Standard Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei © Matsuhita Youko, Central Park Media, et al.
Rating: PG (Implications of shonen ai)
Summary: From a distance, Tatsumi observes Tsuzuki and Hisoka.
AN: I am considering continuing this -- a progressing series of vignettes perhaps. Feedback welcomed.
Hungry as the Sea
By Dorian Gray (hinikunokotsuzui@yahoo.com)
-- Twelfth Night, Shakespeare
The meeting began at exactly eight o'clock despite two notable absences, one of which was the otherwise punctual Kurosaki-kun, who arrived with his chronically tardy partner nine minutes after the hour, hurrying into the general staff room slightly out of breath and apparently leaving a half-finished discussion at the door; unsurprisingly Kurosaki-kun seemed to have managed the last word; Tsuzuki-san was pouting. The former apologized, briskly but sincerely, while Tsuzuki-san only smiled and expressed a hope that there might still be some pastries left. In that hope he was to be disappointed and thereafter returned to pouting.
The meeting was necessary but unimportant; some feigned interest better than others. Watari-san was formally reprimanded for excessive damage to laboratory facilities; Tsuzuki-san for the reckless and irresponsible use of departmental resources. No one objected to the rewording of intra-office policy forty-four; no one objected to the removal of subsection three; no one listened to the bimonthly fiscal report, to which incidentally there were no objections. Watari-san spent the last twenty-five minutes drawing; Kurosaki-kun examined the table top for the duration, absently tracing designs on its surface with his fingertips; Tsuzuki-san eventually abandoned pouting for listless boredom, successively drumming his fingers, blowing his bangs out of his face and sneaking glances at Kurosaki-kun, who in return made no sign of awareness or acknowledgment and persisted in his wood-grain and varnish observation. But after each glance Tsuzuki-san would smile to himself, briefly and with a periodic intensity -- his smile -- which was at once unguarded and the closed expression of some private joy, before his expression faded again into bored disinterest.
There were no closing questions or concerns. The meeting ran twelve minutes over schedule; upon its completion Tsuzuki-san vigorously propelled himself from his seat, arresting Kurosaki-kun's arm and encouraging him to leave quickly. The latter's protests were of the usual sort, harsh but ineffective. (Tsuzuki-san only smiled again, that same smile.) Yet as Kurosaki-kun make no forcible attempt to remove his wrist from the other's grip, he ultimately suffered himself to be tugged from the room. Watari-san was informed of the meeting's adjournment three times before his attention could be recalled from his drawings to the three-dimensional world. Papers were gathered, the room emptied, the lights shut off and the door closed.
Tsuzuki-san did not cross my path again until late that afternoon, just the glimpse of a familiar form ducking into his and Kurosaki-kun's office. Before the door closed, a faint teasing question escaped into the hallway, Did you miss me? Kurosaki-kun's reply to which was muffled and remained trapped within the privacy of the small office. The latch of the door fell into place with a soft click.
That evening in the hazy plum twilight he was waiting in front of the building, coat and scarf, absently scuffing the side of his shoe along a rise of the stone steps as he leaned against the carved banister. One hand was hidden deep in his pocket; the other held a cherry-red umbrella which he swung rhythmically against his leg by the short loop attached to its handle. On his face there was only that private smile, but then the door clanged shut and the smile vanished, lost when his face automatically settled into familiar lines as he realized he was no longer alone. He turned, looking up, eyes glowing.
"Hiso--, oh sorry. Just waiting for Hisoka," ("who's being a slowpoke" he muttered fondly and then laughed). "He said he needed to return some books -- and if I even try to go near the library, the GuShoShin glare at me." He began to pout, but for a second the expression shifted and he, even his eyes, truly looked twenty-six -- not twelve, not a hundred. "I finally nagged Hisoka into taking me out to dinner -- you think I can get him to dance with me?" he asked with a slow, confidential wink that was almost sly. But then the illusion broke and he was childishly brandishing his umbrella before him. "The weather man said it wasn't gonna rain, but sometimes they're wrong. And it's better safe than sorry, 'cause Hisoka never carries an umbrella. He could get sick!" ("wouldn't want that," he added to himself in a half-voice).
The low-hung door scraped faintly along the pavement as it was pushed open with an impatient shove. "You said meet in the lobby. Can't you remember anything?"
At the sight of Kurosaki-kun, lime-green windbreaker and characteristic blue-jeans, Tsuzuki-san paused; a subtle wave of contentment flowed across his features, a fragile savoring stillness lost the next moment in the overwhelming eagerness and excitement that bubbled to the surface. He bounced up the steps, seeming for all the world like an affectionate lapdog joyously circling around the feet of a previously absent owner.
"You ready? You ready? Is Fukuoka okay? Or do you want to go to Kasasa? I know a great Thai-place there. You should carry an umbrella. Here."
Kurosaki-kun blinked twice and gave the umbrella a long blank stare, before making a small disgusted sound in the back of his throat and muttering something about foolishness and weather reports. But as a crushed look threatened to break over Tsuzuki-san's face, he roughly snatched up the offering and looked away as though trying to hide his slight blush. "Dummy. I don't care where we eat. Suit yourself. -- Ah, Tatsumi-san, good evening."
Already halfway down the steps with Kurosaki-kun in tow, Tsuzuki-san glanced carelessly back over his shoulder. "Yeah, 'night, Tatsumi!"
He waved at me.
As they walked down the street, Tsuzuki-san leaned slightly towards Kurosaki-kun, his frantic animation ebbing, replaced with a calmer excitement, a focused attention that excluded everything but the one beside him. Snippets and fragments of their conversation were carried along by the breeze, tossed and muddled, mingling and retreating into the night.
To me, the way home seemed almost too quiet.