Koisuru Boukun One-Shots

The Mad Scientist - Part One

He had never expected it. Nor had he thought it would happen to him—ever.
But there he was, tangled up in bedsheets with clothes strewn over a foreign floor.
Tatsumi couldn't tell which was worse, that the bedsheets weren't his, or that not all the clothes were his. He didn't even have time to process the thought before a splitting pain stabbed through his skull. It didn't help his case that his hands were stiff—presumably from clenching something tight—and his hips, and lower regions, were...sore... and that an unpleasant throbbing radiated from deep within his...
What had he done?
As Tatsumi moved to sit up, he tentatively peered under the neon pink sheets, praying that what he saw just a figment of his imagination, but when he saw that he wasn't wearing underwear, and that bits of a crusty—dried—white substance splattered on his stomach, he wanted to throw himself in the trash.
'Oh god, oh god! Fuck!'
He grabbed a fistful of his hair and shook his head violently as if to shake out of the nightmare he'd awoken to.
No! No! No! He cursed to himself. This isn't happening! Was what he tried and failed to convince himself of. But this was reality, and this was indeed happening. And it was more real than he cared to admit—wouldn't admit.
Tried as he might, as Tatsumi reached into the chasm that was his mind to recall the events of the previous night, a horrifying and sickening feeling boiled in his abdomen. He was faced with the hard truth that he couldn't remember what happened. It was all a dark and hazy blur, with blinding strobe lights and hot, sweaty, able-bodied people pressed against him.
What had he gotten himself into?
The blond  moved to swing his legs over the bed and consequently found himself on the floor; inevitability making a loud 'thud.' He couldn't move his legs—he could feel them, just couldn't move 'em. Had whoever bed him been that vigorous—? He didn't allow himself to finish the thought.
"Nhg." A groan sounded from the bed.
Tatsumi froze.
A heartbeat later, green eyes peered down at him before and instant later jumped to his side. "Are you all right—?"
"Don't touch me!" His words came out harsher than he intended. "This," he gestured around himself and the room, "never happened... Understand?" He ground out. The brunet nodded furiously.
Much to Tatsumi's his chagrin, he crawled to gather his clothes and furiously threw them on with haste.
Patting his pockets—checking to see if all was there: keys, phone, wallet...—the sound of a belt being fastened came from behind him as the blond left the room. He hadn't bothered with even looking at the other man's face before he dashed down the hall and out of front door.
The morning was still dark when Tatsumi fled the love hotel—the air thick and muggy, smelling of cigarette smoke and car exhaust—and practically sprinted down the street to the train station. In a empty car, he hung his head in shame, burying his head in his hands because despite his brightest wishes and deepest pleas to the universe, he knew what had happened to him, what he'd done. And that he probably didnt—shouldn't—know what exactly he said; what exactly he had admitted to himself.
Because it loomed on him like a storm on the horizon that he had done something unspeakable. Something that shook him to the core and left a monstrous wake in his self identity.

❖

A week had passed since Tatsumi's little...incident... and slowly the memories of the night's deeds came seeping back—albeit hazily. Everytime he caught himself drifting back into those recollections, he shook his head inwardly, chasing them away to the farthest, darkest corners of his mind.
His mind could be a very reliable thing at times, but when it connected the dots to memories that he much preferred to stay buried and have to pack-man eat them away, he cursed its way of subconsciously figuring things out.
How could he have done such a thing? How could he let himself do that? Let himself ever consider the idea, the possibility of doing that?
The constant and raging turmoil that plagued him in his waking and sleeping hours left him sleep deprived and over indulged in caffeine. Any more coffee and he might just shoot through the roof of his school...
'Could things really get better in time?' He wondered...
He distracted himself as best as he could but he soon found his focus other place as a ding sounded from his computer.
An email from his professor.
A quick read through its contents had a small smile sliding onto Tatsumi's lips. The professor had promised a good assistant within the week and was pleased to say he had finally found one.
With an extensive knowledge on Tatsumi's background—and his affinity for firing doltish assistance who'd set him back farther than if he were on his own—the professor had taken the liberty to look for an assistant himself—which Tatsumi was extremely grateful for.
Apparently the student he'd found was a good worker, well mannered, followed specific instructions to-a-t, and was extremely reliable. All in all, an ideal assistant.
So Tatsumi set back to his work and counted the seconds and the minutes and the hours and the days until this assistant arrived.

❖

Finally.
Today was the day.
Tatsumi would be lying if he said he wasn't a little excited—relieved—to meet the assistant, though a part of him was still a bit hesitant.
Professor Fukushima was to arrive at his lab at 12:30, only three minutes from now, and so the blond had gone the extra mile to straighten up his lab before they arrived.
Two minutes left
Tatsumi cleaned up his Petri dishes, washed beakers, straightened up the innards of the cabinets—just in case the professor wanted to make a quick inspection.
One minute left. Tatsumi looked at his watch, three... Two... One...
On the dot, there were three knocks at the door before it slid open. "Tatsumi-san! Good afternoon, I have someone here for you to meet." Tatsumi could hear the grin in the older man's voice.
Shuffling papers together before sliding them into a folder, Tatsumi turned to greet the profes—
He stumbled.
Eyes widening.
Green eyes met amber.
Shit.