The suit he wore was a clean white, professionally pressed and tailored to fit his form perfectly. The expensive fabric, doubtlessly imported, was decked with gold trim in an elegant pattern and buttoned up to his neck. He took his appropriate seat in the decoratively carved wooden chair, across from the one with whom he would be clashing, in mere ticks of the clock.
The room where he joined his opponent was exquisite. The white walls gleamed in their perfect cleanliness, gold paint outlined a bold scrollwork design along the ceiling which accentuated the fashionable showiness of the place. It was impressive. Artwork and sculptures, created by famous names, was displayed on walls and pedestals all around the room.
The table he sat in front of was made of rosewood, masterfully crafted and polished, maintained on a regular basis to ensure that the fingerprints and marks of each use were wiped away without a trace. The neatly shuffled deck was set before him, and cards were drawn.
The lights were dim, a hardworking people bustled about around them, chattering about their tasks at hand. He forced himself to tune it all out and focus.
His blue eyes scrutinized the face of the opponent before him. He studied every shift, every blink, every twitch. He examined the figure mechanically, searching for any and every tell he could find. He hadn't even looked at his cards yet.
There were no chips for which to wager in front of him, yet he began the game as though there were - as though the stakes were already high enough. As though losing wasn't an option.
After all, it never was.
He lifted the cards in front of him to allow himself a peek, but left them on the table. His opponent picked up his own cards and leafed through them. He paid special attention to the figure's fingertips while they lingered on one card or another. Once his adversary seemed satisfied with the inner workings of his own cards, having watched him closely as well, he mimicked his motion and set the cards back down on the table. Once this action took place, the game had finally begun for the two males.
He had been holding his palms flat to the table. Now that it had begun, he initiated the first move. He mentally examined the cards he'd seen on his side of the table, deciding which would be the best to utilize. He knew what cards he needed to win the round, and calculated the statistics of likelihood of obtaining the remaining cards he needed. A moment slipped by of what may have appeared to be hesitation to an unskilled opponent, but the one who sat before him waited patiently for his call.
Having finally made up his mind, he flashed three fingers, holding his little finger down with his thumb, subtly, but clearly so his opponent could see. Three. He had made his call, without touching his cards, and now he waited for the results. He urged his heart to maintain a steady pace, and forced himself to resist fidgeting with his own cards while he awaited his opponent's answer to his request. He could not allow himself a tell, though the other did not seem to have nearly as much discipline as he.
Finally, after what felt like an eon of waiting, his opponent gave the slightest of nods, and passed a card of his own across the table. When it changed hands, it was tossed aside with another, removed from the game. As if without thought, his opponent took his turn to make a call. He held up one hand, all five fingers extended and dancing.
He didn't move, or blink, or allow himself to twitch. He kept his breathing steady. His posture remained perfectly erect, as though he'd been practicing for this game all his life. His answer was a simple, negative shake of the head. A card was drawn from the deck, and round two was over. The turn was his own again.
He couldn't make use of the information he'd gained in the last turn - the five dancing fingers, almost taunting to him. He chose his next move carefully, and lifted one hand off the table again to make his next call. Four fingers waved in the air, his thumb neatly folded across his palm.
He wanted to take a deep breath, but forced his lungs to obey his will. He had to remind himself that, still, there were no chips at stake. He noted the corner of his opponent's mouth, and how it tugged upward ever so slightly. His opponent must have thought he was being clever, fighting his poker face. His own was set in stone, an unreadable mask that he could let no one see beneath.
That smirk, gently hidden as it were, was his tell this time. It was over, and he knew it. His opponent wouldn't have wanted to smile if he didn't think he was about to win this round, to gain a point against him. He had to remind himself this was only one round.
Only one of many to come. The deck was still thick. His opponent picked up his cards again, leafed through them casually, even though he had to have known the answer already. He was being teased, and it irritated him. His attention to detail had already told him the answer!
Just as he was beginning to feel hot from fighting frustration back down to the pit of his gut, his opponent finally smiled and put the cards back down. And he grinned, shaking his head no, black hair bouncing as he did so.
"I have no four, Nii-sama. Go Fish."