Work Text:
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.” You’re rambling on autopilot now, the phrases ingrained after years of selling contracts and buttering up to annoying people.
On the other end of the line, Tokuda-san readies himself for what must be the twelfth ill-timed dad-joke of this conversation when you spot a familiar head of shaggy brown hair heading toward the common room.
“I’m sorry, I have to cut this call short. Goodbye.”
You’re out of your seat in a heartbeat, racing down the hallway like your life depends on it. Thank god you joined the track team during middle and high school, or you’d be no match for Futakuchi long legs.
This way, though, you slide into the common room barely ahead of him, and body slam yourself into the counter. “First!” You choke out, both hands hovering over the box of Donuts Sadow-san brought in earlier.
Futakuchi is dangerously, no, strangely quiet behind you. You turn, and all blood leaves your face as you spot your supervisor at one of the tables, watching you with something akin to horror on her face.
“I-” You start, unable to explain yourself. Hate my coworker? Am a greedy pig?
“Wow,” the sound of slow clapping pulls your focus toward the doorway where Futakuchi is smiling fake-proud. “All that training really paid off.”
“Training? You echo alongside your supervisor.
“Indeed,” Futakuchi steps closer and flicks his pointer finger against your forehead. It hurts, but not as much as it could have. He’s probably holding back. “Isn’t the company-wide sports festival in a month or so? I bet you’re going to outrun everyone on the team.”
“Oh, you’re training for the sports festival?” Your supervisor beams. “That’s admirable! I’ll put you down for the race if that’s okay!”
“I, uh, sure.” You’re too much of a people pleaser to say no, and too much indebted to the lie to disagree. “I was hoping for it, actually.”
“The relay, as well?” She blinks up from her phone. “We’re doing shorter laps, so you two would probably make a great team.”
Futakuchi’s jaw drops, but you must have seen it coming, because you’re smiling sweetly now. “Of course, yes, I’d love that.”
“Great. I’ll let everyone know. Now that you two are on board, I’m sure more will feel inspired to follow.”
You doubt it, but she leaves the room, and two glorious seconds of peace later, Futakuchi is in your face. “Relay? With you?!”
“What?!” You hiss back. “Don’t tell me Futakuchi long legs can’t outrun a bunch of guys who call “drinking beer” their favorite pastime.”
“Futakuchi long legs,” he repeats slowly, and you realize belatedly that your nickname for him slipped out just like that. His grin grows, and goose bumps rise on your skin at the sight. “Do you want to call me Daddy?”
“Grow up!” You hiss, slapping his hands away from the Donuts. “I said I was first!”
“You owe me one for helping you out.”
“I wouldn’t have needed help if your greedy ass didn’t eat all the Donuts in one sitting last time!”
“I didn’t, and you’re still not believing me!” He fake sobs. “I call that harassment.”
“I’ll give you harassment,” you hiss back, grimacing when he grins smugly again. “That sounded better in my head.”
-
You’re still not sure how it happened. One day, Futakuchi had been the attractive new guy hired alongside you, the next, he’d started bullying you so subtly, coworkers thought he was flirting.
But you knew what flirting was. Or at least you thought you knew what flirting was, because that for sure wasn’t flirting. It couldn’t be.
Flirting involved being nice to people. Agreeing to their ideas. Going out of your way for them.
Come to think of it, you were doing that, every day, for everyone, with the sole intention of not being disliked.
You spot your face in the mirrored surface of the elevator doors, doubt clouding your features. But no, Futakuchi couldn’t be flirting with you. Right?
-
“What are you doing tonight?”
You look up from your monitor, startled by the suddenness of his presence and the volume of his voice. Futakuchi talking in low volume is about as rare as a giraffe sighting in your small town, and probably just as scary.
“What?”
“What are you doing?” He repeats, just as quietly. “Tonight?”
“Why are you asking?” You hiss back, followed by a quieter. “Nothing. But why are you asking?”
“Cause our supervisor went straight to her supervisor, and that guy just congratulated me and told me to work hard because apparently we’re being rated on performance?”
“What?!” Your blood rushes into your feet, and you feel sick. “Oh god. I’m going to get fired. I just started working here, and I like it, I-”
“Calm down,” he shakes you by shaking the chair you’re on. “Meet me after work tonight. We can train for this. You said it yourself, ninety percent of the company has never done any sport in their life.”
“But-”
“No butts but mine,” he jokes, clapping the back of your chair instead of your shoulder. “Meet me in the lobby later.”
-
The giant in front of you blinks. You blink back, unsure.
“Ah, so you’ve introduced yourselves already?” Futakuchi walks up to your side, smiling. “No? Well, that’s Aone, Aone, that’s my coworker, the one I told you about.”
“The cute one,” the giant says, his voice deep and gravelly.
Futakuchi sputters. “I didn’t- He’s making that up, I-”
You’re not quite listening, distracted by the sight of him in shorts. And how short these shorts are. You lean back, trying to gauge if you can spot-
“Are you checking out my ass?” Futakuchi asks, his gasp surely exaggerated.
“What ass?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’re flat like a surfboard.”
“I’ve got a bubble butt,” Futakuchi claims, slapping his own cheeks. “And you know it.”
“Besides that,” Aone saves you from answering. “Have you brought a change of clothes as well?”
“No, I didn’t know I had to.”
“No worries,” Futakuchi hands you a bag. “Our manager brought some along. You should be the same size.”
“Why should I-”
“Training,” Futakuchi points out slowly, as if you’re dumb. “Performance rating.”
“Right,” you stutter, turning toward the changing rooms of the gym. “Just a second.”
-
Futakuchi does not look at you the whole night. He’s too busy showing off his skills at volleyball or racing his teammates during drills, or slamming balls over the net like his life depends on it.
At first, you wanted to believe his manager, sweet, well-behaved Nagata-chan, but after a while, it became obvious he was trying to avoid looking at you. Or talking to you. When it became clear he wouldn’t even take the water bottle you were trying to hand him, you had had enough. You had come with him after work, despite fearing the worst, had dressed in someone else's clothes, had run drills with them, and thought way too much about the length and shape and color of his legs for him to treat you like this.
You’d been born and raised a people pleaser, but even you had your boundaries.
“I’m leaving,” you announce quietly, not wanting to disturb practice. “I’ll… I’ll give you back your clothes once I’ve washed them.”
“Are you sure? You ran a lot. You should probably shower and change. You could get sick.” Nagata-chan eyes you worriedly. “If you need to get going, I can tell Futakuchi-san to take you home.”
“No need,” you hurry to placate her. “I’m fine, I don’t live far away. And it’s been such a warm spring day, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thank you for your worries, though. Tell… Uh, tell Aone that it was nice to get to know him.”
“And Futakuchi-san?” Nagata-chan blinks. “What am I supposed to tell him?”
“To eat dirt,” you snap, shocked by your own outburst. “I mean, to… uh, that I will see him tomorrow, yes. Yes, that’s right. I’ll see him tomorrow at work, and there we can talk some more about our training regimen, but I have other things to attend to and need to get going.”
“Oh,” she blinks. “Okay. If you say so.”
-
The next morning brings a stuffed nose, a persistent cough, and something that feels like a fever building behind your eyes.
You call in sick and decide to skip breakfast in favor of slowly slipping tea and grimacing every time you have to swallow, your throat a little raw from coughing.
The warm spring day had turned into a chilly night, your flimsy blazer no match for the cool breeze.
You know you should have done things differently. For starters, you shouldn’t have gotten involved in a silly competition with Futakuchi. You shouldn’t have noticed the length of his legs either, or the way his hair fell into his eyes sometimes, or that his voice sounded nice when he wrapped up a call.
You bury your head under your pillows and fight back a groan.
It doesn’t matter now that you’ve caught feelings for him just as easily as you’ve caught a cold. You’re not going to do well in the sports festival with how things are. You’ll be demoted, or fired, and forced to find a new position in a different company, where you’ll be able to people-please undisturbed and fall in love with a nice, polite guy with short legs and a beer belly. Maybe bald, too, so there’s no overlap.
There’s a knock on the door. You bury yourself further under the blankets. Whoever it is, you’re not in the mood to be social and not in the state to force yourself, either.
“Room service,” a familiar voice calls out, and you shoot up from your home-made blanket coffin. Are you hallucinating now, too?
Another knock. “I know you’re in there. Boss told me to bring by some papers.”
Oh, right. Work. You shuffle out of bed awkwardly, aware of your bare legs and bunny slippers, but too exhausted to find something more suitable at such short notice.
Of course, Futakuchi notices it immediately, lips pulling tight at the sight.
“Where are the papers?” You croak, using the door handle to prop yourself up.
“They are, uh,” he hesitates, eyes darting everywhere at once. “Soup.”
“What?”
“I got you soup,” he pushes through his teeth. “Cause you’re sick and all.”
You blink at the box in his hands. You can smell it even through your stuffed nose and when you grab it, the warmth seeps deliciously into your cold hands.
“Thank you,” you answer, a little too surprised to think about the how or why. “And the papers?”
“You’re not working,” he concludes. “You’re sick.”
“But Boss-”
“It was a lie,” he admits, jaw grinding. “So you’d open your door. So I could check in on you. Make sure you’re not dead.”
You glare at him. “I can do very well without you.”
“Yeah?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares back. “So you didn’t get sick because you insisted on walking home at night in sweaty work-out clothes and a flimsy blazer instead of waiting around?”
You open your mouth to retort something - what, you’re not yet sure off - but a violent cough cuts you off. Futakuchi reaches out, perhaps to save the soup from tumbling to the ground, but he grabs you instead, holding you upright, his hold a little too gentle for a coworker this annoying.
“What are you even doing here?” You cough on. “You’re supposed to be at work.”
“I am at work,” he disagrees. “I’m doing house calls in the area.”
“Oh, am I keeping you-”
“Yes,” he pushes you back inside. “You’re the house call, get inside where it’s warm.”
-
Maybe it’s the fever, or the cough, or the lack of oxygen getting to your brain because of your stuffed nose, but you’re pretty sure Futakuchi is standing in your kitchen, rummaging around.
“Here,” he holds out a pill. “Google says this is against pain and low fever. Swallow it.”
“What if it’s against hemmorhoids?”
“Well, I found it in your medicine cabinet, so I think you’ll be fine and hemorrhoid free,” he quips, watching you as you swallow the pill with a sip of luke-warm tea. “Where are your spoons?”
“In the drawer, of course,” you rest your head on the cool table. “Do you want some coffee? I’m sure I can-”
“Idiot,” he chides you gently, opening the box of soup and stirring it. “The spoon is for you. Do I need to feed you as well?”
“I can do that myself?” You claim, though you’re a little too tired to prove him wrong. And didn’t that just come out more like a question than a statement?
“Sure, but you don’t have to. Your savior is here.”
“Why are you nice to me?” You mumble, eyeing the spoonful of soup that’s making it’s way toward you.
“I kinda figured you knew that,” he claims, dribbling soup everywhere. “Shit, sorry. Did that get in your nose?”
You cough and you sneeze and maybe that’s exactly what you needed for a boost of morale, because you sit up and eye him curiously, cautiously. “Are you trying to usurp my position? Is that it?” You gasp, the sound hurting your throat. “You’re worried I’m going to report you.”
“I like you,” Futakuchi interjects, and maybe it’s the hair falling into his eyes or the messy knot of his tie, or the fact that he’s trying to feed you soup he’s bought on the way here, but you want to believe him, desperately so.
Still, it’s Futakuchi.
“Then why are you bullying me all the time?”
“Oh,” he flushes. “I, uh, I wasn’t trying to bully you. I was, uh… flirting. Or showing off, like last night.”
“Your flirting sucks,” you declare, pulling the soup container toward you. “It’s a good thing you have hot legs.”
Futakuchi’s mouth curls into a smile you haven’t seen on him before, one that makes you want to find out how his lips taste.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you protest, sipping from the container directly since the spoon is still firmly lodged in Futakuchi’s hands. “Makes me want to kiss you.”
He laughs, surprisingly light and airy for a guy as tall and mean as him. “I love how bossy you get with me. Only me,” he seems proud of this. You knock your toes against his ankle under the table and wonder how long you can draw out this house call.
- - -
You win the race, of course. Easily, too. Neither of your coworkers is a match to you, your two-man team or the competitiveness you both have in spades.
Futakuchi catches you around the hips at the finish line, and pulls you into him, grinning smugly.
“What’s my prize?” He asks and you could kiss him, despite all those other people watching.
So you do.