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Moonlight pours through the hole in the roof, washing the room in a soft pearly glow, and Qifrey finds himself thinking that, for all its wonders, not even magic could ever create something this beautiful. Because this is the sort of scene that once belonged only to his childhood dreams: the warm breath of a summer night, the scent of wild grasses lingering on his tongue with the taste of freedom, eternity shimmering overhead. And his friend's smile—the final stroke of ink without which the whole picture would have remained unfinished.
They could have claimed one of the intact rooms downstairs for the night, but Qifrey had insisted on this one. He couldn't deny himself the chance to sleep beneath the stars. The very same stars that had once planted a spark inside him, the spark that lit the path toward a boy's impossible dream.
Scattered across the deep velvet of the night, they outshone every treasure the earth could offer. Their light carried the promise of freedom at last. The promise of home. The timid hope that perhaps the future he had been denied was waiting for him after all.
For both of them.
Qifrey squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the thought away before it can bloom beside his heart. Too reckless a faith in happiness. Too fertile a place for the parasite to sink its roots.
He breathes in. Slowly. Then out. When he finally opens one eye again, he turns toward Olruggio. He's sprawled across the floor with his arms and legs stretched wide, like someone who has never been afraid of taking up too much space or shining too brightly. A dreamy smile rests on his lips as he gazes up at the broken ceiling. Firelight dances across his face from the lantern beside them, and against the cold, otherworldly glow of the stars, Olly seems like the only source of warmth left in the world.
His torch. His personal sun. So bright it hurts to look at. So warm that stepping too close feels like the kind of thing that would set him ablaze, until nothing remained but ash.
Something twists tight inside his chest. For one dreadful moment, he imagines a slender silver branch coiling around his heart like a serpent, tightening and tightening—until the ink black blood spills.
This happiness is built on a lie, he reminds himself before he can dissolve beneath the warmth surrounding him, beneath the dangerous sweetness of anticipation. You will never truly let him in. He will never know what you really are. What little you have together is only the palest shadow of what could have been.
And still... The gentle crackle of the fire. The endless sweep of stars overhead. Winds that had crossed the farthest reaches of the world before finding them. An abandoned cabin with a roof half-fallen to ruin. And him. It is the closest thing Qifrey has ever known to home. A new chapter in the book of his life—a book whose final page should have been turned years ago. There was never meant to be another chapter. And yet here it is. They're writing it now. Together. With the ink mixed from his cursed blood and his tears, though Olly can never be allowed to know that ugly little truth. He has to be more careful than ever. Because if he isn't, these pages will crumble into ash in his hands, scorched by the light of the brightest star in the sky.
The thoughts pull tight around his chest once more, but this time the feeling is familiar: the old knot of anxiety and grief that never truly leaves him. Good. As long as it's there, the parasite won't dare reveal its grasping branches.
It takes him a moment to realize Olruggio is watching him.
"Olly?"
The smile only widens. Open. Joyful. The kind of smile only Olly could wear without restraint. Little sparks dance in the depths of his blue eyes, though they have nothing to do with the lantern's flame.
Once, the sight of that smile had made Qifrey's soul want to sing. Now it only draws tight inside him. A prickling chill settles beneath his skin, and, against all reason, he tries to convince himself they're only goosebumps.
"What is it?"
Olly tilts his head ever so slightly. "Are you happy, Qifrey?"
The question catches him completely off guard.
I'm always happy with you.
I'll never be truly happy with you.
He's afraid to answer yes, because it could be the beginning of the end. He can't answer no, because their lives are already built on more lies than either of them deserves. And more than anything, he can't bear the thought of watching the light fade from Olly's eyes.
Fortunately, Olly speaks again before Qifrey is forced to choose.
"We actually did it." His grin grows almost impossibly bright. "We ran away from everyone, just like you always dreamed we would. It's just the two of us now. Can you believe it? Here, of all places."
Never taking his eyes off him, he rolls onto his side and tucks one hand beneath his cheek.
Relief slips from Qifrey in a quiet breath. And gratitude. Olly hadn't pressed him for an answer. He knows him too well. He must have sensed the hesitation and chalked it up to the same thing he always does—that after all these years, Qifrey still hasn't learned how to let himself be vulnerable.
Let him believe that.
The corner of Qifrey's mouth lifts. Not the gentle, practiced smile that became his mask the day they set out for the Tower of Tomes. But not the wide, carefree smile he buried that very same day, either. Something in between. The best he can manage. It's a real smile—only careful. Measured. He keeps it on a tight leash, refusing to let joy flood every corner of his soul and rain down upon the parasite's waiting roots.
"...Yeah." His voice is soft. "It still doesn't feel real."
Olly's eyes slip shut in smug satisfaction, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. Qifrey has been reading him like an open book for years—even if he'll never read Olly half as well as Olly reads him—and he'd recognize that see, I told you so expression anywhere. A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
The dream he'd scarcely dared believe in almost ten years ago, beneath an endless sky, had come true. Not because he'd whispered a wish to a falling star. Because another star—the most radiant one in the whole sky of his life—had never stopped lighting his way.
But at what cost?
"Olly..." He hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Olly shifts on the blankets they'd spread across the floor, settling in more comfortably before inching a little closer, already wearing the patient expression of someone prepared to listen. For a fleeting moment, they're children again, sneaking away from their masters to whisper secrets beneath the cover of night.
Qifrey isn’t sure how to put it. There are too many things he wants to ask. Too many things he can never tell him. Too many answers he's terrified to hear. Years of unspoken words collapse into a single, desperate question.
"Why?" His voice breaks at the last second.
Olly's eyes widen with surprise, but only for a heartbeat. Then his expression softens, and he simply waits. Watching. Listening. He doesn't rush to answer. He must already know what Qifrey means.
"You said..." Qifrey begins quietly, forcing each word past the tightness in his throat. "You said it's just the two of us now... like you're actually happy about that."
He has to stop and steady his breathing before he can continue. "But... why? Why did you ever decide you wanted to live with me? A childish dream is one thing. But this..."
He can't finish. Warm fingers wrap gently—but firmly—around his wrist. When he looks up, Olly has moved even closer. He's looking at Qifrey with something dangerously close to hurt.
"It isn't childish, Qifrey." His voice is quiet, but unwavering. "It matters to you." He gives Qifrey's wrist the slightest squeeze. "So how could it ever be childish?"
"And what about you?" Qifrey asks, almost jerking his hand away before he stops himself. "You’re always talking about me. About what I want." He searches Olly's face. "But what about you? What do you want?"
Olly's grip loosens. He blinks at him, genuinely bewildered, as though Qifrey has just asked the most absurd question imaginable.
Qifrey withdraws his hand at last and curls onto his side, drawing his knees to his chest. When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet he's no longer sure whether he's talking to Olly or to himself.
"You could have stayed in the Great Hall. You know..." He swallows hard. "People... love you." The word catches painfully in his throat. "You could've enjoy some company. Worked alongside the others. Built incredible things together. Taken on apprentices. Made more friends." He hesitates. "And someday..." The next words hurt enough to make him falter. "...had a family."
His chest constricts. The thought of someone else becoming Olly's family tears at him with unbearable force. But who deserves that more than Olly?
You have a long, beautiful life ahead of you. Why waste it rotting away here with me?
Those words never make it past his lips. They're too dangerous. Olly doesn't remember that Qifrey was never meant to have a long, beautiful life at all. Instead, he says, almost under his breath, "...Sooner or later, you'll have to start building your own life, silly."
The rest of the sentence never comes because a warm hand lands squarely over his mouth.
Qifrey's eye flies open. Olly is kneeling beside him, glaring with unmistakable indignation, his palm firmly silencing another word. That stubborn spark burns in his blue eyes… Qifrey knows it instantly. It's the very same look Olly wore every time he declared he wasn't going anywhere—no matter how many tears Qifrey shed, no matter how many bruises and scrapes Olly himself collected along the way.
Qifrey tries to protest. The hand presses more firmly against his lips instead. Heat floods unexpectedly through him, a strange new embarrassment rippling beneath his skin.
"I'm already building it." Olly's voice leaves no room for argument. "Right here. Right now. With you." His brows lift. "Wasn't that obvious?" He gestures vaguely around the room. "We're literally building ourselves a home." For another second or two he keeps up the stern expression, staring Qifrey down as though determined to win by sheer force of will. Then, inevitably, he breaks and a grin spreads across his face. His hand slides from Qifrey's mouth to the crown of his head, gleefully ruffling his snow-white hair. "And I've told you a hundred times I don't want to become a master, remember? You'll be taking all the apprentices for both of us."
Without another thought, he flops back onto the blankets, not even bothering to return to his own spot. He settles down so close that Qifrey can almost feel the ghost of his warm breath against his skin. And then he simply… Looks at him. Openly. Curiously. As though he doesn't already know every line of his face. As though he hasn't spent years learning to read every flicker of emotion that crosses the face dearest to him.
"There you go again..." Qifrey mutters, burying his face in the pillow.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Olly smiles with such effortless innocence that it would almost be convincing if satisfaction weren't shining all over his face.
"You keep turning everything into a joke. You keep talking about what's best for me. Helping me chase my dreams." Qifrey forces himself onto one elbow and his gaze finally meets Olly's. "You'd even look after apprentices for my sake, when you wouldn't dream of taking students of your own."
Deep down, he clings to one last hope that this time… This one time… Olly won't dodge the question. That he'll simply tell the truth. That he wants to travel the country, helping people wherever he can. To learn from other witches. To settle down in the Great Hall, like everyone else. Maybe to even run his own shop there. To build a life. A family. And Qifrey will be left behind, heart shattered beyond repair. Lost. Alone. But alive. Condemned to spend the rest of his years wondering what it might have felt like to share happiness with someone else.
Instead a hand comes to rest against his cheek. Gentle. Warm.
"You're hopeless."
Qifrey blinks, momentarily unable to process the warmth of Olly's palm against skin that has always been cold.
"You are such a dummy, Qifrey."
Olly sits up. A second later, both hands are cradling Qifrey's face, careful but unyielding, refusing to let him look away.
"I'm doing all of this because I want to. Do you understand?" Then, softer still, scarcely more than a whisper, "Why is it so hard for you to believe that my life is here?"
Qifrey listens with his heart caught somewhere in his throat. Not just to Olly's words—to his own body. A faint jolt beneath his ribs. A fine tremor running through him, delicate as a shiver from the cold. Is that it... Or something else? He has long since learned to treat unfamiliar sensations with reverence bordering on fear. It becomes second nature when you know they might be the thing that kills you.
He never finds out. Because Olly kisses him.
For the briefest instant, Qifrey feels warm, wind-chapped lips against his own. Feels the ticklish scrape of stubble against his skin. Feels a thumb brush tenderly along his cheekbone. And then horror seizes him.
He jerks away.
Instinctively, he claps a hand over his mouth, squeezes his eye shut, curls in on himself, trying to still the violent trembling inside him while bracing for the worst. When he finally dares to look—
the parasite loosens its grip at once.
Olly looks as though Qifrey has slapped him.
No. Worse.
They had fought often enough as children, and Olly had never truly taken offense. He never had. No matter how many times Qifrey pushed him away. No matter how clumsily he lied to his face in a desperate attempt to protect him from the truth. No matter how many walls he built between them. Olly had simply accepted him, reached out his hand and with that impossibly radiant smile of his, melted every fragile barrier Qifrey insisted on rebuilding.
But this time… Something has broken. His eyes are wide with shame. With regret. With the raw hurt of disappointment. The hands that had been warming Qifrey's face only moments ago now lie limp in his lap. Qifrey thinks they might be trembling.
Several agonizing seconds pass before Olly manages to gather himself. Then he smiles. Awkwardly. Painfully. It's enough to make Qifrey hate himself.
My Olly should never have to smile like that.
"Uh..." Olly rubs the back of his neck before running a hand through his hair. The gesture is meant to look casual. It doesn't. Neither does the crooked smile or the brightness he's forcing into his voice. "I'm... really sorry." He laughs weakly. "I got the wrong idea, didn't I? I just thought..." He trails off. "...Never mind."
Another smile. Even more strained than the first. "Let's just forget it, okay?"
Olly, his sweet, wonderful Olly. He's smiling at him with his head tilted ever so slightly, but the familiar sparks have vanished from those blue eyes. All that's left is the cold emptiness of the ocean depths—the same depths that had almost claimed Qifrey once.
Oh. His heart won't survive this. It will tear itself apart long before the parasite's sharpened branches ever have the chance.
Masks don't belong on Olly. No. If one of them has to carry the pain, let it be Qifrey. Let Olly carry the light that keeps them from losing themselves entirely in the dark.
"I don't want to forget." The words are barely louder than a breath. This time, it's Qifrey who leans forward. Like a moth drawn helplessly toward a flame, knowing full well it will burn.
And still—
he kisses him. His best friend. The person dearest to him in all the world. The love of his life. The realization fills him with a joy so fierce it almost eclipses everything else. Almost. Because beneath it, terror boils. Terror that this changes everything. That every step closer only spins the web of lies tighter around them both. That this may be the first and the last time. That he'll spend the rest of his life remembering what it felt like to kiss Olly—with no hope of ever doing it again.
Only that terror keeps him afloat. Keeps him from sinking like a stone into the waiting embrace of silver tendrils below.
A soft, startled sound escapes Olly. Almost immediately, his arms slip around Qifrey's neck, drawing him closer with a tenderness edged in desperation—as though he's terrified that, if he loosens his hold even for a second, Qifrey will pull away again.
Qifrey barely understands what he's doing. He's moving on instinct alone, drawn toward the warmth of Olly's body—a warmth that is still so unfamiliar, and yet already feels like something he's known forever. As though all he wants is to sink into it and disappear. As though the fire burning inside Olly's heart, lingering at the tips of his fingers, could burn away every sorrow he's ever carried; reduce the parasite's wicked roots to ash, evaporate the freezing waters of his nightmares, leave nothing of the darkness behind until the whole world held only him—
His Olly. His radiant happiness. The brightest star in the sky.
His fingers catch in the collar of Olly's shirt, tugging him closer, and their knees knock awkwardly together. There's no easy way to close what little distance remains between them. Olly seems to reach the same conclusion a heartbeat later. He settles one hand against Qifrey's shoulder and gives him a gentle but insistent push.
Qifrey lets himself fall back onto the pillows without releasing his grip on the white fabric, and Olly, caught completely off balance, topples after him before he has a chance to catch himself. His full weight lands against Qifrey's body. It feels nothing like it did when they were children, tumbling into playful scuffles or breathless embraces—the kind Qifrey had quietly begun avoiding years ago.
He's pinned beneath him, warm to the point of suffocation, his heartbeat fluttering somewhere between his ribs and his throat. But tonight, he isn't afraid of burning. Anything is better than drowning again in the endless depths of his loneliness.
Sooner or later, that darkness will claim him anyway. Until then… Let Olly's kisses become his own seal of oblivion. Enough to make him forget. If only for tonight. If only for as long as these arms remain wrapped around him.
"Sorry," Olly murmurs with a quiet laugh against his ear.
Qifrey doesn't want words. Words feel dangerous somehow, as though speaking too much might shatter the fragile spell that's settled over them. Instead, he nuzzles into the curve of Olly's neck and, before he can question the impulse, catches the delicate skin there between his lips.
Olly's breath catches. The sigh that escapes him is warmer, deeper than before, layered with emotions Qifrey is far too inexperienced to untangle. He only knows he wants to hear it again. And again. To tuck the sound away among the memories he'll treasure for the rest of his life.
Olly finds his lips once more, and this time his tongue brushes softly against them, wordlessly asking to be let in. Qifrey can't bring himself to refuse. The sensation is strange—entirely new—and yet it feels astonishingly right. Wet in a way he'd never imagined could be pleasant, unfamiliar enough to make his pulse race.
Olly's hand, hotter than ever, glides slowly over his shoulder, traces the curve of his side, slips lower until it settles on his thigh, where impatient fingers tighten just enough to make Qifrey shiver.
How far could they go? The thought blossoms somewhere beneath his ribs, scattering sparks of anticipation and fear through his body all at once. Perhaps it's only that wary awareness of the unknown that keeps him balanced on the edge, preventing him from surrendering himself completely.
Neither of them has any real experience to lean on, and Qifrey can't help wondering whether he's doing anything wrong. But it seems that Olly doesn’t care. As always, he throws himself into everything with his whole heart, driven by that fearless, youthful certainty that's always been so unmistakably his. He presses even closer despite the fact that there can hardly be any air left between them, explores Qifrey's mouth without a trace of hesitation, lets curious hands wander over his body as though intoxicated by the discovery that his oldest friend is still capable of surprising him—and determined to learn every part of him while he has the chance.
Little by little, they find each other's rhythm, just as they always have. The frantic hunger fades. The awkwardness softens. Their movements slow into something unhurried and languid, savoring instead of searching, as though the night itself has stretched into forever and there is no tomorrow waiting beyond it.
Now it's Olly who drifts down to his neck, only to huff in quiet annoyance when his lips meet the high collar of Qifrey's turtleneck instead of bare skin. As if in retaliation, he nips lightly beneath Qifrey's ear.
A soft moan slips free before Qifrey can stop it. His fingers bury themselves in Olly's dark hair, drawing him closer in silent encouragement. Over Olly's shoulder, he catches sight of the stars. And it occurs to him that this night is somehow even more beautiful than the one that first brought them here.
The most beautiful night of his life.
The warmth pooling low in his abdomen becomes harder and harder to ignore, slowly sharpening into an aching heat as Olly shifts his hips feverishly against him.
The room dissolves into a gentle haze. The stars begin to move, blurring into a slow celestial whirlpool overhead—until one abrupt tug pulls him back to earth. Olly is trying, with growing impatience, to pull the turtleneck tucked into Qifrey's skirt over his head, only to discover—rather belatedly—that the ties are still wrapped around his thighs.
For one bewildered second, they simply stare at each other. Then quiet laughter breaks between them, effortless and shared.
"Oh, gods, Qifrey." With a defeated groan, Olly lets his forehead fall against Qifrey's shoulder. "Of all the things you could've worn... Honestly, just point me toward whoever made this monstrosity, and I'll—"
Slowly, he lifts his head and looks into Qifrey's eye.
Qifrey doesn't understand at first. Doesn't realize that the corners of his mouth have begun to lift, or that he's smiling with a sincerity he hasn't known in years. That a flush has spread across his cheeks, leaving him looking healthier, more alive, than Olly has seen him in ages. That a single tear clings to his lashes—not born of pain, but of joy, of longing, of the unbearable beauty of this moment.
Olly is staring at him as though he's seeing him for the first time. Wonder. Awe. Something softer still. As though he'd stumbled across snow blanketing a summer meadow, and the impossible sight had reminded him of home. As though, in that same instant, he'd realized he was already at home. As though he couldn't fathom why it had taken him nearly ten years to understand.
"Qifrey..." His name leaves Olly's lips like a breath, and something in his voice makes Qifrey's heart seize. "You said that one day I'd have to build a family of my own, but..."
No.
"...I already have one."
Please…
"You are my family, Qifrey."
Heat surges through his veins, fierce enough to eclipse even the feverish warmth wrapped around them.
"Qifrey..."
No. Please. Don't.
"I love—"
"Don't!"
The cry tears out of him before he knows he's moving. His hands shove Olly away with more force than he intends.
The knot in his chest cinches brutally tight. Pain throbs beneath his skin. A glacial numbness races through his limbs. He struggles to keep his blurred vision fixed on Olly's face—the one thing still anchoring him, the only thing keeping the parasite from making one final desperate lunge and tearing free through his flesh. Because that expression—
Shocked. Hurt. Utterly lost.
He will carry it with him until the end of his days. It will remind him why the two of them were never meant to have this. Why he swore to protect Olly from exactly this kind of pain. Why happiness was never written into his own future. And why every moment he spends fighting that truth only wounds Olly more deeply.
He watches the corners of Olly's mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile that never quite forms. Watches him blink too quickly, trying to force back tears. Watches his hands knot tightly together, as though he has no idea what to do with them now.
Qifrey pushes himself upright. His legs barely obey him. They feel heavy, wooden, as though they no longer belong to him, and he can't tell whether it's the lingering haze of desire, the branches winding deeper through his bones, or simply because, without Olly's fire, he no longer feels alive himself.
One step. Then another.
He sinks to his knees beside Olly, who hasn't moved from where he fell, still too stunned. Reaching past him, Qifrey searches through the pile of discarded robes until his fingers find the familiar shape of his hat.
"I'm sorry." Olly’s words are so faint that, for a moment, Qifrey thinks he's imagined them. "I couldn't become the person you were willing to accept."
Even now… He's apologizing. Even now, he believes he's the one who has hurt Qifrey, never realizing the wound runs the other way.
Olly doesn't look up. He never sees Qifrey close the circle with a single drop of blood. Never sees the spell descend.
"You have nothing to apologize for," Qifrey whispers. "The only one at fault is me."
Darkness takes Olly before he can hear the rest.
"I love you too."
The confession falls against his skin with a burning tear and a single silver petal.
He'll never hear it. And he'll never remember the most beautiful night of their lives.
The following day, Qifrey suggests that they settle in their own separate rooms. He chooses the one downstairs, with its little window that barely shows a sliver of sky, insisting that the larger room should belong to Olly. After all, he'd always dreamed of having a workshop of his own. As for Qifrey… Qifrey can no longer afford the childish dream of watching the stars.