Title: "One Boring Sunday" or "Ramen Balm"
Word Count: 1,026
Characters: Tamaki, Random maids, mentions of the entire Host Club
Pairings: One-sided TamakixHaruhi.
One Boring Sunday
or "Ramen Balm
For the lovely and talented bagsybabe
Monday was never loathed, never dull, and always began with a flash, a sense of exuberance, and a small chance of sparkles.
Tuesday was always quieter, meant for meetings, planning, wild scheming and dreaming.
Wednesday never had the flounce and decadence of the rest of the week, but it still meant Darjeeling, French conversation, and heartfelt compliments.
Thursday – known as cosplay day - always made up for Wednesday's lack of pomp with new costumes, new roles, new flights of fancy and imaginative escapades.
Friday held the promise of weeks and days to come, and this always managed to tie him over despite, perhaps, a dearth of actual activity.
Saturday was for refinement – for Shima's etiquette lessons and visits to the Ootori compound, Mozart and Rachmaninoff, Beethoven and John Cage, French and English – for work and occasional visits to Kyouya.
Sunday – ah, Sunday! - was always boring.
Sunday was a day of family affairs.
And here, although Tamaki considered the Host Club to be his family, he decided that on this one day he must always give way to slightly more orthodox definitions.
The twins would discuss crepes and silks and Indian brocades and satins with their mother. Fuyumi-san would speak to Kyouya about something he already thought he knew better, but perhaps didn't. Mori and Hunny would spar together and with their younger siblings.
And Haruhi, well, she would –
Tamaki swatted the thought away with a gesture of frustration and annoyance. She had always made it quite plain that she would be angry with him if he intruded on her weekends as well as her weekdays without an excuse.
Sulkily, he decided that against his more noble inclinations, he had better comply.
But, he complied with so much muttering interspersed with gestures and shouts that bordered on being utterly nonsensical that he provided ample amusement for his entire household staff as he paced first through the foyer, followed by a spirited jaunt up the staircase, along an upstairs hall, and finally into his suite.
Finally Tamaki sat down on his bed and, noticing the crowd of maids behind him, made a vague wish for pork flavored commoner's ramen and a receptacle of hot water.
Then he was alone for a while.
To be honest, Tamaki hated Sunday the most. Not simply because it was boring (even though Kyouya would always quip something to the effect of "An idiot like you is, of course, in need of constant stimulation" whenever he brought the subject up), but because Sunday was painfully lonely.
Tamaki never outwardly expressed this to anyone besides some vague want of something to do, but on Sunday he always felt like something intrinsic – something that truly made the world glitter and gleam with a kind of hidden exuberance on every other day of the week – was always missing.
The maids brought the ramen bowl in and, sensing that their master would not indulge them in their current collective mood, delivered it to him where he sat, deeply serious and pensive.
They left in a flurry of echoing rumor and speculation and Tamaki was again left to his solitude.
Normally ramen – not only because of its novelty but because of the feigned connections that he made to person who originally introduced it to him – would instantly be the balm to calm all of his own disquieting – even if slightly irrational - fears.
On every other day of the week someone else was around. So, even on the rare occasions that his boundless optimism faltered, Tamaki always found it in him to smile and go on, if not for his own sake, but for those of the people around him.
On Sunday, he never had to make such a show.
Waiting for the noodles to soften (he had been mistaken a few times, even though he had asked Haruhi to give him an extended lesson on how to make the tricky food…particularly how long he should have to wait), he sat and thought, raising the cheap wooden chopsticks that came with the ramen bowl to his mouth and staring at nowhere in particular.
Because, since Sunday was the only day of the week when his cobbled together family was dispersed, as he waited to eat his ramen, he used his imagination to conjure up a scene where they were all eating commoner's food together.
In his mind, Kyouya was examining his food with a kind of disdainful interest and calculating how such commodities were capable of turning a profit, as they did.
Mori was cautioning Hunny that it was still hot, while Hunny reported happily that Usa-chan also liked ramen, very much.
The twins – irritating and unsavory even in his imagination – were slurping the noodles noisily, commenting on how the food in some foreign country or another was far superior, and making lewd gestures with the noodles, by turns.
And, just like every Sunday, all the rest of the club members finished and left, leaving just Haruhi and him alone, half eaten bowls of pork ramen in between them.
At this thought – one he could never quite determine how the events in his mind had led to such an improper meeting - he would always hastily open the bowl and stuff some steaming noodles into his mouth, taking his burnt tongue as punishment for an emotion he could never name and never quite had the courage to sort out.
And with each passing bite, the disturbed voice in his head would grow quieter as he told himself that Haruhi held a special place simply because she was part of his family.
But, not even ramen could ever fully dull Sunday's ruminations and, whenever Tamaki pulled on his blue blazer in preparation for school on Monday, he always felt a thrill of exhilaration.
However, Tamaki being Tamaki, he always told himself that this was because Sunday was always boring and he had put another one behind him.
A/N: Because I wanted to explain the ramen picture with emo!Tamaki. Okay, I got nothin'. Ten points if you get the overly obscure music joke I made in this piece.
Anyways, hope you enjoy! Comments will, as usual, be given a personal response.