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The first time Qifrey kisses Olruggio, Passage Stars colour the skies, brilliant in the dying light of dusk. Silver Eve has just begun, and they share this moment tucked into one of Ezrest's many winding alleyways, far from prying eyes. In an hour they'll be summoned back to set up shop for the evening rush, but for now, at the very least, they are gifted solace.
How fresh they are in youth, and how much promise there is in the future—an atelier of their own and a life beyond the Great Hall is terribly exciting. Perhaps, with Olruggio beside him, the world won't seem such a daunting thing to brave for Qifrey.
Still, he worries. Still, he knows he will have to keep anxiety close at hand for his own sake.
"How scandalous we are," Qifrey breathes out, a hushed laugh, against the corner of Olruggio's mouth. They are a stumbling pair of fools, pressed against a cold stone wall, sharing warmth. The bustle of townsfolk a few steps away is loud, hiding their doings.
They've both indulged in Silvernectar and Qifrey tastes it in Olruggio's kisses. They're both dizzy from the celebrations, high on the success of another year of approval in running their stall—Olruggio's creations are beautiful, and they both have high hopes of selling well.
—
"Would you look at that?" Olruggio sits back in his chair, arms folded, as the stone laid atop his desk begins to glow softly.
How warm Olruggio's magic is. How beautiful.
"Ah." Qifrey settles his hands on either side of the chair's back, leaning close enough to smell the fresh scent of shampoo in Olruggio's hair. It is late, just past midnight, and they both prepared for bed long ago. "It seems to be glowing."
"Glowstones, perhaps?" Olruggio makes a small sound of thought in the back of his throat. "Master Beldaruit would love this, I'd gander."
"He'll be delighted." Qifrey does not know whether it is the lateness of the day, or if the glowstones cast Olruggio in a fetching light, but he leans to the side, and presses a kiss to his cheek, the softness of skin meeting his lips instead of stubble. Olruggio has shaved, for once, after days of toiling away in his rooms to perfect this spell. "Will you tell me how you did it?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Olruggio smiles, teasing, as he leans into Qifrey's space a little. The glowstone casts harsh angles across his face, all sharp, but Qifrey hasn't found Olruggio just as handsome as now. "I'll tell you if you make something better before Silver Eve."
"Chancer." Qifrey doesn't laugh, though, and instead, allows his gaze to fall to Olruggio's lips. They are a breath apart and the crackle of the fireplace in their living room is all that syncopates the silence. "Don't you think we—"
"We should." Olruggio's eyes dance between waiting lips and an expectant gaze, but he does not move. "Qifrey, I…"
"We shan't say a thing." Qifrey's hand falls to his robes, gripping knuckle-white to distract himself from the flicker of recognition within his body. The seed wakes and stirs, appetite whetted as affection softens him—tendered for a feast.
"All right."
And they speak not in words. No. They speak in the way hands come to rest below jaws. Hands tangle in hair and teeth skate across lower lips, testing and tentative. Romance is new to them. They are young, still, and don't know what to do with the way friendship has revealed itself to be something more.
—
Qifrey tries to lean into the softness of Olruggio's love, chasing kindling fire in his gut, pushing memories aside. He hopes that this time, for once, the seed will give him a moment—just a moment—to enjoy himself.
"Silver Eve is meant for good things," Olruggio murmurs, cradling Qifrey's jaw in strong hands, calloused and ink-stained. His thumbs brush over the highs of Qifrey's cheeks, reverent. "You aren't a scandal, Qifrey."
"The Great Hall would beg to differ," Qifrey sighs. He turns his lips to Olruggio's palm and leaves a kiss there.
"We'll take that as it comes." The that in question being Master Beldaruit.
If only fate were so kind as to give Beldaruit to Qifrey as his only worry. If only Olruggio were his only worry…
What a gift that would be, indeed.
Qifrey tries to sink into the kisses Olruggio offers him, soft, upon his brow, and the tip of his nose, then to waiting lips again, but a sharp, bright flare of pain rocks through him, a thief in the night, stealing away passion.
"Oh."
Thin branches shudder, spindly fingers taking root in the knobs of Qifrey's spine, and he sucks in a trembling breath as he draws back. The distance is agony—it hurts the heart, rather than the seed, and in turn, takes the warmth of love before it has time to kindle, raising fire beneath skin. Grief sinks its claws, needle-sharp, into tissue, and his lungs spasm, as he fights for breath.
"Qifrey—"
"No, please, I…" Qifrey forces himself to meet Olruggio's gaze, a palm pressed to his heart. Confusion turns those beautiful dark brows of Olruggio's down, and Qifrey has to swallow bitterness as it rises in his throat. Regret; this feeling is regret. "We cannot."
Qifrey isn't brave enough to confess his sins tonight, but he has enough grief to shape purpose into something sharper.
"You will be my Watchful Eye, Olruggio." Even to Qifrey, his own voice sounds ragged and rough. Pained. He sinks fingers into his cloak until his knuckles turn white. He looks down to their shoes, and blinks away tears as they burn at his waterline. "We have a duty. We have things we must do and we simply cannot risk it."
"But you—"
"No, Olly." Endearment tumbles from Qifrey's lips as a sob, all off-kilter syllables, and he takes in a shaking breath, the aching weight of guilt blooming fresh at the base of his spine. "I cannot love you. Not in the ways you wish me to."
"But there is—"
"You made me a promise," Qifrey cuts in gently; his tone a knife dragging over the still surface of a sleeping lake. He allows Olruggio to hold him by the shoulders. For once, he doesn't try to push him away. Fingers press to the underside of Qifrey's chin, the tips calloused from handiwork, and Olruggio searches his gaze. "You promised me you'd stay, but you cannot remember." Qifrey swallows thickly. "You must not remember this."
"Love?"
"No, not love. Not love itself." Qifrey lifts a hand and curls fingers around Olruggio's wrist. He turns his face, to rest his cheek in Olruggio's palm as it's offered. Tears slip over cheeks, and patter softly to the floor. "But what love may cause."
Through childhood, all the hugs shared, the pats upon shoulders and the comfort in times of despair, after difficult tests, had caused roots to spread deep into Qifrey's nervous system; all pinpricks of pain that grew and grew and grew until becoming unbearable. Each show of friendship, and each gesture of romance in their eighteenth and nineteenth years, had stolen Qifrey's breath and left him curled in the shadowed parts of the Great Hall, fingers sunk into his chest, with a wish to end the pain in favour of softer affections.
How Qifrey wishes now—bitterly and achingly—that this curse were given to someone more deserving of it. How he wishes the innocence of childhood could have been his to experience and look back on fondly. Instead, his memories are just as shuttered, and his mind is fragmented beyond repair, just as Olruggio's is.
And through everything, Olruggio has been privy to Qifrey's aversion to touch, and their journey to the Tower of Tomes all those years ago had settled Olruggio's fate firmly in Qifrey's hands. Now, their promise sinks as a stone; a heavy companion to regret.
He must do what he has always done.
He must bid farewell to love.
He must bid farewell to what could have been.
Just as innocence once slipped from his fingers—grains of sand falling to an endless sea of grey—so, too, must love return to its grave.
"I'm sorry, Olly." Qifrey falls into Olruggio's embrace. He tucks his face into the soft line of Olruggio's neck and leaves a kiss to the space between jaw and ear. "I love you. I love you, always."
Olruggio does not ask after Qifrey's apologies. He never does. He is so self-sacrificing in the face of aiding others, and Qifrey's heart bleeds, his very chest aching with sorrow, as he lifts his hat.
"Whatever you choose to do," Olruggio says softly, bowing his head down, to press lips to Qifrey's shoulder, "I hope you know I will never blame you."
Just as every other time, Olruggio knows, somewhere, deep in his being, that what comes next must be done. After years of memories atop memories being taken from the threads of his mind, Qifrey knows Olruggio's body feels that expectation, even without being aware as to why.
"I know." Qifrey takes in a shuddering breath, his ribs aching as he holds back a wretched sob. "I know."
"Qifrey." Olruggio's hands shake, and fingers card through fine white strands of moonlight, as if wanting to remember the memory of its softness. "I love you."
"You always have."
I'd love you to death, if death weren't so cruel.
Qifrey closes the circle—the very air around them seems to sing with magic—before the spell takes its hold. He kisses Olruggio, salt staining their lips.
Take my memory, and do not take your own. Olruggio's oath is the one thing that brings Qifrey warmth; a light in the darkest of nights. But the pain you carry is better off in your own hands, Qifrey.
—
Regret stays with Qifrey well through the years, a thing that lingers in the shadows. Sleep does not come easy, and instead he finds himself staring out the window, to where the moon hangs fat and full in the sky. Winter has bleakened the countryside, but the night is clear and pallid light washes everything in silver—the grass sways in a mild breeze, and stars watch over the fields, glimmering, bright and unchanging.
Would life have been different if Olruggio had never followed Qifrey to the Tower of Tomes that day?
Qifrey sighs, sitting up. He hugs his knees tight to his chest, and curls in on himself. His heart aches, the very muscle and fibre of flesh tender to the touch.
"This won't do," Qifrey murmurs to himself. Knowing he won't rest, he reaches for the book left at his bedside. He leafs through well-loved pages, some dog-eared, others annotated. How long has it been since he's taken time to pour over words instead of pressing ink into paper?
Flipping to the very last page, he startles, as a blank palmquire paper flutters to the blankets.
Frowning, Qifrey picks it up. No one would be so careless as to use such precious pages as a bookmark, and he's certain no one else has borrowed the book for themselves…
"Oh."
Familiar penmanship, in simple, red ink, is scrawled along the borders of the page, hard to see unless brought close to the eye.
This is Olruggio's hand.
If magic is to be found within, then love cannot be the same, for I have found love in you. There is so much of you in my heart that I know little of what to do with it.
Qifrey snaps the book shut, and the page is taken to the wind with the movement, dropping to the floor and swishing beneath the bed. Good. Let it stay there, where Qifrey can no longer see it. Let it gather dust, and sit there until the page is wrinkled and the ink is faded and unable to be read.
Olruggio has always Qifrey. Always, always, always.
Why?
Regret snarls, bearing teeth; a beast prowling in the dark, waiting to bite.
I should have stayed away from you.