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During the trapped-amber turbulence of his childhood, it hadn’t been uncommon for Qifrey to wake up in the middle of the night, panting and dripping with cold sweat. Dreaming of the sea pressing in on him from all sides, of gravel and the flavor of iron and dirt. Of the coffin. And as time went on, he only accumulated more things to worry about, more nightmares to terrorize him. He hoarded his fears like a dragon with its treasures; not because he wanted to, but because he buried something hideous beneath them.
If his fears were all gold, he was King Midas.
Coco, Agott, Tetia, Richeh, Olruggio… like the people of the Romonon Cave, they were all nothing but gleaming statues, all caricatures susceptible to breakage under his very own hand; he’d selfishly assigned them their value based on what they act as rather than who.
It wasn’t his choice. He didn’t want to. He loved them so badly his chest hurt.
And yet in his dreams, the girls screamed as he tried to embrace them, writhing under his accursed touch. He felt their small forms turn to solid metal and fall through his grip. And Olruggio? Olruggio didn’t even flinch. He approached Qifrey himself, wrapping one arm around his head and another on his back, not knowing that he would be locking him in a chokehold as his skin melded into gold. Qifrey accepted it. He let the oxygen drain from his lungs like water down a drain.
His tears slid down Olruggio’s arm as his lips moved silently: I am hideous.
With a gasp, Qifrey sat up, his heart hammering. A blanket lay spread over him; he was on a couch. In the atelier. He was safe. With a start, he noticed his mouth was open; he hoped he hadn’t been drooling. He licked his lips, which were slightly cracked.
It all came rushing back to him: the nightmare. It had happened again.
The cushions shifted, causing Qifrey to startle. When he turned around, there was Olruggio, one hand outstretched. Their eyes met, and Olruggio withdrew his hand to ruffle his hair.
“I was going t’ wake you up,” he explained. “But I didn’t because you looked tired today. Should I have woken you earlier?” Looking away, he mumbled, “Looked like you were having a bad dream.”
Qifrey forced himself to slow down his breathing. He patted down his shirt and dusted his skirt, sitting up properly.
“I- I don’t quite remember,” he lied.
“Really?” Olruggio’s brow furrowed. “You were… talking. Mutterin’ something while you were asleep.”
“Was I?” Qifrey laughed. He hated how effortless it was. “Forgive me for worrying you.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” The Watchful Eye snapped his fingers.
A beat of confusion. “That’s what?”
“‘Forgive me.’ That’s what you were saying.” Olruggio tilted his head, clearly worried. “Qifrey, are you…?”
Though just slightly, his expression hardened. “I’m fine.” It came out a little forcefully. He couldn’t help it; a flurry of thoughts swirled in his mind.
Forgive me.
He’d spoken those words, over and over, till his tongue felt like sand and his throat was leached dry. And Olruggio had heard it, which only meant that he would try to reassure him, offering the warmth that Qifrey could not accept.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “But thank you for your concern.”
His smile lengthened that distance between them; that yawning abyss they were so painfully aware of, where deep below, the snaking roots of the silvertree lay dormant. Each time Olruggio managed to reach across that gap and find Qifrey, they’d reached the same ending without fail. He turned to gold, expression frozen in the one Qifrey hated the most. One of adoration so sweet that it ripped through his body and tore at his flesh in every place where the silverwood could not reach. Qifrey would push him back, far enough for safety but not close enough to…
Actually no, that was it. Just not close enough.
They could never be close enough.
As he stood up, Qifrey checked the clock.
“Dinner’s soon,” he said, glad for any excuse to leave. “I’ll go fix something for all of us.”
Olruggio said nothing, but his gaze followed Qifrey as he walked to the kitchen. He gripped his skirt a little tighter, and Qifrey knew exactly what he was feeling: Helpless.
Forgive me again, old friend.
For that forgiveness was his salvation, but also the knife in his heart. If he pulled it out, he was afraid that his desire would consume him faster than the branches ever could. He was afraid he would bleed liquid gold all over Olruggio, and suffocate him in his longing before losing himself too.
But that was just a dream. Reality was much worse.