Micah's POV

Have you ever been inexiplicably fascinated with something? Something so arbitrary in another's eyes, but so completely riveting in your own? Have you picked something apart until you were familiar with each and every detail and element, and then realize you've spent years of your life falling in love with said something that expresses your feelings without real communication? 

For some, it's painting.

Others, writing.

For me, it was the beautiful, frustrating, and divine culinary arts.

I was trying to convey this to Haruhi one Friday night, long after the Host Club had closed its doors and the sun faded in favor of the moon. She herself proved to be quite skillful in the kitchen, aiding me in preparing my family's "famous" home-made spaghetti. Hand-made, actually, and incredibly arduous to create correctly. Even after years at my parents' side, I was still forced to have the recipe written out in front of me as I worked.

"I love it more than anything in the world," I admitted as I dusted my hands together, sprinkling dots of flours across my kitchen floor. Whether they'd be cleaned up at a later date depended on how tired I was tonight, or simply how lazy.

I had a nasty habit of being "too lazy" when they was cleaning to be done.

Haruhi, after rummaging around in my cabinets for a few minutes, carried over a heavy stainless-steel pot I'd gotten for myself (along with a complete set of pans and utensils) as a "house warming" gift. It was the only thing I'd allowed myself with my family's newfound wealth after arriving in Japan, and only because it was something I'd wanted all my life. 

Getting back to the night's conversation.

"It's not hard to tell." She settled the pot in the sink beside me, reaching over to the turn on the tap. The sound of pattering water filled the silence while we both hurried on to our next tasks. "Even when the guys are taxing your nerves to their breaking point, you're able to smile as long as you've got something in the oven," she finally added, finishing up with adding a dusting of herbs to the sauce I'd set simmering half an hour ago.

I bobbbed my head, humming in agreement. "True. It's what keeps me sane, honestly. It's like... there's nothing else in the world when I'm cooking. I... Well I'm not explaining this very well, but I hope you get the gist."

"I do," she smiled. 

Silence reigned in ma petite cuisine, a soft, unanimous silence that I quite enjoyed. It gave me some much-needed time to ponder my thoughts. 

The play was approaching. I found myself thinking more and more about it as I ticked days off my calendar. Excitement was already buzzing through the school, thanks to some chatty customers who'd befriended me while I worked Honey and Mori's table. Normally, I found their gossiping tongues, deprived of any self-control, to be nothing short of bothersome; but the extra publicity only made the cast work that much harder to ensure a perfect opening night. We'd be debuting the play just a few weeks before summer break began, and already we understood how our audience's attention would wan without something to glue their eyes to the stage.

It weighed a bit heavier on my shoulders than it should have, but it wasn't anything to worry over.

Another troubling thought was home. I hadn't gotten a call from my father in a week or so. I was warring over whether or not I should take it as a good sign; it was equally possible that his calls held a dark undertone, one I didn't want to face.

I was half-tempted to ask Kyouya for information, but the fact that he would even have it put me off the question, unnerved by his stalking tendencies.

 Just as I was placing the dry pasta into the brimming pot, Haruhi spoke up.

"Ah."

"Hm?" I glanced at her from the corner of my eye; probably dangerous when I had a tub of boiling water in front of me, but oh well. 

She looked as though she'd just remembered something, smacking her flour-coated fist onto her palm. "That's right, Tamaki-sempai wanted me to ask you something.

I groaned in anticipation. If he was asking for my dress size again (something even Kyouya didn't give out without a hefty price) I would kill him. In a very cunning, very explicit way as well. He'd regret this act of fatherly love for the rest of his tragically short life if worse came to worst.

"What got you so interesting in cooking?"

Surprise made me pause. That question... was unexpected. Unexpected, but right on the tip of my tongue. 

A soft smile spread across my face. "Mama... er, my mom taught me when I was little. Dad probably would have shoved the skills onto me despite my preferences, but before he could do that, my mom took me aside and showed me how to make meatballs."

Haruhi quirked a brow. "Meatballs?"

I laughed a little at the confusion glowing in her wide brown eyes. I doubt she'd ever had Italian meatballs before. True, meatballs aren't inherently Italian, per say. They certainly didn't originate there, nor did the dish of spaghetti and meatballs. But growing up in America, I learned to appreciate the dish as much as the customers my family served it to. My parents were even fond of the faux-Italian cooking and simply adopted our version of meatballs, polpettes, to suit their needs, thus making the dish Italian, in our eyes at least.

In any case.... "Mm, that's right. I used to love rolling them out, together with my mom, watching her fail any and all attempts at juggling, and then running away squealing when Dad demanded why there was pork falling from the ceiling." I pressed a hand to my mouth to halt the bubbly giggles tickling the back of my throat. "He'd come into the kitchen, smiling, ready to kiss Mom and start preparations for the daily business, and out of nowhere - while Mom and I held our breaths - a sticky glop of meat would splatter in his hair and make his hour's worth of work completely useless!"

Haruhi indulged my childhood wiles by laughing with me, enough that she was wiping tears from her eyes and smearing white powder across her cheeks in the process. I wanted to point it out to her - really I did - but, caught up in my own laughter as I was, it was impossible at the time. Really, I promise you it was.

"Well, anyway." I took a few deep breaths, hand over my fast-beating heart. "She would always smile while we worked, would glow with pride and joy, and I suppose it rubbed off on me. From the time I was old enough to tug open the oven door, I've loved cooking. And I owe it all to my mom."

"You and your mom seem close," Haruhi noted. Still unbeknownst to her, her cheeks were colored as pallidly as my own. I doubt she would have minded even if I'd mentioned it, so I held my tongue as she began gathering our supplies together, making them ready to be stacked again in my cupboards and various drawers. 

"We are, to an extent," I corrected. "She has odd values I don't really agree with, like my dad does. Such as thinking sending their only fifteen-year-old daughter to live alone in Japan is a justifiably good idea." I shrugged and turned away to check the condition of our bubbling pasta, receiving a face full of steam for my troubles. "I can't blame her, I guess, for wanting what's best for me. And perhaps she was right to send me here. I don't... I don't regret meeting the Host Club, even if I've almost died several times while in their care."

Our little bubble of pleasant conversation was popped by the chiming of my doorbell, something I wouldn't have expected at - I checked the digital clock blinking on my microwave - 8:30 at night. Huh. Dinner had taken longer than I'd thought. Our idle chitchat probably wasn't helping matters, but still - I was used to making good food fast.

Or something like that.

I quickly scrubbed my hands clean under the running facet, drying them with unladylike charm on my shirt as I walked through my dining room to reach the battered old door with the intricate golden handle that curled like something out of the Victorian era. "Don't let the pasta burn!" I called over my shoulder to Haruhi - who nodded and peeked into the pot - before tugging open the door and facing my visitors with a disinterested scowl.

I didn't do well with slick solicitors and their bulging briefcases, full of God-awful inventions I'd never have need for. Or worse: phonebooks.

Whoever still used a phonebook should be fined ungodly amounts of money for giving phonebook-salesmen a reason to continue their work.

They never failed to boil my temper, clench my fists until half-moons bit into my palms, slap a hand to my forehead in exasperation. It's like they fed on my short temper and were only encouraged by it.

I'm getting off track though. The people at my door weren't, in fact, solicitors at all, unless their so-called careers had suddenly taken a nosedive and forced them into the business. No, these two made my skin crawl in a not-altogether terrible way.

"What...?" I blinked, my hands going limp at my sides, scowl slipping from my face. "How... how the hell do you two even know where I live?" Everything unconsciously came out in English, which, thankfully wasn't a problem for my unprecedented visitors.

Damian, his black-rimmed glasses glinting in the glaring streetlight flooding over them, rubbed the back of his next sheepishly, while Riley, unabashed, leaned casually against my doorframe, flashing me a cheery smile. "We smelled Italian," he explained, as though that answered all my unasked questions. Or even one of them, for that matter.

"So you're telling me that, even though you had no way of knowing who would answer this door, you still knocked, all in hopes of later stuffing your faces with limp pasta and marinara sauce?"

"Yup."

I smacked the back of Riley's head without thinking; he stumbled from the impact, then quickly righted himself and pouted like some abused puppy. "Just like old times," he sighed, referring to my many attempts to rid him of his unnatural idiocy.

I raised my hands - the beginnings of my wild Italian-rooted gesticulations - but dropped them again, too tired to waste the energy. "Please tell me there's a better explanation," I pleaded to Damian.

He smiled oblingingly. "Of course there is, Micah." He jerked his chin behind him as he spoke. "We saw these guys driving while we were out walking. They asked if we wanted a lift to your house. Who wouldn't have said yes?" 

Most of the world's general population? 

I almost, almost cursed when the two shadows materialized from the sunless gloom, one tall and foreboding, the other bouncy and tiny. Honey and Mori. Of course. Who else would be driving to my house after dark on a Friday night for no apparent reason? 

Panic froze me for a moment, while I racked my brain, trying to remember if I'd promised Honey we'd practice tonight. Coming up empty, I couldn't help but frown as Riley and Damian turned to the side, letting the third-years step inside - uninvited but not unwelcome, which they were aware of without my having to say it.

"Mi-chan~!" Honey greeted me with his routine smile, wrapping his thin arms around my waist in a warm, friendly hug I immediately sank into. "Sorry for not calling! We just really wanted to see you. Isn't that right, Takashi?"

Mori nodded, his version of a ten-minute monologue.

Shakespeare could have learned a thing or two from him, honestly.

"It's... fine?" My head tilted to the side, as much of a question as my words. "Just..." I sighed, looking over my shoulder to where Haruhi stood, peeking around the doorway, her eyes dull and lips pulled into an unimpressed frown. "Haruhi, think we've got enough for six?"

"Probably." She didn't sound ecstatic about the fact.

"Set the table," I ordered curtly, turning away from them and moving back into the kitchen. "Honey and Mori know where everything is, I think," I added when I realized the boys hadn't done as asked within the first few seconds. 

And indeed they did.

The two third-years aided my long-lost friends in clinking design-less, shamelessly blank plates against the chipped mahogany table invading my dining room. Honestly. The thing was fit for a thirty-person banquet, and here I was trying to make it appear normal in a cramped apartment with only one resident. 

Ten minutes into the meal, I blew the bangs from my eyes, pinning Damian and Riley with a look. "Didn't you two have a gig tonight?" I'd been keeping in touch with them enough to know when they'd been booked for the night. Tonight was one such night, according to a text Damian had sent me a few days ago.

Riley twirled his pasta around the tongs of his fork - and, sadly, failed at it. The red-orange-tinged pasta kept slipping from his fork just inches from his salivating mouth. I pitied him, but inwardly chuckled at his awkwardness. "Cancelled." He sighed moodily, letting his fork clank noisily as he dropped it out of frustration. "Daire was sick, and we couldn't go on without him, so..."

All eyes turned to me. I could feel it, even if I chose not to look up from my food. They expected me to make some sort of scene over Daire's illness, did they? Unlikely. While I probably would have felt some remorse if it were something serious, a little cold didn't garner any reaction from me. Daire was like that; a scratchy throat and he wouldn't risk his voice for the night. 

"You should try that with chopsticks," I suggested jokingly, jabbing my fork pointedly at Riley's uneaten pasta. "Those things are a real bitch sometimes." I was careful to speak in English, earning honest laughter from the Americans and puzzled head cocks from the Japanese. The Host Club knew I had a mouth at times, but I preferred them to think I had some semblance of deceny, even when in the company of those who had seen my worst sides on more than one unfortunate occasion.

Nevertheless, the tension caused from the mention of Daire's name diffused and the night went on without a hitch.

Well, I'd like to say that. I'd give a lot to say that. But knowing Riley was there, I can't.

"How's the play coming along?" Damian asked as he helped me clear the table. The question was also directed at Honey, who was scampering along ahead of us, piling dishes in the sink. I'd made him promise that he and Mori wouldn't do a thing like washing dirty dishes while they were here; they didn't appear content, but they agreed. 

"Good. Really good, in fact."

"Mi-chan is great!" Honey chimed in. He popped up between us so suddenly I backed into my fridge, startling me half to death. "She memorized all her lines by the third day and she helps out with the people who are having trouble with theirs."

"Yeah, well, you're not one of them, Honey. You got them quicker than I did." I didn't want the attention on me. Not because I was bashful about praise, because as a budding actress, I actually loved it. Just because... every time Honey complimented me, I felt like it wasn't well-deserved and knew my cheeks would be painted pink from his exaggerations. 

"But you look cuter in your costume than I do~!"

"Eh? Costume?" Riley grinned mischievously, poking his head into the kitchen to let me know he'd heard every word. "And she's cute? I must see this!"

"Not a chance!" I snapped back, rubbing my feverish cheeks.

"Aw, Micah, you know you wanna~!"

"Like how you know you wanna get karate-flipped into a wall?"

"I do, actually."

"....."

"See? Your threats are as flimsy as always!"

"You little bastardo..." I started towards him, with the intent to made good on my vague threat and possibly irreversibly damage the walls of my house, when I felt someone lift me from the floor in one swift motion, a strong arm around my waist. "Waah! Mori!"

"But Miiiiii-chan!" Honey whined as he followed Mori, who was steadfastly walking towards my bedroom, where the two knew I stored my costume for the play. "You're cute in it! What's so wrong about Ri-chan and Da-chan seeing it? They will when the play opens anyway, won't they?

Damn him and his Honey-logic.

And damn Mori for being so inconceivably strong!

Honey (thankfully) left me to my own devices when it came to changing into my costume. Not-so-thankfully, he locked my bedroom door from the outside, cutting off my escape unless I fancied climbing down the fire escape. I considered it for but a moment before deciding it was too much trouble and trudging over to my closet to retrieve the dress.

To put it plainly, it wasn't a dress, per say. It was a nightgown. Wendy and her siblings were settling in for bed when Peter offered them the chance to go to Neverland, and so would have already been in their night clothes. They don't change for the entire trip, therefore neither did I.

But the gown.

It was pale blue, ruffled in places I would have rather had smooth, with big puffed-up sleeves that made me feel very small indeed. The silken fabric just barely touched my knees. I'd thought that was indecent for a girl no older than twelve but was quickly proven to be "wrong" by some haphazard reason I couldn't even recall. 

Honey was right, however much I wished for him to be wrong. Damian and Riley would see me in just a few short weeks in this thing; what was the difference? 

I slipped out of my flour-stained clothes and into the nightgown, doing my best to fix my hair in the mirror afterwards. As it was getting longer, it was becoming more and more of a nuisance and actually required effort to maintain. I wanted to cut it down (perhaps to Haruhi's length) but Honey forebade me from doing so, claiming I was too "cute" to do something like that to my hair when it was just getting "cuter". 

I think that was his favorite word for me, despite the fact that he was "cuter" than I was by a good million miles.

Sighing, I brushed my bangs from my eyes, scuffed my heel on my carpet, then mustered up the courage to rap neatly on the door with my knuckles. It opened slowly, and in peered Honey, who squealed and clapped upon seeing me. Before my lips had even twitched into a full smile, he had me by the hand and was dragging my pathetic form back into the living room, where the others had retired after dinner.

There was silence. Eyes flicked to me. Haruhi shrugged, indifferent. Damian smiled approvingly. Honey prattled on and on about my adorableness. Mori may or may not have been staring out the window; his eyes were half-lidded, so it was hard to see. And Riley...

"Eh?!" I pressed a firm hand over my mouth. "Why is your nose bleeding?!"

His eyes darted downwards and widened when he spotted the crimson stream trickling down towards his upper lip. He started to say something, mouth opening, tongue curling, but Damian was having none of that. He elbowed the poor brunette in the nose, hard enough that he tumbled backwards and flipped over my couch.

"That's why," Damian said simply.

"But it... he was.... Oh, per l'amor di Dio, mi arrendo!" (Oh, for the love of God, I give up!)

That was it. The nightgown was gone in the next for minutes, replaced by worn jeans and an oversized sweater I'd stolen from my mom for the plane-ride to Japan. It smelled like home, because she refused to wear anything besides this while she cooked dinner for the family. What she was doing without it now.... well, sometimes I considered mailing it back to her with an apologetic note.

"You're all idiots," I muttered, sinking into the plushie couch beside Haruhi.

"Agreed," she sighed.

"Hey!" Riley, from the behind the couch, cried out indignantly. He sounded comical, though, too comical not to laugh at. Damian might've really broken his nose, what with the waterfall of blood pouring forth from his nostrils. It was all he could to not bleed to death on my floor by pressing his nose with the fingers of both hands. Too bad for him, he sounded rather like Elmer Fudd while doing so.

And thus the night ended, echoing with the laughter we all shared at Riley's expense. 

_______________________

So.... this was filler, pure and simple. In fact, the next few chapters are all gonna be filler, pretty much until we get to the day before the play opens. I've got something real special planned for that. 

Also, speaking of chapters, I've got news! There will be only about six or seven chapters left before "How to Survive a Host Club" draws to a close. I hope you guys have enjoyed it as much as I have while writing, and I just wanna thank all the readers, voters, and commenters! 

Anyway, see y'all next chapter!