Chapter Text
The first time I saw Tamaki Suoh, I was still in school uniform and had my full, lively voice secure in my throat. I was young and naturally terrified to act upon my feelings of love or lust. I spotted the boy standing amongst statues—his rose-blushed cheeks accentuating his vibrance. He was nothing I had seen before, and nothing I have seen since, but I was a silly fifteen year-old without the vocabulary nor the emotional intelligence to describe the feelings his visage invoked, so I stood in a rare silence and revered him through the crowded art gallery.
Ouran often hosted events open to other schools; networking is an invaluable tool regardless of wealth or class. The day that the Art Club would be displaying their midterm finals piqued my interest, and I had to attend, even if alone. All of my friends whined and moaned, saying they’d rather wait until the day the so-called “Host Club” would be holding a Gala. I didn’t want to stay the entirety of the ball anyway. If I was a little tired after roaming the halls of soon-to-be great masters, I would be more than happy to trade time at a lame social event than lose out on a leisurely afternoon of art-admiring.
Admire I did.
He too was admiring—gazing up at a marble statue and the dips and waves of the human form cast into stone. The angles and straight lines of his jacket and lean torso foiled the flow of the art around him. With a hand, he swept back the light blonde bangs that fell into his eyes and my breath hitched in my throat. He definitely wasn’t like the statues, as he was made of angles and prisms, but this only accentuated his unique beauty.
I was a shadow, haunting his steps yards behind him. I held the pamphlet of the exhibit close to my chest as I weaved through students and their parents. My own parents were nowhere to be seen, and I assumed my mother wanted to spend some R&R in the tearoom. But with such a large and opulent campus, I could spend the entire day without once running into them. A peaceful afternoon, indeed. Some acquaintances tried to stop me and talk about the pieces they were observing, but I ignored each one, even if it potentially snubbed them.
He moved further into the gallery, his eyes still glued to the pieces, and I pursued him like a hound on the scent of blood. The soft murmur of art-admirers conversing over paints floated around the spacious, though amply-filled, music room. He was alone, and thus never spoke, but his eyes said it all. His veneration of beauty kept him locked in its magnetism.
“Miss!”
I jumped at the voice and was met with a refreshment tray held out by a uniformed service worker. I waved them away and continued my search for the elusive Adonis. I rediscovered him in a grove of grand-scale paintings; like Diana in her wood, I posed to be Actaeon if caught. I couldn’t bring myself to approach him, anyway, let alone enter the same room as him. My heart felt it might break if I tried–the weight of the moment and my emotions was too much to bear. Never before had I been moved to silence by beauty, and a part of me was afraid of something that had that power over me.
I wish I had, though. I wish my heart broke right there rather than where and it did.
At 4pm, I rendezvoused with my parents in the tearoom. My father, the patriarch of our family’s publishing houses in England, poured over a chapbook from the Poetry Club, while my mother read a pile of papers. She elegantly sipped tea as her eyes zipped across the page; her back was straight and her glasses delicately perched upon her nose. She was poise incarnate, and a vision of what a Gibson Girl must have looked like. I was fortunate enough to have inherited her looks, but I still struggled with the demurities that came along with English aristocracy. She attributed her model placidity to her time at Saint Lobelia’s and thus insisted that I study abroad to glean the skill of silence.
“Darling!” My mother cooed when I approached. She set her papers down, revealing a scrawling of numbers, and she held her hands out to me to hold in mine. Being creatures of the quiet, both my parents reveled in the serene atmosphere of the demure, airy tearoom.
“How was the gallery, my love?”
“Oh, father!” I nearly sang as I grew with passion. “You should have seen this one painting; I swear it almost looked like a Rembrant! The way they played with perspect–”
“Darling,” my mother interjected sweetly, but my stomach curdled at her words. “You’re nearly shouting. It’s unladylike.”
Pink posies dusted my cheeks, and I self-consciously chuckled while softening my tone. “Sorry…”
She motioned me to sit down, but by the time I had settled into my chair, my father’s attention was back to the chapbook—it seemed he’d rather read other’s words silently than listen to my voice. My mother, however, tried to pull me back into my story with soft encouragements, but his interest was gone, and her’s was from pity.
The wonderful spring breeze wafted in through the open windows and rustled skirts of daffodil yellow and burgundy. My own Saint Lobelia skirt caught the sweet wind and chilled my exposed legs to the still young air. I tried to discreetly warm them with the tablecloth, but the fine textile was not made for utility.
Eventually, after mindlessly small-talking with passing waiters and the occasional classmate, I nearly threw down the rest of my tea and excused myself from my parents’ presence, who both waved me off without glancing up from their respective readings. I roamed over to where some Lobelia girls sat together like a colony of penguins and I joined them in conversation. At one point in the discussions, I threw my head back in raucous laughter at a comment made; while in the throes of joy, I was pinched in the arm and told, “ Hush! ”
A knife of shame slid into my guts as I sheepishly apologized ( again ) and obeyed the request, but it was a bright Spring afternoon, and inevitably my voice rose again. Amidst the swirl of voices and the passion of my conversation, it was impossible to keep a proper English coo. As an aesthete debutante, I held more than my fair share of adulation and ardor for the arts in all forms.
The last thing I said was, “I can’t wait to show you that painting!” before I was interrupted.
“My god!” a classmate from another table hauled her voice loftily over mine, silencing my conversation. She set her fine teacup down noisily into its saucer and pivoted sharply in her chair to face me when my attention was caught. “Is there a way you can lower your voice?”
A flash of humid heat warmed my face and the knife slid deeper in. “Wh-what…?” I stuttered in nervous embarrassment as I tried to play it off as a joke—or that I might have misunderstood her—but when she interrupted me again, it wasn’t funny.
“Personally, I hate loud people. It is so unnecessary.”
“Me, too!” Her tea companion chimed in. “I believe someone printed an article about loud and distracting people—how it is a quick way to get others to resent you.”
The word "resent" weighed heavily on my heart. My eyes stung and a choke-hold came over me as they continued their public social flogging. I looked to my peers for their support but was met with avoidant gazes and silence. It seemed I was outnumbered in my own senate.
“Ugh, I know someone like this,” another spoke up, “and I literally get a headache after five minutes of listening to them. It ruins the whole day.”
“My mother is the same way; it drives me nuts,” said another
“It’s simple enough,” my classmate said conclusively. “You talk loud. You need to be considerate to others and lower your voice. You already know you are talking too loud; the world doesn’t have to change to suit you.”
Finally, a voice spoke up saying, “h-hey now!” But it was futile and far too false.
I suddenly stood from my chair, knocking it back. It hit the marble floor with a loud clatter, ceasing every conversation in the busy lounge; my heart was ablaze and globular tears fell from my eyes like raindrops. I wanted to scream, or cry, or do anything –but I said nothing . I turned and ran out of the tearoom, my tear-streaked face buried in my hands to hide my shame.