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Riffle, riffle, cut, riffle, riffle, cut.
The dealer’s fingers dance on the sharp ridges of the cards, flipping through with a harmonious dexterity that makes Dahlia’s brain ripple in time. He’s got a fluidity that comes with years and years of practice— Dahlia would know, because he’s been coming to this casino for two of those years now, and has watched this dealer’s skilled, delicate hands for a good many of the days he’s spent at this faux-luxury bar in the back of the casino’s main floor.
He wears a smile like a fox on customer service pay and a vest with more elegance than Dahlia’s ever managed to muster up, even on some of his best days.
His name is Duke. Or at least, Dahlia thinks it is— it’s what's on the man's name tag, anyhow.
Riffle, riffle, cut, riffle, riffle, cut.
He takes a long sip of his drink, watching as Duke flicks a card three times and calls for the auction to begin. It’s Jovian Hold ‘Em, he thinks, and he never really understood the rules, but... Well. With how many times he’s watched Duke fall through this routine, he’s certain he could keep up in a game.
And, well. Isn’t that a thought? Joining the long-haired dealer at his table, passing glances if he could catch his eye. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to. Duke kept his eyes firmly on the table, scanning his players’ hands, almost as hawkish as Dahlia observes his now.
Riffle, riffle, cut, riffle, riffle, cut.
It’s either now or never, play or wait around long enough till he gives into another glass of Europa Black and lingers on the idea for another night. He’s not much for cards, but he plays to win, and tonight?
Tonight, he plans to score big.
He waits for Karma Sangria’s initials to be called. That's his name for the night. He’s sure as hell Dodger at least thinks something’s up, because Dahlia shows up every few weeks with a different name and an intent to play at Duke’s table, but, well… he’s really not sure the host is paid enough to care. Funny, considering the income of the place. Even for a casino they make a fortune, considering the crowds that roll in.
And on the topic of that crowd, Artie calls his name and drags him through it, until they stop at that fateful table and Dahlia gets to meet his company for the evening.
A man older than Dahlia, short and stout, hastily glancing at his jewel encrusted watch, which is almost comically hideous; A young man with hair longer than Dahlia’s cinched dress, decorated with ornaments that must’ve cost more than it, too, who sits on Dahlia’s left. He’s talking excitedly with what looks like a pair of twins dressed in— if Dahlia had to guess, real wool sweaters imported from Earth. They’re all chattering excitedly, bickering over who’s going to get to buy whom a drink.
Beyond them, a redheaded woman looks on in soft affection towards the arguing trio, leaning gently towards her green haired companion in a hood, who seems to be laughing along with whatever comment she’s undoubtedly making about ‘young love and envy’.
And… finally, an older player in a sleeveless, shiny velvet suit, not a hair on their well-moisturized face or head to his immediate right. They're looking Dahlia over, sizing him up. Studying him. Behind them stands a man around their age in a silver skirt, wielding a soft, purple fan. It's clear this man has no intent to join any games except for the one he's probably playing with this gambler's heart.
“Karma Sangria?” Duke asks, breaking Dahlia’s train of thought. Duke gets a look on his face, and, for a moment, Dahlia wonders whether or not the man recognizes him. But that look fades, and Duke dons his customer service smile. “Madame?”
“Uh— yeah. Yeah, that’s… me,” Dahlia says intelligently. He slides into his seat and jumps at the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. When he looks over, all he sees is the fluttering of a lavender fan.
“Wonderful,” Duke says. “And how much would you like to buy in for?”
He’s trying not to be distracted, not by the fluttering of Duke’s eyelashes or the lavender fan a seat away. “What’s, uh.” His mouth has gone dry. “What’s the minimum again? Sorry.”
“Thirteen,” says a silky voice beside him. The young man sitting next to him offers a cocky smile. “Are you sure you’re at the right table, Miss?”
“Or the right casino?” He hears one of the twins mutter. He pinches his face in a scowl— he knows he’s downtown trash. That’s the point, he reminds himself, and it’s the reason he’s not. Going. To lose.
He turns back to Duke, pulling out his wallet. “Thirteen?” He asks.
Duke smiles. “...Thousand, yes.”
“Thirteen-goddamn-thousand,” Dahlia sighs, and pulls out a roll of creds, placing it down on the table. “Here, take your money.”
The roll disappears, and without much of a blink between it and Duke’s hands disappearing under the table, Dahlia’s met with a rack of chips being pushed in front of him. “There you are,” he says, resting his hands in front of him, “and would you like to post?”
Dahlia is, again, distracted— this time, by Duke’s hands. He’s got long fingers, delicate fingers, nails painted a matte red to match the rims of his glasses. His thumbs are crossed.
“No,” Dahlia says eventually. “No, that’s fine. I’ll wait.”
Duke nods, and resumes their play of Jovian Hold ‘Em.
“The card for sale is…” Duke says, turning the card outward to face them. “Ten of spades, starting at fifteen, do we have fifteen— yes, Mr. Arlowe—”
Duke’s voice fades out as the auction begins. Dahlia knows the motions well enough that, for now, he doesn’t have to watch the cards.
What he watches instead is his crowd.
Prince Rapunzel sitting next to him fidgets with the ends of his sleeves— Dahlia doesn’t know what that means, entirely, but he’s not backing down against Green Hood’s driving of the price, pushing higher and higher. And he’s pretty sure she’s full of it, with the way her buddy looks on in amused adoration. The twins jostle each other and giggle, not daring to step foot into the arena, and—
—a lavender fan flutters at the end of the table, catching Dahlia’s attention.
“—six hundred from Medex Calloway, mmm? Any takers? Going once, going twice—”
Calloway’s eyes meet his. They pin him in place. No one says a word.
The amount one has left isn’t exactly a secret at the table. The fact that Calloway has chips and chips stacked in neat little piles in neat little rows almost speaks for itself, and their blunt smile gives way to something shark-like in nature. What they want, they seem to communicate, they will get.
“Sold to Mx. Calloway! Congratulations, congratulations,” Duke declares, sliding the bought card over to the successor. The gambler’s lingering gentlefriend taps them lovingly on the shoulder and smiles down with pride. Typical of this kind of show, Dahlia thinks, but… wrong.
With the cards already shuffled pre-bid, Duke can seamlessly pass out their cards. And, because he didn’t post, Dahlia is of course skipped over— he’s never made a decent gamble in his life, apart from maybe one on a rainy night, but he’s got a knack for understanding people. And as it turns out, a gamble is only as risky as the bluff you’re calling.
“Mister Jaldec,” Duke says, “since Medex Calloway won the bid, as our only player to their left, I believe you’re our starting bet.”
Jaldec peels up the corners of his cards— but that’s not where Dahlia’s focus is at all. He’s staring at the man’s face, trying to determine what that newly bitten lip means. With the glance he makes towards Calloway, it’s pretty clearly a sign of nerves. A sign that’s only confirmed when he says lightheartedly to Calloway, “Y’know? I’m not scared of you, pockets, I’ll play,” and tosses two chips into the pot.
One of the twins rolls her eyes. “Oh, how brave of you, Mr. Jaldec,” while Calloway lets out a soft laugh from beside him.
Her twin starts saying something similar as she calculates her bet, but Dahlia doesn’t actually catch any of it. His attention is once again caught by the movement of that annoying lavender fan coming dangerously close to his head.
He yelps softly. “Hey, buddy,” he snips, turning to face the man standing behind Calloway, “mind watching where you swing that thing?”
The man does take a second to look genuinely guilty, but mostly only laughs behind the fan’s cover.
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Calloway chuckles. “He just gets excited to watch, is all. I don’t blame him, considering our crowd. Quite an exciting bunch, isn’t it?”
Dahlia feels his hackles raise. There’s something about the way this person talks that he does not like— maybe it’s that feeling again. The one where he feels like he’s being analyzed. “Yeah,” he says awkwardly. “Well, he can be excited however he wants, just make sure he doesn’t mess with the hair, alright? I got it done this morning.”
It’s a futile attempt to break from the conversation as Calloway pulls him right back in with a laugh. “Oh, but of course. We wouldn’t want to upset our newest addition to this little game. Very brave of you to join, by the way.”
The red-haired woman is saying something. He needs to focus on what she’s saying.
“So young,” they continue, “and with so much to lose. Tell me, how far are you from home? Lotophagus City is a big place, and I can’t imagine that you belong here.”
“I belong wherever I put my goddamn creds,” Dahlia grits out without turning to face them. “Last time I checked, I put them at this table. Now would you mind laying off?”
Calloway laughs, and Dahlia can watch the movement of them throwing their head back from the corner of his eye. It’s over-dramatic, a movement absolutely made to get his attention, especially when the laugh that actually accompanies it isn’t even loud enough to disrupt the stout older man’s frantic counting of his chips.
“Of course,” they purr, “my apologies. I suppose what I meant is that perhaps a substantially smaller amount of them would be best put somewhere else.”
Before Dahlia can get riled up and really make a scene about that comment, Calloway interrupts themself. Or, rather, the game does.
A dramatic “Oh, is it my turn already?” from Calloway cuts through his frustration just enough to reel himself back in. It doesn’t stop him from staring at them, though. They glance over the community cards, then their own, then hum and glare down at their bought card. Their hand probably doesn’t line up with it the way they wanted, Dahlia snickers to himself. Sucks. That’s the twist of Jovian Hold ‘Em: you buy it, you use it. Fitting or not.
The glare disappears as quickly as Dahlia expects from a gambler. Instead, they flap their hand dismissively. “Oh, what the hell.” They say. “I’ll raise you, Madame, but you drive a hard bargain.”
They then proceed to practically double the bet.
He watches them turn back to their partner, shrugging, to say “Oh, dear, please don’t be upset with me for this,” to which their partner only playfully smacks down their hand with an open grin. Calloway grabs the edge of the fan, and pulls until they can kiss the man’s knuckles.
Dahlia rolls his eyes. A bluff, then, and not even a subtle one at that— he guesses the subtle nuance of just glaring at their cards wouldn’t be enough for someone like Medex Calloway. Now it’s just a matter of who the hell will fall for it.
Unsurprisingly, almost half the table folds on the flop. The man with the watch, one of the twins, and Green Hood are the only ones left a stake in the game. The younger twin looks to be genuinely optimistic, the older man seems to be attempting a bluff in the same way Calloway is, and Green Hood… well. He really can’t tell what’s going on in her head. He partially blames that on the way Calloway’s partner can’t seem to keep his hands or his fan to himself, and more specifically, away from his goddamn head. No wonder this was the open seat he ended up in.
On the Turn, a few more candidates drop when Calloway raises yet again. The old man, for example, settles his pride and folds. Then, come the River, the twin girl realizes she no longer has the chips to meet the bid— as the pile she thought she was pulling from was actually her sister’s.
Green Hood, though, looks at Calloway and says, “Then I call.”
She has this set to her jaw that dares a challenge. Calloway at least has the decency to look intimidated, but ultimately they grin and splay their hands wide. “So be it,” they grin, and turn their cards.
Kings full hand.
“Oh, son of a—” Green Hood hisses, throwing her cards on the table to reveal a pair of clubs— a flush, in combination with the community cards.
Calloway laughs while Duke pushes what they’ve won their way. Nobody at the table seems half as pleased as they are— which, to be fair, is normal, but usually there’s some kind of friendly hazing, or a complaint about what they could’ve had. Instead, there’s a lingering frustrated silence, broken only by the redheaded woman joking lightly about how some just have fate’s favor while cards are collected again.
When they’ve all found their home in Duke’s hands again and he’s gotten a chance to shuffle, Dahlia forces a breath in and pays his blind, officially allowing him a place in the game.
Alright, Dahlia Auros. Don’t fuck it up.
“The card for sale is,” Duke says, drawing one card delicately off the top with his graceful fingers, “the nine of hearts! Starting at fifteen. Any takers?” He sets it down face-up on the table and laces his fingers together— but his thumbs stay parallel. “Any at all?”
Before Calloway can open their mouth, Dahlia snaps three chips against the table. “Here.”
Duke grins. “Fifteen from our newest player! Does anyone— yes, yes, twenty from you, Mrs. Solaire—”
The auction carries on as a mirrored parallel to the one that came before it, but this time, Dahlia is easily swept into the rush that doesn’t come from watching someone play. Auctions tend to go so fast that the seconds cling together, every single one a link in a chain that never seems to end, and all the while his heart jumps at the chance just to get a word in.
For a second, it’s almost fun.
Then, of course, comes that goddamn lavender fan.
“Then that’s nine hundred to Medex Calloway,” Duke laughs. “Nine hundred, going once.”
Dahlia glances downwards at Duke’s hands. They’re still folded neatly in place, his thumbs still perfectly parallel.
“Make it ten,” he says, adding a few more chips to his growing betting pile.
Calloway glances back. “Twenty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Fifty,” they hiss.
“Fifty-five,” he says breezily.
They’re visibly irritated as they push more than a few stacks of their chips forward. “One-hundred.”
Duke crosses one thumb over the other. Dahlia leans back, and shuts his mouth.
“One-hundred thousand creds from Medex Calloway.” Duke muses. “One-hundred thousand, going once?”
Calloway stares him down as Dahlia happily begins rearranging the chips he’d started stacking for this auction. Nobody says a word.
“Twice?”
Dahlia glances at Calloway’s rows and rows of chips, now visibly lessened from the amount they’d pushed towards the center. Their eyes follow his, and widen.
“Three times.”
The fun thing about auctions, Dahlia thinks, stacking his own chips back into their neat little piles, is that there’s not so much risk in a bluff. All it takes is an opponent who really, really wants the prize— or, even better, is absolutely certain they’ll get it.
“Sold to Mx. Calloway for one-hundred thousand creds!” Duke says with a smile. “Congratulations, Medex.”
“Yeah, Calloway,” Dahlia can’t help but snark as Duke pushes their chips further towards the middle and slides their newly won prize their way, “Congrats. But, hey,” he says, leaning against the table. “Can’t help but feel like a substantially smaller amount of those could’ve gone, y’know. Somewhere else.”
He may have lost the bet. But the visible vein in Calloway’s forehead— and the hidden smile Duke sends his way— is more than enough of a win for him.
-
He can’t win all of them, of course. But apparently he wins enough. So much, in fact, that someone starts jumping to conclusions.
“This is ridiculous,” Calloway spits as they finally throw down their— literal —hand against the table. “This is collusion.”
Dahlia jolts in his seat while the other guests fall silent. Quietly, the twins began to murmur between each other.
“Collusion between… who?” Dahlia asks. “Pretty hefty accusations to throw around, there, Calloway—”
“Don’t play dumb!” they shout. “Between you, and this— our dealer here. Sir, are you aware this is illegal? That you’re going to be fired for this? Do you know who I am? ”
Dahlia’s eyes flash up to Duke’s face, who looks just as lost and confused as Dahlia feels, except… somehow, not. Calmer, maybe? Because Dahlia has seen it himself: certain players, caught up in their recycled highs and lows, eventually lose out, and take it out on the poor dealers instead of owning up to the fact that they’ve gone and blown some substantially large savings over the span of a night.
Duke takes a deep inhale. “Medex, I respect your disappointment and understand your concern. However, we at the Compass Cardinal do not and will not—”
“Oh, will you cut it out?” they hiss. “You’ve been feeding cards to this young lady all night! Stacking the deck for him, dealing out the bottom. I’ve seen it!”
Duke only raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?” he asks before glancing down at his hands. “Are you referring to my grip, Medex? If that’s the case, I can understand the confusion. You see, it’s casino protocol to deal this way.” His laugh is soft and buoyant, the sound floating directly to the top of Dahlia’s brain and buzzing there like a shot of his typical poison. “It’s an understandable and common misconception, but I assure you, I am dealing you as I would any other guests.”
He breaks into a charming smile, and Dahlia feels his shoulders relax.
Calloway groans. “It isn’t about your grip, I saw it—”
“If you’re so sure about that, why are you only just now saying it?” Dahlia asks. “We’re a whole flop in, Calloway, if you thought the cards were stacked, you wouldn’t be waiting until now to say anything.”
“I—well,” they tug at the front of their suit. “I had to be certain, of course, I couldn’t just—”
“Certain of what?” Dahlia snips. “If you thought you saw a move like that, you wouldn’t have to wait until someone wins to call it out. It’s pretty cut and dry.” He squints at them. He only means to size them up, really, but his gaze slips just over their shoulder, to the man in the silver skirt with the lavender fan.
“Unless,” he says thoughtfully, “you thought you could beat it anyway. Because you have help.”
They visibly fluster, following Dahlia’s eyes to the man behind them. Instantly their face begins to bloom scarlet. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. If you’re accusing my Patrick of something illegal, you’d better have the evidence to back it up, because my lawyer will be hearing about it.”
“Oh, I’ll show you evidence,” Dahlia snarks. He looks past Calloway again before he stands to step past them. “Patrick, right?” He asks. The man nods, slowly. “Perfect. Nice to meet you, my name is Karma. Mind if I have a look at that fan of yours? It’s got an exquisite design.”
From the corner of his eye, Dahlia watches Duke shift.
Patrick’s face goes very, very still. He’s cornered, in a way— all eyes on him, with no reason to refuse such a… simple request.
Patrick purses his lips and passes over the fan.
In an instant, Dahlia unfolds it into an open position and, just as he thought, it’s creased along the top. Not a solid lining, but a pocket, perfect for storing something paper thin. Dahlia turns the fan upside-down over the table and gives it a passionate shake.
The cards that inevitably spill out are a surprise to no one, except to one slightly disgruntled Duke, whom Dahlia only then realizes is likely going to have to be the one to clean this mess. Ah, well. It gives the gossips time to work their magic anyway.
“My,” the red headed woman snorts, “that’s hardly subtle at all, now, isn’t it?”
Duke clears his throat. “Mx. Calloway. Mr. Patrick.” His voice takes a cold edge Dahlia’s not sure he’s ever actually heard from the man. “I’m afraid the Compass Cardinal has no more business to do with you. Now, I’ve been trained and am certified to act with force to keep our games and floor safe and secure. You can either come with me to our nearest officers, or,” his lips curve into a smile that is somehow both gentle and malicious, “I can restrain you until they arrive.”
Dahlia knows when he eventually slinks away from the table with his final earnings, there’ll be a note and a hefty tip waiting for Duke at his end of the table. Signed not by his customer, Karma Sangria—
But by his friend, roommate, and partner in business, Dahlia Auros.
-
Duke’s room, of course, is tiny, just like any of the crew dorms in the Compass Cardinal . It’s gotten even smaller since Dahlia moved in, with just enough space for a bed, Dahlia’s bedroll and suitcase, Duke’s dresser, and the shared minifridge. But it’s what Dahlia signed up for. Asking Duke for a place to stay is the only successful gamble he’s ever made— and besides, it’s enough for them, for now.
But, hopefully, ‘for now’ won’t be for too much longer.
Duke is sitting cross-legged on the bed, lining up his rows of cred bills that he was able to lift from certain customers’ pockets. Occasionally some bigshot with something to prove will play with cred bills instead of chips, or at least try to. And if they lose their wallet at the casino? Well, that’s just too bad. Casino staff hold no responsibility towards lost personal items.
Dahlia, on the other hand, is counting out the score from their most recent games on a stray slip of paper. He likes what he’s seeing. It’s hard not to, watching the numbers stack and stack, especially when they are so, so close to lifting this noose off of Duke’s shoulders.
“Done,” Duke announces proudly, dropping the last stack of creds into its pile before rolling them together. “Altogether, that’s just over sixteen thousand. Combined with my paycheck… yes, that’ll be enough to make this month’s payment and… my rent.” He lifts his cat-eye glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’m… sorry that I can’t entirely cover your share this month, Dahlia. I’ll likely have some tips leftover to help with, if you’d like.”
“Hold your horses, Duke,” Dahlia hums. “We scored good tonight. I’m a grown lady, I might just be able to pay for myself,” he teases.
It’s a general rule that they try not to touch the money they collect from these nights. They can’t play too often, and can win even less. Garland’s got a hell of a nose for collusion, and the last thing they need is their savings trashed and for both of them to end up on the street corner.
That being said… they did score well tonight. Enough so that, while Dahlia’s looking over the numbers, a giddy suspicion starts to swell in his throat.
“Hey, Duke,” he says, “what’s the total amount you owe?”
“Currently?” Duke raises an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
Dahlia sets down the pen. He double checks his math with his comms calculator. He passes the journal to Duke, who accepts it with a slow, suspicious hold. He glances up at Dahlia.
Dahlia waves a hand at him. Go on.
He’s always liked watching Duke. Even before they knew each other that well, there was an effortless grace about the man that always caught Dahlia’s attention. Now, as one of his closest friends, Dahlia can pick apart the habits. The deepening of the crease in his brow, the pout as he searches for exactly what he’s supposed to be looking for, and then— there. That.
Complete stillness.
Duke looks up slowly. His face is completely blank.
“Dahlia,” he says simply. “Dahlia, with our combined savings, this is… more than enough.”
“I know,” Dahlia responds, excitement bubbling in his chest. “Your eighteen years of accumulated rent, all in one place.” He opens his arms in a wide gesture. “You’re set.”
Duke stares at him, but not at him. Through him would probably be more accurate. Then, in small segments, his face starts to move— a twitch in his eyebrow, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
It all falls apart when he tries to speak. “...D-I-... D-Dahlia,” he heaves. His shoulders sag with the force of it. “ Dahlia, ” he whimpers with a cracking voice.
Dahlia stands. He moves aside the journal, and Duke’s neat little stacks of creds, making sure not a single thing falls out of his perfectly organized order, before slinking into Duke’s bed to sit beside him.
Duke holds his hand, and before he knows it, he’s holding Duke.
His slim shoulders tremble in Dahlia’s arms. He usually stands so tall, so proud, but like this he just seems small. In a sweater that was absolutely Dahlia’s at some point that hides his slim frame, his traditional work updo replaced by a messy bun to keep it out of his face while he works. And he’s so thin that Dahlia’s wrists cross over each other when he squeezes Duke tight.
“You’re set,” he mumbles, laughing into Duke’s hair. “You’re all set.”
Duke sniffles messily into his shoulder. He starts a sentence, coughs before it can become legible, and pulls away. His eyeliner has started to run, forming dark raccoon-like circles at the edges of his eyes. “What about,” he says wetly, “what about you? You should— should be using it to start your own life.”
Dahlia laughs. “Eager to kick me out?” he teases. Duke gets halfway through a surprised sob-cough before Dahlia cuts him off. “Teasing,” he says. “Honestly, that’s nice of you, Duke, but I’m not exactly gonna be able to set up and support myself when my current gig is, well. Occasionally doing dishes for the Dealer so he’s got enough time to eat.”
“I could help you,” Duke sniffles.
“You sure are,” Dahlia laughs, “when we get out of here. Together.”
Duke looks at him with wide, shining eyes. It makes something in him squirm uncomfortably. But not… bad uncomfortably. “Dahlia…”
He stomps the feeling out. “Y’know what?” Dahlia says, giving Duke’s arm one last squeeze and sliding off the bed. It’s too much, all of a sudden, to wrap Duke up like that. His skin is on fire and he can’t place the source of the spark. “I think this calls for a little celebration.”
“A celebration?” Duke laughs behind him. “With what?”
He sounds like he’s still in shock, maybe just disbelief or…
He thinks about the gleam of Duke’s eyes. It looked almost something like awe.
That starts the squirming in his stomach again, the thought of Duke looking at him like that. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he does what he does best, and interrupts the damn thing before it can make an inconvenience.
“You have staff keys,” Dahlia reasons. “I’m sure Garland won’t mind if we take a peak in the storeroom.”
At once, Duke looks like he wants to hiss at Dahlia that his boss/father figure/mentor absolutely would mind, and would likely have his head for it. But Dahlia swipes the keycard off the top of Duke’s dresser and waggles it at him. Waggles his eyebrows for good measure, too.
Duke gapes like a fish. Then, considers— and finally, smiles.
-
By the time they get back to the room, they’re giggling like teenagers breaking into one of their parents’ liquor cabinet— which, to be fair, is effectively what they’ve gone and done. Only… instead of a simple cabinet, Garland’s stock provides extremely fine pickings. Dahlia ends up with his beloved Europa Black, and in his hands, Duke carries a bottle of Moonfire sparkling wine.
Duke shuts the door behind them with another giggle, leaning back against it. “I haven’t—” he laughs, “I haven’t done anything like that since I was, oh,” he breathes heavily while he thinks, clearly trying to steady himself— which fails, “thirteen, perhaps?”
Dahlia snickers. They’d also managed to snag an ice bucket— which was intended for hotel guests, but it’s not like the establishment didn’t have any to spare— and two glasses. “We’re Lotophagi criminals now, Duke— we might as well act like it.”
“I suppose when on Brahma, you do as Brahmans do,” Duke starts, hauling himself off the door to pour himself a drink of his own while Dahlia struggles with his bottle’s cap.
“Or be met with a horse for your troubles,” Dahlia finishes for him. The cap successfully clicks into a twist, and Dahlia lets out a victorious hah as he manages to unscrew it. “Now come on,” he says, clinking his bottle against Duke’s unopened one. “Cheers.”
-
In all their time together, Dahlia has never seen Duke even close to tipsy. This is, generally, because Duke does not drink on the job, not even on days when he works bartending instead of dealing. Not even on days he and Dahlia are working a table for every cred they’re worth. Not even on days he’s changed jobs four times and inevitably built up a total of twenty hours for his shift— though, to be fair, Dahlia’s pretty sure in that case he’s just too tired to pick up the bottle.
He usually admires Duke for that kind of resilience. It’s one he hasn’t exactly mastered, but is getting better at, especially considering the cost of his rent and the exorbitant price Uptown Lotophagus’ bars tend to offer him just for the bottom shelf.
In this case, though, he wishes he’d at least known what he was signing up for by offering Duke a bottle of one of the finest— and strongest —wines available on this goddamn planet.
“I just—” Duke slurs, digging his face further into Dahlia’s shoulder. His glasses have long since gone missing. “—I just appreciate you, Dahlia, do you know that? Do you know… how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me?”
“Sure, Duke,” Dahlia rumbles back. He’s not exactly sober, either, but he at least knows he’s going to remember the fruity smell of Duke’s breath in the morning. “You’ve said it a hundred times.”
“A hundred times too little!” Duke replies. He sits up on the bed. He’s pouting. His hair is a mess. The sweater that is definitely Dahlia’s is slipping off his shoulder. “Dahlia, Dahlia, I need you to understand something,” he says. He’s entirely too serious for someone who practically fell on top of the lady innocently sitting on his bed, demanding Dahlia be in his arms that exact second. “I need you to know.”
Dahlia’s stomach rolls, like he’s about to be sick, but every other nerve flutters at those words. He feels a lot like he did earlier, when he’d been holding Duke. Squirmy, but not… bad squirmy. In his own haze, he decides he wants to investigate that feeling.
“Yeah?” He asks.
“You are,” Duke hiccups, “you are my very, very best friend. You… I know when I offered you a space in my quarters, we were not particularly close. But ever since then, ever— ever since then, you have been nothing but understanding, and helpful, and—” his voice cracks, and the sound breaks Dahlia’s heart, “—and kind to me, Dahlia. And now, now, this, with my debt, and your plans to fix it, and the success we’ve had with them , I…” He falls back into Dahlia’s shoulder and squeezes his skinny arms tight around Dahlia’s midsection.
“If I can ever repay you,” Duke hiccups, “I will. In a heartbeat. I swear on it.”
“Duke…” Dahlia sighs, placing a hand flat on the small of Duke’s back. “Duke, there’s— you don’t gotta do that. Really.”
“But I do!” Duke insists, sitting up. “I do, Dahlia. I would give anything to show you half the kindness you’ve shown me.”
“You’ve already given me half your dorm.” Dahlia rolls his eyes affectionately. “Which already wasn’t big to begin with. If anything, I say this just makes us even.”
“You had no other option,” Duke pouts. It’s adorable. “That’s not the same, that’s just… decent.”
“Do you have any other option, Duke?” he asks.
Duke furrows his brow. Even if there was an answer to that question that wasn’t essentially ‘work off of scraps and eat nothing but cold employee-provided meals until the day he dies’, Dahlia wasn’t sure he’d be able to find it sober, let alone how far gone he was now.
“You don’t make sense,” Duke ultimately declares, and, having decided sitting up was too much effort to maintain, he plants his face right back against Dahlia’s shoulder.
“You don’t make sense,” he teases. Duke makes a happy-sounding noise against his shoulder. Dahlia squeezes him close. It’s nice. This is nice. Maybe it's the fuzz in his brain, but there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than sitting here, half-asleep, happy in the arms of someone he—
Oh.
Oh.
His eyes shoot open. He’s not sure how long they’ve been closed— Duke has started snoring, but that could mean it’s been seconds or hours, and either way, that’s not what matters. What matters is that his heart is going to wake Duke up with the way it’s trying to pound its way out of his chest.
Because he—
Because Duke—
Because. Because, he realizes…
He would do anything for this man.
Duke snuggles against him further, and his panic only spikes. A fluttery kind of panic, he starts to realize. Nerves. Nerves, because he is holding Duke and he is in love with Duke, and oh, fuck, he is in love with Duke . Who is peacefully snuggled against his shoulder.
He needs to get up. Now.
He slides himself out from under Duke. He’s not… gentle, given the few glasses he’s had, but Duke is a deep sleeper, drunk or sober, and doesn’t wake up to anything until his alarm goes off. He thinks it’s some kind of instinctual response, panromantic or- no, that’s not right, pablonian? Pavlovian?
Doesn’t matter. Point is, he can stand, and he can breathe, and—
Duke shuffles in bed behind him. He turns, terrified he’s somehow managed to break through Duke’s deep instinctive ritual, but… the man is only curled in on himself. Tightly. He’s… only cold.
Dahlia looks around for the blanket that had fallen off the bed at some point. It’s a stiff thing, hotel quality, since that’s pretty much exactly where it came from. He picks it up off the floor and throws it over Duke’s shoulders.
His chest warms at the act. He can’t help but smile. It’s weird. He always thought a revelation like this would send him packing, running for the nearest spaceport for tickets he couldn’t afford anyway. But really, he’s… happy. And maybe that’s because, for once, it all makes sense.
He steps over his sleeping bag, to their mini fridge, and grabs a water bottle Duke will definitely be needing in the morning. Hell, he grabs another for himself, while he’s at it. He can’t stop smiling.
He’s not going to bring this up to Duke, he’s decided. At least not anytime soon. He doesn’t want this to translate into a favor Duke thinks he might owe him—because Duke would try to make good on that promise, Dahlia knows. He’s soft like that. Caring.
And Dahlia… hell, Dahlia loves him for it.
Instead, he sits down on the sleeping bag they’d set up as his bed when he first moved in. He places one water bottle at his side, and another on top of Duke’s thin, cluttered nightstand (and in the process, manages to find and nearly break Duke’s missing glasses by accident, which, huh. So that’s where they went).
He doesn’t know when he’ll tell Duke. If he ever will. Because he doesn’t have to be Duke’s anything—not his partner, not his bride, not the lucky lady who may one day take on Duke’s last name, whenever the idiot decides to finally pick one out.
Because he’s happy, like this. So long as Duke is there, Dahlia’s happy to be with him. Duke and Dahlia. Dahlia and Duke.
He lays back and shuts his eyes, smiling himself to sleep for the first time in a long, long time.
Yeah. A lady could get used to living like that.