Do I know where on earth this is going? No, of course not, silly!
Another night, another party... another hapless 4th division clean-up worker assigned to contain the mess. Hanatarou had every reason to feel sorry for himself. After all, he was never the one with the booze and the girls, was he? He was never the one fighting Renji for the last bottle of sake or snuggling up to some pretty shinigami while the party wound down. He was never, had never been, and could never be, a "party animal". He would sound lame just uttering the phrase! No— he was a lonely warrior, a martyr to the cause of the mop, working his way across the floor in solitude while the others laughed and joked and passed out around him...
Hanatarou was snapped out of his self-pitying trance by a rather loud crash in the room behind him. He started, fumbled, and managed to trip over the bucket of soapy water, sending it splattering across the kitchen floor.
"A-ah... su-sumimasen," he said to nobody in particular, hurriedly righting the bucket. He was just straightening up to go fetch a sponge or two, when Matsumoto staggered through the door, sake bottle in hand.
"Oi, Hana-chan," she slurred. "You got 'nuther bottle hidden back in here somewhere? We're gonna die of thirst pretty quick out there, ya know."
"G-gomen; there's nothing left in the kitchen, I think," Hanatarou managed. Matsumoto snorted, and gave him a look normally reserved for the kind of idiot who tries to keep a Menos Grande as a pet.
"Like hell. I bet there's some back there, an' yer just hoggin' it!"
"M-matsumoto-fukutaichou, I really don't have—" But Matsumoto was not to be deterred. She took a bold step forward, grabbed Hanatarou's shoulder in preparation for pushing him aside—and promptly slipped on the film of soapy water covering the floor. The sake bottle went one way, her feet went another, and her upper body took the last remaining course and toppled unglamorously forward. Right on top of Hanatarou.
There was a very loud thud, and then a moment of darkness.
When the proverbial spinning stars had relinquished their dominance over Hanatarou's vision, he hauled himself up and took stock of the situation. Or more precisely, he attempted to haul himself up and take stock of the situation. The biggest problem with this was that Matsumoto was lying directly on top of him, showing no sign of moving.
"A-ano..."
There was no response from the vice captain. He tried again.
"Matsumoto-fukutaichou..."
Nothing.
Hanatarou groaned in frustration. She had most probably passed out, and he would now have to find some way to escape the weight of the unconscious woman. He felt as though he was being suffocated, with his chest mashed against her...
Oh no.
No no no no no. No.
Hanatarou could feel his face start to burn. He had just realized the true nature of the thing that was smothering him. Actually, things. Plural.
He tried to take a deep, calming breath. If anyone caught them like this, he was done for. Matsumoto was an officer, and while her taichou would probably be disinclined to give a damn about who she hooked up with, the fact remained that Hanatarou was a lowly 4th squad member. He quivered at the thought Seretei's collective wrath.
Above him, Matsumoto was slowly regaining contact with the world.
"Whhr t' hll?" she muttered incoherently. "Whzzis? Oh," she propped herself up on her elbows, staring blearily at Hanatarou. "'S jus' you, Hana-chan. 'Eh, how'd you get here, anyways?" Hanatarou declined to answer, as he was now face-to-face with a view most men would kill for.
"Cat gotcher tongue?" she giggled. "'R izzit the boobs?"
He merely nodded.
"Aww... you're such a cutie, Hana-chan. No weird intentions," she hiccupped, gave him a drunken smile. "Jus' awestruck wonder. One of a kind, ne?" And with that, Matsumoto planted a very wet, sloppy kiss right on his lips.
Hanatarou squeaked in surprise. Matsumoto crossed her eyes at him.
"Ha-ha! Hana-chan's never been kissed, have ya? Well, 's never too late to start, I s'pose." She pursed her lips and leaned down for another smooch.
Hanatarou wasn't sure whether to curse his bad luck for getting him into such a dangerous situation, or to thank whatever deity had handed him the sexiest Shinigami in Seretei on a silver platter. He decided to postpone worrying about it. After all, Matsumoto was being more than a little bit distracting.
Abarai Renji, lounging on the couch amongst a group of thoroughly intoxicated death gods, had noticed Matsumoto disappearing into the kitchen some time ago. That's strange, he thought. I hope she didn't fall and hurt herself. He didn't want to explain that one to any squad captains tomorrow morning. He sighed. Stupid Matsumoto. One of these days she'll l do something she'll regret.
Renji hauled himself off the couch and shook his head to clear the sake-induced haze that had settled around it. He stepped gingerly around one sleeping partygoer and nearly tripped over another who lay sprawled on the floor. Slowly, as carefully as his compromised balance would allow him, he made his way toward the kitchen.
"Oi! Matsumoto!" he yelled. "You ok back here? Hey, Matsumo—"
"Oh, 'ello, Renji," said Matsumoto, rolling over to wave at him.
"A-ah, I can explain," began Hanatarou, turning an even deeper shade of pink than he already was.
Renji simply goggled.
I -heart- Hanatarou.