Gaz was never the best at decorating, he left that up to you, which ultimately meant he was also dressed by you. He wore pink wings and an itch-inducing tiara.

He noticed how empty it was after an hour. People should’ve shown up by now and yet, the house was empty.

Gaz sat next to you on the porch, fixing some of your smeared face paint with his thumb. “Fuck ‘em,” he said plainly, taking a sip of his pink punch.

“They don’t know what they’re missing out on,” he promised, ruffling your hair.