Cactus and paper airplanes - Reita/Ruki 1/?
Title: Cactus and paper airplanes
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Reita/Ruki
Genre: slice of life, romance (?)
Synopsis: Ruki is a huge curd of jello, and Reita is a damsel in disguise >D
4. Cactus and paper airplanes
I.
On Monday evening I decided to stay later than usual to send the edited manuscript to its author. Just as the document was fired off, a groggy moan seeped through the board that separated my cubical from Suzuki Akira's. I rolled over to his side on my swivelly chair (I never learned its actual name) and found a head inside Akira's keyboard. The head mopped the keyboard and seconds later, my colleague gaped at me with eyes shimmering in despair. He acknowledged me with another moan that sounded similar to the previous one that invaded my cubicle, and face planted into his keyboard again.
"What is it?"
"This." Akira whimpered, a finger lifted at the screen of his laptop, face inside the keyboard.
I strolled over and bumped him with the wheels to make space for myself. I blinked at the neon screen.
-
From: Uke Yutaka
To: Suzuki Akira, Matsumoto Takanori
Subject: Shiroyama Yuu
Dear Suzuki, or Matsumoto, or whichever one of you that gets this first,
You are Shiroyama's new editors. I have attached a document of all the works he has published up until now, as well as the ones he's working on. His next deadline is July 26th, also known as this Thursday. Get the manuscript at 2:00pm sharp. It is important that you collect the manuscript on time.
Also, you are assigned to a new author. There will be a mandatory meeting next Monday at 1:30pm in my office. Be there.
Good luck to you both.
All the best,
Uke Yutaka
-
The letters were like bullets fired into my thick cranium, blasting small pieces of my brain all over the vacant cubicles. No wonder Akira's head took such a fancy to the keyboard.
I felt a chill speeding through my spine and running all the way to the back of my heels at the large black letters wiggling inside the screen,
Shiroyama Yuu.
Shiroyama Yuu had been the best selling author at our company for the past two years. Ever since he became a client, our sales went rocketing to the moon.
So it's only natural to say that i hated him.
Although he was an eloquent, charismatic man in between dark fonts scribbled carelessly on pages, in reality, he was as awkward as his thick, beaded sweater bargained from the Sunday market. I saw him last year at the company's New Year party, he showed up thirty minutes late in flip flops and a shredded, Ferrari red cardigan. The image of Shiroyama Yuu had henceforth inked onto the back of my eyelids as an example of 'what not to look like when you have lots of money and fame to shit on and so forth and so forth'. After all I was a self-pleaser, I didn't dress like a transgender gummy bear for reasons-
1. I didn't have money to shit on
2. I didn't have fame to shit on
3. Blood colored sweaters didn't compliment my skin tone
The rest of the editors felt the same about Shiroyama. On the third floor that's populated with the likes of me, he's the plague that everyone hid from. Working as the editor for Shiroyama Yuu could be aptly described as plunging oneself into the embrace of pure distress, as one must shamelessly chase after trails of rainbows and diamonds and stardusts the ethereal Shiroyama left behind with his flip flops and at the same time, ask for manuscripts or most of the time, progress. But one must always ask and ask gently and politely, because 'oh he is sensitive and shit and you might hurt his feelings and his inspiration could stop flowing out of his ass crack.'
Hmm.
The other person I disliked vehemently was the man whose face latched onto his keyboard like a fuzzy tumor. I had been partners with Akira for two years and frankly, I didn’t go by a day without the desire of clamping my hands around his throat and squeeze, squeeze tightly. Although Akira appeared to be a healthy thirty-year old Japanese man, he was in fact, a sensitive damsel in disguise. He was trenchant, he was whiny, and he always, always ripped into the flaws of others (mine) until they (I) frayed and slackened and dashed into the kitchen to cry aloud into the cupboards (sometimes the microwave or better yet, the fridge).
Even though I despised him so, he was one of the few people I interacted with on the third floor (when you are an editor, the third floor is your entire universe). I spent days and weeks crammed inside my cubicle, fixing elementary grammar and spelling errors that made me realize and appreciate the brilliance of auto correct, spell check and grammar check. Then, Akira would peep from behind and pass off comments on the revisions I made to the manuscript whilst sipping a steamy cup of tea. At times like that, all I wanted to do was to stab him repeatedly with the palm-shaped cactus plant beside my laptop.
Speaking of the palm-shaped cactus, it was a birthday present from Akira. Very few colleagues knew my birthday, so I was quite surprised and a little moved at the fact that he remembered it. But my ego soon parachuted from the clouds and crash landed into a pit when I saw the note on the pot,
‘I sit across from your cubicle and recently, the gloomy ambiance inside your cube is starting to affect me, and I’m quiet worried about my health. So here is a cactus, hopefully it can detoxify some of the toxic energy you emit. Oh and also, happy birthday.’
My face distorted into an awkward shape, the kind one had after one had swallowed a very little but very real spider and had to remain composed. So I excused myself, quietly retreated into the kitchen cupboard, and drifted back into my cubicle an hour later, eyes swollen like a pair of corpulent caterpillars pushed closely together.
The fuzzy tumor peeled away from the keyboard and started to collect his belongs into his shoulder bag. He stood up and faced me, red keyboard marks bright and burning on his left cheek.
"You leaving?"
No I’m waiting for you to turn around so I can bid you goodnight with my middle finger hoisted in the air, "Yeah."
"Okay. See you tomorrow."
I left shortly afterwards and was smacked by a current of July breeze as I walked out of the building. It was exceptionally humid to the point where gravel became sticky with heat. I wandered to the subway station and jostled my way onto the stuffy train. I spotted a spare seat so I leaped onto it and curled against the cushions like a large potted plant. The air conditioned train was polutated with the stench of sweat and perfume (the lady behind me) and hair dampened in grease (the fat man whose waist poured over my left shoulder). With the cool air blowing tiny beads of sweat away from my forehead, sleep tugged onto my eyelids and slowly, the world around me mashed into a haze...
When I got home, I quickly showered and hopped onto bed, my body sunk into the mattress like a large curd of jello, rolling around in nothing but boxers. Suddenly my phone buzzed and blinked. I picked it up, it was a text from Kouyou.
‘Hey Takanori, this is Kouyou. I guess by now you know that you and Akira are Shiroyama Yuu’s new editors, congratz!;D I’ll stop by your cubicle tmr to drop off some documents I’ve kept throught the years of working with Shiroyama, see you at work tmr~’
I tossed my phone onto the night stand and, with the thought of my bleak prospect with Akira and Shiroyama Yuu gnawing at the back of my mind, I hugged my pillow tightly and drifted into deep slumber.
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Reita/Ruki
Genre: slice of life, romance (?)
Synopsis: Ruki is a huge curd of jello, and Reita is a damsel in disguise >D
4. Cactus and paper airplanes
I.
On Monday evening I decided to stay later than usual to send the edited manuscript to its author. Just as the document was fired off, a groggy moan seeped through the board that separated my cubical from Suzuki Akira's. I rolled over to his side on my swivelly chair (I never learned its actual name) and found a head inside Akira's keyboard. The head mopped the keyboard and seconds later, my colleague gaped at me with eyes shimmering in despair. He acknowledged me with another moan that sounded similar to the previous one that invaded my cubicle, and face planted into his keyboard again.
"What is it?"
"This." Akira whimpered, a finger lifted at the screen of his laptop, face inside the keyboard.
I strolled over and bumped him with the wheels to make space for myself. I blinked at the neon screen.
-
From: Uke Yutaka
To: Suzuki Akira, Matsumoto Takanori
Subject: Shiroyama Yuu
Dear Suzuki, or Matsumoto, or whichever one of you that gets this first,
You are Shiroyama's new editors. I have attached a document of all the works he has published up until now, as well as the ones he's working on. His next deadline is July 26th, also known as this Thursday. Get the manuscript at 2:00pm sharp. It is important that you collect the manuscript on time.
Also, you are assigned to a new author. There will be a mandatory meeting next Monday at 1:30pm in my office. Be there.
Good luck to you both.
All the best,
Uke Yutaka
-
The letters were like bullets fired into my thick cranium, blasting small pieces of my brain all over the vacant cubicles. No wonder Akira's head took such a fancy to the keyboard.
I felt a chill speeding through my spine and running all the way to the back of my heels at the large black letters wiggling inside the screen,
Shiroyama Yuu.
Shiroyama Yuu had been the best selling author at our company for the past two years. Ever since he became a client, our sales went rocketing to the moon.
So it's only natural to say that i hated him.
Although he was an eloquent, charismatic man in between dark fonts scribbled carelessly on pages, in reality, he was as awkward as his thick, beaded sweater bargained from the Sunday market. I saw him last year at the company's New Year party, he showed up thirty minutes late in flip flops and a shredded, Ferrari red cardigan. The image of Shiroyama Yuu had henceforth inked onto the back of my eyelids as an example of 'what not to look like when you have lots of money and fame to shit on and so forth and so forth'. After all I was a self-pleaser, I didn't dress like a transgender gummy bear for reasons-
1. I didn't have money to shit on
2. I didn't have fame to shit on
3. Blood colored sweaters didn't compliment my skin tone
The rest of the editors felt the same about Shiroyama. On the third floor that's populated with the likes of me, he's the plague that everyone hid from. Working as the editor for Shiroyama Yuu could be aptly described as plunging oneself into the embrace of pure distress, as one must shamelessly chase after trails of rainbows and diamonds and stardusts the ethereal Shiroyama left behind with his flip flops and at the same time, ask for manuscripts or most of the time, progress. But one must always ask and ask gently and politely, because 'oh he is sensitive and shit and you might hurt his feelings and his inspiration could stop flowing out of his ass crack.'
Hmm.
The other person I disliked vehemently was the man whose face latched onto his keyboard like a fuzzy tumor. I had been partners with Akira for two years and frankly, I didn’t go by a day without the desire of clamping my hands around his throat and squeeze, squeeze tightly. Although Akira appeared to be a healthy thirty-year old Japanese man, he was in fact, a sensitive damsel in disguise. He was trenchant, he was whiny, and he always, always ripped into the flaws of others (mine) until they (I) frayed and slackened and dashed into the kitchen to cry aloud into the cupboards (sometimes the microwave or better yet, the fridge).
Even though I despised him so, he was one of the few people I interacted with on the third floor (when you are an editor, the third floor is your entire universe). I spent days and weeks crammed inside my cubicle, fixing elementary grammar and spelling errors that made me realize and appreciate the brilliance of auto correct, spell check and grammar check. Then, Akira would peep from behind and pass off comments on the revisions I made to the manuscript whilst sipping a steamy cup of tea. At times like that, all I wanted to do was to stab him repeatedly with the palm-shaped cactus plant beside my laptop.
Speaking of the palm-shaped cactus, it was a birthday present from Akira. Very few colleagues knew my birthday, so I was quite surprised and a little moved at the fact that he remembered it. But my ego soon parachuted from the clouds and crash landed into a pit when I saw the note on the pot,
‘I sit across from your cubicle and recently, the gloomy ambiance inside your cube is starting to affect me, and I’m quiet worried about my health. So here is a cactus, hopefully it can detoxify some of the toxic energy you emit. Oh and also, happy birthday.’
My face distorted into an awkward shape, the kind one had after one had swallowed a very little but very real spider and had to remain composed. So I excused myself, quietly retreated into the kitchen cupboard, and drifted back into my cubicle an hour later, eyes swollen like a pair of corpulent caterpillars pushed closely together.
The fuzzy tumor peeled away from the keyboard and started to collect his belongs into his shoulder bag. He stood up and faced me, red keyboard marks bright and burning on his left cheek.
"You leaving?"
No I’m waiting for you to turn around so I can bid you goodnight with my middle finger hoisted in the air, "Yeah."
"Okay. See you tomorrow."
I left shortly afterwards and was smacked by a current of July breeze as I walked out of the building. It was exceptionally humid to the point where gravel became sticky with heat. I wandered to the subway station and jostled my way onto the stuffy train. I spotted a spare seat so I leaped onto it and curled against the cushions like a large potted plant. The air conditioned train was polutated with the stench of sweat and perfume (the lady behind me) and hair dampened in grease (the fat man whose waist poured over my left shoulder). With the cool air blowing tiny beads of sweat away from my forehead, sleep tugged onto my eyelids and slowly, the world around me mashed into a haze...
When I got home, I quickly showered and hopped onto bed, my body sunk into the mattress like a large curd of jello, rolling around in nothing but boxers. Suddenly my phone buzzed and blinked. I picked it up, it was a text from Kouyou.
‘Hey Takanori, this is Kouyou. I guess by now you know that you and Akira are Shiroyama Yuu’s new editors, congratz!;D I’ll stop by your cubicle tmr to drop off some documents I’ve kept throught the years of working with Shiroyama, see you at work tmr~’
I tossed my phone onto the night stand and, with the thought of my bleak prospect with Akira and Shiroyama Yuu gnawing at the back of my mind, I hugged my pillow tightly and drifted into deep slumber.