DISCE, OHSHC.

⁺ ♡ unimpeded glimpse of life

After dumping the milkmaid statue unceremoniously in the dining room, you had to take a few minutes to mentally fortify yourself before returning to the thick of the art gathering.

These parties were always dull without exception. Maybe the crowd just didn't speak to you, but you could think of any number of better things to do than stand around talking about art. Even when your parents tried to spruce things up with performers and music and food, you were always begging for release after the first half hour. It was lucky that your parents and their friends found your aversion to art more amusing than irritating.

You slunk back into the living room. If nothing else, at least the Host Club would provide you some amusement. They'd probably be floundering to keep up with all of the art critics and restorators and enthusiasts.

You took a stance near the punch bowl and poured yourself a glass, leaning against the table to enjoy the show. For the first time, you'd catch them unprepared and out of their element—

Your jaw hit the floor. What the hell.

Somehow, somehow, the Host Club had commandeered your living room and turned it into an extension of Music Room 3. Full grown adults were hanging off of the hosts' every word, delighted, dreamy expressions on their faces. You stared, gobsmacked, as Kyoya passed by, engrossed in a complicated discussion with an archivist about the shift in twentieth century art. Honey was sitting on a footstool, a tart in one hand while the other waved excitedly about the nouveau movement. Mori listened intently to an animator's laments about the death of tradition, and Haruhi was naming her favourite Andy Warhol paintings. Off in the corner, the twins took turns complementing one of your mom's friends on excellent taste in Romantics.

You stumbled, caught yourself on the edge of the table. This couldn't be happening. The Host Club was not charming their way into the hearts of everyone at this party. They couldn't be.

The King of the Host Club himself swept by to offer you a hand. "Are you not feeling well, my darling? How about I take you outside for a breeze to cool your flushed cheeks?"

"What are you doing?" you hissed at him. You waved a hand at the hosts. "What is this?"

Tamaki blinked. "We're merely enjoying ourselves. We thought it would be prudent to make ourselves knowledgeable about a few subjects in the art world to make conversation."

You guffawed. "Is that what this is? Because you've got almost everyone in this room besotted with you."

"Then does that mean your heart's embers once again stir with love?" Tamaki asked hopefully.

"Unfortunately not." You took a hard gulp from your punch glass. Tamaki lingered, still looking hopeful.

"Well don't let me keep you," you muttered. "Enjoy yourself to your heart's content."

Tamaki took your hand and brushed a kiss across your knuckles. "If you insist, my darling. You know where to find me." He drifted away and the assembled crowd eagerly welcomed him.

For the next hour, as you sullenly finished glass after glass of punch, there was no shortage of art people who came up to you, practically glowing.

"Are those young men your guests?" they would ask. "They're so charming and charismatic. What wonderful young men!"

Yet more people would ask, "So which one of them is your boyfriend? Oh, you haven't picked? Well, I don't blame you."

The fake smile you put on pinched your cheeks. "No," you said flatly. "They're not my friends. Just classmates from school."