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Charlie hits him with a cue stick once. But only once and only accidentally.
He’s young— not fresh, not innocent, but there’s a more feral gleam in his eyes and a rough edge to him— and he frowns at AR’s pool table as he watches his mentor. Charlie doesn’t know how to play. There were plenty of things he could learn in back alleys, card games and how to throw a punch, but billiards escaped Charlie’s street education.
AR smiles, hands him a cue, and says it’s time to learn.
Charlie’s clumsy and inexperienced. He fumbles with the cue stick, unable to hold it steady or correctly. He misses, over and over, growing increasingly more frustrated and more sporadic with his shots. AR stands just behind him, watching, waiting, and telling Charlie to calm down and focus.
“I am focused,” Charlie protests. He brings the cue back roughly; there is a grunt of pain. Charlie thinks his lesson will end right there, as AR clutches his side in pain and shakes his head at Charlie— but then he laughs, a light wisp of amusement, a soft breeze fanning Charlie’s fire.
“Breathe, Charlie. You’re learning,” AR says quietly, stepping forward. He stands against him, until Charlie can feel his breath on his neck. “Hold the back end here...” he whispers, hand lightly brushing Charlie’s hip. Charlie obeys and adjusts, while AR reaches around to correct his other hand. The warmth of his torso presses against his back, arms braced around Charlie on either side, steadying him between body and table.
Charlie exhales.
“Put your hand like so,” AR advises, molding Charlie’s fingers into place beneath his own. He shifts slightly to the side, out of range of the cue stick, and tells Charlie to draw back slowly. Charlie bends, feels himself brush into AR, but his hand still quavers. “Visualize it. You need to see what you want, where you want this to go. And then… take your shot.”
Charlie follows AR’s orders, retracts into his chest, and sinks it straight into the corner pocket.