"Do you wake up on your own and wonder where you are?
You live with all your faults."
--Goo Goo Dolls, "Slide"
Silence made work far less bearable. The perfect order of his desk bored him; the break-room coffee tasted terrible; the potted plant was drowning; and he was seriously considering docking Fukiya's paycheck for no other reason than that he had the power to do it.
It had been two days, and he'd kept quiet because that was simply the way he was. Reaching out always made him uncomfortable, made him feel as if he were putting his hand into a barrel filled with poisonous snakes and waiting for the inevitable sting; he had enough private scars to know that the venom never quite stopped burning.
The fact remained, however, that without gold and brown and tan, without even grey on the canvas of a workday, a sunlit afternoon felt black and chilly.
That almost upset him more than the harsh words had. The worst thing about knowing that someone could make him smile, could unknot the tension in his shoulders with a look or a touch, was that he also knew how badly the absence of that warmth could bite into him. He hid it well, he knew, channeling his frustration into long hours of number-crunching and ferocious attacks on his to-do list. It wasn't enough to keep him from staring at the ceiling for hours in bed, not even trying to sleep, or snapping at Tsuzuki when he tentatively asked was everything okay.
By three o'clock, he was seriously considering admitting defeat and throwing the potted plant out altogether.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; the darkness was mercifully welcome. He was tired and nearly overwhelmed by a growing sense of pointlessness, but the thought of going home and having dinner alone was even worse than sitting at his desk into the small hours of the night.
Someone shuffled outside, and he heard the doorknob turn. His frustration spiked briefly: if that was Tsuzuki, he was going to give him a stern talking-to about what was and was not his business.
"Tsuzuki-san," he said, without opening his eyes, "whatever it is, it's going to have to wait--"
"I'm a jerk."
That made him sit up very straight. He glanced up at the door: it was half-open, and a cascade of yellow hair spilled against the edge of the doorframe.
Watari looked uncharacteristically miserable.
"I didn't mean it, and I'm sorry."
For a moment Tatsumi considered telling him to go back to his lab, to go back to Block Six, and never bother him again--but the thought was a snowflake too close to a candle flame. He rose to his feet, and moved to the doorway in slow strides; Watari watched him with a look that might have been unhappy or hopeful. He was vulnerable now, and he was letting it show; that was a strange indication of trust and of his sincerity.
"If you ever stay that late again," Tatsumi said quietly, "I will remove you from the building myself and make you sleep."
Watari's expression flickered briefly, and finally settled into a lopsided smile.
"Is that a promise?"
Tatsumi kissed him then. He hoped it was answer enough.
You live with all your faults."
--Goo Goo Dolls, "Slide"
Silence made work far less bearable. The perfect order of his desk bored him; the break-room coffee tasted terrible; the potted plant was drowning; and he was seriously considering docking Fukiya's paycheck for no other reason than that he had the power to do it.
It had been two days, and he'd kept quiet because that was simply the way he was. Reaching out always made him uncomfortable, made him feel as if he were putting his hand into a barrel filled with poisonous snakes and waiting for the inevitable sting; he had enough private scars to know that the venom never quite stopped burning.
The fact remained, however, that without gold and brown and tan, without even grey on the canvas of a workday, a sunlit afternoon felt black and chilly.
That almost upset him more than the harsh words had. The worst thing about knowing that someone could make him smile, could unknot the tension in his shoulders with a look or a touch, was that he also knew how badly the absence of that warmth could bite into him. He hid it well, he knew, channeling his frustration into long hours of number-crunching and ferocious attacks on his to-do list. It wasn't enough to keep him from staring at the ceiling for hours in bed, not even trying to sleep, or snapping at Tsuzuki when he tentatively asked was everything okay.
By three o'clock, he was seriously considering admitting defeat and throwing the potted plant out altogether.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; the darkness was mercifully welcome. He was tired and nearly overwhelmed by a growing sense of pointlessness, but the thought of going home and having dinner alone was even worse than sitting at his desk into the small hours of the night.
Someone shuffled outside, and he heard the doorknob turn. His frustration spiked briefly: if that was Tsuzuki, he was going to give him a stern talking-to about what was and was not his business.
"Tsuzuki-san," he said, without opening his eyes, "whatever it is, it's going to have to wait--"
"I'm a jerk."
That made him sit up very straight. He glanced up at the door: it was half-open, and a cascade of yellow hair spilled against the edge of the doorframe.
Watari looked uncharacteristically miserable.
"I didn't mean it, and I'm sorry."
For a moment Tatsumi considered telling him to go back to his lab, to go back to Block Six, and never bother him again--but the thought was a snowflake too close to a candle flame. He rose to his feet, and moved to the doorway in slow strides; Watari watched him with a look that might have been unhappy or hopeful. He was vulnerable now, and he was letting it show; that was a strange indication of trust and of his sincerity.
"If you ever stay that late again," Tatsumi said quietly, "I will remove you from the building myself and make you sleep."
Watari's expression flickered briefly, and finally settled into a lopsided smile.
"Is that a promise?"
Tatsumi kissed him then. He hoped it was answer enough.