Based off this motherfucker's headcanon after the 3/14 update: .com/post/19332035329/im-calling-it-now

#whatamievenwriting #whyisitinthispov #whatisanything

He hasn't moved. And it hurts you to see that.

All he does is stare at that husktop.

Your moirail.

Nobody else is around right now, at least, you think so. You take this time to visit your moirail, whose location is a secret to everybody but you.

Making sure there is nobody can see you leave, you walk down corridor after corridor. It's dark and its cold, and the whole place stinks of stale blood and stone. It's freezing as you descend lower and lower into the deepest hallways and dungeons. You run your hand along the wall so you don't fall; it's pitch black, and even though he can see well in the dark it's still hard to see.

Somewhere around here you know there should be an opening in the wall that contains a doorknob.

You find it, turn it, and push it. The wall creaks, and a makeshift door opens to a vast room.

This room is cold as well. Very, very cold. But the cold doesn't bother you, nor does the stink of blood. Because your focused more on your moirail.

There you find him, hunched up on a pile of rotting bodies. Arms, legs, torsos and heads stick out and dried blood had crusted its way around the pile in a faded puddle. There he sits, his long legs splayed out in front of him, staring at his husktop screen. It doesn't flicker, nor falter, it's just a bright light. It's the only light in the room.

You take a few steps closer to him, moving very slowly, but making sure you're heard easily so he doesn't go under the impression he's being stalked.

Like usual, he doesn't notice you until you're close, but when he does notice, his head whips around and your confronted with his face.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't frown either. He just looks at you with wide, empty eyes. The scars are still evident across his face, and if you hadn't cleaned it up the dried indigo blood it would have remained there too, because he just didn't care. He gazes at you for a long time, his amber eyes betraying nothing. The facepaint you remember is long gone; only hints of the grays and whites of the make-up are on his shadow-casted face. His hair is more unruly than it used to be too; knots and tangles cover his head, and his horns are still covered with blood as well. You wish you clean clean the blood off them too, but you're afraid to touch such a sensitive spot when he might snap any moment. You know you trust him, but at the same time you need to be careful.

After a while he turned his head noiselessly back to the screen and continues to watch it.

He has trollian open. Nothing else.

Your heart hurts. You know why he stares. It hurts you so much to see your moirail this way. You just want to shooshpap and hug him until the end of time. But you can't.

"Gamzee, are you sure you don't want to go upstairs?" You finally ask him in a low voice.

You except no response, and get none. It still hurts though.

"Not even for a faygo?" You try and compromise.

Not even a twitch of the body. You get a little irritated, but it doesn't last.

"What if I redo your face paint?" You offer.

He doesn't even blink.

"Fine, waste your fucking life down here. Just sit on your pile of fucking rotting bodies until your brain dissolves. Like I give a flying fuck in outer space!" You growl at him, but there's no real anger; you can't be angry at him. He's lost too much for you to be angry. But you wish you could help him more. You want to help so bad.

"Come on, at least get out of this room for a little bit." You say.

He doesn't reply again. Only when you're ready to say something else does he finally speak; his voice is so scratchy and quiet it's hard to make out his words, but you barely do:

"He still isn't online."

It feels like something just sliced through your chest organ.

"I know..." You say.

"It's been months. Where could he be...?" He asks you, his eyes still never leaving the screen.

You shake your head. You can't bring yourself to tell him he won't come online, that he's dead.

"I don't know."

"I mean... I just saw the motherfucker. He was all happy and shit... He was all grinning and giggling at something I told him. He said he'd be right back."

You listen even though it hurts.

"He said he needed to take care of some business... He motherfuckin' said he'd get online later to tell me all about it."

You're quiet.

He glances up at you for a moment. His face is nothing but pure confusion.

You could probably cry your disgusting red tears right now.

"Come on, Gamzee, he'll be online soon. For now, why don't you get out of this pitstink of a room?"

He doesn't move again, he just turns his head back to the screen. You reach down and dare to help him up. He accepts the help and even leaves the husktop, but you know it won't be that for long. He never leaves it for long. He's usually sitting back in front of it within a few minutes.

His eyes remained glued to that name for a fraction longer before he tears his eyes away and follows you out into the hallway that doesn't stink of rotten flesh.

The gray of that name still haunts you, and it hurts to know it'll never be online again. Because you know it hurts him.

It hurts Gamzee beyond belief.

But you can't bring yourself to tell him.

That the name will never be online again:

adiosToreador