They are actors and this is their world; a fluffy fantasy of dashing Arthurian knights one day, extravagant Samurai the next, and well-suited Victorian gentlemen every Tuesday because the customers seem to like that scenario best.
Hikaru's hand shaped to the curve of Kaoru's face (expertly, his face is his face is their face) a demure glance from under the fan of Kaoru's eyelashes (for the girls, of course) a smirk quirking Hikaru's mouth.
Ready?
Kaoru's fingertip writing secret messages on the plump curve of Hikaru's lower lip. One, two heartbeats.
Ready.
The curtains come up and the show is on.
ii. and this shouldn't be as easy as it is
Hikaru and Kaoru never quite kiss for the girls. Never quite.
The girls like the teasing far better than they ever would the reality, even if right now they think otherwise.
Hikaru feels the absence of an actual kiss like a brand on his skin every time they come so close and – stop -; like a tangible, burning mark.
The tattoo of Kaoru's breathing on his jaw promises later, later and Hikaru's blood heats, quickens.
(Hikaru and Kaoru are method actors.)
iii. like something precious
In the private, in the quiet, they come together like something beautiful, something wicked and silent and forbidden.
They know this routine so well by now they are almost dancing. Kaoru stands in the middle of the room and Hikaru closes the door. Hikaru doesn't make it all the way back across the room when Kaoru pounces. For a moment it is almost like the wrestling matches they used to have as little kids but their eyes were never this wild.
This time, Hikaru wins and he sits on Kaoru's hips.
One, kiss, two, kiss, three; whisper-soft, mouths melding and lips clinging together, lipskin formed automatically to the shape of the other's. They are so practised in this that Hikaru's hand gripping Kaoru's in a loose fist against the former's thigh, the unconscious movement of their hips and knees and tongues together in a slow, erotic tango is seamless and sacred.
Neither boy notices Haruhi silently opening the door. They do not see as she freezes, shocked, has a heart attack on the spot; do not know as she clings desperately to the doorframe as though it alone is anchoring her to this world; her dark, saucer-like eyes drawn helplessly like a moth to flame to trace the fluid lines of their bodies.
Hikaru's hand undoing the button at Kaoru's neck. The smooth, arched marble column of Kaoru's exposed throat, bathed but not swallowed in the moonlight emanating from the clubroom's huge window.
Hikaru bends his silverlight-dressed head to receive a willing kiss from his twin's smiling mouth. Their actions are deliciously unhurried. They were made for each other and they have all the time in the world.
Haruhi closes the door with a soft click. This is not hers to intrude into.
She leans against the door with her eyes closed, her heart hammering. Part of her cannot believe what she has just seen, and part of her marvels at how she could possibly not have known it all along.
iv. scrape away the razzle-dazzle
Still, Haruhi really really wishes she'd knocked on the door instead of assuming the club room would be empty.
At the club the next day she cannot look either twin in the eye. They appear disconcerted by this but go about their business as usual.
Haruhi doesn't usually watch the twins any more than she watches any other member of the club, but today her eyes stray to them at every possible moment. She analyses their every movement, and she cannot believe she was too stupid, too blinkered to see it before; for beneath the surface razzle put on for show – the loud, dramatic proclamations of 'brotherly love', the tears in their eyes, the exaggerated closeness of their faces and their taking turns at making speeches of devotion to the other – there is real, secret intimacy.
The way Hikaru's hand clings to the cuff of Hikaru's sleeve, the secret messages written in the way they turn to glance at each other; shared, conspirational smiles. The way Hikaru gets Kaoru a glass of water without Kaoru needing to say a word. The way Kaoru's hand lingers on Hikaru's thigh a second too long. And the way Kaoru looks so smug at being the only one allowed to touch Hikaru is such a way. The way they sit thigh-to-thigh, knee-to-knee; Hikaru's arm slung around Kaoru's shoulders without particular permission, like it's perfectly natural. (Haruhi always just assumed they had no concept of personal space.) Hikaru's breath against the skin of Kaoru's ear. The way they get lost in each other's eyes, or look to be daydreaming while touching the other's hair.
Haruhi knows the darkest secret nobody knows about the twins, but she will not breathe a word.
…except maybe to tell them to choose a more discreet make-out spot next time.
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