Notes: um a quick de-stresser before the first round of midterms I guess?
It's the same answer, over and over again. "I'm waiting for someone, but in the meantime, I'll have another cocktail." And you feel sorry for the poor guy 'cause it's half-past ten, and lights out time. But then you remember that your manager put you on lockup duty, and, well, you're not exactly sure how you're going to deal with your thoroughly wasted professor.
You do just about everything else first—clean the counters, turn off the grill, dump the trash, sweep. It's when you're checking to see if the lightbulbs need changing that you realize that the situation isn't going to get much better.
You ditch the uniform, and march back to the table. He's too stupidly happy for someone who just got stood up. You can a) kick him out and hope that he finds his way home, b) take him back to your place or c) drop him off at his. A seems too harsh, b, impossible, so you guess you're going to go with c, but only because you can't d) call someone he knows (i.e. his dad) to take him somewhere (i.e. his parents' house,) partially because this person that he knows just so happens to be in a position of authority (i.e. the dean of the medical school that you're enrolled in,) and might not want to see Professor Muroi being all dopey.
Might as well just get this over with. "Hey."
He waves back with the creepiest smile you've ever seen.
"Do you, uh, have a car?"
"Noooooope!" Well, that's one less thing to worry about.
"Okay. So, it's time to go." And you feel like you're going to have to physically move him. "I'm going to give you a ride home."
He giggles and you have no idea what's so damn funny. You say as much, and that only makes him laugh more. "You're cuuuute when y'r angry."
Christ. Is he hitting on you? "That's great. We can talk about how cute I am in the car."
And surprisingly, he complies. You have half a mind to tell him he can't sit up front, but that's a can of worms you don't really want to deal with. Having an argument in the sketchy parking lot at eleven-thirty seems to be asking for trouble.
You hand him the GPS and tell him to punch in his address. Which at this point, might just be a little bit of a stretch. He hands it back to you, and you find that he apparently lives on the East Coast. Because you absolutely needed to take a cross-country trip before writing your essay, due tomorrow.
You feel option c rapidly dissipating. Looks like you're left with the guess and hope theorem.
So long as he's as rich as you think he is…
You feel edgy for some reason. He hasn't said anything. And he's been giggling for far too long, you think.
And then you get stopped at a red light. The fact that he's trying to unzip your pants wouldn't nearly be as disturbing if he wasn't your professor. You don't know how you're going to maintain control of the car, 'cause he's literally centimeters away from hitting the brakes. Quite frankly, you're surprised that he didn't shift into reverse or something while climbing over.
You've told him to quit it, but clearly, that hasn't gotten through yet.
(Somewhere, you think, some divine being is laughing at you, because this is the closest you've gotten to… well… in a while. And instead of the cute lady at the registration office you've been buttering up for a while, your almost incapacitated professor is trying to—you don't even know what.)
You feel him trying to take your shoes off and you've given up. Obviously his ways of seduction are beyond your capacity for understanding. (And the fact that in the back of your mind, you sorta find this kinda attractive might've scared you into flirting with Nurse Kunihiro—but, that comes later.)
You stop when you get to the guest parking lot of this fancy high-rise filled with tons of multi-million dollar apartments. And you hope that you're not going to look like an idiot, when you drag him through the door.
By some miracle, the lady at the front desk recognizes him, and asks if you were planning to go up too. You nod, because he obviously isn't going to be able to unlock his door without your help. (Unless, y'know, it entailed some sort of offbeat seduction technique.)
You look around in his pockets for a while, because he's obviously not going to be of help. And he grabs your rear in response. You blush, and curse under your breath in turn. You finally (thank God, or whomever) find the key and let him in.
Before you can admire the apartment, you find yourself pressed up against a wall. He's kissing your neck, and you feel this tiny scrape of teeth, and—"Stop."
He whines. "Did you want dinner first?" And he's trying to kiss you again. "You shouldn't have left me there, you know…"
Great. He thinks you're his date. Better just… "Look. I'm Toshio… err… Ozaki."
"Oh! The cute stubbly one?" Well, at least he recognizes you.
"… yeah." You look for the lights while the professor is momentarily distracted. "Uh. I'm not whoever you were waiting for, so, uh…"
"Doesn't mean we can't have fun." The word fun is a little too heavily emphasized for your tastes.
"No." It's a bit firm. "I mean…" you draw a receipt and a pen out of your pocket, and scribble your cell onto it. "If you still want to do this, call me in the morning." Not that you're going to be any more available than you are now.
That somehow stops him, because "he gets it." Whatever "it" is. You somehow manage to get him to eat a piece of overly-extravagant bread, and drift off, with relatively few problems. When you're sure that he's going to be okay (or, at least, not too terribly hungover,) you leave.
And predictably, you don't get a call the next morning.