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An unassuming and spring day it may be but a chill spreads through Qifrey’s veins when he turns the corner and catches Olruggio hissing in pain. He doesn’t recall moving toward Olruggio, nor ushering him into a wooden chair, nor fetching the med kit, nor dropping to his knees, but the crack in his voice snaps him back to the present.
“What happened?”
Olruggio seemed to debate for a moment, several expressions flitting across his face before he spoke. “Y’know that flashy display one of my clients was wanting? The one that would spin and light up every time someone entered the shop?”
Qifrey did know since Olruggio had spent days locked in his workshop and the one time they had seen each other, Olruggio dodged him and started rambling about the project instead of kissing Qifrey soundly—as he is supposed to when he finally emerges from hiding. Then, after following Qifrey around and letting him shove bread into Olruggio’s mouth, much to all of the girls’ disgust, he disappeared again. If Qifrey hadn’t caught him injured, he’d be quite cross.
“Yeah, a prototype fizzled a hole right through my work table,” Olruggio continues.
Qifrey prompted, “And then?”
Shifting uncomfortably (maybe from the salve Qifrey is slathering on or from embarrassment), Olruggio mumbles, “I tried to catch it. I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“I have a feeling you weren’t because you were tired,” Qifrey quips.
“—clearly, it’s defective and interfering could’ve made it worse,” Olruggio pushed through, ignoring Qifrey. He motions to his burnt hand. “Doesn’t hurt as bad now though.”
Pausing, Qifrey lifts his eye to Olruggio. “When did this happen?”
Olruggio grimaces and refuses to meet Qifrey’s gaze. “This morning.”
His jaw loosens in shock. It’s after supper. (Which Olruggio missed. Tetia pouted, Coco chewed her lip, Agott shot a withering look at the closed door, and Riche sighed. Qifrey had to keep up good spirits as much as he wanted to join them.) “Olruggio,” Qifrey chastises.
“I know,” Olruggio says, too flat and nearing annoyance, which did not help Qifrey’s own temper. Seems this is an occasion that Qifrey’s fretting and Olruggio’s nonchalance clash instead of the usual balance act.
“You’re hurt, Oru,” Qifrey snapped. “You didn’t even…”
Olruggio’s brows knit together and he used his uninjured hand to rub his forehead. “I didn’t,” he agreed.
“Why?” Qifrey demanded. “Please don’t tell me that it ‘isn’t a big deal’ because I will go mad if we have that conversation again.”
“Would you have?” Olruggio says quietly.
Qifrey frowns. “Would I have what?”
“Told me. If you had—you know, injured yourself. I’m not sure you would unless you had to,” Olruggio explains. His voice is gentle, his demeanor remains tired, and it’s clear to Qifrey he does not mean it as an accusation. He’s pointing out the obvious.
Even so, it sinks into Qifrey like stones dropped in stillwater. His mouth wobbles and he ducks his head lower to hide the redness rising to his cheeks and ears. “I would,” he says. The lie is too easy.
Olruggio’s expression betrays how much he wants to press but Qifrey knows he won’t. Not right now, at least. When pushed to a degree with Qifrey’s secrecy, he would.
“Right,” Olruggio grunts instead.
Qifrey can’t bear it. He’s so close to Olruggio, physically cradling his hand and mentally planning to make his favorite soup, yet he’s not as close as either of them would like. Olruggio knows him better than anyone but he doesn’t know enough.
Qifrey excuses himself, flees like a coward or prevents another lie or, even worse, the truth from leaving his lips. He walks away from the atelier as the sun sets and sits on a nearby hill to watch it.
He thinks far too much while he’s there. Drawing magic glyphs can be similar to the art of lying, if Qifrey is feeling existential enough to form the comparison and, it seems, at present he is. He learned both to survive, necessities, means to an end that’s nowhere in sight. Qifrey enjoys the joy magic is capable of and the smiles that it brings to his girls’ faces. Admittedly, that took many years of internal effort and external influence from his closest people.
It all connects back to Olruggio, as most things in Qifrey’s life seem to. Olruggio’s kindness, his magic, his ingenuity, inspire Qifrey to keep searching for the light in magic. He drives Qifrey to find answers, so Olruggio can keep his peaceful life and Qifrey can finally, finally begin his own. Keeping Olruggio happy and oblivious have been two simultaneous goals for years, over a decade now.
And Qifrey lies to him. Nearly every day. He can say it’s for Olruggio, that isn’t untrue, but it keeps him alive. The thought that Olruggio could find him out at any moment, or when he crosses threads, reveals too much, and remembers that his life, their life, could crash down with one misplaced word, staves off the dark magic.
It’s properly night by the time Qifrey trudges back inside. The soft candlelight in Qifrey’s room illuminates Olruggio’s buried figure, sprawled and deep in sleep, nestled under no less than 3 quilts. The only exceptions were a singular, bare foot sticking over the side of the bed and dark tufts peeking out the top. Qifrey can’t tell from this angle but he’s almost certain Olruggio is still fully clothed sans shoes and socks.
Qifrey grips the doorframe hard enough for his nails to indent the lacquer and takes a breath in through his nose. Almost simultaneously, Olruggio snores, rather loud in an otherwise silent room.
As before, Qifrey cannot stop himself from closing the distance. Qifrey sits on the edge and goes about the tedious process of extracting Olruggio’s face and blistered hand. He places a small series of kisses to each knuckle, avoiding any hot breath brushing over the tender skin.
Olruggio stirs anyways. He blindly grabs for Qifrey and starts murmuring, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” into the nearest bodypart he could reach—Qifrey’s wrist.
Qifrey has to steady himself. He swallows back assurances that Olruggio has no reason to apologize.
“I’m sorry too,” Qifrey says and means it.
Olruggio tugs him and arranges them until they are as tangled as they can be, one on top of the covers, one under. After a small contented sigh, he grunts. “I still gotta finish that commission tomorrow.”
Qifrey smiles. “I know, Oru.”
“But I can come down for dinner?” He offers.
“And lunch,” Qifrey insists.
This time, Olruggio smiles, small and sleepy. His eyes haven’t opened, Qifrey realizes fondly. His poor Oru…
Olruggio concedes, “A short lunch.”
Qifrey shifts, quickly blowing out the candle and then maneuvering under one of the quilts so he can tuck under Olruggio’s chin, laying a hand over his chest. Close to it, at least. “I love you,” Qifrey says. The truest thing he’s ever said.
“Love you too,” Olruggio grumbles, half asleep. He’s so warm and content and peaceful. If it were anyone else, Qifrey would burn with jealousy.
If Qifrey were to ever give into his curse, it would be during a time like this, where Olruggio lay in his arms, happy, and his students a mixed bag of studying and sleeping, two rooms over.
However, he draws himself back, reminds himself that Olruggio is hurt and, while the hand was not Qifrey’s fault, the emotional duress afterwards is. Qifrey’s inability to be honest underlies their whole relationship.
The guilt thrums in his chest like a second heartbeat. It keeps him alive throughout the night just the same.