Icon
by Jargonelle
Warnings: yaoi, overuse of clichéd dice imagery, rather pretentious use of the English language (which I excuse by writing from Otogi's POV), a somewhat soppy Honda and on top of everything else, it's written in the present tense. Nothing bodes well.
A/N: Honda x Otogi (Chaseshipping) for Loki-chan's challenge. Icon (2) – 'A person or thing regarded as a representative symbol or as worthy of veneration.' {Concise Oxford Dictionary}
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!
~~
I watch him, sitting on the floor with the evil-demon-spawn that masquerades as his nephew, causally tossing the die of a child's game wherever it suits him. He professes not to care which number he rolls, as the whole point of dice are to act as random number generators. You aren't supposed to know how they'll land. The game is meaningless otherwise.
As if he would ever understand.
"However, Ryuuji," he begins, claiming a familiarity with me that he does not use with his oldest, blondest friend. "Since the spots are painted on, doesn't that make the six the heaviest side? Surely then, a one is the most likely outcome."
He's grown up recently, realised that there is life beyond school crushes and card game tournaments that never really interested him anyway. Instead, he's turned his stable self-confidence into an odd spark of intelligence, a smug demeanour that pokes fun at the inconsistencies of life whilst protecting those precious few for whom he cares. Not that he would ever put it quite as eloquently as that.
"The extra weight is negligible," I point out, pretty sure that Honda, with his apparent love for rationality would have already realised it. Of course, real dice have indented pips, rather than unseemly splodges of paint, but such craftsmanship would obviously be wasted on him.
Honda seems to take pleasure in provoking me, which could stem from either jealousy or admiration; I have yet to decide. I believe I know what motivates his nephew though: pure malice.
He takes the die from where it lay abandoned on the carpet and carefully, offering me a teasing wink as he does, places it in his mouth.
Honda, apparently concerned that the boy is going to choke, immediately launches into his own variation on the theme of "Put that back now or I will tell your mother." The brat, happy his point has been made, spits the die onto the game board, splattering slobber all over its plastic surface.
Quietly, smoothly, desperately, I leave for the kitchen.
Cursing my irrational sensitivity, I crush my fingers into my palms, trying to focus on the scene outside the window. Yet I can barely make it out, for all I see is my own reflection, stark and bitter in the glass.
Disgusted, I spin around and turn my attention to the Honda family's kitchen. It is not as sterile as my own, it is not as co-ordinated, nor as elegantly stylish; but it is cheerful and individual and inviting. I accept its unspoken offer and pour myself a glass of water from the bottle left open in the refrigerator.
"Go ahead, make yourself at home," Honda says from behind me; there is a teasing lilt to his voice and I know then that he is not offended.
The water is cool and still, but unlike Honda, there is a tinge to it that I am unfamiliar with. "What-?"
"It has a calcium supplement. Mum thinks it's good for us."
"I see," I say, turning to face him, "and where's-?"
"Watching television. He says he's sorry, but I wouldn't believe him."
Honda thinks he knows me, thinks he can answer my questions before I even form the words. Sometimes he can, sometimes he knows me better than anyone and other times he completely misses the mark.
"Do you... er... wanna talk?"
His honest face gives away his concerns. He thinks I'm crazy for letting his nephew's stupidity affect me the way it does.
I shake my head, catching a loose strand of hair with my free hand, tugging and twisting it until he finally breaks the silence.
"It's all right, you know, believing in something like that."
It's not 'all right'; it's an obsession born of necessity, my weapon and my downfall both.
"Maybe," I say noncommittally.
Honda runs a hand through his own hair, frustrated that I'm not responding better. "It's like... it's like... it's like Kaiba and the Blue Eyes White Dragon. No one thinks any less of him because of it."
That's because no one, except Mokuba, ever had that high an opinion of him in the first place.
"...What about you then?" I ask, fearing the answer. I do not want to hear that it is his motorcycle that gives him hope.
"I believe in people," he says simply. "I believe in Jounouchi, in Anzu, in Yuugi, in my parents, even in my sister and her horrible offspring."
I laugh, sadly at that. Someone is missing from his list.
"But you, I believe in you most of all, especially when you don't believe in yourself."
Why, why would anyone like me best when I'm at my weakest?
"Because then, even though you're acting confident and arrogant, I still see you underneath Ryuuji. And I'm proud, because I know that you're strong enough to not let anyone else see it."
"Except you?"
"Except me," he agrees.
Time stops and we both stand still. He looks into my eyes, searching them for something and I guess he likes what he finds because he moves first.
Honda, no... Hiroto steps closer to me, guiding the lukewarm glass of water to the table and my other hand to his shoulder. He places his own hand on top of mine, holding me reassuringly.
"Do you believe in me?" he asks softly, tentatively.
I cannot say 'No,' that would crush him and I could not bear to lose his warmth, his humour, his stability. I fear I cannot yet say 'Yes' though. I am nowhere ready to pledge my faith to him.
Instead I raise my other hand to the back of his neck and brush my lips over his, dry, despite my recent drink. His skin feels rough, coarse even and he smells of anxious perspiration mixed with sports aftershave. I lean into his shoulder, hiding my expression from him, trying to summon my false smirk that leaves everyone fooled...
... Except him.
He draws away from me, turning to stare out of the darkened window, but as I did, all he sees is a tragic scene reflected back at him.
"I... I never expected this to happen," he says, folding his arms across his chest.
"Neither did I," I say, holding my ground. He cannot leave the kitchen without passing me.
"So, now what?" he asks, angrily, upset with me or with himself I cannot tell.
I'm unhappy too. He's the one who initiated this.
"I say, "Thank you for having me over," I rescue my jacket from whatever cupboard you stashed it in and I go home. You can do whatever you like."
"I can't leave!" he says suddenly, urgently, "I've got to look after-"
"Fine! I'll call you later and you can make up your mind then. Be waiting by the phone," I warn and hurry out into the hallway and through the front door, purposely forgetting my coat.
I've no time to think in peace though as Honda's sister finally makes an ill-timed appearance. Her car swerves into the pavement, jolting me out of my anger and into my professional mask; I smile courteously at her before starting my walk along the pavement, apparently carefree.
I don't go too far.
Patiently, I wait, listening for the shrieks of an upset little boy who doesn't want to go home to have a bath and the squeal of tires on a car that has obviously seen better days. It doesn't take long.
Slowly, deliberately, I take my cell phone from my pocket and punch in a number I have learnt off by heart.
"Hello?" Honda sounds exhausted.
"Listen, I..."
"Ryuuji?!"
"I just wanted to know-"
"Come back inside," he says heavily, "Whatever you have to say, you can say it to my face at least."
"Ok," I agree, "I won't be long."
When I arrive, the door is open, waiting for me. Honda stands with his arms wide, a gesture of sincerity.
"I don't know what I was thinking when I pushed you away. I'm sorry."
I nod my head, "Accepted."
"Maybe we could... I dunno... give this a go. I mean, you and me... I don't know if I'd be any good at this whole deal-"
"I believe in you," I interrupt and even though I don't know if I really mean it yet, I know I will do someday.
Until then, I have my dice... and with Hiroto by my side, I'm always sure to roll at least a seven.
THE END
by Jargonelle
Warnings: yaoi, overuse of clichéd dice imagery, rather pretentious use of the English language (which I excuse by writing from Otogi's POV), a somewhat soppy Honda and on top of everything else, it's written in the present tense. Nothing bodes well.
A/N: Honda x Otogi (Chaseshipping) for Loki-chan's challenge. Icon (2) – 'A person or thing regarded as a representative symbol or as worthy of veneration.' {Concise Oxford Dictionary}
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!
~~
I watch him, sitting on the floor with the evil-demon-spawn that masquerades as his nephew, causally tossing the die of a child's game wherever it suits him. He professes not to care which number he rolls, as the whole point of dice are to act as random number generators. You aren't supposed to know how they'll land. The game is meaningless otherwise.
As if he would ever understand.
"However, Ryuuji," he begins, claiming a familiarity with me that he does not use with his oldest, blondest friend. "Since the spots are painted on, doesn't that make the six the heaviest side? Surely then, a one is the most likely outcome."
He's grown up recently, realised that there is life beyond school crushes and card game tournaments that never really interested him anyway. Instead, he's turned his stable self-confidence into an odd spark of intelligence, a smug demeanour that pokes fun at the inconsistencies of life whilst protecting those precious few for whom he cares. Not that he would ever put it quite as eloquently as that.
"The extra weight is negligible," I point out, pretty sure that Honda, with his apparent love for rationality would have already realised it. Of course, real dice have indented pips, rather than unseemly splodges of paint, but such craftsmanship would obviously be wasted on him.
Honda seems to take pleasure in provoking me, which could stem from either jealousy or admiration; I have yet to decide. I believe I know what motivates his nephew though: pure malice.
He takes the die from where it lay abandoned on the carpet and carefully, offering me a teasing wink as he does, places it in his mouth.
Honda, apparently concerned that the boy is going to choke, immediately launches into his own variation on the theme of "Put that back now or I will tell your mother." The brat, happy his point has been made, spits the die onto the game board, splattering slobber all over its plastic surface.
Quietly, smoothly, desperately, I leave for the kitchen.
Cursing my irrational sensitivity, I crush my fingers into my palms, trying to focus on the scene outside the window. Yet I can barely make it out, for all I see is my own reflection, stark and bitter in the glass.
Disgusted, I spin around and turn my attention to the Honda family's kitchen. It is not as sterile as my own, it is not as co-ordinated, nor as elegantly stylish; but it is cheerful and individual and inviting. I accept its unspoken offer and pour myself a glass of water from the bottle left open in the refrigerator.
"Go ahead, make yourself at home," Honda says from behind me; there is a teasing lilt to his voice and I know then that he is not offended.
The water is cool and still, but unlike Honda, there is a tinge to it that I am unfamiliar with. "What-?"
"It has a calcium supplement. Mum thinks it's good for us."
"I see," I say, turning to face him, "and where's-?"
"Watching television. He says he's sorry, but I wouldn't believe him."
Honda thinks he knows me, thinks he can answer my questions before I even form the words. Sometimes he can, sometimes he knows me better than anyone and other times he completely misses the mark.
"Do you... er... wanna talk?"
His honest face gives away his concerns. He thinks I'm crazy for letting his nephew's stupidity affect me the way it does.
I shake my head, catching a loose strand of hair with my free hand, tugging and twisting it until he finally breaks the silence.
"It's all right, you know, believing in something like that."
It's not 'all right'; it's an obsession born of necessity, my weapon and my downfall both.
"Maybe," I say noncommittally.
Honda runs a hand through his own hair, frustrated that I'm not responding better. "It's like... it's like... it's like Kaiba and the Blue Eyes White Dragon. No one thinks any less of him because of it."
That's because no one, except Mokuba, ever had that high an opinion of him in the first place.
"...What about you then?" I ask, fearing the answer. I do not want to hear that it is his motorcycle that gives him hope.
"I believe in people," he says simply. "I believe in Jounouchi, in Anzu, in Yuugi, in my parents, even in my sister and her horrible offspring."
I laugh, sadly at that. Someone is missing from his list.
"But you, I believe in you most of all, especially when you don't believe in yourself."
Why, why would anyone like me best when I'm at my weakest?
"Because then, even though you're acting confident and arrogant, I still see you underneath Ryuuji. And I'm proud, because I know that you're strong enough to not let anyone else see it."
"Except you?"
"Except me," he agrees.
Time stops and we both stand still. He looks into my eyes, searching them for something and I guess he likes what he finds because he moves first.
Honda, no... Hiroto steps closer to me, guiding the lukewarm glass of water to the table and my other hand to his shoulder. He places his own hand on top of mine, holding me reassuringly.
"Do you believe in me?" he asks softly, tentatively.
I cannot say 'No,' that would crush him and I could not bear to lose his warmth, his humour, his stability. I fear I cannot yet say 'Yes' though. I am nowhere ready to pledge my faith to him.
Instead I raise my other hand to the back of his neck and brush my lips over his, dry, despite my recent drink. His skin feels rough, coarse even and he smells of anxious perspiration mixed with sports aftershave. I lean into his shoulder, hiding my expression from him, trying to summon my false smirk that leaves everyone fooled...
... Except him.
He draws away from me, turning to stare out of the darkened window, but as I did, all he sees is a tragic scene reflected back at him.
"I... I never expected this to happen," he says, folding his arms across his chest.
"Neither did I," I say, holding my ground. He cannot leave the kitchen without passing me.
"So, now what?" he asks, angrily, upset with me or with himself I cannot tell.
I'm unhappy too. He's the one who initiated this.
"I say, "Thank you for having me over," I rescue my jacket from whatever cupboard you stashed it in and I go home. You can do whatever you like."
"I can't leave!" he says suddenly, urgently, "I've got to look after-"
"Fine! I'll call you later and you can make up your mind then. Be waiting by the phone," I warn and hurry out into the hallway and through the front door, purposely forgetting my coat.
I've no time to think in peace though as Honda's sister finally makes an ill-timed appearance. Her car swerves into the pavement, jolting me out of my anger and into my professional mask; I smile courteously at her before starting my walk along the pavement, apparently carefree.
I don't go too far.
Patiently, I wait, listening for the shrieks of an upset little boy who doesn't want to go home to have a bath and the squeal of tires on a car that has obviously seen better days. It doesn't take long.
Slowly, deliberately, I take my cell phone from my pocket and punch in a number I have learnt off by heart.
"Hello?" Honda sounds exhausted.
"Listen, I..."
"Ryuuji?!"
"I just wanted to know-"
"Come back inside," he says heavily, "Whatever you have to say, you can say it to my face at least."
"Ok," I agree, "I won't be long."
When I arrive, the door is open, waiting for me. Honda stands with his arms wide, a gesture of sincerity.
"I don't know what I was thinking when I pushed you away. I'm sorry."
I nod my head, "Accepted."
"Maybe we could... I dunno... give this a go. I mean, you and me... I don't know if I'd be any good at this whole deal-"
"I believe in you," I interrupt and even though I don't know if I really mean it yet, I know I will do someday.
Until then, I have my dice... and with Hiroto by my side, I'm always sure to roll at least a seven.
THE END