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“She hardly talks in conversation, but when she do all her words get lost in translation. No, she can’t move ‘cause she paralyzed from fear that she fanatasize, the doctor tried to analyze. They cannot find anything that’s wrong with her. Her parents never got along with her.”
-Mac Miller (Stoned)
Fig Faeth feels like the most unlucky person in the world most of the time.
For a long time, she was lucky, and she was beautiful. She knew who she was and who she was supposed to be. And then, one day, she woke up to tiny little stubs of sharp and violently red horns sprouting from her forehead.
Her life fell apart before her eyes, and it was all her fault.
Fig Faeth does not think of herself as particularly blessed, but she’s sitting on the counter of her bathroom at her mom’s house, feet propped up in the sink, knees drawn up to her chest, passing a joint between her best friends in the entire fucking world, and she is happy.
Happy and blessed are two entirely different things, as Kristen has taught her, but in this moment she feels both, in awe of this careful and precious love surrounding her, sturdy and whole.
Kristen is sitting on the tank of the toilet, feet propped up on the closed lid, joint perched between her fingers. Her eyes squint up as she laughs widely at something Adaine is saying, doubling over and pressing her free palm against her eyes in an attempt to stifle her laughter. The freckles spattered across her cheeks are like tiny stars, constellations, connecting her to the universe and the universe to her, and she is laughing and she is beautiful.
She takes a drag and passes the joint to Adaine, who has her lips stretched wide in a grin, pleased at having made Kristen laugh. Her glasses are perched up on her forehead, normally pristine hair frizzy from the steam from the shower, water running to dispel the smoke. She’s sprawled across the bathroom floor, feet propped up against the porcelain tub, and she sits up to take another drag from the joint. She coughs, violent and hard, lungs unused to the smoke. Kristen keeps laughing, patting her on the shouler.
“Kristen- no, Kristen, listen,” she’s saying, coughing and laughing so much she can hardly force the words out. “I’m serious, stop. If anyone in the group became a drag queen, it would obviously be Fabian.”
Happy and blessed are two different things, but Fig is insanely blessed to be here in her bathroom, sharing her best friends’ first experience with getting high. It’s their freshman year of high school, and they have gotten so close, so fast.
“I don’t know,” Fig says, lilting and happy and proud. She plucks the joint from Adaine and takes her own hit, casual as anything. “Gorgug has a hidden side. I can really see that for him.”
“He does let us paint his nails,” Adaine concedes.
Kristen, in between wheezes, gasps out, “Oh my god, imagine Riz-”
And they dissolve into giggles, together and present and full of love.
That first time Adaine and Kristen get high, it’s up to Fig to take care of them, to make sure they don’t overdo it, to keep them happy and healthy and content. They make a giant pot of spaghetti once they finish in the bathroom and split it on the floor of the kitchen, straight out of the pot with a fork.
And then they are sprawled out in Fig’s room, painting each other’s nails, telling stories between bouts of giggles so intense that Fig thinks she might pass out from elation.
Sandra Lynn is supposed to be out all night. Something with her job, something with a threat in the Red Wastes. Fig planned a sleepover banking on an empty house, but Sandra Lynn gets home around two in the morning to three very awake and very stoned teenagers, loudly committing to karaoke in the living room, singing into spatula’s snagged from the kitchen.
She’s mad. Not at Kristen or Adaine, because of course they share no fault, but at Fig. Always at Fig. She gets mad, and she yells, and Fig yells back, louder and angrier, because it’s all she knows how to do. It’s all she’s ever known how to do. It’s what her mom did to Gilear, and it’s what she does to her mom, a cyclical mess of anger tangled up into knots.
Fig yells, and Adaine and Kristen leave, and Fig yells some more. She yells and she, embarrassingly enough, cries, and when her mom yells back instead of listening, she smashes a stupid fucking vase that was sitting on the kitchen counter, full of flowers, tears burning in her eyes.
They both stop, and they both stare at the wreckage, a pool of water and broken shards of glass and half-wilted roses, and Sandra Lynn loses it.
It ends in Fig storming out, backpack over her shoulder, flipping her mom off as she slams the door behind her. She wipes aggressively at her eyes with her sleeves, furious at herself for getting emotional. She sits on the curb outside her house and calls Gilear.
Of course, he comes. He always did. Out of her parents, he was the one who always, always answered the phone, no matter what.
Meeting Gortholax for the first time was jarring and warm and fucking terrifying. Because he looks like her, so acutely, in the curve of her nose and her horns, in the way his eyebrows raise when he laughs, and it makes her wonder how she ever thought she was related to Gilear.
But Gortholax never answers the phone immediately when she calls or texts. He replies to her voicemails days later or sends thumbs-up emojis in response to her texts, and it’s not the same. He looks like her, but he is not her dad.
Her phone buzzes with a text.
Kristen: hey :/
Kristen: we r sleeping over at gorgugs now his parents gave us a powerpoint on safe weed usage lmao
Kristen: want to join?
Fig feels a distant sense of relief, that Kristen and Adaine have somewhere safe to spend the night high. She can’t fathom their parents’ reactions if they went home tonight- they already think of her as a corrupting and evil prescence. Fig has found that having horns will make people think that.
People have preconceived notions of Fig, the moment they see her. They think she is scary and brash and corrupting and wicked. And if they aren’t going to give her a chance to prove otherwise, she is going to be scarier and brasher and wickeder than expected. Then, at least, it’s within her control.
Gilear’s car pulls up to the curb. Fig doesn’t look back at her mom’s house as she clambers into the car, sinking low into the passenger seat and crossing her arms.
“What happened?” Gilear asks, and then, when she doesn’t reply, “Are you okay?”
She just turns her head, tilting sideways against the door and closing her eyes. Gilear places a gentle hand on her shoulder, quiet as anything. She can imagine the look on his face- concerned and sad and guilty, always guilty.
Fig opens her eyes and looks out the window of the car, watching the dim and quiet scenery of streetlights and silent houses passing by.
“Am I still your daughter?” she asks suddenly, harshly, unprepared for the answer. She remembers clear as day the look on Gilears face when Sandra Lynn finally gave in, finally confessed to her affair with Gorthalax.
Shattered and broken and longing.
The hand on her shoulder flexes and disappears. When she looks over, Gilear has a white-knuckled grip on the stearing wheel, exhaling through his nose.
“Of course you are,” he says carefully, but he’s looking straight ahead and all of a sudden, Fig doesn’t believe him. She sinks lower in her seat, angrily pushing down the tears that threaten to spring from her eyes.
“Are you mad at me?” Fig asks.
“For what?” Gilear replies.
“For smoking. For Gorthalax. For me.”
And Gilear just sighs, shaking his head. Fig’s heart sinks in her chest.
She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the drive.
It took a while for Fig to accept that there was something about herself that she couldn’t control or change, something that others were unable to accept. She ignored it as long as she could, with hats pulled over her horns and her bathroom mirror hidden away in the back of her closet. She used to creep into the bathroom in the middle of the night with a nail file and grate it over the pointed edge of her fangs, back and form until her teeth were normal. Until she was normal.
Likewise, she used to grate at the parts of herself she didn’t like, obsessing over them, shaving away at them, pretending for so long that if she tried, she could be someone she wasn’t. Because her body felt foreign, and her very self felt foreign, and when she looked at the mirror, she didn’t see Fig. Fig, a beautiful and passionate young elf who had the whole world ahead of her.
Instead, she saw the culmination of all her fears and anger, the dark parts of her, expressed violently and externally. Pointy and sharp and red.
And Fig got angry, and she got sad.
And so she has remained, and so she thinks she will always remain. She tries to express this anger, now, in ripped up fishnets and piercings, but more importantly, she tries to care. She tries so hard to cling to the caring passion she has for this world, because it is one of the most vibrant things she truly recognizes in herself. That part of her, the part full of passion for music and friendships and love, is the one part of herself that she would not change if given the chance.
The Bad Kids bring out a side of her she thought was lost forever, once. She never thought she’d find this version of herself again- the wildly laughing, sporadically joyous, loud and vibrant and kind Fig. Even when she fumbles over her words and says the wrong thing, when she makes a mean joke or draws into herself, she is met with kindness and patience and love.
The passion she has for these friends is unlike anything she’s ever had before, and every single day Fig finds herself absolutely petrified of losing it.
She is brash and loud, and she calls herself out on her mistakes before anyone else can, because then she’s self aware. Then, she can make herself the center of a joke everyone else has. If she makes them laugh enough, they won’t leave her behind. If she teaches them to skateboard and smoke, plays them songs on her guitar, and listens whenever they need an ear, they will stay.
When she met Gorgug, she didn’t particularily think they would get along. He’s quiet and carries himself all hunched over, like he’s scared of talking too loud or being too tall. She sees that, and her heart twinges, because she feels the same way. She just expresses it differently, taking up space before someone can take it away from her instead of drawing back into herself.
She sees that in Gorgug when she first meets him, in detention that first day of high school, holding a little metal flower with his hood drawn up over his ears, and she suddenly has a deep, persistent desire to see him be loud. To see him laughing and comfortable and confident. She sees this boy, whose hands shake when he gets too loud, whose voice wavers when he is uncertain, and she thinks that she can help.
What she didn’t expect was Gorgug being the one to truly help her.
They are hunched over his desk in his room, Gorgug in his desk chair and Fig lying on her stomach on his bed, leaning over the headboard to peer over his shoulder.
“I don’t know, really,” he’s saying, bashful and shy. “It’s stupid, I guess. They’re just designs, for now, but I was thinking I’d make the- um, the necklace for Adaine as a gift. I mean, you know her better than me. She probably wouldn’t like it, I don’t know.”
She wants to shake him by the shoulders and force him to understand how much love she holds for him. She wants him to never feel self conscious about what he loves.
Instead, she says, careful and casual, unlit clove balanced between her fingers, “Those are fucking sick, Gorgug. I wish I could draw like that.”
He rolls his eyes, flipping his sketchbook shut.
She’s careful with his trust, in showing her his designs for metalworking projects. He’s shy about it, insisting it’s just a hobby, but he’s amazing, and he gets better with every project. He doesn’t show any of the others his creative works- in this, Fig is special, and she is trusted.
The necklace in question is a beautiful and intricate design of stars surrounding a rune of protection on a teardrop-shaped pendant. Fig knows for a fact that Adaine will not only love the design, but also the thought and consideration put into it.
Gorgug is kind like that, in a way Fig has never managed. She thinks maybe it balances them out.
The door creaks open behind them, and when Fig turns, she clearly sees that it’s Wilma Thistlespring, grin wide on her face. “Leave the door open a few inches, bud!”
And then she’s gone, and Gorgug is blushing a violent shade of purple, burying his hands in his face. “Oh my god.”
Fig laughs, patting his shoulder sympathetically. “Do you have girls over often?”
Gorgug groans, sinking further down his desk chair. “She did that when Fabian was in here last week.”
Fig chokes on her laughter, gasping out a wheeze. Gorgug smiles, timid and pleased at having made her laugh.
“I also made something. For you. If you want it, that is. It’s stupid, actually, forget I said anything-” Gorgug says, quick and nervous, knee bouncing up and down in anticipation.
Fig cuts him off by gently punching his shoulder, propping her chin up in her hand. “Gorgug, shut the fuck up, I fucking love you. I can’t believe you made me something.”
Gorgug, somehow, blushes more, turning away and reaching into his desk drawer. “Don’t get excited, Fig, it’s small and probably lame. I just- wanted to make you something. I don’t know.”
He reaches out and places a small, cold, rectangular piece of metal in her hands.
It’s a lighter, made of shiny, smooth aluminum. Carved into one side is an intricate and swirling design, lines twisted to form a beautiful and tiny portrait of a flaming flower.
“Flowers lit on fire are typically symbolic of passion and transformation, and you have so much passion for this world. I am so- so glad to be your friend, Fig, because you see something in me that no one ever has before. I don’t know what it is, or how, but you just- you get it. You try to understand. And it’s stupid, and it’s just a little gift, but I just wanted you to know, I guess.” Gorgug is rambling, voice quavering in that nervous way, but he doesn’t reach out to take it back, and he doesn’t apologize for what he is saying.
Distantly, Fig is proud.
She turns the lighter over in her hands, awed, and suddenly stops listening to what Gorgug is saying, because on the other side of the lighter is engraved the words, property of Fig Faeth, world’s best friend, love, G.
Fig has never been anyone’s best friend before.
She inhales through her nose, sharp and clear, and then she’s tumbling forward to tug Gorgug into a hug. It’s awkwardly positioned, with the baseboard of his bed digging into her thighs as she launches almost fully off the bed, leaning fully on Gorgug to hold her up. He does, resting an ever-so-gentle hand on her back, without hesitation.
Fig doesn’t cry. She doesn’t. But she has this warm and gentle love surrounding her, and she has friends that will love her for who she is until she finds her way back to herself.
And they prove it again and again.
She vows to herself that as long as they will have her, she will stay by her friends’ sides. All of them, forever. She will spend her life proving to them how much she loves them, and they will spend their lives proving to her that she is someone worth staying for.
And soon enough, Fig Faeth will come back to herself, one day at a time.
She pretends to be casual, cooly leaning back and subtly wiping her eyes, flicking open the lighter and lighting her clove, trying to keep Gorgug from seeing how this love is overwhelming her.
He wrinkles his nose, groaning. “Unless you want my parents to lecture you on lung health and safe smoking, I’d put that out.”
Fig rolls her eyes, clambering up from the bed to prop open his window and exhale the smoke into the clear evening air. The sun is setting, a spiral of orange and pink streaking across the sky, and Fig feels buzzy and warm and anxious, all at once.
A week after the smashed vase on her kitchen floor, Fig’s phone lights up with a call from Sandra Lynn. She’s sitting in Basrar’s with her friends, who are all loud and bright and talking over eachother, all crammed into one booth. She has a cherry milkshake in a tall glass in front of her, a milkshake that Kristen keeps stealing despite having her own banana split.
She frowns, and slides out from her place on the end of the bench, all squished up against Fabian’s side. Riz, on his other side, raises an eyebrow at her. She shakes her head.
Stepping outside, she answers the phone, leaning up against the brick exterior wall and shoving her free hand in the pocket of her leather jacket. “Hello?”
“Fig,” Sandra Lynn says. She sounds relieved, breathless. “I- I’ve been worried. I’m sorry I got upset last week. It’s- it’s not okay that you were smoking in the house, but I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”
Fig stares at a rock on the ground, jagged and smooth granite. She wonders idly how far she could kick it. “‘s okay. Did Gilear talk to you?”
Sandra Lynn exhales. Fig can picture the look on her face, dejected and tired. “Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
Fig hums, pressing the phone closer to her ear. “Why are you calling?”
A beat of silence, and then her mom sighs. “Are you coming home soon?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence, and then- “Okay. Just- you always have a place here, sweetheart. I know things are hard, right now, with your dad-”
“Gilear’s not my dad.”
She sounds pained when she goes, “I know, Fig. I know. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.” Fig hates, hates, hates how vulnerable and small her voice sounds. She hangs up, shoving her phone deep into her pocket, breathing the pit in her throat down into her stomach.
“Everything okay?” Kristen asks when she slides back into the booth.
Fig nods carefully, plastering a little dejected smile on her face. “Yeah. It was just Sandra Lynn.”
Adaine gives her a knowing look and Fabian hooks his ankle around hers, and Fig Faeth is so loved.
Later, when they wind up sprawled around Fabian’s huge, open, and empty living room, huge oak chandelier towering above them, plush white furniture stark against the colorful and bright teenagers occupying them, Fig carries that feeling of love. For the first time in her life, songwriting feels natural- much, much better than when she writes out of anger.
Anger can and has carried her so far, but sometimes she thinks there will be a point where she will have to find another reason to keep going.
She sits on the couch, feet propped up in Kristen’s lap, bass guitar in her lap as she strums along to the melody floating around her head, like a piece of paper drifting past her in the wind.
Fabian is sitting in a plush and frankly huge armchair, eyes closed and head tilting back to the ceiling. Riz is sitting on the floor by him, papers sprawled all around him in a semi-circle of research and homework and cases. Adaine examines one of these papers, leaning over to peer at whatever it is that Riz is working on. Always working, always trying.
Gorgug is laying flat on his back on the artisan persian rug, eyes closed and headphones on. His face is lax, peaceful- content.
Fig sighs, warm and loving, and she cannot help the magic that slips through her grasp, sliding along her guitar strings and emanating through the notes, gold and quivering magic stringing out and winding around each and every one of her friends, full of Fig’s sharp and clear and tangy magic, an expression of her undying love.
It’s not a spell, nothing more tangible or powerful than her Bardic Inspiration, but Kristen sets a hand on her ankle and smiles, tilting her head.
“Happy?” she asks, and Fig hums, like a content, purring cat. Kristen laughs, soft and haloed by her curly hair. “I can feel it.”
Adaine nods in agreement, looking up from the papers. “I love you too, Fig.”
Fig doesn’t know who she is, and maybe she never will.
But at this moment, she is here, and she is happy, and that is enough.