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Qifrey sat at a desk. In his lap, he held his witch’s hat. The ornament at the point was long and dark, and he twisted the ribbon through his fingers. On the desk, his notebook lay open. The spell he had drawn on it would get him dragged off by the Knights Moralis if anyone saw it. He clutched at his hat tighter. The light in his room was dim—not ideal for drawing spells, but ideal for him. Even in the low light, his head ached. His eye remained fixed on what he had wrought on the page. His hands were stained with ink. He beheld what he had drawn, and his stomach churned with guilt. At that sensation, at the anxiety that made his ribcage feel much too tight against his lungs, he felt what could be called a grim satisfaction.
How lucky, that Qifrey had never once felt true comfort. If he had, he couldn’t remember. They had taken that when they had taken his eye. The only person who had ever come close enough to give him some approximation would fall victim to this spell on this page. Qifrey remembered what it had felt like to be held in his arms after being saved, the relief he’d brought before Qifrey had even known his name. Qifrey could not allow him to get closer, or else everything, both the things in and out of Qifrey’s reach, would become unattainable.
Qifrey had made it to the Tower of Tomes, and there he had found the irrevocable truth: there was no magic cure-all. There was no solution to his empty eye-socket or his missing years that did not lose him his friend, that did not sacrifice his other hopes: an atelier in the countryside far from the Great Hall, and the chance to do for someone what Beldaruit had done for him.
Instead, he had learned more of the thing inside of him that had taken root. There would be no escape from his fate—only the chance to fend it off for some time. The spell on the page that had stained his fingertips black was the key. It was his savior, and it was his slow killer. To avoid losing himself, he must destroy himself carefully, purposefully; it must be enough to hurt, but not too much that he could not carry on, that he could not cradle his hopes in his hands and press them to his lips.
Qifrey had many wishes he had yet to bring to fruition: the heavy hand of vengeance, and the lighter touch of guidance. He must commit to this path, he must, but he could not rend the better parts of himself either. To do this, he needed Olruggio—to hurt and to care for in equal measures.
Maybe, when all was said and done, and Qifrey’s fate finally grabbed hold of him, he could lay his head down and rest. Maybe, Olruggio would grab hold of him as well. Maybe, he would press his lips to Qifrey’s hair, and that would be the last thing Qifrey knew.
Until then, Qifrey had this spell. He took a deep breath and held it as he gently tore the page from his notebook. He exhaled. His heart raced in his chest. Automatically, he tried to reassure himself that Olruggio would be safer this way, that it wasn’t only for his sake that he was doing this. He let that thought go; if Qifrey did not feel awful after this, it would have been for naught.
A knock sounded on his door. Qifrey jumped in his seat.
“Qifrey?” Olruggio called. “You in there? I’m comin’ in!”
He trusted Olruggio to forgive him—always.
There were times when Qifrey felt so happy that he marveled at the effectiveness of that choice he first made all those years ago—at the same choice he kept making over and over. Without it, surely his feelings of contentment would make branches burst from him right where he stood. Instead, even like this, Qifrey could not know peace. The place where his missing eye should be throbbed, and Qifrey managed to hide his grimace behind the smile on his face.
Four girls wreaked havoc in his kitchen. Tetia shrieked with laughter, struggling to apologize in between her fits of giggles. Agott stood, bewildered, flour turning her dark curls white at the tips. Coco stood next to her, hands fluttering over Agott’s hair, flustered. Richeh remained back with an appraising hand on her chin. Qifrey adored this—this home he shared with the most wonderful people he’d ever met.
“Agott looks like Master Qifrey,” Richeh noted, which set Tetia off in another round of laughter while Qifrey and Agott both flushed.
“I’m sorry!” Coco exclaimed for maybe the tenth time, having been one half of the messy equation that had resulted in Agott’s current state.
“... No big deal,” said Agott, looking away. Qifrey’s smile grew wider. Coco had a certain magic to her even without drawing any seals, and Agott grew a little kinder every day she spent under its influence.
Olruggio chose that moment to walk into the kitchen, a bemused look on his face. “What’s all this ruckus about?”
Richeh drifted to his side to grab a fistful of his skirt, leaving a white powdery handprint against the dark fabric. “Agott is trying out Master Qifrey’s hair.”
Olruggio barked out a surprised laugh.
“Richeh! Please!” Tetia exclaimed, hands pressed to her sides as she gasped for air. “If you keep making me laugh I’m gonna die!”
Agott crossed her arms, a scowl settling on her face along with a deepening blush. “I am not trying out Master Qifrey’s hair.”
“Hey,” Qifrey protested lightly, “what’s wrong with my hair?”
“When was the last time you even brushed it?” Olruggio asked. He’d made his way further into the kitchen to stand on Qifrey’s left, always mindful of his blind side when he could be. He swept a hand through Qifrey’s hair, fingers catching on knots. Qifrey ducked away, feeling his own face go hot. The twist in his stomach wasn’t entirely pleasant. A little furrow appeared between Olruggio’s brows as Qifrey backed out of his reach.
“Like you’re one to lecture me about my grooming habits,” Qifrey countered. “I’d wager you haven’t brushed yours in at least a week.”
Olruggio rolled his eyes. “My hair doesn’t get all… poofy.” He waved a hand around his head, which made Qifrey’s smile larger. “What were you trying to make anyway?”
“Mountain apple pie!” Coco chimed in, brandishing a basket of freshly picked mountain apples.
Qifrey clapped his hands together. “If you girls clean up the mess, we can get Olly to help us make some!”
Tetia and Coco cheered and scrambled to start tidying the mess. Agott disappeared into the washroom to clean up.
Olruggio groaned in reluctant protest. “Don’t just volunteer me,” he grumbled. “I’ve got a deadline coming up—”
“And you can take a break and bake some pie with us,” said Qifrey. He placed a hand on Olruggio’s shoulder and squeezed. “Give your mind a chance to breathe.”
Olruggio sighed at the touch. A shiver went down Qifrey’s spine as all the tension in Olruggio went lax. He swayed towards Qifrey’s hand, letting Qifrey hold up a portion of his weight. Olruggio always looked tired. If Qifrey carefully and deliberately kept himself hurting, Olruggio’s form of self-destruction came from reasons directly opposing—he simply forgot to take care of himself. The trust Olruggio held for Qifrey to keep him steady on his feet made Qifrey’s heart flutter anxiously; in this faith of Olruggio’s, Qifrey would always be wholly undeserving.
“You’re a hypocrite,” Olruggio complained.
Qifrey knew himself to be a lot of things. A hypocrite, sometimes. A liar, always. Guilt, ever present, squeezed at Qifrey’s heart as he smiled. “I know, my friend. Come, let’s make some pie.”
Once, in the first year of their adulthood, Qifrey and Olruggio had kissed.
After Olruggio’s birthday had passed, they went out to buy a bottle of willowgrape wine. They had both snuck the occasional drink before, but the freedom to do so without requiring approval had them giddy on a sense of newfound independence.
They were in Qifrey’s room. It was late—the streets of the Great Hall outside the window were quiet. They sat shoulder to shoulder on Qifrey’s bed, passing the bottle because they hadn’t thought to bring cups. The wine was heady and sweet, exactly the kind of drink Olruggio was partial to, and Qifrey started feeling it before they even got halfway through the bottle. His body slumped against the wall of pillows they had piled to act as a backrest. He tugged at the collar of his turtleneck, feeling a tad overheated. Beside him, Olruggio was somewhere between lying down and sitting, his legs sprawled out in front of him. A blanket was spread over both their laps. They’d been talking and drinking for half an hour; Olruggio’s words were already starting to slur. A slight flush had risen on his face, partially obscured by his scruff. A small lamp on Qifrey’s desk cast a gentle light across the room, catching on the frizzed ends of Olruggio’s hair, and Qifrey could not stop staring.
At some point—Qifrey could not identify exactly when—a sort of tension had sparked between them. Their peers talked of romance and dates and even the sort of intimacy that made Olruggio’s face go red all the way down to his neck, but Qifrey had never been drawn towards anyone but the friend who remained by his side. For Qifrey, there was only Olruggio, and there would only ever be Olruggio. For Qifrey, there would never be more than this. But he could not act on it, so he bundled up this near painful longing and tucked it away with his other half-lies and secrets.
“Qifrey,” said Olruggio. He looked to the side and their eyes met. Their faces were much too close, Qifrey realized, thoughts muddled by the wine. “You’re starin’.”
“Yes,” Qifrey admitted.
Olruggio sat up suddenly. Qifrey blinked. Olruggio’s hand reached out, and Qifrey went still as it settled on the back of his neck. Olruggio ran warm; it made Qifrey aware of every point of contact between them. Olruggio had twisted to look at him properly, and his knee pressed heat into Qifrey’s thigh.
Something Qifrey had a habit of doing was both over and underestimating Olruggio. When Qifrey had started to feel that sort of magnetism that had him noticing more things about Olruggio—like the way his nose scrunched up when a spell was frustrating him, or the trail of hair on his midriff that got exposed when his shirt rode up—Qifrey had been confident it would never go anywhere. Qifrey would never act on it, he could not act on it. And despite feeling Olruggio’s eyes on him too at times, he’d felt sure that Olruggio would never act on it either. Olruggio was patient and kind. Olruggio always put his needs last. Olruggio would not be bold enough to move in first. They could coexist like this, he’d thought, and he’d let the tension between them pull tighter and tighter without acknowledgement.
“D’you ever think about it?” Olruggio asked. His face was redder than it should have been from just the wine.
“Think about what?” Qifrey replied, inexplicably breathless.
Olruggio leaned forward. Qifrey should have stopped him—Olruggio gave him plenty of time to—but he didn’t. Their lips brushed. It was Qifrey’s first kiss. Based on the way Olruggio’s mouth landed on the corner of Qifrey’s rather than properly centered, it was Olruggio’s as well. The smallest of noises escaped from Qifrey’s throat involuntarily.
“That,” Olruggio said, blushing all the way to the tips of his ears as he pulled away.
Qifrey didn’t respond. His heart had started thumping dangerously quick, and Olruggio’s shoulders crept upwards the longer the silence between them stretched.
“Uh—sorry. I should’ve asked. Definitely should’ve—”
Qifrey surged forward, hands scrambling at Olruggio’s shirt as he kissed him back. Olruggio made a sound of surprise. His hands cupped Qifrey’s face as they kissed and then kissed again. Qifrey pressed closer and closer, practically climbing onto Olruggio’s lap. Olruggio took his weight and leaned back, hands going down to Qifrey’s waist to steady him.The blanket twisted around their legs until they were almost tied together. Qifrey kept kissing him, and Olruggio kept meeting him halfway—awkward and out of sync due to inexperience. Qifrey did not care, could not care, because it was Olruggio. His mouth was hot against his, and Qifrey couldn’t tell if the taste of willowgrape wine was from his own mouth or Olruggio's. It was too much. It was wonderful. It was terrible. With this, the balance Qifrey had managed to achieve started to spill over. Qifrey could burst from the immensity of it all. They kissed until Qifrey’s lungs and eye started to burn, until the noises he made began to hitch miserably. He jerked away with a shuddering gasp, then bent forward to press his face into the side of Olruggio’s neck.
“Oh shit. Shit. Qifrey.” Olruggio rubbed a gentle hand across his back. “Shh. It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Qifrey said, and it came out half a sob. “I can’t.”
“That’s okay,” Olruggio said, wrapping his arms tight around him. “We don’t have to.”
Qifrey could no longer cry from where his right eye had once been—the damage to the surrounding area was too severe; but from his left, tear tracks trailed down his cheek, dripping onto Olruggio’s collarbone. Qifrey pressed his lips together in an effort to keep quiet. Olruggio could not understand these tears. Qifrey had ensured that. He held Qifrey through it regardless, warm and solid and utterly clueless beneath him.
They had not kissed again since.
It was late enough that the girls had all retreated to their quarters. At some point midway through dinner, familiar dark splotches had begun to float in Qifrey’s view. Elbow deep in sudsy water while washing dishes, his left arm had gone tingly and numb. His dull headache, a constant unwanted companion, began to sharpen into throbs as the door to Coco and Agott’s room shut behind them, muffling an invigorated conversation about their lesson earlier that day. All that remained in the common area was the flickering light of the dwindling fireplace, the shadows creeping along the walls, and Qifrey himself.
Normally, the dark that came along with night eased his pain. But he’d been pushing himself in recent days—straining his eye while staying up late drafting lesson plans and reviewing the girls’ work. Olruggio had been away to deal with a client commission that couldn’t be handled long distance for nearly a week now, so the brunt of the housework had fallen on Qifrey’s shoulders.
He was tired. He could slow things down, but the girls were voracious, and he’d sooner suffer than deny their hunger to learn. He sank into the couch with a heavy sigh. He shut his eye against the firelight, and the pain lessened marginally.
Just one minute, he told himself. Just one minute to rest here. Then he would haul himself to his feet and drag himself to bed. One minute turned into five, and the next thing he knew a hand on his shoulder shook him awake.
“Qifrey.” A gruff voice spoke in front of him. “What’re you doing sleeping out here?”
Qifrey, still more asleep than awake, made a small noise of protest at the disturbance. The moments when he just woke were when he felt the best—before awareness fully returned and his body remembered to hurt. Olruggio huffed a laugh. A warm hand swept his hair from his forehead and pressed a palm to his skin.
“Are ya sick? You don’t feel hot.”
Qifrey let the weight of his head lean forward against Olruggio’s hand. “Mmm. No. Just tired. Sorry,” he rasped.
“Slow down then,” Olruggio said, trying to sound annoyed, but he couldn’t keep the fondness from his tone. Qifrey remembered to feel guilty then. He always, always felt guilty. He smiled despite it.
“Hypocrite.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Qifrey raised his head, squinting against the glare of the lamp Olruggio had lit when he’d entered. His glasses had slipped off his nose at some point and landed in his lap. The fireplace had gone out, and a chill had settled into their home. Qifrey shivered.
Olruggio looked more tired than usual; he had dark circles under his eyes and his scruff was more unruly than it had been when he’d left. There was a feeling of relief to him though—the kind that only came with finally coming home.
“How was work?” Qifrey asked, rubbing sleep from his eye.
“Done,” said Olruggio, flopping down onto the couch next to him. “For now at least. I need a fucking drink.”
“Wow,” said Qifrey with a short laugh. “I haven’t gotten to hear you swear like that for a while.”
“Well, we’ve got kids to look after now. Gotta set a good example.” Then he groaned. “Qifrey, we’re the adults. We’re the examples. That’s terrifying.”
“We’ve been adults for years,” Qifrey pointed out, sliding his glasses back over his face. He nearly sighed in relief as they brought the light in the room down to more tolerable levels.
“I know, I know,” Olruggio grumbled. “I just get reminded of it sometimes. Didn’t really sink in until the girls were around.”
Qifrey was so terribly fond of him.
“I understand,” Qifrey admitted. He unconsciously flexed his left hand, smile fading to a grimace at the pins and needles he hadn’t managed to sleep off. The pain in his head had lessened at the very least.
Olruggio’s hand closed against his left wrist and he gently pulled Qifrey’s arm towards himself.
“You hurt?” he asked, a frown turning his mouth downwards.
“No,” said Qifrey. “Only pins and needles. Must’ve slept on it odd.”
Olruggio hummed. He did not release Qifrey’s arm. Instead, his grip tightened. He held Qifrey still.
Every so often, even years after Olruggio had accepted Qifrey’s I can’t, that tension between them pulled taut. Olruggio’s eyes were a deep, dark blue, and at night they looked nearly black, even with the lamp casting light onto his face.
“Sometimes,” Olruggio said, “I feel like you’re hiding something.”
Qifrey closed his eye. He had not taken that night from Olruggio. He couldn’t bear to be the only one who remembered what that had felt like. He wished fiercely that Olruggio would kiss him again. He begged silently for Olruggio to let him go.
“I’m happy,” Olruggio told him, “with you and the girls. Are you?”
Qifrey opened his eye. Normally, such an admission would have Olruggio’s face deepening in color, but he looked deadly serious. The urge to tell him everything felt, suddenly, too immense to smother. His entire being ached for that kind of relief. He wished to fall forward into Olruggio, to give into that gentle safety he’d gotten a small hint of all those years ago.
Was Qifrey happy?
Qifrey pulled his arm free just enough to lace his fingers through Olruggio’s. Olruggio’s hands were pen-calloused and warm as always, even in the chill of the room. Qifrey cupped his other hand around their intertwined fingers, cradling Olruggio’s hand in his own. He lifted Olruggio’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it. Olruggio made a soft, startled noise.
“Of course I am.”