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King Dice never loses a bet, as just about everyone in the Inkwell Isles will tell you. And they’d be right – but not for the reasons you’d think.
This is what he learned, before he was King Dice, before he even picked up a deck: winning’s about so much more than playing the right cards. At school, no one ever wanted to play with the kids who kicked up a stink because they were losing – or rubbed their victories in your face. The second you let your feelings get the better of you, you’d already lost, in every way that mattered. Winning, in its truest sense, was playing the long game.
Dice could tell you a thing or two about that, having spent the better part of a decade perfecting his poker face. He could also tell you about every losing hand, every rookie mistake he’s ever made – but why would he, when he knows how to turn a slip-up into a power play? He can gamble with the best of them, but his true talent isn’t playing cards, it’s playing people.
Dice gets what he wants by being who the customer needs; charming, flirty, slick, sympathetic, intimidating or countless other guises. He was making a name for himself long before he caught the Devil’s eye, but together, they were damn near unstoppable: a deadly combination of dark magic and equally killer charisma.
But the last time he truly lost, things got ugly.
Getting walloped by a couple of literal mugs wasn’t the worst part (though that’s a bout he won’t be repeating again in a hurry). It wasn’t even the Devil blowing his top; Dice had heard him rant and rave and hurl his pitchfork across the room often enough to know his prestigious position wasn’t really in danger. They both knew he’d be able to sweet talk his way back into the boss’ good books eventually, one way or another.
No, what rattled him was how he lost control. He let his pride and anger get the better of him, and that stuck with him longer than he’d care to admit, niggling and itching like a pesky pimple under his otherwise flawless visage.
He can’t afford to let that happen again, for his pride as much as his livelihood. So he’s really upped his game since what the casino crew now euphemistically refer to as the Cup Incident, which means going above and beyond to secure those contracts, by any means necessary.
He’s been working this gal for a few weeks now: Paige, typewriter head, thick glasses and a ream of paper hair. Looks delicate, but there’s a steeliness in her eyes that tells Dice she’s no easy mark. She’s an investment, the kind you wine and dine and listen to her complain about the bozos she works with.
It’s going well: she’s opening up, laughing at his jokes, he’s feeling out what makes her tick, what kind of offer it’ll take to seal the ultimate deal. He’s got a good feeling about tonight; he’s just gotta wait for the right opening, and then –
“No, I ain’t got a reservation – can’t I just get a drink? I got cash – uhhh, I had cash – do you take bottle caps…?”
Dice knows that voice. He’d know that damn voice anywhere.
It’s loud and obnoxious enough for half the restaurant to overhear, craning their necks in hopes of catching a glimpse of the rapidly unfolding ruckus.
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re full up. And, I suspect, we can no longer serve the kind of drinks you are looking for…”
Dice would very much prefer to ignore them altogether and focus on the task at hand. But his date seems as intrigued as everyone else, so it would look more conspicuous if he didn’t swivel his head too.
“Dice!”
The instant he locks eyes with Cuphead, he realises what an embarrassingly rookie error he’s made.
He’s across the floor like a bullet, paying no heed to the patrons’ grumbling – but unusually unsteady on his feet, grabbing onto the table for balance.
“Boy, ‘m I glad to see ya! You got room for one more, don’tcha?”
“Little busy here…pal.” Dice meets his unnaturally wide, borderline painful grin with a gritted one of his own. If he blows his wig in front of the dame, he risks blowing the whole deal.
“Oh, I don’t mind – your friend can join us!” Paige smiles at Cuphead with a mixture of amusement and concern as he wiggles his way between them.
Dice chuckles, more of an edge to it than he’d like. “I don’t know that I’d call us friends exactly, but – “
“Oh, he calls me all sortsa worse than that.” Cuphead giggles and pats Dice’s thigh. “S’okay, Dicey, you’re still my favourite worsh – worstest anenome.”
Something isn’t right. He’s seen Cuphead drunk plenty of times – ironically, the cup can’t hold his liquor, not that it’s ever stopped him from trying – but this is different. He’s too…manic, talking too fast, eyes glazed and faraway as if he’s seeing something else entirely. He’s gotta have been chugging something much stronger than giggle juice – and Dice isn’t the only one who’s noticed.
“Maybe you need this more than I do…” Paige stands up – to Dice’s dismay – pushing back her chair to offer it to Cuphead. “I should probably be making tracks anyway. You fellas have a nice night.”
“Take care, doll – don’t be a stranger.” Dice reels off the line automatically, concealing the sting of disappointment, while Cuphead takes the opportunity to snatch her half–drunk sarsaparilla, sinking it with a loud belch.
“No good, I can still taste the salt.” He shudders, swaying against the table. “She seems nice. Did you get her soul yet? I should prob’ly warn her or somethin’…”
“Cupface,” Dice hisses, voice low and dangerous, simmering with barely repressed fury, “what the hell are you –“
“Urk.” Cuphead doubles over, a gruesome green washing over his pale porcelain face. “I don’t feel so swell…”
“Oh no, no, no – back up, get outta here.” Dice’s irritation flips to alarm as he shoves Cuphead back towards the empty chair, but the stubborn little pill just grabs onto his arm, clinging to it like a lifeline. “Don’t you dare even think about –”
Rookie mistake two, because Cuphead – as everyone in the Inkwell Isles will tell you – never passes on a challenge.
He takes that as his cue to expel the contents of his stomach, violently and copiously, right into Dice’s lap. Then he passes out, falling face-first into the technicolour abomination that was once Dice’s freshly pressed threads.
Dice may not be the biggest fan of admitting when he’s beat, but if sitting there dripping in vomit – with a comatose cup’s face practically in his crotch and a restaurant full of horrified gazes burning into him – isn’t the time to hightail it through a portal, he doesn’t know what is.
Letting him back in made sense, at first.
From a purely business perspective, for one, they couldn’t afford to turn away customers: the casino’s takings had taken almost as mighty a wallop as the Devil’s fearsome reputation. But Dice wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t have his own score to settle, and relieving Cuphead of his coins was its own reward after the indignity he’d suffered at the brothers’ glowing fingers. He might have lost the bet, but inside the casino, Dice still held all the cards, and it’d be a damn cold day in Inkwell Hell before he folded.
Of course, defying the boss’ orders – and the Devil had been very specific about what was to happen to those cups if either of them stuck so much as a straw near his domain again – was a pretty big gamble on Dice’s part, and maybe that’s what sparked it. That irresistible extra frisson of danger he couldn’t get from any other customer. Only Cuphead would persist in pushing his luck this far; to strategic squeezes under blackjack tables, greedy kisses and barely stifled moans behind employees-only doors. They both knew they were playing a dangerous game, and it was one neither was willing to concede.
Cuphead was far from the first, of course–in Inkwell Hell, the line between business and pleasure isn’t so much blurred as nonexistent–but he’s become something else. He’s Dice’s own game, the only thing the boss doesn’t –can’t – know about. And as long as what happened in the Die House stayed in the Die House, he’d never need to.
Except they’re not in the Die House now.
Now, what happens in the Die House has somehow followed him home – somewhere he hasn’t even called home in a very long time. It’s surreal to say the least, Cuphead passed out on his sofa, mouth hanging open and vomit stains clinging to his shirt that Dice couldn’t scrub off without shoving his whole sorry ass in the washing machine.
Neither of them should be here, Dice should have split and left him to clean up his own mess. But he’d pulled Cuphead into the portal without a second thought, because…
Because he’s never seen Cuphead like this before, so out of it. Confused yet frightened, a concept he doesn’t seem to feel half as often as he should. Whoever he’s managed to piss off this time, they did a real number on him, and as Dice knows from experience, that’s no mean feat.
At least he has a moment of peace, to change out of his disgraced suit into a clean shirt and black slacks. He rolls up his sleeves, pours himself a generous belt of scotch, and sits down, risking a glance at Cuphead.
He looks so…tiny, curled up with his eyes closed, hugging his scuffed and bruised knees. Probably won’t be going anywhere any time soon.
“I gotta stop him!”
Dice’s head almost spins clear across the room as Cuphead springs – or more accurately, stumbles – from the sofa, grabbing Dice’s knee to steady himself.
“Whoa, whoa – you ain’t going anywhere, half-pint, not like this.”
“I’m fine!” Staggering towards the door with all the grace of a lush two minutes before closing time, Cuphead glares at Dice when he blocks his exit like he hasn’t just saved his porcelain skin. “Outta my way, Dice! I need to save Mugsy before it’s too late -”
“You’re not gonna be much use to him lying in a gutter somewhere in the city.”
“Whadda you care? Thought you wanted me dead -”
Dice prides himself on keeping his cool in the most heated situations, and it isn’t even in the top fifty insults ever hurled at him. But Cuphead’s sheer audacity, after everything he’s put himself through – something inside him snaps.
“Listen, you ungrateful little crumb,” he snarls, emerald lightning flashing in his eyes, “if you think I’m putting my head on the line just for you to get your dumb ass shattered, you got another thing -“
Crack.
They freeze as the sound pierces the air, a fat drop of white landing on the floor.
“…Oh,” Cuphead says, blinking down at it dumbly as liquid continues to leak down the side of his face like tears. “That…ain’t good.”
For once, Dice doesn’t think; he just leaps into action, grabbing Cuphead’s arm and yanking him back to the sofa.
“Sit. Hold it tight – like that,” he orders, repositioning Cuphead’s arms so his hands cover the unsightly crack. “Keep holding it.”
He dashes to the kitchen, pulling open drawers until he digs out some old bandages, scissors and tape. Nothing fancy, but it should get the job.
Cuphead gazes up at him with wide eyes when he returns, still clutching his head with dampening gloves.
“What’s that for…?”
“Take a wild guess, genius.”
Dice pulls him into his lap to start winding the bandages around his head; Cuphead squirms and grumbles, but doesn’t put up any real resistance.
“Ow – watch the handle!”
“I’d be done a lot quicker if you’d quit squirmin’ so much.”
“See how you like it when someone takes a big ol’ chunk outta your head.” Cuphead huffs. “You done this before? Never figured you for the healing type.”
“Trust me, I ain’t.” Dice grimaces at the damp under his gloves, but he keeps going, to distract himself as much as anything. The result is far from his best work, but it should keep Cuphead’s mug in one piece for at least a couple more hours.
He ties off the end of the bandages and fixes it with tape.
“So. You gonna spill who did this to you?”
Cuphead goes still and silent for a long moment – which speaks volumes louder than his usual babblings about whose window he broke or how many hot dogs he ate.
“I…messed up.”
“Damn, and you’re usually so careful.”
He doesn’t retort or even acknowledge the dig, and that’s when Dice knows it’s really serious.
“It was for our pal, Chalice – she’s a ghost. She helped me‘n’Mugs out when we were getting the contracts, so we wanted to help her get her body back. She took us to this chef guy, Saltbaker -“
“Saltbaker?” Dice interrupts, incredulous – now there’s a blast from the past.
Cuphead turns around, cocking his head in curiosity to meet Dice’s gaze. “You know him?”
“We’ve…crossed paths.” Dice wrinkles his nose like a bad smell’s just wafted past. “Heard some real interesting stories on the grapevine about that one. Boss’ wanted him for a while, but we never could nail him down.”
“He seemed nice, at first.” Cuphead averts his eyes, turning away again as Dice feels him shiver. “He said he had the recipe to get Chalice her body back. But he tricked us – we found him in the basement and he was…” His voice cracks, but he shakes his head before continuing.
“He was gonna take our souls. I got away, but – he still has them, Mugs and Chalice. I gotta go back, I gotta – gotta save them. If I don’t, can’t, no, I can’t say I can’t…” He’s talking faster, getting less coherent, voice catching like a stuck record.
“Easy, kiddo,” Dice murmurs, placing a firm but gentle hand on his back in an attempt to ground him. He tilts Cuphead’s chin back to look in his eyes; they’re glazed, unfocused, and something tightens deep in his gut. “What’d that hack do to you?”
“I…I dunno. I woke up and there was something in my mouth – the berries, maybe. I think I heard ‘em scream. But I just tasted salt.” He shudders again, grabbing at his straw as if checking it’s still there. “He was so big. He kept saying how delicious we were gonna taste and his hands – it felt like he was gonna reach right inside me and pull out my soul.”
Dice’s frown deepens as his anger rises; not an explosive outburst like the Devil, more like something steadily simmering under his skin. It threatens to boil over when he thinks about
Cuphead struggling in Saltbaker’s clutches, his greasy hands all over his -
King Dice doesn’t get jealous. The very suggestion is laughable, when he can have his pick of any dashing dame or fella that catches his eye.
But he sure as hell doesn’t care for sharing his toys. Especially not with some megalomaniacal pastry chef.
“Do you think I’m bad, Dice?”
He blinks, the apparent non sequitur snapping him out of his reverie. Cuphead’s eyes are still out of it, but there’s something else there too, something real and raw and vulnerable that Dice almost feels he shouldn’t be looking at.
“Maybe I am. I keep messin’ things up for everybody. Mugs never wanted to go to the casino. It’s always me, always has been…” He chuckles, uncharacteristically soft, almost melancholy. “I just gotta keep goin’ back, don’t I? Keep comin’ back to you, even though everyone knows you’re no good. Y’know, maybe I deserve it…”
He trails off with a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, and for the first time in a very long time, Dice feels…out of his depth, grasping for the right words, if there even are any right words. It’s almost enough to make him miss when Cuphead was nothing but a perpetual thorn in his side.
“You learn one thing in this business, cupface,” he says eventually, “it’s that no one’s just good or bad. The most righteous souls will fall into sin given the right offer. Even the cruellest, nastiest, most despicable monsters got their soft spots.”
“Even the Devil?”
“You didn’t hear it from me, but I’ve heard him purr.”
That earns him a snort. “No way.”
“Like a goddamn kitty cat.”
Cuphead snickers, which sets Dice off, their laughter eventually petering out into a silence that sits somewhere between awkward and companionable.
“Huh. Never noticed you had freckles before.”
Cuphead traces a finger across the smattering of lilac on Dice’s forearm, up to the ends of his shirt sleeves. It leaves a trail of goosebumps he’s not quite sure how to process, the light, borderline tender touch seeming somehow more intimate than bending him over the table.
Dice allows him to continue a moment longer before folding his arms with a scoff, reasserting his authority.
“Don’t try and get cute with me, cupface. You still owe me a new suit.”
“Heh.” Cuphead smirks, a familiar cheeky sparkle in his eye. “You think I’m cute.”
“I think you’re whacked outta your pint-sized mind on whatever that pill Saltbaker stuffed you with.”
“You ever visit Isle Four?” he continues, either ignoring or strategically swerving that observation (Dice’s money’s on the former). “There’s this swell l’il speakeasy, the music’s great, I think you’d dig it. I’ll show you sometime, but I might need a disguise, because last time we kiiinda bust up the place…”
Then he’s off again, in typical freewheeling Cuphead style: cowgirl sheriffs, ice cults, flying dogs…It’s increasingly impossible for Dice to make sense of, yet oddly easy to listen to, just sit back and let himself be pulled along for the ridiculous ride.
Tonight, though, the trademark chutzpah starts to run out earlier. Cuphead starts to trip over his words, trailing off mid-sentence, occasionally wincing and clutching his bandage when he gets too animated.
He sags against Dice, head gradually lolling to the side until he ends up sprawled across Dice’s lap, eyes closed, the rise and fall of his breathing steady and gentle. When Dice tries to shift away, he clings to his leg, stubborn as the stains he’s no doubt left on his suit.
This time, the tug in Dice’s chest as he glances down at Cuphead – mumbling something unintelligible as he snuggles impossibly closer into his lap – feels more distinctly dangerous. More like something he thought was lost to him, willingly given up in exchange for the life he’d always dreamed of.
Something he’s not supposed to feel – not here, not now, and sure as hell not with him.
“Goddamnit, cupface,” he mutters, leaning his head back against the sofa as a wave of exhaustion washes over him. He closes his eyes, just for a moment’s respite, before he figures out the best way to prise a persistent teacup off of him without dislodging his bandages (or head).
He really should’ve stayed in the Die House.
Some hours later, Dice is impolitely awakened by the rays of sunlight filtering through the window. He yawns, groans and stretches – it’s been years since he passed out fully clothed like this. Then, glancing down at his lap, he remembers why.
“Rise’n’shine, cupface.” He jostles his leg in an attempt to coax Cuphead off of him, but he doesn’t stir.
“C’mon, this ain’t your bed.” He prods him in the side, a little more roughly. “That’s enough charity for one night.”
Not a peep – not even his usual snoring. A whisper of worry flits across Dice’s mind. The crack was pretty big – what if he sprung a leak…?
He grabs Cuphead by the shoulders and tries to prop him up into a sitting position, shaking him more urgently. “No, c’mon, this ain’t funny. You’re not, you can’t be -“
“Gotcha!” Cuphead springs back to life like a Jack-in-the-box, eyes popping open as he sticks out his tongue, making Dice jerk back. “Made you care!”
“You little sh -“ Dice can’t quite stifle his sputter, somewhere between anger, relief and amusement. “I knew you were pullin’ my leg!”
“You sure about that? ‘Cause you sounded pretty worried when you thought I was dead -“
“Only thing I’m worried for is my couch if you split your…soul-milk all over it.” Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he glances over last night’s handiwork. “How’s it holdin’ up, anyway?”
“Fine, I ain’t too worried about it. I’ve had worse.” Cuphead taps the bandaged crack with a fist and winces. “Ow.”
Dice scoffs, but any witty rejoinder he might have is cut off by the next item Cuphead produces seemingly out of thin air.
“My turn for questions: who are they?”
“Where did you get that?!”
“I dunno. Your room?” Cuphead shrugs, while somehow evading Dice’s attempt to grab back the family portrait he hasn’t looked at in years. “I took a look around while you were snoozing. Is this you?”
“Would you put that – no. That’s me in the middle.” He can barely remember being this awkward adolescent in his older brother’s hand-me-down suit, smiling stiffly next to his siblings. A far cry from the dapper die about town he’d become.
“What are their names?”
Dice can see he’s not getting out of this anytime soon. He takes the photo from Cuphead, pointing them out one by one.
“Little one there’s Dottie. Daisy. Doris. That’s Doug and Daniel.”
“And who are you?”
“You sure your head’s okay?”
“You know what I mean – you weren’t always King, right? So who were you then?”
Dice scoffs, ignoring the slight pang in his chest. “No one you need to know, that’s for isure.”
“Will you tell me if I guess it right?” Without waiting for a reply, he continues, his tongue poking out in deep thought. “It’s gotta start with ‘D’, right, soooo…Donald? David, Damian, Derek, Dennis…”
Dice rolls his eyes to the heavens as he rattles on, questioning his life choices not for the first time in the last 24 hours.
“I need a shower. And coffee.”
He feels slightly more awake after showering and changing into a new suit. That doesn’t make it any less bizarre to see Cuphead sitting at his kitchen table, all innocent smiles as if he’s lived here for years.
“What’s for breakfast? Pancakes? Elder Kettle makes the best pancakes.”
Dice gives him a withering look. “Do I look like your gramps?”
“I mean, I guess the mustache is kinda…”
“I wasn’t asking -” Dice takes a deep breath to calm himself, and changes tactics. “Toast and coffee – if you quit bugging me. We got a deal?”
Cuphead groans, but nods reluctantly. “I don’t remember there being so many rules at the casino.”
“Well, you’re not in the casino now, are ya, genius?” Dice digs in the cupboard for bread and a half jar of instant coffee, before sticking the kettle on the stove. “Under my roof, you play by my rules.”
Cuphead smirks, an all too familiar glint of challenge in his eye. “And what if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t win jack.” He holds the coffee mug just out of Cuphead’s reach. “Choice’s all yours.”
Cuphead pouts and makes grabby hands for the coffee. “Fine, I’ll play nice, whatever. Where’s the sugar?”
They sip coffee and munch toast, and perhaps the strangest thing is how ordinary it all feels, sitting here in Dice’s kitchen – which is no dive, but it’s a far cry from the glitz and glamour of the casino. He almost feels like a stranger in his own home, a relic of the past he’d left behind. His old place, his old life, wasn’t meant for the customers who only knew him as King Dice to see – especially this customer.
“You gotta get back to the casino soon?”
“Soon enough.” It’s not unheard of for Dice to skip out for a night or two if he’s ‘entertaining’ a potential mark, but the Devil will start getting tetchy if he’s out for too long – especially when he returns with zero contracts. “You’re going back to ol’ Salty.”
It’s not a question, doesn’t need to be. Dice isn’t going to waste his time listing all the reasons that’s a terrible idea – wouldn’t want to give the impression he cares, even if there was any chance of Cuphead listening to him.
He nods, his expression hardening. “Mugs and Chalice need me.”
Dice sips his coffee as his eyes flick to the bandage. “Might have more of a fighting chance if you waited til you were a little less fragile.”
“I don’t have time to wait! And who ya callin’ fragile?” Cuphead huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. “But if you really wanna help -“
“I wouldn’t go that far -“
“Come with me.”
Dice blinks. “Come again?”
“Y’know, use your powers, get all big and junk. Together, we’d take him down for sure.”
“I…” Dice hesitates, letting himself consider the (im)possibility for just a moment. Pure fantasy, of course, for so many reasons; he isn’t about to admit to Cuphead that he doesn’t have those powers on tap, he’d have to specifically request them from the Devil, and he ain’t about to open that can of worms. But damn if it wouldn’t feel good to sock Saltbaker square in his smug face.
He shakes his head with a bittersweet chuckle. “You know that ain’t happenin’, kid.”
“I figured. Worth a shot, though, right?” Cuphead rubs the back of his handle, his expression turning unsettlingly serious. “Well, um…thanks, anyway. For, y’know. Not leaving me to die – “
“Don’t mention it.” Dice holds up a hand to cut him off. “Really don’t mention it. You already busted up me and the boss, don’t you even think about losing to some puffed-up pastry-pusher.”
“Are you kidding?” Cuphead snorts and waves a hand, though his eyes don’t quite convince. “I’ll be back to tell you all about it by dinner.”
“You damn well better – you owe me a helluva lot more than dinner for your little stunt last night.” Dice busies himself with clearing away their plates; it’s easier than facing the big, dumb puppy eyes he can feel burning into his back, than acknowledging what the alternative means.
“Don’t worry your dapper head ‘bout it. I got plenty of ways of makin’ it up to ya.” Cuphead winks and shoots him double finger-guns, so corny that Dice can’t help but laugh.
He’s ridiculous: a literal teacup, the most fragile form imaginable – yet absurdly stronger than he has any right to be, a core of steely determination and reckless optimism that Dice can’t help but grudgingly admire. Whatever else you can say about him, there’s no one else like Cuphead.
It’s hardly the first time the kid’s put his life on the line, but the worry, the guilt, the fear that clouds his expression when he thinks Dice’s not looking – that’s new. And that’s when it grabs him, literally, an ice-cold hand squeezing tight around a heart Dice didn’t know he still had.
Once he walks through that door, this could be it. If Saltbaker has his way, he might not ever –
“Hey, cupface.”
He turns, halfway out the door. “Yeah?”
Dice has always known to choose his words carefully – but what slips out next is as much of a surprise to him as anyone.
“It’s Delbert.”
“Wha? Who…?” Cuphead tilts his head, brow furrowing, before breaking into a grin so huge it threatens to split his head in two for the second time.
“Oh! No kiddin’?! That’s your…?!”
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, might as well get the jokes outta the way.” Dice waves his hand dismissively, determinedly ignoring the heat threatening to rise to his cheeks. It’s like being – not naked, because that would imply he has anything to be the slightest bit ashamed of under his togs – but something deeper than that. Exposed. Vulnerable.
“I’m not laughing!” Cuphead insists, despite his grand-piano grin suggesting otherwise. But it’s not a cruel or mocking expression, his eyes shining with something so bright and pure it almost hurts to look at, like staring directly at the sun. “Y’know what, I like it! Delbert Dice. It…kinda suits ya.”
It doesn’t suit him; he’s always hated his name. It felt too stiff, old-fashioned, didn’t hang right on him, like his brother’s old suit. He’s been Dice, or King, or K.D., for as long as he can remember, and there’s a reason he can count the people outside his family who know it on one hand.
And yet…when Cuphead says it like that, with the same starry-eyed breathlessness most folks say King Dice – some tiny, traitorous part of him wonders if it doesn’t sound so bad, after all. Like a glimpse of someone he might have been. A life he could have had, if he hadn’t so thoroughly squashed the pesky little conscience that might’ve stood in the way of achieving fortune and notoriety beyond his wildest dreams.
He squashes it now. Down, deep down, grinding it into the metaphorical carpet like worthless ashes as he shakes his head, not quite meeting Cuphead’s eyes.
“Just in case you don’t win anything else tonight. Consider your debt tripled.”
“Eh, it was worth it.”
“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Now scram,” he flaps a hand towards the door, “before I change my mind and finish you off myself.”
“What if I finish you off first?”
They’re on more familiar ground now, moving closer into one another’s space, an unspoken challenge that’s become routine. They meet in the middle, Dice sinking down, Cuphead leaning up on his tiptoes until they melt into a kiss that feels simultaneously familiar and new.
It’s less a battle for control and more like confirmation of how well they know each other now, Cuphead’s fingers pressing into Dice’s pips just enough to elicit a soft moan. Dice curls his hand around his handle, the way he likes it, but he’s more gentle than usual, avoiding the bandaged chip in his head. It’s less heated and more lingering, bordering on tender. Almost, in fact, like a goodbye.
Not that Dice truly believes it is – not for a second. If the past couple years have taught him anything, it’s not to bet against Cuphead.
“Go break his face, half-pint,” he murmurs after they break the kiss.
“Sure will.” Cuphead smiles up at him, holding onto the lapels of Dice’s shirt a few seconds longer, like he doesn’t want to let go. “Be seein’ ya real soon, Del.”
“Hey now, I never said you could call -“
He’s out the door before Dice can finish the sentence, his objection petering out into a half-laugh, half-groan. And that should be the end of it, moving on to another day at the casino, what he’s gonna tell the Devil when he inevitably demands to know what warranted such an extended absence. He’ll figure it out. He always does.
Because, as everyone knows, King Dice doesn’t worry. He’s a busy man with his mind on his money, he doesn’t have time to mess around. Certainly not to sink to the sofa, drag his hands over his face and breathe a long, frustrated sigh.
“God-fuckin’-damnit, cupface, what have you done?”