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An eight-year-old’s birthday party was not Tugger’s particularly favorite terrain. He actively went out of his way to avoid them, as a matter of fact.
Yet here he was, on a beautifully sunny Saturday afternoon, wearing a rainbow-patterned cone on his head, and at some point, somebody had painted a butterfly on his cheek. Curse his niece and her big kitten eyes...she could get Tugger to do anything she wanted and she knew it. He had to bail on his plans to spend evening bar-hopping with his band, to which he had been given a generous amount of shit from them, but Jemima had been so happy when he showed up...it was almost worth it.
He leaned against the chain link fence in the backyard of his brother’s house, snacking off of a paper plate loaded with potato chips and baby carrots. He watched Jemima and her friends playing musical chairs with mild interest. Next to him, Munkustrap was prattling on about something that Tugger was only half listening to.
Munkustrap snapped his fingers in Tugger’s ear. Tugger jumped, spilling carrots all over the ground.
“Christ, Munk, what do you want?” he growled, bending down to pick them up.
“Were you even listening?” Munkustrap sighed. “I asked if you’ve thought of a plan for where you’re going to live next semester.”
“I’ve never thought about anything in my life.” Tugger straightened back up and shoved one of the carrots into his mouth. “And I don’t intend to start now.”
Munkustrap just shook his head. Then, he put a hand on Tugger’s shoulder, and looked at him with eyes full of earnestness that, quite frankly, made Tugger start to feel nauseous. “You know you always have a place with us,” he said. “I know you value your independence, but—”
Hm. Tugger didn’t like where this conversation was going. He looked for an excuse to ditch—and spotted an unfamiliar blue car pulling up in the driveway.
He pointed it out to his brother. “Who’s that? I thought everyone was here already.”
“Ah! That’s the magician,” Munkustrap said. He dusted off his dorky sweater and went to greet him.
Tugger raised a brow, and followed after him. “You hired a magician? ” He tutted. “Munk, you spoil that girl too much.”
Munkustrap scoffed. “He’s a friend of Demeter. Besides,” he said, reaching the gate, “do you have a problem with supporting freelance artists, Mr. Soundcloud rapper?”
“Hey— that was a phase! ”
As the two approached, the car’s door swung open, and out stepped a young man. He was short and dainty-looking, and didn’t really look like a magician; no fancy hat or suit, just a simple white button-down and tight-fitting black pants. But he did have quite a fetching sparkly black bow tie around his neck. The bow tie wasn’t the only thing fetching about him, though. He carried himself with elegance and poise, and his cheekbones were sharp enough that Tugger was sure that they would cut his hand if he were to, say, gently caress his face.
“Quaxo!” Munkustrap greeted. “I’m Munkustrap, Demeter’s husband. She’s told me a lot about you. Were you able to find the house all right?” He shook the young man’s hand with a warm smile.
“Call me Mr. Mistoffelees,” he said in a soft, smooth voice. “And don’t worry, I got here perfectly fine! Demeter’s directions were incredibly detailed.”
“I’m sure it helped that this is the only place with balloons and streamers up the wazoo,” Tugger said, sidling up. He stuck out his hand to the magician. “I’m Rum Tum Tugger. Yes, the Rum Tum Tugger. Try to keep your pants on.”
Munkustrap swatted Tugger’s hand. “Behave yourself,” he chided. He turned back to Quaxo. “This is my brother, Tugger Deuteronomy. Please don’t mind him.”
Quaxo’s lips curled up as he looked Tugger up and down. “Charmed,” he said. “How humble of such a big local celebrity to find the time to show up at a kid’s party!” The way his smile reached his eyes made them glimmer with mischief, and Tugger found himself unable to tell if he was being made fun of. It was mildly infuriating, but also incredibly attractive.
“Oh, you know.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Anything for my fans…”
Quaxo walked around to the back of his car and lifted the hatch. “Munkustrap, would you help me carry these out?” he asked, bending down to pick up a cardboard box. Damn, those pants hugged all the right places...
“Tugger,” Munkustrap said, snatching his shoulders and spinning him around in a flash, “why don’t you go tell everyone that the Magical Mr. Mistoffelees has arrived?” He gave Tugger a hard shove towards the house.
“Alright, fine,” Tugger grumbled, giving Quaxo one last glance over his shoulder. He caught Quaxo’s eye, and the magician gave him a little smile. He also caught Munkustrap’s eye, who gave him a disapproving scowl.
Not bothering to undo the latch on the gate to the backyard, Tugger jumped the fence instead, landing in the flower bed and squashing a few of Munkustrap’s daisies. He sauntered over to the crude “stage” that had been set up; several picnic blankets had been laid out on the ground, and an old bed sheet lovingly painted by Jemima hung from a clothesline. He had given a performance there earlier in the day at his niece’s request; he belted out all five of the child-friendly songs that he knew, and thanked his lucky stars that Shrek was still popular with kids. He had received more than one warning look from his brother to tone down the pelvic thrusting, but the kids seemed to be having a good time, so screw him.
As the horde of children spotted him approaching the stage again, they swarmed.
“Uncle Tug!” Jemima raced over to him and grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket, grinning. She had her own leather jacket on, gifted to her by her favorite uncle last year. Since then, it had been covered with patches of sunflowers and baby animals. “Are you gonna sing again?”
“Afraid not, kiddo,” he said, crouching to ruffle her hair. “But there is another really cool guy who’s going to put on a show!”
“Really?” she squealed with a big happy grin on her squishy face.
“Really! Why don’t you go grab a seat up front?” He gently nudged Jemima towards the audience, and she happily skipped into the crowd of excited children and tired parents.
Tugger straightened himself up and puffed out his chest. Perhaps hiring a magician on top of dragging Tugger out to sing his infamous cover of All-Star by Smashmouth was a little overboard, but Tugger if it was extravagance that they wanted, then he was more than capable of delivering.
He threw his arms out and shouted, “Boys and girls! May I have your attention, please!” Once all eyes in the yard were fixed on him, he went on. “Coming here today, all the way from—from—” he threw a questioning look at Demeter.
“Downtown Heavyside,” she called out to him helpfully.
“—from Downtown Heavyside is a masterful conjuror of curiosities and beguilement! He will AMAZE and STUPEFY you with magical tricks beyond belief! No where else in the nation is there a more CLEVER and mystifying magician!” He sprinkled in some swooning and twirling as he spoke, and a little too late, Tugger wondered if he was overhyping. If this guy was just a family friend, then he was likely an amateur. But he was also getting paid to be here, so he couldn’t be too unimpressive. But then again, kids were very easy to impress. Ah...he would be fine, probably. Besides, he needed to stall for time while Munkustrap and the magician and question to snuck behind the curtain.
“He’s marvelous! He’s stupendous! He’s—he’s, um—” Damn, what was another adjective? “—he’s breathtaking!” Ah, fucking Freudian slip. “Alluring!” FUCK. “Stunning!” Shit, that wasn’t any better! Damn that foxy twink for getting into his head. “A truly conniving son of a—
A loud cough from behind the bed sheet interrupted him.
“We’re ready,” came a much more polite whisper, with just enough laughter in the tone to get Tugger's earms to go warm.
“I present the Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!” he shouted quickly, and bolted off the stage. He made to go hide out in the corner of the yard, but he felt a tiny hand tug on his pants.
He looked down and saw Jemima. “Sit next to me, Uncle Tugs!” she whispered, patting the empty spot next to her. He looked at her with her big kitten eyes that pierced his soul. “Pretty please?”
Well, there was nothing to be done about that. Resigned, he plopped down next to her, much to the chagrin of the kid sitting behind him who could no longer see clearly.
Quaxo—ahem, Mr. Mistoffelees stepped out from behind the sheet and gave a graceful bow. He had donned a black jacket that glittered with rainbow-colored sequins. The strong sunlight hitting the beads cast a multichromatic reflection onto the bed sheet, and all the children ooh’d and aah’d.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you so much for having me here today. And...thank you, Rum Tum Tugger, for that flattering introduction.” He made eye contact with Tugger, and—did he wink? It happened too fast for him to tell. Oh, god. Tugger couldn’t handle this.
Exactly as Tugger expected, Mr. Mistoffelees’s tricks were fairly simple, but he executed them well. He soon took off his jacket to assure the audience that nothing was up his sleeves. Tugger was marginally familiar with sleight-of-hand tricks, on account of his two most bastardly band mates being expert pickpockets, but his tricks were still pretty impressive nonetheless. Once, he turned a handkerchief into a dove, which really fucked with Tugger, because he hadn’t seen a bird cage anywhere in Quaxo’s car.
“For my next trick,” Quaxo said after Jemima pulled a fifteen-foot scarf out of his mouth, “I’m going to need a grown-up to help me. Preferably somebody really tall…” he scanned the audience for any raised hands.
Jemima whirled around to grab Tugger’s arm so fast that he was afraid that the poor kid was going to give herself whiplash. She lifted his limp arm high in the air. “Pick Uncle Tugs! He’s sooo tall! He’s taller than Daddy!”
Mr. Mistoffelees covered his mouth in fake shock. “Taller than Daddy? ” he said in awe. “He sounds perfect! Come on up, Uncle Tugs!” He reached out a slender hand and beckoned for Tugger to join him.
The things he did for that kid…
Tugger sauntered up to the “stage” as the audience clapped for him. “What can I help you with, Mr. Magician?”
Mr. Mistoffelees reached behind Tugger's ear, and when he drew it back, he was holding a card—the King of Hearts. He folded it into quarters, holding it out for the audience to see. Then, he turned back to Tugger. “Give me your hand,” he instructed.
Obligingly, Tugger held out an open hand. Mistoffelees took it in his.
“Oh my, do you lotion?” Mr. Mistoffelees asked, lifting an eyebrow. The way his curling smile reached his eyes made them mesmerizing, and Tugger couldn't bring himself to look away from them. “Your hands are quite soft,” he said as Tugger felt him place the card into his palm and close his fingers over it.
“Yeah,” he answered weakly. “Glad to know its paying off...”
Mr. Mistoffelees chuckled and gave Tugger’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Hold on to this real tight for me,” he said.
Tugger clenched his fist so hard that his nails painfully dug into his palm. “Can do,” he choked out.
“Now hold it up above your head, as high as you can.”
Tugger did so.
Mr. Mistoffelees tilted his head back to look up at Tugger’s fist, and then turned to the audience. “Okay, kids, how many of you think I could reach that card from down here?”
Now that they were up close together, Tugger saw that Mistoffelees was around an entire foot shorter than him. There was no way that this tiny little thing could reach the card.
Even so, a few of the more optimistic kids raised their hands encouragingly.
“You really think so?” Mr. Mistoffelees asked.
“We believe in you!” one of the kids shouted.
“Well, let’s give it a try!” Mr. Mistoffelees turned to Tugger and reached up for Tugger’s closed hand. Of course, he couldn’t reach it. He switched to standing on the tips of his toes, placing a hand on Tugger’s chest to balance himself. He stuck out his tongue, stretching his arm up as high as it would go, grasping for Tugger’s fist. His hand brushed against Tugger’s wrist, and Tugger suddenly wished that he had taken off his jacket, because he suddenly felt very warm. Mr. Mistoffelees had gotten his face very close to Tugger’s, and he could clearly see the cut of his jaw and the soft flesh of his neck—
Mr. Mistoffelees lowered himself back down, stepping away from Tugger and huffing. Tugger realized that he had been holding his breath.
“Nope, no use!” Mr. Mistoffelees lamented with a shake of his head. He tapped his chin and walked in a circle around Tugger. “Do you mind letting us see that card again?” He stepped back and held his hands up. “I promise I won’t try to take it.”
Tugger lowered his hand back down and opened it. It was empty.
“Wh-what?” Tugger sputtered, turning his hand over. He couldn’t have taken it. The card had been in his hand the whole time! Mr. Mistoffelees never touched it! “Where did it go?”
Mr. Mistoffelees shrugged. “You tell me! You’re the one who lost it!” He shaded his eyes with a hand and peered around the yard. “Help me look for it, why don’t you?”
Tugger stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to do. He looked around, and checked under his shoe, and after a moment he turned around to check behind the bed sheet.
“There it is!” Jemima yelled. Tugger turned around to see where she was pointing, but her finger was aimed at him .
Tugger looked over his shoulder. “Where?”
She giggled. “It’s on your jacket!”
He felt something brush his back. He spun around, and surely enough, Mr. Mistoffelees held up the King of Hearts, wrinkled with the crease marks, and with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“How did—?”
“Now, now,” Mr. Mistoffelees chided. He flicked his hand, and the card disappeared. “Everyone knows that a magician never reveals their secrets.” He extended his hand to Tugger. “Thank you very much for your help,” he said. “You’ve been a marvelously lofty assistant.”
Tugger accepted the handshake and was grateful for his decision to wear gloves, because his palms were sweating like mad.
Quaxo stuck around for a little while after he finished packing back up, and was chatting with Demeter and Munkustrap. Tugger had been pulled away by the kids to freeze-tag, and after successfully “freezing” every single child, he abandoned them to join in on the mingling.
“You deserve better gigs than little kids’ parties,” Demeter told him. “I’ve seen you do some really amazing stuff.”
“That’s very nice of you to say,” Quaxo said, “but this is really just a passionate hobby. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to go big.”
“She’s right,” Tugger cut in. “Aside from neat tricks, you have a really strong stage presence. Take it from me, you’ve got what it takes to make it big!”
“I suppose you’d be the expert?” Quaxo asked, tilting his head.
“I just might be,” he said.
Demeter tapped Munkustrap on the shoulder. “Isn’t that your dad’s car?”
Munkustrap followed her gaze. “Oh, you’re right!” He turned to Tugger. “Listen, the three of us need to talk, so stick around.”
Tugger gave his brother a lazy salute, and he and Demeter left to greet their new arrival.
Quaxo took an awkward sip from his fruit punch.
Tugger twiddled his thumbs. He cleared his throat. “So. How long have you been doing magic?”
Quaxo hummed in thought for a moment. “Oh, fourteen years, I think? I picked it up when I was about ten. I liked fucking with people, I guess.”
“I like fucking poeple too,” Tugger blurted.
Quaxo was quiet. Tugger immediately wanted to run into high speed traffic.
“Well. It’s a valid pastime, I suppose,” Quaxo said slowly.
Maybe a meteorite would fall out of the sky and hit him. That sounded nice.
“Listen,” Quaxo said, “I have somewhere I need to be in a little while, but—”
“Wait, let me explain—”
Quaxo silenced him by putting a hand over his mouth. “I need to go, but check your wallet later.” He turned to leave, but Tugger grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Quaxo,” he said, “will I ever see you again?”
Quaxo curled his lips up. “Check your wallet,” he repeated.
Tugger watched him get into his car, and didn’t take his eyes off of him until he was out of sight. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket for his wallet.
It was gone. Where his wallet should be was a card—the King of Hearts, with crease marks. On the face of the card, a phone number was written down.
I can give it back over brunch.
— Mr. Mistoffelees