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Love is the Most Dangerous Gamble
For years, Twisted Fate had waited for this moment. For up to almost a decade and a half, he had waited for this one moment.
The docks of Bilgewater were dark and the crescent of dusk's first light was barely breaking through.
The sky ranged from a shower of dark purple to light, pale blue. The sliver of a moon on the horizon was a silvery gray.
There Twisted Fate sat, where his golden brimmed hat, expensive cloak and polished golden tip boots. His long dark hair tucked away with the least care behind that deceiving hat.
His breath still smelled of whiskey and a night of gamble, the slightest frown on his pale lips.
His legs were swinging off a dock, and in his hands, he played with an ace card. He flipped the card once, launched it back onto his index and thumb, tucked it between his middle and pointer finger, then back again.
Twisted Fate frowned once more, as the ace in his fingers suddenly lost its rhythm and it bounced off the dock and fluttered into the deep, greenish blue of the salty sea below.
There was a feral growl that echoed behind the lanky man. The sound was husky, animal-like, and hate filled, but the Card Master, Twisted Fate just pulled out another card.
The man sighed lightly and he turned, expected by the sight.
A muscular man stood a few feet away from him. He had a double-barreled gun and the last hint of a cigar on his teeth.
The gun was pointed directly at Twisted Fate's head.
“Malcolm,” Fate whispered, his frown suddenly disappeared into the sly, charming trademark smile of Bilgewater, “I knew you'd come.”
There was another feral growl, and the click of a gun.
“I believe I don't owe you any money?” Fate asked again, before standing up slowly, his left hand still playing a rhythm of its own on the card.
“You owe me six years of my life back,” Malcolm Graves snarled, his sharp, cold features pierced directly through the brimmed hat, searching for any signs of regret.
Twisted Fate walked, his gold tipped boots clicked down the wood-made planks of the dock, each stride slow and centered; not a hint of hesitance or confusion.
Before either men knew, Twisted Fate was standing directly in front of Graves, the gun barrel pressed firmly against his chest.
Fate gave an almost teasing and encourage little push on the barrel.
“Six years of my life, wasting away in that cell. All because of you,” Graves breathed, his breath hitched, “six fucking years.”
“I know,” Fate muttered, the brimmed hat shadowing over his features like a mask.
The Card Master breathed steadily, each inhale of breath careful and precise.
“Partners, yea. I remember you, hotshot. Every last bit.”
“Twisted Fate, you're not even going to defend your actions?”
“Why should I?” Twisted Fate demanded, his tone harsh, before it melted away into something strangled and wispy and he paused before answering, “because I know it's my fault.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The silhouette of two men, each frozen in place with conflicting emotions, their features dark against the fading light.
“You're still dead.”
“I know.”
“Why don't you run?”
“Because I've been running all along.”
“And?”
“All tales come to an end. I'm tired, Malcolm. I really am.”
The lanky man with the brimmed hat sighed sadly, all of the once arrogance and pride non-existent. There was no sign of that infuriating grin, or that swagger in his posture.
Fate looked so lost there, almost slouching lightly onto the gun barrels.
“Why?” Malcolm Graves demanded, “you could have hidden yourself away, and I would have never found you.”
The answer hit the outlaw's tongue before his question was even on the verge of finish.
This was no final showdown.
This was no battle till the last man standing.
This wasn't even confrontation.
This was surrender.
Twisted Fate was surrendering himself to Malcolm Graves.
Then Graves was grabbing Twisted Fate by the collar of his vest, his gun dropping onto the docks, another feral growl escaped the man; the taste of both cigar and alcohol on both men's tongues.
“Fight, you coward!” Malcolm snarled, shaking the lanky man furiously.
There was the sound of ripping fabric, and the outlaw had thrown Twisted Fate back onto the deck with a sickening crunch. The card that Twisted Fate had been holding all this time flew from his fingertips and dropped onto the deck too.
This wasn't the victory that Malcolm Graves wanted. There was no satisfaction in this. He wanted the other man to hurt. He wanted the other man to experience the pain that he had caused him.
Twisted Fate just laid there, his hat askew, his breath in short pants, a small groan escaped his lips from the harsh contact. The splinters from the deck had torn the skin and flesh of his hand, the thick and metallic scent of blood in the salty air.
There was a gust of wind, and the hat was swept from the man's head, exposing locks of long, dark hair.
Twisted Fate's eyes were blue. Such a shocking, and other-worldly blue that Graves forgotten his task at hand.
Both men just stared at each other, one filled with guilt, confusion, and sadness while the other, rage, hatred, and confusion.
The blue eyes met the dark, brown ones and they locked.
Before either could speak, action struck first.
It was as if Twisted Fate had picked up a piece of Malcolm Graves' fragmented soul and ran with it.
Malcolm Graves grabbed Twisted Fate by the collar once more, furiously, and then there was a muffled protest as their lips crashed together.
The protest was weak, a tiny of hint of expectancy.
The actions were none less than brutal, each intake drew blood and hisses of pain.
The action was unexplained. Perhaps, Malcolm had once loved Twisted Fate in their days of partnership. After the betrayal however, hatred boiled deep within, sinking the love ties, but never burying it.
In such a circumstance, no rational thoughts had formed, and both had solely acted on instinct. Perhaps, reuniting with each other in the most expected manner had triggered the forbidden emotion deep within, and it had exploded without a warning, flooding back on them like the ties of the ocean.
The moment seemed to have lasted forever.
Graves was brutal, demanding, while Twisted Fate; each kiss was light and placed gingerly, seemingly like a plea for mercy.
When Graves drew away, both men had the taste of blood and bittersweet on their lips.
XxX
That moment flew by like a blur, and before both partners could guess, they were at their once favorite pub; they being the only activity alongside a few dozen drunken men and gamblers lost in their daze of unconsciousness.
Both men were heavily drunk and unstable, and slurred words of both confession and unrecognized syllables exited their lips as smoothly as each bottle of whiskey and other alcoholic beverages had went down.
One shot and the eighth bottle of whiskey went down.
Bottom of the bottle hits, as both confessed their troubles and never achieved desires.
Then, they were howling with laughter, weeping with despair, crawling over the polished tables and playing a few hundred rounds of poker.
It was a fiesta of sins and confessions.
XxX
When Graves awoke, he found a pair of shocking blue eyes staring back at him. There was a heavy warmth of his chest, and Malcolm Graves found Twisted Fate slumped against him.
Graves spoke softly, the words almost reassuring, but intertwined with unwillingness.
“I'm still going to kill you,” Graves said softly, sticking a cigar into his mouth as he fumbled for a match, the task made non easier with Fate's weight.
“I know.”
“Do you know how I'm going to do it?”
“Not really. Where's the fun in that?”
Graves sighed, as he felt a tiny piece of Twisted Fate's old arrogance come crawling back. Without another word, he pulled out one more cigar and stuck it carefully between the Card Master's lips. The man pulls out a match, and he strikes both cigars aflame.
Malcolm Graves just smiles a pained smile, his left hand still holding onto the small of Twisted Fate's back.
“As you wish, Tobias,” Malcolm Graves whispered lightly into Twisted Fate's ear.
“Tobias.... You still remember my real name after all these years?” Tobias Foxtrot muttered.
“How could I forget?”