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Qifrey isn’t sure how he ended up here.
‘Here’ being his own bed, surrounded by numerous pillows and covered by a thick duvet.
For some reason, it feels wrong — as if he’s not supposed to be here — and part of him wonders if this might be a dream of sorts. A strange hallucination to keep him docile while someone else, hidden beneath masks and wide hats, had found a way to split him open, dig around, and stitch him back together all wrong.
What if they had somehow tampered with his memories and erased that which he held most dear?
He’s powerless to stop the shuddering breath that passes through his lips. Nevertheless, he makes an attempt to push back against the wave of panic that threatens to swallow him whole. With his eyelids squeezed shut, he forces the lingering shadows from his mind, breathes through them just as he’d been taught to do.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three breaths.
Four breaths.
He’s about to count breath number five when the creaking sound of a door being opened distracts him. Old wood drags across old stone, ushering in wisps of light; golden beams dancing across the floor until they reach the end of the bed. There, they drape themselves over the duvet, crawling across the length of the mattress so that they may settle on his body. The warmth feels nice, almost too nice, and here he nearly panics again.
With a start he throws the duvet off his lap, chasing away the warmth that threatened to find refuge in his skin, and sits upright. Immediately, he’s punished for his aggression. A shooting pain travels along the side of his body and the length of his right arm, and he instinctively reaches for his shoulder.
Rather than meeting flesh or wood, his fingers brush against something soft and equally familiar. Strips of bandages are firmly wrapped around the upper half of his body it seems. A sight not entirely unfamiliar to him.
“Finally awake, huh?”
Speaking of familiarity.
Qifrey’s head whips towards the door, where he’s greeted by a familiar face. A smile rests on Olruggio’s lips, one that feels a little too tight around the edges and, in turn, summons a similar tightness within his own chest. “Olly.”
His voice sounds strange, even to his own ears. Scratchy and wholly unpleasant. There’s a dryness in his throat, which he attempts to chase away with a cough.
“Careful,” Olruggio says, taking a slow step forward.
As he does so, four more familiar faces come into view. They’re a blur of colors and concerned faces. Big eyes and hesitant smiles. Two of them are clearly holding back tears and Qifrey can’t help but smile. Don’t cry for me, is what he wants to say. It’s not worth it.
Though, the words never make it past his lips. Instead, he sinks back against the pillows behind him with a chuckle. Numerous questions carefully make their way through his mind, each of them starting with ‘how’ or ‘why’. Rather than voicing them, he looks from Olruggio to the girls and then back to his oldest friend. “Will you tell me?” he asks. “All of you?”
The sound of gentle steps echo through the room, five bodies slowly pushing their way through the room much like the wisps of light from before.
“Of course.”
༊*⭑
They talk for hours. And, as promised, they tell him everything.
Turns out, he’d slept for ten days. (“You even snored.”)
They talk about the Brimmed Caps, about Custas, about the curse, about the cure that isn’t entirely a cure.
“A part of it is still there. And it will likely always be in there, until you, you know,” Olruggio murmurs. He’s sitting on a chair, one leg folded across his lap, and Qifrey tries not to peer too much at the dark circles blooming beneath his eyes. He looks a little paler too.
Just as he’s about to reprimand him, Tetia walks back into the room, carrying a cup and a saucer. “Willowgrape tea. We came up with a special blend.”
“Thank you,” Qifrey says, accepting the cup gratefully. A rich, herbal scent greets him immediately and he carefully lifts the drink to his lips. Tendrils of steam rise from the liquid, brushing against his nose and settling in between his eyelashes. It always feels a little strange without his glasses — a little vulnerable somehow. He squints against the light between sips of tea until Coco presents him with the spectacles. Smiling, he places the glasses onto the bridge of his nose, silently expressing his gratitude with a murmur of ‘thank you’.
He turns Olruggio’s words over in his head. Subconsciously, he searches for something that is somehow no longer there; the writhing and twisting of the roots beneath his skin. A part of him still expects the curse to rear its head, for the branches to burst from his palms, for the leaves to bloom within the socket of his missing eye, for the ivory of his ribs to be replaced with bark.
And yet, none of it happens.
Qifrey doesn’t notice that he’s tightly clutching his cup until a hand settles along his wrist. When he looks up, it’s Richeh’s concerned gaze that leaves him feeling as though someone ran a lance through his chest.
Her mouth is pressed into a thin line before its corners slightly curve upward. He makes an attempt to mirror her smile, but it feels fragile, seconds away from shattering. Even if he appreciates the gesture.
“We should probably let you rest,” Agott says then, her fingers tugging at Coco’s sleeve. The girls all exchange looks, a silent conversation he isn’t privy to, before nodding.
“Maybe we can start on lunch,” Tetia suggests. “Professor Olly, will you stay with him?”
With a nod, he replies, “Be careful in the kitchen.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be super careful,” Tetia replies with the kind of confidence only she possesses. Slowly but surely, the girls each pad out of the room, with Coco lingering in the doorway for a moment — her eyes searching for something on Qifrey’s face perhaps. When Qifrey offers her a small nod, she nods in return, a hopeful smile blooming across the lower half of her face before she chases after the others.
With the girls no longer in his bedroom, Qifrey feels himself visibly deflate. He sinks back against the cushions, still slightly uncomfortable with the amount of pillows digging into his back. It’s then that Olruggio shifts in his seat and leans forward slightly, elbows digging into the tops of his thighs. “So.”
“So,” Qifrey parrots.
They both merely look at one another, a meeting between pale blue and deep blue, light and dark, until Olruggio fills the silence once more. “You’re alive.”
“It would seem so.”
“You don’t seem happy about that.”
Chuckling, Qifrey lifts his chin slightly as he lets his eye fall shut. Happiness is a strange thing, he supposes. For years he debated whether or not that was something he deserved: to be truly happy. After all, too much of it could pose a threat to his health. On occasion, he’d let himself indulge in its sweetness — basking in the warmth that would course through his body after sharing a hearty meal with Olruggio and the girls — but most of the time, he remained careful.
Olruggio knows that — knew that. (Qifrey is still trying to make sense of what Olruggio currently does and doesn’t know).
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he begins, opening his eye halfway to peer at his ceiling. “I’m still trying to get used to some things.”
Happiness.
What is happiness?
Is it the satisfying glide of a pen across the papers of his quire? The completion of a perfect spell? The warmth of a snugstone in his palms late at night? The excited faces of his apprentices in the morning? The taste of silvernectar wine on his tongue? The scent of smoke and tinder that lingers on Olruggio’s clothes whenever he gathers all their garments to wash them?
Each thought is a strand that runs from one corner of his mind to the other and Qifrey carefully plucks at the numerous strings until they are no longer a tangled mess.
Happiness is all of that, he supposes. And more.
It’s the rolling hills of the Naakiwan Downs, the stillness of the sky at night as thousands of stars resume their original places within the heavens. It’s the first sip of Willowgrape tea in the morning and the sheepish grins Olruggio offers him late at night when Qifrey stumbles upon him in their kitchen.
As Qifrey lowers his gaze, observing his palms as they rest in his lap, he forms two fists. He searches for a bit of happiness now, but even as he digs and digs, fingers buried in the soil of his mind, dirt stuck beneath his fingernails, all he finds is apprehension.
Disbelief.
Fear.
“I get that,” Olruggio says after another moment. He’s closer now, his palm resting atop of the mattress, a few meager centimeters away from Qifrey’s leg. “But, you’re alive. And you’ll stay alive, Qifrey.” He pauses. “The curse… it’s been contained. For the lack of a better word.”
Here, another pause follows Olruggio’s words. Like Qifrey, his hand forms a fist atop the mattress. It trembles slightly, as though he might be afraid. Which seems ridiculous, because Olruggio is the bravest person Qifrey knows.
With a deep inhale, Olruggio says quietly, “It won’t hurt you anymore. Not the way it did before at least.”
There’s a part of him that believes the words that fall from Olruggio’s lips; believes them because Olruggio would never lie to him. Not about this. And yet, Qifrey fights to keep the tremors from his voice as he whispers, “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I have to be.” The line between Olruggio’s brows deepens. “For your sake and for the girls’.”
Now that the girls are absent, he takes the time to talk Qifrey through the procedure once more. Explains every detail, mentions the amount of time, energy and magic that was poured into the process — all so that Qifrey could draw in another breath, experience another sunrise, and spend a little more time with those he cares for.
Like before, Qifrey listens. He listens and listens and listens as the smooth timbre of Olruggio’s voice fills the room. With each word that passes through Olruggio’s lips, he expects to feel a weight being lifted off of his shoulders, waiting for the relief to sink into his bones, but instead, there is a heaviness in his chest.
Something that solidifies between his fifth and sixth rib like a block of ice.
I should be happy, he tells himself. Weep tears of joy.
And yet, the words that settle on his tongue are: “I’m scared.”
It’s the voice of a child. One that knows the feeling of solitude and despair. One that longed for the simplicity of freedom, but found themselves bound to a body they did not recognize. Even now, after all those years, and after his efforts — their efforts — he cannot escape that little voice that lingers in the back of his mind, dragging itself against the walls of his skull.
“I know,” Olruggio replies quietly.
His palm is open now. Waiting.
Always waiting.
How often did Qifrey think of reaching for it?
Days, months, years passed, and every day he waited for that indescribable feeling to subside. The greed that crawled under his skin like the roots of the Silverwood tree was somehow more unbearable than any sort of physical pain he’d endured at the hand of the curse.
Sometimes he found himself giving into it. He’d watch the leaves sprout from his fingertips and breathed through the discomfort as the branches of the tree blossomed within his eyesocket. The wood scratched at his skin, bursting forth with renewed vigor as Qifrey allowed a mere daydream to take him away.
It was always the same one: him and Olruggio, side by side, shoulders touching, fingers intertwined, the smell of smoke and damp earth wrapping around him. The warmth of the sun’s afternoon rays settling atop of his skin. In the distance, there was children’s laughter.
Somehow, the pain, the discomfort, was worth it; for it allowed him to live in a world where he had everything he wanted. Just for a fleeting moment.
And now here he sits, staring at an open palm.
“Do you trust me?” Olruggio asks.
A ridiculous question. “Always.”
More than anyone he knows.
“Then trust that I won’t leave your side.” An inhale. “I’ll brave this storm with you. Every day.”
“Olly,” Qifrey whispers. It’s a fragile thing, cracked syllables and all.
It earns him another smile, one that cuts right through the center of him. “I read your journal while you slept. All of it. And I spoke to Coco and to Beldaruit to put some of the pieces together. I know what you had to do to survive. And my role in it. Even if the memories are gone, a part of me still knows,” Olruggio continues. “And I’d do it all over again.”
The tightness in Qifrey’s throat appears so sudden. It seizes him entirely and swallowing becomes difficult. Nevertheless, he tries. “Stop.”
“I mean it, Qifrey.”
“I know you do.”
“Then trust me again. Like you did all those years ago.”
To Qifrey’s surprise, a laugh pushes from his throat, though it sounds more like a sob. “Do you think I ever stopped?”
His gaze drops to Olruggio’s hand again. It’s still there, waiting for him.
This time, Qifrey doesn’t search for happiness. Instead, he lets it find him as he carefully moves his own hand towards Olruggio’s. When the space between them is nearly non-existent, the warmth of Olruggio’s skin pouring over his own, he pauses. The heaviness in his chest persists, but he manages to draw in a single breath. As he exhales, he forces the fear from his mind.
It starts with his pinky finger.
Carefully, he presses it against the side of Olruggio’s hand. Tension crawls along his arm, seeps into his shoulders, as though his body is gearing up for that familiar stab of pain. He waits for something to happen, for the roots to crawl and slither and squirm as a punishment for allowing himself to indulge, but it never comes.
For a long moment, there is nothing but the warmth of another person’s skin.
Suddenly, something wet slides down his left cheek. It’s a sensation most familiar to him, but Qifrey doesn’t register it until it happens again and again. When he raises his other hand to his face, fingertips brushing along his cheekbone, he catches another tear as it makes its descent.
Oh, he thinks.
“Oh,” he whispers.
A shuddering breath leaves his chest and that’s when he finally feels it: relief. It shapes itself into the sigh that rises from his throat.
He basks in the stillness, the nothingness, the absolute silence of his own body; something made of flesh and bone, something that belongs to him.
Even though Olruggio’s visage has become a little cloudy, Qifrey is able to make out the shape of his smile. “How does it feel?”
Qifrey doesn’t trust that his voice won’t crack so he merely inhales deeply and presses a palm over his lips. What comes out is a strange little sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, but something strangled and scratchy. It loosens the knots in his chest, untangles each thread, and allows him to draw in a breath that feels a little lighter than the one that came before it.
He keeps breathing, in and out, his gaze darting between their hands to Olruggio’s face in an attempt to make sense of the situation before him. In a moment of bravery, he pushes his hand forward, allowing its side to press against Olruggio’s hand entirely. This time, a gasp is wrenched from his throat, accompanied by another one of those strange not-quite-laughs. It’s like his body is only capable of making odd sounds and noises while his brain attempts to make sense of all that has occurred.
There’s still a sense of disbelief within him, accompanied by something akin to wonder. It’s a feeling Qifrey thought he’d lost a long time ago, but today, it appears to have been born anew.
In a way, so has he.
For the longest time, hope was a fleeting thing. Happiness came in small bursts; a luxury he couldn’t afford on most days. He enjoyed his time with Olruggio and the girls, treasuring each little moment he spent with those he cared for, but oftentimes, whatever happiness he experienced was quickly overshadowed by the feeling of dread that curled itself tightly around his spine. To him, happiness was like the glimmer of a flame in its last moments, a candle ready to be snuffed out. All of this is temporary, he’d tell himself. One day I will have to let go.
Today, after what feels like an eternity, that flame has flickered to life once more. It grows bit by bit, spreading its warmth through Qifrey’s stomach and bleeding into various parts of him. Slowly, like the petals of a flower, hope begins to unfurl in his chest. It’s comforting, and perhaps a bit scary, but then he looks at Olruggio’s hands again — their hands — and smiles. “Wonderful,” he breathes, not having forgotten Olruggio’s question.
Blood rushes through his ears, nearly drowning out every single thought, while his heart continues to beat wildly and without restraint, guided by an odd amalgamation of both excitement and fear. He attempts to make sense of the numerous emotions that are currently inhabiting his body, but his attempts are quite futile.
It feels as though a maelstrom is housing itself in his bones, pulling at him from various angles.
It’s overwhelming in the best way possible.
With deliberate slowness, he moves his hand once more. Eventually, their palms are pressed together and the familiar warmth of Olruggio’s skin pours into him. It’s then that Olruggio’s fingers twitch slightly and he looks at Qifrey with an unvoiced question on his lips.
He can read the lines of his face like an old book, decoding the slight scrunch of his nose or the twitch of his upper lip and turning it into a sentence.
Qifrey nods, forcing himself to swallow.
He watches as Olruggio slots their fingers together, filling the gaps between Qifrey’s fingers with his own. It feels like someone had punched the air out of his chest.
Here is everything you have ever wanted, a voice in the back of his head whispers. Treat it well.
With his gaze glued to his and Olruggio’s hands, Qifrey inhales deeply. He blinks away a tear threatening to fall, halting its movements entirely with nothing but determination.
I will, he whispers back. I want this.
“Qifrey,” Olruggio mumbles, “if it’s too much—”
“No,” Qifrey answers immediately with a shake of his head.
I want this.
Concern tugs on Olruggio’s features, which makes something inside of Qifrey’s chest squeeze together tightly.
“I want this,” he says aloud this time.
His breath passes through his body in cycles, and he allows himself to focus on it. The stretch in his muscles as his chest expands and back widens. Each inhale seems to unravel something in him, allowing the tension to bleed from his body.
Once more he observes Olruggio’s features, taking in the color of his eyes — an intriguing shade that reminds him of a star-filled sky — and the harsh line of his mouth. He observes the dark strands that fall across his forehead, the cut of his jawline, the bridge of his nose.
I want him and this life we built together.
I want to live.
Surprisingly, Olruggio doesn’t look away — not even when a hint of red begins to bloom across his cheeks. It reminds Qifrey of a younger version of his best friend; round-faced and bright-eyed and far too snarky.
He knows there is much for them to discuss, but Qifrey supposes there will be time for that later. Even though he’s only been awake for a short time, fatigue has begun to settle into his bones already. It’s strange.
“All right,” Olruggio says after a moment, “then I will be here. For as long as you need me to.”
Smiling, Qifrey settles back against a pillow that looks far too pink and frilly to be considered his. Briefly, his mind wanders to a certain pink-haired student and his smile grows a little wider.
“That might be a very long time, Olly.”
Now it’s Olruggio’s turn to smile. “Then I’ll be here for a long time.”
༊*⭑
As you’re supposed to do with most things: they take it slow. Step by step.
One day at a time.
Which is both endlessly frustrating and oddly pleasant.
It’s strange to let yourself be cared for, Qifrey thinks. So much of his youth and adolescence was spent searching for something, to reach for the unattainable and pursue something he couldn’t even name. Amidst those years — and the ones that followed — he forged bonds he didn’t think would last.
Now, he realizes that fragile things do not have to stay fragile; that the bond between him, Olruggio, and the girls is something forged from iron. Hardened over time, yet soft enough to provide the comfort he secretly always longed for.
How peculiar is it that the thing you once dreaded or feared has become the thing you can no longer live without.
The girls are patient, helpful in ways he knows them to be, and he wants to reward them for it, but they barely let him do anything those first two weeks. He receives stern looks that could rival Olruggio’s in their intensity and almost laughs at the similarities between four young girls and his dearest and oldest friend.
“They’re your apprentices, not mine,” Olruggio had said a long, long time ago. And yet, Qifrey has found him reviewing their spells, aiding them with their contraptions, cooking their meals, and carrying their exhausted bodies to bed.
They are as much yours as they’re mine, Qifrey thinks as he observes Richeh and Olruggio from a distance. She’s muttering something to him and he watches as Olruggio nods in understanding a few times before giving her shoulder a small squeeze.
Eventually, Qifrey’s patience is rewarded, because one day they let him into the kitchen and actually allow him to prepare breakfast. (Naturally, Coco does not leave his side for a single moment).
And so, he finds a way to reward them. One meal at a time.
It feels nice — familiar — and Qifrey gradually relearns to find joy in something as simple as cooking. Oftentimes, Olruggio is present. He assists him or merely keeps him company, rambling about a patron or a new commission that’s been leaving him a little frustrated. Of course he rambles about the kids too, points out their individual strengths and current struggles. The smooth timbre of his voice bleeds into the corners of their kitchen, finding refuge within the cracks of the various stone tiles.
They fall back into their usual routine, although it differs somewhat from their old one. While everything might be out in the open, there are still many words that have been left unsaid — secrets that have been sealed behind closed lips. Qifrey’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth whenever the lamp light has dimmed and it’s simply the two of them in the kitchen.
In those moments it’s difficult not to address this thing that has existed between them for years. It’s something old and secure, yet it feels strangely fragile under these conditions.
What was first a dream, a false story to comfort him at night, now seems oddly real.
It’s aggravating.
Olruggio notices it too, Qifrey thinks. He must.
There is something hidden in his gaze, covered by a layer of blue so deep it makes Qifrey feel dizzy if he looks at it for too long. It makes him feel like a younger version of himself, with limbs that feel too small, too big, too wrong.
Tonight isn’t any different.
The girls are in bed, or they’re supposed to be, but Qifrey is quite certain that Coco and Agott have been staying up late for a few nights now. Olruggio mentioned earlier that they’re working on a new spell together, a hint of pride seeping into his voice, and Qifrey merely released a knowing hum.
“It’s nice to see how close they have gotten,” he muses, watching as Olruggio briefly inspects a recently cleaned plate before dragging a cloth over its surface to get rid of the remaining droplets.
He’s been doing that all night, observing each dish as though he’s getting paid to do so.
Qifrey finds it strangely adorable. He knows better than to admit that out loud, but the wine has managed to untangle some of the thoughts that had gotten constricted somehow. (It’s been a while since they shared a bottle).
A strange, tingling sensation spreads from his fingertips to his wrist, traveling up, up, up, his forearm until it gathers somewhere in his chest. He leans into it, sinking a little further into his seat, and temporarily closing his eye as a familiar warmth continues to spread through his body. It licks across his spine, bleeds into the top of his head, and settles somewhere behind his browbones.
A snort causes him to open his eye again. Olruggio is closer now, rag and dishes abandoned. His sleeves, usually loose and flowing freely, have been bunched up. It’s a comical sight. That is also adorable, Qifrey thinks.
“Don’t tell me you’re drunk already.”
“I’m not,” Qifrey replies immediately.
It’s the truth. His tongue doesn’t feel heavier than usual, but his limbs do. The heaviness is not unwelcome — if anything, it’s oddly pleasant. Like someone had draped a rather soft blanket across his shoulders.
It’s not as though he’s unaware of the effects of alcohol. After all, he spent most of his adult life avoiding getting carried away. Always the stable factor, always so careful.
So careful, so careful, so damned careful—
“You are,” Olruggio argues. Three more steps until he’s right there, in front of Qifrey.
He mentally counts them.
Three.
Two.
One.
A hand reaches for the empty glass and he watches as Olruggio rubs his thumb along the rim with a thoughtful hum.
“I’m not,” Qifrey repeats, fighting the urge to roll his eye. “I’m… relaxed.”
Even saying the words feels strange. Wrong, somehow. They make Olruggio smile though, a chuckle spilling from parted lips. Perhaps wrong words can serve a purpose. As long as Olruggio keeps smiling like that, corners of his mouth raised and cheeks lifted, Qifrey thinks he could spend a lifetime saying the wrong things.
“I can see that,” Olruggio jokes, lowering the empty glass to reach for his own. There’s barely anything left, but he knocks it back regardless. Afterwards, he sighs, a long, heavy sound, before rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. “Suits you, though.”
“What does?”
“Being relaxed.”
For a moment, Qifrey doesn’t know what to say to that. A quiet laugh manages to crawl along the walls of his throat, slowly, carefully exiting his mouth like a spider. “Feels strange.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
Briefly, Olruggio looks troubled. If Qifrey looks closely, he’s able to spot a hint of red along the high points of his cheeks. It bleeds into the rest of his face, a rose-colored flush decorating his skin as it does every time they drink. “Can I—do anything for you?”
Another laugh, part amusement, part heartbreak.
So dutiful, he muses. So good.
He ignores the quiet voice in the back of his head that whispers ‘Too good for me.’
With one hand pressed against the space between his cheek and chin, Qifrey taps two knuckles of his other hand against the wooden table and uses his foot to push at the empty chair across from him. “You can sit. Keep me company.”
“Real good at that,” Olruggio murmurs, lowering himself into the chair with a groan.
“Getting old, are you?”
“Glad your sense of humor is still intact.”
As Olruggio says that, Qifrey catches him glancing at the space between their hands. Almost like he’s gauging the distance.
Qifrey barely keeps his fingers from twitching, especially when Olruggio’s hand slowly makes its way across dark wood. That first brush of his fingertip against Qifrey’s own is like a stab of lightning. Heat and energy gathers so suddenly, swiftly, and it raises the hairs on the back of Qifrey’s neck in a weirdly satisfying way. Excitement and anxiety are engaged in a strange dance, fighting until one manages to swallow the other, both of them fueled by adrenaline.
This, too, is a type of magic, he thinks.
The pleasant buzz between his temples suddenly feels a thousand times more intense. As if he’d suddenly consumed two entire bottles of wine rather than three glasses.
“Still good?” Olruggio asks, each finger filling the empty space between Qifrey’s own fingers. Five perfect little puzzle pieces.
“Yes,” Qifrey replies breathlessly. He forces himself to swallow, staring at the point of contact between them as though it’s the most important thing in the entire universe.
It’s then that Olruggio gently brushes his thumb back and forth across Qifrey’s skin, soothing and loving in all the right ways. “You’ve been doing good.”
Gradually, the warmth in his chest expands. It crawls upward with deliberate slowness; flames dancing along his throat, and spreading towards his cheeks. He can feel the heat bleeding into the palm that’s currently cupping his own cheek. “You flatter me.”
“Just being honest.”
With a hum, Qifrey carefully squeezes Olruggio’s fingers between his own. Still no roots, no flowers, a perfect stillness. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Or the girls.”
“Who’s flatterin’ who now?” Olruggio jokes.
Despite all of Olruggio’s kind words, and his endless support, Qifrey knows that not all days are like this. There have been days when the mere feeling of Olruggio’s arm brushing against his own pushed a wave of panic through his chest. He’d flinch, immediately feeling the urge to pull away and hide his discomfort behind a practiced smile.
Once the moment had passed, guilt started to fester in the soft space between his ribs, a parasite he desperately wanted to carve out of himself. Apologies were spoken in shaky whispers, with Olruggio mumbling that he had nothing to apologize for. (Stop being so understanding, Qifrey nearly said. I don’t know if I deserve that.)
He pushes the memory away now, allows his gaze to drop to their hands once more, and clings to this moment. In a way, it’s quite grounding; the warmth of Olruggio’s skin, the lingering scent of the meal they just shared, the soft glow of the candles they lit beforehand.
Olruggio’s thumb has started to rub circles into Qifrey’s skin. Initially, they were little half moons, nothing but gentle swipes from one side to the other, before transitioning into full circles, slow and steady. It nearly sends a shiver down Qifrey’s spine.
Will he ever grow used to this? The gentleness? The way a person’s touch can be so tender?
Some days it feels like his heart might very well crumble into a thousand little pieces, an endless sea of red pooling around his feet. Other days, it feels like those pieces are being carefully reattached, fixed into place with gentle words and even gentler smiles.
Today feels like the latter. He searches for his own heartbeat, a reminder that he is here and alive, and he finds it beneath layers of muscle and bone. The rhythmic thudding acting as constant proof of his existence, something he fought so desperately to keep.
“I think you deserve some flattery every once in a while,” Qifrey says after a moment. “I appreciate how patient and understanding you’ve been.”
“You would’ve done the same for me,” Olruggio replies, shoulders raised in a shrug.
Without a doubt, Qifrey thinks.
“Would I?” he says instead, a teasing lilt to his voice. (He taps a finger against his cheek, biting back a smile when Olruggio levels him with a flat look). Gently, he squeezes Olruggio’s hand. There’s a moment of silence before he adds, “No, I would’ve. But you’re much more patient than I am. Always have been. Braver too.”
“This is clearly the wine speaking,” Olruggio quips. “You can stop.”
The smile Qifrey wears widens, lips stretching over his teeth until he’s grinning. “Olly, are you getting shy?”
“Obviously not.”
He refrains from calling him a liar as he adjusts his free hand, fingers folding across the lower half of his face so that he’s able to conceal his grin behind his palm. “Mm-hm.”
“I can still see you grinning, y’know?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
They both laugh.
Eventually, Qifrey makes a shushing noise, pointing out that the girls might hear them, and Olruggio waves it off, says something about how they’re probably out cold already.
He hasn’t stopped rubbing circles into Qifrey’s skin with his thumb and Qifrey thinks he could very well spend the entire night like this, on a wooden chair with Olruggio’s fingers curled around his own. “I meant what I said before, though. I’m very grateful for you.”
“I know you are,” Olruggio says around a sigh. For a moment it looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he makes a strange sound — not quite a groan, not quite a sigh, but something in between — and Qifrey watches as Olruggio dips his head and uses his free hand to cover his eyes.
There’s an urge to tease him again, to push and push until Olruggio’s entire face is beet red, but Qifrey feels merciful tonight, so he remains silent, allowing Olruggio to gather his thoughts.
Though, beneath his skin, something begins to itch. There’s a brief moment of panic, a few milliseconds during which he thinks the curse might seize him once more now that he’s gradually begun to lower his defenses, but then the panic begins to subside as he realizes it’s something else entirely.
Anticipation, perhaps. Or excitement?
No, that’s not right.
Behind his sternum, the sensation expands. It doubles in size just as he inhales, pressing into the sides of his lungs fiercely and refraining him from exhaling properly.
A whisper floats from one corner of his mind to the other, providing him with the correct answer.
Hope.
Teeth worry at his lower lip, biting at the beginning of a smile. “It’s okay,” he tells Olruggio eventually, who still seems to be struggling to string together another sentence.
A frustrated groan is the only response he gets at first. It’s followed by Olruggio squeezing his hand and using the heel of his other hand to push against his browbone. “It’s not,” he replies, head still lowered. “I feel like an idiot.”
Frowning, Qifrey asks, “Why?”
“Cause I’m tryin’ to—” Olruggio starts, then exhales roughly. “Find the right words but…”
A moment of silence passes between them until Qifrey suggests, “What if you use the wrong words?”
The question causes Olruggio to at least raise his head. He offers Qifrey a quizzical look, brows drawn together in a way that forms a deep line above the bridge of his nose. Confusion is painted across his features as though he finds Qifrey’s suggestion absolutely preposterous. It looks strangely handsome on him. “What?”
Qifrey licks his lips and inhales deeply. The hope is still there, but it’s eclipsed by a strange rush of adrenaline; a sudden urge to build on the foundations they’ve laid before.
So much time has passed already. A million little heartbreaks, countless stolen glances, decades worth of memories erased and rewritten, over and over and over. Always building, always breaking. Every construct has been demolished, but here they are, standing in the ruins with inked-stained fingers and half-formed memories.
(How many times will they rewrite this part?)
He’s tired.
So very tired.
Something desperate has taken root in his heart. It makes an attempt to crawl its way out, using his ribs as a leverage point and hooking its claws into sinew and bone to escape the prison that had been built to contain it. Qifrey doesn’t possess the energy to fight it any longer. Let it burst from his chest with some kind of monstrous violence; he’ll gladly surrender.
On an exhale he says, “Use the wrong words.”
His legs move before he realizes it, feet carrying him towards Olruggio’s side of the table. Two measly steps is all it takes until he’s in front of him, their fingers still loosely intertwined atop stained wood.
Olruggio looks up at him, eyes widened and the flicker of a flame buried somewhere in a sea of blue. “Qifrey—”
“I don’t care about the right words, Olly,” Qifrey whispers, his voice cracking on the final syllable. “What I care about is y—”
It happens so quickly.
One moment he’s looking at Olruggio’s face below him and the next moment that same face is suddenly so much closer. Their sudden proximity wrenches a gasp from his throat, especially when one of Olruggio’s hands settles somewhere on his waist. Blood rushes through Qifrey’s ears, a deafening sound that reverberates through the entirety of him.
It’s accompanied by a flutter low in his stomach. And another.
And another.
It’s overwhelming, dizzying, completely and utterly maddening, but the urge to stay is stronger than the urge to flee. Which is why Qifrey places one of his hands atop of Olruggio’s shoulder, partially to keep himself balanced, and gives it a gentle squeeze. For a few seconds something else passes over Olruggio’s face — uncertainty or hesitation perhaps, but it vanishes before Qifrey has the opportunity to properly analyze it.
They are nearly pressed together, the warmth of Olruggio’s palm burning into his skin, past layers of clothing. There is safety in that touch, he reminds himself.
He thinks of the words he’d spoken before.
I want this.
It echoes through his mind now, louder, stronger.
Desire is such a strange thing. Oftentimes, it would be accompanied by guilt; a rot so deep it started to corrupt his bones. It’s there again, in the same place he left it before, guarded by four walls. Only there is no decay, this time. No corruption. Instead, there’s only an urge, a craving he desperately wants to sate.
He sees that same sense of longing on the face of his dearest friend, framed by dark lashes. The soft, orange glow of the candle glides across his skin. A single source of light in the darkness.
There is so much to fear, so much to be afraid of, but not this.
This is good, he tells himself. This is worth protecting.
A palm fits itself against Qifrey’s cheek, pouring endless warmth into his skin as though its sole purpose is to chase away the frost that had unknowingly gathered there. He’s powerless to stop the shuddering breath that leaves his chest as a result, but then Olruggio presses his fingers into his jaw and gives a gentle tug.
Like a dying star, Qifrey falls forward.
He chases a light he’s followed most of his life.
He catches a taste of it just as Olruggio’s lips find his own.
A beautiful silence follows, every single noise melting away entirely. In the stillness he focuses on the softness of Olruggio’s mouth and the way it slowly begins to move. He’d spent countless nights imagining this exact moment, always wondering, wondering, wondering what it would feel like. Tonight, he finds that answer.
It feels like being lifted out of his own body. His spirit might float somewhere between this realm and another one, looking for a soft place to land.
How peculiar.
Simultaneously, somewhere inside of him, a million little stars are born between his ribs. They shoot forward, leaving trails of light in their wake. The warmth of that light melts across his bones, pouring into him endlessly.
He wants it to last forever.
Especially when Olruggio slides his arm entirely around Qifrey’s lower back, causing Qifrey to sigh against him when they’re pressed together completely. It’s almost frightening how good it feels.
Rather than questioning it, he hooks his arm around Olruggio’s neck in return, desperate to keep him as close as possible.
Each kiss bleeds into another one, a continuous exchange of desire. He almost forgets to breathe, nearly gasping into Olruggio’s mouth at some point, which must amuse Olruggio because Qifrey thinks he hears a chuckle.
The vibrations of Olruggio’s laughter bleed into his own chest — such a delightful sound — and Qifrey silently wonders if there is a way to capture that feeling so that he may store it somewhere safe for all of eternity.
Certainly, someone must’ve created a spell for that. If not, he could probably work on something.
Until then, he’ll focus on the softness of Olruggio’s lips. They part a little further, gently guiding the movements of Qifrey’s own, and he lets Olruggio deepen the kiss when he angles his head ever so slightly.
Each kiss feels a little less rushed than one that came before it. Yet, it feels more intense. As though the hunger that carved a line through his stomach has expanded twicefold. There’s a moment where Olruggio’s teeth graze along his lower lip right before he bites down and Qifrey thinks he might have groaned a little.
At the same time, Olruggio’s hand settles on the back of his neck. Five fingers slowly make their way upward, sinking into Qifrey’s hair with such gentleness that it’s impossible for him not to shudder at the feeling of it. It’s almost like there’s lightning shooting across his spine, and for a moment Qifrey thinks his legs might not be strong enough to carry his weight any longer.
It’s all too much.
Fortunately, Olruggio manages to maneuver them in a way that the back of Qifrey’s legs hit the table. The additional support is welcome, especially when he starts to feel a little lightheaded.
I should probably breathe, he thinks lamely, breaking the kiss with quite some reluctance.
Oxygen returns to his lungs in a rush and Qifrey leans back, putting more of his weight on the table while carefully pulling Olruggio with him. Their foreheads are pressed together, their breaths mingling and their hearts likely beating in tandem. He nearly reaches up to touch his own lips, wondering if they still are where they’re supposed to be. (How long until they stop tingling? Is this how they’ll feel every time they kiss?)
There’s a part of him that finds it quite difficult to believe what just had transpired and he attempts to recount the past several minutes in his mind. How much time had passed to begin with? A handful of seconds? An hour?
By some miracle, his heart still seems to be working. Though, each beat may have enough force to shatter his second and third rib, and Qifrey half expects to cut himself on their broken edges, but it seems that his body is merciful in ways he is still unaccustomed to. Gradually, his heart rate slows down and his breathing returns to normal.
The warmth in his face persists, though. A firestorm hiding beneath layers of skin.
(All of it Olruggio’s fault, naturally).
There isn’t enough water in the world to douse those flames.
Qifrey keeps his eye closed for the time being, choosing to focus on the sensation of Olruggio’s body leaning into his. Like before, Olruggio lifts a hand to Qifrey’s face, only this time he uses his knuckles to brush along his cheek. It causes him to inhale deeply. On an exhale, Qifrey whispers, “You didn’t let me finish.”
A chuckle falls from Olruggio’s lips. “What were you goin’ to say?”
The heat in Qifrey’s cheeks could be compared to a forest fire, something unyielding and ferocious, but the fondness that currently resides in his chest eclipses any sort of embarrassment he might feel. “What do you think?”
Olruggio’s fingers find his chin then, capturing it between his forefinger and thumb. “Nice try. I’d rather hear you say it. Out with it already.”
“I could never fool you, could I?” Qifrey chuckles, a sigh following his words. His tongue curls around a series of vowels, shaping them so carefully until they are ready to be set free. It takes him a few seconds, but there they are, whispered in the space between their lips. “I care about you.”
Once they’ve been spoken, he deflates. His forehead finds its place against Olruggio’s shoulder and his fingers curl into the sleeves of the shirt that is draped across his friend’s form. He squeezes the fabric. “And that scares me sometimes.”
“I know it does,” Olruggio murmurs. “You know I’m not goin’ anywhere, right?”
Quiet laughter follows his words, before he adds, “You’d have to kick me out to get rid of me.”
Surprisingly, Qifrey finds himself chuckling at that as well. He turns his head slightly to peer at Olruggio, voice muffled when he speaks again. “As if the girls would let me.”
With a short hum Olruggio peels Qifrey away from his current hiding place. His palms settle on either part of Qifrey’s face and for a moment Qifrey thinks that he might pull him in for another kiss, but then Olruggio leans up to press his lips to the space between Qifrey’s eyebrows.
“I care about you too,” he mumbles against Qifrey’s skin. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”
Qifrey curls his fingers around Olruggio’s wrists, teeth digging into his lower lip. The warmth of a tear prickles behind his eye and he feels tempted to reprimand himself because there’s nothing to cry about. In front of him stands a man who cares for him so deeply, who has remained by his side year after year, allowing his memories to be taken from him every time. (Will the guilt ever truly fade away?)
It’s a man who loves him. And who he loves in return.
“I had a small hunch,” Qifrey jokes, squeezing his eye shut when Olruggio rubs a thumb across his cheek with a quiet ‘don’t cry’.
A series of breaths travel through his chest, careful and slow. They create a space for something new to grow and he promises himself to nourish it. He will provide it with enough care so that it may bloom into a stronger version of itself, something built out of love. It will require time and patience, but fortunately he doesn’t have to do it alone.
As he feels himself coming back into his body, limbs moving the way he commands them to and fingers flexing carefully, Qifrey leans forward to wrap his arms around Olruggio’s neck. “Thank you, Olly.”
The weight of Olruggio’s arms around his waist feels comforting and Qifrey smiles against his own arm when Olruggio asks, “For what? Kissing you?”
“For just being you,” he answers. “And—for that, too.”
Olruggio hums, momentarily tightening his grip before saying, “We could do it again. If you wanna.”
A bubble of amusement bursts somewhere within Qifrey’s chest, his own laughter — quiet as it may be — rising from his throat. “I’d like that, yes.”
How many more minutes could they spend like this, hidden within the darkness of their kitchen? Qifrey ponders the answer to that question as he leans back slightly. A pair of eyes gaze up at him, that enticing shade of blue driving a lance through his chest, but he manages to breathe around it.
It’s impossible not to get lost in the warmth he finds there.
The smile he wears finds its counterpart on the face of his companion, and suddenly it feels like someone attached a dozen little strings to his upper body before tugging him forward. He leans in, letting himself fall once more, knowing Olruggio will be there to catch him.
And he will make sure to catch him in return.
For as long as he needs to.