Time for some awkward romance.

[paradiseblossoms]

Some shaky relationship development between two kids (well, one kid and one troll) who are about as far from normal as you can get.

Closed to Dave Strider (sicknastiest) and Gamzee Makara (honkalypse).

Comments

ack! I thought I replied to this sorry!

[honkalypse]

Things were... good. Better, at least, since Dave had taken him to the hospital. Gamzee felt better, even if it always came back. He could find his own way to the place now when the sickness started up and clawing through him again, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't as bad as it had been. And they were still in his pan, screaming for sopor, for killing, for blood and violence and death. And painting. But there were things to do now. Nice paints that had the right feels to cover the walls with color and picture and words.

And the turntables. Gamzee liked the tables, how they felt under his fingertips and how the beats up and filled him in the best way. He liked that, swaying and moving and nothing else mattering but the beat and the tables. So he got his practice on a lot, down in this little place Dave had helped him find. Because it felt good, and maybe because when Dave said he was doing good that felt even better.

And Dave was due up for a visit, so he practiced, lost in the beat and mumbling words to himself--little rhymes up and bursting free from his pan.

No worries! This can be a slow log - mostly I just miss playing with you.

[sicknastiest]

There are still times - okay, let's be honest here, those times happen pretty goddamn frequently - where Dave doesn't know what the fuck he thinks he's doing. Where he's hanging out in Gamzee's place, listening to the troll babble on about something, or watching him smear paints all over the walls, and he just thinks that he's way the fuck out of his league. What does he know about taking care of somebody else? He can barely take care of his own goddamn self.

But, then again, there's moments like this, where he walks in to find Gamzee just totally absorbed in laying down some sick beats, so much so that Dave can just lean casually against the wall by the door and watch him for a while, that he thinks...maybe he's doing something right here. The way Gamzee moves around the table is smoother, more organic than the way he moves anywhere else, and Dave thinks that's maybe a good thing. He thinks that maybe Gamzee feels the music the way he does - the way it seems to fill him up, getting into all those empty corners, the ones that are full of sharp emotions that hurt too much to touch any other way, the way the beat pulses against his skin and makes him feel in a way that nothing else can.

And the troll is good, he has to admit. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but that's not so bad. It's a style, one that's all Gamzee, and Dave has to admit that there's something about it that just makes you want to move.

Might be about time to introduce Gamzee to the clubs.

He waits for a pause, a brief lapse in the beat as it winds down, then clears his throat carefully.

"Not bad, bro. Not bad at all."

me too. if you happen to be looking for a game for Dave, I play Gamzee at Exsilium

[honkalypse]

And just like that Dave was there, and wasn't that up and feeling like he'd called Dave on down with his beats? Gamzee wasn't surprised, really, and his face split into a bright grin, eating up the understated praise like a starving man at a banquet.

"Got the music up in me, and you the boy what set me free. Better than bad; motherfucking best. Face it bro, I pass your test."

A little rhyming that still needed some polishing but wasn't bad for just falling all down out of his pan like it did. Gamzee reluctantly left the tables, but Dave was like a flame and he the little moth all caught up in the trap. He didn't mind. Being around Dave felt... good in ways he still wasn't motherfucking sure of what they were being but still, so good.

Fuuuu, this got lost in my inbox somehow. Still up to log?

[sicknastiest]

"I guess you do, at that," Dave replies, but it's a little absent, because he's just seen something - or thinks he's seen something, at least - that he doesn't know how he's been missing all this time. Only, now that he's thinking about it, maybe he has been noticing it all along, and he just hasn't ever stopped to think about what it means.

See, 'cause the thing about Gamzee is that half the time, Dave doesn't get him. All his talk about miracles, all the weird troll culture stuff - all that just goes straight over Dave's head (although, give him some credit, he's trying). But there's one thing he can't hide, not from Dave, and that's the way he moves.

Gamzee's all limbs, lanky and tall, like someone grabbed him on both ends and just pulled real hard. But his body talks louder than he does (and man, can that troll shout when he gets going), and that's a language Dave speaks just fine. He knows when Gamzee's having a bad day when the troll moves like he's made of glass, like he'll just break apart if he moves too fast, or cut himself on one of his own jagged edges. And he knows it's not so bad when the troll moves like the ocean, all loose and fluid and smooth. That's how Gamzee moves at the tables - and now that Dave's thinking about it, that's how Gamzee moves around him, too.

Maybe it's just watching Gamzee come straight from the tables over to him. Maybe that's why Dave suddenly sees it, that weird stutter step that only takes an instant - like there's some weird space between the tables and Dave that Gamzee doesn't want to go through. A space where all the hurt comes back, just for a moment.

Or maybe he's just fucking over-thinking it. Go figure, right? Fucking troll probably just tripped over one of his own damn feet.

Shaking his head a little, Dave pushes all these weird-ass thoughts out of his head and glances sideways through his shades as the troll approaches.

"Might even be time to introduce you to proper society," he says, arching a pale eyebrow. "Or, you know, as proper as that shit gets when it's all rubbing up against other people in dark rooms at night."

sure, but I will be like molasses in January

[honkalypse]

Dave is like a balm to the hurts, sometimes. And sometimes he makes things so much worse, but when Dave and the tables are there, things are better. Maybe not up to much better, but better. Being here, being now, it's not so bad anymore. Most of the time.

Gamzee can't keep the smile off his face when Dave says that. Dave approves. He thinks Gamzee is ready. Ready to show the whole motherfucking world what he's got burning to get the fuck out inside him. "Get down with you and your music crew. No motherfucker was hatched more ready."

And he's close. Too close, but he doesn't care. He's flirting with a flame--Dave could decide to be disgusted and leave--but the burn hurts so good and if he crowds, well, Dave's all full up with tricks.

The slowest log ever to exist. I am so sorry.

[sicknastiest]

He should care. He really should, the way Gamzee gets all up in his space like that. Because he knows what Gamzee can do, he's seen what the troll gets like when he's not in a good place.

But he doesn't. He doesn't really care that Gamzee's too close; doesn't really care that he's not on guard, ready to flash-step away at the slightest indication that Gamzee's feeling a little hopped up on crazy today. And maybe that's the scariest thought of all - that he's getting used to the troll, that he's starting to trust him.

Dave Strider does not trust most people - and he sure as hell doesn't start doing it this fast. But he's also the coolest coolkid ever to grace this world with his presence, so he'll be damned if any of this leaks through his icy shell.

So he just stands, lets Gamzee get as close as he wants, and eyes him coolly from behind the protective glare of his shades.

"Cocky," he observes, smirking. "Guess you're not taking lessons on just the tables, are you?"

It is the perfect pace.

[honkalypse]

Gamzee laughs at that, a quick cackle that dies down to a barely voiced chuckle. "You're all over rubbing off, brother. Getting down with your bad self all on me."

A pause, a blink, and he's even closer, a hair's breadth from touching. "You like it. Got yourself full up with the wicked want for this brother to be hanging all on your words. On your wicked self. Feels motherfucking good for me to get my respect on of you."

And he's not entirely sure of this, but he thinks that's it. He doesn't really know why, but the thought settled all around in his pan and it feels right, up like so many things felt right before.