Clenching his jaw, Hisoka shouldered past Tatsumi, who gave way as gracefully as he could in the cramped records room. Clucking his tongue slightly, Tatsumi turned back to the shelves, rapidly distributing files from the neat pile on his arm. "I apologize, Kurosaki-kun. We've certainly outgrown this little room..."

"It's nothing." Where...? There. ...on the very top shelf. Of course. Standing on tiptoe Hisoka reached up past Tatsumi, fingers groping for the file. Like this his face was less than an inch from Tatsumi's shoulder, immaculate in brown as always; he could smell the man, dry and spicy. Firmly ignoring the dull immensity of Tatsumi's presence, Hisoka lunged for the file.

His fingers just barely brushed the binding before falling back, and Hisoka huffed out an embarrassed breath. Tatsumi glanced down at him (down at him, down at him, it was always going to be down at him, damn it). "This one?" Tatsumi's hand closed on just the right file and slid it out.

"Ah." Hisoka ground his teeth. "Yes. That one. Thank you, Tatsumi-san."

"Of course, Kurosaki-kun." Handing Hisoka the file with the slightest hint of a bow, Tatsumi went back to his filing. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you."

"No, thank you, I'm fine." Hisoka returned the slight bow, just a bit deeper, without thinking about it. Deliberately leaning on his words, he added, "I think... I think I have everything I need now, Tatsumi-san."

And he spun on his sneakered heel and left, file clutched in one white-knuckled hand.