It's four in the morning, snowing, and Gamzee is stuck wishing he had better places to be than the streets. An apartment being one of them. His shift at the local pub finished ten minutes ago, and he's been freezing ever since. As a result, he's left huddling under an awning and hoping the snow stops.
Unfortunately for him, no one told this plan to the weather.
Twenty minutes pass, and Gamzee's sure he's freezing to death. Almost without thinking about it, he starts looking at the building across the road. The bricks are dirty, and the windows are shuttered. A chain holds the big doors closed. It looks like a shop of some kind, and it looks abandoned. The word rings through Gamzee's mind. Abandoned. Abandoned. Abandoned means no people, and no people means the building is free for the taking. It's a decision he wouldn't make if he was warm, well-fed, and had cash on him, but Gamzee is none of those things.
All reason leaves as he stands, shaking off the thin coat of snow he's managed to acquire. A quick glance down the street, and he's sure he's alone. Of course he's alone. Who goes out at four in the morning in a snow storm? Other than bouncers down on their luck, of course. He crosses the street, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. Slamming a fist into the chipboard covering the window, he smiles as it cracks. He didn't get a job as a bouncer by being weak after all. Twice more his fist hits the board, cracking it neatly in half. He clambers through the hole. The building isn't exactly warm, but it's a damn sight warmer than outside, and it isn't snowing.
Gamzee crosses to the corner farthest from the hole and curls up, dropping asleep almost instantly.
Morning dawns, but Gamzee doesn't move. His phone—one of the few material possessions he owns—goes off around noon, and he grumbles his way to alertness. Glancing down at the screen, he sighs. One of his oldest friends. And one of the people he doesn't want to talk to today.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? I RANG YOUR DOORBELL LIKE TEN TIMES.
I gOt EvIcTeD bRo.
WTF?
CaMe HoMe FrOm WoRk DrUnK aNd PuNcHeD tHe MoThErFuCkInG lAnDlOrD.
Gamzee wishes he could say that that was the first time he'd ever make a mistake like that, but it wasn't. The bartender at the pub liked him enough to let him mix drinks when the pub was closed, and Gamzee had taken advantage of it. He'd discovered it was one of the few things he was good at.
Sliding his phone back in his pocket, he looks around. He's definitely in an old store of some kind, maybe a candy shop. There is a long wooden counter, a set of nearly ancient scales perched precariously at one end. Tall black shelves line the wall behind the counter, empty and gaping. The floor creaks whenever Gamzee shifts his weight, which brings a smile to his face. He loves old things. In one corner, a grand spiral staircase goes up to a gallery of sorts that runs around the whole room. From the looks of it, it had been where product had been stored before being put on the floor. Kinda cool, in an old school way.
His phone vibrates again, but he ignores it. Karkat will want details, and he's in no mood to give them. His account has enough money to get another apartment, but it will take time. With a last look around, he crawls back out the hole he made the night before.
Outside, the sun is glaring off the snow. The weather seems to have remembered it's spring, because the snow is melting, dripping into the gutters. He has six or seven hours before he needs to be at work, and that means six or seven hours in which to find an apartment.
For the third straight night, Gamzee wakes up on Karkat's shitty old couch. The apartment hunting business hasn't been going well, so he convinced Karkat to let him sleep there for a while. Karkat's already gone when Gamzee wakes up, so he helps himself to coffee and heads out. He's been playing with an idea the last couple days, and he figures he has nothing left to lose.
An hour later, he's sitting in an office, trying to look all up and like a responsible citizen. "So… Mister Makara…" the clerk says, clearly disapproving of the shabby guy in front of her. His hair is down to his shoulders, he's got his makeup done up, and he's in the same hoodie and jeans as ever.
"Yeah sis? I mean, ma'am."
The lady scowls. "You say you want to purchase the old Colby Candy Store downtown." She huffs. "In cash."
"Yeah, that place is a mot—a miracle. A real miracle."
If it's possible, the women's scowl deepens. Gamzee slides the pile of cash across the desk. He's checked. This is legal. Mostly.
There's a long pause, but the woman eventually slides the deed to him. "Sign here," she snaps. He does, takes the deed, and bails. Great. His bank account is nearly empty, he owns a defunct candy shop, and he has to be at work in three hours. He slides his phone out of his pocket, tapping Karkat's number.
BrO cAn I bUy YoUr CoUcH?
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON?
I nEeD sOmEwHeRe To SlEeP iN mY nEw PlAcE.
WHAT NEW PLACE?
My NeW pLaCe.
Because that really counts as an answer. But it will shut Karkat up. Gamzee can practically see him on the other end of the phone. The couch is old, stained, ripped, and just about broken beyond all use. He always seems to be perpetually broke, so a hundred bucks for a couch worth a tenth of that is a good deal.
The phone buzzes.
FINE.
Great. Gamzee now has a job, an old candy shop, and a broken couch. The things dreams are made of, right?
He spends the rest of the afternoon forcing Karkat to help him muscle the couch into the old store, tucking it behind the wooden counter. "Thanks bro," he says once it's in place.
"Yeah well. I can see why you need my shitty couch when you bought this place," Karkat says.
Gamzee shrugs and heads off to work, a letter clutched in his hand. He's a little nervous. This is it, the point he can't go back from. It's his letter of resignation. His bank account is a little bare, but it has just enough for what he's thinking. After all, the only thing he's ever been good at has been mixing drinks and getting drunk.
It's time he puts those talents to use.
