꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚૮꒰˵•ᵜ•˵꒱ა‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷

               ꒰՞ °ᗝ°՞꒱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ ՞𐦯

PHOTO CREDITS : @ilewdha on X

         ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

— # 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 / 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐀 .ᐟ .ᐟ

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Mafioso hates the walk. Twenty-five minutes, give or take, depending on the weather and how stubborn Chance is about stopping for photos along the way. It feels like a punishment—Chance tucked away in his sterile, silent dorm on the academic side of campus, Mafioso stuck in the madhouse of the party halls where peace doesn’t exist. Every time he calls Chance, he exaggerates the misery: “I’m freezing out here, I’m dying of loneliness, do you love me or not?” Half of it’s for laughs, half of it’s true.

He can never sit still while waiting. He paces the lobby, smokes out the back door, stands out in the rain like some tragic film character. The second Chance appears—usually with his jacket zipped all the way up, hair damp, digicam slung across his shoulder—Mafioso feels the ache of the wait dissolve. He greets him too loudly, kisses him too quickly, just to make up for the distance.

The digicam both annoys and fascinates him. Mafioso complains whenever Chance lifts it, muttering about how he looks terrible, but he secretly loves the way Chance documents even the most mundane moments. Blurry shots of the storm, crooked photos of Mafioso’s scowling face, random snaps of their study tables—Mafioso doesn’t see “art” in them, but he sees proof. Proof that Chance is coming back to him again and again, even when he claims the walk is too far. Sometimes, when Chance isn’t looking, Mafioso even poses for the camera, grinning like the devil, because he knows Chance won’t admit how much those pictures mean.

The dorms, the distance, the different worlds—they all weigh on him. Mafioso lives in noise, thrives in it, but when the day ends, it’s Chance’s quiet presence he aches for. Finals, professors, expectations—they’re crushing Chance, making him quieter than usual, and Mafioso doesn’t know how to fix it except to pull him into his chaos and remind him he’s not alone. On one particularly rainy night, Mafioso waits outside, arms spread wide like some melodramatic hero, water soaking him through. Chance trudges up the path, camera in hand, looking unimpressed. Mafioso laughs, because this is how it always is—Chance pretending not to care, Mafioso over-caring in every possible way. The distance between their dorms might never shrink, but the second Chance is standing in front of him, Mafioso feels like the whole campus has folded into nothing.

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