"With you, there's no easy answer, it's true:
You change the equation I add up to."
--Poe, "Amazed"
Most people would have looked at the calendar and thought, that's five months and a bit, but for some reason the numbers rearranged themselves in Tatsumi's head and he thought, that's twenty-one weeks.
He was growing accustomed to hearing his given name behind closed doors, to being teased, to not flinching when his glasses slid off of his face. More often than not he woke from dreams and found he could remember flashes of blue or yellow, shades of brilliance mixed in with the usual browns and greys. Privately, he still thought of their situation as a gentleman's agreement of sorts--everything between them kept private, any acknowledgement of the relationship as quiet as possible--but day by day he found his personal boundaries reshaping themselves, like a red banner running and fading under weather.
The week drew towards a close, slowly, and on Friday he found a decision sparking into existence at the back of his throat.
"Do you want to have dinner?"
Damn, he thought, as soon as the words were out; they felt awkward in the air, a clumsy paper airplane speeding towards the ground.
Watari looked up from his boiling flask, eyes faintly confused behind his glasses, test tube poised over the flask's lip. "'Scuse me?"
"If you don't, that's fine--"
"Are you asking me out?"
Tatsumi was faintly astonished at himself--it had been a very long time since he'd wished to melt through a crack in the floor and disappear. Why was he so embarrassed? Why did this feel so strange, after they'd made it very clear to one another they were capable of behaving like the consenting adults they were?
Why did it make part of him cold with fear, more than public flirting ever had?
"Yes," he heard his own voice saying. "I am."
"I like Italian."
Astonishing, that Watari could address him in such a casual tone, so calm about whatever it was that was happening between them. Relief and something very like anger ran together into a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt the beginnings of a peeved comment rising to his lips--
"Shit, get down!"
He barely had time to duck before the flask exploded, sending hot glass and vile-smelling liquid spraying outwards; something nicked his hand, and he ignored the brief sting.
"What on earth...?"
Watari peered over the edge of the lab table as the smoke began to clear. His bangs were dull with soot, and his glasses had been knocked askew by the blast.
"I spilled," he admitted, sounding somewhat embarrassed.
It took a great deal of effort for Tatsumi to keep himself from smiling until he had the lab door safely closed behind him.
You change the equation I add up to."
--Poe, "Amazed"
Most people would have looked at the calendar and thought, that's five months and a bit, but for some reason the numbers rearranged themselves in Tatsumi's head and he thought, that's twenty-one weeks.
He was growing accustomed to hearing his given name behind closed doors, to being teased, to not flinching when his glasses slid off of his face. More often than not he woke from dreams and found he could remember flashes of blue or yellow, shades of brilliance mixed in with the usual browns and greys. Privately, he still thought of their situation as a gentleman's agreement of sorts--everything between them kept private, any acknowledgement of the relationship as quiet as possible--but day by day he found his personal boundaries reshaping themselves, like a red banner running and fading under weather.
The week drew towards a close, slowly, and on Friday he found a decision sparking into existence at the back of his throat.
"Do you want to have dinner?"
Damn, he thought, as soon as the words were out; they felt awkward in the air, a clumsy paper airplane speeding towards the ground.
Watari looked up from his boiling flask, eyes faintly confused behind his glasses, test tube poised over the flask's lip. "'Scuse me?"
"If you don't, that's fine--"
"Are you asking me out?"
Tatsumi was faintly astonished at himself--it had been a very long time since he'd wished to melt through a crack in the floor and disappear. Why was he so embarrassed? Why did this feel so strange, after they'd made it very clear to one another they were capable of behaving like the consenting adults they were?
Why did it make part of him cold with fear, more than public flirting ever had?
"Yes," he heard his own voice saying. "I am."
"I like Italian."
Astonishing, that Watari could address him in such a casual tone, so calm about whatever it was that was happening between them. Relief and something very like anger ran together into a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt the beginnings of a peeved comment rising to his lips--
"Shit, get down!"
He barely had time to duck before the flask exploded, sending hot glass and vile-smelling liquid spraying outwards; something nicked his hand, and he ignored the brief sting.
"What on earth...?"
Watari peered over the edge of the lab table as the smoke began to clear. His bangs were dull with soot, and his glasses had been knocked askew by the blast.
"I spilled," he admitted, sounding somewhat embarrassed.
It took a great deal of effort for Tatsumi to keep himself from smiling until he had the lab door safely closed behind him.