"And we'll say we didn't know, we didn't even try--
One minute there was road beneath us, and the next just sky."
--Ani diFranco, "Falling Is Like This"
Summer had grown progressively hotter, more distinctive from the rest of the seasons over the last few years, and when it rolled around again it was sweltering and oversaturated in blue. Routine bent around it, just a little: there were a few staff meetings outside underneath the sakura, and the dress code more or less went completely ignored. Everyone seemed oddly relaxed, even when the heat sapped their patience.
Most of his co-workers preferred to review case notes and do their paperwork--or pretend to do so, at the very least--out in the sun, or in the most light-drenched of the offices. Only one of them knew he preferred the shade, and drew him towards it.
They lay in a haphazard tangle, still breathless, on Tatsumi's desk; the room was mercifully cool. Little ripples of gold scattered across his senses, faint aftershocks; Watari's fingers were at last uncurling from his shoulder.
"Your hair's all messed up," Watari said quietly, the words just a bit ragged.
"So is yours." He nosed in, and they kissed once, a soft point of contact with no real meaning.
When he pulled back, Watari was smiling, brown eyes light with amusement. "It kind of looks cute this way."
"It gets in my eyes," Tatsumi complained.
"Pff, you'll get used to it."
"I have no plans to, thank you."
Watari rolled his eyes, an exaggerated but affectionate gesture. "Honestly, Seiichiro..."
The next breath he took felt suddenly sharp, as if he'd suddenly been made aware of how his lungs worked. When he let out the air on a long exhale, he was aware that the muscles in his jaw had gone rigid, tightening so hard they almost hurt.
Watari blinked up at him. "Something wrong?"
He thought of the last few months, of the wordless agreements they'd made and the nuances they'd learned. He thought of how distracted he'd been from regret, from guilt, from his own sense of duty. He thought of uncertainty, of being utterly unable to guess at this man's thoughts or intentions, of the moments he'd found himself laughing at something he might once have found an outright insult.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and he saw yellow and tan, with only slight touches of grey.
And he smiled.
"Not at all, Yutaka."
And that was that, with no explanation and no acknowledgement aside from slow and almost embarrassed smiles.
Strange, he thought, that he'd once believed he'd feel empty if he came to the point where he didn't want or need to say something to a particular person. Or that he'd never permit a co-worker to call him by his given name.
Besides, it didn't sound half as awkward as he'd imagined.
One minute there was road beneath us, and the next just sky."
--Ani diFranco, "Falling Is Like This"
Summer had grown progressively hotter, more distinctive from the rest of the seasons over the last few years, and when it rolled around again it was sweltering and oversaturated in blue. Routine bent around it, just a little: there were a few staff meetings outside underneath the sakura, and the dress code more or less went completely ignored. Everyone seemed oddly relaxed, even when the heat sapped their patience.
Most of his co-workers preferred to review case notes and do their paperwork--or pretend to do so, at the very least--out in the sun, or in the most light-drenched of the offices. Only one of them knew he preferred the shade, and drew him towards it.
They lay in a haphazard tangle, still breathless, on Tatsumi's desk; the room was mercifully cool. Little ripples of gold scattered across his senses, faint aftershocks; Watari's fingers were at last uncurling from his shoulder.
"Your hair's all messed up," Watari said quietly, the words just a bit ragged.
"So is yours." He nosed in, and they kissed once, a soft point of contact with no real meaning.
When he pulled back, Watari was smiling, brown eyes light with amusement. "It kind of looks cute this way."
"It gets in my eyes," Tatsumi complained.
"Pff, you'll get used to it."
"I have no plans to, thank you."
Watari rolled his eyes, an exaggerated but affectionate gesture. "Honestly, Seiichiro..."
The next breath he took felt suddenly sharp, as if he'd suddenly been made aware of how his lungs worked. When he let out the air on a long exhale, he was aware that the muscles in his jaw had gone rigid, tightening so hard they almost hurt.
Watari blinked up at him. "Something wrong?"
He thought of the last few months, of the wordless agreements they'd made and the nuances they'd learned. He thought of how distracted he'd been from regret, from guilt, from his own sense of duty. He thought of uncertainty, of being utterly unable to guess at this man's thoughts or intentions, of the moments he'd found himself laughing at something he might once have found an outright insult.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and he saw yellow and tan, with only slight touches of grey.
And he smiled.
"Not at all, Yutaka."
And that was that, with no explanation and no acknowledgement aside from slow and almost embarrassed smiles.
Strange, he thought, that he'd once believed he'd feel empty if he came to the point where he didn't want or need to say something to a particular person. Or that he'd never permit a co-worker to call him by his given name.
Besides, it didn't sound half as awkward as he'd imagined.