Me Sitting By You, Sitting Without Seeing Me 

me sitting by you, sitting without seeing me 

summary: when tamaki gets to japan, this is his first mistake: greeting his father. prompt: music recs, any human friend (album), for @selkiecoded pairings: tamaki suoh/kyoya ootori words: 1877 warnings: homophobia, mentions of canon-typical abuse and racism notes: a mix of manga and anime canon is used! i mostly used inspiration from the song "i'm not where you are" off of this album. ty for the rec i really enjoyed it!!

When Tamaki gets to Japan, this is his first mistake: greeting his father. 

It’s a stupid mistake. He knows it’s a stupid mistake. He knows better than to say what he did. He didn’t use the correct level of formality when he spoke to his father in Japanese, and it got him first a slightly disapproving frown from his father and then, from his grandmother, a scoff and a dismissal. She waves her hand at him and says, “You’ll know better than to address me, at least, so informally, I expect.” 

The shame colors his cheeks, heats up his insides, sending him spiraling back to France. He’s been in Japan and with his family for five minutes and already fucked up. He takes a deep breath and says, “Yes, Grandmother. It’s good to see you,” as formally as he remembers how, and then bows. 

She scoffs again, and then turns around and walks away. This is the first of many times that he will disappoint her. Or, this is just the latest of times in the string of times he’s disappointed her just by virtue of being born. Which wasn’t his fault, but it’s hard to feel like it isn’t his problem. 

Tamaki is led to his room in the second Suoh mansion, where he unpacks his few things, sets his photo of his mother on a shelf, and then lies down in the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t hate Japan. He doesn’t. It’s just that he doesn’t fit. 

This is not the last time he will feel like this. The next time is when he goes to dinner, and he greets the maid on his way to the dining room in search of the meal. He just says hello, and he bows, because he’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do when you meet people for the first time, and she stutters something that sounds like “Oh, oh, oh, oh,” and then she stumbles around a corner and turns away. 

It’s a little strange, but maybe she was just nervous meeting someone new, and so he doesn’t think much of it until he greets the cook who serves him and he does the same thing. It’s not until he talks to the head of the servants that he’s finally told that that’s just not how things work around here. The servants are not his friends. They are to be treated with respect, but they aren’t there to talk to him or spend time around him. 

Oh, is all that he can think. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. On one hand, he knows that that’s the nature of their job and of his position. On the other hand, he believes every human being deserves a hello and a good morning and a note of respect in his voice. 

But he’ll go with this for now. He’s desperate to be what he’s expected to be. He’s been set adrift in Japan and he’s clinging to every lifeline he can grasp at; he’s clinging tight to the things he knows to be true and the things he’s told he’s wrong about. The problem is just that it seems that he’s wrong about everything. 

As he comes to understand the world and culture and language and customs a little better, it becomes quickly apparent that his father hasn’t told the truth about everything. In all their conversations about Japan, there are so many things he hadn’t mentioned and even more things that he said that are outright untrue. The fact that his father lied to him about so many things doesn’t sit well in his stomach. But he’s also not brave enough to confront him about it, to ask why he would do that to him, to wonder aloud if he meant so little as to lie about his own heritage, and so he just lives with his new and corrected knowledge.

It’s Kyoya, really, who tells him the truth. Kyoya, who never fails to tell him when he’s wrong. Kyoya, who doesn’t hold back anymore. Kyoya, who reminds him to sleep before dreaming but then builds his dreams anyways.

But even with Kyoya, there’s a disconnect that bothers Tamaki. There’s a kind of broken piece between them: if they were each one half of a puzzle, there would be a single piece in the middle that had fallen by the wayside, never to be found again. There’s a kind of crack in the floor they stand on that represents a canyon that he cannot cross, but that he must leap over before he fully understands what it means to live in Japan, to be Japanese, to be half, to be everything that he is and wants to be and is supposed to be. 

“I could be a preschool teacher,” he tells Kyoya once. 

“As if your father would let that happen,” Kyoya replied. 

He’s right, he’s always right, but it’s still a wake up call that Tamaki didn’t really want. He knows that there are things expected of him. He knows that who he is now is not enough for anyone—for his family. 

He knows that who he will be is a shape molded years upon years ago, when it became clear he was the only heir and the weight of the Suoh family was put on his shoulders. Or, when it became clear he was the only heir and the weight of being good enough to call himself Suoh was made into a quest, an obstacle, a fight to the death. 

It’s strange. He loves who he is. He wants to love who he will be. He doesn’t know how. 

He also doesn’t know how to get there—to the future. He doesn’t know how to become what he needs to be. There are too many things in his childlike wonder that Tamaki doesn’t want to let go of. Love is a tool, a weapon, a shield, and he wields it strong and careful with both hands. 

Love is also unwelcome. This is something he learns early on in his life in Japan. 

This is something he learns when his grandmother calls him a disgraceful bastard. This is something he learns when a girl at school gives him a strange look and then calls him a halfer; just a brief, throwaway comment to her, but to Tamaki it is a prick of a needle popping his heart. This is also something he learns later, when he kisses Kyoya, and he gets caught. 

They are seventeen. They are sitting in Music Room 3, and everyone is supposed to be gone for the day. They were supposed to be alone for hours, talking about the club and life and the future and all of the things that they speak about when no one else is there to listen. 

But Haruhi forgot her phone—she’s ridiculously lax about the care and upkeep of the thing, mostly because she didn’t want it in the first place—and she had come back for it. She had hesitated at the door when she saw how close they were sitting to each other. Maybe she was curious. Maybe something in her gut just told her to stop, to stand at a crack in the door that neither had noticed, and wait. 

Either way, she stands there and watches as Tamaki puts his hand to Kyoya’s cheek and presses a tender kiss to his lips and then pulls away with a smile. Kyoya has that light pink color at his cheeks that he gets when they kiss, something Tamaki has teased him to no end about, and he looks so eiderdown-soft and rose-red-in-love that Tamaki kisses him again. 

They were supposed to be alone. 

And here’s the thing: they know that none of their close friends would care if they were together. Most of them probably have some kind of inkling that they’re together already, and none of them have ever once made a comment about it. 

They’ve been dating for almost a year now, and while they’re not blatantly obvious or advertising their relationship status, it’s also clear in the way they look at each other. Tamaki has always been expressive in everything he does, and loving Kyoya is no different. He doesn’t say it out loud to anyone else, but if you look closely at his searching eyes, you’ll notice that they always come back to Kyoya eventually. 

Still, it’s not something that they’re allowed to have. This—in love—is not who they are supposed to be. This—together—is not who they are expected to be. There is something evil in Tamaki that wants Kyoya and doesn’t care what his father thinks. There is something disgusting in Tamaki that craves Kyoya’s touch and doesn’t give a shit that his grandmother might disown him for real this time. There is something horrible and terrible and brave in Tamaki that chooses to love Kyoya in spite of the world. 

But there is also something scared in him that is not ready for the rest of the world to see it. There is something in him that does not want Haruhi to understand this part of them. There is something in him that doesn’t want to share. 

Because, really, at the end of the day, here is what it comes down to: there is the world and the universe and everyone in it, and then there is Tamaki. There is Tamaki, on the other side of the glass, reading DO NOT TAP GLASS backwards. There is Tamaki, distant and drifting and untethered from the rest of the world. From Haruhi and the hosts and even, sometimes, from Kyoya. 

There is something in him that is still a fourteen year old child messing up the grammar of his second language and reeling from his grandmother’s hatred. There is something in him that is still a fifteen year old boy falling in love and terrified of the consequences for having a feeling. There is something in him that is still a sixteen year old watching his best friend, slapped by his father because of a dream they shared. 

There is the world and its intricacies, and then there is Tamaki and his eccentricities. There is the world and its beauty, and then there is Tamaki and his monstrosity. As the earth spins forward, advancing around the sun, instead of being carried along with it, he’s left behind in the riptide: losing his family, losing his first love, losing his mind, losing his heart. 

“Haruhi,” Kyoya says, staring at her. 

“Hi,” she says. 

“Please—” Tamaki starts, then cuts himself off. 

Haruhi just nods. Maybe she understands. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Tamaki’s side of Tamaki vs. The World is expanding. Maybe it’s not. Maybe she just doesn’t know what else there is to say. Maybe she’s just letting this slip through her fingers without making a big deal out of it, in the same way as she lets go of so many things. 

But maybe it doesn’t matter either way, if she cares or doesn’t care. Maybe it doesn’t matter if the fight is him against the world or him and Kyoya and his friends against the world. Maybe what matters is that there’s a fight in the first place, and that he is losing it.