better learn about your fate
WHO: Katurian, Gamzee and then DICK GRAYSON TO THE RESCUE. In order of appearance.
WHERE: A few blocks away from the MAC.
WHEN: April 11th, monday, around 11pm.
WARNINGS: Violence.
SUMMARY: Gamzee is still honest to goodness pissed that Katurian told him to be polite.
FORMAT: Quicklog.
[He earns the job the same day as his interview. The bookstore is quiet and perfect and he falls in love with it the second his feet cross the threshold, under the stained glass sun-catchers, the sparkling glass stars. On his first day, he stays long after closing, huddled between the aisles so that no one sees him and asks if it's still open. This is perfection as he knows it. This is the world he never thought he'd see again.
He reads. He murmurs sentences into the bookcases and pretends that he has an audience, grand and sweeping, and then he pretends that he's alone with his brother and that his stories never travel beyond their ears. Never grace the thoughts of strangers. Somehow - in some grief-stricken way he can't even try to understand - it's a comfort. Somehow, it isn't meaningless.
He doesn't think about Doctor Einstürzen. He doesn't think about his first meeting with Nygma, looming on Thursday. He doesn't think about his birthday tomorrow because he has long decided to stop counting the years. He thinks about the musical. The smooth pages between his fingers.
When he gets out, it's late but not so late that he hasn't lost his energy. When he reaches the MAC, he wanders around the block instead and heads down one of the side streets. He kicks pebbles into the curb. The bottom of his shoe makes sandpaper sounds against the concrete.]
WHERE: A few blocks away from the MAC.
WHEN: April 11th, monday, around 11pm.
WARNINGS: Violence.
SUMMARY: Gamzee is still honest to goodness pissed that Katurian told him to be polite.
FORMAT: Quicklog.
[He earns the job the same day as his interview. The bookstore is quiet and perfect and he falls in love with it the second his feet cross the threshold, under the stained glass sun-catchers, the sparkling glass stars. On his first day, he stays long after closing, huddled between the aisles so that no one sees him and asks if it's still open. This is perfection as he knows it. This is the world he never thought he'd see again.
He reads. He murmurs sentences into the bookcases and pretends that he has an audience, grand and sweeping, and then he pretends that he's alone with his brother and that his stories never travel beyond their ears. Never grace the thoughts of strangers. Somehow - in some grief-stricken way he can't even try to understand - it's a comfort. Somehow, it isn't meaningless.
He doesn't think about Doctor Einstürzen. He doesn't think about his first meeting with Nygma, looming on Thursday. He doesn't think about his birthday tomorrow because he has long decided to stop counting the years. He thinks about the musical. The smooth pages between his fingers.
When he gets out, it's late but not so late that he hasn't lost his energy. When he reaches the MAC, he wanders around the block instead and heads down one of the side streets. He kicks pebbles into the curb. The bottom of his shoe makes sandpaper sounds against the concrete.]