Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club

Title: Le soleil est près de moi

Status: WIP (1/2)

Pairing: Tamaki/Haruhi

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2, 295

Spoilers: none

Summary: Tamaki, Haruhi, and a summer in Europe.

Notes: Gosh, what can I say? I started watching the anime just last week, but it tantalized my muse at an astonishing pace. So here it is, my very first Ouran fanfic. Title is shamelessly borrowed from the Air song of the same name, French lines interspersed between paragraphs are from "Je m'en remets à toi" by Jacques Brel, and there's a Margaret Atwood reference in there somewhere. I did a lot of research, so I hope any factual errors I might have made aren't too glaring. Suggestions, comments and critique would be lovely. Enjoy!

Le soleil est près de moi

un

"Haruhi." A gentle tug on her sleeve, when the semester ends. "Hey, Haruhi."

She turns, looks up. That smile--- dreamy, faraway, run now, don't get involved in the latest madcap scheme. "What is it, senpai?"

"Let's go."

Her brow creases. "Where?"

He tilts his head; late afternoon light streams in through the music room windows, arcs, golden and languid, into the deep violet of his eyes. "Anywhere."

Pour ce qui est de vivre,

Ou de ne pas vivre

They take the Suohs' private jet. She wonders if she should have put up more of a fight--- it's certainly not like her at all, this sudden setting off for parts unknown, no clear plan in mind.

She catches him pinching himself. "Senpai, what's the matter?"

He straightens, almost convulsively. "Ah, I just... I just..." The aristocratic line of his mouth melts into a bemused, boyish grin. He regards her with amazement and a hint of disbelief. "Are you really here?"

So strange, the way he unexpectedly sidles into the corners of her heart.

Pour ce qui est de rire

"I'm really here," she assures him.

Ou de ne rire plus

The look he gives her then is so soppy, so limpid and content, that she knows, she just knows the inner theatre is once again painting its burnished scenes. She leans back in her fine leather seat, peers out the window at the thick white clouds and rose-tinted sky.

After all, she muses, what's the worst that can possibly happen?

Minutes later, she throws up.

Je m'en remets à toi

"No, no, it's okay." Tamaki waves off her mortified apologies as he signals the flight attendant. "It's my fault. I should have known you'd get airsick."

Once the vomit on the carpet has been vacuumed away and Haruhi's handed back the proffered barf bag, Tamaki gives her a sip of water and cradles her head to his chest.

"Sleep," he murmurs. His lips trace soft patterns into her hair. "You'll feel better soon."

Too weak and nauseous to protest, she buries her face in the cool folds of his linen shirt. His scent--- that heady mixture of sandalwood soap and lemon-and-bergamot cologne that is so very Tamaki--- is more soothing than she'd like to admit. Her eyelids flutter, and then close.

Pour ce qui est d'aimer,

Pour une part de chance

He falls into Italy like it is home. The place suits him, overlaps with the more blatant aspects of his personality--- the mellow, romantic patina that gilds the air, the language's singsong lilts and rich trills, the expansive, flourished hand gestures.

"I didn't know you could speak Italian," Haruhi says as they feed the pigeons in Venice's Piazza San Marco, under a clear blue sky.

"My childhood years were spent on this continent," he tells her. "Being multilingual is a characteristic of the traditional European upbringing. I'm good at languages, in general." His tone is matter-of-fact, robbed of the vestiges of the usual conceit that she finds so annoying. He appears more relaxed here, in this panorama of grey wings and old stone, without clients to please and Kyouya's sarcastic remarks and the twins' needling.

"Different tongues fascinate me," he continues, birdseed trailing from his fingers. "Did you know, Haruhi, that the Eskimos have many, many words for snow? Aput, snow on the ground; gana, falling snow; piqsirpoq, drifting snow; qimuqsuq, a snow drift. And so on."

She taps her chin as she ponders this information. "That makes sense. Snow is a big part of their lives, after all."

"It is," Tamaki solemnly agrees. "We should have as many words for love, don't you think?"

She shrugs. "Love isn't everything, senpai."

"Ah, you think so?" He ducks his head to focus on the cooing pigeons, but she doesn't miss the hint of sadness that creeps into his eyes. "When you said everyone loves the Host Club, it brought me back to you, after all."

Pour ce qui est d'espérer,

Ou de désespérance

They ride a gondola. As the boatman steers them through a maze of rippling canals and weathered buildings, Haruhi finds herself immersed in another memory of water, distant but dear. Horse hooves on a bridge, the setting sun, strong arms around her, the river, cold and wet...

"Tamaki-senpai."

As he leans with casual elegance against the sides of the gondola, he looks like a haughty Medici prince, but those sharp and refined features soften when he turns to her; his pale face seems to reflect the shimmering panels of water. "Hmm?"

She bows. "Thank you, for everything."

Je m'en remets à toi

They stand in the courtyard of La Casa di Giulietta, Verona's humid, dusky air wrapping around them. It's also Tamaki's first visit there, although he's read about it and has always wanted to go; he fawns and flutters over Juliet's bronze statue, the balcony ("That's the balcony, Haruhi, the balcony! Where the star-crossed lovers met under moonlight, oh, so beautiful and tragic...") and the love letters stuck, by custom, to the walls. He gives every indication of being about to faint from rapture. She wryly asks herself if she has the physical strength to drag him to the nearest hospital.

"I must show you something!" he cries, taking her hand and leading her to a wall covered in names of men and women, scrawled in various colours of ink and different types of penmanship.

"This is Juliet's wall," Tamaki says with a grand, sweeping gesture. "The couples whose names are written here--- their love will last forever."

"That's just a legend, senpai."

He gasps, wounded by her cynicism, eyes flickering into violet pools.

Haruhi relents. She takes a pen out of her bag, finds a blank space. Painstakingly, she writes "Ootori Kyouya + notebook" and encloses it with a heart.

Driven by impassioned rage, Tamaki rails at her for mocking the sanctity of Juliet's wall.

"But," she protests as he pulls her away, "I haven't even written down Honey-senpai and his bunny yet."

Oui mais,

Pour ce qui est des pleurs

Even in summer, London is a city of mists and chills and sudden rain. They bundle themselves up in cardigans and scarves, walk down the streets holding hands--- for warmth, Haruhi reminds herself, only for warmth, although she's hard-pressed to ignore the way her pulse dances at the physical contact, when his arm encircles her waist as they peek into shop windows, when his fingers linger on her shoulder after he pulls out the chair for her at restaurants. They watch the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace, go shopping in Soho and night fishing at Clapham Common. On the shore of the pond, Tamaki is ephemeral, hair and skin silvered by moonlight, ghostlike.

He chuckles when she tells him this.

"Ghosts fade away." He shakes his head. "I never will."

Half-hidden in shadows, and yet he looks young and undaunted. Haruhi believes him.

Comme autant de cerises

Madrid, in contrast to London, is lovely and warm, a city of motion and vibrance. Haruhi rolls her eyes as women of all ages swoon at Tamaki's husky, faintly-accented Spanish, muttering "Idiot" under her breath with a vehemence that startles even herself. Strange. She's normally desensitized to his being a ladies' man, but perhaps she's been away from Host Club activities for too long.

He takes her to the Malasaña district. It's loud, colourful and crowded, and they order a round of cocktails at the nearest bar. "Don't drink too much, though," he warns. "Your father will kill me."

She can't help the tiny smile that curves her lips, because she's all too aware of the tears Ranka shed and the threats he directed at Tamaki's manhood in the days before she left. "I won't, senpai."

But, apparently, her companion sets no such prohibitions for himself, for soon his wintry cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy, their gleam brighter than ever. She observes with interest and trepidation--- will a drunken Tamaki be more embarrassing and harder to handle than a sober one?

She gets her answer soon enough, when he jovially challenges nearby patrons to a flamenco dance contest. He is indulged, as beautiful, charming boys so often are; the music starts, guitar strings thrumming, bold as brass, in the evening air.

Kaoru calls. She picks up.

Pour ce qui est du coeur,

Qui se tord et se brise

"Your dad's beside himself with worry."

"I call him every night, you know."

"You think that makes any difference?"

She grins. "No, I guess not."

Kaoru sighs. "We're worried, too. Obviously, we want you to have your fun, but just imagining what perverted, dastardly things the lord is doing..."

"Kaoru! He's not like that."

He laughs, and she relaxes, realizes it had been another one of his games. "Yeah, yeah, I was joking. Hikaru and I miss you, though. Maybe we should pop in for a short visit."

"Is that still a joke?"

"Only if you want it to be."

She glances at Tamaki. He's moving to the rhythm, snapping his fingers, swinging his hips with unaffected gusto, as the gathering crowd applauds in delight. He looks, she decides, like a moron.

And it's preposterous, but she wants to keep him to herself a little while longer. They are joyous and carefree in this new and sprawling land; the summer so far has been locked in a glorious haze, containing just the two of them, and Haruhi, who's always been practical, suddenly resents even the notion of intrusions.

She blinks. The alcohol must be getting to her head.

Je m'en remets encore,

Je m'en remets à toi

"Haruhi." Kaoru's voice, a bit impatient now, breaks into her thoughts.

She starts. "Sorry, I was a bit... distracted."

"There's something I want to ask you."

"Yes?"

"Why are you doing this? It's not like you at all. What made you agree to this trip?"

The bar's neon lights splinter on the edges of Tamaki's golden hair. Haruhi begins to feel suffocated.

"Is it because the lord graduated this year?" Kaoru gently prods the silence. "Is it because this is your last summer together?"

She turns away from the sight of Tamaki, from the dancing and the music. "What are you saying?"

"Well, what's your reason, then?"

"I..." She trails off.

"Think about it, Haruhi, okay? Because---"

Lean arms encircle her from behind. The scent of sandalwood and citrus, with an underlying bite of tequila, weaves itself around her.

"Dance with me," Tamaki murmurs, his lips grazing her ear.

"I'm talking to Kaoru," she replies.

Swiftly, he grabs the phone from her hand. "We're safe and having fun!" he yells into the receiver. "Leave us alone!"

He hangs up, tosses Haruhi a smirk that is satisfied, if somewhat dazed from too much liquor.

Pour que ce soit demain

Two days later, they fly to Greece and climb Mount Olympus.

Plutôt que le passé

They set off at dawn from the sleepy stuccoed-maple town of Litochoro. At first, the hike uphill is pleasant--- wide trail, vivid summer greenery, balmy breeze--- and they reach their first stop, Priona, in time for lunch. After that, though, they encounter rough juts of rock and slippery limestone, and the temperature decreases as they go higher. Tamaki's all over the place, taking pictures, chattering nonstop with boundless excitement. Yet every time he notices an exhausted Haruhi lagging behind, he retraces his steps to help her up. As she watches him practically skip over the steep incline, Haruhi wonders where he gets the energy. Her own legs are about to fall off.

To distract herself from the physical strain, she concentrates on her picturesque surroundings. Mount Olympus is covered in silver-green pine, fir and beech trees, as well as riotous bursts of brilliant-hued flowers, fire-red and cotton-white and the same crystalline violet as Tamaki's eyes. The clear, brisk air chimes with the mellifluous accents of birdsong.

By late afternoon, they arrive at Spilios Agapitos Refuge, located at an altitude of 2, 100 meters, where they spend the night. After a hearty dinner of fasolada, feta, veal and mountain tea, Haruhi collapses onto her bed with a deep, grateful sigh, and she's asleep once her head touches the pillow.

Pour que ce soit l'airain

"We're almost there," Tamaki remarks the next morning, at breakfast. "Unless you want to go up higher? Stefani is only the third highest peak, after all." His eyes glint in playful challenge.

Haruhi glares at him.

He backs off good-naturedly, throws his palms up in surrender.

Plutôt que le laurier

"It's gorgeous, it's gorgeous!" Tamaki's gleeful, triumphant cries echo across the Plateau of the Muses.

Relieved, Haruhi sags to the ground, digging her hands into the wiry grass as she takes it all in. Stefani Peak, Zeus' throne, stands majestic and resplendent, caressed by the placid rays of mid-morning sun. We made it, we climbed a mountain, she thinks, over and over again. We really made it. Her blood is numb from the conflicting emotions stirring inside her, but her senses thrill, fully alive. She's aware of everything; she's aware--- almost painfully--- of Tamaki, who tackles her in a tight embrace.

"Here we are," he says happily, his face only inches away. The light blurs his hair into a golden halo as loose strands fall into his eyes, his heart is beating hard against her own, and for Haruhi the world has unfolded, bigger and more exquisite than she could possibly have imagined.

"Yes," she agrees, and is seized with spur-of-the-moment bravery. Her hand doesn't even tremble as she cups the side of his face; she lets it rest there, feeling his smooth skin beneath her fingertips. "Yes. Here we are."

Je m'en remets à toi

to be continued