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Post-games are good.
The silence after a bloodrush match is that kind of quiet after everything’s been super loud: echoey, open, and limitless. Like the sound’s been sucked up, deafened with a thick sweater, and it left a little hole in the universe just for you. The sky’s this crescendo of purple and orange-purple, and the cicadas are just getting started, and you can still feel the crowd whooping and yelling in your bones even after it’s gone.
It’s nice. Zelda likes it—likes it best with her boyfriend’s hand in hers, too, but that’s—it’s like, whatever. Not a big deal.
“You were like, super cool today, Gorgug,” she says. They’re lying side-by-side in the middle of the bloodrush field, with her crystal on Gorgug’s chest. He asked if she had any new music, so some death-slash-scream-slash-rage metal is humming out of its speakers, and he’s tapping out the beat with his thumb against her hand.
“Aww, thanks.”
“Like that bit where, uh, the guy was running for Ragh? And you came in and like—” Zelda wobbles her head against the dirt, looking for the right word, and she can feel Gorgug’s sweet little smile growing— “Super fast and fucking. Blasted him. It was like, really cool.”
“Thanks Zelda.” The crow’s feet around his eyes crease even deeper as he flops his head her way and smiles, squeezing her hand in his where they’re tangled between them.
“Yeah, sure. No problem.”
After a game, Gorgug’s always this sweaty kind of smiley. His grins are loose and tired, but as goofy and full-toothed as ever. He’s loud-and-quiet in the same way that you unconsciously “whoop” when you cross the finish line at a marathon. Out of breath but ecstatic. Humble with adrenaline—the most Gorgug Thistlespring thing to be.
Sometimes, right when the Owl Bears are jogging off the field, he’ll rush over to her and lift her up with a big wet kiss on her cheek, whether or not the team even won. He’ll smell so boy it’s almost too much. And Zelda gets to roll her eyes and go, Gorgug, you’re all sweaty, before pushing his white-streaked hair out of his eyes and kissing him back. He’ll put her down, all smiles, and hop off to the showers, but he’s always got two laundry-fresh hoodies in his gym bag—one for him, and one for her.
So what if she fell in love with a half-orc who didn’t fit in his skin. It’s still like, nice, to watch him come into his own. To watch him feel like he belongs—and feel like she belongs right there with him.
And lately, well. It feels like someone else fits there with them too.
“Gor-gug! There's my guy!”
You couldn’t miss Fabian’s voice even if you had a Silence spell going. Zelda props herself up on her elbows, and sees the bloodrush captain himself waving wildly as he jogs on to the field.
“Your friends are loud,” Zelda stage-whispers, and Gorgug chuckles. It’s not as surprising as it once was, though. After all this time, Zelda really doesn’t mind; loud-and-quiet is a mix she really likes. If anything, it feels like home.
“You crushed it out there today, my man!” Fabian calls as he reaches them. Still a little sweat-shiney, he looks brilliant in the sun—Zelda thinks he probably knows it too. He started wearing his hair in these short, relaxed dreadlocks this year, and they fall in front of his eyes like tiny silver coils in a way Zelda really likes.
(She and Gorgug have had that talk already, duh. Mr. “I’m here to co-mu-ni-cate” wouldn’t have it any other way and, if she’s being honest, she’s glad for it. They feel the same way about this kind of thing, and, well. Zelda just loves Gorgug so much.)
“Thanks, Fabian.” Gorgug holds up a fist, and Fabian bumps it enthusiastically, still on that post-game high. “You were great, too!”
“Oh, well , it’s a group effort, right? But yes, I was quite—well, you said it. Good show, nonetheless. And hello, Zelda!” he says, and man it’s like a lot to have all of his attention on her. Something about him just saying her name makes her feel curly and warm, and she shoves the drawstring of her hoodie in between her teeth. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m alright. How... are you?”
“I’m well, thank you,” he preens. “Can I ask—what’s that music you’re listening to?”
Zelda nibbles on the string a little. She hadn’t noticed the playlist change, but now it’s playing pirate-punk-metal, and of coursethat’s Fabian’s shit.
“Um. Yeah. It’s stupid. It’s the uh. The Sunk’n Norwegian? By Aelstrom?”
“Excellent. It’s wonderful. Ah, may I... Would you mind if I joined in?”
Zelda’s eyes go a little wide. She glances at Gorgug, who gives her his usual big-toothed smile.
“Um,” says Zelda. “Yeah, sure, Fabian. Definitely.”
With a graceful “Thank you,” Fabian takes off his letterman jacket—which, okay it makes sense that bloodrush players would be fit, but she doesn’t always, like, think about it—and places it delicately on the ground next to her, so that she’s on the side of his good eye. Fabian lies down with his arms behind his head. He smells nice and clean after the shower, like expensive soap and moisturizer.
Zelda thinks she’s vibrating. She feels Gorgug squeeze her hand again.
“Now this is music,” Fabian comments.
“You like it?”
“Love it. The perfect song for a... High-seas adventure! Did Gorgug ever tell you about our fight in Leviathan? The battle in the Ruction?”
Zelda winces. “A little.”
“He was in-credible. A machine! I was—not having the best of days, yes, but Gor-gug!”
Gorgug groans good-naturedly, and Fabian flashes her a smile. With the eyepatch, it’s just as roguish and charming as you’d expect from a privateer’s son. Zelda bites down hard on the drawstring, even as it dawns on her that this is not something the old Fabian would have done: buff up someone else, instead of himself.
She’s been noticing it a lot since the Bad Kids came back from Spring Break. Sometimes on the field, when Gorgug looks a little lost, Fabian’ll be the one swooping in to get him back on track. It makes a little spot in her chest feel warm when he does it, like it’s good that he’s looking out for Gorgug. And Fabian’s also gotten better at doing it in a less—annoying way than before. Kinder, and more reassuring. Loud-and-quiet.
It’s nice.
She listens idly to Gorgug and Fabian talk about Leviathan for a while, joking with each other until they both start getting up to re-enact their heroic moments. Gorgug’s taller and bigger—duh—but Fabian acts like he is, and Gorgug acts like he’s acting like he is, so it’s just two guys rp-ing being bigger guys, interspersed with either of them going, “Fuck yeah, dude, fuck yeah.”
It’s a little cute. Ok, it’s more than a little—
“—Zelda?”
“Hm? Uh, what?” She’s almost chewed up the whole drawstring.
“In the mood for some ice cream?” Fabian asks, an arm around Gorgug’s shoulders. From her seat on the grass, he’s eclipsing the sun, awash in shades of sunset. It feels appropriate. “You like Basrar’s right? Would you like to join us?”
He glances a little hesitantly between her and Gorgug, who’s still got her crystal, still playing pirate-punk metal. It strikes some kind of chord in her chest. Like it means something that the genre is a perfect blend of the three of them.
Gorgug nods his head encouragingly, in his too-big, puppy-dog way. He holds out his hand, and then. So does Fabian.
When Zelda reaches out for them, they swing her up into the air and let her go. She soars, just briefly, with that post-marathon “whoop” falling easily from her lips, and Zelda feels brave, and tall, and strong.
Loud, and quiet, and ready for anything.