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Qifrey closes his eyes and smells death.
Grime digs into flesh, just under his fingernails. His bare feet are muddied and filthy with soil; biting cold seeps into the fibre of his being, until it is everything he knows. It’s dark. It hurts. It hurts, and it's hard to breathe, until suddenly it's not.
A hand reaches out to him, a saint wreathed in light. It offers him life, offers him a chance for vengeance. It is a deal with the devil and he knows it; he has sold his soul, condemning himself in doing so.
But then—
But then why .
Why was he still suffocating? Why was he still drowning in murky depths? Why was something overpoweringly leaden bearing down on him, parallel to a frigid ice numbing his veins?
Almost like a prayer’s response, another hand reaches out to him. This one brings heat that warms both surface-level skin as well as heart and soul; this one brings hope, a fragile entity as brittle as glass; this one brings friendship, a tiny little thing that carried with it salvation.
This one brings love.
(To Qifrey, love is searing flames crackling in a hearth, a roaring wildfire ravaging nature, flickering embers sparking atop coal. It is life and death all at once. It is simultaneously preservation and destruction. It is Orugio.
And here’s the thing—where there’s fire, well... someone’s bound to get burned.)
“The kids are up to something.”
“To be fair,” says Orugio from the couch, voice slightly muffled by the blanket draped over him, “they’re almost always up to something. Coco gets that mischievous glint in her eyes, Agathe’s thoughtful but ambitious, Riche does whatever she likes... need I even get started on Tetia?”
Qifrey settles down beside his best friend with a swish of his robes. “When you put it that way, I’m quite surprised this atelier hasn’t burned down yet,” he teases, not without fondness. “But for real, Oru. The kids are acting weird.”
Orugio cranes his neck from where he’s lying down, a pensive frown tugging at his brow. “Now that you mention it, they’ve been asking me strange questions too.”
“Exactly.” Qifrey hesitates to mention the exact nature of these questions. I’ll just gloss over that part. “Do you think I should probe into it more?”
“Mm… it’s not affecting their work, is it?” Orugio shrugs lazily. “Don’t worry too much about it, Qifrey. They’re good kids; whatever they have in mind, I doubt it's dangerous.”
“Yeah, but…”
There’s a sigh. “Look at you, over-worrying every little thing again.”
He chucks a pillow at Qifrey’s head, who ducks easily and makes a face. “Oru, you’re going to get my pillow dirty.”
“Just magic it clean or something,” grumbles Orugio, promptly rolling over, burying his face in the couch and going to sleep. Qifrey dusts the pillow off and gently tucks it underneath his friend. It’s a tender gesture, soft with care, and the tangle of inky black hair below makes Qifrey’s hands twitch with the urge to run his fingers through-
“Good morning, Professor Qifrey!”
Coco’s cheerful voice is lowered in a whisper, so as not to wake Orugio, and she’s leaning against the doorway, a knowing gleam in her smile. Qifrey jumps ever-so-slightly, cursing himself for letting his guard down—even if it is in a supposed safe space.
Orugio tends to have that unsettling effect. Qifrey unwinds in the other’s presence, unbidden; always has, always will.
“Good morning, Coco,” he greets amiably, whirling around with a smile. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Since Professor Orugio threw a pillow at you.”
“Ah, well… don’t follow his example, okay? Even if people annoy you, violence is not the answer.”
Coco’s responding laughter is bright like the chime of bells. “Whatever you say, Professor.”
Qifrey grins in response, drawing a quick magic circle to muffle sounds around Orugio before heading to the kitchen. “Alright, stay here. I’ll make breakfast.”
The emerald-haired girl follows swiftly behind him, footstep for footstep. “I’ll help out!”
Qifrey knows better to insist otherwise; instead, he merely waves a resigned hand, indicating for her to help slice the bread. For a minute, they bustle around in silence, until-
“By the way,” Coco pipes up, in a determinedly casual tone that Qifrey recognises and bites back a groan at. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Professor Qifrey. Have you dated before?”
This. This is it. The bizarrely personal, seemingly random questions edging towards invasive. It’s already been going on for days and yet somehow it still manages to throw Qifrey for a loop every time. For a split second, he frets over whether he’s been too obvious—do the kids suspect something? Can they tell?
With a wince, Qifrey hurriedly shoves the thought toward the back of his brain and dismisses it. Nah, it can’t be. He’s hidden his feelings for so long that they practically aren’t there anymore, anyway.
“No, actually, I haven’t,” replies Qifrey, a beat too late. “Is there- is there a reason you’re asking?”
Coco blinks rapidly and waves her hands in front of her emphatically, shoulder-length bob of hair swishing along with her movement. “No, no, nothing specific!”
And even though she’s clearly lying through her teeth—with the audacity to act innocent, no less—Qifrey can’t help but feel a twinge of affection.
“If you say so.”
“Then, erm… have you ever considered dating?” Coco coughs in a vain attempt to sound off-hand, and Qifrey pauses in carving out his husk potato to gape at her, perplexed. “I just think, you know, it would be great for you to have a partner. Someone nice. And compassionate. That you care a lot about and cares a lot about you.” She pauses hopefully. “Anyone come to mind?”
A shadowy wisp of a figure twists, half-formed, at the forefront of his thoughts. A witch, with unkempt hair the colour of night and cobalt blue eyes that crinkle at the sides. Quiet moments mellow with something unspoken, sticky ice pops shared under the shade of an oak tree, an unidentified something fluttering in his gut.
Qifrey violently yanks those thoughts to where they would be silent . Okay, seriously. Just what in the world was going on here?
“I don’t have the time nor interest for that,” he says eventually, tongue tart with the half truth. “Besides, I’ve already got my hands full with you all—why would I need anybody else? I’m happy as I am.”
Rather than halting this line of questioning like he hoped the answer would, Coco suddenly frowns, turning to look at him with her hands on her hips and the half-cut bread forgotten on the chopping board. “Don’t let us stop you from getting a boyfriend, Professor!” she says vehemently, eyes widening a fraction when she realises what she just said. “Uh- I mean boyfriend or girlfriend! Whatever works for you.”
Qifrey feels like he has just been doused with ice cold water. “What-” he begins, then quickly clears his throat when it comes out as a croak. “Um. It has nothing to do with you all, I promise. I simply have no interest in pursuing a relationship, Coco, that’s all.”
Coco does not seem reassured, but drops the subject for now; the curling anxiety in the pit of his stomach squeezes even when Qifrey breathes a sigh of relief and sinks into the comforting embrace of denial.
...I’m reading too much into it.
Qifrey feels dirt and soil rough beneath his fingertips as the earth opens up a little bit more. He pushes his palms forcefully into the ground and tries futilely to stop .
Riche is the next one to make a move. She corners him after a lesson, sky blue eyes boring into him with a piercing intensity.
“Professor Qifrey…”
“Yes?” replies Qifrey, patiently. “Do you need help with something? Have some questions? I’d be happy to assist.”
Riche shakes her head. “Riche read a book recently.”
Hopefully, this isn’t another one of their schemes. “I’m sorry? A book?”
“Yes,” she confirms. “Do you want to hear about it?”
“...sure,” agrees Qifrey, albeit cautiously, because what else can he say?
Riche launches into the story as soon as he gives affirmation, sounding pleased. “So there’s Fire and Water and they’ve been best friends since forever. But Fire was always scared that he would dry Water up, and Water always had to be careful not to put Fire out.”
Where is Riche going with this?
“As they grew up, they eventually fell in love.”
“I see,” says Qifrey.
He does not see.
“And so they pined for a few years because they were so scared of ruining what they already had. Water in particular was frightened and guilty—he had his own agenda and pushed Fire away as a result. Fire was either unaware of this or forgave him for it. Either way, the pain ate up at him from inside; Water wanted to stop hurting Fire, but it was his inherent nature to flow, to trickle, to gush. Water was a raging river, rushing relentlessly towards his goals, destroying everything in its path; Water was a still lake, darkness lurking within its hidden depths; Water was rain in a storm, bringing with it both endless beauty and disaster.
“But he couldn’t bring himself to cut ties with Fire. They meant too much to each other—and while Water knew he was being selfish, he could not let go.”
This story is suspiciously familiar. Riche falls silent and stares at Qifrey expectantly, perhaps waiting for a response.
“Very interesting,” offers Qifrey, not really knowing what she wants him to say; Qifrey likes to think he understands his students but this time he really has no idea what the everloving fuck is going on. “I, uh, didn’t know you were so poetic?”
“That’s not the… never mind, Riche will continue. But Fire was sharp—he noticed things. He noticed his best friend wasn’t acting like himself. He didn’t know what was going on, but he suppressed his feelings as a result; Fire was too kind, believing that to stay by Water’s side during his struggles he could not let his own feelings get in the way and risk ruining everything. Water was too guilt-ridden, believing himself unworthy of Fire’s love and that distance would keep him safe. And so, as struggle after struggle passed, they never found the heart or the time to confess their love to each other, even after Water’s issues were resolved.
“Hence they continued to live life as best friends and they were glad to have each other… but on their deathbed they regretted not ever confessing because they simply loved each other too much and so they died happy but not content. The end.”
...what the fuck.
“Riche, take a seat.”
Riche sits.
“Are you- are you quite alright?”
She nods, looking very satisfied with herself. “Riche is just great. Does Professor Qifrey feel like confessing his love now?”
Qifrey gently manoeuvres Riche so she faces him. “Firstly, Riche, I don’t love anybody right now, not in that way.” Or at least nobody he can pursue. “Secondly—” Secondly, what the fuck. “—I don’t fully understand what the point of that, erm, vague story was. What was that plot progression? Was there even a plot???”
“Riche cut out the unimportant parts of the story. The point of the story, is that you should confess to whoever you love before it's too late and you’re on your deathbed!”
“I-” Qifrey gawks at her inwardly, but in a practiced manner, pulls himself together to some semblance of a professional calm. “I see your logic, but I also don’t. Because I’m not in love with anyone.”
Riche’s smug smile is replaced with narrowed eyes. “Riche doesn’t like liars.”
“...what???”
She… isn’t wrong, but there’s no way she could know that. He’s missing something, isn't he? What is he missing? Think, Qifrey, think. Think about the clues she’s been dropping. What does she want?
There’s a silence, then-
“I got it!” Qifrey claps once, triumphant; Riche blows out her cheeks, looking both hopeful and mildly concerned. He musters up his kindest expression. “This is about you and Eunie!”
It’s almost comical how fast Riche’s face turns red. “Huh?”
“Go for it, Riche!” Qifrey nods firmly and clasps her hands together, putting on his most encouraging face. “There’s nothing to worry about. Eunie’s so obvious you could see his crush from a mile away. You two will be great together… so go forth! Good luck. Even though you may be a little young for that...”
His student goes through what is quite possibly the whole spectrum of red and pinks before settling on something that makes her look like a cartoon steaming kettle.
Should I be encouraging her to confess at such a young age? he ruminates, watching her all but dash out of the room, too flustered to say anything further. He doesn’t know. At least it’s Eunie… they’re good kids, they’ll take care of each other.
And so Qifrey goes back to his own business, none the wiser of his students’ devious plans; but at the back of his head the story tugs at him like a relentless itch and gets under his skin in a way he can’t comprehend.
The rancid stench of rotting ammonia mingles with the smell of earthy ground. The harder Qifrey pushes, the deeper the hole grows.
Tetia’s salmon pink curls bounce as she bounds beside him, humming merrily. “Thanks for coming with me to get magic ink, Professor!”
“Of course, Tetia.”
They walk down the cobbled streets ripe with bustling chatter and buzzing energy. The townspeople here are friendlier than those at the Assembly, though that isn’t saying much; either way, Qifrey tries to avoid eye contact, seeking reassurance in the fact that Tetia seems to get along just fine with everyone else. Evidently , he thinks drily as his student goes around waving hi to everyone.
All of a sudden, her skips grind to a halt so abruptly she nearly trips and falls on her own robes. Qifrey reaches out to steady her but she slips out of his grasp impatiently and points in the direction of a stall nearby, jumping up and down on the balls of her feet. “Professor, Professor, let’s go there for a while!”
Past her index finger is a cart stand where flowers of all shapes, colours and sizes are propped on display. “Sure, but we should make it quick. I don’t want to keep Orugio waiti- woah!”
Tetia keenly grabs his wrist and pulls him forward mid-sentence, startling Qifrey into action. He stumbles forward to where a woman is manning the stall, a momentary assessing look flashing across her face before it settles into something more cordial that Qifrey appreciates. “Hello, how may I help you?” She eyes their hats. “By the way, we don’t sell magical flowers here. Sorry to disappoint—there’s a store down the road that does, though.”
“That’s quite alright!” Tetia informs her proudly with a wink, then leans in to whisper something Qifrey can’t quite make out. The florist’s eyebrows arch almost imperceptibly in surprise before she breaks out into a smile.
“Alright, I see. Take your time to pick something out, then; if you need help with flower meanings you can always ask me.”
“Thank you,” says Qifrey politely.
Tetia isn’t listening anymore. She nudges him and jerks her head towards the assortment of flowers, a recognisable sparkle in her eye. “You pick some out too, Professor. I’ll get some for Coco and the others, so…” She dramatically puts a finger to her chin, as though contemplating something in an exaggerated way. “Oh, I know! You can get some for Professor Oru!”
Qifrey inspects the vast array of colour in front of them and presses his lips together. “Hm… you know what? Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
If he turned around he would have seen Tetia mouth the word “victory” and pump her fist gleefully in the air.
The flowers are sweet-smelling; some come in single stalks, others in bundles. “These are beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing a finger over a white rose. “You said they have meanings?”
The florist affirms this with a twinkling nod, tilting her head. “Are you curious? Hold on, take a look at this.” She crouches down and rummages briskly through the back of her cart; after a while, she reappears with a tiny leatherbound book in hand. Tetia peers inquisitively over Qifrey’s arm as he opens it to riffle through.
“This is so cool,” declares Tetia, brightening up with interest. “I didn’t know flowers could mean so many different things!”
The florist beams. “Indeed. I love them for that. They have in-depth nuances and a variety of cultural backgrounds—it's incredible.”
“Not to mention they’re pretty!”
“That too, of course,” the florist agrees with a laugh. Qifrey presses the book into Tetia’s grip, flashing her a genial smile.
“Here, take this and go look for flowers for the others.”
To his surprise, Tetia shakes her head forcefully and hands back the book catalogue. “You use it first, Professor,” she insists stubbornly. “I can take it back after you’re done.”
Despite her earlier enthusiasm, she’s giving it back to me? Qifrey frowns in bemusement, watching as she flits around vivaciously then squints at a pink gladiolus bouquet.
...sometimes his students really are enigmas.
He turns his attention back on the book and flips it open once more, perusing it more thoroughly this time. Each profile of a flower comes with a picture as well as its name and meaning; Qifrey holds up the pages side by side to the flowers to confirm a match. There are simply too many to choose from—should he pick out flowers based on aesthetic alone, or carefully consider the connotations each flower carries?
He ends up spending more time than anticipated scouring through the catalogue. All of the flowers look charming, so maybe the key to selecting them is in their meanings after all.
“Have you decided?” The florist is observing him with a finger on her chin and her elbow propped up on the counter, a curious lilt in her voice. “Customers that take so long are usually the more troubled ones.”
Qifrey shoots her an awkward smile that comes out more like a grimace. “Sorry. I’ll grab some and we’ll be off.”
The florist shakes her head. “No, it’s no trouble at all. Take your time.”
Qifrey takes a deep breath and returns to the flowers. He actually has a few flowers in mind already—it’s only a matter of whether he has the courage to grab them.
His ribcage goes tight as he reaches out and plucks a stalk of purple hyacinths.
Rue.
Asphodel.
Striped carnations.
Every movement causes raindrops to fall. Drip drip drip, they ooze into the hollow pit of his own downfall.
The florist’s eyebrows shoot up so high they disappear behind her bangs as she scrutinises the flowers Qifrey dumps on her counter. “These are- well- these are some interesting choices you have there.”
Qifrey says nothing, waiting for Tetia to finish before paying and leaving.
On the way back to the atelier’s portal, Tetia swinging her bouquets around with a gratified smile, he abruptly stops in his tracks and inexplicably starts laughing. Tetia glances back at him, a half-apprehensive and half-bewildered note in her question. “Professor...? What’s wrong?”
“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Qifrey mutters, holding her shoulders. “Wait here for a while—I think I need to go back and get something else.”
And there’s a sort of cruel irony, one that made Qifrey hesitate to buy it in the first place, but it’s a gravitational pull he simply can’t help himself from.
He comes back with lovely blue forget-me-nots in hand and a sinking feeling that the overwhelming scent of petrichor marks more than just a passing storm.
(Coco pulls the others in to huddle together. “Guys, did you see the look on both their faces when Professor Qifrey gave Professor Orugio those flowers? And they’re still not together! Project Orufrey is shaping up to be a lot harder than expected.”
In unison, both Agathe and Riche roll their eyes. “They’re hopeless,” Riche says, and Agathe is inclined to agree.
Tetia is uncharacteristically quiet. “Professor Qifrey was acting kind of weird when we went to buy those flowers,” she muses. “I wonder what’s up with him.”
“Maybe he had a stomachache,” suggests Riche helpfully.
Agathe sighs long-sufferingly and swivels around to go back to her books. “Why am I part of this again?”
Coco hastily latches onto her friend in a hug before she can leave. “Aw, c’mon, Agathe,” Coco pleads, “you’re our last hope. Won’t you help us?”
Agathe’s face flames at the contact. Opening her mouth to protest, the half-formed retort dies on her lips when Coco squashes her even tighter, warm embrace enveloping the raven-haired girl. “Uh- I-” Agathe stammers weakly, unable to say no to her shining golden eyes. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll do it.”)
When Agathe approaches him—with a faux-casual expression he is now intimately familiar with—Qifrey resigns himself to another one of his kids’ whims. By now he more or less knows what they want, and suspects Oru does too.
“Professor Qifrey,” she fibs stiltedly, “Professor Orugio said he wanted you to head to his workshop to talk when you have the time.”
She sure as hell isn’t the best liar, but Qifrey relents anyways. “Thanks for passing on the message,” he says, with a gracious smile. Agathe ducks her head and slinks away, grumbling something unintelligible sotto voce.
He kneads his temples; might as well take this time to check up on Orugio.
Rapping his knuckles against the door to his friend’s workshop, Qifrey steps inside to where Orugio is hunched over a stack of books, half-drawn runes surrounding him. The latter glances up from his parchment and invites him in with a smirk. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“That’s funny,” says Qifrey, “I heard the same thing.”
They stare at each other, something tacit passing between them, before both witches snort.
“They’re quite obvious, aren’t they?”
“Only about as obvious as black paint on a white wall.”
Silence falls and Qifrey tracks his friend’s movements around the room for a while, fluid and lithe and enthralling; finally, Orugio straightens up and perches on a nearby surface, leg half-hanging off the table. He looks straight at Qifrey, gaze shrewd and searching, probing right into eyes hidden behind glasses.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? What is it?”
Qifrey is struck with the overpowering urge to burst out laughing. Fuck, there’s really no getting around Orugio, is there?
“Everything’s fine, Oru.”
“You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?” Orugio narrows his eyes and shifts to scooch closer to where Qifrey is. “I’m your best friend, Qifrey. You can tell me anything—I’ll support you.”
Qifrey shuts his eyes. This is really happening again, isn’t it?
“Is this about what the kids are doing?”
His eyes wrench open; Orugio’s expression is impassive, indecipherable. “No. I mean- yes, sort of. Partially.”
Something flashes across his friend’s face, so quickly Qifrey thinks he must’ve imagined it, before it clears up into patent amusement. Orugio pokes Qifrey’s arm and jokes, “I’m pretty sure that’s just because Coco and Agathe have a thing. They’re projecting; don’t worry too much about it.”
A what ? Instinctively, Qifrey’s hand shoots out to seize his friend’s before he can retract it; Orugio’s skin is calloused and rough yet somehow sends electricity shooting down Qifrey’s spine. A nanosecond later he processes what he’s doing and lets go as if he’s been burned. Shit . “Sorry. Um. What ‘thing’?”
Orugio raises an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t comment. “I’m sure you’ve noticed something,” he says playfully, as perceptive as ever. “Remember that time Coco was sneaking around with Tartar and Agathe got all jealous?”
Qifrey’s huff is full of mirth. “Now that you mention it…”
“Neither of us was too interested in those sort of stuff, were we? At their age, I mean—though, to be fair, we were too busy sneaking out every night like some sort of rebel ninjas…”
Orugio’s infectious grin is as bright as an unsullied flame and just as devastating. Before Qifrey can rein it back a smile tugs at his lips and, just for a bit, he allows himself to indulge in this feeling.
Just this once.
Then Qifrey spots flowers in a vase and his breath catches.
“...Beldaruit was so intimidating back then, he used to give me heart attacks every time I saw him. What are you looking at?” Orugio follows his gaze to the clearly well-tended flowers in an enchanted vase glowing with magic; he clears his throat, cheeks going a little pink. “Oh. Well. My work tools take up the entire room so I thought if I placed any flowers they’d just look pitiful, but… I mean, you did go out of your way to get them for me and I-”
Qifrey promptly shuts Orugio up by grabbing a fistful of fabric and kissing him senseless.
Just this once.
Qifrey threads his fingers through soft silken ebony hair, pulls the man close and brushes their lips together, feels the scrape of stubble against his jaw, tugs desperately on the back of his coat-
Just this once.
Oru is reciprocating, which is a good sign and frankly all Qifrey can care about right now.
Just this once.
They almost knock over the vase and Qifrey doesn’t know whether he wants to rip the forget-me-nots petal by petal like a particularly twisted game of hanauranai or bottle them up and preserve them forever.
This is a bad idea.
This is a bad idea, and he knows it. Qifrey’s on his knees on the unforgiving ground and he’s digging, digging, digging-
Orugio cups his cheek and something unbearably warm yet taut wells up in his chest.
Just this once.
Qifrey’s digging his own grave and he knows it. But just this once-
I’ll indulge just this once, Qifrey promises himself.
Just this once.