Work Text:
Mafioso slunk into the stool on the bar, which was mostly empty— a rarity at Chance’s casino. Chance. Why was he even there? Well, for Chance. Just that term, for Chance, made Mafioso scrunch up his nose and grimace. He didn’t do anything for Chance, that was fucking stupid. Once, when they were friends, he might’ve. But not now. Never.
The bartender, Lloyd, walked over to Mafioso.
“Ah, Mr. Sonnellino. Slow business tonight, no?” He chuckled. “What will it be, my good sir.”
Mafioso thought.
“Just a whiskey, straight.”
Lloyd nodded. “Simple, but good choice. Be back in a moment.” Mafioso listened to his footsteps thumping on wood, while keeping his eyes utterly fixated on the table.
Chance liked whiskey too. And something.. Cutty Sark. He’d mentioned it, once, a while ago. Mafioso paused, and had to restrain himself from banging his head on the bartop. God, why did he remember such a stupid, futile fact about the gambler? They were enemies now. Had been. Mafioso hated Chance, that was the truth. They wouldn’t go drinking together, he didn’t need to know what drinks Chance liked.
But maybe it was more complicated than just the blind hate he had felt once.
No. Mafioso ground his teeth together as Lloyd reappeared with the glass and bottle, and he watched as the bartender emptied some of the bottle’s contents with ease into the glass. Lloyd slid the glass across the smooth wood to Mafioso.
“Thanks,” Mafioso said sharply, before taking the glass, tilting his head back, and drinking over half of it in one go.
Lloyd raised his eyebrows slightly, but said nothing initially, turning his back to Mafioso polish a glass.
“Thinking about something, aren’t you?” He asked sharply as Mafioso slammed the glass back down.
“Possibly. None of your business anyways.”
Whistling, Lloyd said, “What are bartenders if not to talk to, hmm? No bother, I have other customers. Goodbye, Mr. Sonnellino. Leave the money on the table.”
Mafioso watched him walk away. Fucking right it wasn’t his business.
What the hell is this? Mafioso had asked exactly a week and a half ago.
I already told you, Chance said, pressing the bills into his hands. It’s your money. I’m sorry. Not all of it, there’ll be more. But it’s a start. Okay?
He was sorry. Why now, of all times, was Chance sorry? Why were they finally trying to do something good? Why did he finally care?
Why now, was he doing it, and why was it making Mafioso trip so hard? He was confused. Did Chance want something? Well, whatever it was, they sure as hell weren’t getting it. Or maybe…
Mafioso downed the rest of the whiskey. No. No maybe, there was no maybe. Even though, deep down, Mafioso could feel something shifting within him throughout the last week and a half. Something that had to do with Chance.
He didn’t immediately threaten them with death when they talked. He didn’t immediately tell Chance to go fuck himself when he tried to repair any damages. And, just a day ago, they had both been watching a pool game in the casino, a quite intense one. The crowd was thick, and they’d ended up near each other.
I could beat him, Chance had hummed to Mafioso, warily looking over at him to see his response.
They made eye contact.
I’m sure you could, Mafioso snorted. He’d meant it sarcastically, but in all honesty Chance probably could. As much as Mafioso.. hated them, he would admit Chance was as damn a good gambler as they got.
In that moment, whether intentionally or not, the crowd pulsed, and Chance stumbled a bit. They brushed shoulders— and hands.
It was only for a very, very brief few seconds, but Mafioso felt it through his gloves and all throughout his body. He’d looked away from Chance almost instantly, looking at the ground with a new passion never before seen. Mafioso could feel that Chance was still looking at him sidelong, and was for the rest of the game.
It was awfully hot in the casino from there on out. Because of the large crowd. Of course.
Mafioso snapped back to where he was then and now. In the nearly empty bar. Not at the pool game, accidentally touching Chance. Not at the pool game, where he somehow felt like glancing back at Chance to see if they were reacting. To see if he was thinking how Mafioso was.
Mafioso felt like throwing up.
He dug through his pockets, and produced enough money for the drink. (Plus a little extra, probably, but Mafioso didn’t have enough energy to calculate at the moment) He stood up, and rubbed his face. Where even was everyone? The bar was usually full of lots of people, from young couples to alcoholics. And now it just… wasn’t. Mafioso also couldn’t help but notice how oddly quiet it was. The sounds coming from the casino floor were still there, yes, but not as active as normally. What was everyone doing? He sighed, walking towards the mouth of the bar and in turn out to the casino’s main area.
The slots and folding tables and cards were still there, but with very few occupants. Mafioso looked around, beginning to walk. That’s when he heard it— piano. Mafioso knew nearly nothing about piano, except vague memories of playing some as a child, so he wasn’t exactly sure what piece it was. But the music was there, filling the casino’s air, wrapping the rooms in it. The song was being played well, not expertly, but by someone who knew what they were doing. He wondered who the performer was— he hadn’t remembered seeing any live shows lined up for today. Maybe it was being played off of a recording! But piano music wasn’t the usual type that the casino’s many speakers sported, and it sounded live, real. Mafioso assumed he might as well go check it out. It could take his mind off of everything going on at the moment, and he really didn’t have anything better to do.
Mafioso walked towards the stage, which was near the front of the casino. As he walked, he saw the crowd. People were absolutely packed together watching the mystery player. So much so that, Mafioso, even as a tall man, was unable to see who or what was really happening on the stage over all the heads. Slowly, he began to push to the crowd, trying to get as close to the front as possible. As he neared, there were whispers floating through the air, and the music got louder.
Finally, Mafioso neared the front of the crowd. Who—
Directly next to him, there was a group of girls, all talking amongst themselves. One of them, clearly drunk, leaned over to Mafioso and tapped his shoulder speedily, clinging on a little, which startled Mafioso into stopping.
“Look— hic— at him,” she said, messily pointing at the stage. “He’s so cute, I never knew he could play piano.”
Mafioso’s eyes followed her hand to the stage.
And he froze.
Dead still in the middle of the crowd.
So still be barely noticed one of the girl’s friends calling her name and dragging her away, so still he barely noticed any of what the crowd was doing, actually.
The rest of the noise was fuzzy, except for the piano music.
It was Chance.
He was seated on a black stool, at a rather worn looking grand piano. Chance’s eyes were locked forwards as they played, hands drifting effortlessly across the keys. Mafioso noticed the nod of his head as he hummed to the notes of what he was playing. Chance never talked about playing piano. But there they were.
Making music for the casino to hear. All eyes on him, like it was no big deal.
Mafioso could hear it, as he stared, rooted to the ground while the crowd moved around him. He could hear Chance reaching the end of the piece, he could sense it. As the beginning of the end started, Chance turned, assumedly knowing this part enough to do so without hesitation. He looked out on the crowd, his eyes shooting past every listening ear.
Except for one.
The moment was in crystal clarity, Mafioso could almost feel it. Chance’s eyes drifted to the middle of the crowd. And, just like at the pool game, just like that crowd, it happened.
Out of the hundreds of people there, Chance looked at only one, directly in the eyes.
The music got louder, the crescendo before the end.
Chance and Mafioso stared at each other, through all those other people. Mafioso had to look away, he needed to— but he couldn’t. He couldn’t make himself look away from the golden lights spilling all over the stage, and on Chance. He couldn’t.
The music.
Music.
Music.
Chance smiled, slowly, relishing in something. Mafioso couldn’t know what.
Chance winked at him.
The music ended with one last hard press of the keys.
Everything snapped.
The sound rushed back to Mafioso’s ears, and the rest of the casino erupted into shrieks and cheers around him. Chance stood, and began to bow. More cheers. Mafioso was sure he was the only one not cheering. That’s because he was preoccupied.
What the hell was that?
Mafioso took one step backwards, two. Chance was waving at the crowd. Blowing kisses. Not looking at Mafioso anymore. But that had happened. Mafioso couldn’t have imagined any of that— wouldn’t have wanted to imagine any of that. It had happened. Why him?
Before he could answer the question, Mafioso felt himself turning, walking. Away from the stage, away from the crowd. His heart was practically ricocheting through his chest. By the time he broke from the crowd, Mafioso was almost running. Where was he even going? Somewhere. He felt dizzy. Which was odd. Only one drink. He was dizzy from something else.
Suddenly, Mafioso was at the mens’ bathrooms, throwing open the door. Thankfully it was empty. He stumbled forwards, and grabbed the nearest sink. Were.. were his shoulders shaking? Mafioso breathed. Hard. He slowly lifted his head looking in the mirror.
His face was flushed. And not from the running, or from the singular drink, like Mafioso wanted to think. No.
Mafioso hastily pulled off his gloves, and ran the sink’s cold water, splashing some on his face.
Get a fucking grip. That didn’t mean shit, shouldn’t mean shit, Mafioso thought to himself. You’re Don Sonnellino. You hate Chance. You don’t care the slightest about them. You don’t care that he chose you out of hundreds of people in a crowd to look at while playing piano and grinned and winked at you like some kind of flirt. You don’t.
“I.. I can’t,” Mafioso whispered to himself, alone in the bathroom.
He wouldn’t and he couldn’t.
Get. A. Fucking. Grip.
Mafioso shoved off of the sink, slamming the water off. He dried his hands. He put his gloves back on. He stared in the mirror again.
He was Don Sonnellino, head of the Sonnellino crime family.
He didn’t feel anything to Chance.
He would get a wife and kids, like his father.
No man.
Especially not Chance.
Never.
Mafioso turned to the bathroom door, and exited, his heart pounding in his chest. He walked straight out of the casino without paying anyone any mind. Out through the parking lot, and towards his parker car. On the way, he passed by the same group of girls They were leaving, like him, laughing and talking. The girl who had clung on him earlier was still ranting loudly about how hot Chance was and hoping that he would play more for them. The vomit feeling was back.
Mafioso made his was speedily past them, to his car, numbly grabbing the keys to unlock his door. He slid into the drivers seat, leaning back. Mafioso sat there for several minutes, staring at the steering wheel.
It had to have meant something. It did mean something.
But Mafioso would never let anyone, not even himself, accept that. He would never think of that again, nobody would ever hear of it. Snap out of it, you idiot.
“Fuck,” Mafioso said quietly, before grabbing the steering wheel and pressing his head down onto it.