Heyo JSE/ALTRverse community, you've heard of Sunspell, now get ready for Sunshotspell, in which Marvin both Deserves two boyfriends and Needs the Combined Worrying Power of two boyfriends to keep him from doing stupid shit that might get him killed. In which Chase and Sunday get along unexpectedly well and are each other's auxiliary brain cells and Marvin's only brain cells. In which Chase is a complete normie and constantly dazzled by his boyfriends' magical abilities. In which Sunday forces Chase and Marvin both to accept that they Deserve Good Things In Life.
Anyway who wants to read over 800 words I spontaneously vomited into a discord server of Sunday, Marvin and Chase being Somft and Cute. Anyone. Nobody. Ok
Summary: While Sunday didn't intend to get in on Marvin's plan, they go along with it because they trust him. But Marvin is beginning to make it clear that he's not going to fix his mistake.
Sunday's done giving him chances.
Words: 2,514
Other notes: Sunday uses they/them pronouns.
___
Marvin is absent once again on Thursday, leaving Sunday with a plan for their book heist.
The plan, in theory, is simple: Sunday will ask to use the restroom during class, sneak into the library, go past the librarian into the off-limits section, and steal the book. Alongside the title of the book, Marvin had written exactly where Sunday could find it and what it looks like. If everything goes according to plan, Sunday can smuggle the book back to class in their bag and take it home. That’s not accounting for the librarian keeping an eye on everyone who walks through the door, or a student or professor seeing them enter, or explaining why they took so long in the bathroom. A foolproof plan, Marvin had said.
They’d love to see him pull this off.
Really, Sunday should have said no and convinced Marvin to see one of the professors. They know that. And yet, when faced with Marvin promising that he’d fix it, they couldn’t do it. Marvin has pulled off what they previously thought was impossible, and he’s their friend! They trust him.
Caoimhe doesn’t mince her words this time. “Sick again?”
Sunday shrugs. “I haven’t a clue, the last time that I spoke to him was yesterday before we left.” Neither of them had planned on what to tell people who asked, but Sunday’s not sure if they can avoid the topic like Marvin can. Lying it is.
“I hope it’s not anything to do with yesterday at the library.” The word library makes Sunday’s heart skip a beat. “It all still seems odd. It’s not just me, right?”
“No,” Sunday replies, fiddling with their pencil. “But I wouldn’t think about it too much.”
There’s an emotion in Caoimhe’s gaze that Sunday can’t quite decipher, but she holds her gaze until the tardy bell rings. “Okay, I was just wondering.”
Nobody else is as inquisitive as her besides Sonja and Avery, who wave them over at lunch. They’re more accepting of Sunday’s “I don’t know,” than she is. Sonja launches into the most recent gossip when everyone is situated, but Sunday’s mind and heart are racing far too fast to pay attention. Besides an occasional “mhm” and “oh, wow,” thrown in, they don’t contribute much.
They make a small adjustment to the plan: instead of going to class and asking to be let out, Sunday heads toward the library straight after lunch. No need to explain their disappearance if they don’t show up in the first place. Sunday sneaks down the corridor, peeking their head through the library entrance. The librarian has her back to them while sorting through a stack of books. Their feet carry them through the entrance and behind a bookshelf on the far left wall, heart beating so loud it very well may beat straight out of their chest.
With shaking hands, Sunday takes the piece of paper from Marvin out of their uniform pocket, unfolding it slowly. They extend a finger to the page, shining a tiny light on the end of it to read better. Transmutation of Humans and Animals, shelf 15, up 6 rows, red cover, gold lettering. Sunday glances up at the number next to them. Shelf 4. That book isn’t going to take itself.
They pass the first two shelves just fine, their feet barely making any noise against the hardwood floor. There doesn’t seem to be anybody in the library except for them and the librarian. On one hand, that’s less people who can catch them and rat them out, but it also means that any noise Sunday makes is magnified by a thousand. The next two shelves take them dangerously close to the beginning of the restricted section.
Something that Sunday has never noticed before is how dark the latter half of the library gets. Perhaps it’s to complete the aesthetics of how off-limits the back of the library is, or maybe the Twins have fallen behind on upkeep, but the lights overhead are much dimmer than they are in the center of the room. The end of the path is basically pitch black. Raising their hand, they cast a golden glow, illuminating the way ahead of them.
Shelf 8, shelf 9, shelf 10…
“Boo.”
Sunday nearly jumps out of their skin. Next to them, Rory leans against a shelf, smirking by the light of a flame. “What’re you doing here?” they hiss, extinguishing their own light. The two of them share a single class, but they don’t know much about Rory otherwise.
“Seeing if Caoimhe was right.” He comes closer, close enough for the warmth of his flame to lap at Sunday’s face. “You and Marvin are up to something, aren’t you?”
“And why do you care?” Sunday crosses their arms, hoping that the wobble in their voice isn’t too noticeable.
“I don’t, I’m just here for fun. So, what’re we doing?”
“There’s no we-” They lean in, lowering themself perfectly to Rory’s eye level, “-and you need to leave before you get caught.” With a huff, Sunday creates a new light and backs away, trying to continue their plan. Beyond shelf 10 is the off-limits section, where Sunday unfortunately needs to be. Shelf 11, shelf 12…
“So, what’s up with Marvin?”
Eye twitching, Sunday turns and glares at Rory. “Nothing. Don’t you have a class to go to?”
“Nah, I’m trying to get a record for the most absences. Of course I have somewhere else to be, but this is more exciting.” By the light of his flame, Rory’s smirk is almost devilish.
“Rory…” There’s a million ways to end their sentence, most including profanities and insults, but Sunday sighs. “This doesn’t involve you. Just leave.” They turn again, counting the shelves as they pass them. Shelf 13, shelf 14…
Shelf 15.
The problem now is that there are technically multiple shelves in this row, and Sunday’s only seeing one of four. After quickly counting the rows of books, they fixate on row 6, which is high enough that Sunday has to crane their neck to read the titles. They extend their hand forward, keeping an eye out for a red cover with gold lettering. A book occasionally catches their eye, but when pulling it halfway off the shelf, it’s never the right one. Their arm begins to grow tired.
Another book catches their attention. Their finger hooks on the top of it, allowing it to fall halfway, reading the title. Magic of the Mind. Not what they need.
They try another book, lowering it to read the title. Still not the one they need. Onto the next shelf it is.
“Magic and Medieval Torture? Wow. I can’t believe you.”
“Shut up!” Sunday’s still whispering, but they’re louder than they intended, causing them to flinch. Rory jumps back, his flame going out.
They glance up, and just at the edge of their light, there’s a red book. Sunday wouldn’t give it their attention if not for the gold wrapped around the bottom. Marvin said that it would be on the sixth row, but it’s possible that it was put in the wrong spot, right? Raising themself on their tiptoes, Sunday shines their light on the book, seeing the ending of the title. Animals. It’s a match!
Now the difficult part is getting it down. Their fingers brush the bottom of the book, accidentally pushing it further back on the shelf.
“Mister Duke? Your books are ready at the desk, Sir.”
Oh no.
Sunday can’t leave without that book. Thinking fast, they put their hands out and mumble a levitation spell. Gold and silver twists out of their palms, lighting the way as it slowly lures the book off of the shelf. When it teeters on the edge of the shelf, Sunday tips the book downward, allowing it to fall into their arms. Transmutation of Humans and Animals. They slip it in their bag, hiding the title from Rory as best they can.
“Hello?”
Footsteps begin to click-clack across the floor, headed directly for them. Rory’s face has completely changed. Where he was once wearing a smug smirk, his eyes are wide and his cheeks are devoid of colour. He bolts in the other direction, his footfalls matching the loud thumping of Sunday’s heart. The librarian stops in her tracks.
Sunday has a chance to escape. They close their eyes tight and concentrate hard, hands clasping together.
Poof!
They're in the second floor bathroom now, staring at their wide-eyed reflection in the mirror, trembling slightly. Checking their bag, they find the book still tucked between some notebooks and folders. Sunday lets out a sigh of relief. Marvin had better be thanking me nonstop after this, they think. After actually using the bathroom and washing their hands, they slink down the hall toward their class.
“You.”
Sunday spins on their heel, spotting Rory halfway down the hall behind them. He strides forward and comes nearly nose-to-nose with them. Both are silent, waiting for the other to explain themself, Sunday reflexively putting a hand over their bag.
Then, Rory speaks. “Which one did you take?”
“That’s none of your business,” Sunday snaps. “Go to class.”
They leave a stunned Rory there, slipping into their classroom with barely an explanation besides there being a line outside of the bathroom. The book burns a hole through their bag the rest of the day. Rory gives them an odd look when they pass each other in the hallway, but Sunday tries to pay him no mind. At one point, Caoimhe also stares at them. But if Rory doesn’t know what book Sunday took, she has nothing to question them about besides being in the restricted section. Just as long as she doesn’t tell a professor before they leave school, they’re fine.
When Sunday goes to Marvin’s place, they can’t find him anywhere in the house. They aren’t sure how long the associates would have held Moira, but surely Marvin should be home by now. Moira also isn’t anywhere to be found, although her food bowls and some light scratching on the side of the couch marks her presence. Sunday opens the fridge and helps themself to a soda, approaching the window and peering outside the way their mum does sometimes. Movement in the garden piques their interest.
Exiting through the back door, Sunday steps onto the porch, finding both Marvin and Moira outside. Marvin sits on the edge of one of the planting boxes, watering can loosely held in hand, sprinkling water onto one of the rose bushes. Moira's sniffing at a different bush, swatting at any bugs she sees. Sunday walks down to join them in the backyard.
“I thought you're meant to wear gloves when gardening,” they joke, pointing at Marvin’s hands. There's now multiple bandaids scattered across either one, two on his right hand and three on his left.
“Oh yeah.” Marvin shrugs, chuckling and setting the can down. “So, did you get the book?”
“Yep, Rory was being a dick and almost got me caught, but I have it!” Reaching into their bag, Sunday pulls out the book, presenting it to Marvin proudly. He takes it from them.
“Thank you,” he says, holding the book out flat and closing his eyes, feeling its weight in his palms. “It’s bound to have something that can help. It feels powerful.”
Sunday sits down next to him, watching Moira try to escape the garden box but stopping. Her movements are strange, jerky, uncomfortable looking. They realize that she's wearing a leash, which leads to a clasp on the side of Marvin’s jeans. “Marvin, why's she wearing that?”
Marvin looks up from the book, following Sunday's gaze to the leash and attached collar. “Oh, well I thought she'd like to come and garden, too! But I didn't want her to hop over the wall and escape, so I picked that up for her. It took a few tries to get it on her. She's still fierce!” He wiggles his fingers, showing off his bandaids.
So he didn’t have a collar for her to wear before… Is he taking this seriously?
Marvin gets up, scooping Moira into his arms and carrying her back into the house. Sunday picks up the book that he left behind and follows after him. Coming through the door, they see him cracking a soda open with one hand and cradling Moira with the other. “Could you help me get her collar off?”
“Sure.” Sunday approaches him, raising a hand to allow Moira to sniff them the way Marvin does. After slowly petting her head, they reach for her collar and fiddle with the latch. Moira meows and squirms around. The latch makes a pop! and falls to the floor, but one of her claws hooks into their left hand. “Ow!”
The cat leaps from Marvin’s arms, scrambling onto the couch instead. She paws at one of the cushions, at least that’s what Sunday thinks at first, until Marvin lurches forward. “No no, wait, not the couch! Don’t claw the couch up, Mum’s gonna be so mad!”
It takes Sunday a second to react, their mouth falling open before they collect themself. “Mate, that is your mum.”
Marvin picks Moira up again, holding her close to him. “I know, but- you know what I mean.” He flicks his hand.
“Marvin, that’s enough.” Sunday holds the book in front of his face. “You said that you would try changing her back if I got this for you. You have it, now let’s try it.”
Marvin’s face twists up in a way they haven't quite seen before. His eyes harden, mouth flexing in and out of a snarl, and his cheeks going red. A chill runs down Sunday’s spine; they've had disagreements before, that comes with friendship. But they’re not sure they’ve seen him get this upset before.
He settles on a tight smile that stretches his lips thin. It's far worse than anything he could've said. “Relax, I’ll do it in a bit.”
“Why can't you just admit when you fuck up?” Sunday shouts, sending Moira flying out of Marvin's arms again for a safer place. “That's your mum! Is it so hard for you to accept help that you'd rather let her live like that?”
“It's not just me admitting that I fucked up, I could get expelled for this!”
Sunday’s eye twitches. “And that's more important than Moira to you?! Look, you either take her to the Magic Circle to change her back, or I will.”
Marvin’s breathing hard, magic sparking out of his fists, but he closes his eyes to try and soothe himself. “Get out. I don't want to see you right now.”
Sunday sighs, massaging the bridge of their nose. He’s still not listening. “I'm serious, mate.”
“Sure you are. Now get out.” Marvin doesn’t do anything else besides open his eyes to glare at them until Sunday’s shoulders slump in defeat. They head for the door, turning one last time to look at Marvin, then leave.
A new plan is already forming in their head.
___
Oh dear! Marvin you're going to get in so much trouble if this gets out. Oh wait... Also SUNDAYYYYYY c'mon man you should have known better. I love you so much but you need to grow a spine!
I don't know how to write people being happy... So I made a compromise with myself and had Marvin be sick, so then Moira (first) and Sunday (second) can come to his aid and make him a bit happier. Also Higgins is there being (un)helpful.
Also. I made myself hungry. Pot roast is good (and it cooks itself!). :>
(Also up on Ao3 under RottenFruitz)
“You should've called me, you're burning up!” Moira shook her head at the unseen but undoubtedly high number displayed on her thermometer.
Wow, I had no idea. Had it been anyone else, Marvin would have said that aloud. For Moira, he mumbled, "You didn't have to come over."
To that, she snorted. "Not like it's my job or anything. Can you stand?"
No. No he could not. "I'm a man, I can get m'own medicine."
"And end up crawling back to your bed?"
"Ah… well…" That was an accurate assessment of how Marvin handled debilitating sickness. Grumbling half-legible rebuttals, he sank further into bed. Perched on his chest as he had been since daylight broke, Higgins purred, the noise going steady like the hum of a generator. The cat seemed to think he was helping but the extra body heat was the last thing Marvin wanted.
He was scalding hot, sweaty, and mouthbreathing as he lay on top of his duvet. Every now and then be broke into a fit of wet, choking coughs or was seized by several sneezes in a row. What had been the sniffles yesterday was now a full-blown, disabling flu. Or something like that. Maybe Moira had told him otherwise and he hadn't heard or forgotten.
“You need is rest,” Moira chided him, "Which means you stay in this bed until you're feeling better."
"All day? I'll go mad."
"You will be if I find out you've not listened to me."
Marvin hesitated. "Yeah, I will be."
He'd only told Sunday he was ill, and had only meant for Sunday and his friends to know, but he must have sounded seconds from keeling over if the news had gotten to Moira anyway. Did one of them have her phone number? That was a little disconcerting for a reason he couldn't place. That, or they'd just gone to his mum's house, and he didn't feel better about that, either.
Moira said something about getting him medicine and water. Marvin wasn't really listening. His brain, currently cooking in its own immune response, was struggling to keep up its usual activities, and he had all but used up its computing space with that single conversation and the following bit of thinking. Moira left and she could have been gone for a minute or an hour, but when she returned, she spooned Marvin two different medicines, set a glass of cool water on his nightstand, and kissed him on the forehead.
(Then, at the cat's insistence, she gave Higgins a kiss, too.)
“You should feel less shitty in a little while,” Moira stood, "I'll be on my way, now. You get some rest like I said."
“M'kay…” Marvin said. “Thanks.”
“That’s what parents are for." She squeezed his hand, stood, and left him with one more message: "A friend is coming over to check on you later, so if you've been getting out of bed"—she narrowed her eyes—"I'll know."
Marvin sighed, then all but coughed up a lung. When he was finished, he whispered through a sore throat, "Yes ma'am."
Whatever Moira had given him, it knocked him out within the hour. With Higgins as his mildly weighted blanket, he drifted in and out of sleep for all the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon. Once or twice a noise roused him, but he was never cognizant enough to register that he was awake, or that someone might be pressing a hand against his forehead and asking him how we was doing, or that he was answering in deeply slurred words. It all felt like one long, lurid dream where his bedroom sometimes spontaneously appeared.
(It would take hindsight for him to realize it wasn't all a dream, and to realize who some of those dreams were about.)
It wasn't until mid-afternoon when his medicine wore off that Marvin started staying up for more than a few minutes at a time.
By the time he was wide awake, able to push himself up in bed, Higgins was gone.
Coughing and wheezing, he fumbled for the bottles Moira had left for him beside his bed and gave himself what seemed like an appropriate dose from both. The bitter taste was washed down with a cup of water. With that done, he tried to follow his orders—don't get up, except to take a piss or eat—but he was stir crazy and wanted to get away from the cocoon of sweat he'd made for himself. He had to move around, wander, cast a spell, something. It was one thing to be curled up with a book, snug in his bed of his own free will, but the second someone or something forced stillness upon him he got twitchy.
So, when he got sick, he usually slept as much as he could get away with, but his oppressive body heat and inflamed nose yet to be quelled by his second medicine dose. That wasn't an option.
Well, the thermostat wasn't in his bedroom, that was a good enough excuse to get up. And he could top off Higgins' food and water while he was at it.
It took a while for Marvin to peel himself off his bed. Once he was up, he meandered out to his living room. He opened his mouth to call for Higgins, and instead ended up sputtering: “Sunday?”
Sunday was in his kitchen. A pot of beef stew was boiling strong, an electric kettle was just beginning to heat up, and he was rifling through the cabinets. Higgins was up on the counter, curled into a loaf and watching the pot with hungry eyes. Sometimes the cat gave Sunday a quick glance, like he was weighing up how likely it was that he could get the lid off, steal a bite, and dart under the couch before he was caught.
Upon hearing his name, Sunday stopped his search to give Marvin a disapproving frown. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
“Oh, so you were—I just—I expected you'd check in and leave.”
“I have been, but I thought you'd want dinner, and…" Sunday gestured at Higgins, "…he was hungry. I can leave now, though. Stew beef basically cooks itself and it's almost done."
Marvin considered that. "No I'm—I'm fine. With you staying, I mean."
“Alright. Well, sorry if I woke you up coming through the front door,” Sunday continued speaking, “Your spice cabinet didn't have what I needed, for one thing. Had to pop out and get some things.”
“I don't have a spice cabinet.” What he had was salt and pepper.
Sunday grimaced. “Exactly.” He paused. "You headed for the living room?”
"Yeah." It was only then Marvin realized he was winded. Ugh. He'd rather not have Moira coming around and spooning him medicine like he was five years old, but she'd at least seen (almost) all the rough edges he had to offer. It was different with Sunday.
"Figured as much. Let me get you before you keel over." Sunday came closer, and rather than offer a shoulder to lean on like Marvin expected he would, put on hand on his back. "Hold on to me."
"Why?" Marvin realized what was happening too late. Not that he could have done anything about it anyway, he'd had the build and muscle mass of a stickbug before this, now he must be even lighter from sweating all his water weight into his bed. It was an (embarassingly) proven fact that, whether with magic or by physical force, he was not a hard man to lift clear off the floor. “Don’t you dare”—
“Too late!” Sunday swept Marvin's feet out from under him, lifted him up bridal style.
Marvin, foreseeing himself plummet to the floor and break a bone, clung on to Sunday as he'd been asked. “Put me down!”
“And let you fall? That'd only embarrass you more.”
Marvin prayed his face wasn't as red as it felt. “The second I get better Sunday, I”—
“As long as you wait until you’re better first.” Sunday set him down on the couch and grinned. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"
Marvin harrumphed at him.
Someone had anticipated Marvin would go nuts in his room, because there were pillows and a blanket arranged neatly on the couch already. As Marvin set about ruining it (i.e. getting comfortable), Higgins jumped onto his lap the moment the space was available, crushing his stomach beneath his soft paws in a quest to get comfortable. With Higgins help, the blankets became a cushion-y, wrinkled pile hanging halfway off the couch.
Should I say thanks? He didn't feel particularly thankful. But he also didn't feel horrible, even though he was warmer than before and also no closer to his thermostat.
“When’s lunch done?” he asked instead.
“Soon. Sooner if you don't mind tough beef. I can make you a little hot cocoa while you wait, if you’re hungry, though.”
“Sure,” Marvin said. He shrank into the couch, suddenly aware of how sore he was.
A deep ache wormed through his muscles, down to his bones, and trying to hobble into the kitchen hadn’t helped matters. Half of him wanted to pace to distract himself from it, the other half said to sink into the couch and never resurface. At least his medicine was slowly working its way through him. (Or he'd placebo-effected himself into thinking that was the case.)
Every time he recovered from an illness he was quick to forget how miserable being sick was.
It felt like this would be his life now.
Forever.
“Oi. I see you wallowing over there,” Sunday chided him as he set down a steaming cup of chocolate milk on the couchside table.
“M'not wallowing,” Marvin said.
“Suuure.” Sunday gestured towards the drink. “Drink up.”
The heat of the cup eased his soreness a little. He sat with it in his hands, relishing its warmth for a while before taking a sip. “It’s good,” he said, “And I… I was wallowing. A little.”
“Only a little?” Sunday asked as he retreated into the kitchen.
Marvin didn’t reply to that. “How long have you been here? Coming in and out, I mean?”
“Only been in a few times.”
“Oh. Well, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The sound of the pot lid being removed drifted from the kitchen alongside a mouthwatering smell. "Yeah this is almost good. Let me know if you need anything else."
Marvin asked for the heat to be turned down, and with that finished, silence settled over them, filled only by Higgins purring, then by the TV after Marvin couldn’t bear the quiet. Marvin wondered whether Sunday found it uncomfortable.
Should he have asked him to stay? Surely he had better things to do than keeping Marvin from going stir crazy. And, as it stood, Marvin was a health hazard. There had to be reasons Sunday had spent most of his time coming and going instead of here, and it felt odd to override those. Higgins had needed to be fed though and Marvin definitely couldn't have done that as he was.
One episode of some crime drama passed by surprisingly fast, and dinner was done.
Higgins knew it before Marvin did. He'd been watching Sunday every time he got up for signs he was going to the kitchen, and once he started taking out bowls for the stew, the cat darted across the floor to circle the man's ankles, begging for food as he came out of the kitchen with two bowls. Successfully charmed by his fuzzy round face, Sunday flung him a strip of beef after setting the food down on little couchside table.
Marvin shook his head. “You're spoiling him. Now he'll be insufferable."
Higgins inhaled the entire chunk of stew beef, tenderized by six hours of boiling in soup. When he was done, he licked his chops and sat by Sunday again, this time looking up at him with dinner plate-sized, I would die for you (so please feed me again!) eyes.
Marvin took a bite of his stew.
Damn, and so would I.
“Good, right?” Sunday was back on the armchair, attention split between Marvin and Higgins, who was poised to jump into his lap.
“It’s great, yeah.” Marvin paused. It went on for too long, and a little embarrassed that he didn’t say it before, hurried to add, “Thanks.”
"Of course it is, that's my mum's recipe."
They returned to silence, and Marvin alternated between being convinced it was awkward and thinking it was companionable. Sometimes they burst into fits of vibrant conversation for however long that lasted before drifting into quiet. Together, they burned through one third of a TV show they'd been meaning to watch, a few video essays, and a few bowls of stew beef, at which point it was getting dark, and Sunday wanted to go home. It was one of the first times Marvin had blown through a sick day so fast without the use of sleep.
It was nice.
A sick day—nice. What an oxymoron.
"Well…" Sunday stood and made a show of stretching, "It's about time I take my leave. Will you be alright here?"
I will be if you can carry me back to bed.
Marvin opened his mouth and hesitated. "I can get to bed on my own. But, yeah, I appreciate you for feeding the cat and all that."
Sunday grinned at him. "That's what friends are for. I'll see you around."
He watched Marvin head to his room, then started leaving when it seemed like he'd make it safely.
Marvin was left to crawl into bed, top off his medicine, and get as cozy as he could manage as he listened for the sound of Sunday leaving and locking the door behind him.
Once the other magician was gone, some little thrill that'd wormed into his heart died, and left behind a ghost—a notion that he'd messed something up.
Hm.
Being sick wouldn't be so bad if Sunday came over every time.
