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“I’ll be leaving the Assembly at the end of the month.”
Qifrey, as always, announces this with as little tact as humanly possible. If it weren’t for the fact that he is currently positioned on the edge of Easthies’ bed: a singular blanket wrapped haphazardly across his shoulders and ivory hair tousled in ways that sleep could only dream of producing, he would have found the prospect of such a statement to be ludicrous.
There is something to be said about how vulnerable Qifrey tends to get after they lie together—especially in recent months—but honesty of this calibre is unusual, even for him. It’s something that Easthies has never understood, not when he and Qifrey have very little tying them together beyond a shared attraction and the mutual desire to do something about it. They are not beholden to each other in the way most witches in their position would be, and yet, Qifrey chooses to divulge such strange sentiments with him regardless.
He climbs onto the bed and starts combing through Qifrey’s hair with his fingers, and for once, the younger witch doesn’t stop him. The low light settles against his bare skin, soft in a way that he is typically not. There’s some irony to be found in that, especially when considering what Easthies has just been told, and though he might not typically be one for sentiment—not after a lifetime of discipline and restraint, he can’t help but want to humour him slightly.
“Why are you telling me this?” He can’t help but ask, carefully untangling the mess that is Qifrey’s hair. “It’s not as though you owe me such a thing.”
In typical Qifrey fashion, he shrugs his shoulders, which causes the blanket to cascade onto the bed, and more importantly, right onto Easthies’ lap.
“Because I know you’re going to object.”
He states that with a wistful sort of ease, the sort that only exists when a decision has already been made, when it cannot possibly be argued against. Easthies knows that he can’t stop Qifrey from leaving if he chooses to do so, but it’s less about the action of leaving itself and more the intention behind such a choice.
“And why shouldn’t I?” he asks in response, tone levelled but concerned. “Leaving the Assembly is practically unheard of.”
Qifrey tenses at the words, brief yet noticeable. “That doesn’t mean it’s illegal,” he counters, and though Easthies can’t tell from where he’s sitting, it’s likely his brows are furrowed in annoyance. “I’ve heard that there are some witches who choose to set up their Ateliers outside the confines of the Assembly’s walls.”
“Is that why you want to leave? So you can run an Atelier?”
“That is a reasonable career path, is it not?”
Instead of answering, Easthies moves his hands lower, trailing along the edge of Qifrey’s neck and massaging the area gently. There’s a litany of scars cascading along his back, some faint, of which were caused by him; others that he’s never cared to notice before—sharp, jagged lacerations that break the skin and twist it beyond repair. There is definitely a story there, and though this is hardly the time to ask about such things, he wonders whether it is connected to Qifrey's determination to leave.
It is difficult to imagine someone so hostile and antisocial running an Atelier otherwise. Qifrey is simply too reckless, too impulsive; his magic wild and unpredictable; his restraint thin and his temper sharp. Those qualities might be enticing on paper—for they are what drew Easthies towards him in the first place, but they are also dangerous, and without the supervision and order that the Assembly provides, he could easily spiral out of control.
As much as Easthies wishes that he could simply turn a blind eye, Qifrey is still an outsider: a loose cannon. One that may have softened into something more respectable over the years, but all it takes is a singular spark for all of that to come crashing down.
That is not a chance he is willing to take.
“I have nothing against the profession of teaching,” Easthies teases, and though it is meant to be light-hearted, it comes out as disinterested, dripping with insincerity. “I just wonder what caused you, of all people, to consider it?”
“Is that really relevant to the conversation at hand?” Qifrey snaps back, hissing at the unexpected contact. “It’s just like you said, I don’t owe you any explanations for my choices.”
It's a miracle Easthies has the patience to deal with Qifrey these days. Sentimentality is a waste on those who don’t deserve it, and every day, he is reminded why that is the case. “You don’t, no… However, you have a history of reckless behaviour, and your personality is hardly agreeable…”
If only to prove his point, he scores a line against one of the scars that have already healed, not sharp enough to bleed, but enough to sting—enough to sit uncomfortably against the skin; to serve as a reminder as to where they currently stand. It is one thing to entertain Qifrey’s reasoning, but he cannot allow such dangerous sentiments to fester, regardless of their current predicament.
Irritation seeps into Qifrey’s voice at the sensation; sharp and accusatory, and the slight wince that accompanies it is music to his ears. “Are you just going to insult me, or is there a point you are trying to make?”
“Very much so,” Easthies replies, nails digging into flesh once more. “My point is that you are hardly suited to be a Professor.”
Qifrey laughs at that. It is not a pleasant sound.
“Then you know me less than I thought.”
Clearing his throat, Easthies pays the insult no mind. He does not care for Qifrey’s childish taunts and will not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging them. “Don’t act as if you care about such things,” he says after a brief silence. “I have not once pretended to act as though I know you. Our arrangement doesn’t change that.”
“Why kick up a fuss then?” Qifrey asks in response, with the sort of curiosity that borders on ridicule. “I already told you that the decision was made. Or do you want me to change my mind?”
In a move far bolder than any that he is used to, Easthies turns to rest his head on Qifrey’s shoulder, letting his hair drape loosely over the younger man’s chest. It is far more intimate than anything else he has done in the time they’ve been together, but what better way to disarm someone than to feign vulnerability?
It matters not whether he actually cares about Qifrey’s career choices. If it were simply that, then he wouldn’t bother having this conversation whatsoever. The problem lies in the desire to leave; the desire to abandon the society that had given him a home in the first place. Nothing is stopping Qifrey from teaching within the Assembly, but as is to be expected, he is ungrateful. Regardless of whatever affection he can claim to possess, that is something Easthies cannot forgive.
“Not at all. I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”
Qifrey’s expression softens slightly, though whether it is genuine is a mystery that isn’t worth solving. “And what is so regrettable about creating a life for myself?” he asks, before twisting a strand of Easthies’ hair around his finger. “Or do you simply want me to be trapped here forever?”
Easthies fights the urge to roll his eyes, for only someone as insolent as Qifrey could describe the Assembly in such a restrictive manner. The laws laid out within the Pact might be ironclad, but they exist as such for a reason, and as much as he likes to spit in the face of the same rules that bind him, Qifrey knows this just as well as anyone.
“Do not forget you are beholden to the same principles as everyone else,” he whispers into Qifrey’s ear, low and cautious. “The protection granted to you will not last forever…"
“I am not a child in need of coddling.”
Of course, he isn’t, but that doesn’t mean Qifrey doesn’t keep choosing to act like it. This is exactly why he is so dangerous; he hasn’t learned that his actions have consequences, that the world does not bow down to his whims. One of these days, he will be forced to reckon with that, and when he does, Easthies won’t be there to save him.
He chuckles at the thought, sharp and derisive, before trailing a finger along the edge of Qifrey’s collarbone.
“Then maybe you should act like it.”
“So I can end up like you?” Qifrey teases, using his hold on Easthies to pull him closer. “Bored and restless; forever captive in a cage of your own making?”
“Our laws exist for a reason, and despite your complete and utter disregard for their existence, I intend to ensure that remains the case,” Easthies replies, choosing to ignore the particulars of Qifrey’s wording. “We exist away from the world as a means of protection, and while that may feel restrictive, it is only so our safety can be ensured.”
As expected, Qifrey dislikes that answer; he demonstrates as such by tugging on a strand of loose hair. “You sound like you’re reciting something, Easthies,” he laughs, though it is clearly without humour. “Do you ever think for yourself?”
Once again, that is hardly relevant to the matter at hand. He is the right hand of the law after all—simultaneously the judge, jury, and executioner, and if he were to debate on the semantics of the law and all that it entails, he would have little time for anything else. Peace in itself is fragile; the concept of peace that witches have created is even more so, which is precisely why it is so vital that it is protected. Besides, to question the Pact itself is paramount to treason, and unlike Qifrey, he has seen firsthand what the consequences are for questioning the natural order.
In response, Easthies wraps one of his arms loosely around Qifrey’s waist, lowering his voice into something akin to a whisper. “It is not my place to do so, and before you pity me, this is the life I have chosen.”
Before letting go of his hold on Easthies’ hair, Qifrey pulls him upwards. “And what a shallow, miserable existence it shall be,” he retaliates, clearly unimpressed by the answer he has been given. It’s only now that Easthies realises that he’s never seen Qifrey so close-up before, and his eye—the one that isn’t perpetually covered by his hair—glistens with something he can only describe as irritation.
“Is that what you want for me as well?”
“All I want for you is to be safe,” Easthies replies, with a sincerity he didn’t know he could possess; a softness that has been long forgotten. “Is that such a terrible thing to wish for?”
There’s a thoughtfulness in Qifrey’s expression as he says that, curious in a strangely unsettling manner. “Not at all,” he laughs. For a moment, it is gentle; in a way that he’s usually not. “Though for someone who seemingly doesn’t care about me, you always seem to have an awful lot to say.”
Easthies bristles at the accusation; the words sitting uncomfortably against his skin. Despite his horrific attitude towards most people, Qifrey has always been remarkably perceptive, and though he would usually dismiss whatever criticism he might throw his way, Easthies knows that there is some truth to his statement.
Qifrey’s existence in his life has always been a complicated one; an absurd outlier to the perfect order that he chooses to rely on; someone he wants but cannot truly have; dangerous in all the ways he cannot afford to be. All of these qualities are contradictory, confusing, and though Easthies knows better than to chase after them, he continues to do so.
It’s why he feels the need to rein Qifrey in; to put him on a leash and keep him close. A selfish desire, but what is one selfish act after a lifetime of restraint.
“Would you rather I not care about you at all?”
“If this is how you care about people, then you’re doing a terrible job of it,” Qifrey says after a moment, laughter soft but still grating. Typical of him to resort to childish insults instead of actual advice; Easthies should have known better than to expect anything less. “I really do wonder where you get the audacity from?”
He can’t stand to deal with Qifrey when he’s acting like this, but to withdraw now could be interpreted as a sign of weakness. So, Easthies adjusts himself slightly, retracting from his current position on the bed and throwing the blanket in Qifrey’s direction. It’s irritating that he has to go to all this effort for a man who refuses to cooperate with him, but he has never been the type to do anything by halves; he’ll be damned if he gives up now.
The blanket lands haphazardly on his face, and though Qifrey is quick to toss it on the floor, it’s clear he finds the action insulting. “Struck a nerve, did I?” He asks the moment Easthies stands up, petulant in tone. “And here I thought you had nothing but the most honest of intentions.”
It takes everything in Easthies not to scowl at him, but rather than let Qifrey get under his skin, he kneels at the foot of the bed, and as one hand is used to ground himself, the other reaches for Qifrey’s chest; fingers splayed across marred, mangled skin. “Maybe if you weren’t so insolent, we wouldn’t be having this discussion whatsoever,” he bites back, leaning into Qifrey as he does so. “Kindness is wasted on those who are arrogant enough to ignore it.”
Staring down at the sight before him, the irritation in Qifrey’s expression morphs into something even harsher: a singular cerulean eye swirling with sharp, biting disdain.
“Do you really think that this is an act of kindness?”
Easthies laughs at that; it comes out bitter. “It’s better than allowing yourself to fall into ruin,” he replies, with a condescension that borders on mockery. “I am merely looking out for you.”
“And who says I need your guidance?” Qifrey asks in response, grabbing onto Easthies’ lowered arm and gripping it with unusual force. “It’s like I said, you are nothing more than a bird trapped in its own cage; why should I listen to a word you say?”
That’s the second time Qifrey has described him in such a manner, and though it would be far simpler for Easthies to cast the accusation aside, there is only so much disrespect he can take. “If that is what you truly believe, then why tell me in the first place?” He asks this with an indignation that sounds foreign to his own ears, pushing Qifrey onto the bed as he does so.
Qifrey, using the hold he has on him, drags Easthies down alongside him. “My apologies for assuming you wouldn’t be suspicious of my every move.”
Easthies scoffs. It’s not like Qifrey makes that particularly difficult for himself. He is rude and hostile; weary and secretive; he does not play by the rules and has never pretended to do so. If it were anyone else, then Easthies would be at least somewhat inclined to trust their judgment, but with him, there is no telling what he could do; how far he could stray.
He uses one hand to steady himself, prying the other from Qifrey’s grasp. “Then it seems that we both know each other far less than we thought.”
There’s a pity to Qifrey’s expression as Easthies says that, a sympathy that is genuine and patronising in equal measure.
“And whose fault is that?”
Though it is clearly his intention to provoke, it is a trick question; one that neither of them is honest enough to answer. Easthies knows better than to open that particular jar of brushbugs, and Qifrey, who has never been truthful a day in his life, is hardly the kind of person who would reveal such a thing.
He laughs at the thought, as his free hand makes its way towards Qifrey’s neck; slender fingers wrapping around sinewy flesh.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
“So is it my fault then?” Qifrey asks in response. He struggles slightly against the grip around his throat, but the words find their way out regardless, constrained as they may be. “Do you truly take me for a liar?”
“If you were honest with your intentions, we wouldn’t be here, now would we?” Easthies sneers, his hold on Qifrey tightening as he does so.
The edges of Qifrey’s breathing become shallower, but that doesn’t stop his arm from reaching upwards—as a stray thumb caresses the side of Easthies’ cheek. His expression is oddly affectionate; superficial in its execution, but present nonetheless.
He refuses to be deceived by such an obvious act.
“What angle are you playing at here?”
Qifrey smiles, though it is without warmth. “The same one you were.” He laughs as he says that, hoarse and grating. “For someone so ‘honourable’, you’re awfully fond of using tricks to get your way.”
Before letting him continue, Easthies lets go of Qifrey, noticing that his voice is slowly teetering towards true breathlessness. The sound of coughing fills the room, and though Easthies knows he shouldn’t find satisfaction from that, he can’t stop himself from doing so; as much as he wants to prove a point, he would be remiss to allow evidence of his actions to culminate into something visible—something that could be used against him.
“And what else would you have me do?” He asks not a moment later, his own voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let you do whatever you please, flaunt the rules and spit in their face…”
Instead of replying, Qifrey uses the hand on his cheek to grab onto Easthies’ hair once more, pulling him closer as he does so.
“Or… you could simply respect my wishes.”
“Just as you have respected mine, I’m sure.” Easthies bites back, trying to pull himself away. “You truly are the worst kind of hypocrite.”
Despite their current predicament, Qifrey dares to roll his eyes—or at the very least, the eye that is visible to him. “That’s rich, coming from you.” He laughs, bitter and resentful. It seems as though he has finally snapped. “You speak of all these grand things; of protection and concern… and yet, all I see in front of me is a cruel, vindictive man.”
“Now, tell me Easthies,” he continues, tilting his head so that he’s looking directly up at him. “Do you get off to this? By holding me captive and deciding what you think is best for me?”
“Not at all,” Easthies lies, with the practiced efficiency of a man who has spent years doing so. He pries himself from Qifrey’s hold as he does so. “If there is anything I have learnt, it’s that you are impossible to reason with.”
He then goes to cup the edge of Qifrey’s chin, pressing harshly against his jaw. “Though, if you do leave, I will make sure you come to regret it.”
It’s obvious that Qifrey doesn’t believe him, if the look of sheer derision on his face is anything to go by.
“Is that a threat?”
If it were simply a threat, then Easthies wouldn’t be making it. There might be no proof of wrongdoing yet, but he has no doubt that Qifrey is hiding something from him. The day he finds out exactly what that is, Easthies will simply erase his memories, taking his childish rebellion and ridiculous notions of freedom along with it. A sacrifice; for there are few who challenge him so ardently, but one that he is undoubtedly willing to make.
There is only so long before the weight of Qifrey’s actions weigh down on him; though Easthies is not one to tempt fate, he will take immense pleasure when it does. “A threat is only made when one cannot keep a promise,” Easthies replies, his voice barely a whisper. “And unlike you, I intend on doing just that.”
“You are a fool, Easthies,” Qifrey replies, with an honesty that truly surprises him. “A hypocrite and a liar, but I have no doubt that you do.”
Easthies lets go of Qifrey as he says that, before retracting completely. There is only so much he can do, and if Qifrey doesn’t want to cooperate with him, then that’s his choice. To assume that this arrangement was remotely sustainable was a mistake; to try and maintain it was an error, and though Easthies is hardly sentimental—as sentiment is what got them into this mess in the first place, he supposes he will miss whatever they had.
"Well, I'd rather be a fool than a rebel.” He says in the end, and for a moment, Easthies allows himself to be truly vulnerable.
“It’s a shame you can’t agree.”