Shit.

Arthur was used to losing, in gambling - he'd lost everything, after all. Still, he felt that familiar heart-stopping sensation at the realization: he'd lost. He wasn't going to go home with more money, a sudden windfall - he was going to go home with less. (And - maybe this was worse - the game was over.)

It was just a sickle, though. Desdemona would never notice. It could have fallen out of his wallet. A sickle wasn't the sort of sum that broke people, it wasn't a property, it wasn't a debt. It was a sickle, just petty gambling money, and no one ever had to know about the guilt creeping in through his hands and his spine.

It was just a sickle. This whole thing - testing out his addiction like it was an old bruise - had proven it, he was still the same person, but if it was just a sickle he didn't have to come back here. It didn't have to become a habit. No one would ever know, and just because he knew, for himself, that he hadn't really changed - he would always be a gambler, but no one else had to know.

The feeling - even in the face of the loss, he was still remembering the feeling of winning. For a few minutes, he'd been in control, confident - all the things that he wanted to be. Anything was possible.

If it was just a sickle he could come back here, right?

"Sure," Art said, after a beat. "I'm sure I'll see you here again."

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