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⭑⭑☽ ☆ ☾⭑⭑
Qifrey is running harder than he has in years.
His heart gallops in his chest, and all he hears aside from the blood roaring in his ears is the thudding of his feet against the ground, the snapping of sticks as he weaves through the forest, careless of branches catching his face or the flowers trampled underfoot. He stumbles forward, gasping for air.
And then he’s out of the trees, running through the familiar fields behind the atelier. The bright summer sky spans above him in a clear expanse of blue. In the distance, he sees his home. The familiar walls sprout out of the grassy, verdant ground like a copse of mushrooms, tucked against the hillside.
Almost there, he thinks. His breath catches in his chest. Almost there.
But it’s not fast enough.
It’s then that he remembers that sylph shoes exist. Without a second thought, he slams his feet together and soars clumsily into the air, wavering dangerously for a second as he tilts sideways before righting himself and soaring forward. He wishes he’d perfected Coco’s own unique seal and could fly even faster.
He’s waited for years. So many years.
As he soars above the fields, he feels like a shooting star arcing across the sky, brilliant and burning from the inside out. His heart is in his throat and everything is a blur around him.
Free.
Is he free? Is he finally free?
He clears the last mound and flies up the path to the atelier. He barely pauses for a fraction of a second before he crashes through the front entrance. The door slams against the wall.
“Holy—Qifrey?!”
Olruggio, standing in the middle of the kitchen, startles. Berries from the basket in his hands go flying. But he quickly recovers with a huff. Shaking his head, he crouches down to pick up the stray fruit. His dark skirts form a puddle around his legs, and the collar of his clean blouse falls open, revealing sharp collarbones as he fumbles around and mutters irritably to himself, all while Qifrey stands in the doorway, still gasping for air.
“You know, while you were off gallivanting who-knows-where, I had to break up some fights and deal with several tantrums from your apprentices”—they were always Qifrey’s apprentices when Olly was irritated—“so we started prepping dinner since I wasn’t sure when you were coming back. I’ve sent the girls off to pick some mountain apples to attempt another glowrose tart bouquet for dessert, which helped them calm down some. And you’ll be pleased to know that I did some gardening of my own.” His gruff tone softens a bit as he stands and admires the ripened fruit now nestled back inside the basket. “I’ve got some splendid climbing dewberries here. They’re in perfect condition for—”
Striding purposefully across the room, Qifrey rushes forward and shoves the fruit aside. Olly’s lips drop open in wordless protest, but Qifrey doesn’t let him get another word out before he launches himself into the beautiful idiot’s arms and kisses him right on the mouth.
With a grunt, Olly lurches backwards. They hit the wall, but Qifrey only grips his face tighter and presses forward, molding their bodies together as he deepens the scorching kiss. The blood roars in his veins even louder than before. Sparks flare to life behind his eyes like thousands of stars.
Olly’s lips are warm and soft despite the coarseness of the surrounding beard. But Qifrey doesn’t mind the scrape against his cheeks and chin. He mouths desperately at Olly’s lips and presses years of pent up love and devotion and anguish against them. Until—finally—they respond in kind.
Olly thaws from his shock, and his arms come around to hold him with a hum of pleasure. When they pull him in closer, Qifrey moans at the comfort of it. And then he thrills at the realization. There’s no pang of pain that comes with the pleasant warmth inside of him. There’s no shifting of roots deep beneath his skin or the rustling of leaves in his ears.
Free. I’m free.
The sheer euphoria inside him cannot be contained, and with it comes an unprecedentedly powerful wave of emotion that almost knocks him off his feet. There’s only sparks everywhere—scattering behind his eyes, blooming to life in his chest, floating through his stomach. His knees go weak at the relief of feeling so free and bursting with life, but he still pours everything he can into the kiss, refusing to allow another second pass without showering this kindest, most radiant of stars with all the love he possesses. It’s been too long. There has been far too much time wasted.
When his tongue sweeps across Olly’s lips, Olly finally pulls back, dazed and blinking. Qifrey continues pulling towards him like a magnet drawn to true north. Their foreheads collide, and they stay there, breathing in each other’s breath.
A few seconds later, Olly breaks the silence.
“Um, wha—” He clears his throat. “What’s this all about?”
Those dark, midnight-colored eyes. The soft, familiar strands of hair falling over his forehead in dark tendrils and tickling Qifrey’s own. From this distance, it’s almost like they’re young witches again, back at the Great Hall, back when Qifrey allowed himself the proximity, the tantalizing rush of being near something so wonderful and breathtaking. But that was before. Before his visit to the Tower of Tomes. Before everything came crashing down around him. Before he had to lock up every unruly emotion trying to wriggle its way out of his chest like a small root in the earth arching towards the sun. Or like a planet caught in the orbit of a brilliant star.
“Olly,” Qifrey simply replies.
“What is it?”
“Olly. Olly.” He hugs him, only able to repeat his name. Olruggio’s arms, still around him, tighten with concern.
“Are you alright, Qifrey? Did something happen?”
Of course Olly wouldn’t castigate him. Or even question him harshly. He only ever shows concern and remains by Qifrey’s side no matter what, like an unwavering flame holding back the darkness of the night.
Burying his face in Olly’s robes, Qifrey inhales deeply, breathing in that familiar scent—a tad smokey, like a blown-out match, but also fresh and woodsy, reminiscent of a springtime walk in the forest. And of course the distinct smell of conjuring ink. He latches onto it, letting thousands of memories wash over him like starfall. Running through the Great Hall, laughing as they fled from Beldaruit’s exasperated scoldings. Lying in a small twin bed together, giggling over playful spells they’d conjure up just to make the other smile. Tugging at each other’s caps, back when Qifrey still wore a tassel and Olruggio a ribbon.
Qifrey clutches the billowy sleeves of Olly’s shirt as he catches his breath.
“I’m free,” he whispers.
"What?" Olly asks, unable to hear him. Qifrey can almost hear the bewildered twist to his expression.
"I'm free," Qifrey says, louder now. Then he laughs. "I'm free," he says again. He laughs and laughs, on and on until laughter turns to tears. And then he’s crying, sobbing into the softness of Olly’s blouse. He slowly sinks to the floor, all sensation gone from his legs, and Olly follows him, until they're just a mound of overflowing robes and clutching hands collapsed against the wall. Qifrey hasn't once let go of Olly's shirt collar.
Olly looks down at him like he's gone insane. Maybe he has. He’s never felt so off-kilter, so untethered, so unfiltered and exposed like a palm quire lying open for the world to see. The only thing keeping him grounded in this moment is the feel of the material bunched within his fists, the breaths moving the chest beneath, the distant beat of the beautiful heart within, tapping against Qifrey’s knuckles.
"Qifrey… You’re gonna have to explain things to me a little more clearly, 'cause I truly have no idea what's going on." Despite his clear bafflement, Olly doesn’t let him go, only reaches up a hand to softly wipe away Qifrey’s tears with the back of his pinkie. Qifrey fights the urge to kiss that hand. Those beautiful hands, so full of potential for warmth and wonder. He remembers the first time he admired Olruggio’s hands, when they were poring over a tome in the old dining hall. His eyes ended up straying from the pages of the old dusty spellbook and drifting over the ridges of Olly’s pale knuckles and joints. The bizarre urge to touch them had popped into his head, but even at that age, he still held back.
"Qifrey?" comes Olly’s voice—distant, as if from underwater—dragging him from the depths of his thoughts and onto safe, solid land.
“I’m cursed.”
“Er, come again?”
“Rather, I was cursed. But no longer.”
He doesn’t have to hold back anymore. He won’t ever have to again.
Olly’s face goes concerned as he takes in Qifrey’s words, not seeming to comprehend them. But he doesn’t look too surprised either. Of course, a part of Olly has always known, deep down. Qifrey has no doubt about that.
“A silverwood seed was planted within me, when I was young. Do you know how the silverwood tree reproduces?” Qifrey asks softly. His voice comes out barely a breath. The nerves are still there, the innate anxiety that comes from discussing something he has withheld for years, a closely-guarded secret he has kept clasped within his grip for fear of losing it. But finally, he can explain. Finally, he won’t be held back. “It is a parasite. It finds living hosts to sustain it.”
Olly’s breath catches. Qifrey feels the hitch against his cheek. He continues, without looking up.
“Do you know what happens to a living being that hosts the roots of the silverwood? It’s fascinating, really. The seed lies dormant until the host flees from a source of trauma. Once the host finds a safe haven and finally relaxes, that is when the silverwood springs forth, taking over.”
“Taking over?” Olly repeats, sounding dazed.
“It takes over the host’s entire being, extending its roots and growing outward, bursting forth. The host is consumed, and in their place only a tree is left.”
Around them, the atelier is silent. Uncharacteristically so. Qifrey’s grown so used to the sounds of the life they’ve built here. Pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. Quills scratching against paper. His apprentices, those wonderful girls so full of life and vigor, darting around the house and querying him constantly.
But there is no one to break the silence now, as Olly processes his words. He is stiff and still against Qifrey.
“How did I not realize?" he finally says. His voice is raw, his expression pained.
“Partners in pain…” Qifrey mutters quietly. His memories arc back to that fateful day so many years ago, when Olly first learned about the silverwood.
“What was that?” Olly wonders, baffled.
Qifrey huffs a short, joyless laugh. “They’re your own words. You said we would be partners in pain. You wouldn’t remember, because you erased your own memory of that day. It was the only way to keep the silverwood at bay, to keep me from becoming too comfortable and thus at risk. So that I would carry the pain of knowing what I did to you. What I kept having to do.”
He can’t keep the wetness out of his voice as he continues, looking up to meet Olly’s eyes. “You’d figure it out, every now and then. Or some semblance of it. And then I would explain. You’d be surprised, sometimes angry, but then you would look at me like you were in pain…Yet you always forgave me, showing me far more kindness than I’ve ever deserved. You would assure me that you would help, that we’d find answers. That you would stay by my side, despite all the lies I’ve told…” Qifrey pauses, losing control of his voice. A memory rises up in his mind, of Olruggio leaping out to save him from drowning that first day they met. It hardly took any time at all for the silverwood roots to activate. The memory of how quickly he found a safe haven in that beautiful boy—now an even more beautiful man—brings a rueful smile to his face. I never stood a chance, he thinks wryly. “It would do me in every time. I couldn’t even leave you. Every time I tried to leave, start my life anew, the relief of setting you free was enough for the silverwood. I couldn’t escape it.”
I couldn’t escape you, he finishes silently in his head.
When Olly finally speaks up, his voice is tight.
“You thought you were setting me free by leaving?”
Qifrey studies his expression, draws his gaze across the tight lines of his face. "Are you angry?"
Olly chews on his lip, thinking, a furrow etched into his brow. "...No."
"Not even the smallest bit?"
At that, Olly laughs hollowly. "If I had to say…I'm mostly angry you had to go through it all alone."
But Qifrey shakes his head, hugging him tighter. "You're wrong. I was never alone. You made all the difference. You, my dearest Olly.” He raises a hand to caress Olly’s brow. “The sky’s kindest, most radiant star.”
Olly's face goes red, and he starts spluttering out an incoherent response. He never was one for pretty, eloquent words when put on the spot, despite always managing to say the exact right thing when it matters most. A warmth like no other bubbles up inside Qifrey’s chest, and he wants to kiss him again. But then a sudden uncertainty strikes him.
Would it be alright to do it again? he wonders. Does he even feel the same?
There were some hesitant, blundering confessions attempted in the past—vague intimations towards possibly romantic sentiments that Qifrey always had to put a stop to and eventually erase. Back when they were younger, and before he learned how to deftly swerve away from those potential scenarios and guide their conversations to safer waters. But always cutting off those potential confessions meant that, when it came down to it, Qifrey was never entirely sure of the exact nature of Olly’s feelings for him. Or whether they even remained, after all this time.
The doubts quickly come creeping in, slow and sinister like silverwood branches. And suddenly it’s like his throat is closing in on itself. He’s never questioned Olly’s reasons for staying with him—Olly is stubborn, unwaveringly loyal, and upfront about how much he cares for Qifrey. He’s stated on multiple occasions that he’ll remain by Qifrey’s side no matter where he goes. Qifrey might’ve been taking that surety for granted. Because suddenly he feels rickety and entirely unsure, the earth toppling out from beneath him, worried that he may have misconstrued the nature of their feelings for each other.
Has he done something unforgivable? He thinks guiltily of the many injustices he’s heaped upon his closest friend, and the added sin of forcing a kiss on him may just categorically topple the scales against himself.
Will I ever stop hurting him?
His throat still feels stiff and swollen with panic.
"I'm sorry," Qifrey murmurs.
"Sorry? For what?"
Kissing you. Hurting you. Keeping you at a distance. "All of it."
"You have nothing to apologize to me for," Olly says. His gaze is intent on Qifrey’s, his words stern.
"I do believe you're wrong there, Olly." Qifrey’s words feel brittle in comparison.
"I'm right,” Olly states. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw now. “You want to know how I know?"
Qifrey smiles wryly. "How?"
"Because I love you, you great git."
The smile vanishes from Qifrey's face. He starts to pull away, but Olly's hold tightens around him, keeping him at bay. Olly steadies him, then hastily brushes the hair out of his own face, exhaling shakily. “Hell, I’m gonna need at least a couple more glasses of silvernectar wine to get through this.”
Qifrey is quiet, watching as Olly puts together the words in his head, working through them. His heart is a weighted stone in his chest, ready to drop at the first sign of danger. It’s like something inside him is holding it in place, lest it soar right out of his chest and disappear into the distant sky.
“Of course you know I love you,” Olly begins, expression shy. His cheeks redden as he speaks, and his eyes shift adorably to the side, unable to meet Qifrey’s gaze. “We’ve been close friends for longer than we haven’t, at this point. Of course I love you. I’ve loved you since you first looked at me with that piercing, sky-blue gaze—stars, you’re doing it now. When you first looked at me after trying to drown yourself at the bottom of the ocean. I loved you when we were kids arguing about who’s more of a picky eater. When we first began studying together and staying up late talking about different spells. And when…I agreed to be your Watchful Eye.” He clears his throat. “But it’s more than that. Not just…friend love. And it’s been…not friend love…for a long time, for me.” He huffs out another embarrassed sigh. "And I really hope you feel the same way, or things are going to get terribly uncomfortable around here and I'm rather madly in love with you. Argh, why are you making me say all this?" Face now entirely red, he covers his eyes as if he’s a shy teenager and not a grown man with a successful career and his own house and four children living under the same roof.
Qifrey’s heart is about to squeeze its way out of his chest and launch itself right at this absurd, wonderful man. As it is, rather than launching his heart, he throws himself back into Olly’s embrace, hugging him roughly.
They’ve seen each other through major life events, fevers and colds, thick and thin and all the mundanity in between. They bought a house together and managed to create a home. The only person who has been at his side through all his worst moments and seen all his worst sides is this man. His Olly. Of course Qifrey loves him. How could he not?
Squeezing him tightly, Qifrey finally unleashes the confession that has been clinging to his lips for years.
"I love you," he breathes. Then louder, frantically: "I love you, I love you, I love you, of course I love you, Olly. My dearest, most wonderful, radiant Olly—"
Olly’s answering smile is all the encouragement he needs. He can’t stop himself then, from arching up and bringing their lips together once more in a deep, scorching kiss that warms his entire body down to his toes. Rather than purely lustful, adrenaline-filled impulsivity, there’s far more emotion and desperation in the act this time, clutching at each other and murmuring each other’s names between each kiss, as if trying to make up for years of missed opportunities. Starlight glimmering in his chest, Qifrey presses against Olly like he’s trying to mold himself into his shape and make a new home for himself in the other man’s arms. Nothing on earth could possibly make him leave. Nothing on earth could possibly make him want to leave.
Until a sudden crash from behind sends them flying apart.
Qifrey pushes off Olruggio like a guilty criminal caught in the act by the Knights Moralis, while Olruggio lurches sideways with a panicked wheeze. Qifrey whirls around, heart thudding in his chest, to see an overturned pot on the kitchen floor, and a blur of white popping out from underneath. Two round, black eyes meet his. A deep sigh of relief wrenches itself from his chest when he realizes that it’s just the Brushbuddy. He collapses back down next to Olly, who pauses in the act of righting his disarrayed clothes and also breathes out a sigh at the sight of the fuzzy white creature.
“I thought it was the girls coming back,” Qifrey explains with a laugh.
“You and me both,” Olly mutters, shaking his head. “I just about had a heart attack.”
“Quite.”
For a few light, boundless moments, they chuckle to themselves. Qifrey hasn’t felt this light in…well, ever, actually. His heart soars as he laughs alongside his best friend, his closest confidant, his beloved. Their eyes meet over their mutual smiles, and a million words pass between them, unsaid. Finally, Olly flicks his finger in a gesture to come over, and Qifrey scoots closer, leaning his back against the wall next to Olly so that they’re both sitting there, shoulder to shoulder. After a moment, Qifrey leans his head against Olly’s shoulder and reaches out to grasp the fabric of his sleeve. Olly in turn places a hand on Qifrey’s thigh and nuzzles their heads together. And so they sit there, holding each other, breaths in sync, letting the moment linger in the way lazy summer afternoons are wont to do. The sun streams in through the window, languishing over them and bringing an entirely unfamiliar feeling of complete and utter peace along with it. Such a peaceful tableau feels almost forbidden to Qifrey. But the solidity of Olly’s body tucked against his side, the knowledge that the silverwood within him has been purged, and the memory of both of their recent confessions is enough to keep the habitual nerves at bay. Soon, he even starts to feel sleepy and his eye begins drifting closed of its own accord. At least, that is, until Olly breaks the silence. .
“So, about that wine…” There’s a smile in his voice.
Qifrey’s eye flies open. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Aww, not even a harmless, teensy-weensy willowgrape cocktail?”
“Absolutely not.”
Olly sighs gruffly. “Fine. Thornbark tea?”
“That’ll keep you up all night, you know that.”
“Will you not allow me anything, you nagging, overbearing—”
Qifrey reaches over and kisses him again, effectively silencing any complaints.
It’s a thrilling, novel feeling, the ability to do such a thing. Qifrey thinks that he’ll likely wield this ability most recklessly. And have it wielded against himself to highly effective, detrimental results. At least Olly doesn’t seem likely to complain. Qifrey certainly won’t.
They lose track of time, there on the floor, kissing like newly besotted teenagers. It’s less fervent and desperate, like their first kiss, or emotional and overcome with longing, like their second. The kiss is long and slow, almost languid. It feels like a promise.
Qifrey jumps when he feels Olly’s tongue brush against his own. Olly presses in close, then licks a stripe across his lips and groans softly. “Sweet.” He kisses him again. “Sweeter than a honeytree-scented pudding cup.”
“What are you even saying?” Qifrey asks with a smile. A pudding cup? he wonders silently. He shakes his head and hopes it covers up his racing nerves and how utterly smitten he is with this man. A pudding cup, stars help me…
Olly just shakes his head in return, but there’s an unmistakable smile tugging at his lips as he leans back in.
⭑⭑☽ ☆ ☾⭑⭑
An indeterminate amount of time later—Qifrey truly has no idea how much time has passed since he got lost exploring his best friend’s mouth, and isn’t that some deplorable behavior coming from a grown adult man—the late afternoon sun finds them draped across the old red couch in the living room.
It feels warmer than a snugstone, laying across Olly’s dozing form with the warm golden glow of the sunset illuminating the room. Qifrey’s head is tucked in the crook of Olly’s neck, and as the dim rays drift through the window, they catch on the light of the silver ring around his finger.
He examines the way the light reflects off the split-shard ring, Richeh’s brilliant invention from the Silver Eve Festival. He eyes the kaleidoscope of colors arcing off the glass-like surface before glancing at the matching one around Olruggio’s own finger. Qifrey’s heart liquefies into molten wax at the fantasy of getting a different, more personal set someday…
He doesn’t realize he’s stroking Olly’s knuckles, lost in thought, until a low chuckle emanates from beneath his cheek.
“Is something amusing?” Qifrey asks, trying to sound imperious but unable to keep the smile from his voice.
“No, no,” Olly says. His chest rumbles with more muffled laughter.
Qifrey slips their hands together so that the split-shard rings gently clink together. “What is it?” he asks. His thumb continues rubbing across the back of Olly’s hand as he waits for an explanation to what has the other man so tickled all of a sudden. “Tell me.”
“You know,” Olly begins, his voice gruff and sending chills down Qifrey’s spine, “when we were younger, you were always a bit on edge. You were never the warmest or most sociable person. And as we got older, you only got more cagey and distant.”
“How flattering,” Qifrey deadpans.
“It’s not like I took it personally,” Olly continues, tone matter-of-fact. “You kept everyone at a distance. Like a lone, faraway star. And I was the only one allowed in your orbit. I accepted that side of you.”
“Where are you going with this?” Qifrey wonders. Despite some wariness, he can’t help but lean in closer to the warmth and the smell that has only ever served to remind him of home, a faint smile on his face. He’s not sure he’s ever smiled so much in such short a period of time.
“Well,” Olly says. He pauses, then raises their intertwined hands to examine them for a brief second before smiling and glancing down to meet Qifrey’s eye.
“After all that, I never expected you to be this...touchy." He punctuates his words with a light kiss across the back of Qifrey’s hand.
Qifrey’s heart alights once more at the touch. His entire being might erupt catastrophically into a supernova at any second, he thinks. Unable to help himself, he brushes his own lips across Olly’s stubbly jaw. He draws lower, and the faint pulse beneath ratchets up in speed. Biting his lip, he noses in even closer, rubbing his face against Olly’s neck.
"Mm. Can I touch you some more?" he asks.
Olly’s face goes brilliantly red once more. His mouth slackens. But just when Qifrey is about to either tease him for being so easily flustered after the many kisses they have already shared this evening or possibly jump the man’s bones in response—
A noise at the door causes them both to startle. The old hinges squeak open, and a loud flurry of voices and rustling robes fills the kitchen. And then their four young apprentices cascade into the room like a rushing river of bustling energy.
Qifrey flies off the couch in a rush, and Olly rockets after him, tumbling over the side with an oof. They both hurry to stand and adjust their clothes before they can be caught in far too compromising a situation. Qifrey pats his hair down and adjusts his glasses, heart pounding. Too late, he realizes their robes are still in a most undignified heap on the floor.
“Master Qifrey! We got mountain apples!” Tetia announces happily, bouncing into the room. Her pink curls bounce along with her animated gestures.
Behind her, Coco traipses in, smiling happily and dragging Agott along with her. Agott slinks along, pale face hidden beneath the wild black waves of her hair. “Richeh took zwirlcchini from the garden,” she reports, tone stern. In typical Agott fashion, she cannot stand any perceived injustices, always quick to point out others’ wrongdoings.
Yet Richeh’s blank expression as she walks in with the others is remorseless. “Richeh wants veggie moonjelly,” she announces by way of explanation. Her round cheeks—almost out of place on a face so composed for a child—are framed by long, lank strands of hair that flow about behind her as she saddles up to Qifrey with an expression of barely-concealed reproach. She never did forget (or forgive) the last time Qifrey made that moonjelly for Olly.
Laughing a tad too nervously at the sudden intrusion, Qifrey ushers them all back into the kitchen, past his disheveled clothes and discarded robes and Olly’s unmistakably guilty expression. He always was too honest for his own good, Qifrey thinks, exasperated and fond.
“Alright, alright,” he calls out, speaking over the overlapping voices. Leaning down, he pats Agott and Richeh on the head, both to placate and reassure them. “Agott, it is perfectly acceptable for Richeh to pick some ripe zwirlcchini. I was actually going to do that soon myself, so you’ve saved me a trip. And Richeh, I promise to make the most vibrant veggie moonjelly you’ve ever laid eyes upon. I think we’ll just need some chrysanthonions! We’ve already got gem tomatoes. How about you all help and begin slicing them?”
“Yes! We can help!” Coco alights. The others quickly agree as well.
As he leads the girls to the table and orders them to begin clearing off some space to begin dinner preparations, he glances over his shoulder. His gaze finds Olly’s, and he watches the clear expression of fondness lighting up the other man’s face. And then their stares meet, and he draws up short at the sight of what is unequivocally sheer love melting across Olly’s face. For a few, lingering seconds, their stares lock in a silent promise for more to come. It feels like the entire room goes silent around them as the moment deepens. Qifrey’s blood pounds through his veins like a deluge. It’s all he can do to keep his tone level as he tears his gaze away and continues directing the girls around the kitchen, going about the routine of chopping and peeling vegetables as if his heart isn’t floundering about his chest, the blood boiling in his veins.
Some time later, Olly himself approaches the table—having pulled himself together and thankfully stowed away the deeply titillating expression on his face, thank the stars. Qifrey watches as Olly strokes his chin and examines the ingredients strewn about with a playfully reproachful look.
“What happened with the mountain apples and glowrose tart?” he asks.
“I don’t like mountain apples today,” Richeh replies, her face thoughtful. She always explains herself with the strictest severity, which Qifrey finds endlessly endearing. “I want moonjelly. This time, we get some, and not you secretive adults. You ate it all last time, all in secret at night. It’s not fair.”
Olly looks away, thoroughly chastened.
Fighting back a laugh and working hard to preserve his professor-like demeanor for his young students, Qifrey gently pats Richeh on the head.
“It will be all for you this time, worry not. Moonjelly for my girls, and…” Suddenly feeling mischievous, his gaze flickers to the side. “And perhaps some more honeytree-scented pudding for Olly later,” he adds with a small, suggestive look over at the other witch.
Olly’s face immediately turns as red as the tomatoes before them, and he begins to splutter incoherently, much to the girls’ evident confusion. He covers his face and bends over, adorably flustered, as the girls question his sudden bout of embarrassment.
Unable to hold back any longer, Qifrey just laughs, loudly and unrestrained.
⭑⭑☽ ☆ ☾⭑⭑
Fin.