Lyrics on the art:
I've lost someone
In the midnight backstage
Where are the fashionistas in witticisms
They rinse their fox's teeth
Gossip licked me
Like nettle blades
And my songs were
Painfully beautiful
Bitch, how much is the money cost?
How much is fame cost?
#A1 - Desperate for Praise for my Daquavis Into-Situations Challenge
Daquavis is only twenty-three years old and over a thousand miles away from home when the world ends.
(just a little snippet of the zombie apocalypse AU under the cut)
"Hey idiot—" Dream shouts, his large form suddenly blocking the omnious orange light upon the ever-blazing horizon. Growling, his friend takes a big swing at something that had been lunging his way—intercepting it with a swift hit of his crowbar.
It takes him a moment to realize, through his tears and sorrow, that he'd almost become zombie chow.
It's a gruesome sight, seeing his friend beat that poor thing to death. The hollow sounds of it's suffering, the solid crack of it's bones and the gruesome splatter of stale blood—rotten flesh.
It makes him want to hurl.
As does his shame.
Daquavis' tears continue on through it all and he sits, stock-still, on his soggy log, as he'd been doing for the past hour or so.
He knows his friend has finished the job when his form looms over him again, blocking out the light. Daquavis keeps his head down, studying Dream's dirty sneakers, trying to stay quiet.
"Moron, if you're gonna be sitting outside by yourself, at least keep an eye on your surroundings. I thought I wouldn't have to remind you, of all people."
Sniffling, Daquavis rubs at his eyes and nose. His throat is still tight, so the small 'yeah' he lets out sounds shakey. He's not sure why he can't stop tearing up lately. Actually, he does know why, it's just that he'd rather keep lying to himself.
As if finally realizing that he's maybe not doing great right now, Dream's large hand gently comes to rest on his shoulder. "Hey—"
"It's okay—" Daquavis interrupts his friend's pitying voice, still keeping his face down so he can keep his tear-stained face to himself. "I'm okay. I'm not hurt."
Dream huffs, hand squeezing his shoulder. "Look at me."
"No!"
"Look. At. Me."
It's an order this time. Dream has been giving a lot of those lately. Daq isn't sure how he feels about that—conflicted. He's glad to have a leader, but not so happy at being told what to do to ensure their communal survival.
"Daquavis."
The hand on his shoulder grips him tighter, until it's almost painful. Flinching, he squawks, pushing Dream away and bolting back towards the main house. He doesn't want to deal with this right now.
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