𝙜𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙚, ᴘᴜɴᴋ, and 𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖑 | one-shots

zack de la rocha, 1

"So, how was it?"

Zack sat on the living room floor of his studio apartment, surrounded by scattered wide-ruled paper hastily stacked into vaguely organized piles. Some completely filled with writing, others with a word or two that had apparently not been good enough to elicit anything more.

Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. It fit the character, added a bit more charm. The kind found in the graffiti-scrawled bathroom of a local music venue; where the beer tastes like piss, and people are packed into a 600 square foot room like sardines to a tin. In the living room, which by the nature of studios was also his bedroom, a CRT TV stood atop a weathered black shelf. The neck of an all white Jackson guitar leaned against it, strings uncut. CDs lined along the inside, sorted alphabetically by artist and chronologically by album. A few feet in front of it, a coffee table stacked with all types of memorabilia— tour posters that there simply wasn't any room for on the walls, a used plastic bag from the corner store down the street, and empty mugs and plates you'd both been periodically stacking throughout the day. His couch laid back against the wall.

Which is where you were. You sat adjacent to him, cross legged on the sofa, watching as he absentmindedly drummed his pencil on a legal pad. The lead made small dots where it landed. This page was one of the luckier ones; nearly full of his messy handwriting. Lyrics had been written—and rewritten—down as they came to him. Certain verses were circled while others underlined, some crossed out altogether. To anyone else it looked like jumbled nonsense, but it made sense to Zack (and you, to a certain extent).

"Hey," Zack called your name, waving his hand in front of your face.

"Huh?" You blinked, completely forgetting what he'd asked for a second. "Oh, it was good! I liked it."

"That's it?" Zack asked, a blank sort of 'are you serious' expression plastered on his face as he scanned over the paper. "Just liked it?"

"Hey, that's a good thing isn't it?"

"I need people to do more than 'like' my music, you know." His eyes stayed glued to the paper as he spoke.

"I, uh, loved it?"

Zack stopped, hung his head and smiled to himself.

"You're no help at all."

"Hey! You asked me to help, so it's kind of your fault."

It wasn't a lie. He'd invited you over earlier in the evening, when the sun first began to dip below the L.A. city skyline, and shadows elongated with every passing second. You liked to think of yourself as his personal editor, although truthfully you acted as more of a thesaurus. You didn't mind. You considered yourself lucky to see him in this state. Baggy tee and sweats, surrounded by a concoction of his own thoughts. Writing surged through his veins and kept him breathing, and he excelled at it. You'd seen enough of his shows to know. As if a switch flipped in his brain, his persona molded into one of a lyrical guerrilla.

Molded was the wrong word— molded implies copying something, participating in some semblance of meaningless idolatry. He hadn't molded himself into anything. He already was that ungovernable force, it just took a stage to coax it out.

"What time is it?" Zack asked.

"Almost two."

"Fuck me," he sighed and set down his pencil. He raised his arms above his head and stretched; his t-shirt raised with his movement. You caught a glimpse of the small bit of skin that exposed itself.

'How terrible,' you thought, 'falling for your best friend like this.'

Zack finished stretching, and you quickly averted your eyes. He paused for a second, and tilted his head slightly.