vivamus moriendum est

Higuruma had barely left his office, for this reason. Given, ‘you know who’ needs marking up, fastened with colored straps and scrutinized review. The black ergonomic chair was his bed, breakfast and workplace. And, if it even remotely feasible, he’d merge with his desk to multitask with several hands to keep the load off—but that wouldn’t be possible because he didn’t have several hands.

And, neither did his staff.

Accordingly, his office was pressured. Pressure, of which, some interns and junior personnel couldn’t handle. So naturally, they were either let off, or they voluntarily left themselves, passing neglected paperwork from one hand to the other—forever, remaining untouched. He accepted it all. Hauled the bundles to his office, himself. Now, there was barely any foot of walking space. You’d have to toe along the inch of legroom to reach his desk, provided there wasn’t already more blocking the entrance.

But there was also something strange, he noticed. Repetitive behavior with every collar that left, along the lines of shifty eyes glued anywhere else but his face, touching their nose, worrying the bag strap with a nail slung over their shoulder.

“I hope you don’t mind, sir,” They’d say.

Mind? It was a peculiar way of phrasing the situation, he thought. Should he mind, as in, be bothered by the fact they departed from unfinished work, or, should he mind that they have decided their lives were more meaningful than idealistic expectations.

“I’d understand if you think I’m a coward, sir.” One of them said.

It was a mentality he envied others for having.

It was also on that same day, in that self-inflicting cynical realization, that your existence became concrete on the footsteps of his firm. No longer unobtrusive, despite the years you’ve spent with him.

A fault entirely his, on the matter.

You’ve been part of the junior staff, since forever, promoted from intern to clerk administrative, and later, junior associate. There were vague facts he could recall—partial to strawberry milk, clumsy especially on the fourth step of the stairs, proficient in organizing—perhaps, not currently now could he fish out the particulars, when you emerged from the doors of the firm and found him, there. Slumped on the steps with his head hung over his shoulders, and elbows on his knees before the sunset.

“It’s nice to watch it go down.” You said.

He wasn’t watching it. His eyes, alighted honey by the glow, were glued to the concrete floor of the steps.

“Hm?” He perked up slightly when your footsteps approached.

“The scenery, I mean,” You said, sheepishly, “The sun. Didn’t mean to be a downer, but it’s nice to see it go down after everything.”

His eyes flickered up upon your mention. And, it was, he admitted. Considerably, nice. The stretch of deep blues that emerged, gradually overtaking the orange and pink streaks, dwindled the sunset into solemnity. The sun, a burning golden hemisphere in the middle, declined below the horizon.

“I wouldn’t know.” Was all he said. Provided, he didn’t feel like utter shit, he might have appreciated the culinary view. All those pseudo-psychological tips he learned online was frankly truthful. If you see grey. You see grey, all the time. Now all he sees is black.

After all, he always thought sunsets were depressing. Marked a day’s end. Transition to another. A cycle.

“We can’t know everything, can we?” You said, rummaging through your bag, “We can’t set expectations for ourselves, especially not when we don’t know the road ahead of us.”

That sounded awfully familiar.

“Who told you that?” He asked.

“My boss,” You said.

“He sure does knows his stuff.”

“Becuase it’s you.”

How gimmicky. He almost wanted to scoff. Not at you. But himself. The first time you both met was well over three years ago. Back when he was considerably less self-loathing, and more vain in the legal idealistic way he approached law. His eyes were always itchy. Never content to simply look away.

“…Figures.” He muttered.

“We lose ourselves from time to time.” You said quietly.

“Too much.”

Footsteps approached closer from behind. Then, after a moment, he heard a grunt, and a slump on the concrete steps. He felt your warmth on his arm.

“Milk, sir?” A voice said beside him, “It’s only three hundred yen so I don’t mind giving it away. Okay, but that’s not to say I totally won’t give it if it was excessively more. I’d give it anyways. I think.”

Higuruma turned his head slowly. A pale pink carton, a cartoonish lamb printed on with wide, sparkly eyes and a grin, was extended towards him. His eyes flickered from the drink to your guilelessly sunny expression, further bright by the slowly dwindling sunset.

“It helps the nerves,” You said, wiggling the carton just a little, “I know because it helps with mine.”

He wordlessly took it. It should’ve been simple in three steps: pluck the straw, puncture the aluminum hole and drink, but his hands weren’t so steady, missing with every plunge. You must’ve stared at him, struggling miserably for a grievous minute before offering help.

“Here—” You gently took the carton from his hands. “Let me.”

With a pink tongue sticking out of your mouth, you aimed the straw flawlessly, and punctured the foil with a ‘pop!’.

“Got it!” You turned to him, “See? Now, that wasn’t so bad was it, boss?”

He took the milk carton, staring at perk of the straw. “…Thanks,”

“Don’t mention it,” Then, after a moment you playfully nudged his arm with an elbow, “You should keep me around, you know.”

He frowned, slipping the straw between his lips. “Aren’t you already?”

“Mhm. I am,” You held up a finger, utterly playful, “Ryu is your personal secretary, but with an added promotion, I can be something better.”

A sip. The strawberry milk churned down his throat, and the sourness made him wince, but it was tolerable. The sweetness came later, in any case. He took another sip. The carton gurgled slightly.

Then, “For what position?”

“The most biggest and baddest of all,” You said and leaned in ominously “—your straw helper.”

He paused for a moment, then, turned to you. Fully, turned to you. As he had mentioned, the day you found him slumped on the steps before the sunset in a sorry state, was also the day your existence became concrete. Lathered all over the holes of his flimsy conviction. Hardening, holding him up, forcing him to look and watch the sun go down. And, you’re sitting here, beside him, smiling, with your eyes bright.

“Yeah,” He said, “Sure.”

It was silly, but in that moment he knew, of all the sunsets he had seen, this was the first time he found it less miserable.

He didn’t know when it happened.

You were a simple typical go-lucky junior with your ears and eyes constantly perked. Who got along with the other staff well, withstood their grumblings, hurried around here and there, slinging their orders and takeouts on your shoulders—ramen, udon, takoyaki—and often carried your senior’s bags and waterbottles.

Tatsuki would ask for the notes from their last debrief. You’d launch across the room, clipboard in hand. Shizimazu would poke her head into your cubicle for a ‘recap’ of their newest case. The whiteboard on wheels would squeak as you enthusiastically bustled it over.

And, perhaps, in a way he should avoid you. Not because he held a great sort of grudge against your person or deciding that professional distance was a better call, as a boss. No, it was not exactly that. To a certain extent, it was—until the realization he had when his mind began to wander. Yes, those little ‘package of thoughts’ he bundled perfectly and organized into the deep excess of his mind. They seem to bounce around in proximity to you.

His desk was at the end of the room, overlooking the entire cubicle and, in effect, yours. Since, you were right in front of his. A clear view of your profile and the terrible slouch over your desk. He wouldn’t have noticed he was staring ahead for so long if not for the sharp strain in the back muscles of his neck.

You see, aside from his existence usually announced with a grunt, or physical materialization. He was also very quiet. The kind of quiet that would sneak up on you when you were on break in the kitchen room. What he told himself is that, he hadn’t meant to—really. He hadn’t. And, he could not help that his voice, as low and steady as a ghost, would almost launch you into the ceiling. 

“Mouse.” He emerged behind you.

“Sir!” You sputtered, gathering your composure, a fist to your chest. “You just—! I’m so sorry—! so sorry I didn’t see you there—“

He was standing there, in that rumpled suit. Like, standing there, hands to his side, looming. Who else could you have assumed if not for a big, bad scary entity ready to snatch you away? If big bad meant the natural state of your boss.

“Sorry,” he said, his eyes searching, “Didn’t see you there.”

He did. For some time, actually. Five minutes. Ten. Watching from his desk. From his seat. It was not so difficult to see through the doorway of the kitchen room.

“Oh…it’s okay,” You were considerably less distressed.

“You sure?”

“Yeah I just get these little jumps in me,” You explained, “Not your fault, by the way. I’ve got this problem since a baby. Easily scared, you know. I jump at everything.”

“Good to know,” He tucked his hands into his pockets, clutching the closest thing inside— a card. He paused for a moment. He rubbed his thumb across the paper. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“On break?” He spoke up again.

“Mhm,” You nodded, then looked up, “Why, what do you need?”

For a moment, he shuffled on his oxfords. Light several taps on the linoleum floor. He swept his gaze to the nearby window, where a potted plant was perched on the ledge. A sunflower, drooping against the glass. What did he want? He milled through his mental catalogue. A list of wants he could extort. He frowned. Not extort—no, that sounded a little hostile. A little predatory too. God, not predatory. Required. Yes. That was the word.

Though, a little pink box was only what came to mind.

“…Recap notes.” He latched flimsily onto the most conventional desideratum.

You hopped onto your heels with a click

“Sure! It’s on my desk, sir.” You said, “In, not on, my bad. Drawer two. Just—just pull it. But maybe a little hard because the joints are rusty— but not too hard because if you do you’ll sort of dislodge it from its spot and—“

“Thanks,” He said. Still standing there, “Drawer two, right?”

“Yep, drawer two. The one with the stickers.”

“You put stickers?”

You deflated a slight bit, like the sunflower perched on the ledge, “…is that workplace vandalism?”

His room was filled to the brim with bundles of paperwork. He should consider that workplace assault.

“No,” He said, “Keep up the good work.”

He turned around and left without another word through the doorway. You held your breath until the footsteps of his oxfords faded away, and it was only then your shoulders were able to sag. You leaned against the countertop, sighing. He was a good man, sure, but terrifying? Tops everything else. You don’t know how Shizimazu doesn’t keel over screaming whenever he—

“Mouse.” He emerged from behind, again.

You launched at least three feet—wholly exaggerated—into the air with a squeak.

“Sir!” You whirled around.

How did he even—either, he circled around silently or he never left, you were t sure but he was standing there, again, behind you. Looming.

“Here,” He reached into his pocket, plucked something out, and extended a card to you, “In case you needed help with something. Work. Files. Anything.”

You blinked slowly, looked at the card, then his face. He was remarkably unreadable. Which was always the case.

“Of course, sir.” Your thumb brushed his own as you took it.

“Anything, if you need it,” He said again, gave a tight smile, ducked his head, and walked away.

You stood there, in the kitchen for a moment, utterly nonplussed. There was also something stuck to the card. You flipped it over. The coins cleaned under the light. It was several yens. Three hundred. Enough for a strawberry milk carton from the vending machine.

“Oh...”

Your ovaries fluttered.

Just a little.

A few weeks later, it was after a rare successful case that you found yourself slumped against him, grilling meat in a buffet. You were initially three seats away, sitting around the junior’s table. How you ended up here was a convoluted memory, itself.

Hours earlier, Shizimazu was almost held in contempt of the court for jumping into the air and yelling ‘yippee!’ when the verdict was declared ‘not guilty’. The judges can do whatever they want with the gavel but there’s no way in hell you’re missing the opportunity to jump three feet up into the air in glee.

You all deserved it, anyways.

Outside, on the pavement, when he declared they were celebrating in the buffet you jumped again, utterly delighted, on your heels. It was evening then, the sky a pale blue. Not dark. Not too bright, either. You all regrouped near the cars in the parking lot, deciding who’s going with who to the restaurant. Higuruma stood behind, watched you through the parting of the group, as Shizimazu pointed out the pairs.

“I’ll go with mouse,” He said, then quickly searched for a reason, “I’m heading to the office, anyways. Quicker that way.”

Shizimazu vouched for that, clapping her hands and was about to declare the end of the arrangement when—

“You’re going to the office?” You turn to him, frowning, “But I’m heading to the market first to buy something for my mom.”

It’s not like he’s getting anything in the office anyways. He said, “We can take a detour.”

“I wouldn’t want to make you late.” You said, fully believing he needed something from the office.

He raised a hand, “Really, I could—”

“But it’s okay! “ You snagged Tatsuki’s arm and yanked him towards higuruma, “He can go with you. He’s heading to the office, right?”

Everyone blinked rapidly, signaling him, no you’re not heading to the office. And, no, if you value your life do not respond.

Higuruma silently turned to Tatsuki.

He didn’t get the memo.

“…Well, of course,” Tatsuki scratched his neck, “I do need to pick up some files.”

“See?” You said, “It’s more cost effective that way! I’ll go with Shizimazu.”

And so, the arrangement was decided.

Now, in the dim smoky space of the private room, Tatsuki was busy—chopsticks in hand, blissed out drunk, and shoving meat into their mouths. Someone tripped over a bucket of ice cubes. Shizimazu was was also inebriated, giggling, pushing some bread into someone’s face and lettuce in Yona’s hand—who looked up with devotion.

You’ll drive her later, you thought. She is an international hazard by herself.

Your cheeks were warm, as well. Warm from being cushioned by your boss’s arm, maybe. He had nice biceps. Muscles. Whatever it’s called, it’s pretty comfy. Your eyes were glazed, blissed out, not seeing anything. You burnt several meat and ate some, too. Is that why your mouth was so bitter? You wouldn’t know. After every bite you took, when you turned to your plate, it was always full.

“Magic plate…” You whispered to yourself. Snatched another beef. Turned away. Then, back. Another beef is there again. Perhaps, it was the fact that you’re inebriated, or the Umeshu did more than to relax your mind—

“Does it bother you that some people leave?” You asked him, chewing. 

Higuruma was reaching, with tongs, to pluck out a slab of meat. He was only in his white shirt, tie loosened.

“Why,” He said, “Does it it bother you?”

“A little,” You admit, then when your words caught up with your head you raised a hands, eager to explain yourself, “I mean! They have a right to, of course! It’s all a very pressuring process—so, I I understand if they left. No hard feelings! We didn’t win all the time, you know, so I can see why they’d leave.”

He placed it on the grill. It sizzled upon contact. Crackling. Little bubbles on the side. He felt your head shift against his arm. Only shift. Didn’t move away. He doesn’t say anything, and you went on.

“I don’t know…” You trailed off, sluggishly tilting your head to the side, “It wouldn’t bother me as much if it didn’t impact the team so excessively…”

They were all barely getting any sleep. Tatsuki and Shizimazu were the only seniors. The ones that progressed up to that rank had always left because of the pressure. So, it took more time getting the juniors, the ones that also didn’t leave, up to speed than delegating actual work to be done. Higuruma’s office was full, as well, you could barely make out his desk.

“In what way?” When the meat was considerably brown, he flipped it over.

“Everyone’s being cornered all the time,” you said, “putting more effort in their work than their lives. Ryu’s barely finishing the documents. Tatsuki’s deadlines passed many times and Yona couldn’t visit her sick mother when we were in trial. It’s sad to think that—if they were to look forward to the future and that’s all there is to their life…” 

Somwhere above you, a fly buzzed. A dark round thing, darting here and there.

From a professor he studied with in his early years, he learned that it was better jumping off a sinking ship than trying to fix one. Because, sinking ships could be salvaged—not the bodies of those who went along with it. Patching up planks when water gushing out from the punctures isn’t exactly a sane thing to do. A catch-22, was his professor’s saying. “You can’t do anything since you’re all catching something, right?”

He plucked out the beef from the grill and laid it onto your plate.

“That is what the choice is for.” He said, his eyes sweeping across the happy chatter on the other end of the table. It took him long to notice, there was only you both on this side.

“We resent them,” He continued, “because they know when to quit. But, maybe they resent us because we’re strong enough to stay. Becuase we know when not to quit.”

You thought for moment. The fly was gone. He always had his ways with words despite not saying so much half of the time. The ones who did left with their shifty eyes and their apologies, they provably did resent him for making them feel like cowards.

“That’s one way to see it.” You shifted in your seat, wiggling to sit up but that only made you slide down with an ‘oof’ cushioning your cheek on his thigh.

“Easy, now.” He laid a hand on your head, “Don’t slip away just yet.”

“No I mean—“ Your head wriggled snugly against his palm, “it’s an interesting way to see it.”

“It’s our trade, after all,” He smiled, just slightly, “Interpreting the law in our favor.”

He knows it’s just a story he tells himself.

“…But what about you?”

You shouldn’t ask this. You’re his junior. His subordinate. But you do, anyway. Because you’ve seen him buried in paperwork, slumped on the steps. You’ve seen him, alone.

He looked back up, “What about, me?”

“Your frustrations,” You felt strangely bold for asking this, “Do you ever…have anyone to tel it to?”

He looked down at you. What could he say? That he went home alone? Or, that it was on most nights and not at all? Then, most days and never? He’s exhausted of everything. Of his job, the system, and that he resented those who quit—becuse they knew when to save themselves, and he didn’t.

He took another moment to compose himself. He always does.

“I don’t,” he said, “I don’t have any.”

The frustrations, or the person, he didn’t say.

“ I could be.” You said without thinking.

He seemed a little nonplussed but you couldn’t tell if it was at your audacity or the fact that you never think when you’re speaking. 

“I mean, I could help you with the excess paperwork.” You said, slurring slightly from the alcohol, drool prickling the corner of your lips.

“You’re still new at those.”

“But you could teach me.”

“I don’t have time in the office.”

“How about on weekends?” You said, wriggling to sit upright. “I can get a load off your back and everyone else’s if I knew how to file the legal paperwork and send off documents to storage. I could do the minimum and it would be enough for you guys to do the important work.”

He seemed to consider it for a moment, resting his chin on a fist. He’s thinking about insanity. Whether or not he’s insane for staying, for holding up this strange ambition of his. Your face was softened by the dim lighting of the room. As if a red paper slid over the lens of a torchlight and alighted your face with its glow. He’s considering, not about the proposal, but you. The person.

His eyes fell to your lips.

“I’ll think about it.” And, he wiped the drool from the corner of your mouth.

This time, he missed how your cheeks warmed.

So began a ritual—a torture or a blessing, Higuruma wasn’t so sure. Torture, because close proximity It meant familiarizing himself with your living space, your person, you as a person. It meant informal situations. Informal attitude, dress and articulation. Where you dressed differently. Acted differently.

In effect, affecting him.

Hiromi Higuruma considers himself to be a respectable man. The kind that avoids debauchery when it concerns to pining after a woman. He prefers to be upfront, no-nonsense, and reputable. Those three are futile when confronted with his own physical preferences, unfortunately.

Becuase this, being here, with you, is the only break he’ll ever get.

Every weekend, such as today, he parked his car outside the apartment. He then stood idly on the pavement, cold vapor puffing from his nose, in his black coat and scarf, erasing and typing the text to send to you.

‘I’m here.’ No. Too short. ‘Outside.’ Predatory. ‘I know where you live.’ No. ‘Open the door.’ Not that, either. ‘Guess who.’

What was he, the riddler?

He spammed the ‘x’ key and decided on something less threatening— ‘It’s currently nineteen degrees out, let me in before you work with an ice pick.’ You’d get the message, rush to the window and see him below. He saw you through the parting drapes, your wide eager eyes and bright smile were practically a lighthouse to be given. He raised his hand and waved. You waved back just as eagerly. Mouthing ‘I’ll be quick!’ you disappeared back into the darkness, presumably to change and unlock the door.

It would have been completely normal. A simple interaction. Boss waiting outside. Worker clumsily opening the door. Normal. Totally normal if he, with those wretchedly observant eyes, through the parted drapes hadn’t caught on that you were wearing close to nothing when you stood by the window.

Why were you even—

Panties. With a bow on top. Fabric, he doesn’t know what. Sheer, maybe? You were wearing panties. And, a bra. He caught the edge of it. Lacey. White. Chiffon. An inch or two. They were not matching. The bra was pale blue. And the—

He caught eyes of her nosy neighbor. An old man watering his front lawn with a hat too red for his liking. He waved, eyes crinkling behind his spectacles. “My, what a handsome fellow. Here to see Mouse, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” He said, shuffling on the spot. “Just waiting.”

“Forgive me if I’m too forward,” He chuckled warmly, whipping the hose towards his house, “She doesn’t bring home boys often. You her boyfriend?”

The term sent an unusual tingle down his spine. He likes it. Wants it. Can’t have it.

“Boss, actually.” He amended.

“That’s what they all say, these days,” He laughed again, “With all the scrutiny from the parents and the goers, I can hardly blame you folks. And the get-up, you’re a banker aren’t ya?”

“What makes you say that?.”

“That’s what all bankers are. Bastards. And you, son, frankly look like one.”

Higuruma, stunned into silence by this old man with a hose, could only stand there and take it.

Just then, as though you’ve had a sixth sense of some kind, your door opened, “Boss!”

He whipped his head towards you. The wardrobe change was considerably more acceptable. Less sheer. Less chiffons. More Pajamas. Navy blue. Cat prints. Less skin.

“Sorry!” You squeaked, “I totally forgot about today. I’d have cleaned up the place a little, prepared snacks—maybe coffee, god I’m out of coffee—do you want coffee, sir? I can go buy—“

“Hey,” Before his mind went anywhere else he held up a plastic bag of food. The one slung on his arm, “Noodles?” He offered, “I also brought Strawberry milk.”

“Oh!” You bounced on the heels of your feet eagerly, missing the way his eyes naturally flickered down to your body physically responding to the bounce, “Starving, actually!” You snatched the takeouts from his hands, “Come on in!”

As you whirled around toward the kitchen, you bounced on your heels again in utter delight. His eyes snapped down to the pert ‘physical reaction’ before averting to a nearby window.

Get yourself together.

Their working space was on the brown coffee table in front of the sofa, cluttered with bundles of files, documents and coffee cups—positioned beside a large window where the morning light was an advantage over the eye-straining LED ones.

“What’s today?” You poked your head through the doorway of your bedroom.

You managed to quickly stash the ‘particulars’ such as your undergarments, trash bags he had no business of seeing and you fifty plus plushies on the couch were relocated to your duvet.

“Cross-referencing,” He replied, shrugging off his suit jacket. He draped it over the couch. “Precedents and what not. We need cases that are already ruled prior with a verdict, and use it in our favor.”

“Ooooh, I like that one,” You danced on your toes, skipping over, “Going through thick legal books really does make my fingers itchy, you know. The best feeling ever.”

“Was hoping you’d say that,” He inclined his head towards several stacks of bundles on the floor beside the table. “You can handle those.”

Those? By those—he means the— the sixty plus stacks of paperwork on the ground? Paperwork that could take years to comb through?

“Oh,” You reached for the water bottle on the counter, just so you had something to do and not look like a massive idiot backpedaling on your ‘I’ll help’ speech at the buffet, “That’s a lot…we’re not diving into it a portion per day right?”

Higuruma crossed his arms, “Sure. If you’ll answer how many days are there in a weekend.”

“Well—two days so….by two?”

“Anything else?”

“…No, sir.”

“Good. Get to work.”

You sigh, the kind that deflated your body from head to toe. “Yes, sir.”

Then, you took a large gulp of water from that bottle. Some trickled from your lips and slid down your throat.

He wanted to trace it with his tongue.

You both would work until the sky turned dark. And, it was only then you resorted to flicking on the ceiling lights, alighting the room in an orange-yellowish glow. Sometime during the session, he knelt on the rug, bending over the table he circled ‘evidence’ on the document with a red marker.

“Why’d you do that?” You asked, peering over his shoulder.

Your cheek was inches away from his. He could hear the air—in and out, in and out—chest rising from your breaths. He could smell your shampoo. That cheap two in one conditioner he saw you shoving into your workbag once.

It smelled like apples.

Hence, torture.

“Because that’s what we need most.” He managed.

“I mean, isn’t that what we always need?”

“We do,” He said, “Interpreting the evidence in our favor is what we do all the time. Unfortunately, that’s not possible without the evidence first, is it?”

“Oh, right. My bad.”

Time wasn’t time but it was like a stream, it flows, and it keeps flowing. The moment it began and to the moment it ended, was always indistinguishable. What you only know is that, eventually you’d wake up on the rug with his jacket over you.

“Hey,” You rubbed your eyes with your fist, groggy.

He didn’t open the lights. The room was completely dark, save for the laptop light blasting his face on full brightness.

“You’ll go blind, if you keep that up.”

“I know.” He said.

It was only ever about organizing files current cases. You never got to finish past paperwork—the ones passed hand to hand, and all—since the moment a trial was finished, another one was already pending.

“It’s like a beach,” Ryu said, “The edges gets whipped away by the waters, but somehow the middle remains.”

Eventually, the waters would have to completely erode the beach, wouldn’t they?

You were, nonetheless, determined.

He mentioned ‘torture’, earlier. And, no—it’s not hyperbolic. He doesn’t do exaggerations. On a scale from one to absolutely and devastatingly crushed—it would be well over a hundred, by now.

It had been five hours. Or more, you didn’t count. He was on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Collar, loosened. Tie draped over the clutch, one hand scrolling the mouse.

You were on the floor beside him, knees tucked to your chest, peering at his laptop screen and digesting the information he told you. Which was, frankly speaking, all very complicated. You did not get a word he said. Only, ‘this’ and then if you want to do a shortcut you do ‘that’, when you write make sure margin is ‘this’. There would be a spinning bird on your head if whimsy was life.

He stopped talking, then looked down.

You were very serious, serious in a way a puppy was serious when it’s watching a rats tail wriggle out of a hole—eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, lower lip jutting out. He knew what your problem was. It’s the thought that counts.

Then, his eyes naturally fell down. 

To your cleavage. Two soft, gentle swells of muscle, and a dark shadowed valley beneath. When you shifted in your spot, he caught a little tip of a nipple crushed against the fabric, then lower, the rolls of your stomach as well, from your hunched sitting.

Your hips gave an eager, little wiggle.

He closed his eyes.

“Okay, so,” You said, finally producing a thought, “Basically to number it all quickly from one to twenty four, I have to select all of the boxes and press what— buttons? What buttons, er…” you consulted your notes, plucking a pen from the pen holder a little to the right of your hand, the neckline gaping wider.

He looked back to the screen, unnecessarily clicking his mouse, “Look again. You’ll only get a hang of it if you would stop consulting information from your notes and actually do it.”

You felt a flush of chagrin, “Of course, sir! I’ll—“

“Here,” he said, “Watch me do it again.”

And so you did. It was all much simpler than you thought. Still, a little complicated. But isn’t that every job ever?

“Select the first cell in the range that needed filling,” He said, “Then, type a starting value for series and a value in the next cell to establish a pattern.”

A few more clicks here and there—the rows popped into view, names on the left side of the box, numbered perfectly from one to twenty four.

You looked up, eyes wide and eager, “can I try?”

“It’s not so complicated,” he leaned back against the couch, and waved a hand for you to go on. 

You crawled—crawled to the spot between his legs and faced the laptop. From his positions, he could see the crown of your head, the nape of your neck when you bent down towards the laptop—you really need glasses with the way you squint— and, there, he could see your spine, the soft rolls of your body, and below, your thin shorts that clung to pert buttocks. The lower seams dug into your skin where a triangle pudge of skin emerged.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

He looked to the window, rubbing the corner of his mouth harshly with a thumb. He should probably leave. Should, probably, look away. Demand you dress up less indecently. Or, throw a blanket and smother your body with it. But what could he do? It’s not his place to dictate what you wear. It’s him—he’s the problem. The common denominator of each and every one of his self-inflicted torment.

He is absolutely rock hard. Right now, with a boner. A tent large enough to house three bloody campers inside, and if anybody looked close enough—his trousers were becoming damp. But thankfully, you were never a good person finding things. 

You said something.

He didn’t get it at first.

“Did I do it sir?” You said again.

His eyes swung back to you.

You were still in the same spot but twisted towards him. Your lips, did it always look this lush? Pursed into a hopeful smile.

“I messed up the numbers a little,” you said.

He looked back at the screen.

The numbers weren’t even remotely chronological. 

“That’s not how you do it,” he said, leaning down, both palms flat on the table, chin inches above the crown of your head. 

“But I already shifted,” you said, a little defensive—which was fine. It’s good to be defensive. It meant you had a spark to stand up for yourself. 

A spark defiant, elsewhere.

“In a wrong order, mouse.” He said, “Theres a correct way of doing things.”

You stilled, still a little petulant, as his palm laid on yours, on the one clicking pathetically on the mouse, and he moved it. 

“You need to select all the boxes.” He said, “and then…”

He leaned closer, lips away from your ears. You felt the warmth of his chest, even though it wasn’t remotely touching your back.

“See this?” His breath smelled like cigarettes. A ton of cigarettes. Whiskey, too. Had he been drinking? Why would he drink in a Saturday? Your thoughts did a double take until, on the screen, the names magically appeared in the boxes, sorted in alphabetical order and numbered. 

“Oh my gosh! That’s! So convenient!” You said, “I’ve never—“

So eager in getting up, you accidentally pushed the pen holder over the table.

“Oh!” You made a grab for it.

Higurama’s eyes slowly widen. At the sight of your hips. Inching upwards. Towards him.

“Mouse,” He managed, “Wait—”

Your fingers clamped round the holder in time before it could topple over the table. And, then. You felt it. Something warm. Hard. A ridge between the swell of your buttocks. 

“…Boss?” You whispered, unmoving.

There was a long silence. The arm on the clock ticked along the beat of his heart. He could hear it in his head. The pounding. The strain. The trees rustling outside along the breeze. A lone leaf whirling against the wind. The streets, probably empty.

The refrigerator grunted. 

“Sir…” You shifted.

Bad idea.

He grunted in pain, “Don’t. Move.”

“I’m so sorry!” You cried, hips wiggling inadvertently and it torques him, “it was—it was my fault—I didn’t—I didnt mean to—”

“It’s not your fault.“

“But I shouldn’t have—“

“It’s not your fault.” He gritted out, struggling to speak. Not to move. His chest vibrating against your back. You could feel him speaking.

You kept quiet, the words caught on your throat. You wanted to move. Wanted to, maybe, turn around and see what expression he’s making.

The thought made your thighs quiver.

“I was gonna say…you’re a little sweaty, that’s all.” You muttered.

He was, in a way. But that’s not the point. The point is—that’s your takeaway for this entire situation?

 “Is that all you have to say?” He has no idea how to respond to this.

“I mean, I—” You carefully choose your words, “I don’t really know what else you could have me say. You really do kind of sweat a lot.”

Yes, he’s sweating. But that’s not the point.

“Damn it, woman. Push me off,” He leaned closer, exasperated, “Scream. Yell. Are those not appropriate options to you?”

He wants you to do something other than be still, pressing against his boner and making him want more.

“I mean…you’re not getting off me.” You said meekly.

“My arms are heavy.”

They were not.

“Mine, too, actually.”

“Mouse,” He groaned. He moved, just a little. A tiny, circular grind that pulsed a deep, wave of pleasure up his body.

“I’ll ask you this,” He closed his eyes, it rolled behind his eyelids, “and I’ll ask you now,” Another grind that jolted you slightly forward, “because I won’t be able to think a whole lot of sense with your ass against my cock.”

“This…” he continued, “This is what I mean when I don’t have any—because it’s different. Not words. Not—talking.”

He’s been drinking. Alone. On a Saturday becuase he’s miserable. Because he needed courage. Because he couldn’t face another weekend of wanting you without something to take the edge off.

You recalled his words, something about not having any—the frustration or a person. And, then it clicked. You think you understand. He has outlets. They were just sexual, in natures. Masturbation. That’s what he meant, right?

“Oh,” you felt your face warm, “You have other outlets of stress release.”

Higuruma stilled, utterly horrified. Thats not what he meant at all.

“Are you— I don’t mean it like that!.” He hissed.

“The what else?!” You sputtered defensively, “What am I supposed to assume?! You just said not words—not talking! Jerking off is one way to do it because i—”

This is absurd. He’s bent you over the table. Having an argument with a junior he’s both pining heads over heels, and dick over ass, for—regarding the possible expressions one can denote from his prose.

Arguing semantics while he’s rock hard, about to bust.

“I mean—for god’s sake! Thats not what I meant!” He exasperated. “I don’t—I don’t have anyone, I don’t have frustrations, and I know how it looks like becuase it’s really not. There is more to what this is—what I feel for you. Because if I do I’d rather the only person to ever hear about my struggles is a person who is permanent in my life!”

You understand everything now. Not just what’s happening now but everything. Why he acts weird around you. Why he’s strange, clipped, awkward. Why he watches you. The strawberry milk. Why he’s here torturing himself just to be in close proximity to you.

You, the common denominator to all his problems.

“…oh.” You said, “Same.”

He blinked. “Same—same?”

Two syllables. Thats all. Two.

“Yeah,” You went on, guilelessly, “I can relate. ‘Cause i feel the same, you know. I just didn’t know what to say, either. Since, you’re my boss and all.”

He’s stunned. He’s been pining, suffering, making a fool out of himself—walking through walls—and you casually drop your confession like it’s some bomb in the sky.He dropped his forehead to your shoulder. Laughed bitterly, “Is that all you have to say?”

“I don’t know how to say it…” You said, trailing off, “But I meant it when I said I wanted to help. In any way I can, of course.”

He stilled. “In any way, huh.”

He was a man of negotiation. And negotiate will he do with you.

“Uh huh.” You frowned, “That’s what I said.”

 “You want to help?” He panted against your ear, tilting his face to the side until his breath was against your cheek.

“You really want to? Then, this is how you help,” He grinds against your ass and you whined, “Can you help me, mouse? Really help me?” He whispered, begging against your ear, “Because god help me, if you don’t I’ll pack up my things, pretend this never happen, go in my car, drive home—“

“And then what?” You said, turning your nose until it brushed against the furrow of his brow.

“You don’t want to know, kid.”

“All I know is that you don’t know when to quit,” You said, “Like you said, you resented others for quitting. But they might resent you for being strong enough to stay. So if this makes you quit being so terrible to yourself, then I don’t want you quitting on trying to poke a hole through my shorts and squeeze your balls into me.”

“So, the mouse does have claws, after all.” He was baffled, aroused, and utterly smitten.

“They always do,” You protested, your hips giving a little shimmy. “Just tiny.”

“Mmh,” He hummed and grinded his boner against the cleft of your cheeks, it sent deep, warm waves of pleasure throughout his body—coil by coil, loosening every knot in his muscle. He pressed his nose against the side your throat, inhaling—sweat and apples, “Well, I’ll get to find out whether your claws are  trimmed, tiny or sharp, when it’s digging into my back.”

“Trimmed, actually,” You perked up, “becuase the dirt was getting under my—!”

You broke off into a moan when he grinded a little harder, pushing your against the table, and in effect, against the fabric of your panties—sticking uncomfortably wet to your folds—rubbing your sensitive nub. Oh, that felt good. Your hips gave a little shimmy and a pathetic thrust.

“You talk a lot, mouse,” He said, one hand grabbed the soft swell of your hip and trailed down your thighs and to your calf.

“Thought—“ you whined, trying to roll your hips and hump against the table. No friction. You were too wet, “Thought— you said it was my best quality,  boss—“

He did. Once. When you tripped over your feet and crashed into Ryu holding a tray of coffee cups. You babbled, cried, snot and all, begging for his forgiveness. And that was when he said that to you.

“Never said it was bad,” he hooked his hand under your calf and lifted it wider, allowing you to press flat against the table with his weight. You’re so flexible, god. How are those legs able to do that so so easily? With every grind now, your pussy rubbed against the tabeltop, crushing your clit. 

“Boss—“ You moaned, and humping the table in desperate rolls, now. It was so difficult to find friction when you’re so wet.

“Trouble?” He panted, knowing very well, you were. 

“Mmh. No, sir—“ you moaned when he gave a particularly hard thrust, pelvis ramming into your ass.

The table jolted slightly. Finally—finally, there was some friction and you moaned at the throbbing wave of pleasure.

“No?”  He echoed.

You shook your head with another pathetic, “No, sir.” 

“If it’s a no, should I leave you here?” He said, rutting harder. “Leave you here, wet and desperate like this?”

“No!” You whined when a hard thrust rammed your clit against the tabletop. 

“That’s a lot of no’s, mouse,” He mused, “too much of it and it’s making things a little complicated, now.”

Your panties were drenched, now. You couldn’t answer, desperately focusing on the sensation of your clit rubbing the fabric.  Almost there. Almost. Come on. Come on.

“—but I don’t mind,” He panted, and it broke off into a groan as his hips continued pummeling you into the desk, “—I don’t mind it—not at all—not when I’m pounding—my junior’s ass into the table and making a mess of my boxers—“

The table was creaking , rickety, moving under the weight of him rutting against your ass. Your cheeks were a perfect cushion—he was practically bouncing off it. His eyes were half- lidded, noises of all kinds slipping through his lips. The strands of his hair bobbed back and forth.

He thought about doing it at the office. At the kitchen. At the balcony. When you drank water and it trickled into the valley of your breasts. How he wanted to lick it off those pert peaks. He  groaned even louder, more reverently, low and longer, his arm trembling with the effort of holding himself up, “—don’t mind it at all—“ his spine tingled, his balls, he could feel his balls tightening up, “—your ass, oh god, it feels—“

Whatever came out of his mouth after was unintelligible and you were too much in your head to remember what he was saying when he came, resting the bridge of his nose against your shoulder— drenching his boxers wet with little pulses, bowed over you, groans after groans, after the other. His body trembled at the force of  it.

He still fucked you through it, ramming the damp wet patch of his dick against your ass, until pleasure trembled violently throughout your body. From the crown of your head and to your toes, eyes rolling back behind your lids. It was painful. So painful. Yet so—

All you could do was whine, writhing under him, sensitive. When the high came down he stilled, breathing more measure. A single drop of sweat plinked into your shirt. He gave his hips one more pump. 

“Oh-!”

You both catch your breath.

“Did you come?” He asked, his voice hoarse, and a little slurry from the spend. 

You shook your head. No, that’s not right. Paused. Then, nodded.

“Good, I’m not done yet.” He panted, laying his palms flat on your ass.

He gave it a good squeeze. You yipped as he raised your hips higher, pressed his face against your backside, nose over your clothed musk, prodding the clothed folds. He inhaled, deeply.

“Love it when you sweat,” He groaned.

“You know, in a different context I’d find that statement a whole lot concerning.”You grind against his nose, and he pulled away.

“Can you not?”

“Sorry. I’m just curious when the next lecture is,” You gave your hips a little shimmy under his hand. 

“It’s now,” he hiked down your rompers, baring the perfect swell of your ass, and hiked it below under your thighs. 

At the sight of it, he groaned. He palmed it and spread the round cheeks apart, revealing your twitching pucker above, and your folds below, glistening and thick swollen with arousal.

“This is how you can help me,” He said.

And lubricant sputtered out even more. He coated a finger with his thick saliva before sticking it into your hole. Your walls were rubbery, too wet, too soft—he didn’t feel any ridges

“Oh!” You grinded against his hand in wet squelches.

“Look,” He said, “this might just depend on your scores in Excel. I can’t give you anything when you’re still incapable of basic paperwork, yes?”

“Please!” You babbled, “I promise I’ll—I’ll do good. Really good—even study overnight to help you—you and the others—”

“Will you?”

“Yes, sir! Boss—I will— promise!” You squeaked when his hand reached around, grabbing a fistful of the perky mounds that had been haunting his eyes for a good, full hour.

He flicked the nipple with a thumb.

“Pinky promise?” His dresshirt clung to his body. Gray and wet, sticking to the muscled contours of his skin. You could see his abdomen more clearly—moderately built, with a plenty amount of fat and muscles.

“Higuruma-senpai!” You whined. Actually whined his name.

He wanted to bust right there.

“Say that again,” He groaned fumbling with his belt, both oxfords planting on your rug, a stark contrast against your cat printed white socks.

“I thought you said I spoke too much, Higuruma-senpai.” You wiggled your rump.

His boxers got caught in his fly and he cursed, “Don’t get cheeky with me, now.”

“You said it’s not a bad thing.”

“Mouse.”

You hmphed, slumping against the table, “Bore.”

“In a minute.”

He freed himself into his hand, slick and creamy from his earlier spend. It was ruddy, swollen. The tip sputtering.

“Here we go,” He thrusted into his hand, once, twice, before sliding his slick cock beteeen the cleft of your ass.

“Nice and easy,” He rubbed it up and down, from the top, to your folds.

The head pressed against your entrance , unmoving.

“Ready?” A large hand held your waist.

You thought for a long, hard moment. “What if I say no?”

“Then, you’re the most terrible liar I’ve ever met.”

“Okay, first of all,” You threw an affronted look over your shoulder, “I lie very good. Very good, in fact. It’s literally my job, hello. Second—”

He reached over and pinched your offended, puffed up cheek, “Am I wrong?

Pause.

“…No.”

“And there you have it,” he let go, “Case dismissed.”

Then, it slid in, stretching you and filling you apart, your folds a plump ring around the base of his cock.He wrapped his arms around your neck.

He pressed his lips against your temple tenderly, “Now?”

“Please.”

So, he does. Slowly. Fucking you into the table. Every withdraw was a shlick sound, and every thrust inside drew a wet pfft from your pussy. 

“My little trumpet.” He groaned, “my little bullfrog.”

It caught you so off-gaurd, you giggled, sides shaking, and in effect clenching around him as you laughed, “Who talks dirty like that?”

“If you want to feel good,” He panted, smiling, against your ear, “You better take it.”

“Can I call you snorkel, then?”

He snaked his hand into the soft mound of your belly and raised you up to his hips. “Why that of all names?”

“You’re breathing like you need a snorkel.”

“Do I?” His hips grew more urgent, the skin of his pelvis slapping against your cheeks, “You said I snored like I needed one the other day.”

You made little punched-out cries, “Can’t— can’t help it when you breathe like that, boss. Like you need air. Do you have lung problems? I mean, you smoke. Wouldn’t be surprised if you do.”

“I breathe,” The pistoning of his hips quickened, in and out, harder, faster, drilling into you “just like any other man with a warm perfect clutch around his dick.”

“Is that all I am to you?” You whimpered.

“Never,” He panted. Squelch. Slick. Splat.

“You’ll never be that way for me, ever,” His spine drew up tight, balls taut, “You’re more. You’re more than what I deserve—”

Spots blotting his eyes, he came with a loud groan, pulsing himself inside the warm burrow of your pussy. A warm wet trickle escaped the softened folds, drifting down your inner thighs and a pearly drop of his spend plinked onto the rug.