Chapter Text
Missing pieces of my skull
I'll sew on patches of my own soul
…
My heart and the earth share the same rule
It starts with love and it ends with you
Qifrey inhales the sweet scent of summer air and rolls over on the grass, sprawling out his limb to catch a flower before the wind steals it away from him. It is a pretty dandelion, not unlike dozens of other ones crushed underneath his weight, but it is the only one he has had his eyes on after Olruggio left him in the middle of the flower fields at a short notice and points to that dandelion, saying he would be back before it has been blown away completely. It has been a whole half an hour since, its tuft has become scarce, the sky is leaning into a peachy hue, and Olruggio has not returned. He has probably become too occupied to remember, Qifrey thinks, and if he wants to return to the atelier before night falls then he had better leave now. Still, he waits.
His mind wanders aimlessly towards Olruggio, it has been for several minutes, turned into several more, and before he knows it—a whole hour has passed. The moon becomes gradually clearer than the nearby village itself. A glimpse of a short figure hovers nearby, and his heart thumps slightly as he looks up, only to realize it had not been Olruggio.
With a small, resigned sigh, Qifrey blows away the remaining puffs on the dandelion and his head falls back onto the grass.
On his lips hang a singular flower petal.
Not that of a dandelion nor any of the flowers that grow amongst the field, so Qifrey grimaced uncomfortably at the sight of it. A nauseous feeling snowballs inside him as he curls his fingers and reaches into the open chasm of his eye, where a parasite takes root, threatening to grow in any moment of peace. How could thinking about Olruggio put him at any ease, if he has such little to think about him these days? But the Silverwood tree—regressed to a sprout—lays dormant, nestling neatly inside of him. The petal is not its.
Qifrey props himself up, mildly unnerved as he licks the petal off his lips. A strange, metallic sting tickles the tip of his tongue, but it dissolves quickly, and Qifrey pays it no heed because now he finds himself utterly famished, impatient to get back. He had intended to wait for Olruggio, even so much as inviting him over for dinner, but dusk is falling and the other boy is likely otherwise occupied, Qifrey resignedly saves the occasion for a better day.
Hardly has Qifrey risen to his feet when an agonizing feeling suddenly sprung into his chest. The boy stumbles and his fingers dig into his skin. A fit of coughs summon inside his throat, as dozens of petals choked out of Qifrey’s mouth, overflowing ceaselessly downstream. His throat sears, tearing his skin from inside out, and Qifrey could feel the sensation of something blooming inside of him, literally, when he finally catches himself. With ragged breaths, he attempts to stand, but the abnormal ache in his lungs make it hard to even keep a proper balance.
And then, right below him—
The dandelions have been dyed red.
…
“To think you managed to make it back alive,”
Flicks. Beldaruit flips over another page in the same agitated motion he repeats since he drops that dusty old encyclopedia onto his apprentice’s bed. Another click of the tongue, he turns to the next page.
“Wh…” Qifrey rasped out, dry and shaky. He reaches for another glass of water and downs it, but not even that could dampen the bitterness that lingers on his tongue. He shifts stiffly, and seals his mouth shut.
Beldaruit looks to his apprentice again, whose snow white skin somehow managed to become paler, looking even more sickly than he already does, and realizes that he had given his condition far too much credit.
Even when Qifrey reaches the atelier long past his curfew, he was barely on both feet. And it would take Beldaruit more than just a few hours to fully recover from the shock he experienced when he opens his door to see his apprentice utterly bloodstained and breathless, coughing up red-tinted petals at the doorstep.
Forget-me-nots, Beldaruit has noted, they trail the whole way up Qifrey’s bed like breadcrumbs. The Silverwood tree does not hail such pretty things.
“… What’s wrong with me?” The boy finally manages, as another fit of cough rises to his throat. Thankfully, no flowers bloom; instead, the lump settles perfectly still, grazing gently against his lungs.
Qifrey’s sigh is cut short, even breathing feels like a breath away from suffocation. He isn’t unfamiliar with propagation; clusters of vines slithering up his insides, venomously gnawing at the organs, taking new roots up its host; the screaming urge to dig the into his own flesh and tear his throat out, only to choke on the mucus pouring out. Qifrey refuses to shudder. He has lived this far while carrying the same visceral disgust every passing day to play his way right back into its palm.
But he is scared, nonetheless. When has he ever not been?
He hears Beldaruit sigh, which is already bad news, for his master only sighs in exaggerated melodrama, never a long, despondent huff of breath.
“There is… little written on your…” He cringes, coughing awkwardly, “… disease.”
‘Disease?’ Choking up flowers is a medical condition? But there is little time to dwell on the absurdity of it, relief floods his chest. His body is far too frail to fall victim to another forbidden magic.
“So it isn’t incurable?” Qifrey says hopefully, his throat itching gravely to get the words out.
Beldaruit doesn’t answer immediately.
“There is a cure.”
Qifrey waits expectantly for his master to continue, but Beldaruit only shakes his head.
“It’s not that simple, Qifrey,” rubbing frustratedly round his temples, he says, “I’ve only known about it by word of mouth, nothing was ever written.”
Beldaruit closes his convoluted encyclopedia the same moment Qifrey’s face falls, and he thought the thump that followed was the sound of his heart dropping to his stomach.
“The Brimhats have their own version of the story of the Witch and The Silverwood Tree,” His master begins, “In their myth, the Silverwood falls in love with the Witch, but her heart belongs to a man who does not return her love. Desperate and overcome by envy, the Silverwood damned her, and the Witch was cursed to cough up flowers until her love was returned. To them, this ink is the blood she coughed up, and the wands are made from prickly branches growing from her corpse.”
Qifrey has not heard of this version of the story. But a group of children at the Great Hall does come to mind, he has walked past them a couple times, murmuring to one another the “original” version of the story they were told, twisting the tale of romance into a woeful tragedy. They sound much like exaggerated rumors made for shock value, and so Qifrey never bothered to listen in. He has, however, listened to Olruggio rant ceaselessly about the absurdity of the entire thing; how it felt all too much like a bloody murder of the Witch and the Silverwood’s love, and then, when he begins to drift right on the rooftop, how poetic coughing up flowers as a final act of love was. Qifrey never ends up knowing his opinion on the matter, and he briefly wonders if he will soon.
“Even then, it was only a myth, but seeing you now…” Beldaruit’s gaze rakes tiredly over Qifrey once again, a single trace of hopelessness that he has only seen once before, “... As its host, I can only suppose the Silverwood have cursed you too. The flowers will only continue to grow until you suffocate. In any case, you’ll die unless your love is returned.”
And the silence that follows, Qifrey realizes, is how it starts.
…
“Are you sure you’re alright? You seem to be talking an awful lot less recently…”
Qifrey nearly misses a step, he catches himself and luckily his foot settles in balance. Olruggio notices, anyway, and frowns. “That, too. Something on your mind?”
“No, it’s nothing.” A smile that still doesn’t reach his eyes.
For these past few days, the only feeling worse than the tendrils crawling beneath the thinnest layer of his skin, had been to hide it from Olruggio’s ever-watchful eye. He had thought lying would become easier over time, but he fumbled the second lie, and Olruggio probably saw through his third. He had only been able to keep one lie properly, and that alone is enough weight, it only hurts more to pile up each lie he tells Olruggio.
‘What do I do?’ Qifrey had asked, his voice fraying round the edges. ‘… If they don’t like me back, I mean. Is there no way out?’
His master pursed his lips.
“There is, of course, a surgical solution,” He shrugs, ‘I can hire a doctor downtown and have the thing uprooted. The price is meager, if it were up to me, you’ll only lose all affection for this crush of yours.’
Qifrey claws at his blanket, and his heart suddenly turns numb, as if it has been ripped off the feelings already. Yet, this is merely the sheer thought of it, inside his body would rest two cavities instead of one; an eye incapable of seeing and a heart incapable of love. He didn't think he could bear it, and Qifrey vigorously shook his head.
Beldaruit saw that coming, and he only sighed defeatedly, slumping back on his sealchair, finger tapping lightly at its arm.
‘Who is it?’ He asks absently. Qifrey wonders why he bothered, if he knows. He may have known long before his apprentice does. The boy doesn’t answer, not in words, at least. Instead, he glances down at his appearance, dirt and grass pricking his cloak, yet to be dust off. He unveils the hand hiding under his cloak, curled into a fist as though guarding something precious.
The dandelion Olruggio has not returned to, nestles neatly in the shape of his palm.
He does not speak.
“Qifrey…? Qifrey! See! You’re spacing out again..!” Olruggio groans, and steps right into his path, a determined look paints his face. Qifrey fears that if he stares back too hard the flowers are gonna come again, so he shifts his gaze.
“I’m not,” he denies, but Olruggio continues to scan his face closely, persistently, and for a brief moment he is slightly jostled that those piercing eyes have found something out.
Qifrey gulps.
“Are you still mad at me?” Olruggio’s lips curl into a small pout, and Qifrey racks his brain for a moment. “I said I was sorry for leaving you there last time… I forgot I had something to do at the last minute, why are you still not talking to me?”
Olruggio is scratching his head apologetically when Qifrey suddenly understands what he was talking about. Then again, that was the same day he came over with an awful, lovesick disease for the same boy who left him out there—it would be ironic to hold a grudge over the subject of all these blood-tinted flowers.
“It’s not that.” He wished it was.
“Really? Knowing you…” His friend smirks playfully, then turns and continues his way up, “I don’t believe it.”
Qifrey furrows his brows.
“What is that even supposed to mean?” He hurries before Olruggio’s cape disappears into the curve of the hill.
A gust of wind sweeps over, tall grasses scratching at their knees. Qifrey remembers when they were smaller, barely standing over their own hats, spending an entire afternoon climbing this same hill, and they could hardly make their way through the grass. The wind has always been strong here; today, no less, except the sky is especially dull for a day out, and this roaring gale only sets the stage for an impending storm.
Qifrey hadn’t intended to go out today for the same reason, but these days his encounters with Olruggio have always been cut short because he couldn’t say many sentences before the urge to cough flowers rose again. He has seen Olruggio’s face fall too many times that week to disappoint him once again, so here they are.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Olruggio decides when they finally arrive at the peak. Strangely enough, there were no ferocious blizzards, only the soft drizzle of rain wetting their cheeks.
“Do I really strike you as holding a grudge for so long…?” Qifrey asks defensively, retreating to a nearby tree so as not to get wet.
His friend dodges the question, “You wanted to ask me to dinner last time, right? I’ll bake something for you in return.”
Qifrey has a slight feeling Olruggio is craving some pastries himself to make such an offer.
“You don’t know how to bake,” He scrunches his nose.
“What do you take me for? I grew up in Ghodrey, thank you very much. I bake for a living.”
“Mhm,” Qifrey drawls, and his stomach rumbles lightly at the thought of honey bread, so he asks, “How do you make honey bread?”
Olruggio parts his lips, blinks, and a deep flush settles onto his face. A laugh bubbles out of Qifrey (thankfully—no flowers), he shakes his head as if to say ‘That’s what I thought’.
“Not like you know either,” He retorts, “Whatever, I’ll learn for you! By the time I open a well-acclaimed bakery, don’t come begging.”
Olruggio is swinging one leg over a tall oak branch when he says it, like the most normal thing in the world.
I’ll learn for you.
How could flowers not bloom for him? Qifrey thinks, eyes softening as he watches Olruggio climb onto a steadier branch after the first one rejects his overgrown limbs. If only they hadn’t bloomed through the slits of a broken heart.
…
It is a good two weeks before Olruggio finds out. When he does it is safe to say he didn’t take it quite well, because it wasn’t that his friend had confided in him, not even darn close. Instead, it was Qifrey who, after an agonizingly long hour of trying to suppress the itch in his throat and failing, threw himself into a violent fit of wet, bloody coughs; Olruggio had stared at him in complete horror for several painful seconds as flowers bleed from his throat.
His first instinct was to help Qifrey breathe, of course, but Qifrey knows him well enough to see that he was practically fuming. Even if his voice laces with concern the edge of his eyes are far too sharp to be anything but anger.
Qifrey has croaked out—as more and more flowers fall, cutting the words off by another fit of blood— a meek apology, saying that he just didn’t want to worry him, which has only made Olruggio angrier; he tells him to shut up. Olruggio scolds him and as he does he would wipe the stains over Qifrey’s lips with tenderness regardless, using the fabric of his own cloak. And Qifrey’s heart is tied into knots when the other boy scoops the flowers up gingerly in his hands, cradling them with an expression devoid of any disgust—just heavy concern. Had he been angrier, or had he just pretended to be disturbed more, it would’ve been easier. Then again, Qifrey never reconsidered why it is this person his heart fell for.
“Flowers, huh,” Once they have settled (well, it’s mostly Qifrey whose outburst has subsided and Olruggio reluctantly calmed down) Olruggio says ponderously as he looks at the clump of wet petals. “Sounds quite poetic,”
“Didn’t you say it’s a disgrace to the original story?” Qifrey teases softly, a non-committal smile on his face.
“... That was before!” replied the other witch defensively, “I can’t say that now that your unrequited feelings are cursed… I didn’t even know you liked someone! You talk with more people now, I guess, but catching feelings for them?”
Olruggio gives him an exaggerated once-over, Qifrey is offended.
“I mean, well,” Olruggio beams, suppressing the wariness still evident in his eyes, “I just didn’t take you for a hopeless romantic.”
The snow-haired boy hands him a look, “I’m not,”
“Well?” Olruggio listlessly kicks a small pebble off the ground, it bounces and rolls away into the grass. “Are you not gonna tell me who it is? I’m your best friend, y’know. — A shrug — I could, I don’t know, set you guys up or something.”
“That’s not how it works.” A sliver of sadness on his smile.
“...You’re going to die, Qifrey,” Olruggio’s expression suddenly stiffens (or, rather, they ease into a serious expression, simply because he has put on the carefree front too long for the subject to continue that way). He shakes his head, and the words come out in a jumble. “Why are you being so… unbothered? If you don’t confess to them soon, you might—” Olruggio swallows his tongue, words too cruel to be spoken aloud; far too early, too.
Qifrey’s fingers braid together over his abdomen, “Even if I fall to my knees and cough up a bouquet of flowers in front of them, pity isn’t love.”
“... Fine,” Olruggio conceded after a second of reluctance, folding his arms, “You can still at least tell me who it is.”
I wish I could, Qifrey despairs silently, but for both of their sakes he must not.
“... I can’t, I’m sorry.”
He braces himself as an unreadable expression sweeps over Olruggio’s face; offense? Anger? … Hurt? Qifrey tears his gaze away too soon to home in on it, his hands tighten around each other.
Olruggio, however, did not put up a fight. Rising to his feet, “You what, have it your way, Qifrey,”
Qifrey does not chase after him, does not turn to see a final dejected look before he. His friend didn’t need one more meaningless apology, adorned with even more lies each worse than the other, and though Qifrey desperately wants to reach out he restrains himself. Another cluster of flowers bubbles up his throat, the boy swallows it down, rolling over and hugging himself. He wonders if tears would make the flowers grow faster.
“You have one other problem,”
Qifrey has been staring at the cup of water wrapped around his fingers when Beldaruit speaks again. The words hung above them like a bomb ready to be set.
‘Supposing, well, he likes you too, I fear it might be counter-effective.’
Qifrey stays silent as though he has expected it.
‘… How come..?’ He asks still.
‘Don’t forget, boy, there is still a tree residing in your skull. Even if the flower wilts with reciprocated love, the sapling will feed on with the happiness that comes with it.’
…Oh, right. How could he have forgotten? These flowers have nearly dampened the presence of another parasite—at the peak of his heart’s discomfort, his skull lays dormant. What is of a human being if both their hearts and eye is infested, closer now to a plant than to a living being.
“You either live with a heart devoid of affections, or die knowing he reciprocated your love.”
In the end, it is him who has never meant to be saved, living on borrowed mercy and reduced to ruin at the love he received.
“I’m sorry, Qifrey,” Beldaruit says sorrowfully. What was he apologizing for?
Qifrey stays where he is left till night falls.
…
Olruggio’s absence became unbearable the very next morning.
Normally, the boy hangs somewhere around the fountain, beavering away with a notepad and a new spell and potentially a new stray brushbuddy, but today he isn’t there.
Qifrey disheartenedly looks for him inside the Great Hall, in his-he thinks-pretty pathetic attempt at not looking like an abandoned wet cat. Olruggio compares him to that once, though it was a grumpy whiskers that had been poured water on and not simply a wet one. Although he doesn’t know what he would do when he finds him, seeing him is at least more bearable than merely thinking about him.
He finds him at high noon, in the Dining Hall, a basket hanging over his shoulders as he goes from one row to another, handing out golden bread to every hand that reaches out. Qifrey’s gaze follows his figure, despite the gnawing, unshakable jealousy twisting inside his chest. Unfortunately, the basket is empty halfway before Olruggio even reaches Qifrey’s table, and when the other witch lifts his head his eyes briefly meet Qifrey’s, he glances away. Another cluster of flowers bubbles up his throat, Qifrey swallows it down and lowers his head to finish his meal.
Drinking water does not flourish the flowers inside him (he is still scared to take a sip of water, nonetheless), it is the lack of affection. If the subject rejects his feelings, be it intentionally or indirectly or simply make the victim feel abandoned, the flowers become fuller. Qifrey no longer coughs little petals, they are slowly becoming small, open buds.
The witch sits on the floor of his own room, picking up the gross buds, mixed with both his blood and saliva. How much longer until they become full blooms?
He looks up at himself in the mirror, his face has become more frail by each passing day. On the reflective surface, he could see the puffiness of his own eyes, utterly exhausted, not like he had had any comfortable sleep lately and when he does he dreams of slowly growing into a flora. His hair would be first; white, snowy locks slowly curl like daisies petals, and the moment he brushes through them his head softens into mush. Thereon would be his eye–the only one he has left–distorting his vision into shades of kaleidoscope. When he cries he would not cry tears but flowers. And the more they fall, a bark would rise from his heart, travels across his throat and pierces through his gaping mouth, blood flows from his frostbitten lips.
The nightmare stares back at him from inside the mirror, a perfect replica of the parasite that overgrown him. Qifrey gasps, stumbling back as he blinks rapidly over and over, the vision hazily contorts, slowly blurring back to normal. Lashes still trembling, Qifrey exhales, and jerks his head away from the mirror.
Beldaruit has been observing him not far away. “... Did he reject you?”
Qifrey looks dejected, yet he has the urge to laugh, hopefully at how that is the first conclusion Beldaruit comes to and not because of the likelihood of it. “I didn’t tell him who it was,” He murmurs, “and he got mad at me.”
“Mm,” Beldaruit nods, and Qifrey cannot read what he is thinking, he never could, “I thought it was obvious, that’s why I suggested the removal.”
A sigh.
“Do you think it would be cruel?” Qifrey asks suddenly, his Master quirks a brow, “Telling him. As though I’ve not asked for his mercy more times than enough.”
Knowing how Olruggio is, how Olruggio always is, he would do anything to save him, even if it means lying to himself about his own feelings that it makes them real, and he’d even forgive him for it. Qifrey is terrified to see Olruggio leave, but he is even more terrified to know the lengths his friend would go for him to make him stay. Because he deserved someone gentle and beautiful as he is, someone that isn’t a broken shell of a person, someone that simply isn’t Qifrey.
“Would it be cruel of you,” Beldaruit answers vaguely, “to keep it from him till the day you suffocate on your own feelings?”
Olruggio would be devastated, Qifrey knows, but most of all he would try to blame himself for it, as though it wouldn’t have been Qifrey who chose that path himself. It is him who would have to hurt Olruggio one way or another, it’s just a matter of whether it would leave a scar or a gash.
…
“I heard the condition got worse,”
A light breeze carries Olruggio’s voice to his ear, softly stirring the silence engulfing the night air. Qifrey startles slightly, but he tries not to seem agitated when Olruggio settles down beside him on the rooftop, a faint sweet scent surrounds him. Reclined against the wooden rooftop, Qifrey turns his head and sees Olruggio peers at him with the same concern he sweeps under the rug a few days ago, a little hesitant as he sits.
“Only a little,” Qifrey reassures him, although he supposes that to Olruggio it sounds rather like downplaying his own fate, because his friend frowns. “... I’m fine for now, though.”
Olruggio naturally ignores him, “Listen,” The words run quickly, and Olruggio flushes like he’s embarrassed to say them aloud, his fingers braiding together, “I’m just, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you to tell me. I understand it’s probably hard for you to open up about… things like that. It’s just—” He is looking at him now, eyes like a swelling ocean amid a storm, “— you worry me so much, and back then you’d always keep to yourself about things like this and I… I want to help you.”
And Qifrey melts immediately. Olruggio shouldn’t be the one apologizing, especially not for caring for someone who always tries to shake it off. It pains Qifrey more to think that he has been making his friend tormented by such guilt.
“Olly,” He says endearingly, shaking his head, “Please don’t apologize to me. I know you’re worried for me and I didn’t deserve your grace. Trust me, had the circumstances been any different, I’d gladly tell you, but it’s…” Qifrey hesitates, and it’s cruel to repeat, “… I’m sorry.”
For hiding it from you, for making you worried, for making you the one to bear the burden of my affections.
Again, is all he could say.
Olruggio clearly hasn’t completely come to terms with that, and his eyes flicker a trace of disappointment but he doesn’t remark on it again, simply hums in acknowledgement. Swinging his legs over the edge of the roof, he quietly gazes over the town, lit dimly with golden light but nonetheless bustling.
The atelier’s roof is rather like a line blurring the business and serenity of everyday life, where the stars don’t feel like they are out of reach and the townspeople cannot find you, here Qifrey would climb to if he wants to be invisible for a brief moment. But invisible is lonely, and Qifrey has learned it is much worse than unrequited love, and he has only ever wanted to be invisible with a certain someone else. That night he had had to be invisible alone, so he settled for the stars—though none of them shine as bright as his.
Qifrey hopes Olruggio isn’t racking his brain to find a way to convince him, and luckily he isn’t.
“There’s something else,” The other boy says, and pulls out a paper bag from underneath his cloak, “For you,”
Slightly confused, Qifrey pries open the bag, its fold a perfectly straight line as though it has been packed with an anxious amount of care. A sweet whiff drifts up at him, inside is a loaf of golden brown… honey bread.
Qifrey blinks as he holds it inside his palm, not knowing what to say he simply takes a bite. The rich sugary taste spreads round his lips, tender and delightfully lovely all the same.
“Thank you,” Two words are still far too few to express the extent of his gratitude, but that is all the language he knows.
“I couldn’t knead the dough properly,” Olruggio confesses meekly, “I let a few people taste-tested it and the honey was unevenly divided... I think it’s better now. How was it?”
When he lifts his head again, the snow-haired witch has already devoured every crumb.
“Mm,” Mouth stuffed, Qifrey licks his lips fondly, “You should make more.”
Olruggio bursts into laughter, a sound sweeter than honey itself, laughing so hard he lets himself fall back onto the roof, down right beside Qifrey.
“More for you, you mean? That’s too demanding!” Olruggio complains, smiling, he rolls over and entwines Qifrey’s fingers with his own. He beams, the sight rendered perfectly under the moonlight, “Make it a promise.”
‘You either live with a heart devoid of affections, or die knowing he reciprocated your love.’
A life without loving Olly, Qifrey wonders if it’s any different from death.