achoo, I guess

“The Texture Transfer Manual is currently on hold in the library until Willownook University gets permission for duplication from Obard Academy,” Professor Swanfeather cautioned as the class began to conclude, “until it does, please do not attempt any duplication spells to snag an extra copy…I will message you all on Canvas when we get approval, but I suspect it’ll be at least two business days. Next week, I’d like to see you all prepared for texture transmogrification demonstrations in groups of two.”

A chorus of poorly-stifled annoyance filled the room, to the old halfling professor’s amusement. “Oh come now, you mustn’t grouse at the prospect of new friendships! Let this be an opportunity, find someone who you haven’t spoken to this week. Find a new friend, and enjoy the tides of change!”

You couldn’t help but look at the back of Mycah’s head in thought. You watched his ears lift at the professor’s words, before dismissively pinning back into airplane mode. He eyed the vacancies on all sides of him solemnly.

The distant chimes of the hour rang. The class rose in quick bursts of students, some eagerly launching to find partners, others making their exit. Mycah was among the latter group—he was out the doors before you could muster up the courage to ask.

Oh well, a fleeting moment. You were sure you could catch him tomorrow morning during Applied Brewing, it wasn’t like this was your only shot.

Noon was spent in the library. You needed to return the psychology books you’d used for last week’s paper, as much as it pained you. You didn’t expect to get sucked into the psychology of linguistics in verbal enchantment components as much as you did.

“Hh-hHh…snf! Hhh..! Hdd’ZZISSHHhuw-!” It took everything not to wheel around towards the source of the sound. That was Mycah, he was somewhere in the library, on the second…no, third floor. Perhaps your opportunity hadn’t evaded you after all! You had never been quicker to place the books in the return slot, and rush to a nearby elevator in pursuit. The third floor was cramped with book cases, each one filled to bursting with hefty texts and tomes. Occasionally, the labyrinth of dust and parchment would open up to a study area or two—brief pockets occupied by small tables and whispering students. There would be a narrow corridor, and then four humans reciting a divination spell over a letterboard—goofing off, certainly. Another corridor, and the next set of tables would be empty. Or at least, almost empty.

It shouldn’t have surprised you to see Mycah solely occupying a four-person table alone. A crumpled tissue was making its best effort to keep clear mess from overflowing and leaking all over his face. It pressed firmly against his orange and red nostrils, and evidence of allergic tears made his cheeks glisten.

Something about him compelled you to approach at last—perhaps it was the empty tissue pack on the table that you could replace with your own. You kept your voice low and level when pardoning yourself and making an introduction. When he realized he was being addressed, his hands hurried to his eyes, hastily clearing the residue. Something about the swiftness suggested those weren’t necessarily allergic tears he grasped at. An empathetic rush tugged your shoulders down.

Mycah cleared his throat, his nose squeaking noisily whenever he sniffled. “Afternoon, ah…Aspen Mycah. You can just call me Mycah, though. We have Trans-301 together, right?”

That was correct, among other things. Mycah tossed his last tissue in a nearby bin, which joined a gracious amount of them in the steel basket. Each was folded over itself twice—Mycah likely blew his nose by pinching it over his nostrils, before folding it a second time to wipe at any residue. That’d also explain the chapped look of his septum.

“Ah, well, I do have the Texture Tansfer Manual, but I’m in no rush to study it if you need it. I’ll probably be here the rest of the day anyhow.”

The hefty book in his grasp was quickly closed and offered forward to you with both hands. He was trying his hardest not to breathe out of his mouth, but the poor thing was terribly stuffed up—one nostril sounded like it was refusing to cooperate at all. In his attempts to sniff and sniff and sniff for clarity, the unclogged side was rudely introduced to the copious amount of dust kicked up in the brief exchange.

You hurriedly explained that you weren’t here to take the textbook from him. You were a transmutation student—you’d read that textbook, cover to cover, against your will, last year. You felt an embarrassed warmth rush to your face as Mycah responded in ticklish breaths.

“Hh-hh! Sorry- I’m—hhHh! Hxxt—…chw!!” You blessed his stifle sincerely. He wasn’t done, “Htt’ppchtt!! I’m so s-ssorry, snf! Dust makes me sneeze like crazy.”

The book was set back on the table when you blessed him again. Since he brought the subject up, you took the opportunity to offer him the tissues in your possession. The quiet shock on his face amused you a bit—goodness, had no one offered him tissues before??

“Are you sure..? I can make my own, I don’t want to take these unless it’s truly alr—hhigh—hdD’iishhhuw!” He whipped his head away quickly into his bent elbow. It was quite wet, leaving his head buried in his arm from the unfortunate sounds of mess. You blessed him again, setting the tissues down within reach, before grabbing one to offer to his free hand.

As he cleaned himself off, you gave him a bit of privacy, busying yourself instead with setting your bag down on the opposite end of his table. He blew as gently as he could into the tissue, folded it, and tried his hardest to blotch the residue before adding it to the collection in the waste bin. Hah! Looks like your observation was correct.

You brought up the masterclass assignment—there was no smoother segue you could find into it, but oh well. Requiring pair projects in university felt a bit redundant to you, and Mycah seemed to chuckle in agreement.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Saying ‘find a new friend,’ to a lecture hall of wizards feels like an oxymoron.”

You’d be his friend!

…A beat of silence hung between the both of you once you said it. You winced inwardly—was it too cringe to just outright say that nowadays? To emphasize your point, you took the vacant chair to his immediate left, and busied yourself grabbing your scrolls and notes. Though, when you looked up, he was still staring at you with raw disbelief. It hit him, hard. It looked difficult for him to swallow. You knew the face of stifling tears, you had felt it on your own so many times before.

You tried your hardest to tread delicately, lightheartedly asking if anyone had offered that before. He shook his head, and you mentioned how honored you were to be the first.

“Goodness, these allergies,” he spoke clumsily, rubbing his eyes under his glasses with a fist. He was trying to preemptively clear tears that hadn’t quite formed yet—poor thing, didn’t he know that’d only spur them on quicker? You both knew his words were a pitiful half-truth, he only verbalized it to excuse being so touched.

You asked if hugs were something he was alright with. He hesitated, and you stood to prove you meant it.

“I—yeah, sorry, I was just…snf! Caught off g—”

You embraced him the moment he had stood and pushed his chair in. He tensed for a moment, but a sincere squeeze invited him to lean in and return it.

You felt a warm ache in your stomach as he began to tremble in your arms. His body was flinching with sobs he refused to verbalize, aside from shuddering inhales that grew wetter each time. You rubbed his back and leaned in—it was the best you could do for him at the moment. He was a lonely soul, who likely tricked himself into believing it was by choice. You knew that feeling all too well.

It was uncertain how long the two of you held one another. It would’ve been longer if not for Mycah’s breath catching. He pawed at you to let him go, turning away with reddened eyes and a graciously dripping nose. That was the thing with holding back tears, they’d only drain into his nose and make it run profusely.

“I’m gonna s—sneeze,” which was alright, of course, “hH..! Ihh- hdD- Ihhtzzschhuwwh!! Hhhittszchhhuw!”

His nose clearly didn’t take too kindly to the salty tears flushing through them. The muffled sneezes sounded thick with mess, loosening up a once-stuffy nose into a water feature. When he lifted his head from his arm again, you could see the mucus trembling behind his twitching nostrils, patiently waiting like dollops of honey hanging from its comb. It made his face scrunch up in desperation. His nose tickled so severely that it was growing impossible to hide.

Maybe it would be best to skip the studying session, at least for now. A dusty library and a wet, allergic nose wasn’t the best combination. You made an offer to talk together in the courtyard instead, and perhaps find him a proper box of tissues on the way.

“That…I’d like that, yeah…”

Mycah tucked your tissue pack in his pocket and the both of you gathered your things. Mycah’s sniffles had become syrupy and heavy, despite how gentle he was trying to be.

It was gorgeous outside today, and no one was taking advantage of it aside from the wizards training in the broom field. As the two of you walked down the vaulted stone skybridge, you made a pit stop at a nearby bathroom to acquire a roll of toilet paper. Out came your wand, and you demonstrated with a bit of pride as the roll was transformed into a quaint, white tissue box. An extra-fluffy tissue blossomed from its top.

Mycah’s needy nose twitched greedily when he laid eyes upon it. “Thank you, you’re so generous—here, I could…hHhcould trade you back your pack,”

Mycah reached into his pocket, but you insisted he keep those too. He struggled awkwardly as the tickle of a building sneeze sprouted on his expression. It was rushing up his nose faster than he could react to it, and amidst redirecting his hands towards the fresh box, he whipped his head over his shoulder.

“hHuhHh—! UHhk’ssSCHHhhww!!” The poor thing snapped at the hip, openly spraying the floor and catching the front of his shirt in the blast. As you blessed him woefully, the box was inched closer. He shied away from it, cupping his hands over his face in horrified embarrassment.

“I’mb so sorry—I’mb so gross, it’s a mess…” he blubbered with a flushed face. You didn’t mind, and to be frank, it was only a matter of time before a sneeze like that happened, what with the tears and allergies. 

…If the two of you hadn’t just met, you would’ve offered to help clean him up. Oh well, all in due time! At least Mycah wasn’t shy about blowing his nose productively now, after all that embarrassment. 

The two of you found a quiet spot on the cobblestone stairs. Freckles of sunlight pierced the trees and kissed your matching robes.

“They’re so soft,” Mycah mumbled into the handful of tissues against his face. “It’s a perfect texture transmogrification, how did you do that?”

You remembered it well from the Texture Transfer Manual, specifically in the prologue: ‘A great deal of transmutation magic is intentionality.’ The toilet paper was a scratchy nightmare, and a lot of the incantation was dedicated towards something easier on his nose.

“…the world needs more people with your type of kindness, I think,” Mycah nodded quietly, “thank you again…for…for a- for a lot, honestly. For asking to be my friend, the tissues, the hug—I only just realized I haven’t hugged another person in over a year.”

For a while, the two of you simply talked. Talked about all manner of things, as if you’d been speaking this way to one another for years. Among them were the obvious ice breakers; areas of study, free time, passions. Mycah was just entering his second year of conjuration for his undergraduate degree. He was the son of Professor Aisha Mycah, who taught at QIAA (the Queensland Institute of Applied Arcana). She developed the mobility band, a magical bracelet that could summon and store mobility aids. 

She was his biggest inspiration, that was no surprise. Thanks to her, he often was at the top of his class. She never pressured him into following in her footsteps, in fact, she insisted he didn’t study where she taught out of a necessity for independence and individuality. It made sense why Mycah hadn’t hugged someone in so long.

He was finding himself out, and that was stressful. He was in a chess club, but not many liked playing with someone who was too good at the game. He was a tabletop nerd, D&D among his favorites, and would play weekly in downtown Mendacem. Most of the players didn’t speak to each other outside of those Thursday nights. He had a roommate, a human named Thomas, and the two were close!

“At least I’d like to think we are,” a bitter addendum that made your brow furrow. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend…I just…I don’t know. I get the feeling I’m not his. Is that weird to say?”

As he elaborated, you couldn’t help but agree. They were different, he was this swiftbroom jock who spent as much time as he could with his team. Mycah and Thomas did a lot together, but usually beneath a cloud of thrill Thomas had for his teammates. Mycah didn’t blame him, to be clear: quite the opposite. It was always heartwarming to see the guy laugh and cry with such a tightly-knit group of good people. Mycah was, as he put it to you, “…simply jealous, and too ashamed to admit it, you know? I-it’s..! Stupid, really: but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that amongst everyone I’m friends with, I’m their second choice at best. It’s stupid because I should be grateful for what I’ve got, or maybe I should put more effort into being a better friend for the people I care about—”

There was a painful pause. A sniffle followed it. “…but I dunno. I get in my head. I worry it’s something about me that’s holding me back from it all. Like, of course I’m not closer friends with one of Willownook’s greatest athletes. I can hardly walk between classes without gasping for air. And it’s also hard to make friends as a tiefling, especially at a predominantly-ord institution like this. I don’t really fit in with the other tieflings, I’m too studious and complicit with the system for them.”

Mycah scowled at himself in the reflection of his Oxford shoes. “And I’m not—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to, either. The hurt, pitifully sour look he gave his shoes spoke for him. He couldn’t see how gentle and sweet he looked, those poor, kind eyes behind those round spectacles. The smattering of spots, the beautifully flawed acne scars. He’d blinded himself to his own beauty years ago, and that sort of blindness was hard to reverse.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, and blew his nose, “I didn’t realize this would just turn into a vent on my end…you’ve been nothing but kind and generous to me. I-I didn’t know I had so much on my chest—”

There was a rising panic in his voice; had he already sullied the chance of a new friend?

Of course not.

You asked for a second embrace. He tearfully accepted. He was doing the best he could to keep himself together, but you didn’t shame him when he fell apart in your arms.

“Bloody nine,” he parted after a minute or two, his sniffles squeaking, “your poor robes…snff! Thank you—I’m gonna start sneezing again at this rate.”

You tore a few tissues from the box, and after a request for permission, lifted his glasses and gently patted his sorrowful eyes. You felt that warm ache in your stomach return as his once-dormant tail curled and lifted with comfort. The moment was short, at least before hitching breaths interrupted the serenity.

“I’m ss-hHh! sorry,” he sighed, but his breath snagged again. “I’m a really sneezy perHh-! Hhh..!”

You hurriedly handed him the tissues his eyes were wiped with, and he buried his nose in them, turning away.

“HHedDZZSschhw!! Ihh- iih! ihg’ISSHHhw!! HHheh-! hnKKSSHhhww!!” It would develop into a fit of nine. He was too exhausted to hide their intensity. You were certain to bless each and every one of them.

“Thank you…snff!! Snfft…I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to get used to that.”

You could get used to it alright, but you didn’t dare say that out loud. Instead, it was something more blanketed—it was hardly a bad thing, everyone sneezes, or something else to that effect.

“Looks like bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Ruby, polishing glasses behind the bar, rolled her eyes as a fisherman, dripping wet from the rain outside, approached her Aunt Hortense with this grim warning. Two weeks working at the Dropped Anchor, banished to the tiny fishing town of White Water for “unbecoming behaviour” with the attractive son of a prominent cleric in the city, had done little to curb her impatience, or tendency towards sarcasm.

“It’s bad weather everywhere. Look outside!”

The fisherman looked to Ruby with disbelief, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Aye… But it’s bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Aunt Hortense gave a disapproving tut, looking up from polishing the bar and meeting the fisherman’s eyes.

“Ignore Ruth. She…”

“Ruby!”

“Ignore Ruth. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and won’t be staying. Does it look bad? Poor Mister Seaver, out there all alone…”

Ruby snorted.

“Does he expect a social life, living in a lighthouse?”

Her elders ignored her completely, with the fisherman going on in grim tones.

“We’ll see how bad soon enough. His supply run day, isn’t it? And if he’s got what half the town’s had…”

Aunt Hortense’s brow creased with worry.

“If he’s got what half the town’s had, he’ll be sneezing up a storm. I’ll see that there’s something on the stove in case he wants to stop by for a meal, and we’ll just have to hope he has matters under control.”

As Aunt Hortense retreated to the kitchen, Ruby turned to the fisherman with interest, no longer even pretending to polish the glass in her hands, instead leaning in for a chat.

“So, what’s the big deal about this Seaver? Someone important? How come I never see him around town, if that’s the case?”

The fisherman shook his head disapprovingly.

“He’s a wizard, is our Mister Seaver. A weather wizard, and a good one, too! So mind you show him proper respect, and leave him be, he likes his space.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, turning back to her glasses and making a half-hearted effort at polishing one.

“Who ever heard of wizards these days? I thought they all live off in towers somewhere, all high and mighty and above it all. And if he’s so good with weather, can’t he warm things up a little? It’s been miserable for days!”

The fisherman opened his mouth, no doubt to chastise her, only to be cut off by a gust of bitter wind as the door opened, and a stranger entered. A tall figure, clad in an oilskin coat dripping with rainwater, his face largely obscured by a blue woolen scarf, and his hair wild and damp from the weather. Ruby caught a glimpse of hazel eyes over his scarf, looking watery from the chill wind.

A terrier trotted in ahead of the stranger. A scrappy-looking little creature, with one ragged ear, and a tail held proudly in the air like a banner. He looked up at the stranger, all attentiveness, and Ruby heard a soft, hoarse voice from behind the scarf.

“Go and sit, Neptune.”

The terrier, Neptune, plainly familiar with the place, trotted over to an isolated table in the corner, while his master approached the bar, hanging back a little as if unsure if the fisherman sitting there was being attended to first. The fisherman nodded respectfully and gestured for him to approach, and shot Ruby a warning glance, as if silently urging her to show respect as well. Evidently this was Mister Seaver, the local wizard.

Never one to blindly bow to those deemed respectable, Ruby had a quip ready along with an empty glass, when the stranger stepped forward, carefully unwinding his scarf. Ruby’s cheeky remark died in her throat.

The term ‘wizard’ had conjured up a mental image of an old man with long white hair and an equally long white beard, with flowing robes and perhaps a pointed hat. A somewhat ridiculous creature from a storybook. Instead, the man revealed as the scarf peeled away was strong-jawed with a hint of stubble, his age hard to determine. Handsome, in a weathered and weary sort of way. Jaw-length brown hair peppered with grey, gentle, intelligent eyes, and a prominent nose, the bridge of which was a touch irregular, as if broken sometime in the past.

Said nose was absolutely ravaged with a seemingly brutal cold. Rubbed red and raw, decidedly damp about the nostrils, it sounded dreadfully congested as the wizard wrinkled it and gave a marshy snuffle.

Ruby felt her cheeks flush. Something about a handsome man with a cold always made something inside of her squirm. It was no coincidence that the cleric’s son who had been her undoing had constantly been catching the sniffles. She broke into a catlike grin, leaning forward on the bar a little, displaying herself to best advantage.

“You must be Mister Seaver. I’ve heard all about you.”

The wizard only briefly met her eyes, and then lowered his gaze. Not to where Ruby wanted it, annoyingly, but rather looking at a corner of the bar, as if embarrassed to look her in the eye. He sniffled again, his nostrils arching with the effort of it, and he rubbed a knuckle beneath his leaking nose.

“I am. Crawford Seaver. At your service. You… erm… You’re new…”

He turned away slightly to cough into his fist, and Ruby took the opportunity to tug the neckline of her blouse a little further down. The fisherman, watching her disapprovingly, tutted and shook his head.

“I am indeed. Ruby. A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you? You look as if you need warming up…”

Her attempt at a sultry manner was ruined by Aunt Hortense returning and taking her shoulder, pulling her back and directing her towards the kitchen, scowling all the while.

“If you’re not going to make yourself useful out here, you can go back there and start washing dishes. Now, Mister Seaver. You look wretched, I imagine you’ll want something warm in your belly. We’ve a mutton stew, if that suits?”

The wizard, Crawford, nodded, fishing a frayed old bandana from his pocket and roughly pinching at his nose. For a moment, his eyes took on a distinctly absent look, and his breath caught. Ruby, lingering in the kitchen door, watched unashamedly, and tried not to feel too disappointed when the vaguely sneezy expression faded, and Crawford breathed a sigh of relief.

As did the fisherman, who, Ruby noted, had been watching Crawford nervously.

Odd.

Crawford spoke up again, his quiet voice muddled with congestion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Platt. And if I might have some tea? My throat…”

“Sounds like you’ve gargled gravel, and no doubt you could use some steam to clear you up. Go and sit down, the girl and I will take care of it. Ruth, kettle. Now!”

Ruby shot a sulky look at her aunt, and, before retreating into the kitchen, looked back over her shoulder at the ailing wizard. As she watched, he took his bandana again and mopped at his streaming nose, before rubbing it none too gently. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Ruby noted both Aunt Hortense and the fisherman tensing up, the fisherman edging away a little. Both only relaxed when Crawford let out the breath as a soft moan, rubbing his nose once more.

Aunt Hortense spoke up.

“You have those sneezes under control?”

Crawford’s cheeks coloured a touch, and he nodded, avoiding her eyes. Stranger and stranger, Ruby mused, before retreating into the kitchen as Aunt Hortense turned and glared. Grumbling under her breath, she set about filling the kettle and hanging it over the fire, while Aunt Hortense came to fill a bowl with steaming mutton stew, and slicing bread to go with it.

“Why’s everyone so nervous of him sneezing? It’s just a cold, and we’ve had half the town hacking and spluttering all over the bar these last couple of weeks. No more risk of catching it from him than any of them.”

Aunt Hortense shot her an irritable scowl, placing the bowl and bread on a tray and passing it to her.

“Don’t you go meddling in our Mister Seaver’s business. It’s none of your concern. Now, take that out, and then leave him be. The poor man’s ill, he doesn’t need any of your nonsense!”

“Oh, I don’t know. He looks rather miserable. A little nonsense might cheer him up!”

“Ruth, I swear to whatever god happens to be listening, if you keep talking back…”

“Alright, alright, I’m going!”

Tray balanced on one hand, Ruby made her way back out to the bar, spotting Crawford now seated at the corner table, his dripping oilskin removed to reveal the same sort of cable-knit woolen jumper the local fishermen wore. He rested his head on one hand, and with the other, kept his bandana pressed to his nose, alternately pinching and rubbing. Evidently the swollen appendage was troubling him immensely.

The little dog, Neptune, sat obediently at his feet, and alerted him to Ruby’s arrival with a sudden “Wuff!”. Crawford sat up a little straighter, and lowered his bandana, avoiding her eyes once more. Up close, she could hear him giving soft little sniffles with every other breath. Offering her most charming smile, Ruby set down his food, and lingered, holding onto the tray.

“That ought to put some colour back in your cheeks.”

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford hesitated, seemingly unsure whether to begin eating in her company. No doubt unused to the charms of city girls, Ruby mused, toying flirtatiously with her braid. She offered a teasing smile.

“Everyone says you’re a wizard. You don’t look like one.”

Crawford blinked up at her. There was a hint of feverish haze to his eyes that melted something inside of her, and when he replied, soft and hesitant, his voice was so heavy with congestion, he struggled to make himself understood.

“Erm… Then I must resort to the old cliché, Miss Ruby, regarding appearances being deceptive.”

“I suppose they must be. Your appearance says you should be in bed. Yet here you are, up and about!”

Crawford flushed a little deeper, and looked down at his bowl as if it might hold the answer to escaping this conversation. Unwilling to let him get away just yet, Ruby grinned, leaning her hip on the table.

“So, if you’re really a weather wizard, can you conjure us up a ray of sunshine? Gods know we could use it around here!”

Crawford continued to stare down into his food, stirring it idly and addressing the bowl.

“That would be inadvisable for a number of reasons. Natural conditions shouldn’t be… Hehhh… Shouldn’t be tampered with. Too much… Huhhh…. Uhh… Sndfff!... potential for… for unforeseen… consequences… I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, I…”

Shaking his head as if he might somehow deny the inevitable, Crawford lurched forward into his much-abused bandana, though, having struggled to talk his way through the build-up to his sneeze, he buried his nose in the damp folds too late, failing to entirely cover an impressive plume of spray.

“HhhhHHRUFFFSSSHOO!”

It was as if someone had suddenly pulled out a weapon. The various tavern patrons, who had been shooting Crawford the occasional worried glance, suddenly pulled abruptly away. One or two leapt to their feet. One dived under his table.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by Crawford’s unsteady breathing and pitifully damp snuffling. At length, cheeks and ears flushed red, looking as if he wished to disappear, Crawford emerged from behind his bandana at last, and chanced a brief look around the tavern, raising a hand apologetically.

“… Sorry… Under control…”

The patrons returned to their drinks, though wary glances continued to be sent in Crawford’s direction.

Ruby, mouth dry, face warm, struggled to find her words. Gods, the man sneezed like a thunderstorm. Loud, and wet. She swallowed hard, and struggled not to giggle as she spoke.

“Well, I’ll bless you, even if no one else here has manners. It’s alright. No need to be shy. Sneeze as much as you like.”

Crawford shrank into himself a little more, and dabbed at his long-suffering nose.

“I’d very much prefer not to. Apologies. I… You ought to keep your distance.”

Almost as if he meant to chase her off, Crawford buried his nose in his bandana once more, and, thin chest expanding with a slightly wheezy inhale, let loose with a blow that rivaled a foghorn, giving his nostrils a vigorous rub afterwards. Three times, he repeated this process, and at last tucked his bandana away once more, drooping over the table, somehow still looking heavy with congestion.

Far from being deterred, Ruby clucked her tongue sympathetically, and tried not to squirm. If ever a man needed to be held…

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I never catch anything. Except when I decide to chase something.”

Once again, her flirtation fell on deaf ears. Crawford merely shrank in on himself further, and shivered. Ruby fought back a sigh.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to eat, and get that tea ready for you.”

As she passed the bar, the fisherman, now being poured a glass of ale by Aunt Hortense, let out a low chuckle.

“You’re barking up the wrong wizard there, my girl!”

Ruby’s cheeks flushed with annoyance as she stormed back into the kitchen, and poured hot water into the teapot to prepare it for the leaves.

“Honestly, does anyone in this washed-up wreck of a town have taste?”

Waiting for the pot to warm, Ruby went to listen by the door, and struggled not to squirm as she heard another sneeze from Crawford’s table. Once again, it sounded loud, soaking, laden with cold… And was once again it was accompanied by the scraping of chairs and sound of movement as patrons drew away, followed by a hoarse, miserable apology, and assurance that all was under control.

“Honestly, they can sail through a storm but can’t handle a man with the sniffles…”

As Ruby emerged from the kitchen with a large, steaming mug of tea, her attraction to the ailing wizard merged with sympathy. Looking to his table, she saw him shivering hopelessly, having pulled his oilskin back over his narrow shoulders, poking miserably at his food. And, as if to further compound his misery, all those who had been anywhere remotely near his table had relocated to the other side of the tavern.

“Honestly, it’s just a cold…”

Ruby glanced at Aunt Hortense, and found her at a table at the other side of the room, laying down the law regarding a patron’s unpaid tab. Taking her chance, Ruby ducked beneath the bar, seizing a bottle of whiskey and adding a generous shot to the mug of tea. That ought to chase away the chills!

Crawford, feeding Neptune a piece of mutton from his stew, looked up at Ruby with bleary eyes as she approached his table, setting down the mug with a smile.

“There. That’ll have you nice and warmed up in no time.”

Worn and weary and wretchedly full of cold as he looked, this time, Crawford managed a slight, shy smile in return.

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford wrapped his hands around the mug, sighing in relief at the warmth, and raised it to his lips, attempting to inhale some of the steam through his stuffy nose. Failing this, he took a deep sip instead.

His eyes, closed in relief at the warmth, suddenly opened in horror.

“Is… Huhh… Is there… Snff-SNF! Huhhh… HaAHhh… whiskey in this?”

“Just a nip! I thought it might warm you up?”

Crawford gave a flustered snort, setting the mug down and pushing it away, and grabbing urgently for his bandana. His reddened nostrils flared wide, and he shook his head, as if he might somehow refuse the oncoming sneeze, even as his eyelids fluttered closed and his chest and shoulders jerked with violent hitches.

“I… I can’t… Ihh… I’m sorry… I… Ehh… HehEHhh… HhhHRFFFSHHHOO!”

Crawford did his best to smother the explosion in his bandana, but to no avail. It was torn from him, throat-scraping and violent, and already he was gasping in air for another. Neptune gave a sharp yap, and retreated under the table between Crawford’s feet. The patrons at the other side of the table rose to their feet, and Ruby heard one of them cry out.

“Best clear out, here he goes!”

“HhiieeffsssSSHOO!”

The second sneeze left Crawford panting and teary-eyed, bracing himself against the table, coughing weakly, but already drawing in air for a third effort. Several patrons hurried out the door. Others ducked under their tables. Aunt Hortense, spying Ruby, came storming over and seized her by the arm.

“Get away, you silly girl, before…”

“HhhHHRAAASSSSHOO!”

The sound of the sneeze itself was nearly drowned out by a crack of thunder, and a blinding brightness as lightning flashed just outside the window. Wind shrieked through the tavern, blowing an abandoned newspaper about the room. Ruby gave a shriek of alarm, clutching Aunt Hortense as the sudden violent gust tore at her hair.

Crawford, rubbing furiously at his swollen, leaking nose, attempted to stammer out an apology.

“I’m so sorry… The whiskey… I… Iihhhh… AhhHAAaahh… AHHhhHASHOO!”

Aunt Hortense swore, shoving Ruby aside and taking Crawford by the arm, trying to haul him to his feet.

“What whiskey? Who… Alright, time for you to step outside!”

“I… Hhhehhh…”

“Oh, no you don’t! You keep that nose of yours under control!”

Crawford struggled to get to his feet, but, seemingly clumsy from illness, stumbled back into his seat with the sheer force of the next sneeze.

“HhhhHHYAAASSSSHH!”

Aunt Hortense took Crawford by the arm once more, snapping at Ruby as she did so.

“Help me get him out, girl! Before…”

“EhhhHESSSHOO!”

Another violent wind ripped through the tavern, and this time, fat, heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first, then thick and fast. Ruby gasped as they splashed against her skin, rapidly cooling her flushed cheeks. Seeing the urgency of the situation now, she took Crawford’s other arm, and between them, the two women helped him to the door, the poor wizard already shuddering with urgent hitches, fueling the next sneeze.

“I… I’m really so… Huh! UhhHuhh… sorry, I… HhHRUFFFFSSSHOO!”

The force of it nearly sent Crawford stumbling, and Ruby put an arm around him to steady him as they stepped out into the street, where wild winds tore at their hair and clothes, and sleet stung their skin. The chill, Ruby noted, made the feverish heat radiating from Crawford all the more pronounced. With her arm around him, she could feel his chest heaving, readying for the next effort. The little dog, Neptune, yapped urgently, getting underfoot in his attempts to herd them onwards.

“HhhHRASSCHOO!”

Ruby felt the spray of that one on her cheek, and the shiver that ran through her wasn’t entirely from the cold.

As Crawford, teary-eyed, nose streaming, looking exhausted, stumbled to a halt as the next sneeze began to overwhelm him, Aunt Hortense took Ruby by the arm and tugged her back, looking grim. Still reeling from all that had unfolded, Ruby watched with wide eyes as Crawford leaned back in readiness, and was flung forward by the force of one final, exhausting sneeze.

“Ehh… Hehh… Huhhh... HhhhHHUUURUSSSSHOOO!”

 One last burst of howling wind swirled outwards from the unfortunate wizard, followed by an eerie silence, broken only by his soft moaning and snuffling, as the pattering rain turned to a thick, heavy fall of snow.

Crawford, shivering as snowflakes settled over his hair and clothes, raised his now all but useless bandana to his nose and gave an exhausted, careful blow, and looked to Aunt Hortense with rheumy eyes, looking thoroughly miserable.

“I… I’m really so terribly sorry. I could have sworn I had it under control, only…”

Aunt Hortense folded her arms across her chest, shooting Ruby a look that promised dire consequences to come.

“Only this one slipped you a shot of whiskey, it seems. That’ll be coming out of your pay, girl! And as for the mess…”

Crawford held up a hand apologetically, wrinkling his nose and snuffling terribly.

“You mustn’t blame her, she didn’t know. And if you’ll let me catch my breath, I can clear all this up…”

“She knows better than to slip people drinks they haven’t asked for! And by the time you’ve collected yourself enough for that, you’ll have sneezed us up a proper storm!”

Unable to argue with that, Crawford visibly slumped, hanging his head, mopping at his nose once more. Aunt Hortense strode briskly back inside the tavern, and returned with Crawford’s scarf, which she briskly wrapped around his neck, before pulling his oilskin coat around him tighter.

“Go home, Mister Seaver. I’ll speak to the grocer and have your supplies sent to the lighthouse.”

“I… You mustn’t go to any trouble…”

“Did it sound like I was asking?”

“… Thank you. Good day, Mrs Platt.”

The wizard and his little dog turned to walk away, Neptune with his tail still carried high, Crawford with his metaphorical tail between his legs, sniffling and coughing all the while. Ruby watched them go, vaguely aware of Aunt Hortense scolding her.

“And you, my girl, can spend the rest of the day with a mop for company!”

“Well, remember when you said to get a hold of you if I ever found a fix you might like??”

The pan was neatly hung on a brick wall amongst Forthwind’s prized knife display. “Oh..? I’m listening.”

“Yeah, I think I found it. Well—Gully found it, actually. It’s really good. Super chill, super low maintenance, according to him, just like you we’re talking about.”

Forthwind was willingly subjected to a ten-minute ramble as he cleaned up the rest of his kitchen. According to Ryfon, Gulliver had been adamant on finding a substance most suitable for Forthwind. Being an aasimar, he had quite the sturdy tolerance against non-magical things; alcohol was mostly reserved as a compliment to a fancy dinner, and cannabis would get expensive when you needed a handful of edibles to feel something. Magical substances were the logical next step, but plenty of magical substances were more trouble than they were worth if taken incorrectly. That, and getting your hands on any sort of dispell magic scrolls was also a punch to the wallet.

“No wild magic with this one, yeah?” Forthwind was obliged to ask with the topic on his mind, “last time, I was a sheep in your bathtub for three hours.”

“Not at all. It literally feels like a super strong indica. All the arcane stuff is in the…like, the activation and preservation, or whatever. Gully, is that right?? …It, yeah- okay, yes!! Mainly the activation of the snuff.”

“Oh, it's snuff?” Interesting. 

“Snff—! Yeah, you could call it a snuff.”

“…so, is this an invitation?”

“It’s a summoning!!” The pitchy, nasally voice was Gulliver, listening in on speaker. “If you wanna give it a go, get over here!”

“Sure sure, give me thirty-five.” It would be worth putting prep work on hold, he had a feeling.

———

Forthwind was never off with his timing. Punctuality was a huge part of being a chef, after all. Thirty-five minutes was enough time to change into comfortable clothes, collect a small array of essentials, and catch the bus to the next district. The setting sun was perfect company on his quiet ride.

“…snff..! Snf!” On his mostly quiet ride. He was one of four passengers, two of which had been eyeing him for a couple of minutes. He was well-acclimated to their smitten expressions; it wasn’t every day an angel sat across from you on metropolitan transit. The moment he looked down to his phone, he felt a spark of a tickle fester in his nose as the pair launched into hushed conversation. He knew he was the subject of their giddy whispers, not out of an unchecked ego, but how strongly his nose was acting up. Compliments were his most potent allergy, and even the implication of them made his breath tremble. The golden hour at least did something to hide the redness.

Forthwind’s nose creased at the bridge. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, and a hand hovered expectantly in front of his face with parting lips. Good grief, whatever they were saying, it was making his nose act up so sharply— “h-hHh! hHEEishhiiw!!”

His nose buzzed like television static. A dull tickle that was growing dormant quickly. He sniffled with dissatisfaction and shook his head, but telling by how quickly he geared up for a second sneeze, that small action hit his onlookers in the chest.

“Gesundheit,” at least one was courageous enough to offer.

“Th…thank y- yeEh—eeisSHHhiiw!! Goodness, snk! Pardon…”

By the time Forthwind was walking up the street to the apartments west of campus, he had been blowing his nose into small travel tissues. Sneezing from compliments always made his nose so drippy! The used tissues kept a faintly-glowing residue, and his bright pink nostrils hinted at the culprit.

“Snf! Eugh, snrf!! Huhh…321, 323, 325…there we go.”

No one answered the first two sets of knocking dishes out to the bulky red door labeled 327. Right as Forthwind began to question if he had the wrong apartment, the locks clicked on the other side and the door swung inward. Behind it, a goblin as tall as his hip leaned out, dreadlocks spilling over his shoulder. He had an exaggerated, animated quality about him, as if pulled out of an old technicolor film and slapped into the real world. His eyes blinked individually behind his massive, rubbery pink nose.

“Good evening, Gulliver! How have you been?

“Heyyyy, not too bad! Get in here! Take your shoes off.”

“Thank you…honestly, I think I needed to take a load off. The preparations for the function have been killing me.”

“Yo, Forthwind!” Ryfon rolled over so that he could lean over the couch and face them. A few oak leaves were fluttering down from his autumnal hair, leaving only a few maples behind. “What Gully said, take it easy! I just ordered us some pizza on Airscamper, should be here in about…2 minutes?”

“Oh nice..!” Honestly, pizza sounded so appealing after studying with complex flavor profiles all afternoon. Forthwind yearned for something simple for once! “Well, while that’s on the way, about this snuff: could I get a look at it?”

The fancy aluminum tin was tossed his way, and he flipped it to the front. ‘Hitchington’s Snuff,’ apparently from the Emporium of Wonder collection. What kind of a name was Hitchington??

“Gulliver found it at an adult circus he went to the other day, apparently it’s wacky stuff…”

“Wacky fun, I feel I should add. It’s super chill and lowkey!”

“Mmm,” The aasimar squinted at his friends, and his eyes fell onto a paragraph on the bottom of the tin. “Let’s see here: ‘Tired of old fashioned sessions? Hitchington’s Snuff is a Tabacco-Free recreational snuff infused with enchantments.’ How curious.”

“Oh, wait, is that us?” Ryfon suddenly stood, pointing outside. When the other two followed his gaze, they could make out a winged creature approaching the balcony from afar. Ryfon rushed to the screen door and yanked it open, grabbing a purple air-traffic baton hanging beside it on the wall. He clicked it on, waved it crazily, and watched as they redirected their path.

A winged tiefling cautiously landed on the porch, a pizza bag slung securely over his shoulder. Pizza was exchanged for a water bottle and high-sugar snack, which, along with a generous tip, was a common courtesy amongst Airscamper delivery workers.

Ryfon brought the pizza boxes over Gulliver’s head. Forthwind couldn’t help a tiny chuckle at the sight of Gulliver’s huge nose. The way it teetered on his face as he snuffled, following the direction the boxes moved. The way it caused him to lean forward—Forthwind was concerned for a moment that his friend would float off the ground towards Ryfon. “Snff! Snf! A large bacon and pepperoni, with garlic glaze and stuffed crust…snfff! And a small pineapple and anchovy pizza too…”

Ryfon wasted no time cracking open a box. “You say that like you didn’t make the order with me ten minutes ago, Gully!”

“Shhh shhh, let me have my moment dude!”

“Hold on, hold on,” Forthwind scowled, putting his hands out, “I’m sorry, pineapple and anchovy? Nothing else??”

“Oh, here we go again, it’s an underrated combo!! Little bit sweet, little bit salty. It’s like chocolate-covered pretzels, but tropical!”

“Are you pregnant?”

“I’m innovating the pizza-topping industry.”

Tch, this living-cartoon of a man. Forthwind rolled his eyes with a good-natured smile. Whatever floats his boat!

While the pizza was still piping hot (having flown out of the oven not ten minutes ago), Forthwind, Ryfon, and Gulliver gathered round the coffee table in varying seating. Ryfon preferred the beanbag, simply because he could sweep the leftover leaves and petals easier over the hardwood floor. Gulliver took to the tiny round ottoman by the table. Forthwind, the couch.

“Let’s see what this actually looks like, woah,” Gulliver and Forthwind leaned in as Ryfon held the fancy snuff container. The tin opened to a fine, glittery gold powder. It was as if some gold leaf had been compacted to the texture of cinnamon.

“Oh, hold on, one more thing,” Gulliver suddenly stood, and dove into a paper bag. “There’s also this! It’s an antimagic sobering flush.”

What he revealed was a small, narrow bottle, the size of his thumb. A nasal spray applicator was connected to the top, and it was all painted in gold. Forthwind squinted at the fancy cursive words.

“Hitchington’s Diss-Choo, Dispelling Nasal Spray—Gulliver, where do you find this stuff, I feel like I’m about to snort an ACME product.” Oh, why bother? At least there was an easy out if things got too chaotic, and he couldn’t complain with that at all. That’s why magical recreation was the best kind out there!

“Hey, I don’t judge,” Ryfon shrugged, already navigating a pinch of it in an oak leaf he plucked from his hair. “Bottoms up, right?”

“Sure, why not? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could be a sheep again,”

“Don’t manifest that, Ryfon.”

Forthwind brought some of the powder to his gentle nostrils. He was the first to try it, as he feared he’d back out if he waited any longer. The powder prickled in a way that nearly blinded Forthwind. He scrunched his nose, recoiling his head away from his hand as if it would get him away from the severe tickle in his nose. It didn’t burn, but it had this tingling effect that felt like heavy static. Every time he bumped at his nose as he sniffled and snorted, he had to fight waves upon waves of intense fuzziness under his twitching nostrils.

And here Gulliver was, practically snorting a line of it off the table! There was something objectively funny about it all, exaggeration that could only be pulled off by this clown. “Oh fuck, I got it in my eye!” He hissed.

“You got it in your everything, Gully, how much was that??”

“I dunno, but they don’t call me the Greenout Goat for nothing. Okay, first to sneeze has to get tickled.”

Both Ryfon and Forthwind instinctively went to protect themselves at the mention. Forthwind never considered himself a ticklish person until he met Gulliver years back. That, and the itch in his nose was beginning to stir up into something more productive.

“Oh gods, h-hHHh!”

“Oh already??” Ryfon laughed, pointing his way.

“My nose’s r…hHhh! Real f-fussy on a normal d—! Normal…dhHh-! hEHhh!”

Both Gulliver and Ryfon watched on as Forthwind hitched, anticipation heavy in their gaze. Why was this so embarrassing?? The feathers on his cheeks and neck were quick to puff out at all the sudden attention.

“HhHuhh…uhm- snf!! I lost it…” he sighed, relieved.

There was a pregnant beat of silence between the three. Then, suddenly—

“HhHGHh- heeEH! hHAH!!” Eyes shifted to the smallest in the room, whose big pink nose was flaring. His cartoonish physics had extra squish and stretch to them, evident in the way one of his nostrils flared almost disproportionately. Even as he grasped his reddening nose in both hands, he couldn’t stop what he’d started: “hyihHH!! hHAAB’tsshhw!!”

“Bless you,” Forthwind spoke up instinctively.

Ryfon and Forthwind watched Gulliver dazedly recover, sharing a second of silence. Ryfon then gestured expectantly to Forthwind. “Don’t just leave him there!!”

Right! He had been so focused on abating his own sneeze, he had already lost sight of the game. He hurriedly grabbed at a large, loose feather from one of his wings, poking it playfully at his side. He squirmed away quickly with a ticklish yelp, only to tumble into Ryfon’s waiting arms. His fits of laughter and wails made Forthwind grin.

“Now, Gulliver, how long does this stuff take to settle in? It makes my nose itch so badly…” Ryfon wrinkled his freckled nose with a pout.

“It’s already settled in, y…you just gotta …whew- activate it.” Gulliver panted, rubbing the tender spot on his stomach that Ryfon’s fingers had worked into him.

“What, with the spray?”

“No no, all you have to do is s-”

“h-hhHhh…sorry,” Forthwind had interrupted them with another false start, rubbing shyly at his pinkening nose.

“That’s exactly it, you just gotta sneeze a few times.” Again with the fey-like oddity that was this snuff! Who was this Hitchington guy?

“Oh, you weren’t kidding, huh?? That’s great news,” Ryfon spoke thinly, pulling a tissue from the box on the coffee table. Gulliver still sat on his lap, looking up as the eladrin elf rolled one end into a point. Or at least, he attempted to, but could hardly get halfway through the task before his nostrils twitched in warning. “It’s…s’great news be…because I’m gUH- huh—! hnk’TSCHHHhh’yiw!” He snapped his head to the side, sneezing towards the hardwood floor with a slight spray.

“Bless you!” Spoken just as enthusiastically from Forthwind again.

Ryfon lifted a finger, shaking his head. “Hh…heh! hehhHUHTtsshh’yiw!! Huhh snfff! I haven’t even tried making mysEHhsschhh’yiw!! Woah…”

“Bless you, bless you again,”

“You might wanna save your breath, Forthwind, we’re all in for plenty of sneezes.”

“Oh! Gods forbid I’m polite about it! I don’t mind…”

“Oh bless you,” Gulliver rested his cheek against his steepled hands, batting his uncharacteristically-long lashes. Forthwind choked out a laugh at the animated halo hovering above Gulliver’s stupid face. Gods, this freak of a man was too funny sober! “Whatever floats your boat, I suppose. Speaking of, how are you feeling, Ryfon?”

“I can feel something, it’s like a pleasant buzz.”

“Need some help with your…?” He wordlessly balled his fist under his nose, ghosting the motion of tickling.

“Oh, yes please,” Ryfon offered the pointed tissue towards Gulliver’s paws, “you know how to do it in a way that makes me sneeze my head off…what did you call it??”

Gulliver, straddling Ryfon’s legs with his planted feet on the beanbag, put a hand on Ryfon’s forehead to tilt it back. The question broke his focus momentarily, and he tilted his head. “Call what? Inducing?”

“Inducing, I didn’t know we were using medical terms.”

“That’s hardly medical bro, like… ‘making you sneeze’ is too much of a mouthful.”

Gulliver was quick to start, dodging potential questions like his life depended on it. He sifted around with the tissue, poking for a sweet spot, before wiggling it in place when he found one.

“I just don’t g…get why you need to sh…shHehh…heh- oh-!” He coughed with surprise, thick eyelashes fluttering wetly. “Oh goHhds deHHSCHhh’yiw!! Hehh—heHHDTSSshhh’yiw!!”

“Bless y— bless you…” Forthwind chuckled. The tissue was pulled out of Ryfon’s nose only after the sneezes were over. Even then, he only did so to quickly dive into the other one. Tears immediately came crashing down his freckled face.

“Tickles a bit?” Gulliver sneered. Forthwind could only imagine what Ryfon was feeling right now, it had him overly-curious. Just watching the two made his nose scrunch sympathetically.

“Uhh…hHhUuh…!” Ryfon’s nostrils flared, and small buttercups unfurled along his locks. That was a rarer flower Forthwind had only seen whenever Ryfon got high, so it must have been working. At last, Ryfon waved Gulliver away from him, reaching for his pestered nose. His breath trembled needily. He leaned over in the bean bag, rubbing his nose in a circular motion using his fist. That seemed to be enough to coax the sneeze out. “HhRRSSHH’yiiw!! Hhuh—USSSHhh’yiiwh!!”

“Bless you, bless you.”

“Thank you Forthw—hhHI’m n-nHh!! Not donNUSHHhhuuh!!” Ryfon pitched forward, openly spraying his own lap and Gulliver’s. When he lifted his head, it was as if he overcorrected, sending his shoulders back into the beanbag with a soft thud.

“Ahah!! How high are you right now?” Gulliver spoke brightly, taking a tissue to clean up his face.

“Like…” was all Ryfon could manage without a loose string of giggles escaping him, “sNFf! It’s…it’s like, it…ahah! Hold on—snFFf!! It’s a great start.”

“Good! Forthwind, you haven’t sneezed once since we’ve started.”

“I’m about to,” he replied hopelessly, subconsciously mimicking the rubbing Ryfon did in hopes it’d spur on the same. There was a long pause, and he felt his cheeks sting. “I…hhHh! I don’t know why it’s so much harder to sneeze when everyone’s looking at me!”

“I was just trying to see if you could sneeze on command or something!” Gulliver laughed.

“No I…I uh…hHh! I’ve had this tickle in my nose since we’ve started, I’m trying to see if I can get it out…”

Gulliver watched Forthwind sniffle delicately and begin wiggling his nose about, hands-free. Coaxing a sneeze was stubborn work on its own, but who knew that being watched made it so much harder?

“You know, Forthwind, you’re kind of surrounded with enough to make you sneeze,” Gulliver gestured to the vestigial wings that were trying to hide his face in embarrassment.

“I know, I’ve never purposely made myself sneeze with them though, it just sorta happens by accident-!”

“Here,” Gulliver grabbed the large feather he was tickled with not five minutes ago. As Ryfon finally broke into the pizza, Forthwind sat upright on the couch as if preparing for a medical exam. Gulliver climbed up onto his lap, and sat himself down with a comedic plop. “Relax, Ryfon can take it, but I’m not gonna go crazy on you like that.”

“Fuck do you mean ‘I can take it’? You’re making me sneeze, not blowing my back out,” a very affronted Ryfon retorted

“With the way you were whining and gasping a few minutes ago, it was hard to tell!” Forthwind snickered his way. When the large feather was brought up to his nose, the side brushed slowly under his nostrils and made him shiver. He wiggled his nose carefully and resisted a momentary urge to sputter. He had naturally soft feathers, but it felt so different running under his nostrils. Every time he breathed in, he felt a few wispy barbs near the quill sneak into both nostrils. They flared quickly in response, but as quick as the irritant was there, it left.

“Y’know, I think this feather’s too big to do much. Do you mind if I…?” 

Forthwind’s buzzing nose would beg to differ. “If you…oh! Sure.”

Gulliver pulled away, running a claw delicately along his wings. While he was up there, he took care of a few fresh pin feathers. By the time he returned to his field of view, a much smaller feather was pinched in his claws. A fluffy downy one, no wider than his pinkie. Forthwind snuffled at the sight of it—he’d lost count of how many times he had accidentally sniffed up one of these before, and the annoying fits that followed it.

The feather entered one of his twitching nostrils. Forthwind had to fight every fibre in his being begging to sniff at the intrusive tickle. He could feel the tiny barbs, clinging to the inner walls as it was twisted in Gulliver’s fingertips.

“Oh th-hHh..!” Forthwind stammered over the rest of his sentence, breath trembling. When he gasped, he was overcome with a chilly sensation that rushed across his face and chest, lingering in his tear ducts. His nose wiggled in the brief pause. His nostrils quivered with need, and quivered more when the feather was pulled away.

“HhHheeh- hhHEESSsshhw!!” Then, warmth. A rush of warmth that started at the base of his chest and ended at the tip of his nose. When he sniffled clumsily afterwards, the warmth spread from head to toe. His senses were heightened, but the high was only momentarily—no longer than ten seconds. “Huhh..snrf!! That worked, but only a little…”

“Bless! Takes more than one to really get a buzz out of it!”

“Thank you…snffk! You sure it’s not my tolerance??”

“Nahh, trust,” Ryfon waved his hand vacantly—or at least, attempted to. In reality, he lifted it, and halfheartedly bent his wrist. “It’ll feel kinda l…kinda like, a hot rag is on your face at first, or something.”

“Damn, Ryfon, that kicked in fast for you, buddy!” Forthwind snickered. “Alright, hit me again, Gulliver.”

“Hahah! With pleasure.”

Under Gulliver’s clawed digits, Forthwind’s smile faded with growing focus. The feather returned into his field of vision—the tiny thing was half slicked with glowing mucus. A few congested sniffles confirmed his nose had been running a little. He recoiled his head away from the feather bashfully.

“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to sneeze on you…”

“I don’t care, you didn’t sneeze in my face or anything. Hold still.”

The feather continued its torment, slipping into his other nostril instead.

“H-hhHih-! How are y….yeeSHHhhww-hEEIISSsshhiiih!!”  

Two at once made his whole face tingle—he had the sense to muffle them in a politely-bent elbow. The glowing spot on his sleeve made him wince with embarrassment. There was the telltale stuffiness in his lungs, that floaty feeling of intoxication coursing through his veins. His head was starting to spin, and his motions were lagging behind. “How are you so gHHh!! Good at making me snee—heeh..!”

“I’m lowkey not that great, you’re just really sensitive.”

“Ooh! Color me surprised,” Ryfon suddenly flung both arms up, flashing a sarcastic grin, “Forthwind’s sensitive?!”

“RyfoHh!!” The playfully cutting words caught him off guard, and he coughed with a giggle. He felt his cheeks prickling from a sudden dopamine rush. “Leave me alo’de, …m-m’trying to get high,”

“I’m just saying, you look like a butch lesbian and a gay twink had a kid.”

That got a belly-laugh out of Forthwind, but Gulliver seized the opportunity to tickle his nose a bit more intensely. He squeezed his eyes shut with breathy, desperate hitches, before sneezing twice more. “HhHheehshhhiihw!! Huh…hhHh- Hipp’schhhiieew!”

“Bless you twice, oh! Three!!”

“Hiisschhuw!!! Huhh…” he had such quiet sneezes, no matter how intense. It was easy to see how badly his nose tickled, and the desperate sneezes that left him sounded like they were working overtime to rid him of the tickle.

“How are we feeling, buddy?” Gulliver pulled away from his pink nose, marveling at the glowing clear and gold mucus connecting the limp feather to his nostril.

“I’m getting there, snff!! Gods, I’m such a mess…”

“Oh shush, you’re a pretty mess, Forthwind.”

“Watch yourself, Gulliver,” Ryfon’s ear flicked a few times lazily, “allergies, dude!”

“Oh right, sorr-!” Gulliver turned back to Forthwind, watching with slight awe as he tilted his head back. Both his nostrils were already pink from irritation, but the wetness gathered at their rims made them glow a comforting salmon color. Anyone with a curious bone in their body knew the gorgeous way skin and flesh illuminated against a bright light. So to see his wet nose and misty eyes do the same was mesmerizing.

“HHh..! Hiihhss- hhHHhit’s okay, it hh—! Heh- hHeh- heEH- HESSHhhiewh!! Helps…gods, snffFF!! Huhhh… this feels odd…”

“What, you want me to keep going?” It was a lousy attempt at sarcasm, sounding more like a genuine question at best and a poorly-hidden plea at worst. Forthwind had sneezed all over Gulliver’s lap, and was clearly still recovering, sluggishly wiping slick from his upper lip.

“Let’s say, cap it at three.”

“Three compliments or three sneezes?”

“Three compliments. Snff!!”

Gulliver, placing the feather down, genuinely sat back with thought. When he did, his form suddenly went rigid as his tail pressed against the aasimar’s crotch. He lifted his hips again and looked down over his shoulder, curiosity becoming sudden flattery. “Oh, hello there…”

Forthwind’s cheeks stained bright red as he huffed. “Ssuh…sorry, I uhm…you’ve just been on my lap like that the whole time, it’s hard not to get excited! I can’t control it much…”

“Oh I’m not upset, quite the opposite, I just want you to feel good because you deserve it~!”

“FuUhck y—ihh! Hhhihh…Hisschiiew!!” The compliments were already getting to him, he could tell by the static buzz raiding both his nostrils. He was so flushed, and he couldn’t tell if it was the high or the humiliation. He melted into the couch with a vocal whine as Gulliver teasingly smothered their hips together a few times. This stupid goblin was grinding on him and it was working, how embarrassing!

“Aww, don’t be shy! I’m flattered that me making you sneeze of all things is getting you worked up. You don’t mind me doing this, right?”

He demonstrated again, watching Forthwind shake his head with a bashful huff. “This is so stupid…you’re so stupid…”

“I’ll take the compliment! Ryfon, I need you for something. Get his arms over his head.”

“Come here, pretty thiiing,” Ryfon teased as he sat beside him, bringing his wrists upward.

“Hey—hHhRRSshhw!!” Forthwind could hardly get a word out before another sneeze winded him. “Don’t th—!! Don’t think you’re slick, you only get three as well, and that was one.”

“You have to give us a cap and everything,” Ryfon nodded, rolling his eyes. “You mind if I get handsy?”

“I feel like I’m getting spoiled—yeah go right ahead, what the hell…”

“Bet I could make him finish before my third compliment,” Gulliver chittered.

“Finish??” Forthwind echoed, peeking through his vestigialwings only for the goblin rocking on his lap to shrug. He couldn’t lie, if that was Gulliver’s goal, he was closer to achieving it than Forthwind would care to admit. Something about this snuff made all of his senses incredibly fussy and hypersensitive, and that was especially true on the spot Gulliver was so eagerly dry-humping, it didn’t help that Ryfon was busy spinning his white locks around his finger and playing with his nipple. 

When Forthwind would shift his hands in an attempt to rub his nose, the eladrin above him was quick to react, abandoning the tease temporarily to correct him. “Apapap! You keep these up here—hEY-!!”

Forthwind had scoffed, reaching up to tickle at Ryfon’s sides. He squirmed, too laggy to suppress a shriek of joy and a giggle. Only a momentary tease, Forthwind was, but the objective Ryfon demanded was understood and obliged.

Gulliver, quick as the wind, unzipped Forthwind’s fly for better access to his underwear. All of his work had already earned him a faintly-glowing wet spot. “I swear to the fey courts, when we’re done, I’ll be able to use your briefs to port a ship in the fog.”

Glowing sweat was beginning to bead his forehead like tiny twinkling stars.

“Real fallen—fallen angel over here,” Ryfon hummed dazedly, running his hands down his chest from above, “ff—feeling good down there?”

Forthwind tried to speak, but the warm dizziness of intoxication was making his words sluggish at best. He merely panted and nodded, leaning into Gulliver’s moving hips. Gods, what a great feeling. As he looked up, Ryfon watched him expectantly, prompting him to speak up. “Y—yeah…ffuck, I’m close…y’better have clothes I can borrow…”

“How could I not? I’ll let you…I’ll let you like, I’ll let you get in my pajamas bro, don’t even sweat it. Not like that, but like,”

“Ryfon read the room, I’m gonna bust from chucklefuck over here!!” Forthwind whimpered and lifted his knee, squirming under Gulliver again with a vocal whine. Ryfon stuck his tongue out teasingly. “So sensitive, noisy too. No wonder you got folks drooling over you all the damn time…”

A flash of betrayal ran across Forthwind’s face, quickly taken over by a few hitches. He tried his hardest to control his breath, which in itself was rendered impossible thanks to Gulliver bouncing on his stiff groin. How dare he, at his weakest moment! “Hh-hHHh! heEIISSHHhhiiw!!”

“Ohh, that was a big one for you,” Gulliver sang at the gentle sound that escaped him. It had no choice but to be completely open, sending glittery gold and glowing droplets across the front of his  own shirt. “You’ve got such a delicate sneeze, it’s genuinely the best one I’ve ever heard.”

“H-hHhcahHh’t…!” He warned, but couldn’t articulate before succumbing to a trembling gasp, “hHHIISSHHhhiiwh!!” A visceral sound, at least by Forthwind’s standard. He was so faded that he couldn’t tell where he just sneezed.

The noise following it was certainly not a sneeze, but a sharp cry of pleasure that ran from his core to his extremities. Ryfon’s grip on his wrists returned as he arched his back slightly. Gulliver was lifted up almost a foot from the motion, looking down in delight as the glowing spot he was grinding on grew twice as bright. The blissful afterglow was something he’d remember for weeks.

There was so much he could say about it all. He couldn’t find the words, at least, not fast. “…where was the third compliment…?”

“Fishing for them, are we??” Gulliver laughed, “I’m saving it for a rainy day.”

“…gods, I need a slice of pizza,” Forthwind finally sighed into the air. His finger pushed Gulliver in the chest, nudging him off his lap where he then tumbled onto the couch. “After that, you’re done for, Gully…”

“Yeah, you’ve only sneezed once since we started, you’ve got a lot of catching-up to do.”

“Aheh!! I’m not opposed. I’m starving too though…”

“Fuuuck, the anchovies,” Forthwind groaned in agony, “you better take a breath mint before we get back to it, you freak.”