MagiStream

Donovan hears the bell above the door jingle just as the tip of his graver heats up to a peachy rose, and groans. Master Thorrin was gone for the day—off for another meeting with the city council, as he's been wont to do these past few weeks—which meant that he finally had the time to work on The Ring in peace. It also meant, however, that he had to take care of the shop by himself.

Whoever was browsing around could wait. This sort of optimal temperature was difficult to achieve even on the best of his days, and he wasn't going to waste this unexpected boost to his magic control—and besides, they could always holler for him if they really needed his help. That decided, Donovan focuses back on his project and sets to work carving delicate, arboreal whorls onto the silver. If only he could just stick a big ol' gem on it and be done with it—but no, that picky scribe would never wear something so gaudy and cumbersome. He's got chimera to draw while pretending to be copying texts, after all, and that would just get in the way. Stupid, high-maintenance Kieran with his thick skull and dumb laugh and kissable neck—

"Yo, Donovan, whatcha working on?"

Donovan doesn't scream, obviously—that'd just be embarrassing—but he definitely squeaks a little, and sends such a flare of fire magic into the graver that it's a wonder it didn't melt on the spot. It's a wonder he didn't melt on the spot, really, what with the remaining embers of the still-lit forges casting the softest golden glow on Kieran's cheekbones.

"Um, Donovan?"

Fuck, he'd been staring, hadn't he. "You scared me," he whines, feeling very gross and sweaty and ashy. Ugh, he might as well throw the ring in the trash, if this was how Kieran had to see him everyday. "Why are you here?"

"Hmm, that's a good question." Kieran wiggles his eyebrows at him. "Why don't you follow me and find out?" He sinks one foot into the shadows, winking. "Better come quickly!"

Donovan sputters. "What? How do you expect me to—"

"Oh fine, I'll help out," Kieran says dramatically, which is all the warning he gives before he grabs Donovan's hand and drags him bodily into the murk beneath his desk.

- -

Donovan feels very much as if he were a glob of paint on a wall, being pulled inexorably downward by the relentless force of gravity even as he smears a thick trail of his own brainstuff behind him. That is to say, he regains consciousness as one regains an elephant snail to the face: flat on the ground, sticky, and with soft sounds of retching in the background.

He lifts his head, with difficulty, to see Kieran on his knees dry heaving into a bush. "You," Donovan croaks out, "are dumbest bastard I've ever had the displeasure of meeting."

Kieran flashes him a woozy grin, running his hand through his sweaty bangs. "And the sexiest one," he chimes, before crawling over on all fours. He grabs at Donovan's hand, shaking it by the wrist. "Look, you still have all your fingers! Unless you have some missing organs that I'm not seeing, I say I did a pretty good job getting your fiery ass all the way over here. Do you have any idea how quickly you burn through my magic?"

"Did you ever consider," Donovan says, clasping his hands together, "walking?"

Kieran either doesn't hear him or ignores him as he sways to his feet, holding out a hand to help Donovan up. Seeing as how he looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over (and then they'd just be back to where they started), Donovan decides to struggle back upright himself.

He finds out why he felt so sticky when he sees the remnants of Kieran's shadow magic slithering off of his legs. Kinda gross, kinda intimate—Donovan isn't sure if he liked the feeling, but he knows he'll spend several sleepless nights thinking about it anyways.

They're right below the window to Kieran's study, and it's locked from the inside. Judging by Kieran's mournful look at it, what he wanted to show Donovan was on the other side.

"Okay, so I planned to shadow-step us inside, but turns out magical exhaustion is a bitch." Kieran holds up a finger, squinting, and a tiny tendril of shadow magic sprouts into existence. Almost immediately, he pales, clamping his free hand to his mouth and breathing heavily. The tendril flickers, but holds.

"Look," Donovan says, "why don't we just go in the front way?" Sure, Master Lucifer might tell Master Thorrin that he's been slacking off, but that was a better option than watching whatever this was.

But Kieran is already scrabbling onto the windowsill, mashing his finger against the crack. A few tense moments later, the window pops open and Kieran lurches forward.

Donovan grabs the back of his clothes before he can smash his pretty face into his desk, and gets a strangled grunt as thanks. Whatever, he'd let it slide this time. They clamber into the room—feet-first this time—and Kieran shuts the window securely behind them.

Donovan raises an eyebrow. "What, do you plan to ravish me in all your wobbly glor—Kieran. What the hell. What the hell."

"Happy Winter Solstice!" Kieran hands Donovan a bird. A purple bird. A purple bird with fire coming out of its ass.

"Kieran, this is a peacock phoenix."

"That's right," Kieran said, looking smug. "Go on, tell me you love me."

"What—where did you even find it? How did you get it to stay in this room for that long? Is that why we had to come in through the window? How do you expect me know how to care for it?"

"I found her while Lucifer was making me hunt for some weird ink-producing berries. I asked her where to find them, she showed me, I said 'hey, you're a pretty cool gal, wanna come chill with me,' she hopped into my basket, and here we are. I bring her lots of fruit and only come in and out by shadow-stepping, so she hasn't run away yet. So yes, I had a reason for trying to carry you all the way over here, though that clearly didn't work out." Once he makes sure the yawning bird is securely in Donovan's bewildered hands, Kieran turns and rummages through his bookshelf, pulling out a leather-bound book. "As for your last question, you have no idea how much I've got you covered."

He shakes it open, and Donovan sees pages upon pages of drawings: grains and berries, medicinal herbs, nesting materials, toys—and most of all, sketches of peacock phoenixes in all stages of life, preening and flying and eating and sleeping. There's notes in the margins that flip by too fast to read, but from the small snippets Donovan catches it seems that they caption the pictures. It's not until Kieran reaches the last page and Donovan sees a doodle of a winking chimera that he realizes that Kieran had made the book himself.

He can't help it. His vision blurs as tears threaten to overflow, and he buries his face in his hands. That is, he buries his face into the soft down of the phoenix chick, which beats its fuzzy wings against him in protest.

It's not until the screaming in his head dies down and he peeks above the feathers that he realizes his cheeks weren't the only thing that were on fire.

Kieran's cursing up a storm, trying to smother the flames that had burst into existence on his desk with a blanket—to no avail, mostly: the flames had a purplish tinge to them, and ate through the cloth even in the absence of air. So this was what peacock phoenix magic could do. "Donovan, you little shit, turn them off already!"

Donovan's eyes widen, and he forcibly cuts off his magic—he can feel the overflow slapping against the inside of his skin and he suppresses a shudder at the burn of it, but the study returns to its usual drab lighting and his breath stutters out of him in relief. "I—fuck—okay." He inhales shakily, choking on the ashes in his throat. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. "They're gone now."

Kieran snorts, tossing the charred blanket aside. "I can see that," he says, walking over to yank open the windows. Before he does, he glances back at Donovan. "Judging by that light show, you two are bonded now, right? She won't run off?"

Donovan reaches into himself and feels a bright thread of something where there wasn't anything before (and now that it's here, he can't fathom how he used to live with its absence): he nods mutely, and Kieran lets the cool evening air inside.

He moves to his desk and pinches the corner of one of the books that had been on it, wincing as it crumbles to ash. "Though I could've done without the impromptu bonfire, I'm really glad that you like the gift so much." He adjusts a charred lampshade cautiously, relaxing as it holds, and peeks up at Donovan. "You did like it, right? That wasn't a demonstration of how much you hated it?"

"No! I love her and the book—" and your face "—very much!" What an ungrateful bastard he must seem—crying and then lighting someone's whole room on fire generally wasn't the polite thing to do. He screws his eyes shut as a wave of heat rolls through him, suppressing it violently. Damn it, the solstice was supposed to dampen fire magic, but of course his dumb, haywire body didn't get the memo. (He does count his blessings, however, that the main leg of puberty has passed him already. He'd had to sit in the river for a few days during the worst of it.)

Kieran sniggers, and Donovan opens his eyes to see him sitting on his desk, patting the space next to him with one hand and holding a bottle in his other. "Alright, I get it. C'mere, let's drink and celebrate the solstice!"

Donovan takes the bottle when it's handed to him, raising an eyebrow. "Eggnog? What are you, twelve?"

"Twelve out of ten," Kieran sings. "This is the real good stuff: free-range dismot eggs, fresh delroch milk, and—" he leans in conspiratorially—"half a bottle of the liquor I found in the headmistress's not-so-secret stash."

Donovan's already halfway through a swig, and the burn hits him like a manticore to the chest. It's only his frequent practice poker-facing his way through magic flare-ups that enable him to swallow it all down.

Kieran is cackling, wiping at his tears as he reaches for the bottle. "If you could've seen your face!" he howls, taking a few cautious sips of his own. If his grimace is anything to go by, he's just as inexperienced as Donovan is. But Kieran is stubborn to a fault, and he manages a couple gulps before handing it off to Donovan again.

They're on their third round when Donovan starts getting stupid thoughts. The ring burns in his pocket, where he'd shoved it as Kieran yanked him into the shadows. Soon, he promises himself. Once he gets his own shop, he'll propose. The thought of it sends giddy pleasure coursing through his veins, and seems to raise the temperature around him by several degrees too, if Kieran leaning closer was any indication.

Ah—nevermind that, then. Kieran's head drops heavily against Donovan's shoulder, and a sleepy sigh passes through his lips. His cheeks are flushed, the alcohol and the magical exhaustion finally catching up to him (but Donovan lets himself pretend there's another reason, just for tonight). Gently, Donovan caps the eggnog and lowers it to the ground. And if he decides to wrap a cloak of warming magic around Kieran (if anything, the one thing he appreciated about his magic was that it seemed to know not to hurt Kieran) and shift his shoulder so that his head was better supported—well. It's just what anyone would do for their friend after such a long day, right?