Title: Shoot the Star
Pairing: Gamzee/John
Rating: T (for now)
Summary: Why is there purple paint in your backyard? AU
Review Responses:
LyssiLuvr: Gamzee is so wicked, I swear, not to mention a complete BAMF. And thank you! I tried to write what I pictured in my head to the best of my ability. I love Costco too! But since I don't exactly have a membership, I can only get in when my friends go grocery shopping. -_-
Pink Shimmer: There are only two Gamzee/John fics that I know of. They were so amazing, but sadly, there was no more! I'm trying to fix that. I hope there are more Gamzee/John fics along the way, even thought it's a strange pairing. Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you enjoy this little old story so far.
Ed: Oh, I have a little something up my sleeve when it gets to the point where Gamzee gets a little TOO sober. I can't wait to write it. Thanks!
bakubaku-ra: Yes, you're right! But I've read stranger pairings, like Bec Noir/Karkat, WV/John and Bro/Dad. u_u kill me now. Thank you too!
Nyx: I usually try to spread the love for pairings that are less in the spotlight, and I haven't been able to get Gamzee/John out of my head since I first started reading HS. I'm finally acting on my thoughts. thank you for reading!
SRR: thanks, i will!
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…"
So he can speak.
Your entire body goes still at that completely throaty utterance. It sounded a bit on the phlegmy side, but that's completely understandable because the guy has gashes littering his body for crying out loud! You have a hard time believing that a voice like that belongs to such a distressed looking boy. Why couldn't you sound like that, all deep and throaty and mangritty? You then think to yourself that just because you haven't quite reached puberty yet, doesn't mean it's the same case for everyone.
Hesitantly, you turn your head and cast your eyes to the ground once more, your eyes growing wide as your breath hitches in your throat. There are claws at your wrists—talons really, all sharp and serrated and tinged yellow. Your mind is reeling and you're starting to feel a little dizzy. People don't have claws, you think to yourself, trying to qualm your fluttering heart. You wonder if they're counterfeit, possibly bought from a Halloween costume vendor, but you quickly dispel the thought because the boy's claws are too thick and chitinous and they're starting to really hurt as they continue to pierce through your skin. Before you know it, there are small beads of bright red blood bubbling from your wrist, some of the substance pooling around the boy's claws.
You try to jerk your arm back, but the boy's grip is firm and relentless. With panic festering inside you, you look across and find that he's staring at you, and wow, his face. You've never seen a face quite like that. His face is crusted over with some white substance that sort of resembles actual paint. Some of it is smeared around his mouth and his eyes and clinging to random strands of black hair, but the paint isn't what you're really concerned about. It's his eyes, and his teeth, and Jesus Christ, those three diagonal gashes that are streaking across his face like purple colored streamers. His mouth is open just a tad, revealing saw-like teeth that poke out his mouth and rest along his lips. Purple blood is mixed along with the white paint around his mouth, and you believe you can see bits of neon green in there, although you have no idea where that color even came from in the first place.
His eyes are the most unsettling. The entire sclera is colored golden yellow, and his irises are a diluted gray color that look kind of purple as the light hits them. When he blinks up at you, claws still pressed into your skin, you jump. He blinks like a cat. There's a clear filmy membrane that closes horizontally over his eyes, kind of like a third eyelid, and it really kind of creeps you out because you've only ever seen that kind of thing on the neighborhood stray cat! You come to a conclusion: this guy…this guy wasn't human. He couldn't be. Either that or he has some pretty amazing costume make-up on.
"I need to get you some help!" you nearly shout at him, because you're nervous and shaking and all you want to do is help him. You want to be a good samaritan, just how your father always raised you to be, even if the boy you want to help doesn't look human at all. It's sort of strange why this doesn't frighten you as much as you thought it would.
"No," he growls, nimble gray fingers wrapping further around your wrist. He suddenly tugs you forward and you fall onto the wet grass on your knees, inches away from his bloodied face. He says it softer this time, as if all his energy had been zapped out from him. "No."
And then he collapses, his face planting into a puddle mixed with mud and blood.
Startled, you quickly wrap your arms around his shoulder and pull him out, rolling the boy out on his back, safe and away from any wandering puddles. You don't want the guy to suffocate while he was out of it! You hope he's just passed out anyway. You place your finger underneath his nose because you don't really know how to feel someone's pulse, and you're relieved when you feel warm puffs of air against your skin. He's breathing; he's alive.
You want to call the police or get one of your neighbors over here to help you, but you remember his growled warning and you find yourself fearing for your safety. What would happen if you called someone over for help? Would he tear you to pieces with those talons of his? You come to a decision: you're still going to help him, because that's what Jesus would do and you can't just leave him out here. Unfortunately, you're going to have to stash him somewhere.
'Am I really going to do this?' you ask yourself. Are you really going to nurse this boy back to health underneath your father's nose, without any help? You don't even take the time to think about about it. Yes, yes you are. For some strange reason, the boy reminds you of something, something that should be very familiar to you, but you can't for the life of you figure out what it is. It frustrates you actually. There's a wriggling feeling inside you that's telling your brain that you're forgetting something important here, but you tell your brain to shoosh and it quiets down.
You start planning: you can always hide him in your room. Dad never goes into your room anyway. His injuries don't look too bad, and when you say that, you mean that it seems like he only has surface wounds rather than internal injuries, although you still want to take a look at his chest just to be sure. There's nothing a little bit of peroxide and gauze can't fix. By the time the boy is healed and everything, you can just tell him to leave and find his family or something. It'll be like none of this ever happened.
You notice that he isn't growling at your close proximity and you feel even more relieved. Maybe you can do this properly then. You crawl forward on your hands and knees and you sidle up next to him, tugging his body up by his arms. With some effort, you manage to sling his arm over your shoulder. You find yourself hauling him up by his arm, the side of his body pressed flush against your own as you teeter and totter from side to side, trying to find your balance. When you manage to find it, you take slow and measured steps across the lawn, his feet dragging along the wet grass. You secretly hope those weren't his favorite shoes.
Review please! Oh, and I guess I'll add a note. There are some teenage males out there that don't reach puberty until wayyy later. For example, my 16 year old brother. His voice hasn't changed at all yet, he's short, hell, he doesn't even have UNDERPIT HAIR YET WUT. Or maybe something's wrong with him...
Anyway, thank you for reading! :D