RP gaynines: flame & fortune

Katpride

Katpride

Story Collector
Staff member


With one final slam, the last percussive beats of ‘Nine Tails Inc.’ fade out, ceding to the thrumming bassline and melodic guitar as Freyja feeds the ravenous crowd the last chorus they’ll be getting this evening.

Grinning, Spartacus “Spork” Ito sits back on their stool, taking a moment to rake their sweaty hair out of their face. Then, holding their drumsticks tightly in one hand, they lean forward, grabbing the mic that had been waiting oh-so-patiently at their feet.

The chorus fades out, a breath of suspense lingering after the last notes.

They flick the mic on, feeling the heat of a spotlight capture them in the same moment as they point at the crowd with their sticks. “Thank you, Santa Barbara!!”

The applause is deafening, but they only grin and raise their hand in a cheery wave, waiting for the wall of sound to die down a bit before continuing. “That’ll be all for tonight! Now, y’all know the drill, so say it with me: Show’s over! Get your freaks home or get your freak on!!”

They’re pleased to hear most of the crowd repeating their outro, nodding approvingly at the slightly delayed echo even as they bring the mic a little closer to their lips. “No, seriously. Get going or they’re gonna cut the-”

Right on cue, the oppressive heat of the lights shuts off, and Spork smirks, flicking the switch to turn off their mic. Leaving it on the floor where they’d found it, they stand and jog offstage, joining their bandmates in the wings.

Of course, because Mari is Mari, she isn’t waiting for them when they get there. They pout a little at this revelation, but roll their eyes and go through the process of trading their drumsticks for their cane before taking off for the green room in a dead sprint.

A few hallways later, they burst through the door and throw themself at the nearest warm body, a wordless battle cry tearing past their lips as they wrap their arms around the woman’s waist and attempt to lift her off the ground.

“You left me!” they accuse, easily hoisting the slim form of their best friend and throwing her over their shoulder. “How dare you! I expected this from you, Mari,” saying this, they slap an arm around the woman’s thighs, then twist sharply and take a few steps so that she dangles behind them like a particularly unwieldy cape, “but you, Freyja? On our first official show? S-M-H. What’s even the point if I don’t get to tackle you into at least one piece of stupid expensive equipment? We had an agreement, hot stuff. An agreement!”

 
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The show had gone off without a hitch. This wasn’t a surprise to her, of course. Mari had spent most of the sound check going over various cues with the stage techs, including hammering home the importance of getting Spork’s show-closer right. She told them it was the only way to end their shows, that they’d been doing it forever, that it was basically a ritual at this point.

While that was true, it was mainly because Spork would spend the rest of the night pouting if they didn’t get to make their ‘get your freaks home’ joke just right.

So, as she launched into the growling bassline that signaled the start of ‘Nine Tails Inc.’ and her hand slid from the fretboard to slash her thumb across her throat, Mari’s eyes drifted over the crowd and locked onto the lighting tech. The girl looked frightened, but gave her a shaky thumbs-up. Good. Now she could focus on more important things, like letting her fingers run along the strings of her bass and letting her eyes run along the figure of their new singer/guitarist.

It helped that she was wearing a muscle-tank that exposed plenty of her side and a pair of quite well-fitting jeans. It certainly contrasted with the offense on the eyes that was Spork’s bumblebee outfit: a black tank top with dark yellow pants, slits running up the front of each leg to the hip. She looked downright normal by comparison in slacks and a burnt-orange sleeveless button-up, a few of the buttons opened to expose her collarbone.

Her tie had long ago been thrown into the crowd, another consistent part of their shows. Spork made a show of grabbing it and pulling her close until she could feel their breath against her lips, then they’d flash a smirk and hook a finger in her tie, loosening it and flinging it into the crowd before popping some of her buttons open and sending her off with a swat on the ass. The crowd ate it up every time. Mari had to start buying ties in bulk from Costco.

Freyja certainly wasn’t holding back musically, adding more of a growl to the lyrics than Mari ever could, switching back to a smooth, warm tone when it suited the song best. She’d been an excellent addition, and Mari and Spork had hoped that closing with one of their regular songs from their first album, ‘gaynines 2.0’ would help to silence the small but vocal subset of their fans that insisted Freyja’s addition was a detriment to the band.

Mari hoped they were too busy scraping their jaws off the floor to continue with comments like those.

Spork let out one more crash on the drums and Mari moved closer to Freyja, bumping against her to signal that it was almost time to bounce. They leaned on each other, stretching out the last few notes on their respective instruments as Spork shouted out on the mic. With a few quick bows and a couple of picks flung into the audience, she and Freyja stepped off the stage, handing their instruments off to the waiting stage tech.

“C’mon,” Mari jerked her head down the hall, signalling for Freyja to follow her. “I need some water. It’s fucking hot up there.” She ignored Freyja’s confused protests about waiting for Spork and instead led her down a few hallways until she pushed open the door to the green room. Mari loosed a few more buttons, thankful for the air conditioning as she tossed a bottle of water in Freyja’s direction before grabbing a couple more, tucking one under her arm while cracking the other open and draining it.

Just as Mari tossed the empty bottle in the vague direction of the recycling bin, the door flung open and hell broke loose. Mari’s world rapidly shifted to horizontal before flipping to upside-down. Her best friend ranted about the sheer betrayal of the two of them leaving Spork behind, and while Freyja floundered at their mock anger, Mari was busy plotting a true betrayal; taking the ice-cold water bottle that was tucked under her arm, yanking up the edge of Spork’s shirt, and pressing it directly to the small of their back.

The ensuing yelp was worth being dumped onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. Mari chuckled evilly and let a lazy smirk crawl along her face.

“If we hadn’t tragically left you behind, how would you have gotten your running practice in?” Mari turned her attention to Freyja. “Great first gig by the way. Pretty sure you had them eating out of the palm of your hand.” She’d seen the way people had reacted to some of Freyja’s growls and shrieks as she took the band’s new and old material both and made them her own.

Mari was confident they’d made the right decision bringing her into the fold.

 
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The butterflies had been in Freyja’s stomach the whole day leading up to the show. If she was being honest, they’d been there for at least a few days, since they’d driven down to Santa Barbara and begun setting up for the show. If she decided to be truly open with herself, she could admit that they had been there for the past few weeks, ever since the announcement of the ‘Flame & Fortune’ tour, her first official tour with gaynines, as the new guitarist and lead vocalist.

And if she decided to stop lying to herself, Freyja would know that she’d been nervous ever since the album came out.

And how could she not be? gaynines wasn’t exactly a household name, but they were certainly more notable than the previous band she’d been in. It’d been hard to avoid the commentary online, speculating whether she deserved to be in the band at all, but Spork and Mari had done their best to reassure her that she was the perfect fit.

After that, everything had faded into the blur of writing, rewriting, and figuring out instrumentation. She’d been hesitant at first, but after Spork called her out for ‘holding out on them’, when they’d walked in on her idly plucking out a tune on the guitar, Freyja had grown more confident in her ideas and contributions. Soon enough they’d made it to the studio, and Freyja finally felt like she’d found her niche.

Now she was on-stage, seemingly drenched in sweat, heart hammering in her chest and adrenaline singing through her veins as, with one last flick of her wrist, the last note of the last song of her first show rang out over the crowd. A show where she’d contributed to at least half the setlist, sang almost all of it, and the crowd had loved it.

Freyja couldn’t help but let out a whoop once she and Mari were finally in the green room, still high on the rush of performing. She’d done it, she’d actually fucking done it! She handily caught the water bottle Mari threw her way, opening it and drinking about half before dumping the rest on her head. The cold shock went a long way to rebooting her thoughts, and the banshee shriek of Spork Fuchs on a mission was enough to see that cycle through.

“I didn’t know we were supposed to wait for you.”
Freyja put her hands up in surrender, empty water bottle still clutched in one of them as beads of water dripped from her hair onto the floor below.
“Mari told me to follow, and I did. I don’t know what you guys do after shows. You can tackle me into something now, I guess?”


The stammering in her voice trailed off as she realized that, as with most things, Spork wasn’t being serious. Well, maybe about the tackling, but that was honestly a coin toss. The attention was quickly taken off of her as Mari attacked Spork with a cold water bottle and Freyja took the opportunity to flop onto the couch and watch her two bandmates in quiet amusement.

The amusement turned sour in her mouth as her phone buzzed nearby. She didn’t bother looking at the text, just turned her phone off. Freyja knew who sent it, had a decent idea what it said, and didn’t want to deal with her tonight. She’d seen the shock of fiery red hair towards the back edge of the crowd, tried not to see the predatory grin that had split her face when she felt Freyja’s gaze sweep over her. She’d said she’d be there, Freyja didn’t know why she’d expected anything less.

Mari’s voice shocked her out of her thoughts and she shot an appreciative smile at her.

“You think so? I feel like I was a little shaky on ‘Spades’, felt like I had to cough halfway through it. And I wasn’t quite sure if I took the high note in ‘9 Lives’ too far or not, and I think I was a bit too loud for the backup on ‘Diamonds’ but, uh...”
Freyja trailed off, realizing she was rambling.

“Thank you.”
Another grin, this time more sheepish than anything, accompanied by a nervous chuckle.
“I think it was a pretty good first show.”


 
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“I should’ve known Mari would corrupt you eventually.” Spork shakes their head sadly. “Those damn feminine wHYGH!”

Something ice cold presses against the small of their back, and they flinch, ineffectively trying to squirm away from the assault. When this doesn’t work, they relent and release their captive, bending down to set her most of the way on her feet before pushing her in the general direction of the couch.

“Bitch.” Finally free, they wipe condensation off their back and tuck their shirt back in, making a face at their treacherous best friend. Predictably, her only response is to throw the water bottle at them. It hits them in the chest, and they fumble to catch it, playing a mini game of hot-potato before finally managing to snatch it up and twist the cap off.

Flipping her off, they raise the bottle to their lips and chug a good portion of it, surfacing with a gasp and dumping the remainder over their head. Cool water trickles through their hair, clumps of yellow wilting down over their shades and under the back of their shirt.

After taking a moment to relish in it, they shake their head, reestablishing the spikes in their hair and flinging excess moisture every which way. The emptied bottle gets tossed over their shoulder, clattering somewhere behind them.

“Are you kidding? That was fucking awesome! And you,” they point at Freyja, “were perfect. Seriously, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Or, actually, do, and then tell me so I know who to annihilate.”

After a moment, they belatedly add, “in a fight. Ahem. This time.”

They put their hands on their hips, drumming their fingers along the skin revealed by the high slits of their pants, and grin, leaning towards her without moving their feet. “Unless you’d prefer it the other way around, of course.”

 


Freyja tried to keep her smile a soft glow rather than the beaming that she felt inside. Spork’s compliment meant the world to her, as typically twisted as it was. Most of their sentences were that way, starting in one direction and rambling their way off the path until they faced another direction entirely.

Yet for all of Spork’s emphatic gesticulation and threats of sexual conquest violence against her detractors, it was Mari’s comment that rang true with her, that let Freyja push away the thoughts of the texts and missed calls that were currently piling up on her phone and just focus on the high that she was determined to ride out as long as possible.

Then Spork leaned forward, fingers lingering on their exposed skin and Freyja was suddenly quite aware of how hot and sweaty they both were, trailing eyes unable to avoid noticing the trickle of water down-

“Down, boy.”
Mari called from her spot on the couch, pulling herself to her feet just to come and lean against Spork.
“There’s plenty of groupies practically throwing themselves at security in case you still have some energy left to burn off.”
She shot Freyja a lazy wink that only sent heat higher in her cheeks. Mari pushed off of Spork, casually strolling over to the snack table that had been set out.

“Catch.”
She deadpanned, chucking a pack of Twinkies in Spork’s general direction even as she tossed another in Freyja’s. Her stomach growled in appreciation and Freyja glanced around, hoping neither of them noticed even as she tore into the plastic packaging.

“If you do go that route, however,”
Mari continued, forgoing the Twinkies in favor of an absolutely horrid slab of brown goo that could barely call itself a brownie, let alone anywhere in the vein of being ‘Cosmic’.
“You’ll miss Freyja and I heading out to the bar. I know you wanna see what freaks Santa Barabara has in its bars on a Tuesday evening.”


“Wait, what?”
Freyja perked up at that.
“We’re going out?”


“Of course we’re going out.”
Mari replied nonchalantly, digging in the fridge and emerging with a can of what Freyja only knew was coffee because Spork had made her go over the rider with the provided snacks (
“If there's anything but brown M&Ms, I’m fucking the guy in charge’s wife”
).

“We have to celebrate the incredible success of our new vocalist and the overwhelming success of her first show.”
Mari raised the can in a mock toast before tilting it back, draining at least half of it in one go. Freyja grimaced, the thought of drinking straight black coffee distracting her from being embarrassed at the praise.

“First round’s on me.”


 
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Spork pouts, but relents, rolling their eyes behind their shades as they set their hands on their knees and push back against the (admittedly minimal) weight of their best friend as she drapes herself across their back.

“Bet?” they challenge brightly, cheered immediately by the suggestion. Mari rolls off of them, and they plop down on the couch next to Freyja, slinging their arms across the backrest in a casual sprawl.

Something light and crinkly hits them in the left tit, and they frown at the offending object, making no move to catch it. It’s only once they hear Freyja munching on her own Twinkie that they realize what it was that Mari had thrown at them, plucking it out of their lap and tearing into it with great enthusiasm.

“You’re going out???” they yell through a mouthful of fluff, unintentionally contributing to a weird, muffled stereo when Freyja says almost the same thing at the exact same time. Struggling valiantly not to choke, they point at the woman in question. “Jinx, you owe me a drink.”

Then they actually chew and swallow their snack, popping up off the couch to grab another water from the fridge. Washing down the last of the sticky mess and coughing a few times to clear the remaining crumbs from their airway, they cast about until they find Mari, catching her by the shoulders and wrapping their arms around her from behind. “Oh, Mari, you’re too sweet. Too kind. Too good for this world.”

“I’m putting all of our rounds on you. No take-backsies.”

 






Tinned music poured from the bar’s speakers, the sound so muddled by the patrons’ overlapping conversations it was only just barely coherent enough to be called such. Valerie did not bother to contribute to the noise, having brushed off the attentions of each of the men and women that had attempted to approach her. There was a reason she had chosen the end of the bar for her seat, and it was not some foolish notion of being ‘picked up’ by a man with more stench than sense.

Aside from the occasional dismissal, the only sound she made was that of her perfectly manicured nails tapping a slow, measured beat on the side of her glass. Occasionally, she would pause, curl her fingers around its crystal sides, and lift it to her lips, savoring the smooth sharpness that danced along her tongue. Mostly, though, she sat. She sat and she waited, one stiletto hooked over the rung of her chair and the other tracing lazy circles in the air just above it as she watched her partner from across the bar.

Freyja had arrived well before she did, and it would’ve been gauche to approach her while she was in conversation with the two talentless imbeciles she insisted on calling her new bandmates. Fortunately, Valerie Hellström was a very patient woman, and she did not mind partaking in a drink or two while waiting for her lover to catch her eye. Neither could she regret the time that she had taken between leaving the ‘show’ and journeying here; it had been sorely needed, if only for her to recover from the senseless drivel that the ‘GayNines’ slapped together and called music.

She had stayed and suffered through the entire concert, of course. It was her partner’s grand debut - it would have reflected poorly on the lead singer/songwriter of The Valkyries if she had skipped it, or, worse, left early. Freyja’s instrumentals gave her something to look forward to, at least, and it had been… enlightening to see her take the lead on vocals. She had always been too timid to do so in their own band, but up there on that stage she had stepped forward and oh, how she shone. Even through the trainwreck that was Fuchs’ and Ito’s backup, she had been radiant, pulling a passable show from the wreckage through her will alone.

That was the girl that Valerie had taken under her wing so many years ago. That was the second-in-command of The Valkyries. Her partner. Freyja Solheim, all grown up.

It was time for Valerie to put an end to this little diversion.

 
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Loud music fell from the speakers, wrapping around the patrons and blending with their voices to create something unique that settled comfortably in Freyja’s bones. It wasn’t unlike being at a live show with incredibly shitty speakers, the performance failing to rise above the crowd as intended and instead wading through it, music and man mingling and merging.

She’d been worried that Mari would pick out some fancy place, a high-class bar that served champagne, where she would stick out like a sore thumb. Fortunately, she’d underestimated her bandmate (the word still elicited a giddy response in her core that Freyja wasn’t sure she’d ever shake).

The air smelled of sweat and spilled beer, the music kept every conversation private by way of requiring near-shouting to be heard, and almost every patron was showing skin in some way, exposing tattoos and scars, amongst some other things. Her gaze had wandered a bit, and more than a few times she brought her attention back to her side to find Mari glancing at her amusedly, only to look away with a smirk and a sip once Freyja caught her eye.

Luckily, her blush was hidden by the heat of the room.

Mari had definitely betrayed her by informing Spork, however, considering the way they kept looking in her direction and waggling their eyebrows. Freyja just brushed them off, doing her best to ignore the downright salacious looks they were giving her. Perhaps it was just the alcohol, but she didn’t mind their advances that much, and she could have sworn she caught Mari’s gaze wandering as well. Freyja would have been lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying the attention from the two of them, especially as the heat of the alcohol continued its life’s work of eating away at her inhibitions.

Then someone caught her eye at the other end of the bar, and every drop of warmth left her body, replaced by a chill that gnawed on her bones.

Her auburn hair was thrown casually over her shoulder, freshly-manicured nails clutching a far-too-nice glass whose contents were undoubtedly top shelf. Dark lipstick and clothing, matching the dark coils of ink that wrapped around her arms and down her legs, contrasted with her pale skin, all working in concert to make the chips of ice that rested within her sockets all the more striking. Those eyes had always been a weakness of hers, and even now as Freyja met her gaze, those eyes pierced through the fog of alcohol and flirtation, cutting right to the core of her being.

Valerie Hellström flashed a lazy smile at Freyja, wiggling her fingers in greeting before returning them to her drink. Her gaze lingered on Freyja for a few moments more before deliberately sliding off, to better and more interesting things in the bar.

The cold had finished eroding her insides and had instead settled into her stomach, a frigid steel ball that flooded her veins with frost. She pushed her glass back, the thought of the sweet liquor inside sending a twinge of nausea through her.

“Hey Spork,”
she called, scooting her stool out from the bar.
“Going to the bathroom, watch my drink for me? No, I don’t need help.”
Freyja cut off their anticipated joke with a slightly forced laugh and set off towards the end of the bar. Her steps were slightly unsteady, but that had nothing to do with the alcohol. The texts and missed calls, the show, the tour. It wasn’t a coincidence.

“What are you doing here, Vee?”
Freyja asked, the nickname coming easily, too easily for how much Freyja had tried to put it out of her mind.
“We both know a place like this is beneath you.”


You’re too pretty for this place, she wanted to say, something in her chest stirring beneath the snow. Valerie always knew how to dress to best accentuate herself, even if she didn’t have quite the same assets Freyja did. She already felt her gaze being dragged along, following the lines of Valerie’s tattoos as they traveled across her skin.

“So why are you here, Val?”
Freyja brought her gaze back up, attempting to inject steel into her voice but ending up with gallium instead.
“I doubt you just wanted a drink.”


 


Finally, finally, those gorgeous blue eyes caught hers, and the line grew taut, the bobber dipping beneath the surface. Valerie gave a smile and a wave, her nails flashing in the dim light, but didn’t let her gaze linger for too long. It was a delicate balance, reeling in her catch, and she didn’t want to scare her off.

When she next glanced up, Freyja was making her way over. Valerie hid a smile behind her glass, waiting until her partner had come within speaking distance to set her drink down and lean just slightly towards her, subtly encouraging her to step closer - only so that they didn’t have to shout to hear each other, of course.

The nickname drew a fond smile from her, and she leveled it at her girl with lethal precision, eyes soft as she leaned even closer to reply.
“You left so quickly, darling, and you weren’t answering my calls… I couldn’t let a performance like that go without congratulations, though.”


She let her voice go a little breathless, watching with lowered lashes as the full meaning of her words hit her partner’s flesh, sinking in and burrowing beneath, rising again as a faint pink flush.
“You really were amazing. I could hardly tear my eyes away.”


Freyja had set a hand on the bar, and, now, Valerie floated her own over top of it, fingers tracing delicately over her lover’s knuckles. For a moment, she hesitated, only looking into her eyes, tracing faint, indistinct shapes, and saying nothing. Then, she seemed to gather her courage, taking a breath and letting it out as something that was not quite a sigh.

“I miss you, Freyja.”
She spoke softly, but not so softly as to be lost under the atrocious music still battering at her eardrums.
“Have a drink with me?”


 


Freyja couldn’t help the twinge of guilt that ran through her at Val’s comment, an unwanted thing that stubbornly refused to be removed. She’d taken to blocking the texts and calls on principle, never quite being able to bring herself to take the final step in shutting Val out for good. It’d been tempting to scroll through the texts, listen to the voicemails, see what Val had been trying to say instead of just deleting them en masse. Yet she'd stayed strong, avoiding as much as she could whenever she needed to clean out her inbox.

Val’s voice shifted, Freyja’s skin prickling at the compliment in what she was sure was an atrocious blush. She tried to stammer out a response but her tongue seemed to have turned to lead, resting heavy in her mouth.

Then Val’s hand was on hers, tracing light little loops across her knuckles, every single contact point like pure electricity. She wanted to pull her hand away. She wanted Val to stop tracing and simply rest hers on top. The light touches were almost hesitant, as if she was afraid that lingering would get her burned.

Then Valerie said four words, four simple words, and the music faded around her.

Part of Freyja soared at hearing that, the vulnerability in Val’s voice sparking something within her. Freyja couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Val that soft, sounding almost worried at the possibility of rejection.

The other part of her reminded her that Valerie had been plenty soft with Freyja when trying to get her way, soft one moment and sharp the next, playing her emotions like they were just another instrument.

But that was a while ago. That was before gaynines, before Mari and Spork, before the three of them recorded an album together and she spent nearly every day for a month with them preparing for the tour. Freyja knew that she’d changed, that she was no longer the girl who’d stormed out of band practice one night telling herself she’d never look back.

Maybe Val had, too.

Freyja shifted her hand out from under Val’s, reaching out to grab her glass and take a sip from it, slightly put off by the smoothness of it. Yep, top shelf only. Setting the glass back down in front of her instead, Freyja reached out to place her hand on top of Val’s.

“Maybe one.”
Freyja returned that soft smile, touched with the barest hint of an adopted smirk.
“You’re paying, though.”


 
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Letting their latest tangent trail off into, just, utter oblivion, Spork leans into Mari with a deep, beleaguered sigh.

“She isn’t coming back, is she?” They still have one hand over Freyja’s drink, and, with this realization, they slide it over so it’s sitting in front of them rather than respectfully off to the side. Taking their hand from the top, they wrap it around the glass and lift it to their mouth, sipping thoughtfully. “Ah, well. Did she at least bag a baddie?”

Mari’s answer drifts in after a moment, equally contemplative. “It would appear so.”

“Damn. I mean, good for her, but. Damn.” Shaking their head, Spork raises their (Freyja’s) glass in a mock-toast, letting the gesture speak for itself for a solemn moment before knocking the contents back and setting the empty glass down on the bar, the motion more heavy-handed than they fully intend it to be. I’ll get you one day, Freyja LastName, they silently vow, all but shaking their fist at their legendary fucking fumble, but all they say is, “A damn shame.”

Hands now free, they sway into Mari’s side again, arms settling comfortably around her waist and ironically-expensive designer shades bumping not-totally-comfortably at the side of her neck.

“Dance with me?” they mutter into their best friend’s skin, halfway to plastering themself against her despite (or perhaps, some may argue, because of) the half-imagined click of camera shutters. (They won’t be surprised if they make the tabloids tomorrow. What would be surprising is if they make the front page - they’ve done this sort of thing often enough that The People must be getting tired of hearing about it by now.

They don’t mind. All that means is that they should start doing even wilder shit, and Spork is more than happy to provide, on that front. They wouldn’t want anyone getting bored, after all. And the extra publicity certainly doesn’t hurt. Business is business, as they say.)

Besides. The fans can speculate all they like, but Spork doubts they’ll ever uncover anything they don’t want them to. The game is set just how they like it - rigged to hell and back - and they’ve got the devil firmly on their side.

“Isn’t that right?” they tell the devil on their shoulder, nuzzling fondly into her neck. Their soft tone is somewhat offset by their wicked grin, but they know she won’t mind. (She likes it this way, too.)

 


Freyja’s excuse of going to the bathroom had been a weak one at best, and Mari was fairly certain that all three of them were aware of that. Still, she at least had the decency to not immediately follow Freyja to see where she was going, instead letting her head fall onto Spork’s shoulder as they went on a tangent about who made the best street tacos in Santa Barbara.

Somewhere between them espousing the virtues of Doce Taqueria and rightfully slamming Duo’s, Mari decided that enough time had passed for her to see where her second-favorite blonde had gotten off to. Scanning the crowded bar was a bit of a task, especially with Spork’s wild gesticulating forcing her to remove her head from its formerly comfy pillow, but Mari eventually found Freyja nestled at the other end of the bar.

It was the company she kept that had Mari’s eyebrows raise fractionally and had her leaning forward, chin resting in her hand; Valerie Hellström, lead singer and now sole notable member of the Valkyries, another SoCal band.

And, until relatively recently, she had been dating the only other member of note in the band: one Freyja Solheim.

Last Mari had heard, it had been a sharp break that neither had seen coming, shortly before she and Spork had started looking for session musicians for their next album if her estimates were right. It had clearly been a sore spot for Freyja, so neither of them had pushed.

So why was Valerie Hellström here of all places, only a few hours after Freyja’s first gaynines show both of the tour and as lead singer? Was she trying to bury the hatchet with her ex-bandmate, perhaps attempt to rekindle the flame?

“It would appear so.” Mari muttered, seeing Freyja’s hand settle on top of Valerie’s own. It took her a moment to realize Spork had asked her a question, and she spent the next few moments rapidly trying to sift through their ramblings to find what she’d actually been asked.

Fortunately, her answer still applied. Mari also threw out a consolatory “A shame.” as Spork lamented what must have been at least their thirty-seventh fumbling of Freyja, perhaps for the last time. Not that they knew that, of course. Mari didn’t have the heart to break that news to them.

Speaking of whom. Their familiar weight pressed against her, their arms settling around her waist even as Mari draped one over their shoulders. She wasn’t sure how long they sat there, the warmth of the alcohol blending with that of Spork, a comfort she could sink into for a million years and never grow tired of.

“But of course.” Mari chuckled softly at Spork’s slightly slurred question, the devil’s grin on their face causing a slightly softer one to spread across her own. She slid off her stool, hand firmly tangled in theirs, tugging them off with her. “I’m leading, though.”

They had to be on the road in the morning, beginning their trek across the country to perform in front of moderately-filled venues across the country. But tonight Mari wanted to spend some time with the single person who meant the most to her in the world. She thought they both deserved that much, at least.

 
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Despite their late night, they do have a tour to go on. As such, Spork wakes up at their usual time, the quiet buzzing of their phone dragging them from a deep, mostly dreamless slumber. Silently, they reach over and fish it out from under their pillow, hands moving clumsily but purposefully over the touchscreen. The alarm quiets, and they let their hand fall back to the bed with a puff, fingers still wrapped around the plugged-in device but all their attention turned towards the woman sleeping behind them.

And Mari is still sleeping. They can tell by the way her breath stirs the longer hairs at the nape of their neck, and the dead-weight heaviness of the arm curled around their ribs. She’ll have to get up eventually - it’s not like they can drive the van to the next venue, much as they might threaten to - but, at least for now, it can wait.

The world is quiet. Their head is quiet, in a way it so rarely is anywhere else, with anyone else, and so they’re content to lay there, halfway to dozing off again, for a small eternity, their world composed solely of warm breath on the back of their neck and callused fingers twitching against their sternum, a shin caught between their calves and a solid weight at their back -

Their phone buzzes again, and Spork jerks free from the clutches of sleep once more, swiping their thumb across the screen before dropping the phone to scrub at their eyes, willing their brain into awakeness.

Right. Time to get up.


A half hour later, they swagger back into the bedroom they share with Mari, now properly dressed and brushed and all that, a mug clutched tightly in each hand. The smell of coffee wafts from both, and although they’ve been doctored differently, one to their taste and one decidedly not, they treat each with the same care, not a drop spilled as they drift to a stop beside the bed. Setting both cups on the nightstand, they consider their approach, head tilted to the side and hands set on their hips, posing for an audience of approximately no-one at all.

Because there is no one else here, because Freyja hadn’t been in her room or the kitchen or the living room or anywhere at all that they could find her, even after they had the decency to put on actual clothes before venturing from the bedroom in the first place, they sigh, lean down, and gently shake Mari awake. “Maariiii. Cooooffeeeeee. Coffeee for youuuu. Wakey-wakey, let’s get bakey.”

Then, because they actually do value their life, they let her wake the rest of the way up on her own, stepping back and snagging their own coffee on the way out of the room. “If you aren’t ready in ten, I’m ordering the McDooonaaalds~”


They give her fifteen, and end up ordering it with her chin hooked over their shoulder. She stops them from getting a happy meal, but that’s fine. Even if they did kind of want to see what the toy would’ve been, they, admittedly, don’t know what they would’ve done with any number of chicken nuggets at 8 in the morning.


“Are we sure she’s coming back?” Spork huffs, ineffectually blowing a chunk of choppy hair out of their face. Their hands are kind of full, considering how they’re holding a whole car seat in place while Mari bolts it in, and their nose is really itching, but they’ve finally got it in the right spot, and they’ve already been here for, like, at least a quarter hour trying to get this damn thing back in place, so they can’t move yet. They are, if not in hell, at least in purgatory, and everything is awful. “Like, sure-sure? ‘Cause I swear to my good friend Jesus Christ - if she ditches us before her ass even touches this seat, I’m- I’ll-” They take a moment to think of a suitably ruinous retribution, eventually landing on, “-I’m sleeping with her fucking mom or something, I swear to god.”

They’re contorted awkwardly around the equipment they’d put in the van before remembering that, oh yeah, they had to put a whole seat in it, too, and their calves are burning. They ache for the days where they weren’t holding this stupid fucking seat.

Mari eventually puts the last bolt in place, and at her confirmation, Spork all but collapses back onto… ugh, they think it’s an amp or some shit? It’s boxy and uncomfortable, is what it is, and they wish they hadn’t had to fold up the bed to fit everything else. Alas. At least they can let it down now that the seat is in.

They scratch their nose, push their hair back out of their face, and just really stew in their grand accomplishment for a long moment before rallying their tired muscles and finally, finally, crawling their way out of equipment hell, plopping down in the newly installed seat. “Ugh.”

Why had they procrastinated putting it back in until literally the last possible moment, you ask? Because fuck you, that’s why. And fuck them. That was way harder than it needed to be. Letting their sweaty head drop onto the space beside the headrest, they turn to Mari and tell her, with the utmost seriousness, “I am never doing that again.”

 
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It had been a long, but pleasant night. Mari had drifted off to blissful slumber with the intent to sleep accordingly, dimly aware that such goals were pure folly considering they were heading out in the morning. But sleep’s siren song called to her, and Spork’s warmth contrasted perfectly with the blasting AC. So it was no surprise that Mari fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, a soft smile across her face.


She’d been drifting along the shallows of sleep for some time now, dipping in and out of consciousness at random. The smell came to her first; a bitter, rich, and pleasant aroma that tickled her nose. While Mari contemplated whether it was worth the effort to drag herself further inland, a hand rested on her shoulder as a voice called out to her, familiar and more enticing than any coffee could be.

A small, happy noise slipped from her, twisted and garbled by the labyrinthine path towards wakefulness that by the time it resonated outwards it sounded nothing like the original sound. Mari adjusted her course, sailing towards shore even as the tides fought her, threatening to drag her back to sea.

“If you aren’t ready in ten, I’m ordering the McDooonaaalds~”​

Poseidon himself threw his back into her efforts, the tide pushing her forward as Mari flung herself from the deck, landing face-first on the white sandy shores of the waking world. Her eyes squinted open, grit clinging to every bit of her eyelids, her mouth dry as a desert.

Mariko Ito was awake. But at what cost?


It was with a particular hatred for light and an empty coffee mug that Mari emerged from her and Spork’s bedroom, clad in a robe that bore the initials S.L.I on the breast, yet another of her partner’s hilarious jokes. She stopped by the couch, hooking her chin on Spork’s shoulder and nestling her head against theirs, ensuring that they got her her sausage breakfast burritos.

After they (begrudgingly) did so, Mari placed a gentle kiss on their cheek before sliding onto the couch proper, legs folding under her as she grabbed her laptop from the coffee table, booting it up and navigating to the document titled ‘flame & fortune without the flame’. Freyja’s “chance” encounter with Valerie had made it necessary for Mari to check some of her contingency plans. If Freyja was leaving to rejoin the Valkyries, she and Spork would just have to do the tour solo.

Just the two of them, like it always had been.


Spork had been rambling about Freyja’s presence, and lack thereof, for almost the entirety of the past ten minutes they’d been trying to reinstall one of the van’s rear seats. Mari had mostly been nodding along, adding a few ‘mhm’s, ‘wow’s, and one particularly pointed ‘damn that’s crazy’, just to see Spork’s reaction. Eventually there was space enough within their tirade for Mari to interject, leaning forward to tighten the bolts that were now finally lined up properly.

“First, I don’t think you’ll be fucking her mom anytime soon unless you’ve suddenly developed a taste for necrophilia, which unfortunately will cause issues for our relationship. Corpse-fucking is a deal-breaker for me, sadly.” Mari adjusted to be able to reach one of the farther-in bolts.

“Second, I’m sure she’s coming back. She wouldn’t just leave us like that.” Even Mari was able to hear the note of hesitation in her voice. Freyja hadn’t answered any of their calls or texts, and it seemed like she hadn’t come home at all last night. An evening spent in the company of a former girlfriend and bandmate sounded like a recipe for disaster to Mari, and even as she tightened the final bolt with a grunt she was already considering making the calls necessary to start the process of rebranding the tour to just be the two of them.

“Agreed.” Mari sighed as she watched Spork flop down, letting her arms rest against the roof of the van as she let her head fall against them. “It lives here forever now. I’m gonna get a gallon of superglue so the only way to remove this damn chair is with a blowtorch.”

Something caught her eye through the windshield, and as Mari caught sight of the figure strolling up the driveway, brown paper bag clutched in one hand, she felt a grin spread across her face that was just a little bit crooked.

“You’re right, Spork.” Mari pitched her voice so it carried down the driveway. “I guess she’s just not gonna show up. I should probably call the venues, see about removing Freyja so we don’t get accused of false advertising.”

 
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Freyja had awoken the next morning with several conflicting feelings.

The first was a pounding headache, a steady beat against the inside of her skull like Spork was practicing a drum solo without end. One drink with Val had turned into another, then another, and before she knew it she had been climbing into an Uber with Valerie, heading back to an apartment that Freyja knew all too well.

That was the source of the second feeling, Freyja thought as she lay next to Val’s sleeping form, hand itching to reach out and trace the whorls of dark ink staining her skin like she had so many times before. Last night had been wonderful, practically drowning in the attention that she’d missed so much, a woman dying of thirst being drenched in a rainstorm.

But did she want this? Afterwards, Valerie had seemed to suggest that she could stay, come back to the band, take up her role anew with the experience gained from gaynines. And yet, as Freyja lay in a once-familiar bed, in a once-familiar room, with a still-familiar form curled up beside her, the only things on her mind were a scruffy blonde with a sharp smirk and a put-together brunette with soft eyes that saw far more than she let on.


Of all the stuff of hers that Val had kept, apparently a charger that worked with her phone was not one of them. She’d wandered quietly through the apartment as Valerie slept, occasionally noting something of hers that she’d forgotten to take or had left behind when she’d stormed out. One of these was an old backpack, and after looking at it for a moment Freyja picked it up and began hesitantly packing it. This time she was deliberate, taking things that she’d wanted or missed, not just anything that she had a fragment of a claim to.

The last thing she took was from Val's bedroom itself. A silvery stuffed wolf, jaw open in a fierce snarl, along with a stuffed golden orb that had clearly been hand-stitched. Her sister had gotten a matching wolf in gold, and as one of her first sewing projects Freyja had made approximations of the sun and moon. When her sister had protested, claiming Freyja had given her the wrong one, she’d just smiled and insisted she hadn’t.

Freyja hadn’t been able to get them last time. She hadn't been able to bring herself to enter the bedroom. She’d missed the wolf and sun every night since, and she wasn’t leaving without them.


She’d had to use Valerie’s phone to book the ride back to the bar where they’d been last night, ignoring the faint flicker of guilt at using her card without her permission. She could’ve just booked a ride back to Spork and Mari’s place (and hers, she had to remind herself), but was hesitant on giving Val their address without their consent. Spork may have waggled their eyebrows and said that she could come over anytime she wanted, but Mari tended to like her privacy.

The walk back took longer than she’d like, but Freyja had no way to tell how long it actually took. Her only indicator was the sun slowly passing overhead, but considering how little it moved it couldn’t have been that long, right? Freyja suddenly stopped in her tracks. What time was it? Was she late? Had Spork and Mari been trying to get ahold of her? What if they’d left without her because her stupid phone had died and she’d gone back to Valerie’s?

Her pace quickened, and after a brief stop in a nearby bakery to secure apology pastries, Freyja resumed her journey back to the Ito household. A wave of relief washed over her as she saw the van still sitting in the driveway. She was about to call out as she strode up the driveway before suddenly stopping, Mari’s words drifting down to meet her.

“No, wait! I’m here!”
Freyja shouted, jogging up the rest of the driveway.
“Sorry I’m late!”
She skidded to a stop by the van, trying and failing to hide the panic in her eyes.
“Please don’t kick me out.”


She looked between the two of them, an almost pleading look on her face. Then, as if in a last-ditch attempt to persuade them, she raised the brown paper bag she held.

“I got pastries?”

 
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“Heard,” they agree instantly, somehow mustering the energy to scrunch their nose when her suspiciously damp forehead bonks into their own. They don’t push her away, but they do flick her ponytail back over her shoulder before it can tickle their face, thinking probably a little too much about the precise angle at which they’d have to tilt their head to catch her mouth with theirs. The street is, like, right there, after all, and even if neither of them cares about that all that much, they still haven’t put down the bed. “Cement that shit for historians to dig up.”

Before they can act on their idle thoughts, Mari switches tact, topic, and tone all at once, flipping back to their previous conversation as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Their eyebrows shoot up, but Spork hasn’t been her best friend for this long by not picking up what she puts down - they follow their maddened train conductor down her new (old) track with amused ease. “Mm, yeah, save us a few lawsuits, eh?”

Only now do they push her away, lightly pressing a hand into her sternum until they have enough space to sit up. It simply wouldn’t do for their prodigal bandmate to catch them in a compromising position. Not right away, at least. They give it another month, tops, before she’s actively asking for it. (Pun(s) one-hundo-percent intended.)

As if on cue, Freyja’s voice is the next to cut in, and Spork turns to her with both amusement and (admittedly) a small amount of relief. They don’t bother hiding the former, and the latter takes the decision from them before they make it, trickling into their voice despite their best efforts to keep it all cool and nonchalant. “There you are. We were about to contact the milk carton people. (Do they even still do those?) We were gonna find out if the milk carton people still do their… anyway. Those better be some damn good pastries. Gimme.”

They make grabby hands until the bag is passed their way, weighing it in their hands with a thoughtful expression that almost immediately gives way to a flicker of genuine concern when they feel the sheer amount of pastries contained within. Whistling lowly, they do their best to suss out what she might’ve gotten without opening it, because their hands are definitely still dirty from reinstalling the seat and they kind of want to wash them before putting them in or near their mouth. “Damn, girl. What, did you buy the whole display?”

After exchanging a silent, sidelong glance with Mari, they turn back to the poor girl, taking pity on her and softening their tone. “Dude, you’re forgiven. Don’t sweat it. But text us next time, yeah?” Hopping out of the car, they bump their shoulder amicably into hers, then turn and stroll past her and towards the house. “Now c’mon, you’re just in time for second breakfast.” And suddenly they’re not just strolling but sprinting for the porch, pastry bag clutched securely against their chest as they holler, “Last in picks last!”

 
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