ik i started the joke abt passing blueberry around like a joint but what if the poor guy actually encountered some weed??? funny jellies from the market, don't give him a second he's gonna green out
He was just about to add some finishing touches when the door slammed open. It echoed through the entire apartment, which had been dead asleep.
Well, probably not anymore.
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.
But that was the best he was going to get right now.
when you’re in an online recovery meeting and someone is saying something really personal and powerful but you can’t focus on the content bc they have a strong accent you find the cadence of their speech absolutely mesmerizing
