"Some long ago when we were taught that for whatever kind of puzzle you've got
You just stick the right formula in--a solution for every fool..."
--The Indigo Girls, "Least Complicated"
On the whole, he considered himself a very patient man.
He had taught himself a lot over the course of several decades. Languages (or bits of them), skills, the nuances of several types of magic. Given time, he knew he could at least grasp the rudiments of nearly anything he chose to learn or re-learn. It was a very simple piece of self-knowledge, and a very important one, in his opinion.
He just needed time.
In fact, sometimes he just needed to count backwards from ten.
"Your tie is crooked," Watari said lightly.
He took a deep breath, and carefully reminded himself that it was not professional to comment on his colleague's crooked glasses. Nor would it be appropriate to say anything about the sun-gold hair that had worked its way free of his braid, or the way the collar of his lab coat was ever so slightly askew, or the faint smudge of soot on his cheekbone that just begged to be rubbed away...
No. That thought was off-limits, too, and required a very deep breath to fight down.
"Thank you, Watari-san."
He could figure out the particulars of this attraction, given enough time. He could teach himself how to recognise the little cues that stretched the tension between them tighter and tighter still. He could probably even teach himself how not to give in to the singing, buzzing heat that took his veins whenever that tension showed signs of breaking. All he needed was time.
"My pleasure."
But time was rapidly dissolving into nothing more than now, into a very small and very intense focus. He willed his throat not to go dry and tried to determine some safe place outside of this laboratory to centre his thoughts, hoping he didn't look desperate. He was strong enough to beat this if he could just take enough deep breaths. It was as simple as that.
"Did you want anything else?"
Really, he was going to ignore the way that one loose tendril of hair fell down over the curve of Watari's throat. It was not important. He didn't need to think about it.
"Actually, there was one more form I needed you to fill out."
Watari made a face, his mouth twisting (deliciously) with distaste. "So much paperwork!"
"I'm afraid so... but the sooner it's out of the way, the better."
So far, so good, Tatsumi thought. He was almost done; in a few more minutes he could get out of the lab and go home to a nice cold shower and a book and an utterly Watari-free environment. All he had to do was make sure that both pages of the form got filled out properly. He almost felt like congratulating himself for resisting the temptation so long--
"You have a pen, right? I can't find mine..."
--dammit. "Ah, certainly. Hold on a moment."
He dug the form out of his briefcase and started rummaging for a pen. There was absolutely no way he was going to mention to Watari that he could see the end of a ballpoint pen sticking out of his braid, and he was not going to reach across the lab table to retrieve it, and he was not going to run his fingers through those loose spills of brilliant hair. He had a pen of his own, he was almost sure he did...
Oh god. He had to have a pen somewhere in his pockets. He was an accountant, how could he not have a pen?
"Oh, wait! There it is."
Tatsumi blinked and glanced up.
Watari was pulling the pen free of his hair, the already-loose braid unravelling slowly as he did so. It was much like watching a waterfall push its way through a dam--little spills of motion here and there, each a bit bigger than the last, until crimped bright waves fanned around Watari's shoulders...
"This'll be okay, right?" he asked, holding the pen out.
"Ah... yes. I just have to initial these..."
"Sure."
And Watari smiled, and leaned across the table to hand it to him.
It was easy for Tatsumi to suppress a shiver as Watari's fingertips brushed the base of his palm. It was easy for him to pull in another deep breath. It was easy for him to tell himself, you're almost there, just a few more steps and you can go.
But it was painfully easy for him to reach over and brush a loose gold tendril back behind Watari's ear.
He had learned to recognise that, in those rare moments before his will collapsed entirely, there was a heartbeat's worth of perfect clarity. The now made sense, it was right, it was ridiculously enjoyable. Nothing existed beyond it. There was no world and no concern outside of the way Watari's hair felt beneath his fingertips, the warmth between them, the faint flush and the realisation starting to creep into the scientist's handsome features.
And then something snapped, and he had no time for a deep breath before his mouth was pushed against Watari's in a hungry, insistent kiss.
He always forgot how good his kisses tasted until that taste was warm and vivid in his own mouth. It was an astonishingly honest taste, a blend of heat and some sort of damn frivolous candy--breathmints, maybe? Sweet, but not cloyingly so, just an edge of something distinct playing across his tongue before the warmth of contact pulled him under.
Something clattered harshly against the table, and he realised rather fuzzily that his glasses had come off. Not that it mattered, because the darkness behind his eyelids was full of strange colours and he could feel silver jumping and racing along his skin above his collar, which was new.
The best way to overcome temptation, he thought, and the rest of the quote got lost as Watari pulled him onto the table.
It was, for about a second and a half, distinctly surreal to realise that cravings could hit him harder after death--when he had a body that was better at healing itself--than they could in life; then the thought liquified and all of it fell away except for craving. His hands were flat against bare skin, and it took him a moment to realise that he'd managed to work Watari's shirt off halfway and that his own jacket was twisting and sliding away from his chest and he was making a harsh low noise that wasn't muffled anymore because he wasn't actually being kissed, at least not on the mouth.
There was a spot beneath and behind his ear whose existence he'd never really noticed; Watari had found it within a week of their first hurried encounter in the supply closet, and he teased it now with hot breath and slowly sliding tongue. Shivers spilled green and blue down his spine, flashes of butterfly colour that made his fingers go nerveless and his vision blur.
He was only distantly aware that some of the buttons on his vest and shirt were missing, and the sound of quiet clicking on the table and the floor registered more than the feeling of his second skin of fabric being suddenly gone.
It wasn't that he lost control, or yielded it. Control simply ceased to be important, dissolving under the fiercer drive of tension and release. He was still himself, but the heat drove away the parts of him that were shinigami and secretary and professional: he was a man, with his hair in his eyes and his clothes half off, who moaned "please" and meant it, and who arched with his whole body when his belt came loose and the slim hand that had undone it fell lower, lower still.
There was something absurdly enjoyable about letting this happen, about letting himself drink in the feeling of familiar weight on top of him and warm skin against his own.
He threw back his head, and the sound he made was almost a laugh.
You just stick the right formula in--a solution for every fool..."
--The Indigo Girls, "Least Complicated"
On the whole, he considered himself a very patient man.
He had taught himself a lot over the course of several decades. Languages (or bits of them), skills, the nuances of several types of magic. Given time, he knew he could at least grasp the rudiments of nearly anything he chose to learn or re-learn. It was a very simple piece of self-knowledge, and a very important one, in his opinion.
He just needed time.
In fact, sometimes he just needed to count backwards from ten.
"Your tie is crooked," Watari said lightly.
He took a deep breath, and carefully reminded himself that it was not professional to comment on his colleague's crooked glasses. Nor would it be appropriate to say anything about the sun-gold hair that had worked its way free of his braid, or the way the collar of his lab coat was ever so slightly askew, or the faint smudge of soot on his cheekbone that just begged to be rubbed away...
No. That thought was off-limits, too, and required a very deep breath to fight down.
"Thank you, Watari-san."
He could figure out the particulars of this attraction, given enough time. He could teach himself how to recognise the little cues that stretched the tension between them tighter and tighter still. He could probably even teach himself how not to give in to the singing, buzzing heat that took his veins whenever that tension showed signs of breaking. All he needed was time.
"My pleasure."
But time was rapidly dissolving into nothing more than now, into a very small and very intense focus. He willed his throat not to go dry and tried to determine some safe place outside of this laboratory to centre his thoughts, hoping he didn't look desperate. He was strong enough to beat this if he could just take enough deep breaths. It was as simple as that.
"Did you want anything else?"
Really, he was going to ignore the way that one loose tendril of hair fell down over the curve of Watari's throat. It was not important. He didn't need to think about it.
"Actually, there was one more form I needed you to fill out."
Watari made a face, his mouth twisting (deliciously) with distaste. "So much paperwork!"
"I'm afraid so... but the sooner it's out of the way, the better."
So far, so good, Tatsumi thought. He was almost done; in a few more minutes he could get out of the lab and go home to a nice cold shower and a book and an utterly Watari-free environment. All he had to do was make sure that both pages of the form got filled out properly. He almost felt like congratulating himself for resisting the temptation so long--
"You have a pen, right? I can't find mine..."
--dammit. "Ah, certainly. Hold on a moment."
He dug the form out of his briefcase and started rummaging for a pen. There was absolutely no way he was going to mention to Watari that he could see the end of a ballpoint pen sticking out of his braid, and he was not going to reach across the lab table to retrieve it, and he was not going to run his fingers through those loose spills of brilliant hair. He had a pen of his own, he was almost sure he did...
Oh god. He had to have a pen somewhere in his pockets. He was an accountant, how could he not have a pen?
"Oh, wait! There it is."
Tatsumi blinked and glanced up.
Watari was pulling the pen free of his hair, the already-loose braid unravelling slowly as he did so. It was much like watching a waterfall push its way through a dam--little spills of motion here and there, each a bit bigger than the last, until crimped bright waves fanned around Watari's shoulders...
"This'll be okay, right?" he asked, holding the pen out.
"Ah... yes. I just have to initial these..."
"Sure."
And Watari smiled, and leaned across the table to hand it to him.
It was easy for Tatsumi to suppress a shiver as Watari's fingertips brushed the base of his palm. It was easy for him to pull in another deep breath. It was easy for him to tell himself, you're almost there, just a few more steps and you can go.
But it was painfully easy for him to reach over and brush a loose gold tendril back behind Watari's ear.
He had learned to recognise that, in those rare moments before his will collapsed entirely, there was a heartbeat's worth of perfect clarity. The now made sense, it was right, it was ridiculously enjoyable. Nothing existed beyond it. There was no world and no concern outside of the way Watari's hair felt beneath his fingertips, the warmth between them, the faint flush and the realisation starting to creep into the scientist's handsome features.
And then something snapped, and he had no time for a deep breath before his mouth was pushed against Watari's in a hungry, insistent kiss.
He always forgot how good his kisses tasted until that taste was warm and vivid in his own mouth. It was an astonishingly honest taste, a blend of heat and some sort of damn frivolous candy--breathmints, maybe? Sweet, but not cloyingly so, just an edge of something distinct playing across his tongue before the warmth of contact pulled him under.
Something clattered harshly against the table, and he realised rather fuzzily that his glasses had come off. Not that it mattered, because the darkness behind his eyelids was full of strange colours and he could feel silver jumping and racing along his skin above his collar, which was new.
The best way to overcome temptation, he thought, and the rest of the quote got lost as Watari pulled him onto the table.
It was, for about a second and a half, distinctly surreal to realise that cravings could hit him harder after death--when he had a body that was better at healing itself--than they could in life; then the thought liquified and all of it fell away except for craving. His hands were flat against bare skin, and it took him a moment to realise that he'd managed to work Watari's shirt off halfway and that his own jacket was twisting and sliding away from his chest and he was making a harsh low noise that wasn't muffled anymore because he wasn't actually being kissed, at least not on the mouth.
There was a spot beneath and behind his ear whose existence he'd never really noticed; Watari had found it within a week of their first hurried encounter in the supply closet, and he teased it now with hot breath and slowly sliding tongue. Shivers spilled green and blue down his spine, flashes of butterfly colour that made his fingers go nerveless and his vision blur.
He was only distantly aware that some of the buttons on his vest and shirt were missing, and the sound of quiet clicking on the table and the floor registered more than the feeling of his second skin of fabric being suddenly gone.
It wasn't that he lost control, or yielded it. Control simply ceased to be important, dissolving under the fiercer drive of tension and release. He was still himself, but the heat drove away the parts of him that were shinigami and secretary and professional: he was a man, with his hair in his eyes and his clothes half off, who moaned "please" and meant it, and who arched with his whole body when his belt came loose and the slim hand that had undone it fell lower, lower still.
There was something absurdly enjoyable about letting this happen, about letting himself drink in the feeling of familiar weight on top of him and warm skin against his own.
He threw back his head, and the sound he made was almost a laugh.