Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh not mine.
Two Hours' Traffic
Chapter Five
Jounouchi shifted on his feet, cast a glance at his watch. 7:33 PM. Through the open doorway of Honda's tiny efficiency came the sounds of drawers screeching open and slamming shut.
"Yuugi said 7:45!" he yelled.
"I know." Honda came through the doorway, buttoning his cuffs. Jounouchi stared.
His friend looked up and snapped, "What?"
"You look good," Jounouchi blurted.
Honda's face relaxed just a little as he punched Jounouchi's shoulder. "Thanks for sounding surprised, chump." He cast appraising eyes over the other. "Guess you'll do, too. Glad to see you own at least one pair of shoes that isn't sneakers."
"I swear, you're like the big brother I never had, and I don't mean that in a good way." They clattered down the stairwell and out onto the dusky street as Jounouchi continued to fume. "How do you think I dressed for my internship interviews? In a T-shirt and jeans?"
"Wouldn't put it past you." Honda reached under Jounouchi's jacket to pull out his shirt collar. "I'm sorry, that hair of yours just doesn't spell 'professional.'" His hand rose to give said hair a thorough tousle. "Then again, it makes you look damned cute. Watch—the girls and boys will be crawling all over you."
With a dirty look, Jounouchi fished a comb out of his pocket. "Now who's giving who backhanded compliments? And for the last time, no matchmaking—my heart's had enough abuse for at least a century. I'm single and going to stay that way."
"You mean you're still hoping Mai will change her mind."
"Drop it, Honda. You used to give a man some space—what's gotten into you?"
"Picked up a bad habit, I guess," said Honda after a pause.
They rounded the corner. The Kame Game Shop's window shone yellow; in front of it waited a short, spiky-haired silhouette. Yuugi bounded forward to meet them.
"Saved!" he said in a low voice, then called over his shoulder, "Sorry, Gramps, we're just going out! Bakura, you coming?"
Bakura emerged from the doorway, waving to the room's occupants.
The foursome traced their steps to the lot behind the Shop where Jounouchi had left his Toyota. "Grandpa's playing bridge with his old union buddies," Yuugi explained after another explosion of laughter from inside the house.
"You left the house in the middle of a card game? You feeling well?" Jounouchi laid a solicitous palm on Yuugi's forehead.
"It's a whole different game when that crowd plays it, believe me!" Yuugi shook his head vigorously, dislodging Jounouchi's hand. "And besides, we've got plans."
Jounouchi flicked on the ceiling light as they settled themselves. Bakura looked tidy in a soft gray blazer and dark slacks; Honda was resplendent in a maple-red leather jacket; and Yuugi was wearing—
Memory sliced through Jounouchi. It was like a smaller version of Atemu was sitting beside him: sleek black, glinting buckles.
"Yuug," he croaked.
Yuugi understood perfectly; he glowed up at Jounouchi. "You know he'd have loved this."
They parked next to the square and crossed the plaza toward Big Web, coming to a standstill a few yards away. Light spilled from the big picture windows onto the sidewalk.
"All right," said Yuugi. He lifted a fist, glared fiercely at his comrades. "Let's get in there—and mingle!"
Even as they all snickered, something made Jounouchi shiver.
He watched Honda and Yuugi move forward. Bakura looked at him inquiringly in passing; he just shook his head. Yuugi was making a soft-voiced explanation to the imposing man at the door.
With a deep breath, Jounouchi went after the others.
The noise of the hall smacked into him; he ducked his head instinctively. This must be the reason I'm queasy—Memory City. So many evenings, he'd driven Mai up to doors like these—a party, a reception, an art opening, a game; sat motionless while she dropped a kiss on his cheek (one of those meaningless kisses that meant everything to him); watched her turn, raise a hand, flash that dark-eyed ironic smile. He was never sure which of them she was laughing at—him or herself. Maybe both.
He swallowed hard and looked around.
Where the hell did they go?
Mokuba's eyes kept straying to the entrance. It was like a game—he'd sneak peeks, check whether there was an open pathway to the outdoors. Five points to him if there was, negative five if there were at least three people between him and the door, negative ten if Otogi caught him looking.
His current score was negative twenty-five.
Mokuba straightened his neck and smiled widely at the mayor's wife, who'd flicked a perfunctory glance at him while talking full spate to Seto. "It's so good to have fresh blood in our circles—my husband was just saying—"
Mokuba's eyes began to drift again.
Beside him, Otogi sucked in his breath sharply.
Mokuba hastily assumed an apologetic expression, then realized Otogi wasn't looking his way at all. In fact, he was giving Seto a peck on the cheek and excusing himself from the conversation. "Sorry to interrupt, hon, I just remembered something I need to tell the caterers. Catch you later, Mrs. Kanekura."
He blew the mayor's wife a kiss, then disappeared into the crowd before Mokuba could think to tag along.
"—boyfriend of yours is a dream, isn't he?" Mrs. Kanekura was sighing.
"Yes," Seto said simply. "But you were saying?"
"Oh! Yes. Something needs to be done about these delinquents. We can't have businesses scared away by flagrant acts of vandalism. My husband says that old gadfly what's-his-name-Mutou's stirring up malcontents—"
Mokuba lost the thread of the conversation again. He was mesmerized by the work of art that was Mrs. Kanekura: perfectly painted lips, oval nails tapping her wineglass, the dancing glint of diamonds on ears and throat. Like everyone here, polished, well-oiled, mechanical.
Yes, this whole machine was running nicely, to judge from the hum of the partygoers.
What does that make Seto—the operator of the equipment, or just a superior axle or piston? Mokuba stared at the lean, elegant form bending slightly to listen to Mrs. Kanekura.
Suddenly Seto slanted a glance his way. A smile softened the hard lines of his mouth.
Mokuba smiled back, though shame twisted inside him. How could I think of Seto like that?
Maybe it was safer to go back to his game. He pretended to pick a bit of lint off his sleeve, slid his gaze toward the door. A cluster of young women, chattering among themselves as they moved toward the Dance Dance Revolution machine, blocked his view of freedom. He closed his eyes—like wishing on birthday candles—and counted to ten.
Eyes still shut, Mokuba felt a finger of night breeze touch his hair. Door's open—Kino must be sneaking a cigarette. Slowly, he opened them, lifted his gaze.
Somehow the lobby had cleared, crowds ebbing away to either side. The colored chasing lights strung from the ceiling made skittering rainbows on the tiled floor.
And someone was standing by the door.
Without conscious thought, Mokuba turned his head to get a better look.
This was no Calvin Klein model, no up-and-coming socialite; the young man's clothes, while decent, lacked sophistication and sat a little uneasily on him. Long blond bangs shadowed his face as he leant against the wall. He was tall, leggy, maybe Seto's age.
Look up, look up, Mokuba begged—then wondered at himself.
The stranger looked up.
-end chapter five-
Thankies to samurai-ashes, Tuulikki and LadySaturnGirl for reviewing! Yup, Tuulikki—"such an idiot for a genius" does kinda sum Kaiba up sometimes. ::sweatdrop:: As for Anzu, Ashes—I think she'll be a credit to the church, when she isn't being a pain in the hierarchy's neck. LadySaturnGirl...I'm afraid there may be rocky waters ahead for Seto and Ryuuji. But on the bright side, Ninetails has just written an entertaining (though brief) S/R fic, "The Kaiba Effect."