It felt odd to have his days filled with very little responsibility. He still cared for the girls, still kept the atelier clean, still cooked meals, and still ran necessary errands, but without their magic at full capacity it was quite difficult to teach. So he tries other lessons: cooking, gardening, cleaning, music, public speaking, mathematics, literature...
Still, it doesn't take up as much time as he'd like. So many from his world arrived so close together, and his home is filled with more noise than it has been for months. He's cooking for multiple again. He's doing extra loads of laundry. The washroom fills up with muck and must be scrubbed more frequently now. It's something he didn't quite realize he missed until it happened.
But outside of that... there were no Wises here, there was no Knights Moralis, no Pact, no Brimmed Caps. They were free to do as they pleased. He's only ever known living under the thumb of the Pact and those that enforce it, even living so far out into the countryside.
Olruggio has plans tonight. He had invited Qifrey along, and Qifrey had pleasantly shot the offer down. He had little interest in drinking and dancing among strangers; Olruggio was always the partier of the two, much more people-driven than he lets on. If no one needs me and a tree falls in the path no one even takes, do I even exist? is something he once recalled his friend saying. Qifrey expected Olruggio to go out, to have fun.
What he did not expect was Olruggio to bodily haul him out of the atelier, insisting that it's about time he stop holing himself up here every day. That hidden strength in his shoulders was always surprising, and always reignited an uncomfortable churning in his guts.
It's a club situated just off of the boardwalk in the Golden ward. They're seated at the bar, Olruggio's already a few drinks in, and neither of them have had to spend a single bit of dust. For whatever reason, the men crowding around them are insisting on purchasing their drinks for them. It's loud in here, from the music and people talking. And cramped. He hates cramped. It smells like spirits and something else sickly-sweet. The lights are dim, save for flashing neon strobes that would be like a lance through his skull were he to remove his spectacles.
His face feels warm, but he's not quite as drunk yet. There is a man talking to him but he's not paying much attention to what he's saying, instead laser-focused on the man that's currently speaking to his friend. Who has his hand on Olruggio's arm, is sliding it up his elbow. A vicious, ugly feeling rises up in him. His gaze darts away and he downs the last of his current glass.
"Pardon me," he murmurs to the man speaking to him, then turns to Olruggio. He dares to reach out and tap his shoulder to grab his attention. "Olly."
It's either the alcohol, the jealousy, stupidity, or all three that makes him say, or rather demand: "Dance with me."
@witchful-eye