Note: I had this idea that wouldn't leave - after so many years of both life and afterlife, neither Watari nor Tatsumi would be inclined to turn their respective worlds upside down on a whim. Sometimes the lack of apparent change is good; other times, it may complicate everything. But then, it takes luck - or lack thereof - to notice that the real change can be subtle, hidden in the little things.
The following is a collection of five related drabbles; exactly 100 words each. Enjoy.
The usual: Yami no Matsuei is not mine; if it were mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.
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Morning Coffee
by Rhea Logan
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July
Watari's coffee is ridiculously sweet when Tatsumi accidentally takes a sip from his cup after their first night together. Completely at odds with his own, the beverage seems to compliment its maker as Watari stumbles on whatever stands in his way around the usual morning routine.
He winces at the taste and the disapproving look in his half-asleep eyes, cast lazily from behind long lashes, too heavy to let Watari wake.
The next evening, Tatsumi puts his cup away on the counter before Watari's hands slide too far beneath his shirt for him to remember why he brought it.
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October
Some scientists do their "spring cleaning" in the fall, he learns one morning when it's his turn to trip. Watari chuckles, for once awake before eight a.m., as Tatsumi mourns the loss of his coffeecup in the aftermath of his near-fall.
Contrary to the popular belief, Watari brews his coffee in a proper pot. He's not short on china, either; but between stifled laughter and unconvincing apologies, it's Watari's cup that somehow ends up in Tatsumi's hand.
At the end of the day as he clocks out, late, Tatsumi still ponders the unfamiliar, fainter sweetness of his lover's drink.
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January
Watari breaks things; when he's too angry to notice, or too tired to care. He doesn't mind his coffee tepid, his food cold, his clothing just a little too wrinkled for Tatsumi's taste. He doesn't change, and Tatsumi doesn't complain. Often, anyway.
Watari never insists on moving in together; Tatsumi doesn't oppose. Sometimes he thinks that if one annoying thing out of five changed, perhaps he would consider taking such a step.
But Watari is still Watari, and Tatsumi is still Tatsumi. Six months into their peculiar agreement, accidentally drinking from Yutaka's cup still makes Seiichirou wince in slight disgust.
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April
Tatsumi knows when Watari has a problem by the number of minutes it takes him to get out of bed. It's anywhere between fifteen and thirty on a good day; five to ten when the problem is small; under a minute when Yutaka doesn't know what to do.
Outside, he's doesn't change. It's only in the way he tightens his grip on the steaming cup in slightly trembling hands, as if the coffee was the only source of stability he can trust.
It's when they haven't accidentally switched their cups in weeks that Tatsumi knows his concern is not unfounded.
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July
When Tatsumi wakes alone, the coolness of the sheets quickly drives him out of bed. The apartment is unnervingly quiet; although on any other day the only sound sans his footsteps would be Watari's breathing.
Tomorrow, every little thing will be back again. But today, he's alone; there's no alarm clock to hit as its owner fails to wake. No clothes on the floor.
The kitchen smells of coffee and Tatsumi smiles. Watari's never remembered to leave any for him. He still doesn't, says the cup, half-full. Even though the bitter taste with no trace of sugar argues otherwise.