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He plays the piano when he’s angry.
Well, not necessarily. If he’s in any negative mood—nervous, sad, frustrated—he’ll eventually get angry with himself for feeling that way and find himself sitting on the bench, opening the lid of the large ebony instrument.
But what he plays is never violent. There is no mashing of keys or cacophany of noise. Just one song. Always the same one. Always with that gentle, almost melancholic tune, enough that the keys seem to press themselves down in anticipation of his fingertips.
He doesn’t care if anyone’s listening. He doesn’t care that he doesn’t know why it helps. It just does. He lets it be and plays, allowing the melody to massage the tension from his shoulders.
It’s three in the morning.
Their heist was a failure. It’s Slick’s fault and they all know it, including himself. He’d rejected their opinions on his plans and had them nearly killed. They’d be dead if it wasn’t for Deuce’s surprising foresight to rig a bomb just where they needed it, allowing them to escape.
No one mentions the incident, so at first everything seems fine. But one of them must have breathed the wrong way because heat suddenly begins to boil beneath Slick’s carapace. He grits his teeth, starting his insults at a low grumble before releasing his anger in a burst of yelling and cursing, swivelling on the other three, accusing them of being at fault because if they hadn’t been skeptical of his plans they wouldn’t have hesitated and everything would have gone smoothly. A quick pause and glance at the three makes him stop in his tracks. They’re not so much as flinching. Just standing there, arms at their sides as he screams. They’re so used to it, he realizes. They’re so used to it they don’t even try to humour him anymore.
Slick swipes a stained cup off the table, glass shattering against the wall as he storms off to his room again. As far as he can tell, none of them are following. Fine. They can stand there all night for all he cares.
He takes his usual place at his piano, lifting the lid, fingers descending with instinct to the correct keys. He hardly has to look at them. But he’s more forceful this time. His fingers clack and scratch against the keys rather than running smoothly against them. Maybe because it’s so late, or maybe from the anger at the entirety of his Crew. Maybe from that vague feeling of inferiority brought upon by all of them rejecting his leadership for once. Maybe from the guilt of knowing it was his fault.
His fault.
His fingers slip.
Slick has to pause there, shocked at himself for the mistake, bringing him out of that reverie.
A saxophone note erupts from behind him.
He turns abruptly to see Droog sitting in another chair, instrument in hand. He’s ceased playing the note. He looks at Slick with that same deadpan face he has all the time. Droog lifts the saxophone slightly as if in emphasis.
“Mind if I join you?”
Slick blinks hard, mouth curving down. But not really into a scowl. More like a sarcastic frown. “Yes.”
Droog closes his eyes and raises the mouthpiece to his mouth to continue playing, ignoring him, knowing full well that he meant the opposite. Slick sits there and listens, because he’s not sure what to do or how to feel at that moment.
Droog cracks an eye open as he plays, looking at Slick. His mouth twitches up into a hint of a smirk.
There’s something about his smirk. It’s rare. Slick’s sure he’s only seen it once or twice before. Hell if it’s not contagious. So his shoulders relax and he sighs, the exhale slowly transforming into a laugh of disbelief and a shake of his head. He returns to his piano, joining Droog in his playing with the melody of the song, as if nothing has happened. The memories of their heist disappear, the music washing all his worries away like whiskey during a night on the town. But there is no alcohol, and they’re not drunk.
It’s just three in the morning.
—————
So long ago, Slick thinks.
He’s sitting on the piano bench again, slouched and half-lidded. Tired. A thin layer of dust coats the instrument, despite Slick having only been gone a couple days. He brings his hand up and swipes the dust off the lid before opening it, a creak resounding through the empty hideout.
He places his fingers down on the correct keys. Metal digits clack harshly against ivory. He doesn’t like it. It makes him angry.
He begins to play.
It flows through his finger smoothly as always, but it’s different. The full sound of the piano suddenly sounds broken and echoed, like it knows. It knows that there’s something missing. But not something. Someone. Three someones. And it’s his fault.
His fault.
His finger slips.
Slick grimaces and attempts to recover the melody.
… But he can’t. His fingers freeze, hovering over the notes.
He doesn’t remember.
After that night, Droog had joined Slick whenever he decided to play that song, and in time Boxcars and Deuce did too. Eventually it became not a song about anger, but simply just a song, and whenever the occassion struck they sat down and played. Whether it was two, three, or all of them, Slick always began.
His fingers always fell away at the same spot to let someone in. Always here, in this moment.
But now there’s no one to fill the silence.
And he doesn’t remember.
He doesn’t remember what to do.
He mouths it without thinking.
“What do I do?”
The hideout is silent.
Tentatively he places his fingers back down, starting from the beginning. At first he’s hesitant, but as he continues it gets louder. Faster. Angrier. And for the first time the song makes him infuriated. Slick grits his teeth and abuses the keys, notes coming out like strangled calls for help. Inwardly he’s screaming at the world.
I’ve lost everything. They’re gone. What do I do? What do I do?
He continues mashing down, the pressure building, until eventually his thoughts lead back to the same conclusion.
It’s all his fault.
His fingers slip. But they don’t slip. They ball into fists and he slams them onto the keys, releasing a scream of notes. A scream that no one but himself will hear.
For a moment Slick’s shoulders are tense, the noise slowly echoing, as if receding into the distance. A drop falls between two of the keys. His shoulders shudder. Quietly he rests his elbows on the surface and puts his face in his hands. He hopes that somehow he’s hallucinating; that the whiskey just made him pass out and Droog is sitting right there with his saxophone, waiting to play. But there is no alcohol, and he’s not drunk.
It’s just three in the morning.