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The sun had just dragged its last rays behind the treetops when Chance suddenly opened the Lodge's door with a big fat grin on his face. That never meant anything good, so most of the survivors turned their heads to their own devices, but luckily for them Chance's eyes were already set on Elliott. Who was, as always, making dinner for everyone. That guy had long appeased his quota, but he felt useless without making just one more in case the fellow survivors had needed it in an upcoming round. Rather have too much than too little.
“Ohh Elliott!” Chance had sing-songed to him, kicking the door shut with his foot, and practically bouncing off his steps up to the curly haired man. Elliott, barely looking up from his work, kneaded the dough underneath his palms.
“Did you hurt yourself again?”
“Not today my friend, not yet anyway.” Chance grinned, leaning on the counter, which caused Elliott to finally look up through a curl with mild suspicion. “But what I did do, was trade with the Spectre.”
Elliott immediately paused in his movements. “..That’s not how we start conversations, Chance.”
“No-no-no, listen,” Chance said, dropping a box on the counter with a dramatic flourish. “Look what I got.”
It was old, battered, and clearly passed through at least five lifetimes of grubby hands and bad luck. The tape around the corners was fraying. The faded image on the top of the box still somehow proudly read: Monopoly.
Elliott blinked, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at it. “You… bartered for a board game?”
Chance only beamed enthusiastically, “The Spectre allowed me to get whatever item I wanted if I traded something of mine. I had to get rid of one of my precious gambling machines. The tragedy.”
Elliott stared at him like he’d just confessed to selling a lung. “I thought you said life was incomplete without all four of them?”
They simply shrugged, tossing a pepperoni from his bowl into his mouth. “It was so worth it though, because you are going to play with me!”
Elliott's lips twitched in a smile at the offer, before coming back to his senses and shook his head, patient. “Chance… I would love to but— I don't know, I should be finishing another batch of pizza.”
“You’ve made enough for the entire Lodge and their imaginary friends,” Chance protested, leaning in dramatically. “You need to stop. I’m staging a dough intervention.”
Elliott gave a half-smile and tossed a basil leaf at him. It bounced off Chance’s nose.
“After dinner,” Elliott said firmly.
Chance grinned. “Deal.”
“Alright,” Elliott said, wiping his hands and tightening the apron. “It’ll be ready in twenty.”
“Perfect.” Chance tapped the Monopoly box. “Then we have a date with capitalism.”
“We’re not dating,” Elliott deadpanned, but his lips twitched.
“Yet,” Chance whispered dramatically.
Elliott swatted him with a dish towel, and they both laughed.
Later, with stomachs full of too-hot pizza and a bottle of warm soda between them, they sat on the floor of Elliott’s personal cabin, the board spread out on the rug between them.
Elliott’s cabin was neat—a few books lined on a shelf, a soft blanket thrown over the single bed, and a window that overlooked the edge of the forest. Safe. Quiet. His space.
Chance had sprawled out like a cat, legs stretched out, sleeves rolled up. “Alright,” he said, placing the little silver car on GO. “Are you ready for this?”
Elliott picked up the thimble piece without hesitation. “You already know I am.”
Chance raised a brow, mischievous. “I don’t know, Ellie. I’ve been on a lucky streak lately.”
Elliott giggled, soft and real. “That’s what makes it fun.”
Chance blinked for a moment, like the sound caught him off guard—. Then he grinned wide. “Well. Prepare to suffer.”
And suffer Elliott did.
Like every time they played, the dice betrayed him. He landed on tax squares, missed every good property by one space, and bought Baltic Avenue like it was a winning strategy. Chance, of course, ended up with Boardwalk and Park Place by pure accident and somehow managed to build hotels in record time.
“I hate this game,” Elliott said flatly, paying close to a thousand in rent with a single trembling hand.
“No you don’t.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You know you don't.”
Elliott didn’t even argue that time. Just smiled quietly and moved his piece again. By the time he landed on Chance’s third hotel-laden property, he was already sliding his fake money across the board in surrender.
“You know,” Chance said, stacking the play money into little piles, “you lose every single game we play.”
Elliott leaned back on his palms, legs crossed, expression content. “I know.”
“You never win.”
“I’m aware.”
Chance tilted his head, hands holding each other. “So why do you keep playing with me, why not just quit and call bankruptcy already?”
Elliott gave him a sidelong look, then shrugged. “Because you smile like a child every time you pass GO.”
Chance laughed—a sudden, bright thing. “Guilty.”
Suddenly Elliott smiled softly to himself, facing downwards at the board game as if he wasn't hiding anything.
Chance had to bare half mind not to stare at him, it was rare to see Elliott so relaxed. He had wanted to tell a joke to break the silence between them, but he couldn’t bring themselves to ruin it. Not when he looked like that.
Instead, he shuffled the cards all together, “Same time tomorrow?
“You gonna keep beating me?”
“Without mercy.”
Elliott laughed again, standing and stretching his arms overhead. “Then I guess I’ll have to make pizza for dinner again.”
“You wouldn't dare.” Chance gasped in mock offense. “My tastebuds are already ruined!”
They cleaned up together, quiet and easy, and when Chance stepped out of the cabin into the night air, he glanced back just once. The light in Elliott’s window was still on, warm and steady.
The killer this time was quicker, stronger, barely giving the survivors any time to do the generators before being targeted. Honestly they were probably just in an even worse mood than usual today. Elliott had clutched his shoulder, having just been pierced by 1x4 entanglement. 1x4 wasn't even trying to get him, it was unfortunate timing really, he just so happened to be in the wrong spot at the wrong time while she chased down Shedletsky.
He felt dizzy from the entanglement, so much in fact that he didn't even notice that the round was over. Noob, being the kind soul that they are, nervously shook their shoulder, snapping them back to reality, and had asked them if they were ok or needed any help. Elliott simply shrugged them off, flashing them everyone's favorite ‘employee of the day’ winner smile, and let their body carry themselves to the cabins.
Chance was already at the door when Elliott had arrived– shirt untucked, hair tie broken, the wounds blood drying up, brain failing to remind himself that he should've cleaned up before coming here.
Chance looked him over once, then twice, “Are you alright?”
“I'm fine,” he replied a little too fast before sighing, mumbling out a small “I'm still breathing.”
"Perfect, you're lucid enough to lose again.”
“You're insufferable..” Elliott side stepped Chance, walking straight inside.
“You love it.”
He wasn't in a position to deny it.
So the tradition initially started as a joke, but to them it became so much more.
After every near-death escape, after every sprint through the fog, they would go to one of their cabins, light a candle or two, and quietly set up the board. The clink of pieces. The scuffle of cards. The soft click of dice across worn wood.
Sometimes, they played in silence. Other times, they’d talk for hours—about nothing, everything, things they hadn’t told anyone else in the Lodge.
And they've gotten comfortable, closer than they'd like to admit.
Elliott had stopped sitting across from Chance weeks ago. Now, he usually curled up beside him on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, half-draped across Chance’s side without saying a word about it. He’d rest his head there sometimes. Play with Chance’s fingers absentmindedly as he stared at the board, not really watching the game. More focused on the sound of Chance’s voice than anything happening around him.
Chance, while usually being very touchy to people and full of dramatics, never pushed the moment. Barely moving when Elliott leaned in, never pointed it out no matter how much his brain screamed at him and his heart hammered. He noticed every single featherlight touch.
And he loved it, loved their space, their time spent together.
Elliott never won. Not once. But he tried—earnestly, fully, without any bitterness. And he never lost his smile after defeat, if anything he smiled wider.
“I almost had you this time,” he’d say, eyes bright emerald green, the brown barely showing. “If you hadn’t gotten Marvin Gardens, I would’ve had a full set.”
“You said something similar the last time too.” They'd tease back.
It got Chance to wonder, what Elliott would look like if he actually won for once? Would he cheer? Would he glow? Would he lean into me and brag for hours?
He wanted to see it. Badly. Enough to tilt the game.
So he did.
He pretended to roll low. Passed up obvious purchases. Made bad trades and then feigned shock when Elliott leapt on them.
Played just well enough to almost win—but not quite.
By the end of the game, Elliott had hotels on both oranges, a mountain of cash, and Chance’s little silver car landed on Illinois Avenue with a frown.
“$950,” Elliott said, gawking at the dice and baffled by his own luck. Trying to make sense of it all. “Pay up.”
Chance smiled wide, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, you got me! You finally got me, Ellie!”
He threw himself back with a laugh, watching eagerly for Elliott’s face to light up. “See? You did it! You beat me! And fair and square! Can you believe it?”
But then Elliott didn’t smile.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look surprised, face seeming unreadable. Still. Quiet.
Chance’s own grin faltered. “...Ellie?”
“Did you let me win?”
His voice was flat, causing Chance to freeze, heart in his ears. “...What?”
Elliott didn't waver, looking Chance in the eyes. “Did you or did you not let me win?”
“I—I mean, you were doing really good tonight—”
“Chance.”
Silence.
And then, quieter. Firmer.
“Don’t do that again.”
Chance swallowed, his voice catching in his throat. “I thought you’d be happy winning.”
“I don't play for the pure reason of wanting to win.” Elliott shuffled. “I play because it’s the one time I get to sit here with you. No rules, no pressure, no pretending I’m good at anything. Just us. And if I lose, I lose. At least it’s real.”
Chance opened his mouth but the words caught in their throat, and just then Elliott beat him to the punch, unable to contain repeating themselves.
“I lose every time, and I still come back, because I get to be myself with you.” Elliott’s voice caught on the edge of breaking. “That’s enough for me. I don’t need a win you handed over — I just need it to be real, don't take that away from me.”
Chance’s chest twisted. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” Elliott said, softer now. “But please don’t.”
He gently began packing up the pieces, handing over the car and thimble sliver pieces without another word before getting up.
“I'll see you tomorrow, Chance.”
Chance gripped his hands together tightly, not sure what to do with themselves as they watched Elliott leave. Guilt lumping in their throat, he rather have a thousand pizza days straight than have Elliott disappointed in him like that again.
The apology never came in words.
Instead, it lived in the quiet ways he cared for Elliott. In the way he wrapped Elliott’s wounds with steady hands, even when they insisted on healing everyone else first and leaving himself for last. Chance had memorized each scar as if it mattered more than his own. It was in the mornings, too, when Chance forced himself awake far earlier than he ever wanted just to brew Elliott’s bitter coffee—coffee Elliott didn’t even like, though he claimed it got him through the day. Chance would hand it over with a lopsided grin, hair a mess, voice still thick with sleep, murmuring for Elliott to be careful during their morning run, before promptly collapsing onto the community cabin's couch. Then at night, during their usual game nights, when Elliott inevitably drifted off against them, Chance would carefully brush back the loose strands that had fallen over his face. They’d tug the tie from his messy ponytail, letting the rest spill free, as they ran their fingers through it—small, quiet gestures that carried more weight than any apology ever could.
In the end, everything slowly returned like nothing ever happened.
The board was set. The Lodge had long gone quiet, and the two of them were holed up in Elliott’s cabin once again, the warm glow of a lantern casting gold light over the floor.
They were both on their second slice of poorly cut pizza, pieces too floppy, toppings sliding. Chance chewed slowly, watching Elliott sort the property cards with deep concentration.
“I still don’t know how you don’t know Mean Girls,” Chance said, scandalized. “It’s literally essential viewing.”
Elliott shrugged, licking tomato sauce off his thumb. “I didn’t really have time to watch movies growing up.”
Chance blinked, mouth full. “What, like... none?”
“I mean, a few,” Elliott murmured. “My family didn't watch much together either. And when we did, it was usually documentaries. Or sermons. Or that one VHS with the dancing raisins.”
Chance stared. “That’s a crime.”
Elliott laughed softly. “I’m fine.”
“No, no you’re not! I’m gonna make you a watch list. You’re starting with Mean Girls when we get out of here and we’re gonna fix you.”
Elliott hummed, unconvinced but smiling, and rolled the dice. It was his turn.
The car clattered forward. Seven spaces.
He landed on Free Parking. Again.
Chance snorted. “You’re a magnet for that spot.”
“I like the vibes,” Elliott said simply, stretching his arms and yawning. “Home away from home.”
Chance smiled faintly. “Of course you’d say that.”
The game dragged on. Slowly.
It wasn’t until they were nearing the end that Chance started to notice… something was off.
He was losing.
Not just a little. Badly.
Elliott had three monopolies. Hotels. A fat pile of fake cash. Chance had… Baltic Avenue and prayers.
He started sweating.
Elliott didn’t even pay attention. He was lying sideways on the rug, legs lazily kicking the air behind him, casually sipping from a chipped mug like he hadn’t just bankrupted Chance’s last utility property.
He wasn’t even trying. He was just moving on autopilot.
And somehow, he was winning.
Chance stared at the board like it had betrayed him. “This is… this is impossible.”
“Hm?” Elliott blinked, glancing over. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I’m doing alright, huh?”
“Alright?! Ellie-” Chance muttered their name multiple times, “I have no money. I’m two rolls from death.”
“You’ve got Free Parking,” Elliott said helpfully, blinking while trying to stay awake.
“That’s not even a thing you can own!” Chance groaned.
“Oh. Right.”
He rolled the dice, casually moved forward, landed on Chance’s only property, and paid the most underwhelming rent in the game.
And then…
Chance landed on Illinois Avenue.
One of Elliott’s.
With a hotel.
The math didn’t lie.
“...I’m bankrupt,” Chance whispered.
Elliott blinked. “Wait. Really?”
“Yeah. That was it. You—you won, Els.”
Elliott froze.
Then slowly, like a sunrise over winter snow, realization dawned across his face.
His eyes widened. His jaw dropped just slightly.
“I won?” he whispered, almost afraid to believe it.
Chance grinned. “You won.”
And then—
Elliott exploded.
“I WON!” he screamed, tackling Chance with a laugh so bright and loud it echoed off the cabin walls. He wrapped both arms around him in a crushing hug and shook him back and forth. “I finally—finally—BEAT YOU!”
Chance laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. “You did! You really did!”
Elliott pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes practically glowing. “I thought I was doing good, but I didn’t want to jinx it, so I didn’t say anything! I was like, surely something will end my luck soon, and then you kept landing on all my spots, and I was like, holy shit??”
Chance was beaming, cheeks flushed, heart beating like a drum. For a moment it was hard to see anything else. He’d never seen Elliott like this. Never—not once—seen him look so alive, so vibrant. It was like all the exhaustion, all the survival, had peeled back for just a moment and left this bright, giddy man beneath.
“I thought you were gonna cry,” Chance teased, breathless.
“I might!” Elliott said, laughing. “Oh my god—do we have to tell someone? Can I brag? I’m gonna brag to everyone. I’m gonna brag to Guest.”
“He’s gonna have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll make him listen anyway! Two time too! And- and Noob- and oh my goodness–”
Elliott lunged forward and hugged him again, tighter, full of joy and adrenaline. His face was buried against Chance’s shoulder, muffling his words into the fabric of his shirt. “Thank you. For playing with me all this time.”
Chance’s breath caught.
He closed his eyes.
His arms wrapped around Elliott slowly, carefully. He rested his chin on that mess of soft hair, smiled into the hug.
A dozen words crowded his chest, aching to be said.
You’ve earned it.
I’ll miss this.
Don’t let our tradition end.
I love you.
Instead, he only drew Elliott closer and whispered, “Anytime.”
Because this—this right here—was the only victory that mattered.
.
.
.
“Think the Spectre would let us swap Monopoly for The Game of Life?”
Elliott groaned, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his reaction.