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Once, in a little house where the roof sloped crookedly toward the garden, there lived a handsome witch who was very good at taking care of everyone except himself. This was not unusual among witches, so prone were they to their acts of altruism and flights of fancy. There were witches who forgot to eat because they were studying the migration of silver moths. There were witches who stayed awake for three nights because a spell was nearly right. There was one witch, the story goes, who had once forgotten he possessed feet and spent half a day trying to devise a spell to retrieve a book from the other side of the room.
But this particular witch's problem was worse, because he remembered perfectly well that he possessed feet. They carried him everywhere throughout his day, ferrying him from place to place where he could help other people.
Every morning he woke before the sun and lit the stove. He made breakfast for his apprentices and remembered which one liked honey in her porridge and which one didn't. He checked the garden for frost. He mended cloaks before anyone noticed the holes. He left mugs of hot tea in cold hands on chilly winter mornings.
Every night, when the lamps went out one by one, he walked through the house making certain everyone was safely tucked away.
Only then did he remember himself. Usually he decided his needs could wait until tomorrow. Infinite tomorrows could have passed this way.
Fortunately, another witch lived in the house.
This witch was extremely grumpy. Or so he claimed.
He complained when the apprentices left their shoes in the hallway. He complained when anyone touched his tools. He complained when the handsome witch forgot to eat lunch, although he insisted this was merely because fainting was disruptive to the workshop schedule.
One night, long after everyone else had gone to bed, the grumpy witch emerged from his workshop and discovered the handsome witch sitting outside beneath the stars.
“What are you doing?” The grumpy witch asked. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No,” replied the handsome witch. “I’m never cold in the light of the stars.”
The grumpy witch considered this. Then he went inside.
The handsome witch smiled, for he had a secret the grumpy witch didn’t know. In his heart of hearts, he had always called the grumpy witch his star. It was quite cold outside without him, after all, but the handsome witch was not yet brave enough to admit that.
A moment later, the door opened again and a blanket landed on the handsome witch’s head. “It’s cold out,” the grumpy witch told him. “Bundle up.”
The handsome witch pulled the blanket off his head to see the grumpy witch. The grumpy witch was holding two mugs of steaming tea. There was plenty of room to sit, but the grumpy witch sat just beside the handsome witch and extended the mug to him.
They drank quietly and the handsome witch had to admit he was much warmer.
“You know, you’re very bad at being grumpy,” the handsome witch told his companion. “You’re always doing kind things for me and the girls.”
“Nonsense,” said the grumpy witch.
“You brought me tea and a blanket even though I told you I wasn’t cold, because you knew it would warm my heart.”
The grumpy witch mounted no defense, instead enjoying the quiet of the evening that came when the whole world went to sleep. And the handsome witch was no different—he began to tip sideways until his head rested on the grumpy witch’s shoulder. The grumpy witch looked at him and asked, “All right, there?”
“Mmhm.”
“Tired?”
“Mmhm.”
The grumpy witch knew then that he was doomed to spend the night outside. He was far too kind to ask the handsome witch to move and certainly far too kind to possibly wake him once he did sleep. He would not abandon him there and risk him becoming uncomfortable or worse catching cold.
Instead he pulled the blanket farther around them both.
The handsome witch smiled but did not open his eyes. The garden rustled softly beneath the stars. The handsome witch whispered, “Grumpy? Thank you.”
The head against the grumpy witch's shoulder grew heavier; the handsome witch's breathing became slow and even. The grumpy witch looked toward the dark garden so the sleeping man couldn't possibly see his face. "Nothing to thank me for."
He had plenty to complain about. It wasn't comfortable. His tea was cold. His shoulder would probably hurt in the morning. The blanket wasn't quite large enough for two grown men, and the handsome witch beside him had somehow stolen most of it while asleep.
Qifrey’s attention was pulled away from the four sets of eyes watching him from under the pile of blankets when he heard the soft sound of leather soles on stone floors. He looked over his shoulder to see Olruggio leaned into the doorway, his head tilted into the door frame so the bauble of his hat brushed the wood, and his arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Qifrey smiled brightly. “Oh! Olly, I was just telling the girls a bedtime story.”
“I gathered,” Olruggio drawled, amusement sparkling in his eyes.
“It’s about a handsome witch,” Tetia said, yanking the blanket up around her chin in delight. “And he’s friends with a grumpy witch who complains all the time!”
“But he’s not actually grumpy,” Coco corrected, nodding to Tetia. “He’s very kind and brings the handsome witch tea and a blanket.”
“And the handsome witch has white hair,” Agott drawled.
“I don’t remember that detail…” Richeh murmured.
“Does he?” The amusement in Olruggio’s eyes became a warm smile. He remained at his post at the door, motioning with one hand to Qifrey. “Please, continue.”
He stayed anyway.
Because there are many kinds of magic in the world. There is magic drawn carefully in ink. There is magic dancing in flames and flowing through water. There is magic that can build impossible things.
Then there is the much older magic of knowing someone well enough to recognize what they need when they cannot ask for it. That magic requires no ink at all.
Eventually the moon crossed the roof. The garden became perfectly still. And for once, the handsome witch who took care of everyone didn't have to remember to take care of himself. Someone else was there to take care of him.
A comfortable quiet settled over the room. Moonlight silvered the wall behind the blanket fort the girls had built for their sleepover in the common room, while the last embers of candlelight warmed their faces. They were probably too old for this sort of thing—blanket forts and bedtime stories—but Qifrey hoped they would cling on tight to these childhood delights as long as they could. The world could be desperately unkind and a bit of whimsy was often the only defense against it.
“That was a really nice story,” Coco said, crossing her hands over her chest. “Magic isn’t just spells and ink…” She seemed to turn the idea over in her mind.
“It was romantic,” Tetia squealed. “Wait—is that the end or do they kiss?”
“They… don’t,” Qifrey said slowly, knowing heat was coming to his cheeks. The details had been scraped to protect the innocent, but the incident itself was not fictitious and certainly had not ended with any sort of… romance.
“Wait—I get it. Was Master Olruggio the grumpy witch?” Richeh asked, her eyes like little daggers digging for the truth.
“Now does Olly seem like the grumpy sort to you?” Qifrey leaned forward to pull the blankets higher up then shifted his hands under each girl in turn to tuck them in together. “Get some rest, now. Big day tomorrow.” He rested a reassuring hand briefly over Richeh’s hair.
They all seemed to accept the dismissal. The girls bid their goodnights to their teachers and Qifrey extinguished the lights and followed Olruggio into the hallway. He barely got five paces before he could hear the girls whispering and giggling behind him. Good to know the etiquette of sleepovers hadn’t changed in the least since he was young: bedtime was a suggestion and sleep was optional.
“You made me grumpy,” Olruggio said, bumping Qifrey with his elbow as they walked side-by-side. Qifrey could smell the thornbark tea on his breath and noted a couple new small scrapes on his knuckles he must have received mucking around with his latest project.
“It was necessary for the narrative,” Qifrey retorted, giving Olruggio a guileless smile. “I had to establish that the grumpy witch showed his own sort of kindness despite his demeanor.”
“You made yourself handsome,” Olruggio said, stepping a bit closer as they walked. The puffy ends of his sleeve below the bands at his elbows brushed against the back of Qifrey’s hand, just below where his own sleeves ended.
“Well, I didn’t want the story to be unrealistic. Girls that age care deeply about internal narrative logic and verisimilitude.” The edges of Qifrey’s lips tugged with barely contained laughter.
Olruggio didn’t bother, letting out a bark of a laugh. “The audacity of this handsome witch, I tell you.”
It was Qifrey’s turn to bump their shoulders together companionably. His knuckles grazed the back of Olruggio’s hand. His skin was warm as it ever was, as though a fire burned inside him contained just barely below the surface.
“Qifrey… about the handsome witch.” Olruggio dropped an arm over Qifrey’s shoulder, tugging them closer together. They both stopped walking. The fire licked up Qifrey’s body from his foot all the way to his cheek until he went up entirely in flames. “You forgot something.”
“...Did I?” Qifrey’s voice was small, his throat and lips parched and fighting him.
“He wasn’t asleep.” Olruggio turned his head to look at Qifrey, settling him with a frank gaze. From this close, Qifrey could make out the tired lines around his eyes that belied his youth and a bit of red around his irises from lost sleep. Still, he set aside that exhaustion to speak to Qifrey with such care. “He just liked being looked after.”
Qifrey’s lips parted. He had no clever response for that, it was simply the truth. Every time he encountered this incredible man, he learned there were depths to warmth and kindness he did not know. He wanted to wrap himself in the blanket that was Olruggio, drink deeply of his tea, huddle with him beneath the stars just like a peaceful bedtime story.
“And also,” Olruggio said. “They should’ve kissed.”
He turned slightly and tilted his head up so he could brush his lips against Qifrey’s forehead. His lips were chapped; his beard and moustache whiskers brushed softly against Qifrey's skin. He lingered only long enough that it could not be mistaken for anything but a kiss before releasing Qifrey.
“Good night,” he said softly, his hand on Qifrey’s shoulder the last thing he left behind in his wake.
“Good night,” Qifrey echoed, helpless but to watch Olruggio disappear down the hall.
There are many kinds of magic in the world. Magic is drawn carefully in ink. Magic dances in flames and flows through water.
Magic builds impossible things.