Title: Shoot the Star
Pairing: Gamzee/John
Fandom: Homestuck
Rated: T
Summary: Why was there purple paint in his backyard? AU
Notes: There is not enough Gamzee/John. NOT ENOUGH.
Review responses:
monoChromatose: I know! It's just, since this story is told through John's perspective, I wanted it to be realistic, because let's face it, when people come across the color purple they don't automatically think "violet" or "indigo", just purple! xD John's ignorance of color schemes comes into play later on, oh, and how playful it will get ;D thank you so much for reviewing and pointing that out! i should have left a note or something u_u
LyssiLuvr: Thank you! This is my first time posting a story since a massive writer's block, so let's see how this goes!
You frantically search about you, wondering if maybe Mrs. Merlo's dog managed to sneak its way into your backyard again and somehow got itself hurt. You don't see red anywhere, even though the smell of blood is so overbearing and frighteningly close. Something makes you look back down again, at your shoes, and you tilt your head to the side, sniffing the air one more time. You bend down and swipe your index finger along the front of your shoe, the pad of your finger coming away purple. The paint is a bit runny, since it had been diluted in water beforehand, and when you bring your finger closer to your face, the smell of blood completely overrides your senses. You jerk your hand back and frantically wipe the offending liquid off on the side of your jeans.
That wasn't paint. That wasn't paint at all. That purple goop was…it was blood. Now you feel all kinds of wrong.
Your body undergoes a shudder as you frantically wipe your feet against the ground. There's blood on your shoes and blood seeping into your pant legs, and even though it isn't exactly the right color, it still smells horrifically coppery and dammit, why won't it just come off.
An unidentified jerky breath makes you go still.
You straighten yourself out and press your arms to your sides, looking very much like one of those plastic toy soldiers you used to play with when you were little. You're very certain that you heard something gasp or wheeze. It could have been a sigh or a shudder, or whatever, and now you're staring at the white picket fence, blue eyes trailing over the streaks of vivid purple that were already starting to harden and set.
It is by this time that you find yourself staring at the ground again, only this time, you're staring at a bush that sits lining the fence, its branches disturbed and cracked in different directions, and there was even more blood there. It was siphoning into another puddle, still runny and bright and fresh. All your instincts tell you to run back inside and shut the door tight behind you, but for some reason your body doesn't want to act on that notion and you're stuck. Your legs are numb and you can barely even wriggle your toes, and it's possible that your teeth are chattering and making a racket. This was like something out of a movie.
With a deep breath and a gulp, you proceed forward. Your steps are sluggish and wary, your shoes sloshing in the wet earth beneath you. Once or twice you almost slip and land face-first into the grass, but you manage to catch yourself just in time before eating it. And before you know it, you're standing right behind the bush, brushing your fingertips along the spindly leaves dotting splintered branches. You then notice that some of the leaves are coated in thick purple, and you jerk your hand back as if scalded.
You anchor your eyes to the ground again, searching the earth for anything familiar, but all you can see is mud and grass and purple blood.
You go still.
There's a hand. There's a hand poking through the bushes and you don't even bother to second guess yourself before you're trampling through the shrub, the brushwood nicking your arms. When you finally manage to get through, all you can do is stare.
It's, oh god, you don't even know how to describe it.
The hand belongs to a young boy, a teenager, maybe around your age or possibly a little older. The boy is slumped against the picket fence; long, sinewy limbs spread akimbo. His head is turned towards the side, face covered by a mop of course black hair that curls and juts out in all sorts of directions. You now know where all that "paint" came from.
There are horns, of all things, sprouting from the boy's head. They're long and slender and they taper into a fine point at the tip. They kind of remind you of candy corn.
There seems to be a copious amount of that violet tinged blood leaking from his body. There are numerous cuts and gashes decorating the boy's arms, blood running in small rivulets down the length of his arm, elongated fingers streaked purple. His clothes are also shredded and torn, globs of blood pooling underneath the fabric, possibly from injuries on his chest. The boy didn't look good at all. Besides the cuts and tattered clothes, the boy's skin looks clammy and gray—wait no scratch that, his skin is literally gray. Did he have some sort of skin condition or something? You've never encountered someone with gray skin before. It was a strange color, and it was making you uneasy.
You make your way closer, the soles of your shoes sinking into the muddy earth, your shoelaces staining brown and purple. Just when you're only about a foot away from the strange boy, you hear a growl. It's a guttural sound, a sound that you can practically feel as it dances along your skin. You back away and the growling lessens into a soft rumble. You realize that the sound had come from the boy. To test this theory, you step closer once more, and again that growl rolls out loud and potent. You step away, licking your lips.
"Son!"
You nearly ram yourself back into the fence. You jump out from behind the bush to find your dad standing in the doorway, adjusting his fedora that sits neatly atop his head.
"I'm going to Costco to pick up a few things," your Dad tells you. He looks at your purple stained pants and quirks his head, but doesn't question you. "Don't open the door for anyone, you hear?"
You quickly nod your head and watch as he turns around and heads back into the house. When you hear the front door close and the sound of his tires pulling away from the driveway, you know the coast is clear. Costco is about a 20 minute drive from where you live. Knowing your Dad, he'll probably spend at least two hours shopping for baked good ingredients, no matter how much you loath his baking. However, given the situation, it seems more like a blessing this time around.
Your attention immediately focuses back to the boy and your find yourself nearly careening around the bush, ignoring how that rumbling growl grows louder with each step you take. You stare at the boy's battered and bruised body, your insides churning as you bite your lip out of apprehension. You seriously don't know what to do. It's not every day you find a gray skinned boy lying nearly unconscious in your backyard.
"Hey," you say, and you mentally kick yourself. That sounded so lame. You could have come up with something better than that. You were best friends with a Strider for Christ's sake! You gulp; you can practically feel the wad of fear sticking fast in your throat.
"Do you need help?" you try again this time, and you're a bit more satisfied with your question. You wait patiently for the boy to answer you, but when a minute goes by and he hasn't even bothered to respond, you take the initiative once more. You're ready to turn around and sprint off towards the house, throwing a quick, "I'll call someone!" behind your back, before something stops you.
There's a sort of stabbing pain at your left wrist, as if a myriad of needles had somehow ripped into your flesh. You squint your eyes shut because the pain is pretty fierce.
"No….motherfucker…"
Review please! :D