A/N: Sooo here I am, because when I procrastinate I write fanfic... I planned on making this a chaptered fic, but I just couldn't bring myself to post chapters so short. I have a thing about that. /: So as a result, it's kinda split into sections. I hope it still reads well as a oneshot.
I'd really love to blame the Host Club, but I know it started before then.
It had to have been middle school. Earlier? Maybe. I can trace back most of my painful musings when I started to notice everything.
I didn't become too self-aware until I was thirteen. I noticed and was conscious of superficial appearances and general manners; I'd have been hard-pressed to wriggle out of that fate, having Yuzuha Hitachiin as a mother. As her sons, we were well-trained to look presentable and act polite, and certainly have a keen eye for fashion…but she was always gone. Our parents left us alone. We chose to forgo the pleasantries more often than not. After all, why bother impressing those incompetent idiots? We've always had each other to look out for, and in that case, there is no pretense.
Our parents leave us alone—we choose to stay alone. I think that's where it all started. My whole world has always been Hikaru; I turn to Hikaru for everything. If there is something new to experience, it goes without saying that I'll experience it with my twin first and foremost.
At twelve, though, at thirteen—new experiences are numerous, and they vary too much to keep a hold on. At that age, I sometimes found myself alone. I was never really alone, but for the first time, I felt like in certain instances I should keep my mouth shut. I was ashamed of what I felt. If there's one thing I learned, though, it's that keeping secrets from Hikaru is near impossible—he would find out, then we'd laugh about the stupidity of it all. There were no secrets between us.
If Hikaru knew I even had secrets I kept from myself, he would have laughed a lot harder.
It built up at the back of my mind, rose in my chest, expelled itself in a toxic swarm of half-confessions and touches that lingered too long and were enjoyed far too much. I don't know when I became fully aware of this; I imagine most of the time I was ignorant. I can take comfort in that, if only because Hikaru's always been three times as oblivious.
I really would love to blame the club. I could blame Tamaki for bringing the damn thing to fruition, for asking us to pretend to—well. It does no good to spread around the blame. The Host Club planted the truth right in front of me, sure, and made me fully aware of my obsession. It made me try too hard to keep it detached from reality. But here's the thing—the mind is amazing. It just fucks with you, does exactly the opposite of what you tell it to. So my mind thought it would be hilarious to take that little notion about—about, you know—and have it take root and mix itself with our lives, my thoughts, forcing me to associate that parody of our relationship with everything I'd ever known.
Of course that would make me notice. Now I can see everything. It started long before Tamaki extended his hand in invitation, long before it made me feel restless and unsure. I was forced to face the truth. Since then it hasn't gotten better—it throbs and stings like an infected wound. Maybe I'd be better off oblivious. Maybe if the Host Club hadn't forced us to cross into that forbidden territory, my thoughts wouldn't fester like this. Maybe I'd have the decency to want to bleach out the twisted ideas. Instead the familiarity has desensitized me. My mind is filled with Hikaru and the things I wish I didn't want.
No. I can't blame the Host Club when I might be able to pinpoint the cause.
I was thirteen, and it was one of those new experiences I couldn't share with Hikaru. It was indirect sharing, but only because I got curious and started scrolling through his internet history. I should have recognized it all—we only ever used that computer together. Instead, at the very bottom, I found something different.
It surprised me, but it shouldn't have. We were right in the throes of puberty, and the hormones…so, porn. It wasn't all too uncommon for boys our age. The video was called something ridiculous, like "whore gets fucked by two horny guys". To be honest, I was mortified. I don't know why, because we'd gotten curious about it before, but we did that together—just watched for a minute or so and shrugged, not understanding the hype. Maybe that made us the uncommon ones.
But now, Hikaru was watching it behind my back and I was curious again. So I watched it—and that was the moment I might have started to understand. Let's just say these two guys were more interested in each other than the girl. I guess I never checked the category.
I never watched it again and I never told Hikaru about it; I was still mortified. The thought was enough to put me on edge. Two guys, together, doing those things. I thought about it briefly, wondering if I was into that. I only ever hung out with my brother, though. How weird would that be?
I would love to go back to those times, even if it was the beginning of my corruption. At least I could keep everything detached.
As a guy, it would probably be normal to admit I compare myself with other guys. That's not true, though—only with Hikaru.
It started when our voices changed. It might have been the only time our mother could tell us apart, and it left me terrified because we were growing out of sync. My voice cracked more often than Hikaru's, whose voice became smoother. It was more devastating than embarrassing. At the time, without hesitation, I would have said I definitely did not want people to tell us apart. No contradictions there.
Each morning, praying to every higher power that might have existed that Hikaru wouldn't notice, I scanned his body for differences. It didn't matter what—a freckle, extra height or weight, a sunburn? But there was nothing. We've always been identical down to the last detail.
That's when I started to notice things. I noticed his lanky frame with that layer of muscle you could really only see up close. I noticed how his face became thinner and more defined. I noticed how his hair turned half a shade darker. I especially noticed how his eyes stood out even in the dark. I knew I was staring too much, and I knew I could just look in a mirror to see these things, but I couldn't bring myself to rip my gaze from his figure.
Hikaru always noticed that. He would ask what was wrong, and I'd say nothing, and he'd say okay like he didn't quite believe me. Even now, when he catches me staring, it's the same exchange. He says okay—like he doesn't want to go there.
I've always wanted so badly to keep these things caged in the hopes it might wither and die, but it only grew stronger and ripped off the iron bars. Now I can't keep my mouth shut. I think I've ruined everything, even if they were only hints or weird little off moments.
Hikaru might be avoiding me. We're in the same room watching the same TV show on the same couch, but he's tense and won't meet my eyes. Or maybe that's me.
"Hikaru," I groan, rolling my head back to look at him. I sound loud and irritating to my own ears.
"You're right. This is boring." He mirrors my position and I try not to give a relieved sigh—he's looking at me.
It's usually natural and comfortable to talk to my brother, to watch him and make eye contact, but lately I've been having trouble. My eyes flicker from his face to the couch, my fingernails, everywhere but him, and back to his face again.
"We could plan for club activities tomorrow," I suggest.
Hikaru laughs like he's not sure. "It's funny. You said once that we should abolish the incest plot. We haven't done anything like that."
That's right. I forgot I even mentioned it; it's the nonsense I can't stop spewing while my brother is around. I think his dark hair has been throwing me off, making me high-strung. We're not the same anymore and it's my fault.
"What are you saying?" I prod him playfully. "Do you want to?"
"Not really…it hasn't gotten boring yet. But if you aren't—"
"No," I say, every inch of myself screaming in objection. "I like the way things are now."
Why would I say that? I hate that incestuous bullshit, I hate acting out my desires when I know they're lies, I don't want to hate myself anymore—
"Kaoru," I hear, an urgent, smooth tone. "Hey, Kaoru, what's wrong with you? Why are you shaking like that?"
His hands are all over me, and I don't see why, because I'm not shaking that bad and Hikaru always overreacts—so I push him off me and breathe in deeply.
"I'm fine," I tell him, but more for myself.
Why now? It never used to be like this. We were just brothers. His touch wasn't always so pleasant and addictive; it didn't always ignite my flesh. I wasn't terrified to sleep close to him at night.
Hikaru always clings to me like I won't be there in the morning. I find myself wide awake and unable to think of anything except how close he is and how warm—how he should go back to his own fucking room so I can get some sleep. I haven't been obtaining much of that lately.
Tonight I roll out of his clutch, ignoring the groggy disappointed murmur, and disappear to Hikaru's room. As I switch the light on, I take note of how desolate it looks. Like no one's ever lived in here.
I think about hanging up some posters or rearranging the furniture, but shut down when I notice the picture in my mind is forming a mirror image of my own room. Never mind. I'm here for a reason.
I grab the first notebook I can find, seclude myself at the desk in the corner, and begin to write.
It's like a trance. I'm gripping the pen so tight, the pain shoots up my entire arm, but I have to get it out—everything—so I write, quick and sloppy, filling eleven or twelve pages by the time my mania runs dry. I rip them off the spiral rings.
I almost feel relieved with the weight of the paper in my hand, stroking the indentations left by the tip of my pen, but soon afterwards I simply feel sick.
There's no way Hikaru won't find this. He knows me too well. Feeling feverish and dizzy, I scan the room for a place to hide the pages, but there's not a single place I can go where Hikaru won't.
Is there no way to hide it?
The only thing left is to destroy it.
I want to burn it. I want to see flames consume every part of that confession. I can't believe I'm twisted enough to admit it to myself, finally letting it occupy a real, physical space outside my thoughts. I figured it would feel better to have it all escape at once rather than these half-assed slip-ups.
I don't burn it. Instead I fold each page into a square and take scissors to each one, slicing them into strips so thin they're almost nothing at all. It takes me a good half hour. I ball up the pile of scraps in my first, clenching down hard. I need to dispose of it someplace else, where Hikaru won't suspect anything amiss.
I jump, startled enough to bang my knee on the corner of the desk. I reflexively drop the paper. Shit. I'm anxious enough to make a grab for it again, but stop when I see Hikaru's confused expression in the lamplight.
"Hi." My voice is shaking and my entire body feels hot with humiliation. By all means I should have nothing to feel guilty about.
"What are you doing?" Hikaru asks, taking one hesitant step into his room.
"I couldn't sleep."
But he's not listening. His eyes have caught the clump of jagged paper and he just stares.
"What is that?"
"Nothing," I say much too quickly. He bends down like he's going to pick it up, and suddenly I'm full of adrenaline, toppling over on him with unnecessary force, yelling, "Don't touch it!"
He returns the blow full force, shoving me against the bed frame.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
It's irrational to be mad at him for that, but I embrace it. It's so much easier to believe what I wrote is some paranoid fluke when we're at odds like this.
"Mind your own damn business," I snap.
"No. I'll ask again. What—is wrong—with you?"
With every word he advances, closing in on me, and I think he can see the terror all over my face. I'm frozen.
"Please," I whisper. "You don't want to know."
I almost expect him to say okay like he always does, but he moves closer. I'm cornered and have no means of escape.
"Tell me," he urges gently.
And now it is so hard to believe it's a fluke. Not when he encourages it and feeds it exactly what it craves.
I give in and let Hikaru hug me. He's done this too many times to count, but it makes me feel different each time. Right now I feel like a self-indulging pervert. I don't even want to stop loving him like this anymore.
He always pulls away too quickly, and I'm always disappointed the moment I'm no longer allowed to drink in his warmth.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me," he says.
Now he sits beside me on the floor and our shoulders are brushing together. Outside of that, there is a pathetic lack of awareness.
I can't destroy it and I can't admit it. I'll be stuck here for the rest of my life.
I'm probably insane. This looks like one of Hikaru's ideas but it was mine—ditch our parents' dinner party with a six pack from the kitchen. We've locked the door to my room, because Hikaru thinks he lives here or something, and we're laughing about being rebellious.
At first I'm uneasy. I don't know what will come spilling out after a few beers if I already say too much as it is. I drink slowly, though, and keep my head.
It isn't bad. We complain about our parents and laugh at things that probably aren't funny. Like Tono, who is always funny but we're certain he doesn't do it on purpose.
We're on our third drink. It's not enough to be drunk, but we haven't exactly built up much of a tolerance. It's enough to not be bothered by Hikaru's head lying on my chest. I absently run my fingers through his hair, still getting used to the dark ash color even after a month.
"Y'know, Hikaru," I say. "I always thought Milord and Kyoya had a thing for each other—that Mommy and Daddy business."
He laughs. "You wouldn't believe the doujinshi I found about that…"
"It can't be worse than the one about Hunny and Mori." I pretend to shudder. "And the way Haruhi is portrayed. Seems like Bossa Nova shows up in quite a few of those, too.'
"Have you noticed Haruhi is always secretly ripped?"
I laugh—and it's hard to stop laughing, because I'm trying to built up to the next sentence. It's far too easy to say it right now.
"There's some about us. Those fangirls, man, they've got some weird ideas in their head."
"It brings in profit," Hikaru shrugs. " Let 'em think it. Then we know it's working."
I nod even though Hikaru can't see it. Everything falls silent for a comfortable few minutes, but soon I'm restless again and the alcohol is gone. I need something to do, something to say.
"I'll miss it," I whisper. "I don't want it to end."
Hikaru rolls onto his back. For a second I think I freaked him out, but he takes my hand and utters a noise of agreement. He must have misunderstood. That's probably a good thing, but I don't see much wrong with pushing my luck right now. I bend over him and kiss his forehead. It's okay, I think, because we do that all the time. So what if I lingered too long? He won't notice.
I don't think he does, because he's smiling a little and still holding my hand. So I push it again and peck him on the lips, like we've done since we were children. Harmless.
Except I don't know if it is harmless anymore, because I can't seem to stop repeating that action, each time inching closer to what could be considered non-brotherly. I might have crossed that line already, but it's hazy.
Hikaru isn't responding, so I mindlessly draw out the kiss to see what he'll do. I'm not as terrified as I should be. I'm desperate for him to do something, because I've just been hanging here for so long with no answers. I know this is wrong, this is something I tried to push back for a reason, but stopping seems so much worse.
Finally I feel his hand wrap around my wrist. Is he pulling me toward him or pushing me away…? I don't know. My lips keep moving against his until they feel numb, and Hikaru is pushing upwards. Only then do I notice I've straddled his hips and the friction is a little more than I can take. Oh, fuck—I can feel him against me, hard and—
I tear my mouth away, drawing in a quiet gasp, and he mumbles a surprised, "Kaoru." His voice is rough and low and sexy—of its own accord, my hand edges toward the waistband of his boxers.
I tense, immediately rolling off Hikaru clear to the other side of the bed.
There is no way to explain this. I can't even say I'm drunk anymore. That has nothing to do with the way I stagger out the door, ignoring Hikaru's lack of response and the stunned silence I left back there.
Would it be wrong to sleep in Hikaru's room tonight? I don't want to go back and face him, not now. I'll stay away as long as it takes me to remember that some secrets need to be kept.
I can't pretend to be bothered by morals anymore. We never have been. That won't change because I'm carrying a torch for my twin brother. It certainly won't change because we had a one-sided drunken makeout session.
I am bothered, though, by the fact that we don't feel the same. There are so many things we don't share anymore. All this time, I think that imbalance has made me hate this so much. I can't kid myself with a pseudo battle of virtues. That won't bother Hikaru, either. We're just too twisted.
I found Hikaru in his own bed this morning. It would have been a shocking change if it weren't for me sleeping there first. I don't remember him coming in.
At first I'm relieved with the way he acts normal, but it's too normal to make any sense when it comes to Hikaru. He talks and laughs too much, touches me too much, and I wonder why I'm the only one who's feeling awkward.
By dinnertime I want to scream, or hit him, something. His stupid evasion is starting to negate the rejection last night, tricking me into thinking it might have been okay. I know that's impossible, though. Hikaru is confused. We're on opposite ends of the spectrum, but at least we have that in common.
I wonder how much more he can take. I suggest we take our dinner up to my room, and he agrees in that false cheery tone of his. I'm sick of it.
We eat in silence because I'm having trouble choosing the words to break him.
"Stop doing that," I say flatly.
That'll do it.
"What am I doing?"
"Nothing!" I burst out, dropping my fork. It clatters loudly against the ceramic plate. "That's the problem!"
He looks surprised, but it can't fool me. There's a touch of fear behind that shock.
"Kaoru, calm down! I don't even know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." I take a deep breath. I can't do this for nothing. I can't stand any more humiliation. This better strike him somewhere deep. "You know what happened last night, Hikaru. You remember. And even if you told me to stop, I know you enjoyed it."
His fork falls, too, but onto the thick white carpet—it better have been clean, I hate having those maids in my room for too long—and he doesn't say anything. A morbid satisfaction stems from that.
At this point I'm gambling the balance of our relationship. I can't stop pushing his limits. I'm sitting much too close, he's shivering because he can feel my breath on the nape of his neck, and I feel sick to my stomach. I don't know if that's pleasure or disgust Hikaru is feeling.
I can't believe I've let it go this far. It's borderline psychotic, the way I'm acting, but I can't stop until everything is restored. It doesn't even make sense. I'm beyond rationality.
I drag my lips up to the side of his neck, leaving a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. I'm not sure what I'm doing, but measuring Hikaru's reactions has never been so easy. His breathing speeds up as I travel closer to his mouth, tasting his smooth, clean skin. It doesn't taste like much of anything, but it's addictive, the sounds he makes and the staggered breathing.
His lips are slightly parted, letting out shallow puffs of air. My tongue slides over his top lip leisurely, and that's when he notices my hand brushing against his thigh, dangerously close to where I really want it. I think it's safe to assume he wants it, too, but there will be no misunderstandings this time. He has to know it's been deliberate this far along. I won't do that without knowing for sure.
I can't even remember why I'm doing this anymore. Is it for the reaction? Is it for myself? For the sake of balance? What the hell kind of misguided attempt is this?
My lips are barely ghosting over his. The suspense must be irritating him, because he's kissing me furiously. A kind of delirium grasps us both; our tongues tangle together and our teeth clash. Somehow he has me on my back and his knee forces itself between my thighs, and it takes just about all my willpower to avoid rutting against him like some desperate moron. There's no controlling where my hands go now. Without thinking about it first, I undo his jeans enough for my hand to slip inside his boxers and grasp him tightly.
Hikaru lets out a strangled gasp. That alone drives me to continue—his swollen lips and flushed face, his hooded eyes—they stand out even now, and it's another one of those times where I can't stop staring. It's a relief that he's not asking questions.
I want to taste him, but that might be going too far. The thought spurs me on, though, imagining my mouth closing over the tip, tasting the fluid collected there, dipping my tongue into the slit and swiping along the underside of the head…lightly, teasingly, tracing a vein…taking the entire shaft into my throat, sucking hard, swallowing around it.
I half notice this fantasy being whispered heatedly against Hikaru's ear in fragments. He groans, getting louder than he was allowing before, and kicks away his jeans and boxers. This requires an awkward change of position—me being on top—and it breaks into the moment. Suddenly it's clear that what we're doing is rash and impulsive. This is…my brother. I'm jerking off my twin brother.
I can't stop. Hikaru is thrusting into my hand, and he feels so good and so hot—why would I stop? I know such miniscule, specific tricks to drive him insane. It's like masturbating. We're exactly the same this way. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience, watching Hikaru's face twist in ecstasy.
He's retained enough sense to start kneading me through my boxers—where the hell are my jeans?—just as I pick up the pace. I know he'll come soon. As I feel him spill over my hand and shout something unintelligible, I follow not too far behind, the buildup of his pleasure compressing into mine, throwing me over the edge.
There's a sort of blackout behind my eyes and I collapse on top of Hikaru, breathing hard. His hands are stroking up and down my back before he thinks better of it and they fall to his sides.
As the heat of the moment dissipates, I wonder if Hikaru feels as unstable as I do.
The worst part is discovering each individual facet of our relationship and attempting to justify them in the face of what we did. I can't force them to merge because of an obsession that went too far. All these different divisions don't mesh well. My head doesn't have room for Hikaru as both my brother and lover. It's a reflex to cast it away.
I don't even think Hikaru wants this. I can't think of a reason why he might want to keep it up, breaking down our whole dynamic. How do I balance out the moments when we're just brothers with everything else? The arousal, the heat, the desperation?
It was a mistake. Hikaru hasn't said anything and neither have I, but we know it better than anything. Sometimes when I get fixated on an idea, I'm blind to everything else surrounding it.
I can't say it's done irreparable damage, because we're too close for that. It's still not pleasant to feel a mixture of shame and desire in close proximity to my brother, producing this swirling mass of anxiety, detached and quietly bizarre. I don't know what to feel anymore.
I'd love to zero in on a single point in our past that triggered it all, but I only have myself to blame. It was my obsession that led us here. It was my actions that have us avoiding each other for hours at a time when things are uncertain.
Still, an obsession can vanish quicker than it was instigated, and that's the only thing holding my head up right now.
It'll be okay. If I've got my brother, everything will turn out okay.
A/N: Please let me know what you think! I love hearing from everyone, the good and the bad. :)