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He couldn’t stand you. He really couldn’t stand you. Kyouya would go as far as to say he hated you. And Kyouya never cared enough about anyone to hate them, but somehow you had gotten there. He hated how he couldn’t read you, couldn’t manipulate you. He hated how you had no reaction to his family name, how you carried yourself as if you were untouchable. He hated how you were the only person who’s grades could rival his and he hated how nobody else seemed to hate you.
Tamaki adored you, it had led to you spending time at the host club, Though rather than fawning over the boys there, it seemed as if you were entertaining them as much as they worked to entertain you. It wasn’t long until the rest came to adore you too, which came with caring about you. All of which came with the freak out the club had when you ended up in a little bit of trouble.
You and Haruhi had gone off for a day together in the town right outside of the Academy. In true host club fashion, the rest had gone to watch the two girls, since privacy wasn’t really a thing and Tamaki was distraught that Haruhi asked you to hang out rather than him. It was your fault, Kyouya supposed. A mugger had targeted you and Haruhi, the face of the daughter of a wealthy businessman probably drew too much attention. Haruhi had tried to fight back, scrapping a bit with the man before Mori and Honey had made it to the two of you. You hadn’t been particularly responsive since the incident, but the club hadn’t really taken notice, too wrapped up in Haruhi and her hero complex. The group had brought the two of you back to the academy, ushering Haruhi to the nurse's office. Despite it being a school, they had some of the most competent nursing staff on hand, and it was quicker than going to a hospital. You on the other hand had drifted off from the group, wandering towards the Music Room. Nobody noticed. Except for Kyouya.
It took a moment for him to realize why. He was worried for you. He cared about you. When had that happened? It was undeniable, the way his chest constricted at the thought of you getting hurt, at even the idea of not seeing you anymore or your seat being empty in class. The realization brought more anger than anything. It angered him enough for him to storm after you. He wasn’t sure how long he had felt that way about you, he always thought of Tamaki as the oblivious one, but the more he thought about it, the more aware he became. You had taken over his mind, squeezing yourself into every crevice for the past few months. He had assumed it was the same hatred that he always felt towards you, just amplified by the sudden constant proximity. You had a talent for infuriating him. It was something about the way you did your hair, and the way the styles you chose always accentuated your best facial features. Or the way you managed to maintain elegance even in the school's obnoxious, yellow dresses. He hated your smile and the way it brightened people's days. He hated your voice and your laugh and your walk and your charm and the way that you tilted your head when talking to him as if you actually cared about what he was saying. And the more he thought about it, the less those seemed like critiques and more like compliments. Anyone with an outside perspective could tell you that Kyouya held you in rather high regard, but it was far too early for him to admit that to even himself.
He didn’t knock as he entered the music room, far too wrapped up in his own angry thoughts to even think of it, but as soon as the door shut behind him and he look up he regretted the lack of thought. You were hunched over a vanity, the top of your dress removed from your torso and hanging down while you dabbed at your throat. You froze for a moment when your eyes met, but you snapped out of it much faster than he did, pulling up the top half of your dress to cover your chest and turning away from him. Silver eyes traced up your back, the line of your spine to your tense shoulder blades. He hated how pretty he found you. Years of living with doctors prevented him from getting distracted by that, however, and his eyes fell from you to the kit you had open in front of you. A first aid kit, he realized. Quicker than he would’ve cared to admit, he strode over to you, allowing himself to observe you more closely. He hadn’t thought you had gotten injured at all. By the time the Host Club made it, Haruhi and the lowlife had been shoving each other around while you had been pressing yourself against a wall as if trying to disappear, your hand clutching at the pendant of a necklace. Now nearly next to you, Kyouya could make out the scratches and bruising on your back, far too prominent to be your own doing. That didn’t surprise him, you were probably the first to get attacked, pushed up against the wall and threatened for money. Considering you were easily distinguishable as the rich one. What did surprise him was the red spotting on the collar of your uniform. You curled yourself away from him, but he could see the tissue you had balled up in your hand and could only assume what you had been cleaning. Slender finders wrap themselves around your shoulder, forcing you to turn around and face him.
A soft gasp escaped you, not expecting the ‘Shadow King’ to hold on to you the way he did. His fingers wrapped themselves around your wrists, more gently than you’d expected, and pulled your hands from your body. Your dress fell once more and his eyes found what he’d feared. A narrow, red line across your throat. Dried, beaded blood caused his chest to tighten once more. He hated feeling this way.
With gentle fingers he pried the tissue from your fingers. You watched through wide eyes as he wet the tissue with alcohol and began to wipe away the dried blood. He hated how there was no heat in your eyes, just curiosity. He could hear you breath hitch as his own hit your throat. He hated how much he liked that sound.
“He didn’t have a knife when we got there?” Kyouya’s tone didn’t sound like it was just asking a question.
“Haruhi grabbed it from him.” You admitted quietly. “I… didn’t do anything.” Kyouya was vaguely aware that your tone was asking for comfort, but he didn’t have it in him to give it to you.
“Good. What were you going to do?” It was harsh, everything about his tone and the way he said it was harsh. You curled back from him, but his body followed yours.
“Something,” He hated the way you whined. “Maybe Haruhi wouldn’t be in the infirmary now if I’d-”
“Haruhi throws herself into danger constantly, you doing the same does nothing for anyone.” At his cold words you pushed at him, as if trying to get him away from you. It did nothing. Your eyes glared up at him and he found himself admiring the way they lit with anger.
“Don’t say that,” You seethed up at him. “You are not so cruel as to say trying to help your friend does nothing.”
“Have I ever given you the impression of caring?” He challenged, leaning down to glare right back at you. He hated how your blush made you even prettier.
“If you don’t care, why are you here?” You finally managed. He began to pull away but you kept speaking. “Following me isn’t the action of someone who doesn’t care. Cleaning the blood isn’t the action of someone who doesn’t care.”
“I don’t care about you.” He snapped, leaning down until the two of you were practically nose-to-nose. You didn’t back away.
“Don’t you?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I’m not sure,” you hummed infuriatingly. “Mostly the way you’re always watching me, the way you seem to know me and what I like and what I don’t better than anyone else.” You leaned up, your lips a hair away from his own. Your insinuation infuriated him. He hated how sure you sounded. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to act the way he did, he blamed it on how desperately he wanted you to shut up and the way your proximity clouded his better judgment.
His mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was rough and the furthest thing from romantic. It was vicious, and you responded with the same energy. Kyouya was sure his lips would bruise, but the thought wasn’t coherent enough to deter him. He backed you against the vanity, his body pinning yours. His hands held onto the counter, caging you in. Your own hands roamed up his body, fingertips trailing up his shoulders, neck, jaw and finally tangling themselves in his hair. The feeling of your manicured nails scraping against his skull sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine, and he’d be damned if he didn’t hate that, too. His own hands began to wander, gripping at soft flesh and causing you to pull back to gasp. Kyouya’s lips chased yours.
“I hate you.” He muttered in between kisses. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” You didn’t offer a response, simply kissing him harder. Teeth and tongues clashed, Kyouya was sure someone's lip would start bleeding soon. When the two of you broke apart for air, he put his mouth to use elsewhere, running his lips and teeth down your throat. He pressed himself against you harder when he felt you arch against him, reveling in the way you shuddered against him. One of your arms had wrapped itself around his shoulders to pull yourself closer to him, while the other hand carded through his hair. He was at your clavicle, breathing heavily between kisses and bites, when he managed to say it again. “I hate you.”
Your gentle pets turned rough suddenly, fingers gripping his hair roughly and pulling to force him to look up, grey eyes meeting yours. Kyouya was panting, but even through his hazey state he was aware of how godlike you looked, glaring down at him. You were flushed red, your lipgloss and mascara smudged, with bite marks and drool trailing down your throat. Your lips were swollen and they pulled into a sneer as you looked down on him.
“Shut up.” Kyouya was convinced his knees might give out at your tone, he certainly sank down lower, gazing up at you with what he would convince himself later was loathing. You craned your neck down, your arms still holding him to you as your pressed kisses to his face, the softness polar to the way you had been kissing him previously, but winding him just as much. Your final kiss to his lips was what ended him, his body giving out as he fell to his knees in front of you. His forehead rested against the soft skin of your sternum and he didn’t fight you as soft hand cupped his head, your thumbs stroking soothing lines against him. It was the softness of it all that took his breath away. He couldn’t even choke out the phrase he wanted to.
I hate you.