This story has been on hiatus for a long time. There's no real excuse as to why but for anyone still interested in reading I plan on holding myself to weekly updates. I have a much different understanding of this story than a few years ago so it will be interesting to see where it goes from here.
I woke up late the next morning. 7 am. I missed the sunrise. I could feel uncomfortable build up in the corners of my eyes. In the bathroom mirror I thought for a moment that my pale face was cracking, like a boiled egg or delicate china. Upon closer inspection I realized that I was absolutely mistaken, my skin remained resolutely stretched across the planes of my skull as per usual. I splashed cold water over my eyes. The crustiness was gone, everything would be clean and nice and normal for the rest of the day. I had other things to focus on, the chest was stowed away in a guest bedroom.
In the bathroom I pondered myself. My relationship with my own body was nearly nonexistent. Some people, including Wheeler, exuded a kind of sensuality that seemed to come from knowing the precise nature of their physicality, the exact dimensions of the space it consumed and the various textures of it. I had never understood myself in that way. In high school I knew that I was considered good looking. When I actually took the time to analyze my features in the mirror it made a certain amount of sense. I was tall and with broad shoulders, qualities that many women equated with masculinity, and I had thick, shiny hair, something associated with good genes. My teeth were bright and straight. My eyes, while lacking a certain amount of personality and warmth, were alert and strikingly blue. My straight nose cut through my face like a knife and my thin lips, while not particularly inviting or sensuous, were perfectly fine and well proportioned to my heart shaped face. Being conventionally handsome was convenient for some things. People, especially women, tended to ignore some of my more aggressive character flaws and I was more affectively able to market my company. But I never took any real pride in my appearance. I never felt any true connection to it. Like a woman who buys a lovely dress and never has the opportunity to wear it and thus never thinks of it fondly, I felt disassociated from my looks.
Wheeler always seemed so at ease in his own skin. When he moved I could observe his well-worn clothing move with him. My pressed suits always resisted my stretches, and despite being well tailored they rubbed discordantly against my skin at all times. In the shower I rarely examined myself except to guarantee cleanliness. If I ever touched myself it was usually clumsy. With other people I was even worse. I could count the number of sexual encounters I had had on one hand, and remember in vivid detail my spectacular shortcomings. At the age of fourteen I was introduced to the daughter of a lobbyist at some kind of political event. She was a few years older than me, and had long lovely hands that fascinated me. I knew that powerful men enjoyed women and thought that perhaps I should learn to do the same. In the women's bathroom she kissed me, open-mouthed and attempted to move her hand to my pants. I was so disgusted by the wet and cold sensation of her tongue that I nearly jumped backwards, and my reaction embarrassed both of us so much that we gave up entirely and returned to opposite sides of the main room. I avoided women throughout high school until, out of a bizarre sense of duty I attempted to seduce a red-haired bassoon player in the Domino High School Orchestra my senior year. She had extraordinary wide set eyes and the prettiest, most bow shaped mouth that I had ever seen. When I asked her to dinner she seemed too intimidated by me to say no. We hardly spoke since we had nothing in common. She nervously fidgeted over a salad. I asked her questions about her bassoon and nothing else. When dinner was over I asked her in the most ineloquent terms if she wanted to have sex with me, which she agreed to without any real excitement or reservation. Her naked limbs reminded me of birch trees, and I could think of nothing else. Mechanically speaking, it wasn't going to happen. She signed a non-disclosure agreement later that night and never spoke to me again.
I spoke of that incident to Mokuba once when he pressed me for details of my experience. He watched me tell the story with the most infuriatingly wry expression. It didn't bother me as much as it might have bothered another man, mostly because I had decided by then that sex was almost useless except as a means to producing heirs. He commented that maybe I just wasn't very attracted to women. A month later he introduced me to a man in his industry, some kind of producer. He was short and robust, with spiky brown hair and really horrendous tattoos. Mokuba was celebrating his 22nd birthday and had rented out one of those louche downtown nightclubs. I sat on a red suede couch next to the short man while he moved his hand along my thigh. He leaned across me and with his lips against my ear whispered, "I bet you give great head,". I was so alarmed by his suggestion that I bolted up from the couch and started walking home until the limo caught up to me.
When my driver dropped me off in front of Wheeler's house (exactly five minutes before 8 o'clock) I fantasized for a brief moment about turning and running in the opposite direction. The whole day had passed without any real event, giving me far too much time to anticipate my dinner plans. It's hard to identify what disturbed me so much. I suppose I felt that I would be squarely in Wheeler's territory this time, and it frightened me to think of what that kind of advantage would do to my already affected state around him. When I went to the door he opened it and ushered me inside with his hand on my back. I could feel the back of my neck begin to sweat. Inside it was small and hot. The kitchen was painted a lemonade yellow, with a white island in the middle. I must have clashed terribly, standing in the middle of it, wearing a black shirt and pants. Wheeler chattered on about his day as I watched him sear some kind of white fish in a black pan. I looked through the cutout in the wall into the next room, where an oval table of dark wood was set.
"Why don't you go have a seat at the table and I'll bring your food over to you?"
Moving into the next room and settling down made me less anxious. I felt as though I could trust Wheeler's agenda. He knew exactly what to do next. He knew when to serve the food, when to talk, when to direct me. I rarely let others be in charge of anything, but I felt so exhausted by the whole ordeal of just arriving there that the relinquishing of control came as a relief.
Wheeler came over to the table. I observed, maybe even admired the complete comfort he exuded in his movements. His hips rolled (in almost effeminate style) as he came toward me. It was the kind of saunter I could never achieve even in my most relaxed moments (of which there were few); a purposeful walk with only the slightest suggestion of aimlessness. He held a bottle of white wine.
"I bet you know a lot about wine, Kaiba." He said as he poured some into my glass.
"Well, I have memorized a lot of information about wine because it tends to impress people in certain situations, but I've never had any great interest or passion for it."
He laughed softly, he face just inches from mine as he filled my glass. It seemed unnecessary for him to be so close to perform the task at hand. Surely he could have stood up straighter, at a more distant angle and still have succeeded. I noticed the collar of his shirt. It was white but not a pure white. The white shirt of his catering uniform had been so neon that his skin beside it appeared a dirty. Now, his neck reminded me of the milk with coffee I used to drink as a child, before I grew up and began taking my coffee black. His skin had the same creamy and comforting undertone. I felt almost compelled to touch him. When he finished pouring the wine I was still staring at the intersection of neck and shirt.
"Kaiba?"
I looked up at him, and he set the bottle down on the table. "What is it?" I asked, sounding more brusque than I intended.
"You were staring at me." He said in a deliberately flat tone that seemed aimed at concealing something.
"Yes." I admitted.
"Why were you staring at me?"
Because I am used to answering questions quickly and logically I did not take as long as I should have to examine the sensitive implications of the question. I began answering without thought, only realizing myself after the words were said.
"I like to look at you, Wheeler." Realizing my folly I added quickly, "It is far preferable to having to converse with you."
Wheeler looked at me with the large and illuminated eyes of a child before bursting into laughter. I didn't have the time to fully analyze what had just happened. I could not tell exactly how much I had just revealed. But his laughing reverberated in the room, stirring something inside of me until it felt like my face really was cracking. I smiled, the most absurdly uncontrollable smile.