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Usually, there were eyes all around them. In the course of a year, Fig and Gorgug had skyrocketed from being a halfway decent local band to actual touring rockstars. Fig knew that music was collaborative, and that fame was social, but it really did seem that they were never alone.
It also appeared that now that the ball was rolling, they would never stop working.
Mainstream momentum, as Lola had dubbed it, was fickle. Audiences were enthusiastic but easily distracted. It was an artist's job to keep people on their toes. She also said that the two of them working hard had great ‘optics’, as she and seemingly every marketing type in the industry was absurdly fond of saying. They were still on tour, but they had a week between their dates in Birchburg and Runekeep. Since things were going so well, they were already preparing for what was next for them. Fig had never stopped creating anyway, so it’s not like she needed a vacation. If anything she’d missed this.
Awake, during the wee hours of the night, holed up in a recording studio, 9 hours deep into a creative session with no real end in sight, she realized how long they’d been alone.
Fig knew what she must look like: eyeliner smudged, mascara flaking off in bits. A little shiny, more than a little tired, but so in her element, so on fire with artistic fervour that she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Her best songs always came easy like this. She’d bang out whatever pitches that sprang forth from her, pause to hastily take note, and return to playing just as quickly. It had been going on like this for a long time and at some point this evening she’d taken off her boots. They lay now at the foot of the couch where Gorgug had fallen asleep sitting up, who knows when.
They’d started late in the afternoon, writing and recording till their audio engineer clocked out, leaving them alone to make progress on their less refined ideas. Early writing was one of the few steps of the process away from home they found they could be totally alone together.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt a little unfamiliar after so much time interacting, always taking into account their spectators. They took a moment to bask in the surreality of their situation. Then, they ordered coffee. Then, finally, Fig started going over the ideas she hadn’t had a chance to show him yet.
She sat next to him as she flipped through the pages of her notebook - worn at the edges, bound in black leather, and almost completely full.
Suddenly, Gorgug grabbed her hand, like something had caught his eye in the blur.
Fig had no time to react as he slowly used their joined hands to turn to a dark, vandalistic page.
Words crossed out and rewritten so many times that the paper was more black than white. Blemishes of ink bled through to the other side.
“Woah…” He’d said in his inquisitive voice.
It’s more a miserable vent than a lyrical poem, and it stands out like a blot on the landscape among pages of structured stanzas. Instinctively, Fig moves her free hand to cover up the page, and Gorgug looks at her, hesitantly curious.
She remembered writing it much earlier on the road.
They’d had a great show. It was one of those nights where they each had bounds of energy. Gorgug had settled into every rhythm by now, confident enough to improvise more frequently and much better.
Fig was on fire. She didn’t feel like a caricature of herself. She didn’t think too hard about herself once that night. Performing felt like more of a privilege than it had since she started. She was feeling how far they’d come and relishing in it, for the first time in a long time.
She’d looked at Gorgug as she queued him into his solo and watched him drum like he was possessed. He was a flurry of motion; spotlights illuminated him in a purple hue.
It was the best she’d ever seen him play, and for those 16 measures, she was so filled with pride and admiration that she got dizzy. Her face hurt from grinning. Then in a second, her heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. Before she could figure out why, her monitor was counting her up. It was an older record, one of the first ones they’d made together that could reasonably be described as ‘good’ and ‘listenable.’ The crowd went wild, so she evened out her breathing and allowed contentment to swell up in her again.
It was the sweet spot at the beginning of the second leg of the tour, where things had gotten repetitive enough to feel natural, but not gone on long enough for them to feel truly homesick. When they got backstage, they’d gotten congratulations all around.
From the stagehands to the security to the industry titans they’d apparently badly needed to impress. Lola was still with them, and she was beaming so brightly you’d think she’d just won the lottery. In a way, they all had.
Then, they were back on the road, perfectly on schedule. She and Gorgug had brushed their teeth together in the tiny shared bathroom of their tour bus and said goodnight to each other across the few feet of space that separated their bunks.
The road rocked Fig gently. She bored into the wood panelling above her with her eyes, waiting for tranquillity to come to her. She recounted the successes of the day over and over, and each time her mind snagged on one memory.
Gorgug, cloaked in violet light, grinning wide, hair whirling, drumming like a maniac. It sent a shiver through her each time, but it was a scab she couldn’t stop picking. It grew in vividness with every iteration, till it became the only memory she had.
She saw him in her mind’s eye one more time and was filled with a longing so deep that tears immediately sprung from the corners of her eyes. Pain seized her senses, and she clasped a hand over her mouth to sob.
She cried secretly, quietly as she could, till she felt lightheaded and thought she’d finally run out of tears. Then she cried some more.
She knew there was no way he was awake or listening. Not without offering his comfort. Not without offering to hold her, like he’d done a few times before, early on, when everything was still so scary.
If he woke up and heard, he would ask, he would care, he would offer, he would try, and she wouldn’t have the strength to say no. It would only make things better insofar as it would make them infinitely worse.
He was like that. Raised to nurture. Fucking loving. And he loved her, but not in the way she wanted.
Was she cursed?
Had someone cursed her at birth to make sure that no matter what she got, she would just never be satisfied?
She’s never been able to fight it. She just wasn’t strong enough.
What’s the point of being rich and famous when you would still never be strong enough?
She knew these feelings would brew a caustic elixir in her chest until she let them escape. There was no telling anyone, so she put pen to paper and wrote harshly. The words curled over and over again, on top of each other, until everything was virtually illegible and she was so tired the pen fell out of her hand.
She can feel it all bubbling up in her now, as Gorgug looks at her without judgement or insistence. Only receptiveness. Only patience. Only him.
God. She has half a mind to show him. All the love, pain, and scarcity, she keeps letting well up inside her until she can't find space for it anymore.
That can’t ever happen. So, she withdraws her hands, dragging her notebook away with them.
She wants to run. Based on the concern that’s playing in his eyes, Fig knows that want must show.
He starts.
“Hey, uh, I’m sorry-”
“Don’t apologize,” Fig warns. “It’s not you,” What a lie, her mind interjects, causing her to falter.
He takes the fumbled second to say, “I'm still sorry, though. You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to. I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t’ve-”
Fig sighs so loud, that Gorgug knows he has to stop talking.
“It’s okay,” she says, and it’s only true on a surface level.
“Oh,” he pauses like it’s a lot for him to think about, “okay.”
Then,
“Um, it’s late?” he concedes. It’s an offer; a way out.
“It is.” Fig asserts, diplomatically. She wasn’t gonna let him be a hero over her mistake.
“Oh, um… well I don’t wanna leave yet,”
Fig can’t help but smile when he states the obvious.
He continues, “If you’re- I don’t know if you-”
“Me neither, Gorgug.”
He smiles at that. Fig smiles more, feelings on fire. She forces herself to look away and doesn’t know what else to do but to sequester her notebook, pick up her bass, and start playing.
He’d fought hard to stay awake and listen to what Fig was doing, even though she’d told him he didn’t have to. She was so engaged in her process that it’d taken her the better part of the hour to realize she’d lulled him to sleep.
Play. Transcribe. Repeat. She could feel the gold hardwood vibrate through her socks as she paced around, giving sonic form to her feelings.
She looked at her lead sheet. She could honestly keep going forever. Make it an homage to the 70’s, to the indulgent duration of a classic rock song. Truthfully, it was an homage to Gorgug, but it’s not like she could sell it that way.
And a secondary, less celebrated part of creative instinct was knowing when enough was enough.
After what must’ve been over 500 measures of build-up, she picked through a resolve, squeezing her eyes shut, feeling the conclusive resonance ricochet off the walls, till it finally petered out.
She opened her eyes and felt the approximative peace that came after a good purge.
She’d poured all her angst and turmoil and tension onto the pages. Now all that was left were the often obscured calmer parts of herself. It was like shedding snakeskin. She focused on the tranquilness in her lungs, took in the subsequent staticness of the air, and felt a bit like her younger self. A bit like this room was her whole world.
She heaved a big sigh, looked to the couch, and collapsed in the spot next to Gorgug, still fast asleep. She let her head roll back against the top edge of the seat while turning to look at him.
With no pretence or pain left in her system, with no one around to catch her doing it, she took him in.
Fast asleep. Arms cradled. So young.
His dark eyes were hidden by gently closed lids. At this distance, she could count his eyelashes. Or surely run the pad of her thumb along the bone of his brow. And his hair was dishevelled beyond belief. It had been neat that morning, but of course had become mussed during songwriting, ever since he’d developed the pleasing tendency of running a hand through his hair as they worked.
She questioned him, to remind him of his options, knowing he would seldom speak without being prompted.
‘Should we maybe rewrite this verse?’
Hand through hair.
‘And should- Do you want the time signature to be different here maybe?’
Hand through hair.
‘I’m saying you could punch that in earlier, then do something different for the second half. If you wanted.’
Both hands when the question was more complicated. She wasn’t sure if she was still asking out of courtesy by that point. She’d swear he was doing it to her on purpose if he wasn’t oblivious, naturally fidgety, and near incapable of any sophisticated manipulation.
Here, now, in the amber of the pot lights, his hair looks downy and light. The long, white front wisps bristle so slightly, in tangent with the rise and fall of his chest; with every shallow breath that leaves his parted lips.
As she notes his lips, her heart lurches. She doesn’t have the abnegation or will in her to feel any guilt. In this still image, it was them. Just her watching him. She could only hurt herself.
His dark nailed hands held either upper arm. He’d gotten good at taking up as little space as possible by nature of his upbringing. Maybe by nature of his nature, if Fig was being honest.
He slept nearly hugging himself, ensuring his long limbs stayed strictly on his side of the couch. There are others in the room like it, stylish, colourful, and suitable for either of them to sprawl out on. Instead he kept his arms to himself, sat up, and kept the nearest seat free of the music sheets and clutter that scatters the rest of the room. He’s contorted himself a bit. Sacrificed some comfort. Just in case she might choose to sit down next to him. Just in case she wanted to be close.
Fuck. She loved him.
Categorically dorky, but kinda darkly expressed, if you didn’t know him. And ridiculously lethal in combat. Though taking him in now, she can’t see how anyone could be intimidated by him. He still had an innocence about him. The kind Fig feels she lost a long time ago.
He had bags under his eyes as dark as fine fescue. A demeanour so serene you could forget he was there. Of course, she never did.
Green was the colour of the summers she spent in her youth, swaddled in sweetgrass, long before the ground had ruptured. Before that rift had opened up, separating her from the people she loved.
Suddenly, she’s filled with a melancholy so deep she wishes he would hold her again. She remembers what it was like to be cradled in his arms. She wasn’t ignorant to the fact that he was strong. Really strong. But simultaneously, he was so gentle. Careful.
That's one thing she can always count on him to be. Sometimes she doesn’t know why he indulges her in all this. In his presence. Running off with Fig to play rockstars a few months out of the year, when he needs to be close to his family.
His rage is worse away from them. He’s stronger now than he ever has been, but she can tell when he struggles. She knows that even when things are working out, the struggle never goes away. You can perform for a crowd of fans and still feel like shit. You can have the best friends in the world and still sometimes think you don’t deserve any of them when you’re lying in the dark.
She wonders if it’s healthy for him to be holding it in. She loves Gorgug, in all his caution and civility and care. But she thinks it’d be nice to see him totally comfortable.
She can imagine what it’s like to rage. All her adolescent life there’s been a feeling inside her. A fire, a poison. Whatever it is that makes her skin buzz, makes her soul feel like climbing out of her body. It fuels her frustration. It fuels her art. And it has to come out in artful ways, or else who knows what she’d do? Who knows what keeping that venom inside you might do to your organs? Your heart? Your soul?
She’d given him drumsticks because she understood. Everyone has to get it out.
If patience was a virtue, then Gorgug was the highest form of angel.
Yet still, even him. Maybe especially him.
They could record more tomorrow. They needed their sound engineer anyway. She could afford more time in the studio. She could afford anything right now except to be completely honest with herself, and it was corroding her slowly.
Gorgug was a storm on stage. Tonight, he was peaceful. However, the idea of sleeping overnight in a studio space they were renting by the hour was so wasteful that she thinks it’d genuinely cause him distress to know she was considering it. She had to wake him up. She knew it…
But she couldn't. Not with the way he looked. Not when he’d fought so hard for peace. Not when they all had.
He was a heavy sleeper. Maybe if she just…
Fig shifts towards him, lining up their sides. She considers a plan of action for just a second, before resting her head on his forearm and snaking her arm around his waist. She closes her eyes, settles, and right when she thinks she might get away with it, she feels his breathing still.
For one ridiculous second, she’s scared. Scared she’s broken the picture, broken the surface, broken the ceasefire in her mind.
Then he opens his eyes to look down at her, half-lidded and lethargic, and her chest aches so nicely there’s no chance for regret to prosper.
“Y’Okay?” he asks, his voice soft and a somewhat slurred.
Fig nods, as innocently as she can. He gives her a small smile and speaks again,
“S’good,”
She’s pretty sure he meant to say “That’s good,” but clearly some consonants had gotten lost in the fog.
Wordlessly, he pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her. The resulting combination of panic and comfort in her is a strange but welcome sensation.
She commands her heart to settle. Hugs him back. Allows both of them to rest a little while longer.
“You’re next to me,” he notices, tone indecipherable. “Done your song?”
She nods in his hold, then looks up at him from his chest. She was enjoying this more than she had any right to, but again the guilt was only as great as her satisfaction. She opens casually,
“I just don’t understand how I woke you up.” Her voice sounded sheepish in her ears, What was he doing to her?
He stirs a bit. Considers her. Fig goes red, redder than usual.
Gorgug smirks, “Well, I was sleeping, and I suddenly got so warm so fast I think my body told my brain I had a life-threatening fever.”
“Bullshit,” and she’s grinning again, “You’ve slept through rages.”
“I mean, my body’s meant to rage but I’m not supposed to be on fire.” He cracked up towards the end of his sentence like he always did.
She might have something smart to say to that if she wasn’t pressed close enough against him to feel the way his laugh rumbles through his chest.
She feels her senses dull as the need for sleep pulls hard at the edges of her mind.
As if on queue: “Should we maybe leave?”
“…Probably.”
Neither of them move.
“Lola and like, every other responsible adult we know would probably disapprove.”
“She’ll get over it when she hears what I’ve been working on. It’s our money anyways.”
He dwells for a second, Fig’s sure it’s more for the sake of it than to truly make up his mind.
“So a sleepover at Requiem Village,” Gorgug relents. “No blankets?”
“I’m burning you alive, remember?”
“No pillows?”
“I’ve got you.”
He’s thinking again.
Then, in a sarcastic tone, “But Fig, what are the optics?”
She almost tells him she loves him outright.
“Well, I think the headline is ‘extremely dedicated and talented musicians, who are totally in it for the long haul, stay overnight in the studio, you won’t believe their quadruple digit bill!’”
“Is that it?”
“I think so, yeah.”
A few more moments pass. Usually, he would fight her harder on something like this. Fig thinks maybe he’s just that tired. Or that maybe she’s rubbing off on him. At least a little bit. She’s about to say so, when he unintentionally interrupts, tone sobered,
“…And you’re doing ok?”
“Are you?” She evades, instinctively.
“I’m good.” Gorgug only hesitates slightly. “But, you?”
She feels the random compulsion to lie. She thinks about dodging the question again or maybe cracking a joke, but it’d already been a strange day. She couldn’t remember what she was fighting for anymore. She had gold. She wanted ease. She wanted him.
Gorgug made things too easy for her.
She abstracts the question. He’s an honest person. She can be honest.
“Fig?”
She’s been quiet so long, Fig supposes that he must think she’s coming up with a lie. But frankly, in that very moment in his arms, she could truthfully answer,
“I’m okay right now.”
Fig feels Gorgug’s ribcage retract as he releases the breath he was holding. She rewords,
“I’m comfortable. Are you comfortable?”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, without hesitation, and she feels so proud.
“Good,” Fig concludes, and it’s the last thing she consciously plans on saying. Her traitorous mouth ventures further, “…That’s all I want for you.”
What was it about him that drove her to honesty? She can tell he doesn’t think anything of it, but Fig’s so overcome with awkwardness that she needs to change the subject right away. Thankfully, she remembers what she was planning to say earlier,
“I’m totally rubbing off on you,” she teases.
Gorgug sighs. “No…” a drawn-out, halfhearted protest with a rising inflection.
“You know it, oooooh!”
He laughs. Shrinks a bit, “I would be braver if that were true.”
She’s about to correct him on his self-critique, when she parses out the supplemental implication of his words, “...You think I’m brave?”
“Yeah," he says, immediate and disbelieving. "Of course. You’re like…my hero, Fig.”
Fig pouts into his sternum and feels a bit like crying, “Well, I think you’re really sweet, Gorgug. And really brave too. I mean that."
For her, he doesn’t put up a fight. He just utters, shyer than she’s heard him,
“Awesome... Yeah, uh, that’s awesome.”