#don't fret though gambler

[gemkun]

@tavustlik said : i don't want to flood your inbox, so pick one or mix multiple idc: gutter. the trail of blood ends and you find the sender broken on the ground. plaster. it's not pretty but it'll do; you wince as the sender patches your wounds. waiting. you duck into the bus stop to escape the rain, intruding on the sender. listen. the sender disobeys and you swat their curious hand away. crossfire. you realize the sender asking you to put out a hit is your next target. ↬ ⭒˚｡🖁‧₊˚ 〖 down these mean streets . . . 〗

      ⸻       vanished   was   his   anticipation   ,   when   he   hurried   to   seek   shelter   ,   away   and   out   of   the   downpour   that   showered   relentlessly.   though   the   hammer   of   droplets   is   a   concern   washed   away   when   a   deafening   thud   strikes   ,   causing   two   collapsed   figures   to   tumble   onto   the   pavement   —   extracting   a   hiss   from   the   fallen   practitioner.   fortunately   ,   the   spot   he   lands   upon   is   absent   of   puddles   that   litter   the   streets.

  though   ,   that   does   not   undo   the   fact   he   is   already   wet   from   his   prior   episode   of   weather   exposure.

  faintly   ,   the   pitter   —   patter   draws   him   back   to   the   land   of   the   living   ,   and   his   eyes   crescent   until   the   full   moon   waxes   towards   his   run   —   in.   ah.   ❝   you   ?   ❞   strain   echoes   ,   summoned   from   his   chest   that   rises   and   falls.   in   a   tempo   faster   than   his   usual   rate.   ❝   why   are   you   here   ?   ❞

  speculation   stirs   before   he   can   help   it   ,   pondering   what   ifs   and   hypotheticals   ,   before   he   moves   onto   verifying   potentials   —   whether   or   not   they   uphold   any   semblance   of   truth.   all   in   the   span   of   a   few   seconds   whilst   he   moves   to   upright   himself.

  but   he   cannot   hide   the   struggle   as   his   legs   straighten   ,   and   a   grimace   works   its   way   across   an   afflicted   countenance.

  and   it   seems   his   company   catches   on   quick   ,   with   how   his   eyes   search   his   personage.   his   exploit   to   conceal   is   a   fruitless   one   —   when   there   is   a   dark   patch   that   stains   his   cloth.   even   if   it   borders   on   being   faint   as   opposed   to   noticeable.   so   too   ,   does   the   doctor   follow   the   trail   of   his   gaze   ,   identifying   how   it   slips   to   the   clash   against   his   otherwise   pristine   garb.

  knuckles   bruised   ,   he   plants   a   hand   to   obscure   the   splatter   on   his   attire   ,   veiling   it   from   prying   ,   avgin   eyes.   ❝   it’s   just   a   scratch.   pay   no   mind   to   it.   ❞   yet   ,   it   is   never   enough   for   the   stoneheart   ,   and   dissatisfaction   announces   itself   as   a   hand   strides   to   its   mark   —   snatching   the   wrist   belonging   to   the   barricade   over   his   wound.

  before   he   pries   it   off   ,   and   a   layer   of   crimson   greets   him.

  immediately   ,   his   scorn   follows   in   the   swatting   of   his   intrusive   grasp   ,   and   the   academic   narrows   eyes   at   the   director.   it   was   to   be   expected   ,   since   he   never   did   adhere   to   prescribed   directions   ,   but   veritas   still   mirrors   his   annoyance   in   his   scowl.   ❝   did   you   not   hear   me   ?   i   said   leave   it.   ❞   he   did   have   every   capability   of   dealing   with   it   ,   as   a   doctor   and   all.

  to   his   dismay   ,   the   act   of   swiping   a   curious   hand   brings   him   to   stumble.   and   on   his   last   legs   ,   he   collapses   once   more   ,   against   the   male   that   occupies   this   bus   stop.   fingers   climb   ,   before   he   grips   the   material   that   adorns   the   sigonian   ,   if   only   to   steady   himself   from   tripping   completely.   there   ,   a   sudden   breath   curls   ,   exhaled   upon   the   torso   pressed   forth   ,   instantaneous   once   he   detects   the   hand   that   flaps   his   garment   aside.   where   gleaming   dual   —   toned   irises   can   survey   the   laceration.

  he   dismisses   the   chide   that   falls   from   the   one   expected   to   receive   it   instead   of   dishing   it   ,   until   agony   spears   from   the   nerves   that   fire   once   his   body   stations   into   the   vacant   seat   at   the   scheduled   pick   —   up   zone.   soon   enough   ,   he   recognises   there   is   no   room   for   protest   once   the   liquidation   specialist   makes   up   his   mind   ,   and   in   this   case   ,   it   refers   to   the   insistence   to   attending   his   injury.

  an   offering   he   would   have   declined   to   any   other   asker.

  ❝   stubborn   gambler   ,   try   not   to   do   a   sloppy   job.   it   would   be   counterproductive   if   your   application   requires   readjusting.   ❞   glancing   ,   he   observes   the   tools   of   his   sleight   ,   now   tasked   with   staunching   rivulets.

  but   as   he   does   so   ,   he   scopes   above   ,   eyeing   the   covering   that   shields   the   two.   and   it   stays   ,   tipped   skywards   ,   to   watch   until   the   clouds   roll   away   and   take   its   storm   with   it.

  perhaps   ,   it   is   a   good   thing   ,   that   the   other   is   distracted.   leaving   the   rain   to   be   nothing   more   than   a   distant   memory.

[retconomics]

Chentega date night! Maybe? I don't even know. Aaaah!

the entire time i was writing this i was thinking “wow i shouldnt be allowed to write this” and yet here we are. sorry it’s unedited but if i start i will nitpick and fret until the end of time, i think

after you’re done reading this go read some actually good chentega drabbles i s2g

“So,” Ortega attempts to fill the silence. “This is new.” His voice shifts up at the end, both asking a question and not. It’s awkward, in a way Ortega normally isn’t, but Steel can hardly fault him. This was a bad idea. 

Steel knows he should say something back. The longer he waits the worse it will get. The fact he’s this tongue-tied at all is ridiculous; it’s just Ortega. The same Ortega he’s fought with for years, who’s seen him bruised and in pieces, who’s been his best friend for so many years now, he’s beginning to lose track. The same Ortega he spent months picking up and putting back together and Steel finally, finally has him exactly where he wants him. Where he’s always wanted him.

But he can’t seem to open his mouth. Can’t think of a single damn thing to say.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Kissing your best friend in a momentary lapse of judgement is bound to lead to some awkwardness. Dealing with him kissing you back and insisting on ‘giving things a try’ was… beyond what Steel had been ready to deal with at the time, and Spoon had needed a walk.

Fuck if he wasn’t paying the price for that now.

 “Wei? We can… reschedule?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The first thing Steel says, and he’s already snapping. He’s out of practice with this, making a mess of things. If he’s being honest with himself, and he tries to be, he was never really in practice to begin with. Not the way Ortega is.

He shouldn’t be this guarded. It’s not fair to Ricardo. 

Ortega holds up his hands, placating, and Steel’s eyes flick down to trace the lines on his palms. “You seem uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think putting this off is going to make things any better. Besides,” Steel clears his throat, swallowing roughly. He wonders if Ortega notices. “You were the one who wanted to try this.” 

“Yes, and now I’m thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.“

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Is it?” There’s sudden heat to Ortega’s voice, a quick anger that Steel so rarely sees directed toward him, and immediately Ortega is contrite. it’s when he looks like this, that the years finally seem to catch up with him. More than the grey hairs peppered through his hair ever could. “Sorry, I’m just-“

Steel sighs. “Why are you apologizing?”

He blinks. “I … Mierda, I keep expecting you to run away.” A smile slides easily onto his face, sad and self-deprecating. “That’s stupid, huh?”

“I’m not going to—“

“I know. I know you’re not. That’s kind of why I’m thinking this will work.”

A part of him is itching to push Ortega, find out exactly what ‘this’ is, whether he’s just a way to help Ortega move on… whether he even can. Ricardo is not that kind of man. Steel knows that, and it would be unfair to question it. But he want to hear it anyway, on the off chance that Ricardo really is choosing him.

No. Steel’s never been a gambler if he can avoid it, but he’s willing to bet that if he asked Ricardo to choose right now, he wouldn’t like the answer.

It would also probably ruin whatever was left of this date, if that’s what they were calling it.

It’s become silent again between them, and somehow, maddeningly, it’s worse this time. That hardly seems fair.

Ortega hates silence more than he hates one-sided conversation though, and today that’s working in Steel’s favor. He says, “Let’s watch a movie? And then we can try making out again.”

Steel almost resents that description–theyd hardly ‘made out’ and they definitely weren’t going to here in the tower, but … maybe Ortega is as nervous as he is. He’s saying things casually, as if somehow that will normalize the fact that they’re best friends who might be something more now.

Ortega has moved beside him, too close, the lack of distance now full of implications that Steel will not, cannot, think about. Ortegas clothed thigh brushes against his and Steel has to clench his fist when his fingers get the urge to touch Ricardo.

It occurs to Steel that he’s probably allowed to touch Ricardo now; he’d probably welcome it actually. But years of training himself to ‘look, not touch’ are proving hard to undo.

“Wei.”

“Hm,” a grunt is all he manages.

Ortega hesitates, just a moment, before pressing his palm to Steel’s shoulder. Lingering, then moving to caress the back of his neck. Ricardo’s hands are warm, but even so Steel almost shudders.

He wants to touch back. Wants to relax into the grip, wants to convey any of the happiness he can feel lingering beneath the anxiety and nervousness and fear that somehow this will fuck everything up.

He wants. Which is how all of this got started in the first place.

“Pick a movie. Or I will.” The hand moves away, and Steel hears himself exhale. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. 

Steel picks up the remote, immeasurably grateful for the lack of tremors in his hands. The mechanics keep them steady–a small blessing now.

“Perish the thought,” Steel says, and finally some of the ease is coming back. This is Ricardo, after all. “You’ll pick something we’ll both hate, I’m sure.”

“Accusing me of having alterior motives, Wei?” The smirk is almost audible in his voice.

“Absolutely.” Steel flicks through options quickly. He hasn’t watched a movie in years, has no clue how to begin to narrow it down to a choice.

“You’re no fun… ” Ortega is pouting and Steel absolutely will not give him the satisfaction of looking. “Ah well, we have time. I have no where to be for hours.”