Work Text:
The set is noisy even though there are just a few people on it. Colin, with his camera pointed at nothing, constantly complains about how the lighting fixtures are too outdated, and Paige sometimes adds to this discussion by saying the stage's visuals are affected by it; Lesley tells them to shut up, anyway.
There are a couple of supporting guys, and Claire is a tease to one of the main three, the dumbest one. Shrignold thinks she's a bit insolent, but Yellow Guy seems happy and tells him that's the love he taught about. The first part of the show, even though it was only a few months ago, feels distant; his episode in particular, perhaps he forgot.
His head hurts, working with the script doesn't seem so easy now, even revising dialogue (Roy needs help writing basic social behaviors) is a grueling task. Though maybe he should blame the artist and Larry, who also brought him on board in the art department. Wearily, he approaches to one of those plastic chairs, resting his chest and arms on the folding table beside him. Alternating between the show and the community leaves him with pent-up stress, too much to handle.
But he sees a pink figure approaching, tall and wobbly. It reminds him of how that stress drains from his system overnight.
"Shrigs!" Warren called with a quick wave. His tail swished back and forth, similar to a dog's energy.
A lazy smile appears on his face, his eyes tired. "Hello, darling." He extends a hand towards the worm, placing the tips of his fingers on his abdomen thanks to the significant height difference.
"Are you sleepy at 11 in the morning?" Warren chuckled. "You should go home." He took the butterfly's hand, squatting down before placing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.
"My head hurts, and I'll get a headache in the house. Let's go together, make me feel better." Shrignold speaks barely above a whisper. His antennae curl into a heart shape.
The quickness with which Warren's cheeks redden brings a laugh from the butterfly's throat, and more escape his as he sees his boyfriend's tail stiffen like a sword in reflex.
His eyebrows arch downward, he smiles awkwardly and looks away. "Well, uh- maybe, yeah, uh, oooh fuck, of course," he stutters, bringing the backs of Shrigs's fingers closer to his face, rubbing his cheek against them in a search for affection.
Shrignold straightens up, ready to get the hell off the set, fleeing its bright lights and endless racket. But the people on set have other plans.
Brett whistles from the stage, combing through the tangled wool ropes on Red Guy's hair "Heeeey! Lovebirds, the gaffer job and script supervision won't do it themselves!"
The bugs look at each other in annoyance and sigh. Maybe later.