Work Text:
Hair carries memories.
Qifrey isn’t sure where he’d heard that.
From one of the girls? Maybe he’d read it somewhere.
Regardless of who informed him about this particular fact or falsehood, he finds himself thinking of it now. The mirror shows him a person he doesn’t recognize; a face, a body, and a mop of white hair that’s become strangely long.
As he brushes his fingers through the strands, Qifrey realizes how silent his body has become now that he’s the sole inhabitant. What used to be a battleground — a place where man and parasite constantly fought for control — has turned into a desolate area.
(Whether this is a good thing or not, he doesn’t know.)
With the help of those he held most dear, the Silverwood had been removed, torn from his bones entirely until there was nothing left. Only him.
It felt strange.
His initial reaction had been disbelief, along with an overwhelming sense of relief short thereafter. Then, fragments of guilt began to hook themselves into his spine. At night, he’d think: what right do I have to be here?
He’d spent so much time being selfish, committing acts many might deem unforgivable, and now the weight of his decisions sits on his chest like a boulder, gradually crushing each of his ribs and pushing the oxygen from his lungs.
Was he worthy of forgiveness?
“You shouldn’t wallow,” Olruggio told him one night, his hands so very warm and touch so very gentle. He’d been carding his fingers through Qifrey’s hair as they sat together in the living area, a pitcher of Silvernectar wine resting on the small table next to the sofa. “You did those things out of necessity.”
“You are getting soft,” Qifrey murmured, turning his head until he was able to bury his nose into the crook of Olruggio’s neck. The scent of him was familiar and comforting: amber, smoke and something unmistakably Olruggio. An essence that couldn’t be bottled. “Sometimes I think I don’t deserve your kindness.”
“Nonsense,” Olruggio replied, a sigh rising in his throat. His lips found Qifrey’s forehead, then his left eyelid, followed by his right eyelid. An act so tender it made warmth burst from the center of Qifrey’s chest. “Nonsense.”
The past months have been a repeat of that night. There are good days and bad days and those that sit in between. It’s a lot of learning and relearning, Qifrey realizes. As it turns out, habits you’ve carried with you for most of your life do not vanish within a single day — no matter how hard you try.
Though, it’s the trying part that matters.
(Tetia’s smile, big and bright, appears within his mind. It’s accompanied by her cheerful voice. “You just have to try!”)
Fondness blooms within his chest. Through all of this, he’s leaned on Olruggio for support, but the impact his apprentices have had on him must not be forgotten. Their very existence is one of the major reasons why he’s alive right now.
Each of the girls, in their own way, have helped them tremendously by simply being there. It’s the smiles on their faces that make him want to try a little harder each day. Unknowingly, they had made a home between his ribs, settling in all of the softer areas he didn’t know existed.
He appreciates the quieter moments with Agott, who informs him about her recent readings while they share cups of tea, and the complex questions Richeh presents him with when she discusses her contraptions with him.
Then there’s the lovable chaos of Tetia and Coco in the kitchen, who are eager to learn so much more than spellwork. Lately, Tetia has been assisting him in the garden — mentioning that she’s quite thrilled to witness the fruits of her labor when the seeds they planted will start to bloom.
Even Brushbuddy has been assisting him in its own way, curling around his neck at night and remaining there until Qifrey drifts off into a peaceful slumber.
The atelier is a place built from love and kept alive by that very same sensation. There is love in every tile, every crevice, and he’s reminded of that whenever he gazes into the faces of those he holds most dear.
I want to do better, he thinks. Not just for me, but for them as well.
Speaking of the girls, the atelier feels rather quiet without the familiar sounds of their laughter or their hasty footsteps. It’s been two days since they’d left for an excursion with Lord Beldaruit — something that has been keeping Qifrey’s mind far too occupied.
“Calm down,” Olruggio had said, chuckling after they disappeared through the windowway. “They’re in good hands.”
Pressing his lips together and pinching the skin on the back of his hand, Qifrey had murmured, “I know that. I’m still worried.”
“Instead of being worried, think about how we’ll have the atelier to ourselves, hm?” Olruggio said with a grin, steering Qifrey’s thoughts into a dozen different directions.
As he recalls their past conversation, Qifrey catches a flash of movement in the mirror. Olruggio appears behind him a moment later, arms anchoring themselves around Qifrey’s waist and his chin digging into Qifrey’s shoulder. “Your hair’s gettin’ long.”
“It would seem so,” Qifrey replies, leaning into the embrace with a small smile. He places one of his hands over Olruggio’s, his fingers running along an old scar near Olruggio’s ring finger. “Should I cut it?”
A thoughtful hum vibrates through Olruggio’s throat — his lips ghosting along the side of Qifrey’s neck. Goosebumps spread across his skin as heat begins to crawl into his cheeks. “Maybe a trim,” Olruggio suggests. “I kind of like it.”
A chuckle slips through Qifrey’s lips, which he buries against the top of Olruggio’s head when he turns his own head a little more. “We shall see then.”
“How ‘bout I wash it for you?”
“Olly, are you calling me dirty?”
Laughter, deep and rich, reaches Qifrey’s bones, and he finds it difficult to stifle his own laughter in return when Olruggio squeezes his sides and turns him around so that Qifrey is now facing him. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“How evil you are,” Qifrey muses, draping his arms along Olruggio’s shoulders. “I should throw you out.”
The smug, little smile Olruggio wears shouldn’t be so damned attractive. It does strange things to Qifrey’s insides. “Do it then.”
For a moment, Qifrey pretends to ponder. He cards his fingers through the shorter hairs above Olruggio’s nape, relishing in the softness of each strand and the fact that he’s able to do this now. With a short hum, he presses a kiss to the corner of Olruggio’s mouth. “Your horde of fans would love that. The famous Olruggio of the Torch finally free to be courted.”
A quiet groan rises from Olruggio’s throat, his hands sliding up Qifrey’s sides. “Don’t call me that.”
Grinning, Qifrey presses a second kiss to Olruggio’s lips. “Apologies,” he says, feeling anything but apologetic. His next words come out as a whisper. “Go draw us a bath, Olly.”
—₊‧࿐ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆࿐‧₊—
For as long as he could remember Qifrey has had an aversion towards water — cold water especially. Many of his nightmares included old, distant memories of a stone coffin filled with rain water, each drop seeping into his skin and pushing past layers of flesh until it reached the deepest parts of him. There, they’d crystalize and harden until a layer of frost had enveloped his bones.
Getting rid of that cold sensation seemed completely impossible, until Olruggio had crashed into Qifrey’s life with the force of a battering ram. It was his kindness that melted the ice crystals, for the warmth he offered Qifrey rivaled the warmth of the sun itself. His smile, his hands, his eyes; these were the rays of lights that cascaded across Qifrey’s bones.
Which made Olruggio both his closest friend and his biggest threat. A cruel irony.
It was a tale that consisted of both comedy and tragedy; the kind of story writers could turn into an epic. The Silverwood and the Witch. Laughably entertaining, thoroughly devastating.
Part of him was so certain that their tale would end in tragedy.
“I won’t let it,” Olruggio told him when they were nineteen, having shared their first kiss a year prior. The Silverwood had made another attempt to swallow Qifrey, but Olruggio — brave, kind, and so very stubborn — had torn away a myriad of branches, clasped Qifrey’s hands between his own, and whispered fiercely, “This is not how our story ends.”
However, until they found a way to remove the Silverwood, Qifrey learned that cold water could be used to keep the parasite at bay. The memories associated with the water, and the discomfort it brought him as a result, made the roots retreat and the leaves wilt. And so, for years on end, he’d force himself to relive a part of his childhood he’d rather much forget. Rather than repressing the memories, he brought them to the surface and wielded them as a sword. Repeatedly, he would push the cold, iron tip of the blade through his chest until it reached his heart. Reopening old wounds became a painful but necessary means for survival.
But now, with the parasite no longer feeding off his body, Qifrey allows himself to tend to those wounds with the patience and kindness they deserve. As always, Olruggio is there to guide him through it. His words are like a salve, soothing and gentle. Whispers of ‘I’m proud of you’ are often buried against Qifrey’s skin, followed by soft kisses to his temple.
It feels good to be loved like this — so fully and without reproach.
Even if it terrifies him sometimes.
Tonight none of that fear is present. Qifrey’s fingers are curled around Olruggio’s hand as they pad towards the washroom, where a smaller version of the pools in the public bathhouses has been built into the floor. A large vapor bubble attached to the ceiling is responsible for regulating the temperature, and spread throughout the room are an assortment of candles. The candles are a recent addition — made by each of the girls when they’d taken up candle making one week — and Qifrey smiles as he kneels down to light a particular pink candle that smells like cherry blossoms and vanilla.
Each flame emits a warm, golden light that crawls along the floors, walls, and the water; bathing the entire room in shades of orange and yellow. The candles provide pleasant aromas meant to ease the mind, which Qifrey definitely appreciates. He’s grown quite fond of Richeh’s sky blue candle which smells like jasmine and freshly washed linen.
Qifrey watches as Olruggio procures a number of bags and bottles that are filled with a variety of herbs and oils. Lavender, chamomile, rosemary. Each herb has been harvested from their garden, which continues to bloom wonderfully. Thinking about it makes Qifrey long for a warm, summer afternoon outside, his fingers buried in the soil and his clothes smelling like grass by the end of it.
But for now, he’ll focus on the bath that Olruggio is preparing for the two of them. “Smells lovely.”
“Glad it’s to your liking,” Olruggio replies, turning towards Qifrey and motioning for him to raise his arms.
Qifrey obliges, arms lifted so that Olruggio can assist him with removing his robes. Together, they make quick work of the rest of his garments, draping the clothing items over a stool in the corner. Olruggio’s robes follow suit, leaving both of them completely bare, a lifetime of scars between them. A testament to all that they’ve survived. Both separately and together.
There’s a long, jagged line that runs from Qifrey’s sternum to his navel. Proof of where the healers cut through his flesh in a hurry and opened his body to extract the parasite. Both magic and medicine, a combination they thought unthinkable since the loss of Medic Witches of old, had saved his life. Sometimes, he finds it hard to believe that he’s still among the living, but then he sees that strange patch of skin — a line that cuts him in half — and he remembers the effort it took to keep him here. With the people who love him.
Olruggio’s fingers brush against it, his gaze lowered as he observes Qifrey’s chest. “It looks better.”
Then, he pulls away to step into the pool, but before lowering himself into the water entirely, he holds out his hand, waiting for Qifrey to join him.
And there it is, that first moment where everything feels as though it’s too much. The world becomes too loud and blood rushes through his ears. Though, Qifrey has learned how to deal with it.
He counts his breaths, takes slow steps, and places his hand into Olruggio’s palm. It’s that point of contact that pulls him back into his own body. Gradually, his heartbeat slows down, making it a little easier to step into the pool.
Water touches his skin, but it’s warm instead of cold. Comforting instead of unsettling. It embraces him rather than enveloping him.
He will not drown, not when Olruggio is here.
“Feeling good?” Olruggio asks, his thumb brushing back and forth across Qifrey’s hand.
Qifrey releases a hum. “Yes.”
In the past, he would sit at the pool’s edge on a stool and make quick work of washing himself with a cloth and a bucket next to him. On occasion, he’d dip his feet into the pool, but most of the time he preferred to bathe as quickly as possible.
That has gradually changed over the past few months.
With another breath, he carefully lowers the rest of his body in the water just as Olruggio does the same. Candlelight finds refuge in the blue of his eyes and Qifrey temporarily tightens his grip around Olruggio’s hands, who murmurs something along the lines of ‘that’s it’.
Beneath the water, they are a collection of tangled limbs. Knees touching and arms folded together. As fingertips dance across his skin, a knot gradually loosens itself within Qifrey’s chest, allowing for the oxygen to travel through his body a little more freely. On an exhale, he leans forward, meeting Olruggio halfway, who tucks one a lock of hair behind Qifrey’s ear. “Temperature okay?”
When he’s able to rest his forehead against Olruggio’s own, Qifrey nods. “Perfect as always, Olly. Thank you.”
He’s unsure of how long they remain like that, but after a moment, Olruggio says, “All right, turn around then.”
They move and shift until Olruggio is able to lean back against the pool’s edge, with Qifrey tucked between his legs. To be surrounded by him like this, his arms folded across Qifrey’s chest and his legs bracketing Qifrey’s hips, is a feeling unlike anything else. There’s a sense of safety and comfort in the embrace of a lover, who, without speaking, manages to convey a single message: I’m here and I love you, I’m not going anywhere else.
Olruggio’s heartbeat bleeds into Qifrey’s back and he uses it as an anchor. Their breaths synchronize, his limbs grow heavy, and his eyelids grow even heavier. Candles, oils, herbs; there is so much to focus on, but it’s the sound of Olruggio’s breathing and the quiet hum that vibrates through his chest that leave Qifrey melting into embrace completely. “Tell me about your day,” he says quietly, the back of his head coming to rest along Olruggio’s shoulder.
And Olruggio does. His voice travels through the air as he tells Qifrey a story about an old client. Whilst doing so, he carefully threads his fingers through the strands of hair that fall across Qifrey’s forehead. His ministrations nearly cause Qifrey to fall asleep, but he forces himself to stay awake.
After a few more moments, Olruggio gently pushes at his back. Simultaneously, he tips Qifrey’s head back, who closes his eye while Olruggio gathers the soaps they often use and works some of it into his hair. His fingers comb through the wet strands before gently pressing into Qifrey’s skull and making light, circular motions. It feels utterly divine — especially when he focuses on a spot behind Qifrey’s right ear, and the part above his nape.
Unintentionally, Qifrey makes a noise that sits somewhere between a groan and a sigh. It must amuse Olruggio, because his breath ghosts along Qifrey’s neck when he releases a short laugh. “That’s the spot, huh?”
“Possibly.”
Behind him, Olruggio hums appreciatively, pouring a small amount of water over the back of Qifrey’s head. “S’nice when you’re completely relaxed like this.”
Qifrey is inclined to agree with him, especially when Olruggio presses a kiss to his left shoulder, followed by a kiss to his right one. The third kiss is placed between his shoulderblades and in between each touch of his lips, a linen cloth is dragged back and forth across Qifrey’s skin.
Olruggio’s movements are slow and methodical; a master craftsman in all that he does. As he removes the layers of dirt and sweat off Qifrey’s skin, he leaves something else in return: another whisper, another kiss. These fragments of love dance across Qifrey’s spine — they hide in the crook of his neck and crawl across the lines of his shoulders before following a path down his arms.
Suddenly, the desolate area that is his body is awash with life. It’s all blooming flowers and buzzing bees, and Qifrey smiles. He sinks further into the water, deeper into Olruggio’s embrace, and listens to the sounds of his body.
Alive.
“Thank you, Olly.”