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McCree could recall the series of events that led him here, but sitting on a stool behind a kitchen counter with a drink in his hands is his excuse not to. Not that he isn’t enjoying the party so far, with its host’s collection of fine bourbon and the flashy lights to make it all seem more like a nightclub, but he doesn’t know them personally and on top of that he doesn’t know anyone else here aside from Genji. So, the only thing he knows is: himself, Genji, the cowboy getup he’s in and the drink in his hands. He slumps further onto the surface of the counter, arms resting on the top of it. His hat tips down in favour of shading his eyes. The serape around his shoulders is comfortable, the belt around his hips audacious (just like how he likes it), and the drawl in his voice fits just perfectly.
What he means to say is, Genji Shimada is a son of a bitch. Or at the very least, a bastard. McCree is perfectly fine with either. The identifier could be anything with a negative connotation—McCree’s just flexible like that. Hell, he’s flexible enough to accept a bet and go through with it with his pride in tatters and half his dignity stolen. The other’s half taken up by the bourbon.
Genji Shimada is nowhere to be seen. McCree expects this, which is why before the party begins he makes sure Genji is always in sight. Wild green hair, wild green eyes (contacts), an even wilder voice, McCree doesn’t know how Genji does it (and McCree himself isn’t doing a very good job if he’s drinking himself to oblivion) but all that wildness disappears right underneath his nose, vanishes just when McCree thinks he’s doing a very good job at not letting Genji go.
‘Fuck,’ he hisses for what’s the eleventh time in the hour he’s been here. He was doing a good job. “Should’ve kept my eye on him.”
Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. McCree knows these three go in hand, and that what’s past has already past. He sighs into the length of his arm, bourbon tasting bitter on his lips. God knows what he’ll do to Genji when he sees him. If he sees him. And if McCree isn’t blackout drunk by then.
It’s not a fun party if he’s drinking alone. This isn’t McCree’s first, maybe will be his last if alcohol poisoning gets to him first, but he has enough experience to know he’s the kind that prefers socializing instead of attempting to passively-aggressively threaten Genji with self-afflicted poisoning. If he knocks that pink lava lamp that sits innocently to his right, maybe it’ll end up starting a series of events that lead to Genji being in a ballerina getup. The lamp’s a bit too bright for his taste, anyway. A bit too pink. Contrasts with his serape.
The lamp glows, offended.
McCree glowers back.
McCree is half-tempted by this point, because what does he have to lose? (A rhetorical question, because Genji doesn’t care about lava lamps for the most part) But then as he’s sitting up, releasing his hold on the cup in his hand to inch towards the lamp, there’s movement happening in the corner of his eye and he snaps to his left, jolted from the sudden rush of another presence.
“You are not thinking of what I am thinking you are thinking,” the suspiciously cognizant presence tells him, takes a sit on the stool. They cross their legs, their lips in a tight crease leaning downwards, and their hands are folded against their chest. McCree groans. They don’t even have a drink. They’re entirely sober, and entirely sober people are a pain to deal with when he’s drunk. “Tell me so. The lamp does not look like it is of any value.”
“Well, whaddya think I’m thinking that you’re thinking? No, wait,” McCree pauses. “whaddya think I’m thinking?”
“I must be tired,” the man continues, shaking their head in disapproval that makes McCree frown in response. It shouldn’t hurt him as much as it does, but it does and McCree’s throat grows dry. His heart kind of hurts, but that should be the bourbon taking effect. “You even have the voice to go with your ridiculous costume.”
“Hi, tired,” McCree says. Genji’s been his friend for too many years for him not to take the chance. “Name’s Jesse McCree, and you’re ignoring my question.”
Score one, Jesse McCree, he dryly thinks, grins in more triumph than he really should be feeling. There’s an audible groan coming from Tired, the roll of their eyes satisfying to McCree’s buzzing nerves as he chuckles and takes a sip from his cup. Still bourbon. Water should appear if he concentrates hard enough.
“Distasteful.”
“Only thing’s distasteful here is your lack of humor,” McCree responds. If the other man’s going to be such a handsome asshole the very least he could do is appreciate McCree’s half-assed joke. The lava lamp-loving man rolls his eyes, flits them over to McCree’s cup.
“You’ve had too much to drink. No wonder you’re in a getup like this. Who put you up to it?”
“You sayin’ I don’t have the guts to dress myself up?”
“I am waiting.”
“Genji. Ya know, the green haired piece of shit, no offense, ‘course.”
“…my brother.”
McCree nearly does a double take. “You don’t look like Hanzo Shimada.”
“You don’t look like—“
“’fore you roast me, I have a feelin’ you should be more offended by my insult.”
Hanzo, the lava lamp loving brother of the duo, arches a brow. McCree finds it very hard to spot similarities between Genji and him. “I am.”
“The one for your brother.”
“Oh. I am not.”
McCree considers this answer for a few seconds. There is silence between them as McCree furrows his brow, going over Hanzo’s answer over and over again until he forgets entirely how Hanzo had replied. By this time, Hanzo has went from crossing his arms to uncrossing them, putting a leg over the other, crossing his arms again and then proceeding to lay them on the table, fingers tapping against the brown countertop repeatedly like McCree’s in a shifty second-hand episode of Jeopardy. Thump, thump, thump, goes Hanzo’s fingers. It fits perfectly with the beating of McCree’s kind-of-hurting-but-kind-of-itching heart. Kind-of-nervous-but-kind-of-wanting-more-heart. Thump, thump, thump. “Oh. So, we’re cool.”
“No. I am still offended.” Hanzo rolls his eyes again. McCree doesn’t find any offense in that.
“Okay. But you still haven’t answered my question, partner.”
McCree takes in a breath. He doesn’t actually know what question he just asked, having shoved it underneath a bunch of things more important like contemplating what the thumping of his heartbeat means and how much psychic energy it will take for a cool, plain glass of water to appear out of thin air, while Hanzo looks like he’s on the verge of asking a question (he’s tilting his head to the side, eyes scarily trained onto Jesse’s like a hawk) or helping McCree knock the lava lamp off (but he wouldn’t dare). But then Hanzo laughs, a brief short huff that sounds like a mix between someone grunting and coughing, but McCree isn’t picky with what kinds of laughter he likes to hear.
“I like you. You are… straightforward.” Thump, thump, thump.
“C’mon. Just want an answer.”
“You were looking at that lava lamp too closely for my liking. No one looks at an object like that unless they have special intentions for it,” Hanzo finally explains, casting his eyes aside for a second. Of course the lava lamp loving brother of the duo would notice things like that. Of course. “You were planning to do something.”
“Like?”
“If you really wish to have one, it’s on sale at the local supermarket. I saw it.”
He steers himself away from his right side, decides to focus all his attention onto Hanzo. McCree is about to say something, to protest in response to Hanzo’s assumption, give a retort that’s somewhere along the lines of i thought destroying a lamp would end up with your brother dancing in a ballerina costume, hair and all, but he falters. “Oh. Wow. Hey, wow. You… you got me there.”
“Yes,” Hanzo nods, once. He looks very convinced. “It comes in other colors. Black. Red. Green. You look like you like red.”
“I do?”
“The serape.”
“Genji put me up to this, darlin’,” McCree tries to argue against, gesturing to himself. The red serape is comfortable to wear. “Just ‘cause I wear red doesn’t mean I like red.”
“It would have been green,” Hanzo deadpans, removing his hands from the table. Thank god. McCree’s no longer in a show of a progressively tense game of jeopardy. “Genji likes green.”
“He practically wears it,” McCree challenges, or at the very least, tries to challenge. Hanzo arches a brow again, lips painfully pressed against each other, thinned out in indifference. (The painful part is McCree’s feelings.) Hanzo points at his serape. Fuck. “I feel betrayed.”
“Well then. If I like red—and fine, partner, I admit, I do—then you look like the kinda guy who likes pink.”
“Pink is good. Perhaps I do like pink.”
“Hell yeah, now we’re talkin’. Good taste.”
“If only the same could be said for Genji and you,” Hanzo replies. The bourbon is interesting again. “I’m just kidding. You look like you’re pouting.”
“I am,” McCree responds.
“It looks like…”
“Don’t. Gotta stop ya right there. The night’s still young and I don’t have much of my dignity left.” McCree eyes the whiskey that’s barely even trickled down in amount from all the drinking he’s been doing. After Hanzo leaves, and in spite of all the warning signs, he’s going to down it. And get another shot. And another. By hook or by crook. As a celebration for something, like meeting Hanzo, maybe. “Drowned it all—my dignity, I mean—in this costume and the bourbon.”
“You don’t exactly look like you have much dignity left,” Hanzo comments, amusement spreading onto his face. His lips curl upwards. Thump, thump, thump. “Oops.”
“See what I mean?” McCree groans, shakes his head. “Crafty bastard.”
“You’re playing yourself,” Hanzo remarks. “I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed someone like you.”`
“And?”
Witnessed someone like you.
“I like it.” Thump, thump, thump.
McCree whistles lowly, raises his eyebrows. “Glad we could find common ground. I like myself too.”
“Not enough to reject becoming a pseudo cowboy, it seems.”
“Naw. Enough to not reject honouring a bet.”
“Is that what we’re going to call it now? ‘Honouring a bet’. Sure, cowboy. Of course.”
“Say what you want, but admit it, you find me charming.”
“Perhaps,” Hanzo says. McCree laughs. He forgets about the drink he hasn’t but has promised to down. The taste of bourbon eventually recedes into nothing on his tongue, and maybe Hanzo notices. McCree wouldn’t know. Hanzo looks the same as ever even with a faint scowl on his lips or a smile—this he’s realized. Thump, thump, thump.
Soon enough McCree makes Hanzo laugh. It’s over something small, something trivial, a short story about a day Genji and him spent inside a café somewhere unimportant enough for him to forget. Hanzo chuckles, doesn’t really laugh, but McCree—McCree isn’t picky. Hanzo laughs, does more than just a huff this time around, and then—and then everything glows.
-
Me [4:21AM]
Genji.
Piece of sheet
Piece Of Sheet [4:29AM]
thanks
what’s up
Me [4:30AM]
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Yr bro
Piece Of Sheet [4:31AM]
you met him?
Me [4:31AM]
Duh
Oh wait, I forgot you weren’t with ME at the PARTY
Asshole
Piece Of Sheet [4:31AM]
I know
Me [4:31AM]
Not talking about u
Him
Asshole
Piece Of Sheet [4:32AM]
i know
Me [4:32AM]
Irritable
Piece Of Sheet [4:32AM]
i know
Me [4:39AM]
Hot
Piece Of Sheet [4:39AM]
i know
Me [4:45AM]
Hot irritable cutie I’d like to fuck
Piece Of Sheet [4:48AM]
I knew he was your type
u forgot asshole
Me [4:49AM]
What
Piece Of Sheet [4:49AM]
go back to sleep jesse
-
Piece Of Sheet [9:22AM]
did you do something to Hanzo
Piece Of Sheet [9:23AM]
he
he bought things for me
and you I think
Piece Of Sheet [9:26AM]
I knew everyone knew you liked red but I didn’t know that included him
Piece Of Sheet [9:29AM]
I opened the box he gave
you should’ve heard him when he said ‘a gift for you’
sounded
odd
Piece Of Sheet [9:29AM]
…it’s a lava lamp, jesse
Piece Of Sheet [9:29AM]
what did u do, jesse
Piece Of Sheet [9:31AM]
at least its green
Piece Of Sheet [9:36AM]
urs is red btw
-
Unknown Number [1:00PM]
Is this Jesse McCree?
Me [1:00PM]
Hey Tired
I’m Jesse McCree