Archive of Our Own

Olruggio is twelve years old, and he just burst out crying at the cafeteria in front of everyone, and he felt like he’s going to die.

An existence built unsteadily on heavy rock was fast to crumble. People swarmed those who were new like flies do to a dead horse, and limbs were not enough — will never be enough — to swat them away. Hearts too kind would struggle to push them off anyway; half afraid, half bored, Olruggio had never raised his hand.

Passageways, halls, doors, all familiar, eyes tracing over the outlines of bricks and wincing at the reflection of light shining through the bubble. Unlike in snow, finding your way was easy here. There were no footprints to follow, but the sound of soles flattened against the ground echoed against the walls. And, having escaped from crowds of questions like a mosquito might do a spider, the need for a map was almost gone, like it was never there at all.

In all the years he’d lived here (which, in retrospect, are not that many), he’d constructed himself an easy routine, a way of life. Surrounded by big buildings that look like castles, under the sea, so far away from where he was born. Home changes from snow to water very, very quickly, Olruggio knew now.

Ice breaks under your feet in frozen lakes. Carefully constructed buildings will fall apart in seconds if a weak point is found. And Olruggio supposed he hadn’t been looking, as stupid and careless as always, when he raised up this new sense of self (new place to work as an abode; even if campfires under starry skies were not much more than fiction by now). Boulder made, it staggered and felm and broke into a million pieces when it grazed the ground.

He didn’t even know what happened. He only knew he’d— he’d just sat down, and served himself food from the cafeteria (the low quality shitty meals that he only ate to enjoy spending time with Qifrey and sometimes Alaira, more of a tradition than anything else; because he’d never even think of consuming that, if he hadn’t met them. If he hadn’t moved here), and bit down. Teeth grazed cooked meat; animal flesh, a biological thing. In mother nature, it’s eat or be eaten. Wildlife devours and is devoured in return, and there was therefore nothing wrong with eating steak. Or anything of the sort.

Olruggio had done it before. He’d always loved his dad’s briskets, too. And savory pork dishes. And those easy skillet dinners he tried to teach himself to make and failed miserably. It was a normal— it was normal. People did it. Everyone did it. In fact, it’d be weirder to not be omnivorous.

None of it mattered, right here, right now. His heart pounded against the cage made of bone in his chest, trying to break out. Hysterical, he imagined it dancing around, with tiny feet and tiny hands. Would it have a bow tie? A hat?

The only thing he could coherently think of, as of that moment, was how he panicked and ran off.

Surroundings becoming background noise, muffled like his ears were covered. Heat in his head. Hurt and dizziness when he moved his eyes, and his sight vanishing if he turned his head. Olruggio was no stranger to panic.

Oh, stars, he was so stupid. Who gets scared over meat? What is wrong with him? He didn’t know the specifics, but there must be something. Only someone fucked in the head would randomly burst out crying, snot and sobs and gasping and all, over a plate of food.

Shame curled up in his gut like a snake. He wished it’d bite him. He wished it was venomous, poisonous, whatever it is! He wished—

His breath hitched. A sob escaped him, and he covered his mouth with his hands. He was curled up, knees brought up and pressed against his chest, like how Qifrey did when he’s upset.

Olruggio blinked. Home was snow, he reminded himself. Home was a boy with white hair.

Qifrey probably thought he was pathetic. If he saw him like this, made a little ball on a corner, pressed against the wall, in a part of the Halls with barely any people in it…

He sniffled. His hands were wet. His cheeks were wet. Nothing he did seemed to be able to stop the tears from falling, and he’d given up on angrily wiping them away with his sleeves.

It wasn’t really the first time he felt shitty since he got here. He remembered that day, when they were scolded for doing magic in the Halls not by a teacher, but by a student. Older than them, yes, but still an apprentice.

It’d been awful. Olruggio wasn’t even doing anything, and then that snobby kid had said, you killed people, didn’t you?

No, he didn’t. He didn’t. He let them die, which is as good as killing, and everyone in the Great Hall seemed to know, and everyone in the Great Hall seemed to also believe it was his fault, and everyone in the Great Hall had learned of his failure and he had no idea, and—

Qifrey flooded the entire hall. Points to him.

His ways of making things better were unconventional, but even back then, when they didn’t get along, he was still…

Olruggio shook his head, and shut his eyes tight as he hid his face in his arms. Fingers curled up on the cloth of his sleeves, nails digging into his skin. He wanted to know if he’d be able to draw blood.

That day was— it doesn’t matter what it was. He didn’t start wailing in front of everyone Iike he just did today. It was so embarrassing. And he couldn’t make it stop.

“There you are,” a voice called above him. Olruggio startled, flinching so violently he hit the back of his head against the wall. He brought his eyes up. He almost didn’t want to know who it is. Will they make fun of him? Can’t they see he wants to he alone right now?

Olruggio wanted them to leave. Olruggio also wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. Were he a little more morbid, he’d make a joke about coffins, but even though his best friend said it was fine for him to tell them, he’d still feel awful for doing it. So he shut up.

His gaze met—

—Qifrey’s one remaining eye, blue like the morning sky.

Olruggio’s body instinctively went limp. Ah, safety.

“What do you want,” Olruggio grumbled, then felt bad immediately after, because this is Qifrey he was talking to, and— and he never thought he’d ever be mean to Qifrey, of all people, save for fights they had when they’d only just met. And now, unlike this, their bickering was quick, and reciprocated, and never aiming to hurt.

Qiftey did nothing wrong, and yet he was being so…

What was wrong with him? Olruggio felt like crying all over again. Except he was already crying.

“You ran off,” Qifrey said simply. Cape flowing, as if carried by northern winds, he swiftly fell down next to him. Qifrey shifted closer when Olruggio looked to the side. “Why’s that?”

“Who cares,” Olruggio bit through gritted teeth. His best friend sitting down by his side was, unfortunately, calming him down. But he refused to tell Qifrey that, lest he greaten his ego.

With a frown that Olruggio was unable to see but is still obvious in his voice, Qifrey said, “I care.”

Of course.

Olruggio sniffled, all previous inhibitions melting away. He opened his mouth, and closed it again. When he finally spoke, it came out as a garbled noise: “I didn’t like the food.”

“…You’re crying because you didn’t like the food?” Qifrey asked, bewildered. Somehow, he always managed to understand him. “But you always inhale steak when it’s served.”

“I don’t inhale it, I eat it normally,” Olruggio grumbled.

“…Whatever you say, Olly,” Qifrey answered, notoriously unimpressed. “Did they do something different with it today?”

“Dunno,” Olruggio mumbled with a shrug. His body was tired, and his shoulders slump. He wanted to go to bed.

“Do you want me to leave?” Qifrey asked, then.

“No,” Olruggio said a breath too quickly — desperate, afraid. But Qifrey wouldn’t leave, not just like that. If Olruggio asked—

Qifrey bumped his shoulder against his. A minutely touch, miniature, that vanished as quickly as it appears. Qifrey hated physical contact, and yet he was making the sacrifice for Olruggio. “Okay. I won’t go.”

—would he stay forever?

Your name is Olly. You are almost thirty, and you are asleep.

In the loosest sense of the word — a more accurate description would be to say you’ve passed on your desk, as you tend to do, as Qifrey hates that you tend to do. Olly, taken from the seven letter word that constitutes your sense of self, shortened and changing two characters.

Easily pronounced; it rolls off the tongue simply, smoothly. Other kids have struggled to say your full name, but you didn’t have a nickname back then, so you just told them to get over it. Qifrey got it right on the first try, and then set out to calling you Olly. Olly, only Olly, only Qifrey and Olly — his Olly.

You feel youself drift over makeshift fabric waves, four children's hands below them. Theater, an act; like when your roommates back at your old atelier pretended their blankets were monsters and played with the younger ones, chasing them between giggles, leaving you behind to only watch as you studied. It's difficult to tell if you're at sea or floating in the air, sometimes. Not the first time you've had a kind-of lucid dream, however, so not fully unfamilar.

The cloth wraps you safely like a mother may do her child. It makes you miss her, and it makes you think of all the times you’ve done the very same thing for your girls.

When you wake up, you will have no recollection this ever happened. But the second you open your eyes, you will find them curled up around you, next to the chimney. You’ve never liked being trapped, you know — though the way their tiny limbs pin you down reminds you of a weighted blanket.

You will meet Qifrey’s eye, which grows lighter every day, and he will return your gaze from his spot, far away. He won’t come closer even if you beg him.

You will cherish the memory anyway.

Despite Olruggio’s best efforts to to leave the place pristine clean, a strong smell of ink and food and, if you focus, a string of piss from the bathroom with the broken toilet, still resides in their house. Having thrown away trash time and time again, every floor is certainly a small bit tidier than it was when they left and before they returned; but even so, a bundle of half-eaten bag of those processed snacks the girls like rest calmly on the counter, the table, the ground, almost returning his gaze when he looks at them, like they’re teasing him. Look, they could be saying, you’ve worked so hard and everything around you falls apart anyway.

Bones creak when he moves, and his legs are so stiff he fears he won’t be able to use them at all if he doesn’t sit down soon. His feet are craving release. They want to be midair, not pressed against cold stone, soles flattened. Everything hurts — the annoying, definitely not lethal kind of pain that follows him on his daily life, usually caused by his shitty posture.

Outside, humidity in the air freezes solid and paints the grass white. Looking directly at the frost — not yet snow — when under the sun hurts the eyes; Olruggio, of all people, knows this better than most. On the other hand, inside, the air boils on its own sweat. The fire at the center of the Atelier, the heart, burns brightly, cast with magic and kept going by Olruggio’s best, normal person efforts. Having waved a newspaper at it long enough for his arms to cramp, trying to keep the flame going even when supported only by wood and no longer by ink and pen, Olruggio’s hands mimick his toes and beg for rest by sending a tingling sensation from his fingertips to his shoulders.

On the couch (chosen and bought by yours truly, with Tetia’s help), Qifrey sleeps peacefully, arms curled in his chest and knees raised in a fetal position. His mouth is slightly open, his eye is closed but not shut tight; he could wake up at any second. He seems so relaxed. It is certainly a sight.

Olruggio doesn’t usually see Qifrey like this. Every day, after dinner, Qifrey heads to his room; locks the door; doesn’t open it for anyone. When night falls and the girls are tucked in and safe, Olruggio knows he either will find Qifrey in the kitchen, or he won’t hear from him at all until the next day. For someone with hearts for sleeves, he’s very private when it comes to his sleeping habits. Worse: he’s private in general — mysterious, even. Unknown. Strange. Mesmerizing.

Although he is quite used to most oddities that come with living alongside a man such as Qifrey (from his weird, extremely high spice tolerance to the constant worry that the path he’ll choose to walk on will lead to tragedy, for the girls and for everyone else), all of this is still new. Qifrey looks like he hasn’t moved in hours, hair messy and a damp spot on the couch below his face that signals he was previously drooling. Qifrey is also restless, hard to pin down; he’s someone Olruggio has struggled to keep still and content, someone Olruggio has always wanted to keep content. Someone Olruggio has never been able to keep, in general.

Sunshine drips from the windows, curtains not covering glass. Qifrey always shuts them, so Olruggio’s best guess is that he fell asleep before realizing they were open — before realizing the house is a goddamn mess from the last time the girls’ friends stayed over. They’ve been obsessed with the concept of ‘sleepovers’ (Qifrey and he had tried a couple of times, but Beldaruit was so annoying and Olruggio’s Atelier was too cramped, so they settled for sneaking out at night to the shepherd’s house that is now their shared home) for a while now, inviting every kid their age that they know. Yesterday, it was Custas, in here. Today, it’s Tartah, at Nolnoa’s.

The house is empty. Quiet, filthy, empty.

More often than not, Qifrey opts for using his water spells to swipe the floor. It comes from a place of dread: if he does so like that, he doesn’t have to actually touch the water. Unfortunately, Qifrey is resting, and Olruggio wanted to do the chores himself, and he doesn’t have his palm quire nor his ink or his pen on him at the moment.

He could leave. He could go searching for them.

Qifrey shifts in his sleep, trying to chase comfort, burying his face in the cushions. Some dark strands of hair decorate the fabric. What a sight, indeed. Olruggio never gets to witness this. Who can blame him for wanting to stay here and watch?

Two months and three weeks. Half a day. Olruggio doesn’t care enough about time to count the hours. Something changed drastically, on that fateful day. The air itself stopped simmering and left behind nothing more than comfortable warmth. Qifrey’s unattainable figure had its hands gripping so tightly the back of Olruggio’s cloak he feared he’d break his ribs — and Olruggio had thought, he remembers, if this isn’t real, then I hope it’s a dream I never wake up from. Qifrey always hated physical contact, and yet he was the one clinging to Olruggio like he’d disappear if he let go. His body pressed against Olruggio’s own burned. Olruggio looked in the mirror, after, wondering if he’d left any marks on the crook of his neck when he buried his face there. He found nothing more than dried tear tracks, only noticeable due to dust.

Olruggio was worried to death when he first found Qifrey after— after everything, after the reveal, after the truth. Qifrey’s back was the only thing facing him, and for a moment, he’d almost assumed…

Wretched, ugly thing, eating his best friend from the inside; Olruggio now realizes the clenched fists and small winces and flinching when he was touched and stars know what else, came not from Qifrey’s general quirks and habits (born from trauma or simply from being a little strange) but from place of pain. Olruggio now realizes he had always been suffering silently, even when he thought he wasn’t. Who could blame him, once he figured it out, for wondering if maybe the parasite had birthed itself out of his body, left him dry? Who could blame him for not wanting Qifrey to turn around?

When he did turn to look at him, though, Olruggio found only his childhood friend, wearing such a fragile expression he would’ve believed they time travelled back to their younger years if Qifrey insisted upon that. His eye widened when he saw him, glittering under the sunlight. Olruggio had taken note of the fact that he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and that his bangs were slightly parted and left his old scar exposed to the human eye; as red and as angry as ever. It had been so long since Olruggio had seen it, properly seen it.

He didn’t expect him to move. Olruggio would’ve sufficed with some words, knowing that Qifrey always looks so uncomfortable when touched, even by Olruggio. He didn’t expect him to run towards him. He especially didn’t expect him to wrap his arms around Olruggio in a desperate embrace, as if making up for all the lost years, as if wanting to say, how come we didn’t do this earlier?

Olruggio returned it just as passionately. And now, even though he knows what he assumes to be everything, even though he can read Qifrey better than Qifrey can read himself—

He still doesn’t expect his peaceful expression. It’s— it’s an awful thing, really, but Olruggio thinks he’s almost grateful for everything that happened in childhood, even before they met each other. He’s grateful that he was sent to the Great Hall, and that his father is no longer breathing down his neck (and that Qifrey does not have to meet him, thank the stars), and that Qifrey was unearthed by Beldaruit and found by Olruggio later on.

Every day, he realizes just a bit more, a tiny bit more painfully each time, just how much of Qifrey’s calmness throughout the years was a lie. The closest thing he’s ever gotten to seeing Qifrey so peaceful was…

Olruggio scratches the back of his neck; it escapes him. He can’t recall.

He must be an awful friend, to never have noticed it.

“Olly?” a voice calls, soft and rough with sleepiness. Olruggio startles, not having expected the noise. He looks down, and meets Qifrey’s gaze. “’s that you?”

Fist rubbing at his eye, nose scrunched up as if holding back a sneeze, mouth open mid yawn, a seemingly permanent — from how natural it looks — frown on his face. He looks messy in ways he hasn’t been with Olruggio since they were children. Olruggio had no idea he’d been craving this, but he relishes in it with his whole body, determined to memorize the scene like a picture, never out of reach.

It’s a new sense of normalcy he will have to get used to. Qifrey will say, I’m happy, and mean it, and Olruggio will be able to answer, me too, and know neither of them are lying. Whatever happens, truth shines through. At the very least, Olruggio can rest easy knowing the love of his life is safe and sound and not in danger from being safe and sound.

Olruggio walks closer to the couch, where Qifrey is struggling to get up. It seems the cushions are so comfortable not even Qifrey’s stiff shoulders can resist them. “It is,” Olruggio says, unable to stop the twitch of his lips

Qifrey’s eye twists and turns dazedly, vision already shit on a good day, probably made worse by tiredness and god knows what else.

“Here,” Olruggio calls.

“Ah.” Qifrey’s expression, when he spots him, melts into a smile so warm, so lovely, Olruggio’s heart can’t help but skip a beat; then two. Qifrey blinks and looks to his sides, then back at the couch’s fabric, looking dazed. “How long was I out for?”

Olruggio huffs. “You make it sound like you just woke up from a coma.”

Qifrey rolls his eye. “Olly…”

“Just an hour and a half,” Olruggio answers.

“There you go,” Qifrey says, resting his neck by placing his head on the cushion again, as he clumsily waves his hand at Olruggio’s general direction and half-closes his eye. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

“Shut it,” Olruggio says, tone easy enough to portray lightheartedness.

“Weak retort,” Qifrey tells him in the same voice he uses when he goes all teacher mode. “I’d give it a five out of ten — if only because ass your kiss, wait, your ass kiss, set the bar so low.” That’s unfair: yes, Olruggio did say that, but he’d drank so much whiskey that night he couldn’t think straight. Really, his entire family would be disappointed. What is he, a lightweight?

“I don’t deserve such low rating! Me friend is so mean to me,” Olruggio laments dramatically, one hand over his forehead. Qifrey makes a weird noise at that. “Unable to let go of things that happened ages ago, when I was drunk and out of my mind… however will we tell the children this?”

“Oh? Tell the children what?”

“That their master is a bit of an idiot,” Olruggio finishes. Qifrey huffs out a laugh.

“Cut it with the theatrics,” he scolds.

Olruggio sighs and shakes his head. “The woes of the Shining Torch. Always underappreciated.”

“Hey,” Qifrey says, turning to lay on his back and twisting his neck to stare at Olruggio’s blurry silhouette anyway, “I appreciate you.”

“Begging for my forgiveness now, are we?” Olruggio teases.

“Oh, I would not call it begging,” Qifrey tells him, “moreso agreeing to avoid yet another night spent in the bathroom because you drank so much you can’t stop throwing up.” Then, mimicking Olruggio’s earlier words: “However will we tell the girls? Their Watchful Eye is a drunkard — and I can’t even report it! That is your job!”

“…Fine, you win this one,” Olruggio yields reclutantly. Qifrey speaks like he’s spouting poetry, and he’s not afraid to use his vocabulary against his best friend.

“Oh, I always win,” Qifrey says with a wink (blink?), smile showing teeth, bordering on a grin, “don’t kid yourself.”

“You wish.”

Qifrey stretches, a strangled noise leaving his throat. His fingers tangle between each other and he brings his arms forwards, upwards, closing his eye and furrowing his brow. Despite his previous rest, there’s a dark bag under his eye. Only one: the other one is too mangled to fully distinguish.

He’s not wearing his glasses, Olruggio realizes for what feels like the third time today. Every week, every day, every hour, Qifrey glued his spectacles to his nose bridge like his life depended on them covering the upper side of his face. It was more common to see Qifrey with them than without — and at some point in Olruggio’s life, he’d grown used to it, and he’d forgotten what Qifrey looked like when he didn’t have them on. Last time he saw his bare expression, lack of glass making him look naked under the light filtered through water, was when he was injured: on the Great Hall, turning in his restless sleep. Vulnerability was never natural to him. Seeing him like that felt like a violation.

It’s no better, now. Olruggio has always allowed his rotten heart to fester, beating too rapidly and then too slowly, uneven in its companionship to his breathing; mimicking Qifrey’s steps, sometimes faltering, sometimes steady, always moving forwards. His hands itched, his skin wanted to rip from his flesh and stick to his best friend’s, and no matter how much Olruggio craved it, he could not have the touch he wanted most. He kept his arms by his sides at all times.

He used to keep chapstick on his satchel to keep his lips from drying and cracking, he remembers. Qifrey wouldn’t like the taste of blood, after all. Meaningless daydreams that would never come true.

A string of hope he still hasn’t managed to cut sings into his ears, but he could want it! He could want it too, and you would’ve never known! He could still want it now!

He doesn’t. He can’t. After all this time, Olruggio isn’t sure how much he wants him to. Really, is it wrong of him, to want to keep his skin innocent? Olruggio’s hands were stained with blood even before he met him; is it wrong of him, to want his best friend to remain clean?

A voice that sounds suspiciously alike to the subject of his thoughts tells him he’s being too harsh on himself. Olruggio waves it away, kisses it on the forehead, stores it in a box with a nightlight inside — not too small, to not make it panic, and not too big either, to not overwhelm it. Most importantly, warm, and dry.

He shakes his head.

“C’mon, scoot over,” Olruggio demands, forcing himself to kick his wonders away from his brain, nudging Qiftey with his hand.

Qifrey groans. He goes limp, frozen for only a second, but before Olruggio can insist, he obliges. Qifrey pushes himself up (though Olruggio, aware of how weakened his body became after the Silverwood was removed, helps him), settling for a smaller space closer to the edge of the couch, giving Olruggio enough to sit down himself: which he does immediately, sighing as he melts into the soft, soft cushions with this soft, soft fabric. Oh, picking this one at the store was definitely not a mistake. How comfortable. He can see why Qifrey passed out here.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the table. He winces.

“Stars, we’ve to tidy this whole place up,” Qifrey says, voicing Olruggio’s thoughts aloud.

Olruggio nods along to Qifrey’s words. “’s a mess, ain’t it?”

“…we are in no state to receive any sort of visits right now,” Qifrey informs him, rubbing his thumb against the palm of his hand like he always does when he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to put it in whole sentences.

“Wait, we’re getting visitors?” Olruggio asks.

“You’ve missed the point, Olly, dearest,” Qifrey teases, wholly unaware (at least so Olruggio hopes) of the shiver it sends down his spine. “I can’t deny it, however: unfortunately, we won’t get much alone time, even with the girls gone.” He pauses. “…Not that I want the girls to be gone.”

“I get it,” Olruggio reassures like he’s always been meant to do. “I miss them too. But it’s nice to have some peace and quiet.”

Qiftey hums. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Wait, but who’s coming?” Olruggio asks. “Don’t make a dirty joke.”

Qifrey snorts and says, “the joke writes itself.” Then, after taking a deep breath and exhaling it as a deep sigh: “Beldaruit. He wrote a letter. He wants to visit, see the girls…”

And check in on Qifrey.

“Ah,” Olruggio says very eloquently. He respects Beldaruit, he really does, but he’s also… Beldaruit. “How pissy are you about that?”

“Ugh. Well, I’m certainly not happy.”

Olruggio huffs out a laugh. Qifrey’s mouth has twisted into a scowl. He still looks so disheveled that such an expression looks ridiculous on him, like an angry cat or an offended brushbug. “I can see that.”

“O, Watchful Eye,” Qifrey mumbles.

Olruggio ignores him. “If you’re tired, you can tell him no,” he says, carefully keeping his tone neutral.

Qifrey hums, tapping a rhythm against his leg. “I’m not too tired to see him. It’s been a while anyway. I can’t blame him for wanting to know how we’re doing.”

He sounds very, very bitter about that. Olruggio can guess why, but it’s baggage they’ve yet to unpack. “It has been quite some time,” he agrees, “but you shouldn’t feel obligated to meet him if you don’t want to.”

“…I do,” Qifrey says quietly. “I want to see him.”

A small admission, akin to a child’s. Qifrey hasn’t sounded so unsure of himself since they were kids. Olruggio folds immediately. “Very well. Tell him we’re free next weekend, then?”

Qifrey nods. “Yes, yes. I shall, I shall.”

Olruggio feels it in the floor, spreading from his toes to his fingertips, what feels like a slow vibration, close to a heartbeat only existing in his own head. The air itself holds still, light shining from the windows. Birds sing outside, some off tune, along melodies Olruggio has never learned: music was never his strong suit. But he thinks that, if he found the beat, he could dance along to it.

Alone?

“…I think I’ll tell him to postpone it,” Qifrey whispers.

“That’s alright, too.”

As twelve year olds, Qifrey was slightly taller than Olruggio — Olruggio then hit his growth spurt first, and ended up towering over him. Then Qifrey started growing, and never stopped, and if he were a little bit crueller, he’d compare it to branches and leaves reaching for the sun. Both of them saw the other grow up; had grown up alongside each other. Maybe, if he focused, he could try to recall a time in which touch wasn’t fleeting. Unaware of his internal struggle, the birds keep on whistling.

Having witnessed every side of him, from youth to adulthood, from raw to pristine, Olruggio can tell when Qifrey is anxious. It’s invisible to most: he hides it quite well, now, when he found it near impossible before. At some point in his life, some point which Olruggio had gotten to watch him in, he’d learned to lie. The wind echoes back his own words at him, friends don’t lie to each other, I’ll be a friend you don’t need to lie to, and he thinks, is that really how it went? Those weren’t his exact words, were they?

From the corner of his eye, he can see Qifrey fiddling with his thumbs.

Olruggio takes a deep breath. Then another. Qifrey never seemed to enjoy contact, and Olruggio, who loved it more than anything in the world, had to physically restraining himself from touching him — a hand on his back, a quick hug, a head on his shoulder: nothing passed. Qifrey always ran away from it.

For so long, he’d assumed he was just like that. Some part of his past had left him incapable of enjoying that sort of interaction, and Olruggio knew that forcing it would do nothing to help.

The Silverwood is gone.

Hesitantly, Olruggio places his hand on Qifrey’s shoulders — and Qifrey stiffens, and flinches, but he relaxes into the touch, even if he doesn’t lean into it, almost instantly afterwards. It’s a small thing, palm against fabric. Olruggio thinks he’s going to implode.

He’s thirty four, Olruggio thinks, and he hasn’t known a day of peace since he was first found in that coffin.

When they were seventeen and only a tiny bit more stupid than they are now, Olruggio had realized that Qifrey hated the dark. Not as much as he’s always hated water — especially when cold —, but hated it nonetheless. When they went out on adventures at night, Qifrey was always the one who insisted on bringing lamplights; was the first one to press closer against the other if their lights broke. Never the one to suggest going home (as much as Qifrey had been able to call the Hall that), even if it was obvious that the lack of a sun was making him unhappy.

Olruggio could barely make out his face in the dark. When he did, he found his eye was fixated on the night sky; on the stars. Never anywhere else, if not looking at Olruggio himself. He traced the path from space to the earth, iris almost shining, and Olruggio had been able to compare him to a moth chasing the sun.

Accompanying that, is Olruggio’s tendency to fiddle and doodle. He’s been told multiple times that his brain tends to work faster than his body — and, from personal experience, it’s always best to write things down the second you imagine them before your mind wipes itself clean of the knowledge. For ages, he drew on the margins of his pages, until all of that evolved into making contraptions, until all of that evolved into making ontraptions for Qifrey. His biggest source of inspiration.

As always, it was him that drove him forward. So, when he debuted on the Festival, he looked not at the crowd but at his best friend as he walked on the stage, the floor below him glowing with every step.

He never told him why he made it. Sometimes he regrets having presented it to everyone, if only because he’s continuously asked to recreate it and it’s starting to be a bit of a pain, but it was for Qifrey. Made by Olruggio, for Qifrey. He could never ever want to delete any of that.

Assumptions are easy to make: Olruggio, a silly teenager fully expecting Qifrey to be able to read his every thought, had come to the conclusion his friend knew who he had in mind when creating anything new. The snugstones, the rings, the path. Olruggio, young and naive, hoped to be able to help. He hoped his worker hands could relieve some of the tension, if not directly then in any other way.

But Olruggio knows better now, and it doesn’t matter how much he may try to fool them: Qifrey still sleeps the same as he did all those years ago. Olruggio believes that if he thought about it, really thought about it, he could see a child version of Qifrey inside that coffin, curled up in the same position he assumes at his grown age.

Never once in his life has he felt safe around Olruggio. Never once in his life has he felt safe at all.

Qifrey doesn’t really sound like he’s lying. He’s gotten quite good at keeping his voice from shaking, his smile from wavering. When he lies, it’s an easy thing, barely distinguishable from all his other words. When he lies, it lasts the entire day. It lasts entire lifetimes. It lasts so long it’s stranger to hear the truth from him than anything else — and Olruggio is the one who taught him how to do it.

Back when they were children (and everything always goes back to that, every time), the tells were far more obvious: he was shit at hiding things from him. His hands would clench the fabric of his robes, his eye would drift downwards to the floor, he would avoid Olruggio’s gaze at all costs. Voice going quiet, smaller than usual for an already small child, Qifrey had made Olruggio think the stagnancy of his transparency would last forever. Obviously, it didn’t — now it’s just so difficult to notice, because the tells have become so small, and Olruggio realizes (not for the first time) that at some point, Qifrey started to refuse to trust even his best friend. And Olruggio had allowed it.

He wants to shake his younger self’s shoulders until his neck pops and his head falls forwards, hanging limply against his chest. Why didn’t he ever say anything about it? When it was obvious, and then when it wasn’t, he remained silent. There were so many chances for him to speak up, to confront him, but he passed on all of them, barely even thinking about the prospect. For some reason, even though he knows he was, Olruggio can’t imagine himself being so willfully ignoring. It’s strange. There must be something wrong with him, to be so easily blinded to his best friend’s suffering.

Today, with both of them alive, and not-yet-well-but-getting-there, Olruggio deals not with lies and half-truths, but with Qifrey seemingly being physically incapable of staying still when he’s been told by doctors, by Olruggio, by Alaira, by his old Master, and by his students, to rest. The man drives Olruggio insane with his incessant shifting and shuffling and how he always finds a way to sneak out of Olruggio’s grasp to try to do chores. Cooking, cleaning, washing the dishes; whatever else comes to mind. His life has become a constant game of ‘how to get Qifrey to go to bed’ and ‘how to get out of bed when Olruggio puts you there’ that neither of them have been acknowledging out loud.

Clear in his mind lays the memory of Qifrey unconscious on that hospital bed after the Cave; then of Qifrey, ten years old and impossibly stubborn, drowning outside the bubble walls of the High Hall. The final dot rests in his loved with broken glasses, right eye socket visible, tears streaming down his face with a seed on the floor before him and leaves in his lap that quickly shrivel up and die.

Olruggio still struggles to reconcile the man currently washing the dishes (in a chair, not standing to not put pressure on his frail legs), water so hot it sends vapor streaming upwards to the ceiling, with the figure so small bundled up in Olruggio’s arms, sobs wrecking his body, face pressed to Olruggio’s chest. In all his years of life, he had never seen him in such despair. This, after being freed but before being able to share it, was the first time he remembers. Can anyone really blame him for not wanting to let him out of his sight?

“Qifrey,” Olruggio calls. Having just walked inside the room, and with the water running loudly, Qifrey mustn’t have realized he was there, “the hell are you doing?”

Qifrey halts his movement for a moment before his hands set back to scrubbing circles in a single plate. A mundane task, easily done with magic yet fulfilled by hand. “Hello, Olly. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Olruggio says. He leans against the doorframe and rests his head on his raised arm, whole body tilted to the side. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Washing the dishes, of course,” Qifrey answers lightly.

“When you’re supposed to be resting,” Olruggio grumbles. “I said I’d take care of the chores. Plus, you have my rings, I don’t get why you’re doing it manually. Go back to bed.”

“But I get so bored,” Qifrey complains, turning his head around and meeting his gaze with a pout. Olruggio’s stomach flutters.

“Find ways to entertain yourself that don’t involve lowering yourself into an early grave, please.”

Qifrey chuckles. “It’d be a late grave, I’d say.”

It is true. The fact that he’s alive is a miracle. Olruggio knows this.

He clenches his fists anyway, and disguises it with banter: “and? That’s still in a cemetery.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Qifrey says. “But alas—“ He places the last clean plate next to the sink to dry, and raises both hands, wet with water, to show them to Olruggio, “—I’m afraid I’m already done with them. You’re a bit late, Olly.”

“Dammit,” Olruggio curses under his breath.

Chuckling lightly, Qifrey steps away from the sink and closer to Olruggio. Graceful; akin to a dance. One they’ve practiced before, over and over again. One, Olruggio is just now noticing, that they can finally put an end to.

Not for the first time, he wonders how Qifrey would react if he gave in — many years spent with nothing but his own imagination and the silent plea of his skin craving warmth pressed to it have left him impatient, scrubbed raw, sun-burned and peeled. Unfulfilled wishes, dreams never realized. From youth to adulthood, Olruggio has been next to Qifrey’s side, guarding his heart. Inside his home, with four children and one animal to take care of, yet with walls raised high. Never once has he been allowed to feel, to hold the knowledge of what it is to keep someone close to your chest.

A strange, annoying tingling comes from his fingertips and ends at his shoulders. It makes his hands twitch. It makes him shiver, subconsciously trying to shake it off. The wound is far too recent, too deep, to press his palm down over it again. He has been patient for twenty years. He can manage some more months.

But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt. He has it right here, this shining light, this silver ray of hope — and he can’t hold on to it. The moon and the stars and the sky itself is kept at arm’s length, and he’s not allowed to touch it.

Qifrey’s body is weak, has been left weakened from the removal. His bones are frail — not necessarily from birth, Sinocia told him, but from a lack of use. For the longest time, he’s unconsciously relied on the Silverwood for his strength, apparently. It mends broken muscle and reinforces the skeleton, and so it made sense that, once it was gone, Qifrey would immediately kneel under the weight of all the things he’s had to carry without that parasite to hold him up.

It was sickening. When he was told, Olruggio had wanted to throw up. But he couldn’t, not there, not at that moment, because Qifrey needed him to be strong once he himself could not.

“You can’t be up,” Olruggio says. His voice is low (he doesn’t want to startle him, after all), but it’s rougher than he’d intended it to be. Still, he bears with it, and continues: “Qifrey, we’ve talked about this.”

Qifrey grimaces. “You worry over nothing,” he says. Although his words are cold, he pronounces them gently, softly, like Olruggio is a child who is wrong and he is the teacher who is correcting him. It makes him angry, he realizes, even though anger at him should be the thing he feels least. “Washing the dishes is simple, and I’m on my chair, so it’s fine.”

“I saw your position. You were raising your arms, and you were, like— pressed against the counter. That’s gotta be uncomfortable as hell. You can’t do things like that, are you kidding me?”

“My arms were the first thing we worked with and you know this, Olruggio,” Qifrey snaps. Olruggio. Sure, fine. If that’s how it is…

“The only reason we worked on your arms is because you’d feel damn near useless as a witch without them,” Olruggio hisses, making Qifrey flinch and purse his lips. Fuck. There are many better ways to deal with this, aren’t there? Why is Olruggio acting so immaturely?

“Olly, please,” Qifrey begs. “The doctors said it was good to start using them, to get used to it again. Can’t you just…”

“They meant it under supervision, in case you got dizzy again and fell. They didn’t mean just you alone,” Olruggio grumbles.

His resolve is faltering. Qifrey looks upset, now, and Olruggio knows he’s the one who’s causing it.

“I don't like it,” Qifrey mumbles. Olruggio finds it childish, as rude as it may seem. “And I don't like that they want me to use the walker thing either.”

You're not even using the walker yet, Olruggio complains internally. He doesn't say it out loud, though, because then who would be the childish one?

“Go tell the doctors that,” Olruggio tells him. Qifrey rolls his eyes.

They’re going to talk about this later, but he guesses he can…

Olruggio sighs. “Alright.”

Qifrey blinks. “…alright?”

“Yes, alright.” Olruggio scoffs. “If you really want to do chores — who in their right mind wants that? — then we’ll work something out.”

“Um.”

“You only ever—” Olruggio walks closer to him, presses his finger against Qifrey’s chest; feels his heart beating under it, “—and I mean ever, do anything like this when I’m around to help you.”

“…Olly, I…” Qifrey sighs. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“You’re not troubling me,” Olruggio denies.

With a huffed laugh, Qifrey mumbles, “Yes, you’d say that.”

“No, Qifrey, I’m serious. I’ve spent years trying to reach you. We’re both here now, so just let me.” He pauses, letting the words settle in. Then he adds, softer: “Please.”

Opening his mouth — before closing it again in hesitation, and then opening it again, more sure of himself —, Qifrey lowers his gaze. “Okay. I will.”

Olruggio takes in a deep breath.

That’s damning to hear, he realizes. He’s been craving it for too damn long.

Silence lingers, a little. The air returns to its usual, comfortable normalcy, with their previous argument fading away. Olruggio thinks they’ve never managed to resolve one of their disputes this way in their lives. At least that he can remember.

From Qifrey’s questioning look, confused (and slightly nervous) smile making its way into his face, and the way he tilts his head to the side, Olruggio takes note of the fact that he has kept quiet for a second too long. He ought to fix it. “I’ll get here earlier next time, I swear it to you.”

Qifrey visibly relaxes the second he hears the open invitation for banter. Amusement is immediately reflected on his face.

“Out of the two of us, I’ve always been the one to wake up before noon,” Qifrey says. Lips curled upwards in a way that has his face creasing with fond, genuine wrinkles — an honest show of emotion, for once. His nose twitches, and his face is open yet shy, like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. Olruggio guesses it’s fair. He’s new to this, after all. “Chores just so happen to be the worm.”

“A worm you shouldn’t get, because you’re not a damn bird,” Olruggio answers.

“But I am early,” Qifrey quips, making Olruggio roll his eyes.

“You’re not clever,” he tells him.

“Aw.” In a display of playful offense that only ends up making him look adorable, Qifrey tilts his head to the side, cocking his hip, one hand on the back of his neck. “And here I thought my wit was as outstanding as my magic.”

Olruggio wrinkles his nose. “Don’t… don’t sit like me. It’s uncanny.”

Qifrey laughs, and it sounds like he’s humming a tune Olruggio has never heard anywhere else but in the privacy of his home, at the kitchen, oftentimes accompanied by the smell of old stew. It’s a sound he knows, despite it all, and a sound he is only just now getting used to hearing. Qifrey barely ever laughed as a child; only smiled as an adult, never showing genuine cheer. But although Olruggio isn’t used to such blatant shows of happiness, he still knows his voice. As foreign as it is, he still recognizes it.

“I thought you wouldn’t notice!” Qifrey exclaims with a giggle. He appears to find it hilarious.

“Wouldn’t be a very good Watchful Eye if I hadn’t,” Olruggio says.

Qifrey squeezes out the last remnants of laughter from his chest in the form of a snort, before saying, “Tetia bullied you into self awareness, didn’t she?”

Olruggio sighs. “You’re raising a menace.”

We, he hears Qifrey correct.

When he looks up, he finds that Qifrey has a content, small smile decorating his expression. His mouth is shut. He hadn’t said anything at all.

Directness — looking at someone in the eye with a straight, almost grumpy face, no fake smile in sight at all — does not come naturally, in this household. Qifrey may weave truths into lies, but as far as Olruggio remembers, he has never stared at him and spilled the contents of his heart aloud.

Unspoken words have always danced in the air around his head, coming from Qifrey’s spool, inside his throat; the dreaded three, and I know you, and I want to know you, and please, please, let me know you, and let it be forever.

Olruggio thinks, not for the first time, that he wants to grow old in here, thoughts lost amidst the most in quiet mornings.

Qifrey’s hair is messy. He uses a cane to walk while his legs recover. His spectacles are gone, and he’s got the robes he only wears to sleep on. Lately, it seems that he has been just a tiny bit too tired to change from the comfortable clothing to his usual wear. And, Olruggio points out silently: comfortable clothing.

He guesses there’s something to be said about that.

Looking to the side, as he always does, Qifrey sits down on the table. Olruggio follows, as he always does, pulled in by the tug of a ribbon, sewn forever between his ribs. He will let it pass, for today. Olruggio wants to ask it of him, he always does, but he will let it pass. They have all the time in the world, now.

Qifrey’s fingers curl on his cloak. He looks away, and Olruggio lets him.

The worst part of Olruggio’s life catches up with him quicker than he thought it would. So long he has spent dreading it, a sense of disgust that borders physical pain sending shockwaves through his blood, from head to toes — whenever it happens, he has to stay inside for at least an entire day both prior and afterwards the event. Otherwise, he’s not sure he’d make it.

It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin and plant it and let it go and then bury himself alive. Something he can’t voice out to Qifrey, of all people, even if he’s the one that always listens to his complaints. These sorrows cannot be drowned with alcohol; they cannot be expelled by his best friend’s ever hearing ears that contrast Olruggio’s purpose in their Atelier.

Streets crowded with people always end up with him feeling like he’s going to spontaneously combust. Entire families walk around, looking at the different stores, either for food or clothing — every time, a child screams because someone won’t buy them a toy. A grandma needs help crossing the street. Some teenagers run past him scream laughing without a care in the world. Grown ass men whine about girls not liking them back. All in the same place, cramped and close enough to each other for Olruggio to smell their body odor.

He fucking hates grocery shopping.

…Fine: he might be exaggerating it. He might not hate it as much always as he hates it now, because he’s in a bad mood, and because neither Qifrey nor the girls are coming. Honestly, to have such a simple thing take him down… he can almost picture his father’s unimpressed stare. And he says almost only because he barely remembers what he looks like.

It was a win, so Olruggio cannot complain — he scored, won a point in their little game, and somehow managed to make Qifrey stay at home and take that damn breather he’s been saying he’d lay down for. Even if Olruggio much prefers to walk these paths with company, he has a duty as a Watchful Eye (he cannot allow a teacher to pass out on his students) and as a friend (letting Qifrey suffer any longer is something he is most obviously against).

Were it up to him, he’d have stayed home, too. Qifrey needs him, and he just… what, goes out shopping? But Qifrey also needs food. And so do the girls. And so does Olruggio, because although he sometimes forgets it, he’s still a human being that has to eat to survive.

No one is looking at me, he reminds himself. I have my hood on, and no one is looking at me.

It’s no use: he’s too used to being cornered by large groups of people begging for autographs or asking invasive questions… or trying to touch him and smack his back like they’re old friends… or wondering if he remembers them from that one day at that one party…

Not new. This is not new. Way back in the day, people would come to town to hawk at him like he was a circus animal — and he found joy in it, and pride, and all the good things there is to find from something he now can only see as horrid. Magic, not person. Never a person. Even back then, even before Noz—

His breaths catches. He lets it out in a deep exhale, and gets going again.

Olruggio isn’t someone that enjoys social interaction very much, believe it or not. Despite how accommodated he is to speaking with people, how good he may be at it sometimes (from practice. It is definitely not natural), he’d still rather stay at home, bundled up in blankets at three in the morning as he finishes some late night sketches. Yes, he loves making people happy and helping them and getting to chat with them — but if he had to choose, he’ll always make the decision to stay with his family. Because yes, after so long, they are family. They always have been, really.

Thankfully, he’s not as anxious about it as he was as a child. Though the thought is not very comforting.

His hand twitches. How is Qifrey doing now? How are the girls? Coco seemed to be a bit down when he left, but Agott was right behind her, so he knows she’d catch her if she fell. Tetia and Richeh were doing each other’s hair, and Qifrey was the one to show him out the door gently, telling him, if I can’t go, then you should. We’re out of flour, Olly, and I’d been planning to make bread for dinner.

He’d looked strained. Olruggio could come back home and find him—

It’s gone. The parasite is gone.

Fuck. He should go back.

“Good sir!” a voice calls out. He startles, spine straightening, and sound rushes back into his ears with surprising strength. He hadn’t realized he’d worked himself into a bubble until it popped. “Yes, you, with the dark cloak!”

He blinks, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Do you see anyone else with a dark cloak?”

“…fair point.” He walks over to the person. It’s an old lady with a melón stall, grey hair held up in a bun. Qifrey enjoys buying from her, since her fruit tends to be among the freshest in Kahln. “May I take two of these?”

“But of course!” she exclaims, clapping her hands a single time. “Would you want a bag with that?”

“Yes, please.” He’s not… the strongest person, physically. It’s best that he has another way to carry them that doesn’t include having to hold them up in his arms. A bag wouldn’t lessen the weight, but at least he wouldn’t be struggling with two gigantic melones in his hands. That’d be an embarrassing sight.

“Where is your companion, today?” she asks as she weighs the melones on a scale. He should look into it; he’s never made a scale before, and they look interesting. What spell exactly makes the numbers appear on top? Is it an illusion glyph?

“Ah, uh,” Olruggio says very eloquently, “he wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home…”

What an understatement.

He shuffles uncomfortably. He needs to get this over with quickly and return as fast as he can. Maybe Qifrey needs help, or maybe he got in trouble, or maybe—

“Oh, my,” she gasps, “is that so? I hope he gets better soon.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

He has spent his life wanting Qifrey to get better — to be better. To have the chance to do better. He’s not a stranger to the feeling.

“I’d gotten worried, seeing your face!”

Uh. “Yeah?” he says, in a questioning tone.

“…Well, you’d looked so grim, I had almost thought he left with someone else,” she teases, breaking the tension.

“Who would he even run off with?” Olruggio says. Qifrey isn’t very social.

“I don’t see how he’d choose anyone other than his husband,” she agrees. Olruggio frowns at that — which husband? Did Qifrey somehow get married without him knowing? “Here.”

She hands him the bag with the melons. He thanks her swiftly, before saying, “Qifrey doesn’t have a husband.”

She squints. “Aren’t you two married?”

Olruggio blinks.

What.

“Sorry, can you— can you repeat—”

Olruggio ends up buying more melons than he’d intended, and he has to open the door with his foot, doing everything in his power to not kick it (the old thing’s on its last legs; he ought to change it), since his arms are occupied.

The familiar smell that tells him he’s home reaches his nose as soon as he walks inside. His footsteps are strong, loud (a way of telling Qifrey he’s back; to reassure), but underneath the noise coming from the house, they can barely be heard.

Children’s laughter echoes against the wall, a noisy string of joy he can trace to the kitchen. Olruggio leaves the shopping bags on the table, careful so the melons don’t roll over and fall on the floorboards, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. The tiny repetition of small feet running grows louder and louder, until they’re right next to him. He doesn’t startle when Tetia tackles him into a hug. He heard her coming.

“Master Olly!” cheers the girl, letting go of him just when he was about to hug her back, and rocking her body on her feet. “You’re back!”

“I’m back,” he confirms. Then, “I’m not your master, lass.”

“You might as well be, with how carefully you look after them.” The teasing has him grumbling, even if he perks up when he recognizes the voice. Qifrey walks closer with Coco by his side (and the girl is helping him walk, Olruggio realizes, because his staff is nowhere to be seen), squeezing Olruggio’s shoulder as a greeting.

As much as Olruggio has tried to win that little game of theirs, Qifrey is downright impossible to put to rest. Olruggio went to town alone so he wouldn’t strain himself, but it seems he managed to do just that anyway.

“Looking after them is literally in my job description,” Olruggio tries to defend. From the look in both Qifrey and Coco’s faces, and the snort coming from Tetia, he can accurately assume no one is taking him seriously. “Hey, where’s your walker?”

Those girls are as much his as they are Qifrey’s, he knows.

To have an apprentice, the person must prove they’re ready. It’s not about ability, nor power, but rather being capable of raising a child. Most apprentices start out young, very young — around eight, usually. At that age, they’re are impressionable young minds, still innocent, still untainted. What the master does will have an impact on the apprentice for the rest of their lives. It’s not unlike having a kid of your own, he supposes; at least the way Qifrey’s doing it.

They are clean, untouched by the sorrows shared within the earth. They are clean, the only red they’ve ever known being their own scraped knees. They are clean, and clean hands are the ones who should bathe them; brush their hair; guide them forwards. Not Olruggio’s. Not the bloodstained calloused fingers, dirtied since childhood, back then during the night.

When he was accepted as Qifrey’s Watchful Eye, he’d realized just how familiar the labor was. Looking out for Qifrey, keeping him out of grave trouble and accompanying him if he did. Olruggio might’ve bent the meaning of the position a bit, ever so sentimental, but the purpose is still the same: to look, intensely, from a distance.

And look he did. And look he does. And now, having grown so fond of the girls that bring light and joy to their everyday life, he struggles to stop himself from hesitating when he thinks of a Qifrey that cannot take care of them no longer, and an Olruggio that is forced to take them away from him.

They love and cherish their teacher, and he loves and cherishes them right back. Had Qifrey died, would Olruggio have finally taken that test?

He closes his eyes. When he reopens them, he finds Qifrey himself.

Had Qifrey died, would Olruggio even be able to move forward?

I would’ve gone with you, Olruggio thinks. Qifrey, wholly unaware of his selfishness, tilts his head to the side. A kind hearted man, curious from nature, and so utterly lost. A kind hearted man with an awful best friend that doesn’t know how to guide him.

It’s easy to picture: a final embrace, holding his breath as he squeezes Qifrey with his arms, refusing to let go even when Qifrey thrashes and tries to push him off. Begging, Qifrey pleading for him to leave, to live. And Olruggio laughing, and deciding he does not care. And the both of them dying together.

“I have no need for it,” Qifrey answers simply. As if you prove it, he moves towards the chair and sits down — but Olruggio notices the way his legs tremble.

He frowns. The doctors told them the Silverwood was part of what held him together. Qifrey had to stay in the hospital for weeks, and then in bed at home for longer. It took a while for him to be able to move without the usage of a sealchair. He can walk alone now, yes, but it’s only so long as he has the walker. Qifrey isn’t in any state to push himself like this. And yet—

“Master Olly, no one takes you seriously when you say mean stuff like that,” Tetia informs him with upmost seriousness. Qifrey lets out an amused huff as Olruggio sighs, defeated. That girl really is a bully.

What is wrong with you? he wants to scream at himself, at Qifrey, at both of them at the same time. How could you be so content with leaving them alone?

The girls come first, even in situations like that. Qifrey would’ve passed away alone.

“Tetia, that’s a rude thing to say,” Qifrey scolds softly, without any heat in it. He turns to Coco, who has been a bit too quiet recently, to the point where Olruggio almost forgot she was there in the first place. “Coquito, could you please fetch…” He looks at Olruggio, then back at Coco. “You know.”

Coco frowns, confused. She opens her mouth, but Qifrey raises an eyebrow, and she gasps, seemingly understanding what he meant. “Oh! Yes, yes, of course! The thing.”

“Ahhh, the thing.” Tetia nods.

“What?” Olruggio asks. “What thing?”

“Shush,” Qifrey murmurs. Olruggio pouts at him, making Qifrey laugh. “Sorry, Olly. You’ll see soon enough.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Coco, nodding.

“C’mere, Coquito,” Tetia whisper-yells at her, like she thinks Olruggio won’t hear her, already walking back to the kitchen.

Coco follows her, skipping through the space to get to the doorsill. Soon enough, the only people left in the room are Qifrey and Olruggio himself.

Olruggio blinks. “What was…”

“I said you’ll see, Olly,” Qifrey says. “Be patient.”

He’s been patient for way too long, if you ask him. But sure. Alright. He’ll oblige, and wait — and also scold Qifrey for not having his walker after the girls give him whatever they’ve made, if only to not ruin their day.

Now that it’s silent, his eyes drift to Qifrey’s hands. Oftentimes, he’s found him fiddling with the black ribbon he took from Olruggio. There have been quite a few moments in which he’s started nibbling on it, even.

Olruggio tries not to think about it too hard. But swapping ornaments tends to be extreme, even for couples — and Qifrey did that when they were children.

“Y’know, a vendor said something odd to me today,” Olruggio says, rubbing his nape with his hand.

Qifrey tilts his head to the side, hands joined on his lap. “Oh? What is it?”

Olruggio opens his mouth.

Qifrey would react by blushing. He’d stutter when speaking, and maybe laugh nervously as he tries to shrug off how ridiculous the notion is. He would wave his hand dismissively, without allowing Olruggio to get a single word in, and would promptly excuse himself to do something (like cleaning, or cooking) that was already done earlier that day.

Or maybe Qifrey would freeze, like he always does, and look down to avoid Olruggio’s eyes. He would mumble something about unbelievable lies, half pained half fond, then smile up at Olruggio like nothing ever happened, hiding his sorrow. Again. Like he always does.

He opts for keeping it to himself. “Oh, nothing. She just… she just told me it would rain today, and look. Not even a drizzle!”

“Ah, who knows,” Qifrey hums. “Maybe it will later.”

Olruggio will admit he’s exhausted from living on maybes. Having to wonder if Qifrey likes this, if he hates that, if he wants to stay, if he doesn’t, and thinking, maybe he won’t leave this time.

An old bitterness he has no right to have settles comfortably in his guts, like it always does when he thinks of this. Qifrey disappeared without warning multiple times. He pushed Olruggio away, seemingly uncaring.

He shouldn’t still do it, now that he’s free, but Olruggio cannot help but worry, and feel like he is anyway.

Although he wants nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, he stays quiet. It’s not the time. And maybe (maybe, maybe) it never will be — but he wants to keep this, while he can have it. Olruggio stands still, afraid of startling Qifrey with sudden movement. It may not have to be now, and it may not last regardless, but he doesn’t want to scare him away. Not now, not ever. Especially not when he’s finally close enough for him to reach, if he tried to.

“Maybe,” Olruggio echoes for what feels like the hundredth time. “Maybe.”

Without leaving him to ponder on his own thoughts, seemingly adamant to keep him on his toes, a yell (that could pass as a shriek, really) reaches his ears: “Master Olly! Here we have it!”

“Don’t run inside,” Qifrey scolds to no avail. His four students rush in without much care for his complaint, making him sigh and shake his head — fondly, of course.

“Sorry, Professor,” says Agott unapologetically.

“What? Oh— sorry!” Coco hurries to follow. From the brightness in her smile, she’s not sorry either, but it’s still more genuine than Agott’s deadpan.

“It’s…” Qifrey glances at Olruggio, who shrugs at him, and then sighs, “it’s alright. Are you going to give it to Olruggio, now?”

“Yes,” confirms Richeh. She fumbles with a small cloth bag in her hand, searching for something.

“Give me what?” Olruggio asks, growing more and more impatient by the second.

“Haven’t I told you to wait already, Olly?”

“Don’t answer a question with a question,” Olruggio grumbles. Qifrey laughs.

“Here!” Tetia exclaims. She has taken the object from Richeh’s hands (and from the satisfied expression in the girl’s face, she most likely offered it), then grabbed Olruggio’s wrist, and placed the thing in his palm.

Olruggio takes a moment to study it.

It’s a bracelet, decorated with dark blue beads and star shaped wood pieces. Some of them have odd shapes, but—

They spell out his name, Olruggio notices. Olly.

“It’s—” He pauses. His voice sounds choked, tight, like he’s about to cry. Is he?

“Do you like it?” Coco asks shyly. “I used to make them with my mom. I thought it would be nice to show everyone how to make them, and, um… make you one too.” Her speech quickens with every word, face reddening. Olruggio can’t help but chuckle.

“I love it,” he answers softly, a warm smile in his face as he puts it on. After a moment of admiration, he clears his throat, and with a grandiose air and a much louder and firm tone, he exclaims, “I shall take it everywhere I go!”

“Yes! Yay!” Tetia cheers, hugging Coco’s arm. They’re all grinning. They’re all happy.

Qifrey’s really done a good job with them, hasn’t he?

“I have one, too,” the man himself informs him. Olruggio’s eyes trail from his face to his shoulder and then to his arms, and yes: there it is. His has a lighter blue, but it has the same stars.

“It matches with mine,” Olruggio realizes.

Qifrey smiles. “Does it?”

“It matches with mine,” Olruggio repeats, thrilled. “See, it’s the same design, and it has the same type of beads. It even has the stars!”

Qifrey hums. “Stars, you say.”

Stars.

“…you should be proud of them, y’know,” Olruggio says softly.

“Who says I’m not already?” Qifrey answers.

Olruggio laughs, fond. It’s a shame he has to ruin the moment by saying: “Alright, now that we’re done with this, where did you put your walker?”

(Olruggio dreads the moment he has to return to the lady’s shop, with Qifrey by his side. She’ll most certainly notice their bound wrists.

Olruggio turns to the side, face flushed.

It doesn’t matter. Her eyes will turn smug, already assuming she’d been right. He wants to shrivel up and die just from thinking about it.)

Olruggio hasn’t been able to stomach recently cooked milanesas in a pretty long time. If it were up to Qifrey, he wouldn’t have to stomach any meat at all. But Olruggio is stubborn, and Qifrey knows he’s stubborn.

They’re having meat tonight. Olruggio’s petition.

As a child, his father used to pick him up and show him off to the entire town. Their star, he’d say. Their shining fire, keeping them warm and alight. More often than not, he would take him to work, show him around — tell him he’s too strong to act so weak when he clung to his robes the way any nervous child would do when in a foreign place with their parent.

Now, when Olruggio is half asleep, he can still hear his voice. When he tends to the flames, he can feel his hands on his, guiding his every step; be careful with that sigil, don’t go too overboard with that other one. Hey, don’t burn yourself. Hey, don’t burn.

It is, he will admit, harder to make apart, after all these years. Olruggio lives content with the family he has made in the house he has built, and only sometimes do the ghosts of the past haunt him like this. It’s been happening… more often lately, though. But that is an anomaly.

Qifrey notices, of course he does. He watches him like a hawk. That’s why, at the beginning, he’d been hesitant to comply to Olruggio’s request, even if he agreed to it eventually.

Albeit Olruggio did help with the cooking, the recipe is Qifrey’s. Not only that, Qifrey managed to do half of it, as well. He does so while sitting down, yes, but they’ve managed to accommodate to it — when any chopping needs to be done, Olruggio will bring everything to the table where Qifrey waits, ready. When there’s a need to stir, the same. And when they have to season it. And when—

The point comes across, he’d say. In fact, he would go as far as to state that the only thing he did was… was handle the fire. As usual.

He tries not to think about, even as it goes around a full circle and ends up in him being able to focus only on it. He tries, he swears he tries. For so long, he has been doing nothing but try.

Something his father had not taught him is how to be gentle. Kindness is a hard earned thing he worked for himself, one he keeps going every day with wood and oxygen. A failure: Olruggio forces his hands to be soft where they touch, but they tremble from the force of holding back. None of himself is selfless, not a bit. Still, Olruggio hands Qifrey what he needs to work on his own, and shivers when their fingertips brush.

There is some sort of fun in it. Really, it’s a normal thing, Olruggio repeating the motions he has taught himself (the ones his own father had deemed unworthy, the ones his mother’s eyes avoided in shame) in one of his many, many, desperate attempts to help. But it’s different — cooking together is old, and living together is something he’s used to, and sharing air is the only thing he’s ever known to do. The knowledge that if he were to lean to his side, he would be able to rest his head on Qifrey’s shoulder is not.

Olruggio pictures it, sometimes, the way he has pictures it for his whole life. Painted stars in the sky and beaded glowing seas. Where land forms, they meet, grass covered and flowering. Once, he’d wondered if maybe he should color it, and then instead of that, he started working on a path that lights where you step.

Olruggio doesn’t dream often, but when he does, he dreams of snow, both in Qifrey’s hair and in the time before he met him. He may imagine the normalcy all he wants (to rest, finally, to rest), but his heart will beat too quickly, and his breaths will shorten, and he will gasp instead of inhaling.

The truth is—

The truth is that, sometimes, Olruggio has dreams of Qifrey burning by his hand.

It really is best to not think about it.

Today, he has the privilege of having an easy distraction. Their girls are loud, and the smell of food coming from the kitchen clogs his nose in delicacy. They sit at the table, Qifrey on one end and Olruggio in the other, Tetia and Coco next to each other, Richeh and Agott facing them. What a beautiful life they have built.

Coco, ever so helpful, places one milanesa in each plate, barely allowing Qifrey — whose stubborn ass wanted to do everything by himself again, like he didn’t yet know that a peaceful existence is a shared one — to react. In response, Qifrey scrunches up his nose the same way he used to do after Beldaruit teased him when they were children, but it’s fleeting enough that no one but Olruggio, who has learned to flip the pages with ease without getting stuck in simple sentences like that, can notice it.

It makes him huff in amusement. What a silly, silly man. Stupid man he cherishes — this idiot he adores. A fond smile tugs at Olruggio’s lips, and he hides it with his hand when Qifrey spots it.

“Master, this is so good,” Tetia says with her mouth full, leaving the chewed food in plain sight.

Agott scrunches up her nose (huh, Deja Vu) in disgust, and mutters, “Tetia, that’s gross…”

Tetia doesn’t seem to hear her. “I really love it!”

“Oh, it’s the meat, surely,” Qifrey waves her off. “Olruggio bought from that one butcher… right?”

“What?” All eyes are on him, now. “Oh. Yes. Yeah, I did.”

“He struggled when saying that,” Richeh whispers to Tetia, quite loudly.

“I can hear you, you know,” Olruggio grumbles.

“Ah, Olly, I believe that is the point,” Qifrey tells him. Olruggio does not pout at him, because he is thirty four and not twelve. Not twelve. Definitely not twelve at all.

With a grunt, Qifrey reaches over to grab the jar of water on the table. Coco says, “oh, do you want me to help with that?”

Ever so nice, asking first. Qifrey answers, “it’s alright, dear. I can do it.”

There’s a strand of hair in Olruggio’s mashed potatoes. It’s dark, but it can’t be his — and he thinks it looks more… brown-ish, than anything.

“Olly, don’t play with your food,” Qifrey chastises.

“I am very much not. Doing that. At all,” Olruggio rushes to defend, cheeks growing red.

“Adults really can be messy, can’t they,” Tetia murmurs.

“We’re pretty close to being adults ourselves,” Coco points out.

Don’t remind me, Olruggio thinks. Years pass too quickly, too easily. Weren’t they just yesterday arriving at the Atelier, lost and unsure on what to do? Weren’t they just yesterday having their first lessons?

It doesn’t feel like that long ago, when Olruggio first heard Qifrey be called master.

“You are all growing very tall,” Qifrey says with a painfully fond, warm smile that makes Olruggio want to bang his head against a wall, unaware of Olruggio’s internal pain.

Agott flushes as Richeh says, “Agott’s getting shorter, I think.”

“I’m not that short!” Agott hisses. It’s true that she doesn’t seem to be growing as fast as the others. Maybe she’s just a late bloomer, though — that’s what Olruggio tells her.

That’s also what his master told him, and look where he’s at.

“Aw, Agott, don’t be upset,” Tetia tries to placate, patting Agott’s curls. The girl grows redder and redder, and seemingly angrier, but before she can say anything, Tetia exclaims: “You’ll just be like Master Olly! He’s kind of like those tiny pencils, the ones that end smaller than a penny when you sharpen them too much…”

Olruggio almost chokes on his drink, and Qifrey barks out a laugh so loud he startles and almost chokes on his drink again.

“Tiny pencil,” Qifrey wheezes, “oh, that’s gold!”

Olruggio sputters, “no, it is not! It is very much not!”

“What’ll it be next— you’re like a quarter of a chicken breast—” The last bit of the sentence comes out as a painful sounding wheeze as Qifrey bends over, hands over his stomach.

Olruggio hasn’t seen him laugh so freely in…

He hasn’t seen him laugh so freely ever.

“You’re not funny! Neither of you are funny!”

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry!” Qifrey says between laughs. “Dear, please leave Olly alone. He’s growing gray hairs just from you making fun of him!”

“But I’m not making fun of him! I’m just stating facts!”

“Tetia, you kind of… you kind of are…” Coco says.

Tetia turns to her with an offended gasp. “Coco! Not you too!”

He chews on his meat, cut into small pieces, just like how Qifrey knows he likes it — left frozen, for Olruggio to be able to actually eat it instead of just vomiting. Their bodies, his father's body, must've all tasted similar to this. They say humans are more like pig, flavor wise, than cow. But — but, but, but — the image burned into his mind returns to him at full force, like it always does on completely random days: cooked, well-done, basically brown.

Skin melted off. Beasts digging teeth into his arms, torso, legs, not much blood coming out because Olruggio, in his stupidity, had boiled it completely. Burning flesh smells disgusting. At least he has the comfort of knowing they were dead beforehand.

Kill it with fire, Dad had commanded. Olruggio's shaky hands were— he shouldn't have been—

Most of it wouldn't have happened if he just managed to keep his limbs steady, but there's not much he can do about it now.

"Olly?" Qifrey calls, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Are you done with that?"

Done with what? Done with—

Ah. The dishes.

Eating with the family they have built is never dull; though unfortunately, all things come to an end without fail. The girls are now upstairs in their rooms, doing their own things — it's not time to study, now. Meanwhile, Qifrey and Olruggio have stayed in the kitchen to clear the table and wash the utensils.

The mundanity of it never fails to surprise him. Rather than running off, QIfrey looks him in the eye, tilting his head. Rather than leaving, he keeps the door closed and his sylph shoes by the fire. He's not using his outdoor footwear. Qifrey plans to stay.

Olruggio barely manages to rid himself of the knot in his throat before saying, "I am, yeah. That was the last one."

He sighs. Those aren't things that usually bother him, but they are things that, from time to time, keep him awake at night. And they consume him, and they are all he can think about for days after.

And they feel so much lighter, with Qifrey's eye on him. Qifrey, who says, "I can ask you to restart the fire, then? It has gone out," and knows what he needs right now is to be able to do something he's good at.

Qifrey. Wonderful, delightful Qifrey, as annoying as he is, with all his flaws and stupidity and stubbornness. If he tried to come up with a single thing that would make him hate him, he would sit there thinking until the day he dies and not find anything at all.

Accompanied by his need to always be right, and the way he used to love sneaking out at night, and his hand making Olruggio's bones crack in an iron grip when they were children and it was dark, comes a man full of life he seems to willfully blind himself to. Olruggio could spend hours trying to come up with a way to repay him for simply existing and not find a single thing that's worth exchanging.

Nodding stiffly, maybe a bit too mechanically for his taste, Olruggio speeds off. Footsteps echo roughly; he's closer to kicking the floor than he is to walking on it. Until he knees by the chimney, that is. Then, it is silent, and it remains that way as he draws an disconnected circle on a page.

Flames morph into images, dreams long bygone; they turn into circles, black with white drawings, etched in ink. They dance around like children around the campfire, in four different colors. Olruggio tries to reach out to it, but it vanishes before he can touch it — and so, in response, he presses the unfinished spell to his forehead.

He blinks. The fire in front of him becomes a fire again.

Why in the world did he do that?

“Olly, I think my hair is turning brown,” Qifrey says to him one morning.

“Your hair is what now,” is Olruggio’s immediate reaction.

Qifrey and Olruggio found normalcy even with the Silverwood. Now that it’s gone, Olruggio can look back on it and feel his appreciation for the man grow with the knowledge that all he’d ever wanted was to…

They shared meals, stood up late at night chatting, raised the girls together. They weren’t alone, and they weren’t even fully lonely. Olruggio was perfectly happy with that life. He could push down the urge to pull him close and press their lips together if it meant getting to see him every day. What was devastating was not the lack of contact, but rather the way Qifrey locked himself up in a prison of his own making and refused to give Olruggio the key to the cage. Olruggio would’ve been thrilled to let things remain as they were — but Qifrey put himself in danger regularly, and there was always a chasm where a floor should be, filling the empty space between them.

It’s gone, now. It’s gone, and sometimes, Qifrey clings to him as if trying to merge them together, and then he vanishes without a trace, retreating to his room, like the touch burned. Olruggio is patient even so, like he’s always been.

But it doesn’t take long for him to notice it’s just Qifrey retracing his steps, over and over again, even though the maze has been torn down, and the danger is over.

Yes, Olruggio will admit it: he and Qifrey need to talk, and the talk needs to be real. Real, and long, and probably painful. They cannot rely on avoidance any longer.

It is… proving to be difficult, with Qifrey storming inside to share the news. “See, if you look at the roots, you can… wait, let me show you,” Qifrey says hurriedly like he’s a hyperactive teenager again, rushing to bow his head and place both hands on two sides of his head each, showcasing his hair.

Huh. There really is some brown in there. Olruggio can see it — not yet very prominent, but most certainly real. “What the fuck,” Olruggio blurts out.

“I don’t know,” Qifrey stresses, taking his white locks into his fists and pulling. Olruggio, never one to let him hurt himself, gently wraps his fingers around his wrists and guides them below until they’re resting by his sides, on the sealchair.

Qifrey sighs. Olruggio says, cautiously like he’s trying not to startle an animal, “So, what’s your hypothesis?”

There’s a pause that lasts around a minute. It’s broken by Qifrey taking a deep breath and humming, looking to the side. “That boy with the curse… his hair turned white after the seed sprouted.”

Curious, his refusal to call him by his name. Maybe they’ll have a chat about that too later.

“Maybe my hair wasn’t always this color,” Qifrey mumbles.

“Just like his,” Olruggio guesses. Qifrey nods mutely.

…That’d make sense. Olruggio has to agree on that.

He knows the implications of it. A past lost, long forgotten, rousing to the surface like a sprig. It’s no wonder Qifrey’s panicking.

“C’mere,” Olruggio calls, holding out his arm, feeling with glee as Qifrey’s fingers circle his forearm.

Qifrey nods with a sniffle. Is he crying? No, he’s not — he’s close to crying. He’s not letting himself cry. Olruggio’s doing this wrong, dammit, but he can’t let the opportunity go to waste.

He walks Qifrey to his bed, and sighs when he rests on it. Qifrey remains by the foot of the bed, unaware that he has no need to wait for Olruggio’s permission, because he already has it, wherever he goes. So, Olruggio pets the space next to him, gesturing with his head until, finally, Qifrey sits down in the mattress rather than his chair.

“Will you grow it out, then?” Olruggio asks.

Qifrey absentmindedly pats his hair. “I’ve grown fond of my white hair, I’ll admit. Maybe I could dye it…”

“Bleach it,” Olruggio corrects. Qifrey hums in acknowledgement. “Wouldn’t it be better to use illusory magic? Bleaching it could damage it.”

“…Perhaps,” Qifrey says, “perhaps.”

The silence that follows isn’t necessarily awkward, but it’s far less comfortable than how it usually is with the two of them.

Oh, fuck it.

“You know,” Olruggio muses, “if you were to be a brunette… well, I’d have to tell you it’d look really good on you. Even if I’m used to the white hair.”

Startled laughter reaches his ears, fills his now content heart, sending excited shocks down his spine and tending to the smile on his face. Seconds after he looks up, he finds Qifrey with his shoulders shaking in amusement.

“Really?” Qifrey asks incredulously. It’s stupid, that he doesn’t believe it.

“Well, of course,” Olruggio answers like there’s not anything else to it. And, really, there’s… not. Qifrey is beautiful. That’s the one truth worth mentioning.

“Oh, no, I don’t think that’s right,” Qifrey says, shaking his head.

“What!” Olruggio sputters. “I’d say it fits you! I’m being serious!”

Qifrey giggles, honest to god giggles, and Olruggio dies right here and now, on the spot. “Ah, of course. Why would I doubt you!” he says between chuckles. “And what else would you say, then?”

“I would say…” Olruggio pauses.

Qifrey leans forward every so slightly, like he thinks Olruggio can’t notice. Maybe it’s unconscious. Olruggio takes a deep breath.

“…I would say you can come to me no matter what,” he continues. He’s well aware of the territory he’s steering (quite roughly, to be honest) the conversation towards. “I’d say you’re my best friend, brunette or old-man-looking.”

Qifrey closes his eyes. The fact that he doesn’t voice his offense at being called old betrays his inner conflict. He opens his mouth, closes it in frustration, and it takes him a moment to be able to speak without hesitating. “Really.”

“Of course. And… I’d reassure you that there’s nothing to be anxious about.”

“…and then?”

“And then I’ll have to tell you that I will worry in your place,” Olruggio finishes. “And that I hate being worried, but that I am anyway, because I love you.”

There it is. It’s out in the open, now.

Qifrey’s hand goes up to his face, to the right side. Olruggio almost flinches in fear of the possibility of Qifrey being in pain again, but he catches himself, because it’s not a jerked movement, not quick nor instinctual. It’s slow, deliberate, thoughtful. Reminiscing — or perhaps wondering.

Realizing he has no need to hide, most likely. Olruggio never thought he’d see the day.

“You can’t,” Qifrey blurts out suddenly. “You— you don’t.”

It’s like a switch flips. All humor vanishes from Olruggio’s expression, replaced with anger.

“You’re not allowed to tell me what I can do and what I can’t,” Olruggio hisses, “and you do not have the right to deny me of my own feelings. Qifrey, I love you.”

“No—”

“I love you,” Olruggio repeats.

The next sound that comes from Qifrey’s mouth is choked, a pitiful attempt at swallowing down the urge to cry. It looks like it hurts, and Olruggio hates to cause him distress, but he needs him to know. He needs him to understand.

After so long spent chasing after him, being unable to grab into anything other than the ribbon on his cap, Olruggio has decided that he is tired of running and spinning like he’s transversing a labyrinth without end. He will follow him to death, will bury himself next to his coffin, but he will not go a second longer doing nothing other than hiding.

He has waited long enough.

“I’ve always,” Olruggio says, emphasis on the last word, voice hushed and low in the silent room (easy to hear despite the softness), “loved you.”

He has been made to wait for long enough.

“And you know I always will.”

And now, the waiting is over. Qifrey tries to turn away, but Olruggio gently — kindly, slowly, softly — cups the right side of his face with his left hand, palm pressing against his cheek. The face of life itself, born in a man with white hair and only one eye, stutters. His breaths hitches, his lower lip wobbles.

Qifrey’s breathing is shaky, shuddery. He inhales through his mouth before closing it, licking his lips, and opening it again, looking so unsure of himself it makes him look so, so much younger. Olruggio is reminded of the boy who had no idea how to lie. The boy he had to teach how to smile.

It takes Qifrey a moment. Hesitancy clouds his expression, until, finally, his voice works. A melody Olruggio has, for ages, been trying to atune to. A symphony whose sheet music he can finally read.

“I’m not something worth loving,” Qifrey whispers.

Olruggio scoffs. What a ridiculous thing. “Even if you weren’t, I’d still be here telling you this same thing anyway.”

Lunging at him like water breaking through a dam, Qifrey wraps his arms around Olruggio so suddenly Olruggio yelps, and like he’ll morph into dust if he lets go, Qifrey squeezes. A short puff of air escapes his mouth, breath abandoning him in an instant. He barely thinks about it before hugging him right back.

Something in Qifrey seems to crumble. Sobs wreck his trembling body as he clings, nails digging to Olruggio’s back, so intensely Olruggio fears it’ll tear through his robes. It’s a clumsy embrace from someone who hasn’t gotten to touch in years — a desperate chase of comfort, of reassurance; the reminder that yes, they’re both still here, still alive, still together.

Sobs morph into hiccups, hiccups morph into sniffles. It ends in quiet, with Qifrey’s weight finally on Olruggio’s shoulders. Olruggio places his face comfortably on the crook of his neck as Qifrey hides himself in his chest, burrowed.

Unsure of how much time has passed, Olruggio decides he has something to do, and gently guides Qifrey away from him (almost yielding at the soft noise of complaint, but holding himself back) until they’re both facing each other again. Eye puffy, red from all the crying, and lower lip wobbling, Olruggio thinks that, if he focuses, he could say Qifrey hasn’t changed that much from the boy he once was.

Dried tear tracks on his face make the previous scene obvious. Instinctively, Olruggio brings his hand upwards and cups Qifrey’s cheek again, breath hitching when he notices Qifrey closing his eye and leaning to the side, closer to Olruggio’s palm.

He inhales, exhales, inhales again. Brushes the scar with his thumb. For the first time in forever, Olruggio cradles Qifrey’s face, and he finally leans into the touch.

“Can I kiss you?” Olruggio murmurs impulsively.

Qifrey huffs out a wet chuckle, and Olruggio feels the wrinkles in his cheeks that form with the smile against his fingertips. In a lovesick trance, Olruggio touches Qifrey’s face with his knuckles, and lowers his arm slightly.

He presses to the corner of his mouth, then, and Qifrey says, “Do you really have to ask?"