Heyyyyy ninjas!

So, yeah, I'm obsessed with Ouran. HAHA. I've written TONS of stories, but...bleh. I don't know. I don't like posting things because it feels awkward. Weird, huh?

This is a KyouyaxHaruhi fic. It starts at that one scene in the second to last episode where Kyouya gets slapped. I used dialogue from the show, which I don't own. I feel like I just rambled a little there....hehe.

READ IT.

....

NOW.

No, seriously, read it.

Everything.

The sharp noise is so familiar to me; I could have recognized it anywhere. Gasps chorus throughout the hall as I whip my head around to see what had happened. I watch as a pair of glasses fall to the floor with a startling, metallic crack.

Kyouya stands, silently, with his face turned unnaturally to the side, a bright red hand print planted on his cheek. His father is in front of him, seething, hand raised above his head.

"Kyouya-sempai!" I yell, my entire body freezing in worry. The whole room is completely quiet. The usual squeals of 'moe' or something of the sort are not even whispered from the watching guests.

He falls to his knees in front of his glasses, picking them up with long, gentle fingers.

"Is this how my son has been wasting his time?" Yoshio Ohtori questions the boy, fury lacing every syllable.

Kyouya slips his glasses onto his nose, a trembling groan escaping his lips.

"That's Kyo-chan's father, isn't it?" an upset Hunny asks no one in particular.

"Yes," his cousin's low, bass of a voice answers.

Shaky legs raise Kyouya to his feet in what only could be seen as an act of strength and independence.

Yoshio stands with his back to his son. "This is an embarrassment to the Ohtori name."

His father walks away, everyone's eyes glued to his tense strides. No one notices the hurt glowing in Kyouya's eyes as he pushes his glasses back into place.

"Suou, my friend," Yoshio addresses the chairman as he stops two paces past him. "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

"That did seem rather harsh, given how exceptional he really is. For a man with three fine young sons to carry on his legacy, your avarice seems to run deep. I've heard about your trouble. Believe me, it's only a matter of time before the media gets wind of it. Please tell me you're not taking that out on your son," he counters, a tone of scolding carefully hidden beneath the words.

The man could have been shocked, but he doesn't show it as he continues on his way.

Tamaki, being his usual self, flitted around Kyouya, flailing his arms. "Kyouya, are you alright?"

His friend only responds by shoving his glasses back up.

"Your dad is so mean," Hikaru says, pointing out the blatantly obvious.

"You should never ever hit someone with glasses," Hunny chimes in, eyes brimming with tears.

"I don't think it's really about that," Kaoru mutters.

I stand in front of Kyouya, next to King Obnoxious himself, giving him my best comforting voice. "Sempai, he wasn't upset with you because of the Host Club, was he?"

The gasp Tamaki gives isn't surprising.

Kyouya steps between us, wanting to escape the tense room. He must be embarrassed of himself. "Don't worry about it." He waves his hand dismissively as he makes his way to the exit. "It's not like I haven't been expecting this."

We all stare after him sadly, each wondering what we could do to help. It would be nearly impossible to get through to him.

"Because of…the Host Club?" Tamaki mumbles to no one. We are silent for a while, watching the door anxiously for our Shadow King's return.

I can't stop my feet from running after him.

I throw open the door, jerking my head left and right for any sign as to which way Kyouya went. Instinct tells me the latter. My legs take me full-sprint down the corridor. I glance in room after room until I got to the far wall. There is only one door left…

The icy gold handle turns easily in my grasp. I push the door open gently before poking my head in.

I have no clue what to call this room. It's not quite as large as a classroom, but it certainly isn't a broom closet. It is furnished with a desk and a few expensive looking chairs. The wall to my left is completely covered in stuffed book shelves, while the one across from me holds three large windows.

And on the floor below them is the trembling frame of Kyouya, knees to his chest and head in his hands. His glasses sit beside him.

He doesn't hear the door click close or my footsteps as I cross the expanse of the shiny wood flooring. I crouch beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder blade. His body stops shaking with a soft, surprised gasp before he pulls his face from his wide hands. My heart breaks at the raw emotion in his drowning eyes. I bring the hand from his back to his damp cheek, running my fingers over the fading hand print.

"Kyouya," I whisper. I don't know what else to say or how to comfort him. What does one tell their usually stoic and witty sempai?

But then I realize: he doesn't need words, he needs support.

A strange confidence brings my lips to the warm skin of his pale forehead. I hold there as Kyouya releases an arm from his protective ball and winds it around my lower back. He pulls me awkwardly against him so his knees are digging into my abdomen, but I don't mind. I only want him to know that I am here for him.

"I try so hard, Haruhi," he murmurs into my neck.

I pull away, cocking my head at him to continue before moving to sit beside him. He straightens his legs out in front of him and puts his arm around me as if he is inviting me into his world. I drop my head to the crook of his neck in acceptance.

"No matter what I do, my father will never appreciate me. My brothers are always basking in the light of center stage, while I'm working my ass off behind the curtain," he fumes, clenching his fists in frustration. "I might as well give up. It's not worth trying anymore."

His head falls beside mine, and I shift myself to be able to look at him.

"Don't talk like that, sempai. Without you, the club would be nothing," I assure him. It is true; where would any of us be without the master mind behind the whole thing?

He barks out a bitter laugh. "The Host Club, yeah, because that could get me anywhere in life!" he bites sarcastically. "You heard what my father said in there. It embarrasses him!"

A translucent drop skids down his cheek.

"Don't listen to him, Kyouya-sempai," I order him, pulling my head from his shoulder. "You're better than that!"

He looks up at me through his dark eyelashes, a soft, bewildered noise escaping his parted lips. "You really think so?"

"So many people look up to you, sempai," I tell him. "He won't admit it, but Tamaki does…and Hikaru, Kaoru, even Honey-sempai and Mori-sempai."

I turn from him and his arm falls from my shoulders as I focus on the painting beside the door. "But most of all, sempai, I look up to you."

"Huh? Y-You do, Haruhi?" he asks, a new tone to his voice. I can only imagine the look on his face.

I can't stop myself from glancing back at him and nodding. He looks so hopeful; so happy, but I can't tell why.

"Of course, Kyouya-sempai. You go through so much with the pressure of your family, yet you still make the Host Club your main priority. You never complain about anything, or lose your temper, and you always know the right thing to say no matter what the situation. And you care so much about us. You don't know how to express it, but you do and we all feel that. Why do you think Tamaki titled you 'mother'?"

He chuckles. "That is quite ridiculous, I must say. Tamaki lost it a long time ago."

I giggle with him, our unique laughs balancing each other's perfectly.

Kyouya seems to notice this too, because suddenly his face is so serious, and he is staring at me with a weird glint in his eyes.

"Haruhi," he whispers, bringing his fingers up to sweep my hair out of my face.

My cheeks grow warm at the unexpected contact.

He continues, tracing his hand down the side of my faintly pink face. He stops with his palm pressed to my jaw, thumb extended to my temple while the tips of his fingers dance at the roots of the hair behind my ear. Gradually, my face is being guided closer to his.

I watch his gentle expression curiously. What is he doing? The glint in his eye doesn't disappear, but I still can't figure out what it means, despite our close proximity.

My mind doesn't register that he is kissing me until a few seconds into it. I watch as his eyes slip close and a sigh resonates from his throat. His lips are soft against mine, gentle and not probing. My eyes glide shut. I don't know what I expected from a kiss from Kyouya, but it certainly wasn't this. Well, actually, I can't see Kyouya kissing anyone, let alone me. It is unreal.

The kiss radiates respect. I can practically feel it burning a hole in my soul. But I am beginning to understand now. Kyouya doesn't need to voice his feelings, he simply projects them through his presence; his aura.

And that's what holds the Host Club together, not his obvious logic.

I bring my hand up to his neck, and the other to his surprisingly muscled chest, pushing him until he was completely flush against the wall.

Our lips part and we look at each other as if to question what just happened.

Staring at him, I can't help but feel a little something else tugging on my chest. Do I have feelings for Kyouya-sempai?

I know that, to Kyouya, the kiss was nothing but a reassurance; support. But what was it to me?

I am sure I look just as hurt as I feel, because suddenly I am being pulled to Kyouya's chest with a hand on the back of my head and another on the small of my back. No matter how hard I try, the tears still spill from my eyes and onto his tuxedo. He holds me tighter to his warmth, fingers stroking my short hair in comfort.

"It meant nothing, didn't it, sempai?" I whisper to the fabric.

I feel his head jerk up before he gently pulls my shoulders away from him. I sniff pathetically, attempting to regain my composure.

His eyes glow with confusion, but I can tell he knows what I mean. It is a different kind of inquiry; one that questions my logic, or, to put it more simply, tells me I am absolutely insane.

"Haruhi," he murmurs, cupping my cheek and swiping the salty liquid from the tender skin beneath my eye. The corner of his lips pull into a soft, reassuring smile.

"It meant everything."

So, how was it? Personally, I'm not too fond of it because 1) I'm not a big fan of Haruhi fics, and 2) I've read some pretty fantastic stories, and my shitty writing CANNOT compare in any way.

Thank you and have a goodnight. Or morning. Or afternoon. Or whatever.

REVIEW AND YOU GET TRUFFLES AND RAINBOWS.

Love you,

QuinaLee