8:45pm. Every single night at 8:45pm. Wayne paced the living room floor of Nickâs place as he waited for his watch to get to that specific time. As the hand marking the seconds rounded up to the twelve, he walked over to the coffee table and began. Staring at metal, fitting the pieces together like a puzzle he knew all too well, blowing away dust and gun powder as he tried to fit everything back to their place in record time. It was a routine he tried to get better at each and every time he did it. In a dire situation, he needed to be faster at putting his gun together than the one who would be firing at him. And although there was no longer a physical opponent, he still had one clear and present in his mind.
@notplayingsecond
When they didnât have a gig or rehearsal, Nick tended to retreat to his bedroom about 8:30 and leave Wayne to his own devices and the couch he currently was letting him sleep on. And this night was no different.
At a little after 9:00, however, he decided to get a drink. It wasnât like it was unusual for him to have a night cap. But what he saw in the living room stopped him from going any further and froze him in place.
It wasnât like he didnât know Wayne had his gun with him, hell Nick had his own in the closet, but watching his methodically put the pieces of the weapon together, fingers moving as fast as he could, sent a chill through his spine.
They were all fucked in the head from what happened over there, some worse than others. Theyâd never be remotely close to the men they were before. But more so there were men who couldnât live with it. They came back âfineâ but died within a couple months of being home. Nobody talked about it but everyone knew it was happening. Heâd been to two funerals since he got back.
There was absolutely no reason for him to be playing with his pistol like that unlessâŚ
âWhat are you doing?â
Wayne was so startled by Nickâs sudden appearance that he nearly aimed his gun at him, but caught himself before he could hold it up. He gasped slightly at the sheer panic he had been exposed to in less than a second, the adrenaline rushing through him like heâd just been thrusted onto a battlefield again.
âJesus Christ, you scared me!â He hissed, exhaling slightly before continuing to take his gun back apart until he realized what his friend had just caught him doing. He froze with his hand hovering over the weapon, slowly looking up from it to meet Nickâs eyes. ââŚNothing. Iâm not doing anything. Youâre uh, youâre usually asleep by now.â
âBullshit. What are you doing?â He pressed getting the gumption up to move forward, in case he had to whisk the weapon away from the other man.
âYouâre out here, playing with your gun, in the dark and youâre also a fucking lunatic, itâs not the most reassuring combination.â His voice was firm as he asked again. âWhat are you doing, Wayne?â
Nick didnât show emotions and he wasnât about to drop his guard now and let his band mate know just how terrified heâd become for Wayneâs safety.
âNothing, Nick. Donât worry about it. Itâs not a big deal.â Wayne put the gun back together in record time and shifted the weapon between his hands, counting as he did so. He didnât want to tell Nick the truth. He knew the other was well aware of his schedule and his various negative habits, but this was a new layer of crazy even for him.
He looked back down at the gun with a sigh, his eyes flicking between the weapon and the watch every so often. âWhy the hell do you care so much about what Iâm doing anyway?â
âBecause I donât want to come out here in the morning and find you with your brains blown out. Believe it or not I actually care about your fucking well being.â
He was standing in front of him now, ready to snatch the damn thing away and hide it if he didnât get the truth. âIâm going to ask you again, what are you doing?â
His hand twitched slightly when he shifted the gun back to his right hand, a common occurrence when he felt like there was something he needed to do. But why now, when he was keeping busy? He was counting. He had counted up to fifteen, a number that sufficed to allow himself to move back to start taking the weapon apart and start all over again.
âItâs justâŚitâs part of my schedule.â That probably wasnât the answer Nick wanted, but Wayne didnât know how to phrase it properly. Besides, he was already five minutes behind said schedule and he should be done with the gun and emptying the spit valve on his trombone by now.
âPart of your schedule is act like a dangerous psychopath every night? Because thatâs what it looks like from an outside perspective.â
He reached out and put his hand on pieces that Wayne had already taken a part while they were talking. âI know weâre all fucked but this is taking it to a whole new level, the kind of level that gets folks committed.â
