Chapter Text
It is their final winter as middle schoolers when Kyoya and Tamaki kiss for the first time.
They are huddled underneath a kotatsu in the electric blue glow of the flat screen TV mounted on Kyoya’s bedroom wall, sharing a basket of mandarins, tea, and companionable silence. Kyoya is picking at the bits of mandarin peel stuck under his fingernails and Tamaki is curled up on the floor across from him, out of sight but never out of mind. His feet brush idly against Kyoya’s crossed ankles under the table, but neither of them pull away from the contact. Kyoya never considered himself a fan of physical affection and he still doesn’t; it’s always been something he’s been more or less indifferent to. Still, be it because of the tender lethargy of winter or his ever-growing soft spot for Tamaki, he finds himself thinking being physically close to someone else can actually be kind of nice.
(Not that he’d ever say so out loud. He doesn’t want to give Tamaki an excuse to leap into his arms at school the way he had when they first met. Being close to him might feel good, but that’s all the more reason for Kyoya not to want to turn it into a spectacle.)
The movie playing on screen is something Kyoya is not particularly interested in. Tamaki chose it; an action film with a slapdash, overtly heterosexual romantic subplot, but it is, at the very least, something to watch. Still, Kyoya can tell that even Tamaki is getting impatient with it, his clothes swishing against Kyoya’s carpet as he shifts restlessly on the floor.
Suddenly, he emerges, ruffled and sour-faced as he leans against the table with his chin in his hands. He reaches for another mandarin, his clumsy fingers struggling with the peel. Kyoya stretches his arm out expectantly and waits for Tamaki to drop the fruit into his waiting palm. He peels it for him listlessly, not taking his eyes off the screen, and sighs deeply when the protagonist sweeps his love interest off her feet and into a passionate kiss.
Tamaki seems more enthusiastic about the encounter. “Aww,” he cooes, voice dreamy. Kyoya looks over to see him cupping his rosy cheeks in endearment, irritation evidently forgotten. He’s always had an almost annoyingly fast emotional refractory period. “How sweet.”
Kyoya adjusts his glasses. “Hardly,” he says dryly, tearing the rest of the mandarin peel away and handing the fruit back to Tamaki. “They’ve only shared about seven minutes of screentime together. Not exactly enough to warrant a love connection.”
“What about love at first sight?” Tamaki asks innocently, chewing. It’s a very Tamaki question.
“What about it? It’s nonsense,” Kyoya answers simply. “Just an excuse for writers to put no effort into their romantic subplots that they foolishly hope will attract a female audience. Frankly I don’t see the appeal.”
Tamaki kicks him lightly under the table. “The appeal is that it’s nice when two people get together,” he argues, tossing a mandarin wedge at Kyoya’s head. It bounces off the side of his nose and tumbles onto the table. Kyoya, without looking, throws it back at Tamaki and, by the sound of it, manages to make contact. “ Ouch .”
“Karma.”
“ Anyway , I always like the romantic scenes the best,” Tamaki goes on. “The music swells, the two protagonists make eye contact across the room, and then…” He squeals and buries his head in his arms over the table, kicking his legs in delight underneath.
Kyoya arches an eyebrow at him. “What?” he asks, somewhat incredulous.
Tamaki lifts his head, a big, goofy grin on his face. “They kiss, of course!” he says brightly.
Kyoya hums. “Of course,” he echoes dully.
There’s a short pause, but just as Kyoya thinks the conversation over and resigns himself to watching the movie, he hears Tamaki ask,
“Have you ever kissed anyone?”
and his stomach unwittingly does a flip.
He thinks, for a moment, about lying. Most people his age have had their first kiss already, and also seem to be prone to casting judgement. But Tamaki, he reminds himself, isn’t like that, even if he has almost certainly had his first kiss. Besides, Tamaki is so ridiculous that in theory it should be impossible to feel embarrassed around him. Not to mention the fact that, logically, Kyoya has nothing to be embarrassed about. Right?
“Well, no,” Kyoya admits finally, expression neutral. “The opportunity has never presented itself.” He reaches for his cup of tea, suddenly needing something to occupy himself with.
“I haven’t either,” Tamaki admits wistfully, resting his pink cheek in his hand.
Kyoya blinks, staring at Tamaki wordlessly, eyebrows raised. He lifts his cup of tea to his lips, blowing soft ripples into the dark liquid.
“What?” Tamaki asks defensively.
“Nothing,” Kyoya says casually, “I just wasn’t expecting that. Given your proclivity for flirting.”
Tamaki groans. “You make everything sound so,” he pauses, struggling to find the words and looking to the ceiling for help, “ clinical .”
“Well, my family does have a hand in hospital management,” Kyoya supplies, just to be a smartass.
Tamaki rolls his eyes, laughing. Kyoya smiles around the lip of his cup. “No, but seriously. It just...never happened. I didn’t really go out much back home,” Tamaki explains, and Kyoya makes a mental note that ‘home’ for Tamaki still means France, “and I haven’t met anyone here who I like-like either.”
Kyoya hums in acknowledgement, content to let the conversation fizzle. He sips his tea and closes his eyes, warm, rich liquid filling his mouth. It would relax him if it weren’t for the fact that he can feel Tamaki staring at him. He swallows, puts his cup down, and meets Tamaki’s urgent gaze.
“What,” he deadpans.
“I was just thinking,” Tamaki says, gears turning behind his wide eyes.
Kyoya is instinctively apprehensive. “That’s dangerous.”
“Ha-ha. Hear me out.”
Kyoya watches him curiously, noting the way he chews his bottom lip and stares down at what’s left of the mandarin Kyoya peeled for him. “I’m listening,” he says, intrigued.
Tamaki clears his throat. “I was just thinking, since we’re best friends and neither of us has done it before,” he starts, doing his best to appear calm, chin raised, “that the two of us should kiss.”
There’s a beat of silence before, distantly, Kyoya registers the sound of an explosion coming from the TV, computer-generated fire casting the room in flickering orange light.
He opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come. Not for the first time since the beginning of their friendship, Kyoya wonders if he really understands Tamaki at all.
Them, kissing.
Them.
Kissing.
Most of Kyoya’s experience with romance comes from listening to Fuyumi info-dump about her favorite shoujo manga or from long-foreshadowed marriage interviews to be arranged by his father; not exactly the kind of adolescent daydream that inspires ballads or sonnets.
Still, as much as he likes to think he is above what he sees as frivolous pursuits like love, he has been, in his own way, curious about it and all that it entails. And, even worse, he has been increasingly aware of a dormant but growing desire to be close to Tamaki.
And so, in a bold, experimental stroke of hedonism, Kyoya hears himself say, “Alright.”
“But Kyoya - “ Tamaki starts to protest, but cuts himself off as Kyoya’s agreement sinks in. “Wait, you - you - What?” he asks with a short, quizzical shake of his head. Clearly he wasn’t expecting a yes. His cheeks flush red like he’s sick with fever.
Kyoya clears his throat. “I said alright,” he repeats, attempting a casual shrug.
And as Tamaki perks up, a grin breaking out on his lips like dazzling sunlight through parted curtains, Kyoya feels himself burn like the building on-screen.
He watches, unmoving, as Tamaki scooches back over the carpet so his long legs are free from the heated blanket covering them and crawls over to Kyoya’s side of the kotatsu. He sits on his heels and reaches over to tug on Kyoya’s hand. Kyoya faces him, body humming like bees live under his skin. He feels everything and nothing all at once. Faintly, he registers Tamaki suggesting a countdown and feels his head nod in agreement all on its own.
“One,” Tamaki whispers, slowly beginning to lean in.
“Two,” Kyoya continues, feeling himself being pulled into Tamaki’s orbit.
Their eyes fall shut, their fingers clench, and their lips touch before they get to three.
Kyoya knows better than to expect fireworks or starbursts. He knows better than to think he’ll find enlightenment in Tamaki’s mouth. He knows better than to feel his heart expand in his chest and squeeze tight against the confines of his ribcage.
He knows better, and he lets it all happen anyway.
Tamaki’s lips are soft and plump like mandarin wedges, sweet from tea and so unbelievably warm that Kyoya’s normally unbreakable concentration frays at the edges, becoming white noise buzzing in the background of his consciousness. His breath gets trapped in his lungs. His fingers grip Tamaki’s hand so hard that they ache. His eyes are screwed shut so tightly that he wonders if he will ever manage to pry them open again.
Until now, he had always assumed kissing was like shaking someone’s hand, needing to make sense of the foreign concept by comparing to something familiar, misguided though he was. He had shaken many hands before. He knew what it felt like to touch another person. Since kissing couldn’t be that different, it was impossible for him to be missing out. It was impossible for him not to understand.
Like a handshake, he had thought. Like a goddamn handshake.
But somehow, as he surrenders himself to the warmth of Tamaki’s lips on his, he can’t be bitter about the fact that he was wrong.
Tamaki seems to have a better idea of what he’s doing than Kyoya does, tipping his head further to the side and parting his lips so that Kyoya’s bottom one fits between them snugly. Kyoya feels suction, a hint of teeth, and vaguely faint from lack of oxygen.
Lungs aching, he wrenches his sweaty hand out of Tamaki’s grip, claps him on the shoulders, and straightens his arms with an abrupt snap of his elbows, pushing Tamaki away. Their lips disconnect with a loud, wet click .
Kyoya pants loudly, grabbing fistfuls of Tamaki’s shirt to keep himself steady, face numb with heat. He looks up to find Tamaki staring at him in confusion and disappointment, red-faced but still insultingly composed.
“What?” he asks, brows knitted, until surprise washes over his features. “Wait, you weren’t breathing?”
Kyoya feels like he’s been put on the spot. “I didn’t even think about it,” he admits breathlessly, suddenly miserable.
He hears Tamaki snort a laugh and snaps his head up with a vicious glare. Tamaki smacks his palm over his mouth with one hand and waves dismissively with the other. Kyoya sighs, releasing Tamaki’s shirt and crossing his arms. Tamaki clears his throat and sniffs, trying to get a hold of himself.
“We’ll work on it next time,” he giggles good-naturedly. Part of Kyoya wants to comment on the presumption that there would even be a next time; wants to say that there won’t be, the words sitting heavy on the back of his tongue.
And yet when Kyoya imagines himself actually saying them, something in his stomach twists the same way it used to when he’d fake a smile to one of his classmates for the millionth time in a day. It’s like the phantom twinge of a long-forgotten injury; that lingering feeling of wrongness that he once felt like he’d never be able to shake.
Being close to Tamaki feels good , he thinks, for once unchecked. Kissing Tamaki feels good.
“If you insist,” he says, and wonders what he’s getting himself into.