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A French mathematician and philosopher once said, "So wretched is man that he would weary even without any cause for weariness." But he also said that man is so silly that even the simplest thing, like playing a game of pool, is enough to distract man from his weariness.
Clearly Pascal had never faced Bobby Hobbes across a pool table.
"Fourteen, right corner pocket," Hobbes said, shifting into place with a complicated gyration involving three cracks of his neck, two ass shakes, and one disturbingly long caress of his pool cue.
Darien sipped at his beer, and admitted to himself that the display, while horrific, was at least more entertaining than sitting at home alone in his dark apartment, contemplating his glandular problem.
Hobbes took his shot. The cue ball clacked against Darien's two ball, which collided into the fourteen, and sent them both into the right corner pocket.
Hobbes sniffed. "I meant to do that."
Darien slid off his stool and examined the table. "Seven, right center pocket." He took his shot, and it went in with a thunk. "Four, left corner." That one went in, too.
"Lucky shot," Hobbes said.
"Yeah," Darien said, calling and banking his six ball in a fancy shot that made Hobbes pretend, badly, that he wasn't scowling. He was lining up a shot with his five ball when something smacked Darien's cue stick. When he wheeled around, Hobbes was chalking his cue and whistling innocently.
"What? Wasn't me. Some guy hit you on the way to the john."
"Right," Darien said, and turned around. Just as he was taking his shot, something rapped against his cue again, causing the tip to dig into the felt and skid past the cue ball. "Oh, it is on."
Darien spun around and aimed the butt of his cue at Hobbes' face, but Hobbes was already ducking out of the way and smacking Darien's ass with his own cue stick.
"You sure you want to do this, Fawkesy?" Hobbes asked, spinning his cue stick around like a demented cheerleader with a flaming baton.
"It's go time," Darien said, and tried to jab Hobbes in the gut.
Hobbes dodged. "'Go time'? Did you seriously just say that? Because I will kick your lanky, lame ass."
"You seem to have an obsession with my ass, Hobbes," he said, turning slightly to pat the booty in question. "You aren't the first to fall for its charms."
Hobbes scoffed. "A skinny string bean like you ain't got no ass."
"I guess not everyone can be as curvaceous as you, partner."
"Hey, I'm sturdy," Hobbes protested.
"Yeah, sturdy like a garden gnome," Darien said.
Hobbes swung his pool cue at the backs of Darien's knees, and Darien went down. He stared at the dusty bottom of the pool table. It was pretty grody down there.
"Nobody compares me to a garden gnome," Hobbes said, leaning over Darien with that scary look in his eye that usually meant significant property damage, weapons discharge, and a grumpy Fat Man. An epic amount of grumpy, like that time with the place and the banana costume.
"I didn't mean it," Darien said. "You are a well-muscled bad-ass."
"You wish your girlfriend was hot like this," Hobbes said with a smug smile. He held out his hand. Darien took it and let Hobbes haul him to his feet.
"Wouldn't mind a girlfriend, period," Darien muttered, because spontaneously going invisible when girls did sexy things kinda put the kibosh on his love life.
"I know what you need," Hobbes said.
Darien dusted himself off. "A brilliant surgeon and a giant carafe of methadone to help me kick the quicksilver habit? My life back? For bad guys to stop shooting at me all the time like I'm trapped in a John Woo movie?"
"You need more beer," Hobbes said, signaling to their waitress. "And methadone comes in pill form, moron."
And so they abandoned the pool game, and drank.
After another beer or six, Hobbes got up to drain the lizard, and Darien took the opportunity to quicksilver his beer. When Hobbes came back, he looked at the bar ledge where his beer had been. "Hey, where did my -- did the waitress take my beer? It was half-full! Unbelievable."
Darien couldn't help it; he snickered.
Hobbes glared at him. "You invisibled my beer? That's alcohol abuse."
Hobbes felt around the bar ledge carefully, wiggling his fingers in search of his beer. Darien laughed again, and his stool wobbled dangerously.
"Okay, lightweight. Time for you to go home," Hobbes said.
"Don't be mad," Darien said when Hobbes tugged him upright. He picked up Hobbes' invisible beer as the quicksilver flaked off the bottle. "It's right here."
Hobbes took the bottle out of his hand, pushed him out of the pool hall, and wrangled Darien into the back of a taxi.
"You're no fun," Darien said after Hobbes told the cabbie where to go.
"I'm loads of fun. Fun is my middle name. People have composed songs about the kind of good time I am," Hobbes said.
"Pfft, they have not," Darien said. He slithered sideways on the bench seat and rested his head on Hobbes' shoulder. "I'm tired."
"I know you are." Hobbes patted Darien's shoulder. They didn't say anything else until the cab stopped.
"C'mon, admit it, you like my ass," Darien said as Hobbes poured him into bed.
"I admit that I am somewhat fond of your ass," Hobbes said.
Darien smiled and closed his eyes, snuggling with his pillow. "You're only saying that because you think I won't remember in the morning."
"You're making me breakfast in the morning," Hobbes said.
"I am?"
"You think I'm paying for another cab home? Ha!"
"Blankets are that way," Darien said, pointing. He listened as Hobbes puttered around, opening closet doors, kicking off his shoes, muttering under his breath.
"Good night, Fawkes," Hobbes called from the couch. "Remember: breakfast!"
"I'll buy," Darien said. "But no doughnuts."
"No doughnuts," Hobbes agreed.