Nine private moments that the infamous Kyouya Ootori would never admit to happening or share with the rest of the world. Just something reflective I thought would add some colors not shown in our favorite Shadow King's personality. Each section and memory is limited to about 100 words. Perfect drabble size. Fair warning: This does have some implied boy love; a big one being played with is KyouyaTamaki.
Disclaimer: Ouran Host Club belongs to Bisco Hatori. Not me. Ever.
Never again did Kyouya spend Thursday afternoons in the Third Music Room.
All he had wanted to do: edit some stats in Mori's host standing (based on the sudden wave of avid requestors swarming in Tuesday) and add three new pictures of the club's latest social event (American-style gangsters) with his private stash of minty chocolate tea. Stepping inside with his beloved laptop tucked underneath his left arm, instead he paused a moment before entering another connected room. He stepped out immediately, leaving a panting Hikaru to drop the photo in his hand and fumble for his unbuttoned fly.
Some days were harder then others to concentrate.
With a good majority of the Host Club turning red in the face, their hands clamped astonished to their mouths as two members separated, the darker haired sliding off the other boy's lap— Kyouya straightened his black and purple striped tie back into a neat line before doing the same to Tamaki's. As the King made strange confused fishy noises with his once ravished lips, butt still planted firmly to his red cushion chair, the darker haired nodded in the direction of the silent type who gave a thumbs up in return.
Before the end of his junior year, Kyouya broke his Father's rules only once.
It had been expressly forbidden to paint on any walls. Yet here he was— a long fanning brush steady in his right hand and an acrylic streak of golden ocher down the line of his cheekbone disappearing underneath to his neck— hoping that none of the gardeners would miss the red metal ladder. The seven-year-old beamed at his family (his siblings scolding him but unable to keep their dumbfounded gazes from the colossal portrait, and his Mother nothing more then a shadow in the hallway).
When he was younger, Kyouya developed a love for the French language.
By middle school, the pricey arrangements were set into motion to visit a secluded villa on the outskirts of France. During a small dinner party hosted by his sister, he had been introduced to someone who shared the same love. As the stranger's twin wandered off somewhere in search of pastries, leaving them alone, the younger redhead lounged out on a loveseat beside him, very feline in the manner of his warm-amber eyes sweeping over the other boy. The lewdness of that lazy grin pressed against his mouth.
Even now with Tamaki, Kyouya admired him.
The high flush of sexual exertion still clung to his fair cheeks, and the moistened strands of blonde hairs still glued stubbornly to them— the other teenager adjusted his black-rimmed glasses over his nose as one discreet hand tousled his lover's hair. He had heard the maids knocking an hour ago accompanied by some struggling with the bolted fancy sterling door handle. Kyouya silently premeditated the meeting with the hotel owner against 'unruly staff'. Tamaki's contented face wrinkled in slumber before he croaked out a softened whimper, stilling beneath Kyouya's warm fingers.
Track and field didn't require mastering any manipulative techniques.
As clichéd as it sounded in his own head— running was a form of escape. The pressures, the note-taking, and the permanently fastened expression of boredom or cynicism depending on the given situation or persons involved; they would flutter out of his chest as his legs blurred out under him. After the one hundred meter, after persuading the gym teacher not to mark him for beating the school record (imagining the obvious disapproval on his Father's face), after fall term of his sophomore year; Kyouya decided to avoid the school track.
Kyouya only had a tiny crush on Haruhi.
The honest but blunt commoner girl had struck a protective place in him. The one time these feelings mattered happened before spring term, her obliviousness to any given situation deadly as a speeding Lamborghini Murcielago skidded on a wet patch near the crosswalk by the academy gates. The driver locked the brakes in time but stopped a few inches too short from where Haruhi had her back turned, in his darkening world, he instead imagined her not covered in blood and blinking owlishly up at her rescuer hugging her against his chest.
Public commoner places weren't on his list of approved weekend activities.
Or— for that matter entirely— riding uncomfortably on a steel pony where the gray lead-base paint chipped off in irregular flakes on the rotating floor of the mall's carousel. Two rusted ponies ahead of him, Hunny crowed happily as his own black mare rose up and down sluggishly, an oversized rainbow lollipop clenched between his cavity free teeth. Kyouya glanced dubiously at his orange and red swirl lollipop before securing it between his teeth and praying to higher forces that no one he knew would walk by the food court.
Not everything in his life was about selling a product and the costs of benefits.
Nothing worth gaining required little effort. He supposed in a way those kind of lessons battered into his psyche early on (by the man who thought him as the useless third son destined for some unrecognized firm where he hoped he wouldn't have to see him again) could be correct. But surrounded by his smiling friends— Tamaki's friendly arms curling around his waist as the blonde skewed glasses with an open and overly loving kiss to the temple— the promise of dead-end earnings could wait.