"I don't care if Monday's blue,
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too,
Thursday I don't care about you..."
--The Cure, "Friday (I'm In Love)"
Regularity set in quickly; so did the realisation that it might be a problem. They found two restaurants they liked, one Italian and one more or less quick pan-Asian noodles, both cheap and relatively close to their apartments; unless someone was working overtime, they met at seven-thirty or eight, twice a week. Sometimes their dates would be on Mondays, or a rare Tuesday--but there would always be dinner on Thursday nights.
The problem was that it was undeniably a routine, and one in which they could very easily get caught.
He wasn't honestly sure he cared that much about his co-workers finding out--if nothing else, he would have loved to see the look on Tsuzuki's face when he found out that Tatsumi had a real, honest-to-god sex life--but he also knew that Tatsumi was a very private man, who would rather have mediated a staff meeting naked than admitted that he was seeing someone outside of work.
During the day, in meetings or the break room or across the table from Bon, he was Watari-san. Behind the closed doors of a lab or office, or after work, he shed the name as easily as an overlarge coat and was simply Yutaka. He'd heard both names spoken sharply, with a warning edge; he'd heard them both accompanied by laughter, too. The divide between one name and the other wasn't a sharp one--just significant, like the click of a lock sliding shut. Click, and he was the resident computer expert and mad inventor; click, and he was the only person who could make Tatsumi Seiichiro lose his temper or laugh like a schoolboy.
He was beginning to love Thursdays, partially because, as a scientist, he'd always believed that regularity only existed to be bent out of place.
"We're going to lunch," he announced, leaning across the threshold of Tatsumi's office.
Tatsumi glanced up from his calculator, one eyebrow raised. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm taking you to lunch. Go get your coat."
"For goodness' sake, close the door--"
"I will when you're out here in the hall," he said sweetly.
Watching Tatsumi's temper rise was like observing the very beginnings of a dam giving out--a rusted beam shivering here, a crack in concrete appearing there. It was a perverse pleasure to see the process in action and know he was causing it.
"I thought," Tatsumi said, and his voice was tight, "we agreed to have dinner tomorrow."
"I don't want to wait. You like Mediterranean? There's this Greek place I haven't tried--"
"Someone is going to notice."
He considered for a moment.
"I'll bring the outline for the new library server."
Tatsumi put down the calculator.
"You're out of line," he said, but there was a slight catch in his tone that Watari knew intimately well by now. He'd won.
"And you're cute when you're mad. I'll meet you outside in five minutes!"
He didn't catch Tatsumi's response as he moved off down the corridor. He was laughing too hard.
Experiments were no fun unless you changed the variables, after all.
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too,
Thursday I don't care about you..."
--The Cure, "Friday (I'm In Love)"
Regularity set in quickly; so did the realisation that it might be a problem. They found two restaurants they liked, one Italian and one more or less quick pan-Asian noodles, both cheap and relatively close to their apartments; unless someone was working overtime, they met at seven-thirty or eight, twice a week. Sometimes their dates would be on Mondays, or a rare Tuesday--but there would always be dinner on Thursday nights.
The problem was that it was undeniably a routine, and one in which they could very easily get caught.
He wasn't honestly sure he cared that much about his co-workers finding out--if nothing else, he would have loved to see the look on Tsuzuki's face when he found out that Tatsumi had a real, honest-to-god sex life--but he also knew that Tatsumi was a very private man, who would rather have mediated a staff meeting naked than admitted that he was seeing someone outside of work.
During the day, in meetings or the break room or across the table from Bon, he was Watari-san. Behind the closed doors of a lab or office, or after work, he shed the name as easily as an overlarge coat and was simply Yutaka. He'd heard both names spoken sharply, with a warning edge; he'd heard them both accompanied by laughter, too. The divide between one name and the other wasn't a sharp one--just significant, like the click of a lock sliding shut. Click, and he was the resident computer expert and mad inventor; click, and he was the only person who could make Tatsumi Seiichiro lose his temper or laugh like a schoolboy.
He was beginning to love Thursdays, partially because, as a scientist, he'd always believed that regularity only existed to be bent out of place.
"We're going to lunch," he announced, leaning across the threshold of Tatsumi's office.
Tatsumi glanced up from his calculator, one eyebrow raised. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm taking you to lunch. Go get your coat."
"For goodness' sake, close the door--"
"I will when you're out here in the hall," he said sweetly.
Watching Tatsumi's temper rise was like observing the very beginnings of a dam giving out--a rusted beam shivering here, a crack in concrete appearing there. It was a perverse pleasure to see the process in action and know he was causing it.
"I thought," Tatsumi said, and his voice was tight, "we agreed to have dinner tomorrow."
"I don't want to wait. You like Mediterranean? There's this Greek place I haven't tried--"
"Someone is going to notice."
He considered for a moment.
"I'll bring the outline for the new library server."
Tatsumi put down the calculator.
"You're out of line," he said, but there was a slight catch in his tone that Watari knew intimately well by now. He'd won.
"And you're cute when you're mad. I'll meet you outside in five minutes!"
He didn't catch Tatsumi's response as he moved off down the corridor. He was laughing too hard.
Experiments were no fun unless you changed the variables, after all.