Hard Work

Fantasy/Romance short. A wizard starts up a relationship with the witch next-door.

4k, rated M, M/M. Nice and light-hearted, with a bit of humour and banter alongside the magical setting.

Note for recreational drug use throughout and a bit of body horror. Adapted from a TweetFic.

---

Fred’s parents have been putting off doing anything with it, haven’t had the money to spend on it, so he offers to do it up when his mother mentions it. Nan’s house has been empty for years and years — she’d moved back with them for a decade before she died, partly because she was getting older, and partly because the house itself needed work and she just didn’t have the time or wherewithal to get through it.

He’d offered when she was alive to go and fix some of it up, but she’d waved him off repeatedly, said it wasn’t important, that she was happier living with them, but now?

Well, now something needs to be done with her old house now she’s dead and buried, and he’s a qualified wizard now. Fred is a magical plumber, but he took courses in joining and carpentry, stone masonry, and even a few courses in magical electrics before he picked a specific course that he finished — and he knows what needs fixing.

Nan had said she wanted him to, anyway. Not just fix the house up but live in it, if he wanted, try out the old cottage at the edge of Chesterton-Burnleigh, a mostly magical village on the South Downs. He doesn’t know if he will stay, if he’ll live here for longer — he’s always enjoyed living in Brighton proper, likes the people, likes how busy everything is. Fuck knows he can’t afford Brighton rental prices, but living all the way out here, he’s not yet sure about.

The house needs a lot of work, but it’s not structural problems for the most part — he needs to tear out some of the bad wood in the attic where it’s been leaking through, but that’s the most extreme work that needs doing. The windows need recaulking, a few doors to be either rehung or straight-up replaced, carpets redoing, a few old pipes wanting new lagging, the gutters, the drains. He’ll want to retile some of the roof, too, but having been up there with a ladder it’s not as bad as he expected based on the leaks.

He makes a space for himself in the spare bedroom — Nan’s room is cleared out because they took everything when she moved home with them except the bed frame and the mattress. The bed is too big and he doesn’t like how wide the windows are, in any case.

He sleeps well the first night, and doesn’t dream; he wakes to the sound of shouting outside, and when he lunges for the window and throws it open, he sees some mad old fuck shouting up a storm with some sheep dogs and what must be two dozen chickens, dancing around with all of them hopping around him on the grass.

“Oi!” shouts Fred through the window, and the man jumps a mile, sending seed out of the basket in his hands all over the ground and half on top of the three sheep dogs’ heads, then turns to stare up at Fred agog.

He’s not old, as it happens.

He doesn’t look that much older than Fred, can’t be more than thirty — he has long hair and a thick beard, and he has tattoos on his chest, which Fred can see because his dressing gown is worn completely open. The tattoos aren’t all he can see, as it happens.

His neighbour sees Fred’s downward gaze and suddenly wraps his robe shut, coughing awkwardly — he hasn’t got a belt to keep it tied, so he just holds it with one hand.

“Can you keep it down?” Fred asks.

His neighbour nods silently, his mouth ajar, and Fred closes the window and drops back into bed.

It’s not even six in the morning.

* * *

Fred’s made a list of stuff that wants buying while he’s down here, everything that wants doing with immediacy — he’s tarped the roof over and laid an enchantment to dry everything out, but he needs to buy new wood and tile to start fixing it up.

It’ll take him four or five months to get through everything he’s expecting — he’s taken a job with the village hall to fix up some local things, to redo the maintenance enchantments on top of the maintenance itself, and he’ll fix up the house in his off-hours.

“You bought the house?” asks the bearded guy when Fred goes out to his car. He’s dressed now, although he’s wearing a witch’s robe like he’s just out of university, again with a plunging chest, although Fred is spared the view of his crotch. He considers pointing out that you’re meant to wear a shirt with those gowns, but the bearded guy has a kind of glazed, out-of-it look that makes him unsure about doing that.

“No,” says Fred. “This was my grandparents’ old house, I’m just fixing it up — my nan was Wednesday O’Brien, she came to live with us about ten, twelve years back. You know her?”

“Oh,” says beardy. “Yes. Maybe. Thought she died.”

“Well, she has now,” says Fred. “Three years back, actually. Uh, it wasn’t bad or anything, though, she died in her sleep.”

Beardy still seems a little unfocused, but he nods his head. “Sorry,” he says. “She was a nice old lady. Made a great pot pie.”

“And you are?”

“My name’s Kim,” he says. “Kimberley. I only moved in about a year before your nan shipped out.”

“You’re a witch,” says Fred, and Kim nods his head.

“I’m an alchemist,” he says happily, which explains a lot — not just how spacey he is and the robe, but… a lot. There are chemical burns on his fingers, for one, and there are bits of beard missing where the skin is bald from scarring on the skin — as for the tattoos Fred can see on his chest and neck, some of them are blotted out and dappled with little droplet scars. “And I forage,” adds Kim. “So, you know, if you like mushrooms, I can bring you some.”

Fred looks at him, hippie Kimberley with his long beard and hair, his witch’s robe worn without an undershirt and probably without underwear, his numerous chemical burns, his massive fucking dilated pupils. Two of his sheep dogs are up against the fence with him, shoving their faces through the gaps to peer up at Fred.

“Thanks,” says Fred, trying to sound as nice as he can, “but I don’t like mushrooms.”

* * *

Kim keeps odd hours. He wakes up early in the morning and mostly remembers not to shout until a bit later — although not always. From what Fred can see, most days he sleeps from the early afternoon through to the middle of the night.

He can see this because Kim has a habit of sleeping in the yard with his dogs and chickens and occasionally a barn cat from a farm a few houses over. This is sometimes under the canopy that comes out from his chicken coop, but is just as often him sleeping in the middle of his meadow-like, uncut lawn.

Even when it’s raining.

Occasionally, loud bangs will sound, or puffs of coloured smoke will billow out of Kim’s windows or up from his chimney — people come to him for potions sometimes, which he seems to give out freely.

The village witch, a bloke called Damien, died a few years back, and Kim is all they have left.

A woman at the village hall said, when Fred asked, that Kim is alright to have for aches and pains, but that he’s no physician and can’t be trusted to soundly ward your house or do a lot of basic spells, or —

Well.

He can’t be trusted for much.

But he is very nice, and he’s a great man to have around for Guy Fawkes’ night, and he puts out brilliant displays at Christmas, and he teaches a mushroom foraging course a few times a year that people travel from all over to take part in.

Kim isn’t always, Fred discovers, as spacey as he seems.

Fred knocks on his door one morning because one of the sheep dogs has squirreled her way under the hedge to sit on Fred’s back porch for no reason Fred can determine.

It’s about eleven in the morning, and Kim opens the door.

It’s the first time Fred has seen him where he’s not either standing there with his jaw gaping wide or with a vague smile on his face. He has a cold, serious look on his face.

“Can I help you?” he asks sharply, and then glances down at the dog and softens.

“She was sat on my porch,” says Fred, not without caution.

“She likes to meet the neighbours,” says Kim, and pats his hip so that she rushes inside, her tail wagging. “Just bring her back into the yard if she bothers you — she’ll nip back home again.”

“Right,” says Fred.

“Is that everything?” asks Kim.

Fred looks him over, wondering if Kim is going to volunteer what exactly is the problem, if it’s about Fred, or if he’s just woke him up, or… “Are you, uh, brewing something?” Fred asks.

Kim lets out one low, dark huff of sound. “Thanks for bringing Lucy back, Fred,” he says, and shuts the door.

Fred goes home.

* * *

Fred watches Kim with more interest after that. Most of the time Fred sees him he’s high as a kite from something, but he learns to recognise when he isn’t, because his limbs go all tense and he moves more slowly, is quieter, more reserved, barely talks.

“Is it a pain thing?” asks Fred, leaning over the fence, and Kim turns to look at him. He’d been asleep on the grass, and he’s either not taken any, or his mushrooms have worn off, because his smile is thin and without feeling.

“Pain thing?” he repeats. He has a slight slur when he’s high, and like this, he enunciates every word like he wants it to have a vicious edge, like he wants it to cut.

“Chronic,” says Fred. Kim is looking up at him, his eyes narrowed, and Fred adds, “You know. The mushrooms. Do you take them to help you cope with pain? From burns or… or something.”

“Why would you think that?”

“’Cause when you’re not high, you look fucking miserable.”

Kim’s expression doesn’t change for a few moments, and then says, head tilting slightly to one side, “Your assumption being that this is me sober.”

Fred stares down at him, fascinated, and leans further over the fence, letting it dig into his armpits. The dogs wag their tails. “Why would you take mushrooms to make you like this?”

“Now, that hurts my feelings,” says Kim. He’s smiling and it seems genuine now, although it’s a faint smile. “It’s not pain. I just think too much, give myself headaches, and the mushrooms help me focus my magic.”

“All those explosions are you focusing your magic?” asks Fred.

Kim raises his eyebrows, which have patches burned off in places. “As If I’d take criticism from a wizard,” he says archly.

Fred grins.

* * *

Fred is working on the roof when Kim comes by to talk to him, the three sheep dogs revolving around his feet. They’re not on leashes — they’re impeccably trained, and all of them seem to know a bunch of tricks. They herd the chickens to amuse themselves, they wrestle with each other, they play with the cat, and they must be smart enough to keep out of Kim’s way when he’s working, because none of them even have any discolouration on their fur, let alone burns.

Kim is high — or, uh, normal — and even from up cleaning out the gutters Fred can see how dilated his pupils are. Kim is all loose and relaxed, swaying a little on his bare feet.

“You here much longer?” asks Kim, all the sounds coming out slightly loose and liquid.

“Yeah,” says Fred. “A few more months, like four, maybe. I took the village job for six, so once the house is done…”

“You don’t like Chesterton?”

“It’s nice. Quiet, though. No one to talk to.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

Fred laughs and so does Kim, the sound airy and a little weird. Fred smiles back at him and waves as he watches him go, the robes shifting around his feet.

* * *

The local kids all like Kim — they like his dogs, and they like that his pockets are always full of sweets and firecrackers, both of them homemade.

The first time Fred is idly given this mismatched handful of goods, there’s a part of him that’s charmed to.

* * *

He knocks on Kim’s door late in the evening on a Friday night, and Kim, sober — or, uh, high — opens the door.

“What are you doing tonight?” asks Fred.

“I’ve just finished working,” says Kim. “I was going to take some recreational drugs and read some academic papers. You had something else in mind?”

“Pub?”

“Pub,” Kim acquiesces, and gives a nod of his head.

He doesn’t invite the dogs with them as they walk through the village and to the pub, sitting down on one of the tables by the fire. He’s still shirtless under his robe and he’s not wearing shoes, but he’s wearing leggings today at least. They’re used enough to him in Chesterton-Burnleigh that no one even raises an eyebrow at how he’s dressed.

“You still studying?” asks Fred.

“No,” says Kim. “I have my PhD. I teach sometimes.”

“They said you teach mushroom foraging,” says Fred, and Kim ruefully shakes his head, sipping at his drink.

“No, I just do that for fun. When I go back to the university I normally guest lecture in high-risk applied alchemy.”

“Isn’t all alchemy high-risk?” asks Fred. “You have to renew your license every three years, right?”

Kim nods. “It’s safety stuff — active magic combined with unstable ingredients and combinations. But, no, the lectures I give are in risk management and projection.”

“You give lectures in risk management? You’re spattered with scars.”

“Never blown up my house, though,” says Kim. “Never even ruined a table. That sets me apart from a lot of alchemists — it even sets me apart from a lot of apothecaries, and their license requirements aren’t nearly as stringent. What about you?”

“Just a tradesman.”

“You always wanted to be a wizard?”

Fred laughs. “Yeah, I dreamed about it. Fantasised about being a magical plumber. No, I don’t think I ever wanted to be anything, but I was best at enchantment and DT at school. Took ages to settle on something.”

“Plumbing?”

“Yeah. Took classes in everything else, though, more than the required. Could probably get double-certified, but I didn’t want to stay on another year.”

“You like it?”

“I like eating. Don’t much care about the work that pays for room and board. Did you always want to be a witch?”

“Didn’t have a choice,” says Kim. “I grew an extra hand at height and dropped it, burned our house down when I was nine. Coughed up an extra lung when I was eleven, and my organs were a bit, uh… I overflowed with magic. Had to go to boarding school until I wasn’t dangerous anymore.”

Fred watches Kim’s face, waiting for the punchline.

It doesn’t come.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, I never hurt anybody,” says Kim. “Except myself, of course, but you know, my nervous system is a little fried. I’m not as sensitive to pain as I should be.”

“Spell damage. Those are like the only scars you don’t have.”

Fred’s seen spell damage scars before, the way they look like lightning strikes, all crackled skin from where the magic makes your blood boil in your veins, your nerves all electricity. Kim tugs up his sleeves, shows the thin roots of old scars going up and down his inner arms.

“Fuck,” says Fred. “So… mushrooms?”

Kim lets out a dry chuckle.

“I’m more sensitive to magic than most people,” says Kim simply. “Mushrooms let me feel it more. Flow with it, control it better. Sense things about to go wrong before they do, in the lab, a little forewarning. I can see everything when I’m not dosed on something to concentrate me, but my reflexes are non-existent, as you’ve seen.”

“You prefer it? Being… high? Concentrated, like you are now?”

“I don’t know that I prefer one over the other,” says Kim. “I just like my work is all — I keep balanced, try not to make anyone else uncomfortable.” He looks nervous for a second, more cautious. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No. I invited you for pints, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I thought this was just a precursor to sex.”

The noise that Fred lets out is beyond embarrassing, a kind of awkward giggle, and he leans back in his seat, breaking eye contact. “Ha, I, I don’t, not that I don’t, and I’m sure you’re very, um, well, you’re extremely — but I don’t, I don’t really, I’ve never…”

When he risks a look back at Kim, Kim is smiling in a far less distant way than when he’s not dosed up. His eyes are glittering.

“Studied very hard at wizardry, did you?” he asks, somewhere between sweet and sultry that makes Fred feel like dissipating. “No time for anything else?”

“What about you?” asks Fred.

“Did I study? Oh, yes. I had to study more, to make sense of my body, what I was feeling, what I could see and hear that other people couldn’t.”

Fred blinks at him, wonders if he should feel guilty for being curious. “You hear it? Magic?”

Kim chuckles, shaking his head. “Not like you’re thinking — magic isn’t alive, it doesn’t whisper things or tell you secrets. It’s spirits that do that. What I hear is the thrum of it, the movement, the flow. I can see its movements — almost like seeing wind.”

“What do you see when you look at me?”

“A delectable man with a great deal of muscle in his shoulders, looks like he could piston his hips and throw me about a bit.”

Fred chokes on his drink.

“Oh,” says Kim, faux-innocent. Fred’s skin is on fire. “You meant the magic?”

“Yeah,” says Fred, rubbing the back of his flushing neck.

“I see the enchantments in your clothes,” says Kim. “I know you wear magical clothes, and that a lot of what you were are hand-me-downs with the enchantments topped up. I see your fingers are… almost sticky with it.”

“Sticky?” Fred repeats, looking at his own palm as if he’ll be able to see what Kim can see.

“It’s almost as if you’ve got little caps on your fingertips from where you activate your enchantments once you’ve laid them. They’re thicker on your right hand than your left.”

“You glow like that all over?”

Kim nods. “I went to school and to university, actually, with a boy called Horace Dripp. Same as me.”

“He glowed like that?”

“Not… not in the end. His body accustomed in other ways, but he managed to excrete the magic, anyway. But he struggled to look at me directly once I learned to control myself — he said it was like looking at a circuit without the wires hiding the flow.”

“That must have hurt,” says Fred. “Your feelings, I mean.”

“I don’t think so,” says Kim. “But that’s part of why I live out here in the country instead of in the city — I can stand looking at other people, but the attention other magically attuned people give me is a little much sometimes.”

“I can, uh, I can give you attention.”

It doesn’t come out smooth.

Kim still smiles at him, laughs softly. “You’re lonely,” he says.

“Yeah,” Fred says. “I guess. I usually am — I’m not very interesting. I normally fade into the background in the city, but at least there’s people.”

“You’re not fading anywhere for me.”

“That’s only ’cause we’re neighbours,” says Fred. “And because you don’t know me personally.”

“And what will I find to deter me, when I know you personally?”

“Not much. I’m just… average. Boring. I’m not like you.”

“If you were like me, I’d need sunglasses just to look at you.”

“I’m not good at this,” Fred admits.

“If you didn’t invite me out to have sex, why did you invite me out?”

“To — to talk? To get to know each other. I never, I was never good at asking men to… There’s apps. Bars. Brighton is, you know, a city made for us, but somehow I could never get it right.”

“So it’s not that you don’t want to have sex with me,” says Kim. “It’s that you’ve not had sex before, and you’re certain that somehow the sex will be lost in communication between us and never come about.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s just talk for now, then.”

They do talk.

About Kim’s dogs, his chickens, his experiments, his old boarding school, his alchemy, his PhD. Fred’s side of the conversation is less interesting: his family, his shit marks at comprehensive, working as a barman, going to trade school.

“You’ve never tried any hallucinogens or stimulants?”

“I mean, caffeine. I’ve smoked a bit of weed before. Never anything harder like coke, or mushrooms.”

“You can take them with me if you want to,” says Kim. “I can guide you through the experience, but you don’t have to.”

“You enjoy it,” says Fred, and Kim thinks about it for a moment.

“I do,” he says. “But not like you would. I know I look obviously plastered half the time, and some of that is when I’m using the stronger stuff, but you know, what I’m meant to be experiencing is hallucination, having a more transformative experience. I experience a lot of that sort of thing as a baseline — dosed up, I just become… relaxed.

“I would expect your experiences to be more memorable,” he goes on. “For me, they just bring me into tune with my own body, with the world around us — for you, they’ll open doors inside you. Not merely in a mystical sense, but by way of temporarily crossing the wires on your perception, your thoughts. There are risks, of course, I wouldn’t pretend otherwise — I’ve got some lists of potential side effects set aside.”

“What about sex?”

“On mushrooms?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s sublime. But you and I, let’s start without them at first, hm? Best for a beginner to walk before he can fly.”

“Isn’t it run?”

“That’s the phrase, yes.”

* * *

Fred is woken the next morning by Lucy launching herself onto his chest, and as he, winded, tries to recover himself, the other two dogs jump up into the bed, tails wagging furiously. They all drop on top of and around him, licking his hands and nosing at his face, and he laughs.

“I made you some tea,” says Kim, and wrestles his way past the dogs to kiss Fred on the mouth — like all of Kim’s touches last night, it makes Fred’s skin tingle, like Kim is kissing him with a live current running through his own lips.

“Very kind,” says Fred.

“Sore?”

“How did you know?”

“I made you work very hard,” murmurs Kim, straddling Fred’s waist as he reaches for the mug, and Fred sits up slightly to drink from it. “Mushrooms after breakfast, if you’re up for it.”

“Sex now.”

“Oh, you want two rewards?” asks Kim, still grinning as he leans in to kiss the side of Fred’s beautifully bitten neck, teasing the little love bites with his peppermint mouth, and Fred shivers.

“I worked hard,” Fred reminds him.

The dogs rush off when Kim snaps his fingers and tells them to go.

“You did work hard,” Kim agrees, and Fred reaches up to grasp his hips as Kim’s own tingling hands slide over Fred’s chest.

“Willing to work harder,” says Fred, and Kim’s laugh is breath-taking.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says, and kisses him again.

FIN.