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While getting back into his seat, closest to the Foreman's—or Juror 1's own seat at the head of the courtroom-table, Juror 12 winces up.
So suddenly, a crumpled paper ball decided to THWPP! off Juror 12's forehead.
Juror 10 notices, but quickly disregards it. He already knows better than to open his mouth right now. About anything. Juror 5 keeps bristling from his own seat. He cautiously watches Juror 10's heavily pained expression, as if looking for an excuse to stop something else starting.
Two other of their fellow jurors, Juror 6 and Juror 8, head to the rainy windows to reopen them.
The air again stifles with humid heat.
Nobody wants this for much longer...
Across the courtroom-table, Juror 7 whistles out, pretending to slowly swing an invisible baseball bat in the air. His eyes firmly on Juror 12.
Sweat trickles onto Juror 7's brow.
Even from the distance, Juror 12 can see it. He clears his throat, Juror 12's head ducking.
Both of Juror 12's hands nab onto the paper ball. Hides it into his lap. Unfolds it.
He reads—
VERDICT IN THE POWDER ROOM?
The corners of Juror 12's mouth, feeling impossibly dry, quirk up.
.
.
.
All at once, everyone else decides to rush the men's lavatory. To hang the hose, more than likely. Juror 12 can't figure the coincidence.
He avoids the old man's—Juror 9's pointed but mannerly curious gaze.
"Woo! Another two points!" Triumphantly, Juror 7 motions with empty hands raised. Yet another paper-ball crumple. It lands into one of the opened sinks and Juror 12 grinningly rubs his nose, patting pockets. "So... whaddya think of all of that hullabaloo out there? Eh? Cages rattled?"
"No different than one of our ad agency meetings, if I am honest." Finally, Juror 12 locates his unlit cigarette. "We get some real hotheads."
"Ain't that a bite."
Prepared to go on about working at his very crucial desk-position and the innovative ideas, Juror 12 finds himself silenced. Juror 7's warm and soapy-tasting fingers press against his lips. The entire palm cupping. Juror 12's eyes widen, and he stays a bit too dumbfounded for reacting.
"So..." Juror 7's face brightens. He pulls out a unwrapped stick of gum with the other freed hand. "Ya circled, pal?"
A head-shake.
"Me neither. All them dollies are more trouble than they're worth... yah'know what I'm sayin' about it?"
Eventually, Juror 12 realizes he's been walked to the wall, Juror 12's back bumping there. The cigarette lost to the women's bathroom-floor.
"Gettin' hitched ain't seeming what it is cracked up to be..."
Juror 7 flashes an encouraging smile, his chewed-up piece of bubblegum between teeth. A soft, squishy pink. Juror 12's eyes dart uneasily. When he hears Juror 7 quietly but cheerfully ask for Juror 12 to hold onto something for him, to hold onto Juror 7's gum, Juror 12 imagines doing it. He imagines putting out a hand, in waiting, and Juror 7 spitting gratuitously over Juror 12's fingers without hesitation.
Heat crawls up the back of Juror 12's neck. His dick stirs to life. Feeling embarrassed, Juror 12 squeezes his thighs together.
Instead of spitting, Juror 7 lowers his hand over Juror 12's lips and gleefully presses against them. The gum bumps wetly against Juror 12's own teeth. He presses once more, tongue-first, until a dazed Juror 12 opens up to receive a film of Juror 7's saliva as well as the chewy pink gum.
Mouths roam, going slow, turning together and slotting. As if familiar with it. Somehow.
Chests heave.
Hips flatten up.
Shoes squeak across leaky bathroom-tiles.
.
.
.
And somewhere in the middle of this...
Juror 12 moans tightly, closing his eyes, feeling gusts of hot breathes on his jaw.
"You any good in the field, mister?" Juror 7's voice goes hoarse. "Pitcher? Catcher? Batter willing to trade?"
"I... I don't..."
He hisses a little, feeling fingers clutching and rubbing up-and-down Juror 12's sides.
"Cool it. Nobody here is thinkin' of going bridge... if that's on your mind," Juror 7 reassures him, or at least a part of Juror 12 think he's trying to be reassuring to the other man. "I may be a heavy hitter, but... a man's gotta respect if they want out of the game..."
Starting to understand the meaning between old baseball terms and new-fashioned slang, Juror 12 offers a chuckle breathlessly.
"I..."
He reopens his eyes.
The gum feels thick in Juror 12's mouth. Even if it's only sitting there. Juror 12 decides to answer any doubts lingering, from either man, with a hard, latching kiss. Both his hands frame Juror 7's head. Sloppily, Juror 12 allows the kiss to deepen, Juror 7's tongue back inside him.
Groaning out, reaching for his hat to remove, Juror 7 beams.
"Boy howdy, you're a knock-out."
.
.
.
Rainwater leaks through the ceiling-pipes. Most of them drip. Juror 12 can understand why this place was OUT-OF-ORDER for the deliberation.
He whines low, thrusting into a loose fist grasping around Juror 12's dick. The head, fat and red-swollen.
At the same moment, Juror 7 thrusts gleefully against the sensations of Juror 12's hand pumping. A bit erratically. "You looked real swell in those, mmph!, peepers..." he announces, huffing, "...they for show, mm!, or d'ya genuinely need 'em around?"
Nodding, Juror 12 manages to get out, "Poor eyesight while reading—hhn!"
Pleasant prickles of arousal work down his entire body. The familiar telltale of it. Juror 12's dick stiffens.
They... they can never let anyone know what happened here. No parents, no school friends, no wives while drunkenly making love for comparison. Kissing another juror. Touching another. Sexually. It... no, not how either of them were raised as boys, Juror 12 hazily supposes.
His knees weaken. The spit-slippery dick in his hand engorges.
Juror 7 doesn't lose his rhythm, now backing Juror 12 up against the wall again, and wholeheartedly smirks up into his face.
"Did I ever mention that I sell marmalade—"
A knocking, on the outside, interrupts.
Cold terror douses every vein. Everything existing inside of him.
Juror 12 quickly slams a hand—a hand not on another man's dick—against his opening mouth before a gasp escapes.
"Gentlemen? Are you listening?" comes the serene-sounding words of Juror 9 behind the glass. "It is best you return before you are noticed, yes?"
"I'm calling interference," Juror 7 mutters reluctantly. He backs off Juror 12 flushing darkly, still covering his mouth beginning to tremble. Good God, Good God... Taking a deep and steadying breath, Juror 12 collects himself, attempting to stuff his mostly erect dick into his trousers.
A sheen of pink-flushing, rather humbling, burns against Juror 7's own cheeks.
He scratches at his neck, avoiding eye-contact.
"Well..."
Juror 12 prepares to spit out the gum /still in his mouth/, into a bin, when Juror 7's hand presents out impatiently. He gawks.
"Well?" Juror 7 repeats, appearing stern.
Driven speechless, Juror 12 spits with pitiful force, visibly wincing. A clear-glistened string of fluid hangs off of Juror 7's fingertips.
"Thanks for doin' me a favor, friend."
Friend...
Growing sullen, Juror 12 watches him halfheartedly wave and clamor out.
He notices Juror 7's hat accidentally left behind.
Maybe, maybe not...