Our Big Fat Greek Gnome Brawl
Fin sat at the kitchen table, fingers tapping restlessly against the wood grain, the silver Star of David around his neck catching the late afternoon light. His green eyes were unfocused, drifting through recollection of the morning: the awkward, stilted end of his session with Dirk. He'd had to say it—"you're fired"—to the man who'd been his therapist for over a year. But Dirk’s ill-informed and insensitive remark about trans issues had landed like a stone in Fin’s chest, and it was impossible to continue after that. Still, cutting ties felt like tearing out a thread holding him together.
Andy came up behind him, warm hands on his shoulders, thumbs kneading tension. His beard brushed Fin’s hair as he kissed the crown of his head. "I can feel you spiraling, cub. Want me to fix it?"
Fin gave a huff. "You’re not going to fix the fact that I have to start the whole fucking process of finding a new therapist. Again."
"Maybe not," Andy said, that mischievous lilt in his Kiwi accent. "But I can distract you. Hungry? Want to go out for dinner?"
Fin glanced up. "Unless you’ve secretly built a safe gluten-free place in this cornfield, you’re not going to solve that either."
Andy’s lips curved in a sly grin. "Watch me."
He stepped back, rolling his shoulders. The air around him shimmered as he muttered in Old Norse, his blue eyes glowing faintly; purple lightning sparked from his fingertips. The walls of their cottage pulsed once, twice—and then melted away. Suddenly Fin sat in a glossy red booth, the smell of oregano and char-grilled meat wafting through the air. Neon flickered on the wall in a ridiculous stylized fake-ancient-Greek font: Grease. A jukebox in the corner spun up with a tinny crackle.
Fin groaned, running a hand down his face. "I’m not surprised you had to make a horrible pun."
Andy smirked, sliding into the booth across from him. "Hi Not Surprised You Had To Make A Horrible Pun, I’m Andy."
Fin gave him his best flat glare, but his lips twitched despite himself. "You’re insufferable."
"And you love me for it."
Before Fin could answer, a squat figure in a teal-and-purple striped hat bustled up with menus. Zef, Fin’s gifting gnome, looked terribly proud of himself in a server’s apron. His beard quivered with cheer as he set down glasses of water.
"Tonight’s specials include the moussaka your husband asked for," Zef chirped, "and souvlaki skewers, perfectly safe for your belly, boss."
Hot on his heels came Snorb, Andy’s purple goblin companion, balancing a salad bowl bigger than his head. "Don’t say I never do anything for you, humans," Snorb said, voice nasal but fond. "Extra feta."
Fin clasped his hands together dramatically. "A Greek diner just for me. No gluten. No fear. This might actually be better than therapy."
Andy reached across, catching Fin’s hand. "That’s the goal, babyboi."
The food arrived quickly, hot and fragrant: bubbling moussaka, skewers of charred lamb and vegetables, a Greek salad bursting with olives and tomatoes. Between them stood a tall vanilla milkshake crowned with whipped cream and two striped straws. Fin and Andy leaned in together, sipping at the same time, eyes locking before they both dissolved into laughter.
The jukebox shifted songs. Fin froze. The opening chords of Nirvana’s "Smells Like Teen Spirit" filled the diner. Andy groaned.
"Oldies?" Fin said incredulously. "This was my youth."
"Mine too," Andy muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I refuse to believe we’re old enough for Kurt Cobain to be vintage."
"We’re fossils, Daddy," Fin teased. "Cave paintings of us listening to grunge."
They cringed and laughed their way through the main course, letting the absurdity of it buoy them. By the time Zef announced that cheesecake was on its way—"gluten-free, cross-contamination free, sworn on my honor as a gnome"—Fin felt lighter than he had all week.
And then the diner shook.
Blue light flared in the corner. An interdimensional portal cracked open, spilling angry gnomes into the room. A half-dozen of them, each in red caps and scowls, stomped onto the tiled floor.
Andy slapped the table. "Can we have one fucking normal outing that isn’t crashed by gnomes or demons or aliens or some other weird cunts?"
"Apparently not," Fin muttered.
The leader gnome pointed a stubby finger at Zef. "You! You still owe us for the Great Beetle Hat Scandal!"
Zef dropped his tray with a squeak. "That was years ago! You can’t prove those beetles were mine!"
"Your cousin Mork ratted you out!" another gnome yelled. "Those hats ate our cabbages!"
Fin and Andy exchanged a look. "Of course," Fin said flatly. "The gnome mafia."
The gnomes advanced, brandishing tiny glowing cudgels. Snorb hissed, leaping in front of Zef with his purple fists raised. "You bastards leave my husband alone!"
Andy rose to his full height, readying a spell. Fin glanced at the milkshake still sitting between them. His eyes narrowed. "This is war."
He grabbed the milkshake and hurled it across the room. The glass spun in slow motion, whipped cream flying—only for one of the gnomes to leap and catch it triumphantly. "Mine!"
The others descended on him instantly, snarling and clawing at the milkshake. "Give it here!" "You’re spilling it, idiot!"
Within moments, they were brawling amongst themselves, whipped cream smearing across red caps and blue tunics.
Andy saw his chance. With a grunt, he punted the lot of them straight back through the portal. The blue light crackled, fizzled, and snapped shut.
The diner settled into silence again, save for the jukebox segueing into Backstreet Boys. Fin wiped a smear of whipped cream from his hand and looked at Andy. "Well, that’s one way to end a fight."
Zef emerged from under a table, beard bristling. "I did nothing wrong."
Snorb rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right."
They finally got their cheesecake, creamy and sweet, and ate in peace.
When the plates were scraped clean, Andy snapped his fingers, sparking more purple lightning. The diner shimmered, dissolving back into the familiar coziness of their cottage in the Midwest cornfield, with its portal to New Zealand.
The night was cool outside, fireflies sparking over the tall stalks. Andy drew Fin into his arms on the porch swing, the creak of wood steady beneath them.
"How are you feeling now, cub?" Andy asked softly, brushing a thumb over Fin’s knuckles.
Fin leaned into him, cheek against Andy’s chest. The warmth, the steady heartbeat, the safe circle of his arms—it all helped. But the ache of earlier still lingered. "Still a little shaken. Firing a therapist isn’t fun, even when it’s the right thing. But it could be worse."
Andy pressed a kiss to his temple. "Yeah?"
Fin exhaled a laugh. "At least I don’t have the gnome mafia after me."
Andy chuckled, his beard tickling Fin’s hair. "Give it time."
Fin nestled closer, letting the night wash over him. For now, with Andy’s arms wrapped tight around him, it was enough.
Andy came up behind him, warm hands on his shoulders, thumbs kneading tension. His beard brushed Fin’s hair as he kissed the crown of his head. "I can feel you spiraling, cub. Want me to fix it?"
Fin gave a huff. "You’re not going to fix the fact that I have to start the whole fucking process of finding a new therapist. Again."
"Maybe not," Andy said, that mischievous lilt in his Kiwi accent. "But I can distract you. Hungry? Want to go out for dinner?"
Fin glanced up. "Unless you’ve secretly built a safe gluten-free place in this cornfield, you’re not going to solve that either."
Andy’s lips curved in a sly grin. "Watch me."
He stepped back, rolling his shoulders. The air around him shimmered as he muttered in Old Norse, his blue eyes glowing faintly; purple lightning sparked from his fingertips. The walls of their cottage pulsed once, twice—and then melted away. Suddenly Fin sat in a glossy red booth, the smell of oregano and char-grilled meat wafting through the air. Neon flickered on the wall in a ridiculous stylized fake-ancient-Greek font: Grease. A jukebox in the corner spun up with a tinny crackle.
Fin groaned, running a hand down his face. "I’m not surprised you had to make a horrible pun."
Andy smirked, sliding into the booth across from him. "Hi Not Surprised You Had To Make A Horrible Pun, I’m Andy."
Fin gave him his best flat glare, but his lips twitched despite himself. "You’re insufferable."
"And you love me for it."
Before Fin could answer, a squat figure in a teal-and-purple striped hat bustled up with menus. Zef, Fin’s gifting gnome, looked terribly proud of himself in a server’s apron. His beard quivered with cheer as he set down glasses of water.
"Tonight’s specials include the moussaka your husband asked for," Zef chirped, "and souvlaki skewers, perfectly safe for your belly, boss."
Hot on his heels came Snorb, Andy’s purple goblin companion, balancing a salad bowl bigger than his head. "Don’t say I never do anything for you, humans," Snorb said, voice nasal but fond. "Extra feta."
Fin clasped his hands together dramatically. "A Greek diner just for me. No gluten. No fear. This might actually be better than therapy."
Andy reached across, catching Fin’s hand. "That’s the goal, babyboi."
The food arrived quickly, hot and fragrant: bubbling moussaka, skewers of charred lamb and vegetables, a Greek salad bursting with olives and tomatoes. Between them stood a tall vanilla milkshake crowned with whipped cream and two striped straws. Fin and Andy leaned in together, sipping at the same time, eyes locking before they both dissolved into laughter.
The jukebox shifted songs. Fin froze. The opening chords of Nirvana’s "Smells Like Teen Spirit" filled the diner. Andy groaned.
"Oldies?" Fin said incredulously. "This was my youth."
"Mine too," Andy muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I refuse to believe we’re old enough for Kurt Cobain to be vintage."
"We’re fossils, Daddy," Fin teased. "Cave paintings of us listening to grunge."
They cringed and laughed their way through the main course, letting the absurdity of it buoy them. By the time Zef announced that cheesecake was on its way—"gluten-free, cross-contamination free, sworn on my honor as a gnome"—Fin felt lighter than he had all week.
And then the diner shook.
Blue light flared in the corner. An interdimensional portal cracked open, spilling angry gnomes into the room. A half-dozen of them, each in red caps and scowls, stomped onto the tiled floor.
Andy slapped the table. "Can we have one fucking normal outing that isn’t crashed by gnomes or demons or aliens or some other weird cunts?"
"Apparently not," Fin muttered.
The leader gnome pointed a stubby finger at Zef. "You! You still owe us for the Great Beetle Hat Scandal!"
Zef dropped his tray with a squeak. "That was years ago! You can’t prove those beetles were mine!"
"Your cousin Mork ratted you out!" another gnome yelled. "Those hats ate our cabbages!"
Fin and Andy exchanged a look. "Of course," Fin said flatly. "The gnome mafia."
The gnomes advanced, brandishing tiny glowing cudgels. Snorb hissed, leaping in front of Zef with his purple fists raised. "You bastards leave my husband alone!"
Andy rose to his full height, readying a spell. Fin glanced at the milkshake still sitting between them. His eyes narrowed. "This is war."
He grabbed the milkshake and hurled it across the room. The glass spun in slow motion, whipped cream flying—only for one of the gnomes to leap and catch it triumphantly. "Mine!"
The others descended on him instantly, snarling and clawing at the milkshake. "Give it here!" "You’re spilling it, idiot!"
Within moments, they were brawling amongst themselves, whipped cream smearing across red caps and blue tunics.
Andy saw his chance. With a grunt, he punted the lot of them straight back through the portal. The blue light crackled, fizzled, and snapped shut.
The diner settled into silence again, save for the jukebox segueing into Backstreet Boys. Fin wiped a smear of whipped cream from his hand and looked at Andy. "Well, that’s one way to end a fight."
Zef emerged from under a table, beard bristling. "I did nothing wrong."
Snorb rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right."
They finally got their cheesecake, creamy and sweet, and ate in peace.
When the plates were scraped clean, Andy snapped his fingers, sparking more purple lightning. The diner shimmered, dissolving back into the familiar coziness of their cottage in the Midwest cornfield, with its portal to New Zealand.
The night was cool outside, fireflies sparking over the tall stalks. Andy drew Fin into his arms on the porch swing, the creak of wood steady beneath them.
"How are you feeling now, cub?" Andy asked softly, brushing a thumb over Fin’s knuckles.
Fin leaned into him, cheek against Andy’s chest. The warmth, the steady heartbeat, the safe circle of his arms—it all helped. But the ache of earlier still lingered. "Still a little shaken. Firing a therapist isn’t fun, even when it’s the right thing. But it could be worse."
Andy pressed a kiss to his temple. "Yeah?"
Fin exhaled a laugh. "At least I don’t have the gnome mafia after me."
Andy chuckled, his beard tickling Fin’s hair. "Give it time."
Fin nestled closer, letting the night wash over him. For now, with Andy’s arms wrapped tight around him, it was enough.
For Vibrant Visionaries #15: Jukebox, Milkshake, Diner, Neon, Retro, Booth, Grease
