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A Promising Ruse

You've been friends with Higuruma Hiromi for six years, his colleague for two months and now he's asked you to be his girlfriend...for just one weekend. What could go wrong?

a/n: AKA I give our favourite exhausted attorney a spin around the FakeDating!Trope. (Yes, we get to meet his family). Planning for this to be a multi-chapter fic, I was feeling goofy when I wrote this...

Normally, he'd be able to fend the hoard off on his own, more than comfortable being the resigned if badgered bachelor, however beleaguered he is by aunts pestering him with arrangements to meet with their "tennis club president's daughters".

Eagle-eyed and adeptly Higuruma weaves through the room so the mob of matchmakers can't converge on him all at once, adroitly avoiding engaging in any conversation which extends beyond a couple of minutes. His ears are alert to their wheedling praise, gauzy as their wolfish grins; No, he hadn't gotten a "super chic, new" haircut recently, it's in fact the exact same style he's been wearing for the past five annual family reunions.

Really, it's only troublesome when they make the concerted effort to attack in packs, deflecting and diminishing his deadpan defenses with their tittering. Inevitably one of them will comment on how this oh so brilliant demonstration of comedic wit makes him even more of a catch, and the others will pile on, sadistic in their ignorance as he writhes and wilts under a barrage of trite pleasantries, hardly informed by reality.

Has he- has he been working out???

He's almost too shocked by the insidious insipidness of the compliment to be annoyed, but Higuruma curses his lack of foresight anyway; Why hadn't he printed out that medical report with its urgent warnings about his cholesterol levels? He could've shoved it and all this facetiousness in their faces, triumphing in their stunned silence.

Instead he swiftly chugs down a half-full bottle of beer (hoping against hope one of them observes the velocity of the disappearing act as a penchant for alcoholism, or any other vice) then mumbles something about getting a refill, would they want one?

Higuruma kicks himself as the question slips from him and his aunts lunge, gushing about what a "considerate, fine young man" he is, surely deserving of a fine, young lady and oh, they just so happen to know where he might meet one, she does yoga, or fencing or makes her own hand-poured soy wax candles, see, they have a clip of her conducting a craft workshop at the village fair, demonstrating for all the little kiddies, gosh she's so good with them isn't she, Higuruma should save her contact, here they'll just take his phone so her name's spelled right-

Higuruma is contemplating how he can make stomping on his mobile with both feet look like an accident when he spots a miracle - a life raft lashed together with chicken carcasses and vegetable scraps. He grabs the dinghy of dirty dishes, excusing himself and does his best to conceal his cringe as one of his aunts remarks on how rare it is for a man to take the initiative on domestic duties to a chorus of approvals.

Wielding the plates as a shield Higuruma races from the dining area, tactically retreating across the drawbridge into kitchen as he scurries towards the sink with its reassuring moat of suds.

Of course it's not an entirely foolproof strategy, he could be cornered in the kitchen too; castle turned Alcatraz with a volley of pointed comments about his complexion whizzing over the turrets of the trays, those dark circles shadowing his face identical to bullseyes for how targeted his uncles' brusque inquiries are. Fortunately, all he has to do is suggest the wok needs a more thorough rinse, would they like to assist him? And then blessedly, they beat a hasty retreat and Higuruma gets to enjoy some solitude...for all of ten seconds before his gambit comes to bite him in the ass.

Some cousin pops in with their latest toddler in tow, cheerfully offering unsolicited advice, fussing about the stove top in a scheme to offload the infant clawing at his hips onto Higuruma, holding out the crimson faced cryptid doing its best impression of a banshee. It's the cousin closest to his age whom, up until a few years ago, had faced these very same ritualistic trials engineered by their relatives. Higuruma can't help feeling betrayed; so much for surviving the prisoners' dilemma together, or their fraternal bonds forged in the fires of their aunts' chirpy interrogations. Brothers in arms no longer.

Hastily Higuruma starts stacking and drying pans, occupying his hands and furiously buffing utensils till the spoons are concave mirrors catching the rich marinade of his misery, knowing he's running out of tines to shine while the shrieks and whines of the nominally humanoid spawn continue to climb and climb, his father fumbling awkwardly, haphazardly trying to hiccup his miniature replica with an odd jostling rhythm.

An unexpected saviour appears at the 11th hour, the aunt who owns the house sweeps into her kitchen, drawn to what is an apparently angelic cacophony. The heavenly host relieves the parent of the screaming cherubim, cooing some excuse for the colic baby (and an erroneous assessment that they aren't from the tenth circle of hell).

Too late however, Higuruma realises this is less divine intervention and more Grecian pantheon machinations as the aunt drops her guise of allyship, the formidable adversary commanding her emissary with a breezy, "Oh, Oetsu, don't forget to tell Hiromi about your charming co-worker! You were telling me she has a really pretty voice, when your company did a karaoke night right?"

Cousin Oetsu clears his throat and Higuruma shoots him a wounded glare. Et tu, brute?

"Yeah! She did quite a charismatic rendition of Livin' on a Prayer."

It takes every fiber of Higuruma's already strained optic nerves for his eyeballs not to roll to the ceiling. Trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, he grits his teeth and spits a Hail Mary.

"I heard your 8-month-old son learned to sit up this spring?"

Cousin Oetsu and his aunt bare their teeth, with the kind of vicious incandescence that makes it into history books, accompanied by ominous pictures of looming mushroom clouds. It makes his bones brittle, but Higuruma knows he's bereft of any other choices.

Croaking his defeat, he mutters the nuclear question, "Did you record it?"

Higuruma doesn't know how many eons have elapsed when he finally stumbles out of the kitchen, having survived 27 folders of videos and photos (and what? TikToks as well now? what are those?) of babies doing incredible variations of very little to nothing at all - in most of the footage, the tiny creatures at least seemed as equally perplexed as him as to why their mere existence warranted this much wonder and fascination. He scarcely gets a moment to brace himself with a burning swig of amber liquid before having to deal with his immediate family.

Fortunately Higuruma has had years to practice, to perfect subtlety with those nips of whiskey vaccinating him against his mother's withering sighs, his father's jabs about his job prospects, his elder brother's boasts about the latest island resort he's invested in, and so on. But riding back to his apartment on the last train in an empty cabin, Higuruma has to admit to himself that what he can't outmaneuver is Time and the fact that yes, (he hears this in his mother's beseeching drone) Grandma's 95th birthday is coming up and a 96th doesn't seem an exceptionally realistic prospect; the dowager deserves to at least feel like all her descendants are on the track to her antiquated concepts of success and happiness, right?

So he enlists you, or not so much enlists as bribes you; A bargain, a steal really, doing just three weeks of your paperwork but you have his parking lot for the rest of the year - and you get to relish the normally poised, polished as silverware, eloquent Higuruma Hiromi out of his element; a rare chance to see this forthright, courtroom commanding orator with razor sharp intellect become an evasive, even sheepish, blushing boy outwitted by a nonagenarian in her tea parlour? You almost bruise yourself with the pinch when he implores you to pretend to be his partner, mumbling it around his mouthful of bourbon during a post-work week drink/drowning session. The request is garbled through the alcohol, but it doesn't do enough to disguise his desperation.

Higuruma Hiromi, at your mercy, in your debt - the rarest of opportunities. In all honesty he could have offered a measly three days of paperwork for this golden chance; but lucky for you your morose faux Romeo is none the wiser.

It's going to be a summer potluck type of thing, out in the country for a few days. You send him photos of sundresses listed on several boutiques' sites, to assess what would be, in your words "an appropriate amount of ankle to reveal in front of his relatives?" and you're sure you'd have heard his eyeballs rollicking to the back of his sockets if you weren't too busy inelegantly snorting out an espresso through your nose at his reminder that any sackcloth cowls or ermine fur-trimmed chemises will be at your own expense. How does he of all people know what a chemise is anyway?

But after that, you don't ambush, much less consult him in the cafeteria again about your fashion choices.

However, when the day comes, you wonder if your attire is sufficiently modest or if he's found something to nitpick about your chiffon midi dress with its square neckline. Met with his prolonged silence, you mentally race through the reflection you'd checked before opening your door to him; The silhouette isn't too snug, flattering without being figure-hugging, it traces rather than accentuates your waist and while there's a leg split along the long cream skirt embroidered with sunflowers, it ends a mere couple inches above your thigh. All things considered, very demure and unlikely to be the cause of hushed whispers or cardiac arrests from any female relatives aged 40 and up. So, you have half a mind to reach for Higuruma's pulse as he stands stock still on your front step without a single word, with saucer plate eyes. Scrutinizing as usual, you're sure.

Perhaps you had some strands out of place? You tuck a lock behind your ears and press your cherry tinted lips together.

"I have a band tee and an ancient pair of bermudas I could change into instead," you offer drolly, notching a fist at your hips.

Higuruma blinks, as if ridding himself of pirouetting black spots, a penalty for staring at the sun.

"Uh no no, it's fine. We should get going, it'll be a long drive."

You nod once, adjusting a strap along your otherwise bare shoulders, and Higuruma considers accounting for his abrupt onset of muteness. He registers your faintly concerned expression and racks his brain for an explanation; Maybe he could say it was something to do with how he's only ever seen you in a rotation of black or dark blue pantsuits and corporate attire - yes, that reason could hold water - until a memory of you in a particular navy pencil skirt trickles unbidden into Higuruma's mind and he blanches, just as he did back then when he'd bumped into you during that morning commute...

"Higuruma?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if the car you rented was an automatic. My license does apply to manuals, but it's been a while since I've driven one."

"Oh yea. Yes, it's an automatic." Higuruma pats his left pocket, then his right, then checks the inner lining of his jacket, before finally pulling it out of his left pants pocket.

You keep the snigger off your face though you suspect it's sidled into your tone; luckily, for whatever reason, Higuruma's focus doesn't seem to be as laser pointed as it usually is.

"Okay, just let me get the Yakitake from the fridge," you hum.

"Yaki..take?"

"Yep, the place has really taken off. They recently opened a fifth outlet at Akasaka. I got it since your grandma enjoys cheesecake."

"She does..." Higuruma diverts the quizzical drawl in his voice to his gaze as it trails instead toward the large, glossy paper bag you pass him while you lock the door behind you.

"You mentioned it a few months ago, when we had that 71 year old accused of a string of B&Es into that bakery chain."

"Oh, right. Still don't understand why someone would try to steal sourdough starter. Or how it'd be kept in a safe."

"That place is popular for a reason, but too crowded! I get my sourdough from this reliable place, it's not far from Ichigaya Station. Shame they don't sell them in quarter loaves though, but at least they make for good croutons. I'll let you sample it next time."

"Croutons?"

"No," you say, unable to keep the giggle at bay this time, "a sandwich."

"I think I'm more of a vending machine shokupan kinda guy," he comments, unlocking the door on the passenger's seat side for you.

"Just by necessity, and you don't even like the tuna mayo!"

You continue to chide as you slide into the vehicle, "Nobody does - it's always the last flavour. Even those vacuum packed fish bars get sold out first."

You hear Higuruma's restrained sigh ghost over his words even above the sibilant hiss of seat belts being pulled into place.

"They're not so bad once you've had them three or four days in a row," Higuruma mutters, starting up the engine.

"A BLT," you declare, as the straps snap into their slots with a definitive click,"When we get back I'm introducing you to BLTs."

"I'm acquainted. That's how I discovered I dislike lettuce, especially raw."

"You know, I don't think I've ever recalled you being in the vicinity of a vegetable."

"Actually I had three of those martinis last Friday, so three very briny vegetables."

You stare at one of the most inarguably brilliant attorneys you've ever met in the span of your entire career, banking on silence to prompt an elaboration of his bizarre statement. When it doesn't come, you say slowly, "You know olives are a fruit right."

Higuruma fixes his gaze dead ahead through the windshield. You wonder if he'll put a crack through it.

"I knew that."

There's a two second gap, before he adds, "They were vodka martinis. I was referring to the potatoes it's distilled from."

You clap a palm over your mouth just in time, but the snicker that gets repressed reroutes to your shoulders instead, and you're certain the quiver will carry to your voice, so you simply say, "Sure, Higuruma. Sure."

The ripple of your mirth over his syllables is too enticing not to confirm what's in his periphery. Higuruma's gaze flickers to his left then snaps straight back onto the road; he's not about to risk a demerit point for being distracted by an unexpectedly blinding beam.

Perhaps he should get his shades out from the glove compartment; he can't let you see his focus waver.

This was supposed to be a simple, smooth drive after all, except now he can't help but wonder if this peculiar, unfamiliar tautness in his chest bodes ill for the ruse ahead of both of you...

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