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Chance's chamber in the mansion was filled with the flickering light from the television, reflected in the windows offering a view of the city at night. Empty soda cans and pizza boxes lay scattered near the sofa, where they had just engaged in a fierce battle in a racing arcade game on the large screen. Chance, dishevelled, with grey strands of hair stuck to his forehead, leaned back in his chair, smiling widely. His grey-gold eyes behind the thick lenses of his sunglasses still glowed with excitement. Next to them, with impeccable posture, still holding the controller in his hands, sat ITrapped. His golden hair was neatly combed back, and his face showed perfectly feigned enthusiasm: a slight smile, bright blue eyes slightly narrowed from ‘tension.’ Inside, however, there was only coldness and slight contempt for this childish game and for how Chance, like a puppy, wagged his tail at such primitive entertainment.
—You're a genius at this game today, ITrapped! —they exclaimed, throwing head back. —Although I almost overtook you on the last turn!
—You were a worthy opponent, Chance, —he said evenly, putting down the gamepad. —As always.
Silence hung in the air, comfortable for Chance, heavy for ITrapped. His gaze shifted to Chance's face, who had lifted their sunglasses to rub their eyes — a familiar gesture, but then, as if remembering something, quickly put them back on. A sudden interest, too direct, too scrutinising, flared up in ITrapped.
—Chance, —began ITrapped, his voice soft, caring even. He turned his whole body towards him, creating the illusion of sincere interest. —I've been wondering for a long time... Why do you always wear those glasses? Even here, in the semi-darkness. Are they part of your image? —there was no mockery in his tone, only curiosity.
Chance froze. A slight shadow of embarrassment crossed their face. He involuntarily touched the frame of his glasses.
—Oh, that... well... —they hesitated, looking away. —It's just a habit, I guess. And... they help. The light can be harsh sometimes, and they make it easier to play poker. Don't mind them.
—A habit? —ITrapped repeated gently but insistently, his voice as smooth as silk. He moved closer, his presence becoming palpable, almost oppressive. —I don’t believe it. It seems like something more. Chance, we’re friends. Can we be open with each other?
Inside, everything tightened with the old, familiar shame. He wanted to pull away, to say "no," but... it was ITrapped. The only one who had been there for him these past months.
—Hey, really... —But it was too late. ITrapped’s long fingers had already removed the glasses from his face. For a moment, the world became slightly blurred around the edges for his left eye, and the light from the screen became slightly sharper and more uncomfortable. Chance blinked, feeling suddenly exposed under that sharp, cold blue gaze. His grey-gold irises, usually hidden by dark lenses, seemed brighter, but... not quite the same. His left eye was slightly turned inward — a trace of almost overcome but still lingering amblyopia, or ‘lazy eye,’ which he had struggled with since childhood. Chance tensed, their shoulders hunched, and they mechanically raised their hand as if trying to cover his left eye.
ITrapped studied his face carefully, like a surgeon. His gaze slid from the right eye — clear, grey-gold, full of confusion — to the left. The one that was slightly crossed, whose gaze was slightly less focused. A sharp, cold revulsion flared inside ITrapped. "God, what a freak." whispered the voice of his own contempt, reinforced by Darkheart's icy hiss somewhere deep in his soul. But his lips stretched into an admiring smile. He held the glasses in his hand, never taking his eyes off Chance's.
—Oh, Chance... —he whispered, and there was something in his voice that sounded like genuine amazement. —Amblyopia? Lazy eye? —he pronounced the diagnosis with a slight, barely perceptible condescension. Chance nodded.
—You know, —continued ITrapped, his finger gently, almost tenderly touching the edge of Chance's. —You have... incredibly beautiful eyes. Such a rare shade of gold and grey stone. Truly unique. Like molten metal at sunset. —He paused, his gaze becoming slightly narrowed. —It's a pity that such a defect spoils the impression. Apparently, the treatment didn't help completely? —His tone was both complimentary and coldly matter-of-fact, as if he were evaluating a horse at auction: good breed, but the hoof defect lowers the price.
Before Chance could say anything—protest, ask what he meant, realise all the poison hidden behind the observation — ITrapped smoothly brought the glasses back to his face and carefully put them back in place.
—But they suit you. They... hide it. Better to look flawless, right? —He patted Chance on the shoulder, the touch light but causing Chance to flinch involuntarily. —Stylish. —he added casually, pulling away as if closing an insignificant conversation.
Chance sat on the sofa, feeling the cold trace of ITrapped's fingers on the frames of his glasses and a burning awkwardness inside. Their fleeting joy from the game evaporated, leaving behind the familiar heat of shame. The compliment about the colour of his eyes mingled with the sting of ‘flaw’ and ‘incomplete treatment’ in his mind. They felt dissected, and ITrapped’s ‘concern’ was clammy and alien. He nodded silently, unable to find the words, and reached for his glasses, for the shield that now seemed less like a defence and more like a reminder of his ugliness in the eyes of this man, who he naively considers a friend.
—Yes, stylish. —He muttered, forcing himself to smile.
A sharp sound — ITrapped placed an empty cola can on the table—brought Chance back to reality. To the room where his weakness had just been surgically exposed, under the guise of care. Where a compliment about the colour of his eyes sounded like an epithet for an imperfect product.
—I'll be leaving now, I think, —said ITrapped, rising with unnatural ease. His voice was smooth and friendly again. —Morning is just around the corner, and you have a meeting with your father tomorrow about new alcohol deliveries to the casino. Get some sleep.
Chance sat staring at the screen, where pixelated machines were frozen, and did not understand why this ‘friendship’ often felt like a slow suffocation.