Bet, Raise, Call (Baccano!, Luck/Firo)
Note to self: DO NOT CLAIM PROMPTS during the week when your show opens. Especially if you also have two essays and an exam that week.
Wisdom is my dump stat. Seriously.
Anyway. Horribly late, but here it is.
Also, my insomnia's really getting bad, y'all.
Title: Bet, Raise, Call
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: innuendo, boykissing
Wordcount: 1,430
Prompt: gambling - bright eyes and a sharp smile
Summary: “The best players cheat,” Firo says. “I’ve seen enough games to figure that out. I just haven’t figured out how to avoid getting caught while doing it.”
A/N: Sorry about the lateness. I kind of forgot about real life obligations when I claimed this prompt. You know, those things. augh.
The den in the back of Coraggioso is silent this evening; the cigar smoke from the room’s previous occupants still lingers in the air, flavoring each breath Luck takes with the taste of stale tobacco. Firo’s chair creaks as he rocks forward in it, propping his elbows on the table’s gummy surface. He rubs a poker chip between his thumb and forefinger, his fist inches from a puddle of amber liquid, and for a brief time, no sound but the faint scratching of his nail against the ridge fills the room.
“How do I cheat?” he asks.
Luck laughs and loosens his tie, drapes it over the back of his chair. The silk hisses against the wood. “I thought you wanted to learn how to play properly, Firo.”
“The best players cheat,” Firo says. “I’ve seen enough games to figure that out. I just haven’t figured out how to avoid getting caught while doing it.” He smiles and pushes his bangs back from his forehead; they’re damp and glistening in the light of the yellow lamps. “You don’t get caught, do you, Luck?”
Luck returns his smile and breaks the deck. This is an old set of cards, not so old that he’s memorized each crease and dent, can identify the ace of spades or the two of diamonds from the feel of the card under his fingertips, but they’ve seen use. “Very rarely.”
“So will you teach me?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I should encourage you to adopt vice.” Luck smiles. “We do try to keep youths out of our dealings.” No women, no children. A standard clause, or so it used to be.
“I’m old for my age,” Firo says. “Maiza says so, anyway.”
“He’s still hard at work training you, I take it?” he asks. Luck’s never been one for the intimacy of knives, but knife-fighting suits Firo. Even his smile’s like a blade flashing in the light, lithe and flashy, and he wields it with finesse.
“He is.” Firo pushes a stack of red chips across the table, towards Luck. “Come on. Show me how to cheat.” He wipes droplets of wine-cut with water, though not much of it; Firo is getting older, and Luck’s not the only one to have noticed as much-from the rim of his glass and brings his wet fingertips to his lips.
Luck slides the deck away. “You need to work on your bluffing, Firo. If you make what your goals too obvious, you give the other players an advantage over you.”
“I can bluff,” Firo says a shade too quickly. He pauses, laughs, and rests his chin on his fist, looking at Luck slantwise. “I just proved your point, didn’t I?”
He smiles. “You did.”
“If I can bluff you, will you teach me how to cheat?”
“If you can bluff me,” he says, “you’re well on your way to mastering the game.” He shifts his deck from hand to hand, rifling through the cards, letting them fall where they will. “Care to shuffle?”
Firo snatches the deck from his hands, shuffles with deft, lithe fingers. He slices through the deck again and again, barely even sparing a glance down at his hands as he separates and recombines the deck. Once he’s learned the intricacies of the game, he’ll have no trouble stacking the deck however he likes.
“Will you let me deal, too?” Firo asks.
“Of course.” Luck sets out the chips: fifty white, fifty red, twenty blue for each of them.
He deals as deftly as he shuffles, almost snapping each card out of the deck. Luck reviews his hand: five of spades, six of hearts, seven of hearts, ten of spades, queen of clubs. He keeps his face free of affect as he contemplates them, which is easy enough to do; staring down Firo across the rickety old table is a small task compared to staring down Runorata thugs intent on venturing into Gandor territory, he with a revolver and no backup and they with tommy guns. Poker, he thinks, is excellent training for such negotiations.
“I suppose I’m the only player to your left, so I’ll bet first.” He pushes two red chips forward.
“Wait,” Firo says. “What are the stakes?”
“What would you like them to be?” Luck asks.
“Not money.” Firo taps his cards against the table. “What else?” He’s trying to keep his poker face in place, but from the grin sneaking across his face, Luck guesses that Firo has more than a few ideas about what the chips ought to represent.
“The two most common variants are alcohol and clothing, I think.” Luck smiles. He can allow it.
Firo scratches his chin. “For each white chip the winner gets, the loser has to take a sip of wine,” he says. “For each red chip the winner gets-the loser forfeits a kiss. How’s that?”
“Blue chips signify the loss of articles of clothing, then?” Luck asks. “I like those stakes.”
Firo sets two red chips in the pot with a flourish. “Match,” he says.
Luck discards the ten of spades and raps his knuckles against the table once. Firo deals him the four of spades. One card away from a straight. He might as well aim for it; he might score a pair if he rids himself of his two or three lowest cards, but larger risks net larger rewards, and judging from the flair Firo’s using when he places his chips and flings his cards into the muck, his hand is near worthless. It’s not a bad attempt at bluffing, but Firo’s confidence seems more showiness than substance. He’ll keep his betting conservative this round, see how Firo reacts, and raise the stakes during the next round.
He considers palming the queen of clubs for later use-his reflexes aren’t equal to Firo’s, of course, but he does have five cards tucked under his sleeve, and substituting one of them for the queen of spades wouldn’t prove a difficult task. He decides against it. He’ll show Firo the trick later, though.
He nudges four white chips, four red, and two blue into the pot. “Bet.”
Firo pushes a stack of twelve red chips into the pot, pauses, and adds a blue chip to their number. “Raise.”
“Your hand’s awful, isn’t it?” Luck asks.
Firo tilts his chair back on two legs and keeps his cards close to his chest. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Match, then.” He taps the table once and sets the queen of clubs aside. In her stead, he receives the eight of diamonds. Perfect.
Firo picks up one new card this round and leans forward, his elbows resting against the table. “Well?”
“Bet,” Luck says, pushing fifteen red chips and five blue chips into the pot.
Firo whistles. “Raise,” he says, but only by three red chips. Of course Firo won’t back down.
“Raise.” Luck adds two more red chips to the pot. The next words out of Firo’s mouth should be-
“Call.”
Of course.
“Straight,” he says, spreading his cards on the table. “Four of spades, five of spades, six of hearts, seven of hearts, eight of diamonds.”
“Not bad,” Firo says, setting his own hand down face-up. His grin is as broad as the Hudson River. “Full house, tens over jacks.”
Luck blinks, then laughs. “Are you sure you didn’t stack the deck?”
“You haven’t showed me how to do that yet,” Firo says, “but you will soon, right?”
“It’s only fair.” Luck tallies the pot silently. “Eight sips of wine, sixty-five kisses, and I’m not sure if I have eight articles of clothing to remove.”
Firo slides out of his chair and straddles Luck’s lap, grabs the collar of his shirt, presses his chest against Luck’s at an awkward angle. Luck shifts against the back of his chair and corrects it, makes sure that Firo’s shoulders rest against his, sees that his lips align with Luck’s. “Start with this,” he says, slipping the first button of Luck’s collar loose; the rough pads of his fingers slide across the hollow of Luck’s throat.
Luck molds his hand to the back of Firo’s head, drags him closer until their lips meet and part; when he breaks the kiss, he hears Firo’s breath hitch. “One,” he purrs in Firo’s ear, his fingers working the knot of Firo’s tie loose. The silk slips through his hands.
“You can’t do that yet,” Firo protests, squirming in Luck’s lap. “I didn’t, ah, didn’t lose any blue chips.”
“You forget,” Luck says, “that the best players cheat.”
Wisdom is my dump stat. Seriously.
Anyway. Horribly late, but here it is.
Also, my insomnia's really getting bad, y'all.
Title: Bet, Raise, Call
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: innuendo, boykissing
Wordcount: 1,430
Prompt: gambling - bright eyes and a sharp smile
Summary: “The best players cheat,” Firo says. “I’ve seen enough games to figure that out. I just haven’t figured out how to avoid getting caught while doing it.”
A/N: Sorry about the lateness. I kind of forgot about real life obligations when I claimed this prompt. You know, those things. augh.
The den in the back of Coraggioso is silent this evening; the cigar smoke from the room’s previous occupants still lingers in the air, flavoring each breath Luck takes with the taste of stale tobacco. Firo’s chair creaks as he rocks forward in it, propping his elbows on the table’s gummy surface. He rubs a poker chip between his thumb and forefinger, his fist inches from a puddle of amber liquid, and for a brief time, no sound but the faint scratching of his nail against the ridge fills the room.
“How do I cheat?” he asks.
Luck laughs and loosens his tie, drapes it over the back of his chair. The silk hisses against the wood. “I thought you wanted to learn how to play properly, Firo.”
“The best players cheat,” Firo says. “I’ve seen enough games to figure that out. I just haven’t figured out how to avoid getting caught while doing it.” He smiles and pushes his bangs back from his forehead; they’re damp and glistening in the light of the yellow lamps. “You don’t get caught, do you, Luck?”
Luck returns his smile and breaks the deck. This is an old set of cards, not so old that he’s memorized each crease and dent, can identify the ace of spades or the two of diamonds from the feel of the card under his fingertips, but they’ve seen use. “Very rarely.”
“So will you teach me?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I should encourage you to adopt vice.” Luck smiles. “We do try to keep youths out of our dealings.” No women, no children. A standard clause, or so it used to be.
“I’m old for my age,” Firo says. “Maiza says so, anyway.”
“He’s still hard at work training you, I take it?” he asks. Luck’s never been one for the intimacy of knives, but knife-fighting suits Firo. Even his smile’s like a blade flashing in the light, lithe and flashy, and he wields it with finesse.
“He is.” Firo pushes a stack of red chips across the table, towards Luck. “Come on. Show me how to cheat.” He wipes droplets of wine-cut with water, though not much of it; Firo is getting older, and Luck’s not the only one to have noticed as much-from the rim of his glass and brings his wet fingertips to his lips.
Luck slides the deck away. “You need to work on your bluffing, Firo. If you make what your goals too obvious, you give the other players an advantage over you.”
“I can bluff,” Firo says a shade too quickly. He pauses, laughs, and rests his chin on his fist, looking at Luck slantwise. “I just proved your point, didn’t I?”
He smiles. “You did.”
“If I can bluff you, will you teach me how to cheat?”
“If you can bluff me,” he says, “you’re well on your way to mastering the game.” He shifts his deck from hand to hand, rifling through the cards, letting them fall where they will. “Care to shuffle?”
Firo snatches the deck from his hands, shuffles with deft, lithe fingers. He slices through the deck again and again, barely even sparing a glance down at his hands as he separates and recombines the deck. Once he’s learned the intricacies of the game, he’ll have no trouble stacking the deck however he likes.
“Will you let me deal, too?” Firo asks.
“Of course.” Luck sets out the chips: fifty white, fifty red, twenty blue for each of them.
He deals as deftly as he shuffles, almost snapping each card out of the deck. Luck reviews his hand: five of spades, six of hearts, seven of hearts, ten of spades, queen of clubs. He keeps his face free of affect as he contemplates them, which is easy enough to do; staring down Firo across the rickety old table is a small task compared to staring down Runorata thugs intent on venturing into Gandor territory, he with a revolver and no backup and they with tommy guns. Poker, he thinks, is excellent training for such negotiations.
“I suppose I’m the only player to your left, so I’ll bet first.” He pushes two red chips forward.
“Wait,” Firo says. “What are the stakes?”
“What would you like them to be?” Luck asks.
“Not money.” Firo taps his cards against the table. “What else?” He’s trying to keep his poker face in place, but from the grin sneaking across his face, Luck guesses that Firo has more than a few ideas about what the chips ought to represent.
“The two most common variants are alcohol and clothing, I think.” Luck smiles. He can allow it.
Firo scratches his chin. “For each white chip the winner gets, the loser has to take a sip of wine,” he says. “For each red chip the winner gets-the loser forfeits a kiss. How’s that?”
“Blue chips signify the loss of articles of clothing, then?” Luck asks. “I like those stakes.”
Firo sets two red chips in the pot with a flourish. “Match,” he says.
Luck discards the ten of spades and raps his knuckles against the table once. Firo deals him the four of spades. One card away from a straight. He might as well aim for it; he might score a pair if he rids himself of his two or three lowest cards, but larger risks net larger rewards, and judging from the flair Firo’s using when he places his chips and flings his cards into the muck, his hand is near worthless. It’s not a bad attempt at bluffing, but Firo’s confidence seems more showiness than substance. He’ll keep his betting conservative this round, see how Firo reacts, and raise the stakes during the next round.
He considers palming the queen of clubs for later use-his reflexes aren’t equal to Firo’s, of course, but he does have five cards tucked under his sleeve, and substituting one of them for the queen of spades wouldn’t prove a difficult task. He decides against it. He’ll show Firo the trick later, though.
He nudges four white chips, four red, and two blue into the pot. “Bet.”
Firo pushes a stack of twelve red chips into the pot, pauses, and adds a blue chip to their number. “Raise.”
“Your hand’s awful, isn’t it?” Luck asks.
Firo tilts his chair back on two legs and keeps his cards close to his chest. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Match, then.” He taps the table once and sets the queen of clubs aside. In her stead, he receives the eight of diamonds. Perfect.
Firo picks up one new card this round and leans forward, his elbows resting against the table. “Well?”
“Bet,” Luck says, pushing fifteen red chips and five blue chips into the pot.
Firo whistles. “Raise,” he says, but only by three red chips. Of course Firo won’t back down.
“Raise.” Luck adds two more red chips to the pot. The next words out of Firo’s mouth should be-
“Call.”
Of course.
“Straight,” he says, spreading his cards on the table. “Four of spades, five of spades, six of hearts, seven of hearts, eight of diamonds.”
“Not bad,” Firo says, setting his own hand down face-up. His grin is as broad as the Hudson River. “Full house, tens over jacks.”
Luck blinks, then laughs. “Are you sure you didn’t stack the deck?”
“You haven’t showed me how to do that yet,” Firo says, “but you will soon, right?”
“It’s only fair.” Luck tallies the pot silently. “Eight sips of wine, sixty-five kisses, and I’m not sure if I have eight articles of clothing to remove.”
Firo slides out of his chair and straddles Luck’s lap, grabs the collar of his shirt, presses his chest against Luck’s at an awkward angle. Luck shifts against the back of his chair and corrects it, makes sure that Firo’s shoulders rest against his, sees that his lips align with Luck’s. “Start with this,” he says, slipping the first button of Luck’s collar loose; the rough pads of his fingers slide across the hollow of Luck’s throat.
Luck molds his hand to the back of Firo’s head, drags him closer until their lips meet and part; when he breaks the kiss, he hears Firo’s breath hitch. “One,” he purrs in Firo’s ear, his fingers working the knot of Firo’s tie loose. The silk slips through his hands.
“You can’t do that yet,” Firo protests, squirming in Luck’s lap. “I didn’t, ah, didn’t lose any blue chips.”
“You forget,” Luck says, “that the best players cheat.”