Chapter Text
The Evans Poolroom didn't look so strange on the outside: big oak doors set into a giant stone building with a skyscraper built right on top of it. But the moment he stepped inside the entranceway Jongin's shoulders relaxed and he took a deep breath. It smelled like smoke and alcohol and cologne, but not too much. The room was perfectly gentlemanly and looked like it came right out of the sixties. Home.
It was early. Jongin and Junmyeon did a lap, but there were only two or three people there and they didn't seem up for a game this early. But Jongin took his time anyway, passing a finger lightly over the surface of a table, rolling an eight ball from one end to the other in a straight line, feeling its levelness, its sturdiness, watching the 8-ball sink heavy in in the pocket and roll back to the front under the table.
"Well, I can see why he operates here, if it's all true," he found himself murmuring. Junmyeon's hands were shoved deep in his pockets and he looked nervous. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I don't know, I've just got a feeling, you know? You remember those stories I used to tell ya about Foggy, who used to play back in California? Damn, this feels like where he used to work. Where I fell in love with pool." The man's eyes snapped up to Jongin's face. "You've been deprived of a single good game all your life, and a good table, and a good crowd too, for that matter."
Jongin gave a barking, rough laugh. "And a good haul too. I've been deprived of a good haul." He leaned in towards his partner. "How much do ya think I'll make tonight, huh? A thousand? Five thousand? In one night?"
Junmyeon huffed at Jongin's smiling face. "You could make nothing. Listen, I'm aware it's a foreign concept to you, but you could lose."
"Nah." Jongin rolled his shoulders a little. "I think I'm going to introduce myself as Jongin. We're not deceiving anybody, not here. I want my name on the tips of their tongues. My name."
"I was just about to suggest it," Junmyeon smiled, the corners of his eyes quirking together.
Jongin smiled and clapped his partner on the shoulder. "You gonna stay here? I might go out and explore. I"ll get into my head if I hang around here all day waiting for the sun to get the hell down. And I've only been to Chicago once before."
"Nah, I"m an old man, remember?" Junmyeon patted Jongin's back absently. "Just don't come back drunk." At Jongin's look, he rolled his eyes. "Or high. Please, you'll give me a heart attack at this rate just watchin ya."
Jongin ruffled his partner's hair affectionately. "You won't get a heart attack, not when I still need you to hustle with me." He winked as the bell rang to signal his exit.
Stopping just outside the big oak doors, Jongin realized he had no idea where in Chicago he really was. Junmyeon had driven and he hadn't really been paying attention to the scenery. He was also a little overwhelmed by the legitimacy the poolroom exuded. Half of his charm, he liked to think, was his ability to bullshit, a staple in nearly every hustler, especially since it was a dying profession.
He was tempted to just take out his phone to see where he was, but he decided against it, instead playing eenie meenie miny mo in his head and picking a random direction, relishing the feel of pavement passing under his soles after so many hours in the car.
He eventually figured out he was walking towards the lake, but he didn't find any fault in that. It was fall, perfect weather for his jacket, and he was wearing new shoes. When he got tired, he ducked into a museum, paying quickly with a practiced flick of bills.
He was promptly barraged by white, and he wanted to laugh and at the same time curse the damn minimalists who had, for some reason, decided that embellishment was taboo. The pieces themselves were beautiful, and as Jongin realized his legs were tired, he noticed more intricacy, slowing until he eventually sank onto a bench beside a kid with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his face.
Part of Jongin wanted to say something; if it was rude to wear your hat inside, it most certainly was rude to wear your hood inside. Art museums ought to make every man a gentleman. But he kept his mouth shut and instead began to daydream about that night, about the money and the booze and the glimmer of the lights and the sound of the balls knocking together.
"Where're you from?" Jongin asked idly. He could be antisocial, but when he was around people, he usually wasn't. Force of habit. He didn't like sitting close to somebody and not knowing their name.
"Oh," came a deep voice from inside the hood, "Around. You?"
Jongin hesitated. "Yeah. Around. I'm Jongin."
"Sehun."
"Say, Sehun, are ya any good at cards?"
"Am I good at cards?"
"Yeah, are you good at cards? Can you play cards is what I mean."
"Sure I can."
"Think we'd be in the shitter if we played a round right here, under our fine friend?" He gestured to the abstract construction that looked something like an elephant.
"Do you always ask strangers to play cards with you?" The hood turned a bit and Jongin got a glimpse of a straight nose and milky white skin.
"Only in art museums." Jongin smirked. He was rewarded with a breathy laugh as the boy turned to face him, his face still a little shadowed, but at least in sight. Jongin tried not to stare too much because the guy looked like he'd been drawn and breathed to life with perfect features.
He took out his card deck and his pack of smokes, realizing belatedly that there was no way he could smoke in the museum. They didn't talk very much more, deciding on a game fluidly and then contenting themselves with the quiet shuffle of cards and the occasional sharp breath when somebody won.
Gin was their game, but they didn't bet or anything. Jongin was saving his betting self for that night, for that old pool room, for that perfect pool table. Instead Jongin mostly watched Sehun's hands, thin and dexterous, as they flipped the cards absently like they were best friends. Finally, after being beaten a few times, Jongin sighed.
"Got any tricks you can do with these? You're pretty comfortable with them, if you don't mind me saying so."
"I've got a few." Sehun gave a small smile and shuffled the deck in some beautiful, evanescent way that Jongin couldn't begin to understand.
"Hey, you're pretty good. You should be at the casino or something." Jongin cringed at his own words; he sounded slimy like that and he didn't even know how old this kid was.
"How old are ya, anyways?"
"Just turned twenty," came the reply. Sehun's eyes were intent on his hands and the cards, his eyelashes casting long shadows against his cheeks. They played a little more and then Jongin decided Junmyeon would be getting antsy; it was four in the afternoon, which meant he'd been here for three or four hours already. Best to get his mind off those long lashes and long fingers and get himself ready to play pool.
Sehun looked up at him when he rose, half his face fully illuminated, and Jongin swore. "Fuck, you're not gay by chance—you know what, no, nevermind. I gotta go." He was playing with his pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.
"Seriously, though," he added as he turned and took his sunglasses from where they hung on his shirt. "You should do something with that talent. It could take you far. Keep the cards." And he began the long walk back to the Evans.
It was more crowded when he got there—smokier, too—and the bar seemed to have opened early, or maybe it was just always open. Jongin found Junmyeon immediately, who looked him up and down discreetly. He seemed suprised. "Not even a little fucked up. Impressive."
Jongin grinned and shrugged. "The night has not yet begun, my friend. Listen, I've been thinking about it. I've been thinking about it all afternoon." The crowd was actually thick enough that there was a crowd of men shuffling all around them, and they weren't speaking quietly. "I'm going to make fifty thousand dollars tonight. Not five, not ten. Fifty thousand, Junmyeon, can you believe it? I'm still getting over it myself."
Junmyeon just shook his head.
"Looking for some action?" The voice came from behind Jongin, so he stood from his slump against the bar to look at the man.
"Maybe I am," he replied.
"You're looking for Chicago Shortie." The boy grinned. He was short himself, with jet-black hair and sparkling, mischievous eyes. "You know he's the best in the business. The best player in the country. No one's ever beaten him, but you can try for sure."
"Is he around?" Jongin tried not to sound too eager.
"Oh, he'll be around. Comes in every night, bout five o'clock."
"How will I—"
"Oh, he'll find you. You're Kim Jongin, right? You've earned a proper name for yourself too." Then the boy was gone without even introducing himself. Jongin went back to the table he'd fallen in love with the first time he'd walked through those doors and played a few games to loosen up, earning the table for himself in the process. It felt strange, not having any front at first, just playing his game right from the start.
Winning the game from the beginning.
Then the crowd parted and his table seemed to suck men and women towards it. Jongin straightened self-consciously. Through the crowd came an admittedly small man, though not as short as Jongin had imagined him in his mind, with huge eyes and a three-piece suit. It was unmistakably, through how he carried himself or his comfort in his surroundings, Chicago Shortie.
"Hi." Shortie came right up to him and shook his hand, looking him right in the eyes. Damn, his eyes were pretty. It was distracting. "You're Kim Jongin, right?" His voice was velvety and Jongin felt like he was meeting the messiah of his sport.
"And you're Chicago Shortie." Jongin flashed him his best smirk, and to his credit, the guy looked at lest a little taken aback.
"I take it you're here to play me." Shortie raised an eyebrow.
"Y-y-you'd be right." Jongin licked his lips. He was usually much smoother. Actually, interaction in general generally wasn't much of a problem for him.
Shortie spread his arms. "Welcome to my office, then," he intoned. "What'll we start it at? Three hundred?" Jongin knew it wasn't much—they both knew it wasn't much, but they needed to get a feel for the game.
"Sure." Shortie shrugged off his jacket and gave it to the coat check man, and Jongin gave him his as well, feeling underdressed in just a white cotton t-shirt.
He felt it respectful to break first. As a nod to his respect, Shortie soundly beat him that game, and swiftly too, but Jongin jut watched with utter fascination. He played pool like it was some kind of dance, stretching his small frame across the table, flicking the cue just so, tilting his head and slanting his eyes in a way that made him look like he was glaring at the balls. Astigmatism?
Jongin had played professionals, sure. Mostly what he and Junmyeon had was a small racket, moving from the northeast to the south to the west hustling small, back pool rooms. They went in for a week or so, made a couple hundred a night, and then moved on. But occasionally Junmyeon lined up a match with someone who was known for what they did. He was always excited, he always hoped—again and again—that maybe the next one would give him a run for his money.
They never did. But Shortie was the best.
Junmyeon didn't exactly have the same predicament. As Jongin's manager, he just lined up the next week, decided where they were going to go, and booked the hotel. He also managed the money.
His heart was beating in his chest and his adrenaline was pumping through his veins and Shortie just gave a small smile and won the next game too. It wasn't until the fourth game that Shortie missed a shot and his eyes flicked up to Jongin, that same smile playing across his lips. As if he were inviting Jongin to join in now that Jongin had seen what Shortie could do. That being, well, everything. And more.
Jongin licked his lips again and pushed himself out of his seat, lining up his first shot. He had to be creative, but this was what he was built for. The hours he'd spent playing pool eclipsed the hours he'd spent doing anything else, ever. Plus he had talent.
So he won the first game, and his arm only felt a little stiff. But he missed on the second game and now he didn't even what to think about how much money they'd lost. A thousand at least, but he just kept betting more and more. It was too important.
But matches like this could be long.
"Hey Junmyeon." His voice sounded quiet and steady, even to himself. "Get me a drink, will ya." Junmyeon looked at him a moment but didn't say anything, just gave Jongin the money for the next game and went over to the bar. Jongin waited for him to come back and took a long draft of the burning liquor.
With the drink burning in his stomach, he rotated his arm once and suddenly he felt calm, and he felt the rhythm rush into his body all at once. With it came all the confidence he'd had to manufacture before. "It's a thousand this time," said Shortie, with that soft voice. Jongin had trouble believing he could keep his voice so steady when he was winning by so much.
But then, he didn't know what was about to happen. Pool was a mind game above all else. "Five hundred it is, then," Jongin replied, looking up at the clock. It read seven pm. "Fifty thousand dollars," he said, a little loudly. "Damn, I'm sorry this is the first time you're going to lose in a long time, probably. I feel loose."
And he did, and he felt sharp, and the alcohol felt good burning in his gut, and the cigarette burning at his mouth. Oh, he executed some beautiful shots. Jongin liked to figure himself a dancer that way. After a while Shortie began to look kind of flustered. But it took a long time to earn all that money back, and by the time they were even it was ten o'clock.
It all began to run together. Shots, games, everything was fuzzy and warm in Jongin's head, all the same, all about the clack of the balls, the thunk when they sank in the hole, and Junmyeon sat quietly by, and collected the bills, counted them calmly, folded them up, and put them away. An old man had been sitting right in front, right next to the table, right in front of the crowd, and he was watching Jongin with a discomforting fascination.
Shortie had given that man his money, when he'd been winning, and now it was that man forking it over. "Do you mind?" Jongin said, leaning across the table for his hundred thousandth shot or something like that that night. He was beginning to feel what you'd call tipsy, and that man's constant presence was distracting. "Do you mind moving a little?"
The man looked down at him through his glasses, his mouth tight, his eyes beady. Then he stood, picked up his chair, and moved it about an inch, and sat right back down. Jongin huffed but sank his ball anyway.
The way that poolroom was built, not a single ray of sunlight got in. They had no idea what time it was unless they looked at the clock. They were running on booze and nicotine. Jongin felt himself getting slower and slower. It had to be morning. His thumbs were getting sore from playing. This, this man was the best player in the country. No—he was. No. He was getting himself and Shortie all confused.
The clock struck seven am and they took a break. Jongin collapsed into his chair beside Junmyeon, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How much are we up, pop?"
Junmyeon yawned. He seemed to be fighting sleep just as much as Jongin was. They'd been up for over twenty-four hours, and a majority of that was playing pool. Shortie had disappeared into the bathroom. Jongin leaned low over his seat to nudge the door to the bathroom open—it was wood, just like the rest of the place.
Shortie was drying his face—he'd washed it, the prim thing, and run a comb through his hair as well. When he came out, he picked up his vest and buttoned it right back up, then turned to Jongin.
"Junmyeon," Jongin said, and he could distantly hear his speech a little slurred. "Junmyeon, get me a drink, will ya." Jongin closed his eyes until a cold glass bottle was placed into his hands. He swayed in his seat a moment before putting it to his lips and letting the burning liquid send him further into oblivion. Was it sad that his life had lead up to this, and he was feeling beaten, and he was feeling like there was no point to it?
He stood, a little shakily. "Oh, Shortie." Jongin placed a hand on Shortie's shoulder. "You look all pretty, Shortie, all ready for the new day. Ten, why don't you run out and get us some breakfast." He placed some bills into the kid's hand.
"Jongin, we're done here. The game's over. We're up sixty five thousand. That's more than we came for, ok? You've won. It's over." It sounded like a plea.
"No." Jongin shook his head, clenching his jaw. He knew the unwritten rules. He had principle. "It's not over until Shortie says it's over. Is it over, Shortie?" Shortie just looked at him, and then at the man sitting at the corner. The man's look sucked the hope from Jongin like a sponge.
"Well then," said Jongin. "It's not over." And he pushed himself up from his chair with no small amount of effort.
Shortie earned every cent back until they were split even.
"Jongin!" A hand slapped Jongin's cheek and Jongin forced his eyes open. "Come on, Jongin, let's get to the hotel. It's over."
Jongin looked up at Shortie, who he assumed had just won the final game. "It was good going," said the man, and Jongin could see that his eyes were drooping a little too. "It really was. You're an amazing player."
They shook hands again, and the rest was a blur. Jongin regretted not being able to talk with Shortie any more: he viewed him with a reverence of a fanboy, and an interview was the dream. He really did think Shortie was beautiful. Alluring. Instead, he passed out in the back of the car and trusted Junmyeon to get them back to the hotel and into bed.