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He's hunched so far over his desk that he's practically turned himself into a sphere, his nose inches from the paper where he's been sketching symbols and glyphs and patterns, drawing lines and circles, notating them with measurements and material notes. Without looking, one hand reaches out and picks up a lump of clay, turning it in his calloused fingers, testing the firmness and wetness. Blue eyes flick to the timekeeper on the edge of the desk. The clay is still too wet even after several hours have passed.
Frustrated, Olruggio makes another note and drops his quill in disgust, letting his head drop to the desk as well. Maybe a long, slow heating spell would dry it faster without breaking it? Maybe a drink to unlock his brain…
"Need a hand?"
It's a simple statement he's heard and said a million times, but this time is different. He's heard it this way before — soft and low and murmured from the near darkness of the doorway — and immediately he's hit with conflicting emotions: something like love and something like relief and something like guilt or shame and something very definitely like lust.
Lust wins because it always will in a situation like this. Before he can even say "hi" almost all of the light is gone from the room and almost before he can stand up Qifrey's hands are in his hair, picking out little bits of clay and a few stray pieces of grass. In return, Olly removes Qi's glasses — the most intimate things Qi allows — and puts them carefully on the desk where they're safe.
They don't kiss. Instead Qi rests his forehead gently against Olly's lips, his shoulder, leaving warm breath, the fingertips of Qi's left hand barely touching Olly's chest. Olly moves slightly, only wanting to pull Qi just a bit closer — to feel his hand flat against his chest, over his heart.
"No," Qi whispers softly, not kissing Olly's throat. It sounds softer than it's meant. Olly knows the rules and knows the limits but it's impossible for him to not test them because maybe this time…
"No," he says again, a little firmer, removing Olly's hand from his lower back.
Olruggio knows not to push it too far. He loves this and hates it equally. It's Qifrey's voice and breath and hands and mind but never his body. Olly wonders sometimes how much of it is Qifrey's heart. He wonders if he's using Qi, or if Qi is using him, and does it really matter when you're moving books and papers and clothes and odds and ends off the bed so there's room for two.
There's always a little dizzy moment Olly loses track of what's happening. Qifrey's long fingers make contact with Olruggio's erection and Olly's brain fogs over. How they got here, how Qi can manage to touch him without really touching him, and what Qi is saying are always a mystery. He's aware Qi is speaking. It sounds like he's saying something about birds but the content isn't important. It's the vibations and the tones and the pitch and feeling of Qifrey's voice augmenting the physical contact and Olly can't contribute to the conversation beyond some gasps and half-swallowed moans because he's afraid any too-loud noise will break the spell, and he can't do more than clutch the sheets under him to avoid the temptation to touch the man leaning over him, kneeling next to him, touching him like a ghost.
It ends too soon because it's always too soon. Olly hisses through gritted teeth, chewing the inside of his lip. Qi responds with a huff off laughter through his nose.
"Stay for once?" Olly whispers in the dark to the form in the room that's putting on its glasses.
"The girls," he says lamely. "What if one of them goes to my room and I'm not there?"
"They'd come here and you'd be here," Olly says.
"So would you. And they'd be in your room. You'd hate that."
"Suppose you're right," Olly agrees grumpily. The endorphins are dangerously close to being pushed aside by what feels like a dismissal. Thoughts flood in. "What do you get out of this?" and "Why do we do this?" and most of all "I love you" but that thought always seems to bring a headache and tonight is no different. The itching ache starts at the base of his skull and threatens to move behind his eyes and sometimes feels like a hangover so he doesn't say it. He doesn't say anything. Qifrey doesn't say anything either as he leaves. The room brightens a little as he closes the door.
Well if I'm going to have the headache, Olly thinks as he dresses enough for modesty's sake, might as well have the drink. He has a bottle stashed in a hidden drawer for occasions like this.
Qifrey, in his own room, pulls a barbed cord tighter around his left bicep until tiny beads of blood wells up. The pain cuts through the "I love you" tangled in the branches.