my heart on my skin
Dinner is light and held outdoors under the wisteria. Tamaki is so excited he almost sets his sleeve on fire trying to light the candles, and it's only after Éclair swiftly catches his arm and shows him his seat at the table beside her does he stop flailing his hands about, loudly exclaiming in French, "Isn't it great to eat with friends! It is so beautiful outside! Ah, Éclair, we shall all be friends this summer! Right, mother?"
The last he says in Japanese. Kyouya grunts, but when he sees Tamaki's smile slipping a little, hesitating, he says, "Of course," expression stretched on his face like shame.
There are grapes and tangerines, roasted chicken, assorted cheeses, and fresh salad, and Kyouya fills his wine glass too many times with chenin, watches Éclair dismantle the crusty bread with her bare well-bred hands. Tamaki has a glass too; it starts to get to him around nine o'clock, when he dozes off at the table, drooling just a little. Kyouya wants to wipe his mouth with a napkin, wants to lean Tamaki's head against his shoulder like Tamaki always does, wants to carry Tamaki inside, cover him up, watch him sleep into the next morning, but it's Éclair who reaches unfaltering fingers to Tamaki's blond hair, brushing lightly across Tamaki's temples.
"Mr. Ootori," Éclair says, and Kyouya peels a tangerine slowly, the peel in sixths, each slice its own petal. Éclair lifts her eyes, looks out past Tamaki's slumped figure, towards the grounds that are rapidly dimming into dusk. In the fading light her eyelashes are dusty. Tamaki's light blue shirt, almost the same color as Éclair's eyes, give a certain emphasized paleness to her already white skin. Kyouya thinks her bone structure is too angular and her eyes too close-set to be universally beautiful. Kyouya knows millions of girls who are more beautiful. He knows that Tamaki does too. "You'll forgive me saying this, but I've noticed you are always watching Tamaki."
Kyouya freezes. He's in the middle of carefully stripping the pith from each slice of his tangerine. The scent from the rind is sharp. Kyouya has to blink. Éclair turns towards him, smiling slightly. Kyouya is almost waiting for her to take out a pair of opera glasses, twirl them, watch him through their stifling lenses. "Is that right," he murmurs. He lines his tangerine pieces on the table in three straight rows, mind racing.
"You needn't look so frightened." Éclair is dismissive as she brushes some bread crumbs off the tablecloth. "Tamaki is lucky to have so caring a friend."
Éclair hums some French song under her breath-- possibly Piaf, Tamaki put her on in the afternoon and they've been listening to "Adieu Mon Coeur" for hours--and Tamaki stirs a little, leaning in closer to the curve of Éclair's elbow, towards her indulgent and confident smile. "Excuse me," Kyouya says, standing up abruptly, "I think I-- Thank you for dinner," and uses all his self-control to not vomit all over Éclair and her thin white sundress, the remnants of the bread and cheese, Tamaki's sleeping face.
As he leaves, he hears Tamaki wake up, stretching, hears his rapid and easy French as he asks Éclair where Kyouya is going. Oh, Éclair replies in a low voice, rich and repugnant like ripe, rotting fruit. Monsieur Ootori told me he had a bit too much to drink, he feels a little sick, he might retire for the night. There is a rustling sound, Tamaki's "ah!" of worry and noble self-sacrifice born of friendship, but the last thing Kyouya hears is Éclair's voice, hard, as she comments, "I think he might want to be left alone for the moment, Tamaki. Have some of this tangerine. I peeled it for you."
Robert Hass's Meditation at Lagunitas
The last he says in Japanese. Kyouya grunts, but when he sees Tamaki's smile slipping a little, hesitating, he says, "Of course," expression stretched on his face like shame.
There are grapes and tangerines, roasted chicken, assorted cheeses, and fresh salad, and Kyouya fills his wine glass too many times with chenin, watches Éclair dismantle the crusty bread with her bare well-bred hands. Tamaki has a glass too; it starts to get to him around nine o'clock, when he dozes off at the table, drooling just a little. Kyouya wants to wipe his mouth with a napkin, wants to lean Tamaki's head against his shoulder like Tamaki always does, wants to carry Tamaki inside, cover him up, watch him sleep into the next morning, but it's Éclair who reaches unfaltering fingers to Tamaki's blond hair, brushing lightly across Tamaki's temples.
"Mr. Ootori," Éclair says, and Kyouya peels a tangerine slowly, the peel in sixths, each slice its own petal. Éclair lifts her eyes, looks out past Tamaki's slumped figure, towards the grounds that are rapidly dimming into dusk. In the fading light her eyelashes are dusty. Tamaki's light blue shirt, almost the same color as Éclair's eyes, give a certain emphasized paleness to her already white skin. Kyouya thinks her bone structure is too angular and her eyes too close-set to be universally beautiful. Kyouya knows millions of girls who are more beautiful. He knows that Tamaki does too. "You'll forgive me saying this, but I've noticed you are always watching Tamaki."
Kyouya freezes. He's in the middle of carefully stripping the pith from each slice of his tangerine. The scent from the rind is sharp. Kyouya has to blink. Éclair turns towards him, smiling slightly. Kyouya is almost waiting for her to take out a pair of opera glasses, twirl them, watch him through their stifling lenses. "Is that right," he murmurs. He lines his tangerine pieces on the table in three straight rows, mind racing.
"You needn't look so frightened." Éclair is dismissive as she brushes some bread crumbs off the tablecloth. "Tamaki is lucky to have so caring a friend."
Éclair hums some French song under her breath-- possibly Piaf, Tamaki put her on in the afternoon and they've been listening to "Adieu Mon Coeur" for hours--and Tamaki stirs a little, leaning in closer to the curve of Éclair's elbow, towards her indulgent and confident smile. "Excuse me," Kyouya says, standing up abruptly, "I think I-- Thank you for dinner," and uses all his self-control to not vomit all over Éclair and her thin white sundress, the remnants of the bread and cheese, Tamaki's sleeping face.
As he leaves, he hears Tamaki wake up, stretching, hears his rapid and easy French as he asks Éclair where Kyouya is going. Oh, Éclair replies in a low voice, rich and repugnant like ripe, rotting fruit. Monsieur Ootori told me he had a bit too much to drink, he feels a little sick, he might retire for the night. There is a rustling sound, Tamaki's "ah!" of worry and noble self-sacrifice born of friendship, but the last thing Kyouya hears is Éclair's voice, hard, as she comments, "I think he might want to be left alone for the moment, Tamaki. Have some of this tangerine. I peeled it for you."
Robert Hass's Meditation at Lagunitas