Chapter Text
Qifrey knows where to go right away, of course, to pick out a return gift, though it will be a challenge to avoid some probing questions. But there’s nowhere he’d rather shop. Nothing for it! His cane tip glances off the telltale topiary boxes lining the front window. He pauses before the door, squeezing his gloved hands. He ought to have checked whether they’re open so soon after Christmas. He’s fairly certain they are…
When he pushes, the heavy door gives; sleigh bells tinkle in welcome. Right! Here goes!
He’s advanced not three steps before Euini bustles into his periphery. He knows it’s Euini, for several wares and trinkets rattle and creak in a precarious chorus in the young man’s wake. Confronted at once! Still, he’s happy to see him.
“Mr. Qifrey! Hello!” Euini says, sounding winded. “Merry Christmas! Or, um, Christmas week? I guess? Happy holidays! Er. H-how have you been?”
“Hello,” says Qifrey, smiling as he stashes his sunglasses. “I’m well, thanks. I’m glad you’re open today. I wasn’t sure.”
“Did I forget to update the hours?!” Euini groans, patting his pockets for his phone. “I’m sorry. I knew I was forgetting something—”
“No, no! Don’t worry.” Qifrey waves a hand. “I forgot to check.” And he’d very much like to advance beyond the chilly entryway. He’s not even sure he’s clear of the swing of the door. He gestures toward the displays. “I’m just here to browse…”
“Those are nice gloves,” blurts Euini, before he can help it. “A-are they new?”
“Oh, um. Thank you. Yes… they were a gift.” Damn. Qifrey tugs one off and shoves it out of sight. He should be fine, as long as…
“Gift from who?”
Too late! “Ah…hello, Richeh.”
The blue of her hair remains vivid, eclipsing Euini completely, who shuffles out of the way.
“I’m taking your hand,” she says.
It’s Richeh’s way of asking for permission, familiar to Qifrey after so many years, and despite his dread and embarrassment he’s too fond of her to refuse her. The charms she wears shimmer like chimes as she grasps it. She spreads his fingers, examining the glove.
“From a friend,” Qifrey says, fidgeting. “No one you would…”
“Olruggio,” says Richeh.
Qifrey balks. “Pardon me?!”
“They’re from Olruggio,” she says, frustrated to have to repeat herself. “Everything about them screams Olruggio. Including the fact that you’re wearing them.”
Qifrey pulls his hand away and wheedles off the glove, praying the lingering chill masks his blush, though it’s no use. He knows he’s a miserable liar. Everything about them? A high-quality brand, not a luxury one, which Beldaruit might select. High contrast backing, well insulated, special grip. Very nice gloves. He does wear gloves, but he—well—maybe not every time he goes out in the cold, but who does?!
“I would like to browse now,” he says firmly, attempting to curb further queries, “not for any particular reason beyond—”
“Professor,” Richeh says, utterly deadpan. She still calls him this, despite how many years have gone by, and despite it having been a joking title to begin with. He can’t help it. He sighs as he folds up his cane, and a smile breaks through.
“What do you think he might like?” He offers a willing hand this time. “If you’re not too busy, shall we look together?”
Richeh’s bracelets jingle. She wraps his hand over her arm. “Nobody’s here but you. Euini will watch the counter.”
She’s happy. He can tell, as they stride through her warm, cluttered, sparkling shop, faster than he could go himself; it’s exhilarating. What does she think Olruggio will like? She’ll do better than he would at choosing. They turn left and circle back a bit. He ought to know the layout well enough by now, but the merchandise does migrate with the seasons…
They halt before a tall display, close to a speaker that’s playing a chamber pop version of ‘Joy to the World.’
“It’s fragrant over here,” notes Qifrey, wrinkling his nose. He reaches toward the shelves. “Cologne?”
Richeh snorts. “Olruggio doesn’t wear cologne.”
He smells so good already. Mercifully, the lights are lower in this corner, for just as his hand folds open over something round and plush, Richeh declares,
“He needs sleep. He needs pampered. These are spa sets. That’s a loofah.”
Qifrey recoils. His blush spreads again, with a vengeance. He covers his face. “Richeh…!”
“It’s perfect for New Year’s,” Richeh stresses. “Relax while you’re on a break. They all include bath bombs, lotions, eye masks, the works. The eye masks are my favorite.”
Qifrey appreciates her thoughtfulness, but he couldn’t possibly send Olruggio something like this. All these intimate products. Imagining him in the bath…no, no, no. His cheeks must be as red as Rudolph’s nose.
“They’re all good for sensitive skin,” Richeh adds, but Qifrey shakes his head.
“As much as I agree that he needs sleep, I couldn’t send him this,” he says. “I don’t know what…scents he prefers,” (a lie) “and besides, it wouldn’t make it in time for New Year’s—”
Richeh cuts him short. “What?!”
Qifrey pauses, bewildered. “Only that it will take several days for the mail to—”
“You’re not spending New Year’s together?!”
Richeh sounds offended by the notion. Qifrey holds in his next breath. It’d be another lie to say it hasn’t crossed his mind.
They last texted on Christmas, only days ago, stilted greetings and gratitude. He’d barely reined his heart in, his overwhelming affection for the man, which yet strains at the seams. It has been a strange year, since their week spent together in March. They have taken test steps…nothing more. Not quite yet.
And yet…arm in arm, couldn’t they forge ahead? As he’s just made his way to this corner with Richeh, together with her, walking with courage into the future, however unclear and uncertain?
Only it’s twice as difficult, because they live so far apart.
Qifrey remembers he owes Richeh an answer. He exhales.
“Of course I’d like to,” he says quietly, cautiously, testing how it feels to say aloud. “But it’s a long drive. And he’d have to do the driving.”
Richeh’s ready with her answer. “Ask him.”
Qifrey fiddles with a zipper on his bag…the pocket which houses his phone. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Richeh remains undeterred. “I think he’ll do it. He’s just like Euini.”
Qifrey tilts his head toward her, bemused by the notion. Those two don’t seem much alike. “How do you mean?”
“If it’s for you, he’ll do it,” she says, with a swell of conviction. “I can tell. He’d do anything for you.”
Her candidness arrests him. How can she know or be sure of such a thing? For Euini and her, perhaps, but for Olruggio and him? How could that be? After everything, and himself, being who he is—how could that be? What sense does that make? The mere idea of it surprises him. It moves him.
“It’s worth a shot,” says Richeh, after letting him contemplate for a minute. “But either way. Get him the spa set.”
Qifrey laughs. His nerves have gone haywire. It will take him a while to compose a message. He’ll come up with something on his walk home.
“All right,” he concedes, only blushing a little. “Milk and honey will do, if you have it!”
Alaira brainstorms lesson plans while she waits for Qifrey. Sunlight taunts her from the sandwich shop’s far windows, beckoning with the false promise of warmth. It’s freezing out there! At least there’s no snow in the forecast. A weather unit could be fun once they get back from break. Qifrey usually saves it for spring, but those maps are so fun to see on display in the hallway. Hell, why not! She makes a note to tell him.
Their server brings their meals to the table, and Alaira begins to wonder whether Qifrey fell in the toilet, but just before she rises to check, he returns, sinking into the chair with a heavy sigh.
“What’s with the angst?” she asks, prodding him in the shin with her boot. “Thought you liked our lunch dates. Food’s here, by the way.”
“Thanks,” he says glumly. He picks at a kettle chip. Alaira digs into her soup. They both got tomato bisque, and of course Qifrey’s wearing a fancy white sweater. We’ll see how that goes!
The shop still has their decorations up, garlands of tinsel and quaint, wooden Santas and deer. Combined with the hot food, the sweet smell of cinnamon rolls in the oven, the sunshine, it’s incredibly cheerful. Qifrey’s gloom persists in stubborn, almost comical protest.
“I’m an idiot,” he says at length, snapping the kettle chip in half.
“In what way,” asks Alaira between slurps.
“In every way.”
“Sure,” she says, unphased, “but in what way are you thinking of?”
He hems and haws and sighs. “...Well, I texted Olruggio.”
Alaira rests her spoon. She’s been increasingly encouraged all year long, fielding messages and taking calls from both of them about the other, frankly elated that they’re back on speaking terms. Has something gone wrong? It’s hard to tell with these two…
“Haven’t you been talking?” she asks, keeping it light.
“Yes,” says Qifrey. “But I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything.”
“I’m gonna need more information,” says Alaira.
Qifrey slouches in his chair. His hair flops into his eyes, and he shoves it back with minimal success. He looks like a surly teenager. “I asked if he had plans for New Year’s. And I…asked if he wanted to…visit.”
Alaira’s somewhat surprised. That’s pretty forward for Qifrey. “Did he say no?”
“No,” Qifrey says quickly. “Well, yes. But—he said he was too busy.”
Alaira purses her lips. “You did ask him…three days before New Year’s.”
“Four!” cries Qifrey, petulant. Then, self-conscious: “All right, that’s fair. I’m aware it’s rather short notice…”
“Barely any notice.”
“Right,” says Qifrey, with an edge to his voice now. “Yes, I know. But after that, he hasn’t…texted me back.”
Alaira takes a bite of her croissant sandwich, considering. She knows Olruggio’s texting habits, which vacillate between ultra-prompt and MIA. The latter tends to happen when he’s up against a deadline. Qifrey just said he said he’s too busy. And telling Qifrey he’s too busy must mean he’s downright swamped. Which means, right now, the pressure and the guilt are probably combining and resulting in unprecedented levels of procrastination.
She wipes her hands on her napkin and unlocks her phone. “Let’s call him.”
Qifrey, midway through a forlorn bite of soup, drops his spoon. Tomato bisque splatters. Poor sweater. “What?! Right now?!”
“Yep.” Alaira taps his contact name and holds her phone between them. The first ring garbles forth.
“No!” Qifrey lunges forward in a panic, grasping for the phone. She dodges him. Second ring. “We can’t—there are other people here, aren’t there?! He said he’s too busy—”
Alaira glances around. Third ring. “Just one woman. She’s got headphones. It’s fine!”
Fourth ring. Qifrey’s in distress. “Please, Alaira. Hang up. What will I even—”
“Hey. What’s wrong? Oughta warn me before you go callin’ me out of the blue…”
Olruggio sounds like he just woke up, flustered and grumpy. Qifrey grips the table and bites his lip. He shakes his head at Alaira.
“Warn you how, when you sound like you were dead asleep?” Alaira chides him. “We’re just at lunch and wanted to say hello.”
Qifrey mouths one last, plaintive, No!
“Well, hello…hm? We?”
“Me and Qifrey.”
“Oh…” Loud rustling crackles through the speaker phone. “Oh, uh—hi. Sorry, let me—”
Alaira grins. It’s so nice to spend time with these dorks, two of her best friends, despite the awkward circumstances. The trio, together again! She turns her smile on Qifrey; she taps his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. He looks up from his grim stupor.
“You got this,” she says softly, while Olruggio still rustles. Qifrey doesn’t smile—too afflicted with nerves—but he takes her hand.
“One sec—mmph—”
“Were you sleeping butt naked?” Alaira teases him. “We don’t care. You can talk to us in your undies. We’ve seen it all before in college.”
“Christ, Alaira,” Olly gripes, as Qifrey’s predictable blush spreads from his neck to his ears.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Alaira says airily.
“I’m ready, I’m ready.” Olruggio settles somewhere. She can picture him rubbing his neck, ducking his head. His tone grows tentative. “So, just wanted to say hello, huh?”
Alaira squeezes Qifrey’s hand. He squeezes back and shrugs a twitchy shoulder. Go ahead.
“Qifrey says you’re too busy to celebrate New Year’s,” she says.
“I am,” Olruggio says at once, sounding apologetic, then frustrated. “Or I’d come down to see you. Really, I would. It’s just this client wants it in time for their New Year’s party, but they can’t make up their damn mind—but they’re a major client of mine, so I’ve got to make a bunch of pointless changes—”
“Olly.”
Anxious silence falls over the line.
“It’s all right,” Qifrey continues. “Truly. I understand. I thought I’d…” He fights through his mortification. “That was far too much to ask, and on such short notice, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“But you know I—I would if I could,” insists Olruggio, shy and earnest. “You know I’d love to…see you again.”
Qifrey makes a noise in his throat, like a squeak. “I…I know. I would, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong.”
They both hesitate. Alaira’s glad they’re making up, but she feels a little impatient. She doesn’t want her soup to get too cold. And she thinks with sudden keenness that she may have a solution.
“Say, Olly.” Her excitement bleeds into her voice. “What if we come to you?”
Both the boys exclaim. Qifrey draws his hand back, appalled.
“But—it’s a seven hour drive,” stammers Olruggio. “Don’t you have school?”
“We get the whole week off,” sings Alaira.
“There are faculty meetings,” Qifrey submits weakly.
“That you skip half the time.” Alaira waves him off, addressing Olruggio again. “We can drive up on New Year’s Eve, stay a few days. Check out the city! If you have room for us.” She takes her most winning, encouraging tone. “Whaddaya say?”
All sorts of gears turn, in the sandwich shop, in the big city apartment. Alaira hopes they know her well enough by now. She backs her good intentions up with action. Qifrey picks at his tomato-speckled sleeves. He looks worried, but a glimmer of something more flits over his features. Does he share her excitement? Will he let himself hope?
“That’s a long drive,” he says to her, gazing toward her face, forgetting the phone for a moment. “A whole trip. It’s so much to ask.”
“You didn’t ask me,” she answers warmly. “It’s my idea.”
He smiles back this time.
“Oi,” crackles Olly. “I haven’t said I’ve got room.”
Qifrey tenses, but Alaira feels the mirth in his voice. He’s happy, too. Win-win!
“Can your big fancy client pay for our hotel?” she ribs him.
“I can pay for it,” Qifrey says, fretting.
“I’m just kiddin’,” Olly says, and his crooked, charming grin is loud enough to hear. “I’ve got room. Get your asses up here!”
Qifrey laughs, relieved, overwhelmed. Alaira beams.
“We’ll see you soon!” she says. “With your pants on, if you please!”
Qifrey lies sideways on his bed, in a pile of half-folded shirts and mismatched socks. The blinds block the afternoon sun, leaving his bedroom dark and stuffy with heat, like a sickroom. He is accustomed to such concessions to his failing vision, these days. Today, he resents it.
Beldaruit will soon be over for Sunday tea, and he’ll admonish Qifrey for his recklessness, for his impulsivity, his wreck of a room, his last-minute packing. Well, the floor of the living room’s clear. There’s no need to venture back here. No need to pry and peel away his privacy, not at this age. Not here, in his own apartment. He endured enough of that growing up.
He’s thought of enough things to worry about. He doesn’t need Beldaruit’s help.
With a groan, Qifrey tosses an arm over his eyes. He knows he’s giving in to bitterness…but it’s justified. He’s not equipped to take such a long trip. It’s not right to impose upon Alaira and Olruggio for so many tasks, so many days, all because of a fanciful lark of his. Foolish! Olruggio wouldn’t say no to a stranger. Alaira twisted his arm. Qifrey doesn’t even know what he will say to Olruggio when they meet. What he will do, blind and socially backward, turned loose in a huge, unfamiliar city. What he can offer.
Not much. An oat milk and honey spa set, perhaps. It’s on the floor, by his suitcase. He can smell it faintly now. Hello, Olly. Entertain me, babysit me for a week, please! Here’s some soap for your trouble! Qifrey scoffs. It’s pathetic to imagine.
His phone chimes. He pats around the bed for it and squints at the notification. Why not compound his misery. Better let Beldaruit in!
He rises with grunting effort and shuffles the short distance to his front door, lightly tracing the hallway wall, then his record player, his coat on the coat rack. He likes his apartment, at least, he thinks dully. This place of his own. He steps onto the tiny porch, bracing himself against the chill, and holds open the screen door.
“You should be wearing your sunglasses,” calls Beldaruit over the rumble of the van as it pulls away. Qifrey would roll his eyes if he wasn’t squeezing them shut. God, it’s bright out! No need to reply, for Beldaruit WILL fill the silence, and then some.
Indeed, while he wheels up the short ramp: “And you should be wearing your coat! This is bitter cold! And meant to last the week! What if you were to fall ill before, or during, your trip? How miserable that would be. Please try and think of these things.”
Qifrey hears the wheelchair bump over the threshold. He drags the screen door shut and swiftly latches the other. “I could have left you outside, if that would have made you feel better.”
“In a happy mood, I gather,” says Beldaruit. He fusses with his scarf and coat. His presence always fills the little room. It’s overstimulating. Qifrey waits, holding his eyes shut a moment longer. Such pain from the barest glimpse…
“Not the happiest,” he mumbles.
Beldaruit presses his coat into Qifrey’s arms. “I do understand.”
His tone is subdued, not quite pitying, but Qifrey’s on edge and takes it that way. He tosses the coat over the rack and stalks toward the kitchen. “I’ll make the tea. What will you have?”
“Is there any of the ginger lemongrass remaining?”
Qifrey doesn’t answer, but Beldaruit doesn’t press; he’s preoccupied, transferring himself to the sofa. Qifrey stands in the dark in the kitchen, hands pressed against the cold, linoleum countertop. The lights in here are wretchedly bright. That’s one thing he’s been meaning to fix since he moved in. He can handle it, mostly. Today, though…
Beldaruit, oblivious, begins his badgering from the other side of the wall. “Are you all packed for your trip?”
“Not quite,” says Qifrey. Not at all. He doesn’t want to go. He squeezes the bridge of his nose.
“You ought not wait until the last minute. Be sure to get plenty of sleep tonight.” Qifrey hears the knot of disapproval in his voice. “I will admit, I have my reservations about this undertaking.”
Of course he does. If Beldaruit had his way, Qifrey would still be living with him. This apartment, part of a senior living block a mile away, was as much distance as Qifrey could manage. Shame clouds his heart again. He struggles to think clearly. He can’t see in here. Perhaps he should forgo the tea…or ask for help.
Qifrey feels something slither into his heart, old and familiar and eager to seize him again after so long: his pride. Battered thing, scarred and writhing and starving for control. He doesn’t need to ask for help. He doesn’t need to see to do this ritual he’s done a thousand times. If you can’t do this simple thing, you sure as hell can’t make the trip tomorrow. So prove you can do it.
“How long is the drive?”
“Around seven hours.” First, the kettle. He’ll use the electric one. He fumbles the plug into the socket. He swings the kettle to the sink and fills it without issue, knowing the right amount from habit. He slides it onto the burner and flips the switch. Easy.
“That is quite the trek. I know Alaira is a careful driver. Will you stop for meals, or breaks of any kind?”
“I should think so.” Next, the mugs. Beldaruit has preferences, but he can live with what he gets. Qifrey feels two ceramic cat ears sticking up from one of them. It looks gray, but he knows it’s pink. Done.
“And have you packed your spare cane? Your magnifier?”
“I will.” Third, the tea. He has several varieties. More tea than food in here, he’d wager. But he’s got no chance of reading the boxes. He rummages through them, chewing his lip. Perhaps he can distinguish them by smell. Ginger lemongrass ought to stand out…
He thinks he’s found it. He’ll have the same, just in case. The kettle starts to rumble, and as he shoves them back into the cupboard, a few boxes tumble and clatter to the floor.
“Is everything all right?”
Qifrey kicks them under the breakfast table. He tugs at the tea bags with twitchy impatience. “I’ve got it.”
Does he? This last step is the toughest, pouring the boiling water. But hasn’t he done it alone before? Can’t he do it again? His pride insists, gnawing at him. The kettle’s rumble crescendos, gathering into a roar. He’s close enough to feel the heat, the steam nipping at his nose, as though Jack Frost were made of flame.
He hears the water reach its rolling boil. The burner snaps off. Moment of truth, then.
Should he use an oven mitt? Or dig out his kitchen safety gloves? Isn’t that overkill? He arranges the mugs, checks the tea bags once, twice. The steam wafts over him. He rubs at his arms. Better not let the water cool too much. Better hurry.
And if he fails? If he meets Alaira in the morning in bandages? How will he tour Olruggio’s apartment with burned hands, with senseless fingers? How truly useless he will be. Useless, as he is now. Useless, worthless. Scared.
His pride has left him, has dropped him and run. All he is, is afraid.
“I thought I’d see what you were up to.”
Qifrey jumps. Beldaruit is in the kitchen. When did he get in here? Hadn’t he just sat down?
“Not poisoning my tea, are you?” Beldaruit rolls the short way to the counter. Qifrey stumbles back a step, bumping his spine on the fridge handle. The small jolt of pain helps him focus.
“...Haven’t yet,” he says, in a small voice. “One more nagging question, though, and I might have.”
Beldaruit reaches for the kettle. He clicks his tongue as he pours the water. “I would ask who raised you this way…alas, I know the answer!”
Qifrey laughs a little, and he feels a heap of tension fall away, and tears spring to his eyes. He blinks them back.
“Now then,” says Beldaruit, once the kettle is empty. “The mugs are where you left them. Can you carry them while I return to the sofa?”
Qifrey nods.
He treads carefully and waits on the threshold until Beldaruit gets settled again.
“Which mug is mine?” Beldaruit asks, a bit breathless, while he wraps himself in one of Qifrey’s many blankets. “Dear me, is that a pink cat?”
“From Tetia, for my birthday,” Qifrey says, holding it toward his father’s form.
Beldaruit takes it. “How kind!”
Qifrey sits in the armchair across the room. He cradles his mug between his knees. He’s not sure what to say. But that’s never a problem for long, with Beldaruit around.
“Though I worry about you,” Beldaruit says, “I am glad you’ve decided to travel. To have an adventure, and visit Olruggio.” Qifrey hears him sip his tea. “...Ah. I think it will be splendid.”
“Why the change of heart?” asks Qifrey.
“Not a change of heart,” says Beldaruit. “Perhaps a…reaffirmation.
“You have many people around you who care for you,” he says quietly. “And whom you care for. And so I know you will be fine.”
Qifrey looks down. He’s grateful for that; too grateful to articulate. He elects to take a sip of tea instead—and splutters and coughs and exclaims, startled by the flavor.
“You might’ve said something!” he cries. “This is Darjeeling!”
“And miss your reaction?” says Beldaruit, cackling. “I couldn’t resist!”
Olruggio’s excitement overrides his exhaustion; yesterday’s news seems to have refreshed his zest for life. He forces himself to focus. Just a little longer, and he’s free. He’ll hit the grocery store on the way home, and he’ll spend the day cooking and cleaning tomorrow. They oughta be arriving right at dinner time. Prob’ly a bit after. He smiles to himself; he imagines Alaira parked at Qifrey’s place, laying on the horn, waitin’ on Qifrey to wake up.
“You seem happy tonight,” says Mrs. Ezrest. She clings to him despite his dirty work clothes as he leads her through her home. He’s not even shy about her noticing.
“How could I not be, with you on my arm?” he says, turning his crooked smile on her, and she laughs and swats at his arm.
“You charmer!”
They enter the dining room. He’s pretty proud of this one.
“Some good friends will be in town tomorrow,” he clarifies. His best friends. He gestures to the high ceiling. “Now, if you’ll take a look at the rafters…”
He aims his remote. The standard lights dim, and then a galaxy of blue-white stars appears. They twinkle slowly downward, fading as they fall, like snow. The room feels blanketed and soft, and warm despite the snow effect, thanks to a set of yellow lights which spread out in swirls from the hearth.
Mrs. Ezrest oohs and ahhs at all the right times. She’s pleased, Olruggio can tell. Easy to impress, and full of compliments. As long as he can leave it with her…
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, and he offers her the remote. “Feel free to test anything out while I clean up. This little guy here gives you full control…”
Olruggio trails off. He hears a distant door slam. Now, the drum of heavy footsteps.
“Ooh, I can’t wait!” says Mrs. Ezrest, clicking away. The snowflakes turn red, then green, trailing like vines. “Let’s see, I’ll start in the game room. Or maybe the foyer?”
“Good plan,” says Olruggio quickly. “Holler if you need me. I’ll just be in the—”
“Oh, you surprised me! Welcome home, dear!”
Shit.
Dr. Ezrest marches through the shadows, coat and ponytail trailing behind him. He sweeps his wife into a fervent kiss, so passionate that Olruggio almost blushes. Then he rounds on Olruggio, and for a second Olruggio thinks he’s about to be kissed, too—he tenses, but the doctor seizes his hand instead.
“I’ll tell you something,” says Dr. Ezrest, with a smile as unnerving and unyielding as his handshake. “I just walked the length of this house, and I was dazzled at every turn. You’re the best in the business, Olruggio.”
“Isn’t he?” fawns Mrs. Ezrest. She turns the lights purple.
“Thank you,” says Olruggio, attempting to free his hand, but Dr. Ezrest doesn’t budge. “All I did was bring your ideas to life.”
“My ideas, huh?” The doctor grasps his hand in both of his. In the low light, his eyes gleam. “And what if I told you I had one more?”
Shit. He shouldn’t have hammed it up so much on the tour. He coulda been home by now. Olruggio calculates. They’re a high-paying, regular client. Maybe it’s something small. Maybe he can ask his housemate to help him clean tomorrow. Damn it…
He relents. “Lay it on me.”
Dr. Ezrest claps him on the shoulder. “Thatta boy!”
Olruggio squirms. Please let go…
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” says Dr. Ezrest. He steers Olruggio across the floor. “Picture this. Down here, at the head of the table: an ice sculpture. Two big cats, circling each other.” He pantomimes the action, crouching and curling his fingers. “They represent the changing years. Out with the old—that’s one cat—in with the new. That’s the other.”
Olruggio pictures it. Sounds kinda gaudy. Shouldn’t take long, at least. “You want me to light it?”
“I do!” Dr. Ezrest grins like a cat himself. “Not to downplay the rest of your work, but I think it’ll be the star of the party! What do you say?”
He can do that. He’s got the right equipment. And he should still have time to cook.
“Sure thing,” he says, propping his hands on his hips, examining the space. “D’you know about how big it is? What time will it get here tomorrow?”
Dr. Ezrest’s grin spreads. “Here’s the thing! It’ll be a live sculpture!”
Olruggio’s brain catches up to his heart, which has already begun to sink. A live sculpture…that means…
“They’re gonna sculpt it at the party?” he asks, knowing the answer.
“Precisely!” Dr. Ezrest rubs his hands together. “I think it’ll be a great feature! So you’ll need to be here.” He grasps Olruggio’s shoulder again. “If it’s not clear, that’s a VIP invitation!”
Dr. Ezrest watches him, eager, expectant. Olruggio tries not to let his deflating mood show. “Well, I…”
“Dear,” calls Mrs. Ezrest from the other room. “Olruggio’s meeting his friends tomorrow. Don’t be so pushy!”
“Invite your friends, too!” cries Dr. Ezrest. “A friend of yours is a friend of mine!”
Dr. Ezrest is genial, affable, charismatic and all that—but that’s when he’s getting his way, or trying to get it. He’s always had an edge to him, a blink-and-you-miss-it, threatening air. His grip on Olruggio’s shoulder is tight, just tight enough to tell it isn’t friendly.
Olruggio shrugs out from under it.
“I would,” he lies smoothly, “but they’ll be getting in late, and I’m picking them up from the airport.”
Dr. Ezrest’s smile falters. “What time?”
“Ten-thirty or so,” says Olruggio. “But I still want to light your sculpture. Could the artist maybe start a little early?”
The doctor mulls it over with a thoughtful huff. He rubs his chin.
“I’d hoped to have it be done right at midnight,” he says, pouting. His affected gloom is interrupted by a swift hug from behind; he melts into Mrs. Ezrest’s embrace.
“I’m sure they can start early,” she coos into his ear. She winks at Olruggio. “Much as he loves us, Olruggio’s got a life, sweetheart!”
Dr. Ezrest nuzzles the top of her head. “You’re always thinking of others, my queen!”
Olruggio endures the flirting, stewing with frustration. Either way, this throws a huge goddamn wrench in his plans, now that he’s gotta prep and leave to fight through the traffic, and who knows when the sculptor will actually finish. Alaira and Qifrey will understand, but—hell—it’s New Year’s Eve, for Christ’s sake. He wants to spend it at home. He wants to spend it with his friends. With Qifrey.
“I’ll ask them to plan for 10 PM,” says Dr. Ezrest, once he’s parted with Mrs. Ezrest, rousing Olruggio from his despondence. “That way our guests can take photos with it, and such. Yes, I can work with that.”
He extends a proud hand. Bastard…acting like Olruggio’s the one who should be grateful. But Olruggio’s smile is scarcely sour. He’s good at giving people what they want. It’s his fault, anyway, for saying yes.
“It’s a deal,” he says. He shakes the doctor’s hand.