Forget Me Not

An Ouran High School Host Club Original Fanfic

Summary: Sometimes it's possible to love more than one. But when loneliness sets in during the dark hours of the night, it can be like a disease, and the symptoms are almost too much for him to handle. Despite this, there are some things that act as medicine - and for Tamaki Suoh, that something will always be Kyoya Otori.

Disclaimer/Author's Note: Yo! I'm back writing, with another Ouran yaoi fic, 'cause I actually like writing this a lot more than regular het now. Anywho, this is my single favorite pairing in the world, so let me know how I did, okay? For the lawyers, characters aren't mine.


They say that everything happens for a reason.

One.

That everything that is set in motion was made that way by some unforeseeable cause – that there is a certain order in the universe, in the game that everyone living is forced to play. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. And for every cause, there is an effect.

Two.

It doesn't matter who the players are – because they're always different, all nameless faces – but in the end, they're always the same. They memorize the rules, learn them like a second language, learn how to play safely and not get hurt. And the rules are like stone for those players; should one get dealt a faulty hand, they're forced like puppets to keep moving, keep playing, until the game is complete.

As far as this game goes, it's one that he learned how to play long ago.

"T-Tama-"

Follow the rules.

"Tamaki…"

Keep your footing.

"A-Ah."

And above all, don't lose your head.

Three.

The world spins above him as he feels a pair of warm, supple lips descend roughly on his own – teasing, biting, kissing hard enough to leave a bruise as the iron shackles of the other boy's hands lock around his wrists, pinning him there.

A beat. A pulse.

For the self-proclaimed king of the Host Club, this, admittedly, has become something of a habit.

Burning kisses, each one the very definition of fire on their way down his neck and chest, that hand that pulls at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, nails lightly scratching at his pale skin – this is all he can feel as his head tumbles backward and hits the headboard, and his fingers curl around themselves, pressing one-inch nail marks so deeply into his skin that it hurts.

It's not real, he has to remind himself as he lets out a ragged breath and blows his tangled hair out of his eyes, but that thought is interrupted and pushed aside swiftly at the familiar sensation of a certain hand stroking at his hardness, causing him to bite back a groan.

"You seem tense, Tamaki," the Otori boy muses, voice little more than hot breath in his ear. "Do you want me to stop already?"

Tamaki grunts. "Hardly."

A smirk. "Good."

This happens a lot now, the blonde thinks – almost as often as he thinks of her, which is more often than Honey has cake. He probably would inform Kyoya of this, were it not for the fact that in the next instant, he feels his throbbing arousal being licked to the tip by a warm mouth, and he has to grit his teeth to keep himself from screaming.

This is wrong on every level.

Kyoya's eyes are always completely impassive as he works at him – and Tamaki can't even begin to imagine what his own expression is that of, because he can see from the other boy's quiet refusal to resist any request that it must be particularly bad today.

It's been one year, today.

He comes a few moments later, back arching off the mattress, his fingers trembling as they tangle in the other boy's raven hair. The world is blurred when he collapses against the crisp bed sheets again, and he blinks through the daze as Kyoya's face comes into focus once again.

Tamaki closes his eyes, runs his hands through his hair, and exhales a large breath he hadn't been aware he was holding in. It's easier this way – in the darkness, when he can't see anything, all that's left to do is feel. Kyoya doesn't really like fucking in the dark, which is understandable, considering that he's as good as blind without his glasses – but at least if it was dark, he'd be able to pretend that this isn't happening, that it's her doing this instead of him.

If she were still alive, Tamaki reminds himself, it would be.

His thoughts are cut short as he feels a rough kiss being planted on his lips, and he opens his eyes to see Kyoya above him, the harsh reality of it all stabbing at him like a knife. This isn't her – this isn't real, this isn't love, and this will never be. What they're doing is wrong, immoral – and every action on Tamaki's part is a lie.

Even the Otori boy knows there's something wrong his lips stop moving.

"We don't have to do this, you know," he says, and Tamaki looks up, his violet eyes lacking in spark, as they have been for a while now. Kyoya's face is impassive as always, but there is some genuine concern in his eyes, and his voice is quiet. "Not if you don't want to. We can take a break."

Kyoya's said things like this before – hell, the first few months were so bad that all Tamaki had to do was stand there motionless while the other boy sucked him off against the wall.

But a year has passed since then, and Tamaki knows he's too old to keep being babied to death like this – even now, the rest of the Host Club – ex-Host Club? – treats him as if he's the one who has a terminal illness, as if he's the one whose life is about to be extinguished like a small flame.

Kyoya doesn't treat him with kid gloves anymore…so is the anniversary of her death supposed to be a special occasion?

Tamaki knows for a fact he's lying, because he can feel the other boy's erection pressing into his leg, can feel his heart beating inside his chest, which is pressed awkwardly against his own. He can see the pure lust in his friend's eyes. Really, Kyoya's not as good a liar as he seems to think he is – and Tamaki knows that he needs this, too.

After all, who was the only one who was there with him through all those nights in the darkness, the only one who kept him sane? Tamaki knows well that if it hadn't been for Kyoya, he would've ended up dead, or worse. Kyoya has always been his very best friend.

Silencing him with another kiss, harder this time than the last, he flips them so that he's on top, straddling his stomach, their hips grinding together awkwardly in a way that prompts a moan from both of them. And although his heart's not in it, Tamaki thinks that he can at least do this – he can at least be here for Kyoya, who's the only one that he can see anymore.

This time, there's fire and there's heat and friction when Kyoya's hips slide against his own, and Tamaki feels himself slipping away.

There's something indecipherable in Kyoya's eyes when Tamaki's hand finds his length – it's like pain and curiosity and desire all bubbling under the surface, like words that need to be said but which never will be. And Tamaki, ever-curious, can't help but wish that it would.

Nevertheless, he loses himself in the motions – in the kisses he trails down the other boy's chest, in the way he moans when Tamaki's fingers slide inside him, first one by one and then another and another – in the way that, as always, their eyes meet once, and only once, in the entire course of time. It goes slowly, the way it always does.

It was this way with her, too.

When he pushes his way inside, Kyoya barely winces, because this has happened so many thousand times, and the two are much more than familiar with each other by now. And when Tamaki begins to move his hips, first as a shallow rocking which builds up to a rapid pace, thrusts meeting thrusts, just the way they're used to, the way they both like.

No matter how many times he imagines her face in his mind when the two of them do this, Tamaki knows that Kyoya will always be somehow different from the way she was. And this goes without saying, especially in the way they make love – no, Tamaki reminds himself, have sex, because this is not love they're making – this is just a cheap way of trying to get it back.

Kyoya grits his teeth, ever-silent throughout these activities, as Tamaki hits that spot inside him, the one spot that he knows he can hit to make those dark eyebrows furrow that way – and it's humiliating to no end for the host club king, because he can never stop himself from crying out, can never hold in a groan, and when he finally comes for the second time, he'll be damned if everyone in Japan can't hear him scream.

It's not just that, though. If it were just fucking a close friend, just the homosexual tendencies, just the shame it would bring to his father and the rest of his family if they knew – if it were just those things, then this would be bad enough. But it's more.

It's the way he looks at Kyoya – this person who over the years has become his best friend, who has helped him in so many ways, who filled her position, at least as far as the bedroom went, without even thinking – and thinks that maybe there can be something more than this. That maybe there is some good in the two of them, and that they bring out the best in each other.

Tamaki knows that Kyoya will never be able to replace all of her – even now he sees her eyes in the back of his mind, sees her smile – and late at night, the curve of her small body under his – but maybe there are some things that are too horrible to go through alone, so why not go through those things together?

He doesn't regret this with Kyoya – he thinks that maybe, given enough time and casual sex and occasional smiles, he could learn to love him, too.

Because everything happens for a reason, right?

When he opens his eyes, Kyoya is lying next to him on the bed, his eyes closed, breathing peacefully – he's asleep, Tamaki realizes – and he gets the sudden urge to smooth down his hair, to tuck him in, to help him in some way, the same way he's been helped by Kyoya for so long.

He settles for pulling him into his arms and tucking his head unceremoniously against his chest – and they stay like that for a while, the other boy lying on top of him, unconscious, head pressed against the blonde's chin.

Tamaki thinks then that this must be real love – the kind of love you have for a friend, and sometimes more, the one you can fall apart in front of and not be ashamed of it. This isn't everything – sometimes he can't seem to figure out what the hell it is in the first place – but it's something, the kind of something that makes him want to reach out and grab it and hold onto it with both hands.

He can see her face in his mind again, and knows he'll never stop loving her.

Life brings all kinds of tragedies, Tamaki thinks – but this one might be the worst.


I'm sorry for how little of this fic was actually a lemon.

Thanks for reading, and don't forget to drop me a review!