Namely older, wizened, without beautiful, naked feet and Weston was really having problems not staring.
Micaiah didn't really seem to notice, or care, lounging over one of his worktables and taking notes from one of his books. Weston didn't want to interrupt him—it would only impede his progress and Weston wanted this stupid curse off him as soon as possible.
He was going to ban fairies from his shop.
Glancing up into the rafters again, Weston scowled, wondering what the little silver fairy had wanted. He had tumbled in through the window and nearly gotten in the way of Weston's hammer. He'd taken immediate offense, as though Weston should be used to little magical creatures popping through his windows at all times of day, and shot him with a curse.
There were lots of rumors floating around about the newest wizard, mostly started by Weston's cousin's wife, because she was a horrible gossip and friends with one of Micaiah's maids. Weston had dismissed half of them on seeing Micaiah for the first time. And really, how could anyone mistake Micaiah's pale grey eyes for red demon eyes, or his slender build as 'monstrous and bigger than a house'?
The other half were quickly disappearing as Micaiah rummaged about the room, half-distracted as he collected vials and boxes and charms. Micaiah wasn't cold, angry and aloof. Eccentric, maybe, and he'd been gentle even with the fairy and hadn't been rude when he'd caught Weston staring at his feet.
"Frey, get down here," Micaiah ordered, and Weston sat up a bit, interest sparked as Frey flew down, yawning and grumbling. Perhaps he'd figured it out, and Weston really hoped so. He was terribly backed up as it was, and he was sure he'd messed up at least a half dozen orders over the last week.
"It's your fault," Micaiah told the fairy, annoyance flickering across his face. "Of course I'm going to use your magic to fix it."
"Fine, whatever," Frey muttered, perching on the desk next to a shiny gold amulet. Micaiah started mixing things together, and Weston was curious—he'd never seen magic being done, but he didn't want to screw it up so he stayed where he was. It took Micaiah a few moments to do whatever, and then he poured the product of his work into a glass.
"Frey," Micaiah snapped, and Frey grumbled but fluttered up to perch on the rim of the glass. The fairy did something, and bright green sparks flew towards the ceiling, and Weston decided that was why the ceiling was so high up, and possibly why there were windows in the ceiling.
"Ow, Micaiah," Frey whined, and Weston almost grinned when Micaiah rolled his eyes.
"Baby," Micaiah muttered, but picked the fairy up and let Frey crawl into his hair. "Don't pull my hair, brat, or I'll let you deal with this on your own next time."
Frey didn't reply, all of his silver sparkles having disappeared into Micaiah's dark hair.
"Here," Micaiah crossed the room, handing him the glass, the liquid inside sparkling blue. "It'll taste like raspberry candies and you need to drink it all."
"This will fix it?" Weston asked, accepting the glass.
"No, I thought you might like a drink," Micaiah muttered under his breath. "Drink it," he ordered, and dropped the gold amulet into Weston's lap. "Wear the amulet for five days. It'll negate the magic long enough for that to wipe the curse from your system."
"Okay," Weston accepted, taking a sip of the potion. It did taste like really sweet raspberries, and he drank the rest of it without hesitation. Micaiah stood by watchfully as he pulled the amulet on over his head, before nodding briskly.
"You can see yourself out?" Micaiah asked, brushing a bit of sparkle off the front of his pants. Weston nodded, levering himself to his feet. He didn't know why, but he half expected there to be more than this. Micaiah was probably busy though.
"Thank you," Weston offered.
Micaiah shrugged easily, and Weston told himself firmly that he was not going to sneak one last look at those gloriously naked feet, no matter how pretty they were. And Micaiah danced, too, and that didn't really help because it only meant that he was good with his feet.
"Frey's my responsibility," Micaiah offered with a bit of a smile. His glasses gave him an abstracted air, and the sparkles dusting his clothing making him seem slightly surreal. "I'd apologize for him but he'd never let me hear the end of it."
Weston nodded, trying valiantly to think of something else to say. Nothing came to mind, nothing that wasn't a comment about Micaiah's feet, or his dancing and Micaiah might've brushed it off earlier but Weston wasn't willing to trust in that again, so he just nodded again and let himself out.
The manor was beautiful, and Weston carried his boots in his arms as he left, wondering when Micaiah had learned to dance and trying to not wonder about whether or not his feet were as soft and well-shaped as they'd looked.
*~*~*
It was a week later before Micaiah saw Weston again.
He probably would've gone longer, except he wanted those fire grates, and he'd forbidden Frey from going into town without him. Frey was sulking in his hair, and Micaiah was doing his best to ignore that he was probably leaving a sparkling trail of fairy dust behind him as he walked. Frey shed the most when he was sulking.
Weston seemed even more handsome than the last time Micaiah had seen him, if that was possible. Micaiah blamed it on the fact that he was shirtless and sweating over some long, formless shape of metal. Frey snickered behind his ear, and Micaiah wondered if anyone would notice if he turned the fairy blue for a day or two. If they did, they probably wouldn't care, though.
"Can I help you?" Weston asked, setting aside his hammer and the dully glowing bit of iron he was working on as he turned. "Oh."
Micaiah frowned a little, but was summarily amused when Weston's eyes flicked to his feet before returning to his face. He wasn't wearing his prettiest boots on purpose, either. They were simply … the most comfortable pair, or something.
"I was in town," Micaiah started, leaning against the doorway. Frey snickered again, and Micaiah decided he was going to drop the fairy in a bowl of pudding later. "And I came to check up on the progress of the fire grates I ordered a few weeks back?"
"Oh, right." Weston's face dimmed a bit, and Micaiah wondered if he'd been expecting something else. "Hold on, let me check." He disappeared out the back door, and Micaiah frowned, tangling his hand in his hair thoughtfully.
"You should ask him to dinner," Frey advised gleefully.
"Maybe," Micaiah replied distractedly. He didn't think he had much in common with the giant blacksmith though, except that Weston seemed too young to be good at what he was doing.
"I'm sorry," Weston spoke up as he reentered the shop, pushing his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. "I know it's been ages since you asked for them, but I've been busy and it will only be another day or two, I promise."
"I can wait. They're not essential, though my maid is getting rather put out because we don't have them," Micaiah offered with a smile, doing his best to ignore Frey whispering, 'ask him, aaaask him' into his ear. "Could you get them done in three days?"
"Probably," Weston admitted. "It won't be a problem?"
"No," Micaiah hesitated. "If you like, you can bring them by and stay for dinner?"
Weston blinked at him, and then glanced at Micaiah's feet. He blushed, and Frey was snickering madly, his sulking forgotten.
"Dinner?" Weston repeated slowly, and Micaiah nodded, resisting the urge to reach up and squash Frey to stop the laughter.
"If you'd rather not, I can come back," Micaiah shrugged, letting his eyes linger on Weston's chest a moment (Weston kept sneaking glances at his feet, after all, so it was only fair).
"No, dinner, three days," Weston repeated quickly, and Micaiah smiled.
"Good," Micaiah approved, inclining his head slightly. "Then I'll see you in three days."
"See you," Weston echoed as Micaiah stepped out of the blacksmith's shop and into the cooler air outside. Micaiah smiled and shook his head, knocking Frey out of his hair as he started the walk back to the manor.
"Behave, or I'll lock
you in the workroom when he comes," Micaiah threatened, and Frey spluttered as he latched back onto Micaiah's hair.
"That's not fair," Frey sulked, splashing a bit of fairy dust over Micaiah's shoulder. Micaiah couldn't stop smiling though, and he'd long gotten used to Frey dusting him with sparkles. Frey snickered at him again after Micaiah missed something he said, lost to his thoughts, mostly involving Weston and wondering whether the blacksmith actually owned a shirt and whether he'd be wearing a shirt to dinner in three days. Micaiah made him fly the rest of the way home.
*~*~*
Weston was most certainly not nervous.
That was a lie, he decided, as he faced the doors to the manor. Frey might curse him again. That made him nervous.
Knocking solidly on the door, he tried not to tug at the scratchy wool shirt his sister had made him wear, saying fondly that it showed off his impressive musculature, and if he was going to continue being a blacksmith then at least he could use it to his advantage on the one and only date he'd ever been asked on properly, and by a wizard, no less, and that was practically nobility and he'd better be on his best behavior so that he didn't get their family hexed.
Luckily the door opened then, distracting Weston from his thoughts. The housekeeper, his cousin's wife's friend, frowned at him disapprovingly, but let him in. She didn't say a word, simply led him down the lovely hallway that Weston had barely seen the last time he'd visited, and into an equally lovely dining room.
Weston wondered if all wizards lived like this as the housekeeper sniffed disdainfully at him.
"Lord Arleau will be with you shortly. He says to make yourself at home in the meantime," she informed him loftily, and Weston nodded. She swept out with a rustle of skirts, which was impressive because her skirt didn't seem to have more than one layer, leaving Weston alone in the far-too-pretty dining room.
Weston thought he should take off his shoes so that he didn't ruin the floors, and he debated the wisdom of making a run for it while he could. Only, he classed that in the same category as standing Micaiah up, in the 'foolish' and 'curse-worthy' category of behavior.
Only, now he was nervous, and not about fairy curses. What would he say? What would Micaiah expect? Rumor had it Micaiah was from the capital, too, and surely he had so much more culture and class that dallying with a simple blacksmith from a small town wouldn't hold much interest.
Or maybe it was a simple dalliance that he wanted, and nothing more. Weston blushed, because so what if that was it? He wasn't a girl. He could deal with it being just sex. Maybe. Except that there was the foot thing, and Micaiah did have such lovely feet—
Weston cut that line of thought off as Micaiah let himself in, and Weston realized he was still standing just inside the doorway where his cousin's wife's friend had left him.
"Weston," Micaiah greeted, smiling, and his hair was glimmering slightly, the black curls winking and sparkling in the dining room's light.
"Hi." Weston managed to not glance down, though he dearly wanted to know what manner of shoe Micaiah was wearing. The wizard had the most interesting collection of boots and shoes, because they were new and not made by the village cobbler.
"Come on, have a seat," Micaiah coaxed, still smiling at him, and Weston nodded, gallantly letting Micaiah slip past him to lead him down the length of the massive, polished table to where two places were set up at the end of the table.
Micaiah was wearing stylish boots that molded to his feet and lifted his heel an inch. Weston wondered if he'd picked them out with Weston in mind or if he'd simply picked something that matched his outfit.
"So," Micaiah smiled, and he kept smiling at Weston and it was slightly unnerving. Weston settled down in the chair adjacent to Micaiah's, somewhat surprised when the delicate-looking chair didn't creak or bend under his bulk. "Found the place okay?"
Weston laughed, surprised. "It is the biggest and prettiest house in town," he pointed out. "Besides, I was here yesterday to drop off your grates."
"A day early," Micaiah noted, sounding pleased. Weston decided he was glad he bumped back the lantern-rings for his sister's boyfriend, no matter that he'd complain to her and she'd complain to him. "There were no problems with the amulet?"
"No. I took it off and nobody flung themselves at me, so I'm counting it a success," Weston said wryly. He was relaxing, which was good because it meant he'd have less of a chance to stick his foot in his mouth.
"Good," Micaiah stated, opening his mouth to say something more but pausing as Weston's cousin's wife's friend entered the room carrying a tray of food. She set it on the table and shot Weston one last disapproving look before inclining her head respectfully to Micaiah.
"Help yourself," Micaiah directed, taking a bowl of soup. Weston blinked curiously at the tray. It held no odd wonders of food, which was a comfort. Weston had heard lots of rumors about the odd types of food they ate at the capital. Nothing on the tray looked odd, or unfamiliar, even, and Weston copied Micaiah and took a bowl of soup.
"Where's the fairy?" Weston wondered, before realize how rude that sounded. Micaiah laughed, though, and no curses were flung at him, so he didn't apologize.
"He's sulking because I locked him in the workroom," Micaiah confessed. "He likes to meddle, and I figured … well, this is for you and me, not Frey too."
"Good," Weston decided. He smiled, and another piece of his sister's advice popped into his mind. "You look nice."
"You look rather dashing yourself," Micaiah replied smoothly, giving Weston—what he could see above the table—a nice, leisurely look. Weston decided he was glad he was wearing the scratchy shirt because it did make him look nice. "Do you dance?"
"Dance?" Weston repeated, thrown off by the change in subject as he politely took a sip of his soup.
"Yes. I know you saw it, but I have a ballroom," Micaiah smiled like he was remembering the ballroom fondly, and Weston wondered if he did this often. "I was thinking—if you'd like, of course—that we could dance? After dinner?"
"I—I'd like that," Weston stammered out, startled. His sister had made him learn, and he enjoyed it. Maybe a little too much, because there was something about the grace and beauty of dancing, having to place your feet precisely and not stumble over your partner's toes—
"I was hoping you'd say that," Micaiah told him, and his hair really was sparkling. Weston smiled like a fool and hoped he didn't mess up by spilling soup on Micaiah or saying something stupid.
*~*~*
"So you know how to dance?" Micaiah questioned curiously, trying not to notice the way Weston's arm was casually wrapped around his waist as they walked towards the ballroom.
"My sister taught me. She was going to visit the capital a few years back," Weston replied, and Micaiah wondered how he could just feel so solid, his arm warm and comforting against Micaiah's back.
"So you'll know the dances from a few years ago," Micaiah interpreted. That was alright, he could work with that. If things worked out, he could teach Weston the newer dances, after all.
"Yes. That won't be a problem, will it?" Weston asked, almost anxious and it was cute. Micaiah smiled, opening the door to the ballroom.
"No, it'll be fine," he reassured. Stepping into the ballroom, Micaiah paused, watching the sparkling fairy dust spiral down from the chandelier in the center of the room.
"Frey," he started, exasperated. The sparkles increased, and Weston actually rumbled behind him. It took Micaiah a moment to realize he was laughing, and then he had to smother a smile too.
"Come out," Micaiah ordered, shaking his head a little. "You're getting fairy dust all over the floor and you know how Leria hates that."
The chandelier shook with outrage. A few of the dangling crystals did, anyway, and after a moment Frey flew out of the nest he'd built in the center of the crystals, away from prying eyes.
"I didn't know you were going to be in here," Frey sulked, littering a trail of fairy dust behind him. Micaiah flicked a glance at Weston, who was watching the
dust swirl to the ground curiously.
"I know," Micaiah soothed, holding out his hand for Frey to land on. "Go sleep in the workroom, okay? I'll shrink some jewelry for you tomorrow," Micaiah tempted. Frey eyed him suspiciously, the amount of dust his wings were sloughing halving even as he stood on Micaiah's palm.
"The ruby necklace?" Frey asked hopefully, and Micaiah laughed.
"If you like," he allowed, and Frey grinned, flittering his wings and rising above Micaiah's palm.
"Deal," Frey agreed, snickering as he glanced at Weston before flying out the door. It shut loudly behind him, and Micaiah sighed, dusting his palms off to no avail. His hands were going to be covered in sparkles for days.
"There are no musicians," Weston spoke up, politely ignoring the exchange. Micaiah smiled, and gestured towards the music box he'd set up near the edge of the ballroom. It started up a tune softly, and he turned back to Weston, who looked suitably impressed.
"Do you know this one?" Micaiah asked, unable to keep a smile from his lips. He hadn't been able to dance with anyone in ages, and it took so much work to make a facsimile of a human and program it with the correct moves.
"I think so," Weston replied slowly, hesitating and glancing down at his thick boots.
"Take them off," Micaiah ordered, softening it with another smile. "You can dance in socks."
"Alright," Weston agreed, easily toeing off his boots. Stepping forward, he held out his hand. Micaiah set his hand in Weston's, amused when Weston's larger hand engulfed his as the blacksmith led him out into the center of the room.
Weston listened to the music for a moment before pulling Micaiah into the proper position, his hand on Micaiah's waist and the other still clasping Micaiah's smaller hand in a light grip. He kept a proper distance, and Micaiah rolled his eyes.
"You learned with your sister?" He asked ingenuously, and Weston nodded, looking a little nervous as Micaiah didn't fall into step immediately. "I'm not your sister. Hold me closer," Micaiah ordered, stepping closer. "And you're leading."
Seeing is Believing Page 24
