★ for the crowd ★

Wingo fiddles with the tab of his second Monster can while watching kids in the distance get picked up by their parents. It’s getting late, dark, but the stillness settling over everything is… calming.

"See? Told ya. Trust me bro, I know the good shit."

DJ fumbles for a lighter in his pocket and a half-bent cigarette he'd managed to steal from Boost.

They're sitting on a hill overlooking most of the park, the city stretched out beneath them. High enough to see everything, hidden enough that nobody would notice them unless they climbed up there too.

The lighter clicks.

Wingo's head turns automatically. His lips part slightly before he sighs.

Maybe he'll get a puff another time.

Actually, never. He’d told himself he'd quit.

Instead of smoke, though, all he sees is DJ messing around with the flame, trying not to burn his fingertips.

"Yo, how'd you find this place? I feel like I've been living here forever and had no clue." Wingo takes a swig of his drink.

"I sometimes bring bitches here for dates." DJ says, yawning and looking into the distance.

Wingo can feel his stomach cave in.

He takes another desperate drink as his throat suddenly goes dry.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

"They like the view. The sunsets. Y'know?" DJ shrugs. "Pretty much a guaranteed jackpot."

Wingo chokes on his drink.

"YO- you good, man?!"

He coughs a few times.

"Yeah." Wingo clears his throat. "Yeah, man."

Was he?

He should be.

He doesn't feel like he is.

But there's no reason not to be.

Unless he wants to fuck everything up.

"D'you think Boost wants this back?" DJ waves the half-bent cigarette, barely holding together.

Wingo stares at it a second too long. His lips are dry. Then a weak smirk tugs at his mouth.

"Man, he's gonna kill you."

"Not if he won't find out."

"I kinda wanna snitch."

DJ huffs a laugh. He flicks the lighter once, twice, then pockets it, cigarette still between his fingers. He glances at Wingo, grinning.

"Fuck you."

"You do deserve a good punch." Wingo leans forward, grabbing his knees, head resting on them, absently shaking his drink.

"Brooo- my arm still hurts." DJ dramatically rubs his right arm, flinching when he feels an old bruise.

"Deserved."

"Maybe a little."

"Maybe a little more."

"Tsk- whose side are you on, Wingo?"

"Mine." Wingo glances at him. "Obviously." He takes another sip. "Yeah, you're both idiots."

"Yo-!" DJ lightly punches him in the shoulder. They both laugh.

"We’re in this together. All idiots or no idiots."

"Woahhh- what wise words, Big D."

"Wisest of them all, bro."

"Yeah especially that time when you drank-"

"No- shut up. Fuck off. Don't bring that up."

"Pfft-"

"We don't talk about that." DJ points a threatening finger.

"Alright, alright."

"And I'll take this as compensation, thank you very much," he says, grabbing the energy drink and taking a swig.

"Hey! I was about to finish that."

"Too bad. You need to cut down on them anyway."

"You need to cut down" Wingo mumbles, mocking him, but doesn’t try to take it back.

"This flavor sucks," says DJ, taking another sip anyway.

"No way! This is one of the best."

"No, it's awful."

"You have no taste."

"You like it because the can is green."

"I- no. No!"

"Bwahaha" DJ pops the tab off, shoving it in his pocket and giving the can back.

Wingo looks back at the view. It’s quiet again. He can hear his thoughts.

"Dude, light that cigarette." he perks up.

"What, why?"

"I've got an idea." Wingo scrambles in his own pockets for something. "You have a piece of paper?"

"Yeah?"

"Cool. Gimme that too."

DJ raises an eyebrow before complying. He lights the cigarette, takes a few puffs, then hesitantly hands it to Wingo with a crumpled piece of paper torn from a bag.

"I can, like, draw with this, you know?" Wingo lets the piece of paper rest on his thigh. He starts doing some ashy strokes, and slowly they take shape.

"Yoo- that's actually kinda sick."

"Mhm, mhm," Wingo says, not looking up.

A silhouette gets contoured and fingers smudge where shadows should fall.

DJ starts humming something, lazily keeping rhythm while Wingo keeps drawing. He can feel DJ's breath and the low hum of it more than hear it.

He's more than relieved when DJ drops back into the grass, one arm behind his head, eyes closed. Wingo realizes he’s been holding his breath.

The cigarette burns down slowly. Smoke drifts into the night air, but Wingo's cravings seem to have found something else to do for once.

Stroke after stroke, the drawing starts coming together. He keeps wondering if he should show it off when he’s done.

Then music cuts through the quiet.

Actual music. Not DJ's humming.

Wingo glances over. DJ's phone has been tossed somewhere in the grass, a song crackling through its speakers.

It's getting chilly.

They're just chilling.

And that's… kinda nice.

"Yo- and what exactly are you doing?" DJ cuts through the silence, making Wingo jump slightly.

"Drawing?"

"Yeah bro, but like what exactly?"

"Just whatever, I guess. Whatever I see."

"And what do you see?"

"A dumbass."

DJ purses his lips, frowns in confusion before his eyes open wide like he finally gets it. He shakes his head and reaches for the piece of paper.

"Lemme see."

Wingo pulls it back, turning away completely.

"Not done yet."

"C'mon!"

"Nuh-uh."

"Yo, if I'm the muse, I definitely got preview privileges."

Wingo looks away, faintly flushed, fingers brushing his mustache as he tries not to laugh.

"I can't believe you basically admitted you’re a dumbass."

"Yeah, whatever, whatever- I'm an idiot-yeah- show me, dude!”

“DJ, just wait a damn second. I just want to add some finishing touches."

DJ lets his head fall to the side, unimpressed. He blows a strand of hair from his face and signals Wingo to continue.

"Ah shit-" The cigarette bud burns his fingers. It drops to the ground and Wingo quickly steps on it to put out the last sparks.

"Can I see it now?"

"DJ."

"What??"

"You know what. Sure. You win. Here.” Wingo hands him the drawing and turns his head away. The park was real quiet now. The city was not. Cars roared in the distance. Maybe they should go for a ride.

"Yo-"

Could he pretend he didn't hear DJ?

"This is like- dude, you do have mad skills like- what??? This is so sick.”

Oh!

"Shut up- you are just buttering me up."

"No, no- like for real. I love this. I look hot as fuck, yo?? Dude, this is amazing."

Wingo just stares at the ground for a second, ears burning.

"I'm putting this on my wall."

"Wait-for real?"

"Hell yeah!! This and this fuckass tab." DJ says while digging through his pocket to show Wingo his little souvenir.

"That's- pretty sweet actually?"

"Sweet? Nah, bro- look at this. Literally captured my perfectly beautiful face." DJ holds the drawing up near his face, striking a pose, hand on his cheek and lips pressed together.

Wingo laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Better than a picture, huh?"

"Damn right."

DJ lowers the drawing, still grinning.

Wingo leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky.

DJ taps out another rhythm on his thighs, killing time.

"It's getting quite dark," Wingo points out.

"Mm yeah. We should probably get moving." But DJ doesn’t budge.

"Yeah." Wingo nods. "Probably."

DJ's a traveling musician. one-man band, stupidly talented, the kind of guy who can get an entire town gathered around him and watching. while everyone's distracted by his performance, the others sneak off to steal whatever they came for

wingo's a sign painter. store fronts, advertisements, saloon signs, ranch logos, even portraits. sometimes he does embroidery too. basically anything decorative, he's probably done it

boost's a blacksmith. horseshoes, tools, like if it's made of metal, he can probably make or fix it. he's probably always trying to improve things too, especially when it comes to making horses run faster. most his ideas are brilliant but some might be safety hazards

snot's a stable hand. he spends most of his time around horses, cleaning stalls, feeding them, helping with training...he's good at calming nervous horses, spotting injuries, and figuring out which animals are actually worth betting on in a race

and for sure the equivalent of their flashy cars is- well- flashy horses. the biggest, strongest, prettiest stallions they can get their hands on. all their tack and accessories are decorated (thanks, wingo) so they draw attention the second they ride into a town

Wingo's hand flinched, smearing paint all over the thing he was working on.

"What the hell-"

"Shit- sorry," the voice barging in rasped as clumsy steps stumbled into Wingo's bed.

The paint stain wasn't too bad. Wingo could probably just cover it up, but it also looked kind of sick. He could keep it in.

"Yo- DJ- what's up?" Wingo finally decided to turn and face his bro.

DJ was face-planted into the mattress, limbs weirdly tangled like a dead bug lying on its back.

"You good?"

A groan was the only response he got.

Wingo was fairly still a little annoyed, but he should probably figure out if his buddy was alive before scolding him or something. He carefully made his way to the bed and put a hand on his back.

DJ's jolt was so delayed it immediately earned a snort from Wingo.

"Yo-I'm outtttt... like, so out..." he whined, rubbing his face as if trying to resurrect himself.

"Yeah, man. It's obvious."

"Yo- for real? Shit, man. Fuck. I hope no dogs smelled my high."

"Nah. You're good."

"Fuuuuuck."

Wingo got up and brought him a glass of water.

"What's that?" DJ perked up.

"Poison."

"Rat poison?"

"Yeah. For rats"

"Nah, you're fucking with me."

"Just drink the damn water, DJ. I'm sure there's none in your system right now, so fill it up."

DJ grabbed the glass and inspected it hesitantly. He smelled the rim and tasted only a drop before gulping it down like a lost man in the desert.

"Rough night?"

Wingo didn't really care when he asked. Not to give the wrong idea- he cared. Just not in the way DJ might think.

Not how much he drank, smoked, partied, or fucked himself up.

More like whether he'd crashed badly and felt like total shit, or if he'd accidentally scratched his whole-ass thigh again without even noticing.

That kind of stuff.

Whether he'd made it back home in one piece.

DJ was facing him, but not looking at him. He stared somewhere behind Wingo, like the dim neon lights on the walls might bring back memories the way they did in movies.

"You know what else is rough?"

"Yo, man. I'm not buying your dumb jokes."

"Tsk. Bummer."

"Did you break a leg?"

"Yeah, man. The show was fireeeeeeee. I killed it. My set was too fucking good tonight. You should've come."

"No, DJ. I meant, like, for real."

"M'legs are fine. Not falling off the stage this time."

"It shouldn't even happen like- at all, you know?"

"Yo- most of the time people catch me."

"Sure, bro. Fuck around and see how it is when no one's there."

The delivery wasn't cold, but it made DJ freeze for a second and made Wingo question his words.

But he'd been soft about it for way too long.

Perhaps a reality check wasn't that bad.

"I thought I got you, man..."

And he said it with such disappointment that Wingo felt like he'd just kicked a puppy.

A sad, high puppy.

He licked his lips, and looked around, trying to find something- something right to say.

"You do. But, you know, I can't always be there. Not me, not the other guys...And we want you to come back intact, you know?"

"Yeah. Whatever dude."

"I know you can take care of yourself, but... be more careful, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Got you."

And Wingo wasn't reassured at all.