An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts

The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
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Cal drove a really small Japanese-made car, and Michael always felt way too tall for it during the occasional rides he was afforded in it.

Still, Michael wasn't one to complain, his own stupidity had grounded his poor car in Maryland. He had condemned himself to relying on the kindness of strangers whenever possible.

"So where too?"

Snapping out of his latest daydream about Ian, Micheal turned his head slightly. "Hmm?"

"Where too?" Cal repeated. "Where do you want to go? Anywhere in particular you want to chow down?"

"Something with a lot of calories," Michael chuckled. He was half expecting Cal to turn off into the nearest fast food joint.

"Diner food it is," was the answer. And Cal turned off at the nearest diner, instead.

Diners these days were just as cookie-cutter as fast food chains, but at least they still had some dignity about their food. The restaurant Cal brought them to fit this pretty well.

And they were still serving breakfast. "Well, there's your high calorie count, Mike."

Making a mental note of where the place was so he could come back sometime, Michael ordered the first thing his eyes actually saw on the menu. He wasn't too picky, really, and water was quite good enough for drinking purposes.

"So," Cal cracked his knuckles, his hands resting on the table, "How goes the swimming?"

One thing Michael liked about Cal, he fit into the category of people who didn't immediatly think "Olympics" when talking about swimming with him. "Same as always, same water, different day, more laps, smaller breaks."

Cal found this amusing, his own coach was likely not as insane as Bob was, but probably had a magnitude of roughness all the same. "Tell me about it, man."

The waitress came back unseen until she was right at their table and laying their drinks down, promising she'd be back soon with food in tow. Michael took his watch off, not wishing to bang it off the plates, and drank half the glass of water in one fell gulp, he hadn't noticed how thirsty his little double workout had actually left him.

When Cal went for his orange juice, he took a swig and, setting it down, ended up clunking the glass into Michael's watch sitting on the table. The poor timepeice toppled right off and bounded on the floor. "Shit, my bad."

"It's just a cheap six-dollar jobbie," Michael waved him off, bending over to pick it up. It did have sentimental value, but he wasn't about to say that...Ian had picked it up for him in Athens.

When Michael sat back up, Cal was leaning halfway over the table, apparently intent on standing up so he could bend down and reach it himself, but with that job done, he simply sat back down.

Micheal finished off his glass of water and asked for a refill before he even dug into the obnoxiously large breakfast brought to him. Diners had portion size over fast food any day of the week, that was for sure.

"Any plans for the rest of the day?" Cal asked around a mouthful of pancakes. Once he swallowed, he added, "I know I'm not the most exciting company in the world, but I wonder if you feel as hollow as I do without classes at the moment."

"Yeah, I kinda do," Micheal said. "I feel like I should be burning myself out...don't really have much time for anything before I hit the pool again, though."

"Hey, hit me up if you need some adventure," Cal chuckled.

Micheal didn't hear him. He'd been busy pounding the ice water again, but as he swallowed, he felt something...wrong.

The water was fine. It went to his stomach fine. The problem was elsewhere, and it didn't take long to figure out the tightness in his chest wasn't a good thing. For the breifest of moments, he was terrified that it was a sudden, random, completely non-sensical heart attack, but each time he took a breath, it became more and more apparent that such was not the case.

And being human, Michael tried to deny to himelf that anything was wrong for as long as he could. Like he'd denied to himself for years that he liked guys, and how after that, he'd denyed to himself for awhile that he really liked Ian Crocker.

Drowning; Michael felt like he was drowning. He had never, ever actually come close to it in the pool, but he'd swallowed water and choked on it plenty, and this felt a lot like that.

But worse. Every breath was like another choke just like that, slowly but surely making it harder to breath. If he didn't know better, he wanted to think that his lungs were filling up with fluid. While he could still inhale and exhale most of his usual lung capacity, he quickly stood up. "Excuse me...be right back."

Just like that, he made for the men's room as fast as he felt inconspicuous doing. There were a few possibilities here, and Michael hoped beyond hope, even as his breathing became labored and inhaling turned into gasping, that it was just something in his head.

Fortunately, there was no one in the bathroom, so Michael took to collapsing against the sink counter and he started instinctually coughing. "Christ, what the hell..."

Nothing came up, and it was getting worse. With his breathing so labored he had to hold the counter for support, so close to passing out because his lungs couldn't get nearly as much oxygen as they should've, he raised one hand in front of his face and turned it so the palm was only a few inches away from his mouth.

Unable to think of anything to do but hold what was left of his breath, Michael opened his mouth like he was going to kiss his hand, but his hand stayed still.

In his mind's eye, he reached down his throat, down the windpipe and into each lung, finding the liquid that didn't belong, and once he had a grip on it, he pulled.

The hand in front of his faced moved back slowly, and after only about an inch, Michael could taste something bitter, like water with salt mixed in.

He felt it a second later, a stream of water from his lungs slowly pulling out of his mouth as he moved his hand further away, straight and suspended in the air like a tape worm being removed.

Except the water didn't make a straight line nearly as long as a tapeworm, and after about two feet, the last of it snapped out of Michael's mouth like an elastic band, sending him into a coughing fit of epic proportions as he caught his breath again.

That left the water floating in midair above his hand, shaped like a small sphere so he could get a better look at it once he could breath normally again, convincing himself that he wasn't sufficating anymore. The liquid was thicker than water should have been, he could tell that much, but the fact that he could manipulate it by waving his hand meant it was still water.

"Well, if that's not magic," Michael raised an eyebrow, fully aware of how close he'd just come to clinically drowning on this stuff. This was no accident, certainly not swalling down the wrong hole. The water was enchanted in a very, very nasty way, a way to kill him if it had worked. He guessed only a small portion of it was originally the enchanted part, and the point of the magic was for it to sit in his lung and draw more water in from the rest of his body.

And right there, figuring all of this out, it hit Micheal like a brick falling from a building; someone tried to kill him. Water didn't enchant itself or try to kill people on it's own, after all.

But how stupid was it to try assasinating a water mage with water? Sure, if he hadn't realzied what was happening, he'd be dead by now, but it hadn't been hard to figure out and, in the end, he was skilled enough to not have to have worried about pulling it right out...Lenny would've been proud, he hoped.

But that didn't change the facts. A stupid attempted murder was still an atempted murder, and unlike the crazier fans who were hypothetically borderline physically dangerous, Michael couldn't just ask to use the phone and call the cops.

Someone was trying to kill him, and he'd never bothered to find other magi in town to associate with, people who could've helped him.

Letting the tainted water drop into the sink, Michael wiped his mouth on his sleeve and strutted out back to their table, trying despretely to look like nothing bad had happened.

Cal was so engrossed in his meal that he was slightly surprised. "Micheal! Sorry, you took so long I almost forgot you were around..."

"S'alright," Michael said. He dropped some cash on the table as soon as the waitress brought them the check. "We should get going...to tell you the truth, I'm not feeling all that well...and, y'know, getting sick's a big drama when it happens to me."

"Oh, uh," Cal almost seemed surprised. "Understandable...hey, if you want to pay, you're the boss."

Getting one last use of his napkin, Cal stood and followed Michael out. The drive back to his place was completely silent until the driveway, when Cal finally said something. "Are you alright? You seem kinda...spooked."

"No, no, I'm fine," Michael insisted. In reality, he was looking everywhere, constantly searching for a person he might've seen elsewhere today, or someone just looking at him funny. It was hard, because people would recognize him all the time and give him weird looks, and now, he didn't know if some of those weird looks was something much more sinister. "Really, I just need to lie down."

Michael didn't lie down when he got inside. He locked the door, and then he locked all the windows before checking every room, just to be sure. It was quite obvious that he was being paranoid, Michael realized this of himself, but in being paranoid, he was also being cautious.

Lenny had warned him something like this might happen. But it also might've happened if he'd never bothered training his innate talent with water into a skill, he had the natural ability much more than most.

For at least knowing what was going on, Michael was happy.

His hands a little shakey, he went for his phone and dialed a number to have a conversation he would normally dread having, but he was too filled with just plain dread to be afraid of it.

Three rings...and his coach picked up. Much like Lenny, Bob made no pretenses about having Caller ID. "Michael?"

"Bob, hi," Michael decided to try being mostly upbeat. "What's going on?"

But he failed miserably. Having known him for years, Bob could hear something off in his voice quite easily. "What's wrong, Michael?"

In truth, Michael had been trying to make conversation to give himself padding to say what needed to be said. "Nothing," he lied. "Bob, listen...do you remember what I said to you a few months after I met Lenny Krayzelburg?"

"Remind me," his coach answered. "I remember, I'd just rather make sure I'm on the same page if it's that serious."

"I told you," Michael took a deep breath, "I said sometimes I might have to dissapear for awhile, few days, maybe...I said I'd let you know if it ever happened. I asked you not ask questions and just accept it when it does."

"I said 'fine' because you're usually such a damn hard worker, Michael," Bob answered. "You've never pulled this one on me. And if you're doing it right now, it's still a tall order."

"I know, I really do," Michael almost whispered, not finding words he felt worked. "Please just trust me, it's nessasary."

"Why?"

There was no answer for that. And so, Michael stayed silent.

But Bob didn't like the silent treatment. "Michael, I swear to god, if you got plastered again...or so help me, if you're on drugs..."

"Don't go there, Bob," Michael's interuption was cold, devoid of feeling. He was glad to have this man boss him around and talk down to him, because he knew how to do it like an art, a way to inspire improvement. This topic was the one, single taboo. "If you don't trust me..."

"Good, you sound normal enough," Bob cut him off in the same manner, unfazed. "And at what point should I call your mother?"

"If I do anything news worthy, she'll be the first to know, I'm sure," Michael actually laughed at that thought, but he had no intention of being newsworthy. Unless he died, of course. "I'll be back soon. Few days, maybe a week, two weeks tops."

He hung up before Bob said anything about that, and then exuasted from his near death experience, Michael finally collapsed onto his bed in his room, staring at Ian's picture like he always did.

Only this time, he forced himself up and took the sword from the wall. Putting it in the scabbord propped up against the dresser, he hugged the Wakazashi close as he laid down again. He was tired and sore from almost dying, he couldn't resist rest now that immediate problems had been taken care of and he'd locked every lock in the house. It was all he could do for the moment.

Michael was asleep as soon as his eyes closed.

And he awoke hours later to the sound of shattering glass.

That sent him bolting upright, sword still firmly in his grip. A glance at the clock told him he'd sleapt through the day and it was now three in the moening.

More ruckas from downstairs, and Michael immediatly forced himself to be calm. Panicking wasn't going to solve anything if someone had broken in to kill him, maybe with a solid weapon this time.

Kicking off the shoes he'd slept in so his steps made less noise, Micheal unseathed the sword again and put the scabbard on his bed. Whoever had broken in was in for a big surprise.

Creeping down the stairs, Michael soon realized the kitchen was being torn apart, and the perpetrator or perpatrators were going slow and trying to be more quiet about it at this point.

Unlike elderly couples, Michael didn't keep valubles in the kitchen, so when he slowly rounded the corner from the living room only to see a guy probably around his own age, wearing a hoodie to cover his face dig through the silverware, he didn't mind much.

Until the burglar pulled out one of the larger knives...as if he wanted to kill someone with it.

Instead of running, Michael got closer, and leveled the sword straight ahead. "Hey."

The would-be assassin spun on his heels with knife in hand, only to find the tip of a blueish sword at his throat, but Michael still couldn't really make out his face.

He dropped the knife. But before Michael could ask questions, the guy just turned and ran right out the front door. And once he heard the front door slam shut again, he knew the failed killer had too much of a head start. Running, sadly, did not automaticly improve with swimming for Michael.

That actually made Michael angry, he wanted to know who sent the idiot to kill him. "So much for useful information..."

Now, though, he didn't trust the front door, so he moved the living room's biggest chair in front of it before heading back upstairs to find his phone again.

The few seconds it took were a time to reflect. Odd, he thought, how he'd just caught someone grabbing a very large stakeknife at three in the morning in his house and he felt much more calm than he had after swallowing the enchanted water...supposing it was adrenaline, he simply made his way back to his room, to do what needed to be done. His life was in danger.

Clearly, this was getting serious.

And so, Michael dialed another number on his phone, one he'd been planning on having more time to prepare for.

Six rings...and then, an extremly groggy, "Hello?"

"Ian?"

"Ugh...Phelps? That you," a very asleep Ian Crocker managed to ask. "Michael? Do you...know... how early it is?"

"Yeah, Ian, look," Michael cut him off, "I was going to do this at a more convienient time, but ah...I sort of have to do it now, cause I might not get the chance again."

Still tired out of his mind, Ian groaned, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ian, look," he started. In all the times Michael had fantasized that this conversation might go the way he only dreamed it would, he never actually considered what he would say. "I need to get this off my chest before it kills me," and before other things do that, Michael thought. "I...like you, Ian."

"Well, that's nice of you," Ian groaned. "You're a great friend, too. Can I go back to sleep now?"

How absolutely cruel of the real world, Michael thought, not to work like fantasy did. "No, I mean I really like you."

Eyes riveted to the picture on his desk, Michael wondered what Ian looked like right now, probably still in bed with the phone dragged under the covers. Probably gorgeous as always, a sharp contrast to his groggy voice. "I'm half asleep, Michael...get to the point...please...now...whatever..."

Any other time, Ian would've been smart enough to pick up on this. It was like torture, Michael felt cheated out of something that should've been less stressful, if just as difficult,because tired Ian wouldn't get the point unless it was spelled out on the side of a hammer and hitting him in the head. "Ian," Michael paused only breifly, eventually willing the words out. "I'm gay."

And for the second time in recent memory, Michael had said something over the phone that had earned complete silence for at least ten seconds. He wondered, honestly, if Ian was just speechless or if he'd fallen back asleep and Michael would have to do it all over again. "You're...you're...I must be dreaming...I'm asleep. I'm still asleep. Did you just...come out?"

He had the sinking feeling that he would've had to have repeated his undying love for Ian, that Ian wasn't awake enough to put two and two together here. But Michael's courage had run out and he really didn't want to repeat it, now that the "I just told the guy I have a crush on that I'm a homosexual" butterflies in his stomach were starting to mix with the "Someone's trying to kill me" butterflies.

All in all, his stomach didn't feel very good right now. "Look, do me a favor, Lenny's not going to be reachable for a few days, if you don't hear from me, and please don't start hating me until ten seconds after the next time you hear from me...give him a call, will you?"

"Michael, have you gone ins-"

He hung up the line. Trying to get those butterflies under control, Michael re-sheathed his sword and grabbed Lenny's duster from the closet. The inside left had a single buckle on it that he fastened around his Wakazashi, keeping the weapon hidden. It was a little awkward sitting down in, but as long as the sword ended up propped against the front of whatever he was sitting on, it usually worked well enough.

Knowing this, he put the coat on, tugged the lapels around his chest, pulled his sneakers back on, and left the house. The brown leather went down to his knees, just long enough to keep the sword unseen.

It had occured to him that he probably should've cleaned up the broken glass in the kitchen, but no one was going to be around to notice. It was something he could look forward to doing once he'd figured out why people were trying to kill them.

Once he'd, hopefully, put an end to that trying. One way or another.

There was one problem with his plan so far. Aside from the fact that he had no idea where to go looking for information (that was the tricky thing about magic, its methods of murder were usually pretty untracable,) it was only four-AM.

What kind of investigating was one to do before the sun came up?