Chapter Text
Chance in the chair means the studio is always loud and full of life, whether anyone else likes it or not. The guy really only has one setting and it’s rambling at practically 200 words per minute. It tends to work out alright for him. Though he can be annoying to a lot of people in large quantities, in smaller doses that particular flaw of his often comes off as charming. He’s especially liked by younger, more nervous clientele. He can’t count how many times he’s sat next to teens and tweens while they got into iTrapped’ chair for their first ear piercings, if they were lucky enough to have parents who wouldn’t take the risk of infection and just get their ears pierced at Claire’s. He’s found his niche, and he fills it well.
iTrapped, who works the same shifts as him, is the exact opposite. Silent as the grave. Chance likes him a lot, and iTrapped... well, it’s hard to tell what iTrapped thinks of him. He knows they’re friends now, at least, after so long trying to make that happen. It’s nice, even if the guy has a tendency to be cold to him. Even if every time it’s off again with that boyfriend of his, he’s suddenly more receptive to Chance’s attempts at grabbing his attention, only to go right back to ignoring them the moment he winds up back in his life.
He’s not bitter or jealous. That’s not a thing he ever is, about anyone. Yeah. Regardless, it doesn’t matter right now. Their shift is over for the day, and he’s got it on good authority that they’re going to hang out tonight, assuming iTrapped doesn’t have to rush out to try and make up with Ellernate for the millionth time. Or break up with him again. He doesn’t know anymore.
iTrapped leans back against the counter, rolling his shoulders after a long day. He watches Chance fidget before confirming that they are still on for the night. Sees the way Chance perks up at that, barely able to sit still like always. The guy is a lot, iTrapped won’t deny that, but he doesn’t really mind it. Easier to let Chance talk himself in circles than to bother shutting him up. He doesn’t seem to take it personally when iTrapped doesn’t respond.
iTrapped had been doing this for as long as he could remember. Before he had the proper tools, he was making do, poking holes in his dolls with sewing needles, threading bits of wire through their ears, their lips, their noses. Macabre little things, patched up and stitched together, all adorned with crude little studs. By the time he got real equipment, real training, it was second nature. Piercing was art, he was good at it, better than most. He had a way of keeping people from bleeding too much, a gentle but firm touch that made sure they’d walk away with the cleanest, quickest heal possible.
Still enjoyed a little reaction now and then. People squirming in his chair, gripping the armrests when he got the needle in place, that always amused him. The little sharp intake of breath when the needle went through, the way their eyes flicked up to the mirror to see it done. He just liked seeing the weight of it settle on them, liked watching them realize that yeah, they could handle this, it was a plus that they looked damn good afterward. Ellernate called him a menace for it, said he had the soul of a horror movie villain.
Chance can brush off the macabreness of it all, even at the expense of a client, knowing that iTrapped is damn good at what he does. Chance is too, really. Not astounding, but good. He’s got surprisingly steady hands for how jittery and jumpy he is, and a knack for colors. They make a good team, or at least that’s what Chance likes to think.
iTrapped is in a mood again anyways. Ellernate. Always. Some bullshit reason, what isn’t a bullshit reason at this point? He barely even remembers how it started this time. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Not that it matters, the only thing that matters is that Ellernate isn’t here, and Chance is. So, Chance is coming over. They’re watching something nasty, something with plenty of blood and screaming and messy, inevitable endings. iTrapped already has the night planned out, something foreign and slow-burning, the kind of horror that creeps up on you.
Chance is rambling on about something. iTrapped is not exactly trying to tune him out, but it’s natural by now for Chance to become a background hum that’s easy to let fade in favor of his thoughts. It’s easy to tell when Chance’s gearing up for something. There’s a jitter to him, an extra bounce in his step. He’s revved up in a way that’s contagious. iTrapped doesn’t often like to deal with that sort of excited energy, but he doesn’t mind it tonight. Maybe he’ll even feed into it.
It’s never hurtful that iTrapped doesn’t respond, wouldn’t be even if it were someone else. Chance knows he’s almost uniquely capable of talking a mile a minute about next to nothing. He doesn’t expect other people to respond meaningfully to it, all he wants is to be heard, and on that iTrapped always seems to deliver.
He’s excited, honestly. Revved up and ready to go. Though the whole horror movie thing isn’t exactly his scene, he certainly doesn’t mind it, and it is iTrapped’, which makes it titillating and exciting in a way it’s never been before; and at his house, no less. Being ridiculously into someone has a way of making really minor things exciting.
Regardless, Chance is more than ready to go, and tells iTrapped as much as he’s cleaning up his workstation. So they finish cleaning, leave, and iTrapped drives for them. He’s been driving them around for a while, most days shows up at Chance’s place before he’s even ready for work, mostly consistent when he’s off again with Ellernate. On again, and those priorities go out the window. Its routine by now.
Chance is used to it. He’s the first priority when Ellernate isn’t, which he guesses makes him the second priority overall. Yeah, maybe it hurts a little to see iTrapped suddenly lose interest in him the moment Ellernate shows up in his life again, but second place isn’t bad at all, if you think about it.
iTrapped knows Chance doesn’t care for horror, but that’s exactly why it’s so fun. It’s easy to get a rise out of him, watching him squirm. Just a movie, sure, but iTrapped likes to make things more complicated than that. There’s something about playing with Chance’s reactions that amuses him, but it’s all in good fun. iTrapped doesn’t see it as anything more than that. They are just messing around, so there’s no need to read too much into it. He parks the car, not bothering to look at Chance, just gets out and waits expectantly for Chance to follow suit.
Chance knows by now what to expect out of movie night, and that’s part of the reason it’s got him so amped up: the weird mix of eager anticipation and dread that swirls in his stomach. It’s not the movies themselves, it’s watching them with iTrapped that’s so exciting, so strange. It’s not at all like watching them alone.
He follows, of course, eagerly, without having to be told. It is, after all, routine-ish at this point, and he’s been looking forward to it all day. It’ll be nice. Just him and iTrapped, no need to worry about anything else. About anyone else.
Okay, yeah, maybe he’s a little jealous. That’s besides the point.
iTrapped had also been looking forward to this in his own sort of way. Didn’t bother to lock the car as he walked off, too nice of a neighborhood for concern. Yet he wasn’t always the nicest host. Didn’t seem like Chance minded, considering he always came back, always sat through the films, let himself get rattled, let himself be teased for it. iTrapped knew exactly what he was doing, exactly why he picked this movie tonight.
A Hungarian flick, full of things that’d make most people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Sex and death. Death during sex. Weird with just the right kind of discomfort that lingered under the skin long after the credits rolled. iTrapped had seen it before, but Chance hadn’t. He doesn’t say anything when they get inside. Just motions to the TV, already set up. Chance should be second-guessing things. Should be wondering about that dining room chair sitting dead in the middle of the room, about the coil of rope draped so casually over the back.
iTrapped doesn’t explain. He just gestures toward the chair, letting his hands talk for him. Special seating, just for him. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s a joke, probably. Just a little thing to see if Chance will bite, if he’ll question it, take the bait, sit down like he always does, even when he knows iTrapped is cruel about these things. Chance is always so easy to play with.
Of course Chance never fully knows what he’s getting himself into. He knows iTrapped is going to plan it out to get under his skin as much as possible. He knows iTrapped is going to think it’s really funny when it inevitably works. It’s fine, it’s routine, and it is funny, he guesses. Kind of.
This, though. This is... wow. His shades can’t hide the way his eyes widen. Still, after a moment of hesitation, he sits down. It’s just a joke, anyway. He shouldn’t make a big deal out of it. Probably. He tries to crack some kind of joke about it, make it less of a thing, but he can’t think of anything, so he just sits down and tries not to look too freaked out. Surely he’s not so pathetic that he’ll let this get to him. Right?
God, iTrapped is fucking lucky Chance likes him so much, otherwise he’d never get away with all the shit he does. Sometimes he thinks, for a brief, fleeting moment, that iTrapped knows he alone can get away with so much and takes advantage of it. Honestly, it’s pretty likely, but he doesn’t let himself think like that for long.
iTrapped is already stifling laughter before Chance even fully settles into the chair. He can see the hesitation, the way Chance tries so hard not to let it get to him. It’s adorable how much effort he puts into trying to act fine.
The movie starts, flickering scenes of dim-lit bodies moving against each other, shadows swallowing them whole. Sensual, slow, dripping with the kind of atmosphere that makes people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Chance doesn’t get the luxury of shifting too much, not when iTrapped is already securing the first knot.
The rope loops around Chance’s wrists, pulled snug behind the chair’s back. Then his calfs, a four-point tie bound neatly beneath the seat. It’s practiced, still iTrapped doesn’t rush, lets his fingers brush against Chance’s skin a little more than necessary, lets his breath ghost close when he leans in to secure the last knot.
Chance is trying his best to pay attention to the movie, because he’s sure iTrapped wants him to, he usually does, but, he was expecting something much less elaborate. Some rope around the chest, tying back the arms. Something simple, lazy, more action movie style.
He should have known better. That’s not iTrapped’ style, not at all. This is, all slow and careful. He almost makes a dirty joke about how obvious it is that iTrapped knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t, mostly because he doesn’t want to ruin it. It’s nerve-wracking, yes, especially while he’s half-watching the movie the whole time, but, there’s something so gentle, almost sensual about it. Though it could just be Chance’s imagination, yet how carefully iTrapped ties him up, the brushing of his fingers across his skin, the faint, undeniable feeling of his breath as he ties the last knot.
When iTrapped steps back to admire his work, he chides lazily. “Gotta make sure you don’t run away in terror.” If Chance was looking at the screen, he might have a chance at recognition. The way the movie’s main victim is bound is the same, almost identical.
Chance merely laughs at that comment about not running away in terror, but it’s a little forced. He doesn’t realize right away, distracted as he is by- well, the fact that he’s tied up. It hits him a minute or two later, though, obvious in the way his eyes widen as he debates whether to say anything about it.
iTrapped sprawls back onto the couch, casual, pretending not to notice the way Chance swallows hard. Watches the realization settle in, watches his breath hitch just a little. Just settles in on the couch behind him, stretching out, watching the movie like nothing is unusual. Only for a few minutes, he lets the tension simmer. Lets Chance sit there, bound and waiting, anticipation growing with every flicker of dim-lit bodies on screen. The pacing is slow, deliberately drawn out, and it gives iTrapped all the time in the world to play with him.
It starts with just a touch. Sneaking up behind him, featherlight. The tips of his fingers ghosting over Chance’s shoulder, down the length of his arm, skimming across his ribs. Casual, absentminded, like he isn’t really doing anything. The scene on screen shifts. The bound victim struggles, writhing, the predator closing in on them with lazy, methodical cruelty. iTrapped mirrors it, just barely. The pressure of his touch growing, dragging fingertips across Chance’s chest until he’s there, tracing along his collarbone standing in front of him again.
Chance freezes at the feeling of iTrapped’ fingers. Oh so gentle, oh so soft, until it isn’t. Until he’s standing in front of him and there’s absolutely no subtlety about it anymore. Chance doesn’t know what to make of it. How could he?
Of course, iTrapped is probably just fucking with him, trying to creep him out. It’s working too, this shit is scary, but it’s also so intimate. God. He needs to get over this stupid crush before he starts getting off on being terrified.
A knife appears next, dragging against Chance’s shirt, gliding over his chest. Not sharp enough to cut, but real enough that Chance flinches. He leans in. Close. Closer than before, lips brushing against Chance’s jaw but never quite touching. Breath warm and teasing. He can feel the way Chance tenses beneath him, can hear the way his breath stutters just a little. Practically straddling Chance now, blocking off the view of the TV.
When the knife comes out. Chance would like to say that he’s just straight up scared now and that’s it, but iTrapped is so fucking close to him. Breath on his skin, lips just barely missing it, practically on top of him. He’s trying so hard to be calm. It’s not working. He doesn’t dare acknowledge what’s happening, doesn’t dare say a word. Just stares up at iTrapped, frozen in place.
iTrapped won’t let him shake off the moment, won’t let him settle back into any kind of comfort. Instead, he moves in, pressing his face into the crook of Chance’s neck. The warmth of his breath alone is enough to make Chance shiver, but then there’s the wet heat of iTrapped’ tongue dragging against his skin. Unhurried like he’s savoring the taste, the smooth metal of his piercing follows in its wake.
If Chance is still trying to watch the movie, surely it would be hard to focus, forced to watch through the breaks of long golden strands. The images blur, nothing but flashes of movement and color filtered through the thick haze bodies pressed together. iTrapped hums against his skin, low and pleased, resting his lips against Chance’s jaw.
Chance stays as still as he can, growing increasingly red in the face as iTrapped relentlessly lays his attention on him, first with his face buried in his neck, and then his tongue dragging so, so slowly, uncaring for how he shivers and tenses. There’s a relentless, quiet thought in the back of his mind that perhaps he is imagining this. Dreaming it.
It feels far too real for that. Chance focuses as much as he can on the movie sheerly to distract himself enough to keep his cool (or rather, to make a weak attempt at doing so), though it’s really the lesser of two evils. He wonders, for perhaps the millionth time, what iTrapped is playing at. Ellernate or no Ellernate, he never thought iTrapped had much interest in him beyond slightly lopsided friendship.
The tension builds on-screen. A slow, creeping scene where the bound victim is being toyed with, teased, before the inevitable. iTrapped knows exactly when the scare is coming, waits for it. The movie shifts, escalates. The victim gasps, pleads, and then, violence; Sudden, brutal, inescapable. In perfect time with it, iTrapped strikes.
In an instant, any thought but fear fades to dust. It doesn’t matter that logically, he knows iTrapped wouldn’t do anything so terrible to him. Probably. He hopes. In the moment it’s real enough, logic laid to the side. He flinches, grits his teeth, hardly avoids screaming.
The knife plunges down, catching just beneath Chance’s ribs, but the blade retracts, snapping back inside the handle as it meets resistance. A cheap magic trick with no real harm. The movie’s soundtrack swells, a sharp crescendo as the victim on screen meets their gruesome fate. It’s over, and with great confusion Chance looks down, and only then does he understand what just happened. It’s all a joke, all a trick, all a game. He’s almost disappointed.
iTrapped grins, thoroughly entertained. He felt Chance flinch, felt the way he tensed up, and yet, no scream. A shame, really. He’ll just have to try harder next time. He stays close, dragging it out, letting the moment settle. His breath is warm against Chance’s ear as he chuckles, mostly just a vibration for Chance to feel. His hand ghosts along the curve of his jaw, trailing down to his throat, his chest, so casually teasing.
Chance wants to laugh it off, to call iTrapped a mean piece of shit with a sick sense of humor. To bitch good-naturedly about it like he always does like it’s no big deal, but if he does that, iTrapped won’t be all over him anymore, and that thought isn’t especially pleasant.
iTrapped toys with the idea of untying him. Maybe he should be kind. Could be merciful. Instead, he stands up, leaving Chance bound to the chair as he saunters off toward the kitchen. A little wave over his shoulder. He’s making popcorn, leaving Chance with the flashing of the movie, a series of deaths, most more sexual than not as iTrapped takes his time making the snack.
Chance is shaken when iTrapped leaves. He’s distracted, certainly, by whatever the hell that was, and the movie isn’t helping at all. The poor dude will remain rattled, it seems, because he can’t really seem to convince himself to look away, even as unsettling as it is, and he’d still hear it even if he shut his eyes. Instead he’s left to stare at the unending stream of weirdly erotic deaths and wonder if this is weird as he’s making it out to be in his head.
iTrapped takes his time coming back, making sure Chance has enough time to stew in his own thoughts. Enough time to let the anticipation crawl up his spine, settle deep in his bones. When he does return, he’s quiet. The only sound from iTrapped is the rustling of the popcorn bag as he sets it aside. Seems snacks aren’t the only thing that was pilfered from the kitchen though.
Cold steel, a gentle press of the blunt edge against Chance’s throat, gliding over sensitive skin. iTrapped tuts and the knife trails lower, following the curve of his neck until it rests just above his clavicle.
He pushes the tip just a fraction closer before he abruptly shifts. Fingers weave into Chance’s hair, gripping tight, tilting his head back until his throat is fully bared. Vulnerable. Back of his head pulled into iTrapped’ chest, the solid line of his body restricted just slightly by his binder, rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. He holds him there, lingers. The movie is in a more heated, sexual scene, a new victim, fucked into a surface with a machete at their throat. Plenty of implication.
Chance was foolish enough to believe that the torment was over. Clearly not. He knows this one is real, too. No ambiguity about it, just cold metal against his skin. iTrapped can’t get enough of fucking with him, what else is new? He’s incredibly aware of every movement of steel against flesh, attention never leaving the knife. Just in case.
That’s probably why the sudden shift catches him so off guard, winning a small yelp of surprise from him. He can’t really look away from the movie now, but his attention isn’t quite on it, not when he can feel iTrapped’ every breath, not when he so willingly has him pulled that close. Of course, it does click with him eventually.
He really doesn’t know what to think, but he knows one thing. This can’t be explained away as a normal activity, not really. The way he sees it, there’s three possible options. Either iTrapped wants to fuck him, wants to kill him, or is incredibly committed to the bit. Perhaps more than one. He’s not sure which option scares him worst.
iTrapped is thriving off the way Chance shudders beneath his touch, off the way tension rolls through his body. He can feel the hesitance. His fingers weave through Chance’s hair still, the pads of his fingers massaging against his scalp in a way that would be soothing, except he jerks Chance’s head back just a little further, just enough to elicit another sharp gasp, tilting his throat up in offering.
The knife in his other hand presses against his neck again, then drags lower, skimming over the fabric of Chance’s shirt. Not cutting, but able to catch. Pull. Snag.
The sound of the fabric tearing is drowned out by the movie, by the screams and the wet, sickening squelch of a blade sinking into flesh. It’s only a pinprick, a tiny puncture, but the cold steel kisses against Chance’s stomach. TV flickers red, red, red, painting the room in carnage. He drags the flat of the blade back up, tracing it along Chance’s ribs, his chest, dragging the shirt up with it. Keeps his grip firm in his hair, keeping him right where he wants him.
Chance is incredibly thrown, of course he is. It’s a strange combination of sheer terror and unbridled want. He’s getting everything he wished for in a strange, horrifying way and he’s got no choice in the matter, tied up and petrified by fear. It’s odd, so very odd, and he can’t wrap his head around him.
He doesn’t know what iTrapped wants, as blind to his final goal as ever, but he knows the way the blade caresses his skin is pseudo-sexual, or at least sensual, slow and steady. iTrapped will get what he wants, whatever that is, when he gets it. He displays no need to rush.
iTrapped circles Chance, then sinks into Chance’s lap like he belongs there. The weight of him presses Chance further into the chair, into the binds that hold him down, there’s no escape, not from this. His hand continues to trail in Chance’s hair, gentler than before, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, a teasing contrast to the very real knife lingering far too close to bare skin.
Chance’s heart is racing in a way it shouldn’t be able to considering he’s sitting in a chair. It pounds so hard he can feel it, and he hates it, loves it, can’t make up his mind. He’ll be relieved when it’s over. He’ll be disappointed.
iTrapped is hot against his neck again, then teeth catch on the lobe of Chance’s ear. A bite, a flick of tongue, then a slow, languid drag of lips down the shell of his ear, pausing just to breathe, to listen. The little gasps, the way Chance shudders beneath him.
Chance doesn’t seem to know what to do. This is all consuming, this moment. It’s everything and he doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it. It doesn’t matter, it’s happening whether he likes it or not. There’s an odd reassurance in that. In knowing he doesn’t have to decide if he likes this or not because he doesn’t get a choice in the matter.
He’s definitely certain that this is sexual now, at least in part. The problem is that he doesn’t know if iTrapped is just playing with his feelings, a particularly cruel incarnation of the jokes at his expense that always come from watching horror movies together; or if perhaps he has some interest (even if he does, Chance honestly doubts it reaches past the sexual); or if in truth iTrapped just gets off on fear, no matter the source. No answer would really surprise him, and there’s several others he considers equally likely.
The knife is still so casually in iTrapped’ grip, it presses back against the already-torn fabric of Chance’s shirt, the blade threatening now. A slow, deliberate graze downward, its edge catching, as if he might cut the barrier away from them. Though iTrapped pauses as something else intrudes under the flicker of the movie. A buzz, muffled by denim, iTrapped’ phone. He ignores it, at first, the grip in Chance’s hair tightens, intent to deal with it later.
It occurs to Chance that the buzz could mean something painfully ironic. If in this moment, a moment where iTrapped’s attention is solely on him, when he’s in Chance’s lap, cruel and unrelenting and bittersweet, when he is, in fact, his friend’s top priority, Ellernate could call on him and he’d surely go running. For now, though, iTrapped doesn’t even bother to check it, and that’s oddly vindicating.
iTrapped is relishing in the feeling of Chance beneath him, every sharp intake of breath, every muscle tensing as the blade ghosts over his skin. He’s so responsive. It’s fascinating how little effort it takes to get a reaction out of him, how easy it is to make him squirm, to keep him caught in this perfect in-between of fear and want.
He knows Chance wants this, at least in some messy, confused way. It is mere that Chance is just convenient. That’s all this really is. He’s here, he’s easy to wind up, and more importantly, he lets iTrapped do this. Maybe not explicitly, but he doesn’t actually struggle, just lets it happen.
iTrapped lingers so close, deliberately slow in the way he tilts Chance’s head around more, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat again. His grip in Chance’s hair loosens, just enough to be a caress rather than a restraint, fingers threading through in a way that borders on affectionate. The knife remains the constant. Pressing just a little harder, just enough to catch on fabric and drag it open. iTrapped shifts in his lap, the deliberate roll of his hips nothing but another way to get a reaction. Finds any sound he makes Chance make to be gratifying. The movie has entered a gentle moment, a calm before the storm. The notes are soft, lilting.
Chance knows this is temporary. He knows that this fact is painful, regardless of how he feels about the situation itself. He cannot have iTrapped’ tenderness, his warmth, his affection. It is not meant for him, it does not belong to him, it is only temporarily displaced. Still, he savors it, for right now, until the owner of such sweetness comes to collect, it is his. He can pretend it will last.
Hovering lips just shy of Chance’s, waiting, delighting in the anticipation. iTrapped is not even sure if he’s actually going to do it or just make him wait and wonder and hope... His chest rising and falling against Chance’s as he presses in further. Closer. Closer. Tilts his head, the ghost of his breath against his lips, the almost imperceptible pause before impact. He’s going to kiss him. There’s no doubt now.
Chance doesn’t believe iTrapped is going to go through with it either. He doesn’t believe that this is anything but a taunt, and yet desire finally wins over fear anyway, at least for now, as iTrapped draws closer, maybe Chance was wrong. Maybe iTrapped is actually going to kiss him. No, not maybe, definitely. His breath stops in the moment before contact, anticipating.
The phone vibrates again. And again. Again. His amusement dims, irritation flickering through him as he exhales sharply through his nose. He could ignore it, but this time he doesn’t. The warmth of iTrapped pressed against Chance disappears as he leans back, one hand fishing into his pocket, finally checking. Knife slipping away without a thought as he pulls his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping over the screen.
He didn’t need to look to know who it’s from. It doesn’t matter. Someone was always going to be more important. The moment is already gone. Whatever this was, it’s not important enough to try to drag it back, not important enough to even acknowledge.
The kiss never comes, not because iTrapped was teasing, or because he changed his mind, simply because he was distracted. Because something else is more important. Because someone else is more important.
It’s crushing.
Not surprising, but crushing nonetheless. The ache sets in deep and there is no returning from this. iTrapped is still on his lap, but only in the most literal sense of the world. He’s embarrassed to admit it, but he’s fighting tears.
iTrapped is aware of Chance’s silence. More than that, he’s aware of what it means. The shift in his breathing, the way his body has gone just a little too still beneath him. It’s not fear, anticipation, or even the delicious anxiety he’s been savoring all night. It’s something rawer and if he were paying attention, he’d enjoy it. He pockets the phone and stands up, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a dream. The movie is still playing, shifting back to carnage. Chance may still be tied up but iTrapped was already somewhere else entirely.
It’s almost funny. He’s been pushing and prodding all evening, waiting for Chance to crack in just the right way, to give him something real, and now that it’s finally happening, where Chance’s fingers twitch in their binds and his face burns with something dangerously close to tears, iTrapped doesn’t care because Ellernate texted him. Because whatever he said is infinitely more important than the boy under him, more pressing than whatever game he’s been playing. There’s a delay, a brief hesitation where some small part of him acknowledges what he’s done, how cruel this is, even for him, but it’s fleeting. When he looks at Chance it’s lazy, distracted, almost an afterthought.
He expects Chance to flinch, to scowl, to something. He doesn’t. He just stares, wide-eyed and miserable, and iTrapped doesn’t have the patience for it. Unties him just like that. There is no teasing flourish and the moment dissolves into nothing. Even the movie is wrapping up, the screen flashing red in the dim room, iTrapped barely spares it a glance.
It hurts. It fucking burns, aches like an open wound and the one who inflicted it doesn’t seem to care. Naturally. It’s his own fault, really. He let himself believe that he was important in iTrapped’ mind, and now he’s paying the price. It’s not even fair of him to be upset about it, really, and reminding himself of that is really the only thing that keeps him from crying outright.
iTrapped thoughts are long elsewhere, already thinking ahead. Chance was supposed to stay the night, that was the plan. Now, iTrapped doesn’t want him here. “Want me to take you home?” he asks absently, like it’s just a casual suggestion rather than something he’s already decided. Chance may not answer right away but iTrapped is already grabbing his keys.
Chance hardly even moves as he’s untied at first. It’s like he doesn’t notice, but when finally he catches on, he stands up slowly. Runs a thumb along his wrist, the indent of the rope there. He knows it’s not really a question, iTrapped doesn’t even try to hide it. He was supposed to stay the night and now iTrapped is suddenly asking if he wants a ride home. No amount of casual tone will make it any less obvious that he’s been uninvited.
Still, he’s a good friend, or at least he tries to be. “Yeah.” He catches sight of the keys in his hand. His mind’s already made up. Chance has to fight to keep his voice from cracking. “Yeah, okay. Can I use your bathroom first? Been tied up for a long time and all.”
iTrapped doesn’t even bother looking up. Just scoffs, a lazy exhale of acknowledgement, and pockets the keys. Chance can use the bathroom. It’s not like iTrapped is going to physically shove him out the door, not yet, anyway.
His phone buzzes again and again. His fingers move toward it automatically, already grinning before he’s even read the messages. That is where his attention is, not on Chance, not on the quiet, wounded way he’s holding himself. iTrapped doesn’t bother to spare him another glance. The glow of his screen reflects in his eyes, and whatever’s there has him entertained, pictures it seems.
Chance never gets those smiles. Never gets this version of iTrapped, the one who doesn’t have to put on a show, the one who actually cares about what’s on the other end of that phone. “Don’t take too long,” iTrapped calls, dismissive. Half-distracted, already tapping out a reply to Ellernate who has so easily stolen his attention. Chance is just a footnote, a lingering afterthought.
Chance sees. Of course he sees. How could he miss it? It’s blatant. iTrapped has better things to do than try to spare his feelings. He has only the briefest of moments to try to collect himself in the bathroom. Breath ragged, head in his hands, he can keep from crying no longer.
He only gives himself a minute or two.
It’s a herculean effort not to completely break down, but somehow he does it. He composes himself. He can have a full on meltdown at home if he wants, but he must not show any more pain than he has to in front of iTrapped. He wants to be a good friend. It’s his own fault, anyway, for wanting something he couldn’t have.
His eyes are still a bit red when he leaves the bathroom, but otherwise he hides the signs of tears well behind his shades. He keeps his head low. ”We can go now,“ he says, already heading for the car. He needs to get out of here as quickly as possible. On that, he and iTrapped can agree.
iTrapped doesn’t acknowledge the red-rimmed eyes. If he notices, he doesn’t care enough to comment. He pockets his phone just long enough bring his keys back, and then they’re out the door, moving with that same unspoken agreement that this needs to end as soon as possible.
The moment they’re in the car, iTrapped is back on his phone. One hand on the wheel, one hand texting, barely even pretending to pay attention to the road. Not that he needs to. He’s driven like this a thousand times, steering with his knee most the time, barely even a glance at the street ahead. He’s good at it.
Ellernate says it’s gonna get him killed one day. Doesn’t stop him from texting iTrapped like his life depends on it. Message after message, a constant buzz buzz buzz in his palm, and he answers just as quickly, thumb flying over the screen with practiced ease. Chance might as well not even be here.
Chance doesn’t look at him. He can’t. He spends the whole drive staring out the window, wishing he was anywhere else in the world. This is too much to take. Maybe he’s being overdramatic about this. Maybe. It doesn’t change the fact that it hurts. So, so badly.
The ride is silent, except for the occasional hum of amusement from iTrapped, half a laugh, maybe a smirk at whatever he’s reading. They pull up to Chance’s place, and iTrapped doesn’t even put the car in park, waving one-handed and absent, “See ya.” No indication that any of tonight meant anything at all. Just another drive, another errand, another obligation checked off before he can get back to what really matters.
Chance pulls his bag out from under the seat, where it never left. It was almost like this night was always going to end with him going home early. Chance is superstitious enough to believe that its presence there is fate being a bitch, just to rub it in.
It’s not in Chance to say something horrible to iTrapped, but he thinks about it. Still, all that comes out is, “see you at work,” and then he’s gone, heading back to his apartment where he can wallow and cry and be pathetic all he wants. Back to his apartment where nothing can hurt him.
iTrapped doesn’t watch Chance leave. Doesn’t wait to see him get inside. The car door closes, and just as quickly, he’s gone. Chance is forgotten. iTrapped drives off still stuck in his phone, deep in conversation. His fingers fly over the screen, responding in rapid bursts, sending messages before the previous one even has time to settle. By the time he gets where hes going, there’s no trace of Chance left in his mind. Just another plaything discarded.
Ellernate is waiting for him, practically vibrating with excitement, phone in hand, as if he hadn’t already said everything he could possibly say through text. As if he hadn’t had his undivided attention the second iTrapped opened his message. Ellernate throws himself into iTrapped the moment he steps through the door, arms around his neck, body pressing close. All warmth and sugar, like it’s been days.
iTrapped doesn’t think about work tomorrow. Doesn’t think about Chance standing outside his apartment, realizing that iTrapped won’t be there to pick him up. That he’ll have to find his own way. Chance should know iTrapped won’t be there.