Taste of Iron

Four: Purple Hair Isn't For Everyone

Four: Purple Hair Isn't For Everyone

"One more."

"We've played like ten rounds already," Atlas protested.

"I don't give a fuck. Come on, shuffle the cards," Emil ordered.

"But—"

"We're going to keep playing until I win," the brown-haired man stated. "You've got to be cheating."

"How does one even cheat at Uno?" Atlas blinked. "It's fifty percent luck, fifty percent strategy. Not my fault you suck at both."

"I don't know and I don't care! I refuse to end the game without winning at least once," Emil grunted, his lips were pursed and his brows were furrowed as he stared diligently at the cards that Atlas was shuffling.

"How old are you again?" Atlas questioned.

"Twenty-eight and how does that matter? I didn't like losing when I was a kid and I won't like it even when I'm on my deathbed. Your point?" Emil retorted.

"Geez, talk about being a sore loser," Atlas mumbled as he kept the cards on the table. "I don't want to play anymore."

"Excuse me? Are you forgetting that I—"

"Unless you point your gun at my head and tell me to play, I won't," Atlas paused. "Actually, on second thought I might just ask you to end my misery. I can't go over this again."

"I'm not going to take my gun out over a game of Uno," Emil spoke as he rolled his eyes. "What kind of a man do you think I am?"

"One that breaks into an innocent person's house, smashes their laptop on the floor— which, might I remind you, I just finished downloading all the seasons of Downtown Abbey on— and then proceeds to force said person to play countless rounds of Uno simply because his fragile ego can't accept losing. Need I go on?" Atlas rambled.

As soon as he was done, the blue-haired chef looked up at Emil, who seemed just as stunned. Atlas bit the inside of his cheek. He was fucked, wasn't he? He just mouthed off a gang member, one that was armed. On top of that, he commented on his ego and called him a sore loser.

This had to be the stupidest thing he had ever done. He had no doubt that Emil would be pissed, and all Atlas could hope for was that he would at least have the decency to allow Atlas to say goodbye to his family before he fills him up with bullets.

Bye mom, you were the best parent anyone could ever ask for. Damian, you are capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for. Hannah, you should stop dyeing your hair purple, it's really not your color—

"Damn," Emil whispered, his wide-eyed gaze still on Atlas, before he eventually burst out laughing. "That's the most I've heard you talk all night."

"Uh..."

"You know, normal people would be scared of even opening their mouth in front of me but you... Damn, Atlas. You are something else," Emil continued. "I'm kinda glad I chose your apartment to break into."

"I don't think you should be feeling glad about the act of committing a crime but...thanks?"

"Eh," Emil shrugged as he did the weighing scale action with his hands. "Breaking into someone's house versus getting shot multiple times and ending up dead in a ditch? I'll choose the former."

"Fair enough, I guess," Atlas muttered.

"Alright, I'll let you have this one since technically this is your house and I'm just a guest—"

"You're not exactly a guest but—"

"So what do you suggest we do now? If you haven't guessed already, I get bored real quick," Emil spoke.