Untitled Random Ouran Snippet (Ouran Host Club)
When Kyouya picks up the phone, Tamaki has already worked himself into a froth, shrieking and crying—his agony and tears audible.
“OH MOTHER,” Tamaki wails, as if the ten or so miles that separate he and Kyouya actually represent a four-hour time difference, as if wherever Tamaki lives, it’s not half past six in the morning. “OH MOTHER—WHAT WILL WE DO? HARUHI HAS FOUND A BOYFRIEND. WHAT IF HE’S CRUEL? WHAT WILL WE DO?”
Kyouya hangs up on him.
*
It’s late winter, when the fresh snap of cold is over and all that remains is a dour bitterness in the air, a pervasive sense of gray. Kyouya has—in theory—an office, but really it’s a sleek, edgeless room with large windows that look out onto the electrical orgy of Tokyo at night. It’s equipped with one glass-topped desk, one leather office chair, and a streamlined, gray guest sofa. There are no tables or plants. Kyouya doesn’t want his guests to feel welcomed—he wants them scared shitless.
No work is actually accomplished there, just face time. Kyouya functions best on the battered couch of Tamaki’s studio, his laptop power cord a tangle at his feet, Tamaki picking out Handel or Bach or Brahms on the piano keys, filling the air with something other than the smell of exhaust and winter.
It’s not an option today, Kyouya thinks with a sigh, not with Tamaki still crying and probably playing Night on Bald Mountain, composing elegiac pieces that would bring even Hani-sempai to tears. He’ll be lucky if Tamaki isn’t curled up in some corner, trying to induce a seizure.
So he sits in his office and works. It’s Thursday, and he has worlds to conquer.