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Qifrey has been feeling the itch for the better part of three days. The first morning, it’s only a small distraction, but as the days pass, it has graduated to a choking pressure behind his right eye socket, trailing sharp lines of irritation into his sinuses and down his throat.
It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before. In fact, he’s dealt with far worse for far longer, but it’s sharpened in contrast to the newfound lack of pain he’s able to enjoy most days. The increased awareness of his discomfort is a small price to pay for the blessings he’s received.
Still, he tries not to make his students worry. He focuses on their lessons, and its easy to forget everything else when each one of his students is a treasure. Every day they surpass his expectations with their tenacity and compassion, and he’s prouder than he could ever have imagined.
When Olruggio sets a cup of his favorite tea with extra honey next to Qifrey’s plate at lunch, he knows he hasn’t gone entirely unnoticed.
He waits until the girls are settled down for bed and heads downstairs to find Olruggio tinkering with a new contraption. If he really wanted to focus, he’d be in the workshop. He’s making himself available, but waiting for Qifrey to take the first step. His thoughtfulness sparks a new twinge behind Qifrey’s missing eye.
Qifrey lingers in the doorway, building up his resolve. It’s not embarrassment, exactly. He trusts Olruggio with this, and he’s known Qifrey’s secret for a while now. But there’s still some deep-seated fear in him, an instinct to bury his problems down where no one—especially not Olruggio—can find them.
Also, he sort of feels like he should be able to do this himself.
He clears his throat. “Olly?”
Olruggio’s hands still.
“I think it’s time for…” Qifrey gestures at his eye. He still can’t say it. Facing it directly will crush him, so he sidesteps around its periphery, circling a little closer each time. Maybe one day he’ll have the words.
Olruggio doesn’t force him to specify, just nods and stands. He’s close enough that the backs of their fingers brush. Qifrey’s body shudders with warring instincts. He wants to push him away and draw him closer at the same time. He hooks their index fingers together in a light, fragile link and leads Olruggio to his bedroom.
They don’t speak on the way. It’s new, this treatment they’ve found. When Qifrey discovered there was no way to remove the seed inside him without killing him, he’d nearly fallen into a despair so deep the tree would never bloom again.
Then Coco—brilliant, brave Coco—had told Olruggio everything in secret. Everything she didn’t know, he was clever enough to figure out. And then Olruggio did what he did best: he found a solution.
Qifrey shuts the door with a quiet click. The room is illuminated only by a set of crystal torches strung from the ceiling. Olruggio picks up the shears from the desk, its twin blades delicately inked in Olruggio’s own handwriting. He sits on the bed and gives Qifrey an encouraging smile.
Qifrey breathes deep and lies down, resting his head in Olruggio’s lap. Olruggio’s hand cradles the back of his head automatically. A leaf sprouts from Qifrey’s eye and tickles his nose, and he removes his spectacles.
Olruggio starts like he always does, “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I forgive you.” He punctuates each statement by running his nails gently across Qifrey’s scalp.
The silverwood tree sprouts.
Qifrey grips the bedsheet to keep from panicking. His mind conjures countless images of Olruggio going limp under a memory erasing spell. He firmly reminds himself that he will never wipe Olruggio’s memory again, but 20 years of guilt are not easily swayed.
“It’s okay,” Olruggio says. “You’re okay.”
The tree grows in short spurts, catching on new worries as quickly as Olruggio can soothe them. He takes the shears and begins to trim the branches that bend back towards Qifrey.
The first few times had hurt tremendously. The silverwood had burst out of him too quickly, and the look of panic on Olruggio’s face churned up enough guilt to push the tree back into dormancy.
The tree is calmer now. It grows little by little, instead of swallowing him up at once. Olruggio has a theory about that.
“Why do silverwood seeds only implant in injured creatures?” Olruggio asks in the way only the best teachers can: knowing the answer, but excited to illuminate the path for you to tread yourself.
Qifrey fidgets. Even hearing the word ‘silverwood’ around Olruggio makes him antsy, proposed treatment or no. “I suppose it’s an efficient way to enter the body. It can’t burrow through skin.”
“Maybe. But it seems odd for a plant that needs peace to grow. It could have evolved a fruit to get animals to swallow the seed. Animals with a good food source are more likely to feel peaceful.”
“Why do you think, then?”
“Maybe it needs the fear just as much. It springs out of the body fully grown, it must be storing up energy from something before it’s at peace.”
“Maybe. I still don’t see how you’ve found a cure from that.”
“Not a cure. A treatment. We let it grow, just a bit, at regular intervals. Use up the energy and shape it into a form that won’t hurt you.”
“…You really think this will work?”
“It’s a living thing. We all just want to keep living. Let’s give it a new way to do that.”
Qifrey watches Olruggio’s face as he coaxes the silverwood out of his eye socket and away from his body. It has long since stopped trying to envelop him in a trunk, instead opting for long tendrils of roots and branches that reach across the bed, touching everything they can find with an almost human curiosity.
Olruggio has taught the silverwood how to grow without harming Qifrey, and for all he insists that he won’t take apprentices, Olruggio is a wonderful teacher.
Qifrey’s breath slows. Olruggio has fallen into a meditative concentration, and its mesmerizing to watch. His hands are steady and swift, his eyes focused under the cover of his bangs hanging loosely over his face, and Qifrey has the urge to run his thumb over the little crease between his furrowed brows.
If this is how it feels to have Olruggio’s undivided attention, its no wonder his contraptions are always so lovely.
“…Olly?”
Olruggio looks up from his work. His eyes narrow at Qifrey’s wringing hands. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he corrects quickly.
“Don’t do that.” Olruggio stands and pulls Qifrey’s hands gently apart. “No more pretending to be fine. Please.”
Qifrey presses his lips into a thin line. “It’s not like you’re thinking. I just… I need your help.”
Olruggio’s face softens. “Always. What do you need?”
Qifrey produces the silverwood shears from his robes.
“You don’t want to do it yourself anymore…?” It had been a long discussion between them. Olruggio hadn’t wanted him to try pruning the tree alone until they were certain he was safe, but he wanted to give Qifrey the freedom to choose.
“I can’t get it to grow,” Qifrey says, voice small. “Not like you can.”
“Hey.”
Olruggio’s voice drags Qifrey back to awareness. His fist are clenched tight enough that his nails are digging deep into his palms, and the silverwood has halted its spread across the bed.
“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” Olruggio runs his thumb along Qifrey’s jaw.
“I…” His words catch awkwardly in his throat.
They have an agreement. During pruning, they must both be entirely honest. Even a tiny white lie makes the silverwood retreat, and the guilt of ruining their session clings to Qifrey for days before they can try again.
“Breathe,” Olruggio urges him. “I’ve got you.”
Qifrey does his best to oblige. “You do so much for me. After everything I’ve done—” His breath hitches. “I’ve used you to control the seed for years. I’ve hurt you time and again, and I’m still—”
He can feel Olruggio’s hands freeze, and he knows Olly wants to protest. But they both know if Olruggio speaks now, Qifrey will retreat. He has to face the ugly thoughts in his head if he’s going to have any hope of unraveling them.
Qifrey takes Olruggio’s free hand and squeezes it tight. “I can’t help but feel I rely on you far too much. It’s not a fair weight to put on your shoulders. And I know you won’t ever refuse it, because I can’t be without you.”
He closes his eye. “I don’t deserve it,” he whispers.
There’s silence except for two sets of breath. The silverwood has stopped, but it hasn’t retracted, because even though it is selfish and cruel to pin all of his hopes on Olruggio, Qifrey can’t help but feel safe in his arms.
“It’s not about deserving,” Olruggio finally says. His fingers resume their path combing through Qifrey’s hair. “I want to take care of you. Love isn’t about deserving kindness, it’s about giving it. You know I like this, right?”
Qifrey looks up, startled, to find Olruggio smiling gently.
“I like seeing you relaxed. I like knowing you feel safe. I like being the one who can give that to you.”
The silverwood creeps forward. Qifrey swallows a lump in his throat.
“Everything you did, you did to keep living,” Olruggio continues. “And I want you alive more than I want any of my memories. I want you here, with me and the girls. You made us a home.”
Heat rises to Qifrey’s cheeks. The silverwood is growing in earnest again.
“You’re a good person.” Olruggio’s grin turns amused. He can see the blush coloring Qifrey’s face. “A kind, patient teacher. A talented, brilliant witch. My dearest friend.”
Qifrey covers his face with his hands and whines, “Olly…”
Olruggio pries his hands away. “None of that. You spent two decades mired in anxiety. Now you get to listen to what a wonderful person you are. Your apprentices love and adore you. You are the bravest, most generous person I have ever met.”
It’s too much. A thin root, no bigger than a delicate blade of grass wraps around Olruggio’s wrist. Qifrey tracks its progress in breathless wonder.
Olruggio pauses his commentary to huff out a light chuckle and trace a finger delicately along the fragile root. It sends a shiver down Qifrey’s spine, watching Olruggio treat the tangled, hungry thing in him with such care.
“Olly—“ Qifrey gasps, reaching for words that slip through his fingers. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, only that he needs Olruggio to know what this—what he—means to him.
Olruggio smooths his bangs against his forehead and shushes him. “I know,” he says. Then he tilts Qifrey’s chin to direct his eye to Olruggio’s face—as if there were anywhere else he could possibly want to look. “I know.”
Qifrey is stripped bare by that gentle gaze. He’s drunk on Olruggio’s attention and lets out a positively embarrassing sound. Olruggio’s eyes turn even fonder, and after a life of lying, Qifrey lets himself savor the thought: Olly knows.
He knows every ugly detail and still holds Qifrey’s face gently and says things Qifrey couldn’t have let himself dream in his wildest fantasies.
His vision blurs with unshed tears and Olruggio lets out a soft sigh.
“Crybaby,” he says, and Qifrey has never heard a taunt sound so much like a prayer. He makes his own sound in response, something breathy and high, far too gone for words.
Olruggio wipes the first fallen tear from under his eye and Qifrey’s entire body shudders. The leafy branches of the silverwood rustle as if caught in a strong wind.
One branch arcs down to Olruggio, and he holds a hand underneath it. “Almost there,” he says, petting Qifrey’s hair. He continues to mutter reassurances as the branch begins to sprout a single seed pod. The words flow over Qifrey without meaning. He can only focus on the low, steady hum of Olruggio’s voice and the fingers against his scalp.
The pod matures and deposits a silverwood seed into Olruggio’s palm. He seals it in a small jar and tucks it out of sight.
Qifrey had fretted terribly when the seeds started showing up, but Olruggio had taken precautions and proved accidental implantations are near-impossible. Qifrey still can’t get the silverwood to grow if Olly has so much as a papercut, but there’s no panic watching him spirit away the seed to some pocket hidden in his robes.
It probably should concern him more what happens to the seeds afterwards. Silverwood trees are rare enough that a steady source of seeds would be a boon to the witch community, but these have an appetite for humans and twisted magic. Destroying them, planting them, turning them over to the Knights Moralis; none of the options are perfect.
But Olruggio promised he’ll take care of it, so once the seed is out of sight, Qifrey lets himself stop thinking about it. Whatever Olruggio has decided, Qifrey trusts him.
With the seed harvested, the silverwood retracts. Its new periodic lifecycle complete, it slumbers peacefully in Qifrey’s eye socket.
Qifrey feels like Tetia’s sand clouds, light and warm and vague. He breathes, and Olruggio breathes with him.
Olruggio’s hands have stilled, and Qifrey isn’t gripping tight to him, but they exist together in the quiet space emptied of roots.
Qifrey reaches up to Olruggio’s face. There’s no real thought behind the gesture; it’s guided by simple want. Qifrey slides his fingertips along his jaw. Olruggio’s skin is warm and his beard is pleasantly rough. His eyes are dancing in the dim firelight of the crystal torches.
Olruggio leans down and touches his lips to Qifrey’s. It’s a light brush of skin, not quite a proper kiss. Qifrey still gasps and shivers.
“Too much?” Olruggio leans back, but his breath is still warm against Qifrey’s lips.
Qifrey struggles to wrangle his tongue back into functioning order. “Not in a bad way,” he says, voice cracking. Olruggio nods, and there’s a hint of sadness behind the care.
It’s suddenly very important that Qifrey gets his mouth to cooperate. He pulls at Olruggio’s collar. “Olly, you know… I mean, you know that I—?”
Olruggio shushes him. “Of course I do.” He presses a firmer kiss against Qifrey’s forehead. “You know I do too, right? I have for a long time.”
Qifrey nods helplessly. Knowing had been part of the torture keeping the silverwood at bay. Now, they can know together. Maybe one day he’ll be strong enough to act on it the way he wants to. It’s something to look forward to, and Qifrey hasn’t had much of that.
“You look exhausted,” Olruggio says. “I think it’s time you turned in for the night.”
“Stay?” Qifrey’s voice is barely a whisper.
“Always.”
Olruggio helps him out of his clothes and into a nightgown. Qifrey’s head is floating somewhere above their little atelier, but he does his best to follow where Olruggio maneuvers him.
Olruggio dons his own sleep clothes, and Qifrey feels a little burst of warmth in his chest seeing Olruggio pull his clothes out from a corner of Qifrey’s drawer that has permanently become his.
Olruggio tucks the blankets around the two of them, a snugstone radiating warmth from under the pillows. Qifrey rests his head in the nape of Olruggio’s neck and listens to the sweet duet of Olruggio’s breathing and heartbeat.
Olruggio rests an arm over Qifrey’s waist. The patterns he traces on Qifrey’s back are meandering and relaxed. Qifrey thinks the sigil of fire is in there a few times, too loose to be a conscious choice, merely the result of a lifetime of muscle memory.
It’s a small thing, but it’s so Olly that it’s everything.
Qifrey drifts to sleep with a smile on his lips and wakes warm, with absolutely no worries on his mind.