[He leans over the table, mimicking Tony's angle. His first attempt is too soft, and the cue doesn't hit the ball. Another try, and he learns that he needs to turn his hand slightly so that the cue slides over skin instead of fur, which makes the polished wood skid. Finally, he hits the ball, and watching it makes something click in the back of his mind. None of the colored balls go into the pockets, but he knows what to do next time.]
[ walking back, tony playfully points out, ] For now, [ and then the studies the table with his cue planted like a king with his scepter. he's no professional player, but his eye for geometry naturally places him ahead of the curve. by his quick calculations, he can easily pocket three balls in a row, provided he correctly applies the necessary physics. that application is where human error comes into play, hence the drinking to even the odds between them.
but he's not even tipsy yet and tony actually does want simba to have a good time, so... ] Why don't you take another crack at it? In fact, just keep going. We'll call this your practice round.
[His smile is bland and innocuous, giving nothing away. But when he settles in to take his next shot, the angles line up in his mind. The position he takes is a bit odd - someone less experienced might assume that he'll only succeed in knocking the balls around a bit - but he eyes the cue ball for a moment, narrows his eyes, and proceeds to sink four balls in one shot.]
[ tony almost chokes on his drink, but swallows it before it travels up his nose. he coughs neatly. ] You're a ... fast learner, [ he observes, squinting in thought. he can see mathematically how the shot worked, but it would have required pixel-perfect accuracy and an application of force so precise it went down into multiple decimal places, i.e. something inhuman, or ... or superhuman. ]
[ tony looks at him with a sharp curiosity. there's always that one-in-a-million chance someone lands that or a similar shot, but if simba can reliably replicate the results, then it's all skill, not luck or a fluke. ]
[He picks up the cue ball and tosses it from hand to hand idly, feeling the weight.]
It'll have to be stripes.
[Because he doesn't have enough solids left lolol. But he's pretty sure Tony doesn't care about the game right now, not with something else to distract him. So he doesn't even wait for a response before he sets the cue ball back on the table in just the right spot. He lines up the shot and watches as the balls ricochet off each other and the sides of the felt-lined table. Sure enough, another four sink into the pockets with unerring accuracy.]
[ tony has leaned into simba's space to watch it closer to his perspective. ] Just a good eye, huh? [ he drawls up at him with a small, pleased smirk like he's in on the secret and then places his cue back into the rack. ]
[Tony leans in, and a tiny spark of something fizzes up his spine at the proximity. He barely notices it, though, because he actually feels pleased by his skill, by doing something that isn't violent. It's just a simple game, that's all.]
Somethin' like that.
[He allows the poker face to slip, and he smiles back at Tony, whiskers bristling and eyes sliding shut for just a moment.]
Well, congrats. You rightfully earned bragging rights, [ tony says, raising his glass to simba. he pauses in moving it to drink from to add, ] But to be fair to myself, I bet you'd put professional players to shame.
[ test your limits and figure out your mysterious origins, tony thinks back, but only answers, ] Still get tipsy, that's for sure. [ he opens his arms. ] Anything else is up for grabs.
[He smirks at Tony, and it's one of the few signs of self-confidence that he's shown. Usually, his body language is uncertain, withdrawing, like he's trying to make himself smaller. But there's nothing of that right now, and he even seems to be reasonably relaxed after the treatment he'd received upstairs.]
You mean you're up for showing off more, [ tony says with a hint of pride. he glances to the table. if simba wants to show off, tony will provide a platform. ] All right. Let's see what you can do. [ he sets his glass down and strokes his chin. after a couple moments, he begins rearranging the pool balls. ]
[His eyes dart as he follows Tony's moves, not unlike a cat watching a particularly interesting bird. They certainly seem to sparkle with that same intensity, the pupils growing larger. Even his tail starts to twitch.]
[ without looking up, tony distractedly mutters back, ] Because I can't want to encourage someone's potential without having a selfish ulterior motive? [ despite his words, he crouches on the opposite side of the table to level his eyes with the balls, unbothered. ]
[ tony glances at him. to many the glance may seem unreadable or guarded, but the micro expressions he lets slip through depict a brief, quiet puzzlement. ] I am having fun, [ he says. sure, this isn't a high thrill like jet skiing or the full-bodied anticipatory tingle of a beautiful woman pushing him into bed, but tony wanted to spend the night in simba's company and he is. that's all he needs. well, that and his drinks.
tony stands and plucks a couple more balls out of the table pockets. aaaalmost done. simba will need more than good angles to solve this. ]
[He crouches down, then ends up on his knees to get him at eye level with the table as Tony sets up the last few balls. Though he's not quite aware of it, the muscles in his shoulders bunch slightly as he envisions the shot - or the shot thus far - and the cue ball ricocheting off the felt walls of the table. His hands rest on his knees - thankfully, because his claws flex in and out, digging into the (probably expensive) cotton of his bedsheet.]
[ tony tosses up and catches the cue ball in his hand during his final checks. when he sees simba, his pleased smirk scrunches up against a joke. ("you want the ball, boy?" he could say, but not only did he learn his lesson that night at the pool, he actually does respect the gion. he's trying to show it, even if it's kinda cute the feline way simba expresses interest.) instead, tony sets the cue ball down in a new location, throwing off all of the gion's calculations, and challenges, ] All right. Puzzle this one out.
Rules are as follows, [ he declares, continuing, as he leaves for the bar counter with his glass: ] sink all stripes and none of the solids in two shots or less. You scratch on the cue or eight ball, you lose. [ after refilling his glass, tony leans his elbows back on the counter, ankles crossed, patiently spectating, but his eyes sharp on simba. ] No do-overs, so take your time. [ siiiip. ]
[He huffs at the placement of the cue ball and scrunches his nose. Rising to his feet, he moves closer to where the cue ball is and studies the table from that vantage point. Someone else might move around the table to examine other angles, but he doesn't need to do that. Instead, he spends about five minutes working it out - and, honestly, that's more time than he really needs.
With the first shot, he only sinks three, but one is a trick shot Tony's set up, one that requires a particular spin on the ball from a ricochet to keep from knocking one of the solids in. But since Tony hasn't said that the cue has to be in a particular place after the first shot, he gets to set it up - and it might not be where Tony expects it. He seems to rely more on spin and ricochet than a normal player might, because that's how the shots unfurl in his head. Getting the cue ball to do what he want is almost innate.
At first, it looks like he might have one ball left, but the second-to-last ball knocks against it at just the right angle to sink it, and both end up cleared.]
You gonna make me a custom pool cue next?
[He looks up from the table to meet Tony's eyes, and he smirks.]
Too short, too light. Needs more weight at the base for a good balance. Something thicker in the middle.
Nicer to grip? [ tony fires back words and smirk both, his eyes alight. he believed simba could solve the puzzle, and he was right–did it in good time, too. tony was just finishing off his latest glass, which has loosened his already questionable decision-making. ] Don't worry. I don't judge a man on having a shaft preference. [ he breezes past, outwardly fine; he has to be able to sober up quickly if iron man gets called out, after all. picking up the cue ball, he observes it under the pendant lamps like a gem collector with a new jewel, turning it like each new angle sparkles with possibility. ]
[ well, that confirms that, tony supposes. ] At satisfying you? We talked about this. I prefer pockets over cues, [ he says, purposely misreading (and conveniently forgetting the thought that ran him out of the bed earlier), and–off he goes again, taking the cue ball to the bar, doing something with it without explaining what or really anything first. you're used to that by now, right? ]
[he makes a face at tony and his misinterpretation - though he's not sure how far off the mark it is. but instead of thinking too hard about that, he trails after tony, picking up his abandoned drink and finishing it off.]
What're you doing?
[he cranes his neck to peer at tony and the cue ball, curious.]
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There. Your table's intact.
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but he's not even tipsy yet and tony actually does want simba to have a good time, so... ] Why don't you take another crack at it? In fact, just keep going. We'll call this your practice round.
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[His smile is bland and innocuous, giving nothing away. But when he settles in to take his next shot, the angles line up in his mind. The position he takes is a bit odd - someone less experienced might assume that he'll only succeed in knocking the balls around a bit - but he eyes the cue ball for a moment, narrows his eyes, and proceeds to sink four balls in one shot.]
How's that?
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[He smiles innocently. What, it isn't totally normal to take out half the balls in one turn?]
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[ tony looks at him with a sharp curiosity. there's always that one-in-a-million chance someone lands that or a similar shot, but if simba can reliably replicate the results, then it's all skill, not luck or a fluke. ]
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It'll have to be stripes.
[Because he doesn't have enough solids left lolol. But he's pretty sure Tony doesn't care about the game right now, not with something else to distract him. So he doesn't even wait for a response before he sets the cue ball back on the table in just the right spot. He lines up the shot and watches as the balls ricochet off each other and the sides of the felt-lined table. Sure enough, another four sink into the pockets with unerring accuracy.]
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Somethin' like that.
[He allows the poker face to slip, and he smiles back at Tony, whiskers bristling and eyes sliding shut for just a moment.]
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[But since Tony doesn't seem inclined to play anymore at all - and he's still drinking - he asks instead:]
What do you want to do now?
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[He smirks at Tony, and it's one of the few signs of self-confidence that he's shown. Usually, his body language is uncertain, withdrawing, like he's trying to make himself smaller. But there's nothing of that right now, and he even seems to be reasonably relaxed after the treatment he'd received upstairs.]
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[His eyes dart as he follows Tony's moves, not unlike a cat watching a particularly interesting bird. They certainly seem to sparkle with that same intensity, the pupils growing larger. Even his tail starts to twitch.]
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Because I don't want you to feel like I'm having all the fun and you're doing all the work.
[Tony does more than enough work on his behalf as it is, after all.]
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tony stands and plucks a couple more balls out of the table pockets. aaaalmost done. simba will need more than good angles to solve this. ]
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[He crouches down, then ends up on his knees to get him at eye level with the table as Tony sets up the last few balls. Though he's not quite aware of it, the muscles in his shoulders bunch slightly as he envisions the shot - or the shot thus far - and the cue ball ricocheting off the felt walls of the table. His hands rest on his knees - thankfully, because his claws flex in and out, digging into the (probably expensive) cotton of his bedsheet.]
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Rules are as follows, [ he declares, continuing, as he leaves for the bar counter with his glass: ] sink all stripes and none of the solids in two shots or less. You scratch on the cue or eight ball, you lose. [ after refilling his glass, tony leans his elbows back on the counter, ankles crossed, patiently spectating, but his eyes sharp on simba. ] No do-overs, so take your time. [ siiiip. ]
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With the first shot, he only sinks three, but one is a trick shot Tony's set up, one that requires a particular spin on the ball from a ricochet to keep from knocking one of the solids in. But since Tony hasn't said that the cue has to be in a particular place after the first shot, he gets to set it up - and it might not be where Tony expects it. He seems to rely more on spin and ricochet than a normal player might, because that's how the shots unfurl in his head. Getting the cue ball to do what he want is almost innate.
At first, it looks like he might have one ball left, but the second-to-last ball knocks against it at just the right angle to sink it, and both end up cleared.]
You gonna make me a custom pool cue next?
[He looks up from the table to meet Tony's eyes, and he smirks.]
Too short, too light. Needs more weight at the base for a good balance. Something thicker in the middle.
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[He shrugs and gives Tony a crooked smile.]
C'mon, give me your best shot. I'll see what I can do.
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What're you doing?
[he cranes his neck to peer at tony and the cue ball, curious.]
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