#olivia rodrigo's good 4 u was blasting inside hangman's head the whole time

[brabe]

The Anatomy of the Bar Scene

the more i think about it, the more i’m leaning towards them being ex-something rather than them only ever having been on the cusp of it.

and the way hangman sets the scene has me in a fit. how it screams SCORNED LOVER from the top of the mountains.

the way he sees that rooster is here now at last, because of course he is—no one has ever believed in rooster more than hangman, that’s kind of the problem—and sneaks to the jukebox to select just the right soundtrack for his grand entrance. the song choice. the fact that he is so dramatic about it that he feels the need to announce his presence via song in the first place. an honest to god sex song. 'slow ride, take it easy. slow down, go down, got to get your lovin' one more time. hold me, roll me, slow ridin' woman you're so fine. i'm in the mood, the rhythm is right, move to the music, we can roll all night'. how he selects nr. 86 without a second of hesitation, muscle memory, like this song speaks of history between them, an echo of a long-standing inside joke recalling once-upon-a-time familiarity and intimacy.

rooster looks up before hangman even calls his name. he hears the opening riff, and already knows what’s about to go down, could do this song and dance with his eyes closed and his shoestrings tied up together.

now god help him, hangman is going to play this cool as a cucumber. you know when you have a chance encounter with your ex whom you are absolutely, 100%, no questions asked over (shut up, you are), and you are going to make it extremely loud and spectacularly clear how you are doing swimmingly, thanks for asking, and how they are sorely missing out.

thing is, rooster still looks like a fucking million bucks, all golden and glowing. heads turning like on a string as he struts in like he owns the place by birthright, like everything until now was just the supporting act to his one-man show, hawaiian print and aviators like limelights on a background of khaki. impossible to miss, impossible to look away from. like maybe he too carefully curated his stage entrance, fashionably late and effortlessly cool as can be.  

gain the home turf. the best defense is a good offense. one-up. one-up. one-up. 

thing is, hangman is just a man, after all, and a few beers deep to boot, and god help him, but he still looks at rooster like he wants to eat him alive, because he does, can’t imagine ever not wanting. lip bite.

like an apex predator establishing eye contact with its prey (who is who, though?), he prowls in, swipes bob’s cue stick, bends himself over the pool table, takes the shot blind looking up at rooster from underneath his eyelashes. the kicker is that he wasn’t even in the game. earlier when hangman left to order more beers phoenix said, ‘rack ‘em’ to bob as they started a new game. he just dive-bombs in, putting on his own little one-man show for his one-man audience.  

‘bradshaw, as i live and breathe.’ bradshaw, not rooster and definitely not bradley. distance. so here we are after all, after everything. ball in your court.

‘hangman, you look...good.’ rooster blatantly checks him out right back, always looking back, hasn’t even the decency to be subtle about it. tone lock, missile shot and landed. and hangman takes a split second to absorb the hit and recalibrate because rooster was supposed to take the bait for what it was, wasn’t supposed to be nice, how dare he? he has no right to say that, not anymore, by his own doing.  

‘well, i am good, rooster. i’m very good [bats his eyelashes]. in fact, i’m too good to be true.’ nailed it. or something. i like to think that hangman internally cringed at that final line, god that was cheesy, talk about acting so chill it circles right back to supremely unchill, transparent, chink in the armour.

rooster shakes his head, holds back a half grin, and looks over to phoenix like, ‘can you believe him?’ but it’s half exasperated and half, dare i say, fond. like, there he is, as insufferably and maddeningly wonderful as always. and phoenix knows enough, not everything, but about there being something to know in the first place. it’s been two minutes tops and now the whole detachment does as well. cue payback, ‘sooo...’

and let’s talk coyote and phoenix for a moment. their entire earlier interaction, but especially that little pointed, ‘hey, coyote.’ / ‘hey.’ how it screams of ‘we used to hang out because our best friends were dating, but the breakup was messy, and we loyally took to each side of the divorce. for the public record my best friend is totally in the right and yours a total asshole.’

thing is, the back and fort still flows between hangman and rooster too much like foreplay, like it doesn’t know how to be anything else. too close to slipping into jake and bradley’s territory for comfort. they were always so good at this.  

so hangman doubles down, and keeps figuratively shooting spitballs at the back of rooster’s head from the back of the classroom until he’s going to take the damn bait. drop the niceties and let the temper aflame. hangman got it down to an art after all. more peacocking, more bending over the pool table, more holding eye contact while slighting his leadership prowess and smiling condescendingly as he does so. BINGO.

and rooster does try, looks to the side like, ‘i know you. i know what you’re doing.’

but oh well, here goes nothing.  

rooster looks down, charges up. ‘hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.’ rooster looks back up and half the destructive force of this hit comes from his eyes, from his closed-off stare locked onto hangman, devoid of any lingering warmth now.  

trying and keeping up with you and all of your crazy, in the air, or otherwise, will drive a man insane. he would know.

coyote obviously hears it too. the look on his face is a whole picture. he looks seconds away from leaping over the pool table and making rooster regret all of his life’s choices that led him to this very moment. he’s saved by the bell by fanboy’s whooping that redirects coyote’s death glare momentarily. the camera pans to phoenix, who for all intents and purposes is on rooster’s side of the feud, and whose expression clearly reads, ‘well, fuck’. she doesn’t know the whole story, not like coyote does, rooster not one to kiss and tell. payback in the background obviously asking himself, again, whichever soap opera did he just walk into.

direct hit. hangman is frozen in place for a moment too long, his shark-like smirk brittle. it’s just his luck that his whole life has been one decades-long exercise in breaking down and building himself back up in the blink of an eye, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, like you’re supposed to. but bradley never looked away (until he did, at least), and it’s a daunting process he’s witnessed too many times. it never fails to be heartbreaking, seeing hangman emerge on the other side with a new shiny layer to his glamour.

there it is, hotheaded bradshaw, making it too damn easy to firmly put the gilded armour back into place. they were even better at this; shooting to kill, almost like their lives depended on it.

hangman short of barrels into phoenix on his way to deliver his own fatal blow, almost daring her to intervene in defense of her wingman.

hangman completes his prowl, the cutting edge of his smirk more lethal close range, closer than he’s been in years, ‘anyone who follows you is just gonna...run out of fuel,’ hangman looks down, charges up, locks him in his chilling stare, ‘but that’s just you, ain’t it, rooster? you’re snug on that perch. waiting for the right moment...that never comes.’

trying and waiting for you to catch up, to take the next step, to take that leap of faith, in the air, or otherwise, will be a man’s downfall. he would know. 

‘i love this song.’ a final acknowledgement of everything that was, a parting dare.

coyote looks as smug as he looked outraged before. he was there picking up the pieces in the destruction of the aftermath. his best friend surviving once more, albeit coming too close for comfort.

direct hit. and rooster just sits back and takes it. his whole demeanor changes and subdues. he knows that hangman got him there, and he walked right into that one, has nothing to say for himself. he has this strained fixed little smile, he is nodding along minutely like, 'so are you really going there...fair enough.’ he looks down at hangman's lips when he gets too close, closer than he’s been in years, because he’s just a man, and he still hasn’t ever wanted anyone more. he’s effectively stunned into silence. the fortifying little sigh he takes after hangman makes his exit and leaves him planted there like, 'shit. he went there alright. it's been years, why does it still hit bullseye?' (he knows why). that deflated, resigned, 'nope, sure hasn't' and then the 10-hour long stare watching him walk away.

how the turntables.