"If you can't make your mind up,
We'll never get started."
--Doris Day, "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps"
On some days the office was a dance floor.
Exchanges were all swift turns and possibly-angry looks, heavy with possible subtext, executed in sharp bursts. They circled, they dodged, they watched one another in glances that lingered a split second too long.
He'd never been good at dancing.
Watari wasn't sure when his interest had begun to run deeper than passing curiosity, and he knew he couldn't pinpoint the moment when he'd realised that, fits of temper and moody silences aside, Tatsumi was extremely attractive. His thoughts simply accumulated in silence, not so much a snowball speeding downhill as a slow creeping of heat from match to charcoal. He needed kindling. He needed something solid. He knew he'd been craving it since far before the dance had really begun, or at least before it had become something that itched and nagged at him.
He knew it had been there, self-contained and slow-burning with impatience, for a long time; it had stayed when months melted into a year and when a year slid into two, three, five.
This month had been a long one. There was talk of Tsuzuki getting a new partner, which tended to put everyone on edge. There had been problems in the sixth block, which was not only rare but frustrating given that it was usually well-maintained to the point of being boring. And some days he could swear that Tatsumi was teasing him, had seen right through his jokes and his baiting and half-insults and knew exactly how he felt.
Today, though, he wasn't sure at all.
"I am not touching that," Tatsumi said, voice dark with sarcasm, "unless it contains anything other than coffee, and if I find out that it does--"
Watari pushed the coffee mug at him, and pulled a face. "Fine, then, no sugar."
"Don't be difficult, Watari-san."
"Or...?"
Silence fell, leaden, between them. It was an implicit dare, a skeleton key for a corridor full of doors. The possible answers that could be woven around that or were innumerable, and his breath caught, just a little, at the knowledge that now as ever he had no way of anticipating what the result would be.
Tatsumi's eyes narrowed, very slightly.
"Or else."
A headache began to spark and roll up into real pain somewhere behind his left temple, and he pushed away from the table to get his own cup of coffee.
Maybe next time he'd know.
Maybe never.
We'll never get started."
--Doris Day, "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps"
On some days the office was a dance floor.
Exchanges were all swift turns and possibly-angry looks, heavy with possible subtext, executed in sharp bursts. They circled, they dodged, they watched one another in glances that lingered a split second too long.
He'd never been good at dancing.
Watari wasn't sure when his interest had begun to run deeper than passing curiosity, and he knew he couldn't pinpoint the moment when he'd realised that, fits of temper and moody silences aside, Tatsumi was extremely attractive. His thoughts simply accumulated in silence, not so much a snowball speeding downhill as a slow creeping of heat from match to charcoal. He needed kindling. He needed something solid. He knew he'd been craving it since far before the dance had really begun, or at least before it had become something that itched and nagged at him.
He knew it had been there, self-contained and slow-burning with impatience, for a long time; it had stayed when months melted into a year and when a year slid into two, three, five.
This month had been a long one. There was talk of Tsuzuki getting a new partner, which tended to put everyone on edge. There had been problems in the sixth block, which was not only rare but frustrating given that it was usually well-maintained to the point of being boring. And some days he could swear that Tatsumi was teasing him, had seen right through his jokes and his baiting and half-insults and knew exactly how he felt.
Today, though, he wasn't sure at all.
"I am not touching that," Tatsumi said, voice dark with sarcasm, "unless it contains anything other than coffee, and if I find out that it does--"
Watari pushed the coffee mug at him, and pulled a face. "Fine, then, no sugar."
"Don't be difficult, Watari-san."
"Or...?"
Silence fell, leaden, between them. It was an implicit dare, a skeleton key for a corridor full of doors. The possible answers that could be woven around that or were innumerable, and his breath caught, just a little, at the knowledge that now as ever he had no way of anticipating what the result would be.
Tatsumi's eyes narrowed, very slightly.
"Or else."
A headache began to spark and roll up into real pain somewhere behind his left temple, and he pushed away from the table to get his own cup of coffee.
Maybe next time he'd know.
Maybe never.