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It was the wine. That’s what Qifrey would say if anyone was allowed the awareness to ask. Because if it wasn’t the wine he’d have to acknowledge everything he could not have, and he was already far too into this maddening scheme to pity himself.
He could already feel the silver wood breaking through his skin, twisting ivory encasing him in a suffocating embrace as he tries to stall out the seconds under heavy blankets. Olruggio’s warmth at his back was something he wanted to memorize, the man’s weight far more inviting than the silver roots that will be his reckoning. Qifrey knows that if it weren’t for the promise he had made, he would happily rest here and let his roots be tended by those next to come.
Chapped lips press against his shoulder, the ticklish scratch of Olruggio’s facial hair accompanying the delicate affection. “I suppose we should get on with it, huh?” Olruggio asks, trailing kisses down his shoulder to the base of Qifrey’s neck.
Qifrey clutches at the man’s arm around his waist, ignoring the silver blooms that sprout from his veins as he shakes his head stubbornly. “We don’t have to just yet.” He mumbles quietly, pressing back into the damning warmth of Olruggio’s body behind him.
Olruggio exhales a sigh that scatters warmly across the surface of Qifrey’s skin. “Qifrey,” he says in a tone suitable for mourning. Which wasn’t too far off Qifrey thinks, he would much rather be in a funeral procession right this moment, because surely that wouldn’t ache as much as this.
“Give me five more minutes,” Qifrey asks in a whisper. “Please.”
Olruggio’s arms around his waist tightens, the man burying his face into the space between Qifrey’s shoulder and the hammock they had fallen into. It really should’ve been a perfect night.
It started as one that’s for sure, Olruggio had asked Qifrey to look over some ideas he was workshopping for a client. The two may have gotten sidetracked with a bottle of wine and a pipe shared between the two of them. It was slow, a lazy night made even more drowsy by the persuasion of wonderfully effective herbs. A tradition that had fallen to the wayside as Qifrey took on apprentices, the smell was quite the tricky thing to be rid of and he forgot how honest the combination of wine and herbs could make him.
“Have we done this before?” Olruggio’s question is muffled from where he’s made himself comfortable. He absently traces patterns onto Qifrey’s skin, unable to stay still.
“Which part?” Qifrey stretches his arms out in front of him, fighting against the branches making his joints stiff. He pointedly ignores the ivy that crawls up his wrists.
Olruggio’s hand pauses where he was tracing a myriad of sigils on his hip. “Any of it I guess.”
Qifrey hums a quiet note, thinking back on the one sided memories he’s collected in dozens. He collects them in a similar fashion to a child collecting fireflies in a jar. Each memory safely tucked away so that Qifey can open it and let surround him when the pervading loneliness greets him at night.
Their true first kiss was when they were sixteen, young dumb and high on the adrenaline of doing stupid things together.
Qifrey remembers the creek, a gentle thing that he always admired from a distance. It would’ve been in the early evening, when the sun was just starting to dip below their horizon line and the crickets and bugs started to buzz their choir. Qifrey can’t remember why they were at that creek specifically, just knows they stumbled on it and decided it was a quiet enough space to camp for the night.
Olruggio had ventured into the shallow water, insisting that he wanted to catch some fish for what they would’ve considered a fancier dinner than the sandwiches that Qifrey had made beforehand. Qifrey remembers watching from a safe distance, in the way someone would watch a particularly entertaining comedy show as Olruggio struggled to catch anything without his spells. Thought credit where credit is due, Olruggio’s had been successful- for all of five seconds before a slip on the mossy rocks made him lose both his balance and the fish he was so insistent on catching the ‘traditional way’.
In Qifrey’s defense he had tried to be reassuring. But Olruggio had looked for all the world like a soaking puppy as he gloomily made his way back to the camp, dripping water and the fish he had been gloating about in the creek free to live its natural life that Qifrey couldn’t be blamed for devolving into a fit of laughter. Olruggio didn’t take kindly to Qifrey’s amusement of his travesty. So instead of drying himself off like any halfway normal person would he saw it as his right to defend his honor by tackling Qifrey, sopping wet clothes and all.
While usually the two would’ve been pretty evenly matched when it came to their scuffles, Qifrey hadn’t quite been able to curb his amusement enough to put up much of a fight. Not like he really cared to. Olruggio always got a bit cocky after winning even the most inconsequential of bets between them. And whenever Olruggio got cocky he would do a silly little smirk that Qifrey adores and doubts Olruggio even realizes he does. Qifrey never minded losing if it meant that Olruggio would smile in a more genuine way that always suited him, the smile that made his nose scrunch up and eyes crease into matching half moons. It wasn’t truly arrogance, Olruggio never thinks highly enough of himself for that in spite of being one of the very few people arrogance would be warranted. But Olruggio wore confidence handsomely whenever he allowed himself to step into it.
Qifrey remembers not paying mind to the water soaking into him as Olruggio hovered above him in victory. He was too busy instead trying to count the freckles scattered across the black haired boy’s cheeks the same way he would trace constellations in the sky. The knowledge of who leaned in first or if the kiss that followed was accidental or intentional is lost to him. In its place was the increasingly familiar pain of vines twisting from his empty eye socket, the suffocating branches of silver wood twining with his ribs and suffocating his heart. Nothing could ever erase the image of Olruggio’s young face twisting with horror and grief when he realized what was happening.
He smiled then as well, a painfully kind one Qifrey has become acquainted with as much as it twisted his heart. Instead of the scrunch of his nose, this smiles partner was tears that made Olruggio’s sapphire eyes twinkle like the stars he was likened to.
“It would depend,” Qifrey says in response, thinking of every other kiss they’ve shared and its subsequent consequences. Of every time they’ve fallen into one another and how much it felt like a homecoming and a damnation in one. Which makes Qifrey wonder if those two concepts were really all that different in the grand scheme of things. They didn’t feel too different if he were honest.
Olruggio sighs, Qifrey wishes he were brave enough to ask the dark haired man what was on his mind. Olruggio pushes himself up from where he was nestled, the blankets draped over them slipping to pool around his waist. Like ivy wishing to be graced by the sunlight’s attention, Qifrey turns onto his back to look at the dark haired witch. Olruggio wasn’t looking at him, instead his attention trails along his workshop landing on their discarded robes.
“Hey,” Olruggio says, turning his head to look down at Qifrey with that damning smile. The same smile that has always made Qifrey think that Olruggio was the best approximation of what a star would be like if given a human heart. “I’m sure I said this before. If I haven’t past me is an idiot, but you know I love you?”
Qifrey’s breath stutters in his ribs, his vision blurring more than its natural state as tears gather along his waterline. This would mark a first. Love was a complicated thing when it came to being a silverwood host. A wonderfully indulgent thing became twisted within the vines that make home in his bloodstream. Qifrey always knew he loved Olruggio, it was a simple fact of life. The sky was blue, the ocean tides rise to meet the moon, and Qifrey will always find himself stumbling in his adoration for Olruggio. “It would be easier if you didn’t.”
“Well you’re shit out of luck there.” Olruggio says leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. It felt like a goodbye than any attempt to soothe the grief slowly trailing down his temple. Qifrey fights with his own limbs to wrap his arms desperately around Olruggio’s neck, clinging onto the man. “That’s one thing I won’t let you take from me.” Olruggio says, hands leaving behind warmth as they trail over exposed skin. He chuckles slightly, as if they were swapping silly gossip instead of this prewritten tragedy. “Hell even if you did, I’d just fall in love with you again anyways.”
“You sound so sure of yourself.” Qifrey whispers, burrowing his head into the hollow of Olruggio’s throat.
“Because it’s you.” Olruggio says as if that explains everything. It was so odd to Qifrey even still, that someone as bright as Olruggio would want to stay with Qifrey for as long as he had. “If given the chance I’d always fall in love with you.”
There was once a theater troupe that had performed in Kahln. It was a good while ago, in between the time they had finished building the atelier but before Qifrey had taken any apprentices. Back then the troupe was nothing more than a group of friends wishing to perform for those who shared the street. If the whispers of an extraordinary group of performers is anything to go by, Qifrey feels confident to assume they have done quite well for themselves. Point being, Olruggio and Qifrey had stopped to catch one of their plays after having ate out that night. It was a small crowd then, though the members seemed to have been delighted that they were able to draw anyone to their performance.
What a performance it was. They had adapted an ancient tale about a musician and his wife. In the play, the musician’s wife passes from being bitten by a snake. In his grief, the musician sets out to the underworld, unable or unwilling to live a day without his beloved. After the musician’s long and treacherous journey to the underworld he pleads to the keeper of death for his beloved’s return with a song. The keeper, though usually set in stone of his own ways, allows the musician to lead his wife from his keep. There was a catch however, the musician may not turn his head to see his wife until they reached the dawn of the overworld. If they were unable to make the journey or if he were to look back too soon, they would never see one another again in life or death.
The lovers make the treacherous journey from the underworld to the day’s dawn. However, in the end the musician turns around too soon leading to his wife being unable to stay with him. In his renewed grief, the musician wastes away. Unable to play because his wife, his muse, was no longer there with him.
Qifrey never particularly liked this story. Nothing to do with the troupe’s interpretation and performance, it was simply that Qifrey never particularly liked tragedies. And the story of the musician and his wife was nothing if not a continuously recurring tragedy. There were many debates over why the musician would turn around too early, many would say he was simply a foolish man. Others would say the long trek back to the surface let doubt fester in his mind. While Qifrey could never fully deny those interpretations of the story, he always thought the reason was quite simple.
The musician loved his wife. What beauty was there to be found in the dawn when his muse was a step too far away?
Qifrey always hated crying. It made his face heat up and his already underwhelming vision worse. But while hiding his face in the hollow of Olruggio’s throat he finds himself unable to tamp down on the ache in his chest. It doesn’t deter the silverwood, because it’s only within the shelter Olruggio will always unquestionably provide that he can find himself safe enough to fall apart in such a way.
“Come now,” Olruggio says, his voice a soothing rumble in his throat. His hand cards through Qifrey’s bed mused hair, a warm caress that makes him cling harder to Olruggio. He doesn’t have to look to know that silver roots are making lattices across the hammock, if they weren’t quick Qifrey has no doubt they both will get stuck. “I always hate it when you cry.”
“I’m tired Olly,” Qifrey chokes out between a hiccuping sob and the silverwood constricting his lungs. Hidden away like the coward he’ll always be.“No matter how many times we’ve been here you always forgive me and I hate it. I want to stay here with you and not have to think about every single thing I’m guilty of. I want to teach the girls everything I possibly can and allow myself the joy of it. I’m tired. I don’t want to be alone anymore.” The last was a painful whisper, a truth wrought from a hoarse throat like a brush thorns torn up from the earth.
Olruggio inhales sharply, taking the air Qifrey is slowly being denied. His hand tangled in Qifrey’s hair tightens, it was the hold of a desperate man and though it was insistent, it was painless. Olruggio’s head bows to meet Qifrey’s shoulder. “I know, but I can’t let you go.”
Qifrey finally finds it in himself to pull away from the shelter Olruggio provided. Qifrey’s unable to see Olruggio’s face where the dark haired man is resting on his shoulder, leaving his tear blurred vision to focus on the amalgamation of skin and wood his body is insistently becoming. His arms have twined together with a silver wood binding his wrists like ribbon, making its way down his forearm to join at the elbow. Qifrey feels sick at the idea of trapping Olruggio to this hammock he works against the wood to unbind his arms. “Why? It would be easier. You wouldn't have to wonder why we can never be this close. I wouldn’t have to keep stealing your memory.”
“‘Cause I like knowing you’re just down the hall and all I’d have to do is shout for you.” Olruggio says his hand loosens its grip in Qifrey’s hair, sliding down to caress the nape of his neck. “Because you’ll set a plate aside for me before you call the girls to eat when I’m too goddamn busy. I’m sure you have a mountain of a to do list that you’ll want my help to get through, and I swear come hell or high water we’ll get to it one day. We’ll nag each other ‘bout the same five things and still drink together at the end of the night. Because while this was wonderful, I wouldn’t want it if I can’t have everything else. Especially if it’s not with you.”
Qifrey finds the pain of tearing his arms a balm against the effusive wanting in his chest. The silverwood gives protest as he finally is able to separate his arms the flesh smarting and pinpricks of red welling down his forearms. The stinging of his skin will surely linger long after this night. Olruggio pulls his head away from his shoulder, finally noticing the roots and wood that is the manifestation of Qifrey’s want to trap him here. Despite it roots slowly trying to weave over the dark haired man’s legs, he doesn’t pull away. Just watches the slow growth of silver roots “That hardly sounds like equivalent exchange, Olly. One day you’ll regret the insistence that I’m worth all of this.”
“That, is the most bullshit thing I think you’ve ever said to me. And you’ve said some utter bullshit before.” Olruggio says with a nod. He disentangles his legs from the delicate lattice roots that have made its way up his calves. “Besides that’s hardly a decision you can make for me.” He slides off the edge of the hammock making his way to their discarded robes. Modesty was an unneeded concern considering they’ve just spent the better part of the night indulging in one another, making Qifrey wince as he gets a decent look at the wreck he made of the dark haired man’s back.
It was funny in a painful way, as Qifrey watches from his bed of roots as Olruggio easily picks out his palm quire from the pile of rumpled fabrics. Qifrey had no need for his hat this late at night in the atelier, which can make a situation like this a bit tricky if left to unravel as it did. But like any true witch, while a hat may be set aside none will ever be bereft of their wand and paper. And like many witches his palm quire and his journal had many spells only needing one more smear of ink to come to fruition. The memory wiping spell that Qifrey could draw blind at this rate was one such spell he kept within the depths of his quire. Olruggio no doubt assumed such a thing. “Near the back,” Qifrey says as Olruggio flips mindlessly through the pages of both spells to demonstrate for the girls and self indulgent spells pre drawn. Maybe if he’s quiet enough the dark haired man won’t be able to hear him. “Careful it’ll still be wet. You’ll have to smudge the ink to finish the ring.”
Witches ink has many ways to be curated towards the casters preference. Many times specific components are required for more complex spells. Such variables can change the ink in small ways that can be a hassle to adapt to and keep track of. The ink used for this specific memory seal was quite the finicky thing. Mixed with tears, the ink runs more akin to water color when drawing with it. Though it acts like oil paint on a canvas with its drying time. A pain to work around, but Qifrey has become quite adept at preserving the seal until he must close the ring as much as he’s loathe to admit it.
Olruggio stares at the seal, carelessly reaching down to pull his skirt on. It rests along his hips at an angle though the man doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. “One day,” Olruggio starts as he makes his way back to the hammock. “I’m gonna burn every scrap with this seal on it.” He says, coming back to hover over Qifrey. Qifrey wishes he could reach out to the other, but while he was able to pry his arms apart he finds the wood has grown too stubborn around his elbows to where he can’t move them anymore. Where Qifrey’s arms have grown immobile the roots have yet to encase his neck. He leans forward, catching Olruggio’s lips in a kiss marked by salty tears and too many words unspoken within it.
Olruggio kisses him back, always so very gentle. When they pull apart he has that blasted smile once again. “I’ll look forward to it,” Qifrey murmurs between them. And he very much wants to live a day without the seal mocking him from it’s hiding spots.
“Then it’s a promise.” Olruggio says, thumb smearing the empty space of the seal as he brings it up to his own forehead.
There is no proper way to describe the feeling of roots finding there way back under his skin. His limbs loosen enough to catch Olruggio as he falls unconscious. “You foolish man,” He murmurs, curling around Olruggio’s unconscious body burying his tears within the dark strands of his hair. “You need to stop promising things you won’t remember.”