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Tonight's the night.
And it will happen again.
iTrapped would always make sure he and Chance were somewhere isolated whenever they played russian roulette— If the gun happened to go off, he couldn't take the risk of someone hearing it. It felt better this way. Felt safer.
Chance never seemed to question it. He'd wondered why. Maybe the other was just, oh, so confident that he would always win, that he never stopped to think as to why they even did stuff like this. Or, maybe he truly did trust him.
iTrapped hoped it was the latter. Having someone's trust is quite empowering.
He couldn't wait to get tonight's game done. Overtime, iTrapped grew bored, thrill wouldn't surge down his spine anymore, not even when he pointed the gun at himself. Part of him had considered giving up— But every night could be the night. The night in which Chance finally, finally blew his own brains off.
Unfortunately, Chance is late.
What a dumbass.
iTrapped puffed a cigarette, huffing. A gun, the same gun they'd used many times, sat on the table in front of him, an empty chair accompanying it. He threw a glance at his wrist watch. It's late. iTrapped can't help but feel frustration bubble up in his chest. Slowly.
That useless mutt—
His not-so-nice thoughts are interrupted by an abrupt slam of the door.
Chance.
iTrapped's expression doesn't falter, aside from an almost imperceptible furrowing of his brows. He looks hasty, like he got here in a rush. iTrapped watched, neither of them saying anything, Chance only giving a lazy wave as he hung up his coat.
There's something about his movements that iTrapped has always found appealing. Odd.
“Sorry ‘m late, man. Ran into some trouble.”
Chance stammers, letting out a deadbeat laugh.
Huh. Must be why he looks so worn. iTrapped decides he doesn't care. He tosses his cigarette away.
“It's fine.”
He shrugs, the reply only serving as empty reassurance.
The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Chance's lips, and he wastes no time to sit down across iTrapped. For a moment, the word is still, but of them silently studying the other. Not in a strategic kind of way, something much more, much worse, much better. A mix of feelings— At least on iTrapped's part. He can't quite see Chance's eyes behind those signature shades of his.
Part of him wishes he could.
It's iTrapped who makes the first move, after what feels like years. He reaches for the gun, spinning the cylinder, Chance watching him silently, his own body tensing.
Once the cylinder comes to a stop, iTrapped lifts the gun, the muzzle resting against his temple. He's done this many times, yet, he can't help but feel anxiety creep up on him. Luckily, he's always been good at hiding it.
He takes a silent, deep breath, his finger hovering over the trigger.
Click.
The silence that follows after is always a relief.
iTrapped smirks, setting the gun down on the table, sliding it towards Chance with his index finger.
“Your turn.”
His voice is low, bored, even.
Chance doesn't give a verbal answer, just a nod. iTrapped doesn't mind it, his voice is a pain in the ass anyway.
There's an uncertainty in the other's action, one that iTrapped has learned to notice during their ‘friendship’. The way he hesitates just a second before actually grabbing the gun, how he stares at it blankly before spinning the cylinder. It's all too clear.
It's endearing, honestly. How Chance tries so hard to keep up his courageous persona.
iTrapped's pupils dilate when Chance puts the gun against his temple, his breath getting caught in his throat in anticipation. He can barely register the small chuckle from Chance, too lost in his own thoughts.
Do it.
His head pounds, gaze glued on the finger hovering over the trigger.
Pull the trigger, goddammit.
Click.
The silence isn't as pleasing this time. Disappointing.
Chance can't help but let out a huff, followed by a dumb, awkward laugh. iTrapped rolls his eyes, the gesture playful in Chance's mind. It wasn't.
“Thought I'd lose, eh?”
iTrapped scoffs at the words, averting his eyes. Anything to avoid seeing that shit eating grin. He snatches the gun back, the sudden moment catching Chance off guard.
“Again.”
iTrapped demands.
-
It's not long before the clock hits midnight.
Chance had offered to end the game there, clearly ready to boast about his victory— but iTrapped insisted for one more round.
The other agreed, albeit reluctantly.
When the muzzle hovered over his temple, iTrapped somewhat hoped his own head would explode because of how frustrated he was. Luck just had to be on the gambler's side. Every. Single. Time.
Click.
The sound is familiar to his ears, by now.
Chance is quick to grab the gun, in a hurry to get this done. He leans back in his chair, spinning the cylinder— In a way that sends a pang of irritation through iTrapped.
Why won't you just die?
He stares, intensive, anger flaring through him. He doesn't even register Chance's words.
“Y'know, Trap,”
Chance trails off, arching an eyebrow once he's noticed how the other seems so.. Tense.
I've waited for so long.
“I don't wanna sound like a pussy or anything ..”
iTrapped clenches his fingers together.
I should have just killed you myself. I should have killed you the first moment we met.
“.. But maybe it's time we stop with this whole ‘death game’ thing, no?”
Chance chuckles, trying to lighten up the mood.
“Besides, ya’ know I'll always win.”
I hate you. I always have. Why won't you just—
Click.
There's no silence then.
Just a loud gunshot, a blast, echoing in iTrapped's head. Louder than anything he's ever heard before.
His body flinches. Hard. Even before he's realized.
All he sees is red, lots of red— And Chance's silhouette, suddenly plummeting off his chair.
It fired.
iTrapped is frozen in place, his chest puffing in and out. It's like an aftershock. Slow, but the reality of the situation sets in. Blood has splashed on the other edge of the table. The air gains a metallic like smell.
iTrapped stands up, ignoring how his legs shake, taking slow steps towards Chance— Or rather, his dead body.
It's quite a sight, honestly.
His shades have fallen off, revealing those pretty, widened eyes iTrapped had always wanted to see. Blood is pooling all over the floor, dark red, seeping into the wooden floor, and he swears he can see brain tissue amongst the crimson mess. It's going to stain his boots. The gun is discarded on the floor, not far from the body. iTrapped's gaze lingers to see if he can spot the bullet.
It's disgusting. Filthy.
Yet, he can't help but think Chance has never looked more beautiful.
He's always been beautiful, it's just easier to admit now that he's gone.
It's strange.
iTrapped isn't as happy as he thought he would be.
He kneels down near Chance's lifeless body, not bothered by the blood staining his pants.
His hand reaches for the gambler's wrist, gently. Even if Chance isn't there to feel it. Still warm. iTrapped wouldn't get his hopes up, though. Dead bodies don't instantly grow cold. Plus, there's no pulse.
He enjoys the warmth, if anything.
The back of his free hands grazes Chance's cheek, a tender caress.
It's over.
iTrapped frowns. He knew it had to happen someday, he was well aware of it. Having an actual friendship with Chance had never been his goal.
Yet, he can't help but feel a sense of melancholy wash over him. No more playful banter between the two of them, no more having to hear Chance boast about his latest gambling winnings— Which, made his ears bleed— No more watching him walk out alive from yet another death game.
He can't quite place why he feels this way.
iTrapped pulls both hands back, blood staining them. Feels sticky.
He stands, his movements almost lethargic.
He can't bring himself to look away from Chance, not just yet.
iTrapped hates him, he really does. He refuses to acknowledge any other kind of emotion he may have towards the gambler. He always will— Would it make him miserable.
The room is silent, iTrapped's heavy breathing being the only hint of a sound.
A thought crossed his mind.
I think I'll regret this.