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It’s raining and he’s wearing thick glasses and a blue beanie when Chris first sees him, with dark curls peeking out from under the damp wool. He’s also a witch, Chris can tell.
The heavy Monday morning rain has sent everyone scurrying underground and onto the buses, and Chris only manages to grab a seat because his stop is early on the line, and because he might have sent out a little bit of a suggestion to the woman in the red coat who was heading for that same seat in front of him, subtly urging her that no, standing was the much better option that day.
Chris has barely pulled his phone out of his pocket when he feels it, that slight twist-tug in his blood that tells him another witch is nearby. When he looks up, his eyes unerringly find the man in the blue beanie, standing down the aisle a bit with one hand gripping the bar over his head for purchase. Chris swallows past the sudden dryness in his throat. The man is a witch and he’s on Chris’ bus – eyes on his phone, earbuds in his ears, and seemingly lost to everyone else around him.
But not to Chris. Chris can feel the magic surging through this man, wild and carefree, pulsing and churning just under his skin, barely contained by the bones of him. The man is small, shorter than Chris with a narrow waist, but he feels hugely powerful, like there’s something inside of him that’s too big for his body. Chris wonders how often he unwittingly casts – like an untrained child – tripping someone who cuts in front of him on the way to the subway, changing the traffic lights when he’s in a hurry, even altering the weather when his mood is foul.
Chris thinks the man must be projecting a subtle avoidance spell, keeping people from bumping into him on the crowded bus. He can sense the boundaries of it just around the man, a light edging defining him from everything else. But it doesn’t affect Chris, who can see him with a different kind of sight.
Even from where Chris sits it’s a heady thing, that bright and wonderful power so close. He knows there are other witches in the city. He feels them in coffee shops and passing by on the street, he sees their work in the flowers that grow between decaying bricks and the beautiful sunny days in the midst of a terrible winter. But none of them have ever felt like this.
Chris tears his eyes away and takes a deep, calming breath, urging his own magic to settle down. He spends the rest of the bus ride staring resolutely at his phone and refusing to look up.
***
The next morning it’s still raining and once again the man gets on the bus two stops from Chris’. Chris feels his magic before the bus even opens the doors. He’s not wearing a hat that day and his hair is riot of dark curls, as wild as the magic that pours off him as he shuffles down the aisle, closer to where Chris is sitting near the back.
Chris lets himself stare. The man’s cheeks are darker with beard than they were yesterday and Chris wonders if he just hates the cold touch of a razor against his skin or if it’s simple laziness. His socks are black with multicolored polka dots, perfectly mismatched with his worn, brown saddle shoes that would be useless against this rain, except Chris can sense the repelling magic on his clothes, keeping him dry.
There isn’t some official citywide network of witches, but Chris knows there aren’t that many of them roaming the city. Despite the earth-bound power that runs beneath the brick and stone and concrete, there aren’t any major ley lines or vortices that draw witches close. And the perpetual light from the millions of people living in such a small space makes it nearly impossible for any witch to look up into the night sky to read the stars. Those who live there do so because they want to, not because their blood called them there. To say this man is an anomaly only means that sometimes Chris goes a full month without passing by another witch on the streets.
Chris feels the power gathered between the man’s shoulder blades shift just as he looks over, looks right at Chris. His eyes are huge behind his glasses, pleasantly surprised and Chris can tell immediately that this man knows about him, that he can feel the magic in him too. Chris looks away quickly, a blush staining his cheeks at his embarrassment over getting caught staring, and he doesn’t look back up the rest of the trip. But he can feel the other man’s magic reaching out for him, little tendrils of power stretching unseen by the other passengers down the bus, seeking him out. Chris closes his eyes and then his fists to hide the energy that sparks bright from his palms at the inquisitive touch of another’s magic at his ankles.
He tries not to touch other witches auras. It feels rude, invasive even, to silently inquire so intimately about someone else like that, someone he doesn’t know at all. But this man, this witch on the bus traveling west with him, doesn’t seem to have that problem. His bright magic probes lightly at all the usual spots – Chris’ wrists, his stomach, the back of his neck. He skips Chris’ heart because there are still some lines no good witch would cross, especially not with a stranger. And some how it comforts Chris that this man abides by that unspoken and ancient practice.
When Chris gets off the bus on the other side of the Park, the guy with the curls gets off too. Chris catches him out of the corner of his eye, moving with the crowd down the aisle as Chris steps back out into the rain. He wants to cast a deflection spell over his head, but there are too many people moving around him and someone would notice the rain flowing around him instead of on him. He settles for shrugging a spell into his clothes that repels the rain.
Normally he rushes right down into the subway, even though he always has to wait for a train, but that morning he lingers a few steps from the bus, waiting for the other passengers to get off, waiting for the other witch.
He doesn’t have to wait, he knows. He could go about his day same as always. He’s encountered other witches in the city and felt no compulsion to make himself known to them. Sometimes he nods an acknowledgement at them as they pass on the street, sometimes they raise their hand in greeting in return, but never has Chris felt this kind of focused desire to introduce himself to another.
But the man’s magic had felt strangely familiar to him, an echo of a rhythm he’s heard before, something like the wild and endless sea he used to visit as a kid.
When the man finally emerges from the bus, Chris’ breath catches in his throat. He can feel this man searching him out with eyes and his magic and Chris lets himself be found, raising his hand to catch the man’s attention as well as sending his own power out to touch the energy at the man’s strong wrists. The connection feels good, it feels right, and Chris isn’t sure what that means, except that he wants more.
“Hi,” the man says, fairly bounding up to him. There’s rain on his glasses and Chris mutters a soft spell that extends his rain deflection over this man as well.
“Oh, thanks!” The man chirps and everything about his aura is bright and positive. It’s almost intoxicating and Chris has to keep himself from falling head first into it.
“Uhm, hi.” He feels excruciatingly awkward, now that they’re standing so close. The pattern of the man’s beard is mesmerizing and Chris doesn’t know what to do.
“So, you’re a witch too, huh?” The man asks.
Chris blinks, startled by his boldness. “Yeah, I. Yeah.”
“Awesome. I’m Darren.”
“Chris.”
The man extends his hand for Chris to shake and as soon as Chris’ fingertips brush through Darren’s aura, white sparks crackle between them, invisible to the rest of the world, but not to them.
Darren laughs, full-hearted delight sparkling through him, as their hands clasp fully and Chris tries to contain his mortification.
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Dude, that was awesome,” Darren interrupts, still grinning. His palm is very warm against Chris’ and his fingers strong. “I could tell we were simpatico, back on the bus, but damn.”
“Uhm, so are you new in the area?” Chris asks. “I haven’t, uhm, seen you around.” He wants to say he hasn’t felt Darren before, hasn’t sensed the touch of his magic, but that feels too awkward to voice. But it’s still true. Knowing how strong Darren’s magic is, and how his own reacts to it, Chris would have felt him if he were nearby.
Darren nods. “Yeah, pretty new. Was living down in the East Village, but wanted to move. The vibe wasn’t right for me, you know?”
“Oh.” Chris knows what he means. He spent a full month wondering through New York before settling on an apartment, allowing his magic to lead him through the boroughs and neighborhoods to the place that resonated just right with him.
“So, do you have a coven?” Darren asks, tilting his head. Under the darkly grey sky his eyes are almost green behind his glasses. It reminds Chris of the woods he’d visit with his greenwitch grandmother, learning how to draw power straight from the earth into his spells, or pull it right into his blood to enhance what he creates himself.
“Uhm, no.” There’s one Chris knows of down near 59th and another in Hell’s Kitchen. And two more in Brooklyn, but Chris hasn’t joined any of them. He doesn’t want to. His magic doesn’t need the boundaries and influence of a group – it never has. He contains it himself, channels the power through his own bones and bends it to his own will.
“I don’t have one out here either,” Darren comments. “I mean, I’ve got my family coven back in San Francisco, but it’d be nice to have one here. You know, really just to have people to talk to without hiding.”
Chris nods. That is the one draw back of keeping to himself. In the couple of years he’s lived in New York he’s made a few friends he can be himself with, other witches he doesn’t have to hide his power from. It’s a balance all witches must find if they choose to live in a big enough city; hiding who they are or living a more solitary life.
“It kind of sucks to have this huge thing that you have keep from everyone,” Darren continues, and there’s something in his voice that’s leading, tempting.
“Yeah,” Chris agrees faintly. He knows he should go, that he needs to catch his train, but he doesn’t want to leave. Darren’s magic has been gently caressing him, rubbing against his shoulders and the small of his back with a touch that isn’t quite intimate but isn’t wholly not either.
“Do you wanna start one?” Darren asks. He’s looking right at Chris and his eyes are shifting from green to gold and back again, following the rhythm of his magic pulsing with every heart beat.
“Oh, I mean, I don’t really need – that is, I haven’t, I-” Chris snaps his mouth shut when Darren holds a hand up. He’s smiling.
“Chris, I’m basically asking you out for a coffee or something under the guise of witchy stuff.” Chris can feel Darren’s power circling his wrist, holding just slightly. It feels good, the way it feels good to step into the ocean on a hot day and let the water cover his tired feet.
Chris blushes all the way down to his navel. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘You wanna start a coven’ was my incredibly awful way of asking you out.”
“It was pretty bad,” Chris chuckles, but he’s inordinately pleased.
“So…you want to?”
“Yeah,” Chris nods because he does and he can’t hide that from Darren.
Darren grins, bright as the full moon on a clear night, and Chris feels the happiness that suffuses through his aura. “Awesome. Gimme your number.”
Chris doesn’t know what he’s doing. He met this guy – this other witch – ten minutes ago and now he’s giving him his number. But it feels right. There’s nothing about Darren that strikes a warning note in Chris’ bones. Chris has enough hedgewitch in him to know when someone has a darkened soul, and Darren most certainly does not.
“Okay, well, I really do have to catch my train,” Chris says when numbers have been exchanged.
Darren glances over at the subway stop. “You’re getting on from here? What a coincidence. Me too.”
Chris narrows his eyes playfully, but starts walking towards the entrance and Darren falls into step next to him, following him down the stairs underground.
Chris hasn’t paid for public transportation since he moved to New York. He knows it’s not exactly the morally right thing to do, to spell his metro card with an endless balance, but the city is expensive and he doesn’t make that much at his job. He justifies it with the times he helps other people who don’t have enough on their card for a ride, nudging the reader with a bit of magic to let the other person through. He doesn’t believe in karma the way some other witches do, but he knows the energy in the world runs on a balance and he does his best to keep his scales level.
Darren smirks at him as he passes his spelled metro card through the reader and it flashes a random balance that hasn’t been accurate since he picked up the card.
“Sneaky witch,” Darren mutters just loud enough for Chris to hear, but he watches as Darren swipes his own card and he can feel the telltale tingle of magic.
“Warlock,” Chris counters, just to see Darren’s eyes widen in mock indignation.
“Low blow.”
Chris grins. He can’t help it. “Uptown or downtown?”
“Downtown.”
“Me too.”
They head down the steps to the downtown platform and Chris can feel his magic continuing to reach out for Darren despite himself, testing the edges of Darren’s aura. It’s pretty empty despite the busy commute hour and Chris figures that a train has just left, taking with it the bulk of passengers.
“So. Where you headed?” Darren asks as an announcement sounds that another downtown train is just a station away.
“Uhm, the C. Down to 42nd.”
“Ah, damn. I’m taking the B.”
Chris presses his lips together, oddly disappointed. “Well,” he starts.
“I’ve got your number,” Darren reminds him, smiling a little. “I’ll see you again.”
“I suspect you’ll see me tomorrow,” Chris counters, blinking slowly. “Since it looks like we’re taking the same bus.”
Darren’s smile brightens and his magic surges against Chris, a little like the tide, playful and joyous and endless. “Damn right we are.”
Chris feels the train approaching before the announcement is made and his disappointment flares again, and he knows Darren can feel it too.
The C train slows to a stop in front of them and Chris sighs. “Bye,” he says, not without regret.
“See you tomorrow,” Darren answers as Chris forces himself away. He can feel his magic protesting the separation, untangling from the edges of Darren’s layer by layer. Chris shivers a little at the loss as he gets on the train. He’s never had to be careful about reining his energy in, about keeping it from getting mixed up with another’s. His control has always been good, even as a kid when the young are forgiven for stepping out of bounds with each other.
Families share power and so do lovers, freely exchanging it between them without care or thought. But strange witches keep their magic to themselves, save for those curious touches of greeting when strangers meet, but that rarely goes further than a light brushing of magic.
But Darren. Chris hasn’t felt anything like Darren before. He doesn’t have the same kind of magic as Chris; his is wilder, running free and fast through his body, and Chris suspects Darren is more susceptible to the moon than he is. But whatever kind of magic he has, Chris responds to it like he has no other, boldly and assuredly.
Simpatico, Darren had said, and Chris to agree with him. It’s a heady thing, rare in its intensity, and Chris needs a moment to think about what it might mean for them both.
The doors close and Chris can see Darren standing on the platform, one hand raised in farewell, and he smiles.
***
Chris thinks about Darren all day. He thinks about the changing color of his eyes and his darkly stubbled jaw, and the way his magic was so strong it almost came with a taste: sea salt and damp loam and starlight.
His magic is heightened all day, buoyed by the touch of Darren’s power, crackling just under his skin as he makes phone calls and takes notes on scripts and tries his best to get through the day without inadvertently releasing a spark across the office. His coffee stays hot all morning even though he barely sips it, and when the intern picks up lunch there’s an extra order of sweet potato fries with his chicken wrap and Chris hadn’t even realized he was that hungry. He’s not used to his control slipping like this, not used to unthinking castings like he’s an errant child, but it feels good. He feels alive in a way he hasn’t in so long.
He hopes that chance will bring Darren onto his train on the way home, but it doesn’t. His disappointment causes the train doors to close on someone before she makes it inside and Chris bites his lip against a chastened laugh. He takes a slow, centering breath and the doors open again to let the harried passenger onto the train.
***
Brian is waiting for him in the big living room window when Chris gets home. He likes to watch Chris walk up the sidewalk and enter the building, ever mindful of Chris’ whereabouts, as any good familiar should be.
He meows at Chris in greeting when he comes through the door and Chris rolls his eyes fondly. “Have you been sitting there all day?”
Brian merely yawns and returns to keeping watch over their territory.
Chris drops his bag into a chair, throws his keys into riverstone bowl on the table by the door, and kicks off his shoes. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and spreads his fingers out wide, opening his palms to the world.
He’s lived in this apartment for several years and his magic has begun to sink deep into the floors and walls, wiggling into the invisible cracks in the materials as added protection to the wards he’s set up for himself. A mason jar with a few sprigs of thyme and lavender sits on a shelf on a bookcase, and sachets of clover, heather, and marjoram are tucked into the cardinal corners of his apartment. Hidden under a floorboard in the back of the hallway closet is a bit of belladonna, ever fresh in its secret place, and over the doorway to his bedroom Chris has carved a witch’s knot through the paint, the plaster, and into the wood beneath it.
It doesn’t take but a few breaths see that all is well. He can feel the sympathetic energy of Brian from the windowsill and Chris smiles at the touch of his familiar’s life. There are few things in this world as calming to him as coming home.
When he’s done, Chris’ stomach grumbles and he laughs ruefully even though he’s alone. The flux of the last few days – the sudden surges of magic from this new witch – has left him tired and hungry.
He throws a few things into a pot, beans and canned tomatoes and whatever else he can think of, and spells a wooden spoon to stir the bubbling chili while he slices bread and pretends like a handful of baby carrots counts as a full serving of vegetables. Brian narrows his eyes at the cobbled together meal but doesn’t voice any complaints.
“You be glad I didn’t just bake cookies for dinner,” Chris tells him, and then ends up baking cookies anyway. Flour and sugar and butter and the heat of an oven are its own kind of magic.
He goes to sleep early, crawling thankfully between his cool sheets, and dreams of a moonlit ocean and a brightly burning bonfire.
***
It’s still raining on Wednesday, the sky sad and grey, when Chris heads for the bus. He’s spelled his clothes once more, but he carries an umbrella to keep up pretenses. The bus is crowded again with morning commuters and he uses a bit of suggestion on the couple in front of him to be able to grab two open seats near the back of the bus.
As the bus pulls out into traffic, Chris closes his eyes and draws down into himself, down his sternum to where most of his magic gathers when he’s not using it. He knows so little about Darren, but he tries to recall the unique touch of the man’s magic, the lively ebb and flow of it, the sea salt scent of it, and he seeks outward, searching along the wet sidewalks and grimy roads.
It hits him like a burst of clean seaspray, the wild boundary of Darren’s magic two stops away, waiting in the rain, maybe waiting for him too. That morning Chris had lit a candle for clarity and though the wax had been imbued with fern, the smoke had smelled of the tide. Chris smiles and waits while the rain streaks the windows.
He waves at Darren down the length of bus when he finally hops on board. Darren’s smile is so bright when he sees Chris, so brilliantly infectious, that Chris feels his own answering grin curve his mouth.
Today Darren is wearing a hunter green, snugly fitted Henley under an open jacket despite the rain. His jeans are tight around his strong thighs and Chris feels something more than magic surging in his belly.
“This seat for me?” Darren asks, glancing pointedly at the empty chair next to Chris. He has a messenger bag slung across his chest, which he pulls over his head in one smooth move that exposes a sliver of skin at his hips.
“If you want it,” responds Chris, swallowing past his suddenly dry throat. His magic is crackling under his fingertips again, eager for Darren. It makes him feels wildly powerful in a strange way.
“I do.” Darren thumps down into the chair and Chris almost sighs at the steady wave of Darren’s wild magic bumping into him. It’s familiar to him now and he welcomes it, even if Darren is still barely more than a stranger.
“Wanna know why it’s raining like this?” Darren asks.
“Because it’s almost spring?”
Darren pauses for half a breath. “Well yes, but no. There’s a witch on the west side who just got dumped. She’s…understandably distraught since she was going to propose to her boyfriend this weekend. Hence the rain.”
Chris snorts. “Well, I guess it’s better than another round of snow.”
“Ain’t it just? So, when do you want to go out?”
Chris blushes, thrown by the abrupt change. “Oh, uhm, anytime, really.” The last time Chris went out on a date it was a guy who wasn’t a witch, or a good person, and it didn’t go well at all.
He should have known better when the guy first approached him at the bar. Chris’ magic had recoiled from him, setting in his stomach like a lump of dead, cold coal. It had felt terrible, unnervingly still inside of him, but he still let the guy take him out for what ended up being the shortest dinner of his life. If nothing else, it had reminded Chris that listening to his magic was more important than trying to override some ill begotten sense of loneliness.
But with the way Chris’ magic – and the very bones of him – responds to Darren, he’s pretty sure that’s not going to happen again.
“I don’t really want to wait until the weekend,” Darren says, bumping his shoulder against Chris’ and Chris can feel a tendril of magic gentle behind his knee. “Can you get away from your work for lunch? Or even just a cup coffee?”
Chris works at a small theatre company and the rules of the office, such as they are, are pretty lax. He’s worked there long enough that he’s pretty sure he can get away with stepping out for a few minutes.
“Yeah, I think I can do that.”
Darren grins. “Excellent. Today?”
“Oh, uhm, not today,” Chris says, regretfully. “We’ve got some clients coming in, but uhm, tomorrow?”
“I can’t do lunch tomorrow, but I can do coffee.”
“Coffee is good. Is like, 3 o’clock okay?”
Darren nods. “It’s perfect.”
Chris smiles and lets his magic coil out from him, sliding across the delicate pulse point of Darren’s wrist and grinning at the surge of power he feels in return.
He doesn’t know how Darren thinks of him, not really. Chris realizes that Darren must like something about him to ask him out, something more than the simpatico nature of his magic, but he doesn’t know if Darren feels the same bright-edged attraction that he does. And he can’t just ask. He’s already opened himself up to more than he has in a long time; he can’t imagine laying himself so bare to such a question.
But when Darren talks to him, his eyes flicker to Chris’ mouth almost as much as they look anywhere else, and Chris can sense the energy that ebbs low in Darren’s hips rise and fall with every breath. And that’s its own kind of answer.
Chris hates to leave Darren at the subway again, but Darren raises a hand in fond farewell and Chris stays connected to his magic until the distance pulls too great.
***
On Thursday, Darren’s ankles peek out from the hems of his up turned up trousers and Chris finds himself staring at the fine bones as Darren enters the café just a few minutes before three.
“Hey you,” Darren greets, coming right up to Chris where he’s waiting at a table tucked away in the corner.
“Hi.” Chris stands up and pushes away any awkwardness gathering in his belly.
Darren’s magic reaches out at the same time as his arms and Chris lets himself get enveloped by both. This close Darren smells of sharp salt and rich earth and Chris breathes it in deep. It settles something in Chris’ chest while filling his blood with a wild energy that he has to work to rein in. He doesn’t know how Darren lives with this kind of power all the time.
“You hungry?” Darren asks when he pulls back, though his magic stays gently intertwined with Chris’, an easy touch Chris is growing addicted to.
“Yeah, I uhm, I already got a drink, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
Darren nods, digging his wallet out of his pocket. “What do you want to eat?”
“Oh, you don’t have-”
“Chris,” Darren chides, leveling a stern look at him, which is somewhat tempered by the fact that Darren is a few inches shorter than him and has to look up. “It’s my treat. No arguing.”
Chris would protest, but he can tell it’d be no use. “Fine,” he sighs. “Uhm, one of those vegan scones, please.”
Darren wrinkles his nose. “Vegan?”
“Hey! It’s good.”
“Suuuure,” Darren drawls, clearly unconvinced.
“Taste it and you’ll see,” Chris says, unthinking.
Just like that the energy flowing between them shifts and deepens, pooling down low in Chris’ hips and warming his veins, and he can see Darren’s eyes darken in tandem.
“I mean, I’d like to,” Darren says, voice low and eyes gone to gold. “You know, eventually.”
Chris swallows and feels his magic crackling at his fingertips, restless and eager for something he hasn’t wanted in so long and for someone he hardly knows at all. “Uhm, me too,” he admits, pulling it from his throat. “But…”
“Coffee first?”
“Coffee first.”
Darren grins, bright and happy, and the mood shifts back just as quickly. The delicious tension in Chris’ belly eases as Darren strolls up to the counter to order.
Chris sits back in his chair. He’s so unfamiliar with this now, grown used to being alone, but not really lonely. He has his cat and his family, and even though his family lives far away he still talks to them often enough. He has his coworkers, whom he actually likes, and he has a job that’s mostly fulfilling. He hasn’t felt the need for something more since he moved, and he certainly hasn’t found someone to search for that more with.
But now there’s Darren, Darren who’s already got Chris’ magic wrapped around his own like they came from the same wellspring and Chris feels no need to untangle it.
“Here you go, sir,” Darren announces, setting a plate with a giant scone down in front of Chris with a flourish.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t get it warmed because I figured you could, you know, however you like it.” Darren waggles his fingers and his eyebrows and Chris snorts.
“Indeed. You mind?”
Darren smirks and quietly puts an easy charm around their table that will deflect any unwanted attention cast their way.
Chris cups his hands over the scone, breathes in, centers, and exhales out warmth through his palms. It only takes the one breath for the pastry to heat pleasantly to his will. Chris pulls most of his magic from himself, from wherever it lives in his bones and his blood and the very heart of him. He suspects Darren pulls most of his from the world – from the moon and the ocean and the life of things all around.
When Chris looks up, Darren is staring at him with something like adoration bright in his eyes.
“What?”
“That was hot.”
Chris flushes, looking away. “It was not.”
“It was,” Darren insists and when Chris focuses, Darren’s aura is clean of any lie.
“So.” Chris clears his throat, wanting to change the subject. “What do you do?”
“Music,” Darren answers around a mouthful of his own bagel. “I’m a producer. Well, trying to be a songwriter, but paying the bills by producing other people’s stuff.”
It clicks with Chris, then. The seductive sea salt scent of his magic and the way it feels like the tide.
“You’re a siren,” he states.
Darren lifts an eyebrow at him. “I’m a witch, like you.”
“Yeah, but you’re also a siren.”
“Not really,” shrugs Darren, effortlessly casual. “My grandmother was part siren. I guess I got some of it from her.”
“That’s amazing.”
When Chris was a little boy, just old enough to understand, his grandmother took him out into the forest and sat him down around a fire of oak and birch, and told him what he was. She lit a candle with her eyes and told him about witches and spells and the elements all around him. And she told him of the other things that exist outside of the fairytales she read to him at night – the magical creatures that slip through the woods and seas and fields unseen by humans. And then Chris had demanded she tell him everything else she knew.
“I’m mostly just thirsty all the time,” Darren teases. “And the days around the new moon kind of suck,” he adds, shaking his head ruefully.
“Reverse werewolf syndrome?”
Darren snorts a laugh. “Sort of. I dunno. It feels weird though. Kind of like, I know the magic is there, but it’s harder to reach those days. It takes more work and it’s not as strong when I use it. I don’t really like it.”
“I bet not.” Chris can’t imagine how empty it must feel for Darren when the darkened moon takes with it his power. It’s hard enough when Chris has cast too much with not enough rest and food to replenish his energy. He feels drained and weak and ends up sleeping through the day.
“So what do you do?” Darren asks him.
“Oh, uhm, I work at a production company. Mostly theatre. I’m on the creative side.”
“Are you a producer?” The interest in Darren’s voice is undeniable.
Chris shrugs. “Not yet but I, I think I want to be? And a writer. I’m not totally sure.”
“That’s awesome though,” Darren says, his magic sliding comfortably across Chris’ back, and Chris believes he means it.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s a great little place. I’m learning a lot, so I really can’t complain.” Plus, no one has noticed that sometimes Chris can un-jam the copier without really trying, or that they never seem to run out of coffee.
“You know what? We should work together,” Darren grins, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “I’ll write the music and you’ll produce the show.”
“What? A musical about real witches?” Chris scoffs.
“Why not? You never know. It could be a smash hit.” Darren’s aura is flaring bright and happy and Chris shakes his head, but he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurts.
It should be ludicrous; the thought of working with Darren, but it’s not. Chris can so easily picture them together in some office, or even one of their apartments, hunched over the bones of a script, firing ideas back and forth, their magic free-flowing between them, an endless loop that drives deeper and deeper until it becomes irrevocable. It makes his magic crackle under his skin and stand the hair on the back of his neck up.
Chris doesn’t know Darren, not really, not hardly at all, but somehow he wants him all the more for that. His magic, the very essence of him, rings out clear and loud for Darren’s, some undeniable bell toll of truth about them both that he would be stupid to ignore.
Chris learned more than enough about magic and the earth and the way of the world from his grandmother to know that sometimes a spell cannot be cast; it can only be released.
Darren is reaching for his iced coffee when Chris reaches out to him, not with his hands, but with his magic. Darren goes still, hand in midair, as Chris lets tendrils of power coil delicately around Darren’s wrists and ankles, lets energy slide up Darren’s spine and across his collarbones. He doesn’t touch his heart – not yet. Some things are yet too intimate, too private for a midtown coffee shop just days after they’ve met. But Chris doesn’t doubt it will happen. He’s never felt more certain about himself and his place in the world than he does with Darren, with his magic wrapped up in Darren’s aura and his own heart seeking out the rhythm of Darren’s to match.
Darren feels like water to him, like the surging tide and the salt spray, joyous and cleansing and ever-changing, but Chris doesn’t know what he feels like to Darren. Maybe one day he’ll tell him. It feels important to know.
“That,” Darren starts to say and his voice is so thick, so rough that he has to clear his throat and try again. “That feels like an answer to a question I wasn’t sure you’d want me to ask.”
Chris opens his eyes, not even realizing that he’d closed them. Across the table, Darren is starring at him with eyes that are flickering green and gold. His cheeks are pinked and lips are parted on a breath and Chris has never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life.
“I – I wasn’t sure myself, but,”
“But you are?”
Chris nods. “I can’t explain it-”
“-but you feel it,” Darren finishes, urgent.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
“It’s insane, right?”
“Completely.”
Chris laughs. He can’t help. A sharp bark of a laugh that expels the nervous tension that had been building in his stomach, even as his heartlines opened to Darren.
“At least we’re on the same page about that,” Chris says.
“Oh, I think we’re on the same page about a lot of things.”
Darren reaches across the table then, holding his hand out for Chris to take, and when he does, lightning crackles from his palm.
Chris laughs and Darren does too.
***
Friday morning Darren is waiting for him at the bus stop, wearing bright blue pants that match the beanie once more covering his curls.
Chris frowns in momentary confusion when he sees Darren on his block, instead of two stops away, but Darren waves hello as best he can with two cups of coffee in his hands.
“Hey,” Chris greets, putting his headphones away.
“Hi!” Darren chirps, and he ducks in to press a quick kiss to Chris’ cheek that has him blushing.
“What are you doing here?” Chris asks.
“Was up early and wanted to bring you coffee.” Darren holds one of cups out to him and Chris takes it gratefully.
“Thanks.”
“I already spelled the lids against spilling.” Darren winks conspiratorially as he shakes his cup hard enough that coffee should be splashing all over the place, burning his hand and making a mess, but doesn’t.
Happiness wells up in Chris at such a simple thing, that open display of what they are. “Thank you,” he says again, and means something completely different this time. He takes a sip of his coffee and its perfect.
“So, I think that west side witch is getting over her break up,” Darren says, glancing up at the sky. The clouds are still thick and grey, but the rain has lessened to a sprinkle.
“Good for her. Her boyfriend wasn’t worth it.”
“What man is?” Darren comments dryly and then winks, and Chris barks an unexpected laugh.
“Well, that’s been my experience,” Chris comments before he can stop himself.
“Have a lot of experience, then?” Darren asks and it’s partly teasing and partly not. But Chris is saved from having to answer by the arrival of the Crosstown 79.
Darren follows him onto the bus and Chris can feel him, a sharp awareness between his shoulder blades, as they move down the aisle to a couple of free seats in the back. He doesn’t know why he said what he did about experience. A couple of casual boyfriends and a handful of bad dates doesn’t measure up to a whole lot anything, at least not the kind he was carelessly alluding to.
Chris has found that it hasn’t been worth the hassle to hide who he is from potential romantic partners. He doesn’t want to have to stop himself from heating water to a boil with a flick of his wrist or turning out the lights with his will alone. He doesn’t want to have to make up excuses for the herbs in his apartment or the way Brian doesn’t always act the way a cat should. It costs him too much to give up those parts of himself that make him who he is.
But with Darren, with him Chris knows he wouldn’t have to do any of that. It’s a temptation and a freedom Chris doesn’t want to let go of.
“So I’m playing this gig tonight,” Darren says, casually, and the brush of his magic across the back of Chris’ neck tells him his previous comment is forgotten. “I mean, it’s my friend’s gig, but I’m gonna play some guitar for her.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup. You wanna come?”
Chris nods. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Darren’s smile could part the clouds. “Cool.”
***
Chris gets down to the Rockwood a little past 8. He’d run home after work to shower and change and to try something with his hair, which had only resulted in running his fingers through it a few times before giving up.
Darren is already inside when he gets there. The house is packed with people, but Chris can feel the gentle waves of his energy from the doorway as he shows his ID to the bouncer. Darren’s by the bar, surrounded by a group of friends, and Chris feels an irrational surge of jealousy at the sight of the tall, handsome guy who’s leaning in too close to say something into Darren’s ear. Whatever it is makes Darren laugh and Chris closes his fists against a new pulse of red-tinted magic.
But Darren looks up and finds him unerringly across the crowd and his smile cools the tension that’d been building in Chris’ chest.
“Chris!” Darren calls out, waving enthusiastically.
Chris blushes as Darren’s friends all turn to look at him, but he makes his way over there. Darren pushes away from the bar to greet him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and squeezing his wrist between his fingers.
“Hi. You made it.” His pleasure his palpable.
“I did.”
“Glad you did. Come on.” Darren tugs him over to the bar.
“Guys, this is Chris,” he introduces, and Chris gets the distinct impression that Darren has talked about him to these people before. “Chris, these are the guys. And gals.”
Chris waves, a little awkwardly, but everyone is looking at him with friendly interest so whatever Darren has told them must have been good. “Hi.”
“I see what you mean,” the tall man says and Darren nudges him good-naturedly.
“Pay no attention to them,” Darren tells Chris. “They’re all assholes.”
A few of the guys nod in agreement and Chris thinks that everything will be okay.
“We go on in a few minutes,” Darren says, angling Chris towards the stool that he’d stood up from just minutes before. “You want a drink? Let me get you a drink.”
“Oh, uhm, yeah. Thanks.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Belladonna,” Chris says, just loud enough for Darren to hear him, and the bright laughter that bursts from Darren is enough to warm Chris through the next winter.
“Coming right up.”
It’s but a few minutes after Darren hands him his drink that the stage manager comes over to tell them it’s time to get set up.
“You gonna be good here?” Darren asks him, after the rest of the band has slipped away to get ready.
“I’m good,” Chris says. “Go on.”
Darren grins and kisses his cheek so quickly Chris almost misses it. “For luck.”
Chris closes his eyes and gathers his power, just a little bit of it, before reaching out to touch the back of Darren’s hand with three fingers. Darren shivers as Chris lets a little bit of his magic spread up Darren’s arm, warming him from the inside.
“For luck,” he says and Darren’s expression is shades of fondness and something more, something deeper.
Darren’s eyes flicker down to his mouth and back up and he looks like he wants to say something, or do something, but he doesn’t. He only nods before slipping away towards the stage. Chris takes a long drink and the liquid burn of whiskey does nothing to calm the rabbit-quick beat of his heart.
The band moves with practiced ease, setting up quickly, and it doesn’t take long before the house lights dim and the first song starts.
The frontwoman is gorgeous, dressed all in white with dark hair and a voice like a bell. Chris would think she too was a siren if he didn’t know better, but her power comes from her sheer talent alone. Darren stands off to the side with an electric guitar, magnetic in his own way even though he’s wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Chris does not stop watching him the whole time. And when Darren sings, his voice unpolished but joyous, Chris feels it in his very blood.
Chris doesn’t know how long the set lasts. He gets lost in the music, and even though he doesn’t know the songs, he finds himself swaying in his seat, heart finding the rhythm and following it. Darren isn’t casting, not purposefully, but Chris can feel the untamed nature of his magic flowing out unbidden, touching the crowd and adding notes of energy to the room. The air itself feels electric and for a moment Chris closes his eyes and just lets himself feel connected to everything.
When the set is over, Darren helps the band pack up before he bounds over to Chris, grabbing the glass from his hand and swallowing down the last of his drink. There’s sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat and Chris wants. Badly.
“That was amazing,” Chris says, finding his voice.
“Yeah?” Darren’s cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess and he’s sweat through his shirt. Chris wants to bury his nose in the damp crook of Darren’s neck and breathe him in.
“Yeah.”
“Thanks! This is what I love, you know?” Darren waves his hands around, encompassing the gathered crowd and stage and the music still lingering in the air.
“I can tell.”
“I just, I want to make it on my own, you know?” Darren’s voice is sharply earnest and Chris can feel it in his bones. “I can’t – I won’t use, you know…” Darren places his hand on his sternum where Chris knows much of his power lives. “I want people to listen because they want to listen, not because I’ve compelled them to.”
Chris nods. It’s a dark road to go down, a dark way that Darren is talking about, and one there’s no room to turn back from. Suggesting that someone on the bus sit in a different seat rests on the grey edge of that and Chris is careful to not step too close to that shaky line too often.
“I think they would,” Chris tells him. “Listen, to you. Just you.”
Darren eyes go whiskey gold as he stares at Chris, searching his face, looking for something in his eyes. Chris can feel the air around them crackling with energy and he’s glad no one else in the bar can feel it, or see it.
“Do you want to come over?” Darren asks.
“Where?”
“To my place.”
Chris swallows heavily. “Yes.”
***
Darren’s apartment is tiny. He lives on a quiet street, in an old narrow building squashed between two newer ones, and the wash of the brick is so faded Chris isn’t sure what color it was originally supposed to be. But it’s charming, something out of the last century with its bricks and faux turrets, and Chris thinks the energy around the building feels safe.
There are wards on Darren’s front door, ruins drawn with an invisible touch, and Chris can smell the brush of riverstone and salt that’s lining the threshold. Darren must have crushed the riverstone up into a fine powder so it would settle into the minute cracks in the wood, completely unseen by others, but not hidden to Chris. It feels good to be able to cross that threshold unimpeded.
“Can’t be too careful?” Chris asks as Darren fits the key into the lock and Darren just grins at him over his shoulder.
“I am a pretty good witch.”
Inside, Darren’s little apartment is as eclectic as the clothes he wears, and Chris wanders around the perimeter, acutely aware of Darren watching him from the doorway to the kitchen. An antique record player sits on an old table that Chris is sure Darren must have picked up off the street, but the sofa looks new and expensive, with pillows strewn all over it. A Persian rug lies off center in the living room, faded down the center from long years of tread, but it somehow smells of spices and desert air. There are at least three guitars Chris can see, and an instrument Chris is pretty sure is a lyre.
“No piano?” Chris teases.
“In my bedroom.”
Chris snorts and shakes his head fondly.
He can see little bundles of herbs set unassumingly around the apartment, similar to the ones in his home, but carrying with them the unique touch of Darren’s magic. And the bookshelves are just as packed as Chris’ own and that makes him inexplicably happy.
As does the cinnamon-scented broomstick propped up in one corner.
“I like it,” Chris says. He feels comfortable in Darren’s home, enveloped in Darren’s magic. It doesn’t feel like a new space too him, feels instead like the echo of a dream.
“Yeah? I kind of just threw everything in here when I moved.” Darren flicks his wrist carelessly. “Haven’t really had the time to, like, decorate.”
“Well, it’s nice. Feels like you.”
That makes Darren smile, not the bright, overwhelming grin that shows his teeth and makes his eyes disappear, but something softer, something that seems to emanate from his heart.
“So you wanna see the roof?”
“You have a roof?” Given the size of the apartment, Chris is pretty sure Darren isn’t putting down a huge check every month for this place. And while spelling a Metro card is one thing (and something Chris admits is frowned upon by a good deal of witches), using their power to pay for a penthouse apartment is something else all together.
Darren shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, I sort of gave myself the roof.”
“Of course you did.”
“Come on. I’ll show you. I think you’ll like it.”
Chris follows Darren up the back stairwell of the building to a door that seems securely locked and fitted with an alarm. But Darren places one hand on the door and closes his eyes. The air shifts around them and Chris tastes bitter metal at the back of his tongue. The door swings open and Darren takes a small bow.
“After you, good sir.”
Chris nods graciously, grinning, and steps out onto the roof into the cool evening.
The roof has been utterly transformed. Gardening boxes made of cedar, maybe 6 feet long by 3 feet wide, are set up in rows across the roof, filled with rich, fresh soil and compost. The rain from the week has left a heavy dampness all around and Chris feels like he’s stepped out of the city and into something raw and wild and open. Chris can see leafy tomato plants clustered together and a couple of rhubarb plants spreading out wide from their bright red stalks. Peas are beginning to push through the lush soil, reaching for the lattice of string stretched across the boxes that will help keep them stable.
Chris walks through the rooftop garden, mouth open in stunned surprise. There are carrots too, lined next to onions and leeks, while kale and cabbage and different kinds of lettuce carpet a planter in vibrant shades of green.
In the center sits a garden box entirely of herbs. Chris can smell the mint and sage and thyme drifting up into the night air, fragrant and heady and intoxicating. He can taste the added layers of luck and protection the herbs provide to the building, and by extension, everyone inside. Chris wagers that even during the most powerful of storms this apartment won’t lose power, and that when winter comes again the residents will find they don’t have to turn the heat up so high to stay warm.
“My mom always says fresh is best,” Darren comments as Chris winds his way up and down the rows of gardening boxes. He’s standing with his arms folded across his chest, looking utterly comfortable with his vegetables and herbs, proud of what he’s growing, bright and alive, in the midst of this grey and concrete world.
And with his wild hair and scruffy beard, he’s utterly attractive.
“Darren, how…?”
“Just a little bit of magic at the right time,” Darren says. “They were desperate to grow. I’d already started the seeds back on the supermoon, before I moved in here. They just needed another little touch to really get going.”
Chris drags his fingers through the soil and feels the tingle of Darren’s magic run up his arm. “This is incredible.”
Darren affects a casual shrug, but Chris can feel the pride and pleasure suffusing his aura, nearly glowing.
“I’ve got some pumpkin seeds that need to go in,” he says, holding up a little packet.
“Yeah?” Chris can see that there’s plenty space saved in one of the planters for a few pumpkins.
“You wanna do a little moon gardening with me?”
Chris blinks slowly. “Is that a euphemism?” He is not unaware of the power in growing things.
There is a connection, he knows, ancient and lasting as the earth itself, between the body and all living things. His grandmother would tell him of old rituals, unused now but written down in crumbling books, of harvest and planting and the returning cycles of the moon. Fertility – Chris hates the word but he knows what it means, that it’s more than what it’s so often used for. It’s life and renewal and transference.
“Do you want it to be?”
Chris blushes and shivers as Darren’s magic slides across his lower back, warm and coaxing, and the answer is yes. Emphatically yes. Because it’s sex, too. The sharing of power and energy that can become the sharing of more – spirit and sweat and come. It’s sacred to so many; Chris will not say no to that. He doesn’t want to say no.
“I…” Chris shivers. “Yeah.”
Darren’s eyes flash gold and Chris feels the tug of magic around his waist, moving up his sides. He shudders.
“You have to be careful with a sea witch under the moonlight,” Darren says. “We’ll pull you under and drown you.”
Chris doesn’t remember Darren moving, but suddenly he’s so close, right in front of him, chin tilted up to look into Chris’ face. He can see every shifting shade of color in Darren’s eyes and count the errant freckles on his cheeks. He wants to know if Darren’s beard would scratch his skin and if his mouth tastes of the ocean.
“I thought those were mermaids,” Chris counters, shocked by the breathy pitch of his voice.
Darren smile is almost feral. “Who do you think mermaids were born of?”
It makes Chris want, desperately. He wants to go out into the deep, dark wild and touch the very heart of the earth with Darren, sink their twined fingers into rich loam and connect with the power that crisscrosses the world.
There’s bright moonlight in Darren’s dark hair and in his eyes and Chris does not care to wait anymore. He feels like he’s been waiting his whole life, and the one before.
He leans in and kisses Darren, heart open and wanting.
Chris gasps at the riotous burst of magic that comes from the very heart of him, from Darren, racing along his veins and burrowing into his bones. It feels like a tall wave crashing down, urging him against Darren’s body, coaxing his arms around Darren’s shoulders and his breath from his lungs. Chris gives in to it, presses closer, deeper – eager for Darren’s heated mouth and the bright salt taste of his tongue.
There are hands on his face, holding him in place, and Darren’s hips are insistent against his own, an achingly intimate rhythm Chris has nearly forgotten about. Chris is moaning out loud and he knows it, embarrassing noises of want that Darren swallows down before answering with his own arching sounds
And it is like drowning. Like getting pulled under the surface into the muffled calm below with only Darren’s breath to breathe in to keep him alive. Chris loses the world to Darren and the pressure of his mouth and the heat of his body pressed tight to his own. Bright bursts of magic and lightning arc between their bodies with every new kiss, breaking free of the control they usually maintain, and Chris feels like he’s drinking in the edges of Darren’s aura.
Chris shudders hard when he feels the touch of Darren’s magic under his clothes, smoothing along his bare hip, a teasing promise of something more, something greater. He wants that too.
“Chris,” Darren pants, pulling away just enough to speak and his lips are wet with Chris’ own spit.
“Yeah.” His mouth feels swollen and raw and his chest is tight. His magic is welling up inside him, uncharacteristically wild, and it feels good. It feels right.
Darren presses softer kisses to Chris jaw, all the way back to his ear, and Chris shivers under the moonlight even though he isn’t the least bit chilled.
“Do you want to go back inside?” Chris asks, the words falling from him like a waterfall, dangerous and unstoppable.
Darren pulls back, eye serious, though his hands stay on Chris’s face, fingers spread out along his jaw. “Yeah?” His thumb sweeps along Chris’ flushed cheek, tender as the moonlight.
“Yeah.”
***
Chris wakes when the morning sunlight falls across his eyes. Darren is tucked up next to him, still asleep with a bit of drool on his chin and creases on his cheek from the pillowcase. His expression is calm, peaceful, and Chris does not miss the lurid red mark on Darren’s neck in the shape of his mouth.
He stretches and sighs happily as his back pops and cracks. His body feels loose and relaxed, even though he can feel telltale little twinges in the backs of his thighs and his shoulders. But it’s a good kind of ache, a welcome remembrance of Darren’s heated touches and the crackle of magic between them. Chris is pretty sure he left other marks on Darren’s body. He vividly remembers digging his fingers into the meat of Darren’s shoulders and biting down on his inner thigh. It makes him blush a little and grin brightly up at the ceiling, unable to contain the joy bubbling up inside of him.
“S’morning?” Darren mumbles, barely audible as he rouses from sleep.
“Yeah.”
Chris smiles fondly as Darren burrows into him, throwing a heavy thigh over his legs and an arm across his waist. The slide of his naked skin is familiar now, the coarse hair and warm flesh; the shape of his muscles and the pressure of his fingers. Chris’ magic is flowing freely from him and across Darren where he knows it’s welcome, wanted, touching at the power still waking in him, waking him from the inside.
“Tickles,” Darren grumbles when Chris playfully lets tendrils of magic slide across his naked ass.
Chris gets his arms around Darren and presses a kiss to the stop of his head. “Get up. I’m hungry.”
“We should go upstate,” Darren says into his neck, squirming in closer and clearly ignoring the request to get up. “Into the woods. Make a big bonfire. Burn some offerings.”
It warms something inside of Chris, the thought of the ancient practices, the rites he’d never wanted to complete with anyone before. But he wants to with Darren. He knows a week is such a short time, but his magic has been aching for it since the first moment he felt Darren on the bus. There are some things in the world that are just right.
“I’d like that,” Chris says and means it in so many ways.
Darren makes a contented noise. “Good.”
Chris’ breath catches in his throat as Darren’s hand slides up his stomach and settles over his chest, over his heart. His palm is so warm and Chris can feel the heat of it down into his bones, even without magic.
“Is this okay?” Darren asks, pushing himself up onto one elbow, keeping his other hand on Chris’ chest.
Chris knows what the question means, what Darren is asking. Even after the night before, even after having Darren on him and in him and all around him, this is one of the most intimate things they can do. And it doesn’t scare Chris at all.
“Yeah,” he whispers, barely a word. “Please.”
Darren’s eyes slip closed and Chris can feel the air shifting around them, power gathering just before a surge of magic emanates from Darren’s palm, sinking down through Chris’ skin and muscle and bone to enfold around the thick magic that encloses his heart.
Chris eyes close and his back arches on a gasp, not wholly unlike the night before.
It feels like ocean covering him, Darren’s magic touching the very soul of him, unfathomably immense. Chris tastes sea salt and moonlight and thinks that this is love.
Somehow he finds the strength to move, to settle his own hand on Darren’s chest and reach down to the heart of his magic. Darren groans and laughs and Chris has never felt more alive, or more at peace, than he does in that moment.
“Are you asking me for a handfasting?” Darren asks, teasing and not.
“Maybe,” says Chris, a little shyly. “Are you asking me?”
“Oh definitely,” Darren breathes and sinks back down to the bed to find Chris’ mouth for a soft, sealing kiss.
“I’m glad you got on my bus,” Chris says, later, when their bodies are cooling once more, but their twined magic is still dancing along their skin, boundless.
“I’m glad you saved me a seat,” Darren responds, settling his hand back over Chris’ heart, where it has always belonged.