Chapter Text
Who the hell builds a casino in this part of town?
Maybe he’d wandered further than he thought. Guest pulls his phone out of his pocket to take a cursory glance at his whereabouts, but finds himself roughly where he thought he was going. The side of Robloxia his new apartment is in isn’t exactly the most wealthy place, and as far as he knew casinos tended to pop up closer to the city centre.
But here it was, nestled between stores that have long since closed for the night. Lady Luck’s Bar & Casino. The only building still lit up on the entire block.
Guest has never been a gambler. He preferred certainty, exact numbers, precision. His life up until a year ago had been turbulent, everything he did was a risk despite how hard he tried to make sense of it. It's a miracle he’s even alive, his body being held together with duct tape and prayers for months after his stunt with the grenade. Even that wasn’t a gamble - a calculated decision, one with only one possible outcome in his mind - and yet he still won the jackpot. Somehow.
Lady Luck seems to be the only place operating at 2 in the morning. With a sigh, Guest steps off the footpath and starts to cross through the small parking lot towards the entrance. Guest really would’ve preferred to be asleep right now, but his brain is at its cruellest in the dark. Gunfire, sand, Matt’s blood drying on his hands while he wrote his final goodbyes. Heart monitor beeping and bacon hair and the cold sinking feeling of I am not safe here. I am weak and vulnerable and on enemy territory.
During the day, these feelings are all internal. He can ride out a flashback, let his psychiatric dog do his job, and get back to whatever he was doing. But at night? At night there is still fire coursing through his veins. At night there are still people to protect, people to die for. This usually ends with him waking up to bloody knuckles and a new hole in his wall.
He has never successfully fallen back asleep after a nightmare. So, he walks. And tonight, his wandering has led him to a bar of all places. Just for a little bit. Not at all a bad idea for a recently divorced veteran.
There’s no bell on the door as Guest walks in. He’s greeted with rich burgundy walls, wood panelling, and gold trim on anything and everything. Guest briefly wonders if he just stepped back in time to a 1920s speakeasy. Before him, down a few steps, is an evenly spaced cluster of poker tables with red velvet surfaces. To his right is a handful of tables and a bar, staffed by a yellow-skinned Robloxian who is quietly washing empty glasses. To his left, a small stage. He assumes a live band must play here during busier hours, but at the moment the stage is empty with music drifting from speakers on either side instead.
Despite the hour, there is still a small crowd. Guest is honestly surprised to see that around half of the poker tables are still occupied, with people moving between them and up to the bar every so often. Certainly not busy, but more people than he anticipated running into. He didn’t exactly dress for the occasion, having left the house in sweatpants and a ratty shirt, and a hoodie he's fairly certain he stole from Matt back when he was in college and never returned. Pyjamas, basically. A quick scan of the gamblers down in the pit tells him that he is severely under dressed - who wears a top hat at 2 in the morning? Certainly not him, he’s not even wearing matching socks.
He’s already inside though. Guest weighs his options, before deciding that he really doesn’t care that much about his outfit and walks towards the bar. It's only when he’s seated and the bartender has noticed him that he remembers that he doesn’t have his wallet on him. Oh well, guess he’s just here for conversation tonight.
Upon closer inspection, the bartender couldn’t be more than 25. Yellow hair that might’ve been neatly tied back once, a simple black button down and slacks with a stained white apron tied around his waist. His ears were filled with piercings, silver metal glinting under the warm lights. Two small spiked studs stuck out from his eyebrow, too. Despite the tired bags under his eyes, clearly nearing the end of his shift and his energy, the man doesn’t seem stressed at all. Instead he is surprisingly at ease, posture relaxed as he walks towards where Guest is seated.
“It’s not often that I see a new face at this time of night. What can I get’cha?” The bartender's voice is pleasant, upbeat despite the air of exhaustion around him.
Guest laughed lightly under his breath. “Nothin’, I’m afraid. Left my wallet at home.”
“Wow, 2am at a bar and you’re not drinking? I’m surprised,” The man leans over the bar top, resting his head in his hand. “What’s led you here, then? You look like you just rolled out of bed, no offence.”
“Because I did.”
The bartender snorts, ducking his head. “I don’t know why I’m surprised, sorry.” After a beat, his head tilts towards Guest. “If you’re not here to get drunk, then you’re my new entertainment for the night. Everyone else is too busy losing their life’s savings. I’m Elliot.” He sticks one hand out for a mock handshake, humour in his tone.
Laughing again, Guest returns the handshake with his good hand. “Guest 1337, but Guest is fine.”
A flash of recognition passes over Elliot’s expression. “I’ve heard that name before, where have I heard that?”
“The news, probably.” Guest sighs, resting his head in his good hand and moving his prosthetic to sit on the bar top. “Y’know, Bacon Army, rebellion, all that? Was a couple years ago now.” Guest grimaces slightly at his words. Far too light, too brief to encapsulate the entire topic. But that’s too much for small talk.
Understanding dawns on Elliot’s face. He studies Guest’s expression for a moment, then turns to look out into the gambling pit, letting the topic drop.
“Well, you’ve certainly ended up in an interesting place for a night-time walk,” He comments, gesturing to the poker tables. The players have gotten into a very heated discussion, voices being raised and hands starting to gesticulate harshly. “I never thought I’d be working for a place like this, but life is funny like that.”
Guest casts a glance over to the yellow-haired man. “How so?”
Elliot huffs a laugh, his brow furrowing. “Used to work for the family business. A pizzeria, the best in town I’d reckon. The whole place burned down a few years back. An exploiter thought it’d be a great idea to show his 8 year old son how to use his exploit tools.”
And that is how the night carried on - Elliot recounting old work stories, Guest enjoying the distraction from his own head. As he settled in, his eyes had started to wander around the room, soaking in the scenery. The entire bar radiated luxury. The bar top was a rich, dark wood, lined with gold in a way that felt more elegant than tacky. The shelves behind Elliot were tall, filled wall to wall with various expensive looking bottles of liquor. Guest noted a door tucked to the side of the shelves, which he could only assume to be the kitchen, or maybe an emergency exit. He felt slightly more at ease when he noticed the door. An escape route.
Elliot eventually offered him a free drink - “It’s on the house, promise!” - but Guest elected to stick to water. 3am isn’t exactly the best time to start drinking, especially when it’s his day to pick up Charlotte from school.
“By the way,” Guest asks during a lull in the conversation. “Why is there a casino here anyway? Don’t these kinds of places do better in the inner city?”
The crowd at the bar had thinned out considerably since Guest arrived, leaving Elliot all the time in the world to chat while he idly cleaned. He’d let his hair down at some point, yellow locks spilling around his shoulders and falling into his face when he bent over to grab something. Guest himself had relaxed into the atmosphere to his own surprise. He’d leaned into the barstool’s back, his prosthetic hand tucked into a pocket. His other hand fidgeted slightly with the glass Elliot had given him, spinning it gently in its puddle of condensation.
Elliot stood back up straight from where he was crouched under the bar, putting away cleaning supplies. “The owner’s a freak.”
“Pfft - what?”
Elliot shoots him a grin as he gestures to the gambling pit. “The grey-skinned guy owns the place. He’s a massive gambler, but couldn’t stay in the inner city for…reasons. So they moved out here to set up shop.”
Spinning around in his barstool, Guest scans the tables until he finds who Elliot was talking about. There’s only one poker table still active now, with five players and a dealer. Four of the players were almost dressed identically - white button downs, vests, and black or white accessories. Sitting in the middle, back facing the two at the bar, is the grey-skinned man Elliot called the owner.
A red collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to their elbows, and a white suit vest over top. Black slacks, with suspenders hanging from his waist. They’re wearing headphones, for some odd reason, and a fedora that catches the light and glimmers. Guest can’t see his face, but his posture is relaxed, almost cocky - and he guesses the confidence is warranted, because over their shoulder Guest can see the staggering pile of chips the man has won.
“His name’s Chance,” Elliot pipes up. “Named himself, if you can’t tell.”
At the sound of his name, the owner - Chance - suddenly perks up and glances over his shoulder. When their eyes land on Guest, he notices the gambler’s posture suddenly stiffen. Now that they’re facing him, Guest can see a pair of over-the-top star shaped sunglasses, tilted low on his face to expose dark eyes staring directly at him. There’s a smug grin on their face, and Guest watches it tighten, a small blush blooming on either cheek.
Is he flustered? How? I’m not exactly dressed to impress right now…
The man stares at the two for a beat, then suddenly whirls back around to their game and slaps their hand of cards down on the table. “Sorry boys, I’m out for the night.”
Ignoring the other players' cries for him to return, Chance stands up, brushes off invisible dust from his vest, and saunters over to the bar. He practically skips up the steps out of the pit, and with a flourish, seats themselves in the barstool beside Guest. Leaning his head into his hand, Chance shoots a grin at Elliot. “You said my name, darlin’?”
Elliot promptly swats Chance with his wash cloth.
The gambler lets out an offended squawk, flailing his hands out to try and protect his face from another hit. “Okay, okay! You’re so rude!”
Chance shoots the bartender a mock offended glare, before turning to Guest and giving him that same practised grin.
“Haven’t seen you around here before, gorgeous. What’s ya name, pal?”
Wow, this guy’s bold. Guest makes eye contact with him through his glasses before replying. “The name’s Guest. I’ve been told you are Chance?”
“The one and only!”
Off to the side, Elliot lets out an exasperated noise. “Chance, don’t steal my only friend for the night. He’s the only one not drunk, let me have this.”
“And let you hog this beautiful man all to yourself?”
…Really bold.
“Ah, ladies, I’m capable of talking to two people at once…” Guest jokes awkwardly, looking between the two. He quickly realises, though, that that isn’t the issue here - Elliot isn’t glaring at Chance with jealousy. He looks…worried?
A silent conversation passes between the two while Guest watches, nerves slowly creeping in. Before he can move to leave, though, Elliot sighs. “I’ll start closing up the kitchen. Have fun, you two.” before turning and abruptly walking away, disappearing into the door Guest had noticed earlier. Kitchen, then.
“Sooo…Guest, was it?” And those dark eyes turn back to him. “What’s got someone as pretty as you here in the middle of the night?” Chance’s head tilts as he asks, and Guest is suddenly struck with how much the other reminds him of a dog.
The flirting is nice, a bit flattering, but something about it is too much for his tired brain. Guest looks away, fixing his eyes somewhere in the middle distance. “Couldn’t sleep. I imagine most people here have the same reasoning.”
Chance replies, but Guest quickly realises his mistake in looking away. The other man is on his left - without being able to see his mouth, Guest can’t hear a damn thing he says. As casually as he could, he looked back over. Chance, luckily, wasn’t facing him anymore but rather had turned his barstool around and was facing out into the casino. Is it rude to ask him to repeat himself? Surely not…but do I want him to know I’m deaf on that side?
Before Guest can decide, Chance’s tone lilts in question. Shit.
“Ah, sorry, missed that. Could you repeat what you said?”
Chance laughs slightly. “What, am I not interesting enough? Nah, I’m kidding. What do you do for work? You look pretty strong, big guy.”
“Oh, right. I’m currently unemployed.” Guest winces at his words, but it's the truth. Kind of hard to work at a regular job with all of his scarring. “I’ve been discharged from the military for about a year now, haven’t found stable work yet. How long have you had this place?”
“Woah - military? Actually, don’t know why I’m surprised.” At the question, Chance leaned his head back towards the ceiling, contemplating. “I’ve owned a place like this for years, but Lady Luck specifically has been open for - what, two years? I forget.”
Chance speaks with his hands a lot, Guest observes. They gesture at even the most mundane sentence, as if everything he says needs emphasis.
“Ran a joint like this a few years back, in the city centre. It, uh, went out of business.”
And just like that, Chance’s hands drop to his lap. Interesting.
“Well, that’s unfortunate. This place is quite nice as far as I can tell.”
There’s a pause where Chance cuts his eyes to Guest, as if inspecting him, before a more genuine smile replaces the cocky grin he’d been sporting. “Awh, shucks. I tried my best to make her welcomin’. With this being my second shot at owning a business, I really put in the legwork this time, y’know?”
“You’ve done a good job with that.” Guest sips his water idly. “Why’d your first place fail? It would’ve had a better clientèle, so I can’t say I’m not surprised.”
“Ah…things turned sour, I’ll say that.” Chance grimaces slightly. Their hand disappears into the breast pocket of their vest, and before Guest can figure out what he’s doing, he’s pulled out a coin and started flipping it. “Bad company, some sketchy bets, you know how it goes.”
Guest does not, in fact, know how it goes. He nods along like he does anyway.
“Are you from around here, then? I can’t guess why you’d come out here to restart if not that.”
“Nah, nah. I’m from the Heights area. My parents still live out there n’ all that. No, I came out here ‘cause I felt that this area needed something to spice up the night life, y’know?”
Guest snorts. “The rent was just cheaper, wasn’t it?”
Chance shoots him a scandalized look, their hand going to grab their chest dramatically. “Why, how dare you accuse me of something so - so material! ...Yeah, though. Rent’s cheaper here than in the city.”
This gets a proper laugh out of Guest, his head dipping down towards the bar top. After a moment, Chance’s laughter joins his.
“What about you? Trying to find some peace in retirement?”
“Besides cheap rent, I guess so. Apartment’s basically a closet, but it’s fine for now. Neighbours certainly could be worse too.”
Chance snorts. “Decent neighbours in an apartment building? I don’t believe you.”
“You’d be surprised!”
Honestly, Guest thinks he won the lottery in terms of shitty apartment complex neighbours. They’re not the best in the world, but compared to what he could’ve gotten, he counts his blessings.
To his left is a single father with three kids, which would’ve been a recipe for disaster but the kids are surprisingly well behaved. At least, at night they are - during the day the youngest gets a bit loud. The poor boy has some sort of skin condition, from what Guest has gathered through snippets of conversation through their shared wall. Whatever it is, it keeps the kid from attending in-person school, so Guest’s quiet days are interspersed with the sounds of home-schooling and laughter.
To his right is a very quiet young couple. The taller of the two introduced himself as Azure when Guest first moved in, having stopped by to deliver a welcome package of home-grown vegetables. He’s polite, if a bit closed off. Charlotte is fond of his small herb garden he keeps by his front door. Meanwhile, Guest only realized Azure wasn’t living alone when he caught his partner staring at him through a window. He still doesn’t know their name, but they freak him the hell out. At least they’re quiet at night.
As Guest explains this to Chance, he watches their body language start to change. The other man leans towards him, his smile relaxes, his laughter becomes softer. A more genuine side of Chance starts to reveal itself to Guest as they jump from topic to topic. And, to Guest’s surprise, he finds himself reciprocating.
It’s Elliot who finally bursts their bubble. The bartender, looking more exhausted than ever, raises his voice loud enough to be heard from the gambling pit. “Last call, everyone! We close in 20!”
Chance whines jokingly, checking his watch to confirm. “Already? Damn, completely lost track of time there.”
At that point, their stools had been pushed together, knees brushing under the bar. Guest kept his body angled to hear Chance better, but Chance had given up maintaining appearances and was laying with his head nestled in the crook of his arm. Guest thought he looked quite cute like that, but he kept the thought to himself.
As he registers Elliot’s words, Guest’s heart suddenly sinks to his stomach. “Wait - what time is it?”
“4:42, on the dot. We close up shop at 5 most nights.”
“Shit…didn’t expect to stay out this late.” Guest heaves a sigh as he goes to stand up, his knees creaking from disuse. “Today’s my day to pick up my daughter from school. I kind of wanted to try and sleep again before then.” Sleep deprivation and after-school traffic didn’t mix well, Guest would know from experience.
“Awh - wait, daughter?” Chance looks over in surprise, his blush from earlier returning full force. Guest resists the urge to make fun of them for it.
“Yes, daughter. I have a 10 year old with my ex wife.”
Averting his eyes, Chance awkwardly coughs into his hand. “Uh, well, nothing wrong with that, sorry. Just - surprised me, that's all.”
Cute. “Well, I should be leav-”
“W-Wait! Wait. Before you go,” Chance practically leaps from his seat, skidding to a stop in front of Guest. He’s momentarily stunned by the height difference, before shaking their head and refocusing. “Just - one dance? Before the night ends. I don’t know if I’ll see ya again, but you’re drop-dead gorgeous and I’d kick myself forever if I didn’t at least try.”
The request makes Guest freeze. Dance? He wants to dance? With me? It’s nearly dawn, Guest is stone cold sober and wearing sweatpants and a shirt with more holes in it than it should have. There’s barely anyone left at the bar, let alone the dance floor. He shouldn’t be considering it.
“Ah, I really shouldn’t stay, Chance.”
“No - just once, please.” The expression they’re looking at Guest with he can only describe as puppy-dog eyes.
Guest goes to decline again, about to go home and lay on his shitty second-hand couch and pretend he’s napping, but something within him gives him pause. There’s no reason beyond what time it is that he shouldn’t just say yes. Why is he hesitating?
The phantom sensation of his missing wedding ring makes him realize. He doesn’t have his left hand anymore, and yet the ring's absence still weighs on his mind whenever he thinks about trying again. Finding someone new, letting go of the marriage that ended the second he decided to serve.
By the time he’d returned to Daisy, she had already grieved his death. He knew her too well to pretend that they could go back to who they used to be - the perfect nuclear family, complete with the white picket fence. He didn’t force her to fall back in love, and she didn’t force herself to reopen those old wounds. They would always be good friends, always will know each other like the back of each other’s hand, but the romantic side of their dynamic died a long time ago. That piece of Guest was left in the desert, and Daisy buried hers in his empty coffin.
She had told him that it’d be good for him to find someone new. Guest is starting to wonder if he’s more ready for that than he thought.
Fuck it.
“...I’ll warn you, I cannot dance to save my life.”
Chance perks up instantly. “Youactuallysaidyes - ah, that’s not a problem, promise! This isn’t like, a proper dance, you don’t need to know anything -”
“Easy, easy.” Guest tries to soothe, but he can’t help but laugh at their desperation. “I’ve already said yes, I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
The gambler finally pockets his coin, and with a warmth Guest hasn’t felt in years, takes his hand. With a gentle tug, he’s led around the gambling pit. The group Chance was with earlier have started packing up their belongings, bickering lightly between themselves. One of them wave to Chance as the pair pass by, but Chance only barely acknowledges them.
As they approached the basic dance floor, Guest spots Elliot swatting someone with his wash cloth again. Another yellow-haired person, dressed as fancy as everyone else but notably more disheveled. Chance drops his hand briefly, but Guest is too busy watching Elliot usher the very drunk woman out to notice until the music changes.
The ambience that had been playing before, some sort of speakeasy-style jazz or such, suddenly cuts and is replaced with something slower. More intimate. A blush slowly creeps up Guest’s face as Chance rejoins him.
“Was the music necessary…?”
“Of course it was necessary, dear. Ya’ need the right vibe for dancing!”
Dear? You’re kidding me. Guest huffs a flustered laugh, avoiding eye contact. All that flirty energy that Chance lost has returned full force, despite their initial anxiety.
There's another gentle tug at his hand, and Guest quickly finds himself face to face with Chance. Their other hand snakes around his waist. Guest realises that he should do the same, but his prosthetic only gets so far as to sit on their hip loosely. Close enough.
And as the music begins to swell, Chance slowly leads him into a gentle swaying motion. The pace is slow and leisurely, Chance letting himself relax somewhat into the music. It’s sweet, Guest thinks. He’d been so nervous to ask for this, but now that he has it they’re content.
With a shy smile, Chance starts to move them, carefully stepping between Guests feet. He moves to mirror the steps, but almost as soon as he does his foot catches on Chance’s and sends him stumbling into the other. His nose meets Chance’s shoulder before he catches himself, a brief whiff of cologne and smoke hitting him before he stands back up with a stutter.
Fuck. Here he is, well into his 40s, stumbling while dancing like he's a teenager at his first school dance. Before he can apologize though, Chance gives a breathless laugh. Their voice is low as he speaks.
“Easy there, tough guy…” and as if he had planned it, Chance gently moves his hands to Guest's hips, readjusting him so his feet are in the correct place again. Something heavy settles in Guest's chest.
Their hands linger on his hips for a moment, one of them shifting up his hoodie oddly for a second before they return to their original positions and their dance resumes.
Woah. Okay. They're not just pretty words then.
Chance leads him slowly around the empty dance floor. His feet stumble over every turn, but the shorter man's soft laughter heals any embarrassment Guest feels before it starts. And every time Guest gets brave enough to make eye contact Chance smiles at him - that damned grin, charming and crooked and just wide enough to let a gold tooth glint in the light.
Their touch doesn't burn - Guest is long past associating romance with fire. Rather, it's a slow warmth. A creeping heat that spreads from their hands on his shoulder and waist and flushes his skin pink. Guest certainly isn't in love, but he'd be lying if he said Chance's more earnest attempts to woo him didn't work at least a little.
The cold air nips at Guest’s flushed face when he finally steps outside again. Chance leans against the doorway, his coin back in his hand, flipping over and over. The other man’s blush hasn’t died down yet either, his cocky grin doing nothing to hide the genuine happiness in their eyes.
“Will I see you here again, tough guy?” Chance asks, his silly flirtation barely disguising the hope in his tone.
“...Can’t promise you anything, but I won’t say no.” I certainly wouldn't mind making this a regular thing, Guest doesn't say.
“That’s good enough for me.” With one final flourish, Chance pockets the coin once more and turns to walk back inside. “Thanks for chatting with me, Guest. You’re good company. Hope you have a safe walk back.”
Guest shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets, averting his eyes. The genuine compliments always hit harder than the flirting, even with the most basic of statements. He feels a bit like a teenager all over again.
“It was lovely meeting you too. Take care, Chance.”
As he turns to walk down the street, he realizes Chance doesn’t go back inside. He feels those dark eyes on him all the way down the block.