Kyouya decided very quickly that unrequited (love, lust, curiosity, distraction) did not suit him at all.

Its worst sin was the utter destruction of his concentration. He catches her in the corner of his vision, and his eyes pull away from his lists and ledgers to follow her until he can no longer do so without turning his head. His ears have become tuned to her sounds, and he can pick her out merely by her footfalls and is painfully aware of her presence in a crowd. He touches her as often as Tamaki or the twins these days, though he is far more discreet about it. Quite simply, he is damnably and ineluctably drawn to her.

Kyouya knows he has far more important work to take care of. Instead he finds himself measuring the steps it takes Haruhi to cross from the door to his chair, analyzing the curve of her frown as he adds to her debt, calculating, with a certain calm panic, the exact date she will pay it off and how best to push that day further and further away.

It is an obsession, and he hates it.

He chooses to hate her by extension. Hate the brush of her hand on his arm, the jut of her hip leaning on his desk, and the wide, brown eyes that stare, not at him or through him, but directly into him.

A childish reaction, but it serves its purpose. Hate is a manageable emotion. This (love, lust, curiosity, distraction) is not.

And so, he pulls out her chair for her just to graze his knuckles against the nape of her neck and hates her more. He hates the small of her back where his hand rests to push her forward. He hates her knee and elbow where they touch his as they sit side by side. He hates her hair tickling his throat as he leans over her to point out every single mistake in her writing. He hates her jaw line, and the bridge of her nose, and the slope of her forehead, and the shape of her ears.

Most fervently, he hates her in his dreams. He hates his hand on her stomach, his fingers in her waistband, his mouth on her neck. He hates her sharp breath, her swallowed moan, her body arching against his. He hates the sweat and bunched sheets and frustrations and long, cold showers in the morning.

He hates facing her as impassively as ever the next day, because it makes him hate footfalls and frowns and wide, brown eyes seeing into him all over again. It makes him hate perceptiveness, questions, and genuine concern. It makes him hate his own lies. (No, I'm not fine at all. Yes, there is something wrong, horribly wrong.) Makes him hate disbelieving looks, dubious assent, generous smiles. Footfalls, once more, and erratic heartbeats.

More than anything, he hates his own hatred, and how dangerously close it has become to (love, lust, curiosity, distraction).