Work Text:
Chance finds that he has a lot of things memorized about his 'best friend'— that his favorite color is blue, that he only wears makeup when he's bothered to to cover the freckles that litters his face, that he tends to stare into the distance of the casino a little too long as if he's searching for a familiar face. It's these small things that he commits to memory— that makes the feeling of finally having someone to call a friend all too real. Chance knows how to have acquaintances, how to keep people at arm's length, and then Itrapped came along. The word had been something that felt completely foreign in his tongue, and now…
"…Are you listening?" Itrapped questions, a strand of his silver hair now inbetween his fingertips. Chance blinks at the question, going slightly red at the realization that he must have went quiet for too long.
"Sorry, yeah. 'm here," he laughs a little too forced, and wants to punch himself hard in the gut with how nervous he sounds. "What were you saying?"
It's hard not to be speechless in this sort of situation, really— Itrapped is in a bed with him, out of all the places, a hotel key on the nightstand and a bottle of wine the other had picked somewhere where Chance can't see that had probably caused this situation. Another thing about Itrapped was that he seemed to have a significant amount of alcohol tolerance similar to him, having never even seen the man ever sway despite having just downed a few drinks. But here he was now, Itrapped straddling him with his ever so calculating eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. It was… kind of cute. Chance found it hard to look away, having never been so close to the other like this before— he couldn't help but feel lightheaded. Or maybe that was the wine. Hm.
"You strike me as the type to be experienced with this stuff. I didn't think you'd be this… shy." Itrapped repeats.
"I'm not shy," Chance huffs, their reddening cheeks betraying their words. "Just… well."
"Well what?"
"It's you." Is the reply Chance settles on, knowing it wouldn't do anything to soothe Itrapped's curiosity. There was nothing else he could say, really. Itrapped was a lot of things he could barely put into words about what he felt about the man. It was hard to say when these sort of more complicated feelings started to sprout, but they were very stubborn thoughts. Itrapped's face is… unreadable, or amused, almost, but it's a look that he has gotten used to. It's the invisible wall he puts inbetween them, his expressions controlled— hiding any weakness from the light while Chance would always be ready to bare his own if he'd ever asked. Not like he'd ever, though.
"That's not an outright answer, but I suppose I'll settle with it," Itrapped hums, like they're playing some sort of game, where Chance is the riddle and he has to solve it (Though most of the time, he feels like it's the exact opposite). "You look wasted."
Chance laughs at that, eyes sweeping over their rumpled button up and their loose ponytail. They realize then that their crown is missing, too. "Says you. Shit, man, I'm going to feel so much regret in the morning…"
"About this, or about drinking?"
He pauses at that, not sure what to respond with the way their brain had slowed. Was Itrapped ever this upfront?
"… I guess, uh. Both. Not that it's your fault! Just… this isn't really what friends do, y'know?"
Itrapped goes quiet at that response, a hand moving to brush against his cheek lightly before cupping it. Rather than gentle, it's an action done more tightly, his head being tilted to face Itrapped's better when he doesn't realize he's been looking away in an attempt to shy away from his gaze. He had averted his eyes in the first place in order to avoid the other's reaction to his words, but it's his same fear that lets Itrapped guide him. He shivers at the contact of his freezing fingers, but doesn't make any sort of retort or comment on it.
"But you're not against this."
"I'm… I'm not," Chance shakes his head. He's almost tempted to lean more into his touch, the action still suprising that he can feel his heartbeat quicken. "You have me for the night."
It's Itrapped who has a hint of surpise on his face now, and Chance isn't sure what it's directed at. Was it how easy he seemed? How obviously gentle his voice was? "Good," is what eventually comes out of his mouth, and Chance barely thinks of a reply before Itrapped moves forward and presses his lips onto theirs.
It's expiremental at first, hesitance clear on Chance's end. He curses his chapped lips in their head, moving back an inch to wet them before diving right back in again, his hand curling under Itrapped's shirt collar. It's nothing like Chance had dreamed of— rough and quick and messy— to his surprise. It's more of a slow kiss reserved for lovers, a softness that makes his body feel weaker. The kind that he likes better. His back hits the thick row of gaudy pillows, and Itrapped moves on top of him more, kissing him for god knows how long as if to swallow Chance whole before he draws his head back, breathless.
Itrapped's arms are on his sides now, Chance realizes as he tries to ground himself in his surroundings. His gaze inevitably moves to the person on top of him, whose stare is somewhat distant, focusing past his own eyes. He wonders who he's thinking of then, thinking of a time Itrapped had told him that he reminded him of an old friend. It's then he really gets to see a part of the real him— and rather than lust, or even hopefully love, it's digust that shows on his features. It stays for a fraction of a second before morphing back into something more… acceptable, for him.
Chance knows then that they're not going any further than this. He doesn't drop his smile with worry, doesn't let his voice waver, with acceptance settling in his gut that this was something that was bound to happen sooner or later.
"Sorry. Headache." Itrapped mumbles, to which they lightly chuckle at as the other moves to lay beside them, dragging the covers up, and Chance doesn't move to look at their face again. The night ends, then, without any more druken jokes or kissing or questions. When morning comes, he finds the room eerily quiet and the side of the bed empty, like he expects, and a few unread messages on his phone that he knows who it's from already. The memories of the night fill him despite the headache, even the taste of Itrapped lingers on his mouth like a ghost, and somehow he's… not resentful. More of empty, really, from a night that left him with both wanting more and sickness, and a lot of questions and thoughts of why that he's tempted to call and ask now. But Chance doesn't— he sits up, slowly, getting himself together piece by piece with a shower to clear his thoughts and savors the quietness of the room before he's faced with the casino below. He finally finds the wine bottle from last night, left in a chair, and decides to leave it. Chance puts his suit back on, straightening his tie and hat, and decides he'll let him perform for just a little longer before walking out the door.