Chapter Text
Russell woke up gasping, ears sharply ringing out. Frantically, he searched around for Gamby in the dark, his last memories of the man being insane and unbelievable, but still plausible.
Finally, he'd found him, only feet away from him. But, unconscious. "Oh, shit. Ohhhh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." Russell starts to shake him, knowing this would be his fault. "Gamby. Gamby. Gamby! C'mon, Gamby! Wake up!" To no avail, though. Legitimately worried, he rids himself of the helmet, raises his hand up high and drives it down harshly to slap Gamby downright silly.
He wakes up startled, pupils dilated, mouth wet. "Oh, fuck, Gamby! Oh my God, Gamby, are you alright?" Russell hopes a halo magically appears over his head as he speaks softly. Gamby groans, confused still. "Shit! What the hell? I was just dreaming that I..." He realizes his audience. "...honestly, I don't remember but I guess someone slapped me at the end? Shit felt real..." He's propped himself up on his elbows, Russell still knelt down in the fallen leaves beside him.
Russell tuts sarcastically, making sure to clarify his stress on the matter only being the bare minimum. "Well, at least you ain't dead." He gets up off his knees but quickly loses his balance and stumbles back down. "Shit!" Gamby takes the helmet off, standing up. "What happened to you?" Russell scoffs, "Uh, hello? Earth to moron? You rammed my fuckin' head in and knocked me out as well as yourself. Barely woke up 'fore you did." He attempts to stand again, but falls backward, this time into Gamby's arms. "I got you, you're good." And he takes the help, stabilizing his legs like a newborn filly.
"Sorry about your head. I really thought these things were foolproof!" He laughs. Genuinely. Huh. Lost in his thoughts, Russell finds it... strangely comforting. Oddly safe. Maybe even -- "Okay, alright. Enough of that. I'm fine." He pushed off of Gamby and walked on ahead.
"Never thought you weren't." Gamby reassured, clearing his throat and following distantly behind, not forgetting the signature hat.
...
Looking disheveled and like all hell broke loose, Russell and Gamby return to the party to find it a complete wreck. Alcohol is being freely passed around, there's a scent of marijuana looming about, and personal space is not being minded. Both of them look around like they'd seen a haunt of ghosts.
Gamby pulls his whistle out from under the poncho and blows hard and loud. If there weren't music playing, you'd be able to hear a pen drop. "THIS PARTY IS OFFICIALLY OVER! GET YOUR ASSES HOME BEFORE I COME AROUND ANS CONFISCATE ALL THIS SHIT AND WRITE YOUR NAMES DOWN! NOW!"
All the high schoolers flood out of the gym and into their cars or start walking home, some contacting their parents. Watching them leave, Russell questions, "Why'd you just let 'em leave? Wouldn't you wanna confiscate all that paraphernalia?" Gamby shakes his head, silver whistle still in hand. "No, then that falls on both our shoulders and we're both fucked. Hopefully they shut their traps on this, as will we. Right?" Russell nods. "Right."
There are not more than five musical notes, yet the combinations of these five give rise to more melodies than can ever be heard.
The gym is empty of people, although still messy, and Russell and Gamby are standing outside of the parking lot facing the street. They fell over each other more times than they'd ever want to in their lifetimes. Now, they've come to the realziation that neither were in a state to operate a motor vehicle.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" Gamby insists, holding up four.
"Uh, two. Two fingers." Russell answered, so surely.
"Nope. Four. Wrong again." He dusted his hands off, for some reason.
"Okay, well what about you? Instead of puttin' the fuckin' spotlight on me. How many?" Russell holds up one.
"Five? I think?" Gamby readjusts his eyes time and time again, still coming to the same answer.
"The fuck? Damn, you're all fucked up. One finger." He folds the hand into a first, fixing it onto his hip. "We've got concussions. We're gonna need rides home."
Gamby scratches the back of his neck. "You got somebody to call?" Russell pulls his phone out to find it dead. "No! Fuck! It's fuckin' dead. And either way, I didn't. Was just gonna call an Uber." Gamby pulls his phone out, it's at half battery. "I have that one. Never used it though." Gamby pulls it up and fumbles with the ride-share app, big thumbs pressing the wrong things and Russell's attempting to show him the ropes. "No, not that button. It's this one. No, see, you've got it all wrong!" Russell's standing way too close to Gamby's chest, leaning over to be able to see the small writing on the bright screen. They had different models of phones, so it proved difficult.
Unnerved by the vicinity, Gamby breathes a hot, deep breath on Russell's neck accidentally, causing the slim man to shiver and sigh, shutting his eyes tight. "J-just gimme that thing." He grabs the phone and walks a foot away, facing so Gamby can't see how his face had a pink tint to it. Gamby did try to stop him, but it was already awkward enough, so he lets his grasp of it loose.
...
Gamby's front lawn sprinklers are spritzing off which means it's 1:30 in the morning. "We are so fucked." Russell groans and falls onto the grass, uncaring for how the water was washing his face off. "It'll be fine, Russell." Gamby attempts to reassure himself and the whiny man below. He falls down next to him with a loud pant. "No, it won't!" Russell turns over to face Gamby, resting his head on his folded forearm, still talking in the fact he's alive and breathing. "We're gonna be okay! That was a big ass event to oversee. And those kids don't want to get in trouble. It's just us." Gamby takes his hat off, placing it between them and turns over to meets Russell's eyes, also in disbelief.
"Trust me."
"Mmm... fine."
Gamby turns back over and Russell does the same, staring up at the stars for a little.
"...Are you, uh, headed home? Or something?" Gamby folds his hands on his chest. Why did he ask that? Maybe 'cause he felt pretty bad for the dream. Wasn't sure why his brain would think of that. Sure, the fucker is annoying most of the time. But snuffing him out? Jesus, that's a stretch.
"No. Hell, no. I'll probably fall asleep. And I don't wanna owe you nothin' for a ride home." Russell didn't explicitly ask to stay, but that clearly was the only option. For some reason, he regretted the fantasy. He thought he'd love it. But, no. It felt dirty. Like he needed to confess it. But that would be weird. Not doing that. Definitely not in the cards.
"'Kay. That's totally fine." Gamby gets up with a struggle and dusts his backside off. Once up, he extends a hand for Russell to grasp, and he does. Helps him to his feet. Headed inside, Russell grabs the hat before leaving the yard. "Here ya go, cowboy." He offers it out, like an olive branch. "Oh, shit. Thanks." He takes it, their knuckles lightly brush as he places it back on his wet hair.
...
Once inside, the unnatural glow of the bright white lights that were already installed before he moved in illuminated their faces. Unbeknownst to either, they were banged and bruised up. "Hey, you got something up there." Russell wiggles his finger in the air, motioning to the space between his hairline and his eyebrow. A cut. A sizable one. From what, God only knows. Gamby wipes his wrist across it, now a smear of blood on him. "Fuck."
He looks up to Russell and makes a sort of weak sound of repugnance. "What? What?" Worried, Russell licks his rows of teeth, fake fangs included, making sure they're all there. They are. "It's not that. Your forehead. You've got a big bump on it." Russell touches it lightly, flinching at his own fingers. "What the fuck?! That's a big ass bump! Goddammit! Everyone's gonna see!"
"Don't worry about it, I've got some stuff in my bathroom. C'mon." And he follows.
...
"Ah! Fuck, Gamby!"
"Russell... you're fine..."
"No, Gamby! It hurts! Fucking burns!"
"I know it hurts at first, but you'll get used to it."
He twists the cap onto the tube of IcyHot after rubbing it onto the bump gently, like he actually gave a fuck. Gamby wasn't actually entirely sure if this was the right use of it, but, hell, it'll do for now. Russell's sitting on Gamby's toilet lid, making these puffs of air in and out of duck shaped lips, like he had to breathe through the pain. How theatric.
Gamby's now standing in front of the vanity, attempting to put a small bandage on a cut too big for it before scrambling for a bigger one. A hand suddenly swats his own away, the puffing now ceased.
"I got it." Russell grumbled and spins him around. He used two small bandages instead of one big one since the cut was such an odd in-between size. His eyes are focused on lining them up perfectly and his tongue is peaking out of his mouth. The pads of his fingertips brush Gamby’s skin and he realizes how soft they are once they’re clean. He’s noticing every little detail about him until he’s interrupted by Russell pressing his thumb harshly over the bandages, to which Gamby winces at. But, Russell keeps on. "Gotta make sure they stay on."
...
After taking the soaked clothes off and changing into a sweatsuit, Gamby grabbed a bag of frozen peas for Russell's forehead and the bowl of chintzy candies and chocolates he left out on the porch for trick-or-treaters. A decent amount left for two people to share. They had to keep each other awake for the next couple of hours, even if they despised one another.
Bowl between them, they sat on the floor together, since the recliner was the only seat. Russell flipped through the channels, all nice and comfortable -- as you can be on the floor -- a blanket wrapped around him, bag of peas pressed on the bump, hair frazzled and still drying. "You don't have those expensive channels? Showtime? Starz? HBO? The foreign channels?" Gamby shook his head. "No. I spend my money on useful things. Tangible stuff." Russell rolls his eyes, pretty much into the back of his head, settling on AMC's airing of the original Halloween film. "Oh, cool. Love this movie." Gamby settles in, digging his hand into the bowl for a 100 Grand bar. Russell does the same, only finding a Three Museketeers bar, tossing it aside to pull a roll of Smarties out, untwisting the plastic open. "You're even cheap with candy, shit." The ad break is over and Gamby's laser focused on the movie he knew by heart. "Sugar's sugar. Now, shut up, I wanna watch this." Russell sucks on the sour tablet, unwrapping a Rolo.
This'll be a long night.
...
The credits were rolling and Russell was almost falling asleep. Again. Gamby was waking him up. Again.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry." Gamby offers.
Russell stares at the names he didn't know, for the most part, rolling down the screen. "You said that."
Gamby turns the TV down. "No, not for the bad stuff. I didn't mean to call you what I called you. Well, I did. But not really. It doesn't bother me, either way, if you are or aren't. I was just pissed off and it was the first thing that came to mind, so I apologize --"
Russell sighs, not bothering to correct him, "I get it. Thanks. But why'd you get your panties in a bunch over the accent thing? It's not like I don't have one."
Gamby gulps, "It's nothing for you to worry about. Just... don't tell anyone about it. Please."
Russell shrugs and takes the clicker, turning up the volume for The Shining.
...
Autumn sun already shining bright, Gamby woke up, back fucked from sleeping against the stiff wall. The TV's playing a marathon of The Walking Dead. He yawns, clicking it off and noticed the space next to him was empty. As was the bowl, actually. Russell left without a trace -- except for a bunch of candy wrappers and a Post-It Note stuck to Gamby's forehead.
He peeled it off. It read: Truce is off. in elegant handwriting.
"Asshole." He smirked, tossing the Post-It into the pile of litter.
It is easy to love your friend, but sometimes the hardest lesson to learn is to love your enemy.