#gta self insert

The Sandy Shores trailer was glowing faint orange from the sunset, but inside, everything was loud and messy in a good way. Wade had cranked the boombox until the walls shook with thumping bass, ICP verses spilling out.

Chad was sitting cross-legged on the couch, cheeks already covered with orange Cheeto dust. He was smaller like this, quieter in the jittery way, words tumbling out but softer, like he didn’t feel like he had to be funny or clever all the time... I mean not that he was clever normally anyway.

Wade plopped beside him with a plastic bag full of Faygo bottles. He held one out with a proud grin. “Lil’ Bangsy, pick your flavor. Redpop, grape, or—” He squinted at the label. “Uh… cotton candy? Could've sworn I got rockin rye”

“Red!” Chad chirped, snatching the bottle with both hands like it was treasure. He twisted at the cap, tongue poking out in concentration, until Wade gently covered his hands. “Easy, buddy, don’t bust it.” He cracked the fizz open himself, passing it back, and watched Chad beam as he took his first sip, lips stained bright pink.

On the coffee table, an old makeup bag was cracked open. Wade rummaged through it like a magician’s hat, pulling out eyeliner pencils, cheap palettes, a paintbrush with bristles sticking out. “Okay, clown time,” Wade announced. “But you gotta sit still, Lil’ Bangsy. Juggalos don’t wiggle.”

Chad puffed up his cheeks, trying very hard to sit properly as Wade leaned in close. The pencil scratched gently over his pale skin, tracing a wide, wobbly diamond around one eye. Chad giggled when Wade’s thumb smudged his cheek by accident.

“What’s it mean?” Chad mumbled, referring to the makeup, voice syrupy from the soda.

“It means we’re family,” Wade said, suddenly soft. He met Chad’s darting eyes and tapped the little star he’d drawn at the corner of his mouth. “Juggalos look out for each other, no matter what. Doesn’t matter if you’re broke or weird or… y’know, just you.”

Chad’s smile turned shy, the kind where he tucked his chin into his shoulder. “I’m weird,” he admitted in a tiny voice.

“Yeah,” Wade said warmly, drawing a crooked grin on Chad’s face with black paint. “Me too. That’s why we’re the best.”

When the makeup was done, Wade held up a scratched compact mirror. Chad squinted at his reflection, face split between smudgy clown paint and Cheeto streaks. He let out a delighted little cackle, bouncing in place. “I look like a scary clown!”

“The scariest,” Wade agreed, ruffling his patchy blonde hair. “Scary clown with the biggest heart in Blaine County.”

And for the rest of the night, between sticky fingers, messy snacks, and songs too loud for the neighbors, Chad let himself believe it.