The Party (4)
"Solis, are you okay?"
Marin's soft hands cradled my face.
Her cold fingertips brushed feather-light across the bluish bruise around my eye, and the ache dulled at once.
"It hurts a little, but I'm fine."
Karma.
Sin's due.
There were endless words to describe my guilt.
I had stolen a kiss from the lips of a noble lady hailed by all as the next head of her family.
I had taken the virginity she'd cherished and saved, meant to be offered to Eva — her dearest friend, the one she'd secretly loved.
Compared to that price, a bruise around the eye was cheap, so I accepted it without complaint.
"Let me heal that for you."
Arlan placed her hand over my eye.
For a moment, a cluster of reddish-brown stars filled my vision; the instant she drew her hand away, the needle-like throb was washed clean away.
"All done. Anything else feeling off?"
"Thanks, Arlan. You saved my life."
I held a mirror up to my eye — the round, blooming bruise had faded to something faint.
Give it two days at most, and it'd be gone entirely.
"Hhic... sob."
"Pfft. Chloe, you okay over there?"
"My first... my first kiss... taken by that absolute degenerate!"
A funeral over there, I see.
Chloe beat the floor with her fists, wailing, while Eva sat beside her, patting her back in consolation, too sheepish to even meet her eyes.
"It's just a kiss. What's with all the melodrama, acting like you lost the whole world?"
"Glare!"
Chloe shot Ter a murderous look at her needling remark, but by then she'd already recovered her composure and taken her seat.
"Whew! Let's get the next game started already."
She pounded the table and hollered for the game to resume, like a drunk throwing a tantrum for another round.
She's steeled herself.
I could see it.
Chloe's jaw clenched tight.
The venom brimming in her eyes.
That resentful glare of I refuse to be the only one who loses clung to me like a water ghost dragged someone down to drown with it.
Her iron will to throw herself into the game came through loud and clear.
"I'll kill you, Solis."
I'd have rooted for that resolve — if only it hadn't been tilting toward drowning me in it.
She was lying in wait, ready to bellow "dead!" the instant she drew the king.
"Heh. Wonderful."
"?"
Just then, Ter, who'd been watching the whole scene unfold beside us, curled her lips into a knowing smile.
Her mouth curved like a strategist watching everything fall exactly into place, her expression brimming with satisfaction.
Don't tell me she knew Chloe's number?
Paired us up on purpose?
Nah, come on.
That was way too much of a leap.
Anyway, the second game was underway.
Just like before, we shuffled the lot of fate and drew our sticks in clockwise order.
And the second king, thus chosen, was—
"Me."
"Oh, nice draw."
Marin held the stick marked King up in front of me.
Absolute power, clutched in her hand.
What command would she issue?
"Solis, want to kiss?"
"...Out of nowhere?"
"The one you did with Chloe earlier. You looked like you enjoyed it."
"Kissing is skinship that transcends age and gender — though people's tastes on it do vary."
Barely any men dislike sex, but a surprising number of women don't actually care for kissing.
Unlike us, who feel raw, intuitive pleasure through the genitals down below, women tend to be swayed heavily by the emotional atmosphere.
A deserted street in the dead of night.
Far off, drinking in the fantastical glow of a city so beautiful it steals your breath—
Two people whisper their love.
The kiss is the mood-maker that sends that atmosphere soaring to its peak.
It makes you feel like you're watching the perfect scene from a romance film.
"...Then I command it. Solis, kiss me."
"If it's the king's command."
When a pretty girl says she wants to kiss you, turning her down would make you less than human.
Her pale pink lips were already under my chin. I gently rested a hand on her back and leaned in close—
"Wait, wait, stop!"
"What now, Chloe? Right when the mood was ripening."
"That's exactly what you should be asking yourself! This is king's game! The king assigns numbers and issues commands only — the king can't participate!"
"Is that true?"
"That is how it works, yes."
There are versions where the king can pick themselves, but this one, with its clause reading 'the king must assign two numbers, designating subject and object,' was structured so that the king could never take part.
"What a waste."
"We can kiss later, on our own time. For now, pick numbers so the game runs smoothly."
Marin nodded, then thrust her king's stick high into the air and declared:
"Numbers 2 and 4 — imitate a cat."
Huh. Marin actually has her own theory of the game, doesn't she?
Ter's command as the first king was the sort that belonged in the mid-to-late stretch — when empty stomachs full of alcohol had everyone's excitement at a rolling boil.
Start with punishments that are dead simple and easy.
Then ratchet up the intensity of the commands gradually, so whoever draws the penalty can accept it without much resistance — that's the whole trick of this game.
In that sense, Marin's command was a perfectly sound choice, straight off the answer key.
"I'm number 2."
"Me and the cursed number 4!"
The penalty fell to Arlan and Eva.
Even shy, easily-flustered Eva should manage a hurdle this small without trouble.
"Eva, what do you want to do? If you're not up for it, you can drink instead — no pressure at all."
"Uuu... f-fine, let's just do it. I hate alcohol..."
Even in the moment when everyone clinked glasses and toasted, riding high on the mood, she had stubbornly sipped her soft drink alone.
After some deliberation, the two of them decided to carry out the king's command.
"Meow."
Arlan raised her hands like little front paws for effect, pursed her lips into a circle, and let out a perfect cat's cry.
Her signature honeyed smile on top of it all made the aegyo absolutely unbearable in its cuteness.
"Oh, that suits you."
"Thank you. Your turn now, Eva — show us!"
"Uuuugh... aah, f-fine."
Head hanging in embarrassment, Eva drew courage from Arlan's cheering.
She clumsily mimicked the pose, then opened her trembling lips with a tense expression.
"Nyaaaaaa..."
Awkward.
Awkward didn't even begin to cover it.
Hunched in on herself, frozen stiff as a robot.
She'd done her absolute best, but had strict judges been scoring her, merely handing over a point would have counted as charity.
"Nyaa...!"
But what did that matter?
The raw material was unbelievably cute.
Her tousled hair, calling to mind the wispy fuzz of a newborn kitten.
Her flushed-red cheeks and that shy, flustered expression cringing from the embarrassment.
The dramatic synergy of it all cranked her cuteness up to its absolute maximum.
"Eva, you're so cute."
"Arlan, move aside. I need to take pictures."
Arlan, who'd harbored feelings for Eva for a long time, spared no praise of her own—
and Chloe, her best friend and lifelong secret admirer, went completely feral, mashing her phone's shutter button on anything that moved.
"S-stop... stop it, everyone..."
The poor recipient of all that attention trembled from head to toe in mortification.
Anyway, the mood was salvaged, and the game marched on.
From then on, kings were drawn in turn, and simple commands flew back and forth.
"Numbers 5 and 3, please waddle around the table like a duck."
"Quack quack."
"You don't have to do the duck call too, Marin."
Mostly, the commands were wholesome ones anyone could accept with a smile.
"Numbers 1 and 2, sing a duet."
"With my ragged thoughts, AAAAH!!!"
"Wow, that's terrible."
Even Chloe — forever circling, hunting for her chance to bury me — couldn't pin down my number, so she couldn't easily spit out anything vicious.
Unexpectedly wholesome. Though that's not to say it stayed spotless.
"Number 2, rub your chest against number 5's."
"If you don't drink this time, I'm cutting your dick off. Just so you know."
"Tch."
Just as a loach stirs up the mud in clear water, this game had its own impure faction — one determined to sully the wholesomeness and drag things into the shadows.
Ter led that pack; every time she drew king, she spat out some lecherous command.
"Number 4, give number 1's butt a pat."
"Number 3, flip up number 4's skirt."
Ah — and of course, I was one of those loaches too.
I'm not an idiot; there was no reason in the world to pass up an opportunity this good.
Once I charged to the front lines, Marin joined the ranks and began firing off commands as well.
"Gah — I'm dying!"
"Uuuuugh, I can't drink another drop..."
"Ulp!"
But the erotic moments didn't materialize nearly as easily as they had at the start.
Because of the rule that let you ignore the king's command by taking a drink instead, every time anyone got cornered, everyone scrambled to pour wine into their glass and gulp it down.
Calling it a drinking party rather than a king's game would have been more accurate.
I, too, worn down by the pressure of whichever partner got dragged up alongside me, did nothing but drink glass after glass.
I had confidence in my tolerance, so only the buzz kept rising — my head stayed crystal clear.
But this is drifting off course.
At this rate, the game would end before I got to enjoy anything.
{Friend, shall I help you out?}
And right at that moment, the relief pitcher took the mound — with impeccable timing.