Mahogany and Teakwood

Chapter 8: Iris

and i'd give up forever to touch you

cause i know that you feel me somehow

January passed in a blur of resumed classes and the start of Virgil's new job.

Then in a blink it was March, and he spent the week of spring break working as many hours as the quaint little witchy shop would give him. He enjoyed the quiet atmosphere, the clinging scent of nag champa incense in his clothes. It made coming home to mahogany and teakwood and longing more bearable.

Virgil's first true Florida summer passed in a similar blur, and another semester began in August. He signed up for painting classes with a balding, opinionated professor who insisted they mix their own black paint instead of buying it. But his hyper-realistic, Dali-esque paintings were so breathtaking that Virgil wanted to learn everything he could from the man—weird paint habits and all.

Before he knew it, Halloween night had arrived, and Virgil stood in the kitchen while pouring candy into a black plastic bowl covered in grinning orange pumpkins.

He'd sunk quite a bit of newly earned money—and spare time—into a spectacular vampire costume: white frilly shirt, white face, blood-red lips, maroon gloves, classy black vest, and a long, black, crimson-lined cape into which he'd sewn lines of white stitching. He was rather proud of the result, if he did say so himself.

"Logan, where's that other bag of Milky Ways?" he called out, poking around in the fridge. One of his fake fangs worked its way loose again as he spoke, causing him to grumble and spit it out.

Stupid thing, he thought as he fixed it.

Silence from Logan's room. The half-faery had been holed up in there most of the day, working on some project as usual.

Virgil had discovered last year that Logan was, as he himself had put it: "disinclined to cater to the ridiculous commercial aspects of an otherwise serious seasonal celebration", but Halloween had always been Virgil's favorite "human" holiday. The cosplay, the spooky aesthetic...sure, the idea of knocking on strangers' doors sent his anxiety through the roof, but he was too old to be expected to participate in that aspect of the night. Virgil was happy to be the immaculately dressed adult at the door, scowling and scary and waiting for the magic words.

Social interaction was so much easier with a script to follow.

Virgil sighed, adjusted his cape, and marched down the hall.

It had gotten easier, in a year's time, to approach the half-faery's room. They talked more, now, and Logan took them stargazing at least once a month. He had to assume Logan at least tolerated his presence, maybe even cared a little. That had to be enough. Virgil still feared intruding into the half-faery's life more than he already had.

It was fine.

Logan was an independent person; Virgil liked his space; neither of them were the sort to sit down and just ramble about things. Christmas had been an exception, not the rule. That didn't stop Virgil from remembering soft evening light every time he walked into the living room, or tasting faery rum, or hearing Logan confess that those lovely, full lips had never been kissed...

Virgil shook himself out of his head and knocked on Logan's door.

"Come in," came the half-faery's voice from the other side.

Virgil entered and came to an abrupt halt.

"What?" Logan straightened in his chair and adjusted his unusually loose tie. The half-faery wore a long sleeved black dress shirt, open over a gray undershirt, but what made Virgil stop and stare was the tall, painted foam...hat?...helmet?...thing on Logan's head.