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labelleofbelfastcity · 3 years

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fig and gorgug’s excellent adventure

word count: 1.7k

read on ao3 here!

“Bill, my most esteemed colleague…”

Fig looks over at a quietly snoring Gorgug, his face softly lit by the shadows of Bill and Ted on her crystal. Even after a year of knowing each other, a few months of which were spent in a cramped cell together, she hadn’t known he snores. It had never been quiet enough, she had never been quiet enough, to notice that about him.

If Fig focuses, she can feel the rumble of the tour bus against her back, and, if she leans her head against the metal wall by her shoulder, the vibrations of tires over asphalt rattle around in her skull. They’ve only been on the road for a week, with just two concerts under their belts, and Fig is already kind of exhausted.

It’s a lot. The managers and the calls home and the makeup assignments for missed schoolwork. She probably wouldn’t even be doing the latter, but Gorgug spends his allotted midmorning time sitting at their extremely tiny table, with papers of Barbarian Theory and Engineering 1 scattered around him, and she’d feel like an asshole to just watch.

Fig hasn’t been sleeping well, either. The little bunk seems to press in around her, shoving her into an even smaller version of herself. Which feels stupid to complain about, because Gorgug is over a foot taller than her, since his growth spurt over the summer, and he’s sleeping just fine.

As if to prove her point, Gorgug shifts in his sleep, curling closer into Fig’s side. It’s just past one in the morning, and they have a gig tomorrow so Fig should really be sleeping too, but she’d felt like crying, for some reason, alone in her bunk. She’d crawled into Gorgug’s, instead, and pulled up Bill and Ted while he blinked blearily at her. It didn’t take him much longer to fall back asleep—now with his arm tucked around Fig’s shoulders—and Fig continues to hide from her emotions by watching Ted philosophize.

“Hey, Gorgug,” Fig hisses, burrowing her head into his chest in a way she knows will stick him with her horns. “Gorgug.”

“Hrmgh,” he grumbles, shifting more so that Fig can’t really poke him anymore. “Go to sleep.”

“No. Gorgug, hey. Come on, dude, I have an idea.” She doesn’t, really, more the idea of an idea, just like how Bill and Ted only operate on negative brian power and a pretty homoerotic bromance.

Homoerotic. She must’ve texted Kristen too much yesterday.

“Sleep is my idea,” Gorgug says, but it’s more of a sigh and a yawn wrapped up together and stretched like a yawning cat.

Fig’s brain unhelpfully supplies an image of sleepy Riz—ears cocked all funny and pupils absolutely giant. She shoves it back into the little chest lovingly marked “Bad Kids” that she’d constructed the second they drove away from Elmville because Fig is great at compartmentalizing and hiding her feelings. Totally.

“I’m bored, I want to do my idea.”

“You’re watching Bill and Ted.”

“No, I’m not. I’m talking to you.”

“Then stop talking to me and go to sleep.”

Fig huffs, about to say something just into the realm of mean, but then she feels Gorgug smile against the top of her head, and she relaxes a little.

“What’s your idea?” He asks, still sleepy, but also endearing in that goofy and sweet Gorgug way.

There’s a pause, while Fig tries to come up with her idea. The bus trundles along and Bill and Ted continue to kidnap historical figures. Finally, she says, much quieter than is warranted, like it’s some big secret she’s been holding close to her heart, “I’m gonna find a chronomancer so we can go back in time.”

“Like Augefort?” Gorgug yawns again.

“Absolutely not, Augefort doesn’t have Rufus energy.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Maybe not a chronomancer, then, but like, someone who’s fucked with time, ya know. It would be cool to hang out with someone who’s fucked with time.”

“Like Augefort?” Gorgug says, before amending, “No. Wait. Rufus.”

“Yeah, Rufus,” Fig agrees. “Except if Rufus were hot, I think it would be more fun if our Rufus was hot.”

“Rufus is already hot. He’s got… sunglasses.”

Fig giggles and Gorgug snorts too. “You need your eyes checked, dude.”

“We watched the,” he yawns, “the Matrix last month. That’s what you said about Neo.”

“Uh. Neo is Keanu Reeves so just, automatically hot. Which. Speaking of. Bill and Ted are right there, dude.”

Gorgug laughs, quietly, voice still gummy with sleep, as he pokes her gently in the side, “I thought you liked older men.”

Fig makes a face that is very scandalized and very affronted. “That doesn’t mean I like Rufus.”

Gorgug shrugs, as best he can while in cuddle-mode. “I don’t know…”

Fig huffs and whacks him on the arm. “Maybe we should go to sleep.”

“Works for me,” he says, and settles back down.

“Hey. Hey! Don’t go back to bed, Gorgug. I’m still talking.”

He grumbles and turns his head even further into hers, trying to shield his eyes from the crystal’s light. “Watch your movie.”

“This is our movie, Gorgug. It’s ours.”

“It’s too late for it to be ‘our’ anything.”

“You’re no fun, you know that? No fun.”

“I’m sorry,” Gorgug says, way too sincerely for her to continue down that line of teasing.

“Hey, no, it’s fine. You’re tired, I should let you rest.”

Gorgug’s hand moves where it’s on her shoulder, rubbing over her sleep shirt, and then pausing, “Hey, is this mine?”

“Um,” Fig says, because it is, in fact, his. He’d left one of his Owlbears t-shirts on a chair, right after they unpacked all their stuff onto the tour bus, and she’d thought about it for approximately three seconds before snatching it and chucking it at her pile of clothes.

That first night, neither her nor Gorgug had gotten any sleep, sitting on the floor of the bus between their bunks, anxiously going over lyric and style choices for the next night’s show. So the shirt had waited until after their first concert, when both of them had been too tired to do much more than change out of sweaty, smoke-filled clothes and fall into their respective beds. It had smelled comfortingly of the Thistlesprings’ homemade fabric softener, but Fig’s varying states of cleanliness have not helped the smell stick around.

Now, though, cuddled up against Gorgug’s chest, she doesn’t miss the shirt’s smell. It’s nothing compared to the real thing.

“It’s okay if you took it,” Gorgug says, cracking a small smile. “It looks better on you anyway.”

“Since when do you have an eye for fashion, Mr. Hoodies-In-Summer?”

He reaches around and pokes her on the cheek, “Hey, my hoodies are a catch for women ages thirteen to twenty-eight.”

“We did sell, like, a literal ton last night,” Fig says, snorting.

There’s a lull in the conversation. Bill and Ted shred some sick air guitar.

“...It’s a little weird,” Gorgug says, eventually, in that introspective tone of his that promises paternal questioning.

“What is?”

“That we’re sophomores in high school and have so many people, like, caring about us. Or, I mean, watching us. Like, I guess we’re famous, or something? That’s weird.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I guess I never thought about it like that.” Fig’s been too caught up in the whole being famous thing to think about what it means for her, a fifteen year old, to be famous. She isn’t a fan of thinking about it, actually, and decides to put it off even further. This is why Gorgug’s the thoughtful, considerate one.

“That’s probably why you’re better at songwriting than I am,” Gorgug muses. “You just do what feels right.”

Fig shifts a little, so she can look at him better, his features cast in the shifting colors of the crystal. “Dude, that’s like all drumming is. Like, just playing your emotions and not overthinking it. And you’re literally the world’s best drummer.”

“Oh,” Gorgug laughs, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“You are. What other teenager gets to go on a tour while they’re still in high school?”

“Um. The Jonas Brothers?”

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, but if you compare our music to the Jonas Brothers again I will stab you with my horns.”

“I really don't think they’re poky enough to do that—”

“Stab, Gorgug. With force. You wouldn’t like it.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Wo-ah,” Ted says, on the crystal.

“Wicked,” Bill chimes in.

“What if we talked like them at our next concert?” Fig asks, “Just come out with full Bill and Ted voices and keep them up the whole show.”

“That sounds… hard.”

“No, it would be fun! Like, um,” Fig switches into the voice, drawing out her vowels and smiling dumbly, “we’ll totally get babes like this, dude.”

“You can get princess babes,” Gorgug says. “I’ve got Zelda. That’s basically the same thing.”

“Oh my god, you’re too cute,” Fig burrows closer to him, back in her usual voice.

She can tell Gorgug’s blushing by the bashful tone of his silence. “Um, thanks. I should probably call her tomorrow.”

“Do you mind if I join too? I really like her, she’s nice. And sick as hell.”

“Yeah, that would be fun! We can show her our set, maybe.”

“Totally! If school wasn’t on right now we could’ve brought her along.”

“I don’t know, wouldn’t that, like, Beatles us?”

“Did you seriously just mention another boy band? Also, beyond that, did you use the Beatles as a verb?”

“Er.”

“Sometimes, I wonder how you ever made it into the punk-rock scene. And then I remember that I invited you.”

“Thanks for doing that,” Gorgug says, wrapping his other arm around Fig’s shoulders. “I never really said it before, but, thank you. This has, um, it’s meant a lot to me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, dude.”

“It’s, like, kind of everything right now, Fig.”

“Oh.”

“So, I guess, um, thank you. For inviting me to join a band with you and taking me on tour.”

“I, uh… Of course. Thanks for being my drummer, Gorgug. I’ll always take you on my adventures.”

“And I’ll always go with you.”

Bill says, “Excellent,” on the crystal screen, smiling at Ted with big eyes.

Yeah, Fig thinks, as Gorgug sighs and smiles into the top of her head. Excellent.

#bellewrites #this one was short so i figured id post it like this #fantasy high #dimension 20 #fig faeth #gorgug thistlespring #i want more content about them so i decided to make it #fic #fanfic #hopefully the formatting works if it doesnt i sincerely apologize

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