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“From now on, we won’t just be best friends… we’ll be partners in pain!”
“…Just think of it as telling lies only a friend would make. All I have lest to say is… um… just go easy on me, okay?”
Olruggio snores in his sleep.
Even without all the years they’ve spent tied to each other, bound by a promise only one of them remembers, Qifrey has had enough experience erasing Olruggio’s memory to know.
Olruggio snores in his sleep.
It starts slow: heavy breathing every few heartbeats, rough exhales like they’re scraping the walls of his lungs and catching every burden the man etches into himself, inhales that press against the back of his throat until his breathing comes out echoing and thick.
They’re soft snores. They only come during the late hours of twilight, when the sky is darkest and Olruggio is most relaxed. They always come when Qifrey erases his memory.
“You are cruel, Olly,” he mutters, knees tucked to his chest, watching him sleep. He’d rolled the man onto his back, adjusted his cape so it wrapped around and kept him warm, set his cap next to his head on his left while he took the spot on Olruggio’s right. “Leaving me with only this choice, each and every time.”
The stars twinkle above them. A cold draft blows over. Qifrey wraps his cape around himself tighter.
He thinks it ironic that Olruggio’s kindness is his salvation and his undoing—the link that keeps him alive and the torturous burden that prevents his peace.
He ought to be angry at him. He thinks a part of him is. The part of him that’s still the child who reached for Olruggio and planted his roots just outside of the Tower of Tomes, at peace with his fate—knowing Olruggio accepted him no matter what. The part of him that was forced to watch his only friend erase his own memories to save him.
But time tempers all emotions, and, even back then, Qifrey couldn’t find the energy to stay angry at him for long. It was Olruggio’s nature, after all, to sacrifice himself on the altar if it meant saving one more life.
He wishes he could, though. He wishes his chest could blacken with his loathing, that he could walk away from him forever, and the two of them could go their separate ways so Qifrey never has to steal his memories again. But it’s impossible. He can’t hate him. Not when he’s saved his life more times than he’ll ever know. Not when his kindness is the reason he is still alive.
He snags Olruggio’s coat between his fingers and grips tight, counts the space between each snore, closes his eyes and tucks his head in his knees. The parasite in him spreads its branches through his body like cold water in his veins. His stomach is leaden—a heavy reminder of the guilt that keeps him alive, the kind of person he is to erase his closest person’s memories every time.
He tilts his head, turns to Olruggio’s sleeping face.
“This would be easier if you weren’t so kind, Olly,” he says, smile on his lips, brows creased in pain. “If you didn’t forgive me each time for lying to you… if you didn’t comfort me after, I wouldn’t have to erase your memory. If you left, I’m certain that devastation would’ve been enough to keep me alive.
“But it’s not in your nature, is it? To see the worst in people. To abandon them at their lowest.”
He swallows roughly. His hand finds the satin of Olruggio’s ribbon on his cap. He runs fingers through the smooth fabric, thinks, he has to survive; he must survive, or every single memory he took from Olruggio would be for nothing.
If he lives long enough, then perhaps one day he can atone for every sin he’s performed on his dearest friend.
He wishes he was angry at Olruggio.
But he can’t be. Not when he knows he, too, would do anything to keep Olruggio at his side.
“Sometimes you can’t tell the truth, no matter how much you want to, or how much you trust the other person.”
“How are you feeling?”
He looks up from his teacup, watching Olruggio pull the chair across from him and settle in. Olruggio tilts his head, dark blue eyes pinned on him and catching the light of the candles.
Qifrey smiles and wraps his fingers tighter around his cup.
The muted wood scent of his atelier reaches him every time he breathes; it settles his nerves in the same way moths draw towards flames. After being in Ezrest for so long, it is surreal to have finally returned. A lifetime seems to have past in between.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “Tired, but fine. I’m glad to be home.”
“Yeah? I think all of us are.” Olruggio rubs the spot on his neck where that leech had bit him, rubs his temple against what looks like an incoming headache. “I’m sure the girls appreciate having their own space again. It’s good to finally return to just the six of us again.”
“Much has happened this Silver Eve.”
Olruggio snorts.
“A bit of an understatement.”
He smiles tightly.
“How are you?” he asks. “None of your wounds have returned, have they?”
“No. They’ve all disappeared. Like magic.”
“Haha,” he mocks. Olruggio tilts his head, eyes narrowed in the facsimile of a smile. Qifrey has the inane urge to reach over and cup Olruggio’s face.
“How is Coco?” Olruggio asks, voice even quieter. “She seemed lost in thought on the trip back. You did too.”
“You noticed?”
He scoffs.
“Give me some credit.” He feels Olruggio tap his shin with his foot, a flat look on his face. “I’ve known you since before we were the girls’ age. I’d think I know when you’re suffering inside.”
Qifrey blinks, and huffs. Decades later, and he is still no match for him.
“Coco is processing still, after everything,” he says. “And I’m alright. I’ve simply had a lot on my mind.”
“Care to share with the class?”
He runs his tongue along his teeth, feels his canine poke his tongue.
“Just reminiscing.”
Olruggio barks a laugh. Qifrey blinks in surprise and tilts his head.
“Alright. I can tell when you’re not in the mood to talk.” Olruggio smiles, crooked and ironic. His eyes look like they’re dancing with the flickering candlelight. Qifrey’s chest throbs. “If there is something, though, you know you can talk to me.”
He swallows roughly. Laughs softly.
“I know.”
Olruggio’s smile fades. He averts his gaze and rubs the back of his head. Age has made him awkward in ways he hadn’t been in his youth; maybe it’s because time has shown him the power of his words when strung together into something too close to a declaration. Still, Qifrey doubts Olruggio knows how much his words affect him.
Olruggio pushes his seat back and stands. He stretches, arms raised, hands touching the sky. Qifrey watches, following the line of his body, trailing up, up, up until he reaches his face.
“I’m turning in for the night.” He sets a heavy hand on his shoulder. The touch burns his skin. His chest writhes. He wants to give in and recoil back. “Don’t stay up long.”
His hand disappears. Qifrey’s body settles. He watches him walk down the hallway towards his tower, then looks back at his teacup. The tea is lukewarm now, and Olruggio had always been the better fire caster between the two of them.
Shining star. Radiant sun. Every secret Qifrey has been forced to keep, Olruggio has forgiven him. Every misgiving swept under the rug, Olruggio’s turned a blind eye to. He wonders if one person deserves so much grace, so much kindness, so much forgiveness.
He presses his lips together, tilts his head back, closes his eyes. He breathes in and feels the air expand in his body, the sweetness of it lingering on his tongue. When he exhales, the world shrinks in on him.
He wonders, sometimes, what will get to him first in the end: the silverwood or the guilt? His promise to Olruggio all those years ago, or his duty to Olruggio as his friend?
Were Olruggio to have it his way, he knows he’d force this loop to continue forever—for Qifrey to erase his memory and live with the guilt of it. He’d rather live in ignorance if it meant Qifrey could continue walking this fine line forever.
Selfish of him, though, isn’t it? When he isn’t the one who will remember.
If I knew that I was never meant to be saved, I would’ve stayed far away from you… the sky’s kindest, most radiant star.
The truth, plain and simple, is that he loves Olruggio.
He loves him, in his own convoluted way. He loves him, has loved him before he could conceptualize the feeling, will always love him even when he leaves.
His love is a twisted thing. As long as he has this seed in him, love will always be his salvation and his undoing; it feels only fitting that Olruggio fits it perfectly.
At times, he is grateful for it. It holds his peace at bay when he knows the one person he’d want by his side is the same person he betrayed whenever his life was on the line. Olruggio is forbidden, in that sense. A flame he can only admire—not keep.
But then, there are the days when he wishes to return to their idyllic childhood—before he knew of this parasite—when wants were easy and smiles held no falsities. There are days when he simply wants to hold and be held without the gnarled roots of the silverwood pinning him in his happiness, without his chest aching for something he could never have in the ways he wants.
He’d layer himself in blankets just to keep warm, hoard every contraption Olruggio has gifted him to stave off the feeling. At times, he’ll cave: crowd in the other’s space, tuck his head on his shoulder, place lingering touches on his arm or his back or his hands. He’d always felt like a greedy little thing each time—as if stealing Olruggio’s memories was not enough; he must also steal his warmth to feel alive.
There’s a word for this brand of desperation, of this level of dependency. He’d become addicted to Olruggio the moment he saved him and never bothered trying to recover. Every time he’s grown roots has always been because of Olruggio. The only reason erasing Olruggio’s memories anchors his flesh and bones so well is because he cares so deeply that causing him harm shakes the ground he stands on.
He’s always been a little helpless, and a lot hopeless, for Olruggio.
And yet…
And yet, despite his anger, his guilt, and his longing, it is not a bad life: being a teacher, living with Olruggio, loving. It is more than he could’ve asked for, more than he had thought possible.
The world is his oyster so long as Olruggio is here. Hiding declarations and binding promises, tucking them in the cavity of his chest, is a good thing when he walks the tightrope of life and death.
Besides, he wants to live. Desperately. He does not want to die. There are things binding him here that weren’t there in his youth, people he wants to watch grow as much as he is allowed, a home he wants to keep for a very long time.
He wants more time. He always wants more time. So, if loving Olruggio gives him more time, if mounting sin upon unforgivably forgiven sin gives him more time, if surviving means leaving his rotting heart in Olruggio’s gentle hands… then, the decision was always there, waiting.
He loves him. Plain and simple.
A rough hand shakes his shoulder, jostling him awake. He stirs, swatting half-heartedly at whoever is there.
“Knew I should’ve checked on you.” The voice is a gruff, far-away thing. The hand shakes him again, another supporting his head. “Come on, Qifrey. Your neck’s gonna be sore tomorrow if you sleep in this chair.”
He grumbles. His eye squints open. The kitchen lights are dimmed down to a muted glow. He’s sitting at the dining table. Olruggio is next to him, his hand a hot anchor on his shoulder. Qifrey leans closer, closes his eye again.
“I thought you went to bed,” he mumbles, the words unwieldy in his mouth.
“Was about to. Wanted to check and see if you kept your promise.”
He feels Olruggio’s arm slip around his shoulder, then hoist him up and off the chair. Qifrey stumbles, careening into the other’s side. His eye snaps open, considerably more awake now that he’s on his feet.
“To bed with you,” Olruggio orders. Qifrey blinks. His gaze roves up and down the other’s disapproving face. Then, he smiles, loose and lopsided.
“You of all people should not be scolding someone else on their sleep,” he teases, watching Olruggio’s brow raise.
“That is exactly why I’m tellin’ you to go to bed.” Olruggio pushes him in the direction of his bedroom. Qifrey stumbles, chuckles. He leans closer into Olruggio’s heat. “I tell it to the girls all the time. ‘Don’t be like me.’”
In the morning, he will blame this on his exhaustion.
“The world would be a better place if more people were like you, Olly.”
Olruggio scoffs. His fluster is loud and clear. Even now, Olruggio wears his heart on his sleeve and his emotions with pride—a trait Qifrey hopes never disappears for a man like him.
He smiles a little wider.
“What nonsense are you spouting?” Olruggio mutters.
Qifrey hums. His body thrums. The silverwood sapling shivers. He lets himself indulge for one moment more, stealing Olruggio’s presence for just a little longer.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit for all the good you bring to this world.”
Olruggio is a kind soul. When he helps, he never asks for much in return. That selflessness has sustained Qifrey for years.
As long as he is still here, he will make sure his friend’s greatest efforts are recognized. Especially the efforts he will never remember.
“Smooth talker,” Olruggio grumbles. He doesn’t meet Qifrey’s eyes.
Qifrey chuckles. He lets Olruggio drag him to bed, leans into his warmth for as much as he can allow. And when Olruggio has retired for the night, he will layer the blankets on him and pretend this brand of warmth is exactly what he craves.
Yes, he hopes to live on stolen time for as long as he can.