Work Text:
Adaine is friends with someone in the band. That’s why Ayda is here. It’s their first concert in a while, Adaine wanted to go and support her friend, and she invited Ayda along.
The venue is small, little more than a bar with a crowded stage pushed against one corner. And while there’s a fairly decent turn-out for an unknown local band, it’s not so crowded that Ayda feels uncomfortable. Adaine had anticipated that, before inviting her or agreeing to go herself. Neither of them really like overly loud or crowded spaces- it’s one of the things that Ayda appreciates about her friend. How conscious and careful she is about not only taking care of her own sensory needs, but everyone else’s. It makes Ayda feel cared for, but not stifled, which she’s eminently grateful for; and has told Adaine as such many times before.
They’re early, because neither Ayda nor Adaine like to be late to things, and have settled at a little table right up against the stage. There are a few instruments and mics already set up, probably left over from the soundcheck before doors opened. The stage lights are dim but warm, casting gold and orange across the empty stage. Ayda imagines, for a moment, all of the previous people that have performed here. Standing at these same microphones, lit by these same lights. Like a double-exposed photo, dozens of shadows of people overlaid atop one another.
Adaine sips at her drink. Ayda always appreciates how they’re able to sit in comfortable silence. That, with Adaine, she doesn’t have to worry about coming up with something to say, just for the sake of conversation. They understand each other well enough to be able to sit together in the quiet company of their own minds.
People are still slowly trickling into the bar, chatting over the pre-show music playing from unseen speakers overhead. Ayda thinks she recognizes the song that’s playing- something mellow but upbeat her parent used to play while they cooked dinner. Someone’s set up a video camera on a tripod aimed at the stage, and Ayda cranes her neck to look at it, trying to triangulate whether she and Adaine’s table will be in the shot. Hopefully not, but they are seated rather close to the small stage. It’s crowded with two microphones, a drum set, an electric guitar, and two acoustic guitars. There’s a small piano tucked against the wall, and Ayda can’t figure out whether it’s left over for another set, or whether someone in Adaine’s friend’s band is going to play piano while facing the wall. It doesn’t seem like very smart staging, but Ayda doesn’t have a lot of performance experience, so what does she know?
Either way, the puzzle will be solved in- she glances down at her small golden watch, a graduation gift from Garthy- twenty minutes; when the concert is scheduled to start. Ayda fiddles with the small case holding her earplugs, pulling it out of her pocket and turning it over in her palm. The case is a clamshell of smooth plastic with a thin raised seam along the midline, and the engraved logo of the brand on the top. She doesn’t know how loud this particular band will be, or how well they’ve set up the acoustics in the bar that is slowly filling up with people. They’re close to the stage, and while Ayda doesn’t love the idea that the performers could see her with her earplugs in, she’d rather that than the overstimulation and ringing in her head that comes from being overexposed to things that are too loud. For the moment, though, the bar is pleasantly filled with a low chatter, the radio overhead quietly audible over it, and Ayda doesn’t feel the need to block out the excess sound, yet.
Upon reflection, she probably should have asked Adaine about her friends, about what kind of music they play; or even just taken the initiative to look up their music herself. But it feels kind of like some unspoken faux pas for Ayda to look the band up now, when they’re probably a handful of feet away, huddled in some backstage green room before they go on. She doesn’t know if anyone else in the gathering crowd would look close enough to notice if Ayda wanted to look through the band’s social medias, but she doesn’t want to risk the chance of unintentionally embarrassing Adaine at her friends’ show. So Ayda sits, pressing her thumb against the thin seam of her earplugs’ case, and waits for the show to start. There are many interesting people filtering into the bar, and Adaine’s gotten them both something lightly herbal and fizzy and nonalcoholic to drink, and Ayda is patient.
It's not until the lights dim and the crowd quiets that Ayda realizes the depth of her mistake in not preparing more before the show began.
Adaine’s friend is… impossibly attractive.
There are three of them, technically, climbing onstage and smiling and waving at the accumulated crowd. The first one onstage is a tall man with long dark hair hanging in his face that bee-lines towards the drum set in the back. As he smiles and sits down at the drum set, he pulls a baseball cap out of the front pocket of his hoodie and uses it to push the hair out of his face. Fast on his heels is a slightly shorter man with tight bleach blond coils on the top of his head and shaved sides. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves and sides cut out, so his nicely toned arms and ribs are visible as he waves and grins as he makes his way across the stage. There’s a shimmering gold smear of makeup across both of his cheeks that catch the lights, making his warm brown skin seem to glow. The second man sees Adaine as he pulls the strap of his guitar over his shoulders, blowing her an exaggerated kiss that Adaine pretends to pluck out of the air and press to her heart with a roll of her eyes. And then. The last member of the band. A woman, stomping on stage from behind the curtain in black platform boots. Her hair is dark and streaked with color- purple and red- and pulled up into a long ponytail that swings against her back and reveals an undercut behind her ears and along the back of her neck as she spins around the stage. Her jeans are more holes than denim, and reveal peeks of fishnet tights beneath them. Her t-shirt is cropped at the waist and baggy at the shoulders, slouching off to one side as she leans over, revealing a pale collarbone that shines under the stage lights. Her makeup is dark around her eyes and her smile- Ayda is not one prone to affected, flowery language. So it is in a very literal way when she thinks that this person’s smile is electrifying. Her gaze lands on Ayda, and a thrill runs down her spine and then back up again, peaking at the crown of her head. Her smile widens, perhaps imperceptibly if Ayda’s stare was not already locked on her, and her eyes catch the spotlights landing on her with the same shine as clear water in midday sunshine. They sparkle.
She sparkles in Ayda’s direction, and it feels almost intentional. Like it’s aimed at Ayda in particular, and Ayda has to remind herself that these are performers. They are actors of a different kind, they’re trained and used to grabbing onto attention and holding on for dear life. The lead singer is charismatic, and Ayda is terribly and immediately smitten, and so she is reading too much into something that isn’t there.
And then she winks. And it is very hard for Ayda not to convince herself that it was at her in particular.
Her face is hot, and she cannot attribute it to the burn of the stage lights or make up; which are surely the reasons why the lead singer’s cheeks are pink as she grabs onto the microphone and greets the assembled crowd.
“Hi everyone!” She says, and her voice is loud and melodic and determined. Ayda could stare at her smile forever, trying to memorize the dimples that press unevenly into her cheeks and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she bares her teeth in a particularly wide grin. “I’m Fig Faeth, as most of you probably know, and we’re Fig and the Sig Figs!” The crowd cheers, rattling the walls with applause and whistling as the man at the drum kit does a quick crash on the snare and the hi-hat, letting it ring out amongst the cheering before grabbing on and silencing it.
“I really can’t believe we’re here,” Fig continues when the applauding abates, “and we’re really all so thankful for all of you that turned out tonight! I see some familiar faces in the crowd-” Fig leans forward, shading her eyes with her hand as she peers out into the bar. Her eyes catch on Adaine and her smile gets bigger again, blowing a kiss in her direction, much as her bandmate did, before speaking into the microphone again. “And also some new people! So if this is your first time seeing and hearing us, first of all- holy shit? Thanks for turning out to see a bunch of randos play?” The crowd laughs, and Fig beams, ducking her head and tilting the microphone stand a little. “It really means a lot though, for all of you to be here, so we’re gonna try really hard not to suck- right Fabes?” She turns to her fellow guitarist, who scowls at her for being called out.
“Excuse me, Fig,” he says, leaning into her space to speak into the mic, “I take offense at that implication.”
“Dude,” Ayda can hear the laughter in Fig’s voice, “That was the point.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but Fig shoves at his shoulder, pushing him away from the microphone and he goes, fiddling with the strings of his guitar while a smile plays at the edge of his mouth. “So,” Fig continues, “that was Fabian, he’s gonna be on lead guitar and some keys tonight-” Fig pauses for the crowd to cheer appropriately, Fabian playing a brief lick on his guitar as they do- “and behind me, you know him, we all love him, Gorgug on the sticks!” The drummer plays another riff on the snare, audible even over the laughter and applause around her.
Ayda finds it hard to look at the two men onstage, however, even as Fig introduces them; because looking at Gorgug or Fabian would involve looking away from Fig. And Ayda really cannot bring herself to do that, yet. Not when Fig keeps glancing at her- probably in passing, as she scans the crowd of the bar- and Ayda’s pulse jumps every time she does.
“They’re the significant, I’m the figures-” Fig rolls her bass guitar up off her hip in one smooth motion, Ayda’s mouth is dry and her ears are ringing, even though it isn’t that loud yet- “lets make some fucking noise!”
The concert is wonderful. Loud and electrifying and irresistible. Ayda puts her earplugs in, because she doesn’t want to get too overstimulated to enjoy the show. It’s not the type of music Ayda usually listens to herself, but they’re talented enough for that not to matter. The three of them seem to communicate and understand each other without words, jumping from one song to the next with a look and a nod; Fig stepping back to let Fabian play an impromptu solo before launching back into the chorus.
And the whole time, every time Ayda thinks she’s just about caught her breath, Fig’s eyes land on her again. It happens so often, with such thrill and clear intent, throughout the whole show, that Ayda has to fight against the conclusion that Fig is singing to her. It’s illogical. Ayda is a stranger in a crowd to Fig. Surely she is making such heated eye contact with every other person in her eyeline, and Ayda just hasn’t noticed. She’s charismatic and compelling and magnetic onstage, and Ayda is just a piece of scrap metal being tugged closer by the force of her grin.
Ayda isn’t someone prone to flights of fancy, she doesn’t fall in love with every beautiful woman who looks her way- not that there are many who do. So it’s… disconcerting, how quickly Ayda finds herself leaning forward, waiting for the next moment that Fig’s eyes land on her. She knows it’s probably rude that she’s so obviously ignoring Adaine, but Ayda cannot bring herself to look away. She can only hope that Adaine is half as enthralled in the performance as Ayda is, and that her friend hasn’t caught onto Ayda’s infatuation with the lead singer, yet.
She knows Adaine would tease her, if she knew. A well-intentioned, friendly type of teasing, to be sure; and she would stop as soon as she thought Ayda was uncomfortable, but still. Ayda wants to avoid it. She wants to avoid the inevitable attempt at matchmaking Adaine would try, if she knew how quickly Ayda found herself enraptured by Fig. Ayda doesn’t want to be one of the awkward, entitled fans that hits on a performer at their show. Ayda doesn’t want Adaine to feel like she has to be the one to force together two disparate friends. It could so easily go wrong, be awkward and weird and put Adaine in the uncomfortable position of being torn between both sides. Ayda doesn’t ever want to place Adaine in an uncomfortable position, if it’s within her control. Which this is.
The concert ends with a bang- literally, the drummer slamming down so hard on his set for the final note that Ayda feels the reverb in her chest- and the crowd roars their appreciation as the band gathers at the edge of the stage to bow. Ayda stands when Adaine does, clapping so hard that the skin of her palms starts to buzz. Fig’s smile overtakes her face, pulling at her reddened cheeks like elastic. Hair sticks to her forehead with sweat and one of her boots is untied. Fig waves to the crowd, shouting things that are swallowed up by the wave of sound without her microphone, shooting finger guns and laughing as she leans against Gorgug and Fabian beside her. She’s wonderful and messy and Ayda thinks that if there was a way to measure joy in countable units, Fig’s output would surpass millions.
She drags her mic stand close again, leaning in to speak over the crowd’s begging for an encore to say, “Thank you so much! They’ve got another group coming in soon so they’re kicking us out to reset and do mic checks, so feel free to stick around to see the next set- or! Gorgug and Fabian and I are gonna be around back at the bar so please come on back and say hi! I think our friend Riz-” Fabian leans over Fig’s shoulder to say something that’s lost in the crackle of feedback- “right, sorry, our new manager, Riz,” Fig corrects, “is gonna have some CDs and posters and I think a couple actual records? If you’re interested in merch to help support us, and we’ll be back there if you want anything signed! Tha-”
“Including body parts!” Fabian interjects, leaning in close to steal Fig’s mic again.
He winks at the crowd as Fig wrestles the microphone back out of his hands and hastens to continue: “Thank you all so much for coming out, it really means the world to us, and to everyone who’s worked to make this at all possible! We love you!” Finally she lets go of the mic stand, bringing both palms to her face to blow kisses into the crowd as the cheering ratchets up another decibel. Ayda sees Adaine blowing kisses towards the stage out of the corner of her eye, and Fig even pretends to grab one out of the air and press it to her heart when she sees Adaine; just like Adaine had done with Fabian’s blown kiss at the beginning of the show.
And then Fig’s gaze slides onto Ayda.
Again, she feels that flare of electricity racing up and down her spine, and Ayda blinks like Fig herself is one of the blinding yellow spotlights hidden up in the rafters. Fig jerks her head towards the curtains, mouths something Ayda doesn’t catch, and raises her eyebrows. There is every possibility Ayda is misinterpreting this. Fig is probably trying to communicate with Adaine or someone behind Ayda’s shoulder. It could be that Fig noticed Ayda’s staring the whole show, and is subtly asking her to leave the venue. It could be a dozen other more likely options that spin through Ayda’s head. But the first thing she thinks- the option she cannot bring herself to dismiss- is that Fig is asking her, specifically, to come to the bar attached to the back of the performance space. Where the band members will be going. Off stage, under unflattering halogen lighting, mingling around with the crowd that’s already starting to filter through the narrow doorway backstage.
Ayda blinks, and the band is disappearing behind the curtains. Fig’s guitars are left on the stage, her empty water bottle laying on its side at the foot of the mic stand. Adaine is pulling her bag over her shoulder, taking a last sip of water, turning to Ayda. “Do you mind? If we go around back to the bar and say hi? You don’t have to, of course, I know the show was a lot- for both of us- I love them, but Fig doesn’t ever do anything by half measures, you know?” Ayda nods. “So we can go home, if you’re overwhelmed, or I can go inside for a minute while you take a breath outside if you need, or we can both cool off a little outside before coming back in, or-”
“I would like to go. To the bar, to see your friends. If that’s okay?”
Adaine’s eyebrows raise, but she nods. “Absolutely. I know they’d love to meet you, if you’re sure?”
Ayda thinks about Fig’s piercing gaze, the way she seemed to look right at Ayda and smile like she was something special. “I’m sure.”
The bar feels even more crowded than the performance space did; maybe because they’re caught in the middle of it, instead of staking out a good table close to the stage early in the evening. Ayda wraps her fingers around the strap of Adaine’s bag and tries to focus on the smooth faux-leather instead of the crush of bodies and the wave of voices around her. Adaine shoves her way through the narrow room, eventually finding a sparse corner, far from the side entrance or the long bar against one wall, where most people are congregating to try and grab drinks.
“Are you alright?” Adaine asks, leaning close so she doesn’t have to shout to be heard.
Ayda nods. “Are you alright, too?”
Adaine winces slightly. “It’s a lot of people, but I’m glad they got such a big turn out. Oh- I think I see Gorgug’s head over there-”
“Go,” Ayda tells her, and puts a hand on the leaning table they’ve ended up next to. “I’ll save our space.”
Adaine smiles, grateful, “Thanks, I’ll see if I can drag them back over here to meet you, and if not, maybe we can meet them somewhere for a late dinner or coffee in a little bit? If that won’t be too much?”
“Maybe?” Ayda hedges.
“Okay. We’ll reevaluate in a minute, after I talk to the boys- and Fig, if I can find her?”
“Yes. That works.”
Adaine grins, reaching over to squeeze Ayda’s elbow slightly, before disappearing back into the crowd. The volume presses against Ayda, especially since she’s already taken her earplugs out, and she digs her phone out of her pocket to try and distract herself.
She answers a message from Garthy, reads through a few emails, and is about to look the Sig Figs up on Spotify for later when she sees someone approach her little table in her periphery.
Ayda looks up, expecting it to be Adaine, maybe followed by Gorgug, but it’s not.
“Hi, sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting you but you’re Adaine’s friend, right? I saw you two sitting together during the show?”
Ayda’s phone hangs limply from her fingers as Fig, up close and personal, smiles at her. Somehow, it feels even more overwhelming than it did from the stage.
“You were very good,” Ayda says. It is simultaneously more and less than she wanted to say. And also, not at all the answer to the question she’d been asked. In response, Fig blinks. Once, twice, long eyelashes dragging a distracting path across her cheeks.
“...Thank you,” she answers, after a pause. It’s a trend Ayda has learned to attribute to uncertainty from people, at best; or their mocking disbelief in her, at worst. She doesn’t want to think that of Fig, but Ayda’s long-worn emotional defenses rise up anyway. Fig is looking at her, eyes wide and dark but so much closer than they had been on stage- Fig looked at her then, too. Ayda doesn’t know how to parse her expression: the tilt of a smile on her mouth, lipstick smudged and left unfixed after her show. Her eyebrows raised high on her forehead, the way Fig hasn’t stopped blinking at her, but also hasn’t looked away from Ayda, despite the fact that neither of them have said anything for what feels like hours (probably only a few seconds) and surely there are more interesting people to look at here, in the back of this bar, than Ayda.
And yet.
“Yes. I am a friend of Adaine,” Ayda answers, belatedly. “She spoke very highly of all of you, even before she invited me to see your show.”
“Aww, that's so sweet of her. I hope she didn’t tell you any horror stories of when we were in high school? I promise, we’re not as crazy as she made us out to be. Well, I don’t know, maybe we are- we did burn down that building by accident junior year- but like, teenage stuff, you know? I promise, I’m like, super down to earth and normal, now. Punk rock band notwithstanding.”
Ayda blinks at her. “Okay.”
“I’m Fig,” she says.
“I know,” Ayda replies, and then feels a familiar flash of panic-uncertainty-shame: she’s said the wrong thing. That’s not the script she’s supposed to follow here- but Fig is still looking at her. Still smiling at her, and Ayda wants to trust so terribly that it is genuine. “You introduced yourself at the beginning of the show. Which was very good- you were very good. All of you. My name is Ayda,” she offers, trying to drag this interaction back onto the rails.
“Ayda,” Fig echoes. She’s got one arm crossed over her chest, hands tucked into the elbow of her other arm, fingers tapping a rapid beat against the pale skin there. Ayda wonders if it’s a rhythm to a song inside Fig’s head, or whether it’s some random pattern without a source. She wants to ask, but doesn’t. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you,” Ayda says, stiltedly. She did not choose her name- her birth father did, not long before he handed her off to Garthy- not even through a formal adoption agency, just left her on their doorstep with a note. She likes her name, but only feels any connection to it as the name she’s had her whole life. The name Garthy and Adaine and the people she loves and who love her use and say with affection. She isn’t used to- no one has ever called her name beautiful before. “Figs are. A delicious fruit, and an uncommon name, in my experience.”
Fig laughs, and it is a warm and bubbling thing, eager and loud and unafraid of being overheard. Ayda wishes she could laugh like that in public with strangers around, and not worry if she was taking up too much space. Ayda’s unburdened laugh is a troublesome thing; with her bouncing her knees and flexing her hands and cawing out loud the sounds that wait dormant in her chest.
By comparison, Fig’s laugh is musical; and she is beautiful and charming and talented. And she is speaking to Ayda, even though there have been multiple opportunities for her to disembark the conversational train they’re on. “It’s actually Figueroth,” Fig says, leaning closer to Ayda to say the name slightly under her breath. She grins broader, and an electric pulse slides down Ayda’s spine. “My first name. But only my dads call me that. And my mom when she’s pissed at me.”
Questions lie on Ayda’s tongue: the history of her full given name, the context of her multiple dads and her singular mom, whether Fig smiles at everyone like this.
“Figueroth,” Ayda echoes instead. Something changes in Fig’s expression, a slide or shift that Ayda cannot put her finger on- but she wants to. Something about Fig makes Ayda want to study and categorize everything about her, put down every detail until she’s got it memorized and safe inside her head. Until she can read Fig as easily as a book, know what every expression means. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“Yeah, yes, it’s uh-” Fig’s words fall out of her mouth in a tumble that Ayda’s tempted to label nervous- “I don’t. Share that with a lot of people. But you’re- you’re easy to talk to. Sorry. Is this weird? Am I being weird? I always do too much too fast, especially when there’s a pretty girl, and you’re looking at me like- like- god. I don’t know. I’m going to shut up now.” Fig grabs a water bottle off a nearby table, littered with abandoned Sharpies and posters and CDs for her to sign, and downs half the thing in one swallow.
Ayda’s mind is still spinning with the newfound information that Fig finds her pretty enough to be tongue tied about. “I don’t think you’re being weird,” she answers, and Fig chokes a little as she swallows, lowering the bottle from her mouth. There is lipstick on the clear plastic rim, and the dark red makeup around her mouth is even more smudged. Ayda isn’t sure whether she wants to fix it or wipe it all clean away- smudges of dark red on her fingertips, Fig’s mouth beneath her hand- “But oftentimes, people find me weird, or unnerving, or awkward. So I don’t know if my judgment is the most reliable in this circumstance.”
“I love weird people,” Fig says, immediate and fervent. She still hasn’t looked away from Ayda, even when she briefly attempted to drown herself via plastic water bottle. “You seem like the best kind of weird, no offense intended.”
“Why would I take offense at that?” The idea of someone like Fig finding Ayda the best kind of anything is too flattering to parse.
Fig shrugs. She’s tapping a different rhythm against the thin plastic of her water bottle, now, short nails making the water jostle and the plastic crackle under her hands. “Not everyone likes being called weird, I guess?”
“I don’t- usually, I don’t enjoy it. People use it as an insult, or they say that it’s a good thing, and don’t actually mean it. But I believe that you mean it’s a good thing, Figueroth. Which means I- I like it. It’s nice.”
“Oh.” Fig blinks at her, and her smile slides again- from a sideways grin something smaller and less practiced. It makes her look younger, less overwhelmingly charismatic and untouchable. “I like it when you use my full name. I don’t- usually, it’s. Not enjoyable. Like you said. But with you… it’s nice.”
Oh, Ayda thinks. A silent echo. “Thank you.”
They stand there, the crowds around them pulsing with energy; an overwhelming ocean battered by music still blasting from speakers above the bar. Normally, Ayda would find a situation like this overwhelming; she would put her earplugs back in or she would take out her big noise-canceling headphones and listen to the audio book she’s in the middle of until Adaine came back from talking to the people she knows at the bar so they could leave. If she wasn’t with Adaine, Ayda might even have stepped outside by herself; slipping out the door into the cool night air, letting the fresh silence wash over her as she took the walk home to recalibrate her flushed body and spinning mind alone. But Fig- Fig is grinning like she’s just heard the best joke ever told. She’s twisting a loose strand of dark hair around her finger and staring at Ayda like she’s the one lit up by a stage light. It’s like the two of them have found some kind of oasis- an island in the middle of the crowded bar. A bubble for just the two of them.
They stand there in silence for longer than is probably socially acceptable. But Fig keeps smiling and glancing at Ayda and then away and then back, keeps tapping her fingers against the soft skin in the crease of her elbow, keeps Ayda safely tucked inside their private little world.
“So, um, sorry, I’m usually better at this, uh, what do you do?”
And just like that, they’re in the middle of the most comfortable conversation Ayda has ever had just as soon as they’ve started. Volleying questions and answers back and forth, Fig showing genuine interest and making Ayda laugh with almost every sentence. She loses track of time, loses track of the bar they’re standing in and Adaine and all the strangers around them. The world narrows down to just her and Fig. Ayda explains the intricacies of library categorization and Fig talks about trying to make their way into the music scene when increasingly the only way to make a name is to go viral.
“All the old grassroots ways of like, working the circuit and doing shows and sending demos to DJs and stuff from the old days are practically dead,” Fig explains, “Now it’s either you win the digital lottery and the algorithm boosts your shit on TikTok, or you’re a nepotism baby using daddy’s money and connections to throw yourself out there and like, maybe I’m a hater, but none of those are really punk rock, you know? That’s not who we are, that’s not what we’re trying to do.”
And then that leads them into Fig mentioning she noticed Ayda’s earplugs during the concert. For a moment, Ayda freezes, thinking Fig is going to turn this into another joke; or worse, treat it as something weird and bad. But she doesn’t. She compliments Ayda’s case and says how she wears earplugs for safety in every show she sees- makes Fabian and Gorgug wear them too- so many punk bands in the scene really blast out their speakers, and “hearing loss isn’t really punk.” Ayda explains hers are less for safety and more as an accommodation, preventing her from getting too overwhelmed in loud public spaces- which leads them into talking about how few accommodations Fig had for her ADHD and her bandmate Gorgug for his dyslexia when they were in school.
The conversation is easy. Fig’s energy is earnest and laser-sharp, the kind of thing that would normally make Ayda anxious under the brunt of it; but there’s something warm about Fig. The same kind of magnetic charisma she had on stage that makes it impossible for Ayda to look away. And, bizarrely, Fig seems similarly enraptured by her.
Time goes vague and liquid around them, the crowded bar melting into background noise as Fig and Ayda stay tucked in their little corner beside the abandoned merch table. She doesn’t realize how long it’s been until Adaine comes quietly up to them, glancing between Ayda and Fig with a bitten-down smile and raised eyebrows. The two boys from the band- Gorgug and Fabian- trail behind her, both of them grinning so broadly it overtakes their whole faces. Ayda notices them before Fig does, because her back is to the rest of the room and she’s caught up in a story about trying to dye her hair for the first time in middle school with Kool-Aid, and it ending up a horrifyingly sticky, sugary mess.
“And, like, Gorgug had the brilliant idea to also dip his like, bangs in it, even though I was clearly like dying with my head drowning in sugar water, and he-”
“Fig, c’mon, dude,” Gorgug interrupts her, arms crossed over his chest despite his smile.
Fig spins around to face them, hair flicking through the air, already laughing as she turns. “Shut up, dude, it’s a great story.”
“It makes you both sound like idiots,” Fabian adds, one arm slung over Gorgug’s shoulders and most of his weight slumped into his taller friend’s side.
“That’s what’s funny, ” Fig answers, reaching up to poke Fabian in the chest. “Duh. And, dude, like, don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done it too, if you’d been there. You can act high and mighty and hoity toity all you want, but you’re just as dumb as the rest of us.”
“Maybe dumber,” Gorgug adds, leaning his arm along Fig’s shoulder as they gang up on Fabian. “You tried to eat glass that one time-”
“Okay!” Fabian shouts, cutting both of his friends off and waving his hands through the air. Ayda sees multiple people in the bar turn and look at the five of them. “Point made, or whatever! Shut the fuck up! Both of you!”
“Love you, guy,” Fig says, leaning forward to hook her arm through the triangle made by Fabian’s hand propped on his hip. “Also, uh, this is Ayda.” Fig cranes her neck backwards, at what is surely an uncomfortable angle, to grin up at Adya without jostling her position between her two friends. “Adaine brought her tonight, and she’s, like. The coolest person I’ve ever met. No offense.”
“No,” Adaine drawls, “how could any of us possibly take offense at that?”
Ayda is very warm. Fabian nods in her direction and Gorgug waves amiably and Adaine is looking at her like she is psychically trying to bludgeon a question into Ayda’s head. “Hello. The concert was very good, you’re all very talented.”
Inexplicably, Fig’s face is rosy and pleased again, even though it isn’t anything Ayda hasn’t already said, or that Fig hasn’t already heard from people who can judge and enjoy music more effectively than Ayda. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Gorgug says, “we’re really glad you came. Adaine mentioned she was gonna bring a friend tonight and it’s really great to meet you. Uh, I’m Gorgug. That’s Fabian.”
“I already introduced you both-”
“It’s nice to meet you-” Fig and Ayda say simultaneously, voices overlapping.
“Right.” Adaine raises her voice to talk over all four of them. “I want ice cream. Can we go? Or Fig, did you want to ignore your loving fans for a little while longer?”
Fig wrinkles her nose in Adaine’s direction. Which, given the way Adaine smiles and rolls her eyes, is some kind of established unspoken rapport they have. It’s as fascinating as it is charming.
“I wasn’t ignoring anyone, Addy,” Fig replies, “I happened to be speaking to our newest super-fan in the making, thank you.”
Ayda smiles, realizing that Fig means her. It’s probably a good thing that Fig referred to her as their newest super fan, right? Ayda did really like their music, and was planning on looking up their records on Spotify when she got home; but she did feel like she was slightly more a fan of the lead singer than she was the music itself.
“How do you feel about ice cream, Ayda?” Fig asks, stepping out from between the new cluster of friends around them to be closer to Ayda again. “We could do something else if you’re not feeling it?”
“No, yes. No, we do not have to do something else, I would be very amenable to- yes. Ice cream sounds perfect.”
Fig smiles. Ayda thinks, for neither the first or the last time, how lucky she must be to be the focus of such a smile. “Cool,” Fig says. “Cool. Ice cream it is. Pack it in, boys!” She turns around and reaches up to grab onto both Gorgug and Fabian’s shoulders; which she has to rise up onto the toes of her platform boots to reach.
“Fig, did you wanna, like. Say hi to anyone else who’s here?”
“We got a pretty good turn out tonight, and like, Gorgug and I did the rounds and signed some shit but-”
“You’re kind of the frontman of the band, Fig. We can hang out if you want to go talk to some people.”
“Nah, nah, no,” Fig’s digging around in the ragged pockets of her jeans, clearly half-ignoring what the boys are saying. “It’s chill, guys, literally, the other show’s gonna start in a minute and like literally no one has even come up or talked to me but Ayda, so-”
“Cause you’ve been off in your own little world flirting with her,” Fabian says, and Fig’s face does that enchanting rosy-cheeked expression, pleased and astounded, again.
“I- wh- whatever, dude, shut up.” She doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t say I wasn’t flirting. She doesn’t lean away from Ayda or snap at Fabian or do anything mean or self-conscious or rude. She just tugs a few loose strands of hair in front of her face, like she’s hiding behind a tiny curtain, and looks like she’s trying not to smile. “I want ice cream, we’re getting ice cream! Right? Right!”
And then she grabs Ayda’s arm gently by the elbow and starts dragging them both through the crowd. They make it to the edge of the bar and Fig is laughing as she shoves the frosted glass door open and they burst out into the night. There’s a cold breeze that is wonderful after the pressed-close heat of the bar, and Fig’s hand is still warm in the crook of Ayda’s elbow.
The door swings closed behind them, immediately muffling the clamor inside. They’d lost Fabian, Gorgug, and Adaine in the crowd in front of the door, so for the moment it’s just Fig and Ayda again. “I know a very good ice cream parlor a few blocks away.” Ayda’s voice is too loud in the new-quiet of the empty street.
“Cool,” Fig says, and Ayda believes her.
The moment hangs, crystallizing in the cool night air as Fig and Ayda stand quietly at the end of the street. And then the door opens again, and their friends come tumbling out onto the sidewalk.
“Let's go,” Fig says, framing the words like a question. “You wanna lead the way?”
Ayda doesn’t have an answer for that- not one that is good or clever or worthy of Fig’s smile- so she just nods and starts walking.
The ice cream shop is moderately crowded for late on a Saturday night, but not as busy as Ayda’s seen it before. She and Adaine have usually ended up here in the late afternoon, when the shop is full of students just out of class and parents holding their jumping young children by the hands as they wait in line. By comparison, the few clusters of drowsy college students and people dressed like they’re heading to or from a club seem rather quiet.
The five of them make teasing, easy small talk while standing in line- or, rather, Adaine and Fig and the boys talk. Ayda stands quietly with a warm ball of contentment burning in her chest, happy to see Adaine laugh loudly and watch Fig grin at her gathered friends; Ayda included.
They order- butter pecan for Adaine, three leaning scoops of chocolate in a fragile-looking waffle cone for Gorgug, a perfume-smelling combination of pistachio and rose champagne for Fabian, a rainbow sherbet milkshake (Ayda didn’t even know they did that) for Fig, and a small scoop of orange dreamsicle for Ayda- and then Fig herds them all to one of the big, semi-circle booths against the wall.
Ayda was the last to order, and so she’s at the back of the pack as Fig starts directing the boys to climb into the sticky vinyl booth. She eats a spoonful of her ice cream as Gorgug scootches in, the hand with his concerningly-tall ice cream cone held high over his head and wobbling ominously. Somehow, he manages to settle into his seat without losing more than a couple drops of melted ice cream on the top of her head. Ayda is waiting patiently as Fabian argues with Fig about seating arrangements, assuming that she’ll end up sitting at the end of the booth next to Adaine. But then Fig calls her name.
“Ayda! Come sit next to me, come on!” She’s grinning and there’s a little whipped cream on the tip of her nose left from her milkshake, and Ayda once again is struck by the spotlight-feeling from before. She is caught in the headlights of Fig’s attention, and there’s nothing else for her to do but nod and sit down as beckoned.
Ayda ends up in the center of the booth, slightly squished between Fig and Fabian, with Gorgug and Adaine at either end- she with her head propped on one hand, and him with his legs stretched out and converse kicked up on a chair at the end of the table.
It’s fascinating, to be in the middle of such a tightly-knit group of friends. It would be easy- and has been, in the past- for her to be unintentionally elbowed out of the conversation, a fifth-wheel in this case, and sidelined as the four of them talked and laughed and caught up. But that doesn’t happen. Fig whispers context about Fabian’s stories to Ayda under her breath and Gorgug leans around the table to ask Ayda questions and Adaine shares funny anecdotes about their work at the library and Fabian earnestly compliments Ayda’s hair. It’s a little overwhelming, how enthusiastic and comfortable they all are; but the whole time Fig leans closer and closer to Ayda. It starts with their elbows bumping occasionally as Ayda lifts her spoon and Fig puts her milkshake glass down after taking a sip. And then their knees bump beneath the table- accidentally, at first- Ayda shifts her foot away, but then Fig intentionally taps Ayda’s knee with her own, a smile poorly hidden behind her straw. Their arms end up pressed together, shoulder to elbow; a sweetly warm spot in the cool parlor. And after Ayda finishes her ice cream and Fig her milkshake, paper bowl and plastic glass shoved to the middle of the table with the rest of the garbage, Fig gently places her hand on top of Ayda’s. Not holding hands (not yet) but fingers tangled, Fig’s palm hot against the top of Ayda’s hand, sandwiched on the rough vinyl booth and hidden under the table. Ayda wonders if Fig would mind if she rotated her wrist, entwined her fingers with Fig’s. If she wants to properly hold hands as badly as Ayda does.
Ayda did not have a high school romance. She did not dip her metaphorical toe into the proverbial pool until a few years into college. But she wonders- reflecting back on the romantic comedies Adaine secretly likes to watch when she’s drunk, and the cheesily dramatic high school tv shows she and Garthy used to watch after dinner- whether this is what it’s supposed to feel like. The magnetic draw, the butterflies-in-the-stomach, the spark.
She does it- turns her hand around, catches Fig’s fingers, and gently holds on.
Fig squeezes her hand. Ayda cannot help but smile.
By the time they’ve all finished their ice cream (Gorgug takes the longest, and ends up with a comical amount of chocolate spread around his face; and despite Fabian’s emphatic teasing, he doesn’t seem to care) Ayda is surprised by how quickly and easily she has clicked into the pre-established friend group. She’s exhausted, but also doesn’t really want the night to end.
(Maybe that is just because of Fig, though. Because she doesn’t want to let go of Fig’s hand. Because this night, Fig, has felt so impossibly perfect. She does not want it to end, she does not want to watch Fig walk away.)
But it does. Adaine says she’s tired, and Gorgug claims he has work in the morning, and everyone slowly climbs out of the booth, one by one. Ayda is the last to get up; she sits alone for a moment in the booth after Fig lets go of her hand. Her fingers feel cold.
They wait outside the parlor while Fabian goes to the bathroom. Cars drive past, people wander- some exhausted, some drunk- down the street, as the four of them wait on either side of the door for Fabian to rejoin them. Adaine and Gorgug are a few feet away, leaned over and laughing at something on his phone. Fig and Ayda stand by a window, awash in the pool of light shining onto the sidewalk.
“This was really great,” Fig says eventually. “Um. I’m really glad you came to the show, and that you were willing to come hang out, get ice cream, with us. I really- I really liked it.” Ayda blinks at her. “You- meeting- getting to know you. I liked. Yeah. Um.”
“How do you do that?”
For maybe the first time in their brief acquaintance, Fig’s smile falters and falls. A wrinkle of confusion appears on her forehead. “What? What’m I doing?”
“You are so believable. So many people don’t… I have discovered that most people do not always say what they mean. But I… I feel… you’ve been saying so many nice things. About me? About how you feel and what you think? And, to be frank, they’re not the kinds of things I would normally believe when they are said to me. But I… believe you. When you say them.”
“Oh.”
“Is that. I don’t know why I said that, I’m sorry-”
“No, no, oh my god,” Fig interrupts her quickly. She grabs Ayda’s hand. Again. They’re holding hands again, and Ayda does not ever want to let go. “That’s not- you’re not- you haven’t said anything wrong or weird, seriously, I promise. It just. Surprised me? That’s one of the nicest things I think anyone’s ever said to me? Or about me? Or either, both, um, I don’t know, I’m. God, I feel like I’m going to explode-” She laughs, bright and fast and loud. Ayda can’t stop looking at her. Even in the glaring blue halogen light from the ice cream parlor through the window, she looks so beautiful.
“Sorry. Um. Thank you? Seriously? I don’t know, I, uh, decided a couple years back to like. Stop fucking around and stop bullshitting myself and everyone else. And just like, double down on being a fucking weirdo and doing what I want and what feels right and honest in the moment, or whatever, and then I meet this really incredible girl at one of the best shows I’ve ever played and she’s like- you, Ayda, you’re like- like telling me that I’m something impressive or believable or- or- you’re incredible, Ayda. Is what I’m trying to say.”
“Oh.” There is a lump in Ayda’s throat. She swallows and squeezes Fig’s hand.
“I was flirting with you,” Ayda says.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Fabian push through the parlor’s front doors, bell jingling, and say something to Adaine and Gorgug. Hopefully they’re far enough away- a few steps, lost in their own conversation- not to hear it if Fig gently rebuffs Ayda. Adaine will find out eventually, Ayda is sure, but if Fig doesn’t feel the same way- if Ayda has been misreading this whole night- she will want a little time by herself before she’s ready to hear Adaine’s sympathies and reassurances. “To be clear. About my- my intentions? Back in the bar, Fabian said you were… I don’t know how you feel about what he said. Or whether you were flirting with any intention or awareness or- or- meaning.”
“I meant it,” Fig whispers.
Ayda stares at her. Fig stares back, and Ayda’s head is spinning. They are holding hands. She can feel Fig’s rough calluses and bitten nails, the warmth of her skin on Ayda’s. Fig’s thumb brushes, back and forth, along the back of Ayda’s hand.
“I um. I was flirting. With intention and awareness,” Fig says eventually. “With you. Which isn’t, it’s not- I’m not- I flirt? A lot? With like, a lot of people, and not really as, like, myself. Cause- cause who’s gonna wanna flirt with regular old Fig Faeth right? It’s just- I don’t usually mean it. With other people. It’s just something to do for fun but I’m- you’re- you’re kind of incredible, Ayda? I said that already. I mean. I know I like literally just met you but. You make it feel like, like I don’t have to be someone else, I’m just- I’m just Fig. So. Um, anyway, yeah. I meant it. Flirting, and what I said and what I- I feel? I um, I mean it.”
“Oh. Okay. Good. Good.”
“Would you wanna go on a date with me? Or? I don’t know, I’m weird, I haven’t really done this before- dating, asking out-”
“Me neither. Not like this.”
“Exactly. Not like this.” Ayda glows, burning up from the inside. Fig feels it too. The spark, the collection of inconsequential details that add up to something different. Something special.
“But I- yes. Yes I would very much like that. A date. With you.”
“Cool,” Fig breathes. “I really like you.”
“I like you too.” Somehow, with Fig’s impossible earnestness, the words don’t feel juvenile. They just feel true.
“We should probably go. Say goodnight. I’m sure you’re- you’re tired.”
“Yes,” Ayda murmurs. “Tired.”
“I’ll give you my number, and I’ll text- or, or call? And find a time for our date?”
“Tomorrow?”
“What?”
“Tomorrow,” Ayda repeats. “Or is that- is that too soon? We don’t have to- I just- I want to. See you tomorrow. If possible.”
Fig’s expression goes warm and pink and pleased again; and this time, Ayda knows it's for her. Because of her. She folds up the knowledge and tucks it away, proudly thrilled.
“Yeah, yes, tomorrow- tomorrow, yes, perfect. I’m not- I don’t- I’m free whenever. Tomorrow.”
“Breakfast?”
“I love breakfast.”
Ayda cannot stop smiling.
“Then it’s a date,” Fig announces, with all the same joy and certainty Ayda feels hammering inside her chest.
“It’s a date,” Ayda agrees.