Title: Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness
Rating: G / PG
Characters: Mikami Teru. Fleeting mention of Ms. Mikami. A random attorney, as well as a couple fangirls disguised as secretaries.
Word Count: 1,817
Author's Note: This features Mikami with a slight case of OCD. XD; Many thanks to dear SunMoonAndSpoon, because our germaphobia-related conversations inspired me to write this.

"—inputting data into the computer, and I heard Yamada-san on the phone arguing with some woman!"

"You mean his wife, right?"

"No, it was some woman named Mika."

A brief pause, followed by simultaneous Oohs.

An irked Mikami Teru quietly cleared his throat in response to the disparaging rumors he had no way of tuning out, keeping his head down as he veered off to the right to avoid any unwanted confrontation with the fast-approaching secretaries. It was half past ten o'clock, and Mikami was promptly making his way outside to: A. Drink his cup of coffee (which was black, mind you, because he found all the additives gross and unnecessary), and B. Attempt to clear his head, for he had risen with a pounding headache that morning.

The fact that he had not been able to place the reason for the headache had left Mikami at a total loss, and he had spent most of the morning try to figure out just that. It wasn't like he had eaten anything out of the ordinary the night before: his dinner had consisted of miso soup, edamame (a soybean dish that he was rather fond of), along with steamed vegetables. He made a point of preparing and eating healthy dinners, so having a headache as an aftereffect was rather odd, to say the very least. Still, he had spent most of that morning wondering why he had a headache, and since he couldn't conjure up a clear answer, was extremely frustrated.

The situation didn't improve when the cup was abruptly knocked out of his vulnerable hand, leaving Mikami to realize that he was now wearing more of his coffee than holding it.

"Hey, watch where you're—"

Mikami glanced up sharply, golden eyes narrowing into a glare that was fixed on the woman before him. He found the nature of her remark vain and abrasive, especially because she had been the one at fault and had bumped into him; he had kept to the right of the hall, and if he had been any closer to the wall, would have been touching it.

This, of course, had all been reflected upon in a couple seconds, which seemed to have been enough time for the secretary to recognize him. Her face became prickled with a light blush as she stammered, "M-Mikami-san!"

He stared at her blankly.

Her face grew redder and she backed away until she stood side-by-side with her friend, the other secretary. "Forgive me!" She bowed deeply, nudging and whispering something to her friend, who stooped into a bow soon after. "I-I didn't mean to snap at you. I should have… I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"Right, Ayaka-chan, you were too busy waving your arms about like an idiot," her friend muttered. The secretary, Ayaka, feigned a cough and cast her friend a sidelong glare.

Mikami neglected a response as he suddenly became aware of the stickiness that had settled onto his hand. He glanced down, thoroughly disgusted to find that some of the spilled coffee had dried onto his hand, leaving his perfectly unmarred, pale hand looking like it was covered in…

Dirt.

His hand twitched and Mikami flexed his fingers, but that only made the stickiness feel worse. He needed to go and wash his hands, now—before they became stickier, and… Mikami let the thought linger as he felt the coffee seeping from his overcoat into the fabric of his business jacket. Now his clothes were getting dirty and sticky, too. Soon the coffee would leak from the business jacket to his dress shirt, and then onto his skin. Then he would need a shower—but that was impossible at work. He needed to stop deliberating and get cleaned up, lest his skin become any stickier than it already was.

"…get you a few paper towels so that you can dry yourself off," Ayaka was suggesting, "and I'll get you a fresh cup of coff— "

"That won't be necessary," Mikami interrupted curtly. "I'm fine," was the last thing he said before turning on his heel and heading towards the nearest restroom, and he wasn't sure if he had said it for their benefit as much as his own.

The closest restroom turned out to be down the hall and around the corner, and Mikami reached it in a matter of minutes. To be truthful, this was the first time he was actually venturing inside one of the restrooms at his law firm; Mikami usually avoided public restrooms at all costs—they were absolutely filthy, every inch of them covered in thousands of diseased germs that could make you ill. But this time Mikami had no choice, so he entered the men's restroom warily, using his pinky finger to pull back the door and then stepping inside quickly.

Mikami scanned over the interior quickly, pleased to find that it was vacant and looked reasonably clean. He took comfort in the smell of antibacterial hand wash and sanitizer, and actually felt the throbbing in his head lessen slightly. Mikami shrugged off his overcoat and then his business jacket, and after deliberating where to place both articles for a long moment, resorted to draping them over his shoulder. The bathroom may have looked and smelled clean, but who knew how many people had entered and left without washing their hands? Or had ran their dirty hands across the counter, leaving germ-ridden fingerprints? Or had sneezed without covering their noses and coughed without covering their mouths, leaving small traces of phlegm lying around? The thought in itself was sickening, and Mikami almost felt like retching.

He wasted no more time dwelling on such nauseating theories, instead pulling a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and using them to turn on the faucet. Mikami set the water to lukewarm and then pumped a large amount of hand soap onto the palm of his right hand. He ran his hand through the water and began scrubbing immediately, relishing in the feeling of finally getting the dried coffee off his hand.

He had felt like this once before—when he had been a boy in junior high. A couple of the bullies had decided it would be a funny joke to pour dirt into his desk before class started, and Teru had unwittingly reached in and pulled out a pencil caked in dirt. He had ran and locked himself into the boy's restroom, and had spent a good fifteen minutes scrubbing the dirt off his hands; Teru would have stayed longer had one of the teachers not knocked and demanded he "stop cutting class" and return to his classroom before he received a detention. He had returned to his class grudgingly, and although his hands smelled and looked clean, Teru could still feel the dirt trapped in his nails and between his fingers. He had spent the entire lunch break in the restroom washing his hands until they were red and raw with the effort, which was painful—

Which was how his hands were beginning to look now.

Mikami pulled his hands out from underneath the running water, keeping his left shoulder higher than the other so that his overcoat and jacket wouldn't slip off. He studied them carefully, lifted them up to his nose to smell them. They looked and smelled clean—just as they had before, but… He rubbed them together and could still feel the stickiness of the dried coffee. Mikami began to panic. Was this how his hands were going to feel from now on, permanently sticky? Had all his speculation about germs actually caused them to settle on his hand?—was it because he had dawdled too long, and had neglected to wash his hands immediately?

Mikami pumped an even larger amount of soap onto his hands and lathered them, making sure to get between each finger and fingernail. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had gone over his fixed break time by five minutes, a first for him. But he had to scrub—had to get all the stickiness off before it somehow became permanent. You'll hurt your hands if you scrub too hard, he heard his mother say—no, he thought he heard his mother say, because in reality she was dead and…

He finally pulled back his trembling hands and rubbed them together for a second time, and this time they felt completely clean. Mikami sighed in relief and dried his hands with another handful of paper towels. He inspected them again, this time even more meticulously than before, and found them totally spotless—there was nothing trapped in his fingernails, no dried coffee crust staining his immaculately pale hands. They were perfect. As close to perfect as they could be.

Mikami gathered the two articles of clothing draped over his shoulder into his hands, careful not to let either brush against the counter or the floor. He was displeased to find both of them stained with his coffee, and realized there was no way he could wear these unless he wanted to stain his dress shirt, which had somehow managed to remain dry and stain-free. But this also meant he had to make an unscheduled trip to the drycleaner, and that meant he couldn't go to the library that evening as was his routine.

He sighed heavily and suddenly became conscious of his headache, which had frustratingly returned twofold. Mikami placed his overcoat and jacket onto his arm and rubbed his temples with his impeccably clean fingers in hopes that the calming scent of the hand soap could alleviate some of the pulsing. He shook his head, flipping his dark hair away from the front of his glasses and grabbed another few paper towels, just enough so he didn't have to feel the cold, germ-infested metal of the door handle against his skin.

Mikami took a step outside and took a second glance at his watch; he was running about fifteen minutes late. Maybe if he worked through his lunch break…

He left the thought unfinished, taking an obligatory step back to allow one of his fellow attorneys—Yamada, as fate would have it—into the restroom. The fair-haired attorney eyed Mikami peculiarly and blinked. Mikami already knew what he was going to ask, and didn't bother waiting for verbalization.

"I accidentally spilled some coffee on myself," he stated frankly. Mikami decided to leave Yamada's secretary out of this for the sake of time.

"Ah. I see."

Yamada then glanced down at the paper towels in Mikami's hand and went from looking curious to amused.

"That's a good way to avoid germs, Mikami-san," he remarked lightly.

Mikami offered a nod in response, closing the door behind the older attorney once he had taken a few steps inside. He disposed of the paper towels in a nearby wastebasket, Yamada's words still echoing in his head:

That's a good way to avoid germs, Mikami-san.

If only he knew.