02-12-2026, 05:06 PM
Probably Jude’s awkward, tight-lipped guffaws should rankle him, but fuck it, Near decides. He’s going to take it as a point instead. Because, you know what? Jude should laugh. Near is funny. Near is charming and personable and as likeable as anyone can be when trying to conduct a conversation at two in the morning with someone who can’t answer a straightforward question but might fuse him to the furniture if he gets bored.
“I think two wizards are better than one” is cute but does very little to clarify what such a duo might be better for. Not that it’s anything more than rhetorical, since Near is not, in fact, a wizard, a sorcerer, a shaman, an esper, or anything else. Surely only one of either of these things would be required to perform most day-to-day tasks … And it certainly seemed as if whatever Jude has mistaken for wizardry on Near’s part interfered with his goal of slowly murdering Near, so perhaps two wizards in fact cancel each other out.
He snatches one of the Modelos and bumps the fridge shut with his elbow. Jude and booze mixed spectacularly poorly the last time he sampled the combo, but those were different circumstances: he’d been a few days into Daddy’s wine cellar at that point, tipsy and agitated by Jude’s Judeness. Now he is inured to the latter, divested of the former, and merely in need of something to sand the edges off. After brief consideration, he decides that if Jude wants one, he can ask.
Midway through peeling down the stupid gold foil, the thought catches again. Sticks this time. “Oh, shit,” he says mildly, setting the bottle down. “Hold on.”
It’s in the box closest to the bathroom, on the top. Box in a box. The lawyer handed it off to him with the rest of the paperwork, and he completely forgot it existed until he had to pack it away.
“Does …” (extended pause as he rifles through the contents, finds the envelope) “L.N. Dyer in … Nevada … mean anything to you?”
“I think two wizards are better than one” is cute but does very little to clarify what such a duo might be better for. Not that it’s anything more than rhetorical, since Near is not, in fact, a wizard, a sorcerer, a shaman, an esper, or anything else. Surely only one of either of these things would be required to perform most day-to-day tasks … And it certainly seemed as if whatever Jude has mistaken for wizardry on Near’s part interfered with his goal of slowly murdering Near, so perhaps two wizards in fact cancel each other out.
He snatches one of the Modelos and bumps the fridge shut with his elbow. Jude and booze mixed spectacularly poorly the last time he sampled the combo, but those were different circumstances: he’d been a few days into Daddy’s wine cellar at that point, tipsy and agitated by Jude’s Judeness. Now he is inured to the latter, divested of the former, and merely in need of something to sand the edges off. After brief consideration, he decides that if Jude wants one, he can ask.
Midway through peeling down the stupid gold foil, the thought catches again. Sticks this time. “Oh, shit,” he says mildly, setting the bottle down. “Hold on.”
It’s in the box closest to the bathroom, on the top. Box in a box. The lawyer handed it off to him with the rest of the paperwork, and he completely forgot it existed until he had to pack it away.
“Does …” (extended pause as he rifles through the contents, finds the envelope) “L.N. Dyer in … Nevada … mean anything to you?”