Work Text:
When I think of desire,
it is in the same way that I doGod: as parable, any steep
and blue water, things that are always
there, they only waitto be sounded.
And I a stone that, a little bit, perhaps
should ask pardon.
Carl Phillips, "Hymn"
Qifrey hadn’t noticed it when they were younger. But over time, he had discovered something about Olruggio: while he just saw him as Olly, others saw him quite differently—in ways that weren’t straightforward and sometimes didn’t even resemble the Olly that he knew.
To teachers, he was a prodigy: his mastery of casting was impressive, and although he bent rules, he also possessed a knack for invention. To their fellow apprentices, he was a mystery; he spoke with a thick Northern accent, drew sigils they’d never seen, and no doubt had thrilling stories from his time in Noz that he always got out of sharing. To Master Beldaruit, he was Qifrey's friend, which embarrassed Qifrey almost as much as it pleased him to hear.
And to the girls with whom they'd studied magic and, now, nearly every woman they encountered in town, he was Olruggio of the Torch.
They'd only just ambled into the Kalhn textile shop when Qifrey caught sight of the short young woman working. She had a round face, rosy cheeks, flaxen hair. Her eyes had locked on Olruggio as soon as they’d entered. She made no attempts to hide her interest, and in fact she seemed intent on making her presence known. Though they were the only customers in the shop, their arrival drew her out from behind the counter and in between the dusty, sunlit aisles.
Olruggio, for his part, thumbed through dyed wool samples as though he hadn't noticed. He likely wouldn't.
But Qifrey always noticed. Sometimes this left him as a voyeur: staring at someone staring at someone else. But other times, like today, his fixed presence at Olruggio’s side made him an involved party. There was always a delay, then a moment in which Qifrey became visible and the women realized he might be of help. Some of them were too scared to approach Olruggio outright—they’d built up a more intimidating version of him in their heads, had never heard him laugh wildly or watched dimples form when he smiled. Instead, they’d set their sights on Qifrey. Talk to him, or at least look at him imploringly, as though getting in his good graces might earn them the Torch’s attention.
He never felt like helping them.
"May I help you find anything, sir?" the woman asked, abandoning the counter and flashing a wide smile. Olruggio did not look up to see it.
"Just browsing," he said.
"Alright! You'll let me know if you need help, I trust."
Her rosy cheeks turned a deeper color. Qifrey's jaw tightened, and he knew what would follow; they always made it so obvious.
"And, say—you're Olruggio of the Torch, aren't you?"
Olruggio had only begun selling contraptions full time within the last few years, ever since they'd struck out on their own. For the first time, their atelier had provided Olruggio a private workspace, and now he could work nocturnal hours without interruption, without Qifrey nagging him to turn off their bunk's shared light. He'd released almost a dozen new contraptions since he'd entered the market, a pace that even the most experienced witches in the region struggled to match.
The Glowstone Path, Link Rings, a floating stove top. Fire was his trademark. A calling card of sorts. As it happened, he and Qifrey couldn't usually make it through a brief errand trip without someone calling upon him. Expressing awe and adoration, asking for discounts, asking for favors of a more personal nature.
One of Olruggio's furrowed brows lifted at the woman's question. He looked up from the fabric samples.
"Ah. Eh, yes."
"Yes, I knew it!” she said. “I have such admiration for your work, sir.”
"Oh, well. That's kind of you,” Olruggio smiled and gave a polite nod.
“The Link Rings are a lifesaver, you know."
A hand to the back of his neck. “Ah, good, I’d hoped they’d be of use.”
"And the Glowstone Path! Were you really only an apprentice when they went on the market?"
She rattled off praise, and Qifrey watched as Olruggio accepted it. The first few times he’d been swarmed by fans, Olruggio had shriveled like a flower petal. Now he was well practiced. He smiled. He graciously accepted her words. He was charming, even. It was a performance, nonetheless.
Qifrey found himself bemused, but there was another emotion beneath it: difficult to decipher, on the edge of bothersome.
“I appreciate your support, miss,” Olruggio said.
Miss. It sparked oddly in Qifrey's chest, like a flint striking itself.
The woman's hand landed innocently on Olruggio's forearm and stoked the heat.
“Excuse me,” Qifrey said. He’d barely glanced at the selection of fabrics, but he asked, “May I have your assistance with some sample swatches?”
This eventually got them out of the shop. Qifrey left with three fabric swatches stuffed inside his cloak, none of them suitable for his future apprentices. Now, as they finished their last walk of the marketplace, he glanced up at the sky.
The sun hadn’t fully risen until after they’d arrived, and already it had started its evening descent. In Qifrey’s periphery, Olruggio was growing antsy: he rubbed the side of his neck, checked his timepiece, swore under his breath.
“Everything alright?” Qifrey asked.
Olruggio looked over his shoulder, then at his timepiece again. "I’d meant to stop by the Starry Sword, but it’ll have closed by now. Every time we go to Kalhn, it’s like this—I blink. The daylight’s gone.”
"Tell that to your girls.”
"My what?"
Perhaps Qifrey needn’t have brought it up, but it was too late to take it back now. "Don't tell me you don't notice, Olly."
"I'm sure I don't."
"The girl in the shop. The girls in every shop. Not to mention the produce woman, and the bookkeeper, and that Knight, how he always looks at you—”
Olruggio scoffed. “You’re not serious—”
“They all do! They practically throw themselves at you. You’re the Torch everywhere we go."
He expected Olruggio to bicker back, but no words followed. His feet slowed, and he shot Qifrey a sharp look. His thick brows framed an unreadable stare. When Qifrey couldn't bear to meet his eyes any longer, his gaze dropped. A faint flush colored Olruggio’s cheeks, and further down his face were the sparse beginnings of a beard.
Qifrey couldn’t think of what to say. "How about Blaze Bean Soup for dinner?"
"Soup is fine," Olruggio said. "But I need to work. Probably won't be hungry."
It was blunt. Ice cold water poured over his head.
Olruggio picked up the pace again, and Qifrey found himself trailing behind. He followed, but left a berth of several wide steps between them.
They walked home in silence.
Although he hadn't been able to lure Olruggio out of his workshop with dinner, alcohol did the trick.
When they'd still lived at the Great Hall, they’d never frequented the nearby pubs. Only once had Qifrey snuck a hefty bottle of wine from Beldaruit's private chambers. After one drink, Olruggio had gotten quite literally sick with guilt. He hadn’t touched Willowgrape Wine again until after they’d graduated.
Now they sat across the hearth from each other, and Qifrey watched Olruggio drink from a half-empty bottle of it. Condensation collected wetly on his fingertips where he gripped its slim neck. Hot flickers of light jumped from the fireplace and glanced off the angles of his face—still soft, but hardening with age. He finished the bottle, refilled his glass with something else, and drank without remorse.
Qifrey liked this evidence of change, of life. He found immense satisfaction in sitting in front of Olruggio, looking at the Olruggio of his boyhood and the Olruggio of Naakiwan Downs, and making sense of what he saw. With Olruggio, he always could.
He'd heard enough stories about young witches, bright and full of promise, snapping like frayed rope once they reached adulthood. Olruggio had picked up some bad habits. Little sleep, even less light, no iron, more wine than water. Qifrey developed his own habits, too, and they tended to complement Olruggio’s—sprouting up like flowers growing in the gaps between stones. He dimmed the lights when Olruggio dozed off on the sofa. He took Olruggio to Kalhn when he’d gone days without sunlight. He left food outside the door to his workshop.
And in the evenings, he drank Olruggio thoroughly under the table.
"If I'm to take an apprentice, I must make more progress upstairs," Qifrey said, leaning back against the sofa. His soup sat on the table, barely touched, but he was making good progress on his own handle of Silvernectar Wine. He undid one of the black straps around his neck; sometimes his skin chafed if he didn’t loosen it. Still, relaxation didn't come to him.
"Mhm," Olruggio said.
"I've made a bed, but she'll need a desk. Spell books, too. And robes! But the tailor in Kalhn has fallen off," and he said this with a touch more distaste than he might've otherwise, "so if I'm to take on and keep an apprentice, I'll need to have them made elsewhere."
Olruggio didn't even dignify this with a grunt. In spite of the sting, Qifrey waited, and waited. He watched Olruggio finish his drink in one swallow, his Adam's apple rising and falling like the tide.
The sight incensed Qifrey. It drove him mad. His face burned underneath the glow of the fire.
"Very well, let's have it out," he said.
Olruggio stopped mid-pour. "Is there something to have out?"
"You've barely spoken a word since the afternoon."
"There wasn't much to say."
"After three drinks, you tend to catch up. And then some."
Olruggio eyed him. He seemed to think it over, face creasing in concentration. He palmed at the side of his neck. Qifrey wondered what it must be like, to have such an obvious tell.
"The girls. It was the—that comment you made." Olruggio spoke slowly, but his voice didn’t shake. "I wish you hadn't said it."
"Oh," Qifrey said.
He remembered all too well Olruggio's sensitivity as an apprentice. He loved to joke and roughhouse and bicker—but he lost all good humor when he was teased. More often than not, the teasing had revolved around Qifrey, and all the time they spent in each other's company. Confusion had swelled in Qifrey's gut every time they were ribbed. Olruggio had only ever reacted with bluster and his adolescent scowl. A prodigy and an outcast, one of the Great Hall's most incessant rumors—it was easy to understand Olruggio's hatred, when he had a far better reputation to uphold.
Of all Olruggio's neuroses, Qifrey hadn't expected that one to follow him into adulthood.
"Apologies, my friend," he added. "I won't make another."
"'S alright," Olruggio said.
Then he reached for the handle of Willowgrape. As he poured, his chalice lengthened in his hand, a deep magenta liquid always on the verge but never spilling over the rim.
His white shirt fell open at the collar. The leather laces hung loosely. They unthreaded a centimeter at a time, revealing a stark sliver of his chest. The hair there was coarse and dark, far more prominent than his suggestion of stubble. Qifrey hadn't expected it. Why would the thought have crossed his mind at all?
He always made sure to keep his wits about him when he drank with Olruggio. Now he remembered why. If he wasn’t careful, alcohol made a mess of his impulse control.
"Olly," he said.
"I told you, it's fine. Water under the bridge."
"But I do have a question." Qifrey pressed. "It's just—your beard. Is it for… that is, to attract w—"
No sooner had Olruggio taken a drink than he began to cough raggedly, his eyes wide, his face the same shade as a rose apple tart.
"No, Qifrey—certainly not."
"I was only asking."
"You said there'd be no more comments!"
"A comment differs from a question," Qifrey said, holding up his hands. His mouth twitched, and he tried not to smile. As the night had stretched on, that unpleasant mood he'd felt at the tailor shop had faded. It still lingered, a gnawing agitation, worn down around the edges. But now all the women, all the shop girls and fans, remained outside the atelier. Inside, it was just the two of them and the lull of the crackling fire.
"If that is the purpose, you may need to reconsider," Qifrey added. "I believe women in Kalhn prefer a clean shave—"
"That's why I did it."
Qifrey didn't speak.
Olruggio stared down at the rug. His face had reddened twice over. It couldn't all be from the fire, which was in bad need of rekindling. Flares of orange and crimson only seemed to touch Olruggio, leaving the rest of the atelier unscathed.
"I'm not sure I understand—"
"Women don't like them," Olruggio said flatly. "I don't like women—not interested, I mean. So I thought I'd grow one. A lot of good it's done me," he added, an exposed laugh hanging in the air.
The fire had begun to cry out: embers flashing, ash building up at the base of the fireplace, deeper shadows folding over two bodies.
Though he attempted to pass it off as looking around the room, Olruggio was unpracticed in his deception. His eyes drew upwards to Qifrey, only settled for a beat, then returned to the shrinking fire like a sight spell set on a swivel.
Qifrey made no attempts to look away. He wasn't sure if he could. He kept his face neutral. A smile could get him whatever he wanted—he'd learned this from Olruggio. For that to work, he would've needed to know what he wanted.
"No women," he said. "No one, then? Or…"
"Men." Olruggio took another drink. This time he didn't choke.
Like a forest fire, a flush overcame Qifrey's face.
All the animosity he'd cast toward the girl in the tailor shop. The irrational glares he'd thrown at every woman under the sun, save for Alaira.
It was the—that comment you made, Olruggio had said. I wish you hadn't said it.
Something shame-shaped surged inside Qifrey. Not guilt. Embarrassment. He'd thought fleetingly of it before: Olruggio with a woman. Now he understood why he'd never been able to imagine it with clarity. Had that always seemed so far-fetched? Had Qifrey always known?
"Well," he huffed, "you needn't have hid it from me."
"I know, I know that."
"Then why did you?"
"I’m not hiding it. Just never came up," Olruggio shrugged. "Doesn't bump up my vacation time, so."
Those hazy, unclear ideas of Olruggio and a nameless, faceless woman faded easily; they were replaced by a scene that was, to Qifrey's surprise and annoyance, far easier to imagine. It felt almost invasive, an actionless peering through a looking glass. A man would fit well within Olruggio's dim, cluttered workshop; the lack of furnishing didn't suit a wife, but a man wouldn't have a problem with the barren stone walls, the simple hammock, the half-drafted spells everywhere.
He studied Olruggio. He had dexterous hands. Stubble sat atop his delicate features. His mouth was soft, pink. It wasn't hard to picture him looking just like that in private, atop his work desk, on his knees.
Blood rushed in Qifrey's ears, as though it might drown him. He clutched the right side of his face. His fingertips dug into the empty eye socket.
"Qifrey? I'm sorry if I shouldn't have told you."
"No, no, it's no problem."
Olruggio clasped his hands in front of himself, fidgeting with his chalice—as though it were delicate like an icicle, fragile and man-made rather than magic. He leaned closer. Qifrey felt lightheaded. Fondness and despair and recklessness tangled in his stomach.
"Have you ever…" Qifrey couldn't say it.
"Ever what?"
"With a man."
Olruggio's gaze dropped. Though he stopped wringing his hands, he didn't retreat back to the edge of the rug.
"No time. Too many orders. Haven't been in the mood to look. And—never mind."
Of its own volition, Qifrey's heart soared. There was a safety to the omission, and yet he wanted Olruggio to finish his sentence.
He didn't get a chance to request it.
"No teasing, alright? But," and Olruggio gestured to his mostly bare face, "I've got to wait til it grows in."
Qifrey toyed with the curved handle of his empty glass. "Really."
"I've heard it's more popular with—you know."
"I see."
If the agitation Qifrey felt back in Kalhn had been a rainstorm, then this felt like a torrential downpour. A lightning strike. When he breathed, the smoke from the dying flame tasted bitter like Thornbark. Perhaps Olruggio had inched closer on his own, but he wasn't all to blame. Qifrey had shifted to mirror him.
And because he was close enough to do so, he reached forward and pressed his hand to Olruggio's cheek.
His skin was smoother than he might've imagined, but the uneven patches of stubble had a bite to them. Qifrey delighted in running his fingertips over the uncharted territory. "Off to a strong start."
"Don't lie."
"I've done nothing of the sort."
Qifrey ran his thumb up and down, slowly curving to Olruggio's cheekbones. His blue eyes shone darkly, a microcosm of the night sky. The skin underneath was dark and sunken. In his face, Qifrey saw something so exposed. Far from an accidental tell. No, the choice to reveal himself was clearly his own.
Olruggio wanted to be kissed badly. Moreover, he wanted Qifrey to know this.
"Qifrey," Olruggio said. "Is this—is it alright?"
Gone was the spell-like reverie that had once surrounded them. They weren't just witches; they looked at each other intently and red in the face, as people.
Qifrey didn't offer a yes. He couldn't. He'd stepped so close to the edge that he couldn't conceive of a world where he would not jump. A smile might've taken over his mouth. He was weak to Olruggio's burning cheeks, his earnest expression.
He gripped Olruggio's chin—so tightly, he frightened himself a little. In the final space between them, he hesitated.
Olruggio closed the distance and kissed him on the mouth.
It tasted like a fever, like something long-awaited and stolen. It only lasted a few seconds before Olruggio reeled back. He wore a startled expression, as though he'd been possessed and was now grappling with an involuntary sin. Qifrey hadn't moved his hand.
"I'm sorry," Olruggio said in one breath. "I shouldn't have—"
Qifrey interrupted him with a fierce, deliberate kiss. Two seconds went by, then three, then time began to stretch, and clearly Olruggio had no plans to finish his sentence.
Qifrey's hand slid from Olruggio's chin and up his jawline. Only for a moment did he linger there before exploring further and palming his way down his neck. Olruggio's skin was hot. His breath was hot. He gasped against Qifrey's mouth. Qifrey took the opportunity to taste it, to part his own lips and make each sensation more complex and thrilling. Olruggio’s chalice fell from his hand but did not break; in the absence of glass shattering, all Qifrey could hear was heavy, quick breathing and a needy gasp or two.
They'd done this a few times before. Definitely not to this extent, and not with any frequency, but it had happened. They'd been little more than boys the first time; Qifrey remembered clutching the quilt in a white-knuckled grip, and surely Olruggio did the same, arms pressed to his sides like a cadet standing at attention; there was no touching involved, just their mouths pressed together, an act that had taken a lot of careful consideration and coordination to pull off the mechanics and had still resulted in a clumsy, unremarkably chaste kiss. Qifrey could count each subsequent time. The first time Olruggio got drunk as a teenager. The first time they got drunk together. One time (of many) that branches and leaves would've consumed Qifrey limb by limb, were it not for Olruggio intervening.
It had been easy enough to write off. Boys being boys. He'd never stopped and thought about whether he'd done anything like that, had wanted it, even, with anyone other than Olruggio.
With every pulling apart and coming back together, each unsure tangle of lips and tongue, something surprised Qifrey. It was the release of muscle tension when Olruggio's hand found his lower back. The full-body sigh that left Olruggio when Qifrey tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth. Qifrey thought of the way anxiety could nest deeply in one's chest and, rather than recall from experience, he imagined how it might dissipate. This urge finally satisfied was not just Olruggio's.
Where had the feeling first originated? Qifrey couldn't separate the desire that lived in his body with every attempt he'd made to quash it. To keep it contained, if not rid himself of it completely. He'd always attributed it to adolescent hormones, and then to the confusion of adulthood, and then to the relative isolation of his atelier. Now his hands roved past Olruggio's clavicle and settled on his chest, each fingertip gifted him with new information—the fact that Olruggio's hair was not just dark, but coarse, the places where no hair grew and there was bare skin that looked untouched, like a private thing.
As he felt the pliancy of Olruggio's otherwise stocky frame, he could admit to himself that those might have all been excuses, and that he was running out of creative ones. Maybe his desires couldn't be blamed on desperation or boredom. Maybe they just were.
Olruggio leaned back, causing Qifrey to tilt forward. But to his surprise, Olruggio didn't try to haul himself back up. He seemed to willingly accept the new imbalance between their bodies—he might've even wanted it.
Leaning back on his elbows, he looked up at Qifrey. The fire illuminated half of his face, turning his brown skin into different shades of a sunrise. His expression could only be described as expectant.
Qifrey's face burned, but it wasn't triggered by embarrassment. He only felt impatience as he shifted his weight forward. He pushed Olruggio down onto his back.
A rush of breath left Olruggio's mouth as his spine met rug-covered stone, and Qifrey reveled in the weakness he heard in the sound.
"My back's already bad," Olruggio said. "Don't make it worse."
"You're far too young to be saying that." Qifrey kissed him again. The stone floor wasn't cushioned, and Qifrey wouldn't have liked being pinned down there. But Olruggio stayed where he'd put him. That had to mean something.
Though Qifrey had no trouble kneeling next to Olruggio's supine form as they kissed, the position would grow uncomfortable eventually. With the same uncertainty of an apprentice drawing their first spell, Qifrey swung a leg over Olruggio's, then the other—he heard an involuntary hitched breath—and resituated himself squarely between his knees. He steadied himself, one hand on Olruggio's shoulder as the other smacked the floor.
Qifrey had anticipated some knocking knees as they navigated seemingly incompatible limbs. What he hadn't expected, though, was how easily Olruggio's legs fell open. He hadn't even tried to slot himself between his thighs, and yet he'd been offered ample space in which to settle.
This suggested a thing or two about Olruggio's inclinations that made his pulse thud wildly.
The fire had nearly gone out, and then it surged back to life in Qifrey's periphery. Of course Olruggio would've ensured this; he'd been experimenting with spells for the fireplace ever since they'd built the atelier. This one mimicked the shifting colors of sunrise and sunset, but nightfall didn't extinguish the flame. Qifrey realized, a little irrationally, that this was something he liked a great deal about Olruggio's magic.
He leaned down, intending to kiss him again. But then he thought of something. A grin spread across Qifrey's face, and he placed his mouth near Olruggio's ear.
"Will you still be returning to work, Olly?"
Olruggio groaned in response—a deep, resonant sound that Qifrey felt underneath him more than heard. His mouth got closer, only by a centimeter or so, and he felt the shell of Olruggio's ear against his lips. He didn’t think it was particularly erotic, but again it drew the most pleasing noise out of Olruggio.
"Can your commissions wait until the morning?" Qifrey asked.
"That's not fair."
“Well, we could always stop if you’re too busy.”
"Qifrey—" More than anything else it was a rasp of breath, and Qifrey wished that it might have been said directly into his ear. Then again, it might've ruined them both sooner than he wanted.
Tugging, tugging, hands working at the black fabric covering his neck. Qifrey's body seized. The highest tie came loose, exposing his Adam's apple. Olruggio's fingers were deft—always drawing precise spells, fiddling with contraptions—but each tie took some time to unfasten.
"Trickier than they look," Olruggio muttered.
"Have you been looking?"
”Oh, shut up."
Qifrey smirked. Every time Olruggio so much as brushed his skin, he felt hot everywhere. The jealousy he'd felt earlier, smoldering and incessant, was nothing compared to the dizzying heat of this.
All at once: Olruggio's mouth was on his bare neck, and then it was the only thing Qifrey could feel. Every sensation thrashed around in his body. He could’ve been burning; he could’ve been drowning; he felt neither and both at once.
Olruggio started at the hollow of his throat, where his untied turtleneck parted and hung open, a severe V.
He kissed his throat earnestly, in a way that made Qifrey sad. With every moment he felt Olruggio closer, felt him more, in new ways. But when he’d kissed him there, the earth seemed to disappear beneath Qifrey; he felt far away; as though Olruggio had reached for him and he’d made the choice to let him down.
Black spots overtook Qifrey's vision. Whatever Olruggio was doing with his mouth had devolved into licking. He panted, his breath like steam. He bit down.
At first Qifrey only felt fear, but once the panic subsided, a throbbing ache bloomed where teeth met skin. One's mind could've only interpreted the feeling as pain, and Qifrey's did. But strangely, it was as though he'd been plunged into frigid water, paralyzed, only to discover that if he stayed submerged, the water would turn warmer—or rather, the cold wetness would become thrilling, something he wanted.
"Olly."
"What?"
"You can't just—" Qifrey gasped and squeezed his eye shut; Olruggio had only released his skin for a moment before biting him again. This time it was an insignificant spot underneath his clavicle, and this time Olruggio stayed put and sucked on skin. Qifrey fought the trembling in his legs; soft shocks of pleasure coursed through him, relentless like a repetition sigil.
"What is it I can't do exactly?"
Qifrey's eye fluttered open. He reeled back, still sprawled atop Olruggio, to see him staring up at him. Though he was disoriented, he realized that Olruggio had stopped and was flat on his back once more. He'd become less expressive as they'd grown up, dropped fewer grins and explosive laughs. Now, however, the self-satisfied gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.
How long had Qifrey stayed, seeing nothing and holding his throat taut, all in hopes of feeling that way again? A flush no doubt covered most of his body, but the worst of it was smeared across his face where anybody, Olruggio included, might easily see it.
"You're incorrigible."
And, hearing himself becoming breathless, Qifrey stopped talking in favor of what they'd been doing before.
At this new angle, it was easier to take what he wanted, to have Olruggio in the ways he'd once imagined. And as Olruggio's lips parted easily, Qifrey allowed himself the transgression of deepening the kiss; he chased those sounds that had emerged from Olruggio's mouth already. He hoped to hear them from up close, and learn what each tone tasted like. He found, too, that Olruggio didn't struggle underneath him; it was out of character, almost, as he'd never shied away from roughhousing and wrestling when they were boys. Now his back arched, and his chest rose and fell quickly, but he made no attempts to throw Qifrey off of him. If he wanted to regain the high ground, he didn't show it.
And although he seemed uninterested in taking control, Qifrey still grappled for his wrists. Without breaking the kiss, he pinned Olruggio down on the rug.
His wrists weren't slim, delicate ones. Qifrey derived immense satisfaction from how substantial, how roughened and large they felt in his grip; the sensation coiled hotly in his stomach and traveled lower. The rest of Olruggio, too, held its own intrigue. His hair, dusk-dark and thick, growing in places Qifrey could and couldn't see; and how his body buzzed in anticipation. He seemed to ache for direction, to be put into place and told what to do. Below his jaw was an expanse of dark, pebbled skin, rougher than his face but still softer than his callused hands or shadow of stubble.
As his mouth trailed down Olruggio's neck, Qifrey returned the favor, raking his teeth over Olruggio's collarbone. He didn't take care to do so gently, or kindly. A shudder coursed through Olruggio in response. The rug was rucked up beneath him; it would have to be fixed—later. Tomorrow, maybe. Now, Qifrey felt too fond of the crooked blue weft, and the picture that each wrinkle painted.
When Qifrey bit down, Olruggio groaned. He reminded Qifrey of an animal in heat.
He only got louder as Qifrey nipped at his neck again, again. He tasted the salt and felt the intricate grooves of Olruggio's skin. He allowed himself to take, to have this selfish, foolish fantasy.
Qifrey had so rarely felt good. Allowing himself to chase after the feeling was normally out of the question, but this—whatever he chased was over unexplored terrain, a route neither of them had ever traveled. He imagined they must resemble fledgling dragons, coltish and green in their movements; Qifrey fumbling with Olruggio's shirt and tugging the hem free from his belt; Olruggio wresting his wrist from Qifrey's grip, snaking his hand awkwardly up his shoulder before splaying his fingertips over his clothed nape; Qifrey attempting to keep their hips from colliding; Olruggio hitching upward at an irregular, feeble rhythm that seemed intent on creating friction. Seemingly neither of them knew what to do with their bodies; but, as though practicing spellwork, they touched repeatedly. Everything was a form of trial and error, small adjustments, experiments in hopes of eliciting a strained breath. A moan. A twitch.
"Qifrey—" Olruggio panted, "Qifrey, you've got to…"
Pushing himself upright between Olruggio's knees, he admired his work.
While Olruggio had only left evidence that could be tucked back into his clothes, Qifrey hadn't taken the same precautions.
He hadn't expected there'd be so many, but his eye was correct: a palette of obscene bruises and marks littered Olruggio's neck. Some of them could easily hide within his cloak—even a shirt if it buttoned to the collar. But that hadn't been on Qifrey's mind when he'd mouthed over Olruggio's Adam's apple, or when he'd sucked a particularly cruel mark on the underside of his jaw. Each bruise was small, no bigger than Qifrey's mouth, and looked as fragile as a rose bud. They could be neither hidden nor healed.
All too quickly, an image flashed in Qifrey's mind: Olruggio at the Great Hall, in Kalhn, anywhere, really. His neck exposed, his patrons staring. Witches staring. That seamstress staring.
And with Qifrey by his side, the culprit would be just as obvious as the cause. He hoped that would be the case, at least.
"Olruggio of the Torch."
As soon as the words left Qifrey's mouth, Olruggio's eyes turned darker, saucer-like. The sight went straight to Qifrey's head and made him feel frazzled, fraying at the end of each limb.
"Has anyone seen such a sight before?" he asked, drawn out and deliberate. His festering anger was all but gone; he asked to be petty, yes, but more than that, he asked so he could relish in what the question implied. His jealousy had morphed into possession, like a bruise darkening from a subtle red to deep purple. It was easier to think about others fawning over Olruggio now that Qifrey had him on his back, far away from women, men, anyone but himself. "Olruggio of the Torch, pinned to the floor of my atelier—our atelier, Olly. The Torch, twisting and turning, flat on his back in Naakiwan Downs. If those women saw you like this—if they heard how out of sorts you sound—what might they say?"
"Qifrey, please." The hand tightened in his hair; Olruggio yanked, surely involuntary, sending a chill down Qifrey's spine all the same. "Please—"
"Please what?"
"I won't—don't make me—"
Qifrey let him pull his other arm free, which Olruggio then slung over his flushed face. He hid his eyes in the crook of his elbow. His stubborn streak was at odds with his transparency.
Leaning close to Olruggio's ear again, Qifrey whispered, "Just ask for it, Olly."
Olruggio didn't speak. For a moment he seemed as though he'd lost his nerve, and Qifrey felt the downhill landslide, a precursor to a lifetime of awkwardness and ambiguity. They wouldn't bring it up. They'd feign a gap in their memories. Qifrey wouldn't even need to sketch an erasure spell for it to happen that way.
Then, lifting his hips off the floor, Olruggio rocked roughly into Qifrey.
A strangled sound escaped Qifrey's mouth. He would've felt humiliated if he hadn't felt already on the verge of blacking out. He swore. When Olruggio rutted upwards once more, some of Qifrey's self-control slipped.
He brought his hips down to meet Olruggio. They gasped in tandem.
Every kiss of Olruggio's, every touch, had been deceptively gentle. His way of grinding into Qifrey wasn't exactly confident, but it betrayed an almost maddened sense of urgency. Olruggio was hard, and Qifrey felt him prominently through his pants each time their hips met.
He was aware, too, of his own growing erection; the sensation was almost foreign to him, as it usually occurred upon waking—sometimes from vivid, confusing dreams, sometimes from nightmares. There were also the times when Olruggio padded through the kitchen after a bath, or when he wandered at night without a shirt, or even, irrationally, when his lips were wet from drinking. Qifrey’s arousal always sparked quick like forest fire. Still, it could not compete with the accompanying swell of anxiety. It could always be tamed, tamped down, and forgotten just as quickly.
If they kept at this, Qifrey didn't think it would go away on its own.
"Qifrey."
"Hm?"
"Touch me, alright?" Olruggio panted. "Touch me, please."
Qifrey took even breaths. He questioned if, left to its own devices, his pulse would stop or rupture his chest with its ferocity. It was one thing to taunt and tease; he'd never imagined the approach would work. To tell someone to beg—and to receive it. He wasn't sure what to make of acquiescence. Even for Olruggio, it was too straightforward. Too painless.
"Don't tell me you're getting tired now," Olruggio said.
"I'm not," Qifrey said, blinking.
"Well, then."
Another ruthless thrust of Olruggio's hips—Qifrey stifled a groan. He was thrown off balance and tried to regain it, palms settling on Olruggio. His exposed skin was tacky with sweat. He was still a little lanky for his age, hadn't filled out fully, but his shoulder was solid underneath Qifrey's hand. He was able to steady himself there.
Qifrey wavered, then drew his other hand lower. Olruggio's untucked shirt and loosened belt left a bare stretch of stomach. There, Qifrey brushed his knuckles, and skimmed with his fingertips, and pressed down, in hopes of leaving some sort of indentation. To say I was allowed to touch. To say I was here first. To say I was here.
A firm, callused hand grasped his wandering hand by the wrist. Qifrey froze; if he'd been an animal, his fur would've stood on end. He would've thrashed and ran. But it was only Olruggio. Not touching him, not forcing him. He was only holding up a map, like always, and offering to take Qifrey where he wanted to go.
Qifrey leaned down and kissed Olruggio briefly. He worked his hand beneath his belt and undergarments.
The angle was awkward and was sure to make his wrist ache. His sigils would be crooked for two days, maybe longer, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He wrapped his hand around Olruggio's cock—and out of Olruggio came the most indecent, strangled moan he'd ever heard.
Witches were good with their hands. They had to be good to draw decent spells, and even better to teach. Yet this brought Qifrey no assurance as he held Olruggio hesitantly in his hand. How beneficial it might've been to have a working knowledge of this, but he could do little more than guess.
He slowly stroked up and down. His line of sight trailed along individual threads of the rug, the fringe at the edges; traced divots in the stone floor, chipped bricks, flecks of ash, a spindly collarbone damp with sweat; the contrast of burnt light and tall shadows on brown skin. Qifrey swore he heard two rapid pulses, a flood in his ears. He tightened his grip and set off a low moan, caught somewhere in Olruggio's throat. The rug was more than wrinkled; it had folded in on itself by now, and the pattern, a lighthouse looking over a frothing seascape, had formed such distinct peaks and valleys as to mirror the rollicking waves. Qifrey studied the blue, turquoise, emerald. He looked anywhere but Olruggio's face.
As he worked him steadily with his fist, he was surprised by how willingly Olruggio's hips followed his hand, jerking off the carpet then slamming back down. And when Qifrey rubbed his thumb along the tip, the sounds Olruggio made turned choppy—exhaled breaths, high and unexpected. It would've sounded like laughter were it not for the shaky undertone of discomfort.
Qifrey jerked his hand away as if burned. He didn't withdraw it completely, which left his hand idling below Olruggio's belt. His fingers still tingled with the shape they'd held.
They looked at each other. Olruggio wore a furrowed brow, and his cheeks were the vibrant color of poisonous Mountain Apples. He cocked his head as he stared up at him. Qifrey wondered, had something felt bad? Was his inexperience clear?
"You won't break it," Olruggio said, at once both exasperated and with something fond written across his face.
"I know that," Qifrey said crossly.
"Just do it how you like it yourself."
Qifrey couldn't think of a response quickly enough; his silence was a mistake. Olruggio had an uncanny sense for even the most minute change to his expressions.
"Wait. Now don't say you've never—"
"Not never—"
"Then what?"
"It's not been top of mind—" Further words of protest died on Qifrey's tongue, and he scowled.
He was an excellent liar, and a decent one even when it came to Olruggio. But Olruggio had seen right through it this time. This, too, seemed to all but confirm it: his inexperience being obvious. He couldn't just come out and admit the truth: that while he'd never tried, it wasn't out of disinterest. It had been top of mind plenty of times, most of all when they'd roomed together at the Great Hall, bunks putting them one on top of each other, Qifrey spending sleepless nights staring up at the slats underneath Olruggio's mattress; he listened when Olruggio stayed up all night drawing, he listened to him toss and turn in the night, he listened on the few occasions he bolted upright in bed, gasping, fresh out of a nightmare. When would Qifrey have ever figured out how he liked it himself? With Olruggio so close, the mere suggestion of seeking out pleasure had filled him with such twinned excitement and terror that he'd never so much as slid his hands underneath his duvet at night.
Even now, living on opposite ends of the atelier, there were still things Qifrey couldn't bring himself to do. It was harder to goad himself into entertaining such thoughts. Olruggio underneath him, shaking slightly, wasn't ever part of that self-denial.
"Wait," Olruggio said, a tight grip on Qifrey's wrist, keeping his hand firmly in place. Qifrey hadn't realized that he'd started to pull away, retreating from Olruggio's spread knees, nearly letting the surreal scene end as abruptly as it had begun. "Was only teasing."
"Well."
"It was—good."
Olruggio was still bucking his hips up, rubbing against Qifrey's thumb. The invitation was wordless; it verged on pathetic, in its bold-faced openness. So in lieu of working off of his own preferences, he focused on learning Olruggio's. He tested out rhythm, tightness, the shape of his hand. It wasn't too different from perfecting a sigil. He wished that he'd brought his palm quire to sit by the hearth this evening, though he would've had no reason for it, if only because a water spell might've helped with the friction between hand and skin. Qifrey spit in his palm instead. The crudeness felt wrong to him, but he rethought this once he saw Olruggio's eyes squeeze shut and one of his hands grappled for the rug like it was an anchor.
With every passing year, Qifrey understood the sensation faster, with greater clarity—so he recognized the disquiet building in his stomach for exactly what it was. He recognized it before he'd fully made sense of the arousal that was not just growing alongside it, but with it. Not merely two plants in the same garden—they shared both roots and eventual blossoms. Confusing, but it was the truth: touching Olruggio made him feel good, and so what was inside him grew, and the inevitable harm only made him want to touch Olruggio more.
The ever-present fire had turned the room humid, almost claustrophobic. Qifrey unfastened and untied, discarding his outermost layers of clothing. Still he wore his undergarments: a black body suit, thin trousers. Had it always been so muggy in here? Was it the summer storm on the horizon?
He gripped the hem of Olruggio's shirt, only fair, and Olruggio sat up enough for it to come up and over his head. Qifrey had probably seen this part of him more than anywhere else, but it still produced a fresh pang of want in him. Olruggio's hair stuck to his forehead, dark and damp with sweat. His face was ruddy, involuntary and wrecked in ways that a simple innocent flush couldn't match. What drew his attention now was the thatch of hair that started just below Olruggio's navel and continued downwards. He touched Olruggio's chest unencumbered; raked nails across his abdomen; Olruggio bit down on a rough sigh, and then did something Qifrey hadn't expected.
Worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, Olruggio reached for the intricate crosshatch of black straps across Qifrey's thigh. Fabric bunched in his hands; now he was tugging, fiddling with the securely fastened buckles.
"What are you doing?" Qifrey asked, but Olruggio ignored his question. The body suit came loose on one leg. He moved to the other. The sight of it was nearly too much for Qifrey, which struck him as ridiculous. He had Olruggio laid out and panting beneath him; he'd cast off his outermost clothes already; yet he was the one rendered bashful to see Olruggio steadfastly working at undressing him.
"Olly."
"No, I've got it, hang on," Olruggio batted away Qifrey's hand. "You never go easy on me, do you?"
Why would I? Qifrey wanted to ask.
He didn't get a chance to speak, because at that moment Olruggio freed his other thigh from its fastenings. Then, without so much as a pause for breath, Olruggio pushed the hem of his bodysuit higher. Qifrey felt goosebumps erupt where Olruggio touched his stomach; the feeling of his splayed fingers there was inexplicably intense, so much so that Qifrey covered his mouth to muffle a sudden, desperate cry. The room wasn't especially hot or cold, but he ached with the awareness of his bare skin, its odd vulnerability.
Qifrey gasped as the drawstring at his waist loosened. Olruggio left his waistband undisturbed, though, and only worked his hand slowly underneath. He'd remembered an old, inexplicable aversion of Qifrey's—this filled him with gratitude, somehow a more intense sensation than even the ache between his legs.
"I can, right?" Olruggio asked.
Though alcohol had spurred them toward this, Qifrey felt wide awake and sober by now. All of his individual atoms felt like they had expanded and now ricochetted throughout his body.
"Yes, of course, go ahead—here, a little lower. You can, wait—"
Their hands bumped, Qifrey attempting to guide Olruggio's hesitant downward descent. It was difficult to maintain his rhythm of touching Olruggio at the same time, but he couldn't imagine letting go. Not when he could feel every time Olruggio twitched against his fingertips. There was a new dampness, too, sweat and spit and something else.
Luckily he didn't have to keep it up for long. After a few unsure moments, Olruggio took Qifrey in his hand, and then Qifrey couldn't bear to look at anything anymore, least of all Olruggio's face.
"Olly," he said. Vaguely he heard Olruggio respond, something like yeah? or good, yeah? But whatever Qifrey said in return was more nonsense than anything else. He babbled, swore, said dirty words from the North that Olruggio had taught him.
Olruggio was a natural at everything, so why wouldn't he excel at this, too? He got the pressure right. He'd placed his non-dominant hand on Qifrey's waist, which steadied him as he jerked into Olruggio's hand. He seemed to intuit where Qifrey could handle a firmer grip and where he was most sensitive; he only lingered there long enough to make Qifrey moan, an unfamiliar sound. Never to push him over the edge, only to terrorize him, and provoke that dampness building steadily against the threadbare front of his tights. He'd never been touched like this before, even by his own hand. The experience was like that of growing up in a desert, only for your first snow to be a blizzard. He was overwhelmed—closing his eye only intensified it. And though he'd expected it to eventually become impossible, Qifrey kept working Olruggio in his hand. His stroke wasn't smooth or sure like Olruggio's. His wrist had begun to ache, but this only added to the fervor building inside him. Olruggio's shape grew more familiar the longer he touched him; a vein protruded there; he was curved in a way that Qifrey wasn't; he wasn't cut, which Qifrey had known before, catching a glimpse in the baths, but now realized in a tangible way.
Arousal was such a foreign sensation; now, it seemed to pulse loudly inside of him, as though it could break through his skin and make itself a visible phenomena. Dread would always be louder. No matter what it went up against, it could overshadow anything else in Qifrey's body.
This time he encountered a new, distinct revelation: the dread was a signal. It warned him that he was close to something, and what would happen if he let it continue.
Qifrey forced himself to look at Olruggio. Blinking away black spots, he watched Olruggio watch him—his clothed crotch, to be more specific, where Olruggio's diligent hand bulged and moved beneath the taut fabric.
Part of Qifrey was dismayed by Olruggio's expression: he certainly didn't look unaffected—his thick brows were drawn in concentration, his mouth fell open and gave away his uneven breath—and yet he appeared nowhere close to falling apart. His hand didn't falter, no matter how Qifrey rubbed him. It made Qifrey's thoughts wander darkly, backtracking to Kalhn, to Olruggio's confession, to the new information he'd learned.
Do it how you like it yourself. So Olruggio had a way he liked it—he'd put some time into figuring out what exactly he liked, Qifrey could surmise. He wondered what Olruggio thought about each time; if he had hazy, unspecific fantasies, or if his were detailed enough to border on reality. Qifrey knew it would be the latter for himself, which was partly why he'd always avoided the impulse. It explained how well-practiced Olruggio seemed, too. If he hadn't said outright that he'd never been with a man, Qifrey might've drawn his own conclusions—
His heart beat so quickly that he worried Olruggio might hear it. He could no longer discern what was sensation, what was sound, what was the sight of Olruggio beneath him, what was an utterly alien part of himself. His senses were jumbled in the way that only a sigil drawn directly on the body could accomplish.
Qifrey said, "Hang on."
It was hardly a fully voiced sound. Still it stopped Olruggio. He looked up at Qifrey, eyes open wide. The bags beneath his eyes were prominent, but now Qifrey noticed just how thick his lashes were, especially when they were clumped and a little damp.
"Sorry." Already Olruggio had averted his eyes. "Did it hurt?"
"Hurt? No—Olly, goodness no, it—" Qifrey stopped himself, his breath quick and uneven. A fresh wave of self-hatred washed over him at how openly he'd spoken. He quickly realized, though how it had turned Olruggio spluttering, too. His flushed cheeks peaked with a fresh redness and he said well, that's—alright, you needn't—
Before he could talk himself out of it, Qifrey moved backwards.
Olruggio's hand stilled against Qifrey's waistband and he said, "You haven't—"
"No, lay back down."
Olruggio's mouth twisted in that stubborn, aggrieved way; he'd made the same face constantly when they were boys. Every time Qifrey had said he wanted to eat alone, or had gone off on his own without telling Olruggio, or had told a lie that Olruggio saw straight through—Oluggio looked at him with that same indignation. Now it was over being told to stay still while Qifrey scooted further away, until he was about even with Olruggio's spread knees.
Already Olruggio looked antsy at the idea of being cared for—a smirk overtook Qifrey's mouth. It was so like him.
Qifrey lowered himself down onto his elbows, then stalled. First there was the question of how best to accomplish his goal. It had been easy to shimmy his hand down Olruggio's front, and learn him by touch alone. What he wanted to do next had to be done from a specific angle. Olruggio's clothes would need to be out of the way as well.
Though he'd enjoyed watching Olruggio, tongue darting out of his mouth as he struggled with tight, intricate buckles—he wasn't interested in the same amount of toil. Olruggio's belt was hefty and would be a pain to maneuver down the length of Olruggio's legs. And anyways, judging by how he'd worn nothing under his shirt, his clothes weren't nearly as complicated.
So Qifrey wound the hem of Olruggio's long skirt in his fists and hiked it up until it all pooled above his hips.
He wore the same threadbare tights as Qifrey. Even in the dim light, Qifrey could see that he was hard. He strained against the fabric, creating an obvious stiff outline that made Qifrey feel dizzy. Again it was something he might've guessed, especially as the evening had run its course. But it was one thing to know this intellectually and quite another to crouch between someone's legs and stare that knowledge down.
The stone floor wore against Qifrey's knees. For a fleeting moment he regretted that they'd chosen to do this on the atelier floor. Then again, he wasn't sure this would've happened if they'd waited to do it in a proper bed. It would've been too easy to become a coward, to run and forget—one way or another.
Qifrey lay a hand on Olruggio's knee. He found that his leg was trembling; when he looked up, he saw that Olruggio was staring up at the ceiling as though he were trying very hard not to look at Qifrey.
"I wanted to try something," Qifrey said.
"Alright," Olruggio said. Uncommunicative, but his voice was thick, a bit hurried. Impatient.
"If I should stop, you need only say so."
"I will."
Before Qifrey could talk himself out of it, he leaned forward until his face was practically nestled between Olruggio's legs.
One hand he wrapped around Olruggio's tense thigh, and the other he dug into the waist of Olruggio's tights. Nails bit into the skin of his abdomen. A sharp breath raced through Olruggio, just barely audible.
Qifrey moved by instinct alone—the way you'd approach a spell in the heat of the moment, disregarding textbooks and following your pen as though it was a limb, as though your body had a mind of its own—and he pressed his open mouth to the front of Olruggio's pants, over his clothed cock. This elicited such a filthy, wonderful sound from Olruggio that Qifrey could barely hold himself back. Already it wasn't enough, the suggestion of Olruggio against his tongue, the loosely defined shape, but still that last layer of separation.
Wetly, he mouthed on Olruggio through his pants for only a few moments. Then he was tugging at his waistband, loosening it, and there were Olruggio's shaking hands eager to assist. Together they shoved his tights down. His cock bounced stiffly as it came free, and Qifrey left his tights like that, pulled snug and straining around his thighs.
He wanted to hear Olruggio sound like that again—nearly a decade, and he'd never even known it was possible for Olruggio to make noise like that.
No more time to waste, then; Qifrey sized up Olruggio's cock. It seemed a little like a beacon, bordered on either side by Olruggio's hiked skirt and folded-over tights. Though still dark like the rest of him, it was also the palest part of his body, something Qifrey found strange and deeply arousing to see.
He opened his mouth and began to suck Olruggio off.
The sounds didn't surprise him this time around. He'd expected them and was rewarded for it: Olruggio gasped, always abrupt and a bit delicate, but he would moan, too. Choking on it at first, eventually these elongated and morphed into fitful, broken cries. The timbre of his voice remained low, gravely, only now Qifrey discovered how many dimensions existed within those low tones, and how breathlessness could make Olruggio sound debauched and submissive, almost like a woman. What Qifrey hadn't expected was the movement. It had never occurred to him, even within unwanted dreams, how Olruggio's heels might slide and dig into his back; how he'd grab Qifrey's shoulder, arms, hands, and anchor himself; how he'd rock his hips willingly to meet Qifrey's mouth; how, most of all, he'd tremble and writhe while getting sucked off.
As good as it had felt to hold Olruggio in his hand, it didn't compare to having Olruggio in his mouth. The weight of him was satisfying to take deeper and feel pressed against the back of his throat. He liked the slide of skin against his tongue; most of Olruggio was velvety, thick, and then at the tip he was entirely different, exposed and sensitive to the lightest flicks of Qifrey's tongue.
It felt good to reduce Olruggio to incoherence with little more than hot breath and hollowed out cheeks. Once Qifrey gagged; he felt Olruggio's hips falter, so he used his hand again, keeping Olruggio in place until his throat relaxed.
He realized, too, from how Olruggio's hips jerked to a rougher rhythm, that this might be what could send him over the edge. Some combination of getting his cock wet, jerking his dick, grasping beneath it, dragging his tongue up the length of it—now Olruggio was in the palm of his hand.
A part of Qifrey hated the power it gave him. He hated, too, how easily Olruggio seemed to trust him with it. As much as it made him smug, it terrified Qifrey to remember the endless stream of fans, of women, of men, even, who would give anything to have Olruggio of the Torch fucking them or being fucked by them—and to know that only he had ever been given the privilege. He was undeserving of it. And yet that wasn't a good enough reason to stop. Not when Olruggio clearly was so close to the edge, when he wanted release so badly.
"Qifrey, if you don't—" His hips bucked; he shook, relentlessly. "I won't last."
To this Qifrey only picked up his pace. He twisted his hand at the base, pulled off just long enough to let spit collect in his mouth and drip wetly onto Olruggio's cock, sucked him again. Sliding up and down Olruggio's cock, he moaned around the size of it.
Qifrey throbbed in his pants; he wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but he'd swung a leg over Olruggio's. Now he rutted against Olruggio's thigh, frantically, creating a friction of cotton on cotton that sent shockwaves through his body. His focus was shot. Though the interior of the atelier hadn't changed, the warm wood, the antique furnishings, the flowers atop the mantle had turned hazy and unreal in his periphery. He may as well have not been in his atelier—as unaware as he was of his surroundings, the world, anything that wasn't their bodies.
He moved his tongue and hand and hips with little thought. All of his careful, teasing words, his cautious approach—it had all gone out the window. Whatever had gripped Olruggio, turned him flushed and irrational and pleading, had the same ruinous hold on Qifrey. He'd known this would happen. It's why he'd never let himself reach for Olruggio before.
"Qifrey," and Olruggio kept talking, but his pleas were moaned, incoherent, coated in a thick Northern dialect and more raw sound than sentence.
Making a slow, deliberate show of it, Qifrey licked up the length of him. He didn't stray far; he knew what was coming next. Even the mere anticipation made his stomach turn, and every new jerk of Olruggio's hips or hitch in his breath only added to the feeling. He'd never let himself get this close, but he kept grinding on Olruggio's leg. The arhythmic, almost awkward friction was so overwhelming he had to close his eye as he sucked. The sensation was like a knife's edge: pleasure and pain, so thinly divided that they were more or less the same.
A moan seemed to die in Olruggio's throat, a feeble whimper—then nothing. He gripped Qifrey's shoulders then, applying a nearly painful pressure. Once he realized that Olruggio's mouth was still wide open, a perfect O, but no sound was coming out, he was sure. His heart soared for a single moment.
Olruggio pushed him back. His mouth fell off of Olruggio's cock, and he watched, disoriented and panting between his legs—and Olruggio came. It was white. It was more than Qifrey had expected. Most of it striped Olruggio's stomach, but some of it settled, thick and sticky, on Qifrey's hand. The sight was crude, a little shocking. Looking at it made Qifrey realize how badly he'd wanted it in his mouth.
Everything happened too fast. He'd always, always been able to hold back—even the times he'd been too far gone, spurred on by late nights by the fire, laughing in the kitchen, Olruggio's face buried in his neck, a pillow that smelled like him, like smoke and Balsam fir. Qifrey was an expert at reeling himself back in. Reminding himself what could and couldn't be. Reminding himself what he was.
But as Olruggio sat up a bit, he met Qifrey's eyes. His expression was blissful, flushed from the bridge of his nose to his ears. And that sight was what made Qifrey's hips falter. His muscles tightened. He squeezed his eye shut.
He came. Something died and something lived. He knew that he was riding out the feeling, overstimulated, awestruck, throwing his body mindlessly against Olruggio's—and yet he had the sense that he was above himself, watching himself come. A voyeur to his body. Its limits and its surprises.
Only the distant, steady stroke of Olruggio's fingers in his hair kept him tethered to himself.
The silence afterwards stretched longer than Qifrey expected. His limbs felt stretched out, his muscles more relaxed than they'd ever been. It was almost too good, a lull in time to do nothing but exist: the two of them on the atelier rug. He needed to break that delicate silence soon. He couldn't think of anything to say, he could barely think at all. Olruggio hadn't stirred, anyways, and likely wasn't in a rush to move.
Sweat had gathered on Qifrey's brow. He was spent and felt hot all over, and he realized that Olruggio was partially to blame for the heat. His hand was still nestled in his hair, still stroking up and down as though it was out of habit. Limbs moving on their own, that sort of thing. His other arm was wrapped around Qifrey's back. He'd pulled Qifrey closer at some point, after—after. Now, Qifrey's head lay against Olruggio's chest. His neck was bent at an uncomfortable, sharp angle, but like this he could feel the steady thrum of Olruggio's heartbeat, swelling and deflating beneath his ear like changes in sea level.
Truthfully, Qifrey would've liked to stay like this, too. Clinging to Olruggio, so tranquil that he could've dozed off, was headier than any wine. As a child in the Great Hall, he'd always hated falling asleep around others. Dormitory life had been a nightmare, the beginning of regular bouts of insomnia, counting the slats in the bunk above him, retreating to the kitchens until the sun came up. Right now it was all too easy to imagine falling asleep like this, the stone floor cushioned by the softness of Olruggio's body.
When Olruggio finally spoke, he sounded more gentle than gruff.
"You could've let me help."
Startled, Qifrey jerked out of his almost-dreamlike reverie. "What do you mean?" he murmured.
"Let me help with—help you with… you really need me to say it?"
Olruggio's heartbeat now rabbitted frantically. Qifrey quickly realized what he meant. He regretted it a little as he pushed himself up, but then he was rewarded with Olruggio's flustered scowl before him.
"I see, I see." Qifrey's mouth twitched. "You wanted to give me a hand, did you?"
"Oh, that's enough, forget I said anything."
Unable to contain himself, Qifrey started laughing—a stifled thing at first, then wild and breathless. And though Olruggio threw a fit, eventually he joined. His eyes crinkled at the corners. A glorious dimple appeared by his mouth as he laughed. They laughed together. They hadn't stopped touching. So rarely did Qifrey feel this happy; and with the realization, something horrible seized behind his eye, and that dull ache spread throughout his entire body. This couldn't go on forever.
He knew better than to sit too long inside comfort.
"Sorry about the mess," Qifrey said.
Surveying the room, he took note of the crooked rug; Olruggio's loop chalice discarded and upended; spilled Willowgrape and spirits pooling on stone; the fireplace on its last embers once more. He pushed himself up to look at Olruggio, attempting to get off the ground. Olruggio's hand stayed firm against the small of his back.
"It can wait until the morning," he said easily.
"It's really no trouble. I'll take care of it tonight."
"Well, then let me pitch in."
"I'll manage fine on my own, Olly," Qifrey said, flashing him a persuasive smile. "You said—earlier, that you still had a commission to finish up."
Olruggio seemed to consider this. "So I'll be up anyways. I have time. I won't leave you to do it all on your own—"
"Olly."
"I want to, Qifrey. Please let me."
As stubborn as he was kind. When Olruggio got like this, Qifrey found he couldn't argue with him. As brilliant as it had felt to go over the edge, now all Qifrey wanted was to be alone. He felt disgusted by the stickiness that clung to the inside of his pants. It eked slowly down his leg. Tangible physical evidence. Some things lingered even after memory was erased: scars, empty eye sockets, swapped tassels, bruises.
Qifrey's eye caught on Olruggio's neck. Whatever expression he wore, Olruggio noticed it.
"What's wrong?"
"If you're meeting with clients anytime soon," Qifrey said carefully, "you may need to wear a shirt with—ah, a higher collar."
Olruggio stared. Only a moment later did his eyes widen in recognition, and his skin flushed even darker. "It's that bad?"
"Well—"
Olruggio’s hand went to his neck, the same spot he always grabbed when he was out of sorts, or nervous or upset. Instead of helping, this only drew Qifrey's gaze down again—to the litany of red marks running up and down his neck. Some were pale and would most likely fade in less time than it had taken Qifrey to suck them. But a few were vivid and severe where he'd bitten down. They'd go through the life cycle of a bruise: maroon to purple, then a sickly yellow, only losing its intensity after several days.
Confusion stirred in Qifrey's gut like a whirlpool. Something ill-fitting and uncomfortable. Pride, he realized, though it was as good as drowned out by the accompanying surge of shame.
"I'm very sorry, Olly, really. I didn't mean to—"
"There's no need to prostrate yourself at my feet. Far worse things I could wear around Kalhn."
Olruggio's eyes were a darker, night-sky blue, but sometimes they lit up so brightly, as though they were flecked with white light. He didn't sound bothered in the slightest. There'd been an undeniable afterglow, and they'd both basked in it—but Olruggio seemed to still be consumed by it. He looked happy, somehow.
Qifrey panicked. "I'll clear the table, then. Would you mind straightening out the rug?"
"Oh, 'course I can."
While Qifrey busied himself with the stack of dishes, he watched Olruggio in his periphery. He dealt with the rug, cleared a few spills, picked up his abandoned chalice. Next he retrieved his shirt and tugged it back over his head. Qifrey watched as his shoulder blades and spine disappeared, one notch at a time. As silly as it was, he grew irrationally self-conscious about the unfastened straps at his neck and around his thighs. Something kept him from touching them; he wasn't sure how to do so without drawing attention to the act. And yet there was Olruggio, tugging on the loose ties of his shirt, redressing as though he wasn't unnerved at all. They were the same people as before. The same Qifrey-and-Olruggio. And yet, Olruggio had to feel it too—that sense of before and after, didn't he? That something had changed between them.
Olruggio shifted closer to the fireplace. He examined the sigil he'd drawn at the foot of the kindling, its hues turning his skin warmer in the process.
"Surprised it lasted all evening." A grin spread underneath his patchy mustache, and he shot Qifrey a playful look. "I suppose it didn't want to ruin the mood."
Qifrey felt clammy. He tried to think of something, anything to say—not cruel, but not an invitation to go further. Foolishly, he'd left his palm quire in his bedroom. It wouldn't be difficult to go find it. Just press it to Olruggio's forehead. Complete the sigil. But he'd rather the problem go away on its own.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," Olruggio said.
"About what?"
"Well—" Olruggio struggled, "for the first time—that's—it's not uncommon, you know?"
Qifrey's pulse hammered in his temple. He did feel embarrassed, over many things. He felt angry. He felt sad. He was worried he would always be this sad. Could the spell in his palm quire get rid of that, too? He wondered if his own unwanted memories could go away with Olruggio's.
"I never said I was embarrassed."
"But I can tell—there's something you're not saying."
Qifrey felt his expression hardening. Olruggio looked at him so earnestly, as though he'd cut his chest open and was begging Qifrey to look. The only way Qifrey knew to respond was to pull away; his own feelings became distant and inaccessible, even as they lived inside him. He attempted to sound thoughtless, not calculated or half as cruel as he felt.
Again he eyed Olruggio’s throat.
"People are going to see,” he said.
"So?"
"Doesn't that bother you?" Now that he'd found something to argue, he couldn't stop. "They'll make all sorts of assumptions about you. You hated the questions people asked at the Great Hall. If it starts happening in Kalhn, it will have been my fault."
Olruggio's expression could only be described as bewildered. "It wouldn't be your fault. I played my part, just the same."
Just the same. It made Qifrey feel sick. He couldn't bear it; the last thing he wanted was for Olruggio to get hurt because of him. His privacy. His reputation. His chances of meeting another witch—someone who could embrace him without pushing him away and forcing him to forget it.
"We shouldn't have done—this shouldn't have happened, Olly." His palm quire sat atop his desk. The memory erasure spell was drawn on the fifth-to-last page, as well as the four pages underneath it.
Before Qifrey could even stand up, he paled. He saw it: Olruggio's mouth, flat and harsh. His eyes, red-rimmed. His eyelashes damp.
"Olly—"
"No, no, I got it."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt you."
"Is that it?" Olruggio laughed, and Qifrey heard the bitterness imbued within the sound. "The things people said—I didn't care. I just knew you hated it, so I tried to make them stop. But it doesn't bother me. It's my spells, that's what they see. That's what they care about—so what would I care, if people say what they like?"
He didn't have to say I only care what you think for Qifrey to hear it.
"I admire that about you," Qifrey said finally.
He couldn't admit the truth: his feelings resembled Olruggio's more than he probably knew. He couldn't admit that, deep down, it wouldn't bother him if someone saw the bruises littered across Olruggio's throat. It wouldn't bother him if someone saw the two of them side by side and drew an obvious conclusion. No, it wasn't that he hated it. He wanted it too much—for someone to see, for someone to know what Olruggio was to him.
After several moments of thick silence, he realized that the conversation was over. Maybe that was for the best. He could excuse himself soon and clean up the mess.
Reaching toward the fireplace sigil, Olruggio smudged the seal with his finger and extinguished the fire. The room went black. Only traces of moonlight through the far window provided any sort of illumination.
Olruggio swore. "Sorry, I didn't even think."
"I'm fine, really."
"I'll walk you back upstairs. It's the least I can do."
"I'm fine, Olly."
For a split second, Qifrey allowed himself to give in. If Olruggio offered just once more, he'd let him take him back to his room. He'd even let him walk him to the bed, and maybe they'd end up making a bigger mess of things. Maybe this was inevitable.
But Olruggio didn't argue. He went silent, and then he said, "Alright."
Knee joints popping, then footsteps. Olruggio walked past him and picked up the dirty dishes. Qifrey almost reached out to touch, but he didn't. Olruggio went to the sink and began to wash the dishes in the dark.
The palm quire felt so far away. Not only that, but Qifrey now realized why he shouldn't cast that spell. He couldn’t. He'd seen Olruggio hold back tears. The mere thought of banishing this night from Olruggio's memory—the relief that washed over Qifrey was strong, immediate. He could already feel it growing. So Olruggio would have to remember.
Qifrey sat against the sofa and stared at the fireplace. Usually, when a fire died, you could still catch glimpses of its sparks in the minutes that followed. But it must have been something in Olruggio's sigil—because no matter how long Qifrey waited, all he saw was charred wood and ash in the dark.