He wakes, gasping, at the scent of blood in the water. Shaken, at how quickly a wondrous illusion can be dismantled.
~~~
The first day of winter break dawns bright and cold. Kyoya returns to his room after breakfast. He opens his book to study and ignores the constant pinging of his phone.
Around eleven, a soft knock comes at his door.
“My my, Kyoya, are you still at home?” his mother asks. “Don’t you have plans with your friends today?”
Her eyes alight on the brightly wrapped package, sitting glaring and obvious on Kyoya’s desk. Kyoya’s father is cunning. He thinks far ahead. But his mother knows everything, sees everything in front of her.
“What’s this?” she asks. “May I?”
Without waiting, she opens the box to reveal the bright, delicate secret at the heart of it.
“What a lovely ornament,” she says, and her voice is surprised. They don’t put up a tree at home. “Kyoya, you mustn’t waste the day here. Why don’t you go out for the afternoon?”
“I’d better study,” Kyoya says.
She places the lid carefully back on the box.
“A gift like this is meant to be given,” she says.
Kyoya waits for her to ask who it is for, to smile slyly and guess the young lady.
But she holds the box out to him. She says, “Give young Suoh our regards.”
~~~
Tamaki links his arm through Kyoya’s. “Come along, mon ami!”
The light turns green. Go.
They cross the street, into one of the bustling high-end Ginza shopping centers.
Taking Tamaki to the mall is a unique level of hell, Kyoya thinks. Especially now, when it’s packed with people crowding the seasonal booths. Tamaki stops to coo over every display, chat with every salesperson.
They buy gifts for all of their friends--custom chocolate boxes, softly woven scarves and mittens. The finest, freshly baked dog biscuits for Antoinette’s stocking.
They walk through the park as it gets dark, just in time to watch as the lights come on through the trees. It's ethereal and strange, the brilliant whites and blues against the dark sky. Tamaki's smile is wide and wondering. Kyoya watches the clouds of his breath disappear into the cold air beside his friend's.
“Let’s go back to my house for hot chocolate!” Tamaki suggests. And then, laughing at Kyoya’s revolted expression, he says, “I’ll make coffee for you.”
When they get back to Suoh Mansion #2, there’s a Christmas tree in the entryway. Bare. Waiting to be decorated.
Kyoya feels that hot, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the small box burning where it rests at the bottom of his bag.
The servants light a fire in the fireplace before disappearing. Tamaki hands Kyoya a steaming mug of coffee (he’s snuck some peppermint syrup into it). The cold night presses against the house, misty, leaving a rim of frost around the large front window.
Tamaki opens Kyoya’s laptop to play music in the background. “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” fills the room.
They decorate the tree together. It’s silly, as it always is. Kyoya likes to think of himself as participating more in a supervisory capacity, but he can’t stand for things to be done incorrectly, and therefore ends up winding tinsel around the tree himself, adjusting when the angel at the top isn’t quite straight.
“It’s perfect,” Tamaki says, when they are finished.
“I have to give you something,” says Kyoya. He digs the gift out of his bag, holds the small box in his hands. It feels heavy. It feels made of lead. He can’t move his fingers.
“For me?!” Tamaki exclaims, lighting up.
He reaches for the box but Kyoya grabs his arm, pulls him in, and kisses him instead.
It’s brief. Hard and firm. Businesslike, Kyoya thinks, proud of himself. There and then gone. When Kyoya pulls away, his glasses aren’t even askew. Tamaki looks at him, eyes wide with surprise, the circle of his wrist still grasped in Kyoya’s hand. Kyoya can feel his pulse thudding hard.
“But there’s no mistletoe,” Tamaki says, finally.
“No,” says Kyoya. “No, you idiot. That’s not why—that’s not. I’ve...I wanted to.”
I’m sorry, he thinks, that this is all I know how to give.
He waits for the sympathy, the unrequited romance, the tragedy.
“And that?” Tamaki asks, indicating the box. Kyoya feels his heart hammer with hope. That feeling inside him, so strong, the fever burning him away, leaving his hands shaky and his knees weak. He holds out the box and Tamaki takes it.
Tamaki smiles as he undoes the wrapping. He hangs the ornament on the tree.
“It’s wonderful,” he says. “It’s just what I wanted.”
The lights on the tree blink red. Then white. Then green.