Disclaimer: I may hug it and kiss it and want to marry it, but at the end of the day Yu-Gi-Oh! does not belong to me.
Two Hours' Traffic
Chapter Seven
Romeo: Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg'd. (Kissing her)
Juliet: Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Romeo: Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd!
Give me my sin again. (Kissing her again)
Juliet: You kiss by th'book.
--William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 5
Jounouchi bounced a cue in his hands. He'd found the deserted poolroom tucked back in the corner of BigWeb; none of the other partygoers apparently recalled its existence.
"Suits me fine," he muttered. After a moment, he shook his head, went to rack up for nine-ball. Nah. I'm too much of a people person. Not that I want a crowd in here—but I wish I hadn't lost track of the others... Well, a bit of practice'll improve my stroke for later. Don't want Honda to figure out I haven't played since I left Domino!
Yuugi and Bakura both favored straight pool. Honda and Jounouchi preferred the speed of nine-ball—but Jounouchi had never been a match for Honda or even the surprisingly deft Sugoroku. Time I changed that.
CRACK. The colored spheres fanned out across the table. Jounouchi chewed his lip. Bank shot on the 1-ball? Cue looped through fingers, he aimed. Yellow like Yuugi's hair. If I get it in the pocket, that's good luck for Yuugi.
He had calculated the angles perfectly: the ball clunked satisfyingly into a side pocket. He couldn't help grinning. "Hey, all that math and physics was worth something after all!"
Okay, what to pocket next? Where's the 2-ball—oh. His choice was obvious—in hitting the navy-blue ball, he'd have an excellent shot at the vibrant purple 4-ball.
Jounouchi swallowed, leaned over his stretched arm, cradled the cue-tip between his thumb and forefinger. Good luck, Mai.
Obligingly, the cue ball knocked into the 2-ball, which spun off towards the 4. The violet ball rolled in a leisurely way toward the corner and dropped in.
Jounouchi stared at the rim of the pocket for a while, then shook himself and scanned the table for the 3-ball. Honda, you next.
"Damn!" Though he'd safely pocketed the 2-ball ("Bakura") and the 8-ball ("Sugoroku") several strokes ago, he had once again missed the 3-ball—and on this shot he'd scratched as well.
Sighing, he went over to scoop out the cue ball and plunk it back on the table. Third time lucky. Breathing deep, he swung his arm back, then shot the stick forward; this time the 3 careened off one railing, sped toward a pocket and dropped at last.
Oh, great. Jounouchi had never excelled at setting up future shots. The 5-ball gleamed orange and inaccessible: the higher numbers seemed to be arrayed protectively against the cue ball.
He'd always liked orange, identified with its bright brashness. Gotta sink this one. Gotta move past—move forward.
He moved around the end of the table, but none of the angles seemed workable. Fatalistically, he lined up a shot anyway. There goes my future.
Behind him, someone coughed. "May I try?"
Mokuba paused outside the swinging doors, eyes on the long-limbed form stretching across the pooltable. His stranger. An unfamiliar warmth bloomed in his stomach.
As soundlessly as possible, he opened the gate and slipped inside. The other didn't turn—he seemed utterly absorbed in his solo game.
Mokuba stared at wild gold hair, at shoulderblades moving beneath a dark green jacket, as the young man shot the cue forward.
"Damn!"
Mokuba flicked his eyes to the table—the stranger had scratched. He stood still as a post, watching the blond position the cue ball and aim for the 3. He's taking this so seriously.
With a clunk, the 3 knocked into a pocket. Mokuba grimaced at the 5-ball's position. What'll he do?
His stranger moved tentatively from one point to another for several long moments, then stood still before bending to take aim—at precisely the wrong angle.
Through hot dry lips, Mokuba found himself speaking. "May I try?"
Jounouchi nearly dropped the cue. It was the boy from before.
He gaped for a moment, then looked away, holding out the cue. "Sure thing." Am I blushing? Damn.
He glanced out of the corner of his eye—the boy was looking stern again, surveying the table. Presently he leant forward, slung the cue across his knuckles, and swung his arm in one smooth stroke. The white ball bounced from the opposite railing, ricocheted off the back rail, came hurtling towards the cluster of balls.
Ka-THUNK. The 5-ball slid neatly into one pocket, the 7 ball into another.
Jounouchi gazed in wonder at the table.
"Sorry." Looking embarrassed, the boy held the stick out to him. "I can't resist a challenge like that."
"No problem." Automatically, Jounouchi reached his hand to accept the cue; his fingers grazed the other's. They both jumped; the stick slipped out of the boy's grasp and clattered on the floor.
"Sorr--" they both started. Their eyes met. Neither of them bent to retrieve the fallen stick.
"It's my birthday," the boy said suddenly.
"Congratulations," Jounouchi heard himself answer. He was caught in a deep-blue gaze. Something tickled his memory—birthday?—but the thought seemed remote, unimportant. What was important was the hand lifting to his face, his own hand reaching up to cover it. And then time jumped, his heart jumped with it, and the boy's lips were on his.
It was nothing like the fumbled "practice" kisses he'd exchanged with Honda back in high school. Nothing like the few times Mai had let him kiss her deeply. Nothing like any other kiss in the span of his lifetime. He thought these things, he thought Jailbait? with a twinge of worry, and then he ceased to think. All his world was contained in the supple form pressed against him, in the mouth tasting of wine the boy was surely too young to be drinking, in soft rain-smelling hair.
Furtive kisses between school library stacks, lingering kisses on dorm room beds, public kisses to annoy teachers. Awkward kisses goodbye, expert ones to get you hot and bothered. Yes, Mokuba had had his share of kisses.
When he set about kissing his stranger, he was hoping for "lingering with a side of hot."
He wasn't planning on a life-changing kiss.
Tentatively, their lips met, exploring. Slight stubble grazed against Mokuba's upper lip, textured the jaw under his palm. Silence settled around them; the giddy desperation he'd been feeling since the scene in the dining room fell away.
His tongue nudged between the other's lips. The stranger obliged, opening them with a sigh. Fingers curled around Mokuba's hand.
I know what this is, this feeling. Nobody's asking me for anything but what I want to give. He didn't ask me to kiss him, but I—I want to give him—myself.
He leaned in, deepening—and their teeth bumped. Mokuba felt the stranger's mouth lift into a smile.
Mokuba jerked away, breaking the kiss, his face on fire. What was I thinking? Throwing myself at him--such an idiot! "I—I—sorry," he stumbled. One hand found its way to the back of his neck. Can I look any more stupid? Should I run for it?
A voice invaded his agony of embarrassment, a warm voice, steady and solid as oak. "You know," it said, "I can't resist a challenge like that. ...May I try?"
Slowly, Mokuba raised his eyes to the stranger's. The other's face was—alight it seemed to Mokuba, at once smiling and rueful and daring.
Mokuba stepped forward in wordless reply. His arms wrapped around the other as they kissed, kissed deep and long, the stranger propped against the pool table and Mokuba yearning into him.
"Master Mokuba, sir."
They had paused for breath, still entwined—and the words fell flat between them. Isono. Shit! Mokuba shot a glance out of the corner of his eye—it was indeed his brother's PR director, staring pointedly at a spot just beyond the two of them, face rigid.
The stranger released him as he stepped backwards. "Yes?" Mokuba straightened, gave the newcomer his best Kaiba glare.
Isono was not impressed. "It's nearly time for dinner. Mr. Otogi asked me to find you."
"Well, you can tell him you've found me."
Isono coughed. "He suggested that I bring you to him."
Mokuba knew himself beaten; he nodded stiffly to Isono. He turned back to his companion, but found himself unable to meet the other's eye—instead he focused on the other's shoes. "Please--" he started, then stood there thick-tongued. What could he say in front of Isono? "—See you around," he finished. Finally he dared to look up—but found his stranger's face averted, eyes hidden behind that jagged blond curtain. After a breath, the other's lips curled upward, then spoke. "See you."
Isono had retreated through the door and was looking over his shoulder at the two of them; Mokuba followed. He didn't trust himself to look back.
His brother's staffer picked up the pace; Mokuba had to run to keep up. They turned down a crowded aisle.
Someone bumped heavily into Mokuba.
"Very sorry, my apologies," said a hurried voice; a hand reached out to steady him. Mokuba caught a flash of anxious-looking purple eyes before the other moved rapidly on.
"Hang on, Yuugi!" said someone else, pushing after. Mokuba's eyes opened wide. It was Otogi's ex-boyfriend. The latter spared not a glance for Mokuba. "Bakura says Jounouchi went into the poolroom about half an hour ago."
Mokuba froze, stared after the two unfamiliar figures. Poolroom. "Jounouchi?" he whispered. Jounouchi.
"Master Mokuba!" He whipped his attention back at Isono's acid tone. The man's mustache fairly bristled with irritation. "Coming," he muttered, and went.
Jounouchi.
Jounouchi withdrew hands from pockets, stared at them. This palm had touched the boy's cheek, those fingers had felt his hair.
He cradled one hand in the other. "Mokuba," he said softly, gazing at the empty door. Mokuba.
Unwillingly, he acknowledged the way the staffer had addressed the other. "Master Mokuba." ... "It's my birthday."
"What have I gotten myself into?" he asked the air.
Almost as though in answer, he heard Yuugi's voice, urgent, approaching.
"Jounouchi!"
"You're sure you saw him heading this way?" Honda.
"I think so." Bakura's soft tones.
Now the three of them had pushed through the swinging doors. Yuugi looked agitated, Honda darkly shuttered, Bakura out of breath.
"Guys?"
"No time to lose, bro. We need to get moving."
"What the--"
"Kaiba recognized me from the other day."
"And looked really pissed," Bakura added. "We figured it was time to cut our losses and go before we got kicked out."
"What about getting to know the folks at the party?" What about my promise to him?
"This from the man we had to drag here kicking and screaming? Come on, we can compare notes later." Honda's hand landed in the small of Jounouchi's back, scooped him along. The four of them edged through the crowded aisles. They crossed the lobby and were through the door just as speakers blared above: "Join us all for a dinner buffet in the back room. We're going to celebrate a special birthday tonight..."
Thanks again to PuppieLove for beta-ing! You rock. I'm also indebted to The Black Widow's Guide to Killer Pool by Jeanette Lee and Adam Scott Gershenson (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2000), the excellent children's novel Sticks by Marion Dane Bauer, and Ankhutenshi (who vetted the pool description). Any mistakes in depicting the game are most definitely my own. ::sweatdrop::
P.S. Tuulikki and Ashes, you know just how to reassure a writer! Thanks, m'dears.