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chance always had this ridiculous, borderline pathetic crush on that one pizza place employee.
like, embarrassingly so.
we’re talking timing his walks to “coincidentally” pass by the window levels of embarrassing.
the kind of crush that turns your brain to cheese and makes you say dumb things like, “wow, love that... cheese distribution,” while standing in line with shaking hands and three dollars in coins.
it wasn’t even a normal crush. it was the kind of crush that slowly hijacks your day-to-day life, like some weird virus. he used to just...own a casino, gamble away the last of his lunch money, make questionable eye contact with a slot machine, and call it a productive tuesday. now? now he was calculating the precise minute elliot’s shift started just so he could “accidentally” show up when elliot was manning the register.
he told himself it was about the pizza. which, sure. it was good pizza. but was that twenty-dollars-a-week-despite- his-rent-being-due worth it? no. not even close.
chance didn’t even like pizza that much. but he liked elliot. elliot who always smelled faintly of oregano and cosmic safety. elliot with soft hands that brushed his when giving back change — change that chance was 90% sure he dropped on purpose.
he was so used to chaos. used to gambling with things like rent, pride, and stomach linings.
but.. this felt different. like betting on something good.
something real.
something that could actually hurt.. if it didn’t work out.
and the thing was — elliot didn’t even have to do anything to make chance spiral like this.
elliot could say “that’ll be $3.45” and chance would be mentally composing vows. he could hand him a receipt and chance would have to physically stop himself from whispering thank you, my liege.
chance didn’t remember the exact moment he started crushing on elliot. it wasn’t like a lightning bolt or a cartoon heart popping out of his chest.
it was slower than that.
sneakier. like realizing halfway through a conversation that you’ve been smiling for too long or noticing you keep bringing someone up in stories that don’t involve them at all.
he just… liked elliot. more than he meant to. more than he was ready to.
it started small. chance liked the way elliot said shit like “hey” like it wasn’t just a throwaway greeting, but an actual acknowledgment. like he saw him. not just the guy who always smelled like the casino floor and carried guilt in his back pocket — him. and elliot had this voice that somehow managed to make everything sound kind. even “do you want that reheated?” sounded like a love song coming from him
and god, he wanted to know elliot. not just pizza-place elliot. not just “hi, enjoy your night” elliot. he wanted to know what music elliot put on when he cleaned his apartment or house or whatever. if he ever cried at movies. if he liked storms or got nervous when it thundered. if he’d ever been in love before — and if it had felt anything like this.
because for chance, this wasn’t just a crush anymore. it was something stranger and softer and a little bit terrifying.
chance didn’t know when his crush on elliot stopped being funny and started being kind of… dangerous. emotionally, anyway.
at first, it was a joke. a stupid little ha-ha in his own head. like, oh no, the pizza guy has kind eyes, i’m doomed. he’d tell himself it was just boredom or maybe loneliness in a cute wrapper.
it just kind of happened. one minute he was minding his own business, craving grease and distraction, and the next he was constructing an entire fantasy life around some guy named elliot who handed him a receipt and said “have a good one” like it meant something.
it didn’t, obviously. elliot probably said that to everyone. but try telling that to chance’s brain, which had already decided that elliot saying “have a good one” was equivalent to a marriage proposal and a legally binding emotional commitment.
it grew. slowly. sneakily. like a song that starts quiet and somehow ends up as your entire personality.
and chance didn’t know what to do with that, except show up. again and again. awkward and hopeful and hopeless in equal measure.
this made chance hyper-aware of his own weirdness. the way he tried too hard not to try. the way he rehearsed what to say on his way there and still managed to fumble it the second he saw elliot’s face. he hated how soft his brain got around him. hated how he’d overanalyze the tiniest things—like the one time elliot said “see you around” instead of the usual “have a good night” and he spent days wondering if that meant anything.
he liked the way elliot always tapped the counter twice after ringing someone up. like a little tic, a secret rhythm only he knew. he liked the way elliot said the word “total” — drawn out just a little, like he was savoring it.
he liked the way elliot would push his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand instead of his palm. he liked how elliot never rushed, never snapped, even when the place was slammed and someone was yelling about a missing side of ranch.
elliot was so normal. and somehow, that made it worse. elliot wasn’t flashy or dramatic. he wasn’t mysterious or edgy. he just stood behind the counter in his uniform and asked, “is that everything for you today?” and chance’s brain would short-circuit like a knocked-over vending machine.
he couldn’t even answer normal questions anymore. elliot would say “for here or to go?” and chance would respond with things like “yes” or “probably.” one time he said “thank you, you too” after elliot told him “enjoy your meal” and then tripped over the door frame on the way out. he almost never recovered emotionally from that one.
for chance, hope and love were the most dangerous bet of all. and he’d already gone all in.
---
the plan was simple.
go in. order pizza.
flirt,casually. like a human person.
maybe die a little inside, but like, charmingly.
then leave.
easy. clean. emotionally survivable.
chance had rehearsed it like twelve times. in the mirror, walking over, even whispering lines under his breath like he was prepping for Broadway instead of standing in front of a very normal, very real pizza place with sweaty palms and a heart doing an off-tempo drum solo.
he took a deep breath. rolled his shoulders. normal. cool. casual.
he pushed open the door. the bell above it jingled, betraying him instantly with a painfully cheerful ding.
and there he was.
elliot.
at the counter.
smiling.
that stupid soft smile that made chance feel like he’d just been blessed by a small woodland deity.
“hello, good afternoon” elliot said, like chance wasn’t a walking disaster. “the usual?”
the usual.
.
chance felt like someone had handed him a marriage license
chance felt like someone had just handed him a marriage license. or maybe a lease to a shared apartment with a bunny and matching mugs and late-night grocery trips.
“uh— yeah,” he said, voice cracking like an off-brand vinyl record. “the usual!”
elliot smiled again — that smile — and tapped at the register with this calm, practiced rhythm, like it was no big deal. like he hadn’t just shattered chance’s reality with a casual act of memory.
“pepperoni, right? medium?”
“yep. that’s me. pepperoni. just a guy. who eats pizza. regularly. normal stuff.”
elliot glanced up, still smiling “anything to drink today?”
chance panicked. his brain screamed “be cool, be cool, be chill, RELAX.”, and instead what came out was: “do you have anything that cures being perceived?”
there was a beat of silence. and then — blessedly — elliot laughed. really laughed. it was soft and bright and made chance’s spine feel like it had melted into pudding.
"uh, no,” elliot said, still smiling. “but we do have orange soda.”
“that works,” chance said, trying not to combust.
elliot handed him the receipt. their fingers brushed.
he's such a mess. get your fucking head, chance!
“ten minutes,” elliot said. “i’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“cool,” chance said. “i’ll be over here. pretending to be someone who knows what they’re doing.”
elliot didn’t laugh this time, but he smiled again—soft, like he didn’t mind chance being a mess. like maybe he thought it was kind of… endearing.
chance sat down, heart still doing gymnastics, and stared at his orange soda like it held answers.
he took a sip of his orange soda and immediately spilled a drop down his chin. perfect. excellent. just what he needed. he wiped it off with his sleeve like a raccoon in a business meeting, casually glancing up to make sure elliot hadn’t seen.
he had.
elliot was pretending not to, which was worse.
that was mercy. and chance couldn’t handle mercy. not from a boy with nice hands and a soft voice and the memory retention of a saint.
he sank lower in his table, staring into the depths of his soda like it might become a black hole and finally swallow him whole.
this wasn’t a crush. this was a situation.
a full-scale emotional hostage scenario.
elliot had smiled at him like he mattered and now chance was planning their retirement fund.
like, what if they lived in a little house with bad plumbing but really great light? what if they got a dog? what if elliot made breakfast on sunday mornings and called him "babe" with that same gentle voice he used when saying “the usual?”
oh god.
chance physically shook his head. he had to stop. he was spiraling. he was actively spiraling in public, over a man who handed him a receipt and knew how to operate a pizza oven.
what was wrong with him?
he glanced over. elliot was still at the counter, doing employee things, probably thinking about normal human stuff like inventory or sauce ratios — not, you know, the deep yearning of one customer’s entire soul.
chance looked back at his soda. it fizzed up at him in a way that felt judgmental.
pull it together, he thought. you’re literally sitting here fantasizing about joint taxes with a man who gave you orange soda.
the pizza came out right on time, because of course it did. elliot called out his name — normal, easy — and chance nearly tripped over his own shoelaces getting to the counter.
“smells good,” chance said, like a person who had never spoken before.
elliot handed over the box with both hands, like it was something sacred. “hope it hits the spot.”
chance thought about saying something — you hit the spot, actually, or maybe marry me?—but instead, he just nodded like a stunned goldfish and mumbled, “yep. thanks. you too. i mean—uh. hell yeah.”
he returned to his table, cheeks warm, pizza in hand, brain on fire.
he ate slowly, which was weird for him. normally he inhaled food like it was a timed event. but this felt like a moment. like if he dragged it out, he could pretend a little longer. pretend elliot hadn’t just looked directly at him with those eyes and that voice and that gentle, weaponized kindness.
each bite tasted like something sad and warm. not in a bad way. just in that “i know this can’t be anything but i want it anyway” kind of way.
he tried not to look over at the counter again.
failed.
elliot was helping someone else now, smiling again—but not the same smile. that one was customer-service standard. the one chance got earlier? that one felt just slightly... more. or maybe that was just wishful thinking. gambler’s brain, reading too much into every twitch, every glance, like it was all part of a cosmic tell.
he wiped his hands on a napkin. took a last sip of his orange soda. time to go before he turned into a full embarrassment puddle on the linoleum.
he packed up the rest of the pizza — half of it uneaten, but he wasn’t here for the food anyway. not really.
as he passed the counter, he gave a little wave. a casual one. chill. like he hadn’t been emotionally spiraling in his table for the last twenty minutes.
elliot looked up. “have a good one, chance.”
there it was again. his name.
“you too, kid.” chance said, smile crooked, heart fully doing backflips.
he didn’t stumble on the way out. a miracle. he stepped into the cool air, pizza box in hand, chest tight in the way that didn’t hurt, exactly. just… tugged.
he walked down the block slowly, like if he moved too fast, the moment might fall off of him.
he'd been an awkward piece of shit, but he'll come back for round 2..
-----
he needed air. he just left the pizza place.
not in a dramatic way, even though he was dramatic. but more in the "if i keep sitting here i’m going to start sketching elliot’s initials in the condensation on my soda cup" kind of way.
the air hit him like a reset button — cool, a little sharp, sky dimming into early evening. the street was quiet. just the occasional car, a loose bit of wind tugging at his sleeves. he leaned against the brick wall, still holding his drink, like a man trying to look casual and not like he was moments away from asking the universe to explain itself.
it was one thing to flirt across poker tables and win drinks with a smirk. that kind of stuff was safe. performative. muscle memory. there were rules there.
but this? this crush? this dumb, fluttery, slow-burning thing?
it felt like standing in a house of mirrors with no reflection. like looking at someone and seeing everything you couldn’t be, and still wanting to hold their hand anyway.
he was not built for this.
not for feelings. not for gentleness. not for people like elliot.
this was about someone remembering his name, and not because he owed them money or they wanted something, but just… because.
he closed his eyes. breathed in deep.
okay. okay, okay. he was fine. he was chill. he was a grown man with a crush and a pizza waiting inside and he wasn’t going to cry about it.
not yet.
--
round 2.
he was doing it again.
which, honestly, was kind of insane. normal people didn’t develop a full-blown soul-crushing crush on a pizza guy and then willingly go back for more. but chance was not normal. chance was a gambler. a chaos creature. a man who stared at the emotional sun and said, what if i just kept looking.
he told himself it was about the pizza. it wasn’t. it was never about the pizza.
his palms were already sweating by the time he reached the door. he paused. adjusted his jacket like it mattered. deep breath. just go in. order. act natural. or whatever your version of that is.
he pushed the door open. the bell jingled. that familiar scent hit him — dough and cheese and regret.
and then — elliot.
behind the counter, same soft expression, same earth-tilting effect. chance could feel his ribcage fold in like a lawn chair.
elliot looked up, and there it was — recognition. not just the polite kind. not just "oh, returning customer."
no. his smile actually brightened.
“hey, welcome back,” elliot said. “the usual?”
chance felt like a man both living and dying at once.
“uh—yeah,” he said, already fumbling for his wallet like the building might vanish if he didn’t pay immediately.
elliot tapped at the register, that same rhythm. casual, calm. probably unaware that chance was seconds away from writing poetry about his wrists.
“you’re right on time,” elliot added. “we just pulled a fresh one out of the oven.”
we. god. it hurt. what a deeply dangerous pronoun.
“cool,” chance said. “i like… fresh things. not that… i don’t also like… not-fresh things. just, you know. food. food-wise.”
a pause.
then, somehow—miraculously—elliot laughed.
not a big laugh. not loud or showy. just a soft, warm little sound that landed right in chance’s chest and immediately set up camp.
“you’re good,” elliot said, and gosh — he said it like he meant it. like chance’s nervous babbling wasn’t a warning sign, but something worth smiling at. like he didn’t mind the mess. like maybe he even liked it.
and that? that was a problem. a dangerous, world-ending, existentially destabilizing kind of problem.
chance took the receipt like it was radioactive. “i’ll, uh. go sit. over there. like a… sitting person.”
“sure,” elliot said, still smiling, as if the sentence had made even a lick of sense. “i’ll bring it over when it’s ready.”
chance stopped. just — froze.
mid-step. mid-existence.
bring it over.
he was going to bring it over.
to him. personally. with hands. and eye contact. and probably more of that devastatingly soft tone of voice.
like this was a casual lunch date.
like chance was someone who deserved table service and not a tactical emotional intervention.
he shuffled to his seat in a daze, brain short-circuiting like a slot machine on fire. sat down. stared into space. bring it over. like it was normal.
like he was normal.
which — spoiler alert — he was not.
he folded the receipt and unfolded it. folded it again. was this flirting? was this just good customer service? was this a prelude to his complete social collapse?
he didn’t know.
he couldn’t know.
because elliot had smiled at him again and now chance’s entire concept of time had gone fuzzy.
he stared at his soda like it might offer answers.
he saw elliot coming before elliot even said anything.
the movement caught his eye first—elliot sliding the pizza box across the counter, then walking around it instead of just calling out like last time. around. toward him.
and then, the absurdity hit full force.
elliot wasn’t carrying the box.
no, he was dragging it across the counter with both hands, slow and steady like a kid pushing a toy truck through sand, like this was a deliberate, tender mission. like the pizza deserved a ceremonial approach.
and chance? chance was losing his mind.
he sat up straighter. way too straight. spine military - grade stiff. the air felt too thick, his palms were clammy, and for some reason he was holding his napkin like it was a life raft.
elliot reached the edge of the counter and — still dragging the box, like it was sacred—rounded the corner. now walking toward him. toward him, like that was something normal people did.
“delivery for the guy who likes fresh things,” elliot said with a little smile.
chance blinked. he was suddenly very aware of every part of his body. his legs felt like spaghetti. his spine, completely fake. his hands — what were hands. where did they go? what was a casual posture?!
who knew.
“medium pepperoni,” elliot said as he stopped in front of the table, giving the box one last, gentle push, like he was delivering a holy artifact. “extra fresh. just for you.”
chance opened his mouth to say something witty. something flirty. something human.
instead, he choked on air and said, “oh. cool.”
cool.
brilliant.
elliot didn’t seem fazed. just smiled that same soft smile, the one that made chance want to do embarrassing things like buy a toaster and settle down. or knit a sweater. or write terrible poetry.
“enjoy,” elliot said. “let me know if you need anything else.”
anything else. like napkins. or a priest. or a full emotional reset.
“will do,” chance said, voice an octave too high, saluting with one finger like a tiny, malfunctioning robot.
elliot walked back toward the counter. his steps easy. his hair doing that annoyingly perfect thing where it flopped a little and somehow made him look like he read poetry in parks.
chance stared at the pizza box.
he hadn’t even opened it yet. it was still warm, still radiating that fresh-baked smell that should’ve made him hungry, but all he felt was unhinged.
dragged it over, his brain echoed, like it was trying to destroy him on purpose. like it knew exactly what it was doing.
not carried.
not tossed.
dragged.
like it meant something.
like elliot wanted the moment to stretch a little longer. to be noticed.
like he knew.
chance leaned over the table, buried his face in his hands, and exhaled so hard it almost whistled.
“i’m going to die in this shit,” he muttered to the pizza. “this is how it ends.”
the pizza said nothing.
which was honestly kinder than whatever was happening in his brain.
----
round 3.
chance wasn’t going to go. he’d told himself that, like, twelve times. maybe thirteen. it was bordering on a mantra.
no pizza place today. no eye contact. no more opportunities to make weird noises at a guy who probably just had great customer service instincts and a face sculpted by kind deities.
but his car drove there anyway.
and somehow his feet walked in.
it was supposed to be fine by now. routine. he’d already done this. twice. he’d survived. barely. and yet, here he was—sweaty palms, heart doing parkour, and a head full of absolute nonsense like what if he likes you back and what if you choke on your own name this time.
and there was elliot. behind the counter. radiant and normal and wearing that same soft expression like chance hadn’t spent the last forty-eight hours overanalyzing the dragging of the pizza box like it was ancient scripture.
sunlight through the window hit him in that obnoxiously cinematic way, like the universe was personally trying to humiliate chance with perfect lighting.
“hey,” elliot said, smiling like he meant it. like chance wasn’t just another transaction. “welcome back.”
chance’s mouth did something that might’ve been a greeting. unclear.
elliot tilted his head slightly, already reaching for the register. “the usual?”
“actually, I…” chance hesitated. “I thought I’d… switch it up.”
elliot paused. “yeah?”
he didn’t sound surprised. just… interested. not judgmental. not performative. just listening.
“something really cheesy,” chance said. “like emotionally reckless amounts of cheese.”|
elliot’s smile widened, soft and knowing. “got it. you want our cheesiest, most structurally unsound option.”
“i want to make decisions i regret in the morning,” chance said. “but like, deliciously.”
“got it,” elliot said, smiling as he entered the order. “emotionally irresponsible cheese. coming right up.”
he printed the receipt and passed it over. and—of course—their fingers brushed. and—of course—chance’s soul immediately tried to claw out of his body.
“ten minutes,” elliot said gently, eyes crinkling a little with something that felt too soft to be legal. “i’ll bring it over.”
chance nodded. “cool. great. i’ll… go sit down and pretend to be a normal person!"
he half-stumbled to the booth, sat down, and stared blankly at the window like it might give him life advice. it did not.
what the hell was he doing.
this wasn’t a thing. elliot was just kind. people were allowed to be kind.
from under the table, he pulled out a coin.
shit, he's gonna gamble on something dumb.
heads to confess, tails to just fuck it.
he sighs at himself before tossing the coin, nearly losing it because of his thumb twitching.
there it landed.
heads.
oh shit.
his head snapped up.
and there it was again.
elliot, dragging the pizza box across the counter. slow. deliberate. palms pressed gently on the lid, guiding it like it was breakable. or sacred. or maybe just… worth taking his time with.
chance forgot how lungs worked.
elliot rounded the counter. made his way toward the table. and still—still—dragged the box along the edge with that same careful touch.
"enjoy", elliot said with a gentle smile.
then, softly, elliot added, “i’m glad you came back.”
chance froze.
“what?”
elliot leaned a hip against the side of the booth. not in a dramatic way—just… staying. present.
“i mean,” elliot said, “i wondered if you would. after last time.”
chance’s stomach did something violent and weird. “uh. why wouldn’t i?”
elliot shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug that came with thought behind it. “i don’t know. sometimes people disappear. even after something nice. especially after.”
chance swallowed. “this is… nice?”
elliot tilted his head. “you don’t think so?”
“i mean—yeah. i just—i didn’t know if you did. or if you were just being, like… polite.”
elliot gave a small smile, almost shy. “you think i’m dragging pizzas across counters out of politeness?”
chance opened his mouth. closed it. “i think i’m very confused all the time.”
and elliot—kindly—did not laugh at that. he nodded, like he understood.
“i had a quiet bet with myself,” he said after a pause. “thought you’d come back in three days. took you five. i almost lost.”
chance stared at him like he’d just started speaking in a new language. “you bet on me?”
“mmhm.”
“you thought about me?”
elliot looked at him for a second. then said, softly, “of course i did.”
and chance—chance short-circuited.
like, visibly.
he stared at the pizza box. then at elliot. then at the pizza box again. he felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a cotton ball soaked in sincerity.
“i think i need to sit down,” he muttered, realizing he was already sitting.
“you’re doing great,” elliot said.
“am i?” chance asked. “because it feels like i’m doing terrible.”
elliot smiled again—gentle, nonjudgmental, warm. “feels like you’re just being honest.”
and then he tapped the pizza box twice, like punctuation, and said, “i’ll let you eat. let me know if you want water. or something."
then he walked back to the counter.
and chance, fully speechless, sat there watching him go, feeling like the world had just tilted two degrees toward something softer. scarier.
he thought about me.
he made a bet.
he’s glad i came back.
chance looked down at the pizza. steam curling out like a sigh.
it was too much cheese. it was going to ruin him.
honestly, so was elliot.