What’s the Kindest Way to Say, The End?

by AntiVoided

Summary:

It’d been months of cat-and-mouse. A game of chase that always plays out the same way; Mafioso ‘corners’ Chance, but never follows through, whether it be because the gambler slips away, or simply because he lets them. It’s a softspot that he’s struggled to let go of since they broke apart– a denial, even; Hope that Chance will keep running forever so Mafioso won’t have to make a choice.

But even someone with as much power as Mafioso can’t stall forever, it’s only a matter of time until the consequences catch up; The more he drags it out, the more it looks like weakness. His underlings, his family– they’re watching, wondering why this pathetic gambler that so deeply insulted their name is still alive. Mafioso has no other choice. He’s cornered too.

So, what does he do next?

He invites Chance for a drink. And they accept. After all, if he wanted to kill them, he would’ve done it already. Right?

Notes:

– 　Title is a lyric from Jack Stauber's "Just Take My Wallet."

– 　The following chapter is only the first part ! I will be posting the second chapter ( hopefully ) by the end of the weekend . I'm just really eager to get this out ASAP because it's an idea I've had fully planned out for a while & I only recently got to writing it . Also, this fic isn't tagged with everything that'll be involved yet , because I want to avoid spoiling readers for what happens in chapter 2 ( even if it may be obvious ) . But don't worry , it's tagged with everything that's major / super important , I'm just leaving out smaller things I would've put in the tags otherwise if I was posting this as a finished product off the bat .

– 　I finally made a Strawpage , which is linked on my profile and here‎‎ ! This finally means people can request things again . Feel free to request / send me anything you please as long as it falls under what I'm comfortable with :) I'd love to see what you guys come up with

Sorry for the yap , I hope you enjoy 💙

Chapter 1

It felt like a millennium since Chance had stepped foot inside that very bar. And even so, he still strode forth with his hands in his pockets and his chin tipped up as if he belonged there.

 

Mafioso followed at a steadier pace, shoulders square and half of his face shadowed by a striped fedora. 

 

Polished wooden floors creaked underfoot with their entry, the door promptly shutting from behind. The bar was alive with shadows, though dressed up with that usual soft and hazy golden glow it always had. Small bulbs were strung across the low ceiling, providing more ambience than light. Smoke curled up into the air like lazy ribbons, and the gentle hum of soothing jazz played from a radio at the counter.

 

Ting!

 

Heads.

 

Chance idly flipped a coin in one hand, that signature cocky grin flashing across his face as he scanned the scene of lazy drinkers, tired bartenders and groups or couples that were hung up too close in conversation. The two earned a couple sidelong glances upon entry, but nobody lingered on it for too long– after all, they were just another pair coming in for a drink.

 

“Cozy,” the gambler quipped, idly adjusting their hat. “Hasn’t changed at all. You think they still make it as good as they did back then?”

 

Mafioso didn’t answer. 

 

He looked every inch the mafia figure he was, guiding them deeper into the bar. Chance didn’t mind though; Silence never truly bothered them, especially when they could just fill it themselves.

 

Ting!

 

Heads.

 

Together, the two cut clean through the bar, sliding over to the table Mafioso had claimed for them; The farthest corner booth, the most secluded as it was tucked all the way at the back of the room. The walls there leaned in close, but not unbearably so. Warm shadows curled over the table, leaving room for a small pocket of comfortable amber light. It was perfect, intimate in a way– as long as you squinted past the peeling wallpaper and cheaply painted ceiling.

 

Chance whistled as they slipped into their seat, sprawling out as if they owned the place. They smirked at the other, twirling their coin in between their fingers. “Yep, perfect. Dark and mysterious, all that brooding charm to it. Real romantic– feels like old times, huh?” They joked and leaned forward, resting their elbows down on the table. “I’m starting to think you actually missed me.”

 

With nothing but a hum of acknowledgement, Mafioso sat across from them in one steady movement, hands folded on the tabletop in a far more orderly manner in comparison to the other. Despite the gloom shadowing his expression, the quirk of a smile was just barely visible. “Don’t push it.”

 

The distant notes of a saxophone from the radio dripped through the air like honey. The bar had that late-night hum that Chance always loved; One that was chattery, but not too overwhelming. And at the same time quiet, but not dead.

 

“Heh. Y’know, I was expecting a beating, not booze.” The gambler drummed their fingertips on the tabletop in an absent rhythm. It was true; When they’d received that call, they’d expected anything but an invitation with mentions of a 'casual sitdown.' A 'truce,' if you will. “But honestly, I’d take a drink any day if it means we get to do this again.”

 

“Mm.” Mafioso hummed in acknowledgement, unseen eyes fixed on some invisible point over Chance’s shoulder. “You’re pushin’ your luck here.”

 

“Ooh, so you’re saying there’s luck involved with all this?” They waggled their eyebrows, then effortlessly tossed their coin into the air.

 

Ting!

 

It glinted in the booth’s dim light before landing on the back of the gambler’s hand. Heads.  

 

Chance spun it across their knuckles with practiced ease. “You know me, Maf. I live for it.”

 

Without another word, they slipped the coin across the table under their fingertip, placing it neatly in front of Mafioso.

 

The mobster didn’t react. Not really. His eyes were locked onto the small item, before drifting back up to meet Chance’s momentarily. He leaned back into his seat, shoulders sinking into the somewhat-comfortable leather. Then, he scoffed and reluctantly took the coin in between his fingers. “You always have.”

 

It wasn’t really amusement, and only barely something along the lines of an agreement. But it was a response nonetheless, and it made Chance’s smile widen. “That’s the spirit, buddy.”

 

Mafioso exhaled subtly. He eyed the coin in his grasp, then flipped it.

 

Ting!

 

Chance didn’t get to see the result. 

 

But they didn’t care. Cocking their head, they fixed their shades. “Don’t act like ya didn’t miss this,” they teased. “Me, you, a drink– a little banter on the side, if we’re feeling it.” They scanned what was visible of the other’s face for a moment as the coin was slid back to them. “Feels almost like a date.”

 

The corner of Mafioso’s mouth twitched ever so slightly– something that could’ve been seen as a smirk, if not so bitter.

 

Of course they would joke about such a thing.

 

---

 

The next few minutes that followed were spent with the usual rhythm of chatter, though it was mostly one-sided by Chance; They sat with one arm draped across the back of the seat and their back sunken into the leather. A little too casual, as if this was the hundredth time they’ve done the exact thing– which, in a way, it was.

 

His voice rose and dipped every now and then, depending on what he was talking about. Needless to say, he carried the conversation; A few teasing remarks, stray observations about how the decor had changed since he’d last been there, brief mentions of his debt which he couldn’t help but treat as a joke too– something that the man before him surprisingly didn’t comment on.

 

Mafioso on the other hand didn’t meet his energy, but he didn’t ignore him either. His replies were very occasional, often simple and dry-edged oneliners– but never cruel or unmannerly. He gave a couple small hums of acknowledgement here and there, sometimes a few clipped comments that drew out the other’s smile. Even a few reluctant chuckles when they’d pushed the right nerve in him. If Chance’s words were sparks, his were the slow burn that distantly fizzled into light.

 

For a while, they simply talked. Nothing sharp, nothing deep. Just conversation, if it could even be called that.

 

To Chance, it was enough– familiar. Almost comforting, even, being able to pretend this was all normal. Just two old friends sharing a moment like they used to. ‘Just like old times,’ as they’d said. He would pinpoint it as something along the lines of romantic– … if Mafioso would just look at him.

 

But they didn’t blame him. 

 

For the way his eyes barely met theirs. For the way he sat stiff and unmoving. For the way it felt as though his mind was undoubtedly trapped elsewhere, somewhere heavier. For the way his demeanor shifted every time Chance thought they were making him feel something– anything good.

 

Since, yeah, it was supposed to feel like a temporary slip back into what they used to be– back to normal… but how could it really? After everything– the running, the favors, the fights, the gnawing weight of a debt unpaid, nights that always ended in frantic shouts and bloodshed– it wasn’t easy to just fold that aside as if nothing had ever happened. Even if it was just for a measly few hours. 

 

Because it would be different tomorrow. 

 

They’d go back to the current ‘normal,’ no doubt.

 

So Chance kept talking. Because someone had to– and maybe if he did enough of it, Mafioso would loosen up and get comfortable, even if just a little. 

 

They filled in the blanks and did the heavy lifting, but they didn’t mind, just satisfied to be there at all. A few idle coinflips would accompany their words every now and then.

 

Ting! 

 

Ting! 

 

Ting!

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d landed a tails, lucky him. 

 

Adjusting his fedora slightly, Chance shifted in his seat, one leg crossing over the other whilst he laughed at his own flippant joke about another rigged casino game he’d almost gotten himself into the other day. The man across from him didn’t even smile, so they didn’t push it, quick to move onto another subject.

 

Eventually, Mafioso shifted, palms placed flat on the table as he rose out of his seat.

 

Chance blinked, his words cut short as he tracked the other through a raised brow. “Where’re you off to, old man?”

 

“Drinks.” He said it like it was obvious, his voice gruff and low without any sort of dressing to it. Mafioso adjusted his suit coat, the motion itself enough to excuse him as he began to step away from the booth.

 

“I haven’t even told you what I want?” They argued in an attempt to stop him.

 

“Mm.”

 

If Chance had a dollar for every time Mafioso replied with that, they’d have enough to buy a whole sandwich. Which wasn’t too big of a deal when looking at it from afar, but that was still a lot. Nonetheless, the gambler tilted his head with a playful smirk. “What, you a psychic now?”

 

“Don’t need to be,” the other shrugged. “I know what you want.”

 

“Bold of you to assume my tastes haven’t evolved overtime.”

 

Mafioso scoffed. “You always get the same thing.”

 

With an amused huff, Chance nodded and leaned back comfortably once more, warmth prickling faintly in their chest. He watched as Mafioso left him and fled towards the bar, already certain of both orders, back past the murmur of patrons conversing and clinking glasses.

 

And they silently cursed him for being so damn right– so damn confident of something as stupid and ordinary as a whiskey sour. He simply knew them too well– remembered them too well. Because of course he did. That’s the problem.

 

They shouldn’t feel so touched by it– hell, it was practically nothing. The recognition of a drink order wasn’t forgiveness, wasn’t affection, wasn’t any kind of reconciliation at all. But still, the thought that the detail had been tucked somewhere in Mafioso’s mind for all these months– under all that steel, anger and brutality… that there was a space still left open just for Chance–

 

They bit the inside of their cheek, idly tapping their coin and willing their nerves to settle down. It was ridiculous that he felt this way. Pathetic, almost, that he found such admiration in the way Mafioso just… knew. And damn, if it didn’t make their heart spike more than any blade he’d held to their throat.

 

Endearing. That was the word, wasn’t it?

 

Chance was thrown off in a way he refused to admit out loud. A good way.

 

He continued to flip his coin, waiting.

Chapter 2

Notes:

This was so hard & time-consuming for me to write but it's finally here please enjoy . . 💙 Sorry I'm later than I said I would be

also it's like 2am here i stayed up late asf so I could get this done & posted so PLEAAASE don't jump me if there are any grammar / spelling issues I proofread it so many times so I'm hoping its enough BUT STILL . IM SORRY I'll fix it in the morning if there are any mistakes

When Mafioso returned to the booth, it had been slower than he’d meant it to be.

 

The glasses were sweating in his hands, every subtle drip sliding over his gloves. He quietly strode through the center of the bar, which was ridden with laughter, music, cheery clamor and clinking drinks– none of which reached him. To Mafioso, it all fizzled into static. 

 

He felt sick. But he didn’t quite understand why.

 

Chance’s grin split wide upon seeing his return, leaning back with that same ridiculous posture they always had; Elbows draped outwards like they owned the whole bar, and a face that said they didn’t give a damn about anything that had happened between them– as if nothing in the world had ever gone wrong.

 

“Hey, man. Was starting to think you ditched me for a minute there.” They joked, still playing around with that stupid coin of theirs. They always held onto that thing like it was a lifeline. Seeing what was in Mafioso’s hold next, they leaned forward with a light scoff, “So you did remember.”

 

The man didn’t answer. He set the drinks down carefully and, for a moment, all he could do was stare at the way condensation formed rings at the bases of the glass, dripping into the grooves of the scarred wooden tabletop.

 

The air felt thick. Like it was pressing into his skin. He slid the glass closer to the other, the action more deliberate than it should’ve been. Something inside him didn’t want to let go of it. But averting his eyes, he slowly drew his fingers away.

 

Chance didn’t even notice the way Mafioso’s hand lingered over the rim a second too long.

 

The mobster slid back into his seat. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His gaze lingered elsewhere, anywhere but them. And his mind instinctively focused– or tried to– on the surrounding ambience; An old tune being murmured from the radio, the thunk of the front door closing, strangers’ voices blending into static around him.

 

It was hard to breathe. That was strange.

 

The scrape of the glass being taken from the tabletop was louder than it should’ve been– taunting, in a way– as Chance took their first sip. 

 

It came quickly and with no pause, no suspicion. Just trust.

 

Mafioso felt his chest tighten.

 

The gambler’s voice filled the booth next, but it wasn’t registering in his head. He couldn’t possibly bring himself to listen anymore.

 

Because the moment he’d set that drink down, he knew it was already too late to go back.

 

And looking up, he saw their face; That grin that was too blissful. Those eyes that were too bright. He barely caught the end of their returned gaze before looking away again. And he hated it. Hated them– for being so happy. For being so blind. For continuing to talk to him in such a way when everything between them was already cracking and bleeding.

 

They were clueless in a way that would pain anyone to see.

 

Blissfully unaware of what had already begun working its way through their veins.

 

---

 

Mafioso couldn’t recall how it got to this point;

 

Him, somehow convinced into the same seat as Chance, who was already halfway through their third drink deep. He wasn’t even sure when they’d requested another round, let alone when his hands and feet had moved to oblige. 

 

The past half-hour was nothing but a blur in his head.

 

Beside him, Chance had gradually slipped lower and lower until at last they had their shoulder pressed solid against Mafioso’s arm. Their head threatened to tilt off to the side if not for his steady presence. The glass in their hand trembled ever so slightly as they slurred their way through what must’ve been their hundredth half-coherent ramble of the night. They spilled their thoughts out like coins across a table.

 

Mafioso hardly heard any of it. Hardly responded to any of it, either. 

 

Instead, he sat rigid and eerily silent as the taste of untouched liquor lingered on his tongue. It was nauseating in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. He loved his bourbon neat, but the glass in front of him was still heavy. Mostly full. Neglected.

 

Chance consistently made comments on his demeanour, whether it be telling him to ‘loosen up’ and quit being so serious for once, or teasing him for seemingly being ‘too awkward’ to know what to say. And the mobster still, even then, wouldn’t be able to find the words to reply.

 

Mafioso swallowed, the action dry. Fuck, his chest felt heavy. But he told himself the feeling was nothing.

 

He barely shifted, except for when Chance needed steadying after swaying too far. Or when they almost toppled their glass over. Or when they almost lost their coin off the table. Or when they got a little more touchy than he’d like.

 

The laughter, the words, the warmth– it all pressed into Mafioso, who let it wash over him like waves. He just didn’t know if those waves blanketed or drowned him.

 

Somewhere down the line, something began happening to Chance. He’d mentioned it more than once; Slurred mumbles about how the room was spinning, a comment on how his head didn’t seem to be keeping up with his body quite right. And yet, he’d laugh each time, blaming it on the liquor. “Guess I’m really lightweight tonight, huh?” They’d say.

 

All they knew was that they were drunk. And that they were drunk in good company.

 

But their words began to spill off in different directions overtime, stories that were already borderline incoherent turning into nonsense, and laughter cutting into occasional coughs and wheezes. He was unaware of how his limbs grew heavy, how his breath was starting to become uneven, or how often the other would have to save his drink from slipping from his loose grip.

 

Every time it happened– every time Chance’s voice would dip lower, every time his breathing would falter, Mafioso felt that same sick twist tightening his insides like a knot.

 

And still, he said nothing.

 

“Y’know… it’s… kinda nice. Just sitting here with you.” Chance slurred out. Every breath seemed a little shallower than the last. They sagged further into Mafioso’s side, face flushed and shades drooping half-off their eyes. “Feels… feels good.”

 

The answer was stuck in his throat. Like every other one he’d carefully thought of.

 

They continued.

 

“Y’ever smile anymore?” They asked, probably not rhetorically. “You… used to look so cute when you’d smile.” Lifting a shaky finger, they poked the man’s cheek.

 

And Mafioso let himself frown for a moment.

 

---

 

It had been happening in small pieces. Barely noticeable to anyone unsuspecting. But it was something that he’d noticed every moment of– every change; Chance’s shoulders would start to drop beyond recovery from the weight of their own body failing them. Every blink they took was sluggish and lingered a fraction too long, half-lidded eyes staring up at him. Their coin even sat forgotten near their stacked glasses, all of which were now drained.

 

That confident lean against the back of the seat had turned into something weaker. And what used to be the endless rapid-fire of a one-sided conversation had now been reduced into tumbling vocals.

 

Their energy was being siphoned away right before Mafioso’s eyes; The energy that was normally so bright and brash– now diminished to a struggling flame, fighting for its life. 

 

And it was all his fault.

 

“You’re no fun t’night.” Chance let out a breathless chuckle, dragging his words out. “Jus’ sitting there… you’re supposed t’be– mmh... the life of the party.”

 

Mafioso didn’t say anything, only let out a small “Mm.” as he stared through his untouched glass like it would reply for him. He just wanted anything to occupy his eyes with so they wouldn’t have to meet Chance’s;

 

He hated seeing how dim their eyes had become.

 

“You’re supposed… t’argue with me, big guy.” The gambler elbowed Mafioso– or tried to, at least– before leaning further into his shoulder. The way they’d ended their previous sentence made it seem like they were going to continue, but they didn’t.

 

Then,

 

“My t-throat hurts.”

 

Mafioso’s hand twitched against the tabletop.

 

Chance sighed, a slow and raspy thing. They lifted a hand to their neck before weakly shaking their head. “Weird… m’chest is a little… tight too?” They said it like it was a question, as if they were unsure. “Mm…”

 

. . .

 

“... Think you… did something to me.” They murmured, followed by a dismissing half-laugh, too wheezy to be considered one.

 

Mafioso finally tore his eyes away to meet Chance’s, unsure if that was just another one of their crazy unprompted jokes. They squinted up at him for a moment, then smiled.

 

“Heh... Bastard.”

 

They didn’t sound scared. Not even close to it.

 

“Nah… seriously, though…” The gambler continued to slur, readying his jokes. “Y’ve had like… what…? Thirty chances to off me– ‘n you never do it.” Then they laughed. Not a nervous laugh. A genuine one, albeit drunken and airy. As if the thought of Mafioso killing him is the funniest thing he’s heard all week. “M-Makes a guy wonder– y’still like me or sum’n? Too… too charmed t’kill me…? You gettin’ soft, Maf?” 

 

They leaned forward a little, head now resting against Mafioso’s chest. He looked down at them, lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

 

Chance only smiled.

 

“ Gods, you’re terrible at your j–” They were cut off by an abrupt rasp, followed by a short coughing fit.

 

Mafioso stared at them.

 

Recovering as quickly as they could force themselves to, they swallowed hard, face twitching in brief discomfort as his chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. “... Huh.” He lifted a hand to his throat once more, confused. “That was… weird…” Their voice cracked midway through. A raw sound. “Nnh…”

 

With an expression remaining as firm and unmoving as possible, Mafioso kept quiet. The tip of his finger gently circled the rim of his glass. He debated on whether or not he should cave and take another sip, even despite the growing nausea of his own.

 

Chance, oblivious, simply resumed by humming an off-key tune into the man’s chest.

 

---

 

The pain had been building for a while now– not dramatic, but relentless. It grew stronger with each passing moment, and Mafioso was forced to listen to every rasp– watch every contortion of pain in their face.

 

Chance had slipped far away from drunken cheer at this point. The slurred ramblings and flirtatious comments had given way to low groans, and fractured mumbles at pains he couldn’t quite pinpoint. They were shaking– had been for a while.

 

“... M-Maf?” A small voice whispered from near his lap.

 

He looked down, the side of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.

 

Because Chance was staring back up at him through half-lidded, glossy eyes– eyes filled with confusion. Pain. 

 

“It’s hard to… breathe…”

 

Mafioso averted his gaze the moment he heard those words. A crack was beginning to form inside him at this. One that he couldn’t prevent from growing even if he wanted to.

 

He didn’t need to look or listen anymore to know that the poison was working. He could feel it in every warm, shaky breath they exhaled into his chest. He could see it everytime he couldn’t resist a glance down to see the way they seemed to struggle to stay awake. 

 

He should’ve kept looking away. Should’ve reminded himself of what they’d become. But the thought still stuck with him. It was cruel, relentless– just as relentless as the poison. And it broke his heart. Broke him.

 

Because they weren’t even supposed to feel it.

 

For the first time, Mafioso’s composure began to slip. 

 

“... W-Why won’t you… speak?” Chance questioned weakly, voice thin and barely audible. His hands gripped at the mafia boss’ coat– barely. And he wished that they’d shut up. That they’d get off him and… sleep. But he didn’t have the heart to make them.

 

Instead, he said nothing.

 

“D-Did I… say something wrong…?” Their voice broke with each word and each breath. Their throat was on fire.

 

Mafioso hesitated.

 

. . .

 

“... No,” he said finally, voice low. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

 

This time, Chance didn’t reply.

 

And that was enough to make Mafioso panic. 

 

He didn’t move at first, but soon he found himself lowering a gloved hand to their head, removing the sparkling fedora that had already slipped half off. Fingers found their way to the gambler’s hair, gently brushing through the locks in an attempt to soothe their aching.

 

Chance coughed, hard, before leaning into the touch– the motion was desperate.

 

“Maf,” they choked out, like a quiet and fractured plea. He wheezed into Mafioso’s chest, legs curling up into themselves and hands shaking violently. Their breath caught with each rise of their chest. “Hh… s-something’s really… wrong. M-My head–”

 

Mafioso curled his hand over their head, stroking gently. He lifted his gaze, staring ahead at nothing. And nothing wasn’t enough.

 

“I-I don’t feel… right…” Chance wasn’t joking anymore, each attempted chuckle to brush off the pain dying off as quick as it came. Their hands were shaking– their entire body was shaking. “... Hurts.” 

 

When Chance quietly pressed their forehead into Mafioso’s chest next, something inside of him twisted beyond repair.

 

This wasn’t supposed to be loud or messy. But this kind of growing silence only hurt more.

 

“... I’m scared.”

 

. . .

 

Mafioso reluctantly lifted his other hand, placing it gently on Chance’s back as he brushed fingers through their hair with the other.

 

A mimic of comfort. A hollow gesture.

 

Because when he looked back down at them, he saw the look of betrayal in their eyes.

 

They knew.

 

They knew exactly what was happening now.

 

They knew who’d caused it, too.

 

And they tried to speak, or at least Mafioso assumed so by their lips moving faintly, but all that came out were dying rasps for breath. He wasn’t sure what they were trying to say– maybe they were trying to ask why. Maybe they already knew why.

 

Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

 

Because all they could do now was feel the comfort of being held.

 

So they did. They leaned into it.

 

Mafioso coaxed a trembling hand through Chance’s hair, which was damp with sweat. He responded with a small sound– something frightened and helpless. But when Mafioso’s other hand lifted steadily to the back of their head, something warm and grounding, they began to settle again.

 

He wanted to apologize– wanted to say something to make up for all the words left unspoken. But he couldn’t find anything to say. What was there to say, even?

 

‘You weren’t supposed to feel it.’ He wanted to admit. ‘I should’ve made it easier.’

 

The words didn’t come.

 

“Sleep.” Was all he managed to murmur, voice shaking just enough to betray the guilt he’d been trying to mask all this time. “Just… sleep.”

 

Chance blinked tiredly beneath his gaze, eyes unfocused and teary, lost somewhere between fear and quiet resignation. Their clutch on Mafioso’s coat began to falter, and he caught the way their eyes lifted to meet his through their dying wheezes.

 

‘Please stay.’ Mafioso read the words through those glossy pupils to the best of his ability. He knew how much Chance hated the thought of dying alone. ‘It’s okay. Just stay.’

 

And so he did.

 

He stayed. And held him tight– Chance always loved it when he’d hold them like this.

 

He stayed. And watched how their words refuse to come from their mouth, even if it was held open. 

 

He stayed. And looked into their eyes a final time, watching each tear slip down their cheeks. Maybe he should wipe them– they loved when he’d do that for them.

 

He stayed.

 

Until Chance went still.

 

. . .

 

Silence.

 

No more rasping coughs.

 

No more gasps for air.

 

No more trembling.

 

No more clutching grip.

 

Just a slow, sinking weight, like a string finally being cut.

 

Mafioso refused to move. He kept one hand at the back of Chance’s head, the other locked loosely with their hair. He was afraid to confirm it. Afraid to feel it.

 

But he knew. He did know;

 

The way Chance’s head was slumped just slightly more across his chest, and the way his fingers had slipped from the fabric of his coat.

 

Too final.

 

Mafioso’s lip quivered, his jaw tight. The dread he felt wasn’t loud or dramatic, it was heavy and cold– a feeling that sunk deep into his gut without remorse. His eyes stung, so he shut them briefly– for just a second. Just one.

 

Then,he gently eased Chance’s head off his chest, lowering him down onto the booth seat like a broken doll.

 

Nobody in the bar seemed to notice.

 

Or care.

 

Mafioso adjusted his collar and fedora before standing. The motion was lifeless. Almost robotic, in a way. His hands trembled faintly at his sides, and the air around was thick enough to choke him. 

 

His chest hurt.

 

He stared at Chance for a beat too long, and the feeling only worsened before his gaze slid back to his untouched drink. Amber light caught in the glass, along with his own blurred, deformed reflection. It was taunting. Mocking. 

 

With a gloved hand that barely felt like his own, Mafioso reached for the glass, lifted it, and without pause, downed the entire thing in one swallow.

 

The burn in his throat didn’t register. It was nothing compared to the one lodged deeper.

 

The man set the now empty glass back down on the table with a final clink.

 

He didn’t weep. Didn’t speak any grand words. Didn’t let himself break further than he already was.

 

There were no theatrics. 

 

Only the awful, gut-wrenching truth settling deep into his bones.

 

He exhaled slowly.

 

Debt’s paid.

Notes:

– 　Sorry for the absurd amount of timeskips ( my timeskips are signified by the big lines if it wasn't obvious ) , it's really hard for me to write such long scenes like this and let it have smooth pacing all the way through . I think it's because I'm primarily a oneshot writer & I like to write really short things :')

– 　No Mafioso did not leave Chance's body there he's not that dumb ok ? Ok .

– 　Dude you have no idea how difficult this was for me to write . I had to write it in such a specific way that would make it so Mafioso's POV was very very VERY vague & tbh I had to make a LOT of it vague because I think !! That would've been cool & enhanced some parts of the angst

– 　Ooo I'm possessing you to look at my Strawpage‎ ooooo . . [ Mr. Peabody gif here ]

also im probably gonna merge these two chapters into one in the future because i think its unnatural that its split into 2 chapters . gulp