an apothecary who lives alone at the edge of town bc a lot of the townsfolk find his gruff and taciturn manner very intimidating - he almost never says a word, and they're sure he must be very powerful

and a man comes to town because he wants to come home and look after his father, a carpenter, and help him work because he's getting on in years

keeps showing up at the apothecary's to ask him for gels and potions and such for his father, little remedies

but he lingers, too.

watches the apothecary work and praises him for how skilled his hands are, how neatly organised everything is, how fine it all looks

the apothecary never replies, but he seems to listen, and the carpenter's son likes to talk

and he doesn't like the idea of no one talking to the apothecary, because he doesn't strike him as frightening at all, and he's quite agreeable really, and very good at his work

weeks go by and the carpenter's son visits almost every evening - he makes tea for the apothecary and watches him work and chatters about the village gossip, which he loves to keep up with

the apothecary never tells him to leave - or points to the door - and it's a routine

one day, he comes to the apothecary frantically cleaning up broken glass, his hands cut, and he grabs him by the wrists and pulls him to his basin, washing away the blood and taking out the glass

"I'll pick it up for you," he says. the apothecary stares at his face.

the carpenter picks out the dry ingredients that can be salvaged and brushes up all the glass jar remnants - one of the apothecary's shelves had come off its moorings.

"not to worry," he says. "I'll make something sturdier for you - do you like them being up there?"

the apothecary watches the carpenter's face, raises his eyebrows in question.

"well," the carpenter explains, "you've to reach up for these, yeah? but there's space here for another unit of shelves, easier to reach."

The apothecary nods.

"I'll do that then - on me!"

the apothecary shakes his head.

"Call it a gift for a friend," says the carpenter. "you've done a good deal of work gratis for me, haven't you? same for each of us."

the carpenter starts talking about something else, then, about a scandal between the blacksmith's daughter and--

"oh," says the carpenter. the apothecary is standing very close, closer than ever before. he smells sweetly chemical. "how--"

The apothecary kisses him roughly, possessively, is already shoving him back into the bedroom. baffled and delighted, the carpenter lets him.

afterward, exhausted and a little bruised and very satisfied in the apothecary's bed, the carpenter says, "I didn't know you were going to do that."

The apothecary smirks and shrugs his shoulders, and makes too get up, but the carpenter pulls him down again.

"Let's just lie here a while," he says softly. "do you mind?"

The apothecary glances to the door, hesitates, but then he nods his head and curls closer.

they doze for a while in the afternoon warmth.

the carpenter's son sleeps at the apothecary's, some nights. if his father notices, he doesn't mention it.

he does mention that he's been friendlier and friendlier with the man, and that everyone in town is frightened of him.

"he's not so scary," says the son. "just quiet."

"does it bother you?" he asks one morning, still undressed, because the apothecary likes his body, studies him whenever he's naked, and it makes the carpenter feel warm even when the air is cool. "not talking?"

The apothecary shakes his head.

"never?"

another shake.

"did you used to talk? when you were a kid?"

another shake of the head. the apothecary is smiling idly, rocking in his chair.

"can you?"

the apothecary thinks for a moment, then shrugs. shakes his head.

"well, you moan. tongue seems in good working order."

a chuckle.

"you can read, right? and write?"

the apothecary looks at him, and then to the rows of books on the shelves. he hesitates, like he's scared to hurt his feelings, but then he nods.

"that's amazing," the carpenter murmurs. "they look so small for everything they have in them."

some nights, the carpenter will lay over the apothecary's lap or lay his head against his shoulder as the apothecary reads.

The apothecary will study the page, all those little black symbols, and turn the pages, and lean into the carpenter as he does so.

the carpenter tries to make sense of the letters, the symbols, but they're as foreign to him as the stars - sometimes, he examines the carefully penned illustrations and etchings, the ones that show certain herbs or brewing processes.

sometimes, the apothecary taps the page.

magic, enchantment, are both beyond the carpenter's son, but he is still left in wonder, breathless, whenever the apothecary brings a page to life, so that the herbs shift in an invisible breeze, so that a cauldron bubbles, or a potion is stirred.

the carpenter does build the apothecary a new set of shelves. he builds him a new table, too, when he realises that the apothecary has cards under two of its legs to keep it from being too rickety.

after one particularly enjoyable evening, he builds the apothecary a new bed.

the apothecary doesn't usually come into town. because he serves as town pellar, much of his pantry comes as payment from the locals, fruit or vegetables in exchange for remedies, and he purchases his books from travellers who know to stop at his shop.

he has stepped foot in the tavern only to set the ankle of the tavernmaster's youngest, and once to attend to his dog when the animal was poorly.

When the carpenter leads him inside, he keeps his head low, but people still turn to stare at him.

the carpenter, cheerful and in defiant good spirits, claps him on the back and orders for the both of them.

the apothecary and the tavernfolk are each wary of the other, and the carpenter's son seems ignorant of both.

when the carpenter tells him the story of the first time he made a sled and tried to ride it, only for it to crumble under his weight in the snow, those in the tavern see, for the first time, their apothecary laugh.

the tension eases like calm air after a storm.

the apothecary groans sharply one morning when the carpenter is on his way out, and the carpenter sees the window is leaking again.

"I can--"

the apothecary is already fixing it, daubing a foam over the crack and heating it under his palm 'til it seals in place.

"--fix that," says the carpenter, and the apothecary sighs, gesturing to the house at large. "just a few cracks here and there," he says. "it's an old house - it was built before my dad was born. you've inherited the wear and tear."

the apothecary regards him wryly.

"I'll build you a new one," says the carpenter.

The apothecary is quiet for a moment, but then he leans in, tugs the carpenter to kiss him. He tugs disapprovingly at his beard.

"You love it," says the carpenter.

the apothecary clucks his tongue and shoves him toward the door.

"you going to take up with that witch, then," says the carpenter when his son works alongside him that night.

"you think I'm neglecting my work?" asks his son idly.

"think you're neglecting him, going between one house and t'other."

"want rid of me?"

"You snore."

the son laughs, and the old man smiles, pats the table. they return to work alongside one another.

they start the new house come spring.

FIN.

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