Tags: dragon, first kiss, genderfluid character, getting together, magic user, meet cute, mlen, mutual pining, nonbinary character, past tense, pov third person limited
*
As he was about to quit his search of Buy Books and Brews, a title caught Crispin’s interest: Theories of Advanced Displacement. The book had a plain cream-colored binding and was sturdy-looking, like a textbook, though a very old one. It was exactly the kind of tome he spent his Saturday mornings looking for, visiting used bookshops that sold both mundane and magical texts. Crispin reached for the book and bashed his knuckles against those of another patron; he pulled his hand away in surprise and pain, and they grabbed the book off the shelf.
“Excuse me,” Crispin said in a polite, but firm, tone, “I was looking at that book.”
“Yeah, well, so was I.” The speaker was younger than Crispin by a few years, and, given their age and apparent interest in advanced magical theory, he was surprised that they weren’t wearing the indigo robes of a student Mage, but rather plain gray trousers with a pale-yellow shirt.
“I’m writing a historical account of theories of magical displacement, you see,” Crispin said in what he thought was a perfectly reasonable tone.
“Yeah, well, I’m studying to do actual displacement, and I saw it first, so tough luck.” The other customer stared down at Crispin with large green eyes that were partially obscured by an unruly mop of medium-length dark hair, then turned on a heel and stalked away.
Arguing further about which of them had spotted the book first would be pointless, but Crispin followed the retreating figure toward the checkout counter out of curiosity. Advanced displacement wasn’t a popular topic of study, even among Mages.
“That will be thirty-two dollars, please,” Danai said, smiling at the customer and ringing up the sale on the antique mechanical cash register. The book sat on the counter with its front cover open so that Danai could check the price that was pencilled onto the flyleaf. A Complete Manual for the Advancement of the Art of Displacement, read the book’s subtitle in a blocky, no-nonsense font. It really was exactly the kind of research material he needed, Crispin realized, growing more annoyed as the other patron pulled crumpled bills and a handful of coins from their pockets.
“Will you sell it to me for… twenty-seven dollars and sixty-five cents?”
Crispin’s hopes soared. He got out his wallet and extracted two twenty-dollar bills, ready to swoop in and claim his prize. As a regular at Buy Books and Brews, he knew that the shop’s owners, Lucy and Danai, were strict about their price policy. Sure enough, Danai said—
“I’m sorry, but the marked prices are non-negotiable,” and inclined her head toward the large sign behind the checkout that outlined the price policy and warned patrons that there were magical items on the premises. “I’ll hold it for you for five minutes, if you want to go across the street to the bank machine.”
Crispin frowned. Was he going to lose the book after all?
“I can’t use an ATM. I’m a Mage,” said the other patron, sounding frustrated and disheartened. Crispin almost felt bad for them. Almost.
“Sorry, then,” Danai said. She noticed Crispin hovering near the counter. “Hello, Crispin. Nice to see you.”
“I’d like to buy that book, please.” Crispin tried not to gloat as he handed Danai the bills.
Danai nodded and took Crispin’s money, punching in the amount and hitting a big button that made the register ding and the heavy cash drawer shoot open. While she counted out his change, Crispin pulled the book toward himself. He didn’t think the other patron would try to steal it, but… a wave of shame washed through Crispin at the very thought.
“Where are you studying?” Crispin asked, trying to make amends with pleasant conversation.
“What’s it to you?” There was a challenge in the person’s voice and in the expression they directed toward him.
“I was just thinking that perhaps we could study the book together?” The words were out of Crispin’s mouth before he knew he was going to say them.
“What do you mean?” the other patron asked cautiously.
“Since we’re both interested in displacement, maybe we could meet here for coffee once a week and, ah, read the book? Together?” Crispin hated that he had started to stammer as the offer tumbled out of his mouth, like an awkward puppy negotiating a staircase for the first time. He felt a blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks; asking this person for coffee made it sound like he was inviting them on a date. That wasn’t Crispin’s intention—he just felt bad for them. But, before he could correct the misconception, a small, hopeful smile replaced the guarded expression on their face.
“That’s… that’s a very generous offer…” They trailed off, but their smile widened, highlighting their rosy lips, which were bracketed by high cheek-bones and a narrow chin.
“Crispin,” Crispin said, tucking the book under his arm so he could extend his hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Nyle.” Their handshake was firm and warmer than Crispin had expected. “I work during the week, so weekends would be best for me. When would be good for you?”
“How about next Saturday? Around”—Crispin pulled out his pocket watch to check the time—“is ten too early?” Spending the next few Saturday mornings studying Theories of Advanced Displacement with Nyle would be at least as productive as his usual habit of prowling second-hand bookshops for such books.
“Ten should be fine. I’ll see you next week?”
“Sounds good!”
“Cool.” Nyle gave Crispin a cheerful wave and smiled at Danai before leaving the shop.
“That was very thoughtful,” Danai said.
Crispin shrugged, already second-guessing his offer. What had he been thinking? I wasn’t thinking at all, that’s the problem. Well, if it doesn’t work out next Saturday, I can always make up some excuse to cancel after that, he told himself as he headed to the coffee counter to order a caramel macchiato.
*
Heading into the bookshop one week later, Crispin was unaccountably nervous. He hefted his leather satchel to feel its reassuring weight. He’d checked three times before leaving his apartment to make sure he’d packed Theories of Advanced Displacement, a notebook, a half-dozen pens and pencils, even his slide rule and a small abacus, though he was unlikely to need either. The bell above the door jingled as Crispin entered Buy Books and Brews, and he glanced toward the café area, unsure if he wanted to find Nyle there or not.
And there they were, sitting at a table by the window with a teacup and a notebook in front of them, reading a paperback novel. Nyle glanced up at the sound of the bell and raised a hand in a half-wave. Crispin pasted what he hoped was a friendly smile on his face and headed over.
“I hope this table is okay; there’s better light here by the window,” Nyle said.
“It’s fine. I’ll get myself a drink, then we can start.” Crispin put his satchel on the floor by the unoccupied chair and went to the counter.
“Your usual?” asked Lucy, manning the “Brews” part of the shop while Danai handled the “Books” part.
“Just the coffee today.” Crispin didn’t want to talk through a mouthful of pastry or risk getting crumbs stuck between the book’s pages. Besides, his stomach was still a little jumpy with nerves. Meeting a stranger to discuss magical theory wasn’t the kind of thing Crispin usually did. He had always been more comfortable with books than with people. Though this particular book might change his mind about that, considering what he’d learned about it in the past week…
“Go sit down. I’ll bring it over to you.”
“Thank you,” Crispin said, and handed over a five. Once Lucy had made change, he dropped a dollar into the tip jar and went back to the table where Nyle was watching him from over the rim of their steaming teacup.
Crispin sat down and got out Theories of Advanced Displacement, his notebook, and a pencil.
“I guess we’ll start at the beginning, yes?”
“Sure.”
Crispin opened the book and held his breath, waiting to see if…
Sure enough, a small cloud of pinkish-gold smoke billowed out and coalesced into the unmistakable shape of a dragon.
Crispin sighed.
“What the heck is that?” Nyle said, starting backward.
“Name’s Flynn, and who might you be?” asked the dragon, peering at Nyle as it stepped out of the book and onto the table.
“Flynn seems to… live in the book, and absolutely refuses to explain anything about how or why.”
“I think she just likes to annoy people,” said Lucy as she came over with Crispin’s coffee. “And cause mischief, and eat sweets.”
“Not ‘she’ nowadays. ‘It’ will do fine,” the dragon said imperiously, drawing itself up to its full eight-inch height and putting its hands on its hips, which, considering how short its arms were, looked quite comical. Crispin had learned better than to laugh. “Dragons only have gender when they choose to, and currently I do not.”
“Yeah! Nonbinary solidarity,” said Nyle with a grin, and held out their hand for a high-five. “I’m Nyle. It’s nice to meet you.” Flynn blew an amused puff of smoke in lieu of smacking hands; it curled around Nyle’s fingers before dissipating slowly.
“We’ll see about that once you’ve gotten to know it better,” Crispin muttered under his breath.
“Lucy, dear,” Flynn said, turning to her with a slight bow, “I would like a spicy mocha latte in the largest cup you have and a sweet roll of some kind.”
“We have cinnamon buns, apricot Danishes, and chocolatines. Which would you like?”
Flynn considered briefly. “The cinnamon bun, I think. Thank you kindly.”
Crispin sighed and pulled out his wallet.
“I can, uh…” Nyle said, reaching into their pocket.
“Nope.” Flynn grinned at Nyle, showing rows of sharp teeth. “He”—Flynn jerked its chin at Crispin—“bought the book, so he’s responsible.”
“It’s okay,” Crispin said. “Flynn started eating me out of house and home as soon as it appeared. I should have anticipated this.” Crispin handed the money to a very amused Lucy, who promised to be back with Flynn’s order soon. “So, maybe we can get to work?”
Nyle looked like they had a number of questions they’d like to ask Flynn, but they nodded and turned their attention to Theories of Advanced Displacement.
Crispin and Nyle worked their way through the first three pages of the prologue, taking turns reading softly aloud until Lucy came back with Flynn’s order.
“I’ll just put this here,” Lucy said, setting the latte and cinnamon bun in the center of the table.
“Perfect, thank you again,” Flynn said with a deep bow that looked elegant despite it being performed by a stout miniature dragon with pink-and-gold scales. Flynn dragged the cinnamon bun, which was almost as big as itself, over to the latte bowl, maneuvered it onto the saucer, and propped it up so it was leaning against the cup’s rim. Then, the dragon scrambled over the side of the cup, stubby wings frantically flapping. Nyle watched, bug-eyed, as Flynn settled into the bowl of latte as if it were a bathtub and sighed an exaggerated, contented sigh.
“Lovely—just lovely,” Flynn said, and leaned over to take a bite of the cinnamon bun. “And delicious. Thank you, Crispin.”
“You’re welcome,” Crispin said drily. “Now, if you’re all set, perhaps Nyle and I could get back to studying?”
Flynn airily waved one arm, splashing some coffee over the side of the cup. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Crispin sighed, picked up his pencil, and turned to Nyle. “Where were we?”
*
“Your hair looks fine,” Flynn said from where it was perched on Crispin’s dining room table.
“What?” Crispin stared moodily at his reflection in the hallway mirror, trying to decide if he should wear a different shirt. “Does this color make me look sallow?” he asked, glancing at Flynn.
“The shirt is fine; it brings out the amber in your eyes, and your hair is also fine.”
“My hair?” Crispin said distractedly.
“You’ve been fussing with it for five minutes. If you don’t leave right now, we’re going to be late!”
Crispin pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Flynn was being overly dramatic, as usual. He couldn’t possibly have spent more than a minute in front of the mirror. Besides, he had a full seven minutes before the bus came, and it was only a two minute walk to the bus stop from his apartment. It was, however, time to pack up and leave.
“Well, then, you’d better hop back into the book so that I can pack my satchel, hadn’t you?”
Flynn disappeared in a puff of smoke that seemed somehow cranky, and Crispin packed the book, double-checking that he had his notebook and pencils. He strode briskly out of his apartment, full of excited anticipation.
Half an hour later, he was sweaty, puffing, and cursing under his breath as he dashed into Buy Books and Brews, hoping Nyle was still there despite Crispin being a full fifteen minutes late. His heart soared when he spotted the familiar figure at what had become their usual table.
“I’m so sorry. Some idiot student Mage didn’t move to the back of the bus quickly enough, so the electronics in the dashboard died. I had to walk ten blocks.” Crispin had actually jogged most of it, worried Nyle would think he wasn’t coming.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Nyle said with a warm smile.
The wave of relief that washed through Crispin was disproportionate to the circumstances. He smoothed his hand through his hair, hoping it didn’t look too unruly, and felt abruptly self-conscious as he remembered Flynn teasing him about fussing with it. And speaking of Flynn…
Crispin took Theories of Advanced Displacement out of his satchel and slid it across the table. “Here, say ‘hi’ to Flynn—it’s in a particularly snarky mood today. I’ll go order.”
Standing in line for his coffee and Flynn’s latte and cinnamon bun, Crispin hoped the dragon wouldn’t say anything embarrassing to Nyle in his absence. So what if he wanted his hair to look decent before going out? That was perfectly normal! Flynn was just trying to get a rise out of him.
Glancing at their table, Crispin wished Nyle didn’t always arrive before him and buy their own tea. Maybe next week, I’ll get here extra early, and I can buy drinks for all of us. I can say Flynn was impatient for his latte, he thought, grinning.
“You’re in a good mood today,” Lucy said as she handed him his receipt.
“I guess I am,” Crispin said, and wondered what change Lucy had noticed. He was certainly eager to get back to the table and start discussing chapter four with Nyle, but that couldn’t be what Lucy was talking about. Or perhaps it was. Crispin hadn’t been this engaged by his research in years, and he knew it was because of his study partner. Working through complex magical theories with Nyle had become the highlight of Crispin’s week, and so he hurried back to their table.
“I’ve been thinking about liminal dispersal. Do you think the author means that you need to relocate your perception to the unidimensional plane—energetically speaking, that is?” Nyle’s face shone with excitement, and they talked animatedly.
Crispin thought it over, then shook his head slowly. Nyle was brilliant, and working hard to understand the material, but they didn’t yet have a senior Mage’s foundational understanding of liminal physics. “That doesn’t make sense, unfortunately,” Crispin said, trying to disagree as kindly as he could. “You can’t relocate the projection without the force horizon dispersing.”
“Oh yeah? Watch this!” Nyle’s eyes flashed with challenge as they shoved up their sleeves and extended their hands over the table. With barely a clatter, the bowl of spicy mocha latte in which Flynn reclined rose until it floated six inches above its saucer. The cinnamon bun which had been propped against the cup’s side fell over with a quiet thump—proving Nyle hadn’t merely cast an illusion. From the table next to them came the desolate bleep of someone’s phone dying. The cup drifted left and landed gently next to Crispin’s.
Crispin’s mouth hung open in astonishment; he closed it and swallowed. “That was a third-level displacement! I can’t even do that! How did you?”
Nyle looked quite pleased with themself.
“Like it says in the book—unidimensional relocation. I just pushed against the plane to keep the dispersal focussed.”
“You… just pushed… against the plane,” said Crispin, so astounded that he couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “It takes years of practice to achieve that kind of control! Or it usually does… how…?”
Nyle sighed and looked down at their hands. “I work as an animator. In a factory. I spend seven-and-a-half hours a day, five days a week, directing magical energy, so I can practically do it in my sleep. In fact, I’m sure I have done it in my sleep on a few Monday mornings. That part is easy. Once this”—Nyle pointed at the book—“explained that all I had to do was oppose the energy dispersal by using the Earth’s plane as a counterbalance, it was simple.”
Crispin gaped again then consciously shut his mouth. “You’re a factory animator?” he said, shocked. Animators were drawn from the lowest ranks of magic users, those who didn’t have enough power or control to create even the simplest of illusions. Animators only needed to be able to sense magical energy and push it into the toy, or rich person’s gadget, or magically-enabled microwave oven, or whatever, that was being animated. “But you’re a talented Mage!”
Nyle set their jaw and said tightly, “Talented but poor. Couldn’t afford to go to university, so I got a job that at least allowed me to practice magic, and…” Nyle waved at the book and notepads spread out on the table between them. “I study on my own.”
Things that had been niggling at Crispin finally clicked in his brain. Why Nyle was studying advanced theory, but wasn’t a student; that all they ever bought at the coffee shop was a single cup of tea; and how, on the first day they had met, Nyle hadn’t had enough money to buy the book.
“I’m… I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need your pity,” Nyle said sharply and pushed back their chair as if they might leave.
Crispin put a hand out and had to stop himself from grabbing Nyle’s arm. “No, I just meant that I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to study magic in a more… structured way. You obviously have a great deal of aptitude for it.”
Nyle looked at Crispin for a long moment; Crispin held his breath, wondering if they were going to walk away. But Nyle settled back into the chair and smiled crookedly. “Sorry. I get a little touchy about… things.”
“That’s, ah, that’s perfectly understandable, of course.” Crispin was so relieved that Nyle wasn’t upset with him, he couldn’t think of what else to say.
Into the awkward silence, Flynn said, “Excuse me!” Nyle and Crispin stopped staring down at their notebooks and looked at it, still lounging in the bowl of latte with its stubby little arms spread out on the top rim of the bowl like a frat boy in a hot tub.
“Great little demo, Nyle, but I can’t reach my cinnamon bun from here.” Flynn’s imperious manner broke the tension. Nyle grinned and apologized, picked up Flynn’s cup (not using magic this time), and put it back on its saucer. Crispin retrieved Flynn’s cinnamon bun and propped it back against the rim where Flynn could reach it. Flynn blew a puff of smoke in Crispin’s direction, then munched on a raisin.
“So, I’d really appreciate it if you’d explain to me again about how to relocate your perception to the unidimensional plane,” Crispin said with a sheepish smile that grew wide and happy as Nyle launched into an animated explanation.
*
Flynn finished munching on the toast with raspberry jam that Crispin had provided, burped loudly, and waddled over to where Crispin had forms, catalogs, and pamphlets spread out on the table. Flynn sat on the edge of a thick course catalog and peered at the papers Crispin was studying.
“ ‘Western Technical College Scholarship Application,’ ” Flynn read from the top one. “What’s this all about?” Flynn blew a puff of smoke that swirled around Crispin’s hand, obscuring the form he was trying to fill in.
Crispin sighed, knowing that the crotchety little dragon wouldn’t be ignored or put off.
“I’m starting a scholarship application for Nyle,” he said, even though that was patently obvious.
“And why, exactly, are you doing that?”
“Because Nyle is a gifted Mage who deserves the chance at a decent education and a respected career as a magic user!” Crispin said, his ears turning pink.
“I see.”
Crispin expected more commentary from Flynn—a sarcastic remark, at least—but the dragon looked at the form moodily, little wisps of smoke trailing out its nostrils and curling around Crispin’s pen.
Crispin wondered if Flynn would miss their weekly coffee shop meetings with Nyle as much as he would. Would Nyle miss them at all? They’d reached the end of Theories of Advanced Displacement two weeks ago and had exhausted their options for further discussion on the topic last Saturday. Crispin was sure that, this week, Nyle would suggest they stop meeting.
He’d even taken a day off work and scoured his usual used bookshops—and some specialty magical bookshops as well—searching for another book on a related topic that he could “happen to find” in order to have an excuse to keep meeting with Nyle. Having failed in that endeavor, he hit upon the idea of gifting Theories of Advanced Displacement to them, and also had researched scholarships and put together the beginnings of an application package, including a glowing letter of reference in which Crispin described Nyle as his “research associate.”
Crispin put the application forms, his letter, and some pamphlets about Western Technical College into a large manila envelope. Then, he carefully wrote his full name and address on the flyleaf of Theories of Advanced Displacement, under where “$32.00” was still written in Danai’s fluid handwriting. If, for some reason, Nyle wanted to contact him, they could. Crispin blew on the ink to dry it and pushed the book toward Flynn.
“Time to go.”
Flynn gave him an indecipherable stare, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
When Crispin arrived at Buy Books and Brews, Nyle was sitting at their table. Crispin felt an anticipatory surge of loneliness, imagining visiting the shop the next Saturday and finding that corner devoid of the familiar figure. He pasted on a smile as he sat down and took the book out of his satchel. He left the envelope where it was, suddenly overcome with doubt. What if Nyle was insulted by his offer? What if they applied, but didn’t get the scholarship—or worse, didn’t pass the entrance exam? That was unlikely, though. Nyle was intelligent and hard-working. They would no doubt pass with flying colors.
Nonetheless, Crispin’s stomach clenched with nerves, and when Lucy came over with his usual order of coffee and Flynn’s latte and cinnamon bun, he was so anxious that he dropped the money he was trying to hand her. She gave him a kind smile that bolstered his courage enough for him to clear his throat and say, “Ah, I want you to have this.” He slid the book to Nyle’s side of the table.
“Oh,” Nyle said. “Are you sure? Um, wow!”
Nyle looked so pleased; Crispin’s heart swelled. “Completely sure. I have all the notes I need for my research paper. You’ll get more use out of it than I will, especially if you look this over and decide to do something with it.” Crispin took the manila envelope from his satchel and laid it on top of the book.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.” Crispin said, and clasped his hands tightly together under the table to stop them from shaking with nerves.
Nyle opened the flap of the envelope and peered inside. Their expression grew confused as they slid the contents onto the table and looked through them.
“What? Oh, I see. Western Technical College? That’s… that’s not where you work.”
“No, I’m a researcher at St. Bartholomew’s. But WTC is an excellent school. It may not have the history or the prestige of St. Bart’s, but it has much more comprehensive scholarship packages, and the student body is more diverse. You won’t be the only student your age at WTC—you probably would be at St. Bart’s, you see—and there’s more, ah, economic diversity as well.” Crispin had considered trying to get Nyle a place at St. Bart’s, but, as tempting as that was, he knew Nyle would fit in much better at the more modern, less stuffy school. “I know a few of the instructors at WTC, and they’re top notch. And I think they’ll be more open to your, ah, less conventional approach to magic.”
“You mean they won’t tell me I’m doing it all wrong,” Nyle said sourly.
“I don’t think they will, no.”
As they talked, Nyle shuffled through the forms and papers, and they went still when they found Crispin’s letter of recommendation. Crispin’s stomach clenched again, and he held his breath as Nyle read it. Finally, they looked up and held Crispin’s gaze.
“Why are you doing this for me?” Nyle asked softly.
“Because.” It came out as a croak. Crispin cleared his throat and swallowed. “Because you’re a talented Mage, and you deserve a chance at a good education.”
Flynn snorted, breaking the tension. “He’s doing it because he likes you, but he doesn’t have the guts to ask you out on a date. He’s been all sad and mopey for the last week because you’ve finished studying the book and won’t be seeing each other anymore.”
Surprised, Nyle turned to Crispin. “Is that true?”
A blush crept up Crispin’s neck; he swallowed again and said, “I, ah, I do like you. I like you a lot, and I hate the idea of not seeing you again. But this”—Crispin gestured at the scholarship application papers—“was honestly just because I wanted to help.” Gathering his courage, Crispin said in a rush, “What Flynn said is true, though. I would like to keep seeing you. If that’s something you—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake! Nyle, please put us all out of our misery and tell Crispin that you like him, too, and you want to date him!”
“Thank you, Flynn. We can manage from here,” Nyle said. They reached out and covered Crispin’s hand with their own. “I like you, too, and Flynn is right: I would very much like to date you.”
Crispin’s hand was warm and tingly under Nyle’s; the feeling spread throughout his body, and he wondered if he was allowed to kiss Nyle yet, or if he should wait until their first “official” date. Before he could decide, the matter was taken out of his hands.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks,” Nyle said. “May I?”
Crispin nodded, and then found his voice. “Yes, please.”
Nyle leaned in slowly, kissing Crispin gently. The soft sweetness of Nyle’s lips was so captivating that it took Crispin a second to realize that he should respond, rather than just bask in the delicious sensations, but then he reciprocated with what he hoped was appropriate enthusiasm.
Finally, they parted, grinning stupidly at each other. “Where would you like to go for our first date?” Crispin asked.
“I don’t care where we go. I am, however, looking forward to talking about something other than magical displacement. I’ve enjoyed our studies, but I want to get to know you better,” Nyle said with a wide, warm smile that made Crispin’s heart melt.
“Anywhere that has nice, big latte bowls and good pastries is fine with me,” Flynn said. The dragon had its elbows on the edge of the cup, watching them with its chin propped up on its hands.
“What makes you think you’re invited?” Crispin said, and Nyle laughed at Flynn’s put-out expression.
“You’d think there’d be some gratitude for—”
Crispin reached out and gently pinched Flynn’s snout shut with his forefinger and thumb. “Shh,” he said, and went back to kissing Nyle.