late bloomer, ch 7
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Fandom: OHSHC
Pairing: Kyoya/Reader
Tags: 18+, A/B/O Dynamics, College AU, Fake Dating, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slice of Life, Eventual Smut
Summary: Nobody ever said falling in love with your best friend would be easy.
Taglist (new!): @silverhetdanes @lampalooza
late bloomer, ch 7
“There’s my girl,” Kaoru crows as soon as he spots you. At a look from Hikaru, he amends, “Our girl,” and pulls you into a hug. Low in your ear, he says, “Not Haruhi’s, but…”
You push away. “If you’re going to be a dick, I’ll just head home.”
“Noooo,” he whines.
“Ignore him, (Y/N).” Hikaru pops around your other shoulder. “He was three shots in before he even reached the pregame.”
“Yeah, which means she has some catching up to do!” Kaoru offers the red solo cup currently in his hand, full of whatever godawful concoction the Thetas have thrown together this time.
You shake your head, and he pouts at you. “You know my rule.”
“Never drink the jungle juice,” the three of you say in tandem.
Kaoru rolls his eyes, but takes the cup back, at least, knocking back most of its contents in one gulp. You can’t help but wince. Kaoru’s always had the strongest capacity for liquor of anyone you know, which makes you incredibly concerned for his health past graduation. “Spoken like someone who’s never really lived,” he says.
“Spoken like someone who wants to have a working liver when I’m thirty.”
“There’s some canned drinks in the kitchen, I think.” Hikaru says. “Want us to show you?”
“Nah, you can stay here. I’ll be right back.”
You push through the dark and sweaty room and are relieved to make it to the kitchen, which isn’t quite empty but is at least marginally less crowded. You pop open a watermelon seltzer and try to breathe.
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
You almost jump at the sound of his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Kyoya says. He’s leaning against the counter, looking relatively casual in a sweater and slacks. Not exactly frat-party attire, but at least it’s a departure from the suit. “You know overconsumption of alcohol can lead to fainting.”
You roll your eyes, and take a sip of your drink for good measure. A few sips. If Kyoya Ootori is going to try and engage you in some section-asshole-pedantry in the middle of a Theta party, you’d like to be as drunk as humanly possible. “I appreciate the concern, but I doubt one White Claw every three months is going to make me blackout.”
“You don’t drink a lot, then.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Maybe.” If it was anyone else, you would think he was teasing you. But he sounds so serious. Everything he says sounds so serious, and its seriously starting to get on your nerves.
“What, you had me pegged as an alcoholic?”
“Never mind.” He moves to take a sip of own drink, and you raise a brow, looking from the (mostly full) cup to his face. “Vodka and Sprite,” he says by way of explanation. You can tell by the wince on his face after he sips that he’s telling the truth. “Terrible.”
You can’t help but laugh. “What were you expecting, scotch? Or apple juice?”
“Right now I’d take either,” he says. “Gladly. It’d be leagues better than this.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Vodka and Sprite?”
“What you’re doing here,” you correct him. “I’ve never seen someone who looks like they’ve been to less parties in my life.”
“Unlike you, a true connoisseur,” he says, eyeing your can. “How you can make it through one of these with nothing but a White Claw every three months is beyond me.”
“Oh. No, I was dragged here by some friends. I’m not really a party person, either.” You angle your head in the direction of the living room/dance floor. “I wish I was. I mean, they’re good if I’m in the mood, which usually involves being drunk off more than a seltzer.”
“How do you feel about shots?”
“What happened to overconsumption of alcohol can lead to fainting? ” He shrugs. You blink up at him. “I’m not opposed.”
He reaches over your shoulder, and you flinch before realizing that he’s just trying to get at the drinks on the kitchen island. Only at fancy-ass Ouran would the Greek life kids be able to afford a house like this, you can’t help but think. You step aside to allow him better access, and take the opportunity to get a better look at him. He’s not bad-looking. He doesn’t have the type of vitality that Tamaki has, nor is he intimidatingly buff; but he’s tall, and well-dressed, and his shoulders press against the fabric of his shirt in a way that implies a bit of lean muscle. His face looks as though it should be committed to paint (knowing the type of wealth he comes from, it probably has, several times); the smooth, pale-velvet skin; the slim, curved nose, arriving at an offensively delicate point at the end; the dark eyes; the bow-drawn lips; and all of this framed by a defined jaw and well-shaped cheekbones and that strikingly dark hair.
If only he weren’t such an ass.
“Tequila alright?”
You clear your throat, looking away before he can catch you staring at him. “They have salt and lime?”
“They must.”
“Then yeah. Yeah, that’s great.”
He hands you an empty cup and goes about cutting a few lime slices. You take the opportunity to pour your own shot, and wait for him to finish. Ass or not, you have to admit that this particular interaction is going well. Even if it started out with him questioning your drinking choices. “To becoming party people,” he says once you’re set up with the salt and the lime.
“To becoming party people.” You touch your cup to his, lick the back of your hand, down the shot, and find your eyes meeting his as you suck on the slice of lime. For some reason, it brings a smile to your face. You certainly didn’t expect at any point tonight to find yourself in a frat kitchen, taking tequila shots with Kyoya Ootori, of all people. “Does this mean we’re not enemies anymore?”
Now he raises a brow. “Were we ever?”
You snort. “I mean. We didn’t exactly get off on the best foot in class.”
“I hardly think a difference in opinion makes us enemies. It made for interesting conversation, at the least.”
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
You point at him. “You’re one of those devil’s advocate guys. Is that it?”
A little crease appears between his eyebrows. “What?”
“You just like to argue for fun? You get off on it? Is that how you think normal people communicate, just pointlessly debating all the time?”
“We were having a discussion. In a discussion seminar. What’s pointless about that?”
You roll your eyes. “Can we take another shot? Whatever looks like it’ll taste the worst.” You know by now that if you want to get really fucked up, you have to go for the cheap stuff.
Once that shot’s been downed, you clear your throat. “Okay. I just…you really didn’t feel like there was any bad blood between us? I mean, okay, what about the hospital the other day?”
He pauses. “What about it?”
“We…well. I sort of jumped down your throat.” You take a breath, then a sip of your seltzer, then another breath. “So I guess that was my fault. Sorry about that.”
“Forgiven. Though, for what it’s worth, I wasn’t holding it against you.”
“Nice of you.”
“You didn’t seem to be having a great day.”
“Well. Mondays, you know?” You tip your head back, enjoying the buzz that is rapidly taking hold. “Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays…Saturdays. Sundays. Hard to pick a least favorite.”
“Sounds miserable.”
You shake your head. “I’m exaggerating. It’s not actually that bad. But the first week of the semester is always the hardest.”
“And the second week. And the third, the fourth, the fifth.” When you focus your unsteady gaze on him, you’re delighted to realize there’s something like a glint in his eye. He really is teasing you. “And so on, and so on.”
“Sounds miserable,” you parrot back at him, and he almost cracks a smile. “Well. At least Tamaki and Haruhi—”
“Kyoya? What are you doing hiding out—oh.” Olivia stops in the kitchen doorway, and takes in the sight of the two of you. “Hi.”
“Hi.” You respond to her closed-mouth smile with an uneasy one of your own. Olivia seems nice enough, from your little exposure to her, but sorority omegas always make you nervous.
“I thought you were grabbing us drinks,” she says to Kyoya, winding an arm through his. If you weren’t already tipsy-on-the-way-to-shitfaced, you’d swear you see him tense slightly. “But I see you found Little Miss Joan-of-Arc here.”
Your smile freezes on your face as she turns back to you. “(Y/N),” you offer.
“Yeah, I know. Crusading against the big bad alpha-omega industrial complex, or whatever it is, right?”
She laughs. You join in, if only because you don’t know how the fuck else to respond, and those two back-to-back shots were definitely a bad idea. Kyoya doesn’t laugh. She notices.
“What? I’m just joking. It’s funny. (Y/N) doesn’t care, right (Y/N)?”
“Yeah.”
“See?” She cocks her head. “Y’know, it’s so crazy, I feel like I know everyone at Ouran. But I, like, didn’t have any idea of who you were until Monday. Are you a transfer?”
“No, I actually went here for undergrad before—”
“It’s just that I’ve never seen you, like, out. At any benefits or anything.”
And there it is.
There’s no denying—Ouran is a nice school. A private university, an elite and expensive private university, where scholarship students are few and far in between. And the elite tend to flock together. So it’s no wonder that Olivia (Freidmonte, a Google search after that first class revealed, and a literal fucking diamond heiress) would know all of the other rich kids (aka ninety percent of the student body) from benefits and balls and whatever else rich people did to pass the time.
Olivia’s not stupid. She’s probably put two and two together and figured out that you’re just too poor for her to have taken notice of before. But it seems, from the way she’s clinging to Kyoya with a grip that would put an anaconda to shame, that she’s probably just annoyed that a lowly beta on a scholarship would have the audacity to talk to her boyfriend. Drunk or not, you know when you’re not wanted in a room.
You clear your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…I just…I have to meet some friends out there. Sorry.” The room is starting to spin around you—in a drunk way, not a fainting way, you’re pretty sure—as you make your way out of the kitchen. “See you in class,” you mumble. Neither one of them responds.
Being in the louder, crowded room almost immediately makes you want to throw up, so you push through to the nearest door, which leads to the backyard. It’s not far enough into the season to be cold; a leftover summer evening, a gift in these early September days.
You stumble down the creaky wooden stairs and collapse with your back against the house, and absentmindedly take another sip of your White Claw, before realizing with a groan how that’s definitely not going to make you any less drunk.
Oh, well. You’re too thirsty to really care.
“Having that good of a night, hm?”
Not Kyoya this time; someone you don’t recognize. Or rather, someone you do, but not by name. “Oh. Hi…”
“Reese.”
“(Y/N).” They offer a very ring-heavy hand, which you shake. If you were more sober, you’d try to get a better look. Heavy jewelry bothers you to wear, but you always like seeing it on other people. And the sight of one particular ring rings some bell in your memory as to where you know Reese from. “Oh. You run the beta frat, right?”
If you were drunk, you wouldn’t have said that at all; especially not that bluntly. You’d spent years dodging Epsilon Phi’s recruitment efforts. They seemed nice enough, but you couldn’t justify carving out the time or the money (or the interest) to take part in Greek life. But it seemed like a nice space, as far as frats went. Friendly. Full of people (of all presentations) who didn’t think that betas ought to fade into the background.
One only had to look at Reese to demonstrate that. They were probably the best-looking person you’d seen in your life, right up there with Tamaki Suoh; they even had similar tanned skin and beaming eyes, though their hair was bright copper and closer-cropped than Tamaki’s. Wearing a bright, tastefully low-cut purple shirt and high-waisted jeans, with the aforementioned jewelry (in addition to the rings, you blearily clocked several necklaces, bracelets, and at least one cartilage piercing). “We don’t really call ourselves that, but yeah.”
“Sorry. Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” To your horror, you’re getting a little choked up. Something about the slog of the week; the reality of Haruhi going on a date with a guy who is, by all appearances, perfect; Olivia; Kyoya; those two-and-a-half drinks—it’s too much.
“Hey! It’s not a big deal, really. You’re fine.” They peer at you with what you dimly register as concern. “Are you okay? Do you need some water?”
“M’fine.”
“Yeah. Water. C’mon, the kitchen’s this way.”
“No, no, no,” you say, clinging to some vague idea that Kyoya and Olivia might still be there. After some coaxing, you do allow them to get you to the (blissfully empty) kitchen, find you an unopened bottle of water, and get you to divulge the names of the friends you came here with.
They disappear, but you only have all of thirty seconds to feel abandoned before they return with the twins, who fuss over you and determine immediately that you should probably go home. Even though it’s, like, ten in the evening.
This part of the night is the fuzziest, even as you’re living through it. Stumbling down empty streets. Crashing through your front door. Crouching in front of the toilet with one twin holding your hair back. Being tucked into bed on your side. The door; Haruhi’s voice; the door again, and quiet. Someone leaving pills and water and a big blue bottle on your nightstand. Sleep, curling around you.
And then, while you dream: flashes of warmth and witty remarks and dark, dark eyes.