This chapter is also concurrent in terms of the time line straight from chapter fifteen to the events taking place; although it does sort of jump around at a place or two, and I've got a tad bit of intentional and unintentional deus ex machina going on as a result from slight difficulties I came across trying to transition separately written chunks for the same chapter together; but overall; not too shabby I don't think. && already well ahead and working as far as working on chapter seventeen, which will segue us out of part one and into part two of the fic :) if anyone recalls I formatted it based on separating into three thematically indicative parts. blah blah blah, shut up Morgan, haha, okay, here, we gooo.
⟪Ⓒℌ◭⁋⒯ǝℝ.⓰⟫⦂ Revery Of A Riptide
"Holy money," Sam exclaimed upon their arrival, eyes scanning the dimensions of the prime, lakefront real estate, marveling at the things very few had the luxury to afford.
"Not really," Kaiba deflected immediately, but all the while maintaining a healthy and convincing aloofness, "The apartment came furnished, so most of this stuff isn't mine per say," he continued, running one hand delicately and distractedly over the body of his piano, "I really only splurged on one thing."
She nodded, not buying it for a second, "Last time I checked, blue-gold, Steinway grand pianos with ivory keys go for a tad bit too many zeros to tally up to that of casual 'splurging'."
To which he shrugged, "I'm in the family business," then a slight refrain, "anyways, that's where the bulk of my 'resources' come from," he skillfully avoided the direct mention of money. "It's not like I did anything special to get it."
"Yeah right," the blonde spoke reflexively without thought, "Don't listen to a word he says, Sam." Absolutely beside himself with the smile so special, he hadn't the time to register how shy and to himself he was speaking anymore. "He's amazing."
She cocked her head with girlish curiosity, that blank subtle way of prying beneath the surface without making a sound while Kaiba too shied away, retracting his hand from one of his most personal treasures to conceal them completely; and now it was Joey cocking his head, his features, however, far less ambiguous.
"An amazingly functional alcoholic," the brunette redirected with out traces of wit or retort, just this grinning so wide beneath the impalpable restraint that he'd had to close his eyes—this uninterpretable combination of absentee emotion, both genuine and equivocally pained—quickly gesturing and ushering Sam towards the admittedly superior selection of spirits adorning the countertop.
The liquid Joey'd been inwardly pining for all day long; but even the very prospect of alcohol held for him was scarce in comparison to the undiluted concentration he required, and was by no means anywhere near enough to satiate him. Or his gazing. Anxieties and attitudes fighting for an unmitigated sort of absolution he found only within the same organically sentimental compounds creating the inconsonance in his chest. Talk was cheap and mouths were made for swallowing, chewing things up and spitting them back out, but seeing was believing, and he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Such prying eyes pouring shots of the now, for no discernible reason, shyer individual standing across from him. Hands retreating at every opportunity, folded and clasped behind his back or sinking into pants pockets, this unusual sense of avoidance for Kaiba to show so earnestly. Dare he say, maybe even a little nervous? As if the attention to his esteemed person was suddenly unfamiliar and awkward to be on the receiving end of, never one to downplay his socioeconomic status, that's for sure.
And even less like the brunette to deflect direct compliments, regardless of Joey's praise worthy admission resulting from nothing more than a freudian slip, the other was by no means the type of person quick to reject an explicit stroke to his ego. However, like an old party balloon—those things he apparently hated—it too had deflated. Not quite so full of himself for the time being, but genuinely trying to fit, to blend in with the surroundings without standing out so damn much.
Otherwise expertly instigated eye contact now altering off course, shifty and uncertain; the faintest squiggle of what seemed to be a smile struggling to remain a stationary line, occasionally slipping sidetracked—or perhaps furtive—glances in Joey's general direction. Presumption on his part an ever present possibility, but six of one, half dozen of another, and presumably possible nonetheless. Give me an inch, he thought, only point fifty-four centimeters short and decreasing steadily with his breathing, and I'll happily take the whole mile.
A bold statement, even if only made to himself, and Joey couldn't help but savor the audacity augmenting the air of initiative. The imaginative leap emanating like a lure, the subtle nips baiting beneath the surface of brown eyes, flashes of emerald and garnet scintillating, both distracting and distracted as he felt an opposing pair pulling under. The invisible length of the fine line between them growing taught, superior optics sinking under the equally unknown depth. Catching Kaiba's acquiescing, transfixing irises reconnecting for a fraction of a second before abandoning the advance towards such an obvious trap, too instinctual to ignore the evolutionarily fortified cautiousness causing him to look away.
The internal awareness of centimeters giving way. He was that much closer. And that's all Joey cared about. The other boy's hesitance only topping off the overflowing amount of detail the blonde was drinking in—alcohol having become so inconsequential and tasteless now that he was getting drunk off something far more potent. Pooling his gaze, hazel coloring so content and offset and lost in the mirror image of such an involuntary smile and school boyish stance. His own hands wringing or readying too eagerly towards reclining or reaching out to touch something that almost didn't seem real anymore.
Too compelled by his own carelessness and curiosities, stuffing them into shallow pockets, those fidgety hands of his, as if to keep his whole body from swaying, the polarity and magnetism suddenly becoming all a bit much for the blonde. "...He is beyond gorgeous," he recalled Sam proclaiming in the days prior. Himself having submitted something similar in passing while the other had still been sleeping and so close to him. When he'd reached down to retrieve his cigarettes, upper body lowering and back tastefully exposed. When they'd gotten dressed earlier that afternoon, the careful and delicate deconstruction of Kaiba's features from the head down to where he shouldn't have kept going...
Watching as every time he thought he'd seen it all, an entire four new layers fell away and something even more mesmerizing emerged. Realizing quite clearly, quite certainly and shifting in his chest, that it wasn't mutually exclusive to the brunette's simplest form, but equally prepossessing in every state. Alluring even when angry and evil in the eyes, standing on opposing sides; twice as compelling when he was walking away, completely ignoring him, consecrating the chase.
When he was annoyed, or asleep, or so clearly above and beyond the mediocrity; when he was evolving or imploding or on the verge of becoming human; even when it was nothing more than a feint, a fictitious, viciously manipulating fabrication, the blonde went down hook line and sinker all the more facilely. Equally effortless, it wasn't exactly an impulsiveness that could be easily downplayed or rightfully dismissed when it continued to appear in identical patterns; the same way it wasn't exactly so outrageous a parallel as to go as far as to deny or write off as pure coincidence or overcompensation for lack of better ways to phrase. After all, it only made sense that there was some underlying reason that had always made them so magnetic—spellbound—the desire to be drawn over and over again into situations so barren. Into this dedicated rivalry that had never rivaled anything except for their shared stamina to endure the tumultuous collisions, the metaphorical taste of blood; having only ever been loyal to the increasing desirability of getting close enough to set the other off. An excuse to push the buttons, to justify walking back away with a chest so tense that he'd been both sickened and singularly obsessed with it. With or without his realizing.
Jesus Christ, what kind of masochistic fuck am I? Joey groaned inwardly at the idea, thinking back to the more than just borderline fucked up situations he'd thrown his body the fuck into, simply the for the sake of the opposing one it got to go up against. That last bit of phrasing far more sexual now that he'd said it aloud in his own head; his eyes widening, holy shit, masochistic fuck, masochistic fuck, he repeated frantically, mental processes spewing in the absence of engaging the others, chancing to meet those eyes that said everything, but had somehow lost the interest for.
They sure as hell weren't in Japan anymore, that was for sure Joey concluded, breathing steadily in through his nose as he accumulated the air in his chest like an intermediate pause, exhaling in a constance of exhaustion and incredulity. But as past and presence overlapped in a prismatic pane of glass, he couldn't help but admit that he was merely forcing all this offsetting bullshit on himself because he wasn't man enough to admit the internal shifting that was shaking his whole solar plexus so much more severely than before. Intensifying incrementally by the hour, the sensations from this morning mere child's play by contrast. Such softer undertones unsteadying, asphyxiating, so much more infectious than he'd pre-established. The opposition of opposition that part of him had clearly been attracted to, in one way or the other, for years.
It was embarrassing. The way he sat fretting like this, the way his emotions had all fallen out of whack, the way Kaiba made him want to rip off all the remaining layers, all these new expressions driving him up the wall, so conflicted with which this would all end with. Like picking petals from a flower and hoping you hadn't fucked up whatever is or isn't, does or doesn't you'd started with, secretly trying to calculate how to fix the outcome.
A preemptive admission he was in deep, deeper than deep, anxiety spiraling like F5 within his chest, cycling and spinning uncontrollably as his insides rearranged at the mercy of mother nature. Cold fronts sweeping beneath the warm, intermixing, the creation of pure chaos.
Joey shook his head in partial self disdain. He solely blamed Seto for this fit, for this entire day. For the way he had to melt out of body the minute his fingers caressed piano keys—the transfixing pressure and unfamiliar weight of his hand when it was pressed to his chest—the entire fact it upset him knowing it was all incidental. For never once caring, then going out and showing him the greatest time, the confusion that they weren't really friends, Joey frowned. How that was somehow more painful than blindly hating one another's existences from afar. The absentee pressure between his fingertips still tingling and fidgeting to fill the empty spaces. The fact he hadn't felt this way since...that he'd never wanted to feel this way again after...
Sigh.
...how much more real the fact he was fighting it so hard made it all, this sinking feeling in his chest. His body and his brain riding the same wave but reacting on such drastically different lengths. Mentally transcribing every aspect of the brunette, anxiousness becoming obsessive, selective; the sensation thriving in his breast, palpitating between two distinct and undeniable syllables that sure as hell weren't the Lub-Dub they'd been taught in science class. The refined delicacy, the ridiculous physique—that manipulative son of a bitch—the way he'd become so approachable then retracted, how he'd masterfully caught Joey off guard at every turn. One minute so genuinely precious, the frustration that came with the social obliviousness whenever Kaiba attempted to act 'normally'. The personal sentiments he'd been showing luring Joey into a false sense of security, then stealing all the oxygen from the room the next with these bold, unhindered statements.
Such lewd wisecracks made under the weight of such serious eyes. The sobriety deepening in his face when the other two had begun to stare, their psychic, psychoanalytical powers syncing up in a tag team against him from across the small kitchen enclosure, as if to provoke the consession; whatever, so it's true, he scowled, I think he's beautiful, resistance and organic thoughts giving way to the reality around him, so there it is, I said it, Joey tipped back the glass. He's fucking breathtaking. "So just stay this amazing," the blonde said aloud in a frantic, pressurized lack of awareness that he'd accidentally flip-flopped his internal and external trains of thought, Sam having preemptively drifted momentarily ago, and Seto stopping dead in his tracks, such a dumbfounded look on his face as their eyes met, his glass just freshly leaving his lips when Joey's collided against it in a spontaneous sort of toasting.
"J-just...keep...keep up the good work," a rushed, reflexive attempt to recover that failed miserably sinking into the elixir he wished had been stronger.
"Uh, thanks coach," Kaiba replied awkwardly.
"Shut up, let's get wasted."
Too much mischief rose into the other's eyes.
"You keep that to yourself," he took executive action, "give me a role-playing answer instead of a drink and I'll kick your ass."
Kaiba inhaled mid-delivery, "Neeevermind then," he turned to his fixture of elixirs and god know how many percentages and proofs, "Ah-here it is," he reached back farther, then pulled a large, queer shaped bottle, "Some 1800 to please the princess," he grinned.
Joey slapped him open hand across the face, and hard.
"Ouu-chh," Kaiba feigned, hand covering the space with a wink, "I thought you said no role playing."
"I thought I said pour me a shot."
"So initiating all of a sudden," Kaiba remarked nodding, "I like it,"—busy somewhere off to the side, "And did you want that above..."
"Say below the belt, Seto, and I'll rip your throat out."
This time, the brunette's head turned bewilderedly, expression caught between whether to be offended, disturbed, or so incredibly proud. "Well," he recomposed, shrugging it off with an overly flamboyant downplay, "only cause you used my name that time."
"Yeah, that's right," Joey slammed the shot, "I'm wearing your pants today so don't fu..cking listen to anything that just came out of my mouth just now," he quickly lost emphasis, rushing through the rest with a keep'em'coming wave of the hand, "Another."
"Ah, it's alright, they're powerful, I know," Kaiba leisurely poured several for the both of them, "Seto and the Traveling Pants they call us," he spoke with the eloquence of an old time barkeep. "Out on an epic journey of friendship and self discovery."
Joey snorted, suppressed laugher displacing the surface of tequila and sending it spilling upward against his face, "Dick," he dragged his sleeve hastily across his mouth, but refused to inhabit the subservient role, sliding the shot glass along the table with surprising accuracy. "Here, I think you need this more than me," he remarked cooly, staring down at where these so called pants had landed, "it seems your GPS took quite an improper turn."
Cobalt irises paused to look him over, contemplatively traveling down the length of the other's figure, cocking his head to the side with a deepening sigh, "You're right, the final destination was clearly your pants," he took his shot, "but what are you gonna do? They've got a mind of their own those things."
"Mfgh-wht-dyo," Joey struggled between the shot and shades that rose as rapidly as his fist.
"Hey, where'd Sam go?" Kaiba turned and ducked without effort, slinking away before throwing back a self satisfied smirk.
That manipulative son of a bitch.
».«
"I bet all the girls go crazy over this," Sam continued to pace freely about the space, head tilted in continuous awe, "you're seriously straight out of a CW show."
"Actually," Joey spoke up, after releasing an unintentional snort, fingers having gotten mighty friendly with the drinks he'd been poured, tongue loose enough that he was indulging information without ill intention, or perhaps just too much purpose, "our dear Kaiba-boy here is actually—"
"Celibate," Kaiba played off in perfect character, hands rising from his knees as if finally, he'd worked up the courage to admit something controversial, "I'm studying to become a priest."
"Don't even joke about that," Sam plopped down onto the love-seat with her drink in hand, taking a hard sip, "God, what a waste that would be."
"Yeah, he takes his vows pretty soon too," Joey pretended like he hadn't heard, "so you'd better behave yourself," he tipped his glass towards the sofa they were now sharing. His attempt to wedge between the memory of their effortless chumminess thwarted and turned against him, resorting to a level far more childish, relieved his Girlfriend's Confidential get-back-bitch-stare had fit the context. Appearing more drunkenly playful than entirely authentic.
Sam laughed. "I've gotta start going to church," she stated, both arms hanging over the back of the couch, "Seriously, if I got to look at that pretty mug for an hour, hour and half two to three times a week, then hell, I'd go religiously."
However Kaiba was staring, singular brow risen, "Yeah, you're still coming to the ceremony, right Joseph?"
Joey simply pulled the glass to his lips with a self satisfied smile.
"Seriously, better enjoy him while you can, Japan," she winked, "don't worry, I won't get in your way. By all means," Sam gestured to the space, "those are some pretty hungry eyes you've got over there, so go ahead, ravish away."
To this, Seto spit a full mouth of Scotch back into his glass, so abruptly he began to choke, coughing and waving his hand, "Safe word!" he repeated several times, upper body still tilted forward into his fist to suppress the fit; Joey having gone bright red the second he'd heard the words "hungry eyes" leave Sam's mouth, no room for deflecting when he could practically feel the heat.
"You ought to be more careful how you're caught looking at people," she egged him on mercilessly.
And he only wished he'd had a pillow to chuck across the room. "Yeah, and how's about you watch the words that come out your mouth."
"Rrreow," she swatted pretend cat claws, "My, my, you're a jealous one."
Sensing the one sided tension growing more tense, Kaiba interjected, "Alright, alright, that's enough, we all know I'm not gonna be a priest," he paused, almost laughing, so uncharacteristically casual of him, "and besides, if anyone's going to be doing any ravishing around here, it's going to be me," his expression sharpened, eyes so suggestively ambiguous that Joey immediately reverted back to prior suspicions over this so called 'in tact virginity' business.
There was just no way, it was impossible. To begin with and especially now. You didn't get this good without practice. The way how even his body language had shifted in sync, one arm now bent, elbow resting on the back of the love seat, fingers fanned curiously close but not quite pressed to his face; back melting so that his pelvis pushed forward, legs spread casually, and tousled hair pushed this way and that. Brown tips swept over blue eyes that remained unmoving while his free hand pulled out a fresh pack, single cigarette balanced and drawn, lighting it so smoothly this was like a goddamn movie.
All that's missing is the suit—but his mind corrected that right away, playing online dress up games with Kaiba in his head.
"I wish he meant me," Sam leaned back, pretending to fan herself, no doubt not too far from doing exactly what he was thinking over so thoroughly—although undressing him as opposed to cosplay-costuming him was a vastly different extreme.
Goddamn, I really am from Japan, he shook his head, eyes narrowing before rising, extracting the humor from his thoughts as the means to disguise and diffuse this totally fucked—not to mention completely inappropriate—shift in behavior. "If only you were a little boy instead," he posed, sarcastic sincerity floating through the air, "that's more the priestly speed than what you've got underneath."
"That's gross," Kaiba grimaced. "Worse that you look pleased about it," demurely flirtatious now, "sounds like somebody's in desperate need of confession."
"Don't deflect your perversions onto me," Joey stuck up his nose, neck rolling and face falling on the brunette's at a devious angle, "but, guess it can't be helped, I mean, when a person chooses to be abstinent for so long…"
"Are you speaking of standards?" the other retorted. "Yeah, I think having them is important, although it's clear you avidly disagree. Just how many Hale Mary's you think you're gonna need to erase that type of history?"
"Ohh," Sam seemed to overflow on the inside, covering her mouth with one hand, "and jealousy just became a two-way street."
"Hah," the brunette murdered any ounce of accuracy, "nobody gets jealous over a product that's already used."
"I'm going to get another drink," Joey mumbled, feet pivoting fully before letting his face engage the ground, frown lines creasing, unimaginably hurt. I guess I hit a nerve. But Kaiba always hit them so much harder. He'd gotten his mile alright, five thousand and eighty feet in the wrong direction.
Was the previous night repeating? Or was it simply too much for the brunette to mediate two nights in a row in order to relieve his discomfort between the trio's dynamic? If the awkward tension lasted, that meant the end result, the best part, would never come to fruition, didn't it? So was that the objective the other wished to avoid, or simply a task he felt he was under no obligation to complete; or was he himself just thrusting too much responsibility over the outcome of his feelings onto Kaiba? Being too sensitive, too incapable of keeping up with these levels of intelligence that far exceeded his own, making him feel anxious and so totally out of their league…
"Hey, sulking sally," another empty glass slid across the countertop, "pouring drinks is a job for the host, but top me off while you're at it," the brunette leaned against the breakfast bar with both arms, tipping his head back, "and don't go spilling all my secrets and I won't go attacking yours," he slipped in, in such a Seto Kaiba way, lacking all remorse. "It'd be a real shame for me to start regretting having told you them now," he reached over to retrieve the replenished glass, "and easy on the heavy stuff, you've been outpacing yourself all night," then turned his back. "If whatever you've got on your mind's so awful, call it a night, but don't take it out on me."
And with that, he walked away, leaving Joey to slump against the countertop with his elbows propping what little of himself he could lift up, ignoring the return of the Seto Kaiba he'd been stupid to think had truly disappeared, leisurely pouring a steady, prolonged stream of liquor down his throat despite the warning he was genetically predisposed to overlooking. And I was stupid enough to think you were amazing too, Joey felt it hit his stomach, all heavy and numbing, guess you were right the first time, you really can't teach an old dog new tricks.
"Hey you," Sam raised her voice, "with the face."
Joey craned his neck, "Me with the face?" he asked, "Don't you think you're talking in the wrong direction?"
"Oh, you both have the face," she dismissed, all worked up and irritated, "now stop being such a spoilsport and get back here!"
"Honestly," Kaiba raised his glass in tandem, "you know it's pretty awkward with you only sitting a whole four feet away and all, stop acting like we disqualified you."
Joey, however, was less reassured how to respond to the brunette than Sam, his previous statement still relatively fresh, and much too personal to pretend like it was nothing.
"I've got weeeeed," Sam chorused persuasively, dangling the zip-lock bag overhead
"Fine," the blonde grumbled, snatching his drink and slinking back over, "but only because there's weed."
"Is that all it takes to get your attention?" Kaiba asked implicatively, face tilted against the support of his fist, elbow angled against the armrest, "wish someone would've told me sooner."
Joey's face furrowed, eyebrows slanting up into one another, "is that all it takes to change your mood back to agreeable?" he countered, exchanging the original format, "wish someone would've saved me the stress."
"Awe," Sam cooed, somewhere between the breaking up and packing of the greenery, "is that what you were pouting about?"
"I wasn't pouting," he dismissed.
"He was pouting," Kaiba interjected.
"Was not!"
"Were too."
"I hate you."
"Hate you more," Kaiba winked.
"You two are. fucking. adorable," Sam interrupted.
"Absolute nonsense," the brunette reached for the bowl, "we are both extraordinarily masculine and defined individuals!"
"I already told you, it's not like that!" Joey overlapped the other.
"Rewind and repeat," Sam nodded, tossing the lighter, "fucking adorable."
Sighing in defeat, he shook his head, "I guess we're fucking adorable then," the blonde submitted, reaching out for the device.
"Not until you say it sincerely," Kaibra retracted upon the collision of their hands.
"But you didn't even agree ten seconds ago!"
The other turning defiantly, speaking with the intonation of a six-year-old, "I changed my mind."
"You're too flippant," Joey shook his head.
"And you're too fixed."
"And you both need to run away together and elope already," Sam stretched back, "how many more ways can I think to say it?"
Hazel eyes shot sideways, "that's enough out of you missy, keep your thoughts to yourself."
She grinned, "like you keep your eyes to yours?"
"Treeaaated," Kaiba chorused, sinking back into his second hit, weed diffusing with the alcohol they hadn't stopped drinking all day, medication intermixing indiscernibly.
"Hey, gimmy that," Joey lunged forward, colliding with the couch when the brunette maneuvered up and out of the way.
He bent over, face hovering amusedly over the other boy, "not until you admit we're adorable."
"What's wrong with you?" Joey asked, pushing him away, getting to his feet.
"Well that was rude," Sam scolded offhandedly.
"Yeah," Kaiba agreed, "real uncool, Joey."
"You're the only one being uncool," the blonde employed critically, reaching for the bowl, only to be denied again, finally getting a hold on it, just to find the brunette taking advantage.
"Just say it," he pulled Joey forward, the blonde inching backward to avoid his face, "pretty please?"
"Seriously though," his body strained to stay at a safe enough distance, "would somebody please tell me where the hell Kaiba is, and who this imposter is in his stead?"
"Fancy words," the brunette observed with an austere drop in demeanor, sidestepping and nudging the other behind the knee, causing him to lose balance, "I liked you better when you were worthy of the pants you're wearing."
"Lost. SO lost," the redhead echoed, "will one of you just pass the damn bowl already?"
"Jesus," Joey faltered forward, fumbling, then recomposing himself, throwing a backwards glance, "we're adorable, happy?"
And he swore Kaiba smiled simply at the fact he got his way in the end, not with the actual words that had been spoken, just the corroborating evidence that he could bend the other to his will.
"He's happy, you're happy," Sam continued to divvy in dismissive sing-song, "some of us would like to be high…"
"Of course!" the taller boy pulled back, skipping over Joey to hand the bowl off to Sam, "I almost forgot, sorry about that."
Inhaling on the verge of collapse, Joey allowed his body literally to do so, downwardly plopping back into the armchair with a deepening sigh.
"He's—pouting again," she observed between the inhalation and holding in of a hit.
He exhaled hopelessly, "definitely pouting again."
"Not so adorable anymore," Joey glanced up with a funny grin, "is it?"
Only expanding the upward angle in the other boy's smile, "Well played."
"And your reward," Sam stood up, doubling over with a bow.
"FINALLY," Joey's fingers reached out and claimed his spot in the rotation, allowing their mindsets to sync up on similar levels as the smoke thickened throughout the room.
Exchanging THC for Menthol for more alcohol—smiles for exchanges for subtle hints and losses of subtlety—changes in subject matter for alcohol for menthol for more THC, and around and around they went. Until the mood that had set the initial tone was all but forgotten and Joey was sitting somewhere on the ground by Kaiba's feet, head rolled back, staring upward with an irrepressible smile, and the brunette shook his own, eyes closed and trying not to mirror the expansion. Offset and absorbed on equal fronts with the other's drunkenly playful features, so innocent and inclusive and singularly engaging; never far from his face, never far from him. Such an offsetting sensation, but so easy to get lost in.
"Gimmy," Joey reached above lazily, pawing at the emerald and white package.
"Cigarette?"
"Please."
"I suppose," the brunette pretended to put up any semblance of a fight, leaning down over the mess of blonde hair, cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other, and both of them wrapped around either side of him.
Doting on the smaller boy in a way that was almost possessive, Sam cocked her head to the side, refocusing on the familiar symmetry of the locket that slipped out from Seto's shirt and the trading cards she faintly recalled finding in Joey's apartment.
"OH MY GOD," she exclaimed suddenly, startling the other two, "do you know what you two remind me of? Those, oh my god, what are they," she stared downward, in high, drunken, girlishly absorbed thought, "like weird comics where they're always like, playing sports, or card games," she gestured invasively at the object around his neck for inference, "or there are like…MONSTERS and shit…" she tacked on ineffectually, trailing away only to slam her fist triumphantly into her other hand, "and BAM," she concluded, "they just start fucking."
Steadily taking, at least trying to take in what she'd said, both of them had leaned forward, confusion more than evident, Joey scratching his head, and Kaiba squinting at her.
"Monsters that fuck…?" Joey asked, repulsed and baffled, "I don't get it."
"No, no, like, there's always a bunch of unrelated action-movie-pseudo-sports-sci-fi-lord of the ring's-lookin-fantasy crap at the beginning and then all of a sudden—"
"Wait a second," Kaiba interrupted, "are you talking about DOUJINSHI!?"
"YEAH!" her enthusiasm accelerated, "that's what it's called! You guys ar—"
"Aaaand, this conversation just ended," Joey intercepted, shaking his head as she tried to continue.
"Definitely over," the brunette reached down for the cigarette in the other's hand before getting up to open a window.
"Oh, seriously," her hands fell against her hips, "after everything else I've said, that's what's suddenly worth getting embarrassed about!? God, what a waste," she slurred, waving them off as she took her leave somewhere in the direction of the bathroom.
The both of them beyond embarrassed, wide eyes engaging one another, their upfront familiarity combining with her offhanded mentioning of Duel Monsters incorporating with some horrifically intoxicated accuracy. The alcohol and the weed potentiating a spew of Japanese between the two of them the second she was out of range.
"I bet it exists," the blonde prompted.
"Dude, it totally exists," Kaiba reaffirmed.
Both of them concluding, "We're never looking."
"Never," Joey continued.
The brunette emphasizing, "Ever, Ever."
Second cigarettes lit within literal seconds.
Cellphone screens illuminating even faster.
"FUCK, I looked!"
"ME TOO!"
Contradictory and counterproductive.
"HAH," Joey exclaimed, "BOTTOMED-BOTTOMED!"
As Seto's finger flicked upward against his phone, "Why the fuck am I a girl now?"
"And why is your dad here?" the blonde kept turning his head farther to the side.
"Is that a DRAGON!?"
"Oh my god, my eyes, MY EYES!"
"DUDE DON'T CLICK THAT ONE!"
"What are you guys doing?"
"NOTHING," Kaiba smacked the device from Joey's hands, so fast that it flung to the side and knocked over a half empty glass, then throwing his own somewhere behind him.
"Yeah, see," both hands rose emptily, "nothing."
"Oohkay," amethyst irises widened and narrowed, "you guys like…never talk in Japanese though…what didn't you want me to hear!?" her voice picked up defensively.
"It is our language," Joey was surprisingly quick to deflect.
And Kaiba nodded firmly, "Yeah, and we'll speak it if we want to!"
And then, without a moment between, they both burst out laughing, so uncontrolled, stomach muscles all achy and sore from contracting against the pressure, the brunette slapping the other on the back as he folded forward and the blonde rolled over onto his side, fist hitting the ground. Unable to put the hilarity into words, howling, and heaving unsteady surges of laughter and oxygen, trying to recompose themselves, and failing miserably.
Eyes red and glistening before they finally stopped, Sam so vicariously fucked in the head from just watching, hitting the bowl long and hard, features twisting, perceptually incapable of this particular scene. Joey holding his breast, as he exhaled, "ohhh...that was too much," he wiped his eyes as Kaiba mirrored the motions, "seriously, cigarette?" "Mhm," the other nodded in sync, "Lighter?" "Yeah," blue eyes flicked upward at the device, both of them swapping and exchanging in perfect unison.
"Oh, but when I go off on a tangent, it's crazy talk," she was shaking her head, "you should see yourselves right now."
"Ohh, I think we've seen enough," Kaiba extended his vocals, and Joey snorted.
"Get a room already."
"Yeah, we'll jump off that bridge when we come to it," the blonde grinned, sinking back against the couch, and closing his eyes.
Blue eyes widening for a fraction of a second, "You're drunk," he nudged him.
"Maybe," Joey allowed the motion to unsteady him, only swaying back in the same direction and landing with his face pressed to the other's knee; body slumping into itself in a matter of minutes, lips parted, and breathing slow, yet audible spurts. Occasionally fidgeting and fluctuating with a short lived smile or surfacing smirk as he nestled into the fabric, readjusting; and Kaiba reached down to ease the lit menthol from between his fingers like a Jenga block, trying not to let either the cigarette or the one framing it fall.
"Definitely drunk," he glanced up towards Sam with a grin.
Having failed to notice the way she'd been looking at them, the way something about it had changed, so serious and sobering—side tracked and no longer sarcastic, but saddened. Skeptical. So wary of the way she'd watched this unfolding in front of her, from the other night, but to be honest, mostly just today. The shifting occurring too quickly, her concern unable to abandon the fact that none of the stories made sense…
"Y'wanna help me with him," Seto hinted in her direction, hands on either sides of Joey's shoulders, trying to steady him, Sam's train of thought temporarily dispelling upon interruption.
Shaking her head and joining in to conquer the task of putting Joey to bed, rearranging him in a manner that granted the brunette some mobility. Getting to his feet and linking his arms under Joey's while Sam gathered him in her arms around the waist, and the both of them simultaneously pulled the deadweight of the intoxicated drunkard to the couch. Propping his head against the armrest and straightening out his legs as he squirmed uncooperatively and murmured nonsensically with soft, disorienting mewing sounds, rolling onto his side and burying himself into the cushions.
Standing upright, Kaiba stretched, "Eh, I wish I'd gotten some water or an Advil or four into him before he went passing out like that," blue eyes fell on the body beneath his gaze.
"Not quite sure it was purely alcohol he was so drunk off," Sam muttered under her breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," she deflected, pretending it wasn't so clearly about him, only to change her mind no more than ten seconds later, "Hey…do you think I could talk to you for a minute?"
"Yeah, shoot," he cocked his head, dragging his cigarette.
She shuffled her feet self consciously in sight of Joey, "Outside, I mean."
"Uhm, sure," Kaiba replied with greater resistance, wringing his hands at the inference of the other boy his eyes were drawn toward. A greater unease forming in the pitfalls of his stomach as he followed her into the hallway, her intonation indicative of something else. Something suddenly serious that he was more than just certain he didn't like the sound of.
».«
Standing awkwardly on the other side of his front door, the atmospheric tension rose thickly, and Sam stood somewhere farther away, but facing him. His own features systematically shutting down as he could sense her about to speak, the heaviness that transferred from words not yet offered into an undesirable sort of suspense.
Not feeling quite so fucked up all of a sudden, both instinctual and consequential, every ounce of humor siphoned from prior conversations, ill at ease as the mood slowly died. The brunette crossing his arms tightly across his chest when she stopped dragging her feet and Sam's eyes shot up in a complete 360 from their previous optic radius, no longer lighthearted, but ambiguous and staring right at him.
Or through him he should say, at least that's how it all felt.
She cleared her throat. "Listen, I won't presume to know you, but anyone with eyes can see that you're walking down a very beaten path; and I think you're as aware as I am that he's following you. You, and very specifically you, and from what little I've heard, you're far less reluctant and a little too fond of letting him," she paused, "and, well, I know there's an expiration date, I know he initiated it, and I know you're supposed to be this big asshole who suddenly accepted to submit to an otherwise insufferable farce for the sake of someone you don't even consider your friend.
And I think Joey's impulsive and a little too on the sleeve to get away with being as clever as to pull one over on a person like you," she accused without sounding accusatory, "who strikes me as more a veteran of strategy than just your average, ambitious twenty something, and I think Joey knows that too; and you've probably turned it ten to a hundred times over, but still, neither of you are looking where you're supposed to. While he's busy matching your pace, you're glued to his face—but there's no such thing as a pensively proceeding with a lack of caution."
"Where are you going with all this?" Kaiba interrupted quite suddenly, intonation on the offensive, inner addict reflexively the defensive.
"Exactly there—if you have to ask, it's clear you don't know either, and clearly aren't looking backwards for guidance, no more than Joey's staring forward out of an abundance of knowledge for what he's leaving behind."
I know this already, he thought irritated, feeling his intelligence being undermined and insulted by someone he'd met no more than a fortnight ago. Going from supportive to superimposed, unclear motives emerging.
"You're probably thinking, 'how presumptuous of me'," she laughed, "and it's because I am. Like I said, I won't pretend to know you anymore than I'll pretend not to know how badly Joey wants to."
From her careful choice of words, she was clearly feeling the heat of the mercilessly unyielding signature stare-down few people had the stomach to meet, but maintained an equally mysterious resistance of indescribable violet instead that carried its own unique fierceness. A rare phenomenon which was attractive and repelling enough to his own to permit the preemptive loosening of the safety beneath his trigger finger, tongue coiling like the barrel of a gun, carefully ready to release or bight the bullet at a seconds notice.
"And I know it's not my place…"
"But you're going to say it anyways," Kaiba spoke coolly, "and you're right, it's not like you know me, chances are, you don't really know Joey as well as you figure either," he added needlessly. Old habits of superiority hard to relinquish when called out in his own residence, her attitude so contradictory to ten minutes ago. "So be quick about it, I don't a history lesson, just say what it is you intend to say, there's no need to be so cryptic though, you're already exhausting my capacity to take superficial generalizations seriously by the second."
"Well, I know why he was so quick and persistent about calling you an asshole now," she absorbed without a scratch, not even the slightest flinch of her ego. "Kudos on acting so naturally though." Her voice was thick with sarcasm that carried neither spite nor narcissistic undermining, almost more demeaning. "It's quite the oxymoron for a supposed genius such as yourself to have crafted quite so masterfully."
That's because this is the oxymoron, can't you see the clearly contrary idiot standing right in front of you? His face giving away the exact lack of semblance he'd wanted. This is the act; the rest was all me. And the only thing masterful about it is the man who successfully bred and reared them like cattle, merging the two into the, 'haven't you heard,' yours truly.
The queer, but never less than cruel man who'd accepted and adopted two children upon the challenge of a chess match. However, perhaps it was Gozaburo who had truly wound up winning in some ways that day. The man who successfully morphed the act and the audition into the audience itself—a one man show comprised of two lesser evils—but go ahead and take ten seconds to believe the third, he's always been the most convincing, Kaiba smiled, almost sadistically. Not towards Sam, just that bitch named Karma who loved the bitter irony far more than some etymological little orphan boy unfortunate enough to inherit the position of the eldest pretender. With a hit out on the head of a family name so deep in metaphysical debt it was beyond laughable. His every transaction declined due to insufficient funds. Goddamn the bittersweet irony of it all. The twisted allegorical bullshit they'd placed him here for.
The boy with everything because he'd lost everyone.
And no matter how high he climbed, there was so much farther to go. Surrounded by an honest living, jumpstarted and enhanced by the blood money Gozoburo had stained his hands with—that very real blood of single-handedly killing off of an entire senior staff with $10,000,000 dollars and only eleven years on this earth. He supposed it was still dripping behind him after all this time, difficult to avoid leaving a paper trail in this day and age. His inheritance and his own private accounts kept separately—one used for good and the other evil—the highest grossing income that couldn't buy him a second chance. The first forcibly disowned by fate, murdered before he could even identify with it.
And would have marked the next, but had been sacrificed for the sake of saving another from having it beaten out of him too, much abler to take the bruises and the dents than his brother—the brutal hours and psychological disfiguring—but never able to kill the strong willed boy who swallowed the abuse and the experiments and the pills and all the sleepless nights purely for the sake of the look on their faces the day he finally swallowed himself.
The ultimate Houdini. Locked up, shackled, and submerged underwater. Only, unlike the infamous escape artist, he was still holding his breath—well into the process of growing gills—a little inexperienced with words, but naturally selected as far as evolutionary traits. And he would never allow himself to die in a cage he'd put himself into. Besides, speech hadn't been vital at the time, in fact, in that situation, maladaptive actually. Sound too unfamiliar back then, just muffled echoing he could make out on the other half of the glass, and eyes he couldn't help had turned so sharp.
But throughout it all, despite everything, he'd remained at his post, clutching the key—inhabiting the skin of something forced into a state of constant evolution, the skeleton of what had come first becoming the framework and the cage a symbol of the secondary reactions that had taken place. The science experiment that remained once the memories fell away into the darkness, the ability to communicate cut off then kept locked up, outer and inner appearances no longer bearing any prior resemblance, but all that remained.
And thus, the third had been the only choice. The last and only chance he would ever have, nobody got more than three, and so he didn't give a damn. It was alright if they wanted to extort him—to shape and style him—because he was practically a doll himself by the time he'd come of age, always somebody else but never someone.
So go a head and take a whack, see if anything falls out. Pick up a scalpel and try and take your pound of flesh for all it's worth. Pick up a baseball bat, a hacksaw, a morning glory, it doesn't make the slightest difference to me. Don't hold back, do your worst, just don't cry when I don't bleed.
"Like you already mentioned," his voice softened in condescending sweetness, "you don't, nor do you, presume to know me. But I don't dislike you," and that was true, she had shown him kindness unfamiliar of strangers and even more peculiar of his demeanor—that was a precious gift—but by no means a suit of armor, "so I'll only say this once. Never turn your back with the presumption that you have the foresight to see the ten steps ahead of you I'm already standing. 'Arrogant', 'asshole', doesn't matter, label me at your earliest, latest, and every convenience. External perception is fundamental of survival, so I don't stop to consider biological processes as something to be taken personally. Instinct is involuntary, thus offense is irrelevant and an unnecessary exertion of energy, and I will not waste it senselessly. I can be as villainous as you want to paint me; and I guarantee I can fit every color pallet almost perfectly—after all," he smiled smugly, "I am a genius, remember?"
Adderall drawing this out in the same cryptic sing-song he'd hypocritically bitten her head off about while simultaneously voiding his very real desire not to be genuinely mean by dragging it out in a way that did more damage than provide cushioning.
"And if you mean to meddle, or create these accusations, if you even, for a split second, pretend to grasp my underlying intentions for doing this, or the way I feel about Wheeler," last name replacing the blonde's first because the heat of the moment pumped so much blood from his heart to his throat he was embarrassed, but to hell with it, he continued, continuity becoming an overlapping series of incomplete sentences he was struggling to keep straight. But it was the best he could do. The only thing he could think to do. Talking and talking until something came out right. "Then think long and hard, and then again, because you have no idea," indecisive word selections projected with unwavering conviction, "and you never will."
"Joey's not like most people, and most people aren't anything in comparison; in fact, they don't even exist as far as I'm concerned. There is no value, they posses no meaning, I feel nothing. And I'm so sick of staring at such an ugly, warped world. At mirrors and false faces. And everything else that goes with it. So a smart girl like you should have no trouble connecting the dots you're always drawing between us so effortlessly rather than pretending they don't create an obvious picture," Seto began summarizing with such boldly backhanded compliments before going all deadpan and direct, "I don't look forward because for once in my life I've grown more fond of the one right next to me—no matter how irksome—insufferable," he directly quoted, his tongue so damn loose and liable; unhinging with surges of words mixed together with a series of unaddressed feelings consisting of exponentially unequivocal parts truth, alcohol, amphetamines, and partial spins and stretches of simplistic derivation.
Ratio and proportionality gone awry, "It's where I want to be right now, I chose it, and if you insist on interfering, well, let's just say, when it comes to the few things I deem important to me, get in my way, and I guarantee I'll become every bit the monster you want to make me out to be," he stood archly, "and I promise you, it's not pretty," deep eyes narrowed. "My resolve is indissoluble, my methods unorthodox, advantageous, and you'll see very quickly that I am not a nice person," he was exhaling more heavily, so bothered, so too far gone and in too deep to correct the eschewal of his feral half. "And that's no understatement either, I will extirpate all that stands in my way. Go ahead and ask Joey, he'll tell you better than anybody just how true that is."
"Tell me what?" Joey asked from the doorway, yawning and rubbing eyes, "You're too noisy," he reached out, taking ahold of the edge of Seto's shirt, tugging like an impatient child, "and you use so many big words when you're trying to scare people—" pausing again to yawn and hiccuping at the same time, "mean Seto's so less decorous," hazel eyes poured upward with a goofy grin, "Defense Mode."
Kaiba grumbled, staring permissively at the ground, not only slipping a little too far into his strings, but adderalling away the most unforgivable utterances. Not all of them incorrect, but not something he'd just offer up like that, like he had to put the blonde up as collateral to get his point across, so manipulative and like-minded of me, one interpersonal slight and the psychosis switch flips.
"Don't ever give Kaiba advice," Joey's head poked out from behind the other boy's shoulders, "he'll just lose his shit," the blonde made direct contact, thanks to the propinquity and proximal advancing. "Mr. Boss Man," he grinned, jabbing him repeatedly—playfully—too drunk and touching the brunette too often and too frequently, stomach muscles left without any other choice but to clench, and it only made Joey's grin wider, "See? He's already getting angry with me."
"Am not!"
"The CEO of the World doesn't need to learn anything from anybody," more direct quotes came alive, everything happening so fast, "he's already very busy giving orders, c'mon Mr. GQ, just go ah—"
"Shut your stupid face already," Kaiba's palm pushed his head back, "God!—you're the real pain."
"And you're no trip to the candy store either," Joey retracted, sidestepping back into his former position, closer, fingers and fabric folding together, "He may be a little bittersweet," he turned his attention to Sam, "probably more bitter, no, basically just a basket—he might not show it, and he's a bit more murderous than most plastic," the blonde was slurring in somehow perfect drunken semantics, diffusing much more than their squabble; questionable hands colliding with the curve of broad shoulders, patting them down before roaming thoroughly along the length of the other's abdomen, "and no handles as far as I can tell," he concluded, gripping both the brunette's hipbones, hands far more formfitting. "So, as you can see, he's pretty impossible to handle, but he's also carrying a whole lot," Joey squeezed lightly before letting go, smiling upward towards Sam, "so you don't need to worry, you'll only upset him, and he's too protective to understand he's bordering more certifiably than sensibly—but don't ever expect sensitive," Joey was laughing to himself again, "unlesss you happen to beat him at just about anything, then he'll buy a jet and ship you half way around the world so he can sulk."
Kaiba shirked away roughly—so much of his personal life all out in the open—such drastically different, but symbiotic conversations taking place one after the other. Inhabiting such opposing roles than before.
"But that's what makes him so strong," Joey announced, "one day he's going to take over the world, I guarantee it, but it's a lot of pressure. A lot of stress, and he's already holding so much," there was a delicate tug on the adjacent shirt end, a slightly guilt ridden, downward glance holding, "they're completely full. And," such an encumbering fluctuation before contravening, "...he doesn't even really like me...but somehow he made room," Joey looked up sheepishly, flushed and free hand tangling up through his hair, "and even though I kind of hate him too, like kind of a whole-whole lot," the brunette shot him a peripheral glance that was quick to widen, "I'm glad I found him."
Hazel coloring steadily starting to shift, swirling stained mahogany and precious jade into a background flecked with scarlet, an ineffable, genuine refocusing like the night sky swallowing the ocean. "I'm glad it was you," he fluctuated between the shyness and the small, delicate smile that formed alongside it, "It's weird, but it almost feels like maybe it wasn't really the right person who I thought I hated all this time; because until recently, I never even met him. Never had any clue he was there, never even cared or took the time to look. After all these years, it never once occurred to me. But here we are, after god knows how much time, and I don't think I'm even that upset about how it all played out."
An authentic rounding of blue began to sink through the sky, sinking in such warmer shades, drowning in the wave of twinkling little red lights illuminating the darkest depths till he found himself floating, surrounded, Sam not understanding, a smug satisfaction lapping in a green that was neither blood stained bills nor a jealous, petty monster, but sea foam melting and dissolving emerald and jade into shades of paint—bedroom walls...so familiar, but so faint...the smell of sycamore. This sudden, unshakable feeling that he felt incredibly safe.
"Because you were worth the wait," Joey beamed, subconsciously holding his shirt sleeve this time, embarrassing the brunette, who's heart jumped, thinking it were his hand; but nothing about the way the blonde was looking at him felt stupid. Just safe. Okay. This was okay. This was normal, and he craned his neck towards Sam, Joey practically glowing with flushed cheeks and an innocent, indirect excuse for involuntary contact, that although automatic, just gave it a whole entirely new level of intimacy quite different than before.
The words she didn't understand, like a secret language they'd spoken since childhood, but predisposed to the knowledge that they'd never, even in the very least, ever been friends. Let alone cordial enough to come to submit to such contact and call it purely casual gave her pause. Just something that didn't seem natural to an objective third party. Something that arose further suspicion.
But how could she possibly want to pry apart this transitional stabilization based purely on a hunch? Well, circumstantial evidence was the more operative wording she glanced back at the bodies she swore were about to morph together one day—even at a distance, like they'd stitched their shadows and souls alike together. For now though, did it matter? She could tell that Joey was happier than she'd seen him since the most longing object in his gaze was the putrid stench of Lake Michigan, it's filmy algae, the occasional dead fish, his eyes so lost and far removed. Searching for something far away, or perhaps no longer there. Or simply a far less complicated human desire for a comfort more tangible than the soothing sound of waves, that no matter how submerged, could only push and pull you under. An infinite body without arms, just an insatiable appetite. And he may have metaphorically slurred Seto as having no handles, but then again, it wasn't Seto who needed handling. Nor did joey, he wasn't a dog, he wasn't searching for some Katy Perry song, for someone made of paper, plastic, or whatever the lyrics were, drifting through the wind. He wanted the here and now. The arms that could hold him; because face it, after awhile, holding yourself only makes the pain more profuse, the anxiety, the hopelessness, and the tears.
The subsequent cure none other than the strong, almost planetary presence he was orbiting, the full rotation it had taken to come with in gravitational range, and she'd be the first to admit that, although his personality fit and falsified his external features, he seemed like the kind of man that would fight for you when the walls fell down, who'd build them for you if they had never been there, and he'd said as much himself, in more or less verbal warning shots. Still laughable that he perceived her as a threat, but speculative as to whether it was the factor of attraction or intuition that posed a factorable enough threat to address; albeit, that had been her doing too, hadn't it? I guess it was a lot of things, sure, she claimed to presume not to know him, but she knew his type, she knew it quite well; and no one could deny the sense of something protective, that sense of defense mixed in with manic possessive and the discarded pharmaceutical receipt she'd found by accident, somewhere beneath the bathroom sink while looking for toilet paper.
But that wasn't her business either though. And passion didn't always automatically mean addict, she was just, very thrown off by a personality as strong as hers. I bet he's a fucking Scorpio, she shook her head, not positive of the exact zodiac range, but it took one to know one. And that's what worried her, oh god, when was Joey's birthday again? Had she asked him? For your sake I hope you're a Capricorn or a Cancer, or, Christ, there was no way in hell Joey was a Capricorn. A Cancer? Maybe? No, wait, that'd be worse, or is it different for two dudes? Or, no, wait, don't water signs get along? Fuck. Whatever, I just hope for your sake you're not an air sign. Just fuel for the fire. Twice as much for the relentless waters to lay to waste, dampening the spark, drowning out all the warmth and the light until there wasn't even a single ember left to smolder.
Sighing without conclusion, and the awareness of lingering in this small enclosure as if she were a mistress freshly discovered, Sam decided she probably shouldn't have smoked so much, drunk, and then dragged a fellow Scorpio into battle. Especially one who hates to lose so much it's become satirical, she took him at his word far before he'd extended it. You didn't have to look past his eyes to understand he was one of those people it was best not to rub the wrong way. Even though he'd been kind, Joey was accurate in his description, with such a natural, almost primal air of superiority, and a face like that she sighed inwardly, I doubt there's much he couldn't take over.
It was a comfort at least, to know that neither of them would take it too seriously, because she enjoyed this little trio. Not only were they fun to be with—their isolated dispositions making for such a comical, yet unexpectedly functional dynamic despite their clashing dysfunction—but they were also both incredibly easy on the eyes. And this whole thing felt like she'd jumped into the live action movie of a long standing female fantasy. Although she felt a tad bit more than a tad bit creepy admitting it while still relishing, but if she hadn't witnessed so many bridge-worthy moments, caught the accompanying pushing of the boundaries events that weren't exactly afraid to quite literally press the proper buttons, combine with the idea of rivals turned friends, she probably would have had an easier time sustaining from provoking it on.
Although, as a woman with a mental compulsion for this sort of thing, she knew when to separate with what she'd seen with her actual eyes than the images that transposed in her brain. And…the closeness wasn't sexual per say—more ambiguous than not—and a few justifiably questionable things. And for all she knew, it was just a running joke—they seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious—so what made her think she had any right to assume anything ulterior? No, the fantasy and her developing fears weren't necessarily interchangeable, but in the end, it was clear she'd overstepped. She'd leave them be, final verdict, this was her second night as an intruder after all, and her second in a row this week avoiding something else entirely.
Then she caught sight of blue eyes cutting through the distance, fucking, Scorpio, alright.
"Are we done here?"
"Yeah," she submitted, trying to keep this brief, "just don't underestimate what I mentioned earlier, the—"
"Beaten path, yes, I remember."
"Well, then keep in mind that you're not the first one to walk it, it's been paved immemorially," she spoke, even toned, "everything regresses to the mean in due time, and it only leads one place." And with that she turned to take her leave, glancing over her shoulder before boarding the elevator, catching his eyes—a photochromic electro-prism of purple, charged and ever changing shades of lavender and heliotrope—deep like wine or painted storms, water colors that ran together; and light like beaten silver, something iridescent and see through like painted glass all clashing against the seafloor spreading of lapis and cerulean—aegean and arctic rings subducting the depth and weight of such refined and unremitting oceanic persuasion—two mysteriously calm but piercing colors colliding like waves against a seawall, and Sam broke down shades of blue with six simple words, "what goes up, must come down."
Fragmentary dispersions of blue fixated but refocusing in a manner he did not like the feeling accompanying, but she'd already disappeared behind the metallic finish of elevator doors clamping together, descending floors. Chest filling heatedly until an innocent confusion beckoned him backward, the smaller boy cocking his head confusedly.
"Is she still talking about Doujinshi?"
"Jesus, get inside," he clasped his hand across Joey's mouth.
The blonde stared mercilessly, such effortless humility for such insufferable teasing, "Get inside? Whoa now," one eyebrow arched, "for your sake, I'll pretend I didn't just hear that," he grinned.
"Whyyyy," Kaiba exclaimed, extending his vocals, "Why would you say that!?"
He shrugged. "You're the one who said it. Don't go blaming basic human nature," another playfully baiting wink, "just think a little harder before you make such bold requests."
Kaiba didn't even know whether to feel infuriated or slightly embarrassed.
"God, you must have the worst foreplay," the brunette rubbed his temples.
To which hazel eyes angled quite unfairly, the simple, surefooted steps and upwards delving of his chest cresting like a wave that was arousing suspicion, the brunette watching the systematic shifts that were far from subtle. "Care to be proven wrong?" Joey asked, an edgy promiscuity in his smile.
Look who's saying shit with a straight face NOW, Kaiba scoffed inwardly, already blocked in, back—quite literally—up against a wall. Drawing a blank, but another queer—no pun intended—edge over some otherwise nonexistent competitor.
"Is this you telling me you'd care to try?" he asked coolly, not impersonal, just that air of composure. The only real competition right in front of him, to see which of them could unsteady the other, so he angled against the surface that was no longer metaphorical, and crossed his arms laxly. "Fine then," he consented, evidently cocky, he wouldn't dare, "go ahead, try," he craned his neck forward as if to invalidate, "but don't—."
The very real sensation of a skilled set of hands intercepting, palm spread and starting at the highest point of his thigh, "be upset when you're wrong?" an uncharacteristically wicked grin set synchronously with the wicked way his hand gripped weightlessly enough to apply pressure, thumb drawn more exploratory along the inward curve shaping his hip.
Something Kaiba could quite literally feel in his bones, the shivering context of fabric consequently bunching with the four other fingers he'd forgotten about rejoining the invasive gesture; slipping with a much abler, more implicative grip that pushed alongside his abdomen until it angled and pressed his chest flat.
Too intoxicated off the tensing to care why it was taking place, why he'd managed to guide the adjacent appendage to the small of the brunette's back—where those perfect symmetrical dimples he'd been so enamored with butterflied somewhere beneath his drunken fingertips—thumb and forefinger aligning gently to find the indentations before Kaiba covered his face, "Oh my god, I can't do it," he bent forward, breaking free, so unmistakably red in the face as he fumbled out of focus with his cigarettes, not an angry shade either, just genuinely blushing so hard it was making Joey smile.
"Not so shy anymore, are you Wheeler?" he mumbled into the motions of his menthol and lighter overlapping.
"Just kind of curious," Joey admitted, reaching likewise for a shot of something to occupy or intervene, "more so just trying to fuck with you, I never thought you'd agree though."
"Well it's not like I thought you were gonna go all seven minutes in heaven hands," he dragged embarrassedly.
"Me neither, but then I thought fuck it, I've gotta defend—" then he paused, grin expanding troublingly, "wait—did you just admit what I think you—."
"Yes. Christ, you're so perceptive today it's obnoxious," eyes were engaging flatly, "Stop getting off so hard on your victory, just go do a dance or something, leave me out of it though."
"Victory, eh?" that was a tad bit more explicit of an admission, "So, I made you feel good, huh?"
"Gross," they transcended into a scowl. "Don't word shit like that."
"But it did," Joey reaffirmed, "feel good, though?"
"Just whatever the last thing you did," he was flicking his wrist as if to dismiss the subject, "and the thing with m—" hesitating, caught on the my, "the hip thing," he rephrased.
"Thought'cha might, your whole body tweaked when I used them as props for my bag metaphor earlier."
"Thanks for…noticing, I guess? Scratch that, don't ever personalize a gesture like that again. I'll kill you."
"You're just like, SUPER sensitive," Joey both ignored and observed blatantly, "although…" he trailed off, "I suppose that's half my fault too," a funny and poorly suppressed grin surfacing, "y'know, taking advantage of a virgin and all."
"Gross. GROSS. GROSS," he chorused, "just why. WHY," Kaiba concealed his whole face, covering it with both hands as if to extract the knowledge by sheer force of will. "I swear," he forewarned, capacity for tolerance all but vanishing, "if the word Sempai ever, EVER comes out of your face—."
"Next time I'll—."
They both paused, eyes bulging at the imaginary right to left censored panels they were starting to jump from, contact immediately reconnecting blue to brown in mutually conclusive horror.
"Shots," they redirected in perfect unison.
"Yeah, yeah, shots."
"Definitely shots."
Saving no time for cheers'ing, just pouring and tipping back two for two until the number multiplied somewhere around six times how drunk they'd been at the start. Feeling less awkward, no longer uncomfortable with the fact they were no longer uncomfortable—more uncomfortable with the idea they hadn't been uncomfortable with the bodily contact, the once indirect and no longer, by any means, innocent advancing thematic of the hands on approach the whole day held true.
Amphetamines already stimulating, the twenty-four hour withdraw from benzoids bending the basic disinterest into basic needs. So totally fucked. Not satiated but satisfied, the desire to keep using that produced the direct sensation from the amygdala to forebrain that in turn enabled the addiction of obtaining as many forms of such unprecedented rushes; forgoing the part that sorted it all out, skipping from the memory of pleasure induced behaviors, and instinct overriding the rest.
Logic no longer applying when one time became a lifelong disease. Ignorant to the other's, but quite aware of their own increasing tolerance, the prescriptions they treated like secrets they withheld only the names of; growing too scarce, too quickly reduced, and requiring too many to share them so openly. Such reassurance in the collective identity it was all still okay, matching and making up for the elemental chemistry the other lacked whenever doubt threatened to expose their faults. Canceling it out, subconsciously symbiotic in this shared sickness that they felt no external threats from a reality they'd created like second nature.
No reason to treat anything except themselves, to indulge in additional helpings, to spoil the taste buds that had taken a mutual liking to the forbidden fruit of a third and final byproduct creating and destructing in perfect harmony with preservation; imbalance numerically indicative of an ultimately stable system. Smiling like drunken fools, respectively relishing even after the high died out under the certain weight of the depressant they swallowed up like sea water, enough to choke, dehydrate, and dry out the mouth, making them sway as the emotional and thought provoking seasickness washed over them.
"Let me just say that I'll forget all this happened tomorrow," Kaiba cleared his throat, "I wish I meant literally, but you best do the same," he cocked his head, "although it might be quite literal in your case."
"Even better," Joey lied, "kind of makes me wanna drink enough to make certain of that."
"Well as appealing an idea that may be, I can't let you get any drunker, seriously, the last thing I need is another trip to the…" he caught himself immediately, but not retractable enough, about to admit the singular detail of his deeply rooted guilty conscious he was so wasted.
"Trip to where?"
"Morning after land," he substituted expertly.
"I don't know, you're pretty fun in Morning After Land," Joey closed his eyes with a grin, inner word choice providing the word adorable, able to substitute it rather than sacrifice his embarrassment aloud this time.
"Twice would be nothing more than coincidence," the other dismissed, shutting out the idea, shutting down in the face of closeness that was always ten times closer than where he'd left it, swaying as he lifted to his feet, head dizzy and vision temporarily blackening before coming back in a fuzzy pulsing, "anyways, couch is all yours, I can't very well have you walking home this late in good conscience, so sleep it off, and I'll see you in the morning," he was quick to conclude, rubbing his eyes as he walked off in the direction of his bedroom, left arm growing sore, such a throbbing pain from so many cigarettes smoked and amphetamine salts dissolving in empty pitfalls of alcohol and nothing to eat, his chest in equal exhaustion, this shallow pressured beating. Navigating like a blind man through the darkness towards his bed, so ready to collapse, curl up, and consolidate sleep with lack of sensory awareness, every inch of his nervous system so painfully depleted, proceeding to pull back his comforter while a hand proceeded to pull back his shirt.
Startled, the space between his breast palpitated in a heavy, horrid thumping that sent one hand pressing into his chest, as if to shove it back in sync, squinting in the darkness to decipher the features holding him accountable for something he was no longer sure of.
Dull illuminations of blonde clearly avoiding the direct eye contact, reverting back into that shell of awkward innocent expression, physical and verbal both, fingers in such a delicate shy tangle, applying ineffective pressure, "it's too empty out there," he spoke quietly into the pitch dark, "I..I don't really sleep well in big open spaces, they…"
Sighing deeply, exhausted—the big brother trigger activating somewhere in his solar plexus like an automatic reflex—he took the fabric from the hesitating grip and hooked several fingers around several of Joey's, leading him through the dark with a yawn, "Well, I guess we better make you a room then."
A room, such a personal sounding concept, but still eluding Joey from anything close to sense making as he was sat back down and told, "Now, you wait here, I'll be right back," watching the brunette yawning and making his way fatigued yet somehow still focused enough to function over towards what appeared to be a linen closet. Wrapping the length of his arms around a collection of blankets and things, dumping them at the blonde's feet before his body carried him off towards the kitchen, rummaging through a few different drawers before finding whatever it was he was looking for.
"Up," he instructed Joey, lifting one leg up to the previously occupied cushion and pulling the rest of his weight, steadying himself atop the compressing surface, "h-ld th-s," he proceeded with a few dozen clips and tacks in his mouth, handing Joey one of the sheet ends.
He did as he was told, watching as the brunette's arms extended overhead, so tall his fingertips brushed the ceiling with ease, shirt riding back up over the body that was quick to preoccupy his glances, "seriously, take the damn picture already," blue eyes looked down hopelessly, "now, give me that," he took the sheet, interconnecting it with a series of pushpins and clamps he'd secured above, moving along the couch as the blonde began to intuitively follow. Alternating the exchange of fabrics and fastens until they were standing in the ultimate blanket fort.
Kaiba, clearly past the point of exhaustion, sliding down the couch to the floor with another irrepressible yawn, surrounded by an enclosure of perfect proportion and several subdivided sections, rubbing his eyes, as Joey gingerly knelt down somewhere next to him.
"This okay?" he asked, eyes already closed.
"You really are amazing," Joey's own were tracing the makeshift fortress the other mapped out from the mere blueprint of his own mental capacity.
A small grin cracking, "You really are easy to impress."
"Yeah, it's okay," the blonde redirected.
"Good," Seto muttered, slumping with the weight of gravity, "now go to sleep."
A palpitating inability to do such a thing immediately arising the minute the other's posture instigated the alignment of the elder's head against his shoulder, body half turned, Joey's supporting the better half of his weight, slow, inaudible, unsteadied breathes creating a sound like wind gently rustling through the leaves, realizing Kaiba was sound asleep.
The blonde sighed, pulling the comforter from beside the other, the brunettes body flinching, face scrunching disobligingly, you really are so simple when you're sleeping, he thought to himself, fanning the blanket out so that it fell over the opposing body first, so real, Joey admired, again, with a sort of sadness, tucking himself under the remaining length of the down comforter and turning to fit the ever curling body pressing into his own until they conformed like corresponding angles, one arm angled atop the couch and under his head as sleep took hold of him more rapidly, nervousness evaporating. The warmth radiating from the comfort of another body he never could quite sleep the same without, lashes fluttering with hazy images of the other's hand somewhere back to the same space against his chest, as if some ingrained reflex to reach out emerged the second Seto let down his guard, some urgency to confirm he wasn't alone, a childlike comfort, like fingers furrowing into the fur of a cherished stuffed animal. Hazel eyes going heavy, nodding in and out of the darkness.
You manipulative, kindhearted, son of a bitch.
tbc...sorry it was kind of a jumpy chapter, but honestly I'm at, or should I say, have gotten to the point where I just had to post it and shuffle it out of sight before I waste years trying to perfect it in order to get back onto the track