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Fig is holding a bouquet of bright red flowers – entirely, vibrantly red, from stem to leaf to petal – which makes Ayda so suddenly panicked that the bouquet of flowers she is holding catches fire.
“Oh,” she says, dropping them immediately. “Oh no. Oh. Oh no.”
“Those are really nice,” Fig says, staring down at the street and watching the last petals go up. “Where did you get them?”
“I asked the firbolg, Ficus, to grow them for me. With Druidcraft. It’s a spell I haven’t yet mastered, and I thought that—never mind. Hello. Fig. You’re looking spectacular. What species of flowers are those? I’ve never seen anything like them before.”
“Oh, I grew these out of my own blood,” Fig says. “Hell is crazy. Here!” She shoves them in Ayda’s general direction; Ayda takes them from Fig’s hands, touches careful fingers to their smooth liquid stems. Absentmindedly she rifles through the card catalogue of her arcane knowledge, comes up with nothing.
“Remarkable,” she says.
“Eh, I guess,” Fig says. She drags her fingers idly through the smoldering remains of the bouquet. “Yours are cooler. Like performance art! Like, it was really sweet of you to get me a fire on our first official date. I just like – I don’t know, I thought I should – do you want to, like, walk over now? Or drive?”
“I assumed we’d be flying,” Ayda says. She carefully tucks the bouquet through her belt, so as not to lose it, and not because she is subtly or unsubtly trying to indicate that she’d love to hold Fig and fly her somewhere. “Also these flowers are absolutely incredible and I am very excited to magically identify them later. Not that I’m not excited to be here, on this date, with you. I am very excited. And nervous. Is it normal to be nervous?”
Fig’s face breaks open into a sharp-toothed smile. (It is literally the most incredible thing that Ayda has ever seen, but she’s progressed far enough in this relationship [relationship? it’s a relationship] [they kissed and saved the world together, and Fig has referred to Ayda numerous times as her “succubus” (a term which in fact refers to a specific kind of fiend, but which Fig has explained has a second colloquial meaning that can be romantic and/or sexual) which indicates that Fig sees their current – state of affairs – as a relationship] that Fig’s smile alone, radiant as it is [hellish as it is?] does not send her into endless labyrinths of thought that distract her from—
Wait. Shit.)
“I’m sorry,” Ayda says helplessly. “I missed what you said because I was very distracted by how beautiful you are when you smile.”
Fig’s tail does one of those horizontal back-and-forths that means that she is flustered. (Pleasurably.) “Oh man,” she says. “You’re so fucking cute, ugh! I can’t believe we have to go get ice cream together instead of staying here and making out.”
Ayda blinks – once, twice, thrice. “I certainly wouldn’t object—”
“No,” Fig says. “No, we’re doing this. We are introducing you to ice cream. It’s important.” She holds out both of her hands, stutters them backwards. “I mean, if you want. Like, if you want to just make out—”
Ayda grabs Fig’s hands in her own.
(One infinitesimal aside: Fig’s resting body temperature is the only one Ayda has found that matches her own [Ayda measures approximately 143 degrees on the Eversong scale (which is apparently entirely different from the scale used in Solace) and by her rough calculation (frustratingly imprecise, due to the fact that she’s constantly distracted by how wonderful it is to hold Fig’s hand) Fig measures approximately 112 degrees using the same scale] and thus she is the only person Ayda has ever touched who is not cold. Holding hands with Fig is like putting her hand in a fire, except the fire loves her too.)
“Figueroth Faeth,” she says. “Archdevil. Paramour.” (“You don’t have to do this every time,” Fig says. Her tail does precisely the same motion it did twenty-seven seconds ago. Her face is redder than usual – easy to conclude that she’s blushing.) “It would be both an honor and a privilege to have chilled cream with you. Will you tell me which way to fly.”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Cool. Tight. Your city baffles me. I didn’t know you could build cities out of things that aren’t ships.”
“You can,” Fig says, and steps closer. Ayda lets go of Fig’s hands so she can lift her – gently! – and hold onto her. Fig buries her face in Ayda’s shoulder and says something muffled. “I didn’t hear that,” Ayda says; she takes them off the ground.
Fig lifts her face up. “I just keep forgetting how strong you are,” she says. “You could totally kick Fabian’s ass, right?”
“Why would I engage him in combat in the first place? Have you some sort of long-standing vendetta against Fabian? Shall I swear an oath to defend you with my life?”
“No no no no no. No oaths needed. I just meant that if for some reason you guys did have to arm wrestle or something, you could win, because you’re so jacked.”
“Jacked.”
“Like, ripped.”
“Torn.”
“Strong, you’re strong.” Fig reaches out and pats Ayda’s bicep (thrilling!) and then twists in Ayda’s arms so she can look around – up, left, down, left again. Loose strands of hair fly free of her braid and hit Ayda in the face (the smell of it!) (no, be cool, be normal, be cool). Fig cackles and thrusts one hand into the air to do something she has referred to as “the horns.”
“Damn, this is sick!” she says. “This is so tight. How do you not fly literally everywhere—wait, left. Go left. What direction is that, west?”
“Southwest.” Ayda banks; they tilt in a southwesterly direction. Solace unfolds underneath them like a carpet being shaken free of dust. Fig’s hands are now threaded around Ayda’s neck, not that Ayda is thinking about that, not that thinking about that would distract her from the absolutely vital task of taking Fig anywhere she needs to go.
“We had a huge fight on that freeway,” Fig says, pointing downwards towards a long flat strip of road where mechanical vehicles (“cars”) scream past at alarming speeds. “I was driving. It was cool as fuck. I wish you had been there.”
I wish you had been there: an interesting and remarkable phrase that does not typically apply to Ayda. The concept of people missing her – missing her presence and wanting her in places where she currently isn’t – is so intensely strange as to be overwhelming. She is overwhelmed by it.
A soft calloused pressure against Ayda’s face is an indication that someone is touching Ayda’s face. The only person within touching distance is Fig; Fig is touching Ayda’s face; Fig is touching Ayda’s face to catch a single fiery teardrop on the tip of her finger; Ayda is crying.
“I’m sorry,” Ayda says. “There isn’t any reason to cry. That was very nice of you to say – that you wish I had been there. I wish I had been there too.”
“Well,” Fig says, “I’m glad you’re here now.”
“Me too.” Ayda tries to stop crying and fails miserably. Fig pulls the sleeve of her jacket over her hand; she wriggles around in Ayda’s grasp so she can wipe the torrents of flame off of Ayda’s face. Her tongue is sticking out of the corner of her mouth – just a little bit – as she concentrates. The gesture is so unspeakably tender that it would make Ayda start crying, were she not already crying just a whole bunch.
“I’m going to ruin your jacket,” she says through a series of messy gulps.
“Nah, baby, this jacket’s fireproof. You know how many people I’ve Hellish Rebuke’d in this thing? At least three.”
“Incredible.”
“Okay, no, you literally cry fire. That’s incredible.”
“It’s a simple biological function.”
“So’s Hellish Rebuke! It’s just – okay, wait, actually, it’s that building down there. See the – yeah that one. I can totally argue with you about which one of us is cooler once we get inside, but we don’t need to, because it’s obviously you.”
“You’re smiling.” (Fig is smiling.) (It is so absolutely singular.) “Is this a joke? I have plenty of evidence as to why you’re much cooler than I am. If we’re sincerely going to debate this topic I can—”
“Have you gotten Adaine to show you Powerpoint yet?”
“No, I don’t know what that is.” A few wingbeats and the tips of Ayda’s talons touch the cracked black ground of a parking lot. She lets Fig down out of her arms and absolutely is okay with that for sure.
“Oh man. You’re gonna be unstoppable once you get the ability to make Powerpoints.” Fig rocks back onto her heels, stretches her arms over her head. (Wow!) “Okay. This is Basrar’s shop, he’s cool—”
“Like the cream that he sells.”
“Ice cream isn’t literally cold cream, it’s like…milk and ice and flavors blended together, I guess?” Fig starts walking towards the yellow-and-blue building. “Like, it is cold cream, but it isn’t just—I’ll show you when we get in there.”
“Fascinating. Fascinating. I’m nervous again.”
“Yeah,” Fig says, “ha, me too, actually, a little bit.” She gravitates a little closer to Ayda as they walk. “Is it okay if I hold your hand?”
“Yes,” Ayda says – immediately, instinctively. She is rewarded for her certainty with Fig’s careful grip on her hand. (The pattern of calluses on Fig’s hands are entirely unique to Fig [not that the calluses in and of themselves are unique, but the specific pattern of them is—
No!
Ayda blinks herself free of her thoughts, squeezes Fig’s hand; miraculously (beautifully!) (unbelievably!), Fig squeezes back. Fig’s other calloused hand pushes open the door and they are inside the ice cream establishment. The air smells of approximately sixteen kinds of sugar, including but not limited to brown sugar and white. There are many things to process in this room. Chief among them is Fig, standing out like a warning flare against the pastel yellows and blues.
They approach a booth and sit on opposite sides of its table, following rules of social decorum that Ayda is aware of but not intimately familiar with. (She trusts Fig.) The bouquet of blood flowers is only slightly crumpled from its journey, and Ayda pulls it carefully from its place on her belt and rests it next to her in the booth. It matches the cushion almost exactly, which is incredibly pleasing. The tips of Ayda’s wings also complement the red booth. She looks; yes, she’s right, the booth brings out new warm tones in Fig’s skin.
Fig meets Ayda’s gaze; a smile tugs up the corner of one sharp-toothed mouth and she begins to say “I—” before there’s a whoosh of wind, the sudden smell of glacial mint, and a voice cooing: “Ah, hello to the young couple!”
“Hi, Basrar,” Fig says. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A djinn floats in a whirlwind of cold air in front of their table. Basrar: the name of the owner of this establishment, and thus the procurer of ice cream.
“You have some sort of ice cream magic?” Ayda says. “Incredible.”
“In fact, I have many forms of magic!” Basrar says. “It is a funny story, actually, it used to be that I—”
“Basrar,” Fig says, “can I get your best possible sundae? Ayda’s never had ice cream before.”
“Never?” Basrar says.
“Correct,” Ayda says. “I’m intrigued. I haven’t had very much experience with the concept of ice; usually, by the time it reaches my mouth, it’s just water. This is an opportunity for learning.”
(“Oh, shit,” Fig whispers. “I didn’t think about the melting.”)
“Alright!” says Basrar. “I will give you the special.” He swirls his hands in front of him – the complex yet carefree gestures of someone born with inherent magic. A glass dish appears, filled with frozen billows of iced cream. A rivulet of chocolate sauce pours down the peaks and valleys; atop the sundae sit a handful of brightly-colored pellets and one virulently red cherry.
“Fantastic,” Ayda says. “The creation of something from nothing. A truly splendid use of conjuration. I would deeply enjoy discussing the differences between the conjuration magic of djinn and the conjuration magic of wizards, but I won’t have this conversation now, because it wouldn't be as enjoyable as eating ice cream with Fig. On this date. We’re on a date. I’m very excited about it.”
“She’s my succubus,” Fig says. “Can we get spoons?”
“Of course, of course,” says Basrar; he conjures spoons from nothing. They are made of a metal that is, thrillingly, completely foreign to Ayda. “Ah, to be young again! Many thousands of years it has been since I was ‘hip’ to what lovers call one another. Enjoy your date, succubi!” And he’s gone.
“Okay,” Fig says, “I’m guessing you probably have questions.”
“So many questions.”
“Try the ice cream first.”
“Is there an optimum way to eat the ice cream? Is the cherry…supposed to be that color.”
“Yeah, it’s pickled or something. Just dig in, dude!”
“Strange.” Ayda picks up the spoon and carefully digs it into the sundae. The ice cream gives pleasingly under the spoon, assembling itself in a neat pile in the bowl of her utensil. When she lifts the spoon to her mouth, each inhalation pulls more cold air towards her mouth. Cold! Cold air! Extraordinary; she takes a bite.
Fig’s tail does a triumphant and elegant flourish, looping itself around the booth. “Oh, you love it.”
Whatever expression is on Ayda’s face makes an enormous grin (wow!) curl up Fig’s face. “You love it. Ha ha! I totally knew you would love it, that’s why I planned this. This was all totally on purpose and planned, baby.” She picks up her own spoon and digs into the sundae. “Damn. This looks so good.”
“Fig,” Ayda says.
“Ahmf.” Fig’s mouth is full of ice cream.
“Fig, I’ve forgotten all of my questions.”
“Mhm.”
“This is unbelievably good.”
“Hm-hm.”
“It’s cold. It’s creamy. I understood that academically, that it would be, but the reality of it is truly remarkable. Is that – are there vanilla beans in this? Somehow? Does Basrar also have bean magic?”
“Mm.” Fig swallows. “Yeah, vanilla’s sort of, um, a traditional flavor to use as a base, I guess because it doesn’t taste like much?”
“It tastes like vanilla.”
“Well, yeah. I don’t actually know! It tastes good and that’s what matters.”
“That is what matters,” Ayda says, and takes another bite. Fig is smiling so hard that her eyes have gone squinty – the twin joys of ice cream and Fig’s smile set off rockets of emotion inside of Ayda. She is, as pirates would say, keelhauled.
“Whenever you take a bite, your hair goes pssch,” Fig says, happily carving out another bite of the sundae and continuing to grin. “You haven’t eaten a lot of cold stuff, huh?”
“Absolutely none.”
“Well, thanks to Basrar and his dope magic ice cream.”
“Yes, I believe I owe him some form of—”
“It’s like six bucks.”
“—dollars. Six of them. Six dollars. Absolutely not the favor of a wizard. Thank you Fig.”
“Adaine already helped him anyway, he’s all good on wizard favors.”
“The oracle herself? I’d like to hear this story. If you’re comfortable telling it. And if you are comfortable telling it then I’d like to hear the story in as much detail as possible. Please.”
Fig is very good at telling stories. It’s not that she remembers each and every detail precisely, it’s that she’s good at capturing the feeling; it is this same talent that allows her to take her lived experiences and translate them to songs that an entire stadium of people will scream at the top of their lungs. Fig takes facts and finds the shining things at the heart of them, patiently breathing them to life. Like starting a fire. Ayda is wholly and completely in love with her – Fig, just Fig, sitting in this ice cream shop, unfolding story after story about summer break and, oh, before that – and six months ago – and okay actually that doesn’t make any sense unless – and the cool sweetness of the vanilla bean, and the warm chocolate syrup, and the tiny colored pills on top that Fig will explain to Ayda later. The cherry.
“…intimidated by the rat’s sexuality in the first place.” Fig pauses. “Wait. Fuck. What was I talking about?”
“Would you like a chronological list?”
“Nah. You got it. You – you get it, right?”
“I do,” Ayda says. She puts her spoon down. The bowl between them contains a melted puddle of vanilla and the lone neon cherry. Ayda nudges the bowl towards Fig. “Here. Eat the fruit pickle.”
“What? No, I was saving it for you. You eat the fruit pickle.”
“I want you to have it.”
“And I want you to have it!”
“This offering is very kind, and I would be lucky to be indebted to you, but I must refuse. Fruit is relatively rare on a pirate ship, and to take all of the available fruit for oneself would be—”
“Oh!” Fig interrupts. She slams her hands on the table. “That reminds me, I wanted to show you—” She furrows her brow in concentration and summons her bass to her hand.
(Alright. Quickly: the bass is the same red color as the booth and the cherry, and that’s the reason why Ayda wants Fig to eat the cherry – not that she doesn’t want to save all the best and brightest and sweetest parts of the world for Fig, because she does, but also because the cherry is for Fig in a way that Ayda simply can’t articulate. The flowers, the booth, the bass, the cherry: Fig. Red and sweet and strange and new, exhilarating.)
One low chord thrums through all of Ayda’s bones, making her feathers puff up. Out of nothing, something: a quick congealing of Fig’s red magic, coalescing into the shape of an orange. It falls with the soft thud of an orange falling. It rolls, slightly. It rests on the table.
“No scurvy!” Fig says, beaming. “I made all those diamonds for Kristen, right, and then I was like, oh, wait, Ayda was saying that oranges were super meaningful, and I tried it out – the first few times were real bad – and now there’ll always be fruit! ‘cause this is a cantrip, I can cast it over and—”
“Fig.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Okay. My heart is palpitating. I don’t know if it’s the intense amount of sugar I just ate, but I’m guessing it isn’t, and actually it’s what you’ve just done, which is simultaneously thoughtful, romantic, and incredibly clever. Is it alright if I kiss you.”
“Ayda Aguefort, it is always alright if you—mmph!”
Admittedly, the angle of the kiss is not ideal. The frustrating problem is that the table is between the two of them (due to rules of social decorum), so Ayda has to close the space that separates them while also not crushing the bowl of melted sundae or the conjured orange, so—
So—
So she isn’t kidding herself, kissing Fig still rules.
Vanilla. Stale breath. Fig’s eyes are closed, her eyelashes are fluttering against her cheeks. The warmth of her mouth. Chocolate. Old, sour sugars. The little hum Fig makes when she is making out with Ayda and really, really enjoying herself. Fig’s sharp teeth. The reassuring constant of her leather jacket against Ayda’s hand. Love, obviously, obviously love.
Fig’s hand climbs up Ayda’s arm and squeezes her bicep again (note to self, Fig really enjoys how strong Ayda is [possibly engage in some sort of unarmed combat with Fabian? with Fig watching?] [Gorgug may be the more sensible choice since his paramour, Zelda, is deeply enamored with Gorgug’s strength and Ayda has not found a way to befriend Zelda yet (is Fig still kissing her? yes) (is it still good? yes) (excellent) but the depths of Gorgug’s untapped magical potential surpass Ayda’s skill with the arcane, so it’s uncertain]) and the kiss, slowly, stops. Fig’s open eyes. Her smeared lipstick. Fig!
“Wow,” Fig says, “practice makes perfect, huh?”
Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing quick, her eyes wide. Ayda’s stomach roils over itself with desire and the beginnings of a sugar-induced bellyache.
She clears her throat. “I’ve frequently found that to be the case. Yes. I. That was excellent, I’m very distracted.”
“Good!” Fig leans in and pecks Ayda’s cheek, then slouches back on her side of the booth. That beloved self-satisfied smile pulls up the corner of her mouth. “Now eat the friggin’ cherry on top, Ayda, so we can get out of here.”
“A compelling argument.” Ayda picks up the cherry and bites it off of the stem – and nearly chokes from the rush of pure, unadulterated sugar. She chews it: more sugar. And then more sugar.
“This is unbelievably sweet,” she says.
“The inside of your mouth is all red.”
“I’m not sure if I like this.”
“That’s okay. You liked the ice cream, so I’m counting this as a win.”
“It was,” Ayda says. “A win. For me. I can’t assume whether or not it constitutes a win for you, but you said it did, so I like to think that it does. Did you enjoy yourself on this ice cream date?”
“A whole fucking lot.”
“Good. Good. The significant placement of that profanity is – it makes me happy. Fucking happy, if you would.” With that solved, she resumes chewing on the pickled cherry; sweetness bursts like Solesian fireworks on the inside of her mouth. I love you, she thinks. I love you I love you I love you.
What she says is: “Were any cherries involved in making this sugary simulacrum?”
“Hm?” Fig says. She has one fingernail underneath the peel of the conjured orange and is methodically removing one long spiral of skin. “No idea, dude. I guess technically cherries weren’t involved, since it’s magic? How does conjuration magic work?”
“Are you asking me this question sincerely. Would you like a thorough explanation of the workings of conjuration magic. I’ve been assured by many pirates that it is, quote, worse than a month in the brig, end quote.”
“Yeah,” Fig says. “Yeah! Please tell me about conjuration magic. But hold on and let me pay first.”
“I can help pay.”
“I don’t think Basrar takes doubloons.”
“There’s no way of knowing that for cert—ah, I see you’ve taken advantage of my momentary confusion to put your gold on the table. And now you’re walking away. Childish, but effective. I’m going to follow you.”
She has to put the bouquet back into her belt because there’s no better place to put it. It still hasn’t lost any petals – fascinating, incredible. Ayda’s talons click on the tiled floor. Fig’s boots create a sound known as clomp. When Ayda catches up to Fig, Fig splits the peeled orange in half and hands half of it to Ayda. It is easy to assume from all available evidence that this gesture means: I love you too.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Thank you,” Fig says, holding the door open for Ayda with an easy gesture that wrings at Ayda’s heart. “I know we see each other all the time, but I – I dunno, I just like spending time with you I guess. On like real official dates and stuff. And hey, now we can have other dates! So that’s cool.”
“Extremely cool.”
“We can watch movies,” Fig says. “And you can show me around Leviathan, maybe, if you want? And stuff. I don’t know. There’s time—”
Ayda can’t help herself: she kisses Fig again. The taste this time is primarily of citrus, with just a hint of ash. (Fig’s magical conjurations tend to bring fire with them, and it’s interesting that this translates to fruit, but not as interesting as kissing Fig so she isn’t going to think about it any more than this.) Fig’s tail whacks itself against one of Ayda’s talons and lingers there, close and warm.
“Yes,” Ayda says. “To the movies. And Leviathan. And everything else. Yes.”
“Cool,” Fig says; her eyes crinkle up as she smiles. She pops the rest of her orange segments into her mouth and reaches out her arms expectantly. Ayda does not wait to hold her; she wraps her arms around Fig and beats her wings once-twice-thrice to take them both up into the air. Fig rests her head against Ayda’s sternum and smiles a little, just to herself.
“Your heart is going so fast,” she says. “You can tell me about conjuration magic now, don’t like go crazy holding it in.”
Oh, thank god. “Conjuration magic is an umbrella term created to define a group of spells that summon and/or transport matter from another plane or location to the caster,” Ayda says, the words rattling out of her mouth before she can pause to consider them – study them – take a breath between them. “Although some spells – such as spells that summon creatures – are confirmed and known by the wizarding population at large to take a fey essence from another plane and simply shape it into the form of the desired creature, other spells—”
And so on, and so on. And the blue sky. And the half-devoured orange in Ayda’s hand. And the flowers at her belt. And Fig’s narrowed eyes, thoughtful, picking apart the stitches of magic to find the places where she can go through – wait – picking apart the stitches of magic to find the places she can pull people through. So she can take the hands of people she loves, say come on, come on, and pull them through the stitches of the world to better and brighter things on the other side.
Ayda takes a breath. And then another one. “Also,” she says, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Fig says; the words are sweet and bright and red.