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There is a saying amongst astronomers, that there are more trees on Earth than stars in the galaxy. It seems impossible, at first; stars possess a vastness that roots do not.
Though it is the stars that are more readily noticed—stories written, movements charted. A passage of silver ships across sleeping skies, marking the beginning of a festival.
Qifrey and his apprentices meet Golden Eve with fatigue, the carriage excursion leaving them lethargic, despite their excitement. The night's cloak has pulled over, and Ezrest has mellowed with it, though life still thrums within its walls.
Qifrey sits outside the tent, watches peddlers close their stalls for the night, and mothers chiding lowly as their children glee over glowstone paths.
His gaze follows upward; it is not the moon that follows them, Qifrey had realized when his legs were too small for him, but the stars. They call it a parallax, how stars appear unmoving because of the distance between them and the naked eye.
Though if your attention doesn't dwindle, then that is of no consequence. Qifrey traces the movement of one particular star as it reaches past him, heading in an opposite direction.
It's a colder night; a light stroll might do him some good. Olruggio mentioned having to visit noble patrons, attend a banquet of sorts. Qifrey supposes he should be returning soon—drunk, at that. So he takes care to still linger within the vicinity of the tent.
He shifts his robe tighter, walking past a gaggle of young witches, fawning over a contraption Qifrey assumes he will see more of tomorrow at the presentation.
It is as he walks by the central fountain that a voice calls for him. "Young lad in white, will you be a darling and—"
Qifrey turns and finds an elderly witch struggling to haul her devices inside a cart, and promptly rushes over. With five of them cradled between her arms, he quickly takes them all into his own. "I've got you," Qifrey reassures, settling them into the barrow. "Heavy, aren't these?"
He recognizes them as garden pots—Qifrey has heard talk of this particular contraption, about how they seem able to shuffle by themself towards sunlight if left unattended for too long. Naturally, it has piqued the interest of those who too often let their gardening suffer for lack of time.
The witch rolls her shoulders, sighing with relief. "Don't I know that well! I've been lugging these around all day; my back is yelling at me, it is."
"They're lovely," Qifrey says with a smile, taking the final few pots from the stall. He traces a finger along the clay—they really are well-made.
The cart itself is the typical type you'd find around the peninsula, though Qifrey does notice a slight difference in how it moves. Beneath the handle, a glyph is obscured, one that Qifrey realizes was drawn to ease the strain of pushing. However…
"Ever heard of a featherlight charm?" Qifrey asks, pulling away after ensuring the pots aren't close enough to crack.
The woman raises a brow, watching him with interest. "Not sure I have. Indulge me."
Slipping his pen from his cloak, Qifrey lifts the handle to see the casting better. Before inscribing any ink, he turns to the witch to check, "Is it alright for me to—?"
"Oh! Please, go ahead. I'm sure you'll do a better job than my rusty hands have," she permits, brightening immediately while gesturing towards the cart with a nod.
Qifrey bends over slightly, studying the spell for a moment. "Just a minor adjustment to the glyph you have on, really," he explains, modifying a keystone around the levitation sigil. It only requires a flick of his wrist before he pulls away again. To test, Qifrey pushes the cart forward and finds that, just as the name suggests, it weighs as much as a feather would.
The witch's eyes widen, and Qifrey steps away, allowing her to feel for it herself. "Utterly ingenious."
Her mouth moves further; Qifrey catches none of it.
A sudden nausea folds through him, breaking his focus, and it requires all his strength not to stumble and knock everything over. He locks his posture in place. "You're very kind," Qifrey manages, hoping nothing gives way to how his chest has begun to tighten. "This should help for the rest of the eve."
"And the rest of my living!" The witch chortles, planting a hand on his shoulder. Qifrey can not help the way he flinches subtly at the gesture. A sharp pain rolls. He grits his teeth and smiles. "Say, you look familiar. What did you say your name was?"
"Ah," Qifrey thinks he might be sick. "Sorry. If you'll excuse me."
There's a quipped sound of confusion from behind as Qifrey staggers away, one hand clutching his robe tight. He's not sure what this is, this abrupt fever that seems to destabilize him entirely. Had he eaten something wrong, perhaps? Qifrey doesn't recall eating much at all. Maybe that's what this is, exhaustion and malnutrition alike.
That doesn't explain the strange pull low in his abdomen, though—an unfamiliar and persistent discomfort.
It can't be that, he decides, delirious. It shouldn't be that.
Somehow, he manages to pull himself into an empty alleyway, away from eyes that may use his unpropriety as further fuel for malicious talks. One hand braces against the wall to steady himself; Qifrey's body folds slightly forward, another hand clutching his chest as his breath turns uneven.
There's a possibility that lingers, one that should be impossible—perhaps this is a rut. A real one.
He remembers the first check-up, after being buried and dug out, memories fractured and so awfully small. There'd been words that Qifrey couldn't quite understand, but the matter was clear: whatever they'd done to him—unnamed figures with brimmed hats—it'd remolded his body the wrong way. He may never present, the doctors said. Or he may, with a handful of complications.
The latter happened, and sometimes Qifrey wishes he hadn't presented at all. That'd be preferable to the false mockery of alpha his body taunts him with—his ruts, and even that is a generous word, were little more than a faint ache. Ignorable. His scent does not exist, nor does his nose allow him to scent others.
So he lied. Told Olruggio he'd presented as beta, and that had been it.
It should be it. Qifrey shouldn't be heaving in an alleyway, blinking hard to clear his vision.
He's not sure how long he must be standing there, trying to force the beat of his chest to comply, but he stiffens at the sound of a voice down the other end of the path. If anyone were to see him like this, embarrassingly out of it, Qifrey is not sure what he'd—
"Y'alright there?" And oh, he knows that voice well. "Can't be that good, the runeshine, if it's got you stumblin' like this. Bit rich, comin' from me, mind. Though I've had enough 'o the stuff over the years to know where my feet stand," he chuckles. Terribly, awfully, familiar. "Still. You look like you're about to—"
Qifrey's feet slip, his hand scraping down the wall. Footsteps close in quickly, and arms grip his shoulders to prevent him from falling to the floor entirely. The man stills. Qifrey wants to bury himself in the ground. "Qifrey?"
"Olly," Qifrey demurs, tongue numb in his mouth. "Was the wine not, ah, not to your liking? You're back early."
"I know you've lost it considerin' you're not scolding me for drinking in the first place," Olruggio hisses, maneuvering him around to see him clearly; it doesn't help that Qifrey immediately lolls his head onto his shoulder. The grip on his arm tightens. "What's wrong?"
Qifrey shakes his head. "The meat must've been undercooked."
"We've had no meat today," Olruggio calls out. Qifrey has started to lose his sense entirely; he's usually much better at lying than this.
Olruggio places his palm on his forehead. Qifrey expects him to find nothing, considering he feels oddly cold right now. Though the man curses, and Qifrey knows his body has found another way to make a liar out of him.
"A fever, is it?" Olruggio considers, pressing his palm against both of his cheeks. "The hospital is just close by, we can—"
He's not sure what he's doing, not until Olruggio goes rigid beneath him. Qifrey blinks—he's begun to cling, gripping the front of Olruggio's robe, crowded impossibly close. He burrows into Olruggio's neck, nose brushing against the scent gland there, one that has rejected him every time he's come near it.
Qifrey has never been able to pick up a scent, not since Olruggio had presented as omega, certainly not since Qifrey had presented himself.
But here he is, his rut returning in full force. So what if—
"What are you doing," Olruggio whispers, though he seems to have no intention of pulling away even as Qifrey tentatively breathes him in.
Nothing. Nothing. Of course, there'd be nothing, but Qifrey can't help the low whine from his throat.
He pulls away, face scrunched. "No hospital," Qifrey murmurs.
Something strange passes over Olruggio's face. "You can't even stand on two feet yourself," he pushes, concerned. "D'you think you can manage like this tomorrow when the girls drag you all over th' place? Qifrey—"
"It's a rut," Qifrey snaps, words tumbling out of him before he can stop them. A new panic settles: what other truths might he say, mind-addled as he is? "I'm sorry. It's a rut. I need to—our atelier. The hospital will be of no use."
He doesn't lift his head to look at Olruggio's face, not wanting to see what he'd find there—it wouldn't be anger, for his dishonesty, for a lie that has carried over for years. It wouldn't be anger, and that is precisely why Qifrey can not look.
Though for a moment, his heart seems to drop as Olruggio pulls away from him.
It only lasts a breath; his position is adjusted as Olruggio supports him from behind, so that he's able to keep Qifrey on his feet as they move. Say something, Qifrey wants to beg. And let it not be kind.
"Good thing you'd only managed a few steps from the tent," is what Olruggio says instead.
If he wants to pretend there is nothing wrong here, then Qifrey will follow. He's always been good at that. "For you," Qifrey rasps.
Olruggio catches him after he nearly trips over a stone. "What?"
"Who was going to help you to your feet, were you to come back drunk off your mind?"
Olruggio snorts, of all things. "Funny that." Which is—well, Qifrey can certainly see the irony there.
Everything after that blurs; Qifrey is pulled behind the tent, and Olruggio must've set up their emergency window way to the atelier, because he sees the familiar brick path a moment later. He's moving more on instinct than anything, trusting, completely, that Olruggio will handle this part.
The door opens, and Olruggio guides him over to his room, a careful hand placed on the expanse of his back. The touch is simple, but it does something to him that makes his breath catch.
"Here we go," Olruggio settles him down onto his bed with a grunt. Qifrey sighs, letting his head rest on the board.
The pain has shallowed slightly. A mercy that he wishes he hadn't been given, with Olruggio looking at him with those same soft eyes of worry. "Thank you."
Olruggio steps away, likely wanting to give Qifrey space. He purses his lips, watching as Qifrey pulls himself into a more proper position. "You're aware this isn't right, your symptoms. Shouldn't be hurting this bad."
"Nothing I can't handle," Qifrey grits.
"They've made advances, the doctors have. It'd do you good to have 'em look at you again," Olruggio continues. "Don't have to move at all, they'll send over nurses for anyone bedbound. I can drop right by and have 'em come over. What d'ya say?"
What if it doesn't work? Qifrey thinks. What if it does? What if his scent returns, and his body works as it should?
And then I would be able to breathe you in, the unsparing part of him that prunes the branches that curl at his abdomen mutters, and then that would be the end of it.
And then I'd have to pretend as though I do not feel you settling in my lungs, clinging to the muscle of it, forcing the beat of my chest to a rest. Until I can't. Until the pretending frays, until you—
"You mustn't, " Qifrey manages, his own voice a deadfall beneath the throb of his ears. This is something he's used to: decisions made not of want but of need, a dichotomous illusion of choice. "There is no need."
"Qifrey—"
"The girls will wake soon, Olly," Qifrey presses. "They're eager to see the festivities, with an adult they trust not to lose them amid the crowd."
"This is why—" Olruggio ruffles a hand at the nape of his hair, frustration etched on his features. The thin relief Qifrey finds in the sight is revolting. "My priorities are far less disciplined than you think, Qifrey. Best for everyone that I take no apprentices of my own."
Qifrey will not afford himself the requital of lingering on what that means, though it would require little effort to decipher such a confession: a watchful eye and the deliberate selectivity of its gaze. Hesitation where there demands to be none. Qifrey can not afford himself the indulgence, of indulgences, as vines twist around the fragile lattice of his rib and tug—
—and so, he says, "Your priorities need not be elsewhere."
"A right fool," Olruggio curses; he's begun to pace.
A shallow circumference of a circle by the door, narrower than the concentric layers they orbit within in the atelier, around each other. Distance—a frigid thing—usually softened by gentle smiles and teasing chides, as though the wall built between them were nothing but something imagined.
Olruggio exhales, and Qifrey squirms.
His eyes dart to where Qifrey has both hands folded in his lap, the straightening of his back an illusion of composure, ruined only by the sweat slicking his forehead.
Orluggio clears his throat. "Aye, uh. Is there anything you need before I leave?"
No, is Qifrey's immediate thought, though his eyes must do something, and his fingers must twitch, because Olruggio begins to fiddle with the tassel of his outerwear.
"…My cloak?"
Yes, comes in a desperate wave, the thought of it constricting against the narrows of his oesophagus.
It would be so strange to ask of this—stranger still to want it. To reach out and take something so close to him without it meaning something else entirely. The implications would sit too plainly in the air between them, unbearably legible.
Yet Qifrey's shoulders cave inwards, and his lips quirk into a small smile as he says, "If you'd be… amiable."
The wording is so incredibly awkward, Qifrey wishes to lunge forward, steer Olruggio backwards until he is rid of the premises, and shut the door hard enough for the humiliation to wither in the echoes of the reverberations.
Instead of the rejection he'd anticipated, Olruggio blinks once and says, "I thought—yeah, alright," already pulling at the collar of the fabric and folding it over his forearm. And maybe this was a bad idea, because the movement shifts his shirt collar loose—the skin of his throat, the sliver of his chest briefly bare and open.
Qifrey swallows.
As he lowers the robe by the end of the bed—far too neatly at that—Olruggio lifts his head and scratches a finger below his chin.
He looks out of place, and Olruggio should not be here, pretending as though this is a normality, as though it were not the consequence of another well-formed lie. But Qifrey supposes there is nothing unusual for the man to bear the weight of his wrongs and offer absolution in the form of a light shrug.
The next time he speaks, Olruggio sounds unsure. Young. "For the cold, is it?"
Ah. Perhaps Qifrey has made an overstatement. "For the cold."
It's better this way, he knows, and yet something tight and unnamed lodges in his throat.
Olruggio straightens, sauntering back to the door. The gap widens once again, and Qifrey traces the length of it. Four steps and he'd be by the bed, by Qifrey, and then—and then what? Press the callouses of his fingers against his jaw, and know, and the knowing would lead to one thing and then another: the crack of his spine, the unfurling of coiled tendrils beneath the empty eclipse of his eye.
And so, Olruggio must leave. And so the distance shall widen all the way down to Ezrest, leaving Qifrey with only a garment of solace.
"Let me know if there's aught urgent," Olruggio inclines his head towards the rings on the bedside table meant to alert for emergencies.
He sucks his lips inwards, tugging the cracked flesh of them. Hesitation, again—and Qifrey needs him to leave; to not look as though it pains him to go, just as it would pain Qifrey for him to remain.
You must leave, his pleas sing. "You will, yes?" The chords rupture; you must stay.
Qifrey taps a finger against the oak of the table. Once, twice. "You worry far too much, old friend."
"Someone has to," Olruggio grunts. His hand curves around the door handle, though he doesn't push forward yet. In fact, Olruggio pauses entirely, seems to consider something, before turning around again. "…Is this your first—?"
"No," Qifrey offers as one truth atop a caire of lies, and demures with a smile. "I'll be alright. Go. And watch your liquor."
Olruggio snorts, waving dismissively as the door opens with a creak, "Yeah, yeah," and shuts with a soft click.
The shape of his absence settles the woodland to rest.
Qifrey shuffles after a moment, his limbs heavy and thoughts fogging at the edges. Reaches down, fingers grasping desperately for the robe—Olruggio's robe, a deep azure with golden framing. Nuzzles into the fabric with a torn keen, humiliatingly pitched, and chokes when he inhales nothing.
Qifrey feels as though it had been less a truth and more a thin lie, that this had happened before, his rut. Not in factuality—he remembers the first time with a level of clarity.
It had not been much.
Gritted teeth and crescent-dug palms were enough for Qifrey to weather his cycle without much issue. Issue, meaning Olruggio's sharp eyes, in an empty atelier that had felt too large for space, and Olruggio had felt too close.
And so when Qifrey wakes, he does not expect to feel as though a boulder has been dropped atop his abdomen.
The weight of it is deep and ugly, pressing into skin and muscle alike. Qifrey exhales sharply through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as another ache rolls through his gut, his fist clutched tight to his forehead.
He curls inward, knees drawn to his chest, and hands bunching the front of his innerwear as if sheer will may placate the sharp pain searing tendon and nerve. Each wave leaves nausea in its wake, the backwash stealing breath from his lungs.
Realization settles, a humiliating thing: his body has decided to remember itself.
Or perhaps not remember. Mimic. A poor reconstruction of instinct stitched together from the lingering wreckage of experiments. Of being made and remade, a yield loss in between each trial.
A half-starved thirst acidifies the back of his throat, trailing down to the space between his thighs; Qifrey does not wish to quench it. Qifrey needs so badly to quench it.
His limbs must've flailed in his sleep—a brief unconsciousness that'd taken him faintly after Olruggio had left, and the only scent he'd inhaled from his robe was the mucus of his own sniveling beside the stained patch of tears—because the bed throw is askew, and there's no pillow cushioning his head.
The—the robe.
Hands reach out with the desperation of a man drowning, and perhaps that's what this is—water forcing itself inside, entering cavities that'd long remained empty. A gasp; an open mouth seeking air, some primitive fight or flight response.
Qifrey finds it, the cloak—folded behind him, creased and messy, and drags it to his face.
Eventually, the drowning man learns to stop searching for oxygen, but the body does not. Qifrey breathes in, instinctual. There is no air, and water remains. There should be no air. There has never been any air. There should be—
A sweet scent, a waxy musk. Vanilla and rich animal hide.
Qifrey stills.
The fabric bunches between his fingers, eyes wide and half-delirious. It can't have been, surely not, and why would it have been that? Has his body remembered this part, too? A disjointed mercy, allowing him this as though an apology for the ache that follows, splitting through the white matter of his cranium.
He brings the robe closer and inhales again, deep. And—
—and nothing.
"No," Qifrey whispers, pushing himself upright, drawing the robe higher, thinking that maybe the scent might've remained at some other part: the inner lining, or the details, or the sleeve. "Please."
Qifrey tries again, and again, and again, whining like a forlorn animal somewhere between each desperate motion. How ridiculous he must look right now, like a man possessed. Addicted.
It had been simple, once, accepting that he could never have this—the ability to know Olruggio so intrinsically, his scent.
There had been a longing, of course, marrow-deep, but there was nothing unusual in that. It had become a part of him, just like everything else; lodged between his ribs back when a bright-eyed boy with even brighter ideas had stood at the foot of a Silverwood tree and wrote Qifrey's first sin.
But if Qifrey can have this, what else can he have? How far can he go before his vertebrae become displaced by the longing that can no longer be contained, and the cycle of ruin and remaking repeats?
He wants it. It had been there, Olruggio's scent, and he wants it. Rationality be damned.
And so Qifrey moves, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and ignoring how disheveled he surely looks. His limbs fail him immediately, his hip knocking hard against the bedside table, but no wince follows.
The door opens, sweat-slick fingers around the handle, and Qifrey heads towards where he may find the scent again—Olruggio's quarters.
He remembers moving into the atelier—a much quieter thing than it is right now—and Olruggio's expression when Qifrey had presented the room to him. I'll be less of a bother, he had said with far too many teeth to be real, with you a corridor away.
Olruggio looked at him, mouth pinched as though wanting to say something. Qifrey does not wish to know what it had been.
The room is familiar; Qifrey has never borne any true notice of the sign on the door, nor has Olruggio expected him to. It's dimly lit, now, with his absence.
Still, Qifrey finds little difficulty in guiding his feet to the cabinet across the room.
He drops to the floor, and the wooden drawers nearly fall with him. Qifrey pulls the set open, finds the same blue fabric robes, various long-sleeved undershirts, ankle-length skirts, and winter wear. He pulls them out, unbothered by the mess he's making, bringing each to his face, and hoping, and hoping.
Who had decided to be so cruel as to offer him this—an imitation of the body he should have had, only for it to be fleeting? To rip it from his hands in the same breath?
(Qifrey thinks it must be some sick type of retribution. To be given something only for it to be taken away is a cruelty he knows well enough to inflict; a hat and a glyph, a glyph and a hat.)
He's not sure how long he stays here, feeling around for any trace of a scent he had not known long enough to put a name to. Qifrey decides it must be because they're freshly washed, the reason why he can't smell anything other than the room's frankincense. It's better than condemning his flesh.
Just as he begins to consider crawling to the bathtub in search of a used towel, a noise sounds somewhere beyond the room.
A dull thud. It sounds vaguely like a body bumping hard against something.
Qifrey looks down at the clothes thrown askew around him—robes half-folded and half-inspected—where he must look like everything but the refined witch he's sought to be, and dearly hopes he must've heard wrong.
The door opens, and Qifrey finds himself unable to lift his eyes.
The first thing he hears is not words, but panting; heavy, hurried breaths. Qifrey should not be able to recognize the cadence of them.
"By the Wise, are you 'reyt?! You—Qifrey?"
Olruggio closes the distance in a handful of hurried strides, nearly tripping over himself as he makes his way to where Qifrey sits amid the wreckage of his search. Why is he here, and not where he should be, down in Ezrest? Qifrey hadn't called for him, does not imagine he ever would, like this. So why—
The bedside table. His hip hitting hard against it, the rings.
They must've fallen, and attached, and Olruggio had thought it an emergency, out of breath as he is. Why wouldn't he?
Olruggio takes a step back; Qifrey is sure he must be studying the ruin around him. There's a sudden need to explain, and he meets his eyes at last.
"It was there," Qifrey's voice is just above a whisper, "Olly, it was there. I swear it."
"What are you talking 'bout? Up now," knees lower to his level, and hands press against the sides of his shoulders. The simple touch makes Qifrey want to recoil and lean into it in equal measure.
Still, the latter wins—Qifrey hauls Olruggio to the floor with him, and the man drops with a sharp yelp. He's never seen Olruggio so bedraggled: hair a mess of loose strands, expression caught somewhere between incredulity and concern.
He grips Qifrey's shoulders tighter, as though trying to shake some sense into him. "Qifrey, what are you—"
"It's gone," Qifrey mourns, "Where did it go?"
Olruggio's eyes dart around him once again, and Qifrey wants to tell him that he's searched there already. "I can't help you find—it, if you've lost your noggin'," Olruggio curses, clearly distressed. Qifrey focuses on that, instead of the hand that's mindlessly dropped to his waist.
Instead of any real elaboration, Qifrey brings two fingers to Olruggio's jaw, guiding his attention away from the scattered robes. "Can you smell me?" Has this changed? Olruggio closes his mouth, opens it, and closes it again. It is unfair, the way Qifrey deflates in response. "You can't."
Guilt settles at the sight of Olruggio's own unnecessary guilt, the way he tugs at his bottom lip and his fingers fiddle. "That's—It's always been that way."
"Yes. Yes, it's always…"
What is he saying?
Something else twists on Olruggio's face. "I was under t'impression that wasn't an option."
Qifrey knows what he means; betas have no scent and can not scent another. There would be no reason for Olruggio to linger on the thought of Qifrey having one. There would be no reason, because Olruggio took Qifrey's word in stride, had not considered that Qifrey would lie about such a thing.
A weight drops. "I've upset you."
Olruggio responds with a shake of his head, far too quick to turn down the notion. "You've no obligation to share such a thing with me, but I had thought—" He trails off, and the hand falls from Qifrey's side. "Nay. Forget it. I suppose there's much I'm not the right person for, still."
(They're sat by the hill, and Qifrey has failed again; Olruggio has seen too much of him, an inevitability in the cyclicality of ruin and rebirth.
And I'm also angry that you didn't think to consult me—
… no, forget that. That's my own fault for not being someone you can turn to. I'm angry at myself for that part.)
"Olly," Qifrey echoes, because he's unsure of what else to say; that he would rather not carry the designation of alpha while being something that cannot be recognized as one? That lying had been easier than having Olruggio, regardless of it all, look at him like he is not a body reconstructed?
Just as he tends to do, Olruggio watches the contortion of Qifrey's face and decides better than to push further. "No matter," he shifts, rearranging himself so that they're less of an awkward sprawl of limbs on the floor. "You look a right mess."
Qifrey lowers his head. "I'll clean it."
"No, I mean…" He wipes a hand against his face, rubbing at his eye. Qifrey's gut churns, and churns. "What're you doing here, Qifrey?"
Olruggio watches him intently, and it feels as though he's taken Qifrey's tongue in between his teeth—he does not think he can lie like this. Olruggio would feel the crooked shape of it in his mouth. And so Qifrey says nothing.
"What've you lost?"
"Mulberry and lavender," Qifrey murmurs before he can think twice of it. "Warm parchment."
He's not sure if it's quite accurate, but trying to give a name to the scent makes it seem more tangible, less of a heat-struck illusion.
Olruggio frowns. "What?"
Qifrey should stop. Smile a polished smile and wave the entire situation away, reassure Olruggio that nothing is wrong at all, and that the fever is simply lending everything a hazy edge and himself a knotted tongue.
Qifrey should stop; certainly should not plant both of his hands on each side of Olruggio's lap and lean forward into his space.
He doesn't know what he's doing, draping his body over Olruggio like this, one hand tracing the line of his neck, and then stopping at the gland covered barely by his shirt collar. "Right here," Qifrey breathes. "Was I wrong?"
Olruggio doesn't move to push him away, but Qifrey can feel the way he stills. Stiff and taut, hands hovering by his side as if unsure of what to do with them, to do with this. His eyes move between the clothes, and then back at where Qifrey has tipped his head forward, hovering by the jut of his throat, and—
"And you'd thought to seek it from my drawers?" Olruggio says, eventually, strangely hoarse. Relief follows first; Qifrey is glad he does not have to say this part out loud. Embarrassment washes clean over it, next. "I was under the assumption that you hadn't…"
Qifrey hums, repeating, "Hadn't?" urging him to continue.
"You didn't seem best pleased. Back in t'alley," Olruggio explains.
Qifrey doesn't remember much of the alleyway, only the burning ache that had felt foreign, so horrifically unbearable that it was simultaneously the worst and best Qifrey had felt in a good while. He recalls clutching onto Olruggio's robe, whatever part of him he could get his hands on. A drowning man, searching for air, refusing to learn that his lungs would not allow it.
Searching—
Oh.
He'd buried himself in Olruggio's neck, just like this. Qifrey must've made a sound, or a face, and Olruggio, ridiculously, must've assumed he hadn't liked the scent, and not that—
"Not with you," Qifrey rushes to clarify, "Never with you."
Olruggio's shoulders deflate with relief; Qifrey's nails dig into his palm. "Then?" He feels the small hairs of Olruggio's scruff brush against his cheeks as he turns his head to the side. "What made you pull that face for?"
Qifrey wishes he would push him off, already. "…Stale air, and—and the burning of charred yeast."
A low, confused noise sounds from Olruggio's throat. "You're talkin' in tongues when you're fevered."
"There was nothing," Qifrey tries, "Your scent, it was—and of course there was nothing, but there had been something, just now. Lavender, the kind you find in the Dadah at Spring's forthcoming."
He's laid himself bare; I have lied about my designation, but not of this—my body, misplaced. Things arriving when they oughtn't and vanishing when they should remain. Do you understand? Do you understand? Olruggio looks at him, and Qifrey hopes he understands; he hopes, terribly, that he doesn't.
Olruggio remains silent for a moment. "You've not changed much at all."
"Hm?"
Qifrey is jostled, slightly, and he worries, belatedly, whether the position he's in might've been causing Olruggio discomfort. The movement is enough for him to slip downwards, both of them blinking as Qifrey ends up—sitting on his lap.
Olruggio clears his throat, the tips of his ears rosy.
"Caught a nasty bug on one of our many adventures, you did, and Beldaruit had you bedbound. Proper out of it, and," He tests his fingers below Qifrey's nape, featherlight, "You had me just like this. Don't think you had a clue what you were doin', nuzzling like a cat. Seeking…"
"Oh," Qifrey says, stupidly, far too aware of how close they are. It requires a level of effort to piece Olruggio's words together into something comprehensible. "I don't recall."
A lost thing survives because someone has chosen to remember it. How ironic, Qifrey thinks, to not be the keeper for once.
"Aye," Olruggio huffs. "I had an inkling that was the case."
There's something he means to ask. Qifrey bites his inner cheek, considering it. "Is it alright?" Is this okay?
"Truth comes out when th' ale goes in," Olruggio jests, voice light and airy. "I don't recall the last time you were so honest."
Qifrey wants to bite into him. It would be so easy. "You won't answer the question," he accuses, petulant, even though he knows the answer. Olruggio holds him, uncaring of the mess they sit in, and Qifrey knows.
"I think it's a ridiculous question," Olruggio quips, just as easily as the knowing. His thumb is resting on Qifrey's side, just barely touching. "Do you want a no, Qifrey? Or a yes?"
"What does it matter what I want," Qifrey mumbles, far more vulnerable than he should be. The nausea has left him tongue-loose, a dangerous thing.
"Your saliva's on my throat," Olruggio points out. Qifrey winces; he'd, in fact, let his mouth hang low enough for the slick of it to permeate Olruggio's skin. "And I've not pulled away."
Qifrey lifts his head from where he'd concealed himself in the crook of Olruggio's shoulder and looks down at him, eyebrows pinched. "Don't be so crude," he whispers, unsure what to do when Olruggio tilts his head upwards to meet him, and his eyes seem to droop with the tenderness they carry. "Don't be so…"
"That's my decision, isn't it? What I am and what I'm not?"
He could tell him not to make such an awful decision, but what is Olruggio if not stubborn? An unyielding light, a pyreball bright enough to force his eyes open.
A finger lifts to hover over the line of Olruggio's jaw, not quite touching yet; trembling, as though his nerves are being twisted. By his longing, by roots burrowing in soft tissue—Qifrey no longer knows the difference. Isn't sure there was any at all.
"What are you, Olly?" Qifrey murmurs, awe in the lilt of it.
Olruggio shifts. Bites into his bottom lip and scratches below his ear, a nervous tick Qifrey has learned to notice. "Wanting to help."
A blink, and then another. Qifrey frowns, confused, and follows where Olruggio seems to be looking down at his lap, where the beginning and end of them have started to blur. And then—
"Oh," Qifrey gapes, horrified. He's been—absentmindedly rolling slow circles, sat on Olruggio like this. Rutting. He looks closer at Olruggio's face, and sees a faint flush on his cheeks that Qifrey realizes has been there for a while. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I hadn't realized—"
"No, it's—" Olruggio scrubs a hand over his face, the flush deepening despite himself. "I've gathered it weren't intentional. That's—Will you… Will you let me? Help, that is."
It's a strange, foreign sensation, the throb that has spread below his abdomen, to where he so very rarely allows himself the reprieve to touch. There was never any true need in the past, with his rut being barely a rut at all.
Qifrey remembers what it was like to grow up as a child: the deep-bone ache, two parts tenderised and two parts dull. Teeth that escaped from his mouth and regrew from sore gums. And then further, his bones mineralising into long, lanky limbs, an odd feeling coiling in his gut below his bed sheets. There had been a lesson on this sort of thing, education they'd offered to all children of age in the Great Hall, that Qifrey had attended with bright-pink cheeks and childish immaturity.
He'd deemed it unnecessary. Another thing to do without, and so he had. But…
Qifrey wishes it were that simple. He'd lapsed on a handful of occasions when the deprivation had become painful, a visceral gnawing, too sharp to ignore. Though it had been more frustrating than truly enjoyable: clumsy fingers, the image of a bright, radiant star, and the guilt that inevitably followed.
So he should say there's no need, like he usually does. A familiar mantra. Instead, Qifrey blurts, "The floor is painful."
Olruggio's lips twitch, clear amusement. "Then we'll move."
"This is an—an awful idea."
"I've had worse."
"Is that so?" Qifrey quirks a brow, inclining his head to the side.
Olruggio twists his head away, his ears a burning pink. He dismisses it, "Another time."
"No, I must know," Qifrey insists, reaching down to tilt Olruggio's chin so that he's looking at him again. He doesn't know what he's doing. "What awful ideas have you been having?"
"Qifrey," Olruggio purses his lips, "You're talkin' in circles. What is it you want?"
What an odd word that is, want. There's a trembling ecstasy circulating where it shouldn't, at the idea of being allowed this. Qifrey's chest opens tight. "To get off the floor, for a first."
"Alright," Olruggio says, simply, and Qifrey yelps as he's hauled off the ground with one quick motion. There's a faint stumble, as Olruggio figures out the position—adjusting his hold so one arm is below Qifrey's knee, and the other behind his back. "Have you been layin' off the custard?"
"… Don't be so insulting," Qifrey tries at being indignant, though his hands curl around Olruggio's neck for purchase.
"Forgive a man for an astute observation."
It is amusing, watching Olruggio try not to show how out of breath he is by the time they reach the—the bed, because that's what they're doing. He's gentle with lowering Qifrey down, waiting for him to extract himself. It's far more comfortable, atop the plush of a pillow and soft sheets; Qifrey sighs, muscles loosening.
Olruggio, however, stiffens only further. He rubs his palm against his nape, looking awkwardly where Qifrey is sprawled across his bed. A cough. "This is a bit strange."
"Olruggio," Qifrey whines into his hands, turning his face away.
"Look, I'd been a fair bit more confident earlier than now, with you lying here like this. I'm," he pauses, ruffles fingers through his hair. "You're goin' to have to tell me what to do."
It is as sweet as it is disconcerting, how careful he is. "I'm afraid I don't know any better," Qifrey says, hating how easily it comes out of his mouth.
He twists back around, where Olruggio remains standing, now biting absently into his nails. Ah. Qifrey reaches a hand out, tugging at his wrist. "… Come here?"
Olruggio lets himself be drawn closer, shifting onto the bed so that he's beside Qifrey.
The hand on his wrist remains; Qifrey hopes it's not obvious how fast his pulse is beating. He thinks that if he says anything right now—with Olruggio so close he can feel the heat of him—it would be a confession, giving himself away entirely. The way his breath would shake, and his words stumble.
So he says nothing, at first, and neither does Olruggio.
Qifrey's head is lowered, tucked just below Olruggio's chin—he cannot see his face, like this. Inching closer, Qifrey finds that same spot on his shoulder again, tries not to think about the absence of where scent should be as he brushes by Olruggio's throat.
"Qifrey," Olruggio breathes.
He shakes his head, unsure of what he's rejecting—his tone, how soft his name sounds in Olruggio's mouth? Or is it a deep-driven instinct, to hear Olruggio call for him, and to refuse it in turn?
"Stay still," Qifrey rasps at last. "Stay, and I'll, I can just…"
Somehow knowing what to do, Olruggio shifts his leg, tilting it upwards. Qifrey's own thighs part, nudging forward until his knee is wedged between them, and the first graze of friction slips a silent gasp from his lips. It's embarrassing how sensitive he is.
Olruggio takes his hands, hovering first before steadying Qifrey with both of them on his waist. "Not doing so much to help, then."
Qifrey thinks he's not going to last long at all; he's not even begun moving yet. "You're—helping plenty."
There are barriers, Olruggio's skirt and Qifrey's trousers, preventing any true skin-on-skin. Qifrey knows it's better this way, but he can't help the building frustration. It's a torment.
Which is—fine. He shouldn't want more than this. He doesn't need any of this at all.
Desire is an ugly thing. In Qifrey's hands, it becomes uglier still, rutting obscenely on Olruggio's leg, and finding even that insufficient. He could turn his head and take Olruggio's lips between his teeth, take more than this. Olruggio would let him.
(And that is why he mustn't.)
Qifrey gasps, "Oh," his hip dragging upwards. He buries himself deeper into Olruggio's shoulder, lest he make a humiliatingly wanton noise. "Sorry, is this…"
"I've not pulled you away," Olruggio reminds him, bringing his knee up further. Pull me away, Qifrey wants to beg. His hands clutch the front of Olruggio's tunic in the same breath.
It feels good, too good. His fists clench white-knuckled, an attempt at anchoring himself against a feeling that begins to rise in his chest. It isn't enough: something cracks, bile settles where it shouldn't.
Qifrey needs to focus on something else. So he talks. "These garments are—hah—terribly frustrating."
"I know," Olruggio rasps. "Don't want you regrettin' anything, though. Taking it off."
It's a considerate sentiment, Qifrey had not expected otherwise. He pushes, "And you wouldn't?"
It's far more loaded a question than it suggests: would you regret this, after? Do you have regrets with me? Do you regret, Olruggio, at the foot of a Silverwood tree, when you'd—
"You don't actually want me answering that," Olruggio deflects, perhaps for the best.
Perhaps he knows what Qifrey is doing—letting his mouth run ahead of him, searching and seeking for answers he has no real wish to hear. As though it may distract Qifrey from how he's begun to pant against Olruggio's skin, and thrust his hips up in increasingly sloppy motions.
He makes a choked sound, frustration getting the best of him—it's not enough, the friction.
One of Olruggio's hands lifts from his waist. Qifrey tries not to do something ridiculous like whine at the loss. "Do you need me to…?"
Qifrey pulls away slightly to see where Olruggio's hand hangs loosely between the two of them. He takes it, fingers curling around his wrist, and tugging it downwards. "Here, here," Qifrey reassures, guiding his hand between his thighs so that Qifrey can rut into his palm, instead. "Yes. Thank yo—mm."
It's strange, and it's wrong, and it feels dreadfully good.
So he speaks, again. "It's, it’s not usually like this."
He can feel Olruggio’s ragged breath against his cheeks, pressed close enough to him that he can track the tightening of his throat with each inhale. This is affecting him too, Qifrey realises, with a sinking weight.
"I'd assumed that much," Olruggio says, voice rougher than before. He slips his hand lower, and Qifrey nearly cries with relief from the angle. "Either that or you'd gotten good at lying."
Focus. "I've lied to you about the other part. My designation."
Olruggio doesn't say anything for a while; it feels like Qifrey is waiting for a verdict.
A finger runs through his hair, where it's begun to stick to his forehead. Olruggio tugs a loose strand behind his ear, a terribly intimate touch that settles something tight in Qifrey's chest. "There must've been good reason."
Oh. Oh no.
Not right now.
"And if there wasn't?" Qifrey pushes, voice trembling. "And if I were just so terrible as not to be truthful, would you—"
"I know you," Olruggio says, as though it were simple. He brushes a thumb against Qifrey's temple. "You're asking me 'bout someone else."
He can feel it, a prickling sharpness unraveling in the intercostal space of his ribs; the sprout that lies inside is phototrophic, growing in the direction of the light, the radiant star, that lies against his skin. It would be so easy for the inevitable roots of him to take Olruggio, too, with how close they are—feel the ugliness of his affection, and suffocate with it.
Qifrey needs—needs to—
"I don't need it. Your hand, I mean. You can—" Olruggio listens immediately, removing his palm from where it'd rested between Qifrey's thighs. "Thank you."
Qifrey watches the contortion on Olruggio's face intently—searches for hurt, searches for anything that will placate the vines at the back of his throat, so close to spilling entirely. What he sees is that same awfully familiar expression, the one where Qifrey knows the hurt is being turned inward, the rejection folded back into himself.
It's enough.
The friction returns to something small—faint and insufficient—but Qifrey says nothing of it.
He refocuses on moving, light breaths with each roll of his hips. Qifrey wishes to be quenched of this already, his motions hurrying, insistent, and desperate.
Maybe this would go differently if Qifrey were not damned; Olruggio would take his face into his hands and kiss him. Qifrey would kiss him back, and it would feel good, and he wouldn't fear the inevitable bad that would follow.
"'S alright," Olruggio murmurs, startling him slightly. He'd been so far in his head that he hadn't noticed he'd started making torn whimpers, chasing release and being so close to it. Olruggio shifts his leg again, his whole body with it; a hand on Qifrey's back, pulling him closer, tightening the space between them. "That better?"
"Mm—ah, yeah," Qifrey gasps, "Yes. Yes, I'm—"
He doesn't want to think about the sound he makes, as his abdomen tightens and he nestles in Olruggio's shoulder. Too delirious to say anything about Olruggio's hand cradling his head, grounding him, all while Qifrey comes simply from grinding against his leg.
After nothing but heavy breathing, it is no surprise that Qifrey is the one to pull away first.
Olruggio lets him, his expression unreadable. "I had a dream, few nights ago. Gave me all sorts o' weird ideas."
Qifrey pulls his knees together, sitting upright and watching the rise and fall of Olruggio's chest as he gets comfortable on a pillow. "A dream?"
"Embarrasin', truth be told," he continues, peering up at Qifrey with a look of abashment. "Had you with me, just like this. Funny thing is, it felt familiar."
The room seems to tilt. Only slightly, but enough that Qifrey finds himself gripping the sheets beneath him. "Familiar," he echoes.
Olruggio waves his hand with the casualness of a man unaware. "The wrong sort of familiar. Can't quite place why."
"Must be the fatigue," Qifrey says, a touch too quickly. He forces his grip to loosen from the sheets. "You've been working hard."
"Mm," Olruggio hums. "And you."
"Hm?"
"It's barely been a couple hours, and the girls are missing you a great deal. 'Master Qifrey would like this, Master Qifrey would like that," there's a smile on Olruggio's face as he talks. Endearment. He sounds tired, like he's on the edge of slumber, making his vowels a lazy roll. "I think there's something in that—them lookin' for you where they know you're not."
When Qifrey says nothing for a while, Olruggio adds, "Oh, they're with Beldaruit. Had I mentioned that?"
A crack. "You should go back, Olly."
Olruggio frowns, turning to look at him. "You're satisfied?"
"I can handle the rest myself," Qifrey responds with a smile he hopes is reassuring.
Olruggio lips purse, as if wanting to say something, though lands on, "If you're sure. But you can always… You can…" His words fade, Olruggio's eyes drifting shut. Not quite sleeping yet, but not awake either.
Qifrey has been here before.
His rut has never been this awful; that much had been true. It has also never required much for Qifrey's weak legs to stumble. Indulgences accumulating each time he found himself in Olruggio's bed, or Olruggio in his.
This time, it is Olruggio's ink and paper that Qifrey uses, on the bedside table.