He knew, of course, that it technically wasn’t magic that shuffled this room around. It was the clientele, everyone coming and picking things up in one place and putting them down in another. But the end result was-- how to say it-- it was the intersection of a hundred different lives. Everything in its place because someone put it there, for whatever reason. And next time, everything would be in a different place.
He wishes he could see the other man’s reaction, but he doesn’t dare turn to look. With awkward politeness they settle into a quiet corner (one of several; they were all quiet corners at this hour) and drinks are summoned and then it is just Mateo and Andras and their heavy thoughts. Looking at each other, not so different from looking in a mirror. They could be brothers.
Then Mateo says “to new responsibilities” and Andras says “to friendship, such as it is,”
Friendship.
Is… is that what this is? Friendship?
That word makes him hesitate. This… open wound of a feeling sits more like jealousy, and dislike, and (although he can’t quite admit it to himself-)... attraction? The pit of his stomach, already sunken, sinks further. But the other man is smiling. He smiles the way a wolf does, like it just wants to see the expression on your face as you look at its teeth.
Mateo looks at his teeth. Then, with nothing more than a nod, he drinks long and deep.
“You’re going to do great.” The boy’s eyes almost begin to water. All the soot in here, from the fireplace and the candles and most of all his magic run amuck, which twists and turns the sound of Andras’ voice into tendrils of apple smoke. He blinks three times fast and the illusion is gone.
“Th-thanks,” he says, that old stutter resurfacing just for this moment as if to say “no, he isn’t. Look at him, he can’t even talk right.” He frowns (more of a pout), realizes he’s frowning, and smiles again all in the span of several seconds. “You are too.” The words are crystalline with something akin to the wholehearted belief of a child. He was a man of faith, and quick to believe in things on nothing more than the strong feeling that they were worth believing in.
Even if he dearly, desperately, did not want to.
God worked in mysterious ways.
Mateo downs the rest of his drink. Too quick. His smile grows slanted as the world loses its harsh edges. “I want...” There were too many things he wanted, and they jostled for his attention like hungry kittens. Drinking at this hour didn't help, either. He was a happy and attention-deficit drunk. “...I want to know... what your favorite book is.” He leans in a little hungry, an eager gleam in his eye. Ready to burn the day away.
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