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Qifrey carefully, quietly, pushed the door of Olruggio's room open. Much of the festivities were still radiating loudly through the floorboards of the inn, the gold-warmth from the lamps pushing fingers through the smallest cracks. They'd gotten a small accommodation close to the festival — even though neither of them much cared to be away from their atelier for long — and hadn't been in each other's pocket all night. It was business first most — Olruggio had needed to attend client meetings and the inevitable boozing expected along with it, and he knew all too well how little Qifrey enjoyed being around crowds of people he didn’t know nor like so he’d not bothered to ask the other to accompany him while he did so.
Unfortunately, the consequence of it was the Olruggio that’d poured himself against his bedpost and the floor. Half-undressed, skin flushed with a sheen of sweat that stuck the hair on his upper shoulder against itself. Scars from old adventures and misjudgements blooming a shiny pink-white. Sharp-sweet scent of silvernectar wine gently perfumed the linens as he pressed his body against them.
Qifrey thought the initial hiccups were just the drink. Then the shaking just snoring or the chill on his exposed shoulder. His own shoulders relaxed, preparing to give Olruggio the same admonishment he had for the last two decades. He should know better.
He wasn't prepared for Olruggio to turn and face him with a blush-bruised face wet with tears. The agony twisted on his features squeezed Qifrey's own heart.
"Olly, what happened?" He tried to keep his voice steady; comforting. Contained rage bubbled behind his heart. Whoever had done this to his dearest friend would be lucky if they remembered what starlight looked like by the next nightfall. He knelt down next to the haphazard pool of Olruggio’s skirt, careful to not lean onto the other’s leg.
Olruggio's mouth opened. A whistling breath as he sharply inhaled and tears burned against the bottom of his eyes anew. "It doesn't matter," he finally managed to force the words through a slurry-thick mesh of his accent.
"Of course it matters."
"No."
"Olruggio." Qifrey bared his teeth, gentle edges sharpening. "You're a mess on the floor at an inn days from home. The why matters. What did you do? What happened?" Qifrey internally scolded himself at asking what Olruggio did before what could have happened. The blame implicit in the order. He hoped Olruggio would be too drunk to pick up on it.
Olruggio didn't respond. He swayed and leaned harder against the bed, partly hiding his face in his loose sleeves. His back tensed up, face crumpling again, but no new tears slid down his cheeks.
"Olly?" Qifrey started to reach for the wide of Olruggio's back, intending to gently rub away the worst of the drunken worry.
"I'm lonely."
"What?" Thin hands stopped reaching for the other.
Dark blue eyes, brilliant from the tears and the pinkened scelera, turned to pin Qifrey where he knelt. No malice. Only bone deep sadness. "I'm lonely. I have no right to be.”
Qifrey opened his mouth but no words would come out. His hand twitched where it hovered.
Olruggio pressed his cheek harder into his forearm. Tears gathered on the bottom of his eyes again. “I have no right to feel like this, Qifrey.” His dark eyebrows tensed, face crumpling again. A sob wracked through him. “I have no right.”
Something cold and ugly twisted in the pit of Qifrey’s stomach. He tried to push any words out of his throat, but they stubbornly stuck against his teeth.
“I shouldn’t need any more than this,” Olruggio continued, drink loosening his tongue and thickening his accent. Trying to hide his vulnerable words in the familiarity of his unadjusted speech. “How can I be so selfish? I have so much.”
Qifrey gently pressed the flat of his palm against Olruggio’s flushed skin — the other tensing underneath the shivering cold of his hands — and left it there. “Olly,” his voice stayed quiet, barely above the din of the festival-goers downstairs, “You aren’t selfish.”
He curled in further on himself. “I am.”
“No,” Qifrey tried to keep his voice neutral, and hoped it came across as calming.
“Then why am I so lonely?” Fat tears soaked into the fabrics. “Why does it hurt so much?”
Qifrey felt the wheeze through the skin of Olruggio’s back.
Another sob wrenched itself from the man. “It hurts, Qifrey.”
A muffled cheer and off-tune song pulsed through the floor. Qifrey stroked his thumb in small circles where his hand rested against Olruggio’s skin.
“Why does no one want me?” The question slipped out watery and quiet. “What marks me so unloveable?”
“You are not unloveable, Olly.” Qifrey’s hand stilled. He chewed on the inside of his lip. He knew he held partial responsibility in how the other was feeling. He pushed on, “The girls love you. I care for you dearly. Hierhart loves you, even if you find him overbearing with how much he admires you.” A shaky exhale. “So many people love you, Olruggio. Even ones you don’t know the names of.”
Olruggio hid his face, his voice muffled against the fabric of his sleeves. “It isn’t the same, Qifrey.” His shoulders rounded in, trying to protect his vulnerability but not shake the weight of Qifrey’s hand off at the same time. Chasing the comfort and feeling the shame simultaneously. “I’m still a man. And no one wants to love me as one.”
“Wh—”
“I want to be kissed. I want to be desired.” Sobs started anew. Olruggio’s body heaved as he gulped for air between his sentences. Pain pulled his voice taut. “What’s so fundamentally stained inside of me that others can see I’m unloveable?”
Qifrey slid his hand across Olruggio’s back beginning to tug the other into his own side.
“Not even you want me.”
Qifrey froze.
Olruggio slumped against Qifrey, hiding his wet face against the black undershirt plaited up Qifrey’s neck. “I think about you down the hallway in our home and it hurts.” He pushed closer, trying to hide from his own vulnerability without giving up any of the closeness. “I’m selfish to want anything more.”
One of Qifrey’s thin hands pet against the mess of Olruggio’s black hair. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He couldn’t describe to Olruggio how much he wanted the other to slip into his room when he saw the fade of his floatglow lamp turning off in the small hours of the night. How badly he wanted to press a gentle kiss to each of Olruggio’s tired eyes in the morning. How badly he wanted to interlock their fingers when they went to Kalhn together.
“I’m sorry, Qifrey.” Olruggio’s voice was small. His body shook like he was in the snow. “I think I love you.” All of his muscles chased sleep, relaxing and pushing their weight against Qifrey. “I’m sorry.”
Qifrey didn’t respond. He clung to Olruggio as exhaustion and drink forced him asleep. He refused to acknowledge the tears that dripped off his chin. If either of them were selfish, it was him.