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Arthur didn’t think twice about how spoiled he may be to have his only worry be stubbing his toes on books and journals carelessly spread around on his floor he forgot to put away the night before. The hop-step he does slides like a jigsaw piece into his morning routine, along with making his bed (no magic), making breakfast (no magic), and teasing Oz for his burnt pancakes (he dutifully tries to make without magic).
He enjoys having so many books, reading about magic and old runes no one has a clue to the meaning is like getting in on a grand secret. His grimoire too, a special present from Oz, holds a special place in his heart, though he can only understand about 2 words of the thing.
He’s had to start taking care to hide his grimoire before bedtime ever since Oz caught him staying up trying to read it late into the night. The scoldings are no harsher than a snowflake falling on Arthur’s cheek, and similar to waking up in the morning to gentle powdery snow, he responds with a wide smile and a tugging at Oz’s sleeve to join him. Instead of snow angels or snowmen (once brought to life with a tap of the great wizard’s staff), Arthur tries to drag him into his bed to ask what the words meant.
The giant heap of a book that the grimoire is provides the worst of toe-stubbings in the morning, but it doesn’t matter if he kicks the book so hard he cries, because in a matter of seconds Oz would be there to patch him up.
And a few more tears later to convince the man to let Arthur keep it- because Oz is real sensitive and frets about every little thing, so he has to explain he’d be in so much more distress without it. And with that, his world is set back onto its perfect rhythm.
Living in a perfect world, a dream land where nothing hurts him because Oz is the sandman maintaining such a place, is all a kid could ask for. But Arthur, unlike other kids, is a wizard and an intellectual, so instead of placation swarming upon him, his brain nags to do something more .
After reading a particularly thrilling diary taken from some elderly wizard not around anymore (Oz explained it was a gift, and Arthur giggled receiving it, exclaiming how popular Master was), he snooped through Oz’s room. See, he’s done this plenty of times already for the simple enough reason of who wouldn’t want to go looking through the bedroom of the most powerful wizard alive? Curiosity rooted in the cause of all those visits, but this time Arthur has curiosity and direction to guide it with.
There’s not a speck of Oz’s thoughts written down on paper or parchment or spellbound journals anywhere in the room. He knows Master has been alive for centuries, no, more than a small number like that, thousands of years, and that he's super smart because of that, so surely he must have written something down of note. No matter how much more he searches, Arthur frowns at the lack of discovery. Like a window had opened and let in a chilly draft, the revelation that Oz had never bothered to jot down a single one of his thoughts- nor notes from reading, biographies, discoveries from distant lands, or anything - left Arthur’s arms wrapping around his chest with a sigh.
At dinner that night, he could only think about reasons for why this must be. He’s seen Oz write before, after all he’s the one that showed him the spellings of complex words and spells and taught him how to write some basic ritual runes, so he clearly must know how to write.
“Arthur, want to try and pour the tea?” Oz places the pot down on the table, 20 feet long for non-existent guests yet kept decorated in a pristine white cloth like they were expecting a party. “Make sure you only hold the handle so you don’t burn your hands.”
They sit at the end of the table, Oz at the head and Arthur perpendicular to him. He’s always thought the expanse of the table was odd for only two occupants, but now it reminds him of the cold, lonely mountaintops of the surrounding area. The castle itself is no less beautiful than the gorgeous nature of the Northern Country, if anything they both enhance each other in a way- dark stones built into tall towers and reeking of power, it reflects a kinship to the land that demands strength of its inhabitants to live in it.
He blinks, and looks down at the teapot and picks it up without a word. Oz must be so lonely, and he’s said he doesn’t go around humans that much, so Arthur wonders where he got this teapot from. It’s without a single crack and it shines a beautiful steel. Perfect for a tea party with some company.
No one comes to the castle at all- well, that was a hyperbole (he remembers reading this word a few weeks ago after he told Oz he was so hungry he wanted to eat all the food in the entire Northern Country). The castle does have visitors, but Arthur can count them on one hand.
Figaro. He’s fun when he visits at least because he always brings a gift for Arthur from some place he traveled to recently. He wonders if the teapot is a gift, but he purses his lips as he stares at it while he finishes pouring his cup. It looks distinctly Northern, and it’d be a lame gift to give someone something from a country they already live in.
The only other visitors are the twins, donning names of the physical core of the North: Snow and White.
Even though they’ll run around and play with him and act like kids, Arthur’s skin crawls around them. At first he thought the reason was their true age, revealed to him when they told Oz how happy they were to be “true grandpas”, but nothing lessened about the twist in his gut. He thinks is may be because they always stared a second too long at him; at dinners, at hikes through the mountain, at an impromptu dance in the vacant ballroom, the twins will laugh and play with him and yet there’s always a moment that Arthur thinks they’re looking inside of him, or past him.
Across the table, Oz taps his fingers, filling the silence of the dark, foreboding room. There’s lots of typically scary things in the castle that Arthur’s bumped into, and for each one he faces it with confusion and a desire to understand. Monsters in the dark are to be dissected, the blizzard winds that threaten to blow him away are to be questioned where their strength comes from.
What Arthur does not understand is why Oz is tapping his fingers all of the sudden when he’s never done it before.
He’s seen his master scrunch his eyebrows watching newly casted spells from the grimoire try to take form, and those same red eyes follow him when he goes charging through the hallways trying to find a wall that won’t turn into a pillow. It isn’t impossible for the man to get nervous, but as silly as Arthur is, he can understand why it happens. But right now, there is not a thing wrong in the world that Arthur could fathom is making Oz confide in a nervous tic of tapping his fingers against the table.
Patience is a weak and weary bone in Arthur’s body, so he doesn’t let the tapping last more than a minute before he presses about it.
“Master Oz,” he begins, taking his eyes off of the man’s fingers to meet his wine red ones. “Why’re you fidgeting like that? If I did that you would think I were hiding something, so now you have to tell me what you’re hiding.”
Oz squints at him. “..Hiding? What are you talking about?”
“You’re definitely hiding something! Is it a big surprise? A gift? A new spell?” Arthur leans across the table, jostling his teacup but he paid no mind to the stain against the pristine cloth. His worry dissipates as his cheeks spread wide into a smile, and squeezes his hands into fists to keep from lunging at Oz.
A gift! Of course Oz would be nervous to give a gift since he’s so serious all the time. Even during the holidays the man will try to lie and say some odd man in a red coat came and left a bunch of presents for Arthur (even if Oz usually wears a red coat too). It makes perfect sense.
“Arthur… I have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t have a gift for you.” Oz’s whole forehead scrunches with how hard he squints at Arthur, meeting his gaze head on. Arthur holds out for a moment more, locked in this one-sided staring contest, before he lets out a deep sigh and slouches back into his chair. No way Oz is that good of a liar- he would never have been able to hold eye contact like that if he were.
Worry doesn’t return to him though, instead there’s confusion clouding him and questions nagging at his brain like a gnat.
“Why’re you all bothered then? Did I do something bad? If I forgot to make my bed then I’m sorry! Or, oh! Is Mister Figaro visiting soon? I’ll play with him lots so that he doesn’t bug you as much!”
Oz leans back upon the onslaught and sits straighter in his chair, hand that was fidgeting moving to hold his cup of tea. “I’m not bothered,” he says, then looks out the window.
“You’re definitely bothered,” Arthur deadpans.
Arthur takes a sip of his tea, giving Oz a chance to think of what to say. He isn’t nervous much for what he has to say- more than once he’s seen Oz worked up over saying the smallest things, like when he waited a week without a word from Oz until he finally managed to say Arthur’s new haircut, courtesy of the twins, was a good look for him.
Oz joins him in taking a sip as well, eyes staring hard into the tea as if he could will it to speak for him. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to keep from snickering, knowing if he did it would draw this out even longer.
As Oz sets his cup down, Arthur notices the tea stain has disappeared as well.
“I was worried, but now I am not, so it does not matter.”
“What?! What were you worried about? Master Oz, if there’s anything I can do, then I’ll do it!” Arthur recalls his previous thoughts, about the loneliness that must plague his Master so dearly. “Do you want to throw a party? I’m sure Sir Snow and Sir White will come! Even Mister Figaro if he isn’t too busy. There’s plenty of seats, so everyone will be able to sit. I think for dinner we should have turkey, or maybe fish. I can’t decide.”
Arthur continues rambling on, discussing the pros and cons of a variety of dishes before Oz calls a truce on the thought and says to put fish inside the turkey. They continue like that, Arthur dominating the conversation with non-rhetorical questions that will never be answered, exclamations as new ideas pop into his mind, and pleading gazes at Oz whenever he really wants to try something.
It is as it always is between them; Master Oz is master in name, and each day it feels more and more like Arthur is the one leading him forward. No matter the amount of pulls upon Master’s sleeves, begging for more adventures and memories to make, Arthur won’t ever quit until their happiness goes on forever.