OK.
New fic guys.
Trying a different style in writing with this so bare with me. Unlike Smoking Aces, this is somewhat planned out and not what comes off the top of my head.
As usual, feedback is always appreciated.
The once-constant hiss brought out by steady, well-practiced ministrations, descended into a splutter. Gamzee gave the can a violent shake, contradictory to his previous movements. Only as the sound descended into an increasingly sickly rattle did he call it quits, placing the spent can in his patched-beyond-recognition excuse of a bag. After rustling through it for another can of the desired shade, he was rewarded. Pulling it out, he stretched upwards, moving his arm in a precise arc, smoothly blocking in the colour for his piece.
He stepped back several paces to take in the evening's work, smile stretching at the cacophony of colours fighting for dominance before him. A section to his left caught his eyes and he huffed, some of the outlines failing to pop out to the effect of its brethren. He bends down to pull out the can of black paint, fixing in indiscretion. Sometimes it was a pain being as meticulous, but if Gamzee Makara knew one thing, it was that the smallest of details make all the difference.
After a second appraisal, he deemed the work satisfactory. He pulled out the final can, this time a sealer. Gamzee sprayed it generously across the brick surface, giving the image resting on top a chance to be immortalised.
Never one to leave a project when it was vulnerable, he lit up a cigarette, as he waited for it to dry. From his seat on the curb he surveyed the empty street. The upcoming weekend would see this street being the hub, being as close to the campus as it was. At this stage though, classes were in the process of starting up for the semester, to early to be cracking open the bottle at this stage.
Flicking his second stub, smoked down to the filter, he pulled himself upright. A final glance at the mural and he picked up his work bag. He walked down the hollow street, rattling all the while.
Toothy grins and candy corn horns watched his retreating form from their place on the wall.
He jostled the keys in the lock. Despite the building having been recently renovated, the locks were that of the original, and as such had the nasty habit of making you earn the right for the door to open. He scolded the barrier under his breath, along the lines of forcing the lock's family watch in terror as their dad and husband was forced to partake in self-cannibalism. Gamzee liked to believe that the lock had learnt an important lesson that it would do best not to forget as the door swung open.
Despite the ridiculous hour, his housemate was still awake, playing some videogame or another on the decent sized television precariously perched atop a pile of artfully arranged cinderblocks. A lot of the furniture that his roommate hauled up earlier seemed to have been assembled in this way. He would attribute the oddity that this was to up-bringing but he didn't wished to be hypocritical, even internally. It just wasn't a thing to be doing.
"Pizza in the fridge, took a guess at supreme," he calls over, Texas drawl heavy through the silence of the morning. He didn't look away from the screen.
He takes a moment to toss his bag of tricks in the dark maw that is his room. It rattles and clangs as it descends contents spilling over the floor, but Gamzee could care less. There was free food to be had and with his tools of the trade accounted for he was free to partake in the spoils of co-habitation. Despite the once living, breathing, animals littering the top of his soon to be surgically altered meal, this may be the start to a beautiful friendship, or something along those lines at the very least. A beautiful roommate-ship? Dorm-ship? Whatever the name, it may be the start to something good, positive. God knows he needs to find more of those types of things to hold on to, dwell over. Nothing good ever comes from him caught up with thoughts on the alternative.
Gamzee pulls the box out of the fridge. Taking a moment to survey the rest of it's contents, he makes note to grab some proper ingredients after class tomorrow. Actually, more like this afternoon.
He taps the fridge door closed with his hip, placing the cool cardboard box onto the counter. Gamzee goes over each slice, taking effort to peel of all the meat he can spot in the minimal lighting. He places the plate in the microwave, staring at the numbers and buttons for a moment before opting for sensor reheat. It was too early to be fussy about the food.
"Do you want the motherfucking meat? Can't eat that shit, bro," Gamzee asks as passively as he could. He respected that everyone had different beliefs and opinions on all matters, from his preferred medium of art to the food they ate, even the way they folded their clothes or organised their books. People were entitled to whatever they wanted, and Gamzee did his best to not push his choices on others.
"You a veggie? Fuck man, sorry." The tone said otherwise "Should've thought of that, my bad." At least he acknowledged it "Just bring it down here and I'll be more than happy to take those animal carcasses out of your iron depleted hands."
Gamzee allows himself to chuckle, plate in one hand and the box of meat topping in the other. He seats himself on the far end of the couch, placing the box down between them as a barrier of sorts.
Both boys sat in the light of the flickering screen, one skilfully manoeuvring his avatar around the game environment while the other ate, watching in a silent daze.
"I'm guessing you must have a real tree hugger name if the dietary requirements and your attire are anything to go by?" Gamzee didn't believe there was anything wrong with wearing flip-flops, and he didn't feel the need to dress to the nines when out on a paint job.
"Yeah, Gamzee, Gamzee Makara, parents were on some wicked shit back in the times to crown me with a name of such." He takes another bite of the soggy pizza, cringing slightly at the lingering taste of meat, but a free meal was a free meal and he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Fucking hell, was I right on with that. I'm Dave Strider, coolest kid you're ever gonna meet, bask in my glory, looking is free but touching's gonna cost you your first born," Dave tapers off, the verbal silence punctuated with a button mashing combo, ending with a stream of profanities.
Gamzee may have been bad at reading social cues but even he could tell that there wasn't anything else to be added, shared, or done now. With a brief farewell, more a formality drilled into him by his childhood friend, Karkat, than something a parent should've imparted, Gamzee balances the now bare box on top of his plate. He places them on the counter, making a silent promise to deal with them proper once he's had a few hours of sleep.
He weaves his way through the few overflowing boxes littering his floor. Clothes and various bits and pieces ooze out of their confines and Gamzee makes another note to deal with them in the morning. Unfortunately, he has one thing that must be dealt with now and not later.
He pulls open the draw of the dresser, the one thing he set up properly before departing for the evening. Reaching into the far back, past lighters, pots of face paint, a bag of green, he found the small bottle that weighed him down. It was his burden, his shackle, and he hated how much he needed them.
With a grimace, he swallowed two of the tablets dry, something had taken him years to accomplish. As much as he wanted to take the bottle that taunted him throughout the past few years and throw it out of the window, never to be seen again, he knew he couldn't. He had given his word to his two bros, and though they didn't know exactly where he was or what he was doing, a promise was a promise and had to be upheld.
He shoved the bottle back to the far recesses of the draw, out of sight, out of mind. Gamzee lay back on the bare mattress, still dressed. His eyes traced the pattern in the ceilings paintwork, slowly familiarising himself with the brush strokes, the slight movement, the flow and the slight cracks beginning to show through the many layers added over the years.
He struggles to pull his phone out of his back pocket as his limbs become more and more lead like, but he manages, setting an alarm for a few hours later.
He stares at the ceiling until the sun shines through the unscreened window, eyes finally falling.
The alarm goes off shortly after. A chorus of some Disney-esque song that Tavros had managed to sneak on and set ages back but Gamzee had never had the heart to change. Little things like this were all he had to remember his two friends, and he'd take all he could get. This was their fresh start as well as his, just because he was the one to make the clean break didn't mean he still couldn't be sentimental over the stupid, insignificant things that brought those two to mind.
Just because he was swapping his paint splattered work shirt for one that Karkat had gotten him a few months back didn't mean that he missed him. Same for the clumsily hand knitted beanie that Tavros had made as a joke, a sloppily sewn horrendous mismatch of colours that used to make him smile with pride and glow with happiness whenever he saw you wearing it. These just happened to be the first things that Gamzee pulled out of his boxes.
He departed from his room with his satchel. It was in much better condition than the other bag (but then that was saying something). He'd deal with the upended boxes and the hurricane disaster of his room when he got back.
He paused in the doorway, recalling all his little mental notes from a few hours previously.
Stock up fridge. He'd do that after class.
Clean up dinner. He walks over to the counter, rinsing the plate of quickly and stuffing the box in the delegated garbage bag.
OK. What next? That's right! Unpack room. Another task for later.
Was there anything else? He didn't think so.
With that thought in mind, he closes the fridge door. It acted as a visual reminder to state the importance of his food run for that afternoon. The sound was enough to jolt Dave awake from his slumber, sprawled across the couch. Dave's cursed half-heartedly as the controller clattered to the floor, but he quickly rolled over to resume sleep.
The bottle of chalk white pills sat in the draw. Gamzee repeated his mantra, out of sight, out of mind. He didn't need them weighing down everything, not again. It was supposed to be fresh, just him being himself. The pills didn't play any part in it. They didn't control him. Not anymore.