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There are nights when Olruggio's patience and well-practiced restraint simply fail him. Gentle, hearth-warmed nights preceded by idle days of work and play. Days of standing in the kitchen, fashioning a breakfast that may as well be late-lunch while the sonorous timbre of Qifrey's lecture floats in from the main room. Days spent beside him on a rough blanket, passing notes and bowls of fruit between them in comfortable silence as the excited shrieks of four young witches echo across the grass. Days when he finds Qifrey in the midst of a routine chore, eye distant and mouth pinched with brooding until he catches Olruggio watching and turns to him, face lightening with that little smile of his; that disarming, infuriating, intoxicating little smile. It sits just the same on Qifrey's mouth as it did twenty years earlier — the only differences being the length of the dimple in his cheek and the depth of Olruggio's desire to place his tongue upon it. On days like this, he watches as Qifrey sees that desire in his eye and holds it in his own; waits to see if this time he will do something other than laugh and shake his pale head, as if this is some sweet jest they share. He never does.
It is early Autumn, and there have been weeks of such days. That morning, Tetia and Coco had baked a pan of chasenut sweet-buns; Qifrey had taken a soft bun and parted it with his fingers, blowing on each steaming half before setting it on Olruggio's plate and humming as he sucked the sticky glaze from the side of his thumb. Olruggio had spent the afternoon and evening at his workbench, doing very little, thinking mostly of Qifrey's hands and pondering his jealousy of that small piece of pastry. Oh, to be rent asunder by those elegant, meticulous hands — to leave something sweet upon him that he may suck from his calloused thumb.
So tonight is one of those nights. Now, the moon is high, the girls are tucked safe behind quiet doors, and Qifrey is beside him on the couch, absently swirling his wine in a half-empty glass as he reads from a thin tome. Olruggio listens to the pulsing melody of night-bugs through the open skylight and watches from the corner of his eye as he pours an indulgent third glass for himself. A drop of plum red slides down his knuckle and he darts his tongue out to catch it; a thoughtless reflex that in his addled mind becomes a tantalizing performance. He wants Qifrey to be watching.
He brings his glass to his lips and chances a look, only to catch the smallest flicker of aqua blue, lingering for half a breath before ducking behind white lashes and back down to the page. A horrible tease. He drinks, letting the sweet, dark wine wash the lump from his throat, admonishing the stuttering beat of his heart as it spills a fresh warmth down through his chest. Qifrey's eye stays fixed on his book.
The sober portion of his mind scoffs — pull yourself together, Olly.
The remaining majority, soaked in wine and a decade of quiet wanting, babbles — Look back at me, look at me, look at me please.
He doesn't.
The seconds pass like hours, thick as honey.
His third glass is nearly empty, and still, his gaze lingers hungrily on Qifrey's profile. The fire-bright wisps of his fine curls in the hearth-light. The subtle twitching of his eye as it moves across the pages; the dance of his little crow's-foot as he blinks.
His glasses have slid a touch down the bridge of his nose. Olruggio can see himself bridging the gap between them, tucking them back against his face. Stroking his cheek. Dipping his thumb into that perfect dimple and running it across his chapped lip. He was chewing on the corner of his mouth, as he often did, his glass forgotten in his hand. Suddenly nothing was more beautiful or more terrible than the rhythmic, pinching movement of his lips, the tiny sounds of tearing flesh. Olruggio needed to be pressed against those lips, to distract those gnashing teeth from their quest of destruction, to lave at the fresh wounds with his own tongue, needed to be bitten, to be crushed, to swallowed whole —
"Olly?"
Qifrey's voice pulls him sharply from his reverie.
He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, trying not to look dazed as he tears his gaze from his lips up to his inquisitive eye. He clears his throat.
"Hm?"
Qifrey raises a brow and studies his face for a moment, and must be noticing the heavy look in his eyes, the mottled, burning blush that ravages his cheeks, the wetness of his lips where he'd been licking them.
Shit. I've been caught, surely.
Then, Qifrey laughs at him.
"Enjoying that third glass, are you?"
Olruggio's eyes widen and he feels his face grow hotter with embarrassment.
Oh, he thinks I'm drunk.
A rumbling little giggle escapes him.
Well…maybe I am.
"And what if I am?"
Qifrey grins — lovely — and shakes his head with a familiar feigned exasperation.
"Oh, be my guest." He pauses to sip from his own glass, tongue darting across his bottom lip as his throat bobs — stars have mercy. He shifts, leaning back against the arm of the couch and tucking his legs in front of him. Like this, his toes rest against Olruggio's knee — was that intentional? Despite knowing for a fact that Qifrey's feet are always cold, their touch feels molten, even through the velvet of his skirt.
"I just hope you aren't expecting to be carried to your room when you can't make it off the couch."
Olruggio huffs, trying to hide his grin behind an exaggerated pout.
"Who do you think I am?"
"Oh I know exactly who you are. And I know exactly what a fourth glass will do to you," he chuckles.
Unable to argue with the truth, Olruggio downs the remainder of his wine and looks at his lap. His head is warm and heavy, his tongue loosened by the comfort of their playful banter.
"You've carried me before."
He winces inwardly at the tone of his voice, which he intended to be coy, and instead resembled that of a whiny child. But Qifrey had carried him before, more than once. The first time was when they were teenagers, when Qifrey had just surpassed him in height. When we were teenagers. Not that he remembered it clearly, seeing as he had been too drunk to stand. But it took little effort to conjure the feeling of Qifrey's lean arms flexing against him, the smell of spiced wine and herbs on his collar, the terribly inviting curl of hair behind his ear, just close enough to reach if he tilted his chin up —
Qifrey hums. His foot flexes against Olruggio's leg.
"I know. I was teasing but —" He sighs. "Really. My shoulder. I couldn't, even if I wanted to."
Olruggio frowns, his own playful act broken.
"Oh. Of course…"
Even if he wanted to. He wanted to.
Olruggio's heart pinches at the reminder of Qifrey's injury, of his pain. If only he could reach over and smooth his warm hands across that shoulder, draw the ache away from his bones. If only he could heal all his quiet hurts. He wanted to care for him. Before he can overthink it, Olruggio takes Qifrey's legs by the ankles and pulls them over his lap. He squeezes his calf, rubbing gently through the fabric of his skirt. Wriggling, he settles further into the couch and tucks Qifrey's knees against his belly. He hears Qifrey let out a breath, and looks up. His eye is fixed upon the movement of Olruggio's thumb on his knee. Olruggio tries, and fails, to calm the thumping of his heart; surely Qifrey can feel it through his shirt.
"Well, good thing I like sleeping on the couch."
Qifrey smiles again — thank goodness — and scoffs.
"Pff, tell that to your back."
Qifrey downs the rest of his wine as Olruggio laughs. His laugh was loud, unguarded, obviously tipsy; Qifrey is laughing with him. This has happened a thousand times before. Oh, how lovely to be known.
He slumps sideways against Qifrey's legs and looks up at him, not caring what sort of dopey grin has painted itself across his flushed face. Qifrey's chuckle dies in his throat as their eyes meet, but his smile remains. His hand has found itself on Olruggio's shoulder, nearly at the nape of his neck, where it certainly must have always belonged.
Tonight is one of those nights. One of those rare, blessed nights when their eyes meet and the years collapse on themselves. When they are nothing but each other, as they have always been. For Olruggio, tonight, after the days he has had, the wine he has had, it is far too much. It is irresistible.
On nights like tonight, thoughts swimming with the drunken certainty of what must be undeniably true — He loves me. I love him. Yes, he loves me. — Olruggio so easily forgets his steadfast conviction to be contented with what he has. He forgets that anything of substance stands between his wine-stained lips and the skin of Qifrey's neck. Between his hands and the small of his back. His greed overcomes him.
Surely, if I reached out and touched….Surely, I am allowed this…
In his greed, the thick distance that yawns ever-present between them seems less like a binding tether and more like a play-act. A naive, willful misunderstanding. A silly and unnecessary shyness. Qifrey is looking at him still and there is nothing shy in the shining of his eye. Nothing but ease in the way his fingers curl against the fabric of Olruggio's loose linen shirt. In the low light, nothing but desire in the gentle parting of his mouth.
His mouth. The shape of it. The taste of it. It suddenly seems absurd that Olruggio does not know these things by heart, upon his own lips.
How have I never kissed him? Surely, I can…
Qifrey is blushing. It cannot be just the firelight. Olruggio's heart is pounding like a gong in his ears. Any moment now, he will lean in, and Qifrey will follow, they will fall into each other, stars falling out of orbit, colliding —
Suddenly, Qifrey is turning away, reaching for the book in his lap, leaving Olruggio's wanting eyes to flounder in the space between them.
No, no, no! You were meant to kiss me, couldn't you see?
He cannot bear it. He needs him; needs him so desperately now that the thought of letting him turn away is unfathomable. Unacceptable.
He slides his hands up Qifrey's legs and pushes them hastily from his lap, closing the distance between them in one less-than-graceful scooch. His one hand still rests on Qifrey's thigh. His other, boldly, instinctively, reaches to cup the far side of Qifrey's chin and pull his gaze back to where it belonged. Qifrey blinks, flinching backwards as he nearly bumps into Olruggio's nose.
Olruggio is falling, falling into him, tracing an arc that felt as natural as gravity. He sucks in a shaking breath as Qifrey's chilly fingers press against his chin. There is hardly any force behind it, but he stops short, spellbound.
Qifrey's voice is playful, but there is a low quiver of warning hidden his tone.
"Olly…what are you doing?"
What does it look like?
He can barely form words, intoxicated by the flutter of Qifrey's breath against his face, the smell of him, the heat of him under his palm.
He can speak nothing but the truth.
"Kissing you."
Qifrey's breath hitches noticeably, his muscles tense.
"No, you're not."
Olruggio smiles, too far gone to hear the seriousness in his tone, thinking he's playing coy. He doesn't answer. He just looks at his mouth. Gravity pulls —
Qifrey's hands, both of them, are on his chest.
"Olly, don't."
He pushes him gently, steadily, away.
Olruggio's mind wobbles. His cheeks heat, not with desire, but a muddled rush of shame and petty anger. What had the last few minutes been for, if not this? Why was Qifrey denying it? Why wasn't he letting himself give in to what they both wanted?
"Why not?" he huffs.
Qifrey doesn't answer.
I can convince him, still.
He softens his tone. He sultries his gaze, brings his hand to Qifrey's collarbone, and leans in close enough to see his pupil retract. Qifrey freezes.
"Why not, love?"
For a yawning, aching moment, Qifrey trembles, and says nothing, and looks. He looks.
Yes, look at me. Come to me, dearest.
Olruggio parts his lips and moves to close the distance. Qifrey grunts, or whimpers, or some version of the two, and suddenly shoves him backwards with alarming force. The spell is broken.
Olruggio feels a pathetic noise escape him as his back meets the opposite arm of the couch.
"I - I'm sorry. I can't! You know I can't." His voice is shrill, almost panicked.
No, no that hurts. What have I done?
Anger swells in him.
"No, I don't know! Why can't you, Qifrey?"
Qifrey just pants, eye wide. Why does he look so scared? Why, when just a moment ago, he was looking at him like….like he wanted him.
I thought you wanted…
"Tell me why. Why are you looking at me like that?" He swallows the threat of tears that clog his rasping throat. He must know. He must ask. "We've been…we're…" together, aren't we? Don't you love me? Why, why must I beg?
"It's been twenty years. It's me. Why can't I just kiss you?"
Please. Please tell me why.
Qifrey swallows.
"I don't…I don't want you to."
Olruggio cannot help but laugh. He was well-acquainted with Qifrey's lies; this must have been one of his weakest yet.
Don't insult me.
"I don't believe you."
His hand clenches in Qifrey's skirt as he leans back into his space. Qifrey's hand returns to his chest. His breath swells beneath it. He knows it is rejection, it is an impassable barrier, but it is his touch.
Keep touching me.
"Olruggio please." His voice is stern. This is not a game.
Please, please, please —
"Please, Qifrey, I want you to let me, just let me —"
"You'll regret it."
What a ridiculous thing to say.
"No I won't!" he whines.
I love you.
"You will! Just stop, I'm asking you —"
I know you are, but I love you.
"Qifrey, I love you —"
"STOP! Stop it Olly!"
Olruggio flinches.
Why is he yelling at me? Why is this happening, what is happening —
"We cannot have this." Qifrey's voice is rough.
"I'm not — I'm not trying to take it from you —"
"You are."
I am. Aren't I terrible? I'm horrible. What am I doing —
"I want you to give it to me. I want you —"
"You shouldn't."
"You don't get to decide that!"
I'm laying myself bare, giving you my heart on a stake, please just take it, let me give it to you, I want you to have it, it's yours. I'm yours. I want you to be mine, for once.
"I've given you all of me, always. You've taken it, why not this?"
Qifrey's face contorts in pain. He looks like he's going to be sick.
"You're hurting me Olly."
That stops him in his tracks.
They stare at each other, breathing hard.
"….I'm hurting you? I….Stars above, Qifrey, do you have any idea —"
"Stop talking. Just stop, Olruggio. I'm not doing this," he rasps.
Yes, please, just shut up Olly. Look what you've already done.
"You're drunk. Just go to bed."
Olruggio doesn't know what else to say. This is so far from what he wanted. He's completely untethered. Qifrey's eyes have turned vacant, hard, cold. He isn't looking at him anymore.
It's over. Olruggio needs to get away, at once. He's ruined it, this perfect night.
Stupid wine. Stupid heart.
He stands abruptly, forgetting the half empty bottle of wine resting on the floor by his feet. It wobbles and tips on the hardwood, spilling red over the floor and edge of the rug.
"Fuck! — Don't…don't clean that up. I'll fix it tomorrow."
He looks down at Qifrey on the couch. His knees are clutched to his chest; he is shrinking. He looks so small. Olruggio blinks, and there he is: that wiry, melancholy twelve-year-old that Olruggio first met. Full of fear. Of loneliness. The anxious, awkward, strangely severe boy that never left his side again after two weeks of pretending to hate him. The boy that he's loved, despite himself, for as long as he can remember. 'Don't even bother remembering my name, you can trust I'll forget yours.'
Liar.
The years sit thickly in the air between them, choking and bittersweet like wine gone sour.
He does not know what Qifrey sees when he looks up at him. But he can see the wetness in his eye. Olruggio tries to believe that Qifrey does not want to hurt him. He wishes so desperately that he could be sure. But why, then? Why does he keep doing it?
He's still lying. And Olruggio, greedy, lovesick coward that is, just keeps letting him.
He feels tears pricking at his eyes. There are far too many things swirling inside him, threatening to spill out. He wants to scream. He's done something stupid and shameful, something he will regret. He already regrets. But in his petty anger, bruised as he is, he cannot bring himself to apologize.
He wants Qifrey to feel hurt. Look what you've done. An ugly thought. I'm sorry is lodged steadfast in his throat.
Qifrey has wilted under his gaze. He looks away.
That's my cue.
"Goodnight," he spits, clumsily, as he rushes from the room.
✦✧✦
On nights like tonight, his bed is cold. He feels like he could drown in the vast, lonely expanse of his sheets, pouring his grief out into them, face-down. He was a wretched thing. Always, it had been Qifrey alone who could unmake him so thoroughly.
Everything was wrong. And yet, as he lay there, free from the dreamlike succor of the night before it soured, he realizes it was exactly as he should have expected. This was not even the first time he'd tried to kiss him. Not the first time he'd been stopped. Not the first time he'd found himself weeping into his pillow, like a child.
It had been years, since. Long, happy years. Years by his side. Years watching him and being watched. Years of his undeniable care: the food, the wine, the tea set wordlessly on his desk, the notes on his more difficult spells, the tender brush of his hands through his hair when he thinks he's asleep at the table. Years of love that cannot be quantified. Cannot be named. Cannot be acknowledged, or touched, or kissed.
Olruggio is happy. He is happy to work, to raise these incredible children, to be free from the cloying grip of the Hall, here in this beautiful home they have built together. He does not want another life. He does not want another person. He does not want Qifrey to kiss him if truly, he does not desire to.
But he knows Qifrey. When the wine hasn't dulled his senses, he can read him like a spell. Knows him, singularly. He will not do himself the disservice of questioning this truth. So he knows that Qifrey is not his whole self. He knows that Qifrey hides things from him. Knows that Qifrey watches him, long and quiet, when he thinks he is unobserved. Knows that Qifrey has kept one of his cream linen shirts in his room for several days before pretending it fell behind the washing-barrel. Knows that Qifrey wants….something. Something more.
Stars, I want. I want. I want.
Sometimes he thinks he knows what he tastes like. Can nearly feel it on his tongue. But he knows that it must only be the conjuring of his own desire.
He knows that Qifrey will not let them be more than what they are. He just does not know why.
Why? Why, when we have loved each other for a lifetime, am I alone here in this bed?
Because something is wrong. The wrongness is a constant hum, a tiny stone lodged inside him, an ache at the base of his skull. And it is in the space left by that wrongness that his comfort is laid bare to the grasping hands of his discontents. His gnashing, roiling, burning wants. Those greedy, nasty things that make him do what he has done tonight. That break him open and spill him over the carpet.
The wine will be cleaned from the rug. It will stain him, nonetheless, and his mouth will still be sour come morning.