"You'd like to think that you're immune to the stuff,
But it's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough."
--Robert Palmer, "Addicted To Love"
All things considered, though some people would have called it a honeymoon, it was probably more accurate to call it a jack-in-the-box: the box closed, the spring wound, and then whatever tension existed simply exploded when the moment struck.
Sometimes it was merely a look that set off the explosion. Sometimes one of them would lean too close; sometimes they would be at opposite ends of the room when it went off. They were of course discreet--silence, or at least careful quiet, was an unspoken condition in their understanding--but they had become attuned enough to one another to recognise the cues and know how long they would have to lock doors and draw blinds.
The first month was a collection of incidents as distinct as the stones on a necklace. All in all it had happened eight times, and each time had in some way been an improvement over the last, despite the fumbling and the occasional ripped shirt. There had been two minor and wordless struggles, close to the beginning, over who was on top; fortunately, those had been resolved by the discovery that it was just as enjoyable either way.
Then something strange had happened, some unidentifiable chemical reaction that sparked and whirred into existence between them, and the second month had been more or less a blur. Watari wasn't at all sure how they'd gotten any work done, let alone kept anyone else from noticing them; he felt as if he were constantly rumpled, as if his braid were perpetually half-undone and his lab coat too loose to stay firmly on his shoulders. He could smell someone else's skin on his hands even after he'd washed them, even when he was working with an experiment that required gloves.
Another month and a half brought a more subtle shift. There was less tension in Tatsumi's shoulders when they stood close together, and they'd left far fewer accidental bruises on one another; they'd taken to teasing one another with fingernails and tongues and the occasional quiet word. More often than not one of them would be smiling when the afterglow hit. The need was still there, craving running dangerously hot as electrical currents between them, but the frustration rarely surfaced anymore.
It was strange, and it was pleasant, and he found himself enjoying it more than he'd expected he might.
He particularly liked the changes in his routine that had begun to crop up, little unpredictable fireworks throughout the day.
One of them went off without warning on a Monday, when he'd found Tatsumi clocking in from his lunch break and hadn't been able to resist sliding an arm around his waist. Friction dissolved into heat even as his chest slid against Tatsumi's back, as he nosed Tatsumi's collar out of the way and kissed the nape of his neck; they both knew he'd hit the timer on a dangerously short-fused bomb.
"This is absurd," Tatsumi hissed, more breathless than angry.
"Mm, no it's not. Nobody's looking."
"Nobody was--ah--looking this morning, either..."
Watari reached up, curled his fingers blindly around the knot of his necktie. "So? It could be worse."
"How?"
"One of us could be dressed like a French maid."
There was a moment of dead silence before Tatsumi started to laugh.
The laugh started in his shoulders, a faint shaking, and bubbled outwards like foam from a boiling pot; the sounds were choked but distinct, little hiccups of breath. He leaned against the wall, inadvertently taking Watari with him, and both men nearly lost their balance--which only made him laugh all the harder.
Watari was tempted, for a moment, to ask him what exactly was so funny, but he didn't make it more than two words into the question before his own voice began to break and he buried his face between Tatsumi's shoulderblades, helpless with mirth.
He'd never really heard Tatsumi laughing before, and he hadn't guessed that the sound could be so infectious.
But it's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough."
--Robert Palmer, "Addicted To Love"
All things considered, though some people would have called it a honeymoon, it was probably more accurate to call it a jack-in-the-box: the box closed, the spring wound, and then whatever tension existed simply exploded when the moment struck.
Sometimes it was merely a look that set off the explosion. Sometimes one of them would lean too close; sometimes they would be at opposite ends of the room when it went off. They were of course discreet--silence, or at least careful quiet, was an unspoken condition in their understanding--but they had become attuned enough to one another to recognise the cues and know how long they would have to lock doors and draw blinds.
The first month was a collection of incidents as distinct as the stones on a necklace. All in all it had happened eight times, and each time had in some way been an improvement over the last, despite the fumbling and the occasional ripped shirt. There had been two minor and wordless struggles, close to the beginning, over who was on top; fortunately, those had been resolved by the discovery that it was just as enjoyable either way.
Then something strange had happened, some unidentifiable chemical reaction that sparked and whirred into existence between them, and the second month had been more or less a blur. Watari wasn't at all sure how they'd gotten any work done, let alone kept anyone else from noticing them; he felt as if he were constantly rumpled, as if his braid were perpetually half-undone and his lab coat too loose to stay firmly on his shoulders. He could smell someone else's skin on his hands even after he'd washed them, even when he was working with an experiment that required gloves.
Another month and a half brought a more subtle shift. There was less tension in Tatsumi's shoulders when they stood close together, and they'd left far fewer accidental bruises on one another; they'd taken to teasing one another with fingernails and tongues and the occasional quiet word. More often than not one of them would be smiling when the afterglow hit. The need was still there, craving running dangerously hot as electrical currents between them, but the frustration rarely surfaced anymore.
It was strange, and it was pleasant, and he found himself enjoying it more than he'd expected he might.
He particularly liked the changes in his routine that had begun to crop up, little unpredictable fireworks throughout the day.
One of them went off without warning on a Monday, when he'd found Tatsumi clocking in from his lunch break and hadn't been able to resist sliding an arm around his waist. Friction dissolved into heat even as his chest slid against Tatsumi's back, as he nosed Tatsumi's collar out of the way and kissed the nape of his neck; they both knew he'd hit the timer on a dangerously short-fused bomb.
"This is absurd," Tatsumi hissed, more breathless than angry.
"Mm, no it's not. Nobody's looking."
"Nobody was--ah--looking this morning, either..."
Watari reached up, curled his fingers blindly around the knot of his necktie. "So? It could be worse."
"How?"
"One of us could be dressed like a French maid."
There was a moment of dead silence before Tatsumi started to laugh.
The laugh started in his shoulders, a faint shaking, and bubbled outwards like foam from a boiling pot; the sounds were choked but distinct, little hiccups of breath. He leaned against the wall, inadvertently taking Watari with him, and both men nearly lost their balance--which only made him laugh all the harder.
Watari was tempted, for a moment, to ask him what exactly was so funny, but he didn't make it more than two words into the question before his own voice began to break and he buried his face between Tatsumi's shoulderblades, helpless with mirth.
He'd never really heard Tatsumi laughing before, and he hadn't guessed that the sound could be so infectious.