Chapter Text
The ghost of Qifrey's right eye burned cold the first time he neared an open flame. He was young. Young enough to know little beyond the damp dark of his tomb and the oceanic expanse of the Great Hall's waters. The night was a wet shiver that stuck to his limbs with an unshaking grip. Olruggio, by then more friend than acquaintance, felt Qifrey tremble near him and instantly started a fire with no more than his pen on the dregs of the forest's shadowy floor.
Qifrey kept far from the licking flames and farther still from the beaming Olruggio. But the fire's smokey dizzying warmth spared his curse no mercy.
Fires, like roots, need oxygen to grow. So as the fire grew hot enough for Qifrey's shivers to recede, the roots dormant in his eye clamored for nourishment — as though affected by the loss of oxygen regardless of their spellbound origins.
The clamor of his roots' movement told Qifrey: no matter how much you care for his warmth, he's not safe for you. No matter how much he cares for your coldness, you're not safe for him.
Later, despite the years and years of secrets and lies, the sting of his roots periodically climbed behind his eye. Down his neck. Into his spine.
Some nights, the roots slept through the fires and the laughs and the forgetting of his past and awoke only when he drifted off safely to sleep by Olly's side. Other times, it took just the flash of a smile, a question perfectly posed to prod Qifrey's secrets, a look that says "I'm not moving 'til you know I'm not leaving" that woke the curse and cut into his nerves without hesitation.
Other nights, like tonight, Qifrey's relief came from the anxiety of wondering whether Olly would come back from his latest work trip.
If Olly would still choose him, after all this time.
If he'd instead abandon him for a life of rest and prosperity while he's in his prime.
Qifrey tells himself he's never quite sure.
He knows he's lying. He knows the truth.
But what's one more lie, after all these years?
The sun has set, Olruggio's shadow is long gone, and the girls' impatient requests for a meal grow louder.
Until Olly returns, there's food to cook. Smiles to feign. Fires to fodder.
"Aggott! Tetia! Coco! Richeh! Come help me make some seafood and tomato soup!"
The chorus of cheers from the girls' quarters is enough to forget the shadow of Olruggio's absence. For now.
Dinner’s remains waft softly from the kitchen through the atelier, conjuring Qifrey's never ending to do list which ticks like a metronome and grows longer by the minute.
Wash the dishes. Scrape the kettlegourd. Conserve the leftovers. Refresh the fading seals. Make sure Richech got a hold of that spell and Tetia's clothes are pressed and Coco's in decent spirits and Aggott stops studying at a reasonable hour. Prep breakfast for Olly’s return. Review Brimhat research notes. Dry the laundry. Maybe sleep a wink or two.
Qifrey glances towards the kitchen window. The blue-black night glows in scatter of stars. He walks towards the window, leans over the sink, pushes open the glass. Cold air whips his cheeks and the stirring of nocturnal critters makes him feel less alone, if only slightly so. Their chittering reminds him of his childhood days exploring the Downs.
A wide open sky where we can live free. Happily ever after, right?
A sharp ache crosses Qifrey's side.
He got what he wanted. The atelier under the open sky. His best friend by his side.
But there's too much warmth and too much love and it makes the pain in the ghost of his eye grow wild.
Qifrey tries to snap out of it, to listen to the beat of his to do list, to see the sadness and frustration on the girls' faces if the kitchen’s a mess and there's no food to greet them in the morning, to think of the chances Olly discovers his lies and and returns to Qifrey demanding answers and wearing faces of disappointment and anger and betrayal.
The pain recedes.
He gets to work. Draws and reorganizes and reseals and stacks and repairs until all that's left is the cooking for the morrow and he's all but lightheaded with the strain.
If Olly were here, he’d be forced to slow down. Forced to force a laugh. To fake a smile until it’s real. To be reminded of the thousand and one reasons why he loves Olly. Why he can’t bear to see the cycle of deception and discovery and forgiveness play out across Olly's face again and again and again.
How long has his list of sins grown? How long will it grow until his house of cards crumbles, fast as the Staircase River?
Qifrey pours himself a glass of water. Sips as he slowly climbs the stairs, checks in to see if the girls are asleep. Their lights are all out. He heads outside to let the evening chill crawl into his bones.
He could have taken a lamp with him, but he craves the cover of darkness.
Besides, a lamp would dampen the warmth of the snugstones Olly had so thoughtfully gifted him.
Qifrey walks away from the Atelier, towards the vast expanse of wilderness, until the Atelier looks a fraction of its size. The house is calm. Quiet. Almost dark -- but the lights are on in Aggott’s room. She must have turned them on when she heard Qifrey step out. As usual, she’s working when she should be resting.
Like student, like teacher.
Without Olly here tonight, the splatters of countless stars across the night sky seem to mock him. No matter how hard you try, they say, you'll be heaven and earth away from the sky’s kindest, most radiant star.
He wanders towards a nearby boulder large enough to conceal his figure. Sinks down until his weight is held firmly by the ground and supported by the rock.
The anxiety of being discovered or seen or caught — by whom, it matters not — sharpens Qifrey’s senses and keeps the potential pains at bay.
To be safe, Qifrey removes his cloak, lets the chill bleed into a cold that bites through the cloth of his undershirt. He moves the snugstones out of his pocket. Places them just close enough to keep frostbite away. He closes his eyes. Tunes out the sky's lights, focuses only on his star.
It’s embarrassing, he knows, but at the thought of Olruggio, Qifrey reaches out to trace the invisible line of Olly’s jaw to the tender shift where skin turns to goatee turns to neck.
There, right there, is where Qifrey would start his ravishing. Gentle kisses that yield just enough of a gasp that lets Qifrey bite, tenderly, until the gasps give way to moans, and Qifrey's kisses travel up the neck to Olly's ear, where he could finally admit what he’s been hiding from his Watchful Eye for both of their sakes.
There’s nothing but adrenaline and unmet need motivating his movements now. Qifrey touches his thighs, yields to the ever fleeting hope that one day these may be Olly’s hands running their way up, and up, and towards the tenderness where leg and hip meet, where the promise of fulfillment lurks inches away.
The shame of feeling good of feeling needy of feeling lost of feeling anything at all when he should be at home, should be long gone, should be still underneath the coffin in Tristas steadies him. If he's going to feel good, it will, it must, it must always, come at a cost.
He palms himself over his pants. Imagines Olly's calloused ink stained hands instead of his own. He's always wanted hands less slender, always wanted hands that were rougher, rough enough to rip out the branches growing inside of him, rip out the mistakes the lies the secrets from his past and present and future.
Nevermind that. Qifrey focuses on Olly's hands for their intended purpose now. It's Olly's hands reaching into his clothes, Olly's breath against his face whispering be good, enjoy this, you're going to enjoy this for me, Olly's fingers wrapping around his shaft, wet with a substance he’d have crafted just for him, just for this moment, just for his pace to get faster and rougher until Qifrey's on the edge of release, until all that's left is the hitch of his breath and the whispering of fuck, Olly, fuck, and the shame and pleasure and lust of fulfillment and the mess in his hand and the wonder if Olly does this too, if Olly pictures Qifrey's face, imagines Qifrey's touch, comes to the thought of Qifrey, too.
Qifrey reaches for a nearby handkerchief with one hand, wipes away the mess in the other. Stares out into the night with no thoughts, only feelings of emptiness, and midnight hunger, and yearning for something he knows will always be just out of reach.
Slowly, breathing heavy, blinking stars, Qifrey puts on his cloak, pockets his snugstones, steadies his way back to the Atelier. Silently washes up and changes and heads to the kitchen to work on the next day's breakfast.
In the shadow of the night, Olruggio of the torch lingers outside.
He may or may not have witnessed his best friend doing something he can't say out loud.
He wonders how — wonders whether — he should return home tonight.
His stomach grumbles.
He finished his trip rations hours ago.
Home is the place where the hearth is. And the food. And the wine.
And the best friend who came while moaning his name.
Shit, Olruggio sighs.
So much for a warm welcome.