I'm only labeling this as OHSHC because it involves characters I introduced in How to Survive a Host Club. This story takes place after all of the hosts have graduated, which is around three years after the epilogue of HtSaHC, and as such, we won't be revisiting Ouran at all. But! The hosts will most likely be making several appearances, along with Micah! You'll see why in a sec, I promise.

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"I fucking hate boy bands."

"Technically," Sierra drawled from her reclusive position behind the paisley-print divider, "Nevermore isn't a boy band. The term "boy band" implies they produce none of their own music, and only sing and possibly shake their asses. They play instruments, which is-"

"I fucking hate boy bands," I reiterated stubbornly.

I heard her muffled sigh from across the room, followed by a slew of mumbled threats and what might have been a premonition of my own demise. I wasn't bothered. This reaction was expected, even sought out, and Sierra rarely ever made good on her half-baked threats.

"I think you just hate Nevermore," Beth chimed in thoughtfully.

She'd been trying to convince me my hatred didn't extend to the whole of the pretty-boy scene ever since our debut was overshadowed by the release of Nevermore's latest album a year ago. She claimed I superimposed my perception of them onto the image of every other boy band I encountered, causing me to feel an unnecessary amount of animosity towards them. And it all stemmed from my inability to recognize Nevermore as our equals instead of the coattail-riding bastards I saw them as.

She wasn't making any headway in her plight, as you might have guessed.

"They're a bunch of assholes," I spat, jerking a thumb over my shoulder at the television, which was currently broadcasting a review of last night's live performance. Bias ran rampant in the entertainment industry, but it was especially evident where these three boys were involved. The reporter covering the footage couldn't utter a single sentence without checking herself; she was as hung up over their sexy sexiness as the majority of hormonal teenage girls populating the world. "They're not even that good. That Daire guy, his pitch is all over the place, and Riley's always jumping ahead in his beat count, so Damian has to cover for him by getting Daire to speed up the song-"

"Sounds like you've been paying quite a bit of attention to these boys."

I shot the divider a cross look, wishing Sierra were finished changing so that my infamous "phantom glare" wasn't wasted on the indifferent fabric that separated us.

"That's only because fucking Beth won't stop fucking obsessing over them-"

"Hey!" she cried indignantly, finding my criticism to be misplaced, as per usual. "I wouldn't say I'm obsessing. I just like their music!"

"-and I can't help but point out their damn flaws because they're so damn obvious-"

"To you, and most likely only you," Sierra interjected admist my tirade, somehow working in the scathing remark without impeding my own heated flow.

"-I don't like them, if that's what you're implying!"

Poking her head out into view, Sierra exchanged a cryptic glance with Beth, then made an equally enigmatic hand gesture at me as she said, "I wasn't implying anything of the kind. I was only thinking you were jealous."

My eyes widened.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she went on, evidently oblivious to my escalating temper, the clenching of my fists, the widening of my stance, as if I were bracing for something. "It's natural. They've achieved far more success than us, and they did so in a very short amount of time after their debut - when was it? Four years ago? Within a year, they were internationally known, and we've barely managed to get our name circulating around the states within the same time frame." Her shoulders rose and fell in an emotionless shrug. "We just have to catch up to them, is all. No need to get so worked up about it."

"They're only famous," I seethed through grinding teeth, "because they've all got that shit-eating grin that everyone seems to find oh-so attractive. We've got more talent than those bastards in one strand of hair, which is probably the same amount of naturally-colored hair they've got between the three of them!"

I pressed a hand to my throbbing temple, dropping down onto the empty couch that Beth had vacated in favor of joining Sierra behind the divider. I needed to get myself under control; losing it like this over something so stupid wasn't going to get me anywhere. I just... couldn't stand the thought of even being compared to Nevermore when we were obviously the better band. We worked our asses off to even get an audition, and from what I heard, Daire - the damnable blonde-haired, blue-eyed Adonis - had gotten an offer tossed into his lap after being scouted at a local battle-of-the-bands gig.

It wasn't fair, but that was showbiz.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't let my emotions get the best of me now that we'd made a splash, however shallow it might have been, yet here I was, spitting lame insults at a group of boys who were as good as a million miles away.

"You're losing your creative touch, you know."

I tipped my head back, eyeing Beth through slitted eyes, an unconscious scowl tugging at my pliable lips.

"In what way?"

"That insult?" She cocked her head, working a strand of straw-colored hair around her index finger. She frowned in blatant disapproval. "You know hair, Kara, if nothing else. Their roots match the ends perfectly. Unless they have their hair dyed on a regular basis, it's all au natural. Even Damian's, as hard to swallow as that may be."

My cheek twinged; a hefty sigh tumbled from my lips.

She was obsessing, for damn sure, but it was almost cute, in a way.

"You're right, you're right," I relented, patting her cheek in a manner that said As the Queen of Sass, I must better serve my kingdom. Thank you for your concern. "I'll revise that statement some other time. Sierra! Strike that from the record!"

"Already done," was her humored reply.

I laughed, and the rush of sudden good-humor flushed the bitterness from my various systems, until I was a giggling mess lying prostrate on the couch. Beth leaned against the armrest, shaking her head; Sierra, always the last to strip out of her performance attire and into sweats and a t-shirt, joined her a moment later, though she consistently berated my childish behavior with every unladylike snort, which only caused me to sink lower and lower in the depths of my uplifted mood.

Sierra's right, I conceded, though the thought never left my head. Didn't want to admit my faults to her, did I? We just need to focus on our own career. Who gives a damn about Nevermore? The prissy playboys have nothing on us, and we'll give 'em a damn good show while we're proving it.