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Olly wakes with a start and a slight twinge in his neck as Qifrey, attempting to be gentle and discreet, moves to rise from the couch. Olly doesn’t remember falling asleep, feeling that only minutes ago he’d settled down with his glass of wine, thinking he’d keep Qifrey company while he read over the girl’s notes from their latest field trip. He realizes he must have drifted off, his head following its familiar, slumping path to Qifrey’s shoulder. He was, to his credit, fairly exhausted from the snowy expedition with the apprentices, and not as immune to the perils of a heated snowball exchange as he may have been in the past. His limbs were heavy with a tiredness that comes only from romping about in the snow, and his half-finished glass of wine had been enough – in the cozy glow of the living-room hearth – to have his eyelids drooping within minutes of sitting down. He straightens up, feeling a tickle as the brushbug rehomes itself from the slope of his shoulder to the back of the couch behind his head. He rubs at his stiff neck.
“Ah, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Qifrey’s voice is soft, shadows flickering over his form as he stacks his papers neatly on the side table. Olly yawns.
“No no, it’s alright. I’m glad you did,” he assures.
He rubs both hands over his face, not feeling quite prepared to get up yet. He scoots himself over, resting instead against the arm of the couch, and reaches for his forgotten glass. He sighs, tired, but content. He’d had a fun day. It was good to be home, and even as winter brought its expected anxieties, he was finding it easier to manage with the girls to keep him grounded. He hadn’t enjoyed a snowball fight like that for as long as he could remember. He smiled against his wine glass, remembering the smug triumph on Richeh’s face after she’d landed a hit right down the back of his cloak. The sound of Qifrey’s laughter.
“You must be tired. The girls really gave it to you, didn’t they?” Qifrey smiles.
“Hah! They sure did. Haven’t played that hard in a while,” Olly chuckles. He stretches with an exaggerated groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “Getting too old for this,” he grumbles.
Qifrey smirks, not buying his griping for a second.
“I love ‘em, though,” Olly confesses, sipping his wine.
Qifrey looks at him strangely, something like sadness clouding his face, but as quickly as it appears, it disappears into a grin.
“Me too.” He turns away.
Olly watches as Qifrey moves about the living room, absently tidying things up. He thought he’d been getting up to head to bed, but he seemed to be lingering now, picking up pillows off the floor and stacking them one by one against the couch. Straightening the tassels at the edge of the rug with his foot. Crouching down in front of the fire to poke at it, breaking apart the larger embers and spreading them about. Despite his own relaxed state, Olly can feel an energy in the room that was something less than comfortable. A tightness in Qifrey’s shoulders. A wandering in his eye. He watches his face, his fine features taught and unreadable as he stares distantly into the glow of the hearth. His mind was somewhere else, he could tell.
Olly doesn’t know all of what happened at Silver Eve, doesn’t know where Qifrey was for those long and frightening hours with the leech, or what he and Coco had to take care of back at the healing spire. Neither of them had told him, and he’d known that was intentional. That they didn’t want him to worry. But worry he did, plenty. Always. Both of them reckless, running off into danger before Olly could grab their hands and hold them back. Both of them changed, somehow. He had seen Coco looking at her master with a strange melancholy, an intensity he was sure had not been there before. Qifrey, as slippery and enigmatic as he always was, had been nearly successful at pulling a facade of complete normalcy since their return. But Olly knew him too well to buy it for a second. He’d been keeping a close eye, and he’d been ready, almost, to confront him about it for days now, but had never found the right moment.
Now, looking at Qifrey crouching before him on the rug, he is small. Fragile almost. Olly feels that if he keeps staring, he’ll watch Qifrey fade into the shadows, his brooding sadness lapping away at his edges like the soft tongues of fire reflected in his eye. A ghost. He is almost frighteningly still. Olly’s chest is tight, something like grief pooling in his belly and lying thick in his throat. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, what he could say, or do. When did he become so helpless? Why does he feel like if he reached out in the only ways he knows, something would break?
“Qifrey?” His low voice cracks through the silence of the room, sounding much sadder than he intended. Qifrey flinches, drawn out of his strange reverie. He turns, and Olly’s ‘Are you alright’ dies against his lips as Qifrey’s eye meets his. Dark. Heavy. Shining like he’s about to cry. Qifrey opens his mouth as if to speak, but decides against it, shaking his head slightly and letting out a sharp huff of breath. He stands abruptly.
“Sorry, just got a bit lost in the fire,” he says, voice taut. He glances at Olly as he sits up. “It’s getting late. We should both be getting to sleep.” He smiles, a soft grin that would be sweet if it weren’t for the moments before. “Your back will surely thank you for not staying on the couch all night.”
“Right…” Olly keeps his eyes on his best friend as Qifrey douses the lamp in its alcove. He hears him sigh, softly, as if he was trying to hold back something more. Olly is overcome with the need to touch him, to reassure himself that he’s real, that he won’t disappear as soon as he looks away.
He pushes himself off the couch, crossing the room in three strides and stopping short as Qifrey turns, facing him. There is fear on his face. Olly is taken aback. In the span of minutes he’s seen more unguarded truth in Qifrey’s expression than he has in weeks, and somehow, it frightens him. What is there to be afraid of? Why is Qifrey looking at him, at him for star’s sake, like that?
Qifrey blinks and schools his expression, but doesn’t move. He looks desperately like he wishes to speak, but he doesn’t. He just looks at Olly’s socks.
“Qifrey I…” he tries to find the right words. “It’s fine I just…I just wanted…” He reaches out slowly, moving closer into Qifrey’s space, watching him carefully. He wraps his arms around his back, careful to avoid his right shoulder where he knows it still aches, and rests his chin against his left. He feels Qifrey draw a shaky breath, his arms still at his sides, fists clenching in his skirt. Olly squeezes his fingers gently, trying to hold him with a reassuring pressure without caging him in. Qifrey exhales, and finally, tentatively, slumps against him, head falling heavily against Olly’s temple. He sigh's into the pleasant feeling of Qifrey's weight upon him, and realizes with a twinge of guilt that he hadn't hugged his best friend in...a long time. Too long, surely. He nuzzles his chin into his shoulder, gently, not wanting to let go. Then, Qifrey brings his arms up to Olly’s sides, not to return the hug, but to gently push him away. His eye is closed, so he doesn’t see the twinge of hurt on Olly’s face as he does. Olly keeps his hands resting gently on his arms, refusing to be dismissed entirely. Qifrey swallows.
“Thank you.” And then, “I’m sorry, Olly.”
“For what?”
Qifrey smiles wistfully.
“For thinking you wouldn’t notice. I should give you more credit than that.”
Olly huffs a quiet laugh, but his heart pinches terribly.
“Heh, yeah, you should, old friend. Can’t fool me.”
Qifrey’s eye widens, the threat of tears springing to life again. The mix of fondness and despair in his gaze sends Olly’s mind reeling. There it was, that secret part of Qifrey that he was always trying to catch out of the corner of his eye, staring right at him. It breaks him open, and he’s frozen in the face of it. Qifrey’s face twists and he looks away. He sniffs, and slips out of Olly’s grasp.
“I just…need some rest. I think.”
Olly tries not to pinch his brows too noticeably. It’s become clear he’s not getting much in the way of words tonight, and he’s feeling too fragile himself to push it. He feels already he’s glimpsed something that Qifrey didn’t intend to let through the cracks. So he plays along.
“Alright then, let’s get you off to bed.”
But Qifrey is already making for the hallway as he says it. Olly follows, trying not to linger too closely at his heels, watching. Their footsteps echo oppressively in the silence, each one piling the tension thicker as they make their way towards the bridge. Olly is lost in his head, feeling hot and angry at himself for not knowing what to do. He doesn’t want to go back to his own room, leaving Qifrey alone on the other side of the atelier. He wants to go with him to his bed, to strip the tension of the day off of him piece by piece. Wants to lay back against his pillows that smell of him and hold him against his chest, running his hands through his hair. He wants to watch as Qifrey’s breaths fall into a gentle pattern of rest as he drifts to sleep. He wants to be there when he wakes.
Qifrey suddenly stops ahead of him, and Olly nearly walks straight into his back. He looks up and sees him clenching his fists at his sides, frozen. He finally says it.
“Qifrey, are you alright?”
Qifrey’s shoulders tremble. A long moment passes. Then, a pained whisper.
“...no.”
Olly reaches out to place a hand against his back, but before he can, Qifrey turns abruptly, grabbing him almost roughly by the shoulders and shuffling him back against the wall. His eye is wild, hands fisting in the front of Olly’s shirt. Despite his surprise, Olly cannot help the way his heart lurches in his chest. He had pictured himself in this position more times than he’d admit, but never in any of his fantasies did Qifrey look so sad. He grabs at his elbows, holding him, pulling him closer. He wants him to break open, ready to be dowsed when the wave comes crashing over him. He waits, breath catching. Qifrey’s voice is shaking when he speaks, trying to keep quiet in the echoing hall.
“No I’m not! I’m not, Olly I…” he looks desperate, lost. His eye darts across Olly’s form, searching for some resistance, some demand for an answer, but he finds none. He cracks.
“My dear Olly, I don’t deserve – stars, I want —” his face twists as tears do finally begin to spill from his eye. “I can’t –” A choked sob catches in his throat.
“What do you mean? Please, Qifrey, just tell me what’s wr –”
His plea is stifled by Qifrey’s mouth crashing messily into his open lips. His eyes go wide, his heart stops. Qifrey presses into his space, fists firm on his chest as he pushes against him. Olly’s mind reels as he tilts his chin up, Qifrey’s lips insistent upon his own, his breath hot against his cheek and tears stinging against the crack in the corner of his mouth. He is struck, trapped, melting against his better judgment into the kiss.
A sharp pang of recognition flashes in his mind. This is, this must be, the first time that he’s kissed him. It must be and yet…he feels just as certainly that it must have happened before. Or had he just dreamed of it too often? Is he dreaming now? Is he still slumped, asleep on the couch, and this is all some strange and lucid vision? Surely if this was a dream he wouldn’t feel like he was on fire, wouldn’t be able to smell the metallic tang of ink against Qifrey’s skin, wouldn’t be able to taste the tea he’d been drinking on his soft lips. Qifrey lets a desperate, pained whimper escape his lips as he presses against him, and Olly is thrust headlong into the realization that this is happening, really happening, right here in the hallway. And he doesn’t know why, or if it should be, or what will happen after, but all he wants is more.
He brings his hands up to Qifrey’s face, clutching him tight and pulling him in closer. He wilts against the wall as Qifrey’s hands roam frantically over his chest and neck, his hungry mouth pressing wet, hurried kisses against his fumbling lips. It is terrible in its sweetness, and Olly can’t even form a single thought other than Qifrey, Qifrey, my Qifrey. They are both breathing hard, and when Olly opens his mouth to gasp, Qifrey fills the space with his tongue, shoving into Olly’s mouth with a confidence that shocks him. It draws an unbidden moan from his throat, deep and wanting. Qifrey answers with a pitiful whine, lips falling to press against his stubbled jaw as his body curls into itself, hands clutching at Olly’s stomach as he collapses against his neck. His whine turns quickly to a cracked and terrible sob. He buries his face against Olly’s panting chest as the moment breaks, seeming to come back to himself with a jolt, and he starts to cry. He cries and cries, soaking the front of Olly’s shirt, his pained, choking gasps echoing through the hall.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Olly….forgive me please, please…”
Olly is completely undone, his hands grasping for dear life upon Qifrey’s quaking shoulders, doing all he can to keep them upright. As the shock of the kiss begins to fade from his eyes, his own tears come in to replace them. He is so, so confused, and more worried than ever. Something is happening and he does not know what it is, and it terrifies him. All he does in the face of it is rock gently back and forth, rub at Qifrey’s back, and try to breathe. Qifrey’s sobs begin to quiet to a steady trickle of gasps and sniffles. He does not raise his head.
Just then, a soft patter of footsteps sounds at the end of the hall. Olly’s head shoots up. Several paces away, he sees Coco, wrapped in a blanket, holding an empty glass. She must have been up to get some water. Her little face pinches with worry, taking in the scene. Olly makes no movement. He’s not sure if he wants Qifrey to know she’s there. He tries for a reassuring smile, hoping to communicate that everything’s alright. I’ll take care of him, don’t you worry. Just go back to bed. Coco doesn’t move, and doesn’t make a sound, but her big green eyes meet Olly’s gaze, and he tenses. There is some knowing sadness there that makes his chest tighten. It is a look that does not belong on the face of a child. It is a look that knows too much pain for him to reconcile. More and more things that he doesn’t understand, staring at him from the eyes of the people he loves.
Coco looks for a moment as if she wants to come closer, to speak, but after a subtle shake of Olly’s head, she nods, and retreats. Her eyes linger on Olly’s as she turns and pads back into the darkness.
Olly heaves a deep sigh, and because he realizes he simply must, he gently lifts Qifrey’s head off his shoulder. The man is wrung dry. There is both nothing, and far too much, swimming in his damp and exhausted gaze as he raises his eye to Olly’s worried face. He looks so ashamed. Olly can’t bear it. He puts his hand on Qifrey’s jaw.
“Qifrey, look at me.”
He does.
“I don’t…” Olly stops. He wants to be reassuring, but he’s full to the brim with a million things and he can’t even begin. He’s angry, shockingly. He’s hurt. He’s giddy with joy. He’s terribly sad. He’s unsure of what this will mean in the morning. He’s frightened it will be as though it never happened.
Qifrey starts to pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, broken.
Olly grabs his hands, squeezing them tight.
“No! No, please…don’t say that to me. Qifrey, I…” he pauses. “It’s ok. Whatever you need, whatever it is that you…can’t say. It’s ok. You know it’s…its just me, right?”
Qifrey’s eye is wide, and for the first time he looks almost…releived.
“Oh, Olly…”
“It’s just me, and you. Like it’s always been. Always will be, if I can help it. If you’ll…let me. I’ll be here. You know that, don’t you?”
Qifrey closes is eye, and squeezes Olly’s hand. He heaves a deep sigh, and a pinch of pain returns to his features as he drops his head. He presses his other hand to his forehead, tensing, still for a moment before scrubbing his hand down his face.
“I know.”
The words drop between them like a stone.
He looks up, and Olly feels completely caught in his watery gaze. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and while Olly can feel so much passing between them, he doesn’t know if he’s understanding any of it the way he’s meant to. He wants to hold him again. He selfishly, childishly, wants to be kissed again. But he feels distinctly now that he shouldn’t. Now, he’s just waiting for Qifrey to run away. Pleading with him, silently, not to.
Finally, Qifrey dips forward, brushing his forehead ever so softly against Olly’s own.
“Goodnight Olly.”
He turns, not waiting for a response, and slips off down the hall towards his bedroom.
Olly is left in the hallway with the remnants of his own tears, the feeling of Qifrey’s lips still hot against his skin, and a black pool of dread and helpless fear in his stomach.
“Goodnight…” he whispers into the darkness.