A/N: This is just a oneshot I decided to write, it was completely spur of the moment and will not be continued. I know I can't write Gamzee well, so please try to leave some constructive criticism on how I can do better.
Uhm, it's my headcanon that Goatdad is batshit fucking crazy and only tolerates Gamzee because he's supposed to be raising him and stuff. But I tried to tone it down a bit? Ah, well. Hit me with your best shot.
Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you have been waiting.
Yes, you have been waiting an extraordinary amount of time. You briefly wonder if you should even bother waiting for your goat-dad to make his appearance. Regardless, you miss him and you figure you'll wait another hour or so before returning to your hive. Your name is Gamzee Makara and you are zoned out completely, your hand cradling your slimy chin, your glassy eyes staring blankly out at the dark, restless sea.
You are waiting.
Your husktop produces a 'bing' noise that momentarily distracts you from your stationary experience with the unknown, and you check it. You read the brown text on the screen, squinting as you do so because your eyes are starting to blur around the edges. You freeze in place because the text is telling you that you need to go to your hive. The text is telling you that you need to stop worrying. The text is telling you that you've been acting funny; the text is worried. Your best brother, Tavros Nitram is worried.
But you can't bring yourself to care.
Another 'bing' and the text is filled with grey and you aren't really sure what the big deal is about. This text is calling you an idiot, this text is also worried for you. 'Rightly so', it justifies, 'because you have the mental capacity of a wriggler.' Your custodian isn't coming. If you want; you can spend the night with your moirail, and you and he can listen to each other. You both do that surprisingly well despite your differences. You tell your moirail, Karkat Vantas, this every time you talk. Not this time, though.
But you can't bring yourself to care.
The waves slosh lazily against the rocky beach and you sigh, reaching over the mostly empty pie-tin and scooping the gelatinous confectionery under your talons and lifting it to your mouth. You can't bring yourself to wallow in self-pity because he's coming. You can see it. The ominous bubbles towards the horizon. He will be here soon and you know it. A sea-breeze washes over you and causes bumps to appear on your tough skin. You shudder slightly and scramble to your feet as the bubbles get closer and you can almost feel the anger radiating off of him. You sway drunkenly on the spot.
You watch as the surface of the dark water, previously reflecting the new stars, wells and then breaks due to a pair of furry white ears. Then a head, then vicious, raging misshapen pupils. You take a step forward. Large hooves land a good twenty feet away on either side of you. You look up. He looks down. He is disappointed in your defiance. He splashes his large tail behind him in irritation - disturbing several smaller lusii previously swimming about. He doesn't even bat an eye.
You hate him. You know you do. You hold a bitter admiration, and a mild respect for him. But you hate him, just as you are sure he hates you. Despite this - you want him to love you. You want to make him proud someday.
He bleats angrily and the full scent of him hits you. Rancid sea-life clinging to his sharp fangs, plants dangling from his horns that match your own in shape. This is taking much too long, you decide. Much too often it takes much, much too long.
"Dad-" You try, you make your voice loud, just like he knows you can. Long ago you were chastised for speaking too quietly. You learn. You want to show him you can learn.
He snorts. You respond with a primitive growl. Then he lowers his head and butts you softly, knocking you back a few feet and flat on to your hindquarters. You blink rapidly until the ground stops spinning, and then you get back to your feet and step closer to him.
This is one of your more aggressive meetings. You remember just a sweep ago when you would attempt to hug him. Because then you loved him, because then he had been just a bit more accepting of mistakes and more lenient when it came to your social quirks. Now he was even more bitter and distanced - you didn't like it. You didn't like it one bit.
He turns his head to the side and begins to scrutinize and analyze you. You reach out slowly and bury your fingers in the foam-caked fur, scratching softly at the skin underneath it. The rage boiling in your think-pan has cooled down considerably and you start to zone out again even though you're so close to your lusus that he's bound to sense you doing so.
He does.
He smells the sopor slime on your breath and the glint of the tin on the beach by your husktop catches his eye. You are a failure, he thinks. What a disgrace you have grown to be. My son has lowbloods in his quadrants. He thinks, he knows, he accuses. He lifts his massive head away from you, his long neck stretching straight and chin still down so he can see you. He bleats, but it sounds like a roar - but to you, it is muted, quiet. You can barely hear it and you prefer it that way.
Your name is Gamzee Makara and you prefer it that way.