Archive of Our Own

ii. shift

Qifrey was not sure when it all began. Or perhaps he does know. He was just in denial. 

Often these days, he noticed Olruggio to be chipper, more so than usual. It was unnerving in a way considering the man rarely had the energy to bounce around the atelier like a sprightly youth, humming the tunes of bards in taverns.

Especially not after a full day’s worth of working on his many contraptions that are nigh endless, all to satisfy every single one of his demanding clientele’s tediously specific pointers. 

Like today, for example. 

Olruggio had just emerged from the stairs that led to the windowway, a healthy blush high on his cheeks and the ghost of a smile on his lips. Qifrey assumes that it must’ve been from the winds dropping in temperature with Zozah on the cusp of winter. 

Or maybe, Olruggio has simply had a couple of drinks. 

He was out of the atelier for three full days due to a commission with some duke up north. Truthfully, Qifrey had expected him to be back much earlier.

“Olly, welcome home.”

Olruggio visibly jumps, seemingly failing to notice Qifrey’s presence until now. He must’ve been lost in his own thoughts.

“Oh. Thanks.” He eyes the greens Qifrey had been finely chopping and set aside into small separate bowls, no doubt the garnishes for tonight’s supper. “Want some help with that?”

“No need,” Qifrey tells him, nonetheless thankful for the offer. “I was just about to finish up. Will you be joining us?”

At the question, Olruggio’s hand makes its way to his belly almost absentmindedly. The look on his face says everything Qifrey needed to know. “Ah, not tonight. Already ate.”

“Suit yourself.” Qifrey tries to hide the disappointment by opting to check on the stew. Maybe if he could get Olruggio to have a quick taste, it would change his mind. “How was the commissio—?”

When he casts a quick glance behind him, he finds that Olruggio was already gone. The only trace of him that Qifrey manages to catch were the edges of a dark cloak disappearing into the hallway that led to the workshop.

And this is what he finds most strange.

It was all too easy to get used to Olruggio being stuck to his side all evening to talk his ear off about what he’d done during his time away—how annoying his client had been, how exhausted he was, and how he really needs a drink.

Something sweet and strong that Qifrey has hidden somewhere in the storage for Olruggio to find, and perhaps Qifrey could be inclined to carry him to his room when he gets too drunk to walk straight. 

(Who is he kidding, Qifrey was always inclined to do that.)

Only these days, it’s all small talk and nothing else. A greeting here and there, more as an act of cordiality than that of old friends who've known each other for more or less their entire lives. 

Qifrey would like to think that perhaps Olruggio was caught up in yet another commission that he couldn’t be bothered to sit with Qifrey for a short while after being gone for three days. What else could explain the way he seemed to bolt away the moment that Qifrey wasn’t looking? 

Not avoidance, surely. Olruggio wouldn’t, he’s not the sort of person to do that. 

Avoidance was Qifrey’s thing, they both knew that to an almost frustrating degree. And yet, Qifrey was the one left alone for once. He learns the hard way how terrible it feels to be on the receiving end of this nasty habit of his, and how Olruggio must have grown tolerant of it throughout the years.

But unlike Olruggio, Qifrey doesn’t give chase. He stays rooted to his spot and reverts his attention back to the stew. 

This is fine.

•

iii. fixation

It wasn’t difficult to notice how Olruggio started leaving the atelier more often with his robes pressed almost perfectly to be rid of creases, hair combed and washed, and beard trimmed that showed an uncharacteristic effort to the act. 

Sometimes, Olruggio would forgo the beard altogether and he’d look far younger than his age. It made Qifrey do a double take. The sight of Olruggio with a bare face reminds him of bygone times and bittersweet memories. 

The unkempt facial hair had been a distraction, the proof of change and how they’ve grown from two youths with a knack for anything terrible, to two grown men who live in the middle of nowhere, with four children to look after, and house chores to share.

To say that Qifrey was fond at the sight of a mildly scruffy Olruggio would be an understatement. Though his back had long since gone haunched from long nights on the desk and from the weight of his elaborate cloak, Qifrey still sees his Olly as the brightest star in the night sky, for as long as he remembers. Horrible posture be damned.

And yet—

“Impressing a new client?” Qifrey asks when he spots Olruggio slinking to the door. 

Olruggio jolts, almost tripping. He then turns around slowly, a sheepish look on his face as his hand habitually makes its way to his nape. Like a nervous tick.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “I thought you were out with the girls this afternoon.”

Qifrey only smiles in the way that conveys, well, I’m here obviously. He doesn’t bother to ask his question a second time. Not like it was a question in the first place, more like a tease than anything. 

But now he’s rather curious what Olruggio has to say for even bothering to dress this nicely when he’s rarely done so before—with a new cloak at that, seemingly made with a lighter yet no less costly fabric with how he seems to be standing straighter than usual. 

Olruggio has met with all sorts of nobles and royalty in his usual garb, sometimes hangover and mostly sleep-deprived. It makes Qifrey wonder what brought this change, or if there was some sort of special occasion Olruggio was invited to. 

And that unfamiliar tunic is most attention-seeking. 

Someone with restraint should know better than to fixate on that drooping neckline that showed far more skin than usual. Qifrey would like to think that his restraint was better than most.

“I do have a client today, actually,” Olruggio eventually answers. He eyes Qifrey cautiously, like he’s about to say something that might warrant Qifrey’s disapproval. “And afterward, me and Hiehart were plannin’ to go out for some drinks.”

Hiehart and drinks. “I see.”

Olruggio nods slowly. “Yes, well. I’ll be off now. Don’t bother to wait up for me, might return late tonight.”

The sound of the door being shut was loud in the empty atelier. Olruggio’s departure was a common occurrence, but there’s something different to it this time that renders Qifrey in a daze.

•

iv. intrusion

He’s heard of Hiehart on many occasions. 

Olruggio always mentions him in this exasperated but fond way. Like an older brother speaking of his harmlessly annoying little brother. Something of the sort. At least, that was how Qifrey liked to perceive their relationship from all the anecdotes Olruggio had shared with him. 

They worked together on most projects, this Qifrey knew as much. And he also knew that Hiehart too had taken in an apprentice of his own, so they have something in common.

Lately, however, the mentions of Hiehart have been few and far between. And even if Qifrey had initially suspected that perhaps the two had an unfortunate falling out, or Hiehart has found a new senior to bother, the fluttergram that arrives one morning at the atelier was evidence enough that this was not the case.

Predis Olruggio, 

I had so much fun the previous night. I’m still reeling at the fact that you’d be willing to set aside some of your precious time for me.

Nothing but harmless pleasantries. Though he knows he’s overstepping a line, Qifrey continues to read.

I know I’ve said this countless times before but, I really do appreciate you for humoring me and these silly affections of mine. 

I am more than aware that I don’t deserve any kindness you have to offer me, but please rest assured, I truly am devoted to you.

P.S. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I asked Jujy to help me pen this letter. I hope this wasn’t too sickening for your taste.

Yours, Hiehart

Qifrey stared at the paper for long enough that he was sure he’d at least bore a couple dozen holes into it. 

He leaves the fluttergram unfolded and evidently tampered upon the desk by the open window dedicated for sending and receiving missives, and goes back to the kitchen to check on the pie. 

Come dinner, the pie was unsurprisingly impeccable and the fluttergram was now in Olruggio’s pocket. If Qifrey has noticed how Olruggio barely made eye contact with him from across the table, he pays it no mind. 

When the girls have finished and thanked Qifrey for the meal, Qifrey advises them to rest and try not to run around too much lest they get an upset stomach. 

To Olruggio, “Help me with the dishes?”

Qifrey eyes the way Olruggio’s shoulders visibly tense. He knew more than anyone that it was not because Olruggio was averse to helping out. Olruggio would be more than willing to go on a full cleaning spree if Qifrey so much as sneezed and hinted that there was dust piling up.

“Of course,” Olruggio says, rising up from his seat immediately.

Qifrey says nothing as they stood side by side by the sink, wordlessly working together almost by muscle memory to soap, rinse, and dry all the used plates and utensils. 

Once done, Qifrey allows himself the indulgent act of putting a hand on Olruggio’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

Olruggio’s smile appeared to be more of a wince than anything else, but Qifrey shows mercy and mentions nothing of it. When the counters had been cleaned and the leftovers put away, the stiff lines of Olruggio’s back finally relaxed when he realized that Qifrey was not going to bring up Hiehart or the fluttergram.

And he won’t in turn confront Qifrey about reading his personal correspondence without permission. It was fair.

At least, Qifrey saw it that way.

•

i. mercy

He knew exactly when it all began, this odd in-between in their relationship that feigns normalcy but at the same time not. 

It had been storming that night. Olruggio had brought two bottles of sweet stouts with him in an attempt to comfort Qifrey, distract him from this atrocious weather.

The girls were already asleep given how late it was, and it didn’t take much convincing for Qifrey to let Olruggio into his room.

“It’s just rain, Olly,” he says, offering Olruggio the chair by the desk. “I’ll be fine.”

Olruggio ignores the chair and settles on the carpet, pulling out two cups from within his robe pockets. He gestures for Qifrey to join him, smiling as he does so and it renders Qifrey weak to his whims.

“It’s the weekend,” Olruggio tells him. “And I just managed to figure out what’s causin’ problems in that recent contraption I’m working on. So, let’s celebrate.”

Qifrey huffs fondly. Sure, that could be a reason too.

He allows his cup to be filled more than halfway through, clinking it with Olruggio’s before they both take a sip at the same time. 

The stout was pleasantly sweet and creamy, smooth as it runs down the throat, and buzzingly warm. Qifrey wouldn’t be opposed to having a bottle to his own some time.

“Oh, wow,” Olruggio notes, positively taken aback. “I was bankin’ on this to be good. But not that good.”

Qifrey laughs, content to watch as Olruggio downs the rest of his cup and pours himself another fill to, his words, actually savor the taste.

It didn’t take long for Olruggio to sway a little where he sat, always weak for alcohol that’s sweet and with a good kick to it. Not to mention, while Qifrey was nursing his second pour, Olruggio was already at this fourth. They would probably have to pop open the second bottle soon.

“Pace yourself, my friend.”

Olruggio eyes Qifrey from the rim of his cup, eyebrows a little furrowed. His voice slurs a little. “You know, whenever you call me that, I always get these mixed feelings. ‘S a little weird.”

Qifrey feels his spine straighten absentmindedly. A voice in his head warns him to refrain from saying anything in return and take this as nothing more than the ramblings of an intoxicated man.

But there were times when Qifrey was simply too exhausted to put up a rational front. And despite already knowing the answer, he still raises the question regardless of the impending aftermath.

“What mixed feelings?”

A pause as Olruggio comes to realize what he’d just said out loud. He takes another sip to offset the mortification, but it was still plain to see for Qifrey who always watched with so much intent. 

Watching Olruggio was, after all, a habit he could never manage to shake off. Ironic when taking into account their official roles in the atelier. 

“Nah, I don’t wanna risk it,” Olruggio excuses with a nondescript wave of his free hand. “I’m content with how things are between us right now, and I’m really happy that you still consider me as your friend. Even after all this time.”

The thump of his heart grows increasingly noticeable. It’s a dreadful rhythm, like time ticking, that Qifrey has grown familiar with in moments like these—when Olruggio’s words lean slightly affectionate to the ears, filling Qifrey’s mind with cotton. 

He should stir the conversation elsewhere while waiting for Olruggio to finish his fourth drink. Hopefully by then, the stout would’ve already rendered Olruggio pliant and regretful, making half-mumbled claims of never drinking again.

Qifrey would take it upon himself to hoist Olruggio up and carry him to his room all across the atelier. Or, if he’s feeling reckless, he’d instead tuck Olruggio into his own bed just to have his scent remain on the sheets for the following nights thereafter. He’d have a pretty good excuse for it, too. Something about being too tired to deal with a drunken grown man.

The consequences such comfort would bring would be dealt with. A couple of sleepless nights is a fair exchange for having Olruggio’s scent so close, as if the blankets themselves were no different to the warmth of a real body. It’s all that Qifrey could afford to indulge in. The furthest edge he could reach without falling off.

“I’ll always consider you as my friend, Olly.”

The words were honest, something Qifrey hasn’t been for a long time when it came to Olruggio. 

He selfishly accepts the crooked smile that Olruggio offers him, and returns one of his own. They talk about lighter stuff after that, mundane and bordering on simple nothings. Like tomorrow’s forecasted weather, the tea they would drink for breakfast, how good tonight’s dinner had been, and how their resident brushbuddy had once again spilled ink on the carpet.

When the conversation eventually comes to an end as all good things do, Olruggio downs what little remains of his drink with one swig, the curve of his throat bobbing with the action. Qifrey allows himself a moment to look before the discomfort could have the chance to become too overbearing.

“Damn,” Olruggio mutters, staring wistfully at his empty cup. “This is really too good.”

Wordlessly, Qifrey reaches out for the second bottle, already recalling the spell in his mind to have the cork pop free without much effort and incident. He’s sober enough to be able to draw it without mishaps. 

Just as he stands to head over to his desk where his palm quire was, he hears a shuffle to his side and the floorboards creaking, followed by a warm hand enclosing his wrist.

“Olly?”

Olruggio blinks sluggishly up at him. “Where’re you goin’?”

“To open this bottle.”

“No more. I’ve had enough.”

“Are you sure?”

Olruggio nods. Qifrey sighs, easily acquiescing to whatever it was that Olruggio wants, and lowers himself to the floor once again. Something he’s overlooked, however, is the fact that Olruggio was situated way closer to him than before.

Their knees were touching with only the fabrics of their robes being the only thing in between. Qifrey could feel Olruggio’s warm skin from beneath. Olruggio has always been warm, it’s too lamentable—the way Qifrey couldn’t relish in the fact for too long, at least until he’s had enough of it.

But when has he ever had enough when it came to Olruggio?

He shifts slightly away with the excuse of placing the bottle a good distance from where they sat, in case their long robes might cause it to topple over. 

A spillage is the least of things Qifrey would like to clean up right now, especially when his mind has been rendered blank by the way Olruggio was looking at him like he’s trying to peek into his soul.

Qifrey attempts a smile. If Olruggio were in a clear-headed state, he’d call Qifrey out for this poor excuse of a mask. “Is there something on my face?”

Olruggio reddens a little, likely due to the stout. “Remember when I said I didn’t want to risk it? I’m eatin’ my words right now.”

“Risk what?”

“Everything,” he says. “This.”

Qifrey leans back a little, and he has to remember the existence of having a self-control when trying not to stare too long at the way the light casted tasteful shadows upon Olruggio’s exposed collarbone. 

The quiet ache that slithers somewhere within his body was enough to have him redirect his gaze elsewhere.

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“I want to kiss you.”

The admission was quick that Qifrey barely had the time to parse the words. It was short and straightforward enough that there could be no other possible meaning for it. 

When the realization hits, so did the pain manifest in several parts within Qifrey’s body—beginning from tiny little pinpricks like needles prickling skin, to bruising sensations that felt like muscles pulsing without so much as a rhythm. 

“You want to kiss me,” Qifrey repeats, keeping the strain in his voice hidden well. 

Olruggio wasn’t looking at him when he nodded. Perhaps it’s for the benefit of the both of them that this was the case. 

“I’ve been wanting to,” Olruggio says, perceptibly shy and small. “Since forever, actually.”

Qifrey’s heart bleeds for him, and his fingers twitch with the urge to reach out. 

Only, there’s this ghastly sensation in his arm, akin to something crawling alongside flesh and bone. He ignores the soft, muffled creak he hears because he’s sure that he’s the only one who could hear it amidst the storm raging from the outside.

And though Qifrey knew he must put a stop to this hopeless conversation before it could escalate, just as he had done so many times before, he still found it within himself to ask:

“Since when?”

I’m not sure. After the Third Test, probably?

Olruggio shrugs. “I’m not sure,” he answers, true to the script handed to him by fate. “After the Third Test, probably? No thanks to the others teasin’ me about our hat ornaments. Even Beldaruit was in on it.”

All Qifrey could hear was an echo, the déja vù has been so common that it rarely leaves him out of breath unlike the early days—back when this was still all too new. When the wound was as fresh as it could be. 

“That’s an awfully long time ago, Olruggio.”

Olruggio snorts. “Right? Pathetic, isn’t it.”

“No. It isn’t.”

It would be now that Olruggio would grow quiet and meet Qifrey’s gaze with those eyes of his, like they carried the starry night sky within them. 

For all the lines of exhaustion that marred his face as the years went by, Qifrey has always thought Olruggio’s eyes to be unchanging as they were since they made that promise—filled with hope and trust, and faith in what they have.

What Olruggio thinks they have.

Qifrey remains still, aware of how Olruggio is looking at him like he’s trying to figure Qifrey out—wordlessly asking if he’s stepping out of line when he leans forward, encaging Qifrey’s crossed legs in between his arms.

As much as Qifrey would like to feign his surprise, his skill in acting out a lie has its own limitations. This exact position, this unfortunate situation—Qifrey has lived through this many times before that he’d long since stopped counting. 

It’s all still fresh in his memories: how he’s given in every single time because how could he even bear to deny Olruggio of anything? 

He’d lick the lingering taste of liquor on Olruggio’s lips, and sometimes, there was even the lack of it with Olruggio as sober as he could be. As long as it was what Olruggio wanted from him.

Qifrey loved and hated every version of this song and dance. It doesn’t help that Olruggio’s lips were always soft, the scratch of his beard a stark sensation, and the way Olruggio’s warm fingers would always find a way to curl against his hair just to have something to hold and bring Qifrey ever so closer.

And then the pain would come inevitably. Not once had it not. There have never been any exceptions.

Qifrey has always used the kiss that conveyed no truth in it as a distraction, for Olruggio always kept his eyes closed, preferring to feel than see. 

It would take no less than a moment for Qifrey to have that dreaded seal on hand, always at arm's length just in case. Whether on a piece of paper, a cloth, or even hidden behind the fold of his pointed cap—the spell would always be drawn preemptively. 

Qifrey could go months without using it. And sometimes barely a week if both of their restraints couldn’t hold up. 

As those overlapping memories of the past come to an end, Qifrey becomes highly aware of the present, just in time to catch Olruggio on the verge of fully closing the distance between them just as he had done so many times before. Almost as if his body remembers what his mind does not.

This time, however, Olruggio was stopped when Qifrey places a hand on his chest—right where he could feel the erratic beating of a heart that has so much love to give—pushing away with a force that’s carefully gentle but no less agonizing.

“We shouldn’t, Olly.”

It’s the first rejection he’s ever fully committed to doing after a long span of simply giving in. All because he’d grown to find comfort in the fact that it would all be eventually erased no sooner than a blink of an eye. 

But he couldn’t have that for any longer. He shouldn’t. It isn’t fair for Olruggio that only Qifrey could have what they’ve both been wanting for so long regardless of it lasting for only a mere pitiful moment, inconsequential to a fault. 

Denying themselves would be a mercy, more for Olruggio than it is for Qifrey, and he could already feel the cursed roots recede. If all goes to plan, Olruggio would do well to retain his memories of tonight just so he’d realize Qifrey isn’t worth chasing. Never has and never will be.

To make matters even worse, Qifrey knew Olruggio wouldn’t put up a fight. But the lack of it didn’t equate to the absence of the poorly hidden devastation on his face. 

It brings immense physical relief, and along with it, terrible heartache that Qifrey has been perpetually nursing since the moment he discovered what it meant to love someone to the point of undoing.

Olruggio’s lips barely part as he tries to find the words. In a low voice, he manages to ask, “Is it because we’re both men?”

“Of course not,” Qifrey reasons firmly. 

Somehow, this response only made it worse as Olruggio’s expression crumpled completely. As if Qifrey’s rejection would’ve been much easier to accept if Qifrey had simply said yes.

And despite this, though Qifrey knew full well that there’s little to no chance of Olruggio still persisting, the distance he had placed between them is inherently fragile in its resolve, now waning gradually.

“Then,” Olruggio tries again. “Is there a reason why we shouldn’t?”

A warm hand encloses against Qifrey’s forearm—the only thing that signifies what’s left of Qifrey’s self-control to keep Olruggio at bay. Olruggio’s touch has always been grounding in its nature, but it only makes the pain’s cruelty return tenfold. 

Qifrey has to bite back a wince, trying to shift his focus to something severely distressing. Nothing quite helps when all he feels against his palm is Olruggio’s heartbeat. Regardless of how hard he tries to find pain in Olruggio, it was all moot.

The pain is all Qifrey’s doing.

“You’re my most precious friend, Olly,” he says at last, his voice sounding foreign in his ears. “But I never saw you in that way. Not even once. I’m sorry.”

Always mix a single truth in a group of lies. It makes it more believable. Easier to stick with when push comes to shove.

And once those horrible words have cemented their existence in the air, Qifrey makes sure to ingrain the expression Olruggio makes in his memory. That look of utter hurt is more than enough to stave off those dreaded silver roots, and Qifrey hopes that this ought to be the last time he sees it.

Even as he withdraws his arm, Olruggio remains perfectly still from where he sat, the hand that once held Qifrey’s wrist laying limp upon his lap. In the end, this wasn’t the first time he had failed at reading through the many versions of Qifrey’s deception.

Eventually, Olruggio finds his voice after the long silence. “I see.”

The lingering aftertaste of the stout has lost its sweetness upon Qifrey’s tongue, and the storm outside of this little haven of theirs continues with no regard to either of their broken hearts.

•

v. tether

Qifrey knew full well that this was entirely his fault, but it gets to a point where he starts to think that perhaps accountability simply isn’t his strong suit.

“I was just about to wonder if you were planning on staying home tonight,” he says to the dark figure making its way to the door. 

He’s grown inclined to think that Olruggio has gotten better at concealing his embarrassment of being found out; he doesn’t even flinch this time when addressed. Not like he had to tip-toe around the atelier late at night to sneak out for some exhilarating midnight rendezvous, or anything equally irritating romantic.

Hiehart being younger must’ve helped significantly, caught up in all manner of trends that involved dating surely. He and Qifrey couldn’t be more essentially different in this regard with how the latter barely concerns himself with trivial affairs outside of the atelier.

It’s not a reach to assume that Olruggio must’ve been having the time of his life without Qifrey in his shadow for once.

“Sorry,” Olruggio says. He’s been saying it an awful lot lately. Mainly when Qifrey catches him, now turned into this tiresome nightly charade that neither of them wished to take part in. “Was I too loud?”

“This is your home too, Olly. No one’s going to be on your case for slamming the door too loud whenever you leave.”

Olruggio mumbles something to himself about the sound muffling spell he has in the works, and how he’ll have it ready soon. Sheepishly, “I didn’t want to wake the girls.”

Sure. Qifrey could go with that.

If only Olruggio hadn’t been checking the hallway that led to Qifrey’s bedroom to see if slivers of the lamp light emanated from the cracks beneath the door—signifying that Qifrey was in there, presumably getting ready for bed and in no position to see Olruggio leave—then perhaps Qifrey would be more willing to believe that Olruggio’s blatant attempt to escape with no one noticing was just Qifrey looking into it too much.

He should try lighting up the lamp in his bedroom preemptively next time. And then he would wait by the common area, fairly hidden and motionless within the night’s shadows. Maybe then Olruggio would take his usual steady strides to the door with no need of a precautionary glance around the room, unaware of the figure watching unblinkingly as he put on his coat and cap and headed out.

“You’ve been out late drinking so much, only returning in the wee hours of the morning. Even then, you’d be holed up in your room working on your contraptions the whole day without a wink of sleep.” Qifrey crosses his arms, raising his chin slightly. “Should I be worried for your health?”

Qifrey doesn’t say how Hiehart is hastily making his way to the top ranks of his least favored people with the only other contender being Easthies, nor does he point out that Hiehart is a terrible influence for Olruggio. 

Actually, Qifrey doesn’t like to speak much about Hiehart. If anything, Olruggio could pretty much assume Qifrey has forgotten Hiehart’s name altogether, or that he hasn’t bothered to remember it.

Olruggio cowers from being chastised, a hand scratching his nape as he averts his gaze. “Ah, well.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Hiehart’s been takin’ me to these taverns I’ve never been to before. And, uh. I took it upon myself to try everythin’ that they have to offer.”

Qifrey continues to grow ever so unamused by the minute. “Is that so?” 

“N-Not like I’ve been drinkin’ myself silly!” Olruggio explains, flustered. “D-Don’t get the wrong idea. I only allow myself a few small glasses to taste, that’s it!”

“Still, every night is a bit… excessive, don’t you think?”

Qifrey becomes acutely aware of how overbearing he’s being. If he could grow out his hair and put on an ever-permanent magnanimous smile, he’d be Beldaruit with all this nagging.

“Not every night…” Olruggio mutters defensively. “Hiehart does control my drinkin’ more than you give him credit for. And sometimes, we don’t even gotta go to those taverns. Just some night picnics here and there with sights to see. Or we work on commissions nearin’ its due.”

Qifrey hasn’t felt this physically perfect in ages. It’s almost like he’s not even cursed at all, the lingering traces of the silverwood's roots reduced to what ought to merely be a figment of his imagination.

Nevertheless, though he’s been absentmindedly aware of the fact that Olruggio does have a social life outside of the atelier, this is the first time that he finds himself discomforted by it.

Olruggio existing outside of Qifrey’s orbit should bring solace. It loosens the binds they have tied around themselves so it’s easier to break free from it. For Olruggio to break free from Qifrey, even if it had been Olruggio’s own doing in the first place—shackling himself with a wretched curse all for the effort of saving someone undeserving of such boundless kindness. 

“Fine,” Qifrey says at last, feeling every bit contrary to the word with the way his gut twists, warring between remorse and defiance. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Olruggio’s shoulders relax and he nods. “I appreciate that.”

Deeming the conversation over, Qifrey reacquaints himself with the comfort of the sofa. He’s now grown accustomed to these long nights, making sure that Olruggio returns to him.

But just as he pulls the blanket over his lap and flips open the book he planned on reading to pass the time, the words he hears next makes him feel as though his entire body has been plunged into ice cold water.

“You don’t have to wait up, by the way,” Olruggio tells him. “I’m spendin’ the night at Hiehart’s. Should be back by tomorrow afternoon.”

Qifrey’s jaw was set and he bites his tongue. He barely registers Olruggio giving him a wave goodbye paired with that disarming smile of his like he just didn’t give Qifrey the headache of a lifetime. 

There was no sleep to speak of that night as Qifrey sat unmovingly upon the sofa staring at the unlit hearth. The only light source he had was the small lamp he’d placed by the table beside his book, one of Olruggio’s many creations. 

But he’s long since lost interest in the words written on the pages, and the warmth from the light couldn’t suppress the chill that has made its home within Qifrey’s bones.

“Spend the night, huh.”

Though Qifrey has rarely bothered himself with the intricacies of dating and romance, he’s not fully ignorant of it. He has more or less an idea as to what the implications of Olruggio’s words entailed, there to be scrutinized for those who wished to look too closely. 

And somewhere within the hidden crevices of his mind, he had thought of this moment becoming a harrowing reality: Olruggio finding love at last, something Qifrey has long since come to believe he’d prevented from having, and never falling short of blaming himself for it.

It’s a volatile mixture of relief and ache, inherently incompatible like oil and water. It’s the only thing that allows Qifrey to continue this cursed, contradicting existence.

This is good, the rational part of him thinks. This is what should happen. 

But the other, more selfish part of himself would beg to differ. This is unbearable.

Relief comes in the form of knowing Olruggio loves and is loved in return in the way he deserves. But there's an ache in the fact that it is not with Qifrey.

It could never be with Qifrey. The promise he’d made to Olruggio all those years ago made sure of that. If he allowed himself to fully waver, it would be another heart of Olruggio’s that he’d be breaking. Another to add to the ever growing pile with seemingly no end in sight. 

The only thing that makes Qifrey sleep at night, regardless of how fitful, is the fact that he is alone in his suffering and Olruggio is always none the wiser.

Even as the sun rose, the light seeping through the windows and bathing the atelier in this dreamlike golden glow, Qifrey’s clenching grip against the blanket on his lap hasn’t loosened once. 

Only when his ears could pick up the muffled shuffling from the girls’ quarters did he finally leave his bitter vigil to prepare some breakfast. 

He only hopes that Hiehart is an excellent cook. Olruggio liked to eat after all.

•

vi. fracture

Though it took him many years, Qifrey has long since stopped envisioning a life without Olruggio. He eventually came to terms with the fact that it was simply a waste of his time. Olruggio was not going anywhere whether Qifrey liked it or not. 

They made a promise to see this to the end, even if only one of them remembers it.

As he waits outside of the atelier for Olruggio to return home, the moon high in the sky devoid of clouds for the stars to come into view, Qifrey finds himself questioning the pivotal choice two naive children had made that changed the course of their lives entirely. 

He wonders if there’s still meaning in trying to continue like this, if he could stomach the guilt that latches onto him until the weight of it puts a detriment on his bones now that he’s seen how happy Olruggio could be in the company of another.

Time had a way of dulling even the sincerest of vows until what only remains of them were words devoid of their initial meaning. What once felt like mutual resolve had grown uneven, warped by all things left unsaid.

Qifrey comes to realize that years of this hopeless constancy of theirs did not mean permanence. 

Olruggio could leave anytime if fate is kind enough to convince him. And a Watchful Eye could so easily be replaced by someone far less lenient, even if Qifrey would rather experience several lifetimes together with his current one.

I’ll stick with you, came the echo of a voice at the back of his head. Just like I stuck with the Qifrey I knew back then.

But Olruggio has a reason to leave now. It wouldn’t be long before the parasite within Qifrey would begin to take root permanently—brought on by the relief that someone was able to provide Olruggio what he couldn’t, for the promise to be as good as gone.

Olruggio would then exist in a world that didn’t need Qifrey in it, and by extension, a world that didn’t deceive him.

Though the thought doesn’t exactly numb the heartache, he can feign his happiness for Olruggio’s sake. A lie can become truth if he lives through it, until there will come a time where his happiness becomes genuine. 

But such a time is not needed when the mere fact of Olruggio’s freedom is more than enough for Qifrey to put everything to rest.

A sting in his thumb pulls him out of his stupor, and he notices that he’d peeled the skin too far from obsessively picking over it. A ribbon of crimson wells from the small cut but it doesn’t quite fall just yet. 

Just as Qifrey was about to bring his thumb to his lips, a shadow looms over him. A soft thump follows as shoes touch the ground.

“Qifrey? What are you still doin’ out here?”

Qifrey looks up, the sting from the cut forgotten as he gives Olruggio a smile. “I was waiting for you.”

“You never listen, huh.”

“It’s an old habit.”

A scoff was heard before Olruggio slumped beside Qifrey’s right in a ruffle of black and blue fabric. He’s always taken to Qifrey’s right since they were young. Qifrey wonders if it was a subconscious decision on Olruggio’s part—protecting others came naturally for him, after all. And what better way to do that than make sure Qifrey’s blind spot was guarded at all times.

Qifrey stiffens when he feels Olruggio lean heavily against him, faintly smelling of mead and something else that’s just pleasantly Olruggio. 

“You know,” he began. “Hiehart said something funny today.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

Olruggio hums thoughtfully. “Not really say, per se. More like asked.” He shifts closer, enough so his chin fully rests upon Qifrey’s shoulder. “He asked if you’re okay with me and… him.”

Qifrey kept his gaze straight ahead knowing full well that if he so much as turned just a little at Olruggio’s direction, it would be as good as over. 

The view of the plains paired with the night sky was no less breathtaking, yet Qifrey could only stare at nothing in particular. “And what was your answer?”

“I told him to mind his own business. And then he put a rest to it.”

Qifrey manages a light laugh despite everything. “Well, I’m not really sure why he’d care for my opinion. I wouldn’t be able to do much of anything, anyway. And I would be a bad friend if I went against your happiness.”

Olruggio huffs. “Happiness, huh. Funny you should say that.”

“How so?”

“Because you’re the last person who would ever make me feel unhappy,” Olruggio says. Qifrey could feel him smile against his shoulder as he spoke. “You already broke my heart beyond repair, and yet I’m still happier right here beside you than with anyone else.”

And just like that, the dormant ache within Qifrey twitches to life once again. The slow crawling of vines, the scratch of leaf buds yet to sprout and burst through the thin layer of skin—

“What of Hiehart?”

“I admit that I tried with him,” Olruggio says passively. “But it’s never going to work out.” 

“You should give him a chance,” Qifrey says nonetheless, as though he needs it to happen more than Olruggio does. 

Olruggio makes a huffing sound beside him and he could feel the reverberations of it against his shoulder. Equal parts amused and exasperated. 

“No amount of chances could ever force my heart on someone.” A warm hand encloses itself around Qifrey’s, intertwining their fingers together. “Qifrey, you already know who I want.”

Qifrey keeps his hand limp, if only to trick the silverwood that he doesn’t want this. But there’s no stopping the quiver of his lip and the warmth Olruggio provides like it’s the sole purpose of his existence. As if Olruggio was brought into this world to serve as comfort torment for Qifrey.

His lack of interest must’ve disheartened Olruggio a bit for he loosened his hold just enough for Qifrey to notice. 

“I know I shouldn’t come on to you anymore after you shot me down,” Olruggio continues softly. “But there’s a voice in my ear tellin’ me that I should try my luck again. Right now. Or else I’d forever live to regret it.”

Qifrey wanted to say that it’s all in Olruggio’s head. But he doesn’t trust his voice to betray nothing. It would shake and quiver with the truth, and Olruggio would see that he’d been lied to.

“Qifrey, say somethin’.”

I can’t.

“Qifrey.”

I shouldn’t.

Olruggio’s weight disappears from his right. Just as Qifrey was about to sigh in relief, the air gets caught up in his throat when Olruggio proceeds to kneel in front of him. He takes both of Qifrey’s hands in his, and offers a gaze akin to that night.

Something warm and wet at last drips down Qifrey’s cheek, and Olruggio looks at him knowingly as if he’s just realized something inherently crucial. 

And perhaps a lone tear was enough for him to truly understand everything that Qifrey is unable to say out loud. It’s both a blessing and a curse—the fact that they both knew each other so well that words were no longer a requirement between them.

A slight curve of the lips, a tilt of the head, a simple gesture, even a gaze that lingers too long. It’s all been enough, isn’t it.

“Hah.”

Olruggio smiles bitterly as he reaches out to wipe Qifrey’s cheek with his thumb. The touch stays as if waiting to catch what has yet to fall.

“No more late nights. I’ve set the record straight with Hiehart, anyway.”

Qifrey sighs. “Olly—”

“I won’t force an answer out of you anymore. We can go back to the way things were—”

“Olruggio—”

“And then you won’t have to cry again—”

Qifrey brings Olruggio’s face closer to his, the tips of their noses barely touching, and it works in silencing Olruggio immediately. 

There’s an aching shine in those deep blue pools that always reflected the stars in them. And Qifrey indulges in the sight of Olruggio’s face slowly being painted a light shade of red from this sudden proximity.

Qifrey could simply erase Olruggio’s memories again, just like this when he’s all vulnerable and willing. And he’d kiss him through it like he’s always done, hoping the act alone would make him feel even more detestable for taking without permission.

Even if Olruggio has expressed the desire to be kissed time and time again, the Qifrey he wishes to share it with is not the same person as the Qifrey who has lied to him for a near two decades now. 

“Are you going to reject me again?” Olruggio finally asks, keeping his voice low as though he fears spooking an animal. “If so, you should quit lookin’ at me like that.”

Qifrey’s gaze drops to Olruggio’s lips, mesmerized. “Like what?”

“Like you want this just as much as I do,” Olruggio tells him. “Like you want me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Olly.”

Olruggio laughs, a soft and breathless sound. “That’s too bad.”

“I’m serious. There’s no benefit in loving me. I don’t want to be loved.”

There’s a warm pressure against his forehead, Olruggio now leaning ever so closer than before. 

“Like I said,” Olruggio mutters, lips just a hair’s breadth away from Qifrey’s. “That’s too bad.”

Qifrey wasn’t sure who among them had given in first, but the press of Olruggio’s lips against his feels just as it did the first time—like everything coming to place.

It’s enough to make him want to permanently stay in this current moment of bliss, to let the passage of time resume its constant march. With his eye closed and the world growing dark, centuries could pass and he wouldn’t mind at all. 

And yet he also desires the sensation of Olruggio against him to be something permanent in this temporal world controlled by a cruel fate. 

As long as Olruggio is here. As long as Olruggio stays with him—

“—frey?”

—warmth that never goes out could stave off the coldest of winters and the harshest of storms—

“What… this…?”

—and his roots would know peace, anchoring deep within the soil without fear of flames or calamity—

“—frey! Qifrey…!”

•

vii. return

Qifrey wakes up in a daze.

His body felt strange, like he had no reign over it. Weightless in a way that seems as though he doesn’t truly exist at all. 

Dawn slowly made its arrival from the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and red and pink. One would find the sight breathtaking if only they weren’t so empty from within.

Beside him, Olruggio slept with half of his face pressed upon the grass, his pointed cap a few paces away. There’s a piece of paper loosely caught in his grasp as well as a smudge of ink on his thumb, too recent to belong to the pre-existing ink stains typical of a witch’s fingers. 

As light shines upon the contents of the paper, Qifrey catches a glimpse of unmistakable circles and lines, all drawn with bitter dread. There was no need to look any closer, Qifrey knew what it was by heart.

When Olruggio began to stir, the paper was long hidden away within the confines of Qifrey’s pocket. Out of sight and, hopefully, out of mind.

“Qifrey,” Olruggio began, eyes barely open, voice rough and laced with sleep. “Pray tell, why did we sleep outside?”

He almost sounds annoyed considering their current state. Not to mention, there’s grass caught in between his lips and beard. It’s too amusing of a sight that Qifrey couldn’t help but crack a smile amidst his internal turmoil.

“Don’t ask me,” he shoots back, mildly teasing. “This was your drunken influence.”

Olruggio groans into the ground. He would remember drinking with Hiehart the previous night and other related events. And he would remember Qifrey waiting for him by the rickety bench in front of the atelier.

But he wouldn’t remember Qifrey’s rejection, and Qifrey eventually relenting nonetheless. The kiss they shared, along with the many others prior, is as good as gone.

“I’m not drinkin’ a drop for a whole season,” Olruggio vows.

Qifrey sits up and gently nudges Olruggio to do the same. “Before you speak of empty promises, my dear friend, how about getting some breakfast first?”

After a round of rolling in the dirt and cursing the high heavens for his troublesome hangover, Olruggio finally allows Qifrey to help him up to his own two feet. He settles his pointed cap under his arm and lets himself be dragged towards the atelier. 

Upon entering their home, utterly tranquil in the early hours of the day, Olruggio immediately starts the fire of the hearth. He goes to the kitchen and flings open some of the cupboards, pensively staring at what they have.

“How do you feel about havin’ some chasenut pancakes?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Qifrey replies. 

With Olruggio’s back turned to him, Qifrey takes the opportunity to swiftly pass by the lit hearth, burning the evidence of his deceit into it.

Everything is exactly as it should be.