Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Fabrisse had once wished his fellow students would no longer call him The Chosen One or Wet Goblin behind his back. Today, his wish had been granted.

Unfortunately, they had simply come up with something worse.

“Oh look. It’s the petal hugger!” Someone stage-whispered from under the shade of the east archway as he walked past the campus courtyard.

“I heard he has problems with uncontrolled touching of other people,” another voice chimed in from a study table in a tone full of genuine concern. “One time he even tried to touch Archmagus Rolen’s nose!”

“That’s just a baseless rumor,” came the sage reply. “You can’t touch Archmagi’s noses without permission.”

It was almost like they’d made sure to make him hear it.

Fabrisse didn’t stop walking. He didn’t run, either. That would’ve been worse. He just marched stiffly, past the ivy-covered lecture hall, past the dew court, past the group of girls fanning themselves with spellwork notes as they tried—and failed—not to laugh too loudly.

“Did you see how he held her? Right in the middle of the sanctified basin spiral. I almost cried.”

One girl caught sight of him as he passed, and instead of whispering, actually jumped to her feet and whistled with both fingers in her mouth.

“You’re the best!” she called. “We ship you!”

Fabrisse’s face turned seven different shades of no-thank-you.

Great. Now I’m a walking romance subplot.

From somewhere behind him, another voice shouted, “Give her a spin next time, petal hugger!”

He broke into a jog.

Fabrisse didn’t stop until he’d put three courtyards, one spirit fountain, and a very judgmental statue of Archmagus Draeth (the father of the current Archmagus Draeth) between him and the last shout.

Only then did he duck behind the old glasshouse near the east arboretum—a place no one visited anymore because it smelled of overripe mingleberry and moldy incense. The vines had swallowed the bulk of the greenhouse wall, but there was still a small bench beneath one warped windowpane. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the novel{f}ire.net

He collapsed onto it with a sigh, hands braced on his knees. His ears were still hot. His dignity was probably being held hostage in some group glyphchat.

“Okay,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “Fine. You know what? Let’s see what all that panic-hugging got me.”