"And even if my house falls down now,
I wouldn't have a clue."
--Dido, "Thank You"
Good night kisses had become pleasantly dangerous.
There had been dinner, at a cheap Thai place down the street from Tatsumi's apartment; after that it had started raining, and Watari had wanted to take a cab, but not without saying good night first. Tatsumi, standing on the threshold with his keys in his hand, hadn't expected the light to hit those dark-amber eyes in such an interesting way.
That kiss was long and liquid and full of heat, and what happened afterwards was deliciously clumsy. Bed was a whole new experience, awkward in its softness, unexpectedly yielding.
Watari was too tired to get dressed and leave. Tatsumi was too breathless to care.
It felt like hours later that his pulse slowed enough for him to count heartbeats. Tatsumi opened his eyes, and the ceiling was an ocean of darkness; the non-sight was deeply familiar.
The weight against his right arm was not.
The warmth was alien, as was the soft noise of someone else's breathing. Coils of softness spilled across his bare skin--warm and loosened hair. He lifted a hand, tangling his fingers into that damp-silk smoothness; the motion shifted sections of Watari's braid apart, stirring a faint smell of rain and something mildly chemical. He'd breathed in that smell during countless kisses, but it had always been a blur in his senses, something that got lost in the rush of sex or vanished after they pulled away from one another.
He inhaled, deeply. Rain hissed and pattered against the windows, a murmur beneath the slowing rhythm of breath that still beat against his shoulder.
I suppose you can stay here, he said, and then realised somewhat dimly that he hadn't actually spoken it aloud: he was tired, and his tongue wouldn't move properly; his voice had already curled up and gone to sleep in the back of his throat.
Part of his mind insisted, very quietly, that having a scientist dozing on top of him was probably going to be a bad idea in the long run. He had already implicitly agreed to break his own rules, let his boundaries tumble down one by one, and though flashes of gold and orange lurked in strange corners of his thoughts, there was still something at his core that recoiled from brightness. Part of him whispered, hold your breath, you're going to burn.
Breath and rain washed over him, stroking it out of his mind like a wet brush blurring paint.
He realised, rather fuzzily, that his arm had gone numb, and then he slept.
I wouldn't have a clue."
--Dido, "Thank You"
Good night kisses had become pleasantly dangerous.
There had been dinner, at a cheap Thai place down the street from Tatsumi's apartment; after that it had started raining, and Watari had wanted to take a cab, but not without saying good night first. Tatsumi, standing on the threshold with his keys in his hand, hadn't expected the light to hit those dark-amber eyes in such an interesting way.
That kiss was long and liquid and full of heat, and what happened afterwards was deliciously clumsy. Bed was a whole new experience, awkward in its softness, unexpectedly yielding.
Watari was too tired to get dressed and leave. Tatsumi was too breathless to care.
It felt like hours later that his pulse slowed enough for him to count heartbeats. Tatsumi opened his eyes, and the ceiling was an ocean of darkness; the non-sight was deeply familiar.
The weight against his right arm was not.
The warmth was alien, as was the soft noise of someone else's breathing. Coils of softness spilled across his bare skin--warm and loosened hair. He lifted a hand, tangling his fingers into that damp-silk smoothness; the motion shifted sections of Watari's braid apart, stirring a faint smell of rain and something mildly chemical. He'd breathed in that smell during countless kisses, but it had always been a blur in his senses, something that got lost in the rush of sex or vanished after they pulled away from one another.
He inhaled, deeply. Rain hissed and pattered against the windows, a murmur beneath the slowing rhythm of breath that still beat against his shoulder.
I suppose you can stay here, he said, and then realised somewhat dimly that he hadn't actually spoken it aloud: he was tired, and his tongue wouldn't move properly; his voice had already curled up and gone to sleep in the back of his throat.
Part of his mind insisted, very quietly, that having a scientist dozing on top of him was probably going to be a bad idea in the long run. He had already implicitly agreed to break his own rules, let his boundaries tumble down one by one, and though flashes of gold and orange lurked in strange corners of his thoughts, there was still something at his core that recoiled from brightness. Part of him whispered, hold your breath, you're going to burn.
Breath and rain washed over him, stroking it out of his mind like a wet brush blurring paint.
He realised, rather fuzzily, that his arm had gone numb, and then he slept.