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“You’re just another girl, alone at the bar, huh Bradshaw,” Hangman sings, slurs even, it’s missing its normal sharp bite to it.
He’s pressed himself next to Bradley on the barstools at the Hard Deck. There’s a thin sheen of sweat covering Hangman’s body, from a combination of playing (beating everyone’s ass, he would say) at pool, and dancing to shitty jukebox music (Slow Ride was a classic, thank you very much). He was only slightly curious as to why Bradshaw hadn’t sidled up to the piano yet, and serenaded everyone with something off one of the old timers’ playlists.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Bagman?” Rooster sighs, wiping his hands of his beer condensation against his jeans.
“You know, that one slutty song that’s like ‘I’m a vegetarian, and I ain’t fuckin scared of him’, the group name has a number in it? Fuck, you gotta know it, but it’s like, you’re just another girl, alone at the bar, and you were sitting over here looking like emo as fuck–”
Rooster cuts him off with a sigh, and a pointedly placed palm to Jake’s face.
“DONTTRUSTME? By 3OH!3?"
“That’s the one! God, play that on the piano right now, come on, you’re talented enough, I’ll hum it and you can get the chords, right?”
“You think highly of me when you’re plastered, Seresin,” Rooster chuckles, raising an eyebrow and tipping the neck of his now foamy beer in Jake’s direction.
“It’s all the time, motherfucker, I just don’t give compliments sober, drunk words are sober thoughts or whatever the bullshit is.”
“Aw, lil Hangman thinks I’m talented but is too scared to say it?” He teases, but Jake’s face hardens a little more than he had expected.
“Bradshaw, Bradley B. Bradshaw, triple B, Imma call you that now, like triple A, but, you, and it works perfect because like reliability, even if it’s fuckin slow sometimes, triple A, but yes, I think you’re talented at playing shitty piano songs and you’re a damned good pilot, would be better than me even with just a little speed, and I’m fucken’ lucky to have ever shared the skies with you, aviator,” he ends with a chuckle and a sloppy salute.
Rooster pointedly ignores the fact that his middle name does not have a B, anywhere in it, and takes the compliment, a small smile masked under what Jake rags on him for being a pornstache.
“Alright, come on Shitface, I’ll play something on the piano, I can’t promise any 3OH!3, but I’ll play something,” he finishes, offering a hand to Jake because he’s a good handful of tequila shots in and Rooster doubts he can put his two feet in front of each other. Hangman not only takes the hand but wraps his other one around Rooster’s shoulder, and presses his full body weight into him. He tilts his head up to Rooster’s ear.
“You tellin’ me you ain’t got a black dress, with the tights underneath,” he whispers, a grin plastered on his face, nothing but hot air into Bradley’s ear, and it shouldn’t fucking be hot, but it is. Rooster just exhales, leading Hangman to the piano bench, setting him down before going to grab a few cups of cold water for both Jake and himself.
As he walks away, Jake shouts out:
“You’re talking with them hips Bradley! You’re a quick study!”
He flushes, hidden under the low lighting of the bar, but Phoenix shoots him a raised eyebrow from her spot near the pool table. Rooster just shakes his head, rolls his eyes even for effect, as if to say: “Hangman, am I right?”, but he doubts she falls for it, especially with how he wears his big fuckin heart on the sleeve of his brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. He takes the two cool glasses of water, squeezes one in his hand, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat and his suddenly sweaty palms. He hands one to Hangman who was still perched near the piano, and who pats the open space next to him, gesturing for Bradley to sit.
Rooster, forever cursed with doing Jake’s every wish, slides in next to him, begins to play Great Balls of Fire, the classic, and of course, Hangman, forever claiming the role of someone who pushes Rooster just past his comfort zone, leans over and croons softly in the shell of his ear:
“I would say don’t trust a ho, Roo, but I want to touch you, and love you, wo-oah-oah-ohhh.”
With a fucking smirk on his face.