When tragedy befalls us, we only remember in pieces. What was most important? Who is to be remembered? Those who save the day, or those in peril? When our hearts are stretched to the limit, what is it that keeps us going?
When Kyouya arrived, there were no words. He emerged from his family's limo, sunglasses covering his brown eyes. Holding out his hand to the door of the vehicle, a delicate tanned hand grasped his own, and with a light tug he aided the woman from the car. The woman followed behind him, dressed in black for the occasion. Although he had been gone for a long time, and although it was no longer called for, Kyouya wore his old Ouran uniform. It was necessary, he knew, and he said nothing as he approached the school.
Little Haninozuka, and tall Morinozuka met him as they he and his escort crossed the courtyard. Both were wearing their own uniforms, just as he had expected. Honey and Mori both glanced at the woman who trailed behind him, and they said nothing. It was not the time. Kyouya reached back to the woman without looking, and he felt her grasp his hand more tightly. His pinky finger felt the cold metal of the ring on one of her fingers.
The small group continued to travel silently, heading into the school via a route most familiar. Despite being a week day, the school was empty and barren—without having to ask, Kyouy knew that the school had been closed. He didn't bother looking through the halls as they went. Before he had realized that they had arrived at their destination, Honey and Mori had stopped, and the latter took two long steps to open the double doors of the Third Music Room.
There were no roses here, no costumes, no tea; in this room was only a single couch, where Tamaki sat, looking stricken. He was the only person, aside from the woman behind Kyouya, who was not in Ouran's school uniform. Hikaru and Kaoru were standing, leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the door.
Tamaki's eyes were bloodshot, and he was dabbing at them with a kerchief. He didn't seem to notice anyone who had entered the room. However, there needed to be words, and Kyouya was not afraid of speaking. "The school has been closed for this occasion," he said. "For how long?" Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he pulled his hand away from the woman with him and she continued to stand behind him, tall and proud. He unsheathed his notebook, next removing his standard pen from his inside pocket.
"A week," Kaoru said from the other side of the room. "The message was delivered yesterday and the children were sent home."
"And the administration allowed this?"
HIkaru answered this time. "It isn't as though they're unaware of who it was. It isn't often that a staff member kicks the bucket. As you can see, Tamaki…"
For the first time since everyone had gathered, Tamaki himself, dressed in a white suit and looking very much like his own father, looked around the room. "He-hel-lo…" he said, voice broken.
Kyouya nodded in Tamaki's direction. "We are here. I am taking care of the arrangements. I am moving back to the main Ohtori household until things are finished. Tamaki, is there anything that you need right now?"
Tamaki's eyes scanned the room again, and he blew his nose. "You," he croaked.
"We are here," Kyouya repeated.