Down For the Count [Wonty]

1-1. late nights n' social rites

Midnight erupts like a bolt from the blue and Monty's mind is still pacing in quaking agitation. He's as high as a kite; eyes catching, fingers scrambling, soul searching for purchase on something that'll stick. Monty hasn't taken any drugs- he wouldn't dare jeopardize his football career, even though it was pretty much done for already. Winston's car is idling before a 7-Eleven gas station when streams of oily, honest rain come running. Beads of rain bathe the world in the fresh scent of starting anew. Monty cries along to the soft little staccato of downtime downpour, mind shuffling and buffering with stifled agitation. He listens, harkening hard to hear the engine of Winston's posh ride whirring along to the offbeat orchestra of pouring rain.

The windows of Winston's car are kicked down, and Monty's seated shotgun. Stifled tears roll down his cheeks and exchange with the streams of chilling night rain. He would have closed the window if it didn't mean drowning in the eternal ocean of his own agitated thoughts. Needless to say, Monty had shit to air out— he couldn't help that it came out now—but fuck, did he need to get himself together before Winston came back. His foot taps in even quarter-notes to shake the bitter feeling of a future lost in the wind. The little staccato of light city downpour eases him just a bit, or maybe it was just the hope of it all. The dwindling, stupid hope that was hanging on by a thread thinner than the lines he makes a sport out of crossing. There was nothing left for him now— what college would take an athlete with sexual assault of a minor on his record? What the hell was he going to do now? Football was his entire life. Now all that is left is Winston, but is he enough? Monty grumbles to himself with a heavy head depending on the lowered pane on his car window. The world walks on without him, not bothering to sweet-talk or squeeze his hand. It's bitter. Really, really fucking bitter.

Winston's swinging by the fast food spots in the strip mall beside the 7-Eleven with high hopes and an insouciant disposition. Monty was shell-shocked from his run-in with the law, but Winston was as casual as ever. He even expected Monty to keep food down.

"Yeah, no way," He scoffs to himself, steadying his troubled vision and swiping the streaming tears away. He doesn't really mind the optimism, since he's in need of some to spare.

Monty stirs when he hears Winston's car unlock and lifts his head to see the devil himself carrying a paper bag and a casual warmth.

"You know," Winston says, propping the driver's door open with his vacant hand. "It sort of defeats the purpose of having a roof on the car if you're just going to roll down the windows and soak yourself." He rests the paper bag on Monty's lap before sliding into the driver's seat. The aroma of something that'd probably kill him before he saw thirty wafted through the car, but sickness still lingers in Monty's stomach. Fast food is tempting, but he isn't particularly inclined on ruining his clothes and/or Winston's car.

Monty snorts. He is showered with short little pinpricks of night-time's little leaden tears, but their piecemeal and offbeat patterns are enough to ease his mind.

"What if I don't want to shut it?" Monty replies, just to be difficult. Winston scoffs and withdraws the bag to filter through it. A sandwich is in his hand and he asks Monty if he can eat it.

"Only if you want me to throw up all over your car." Monty thought himself a great flirt.

Winston surrenders with a soft scoff and a smile. His lips fork and it lifts Monty's mind out of its dark rut. It takes him to late nights driving down dead ends, impromptu excursions to the oceanfront, and the promise of a morning sun that'd be forever brighter than his future. Monty's pretty far gone in his memory and he's troubled just to speak, what with the sickening tides of emotion ebbing away at his sanity and the stomach bug killing him from the inside out.

"Damn. Jail food's really that bad?" Winston murmurs with an air of careful thoughtfulness. Law's a hot topic, but it'd do them both better to tackle it now as opposed to later. Monty hooks his head away, glad that Winston wasn't one to badger him with questions but biding his time til it inevitably came up.