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“I would like to delay our departure.”
It was a surprising request coming from Shylock, and he knew this. The wizards, who had all gathered at the Tower to discuss and depart for their upcoming missions, stalled in their conversation as they processed this request.
“... You sure about that?” Nero asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Very sure, yes,” Shylock said, his pipe appearing in his hand. “I’ve had an unpleasant experience recently, and at times like this, it’s best that I don’t exert myself. I’d like to take the time to recover from this unwanted incident and care for myself. After all, nothing will go well if I neglect myself. Being at full potential for this kind of mission is of the utmost importance.”
He chose his words carefully, spoke them calmly, though everyone could tell who they were pointed towards. The way Shylock trained his eyes on Oz as he spoke made sure of that. He signaled the end of his speech by taking a long drag from his pipe.
“That won’t do,” Oz spoke frankly, stepping towards Shylock. “I want us to head out as soon as possible.”
Shylock smiled thinly, and exhaled the smoke from his pipe into Oz’s face.
Immediately, the other wizards went pale and silent, save for Murr, whose entertained gasp and following laughter seemed to shatter any possibility of peace between the two. As the smoke cleared(Shylock made sure it would linger), it revealed Oz’s face as it went through the motions of shock, disdain, and rage- and the wizards erupted into noise.
“Sh-Shylock!” Chloe exclaimed. “What are you doing to Lord Oz?”
“Master Oz, please calm down,” Arthur pleaded.
Riquet appeared at his side, arms crossed sternly. “You must not lose your temper, Oz.”
“I suppose what I am about to say is on the redundant side, but one shouldn’t blow smoke from a pipe at another person’s face, you know?” Rustica offered, turning to Shylock.
As if to spite Rustica’s words, Shylock exhaled his next cloud of smoke at Rustica, though slightly off from his actual face. Murr continued to laugh in the background.
“Hey guys, how about we do as Shylock asks…” Nero spoke up, attempting to calm the situation.
“I’m not asking you for anything,” Shylock responded, matter-of-factly.
Nero’s mouth twitched. “I mean, how about we depart tomorrow? Teach, we Easterners should delay our trip, too. Because, um,” he faltered, trying to think of an excuse. “Look at the weather, y’know.”
“I will change the weather,” Oz offered, interrupting the younger wizard’s attempts to assuage him.
“No, no,” Nero said quickly. “We’ll still be on schedule.”
“Wonderful, then it’s settled.” Shylock clapped his hands once, to solidify the finality of Nero’s decision. “I will be off to my room. Nero, Rustica, I apologize for my behavior.” He looked at Oz for a moment, before smiling thinly once more, turning, and walking away.
“Master Oz…” Arthur looked up at his mentor. “Shylock isn’t the kind of person who acts like that without a reason. Perhaps you may have an idea about why?”
“No.”
Murr continued to laugh.
-
When the door to his room was closed, Shylock took a deep breath. He picked out every irritated thought in his brain, and put them away for the time being. It was time to focus on himself, after all. He could worry about Oz in the future.
He did regret snapping at Nero and Rustica, and since that was a less stressful thought, he pondered ways to make it up to them later. Perhaps he’d make a special drink for them. He could invite Rustica out to a show in the West, maybe. And he could take some weight off of Nero’s shoulders sometime, and help with dinner preparations.
That would be nice, he decided- and with that thought complete, he filed it away, too, turning his attention to the tea he was brewing for himself. It was simple, just black tea, so there wasn’t much to be done, and as the water boiled, he changed into clothes more suited for relaxation. When it was finished, he used it to top off a shot of rum and mixed it with some honey and lemon. It was a drink he saved for occasions like these, when he wanted the appearance of a warm, calming beverage, but the taste of something that would soften his edges for the night.
He left the drink to cool down to a warmer temperature, and took to his restroom. There, untied his hair, shaking it out of its bun and into loose curls down his shoulders and back. Typically, he’d have straightened out his hair in the morning, but he’d been growing tired of that practice- and since he’d already known he wasn’t really going out today, he figured he’d leave those morning preparations for another day.
Using one of those new headbands Chloe had made for him, he pushed his bangs back and washed his face, careful to use gentle, upwards motions. It wasn’t as though he would actually get wrinkles if he pulled at his skin- after all, he’d stopped aging a lifetime ago. Still, Shylock enjoyed the practice of this more than the results.
He could be using magic to do all of this, to mix his drink, to cool it to a drinkable temperature, to let his hair down and pull it back and wash away his worries. But Shylock had always found little satisfaction in letting his magic perform his duties for him. Sure, he was good at the sort of multi-magic that the Easterners specialized in, but he would rather use those abilities when they were necessary. Such self-indulgence would be unbefitting of a Western wizard, and most certainly of Shylock’s own sensibilities. He had been raised to do his work with his hands, and he would continue to do so.
Shylock picked up a case from his counter and flipped through the small, flat packages inside of it. Eventually, he came across one that advertised itself as “soothing”, “revitalizing”, and all sorts of other words that Shylock was very much in need of. He tore open the top, smelling the contents for a second, and deciding that “cucumber melon” smelled nice enough to have on his face for the next few minutes, he began to apply the jelly-like substance onto his face, careful to avoid his eyebrows and hairline.
Such inventions were relatively new, at least in Shylock’s point of view- only a hundred or so years old. Humans had really come far in self care in the last century, Shylock thought. It seemed like only yesterday they were still applying lead to their faces in an attempt to look paler. Now, though, things did seem to be a lot less… poisonous, to say the least. When these masks first became popular, Shylock had received a couple as a gift from a certain Southern doctor, and though he was hesitant to accept, he admitted they were quite fun to use.
With his mask applied, Shylock returned to his bedroom and retrieved his drink, settling onto his bed to relax. He opened a book he’d been reading whenever he had the chance for the last few days and took a sip from his glass. The perfect temperature. Shylock smiled, satisfied, and began to read.
It was a lovely book, but Shylock still found it difficult to focus with the thoughts he’d so neatly put away creeping out of their box and into his space once more. He sighed and closed the book.
He was right to be irritated, he thought. After he’d so clearly requested that he be allowed to feel his own pain, what Oz did was a blatant violation of that. He treated him like a child, put him to sleep to stop his fussing. It was unfair, and uncouth, and terribly insulting. And Shylock was not one to take insults lying down. He’d get back in his own way, take his time to be upset, then they could return to their friendship once all was said and done.
That was the thing, though. Both Shylock and Oz weren’t really interested in the said portion of conflict, at least when it came to themselves. They would both much rather skip to done, pretend nothing ever happened, even if it meant tension and passive-aggression. That, Shylock figured, was not going to be how this went. As much as he hated to admit it, Shylock had responded to being treated like a child the way that a child would respond. It was an immature thing to do, however satisfying it was. And oh, was it satisfying. But that wasn’t the point.
He sighed. He would have to solve this one way or another, wouldn’t he.
-
Shylock gently rapped his knuckles on Oz’s bedroom door. His room was just under Oz’s, so he knew he was in there- and most importantly, he knew no one else was, as well. He’d put his hair up once more, but remained in his loungewear.
There was a long pause before Oz opened the door. Shylock idly wondered if he or Lennox ever hit their heads on any of the doorframes in the manor, before he remembered he was here with a purpose.
“Sir Oz,” he started, before he was interrupted.
“Save your apologies.”
Shylock smiled, with much less venom than the previous morning. “Oh, I wasn’t planning to. I do think that neither of us would be completely honest if we apologized for our actions, and I’ve been told I’m not a very good liar.”
Oz huffed air through his nose- the Oz-equivalent to a quiet laugh.
“May I enter?” Shylock asked. “I bring gifts.”
He held up a bottle of wine, still corked and sealed with foil around the neck. It was a dark bottle, nearly black, with a matte, deep purple label. The script across the front read Bennett Vineyards.
Oz did not respond. He looked at Shylock, then, very subtly, checked if anyone was watching, then stepped aside.
Shylock laughed behind closed lips, an attentive student of Oz’s nonverbal language. “People will talk whether I enter your room in loungewear, or in my uniform. We live with incorrigible gossips.”
Oz furrowed his brow.
“Yes, myself included.” Shylock stepped past Oz and into his room, allowing the other to close the door behind him.
He conjured a couple glasses from his room downstairs and set them on the little wooden table next to his fireplace. After filling them both, he handed one to Oz.
“Shall we toast?”