With no other options remaining, Kuroha Akira did the only thing he could: he bit down on the heel straps of the high heels—one in his mouth, the other somehow balanced—and scooped Toshiro up into his arms.
"Ugh-hoo..."
Whether from the sudden movement or the feel of his hands supporting her, the unconscious Toshiro let out a soft, almost sensual gasp that made Kuroha Akira's eye twitch.
Now was not the time for that kind of reaction.
He couldn't even think about taking advantage of the situation. His only focus was on maintaining this deeply awkward position—their upper bodies pressed together, her weight fully in his arms, and two high heels clamped between his teeth like some kind of bizarre circus act. He walked sideways like a laborer hauling cement bags, staggering with every step.
It was only a short distance to Kobayashi. A few dozen meters, maybe. But to Kuroha Akira, it felt like crossing a desert.
By the time he finally staggered through the Kobayashi entryway and gently lowered Toshiro to the floor, his lower back screamed in protest and his jaw muscles ached from the strain. He spit the high heels out onto the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Saliva had been dripping from the corners of his lips—grinning while carrying heavy objects with your teeth was apparently not a great look.
And Toshiro? She was now lying in a completely ungraceful spread-eagle pose, limbs splayed in every direction like a discarded rag doll. The dignified older sister image she normally projected? Completely shattered.
She was wearing a black OL professional suit skirt, flesh-colored stockings on her legs, and those wine-red high heels—now abandoned on the floor—completed the standard white-collar working woman ensemble. Her full name was Tashiro Kurenai, twenty-four years old. Despite being of "older sister" age, she was anything but mature. Socially anxious, painfully shy, radiating that "dame" energy of a decadent adult who'd given up on trying to impress anyone.
But Kuroha Akira knew Toshiro's job wasn't as a hostess or anything in the nightlife industry. This outfit was standard office fare. So why was she this drunk? What had happened today?
He rested for a moment, catching his breath, then leaned over her.
"Toshiro? Toshiro! Don't sleep here. I'll take you back to your room."
"Hmm..."
He reached down to help her up, and instantly her arms were around his neck again. This time, her legs joined the party—wrapping around his waist, locking together behind his back like she was trying to become a human sloth.
"Ugh..."
Okay, she was cooperative about being moved. That was good. But this was... a little too close, wasn't it?
If the distance Tashiro Kurenai normally maintained—fleeing at the mere sight of him—was a solid +10 on the intimacy scale, then this current situation was a terrifying -1. Negative territory. Danger zone.
Kuroha Akira had never been a drinker in either life. He didn't know what it felt like to be drunk. But he knew that drunks came in many varieties: some became unrestrained talkers, some passed out immediately, some took off their clothes, some got violent... There was a reason they said alcohol led to trouble.
Apparently, Toshiro was the "hug people" type.
Fine. He'd just carry her like this. Up the stairs, into her room, problem solved.
Toshiro's room, when they finally reached it, was nothing short of a disaster scene. Worn underwear littered the floor like casualties of war. Cosmetic boxes were stacked in precarious towers. Used tissues peeked out from under furniture. Hijikata's room—the other Kobayashi resident—was practically a minimalist paradise compared to this chaos.
Kuroha Akira couldn't find a single clear spot to step. He had to carefully navigate through the debris, fumbling in the dark until he finally located her futon. He knelt and gently placed her on it.
But the real trouble was just beginning.
She showed absolutely no intention of letting go.
Kuroha Akira sighed and tried to wake her.
"Toshiro. Hey, Toshiro. Can you let go? You need to sleep, and I need to sleep too. Separate sleeping. In different beds."
"Hmm..."
Tashiro Kurenai's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. Slowly, reluctantly, her arms loosened from around his neck.
But her legs remained firmly locked around his waist.
Their upper bodies separated slightly, the compression on their chests finally releasing. They both exhaled simultaneously—Toshiro's breath warm against his face, Kuroha Akira's carrying another wave of that pungent alcohol smell directly into her nostrils.
"Ah..."
She squinted at his face for a long moment, studying him like he was a difficult puzzle. Then, instinctively, her hands reached up and cupped his cheeks.
Kuroha Akira tried to lean back, to create some distance, but there was nowhere to go. She was still essentially sitting in his lap, and the wall was right behind him. He was trapped.
"So hot..." she murmured.
You're the one who's hot! Your whole body is burning up!
Just how much had she drunk? If her body temperature was spiking like this, it proved she wasn't someone who could hold her liquor. Wasn't she just asking for trouble, drinking that much?
Kuroha Akira complained endlessly in his head. He really couldn't stand drunk people—not even beautiful drunk older sisters.
Tashiro Kurenai continued her exploration, her hands moving slowly across his face as if memorizing his features by touch. Cheekbones. Jawline. Nose. And then—her fingers found the scar near his eye.
"Ah..." Her voice softened. "You're hurt here... so pitiful... I'll help you... fix it..."
Her thumb began tracing the scar tissue, back and forth, back and forth, with an unexpectedly gentle touch. At this moment, she radiated the warm, comforting energy of a true older sister. The kind who would kiss scraped knees and chase away nightmares.
Then, apparently deciding her hand wasn't enough, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his eye.
Her mouth was soft, slightly damp. Her tongue—warm and surprisingly agile—traced along the scar tissue as she murmured comforting words against his skin.
"Mmm... it doesn't hurt... it doesn't hurt anymore... it won't hurt again..."
"..."
Kuroha Akira was at a complete loss.
He didn't even know how he'd gotten this scar in this world. For all he knew, it had been there for over a decade. It definitely didn't hurt now.
But being kissed by an older sister... if she wasn't completely wasted, this would actually feel pretty nice.
When she sobered up and remembered doing this? She'd probably be so mortified she'd want to crawl into a hole and die. He could only pray she was the type who blacked out completely and retained nothing.
"It doesn't hurt anymore, Toshiro. Really. So please let go now."
"Hmm..."
She nodded, pulling back slightly. Kuroha Akira allowed himself a moment of relief.
Then she frowned.
"Ugh... so hot...!"
And immediately began undressing.
Her jacket came off first, tossed somewhere into the darkness of the room. Then her hands went to her white blouse, buttons popping open with alarming speed. And then—
No. No, no, no.
Her two large white rabbits sprang free, liberated from their fabric prison, and Kuroha Akira's brain briefly short-circuited.
Don't take it off! Please don't take it off!
Panic surged through him. Was this going to become one of those drunken scenarios? The kind that appeared in questionable doujinshi and late-night anime?
No! Absolutely not! As long as he kept his own pants on, there wouldn't be a problem! He was determined not to take advantage of her or do anything that would compromise either of them!
Tashiro Kurenai, now topless but still wearing her final undergarment, wrapped herself around him again. She buried his face against her chest and pulled them both down onto the futon, curling around him like a koala.
Kuroha Akira breathed an internal sigh of relief. At least she'd stopped at the last piece.
The sensation of... well, that... against his face was certainly something. Unfortunately, there was no pleasant milky scent—only the overwhelming smell of alcohol radiating from her skin.
"Hug..."
"Ugh..."
She tightened her grip, showing absolutely no intention of releasing him.
Kuroha Akira surrendered to despair. There was no escaping now. He was trapped.
Would he have to sleep here tonight?
Tomorrow morning... was going to be very interesting.
Whatever. He was exhausted. He'd deal with tomorrow's problems tomorrow.
He let his body relax, deciding to stop fighting the inevitable.
Then he heard Toshiro's voice above his head—murmuring, half-asleep, the words tumbling out in a drunken stream of consciousness.
"So warm... human body temperature... so nice... I love this so much..."
"Wuwu... I don't want to do that cold work anymore..."
"I don't want to go to work..."
"I don't want to go out at night anymore..."
"Wuwu... it's so scary out there..."
"If only someone would support me..."
"Wuwuwu... please... some kind person, please hire me..."
"I could even be a maid... as long as I get two days off a week..."
"No... one day off is enough... two hundred thousand yen a month would be fine..."
"I just want to... live... a little easier..."
Kuroha Akira listened, and something in his chest tightened.
It was so humble. So painfully, heartbreakingly humble.
He understood completely. He empathized entirely.
So Toshiro also worked for a black company. All that drinking tonight was probably pure catharsis—trying to drown the despair of another soul-crushing week.
Everyone really was pitiful in their own way.
So he'd accept this. They'd comfort each other.
Thinking this, Kuroha Akira wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer, and closed his eyes.
Fellow wage slaves. Comrades in suffering.
Tonight, they'd share each other's body heat and huddle together for warmth against the cold reality waiting for them tomorrow.