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Qifrey had stumbled into the shop during the windiest day of the year, hair turned into an exploded mess and coat whisking through the wind. He still had Olruggio’s old scarf , which was tightly wrapped over his nose and mouth, and his glasses were coated with fog, peeking out from beneath the rim of the black cloth. Olruggio, who had been busy tinkering with a silver bracelet, took notice of his presence only when Qifrey gave a light tap to the wooden counter he sat behind. Olruggio swivelled around on his chair and faced him.
“Olly,” he said, a kind smile tugging at his lips. “You do sell calligraphy pens, right?”
“Qifrey,” sighed Olruggio. “It’s nine in the evening. We haven't been open since five.” They haven’t seen each other in two months, either, although currently Olruggio had a difficult time remembering that.
Qifrey’s smile widened into a grin. “It’s an emergency. I swear I’ll pay you back.” He held up his pinkie and crooked it as if expecting him to reciprocate with a pinky promise.
He ignored the gesture. “Fine,” said Olruggio, heaving himself off of the chair and sauntering over to the shelf where the pens lay stacked. “Just one?”
Suddenly, Qifrey broke out into a beaming grin, and said enthusiastically, “Three, actually! I’m opening an atelier for children.”
“Oh,” Olruggio meticulously scanned the shelves, looking for the nicest set of pens they owned. “You’re going to be a teacher?”
Qifrey laughed and shook his head. “Barely. I’m only teaching them some calligraphy. Apparently, it’s no longer taught in school. A coworker of mine mentioned that her daughter was interested in learning, so— Here we are.”
Growing up practically attached to Qifrey’s hip had made Olruggio intimately familiar with his handwriting. Neat and perfect letters, with sweeping, decisive lines and grand curves, so flawless that it seemed almost mechanical. Olruggio had assumed Qifrey’s proficiency in calligraphy had been due to his private tutor, and sometimes father—Beldaruit, who’d harboured a fascination for it, which had caused Qifrey to learn.
“I’d say that counts as being a teacher, doesn’t it?” He said, and took a thin black pen from the shelf, inspecting it briefly, then putting it back.
Qifrey sighed. “I suppose it does.” Then, he sighed again.
“You’re nervous?” Olruggio angled his face slightly toward Qifrey, a single eyebrow raised.
Qifrey let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous in my life, honestly. It’s been a while since I’ve… interacted with children, so I’m worried I won't be as good of a teacher as I thought.”
“You taught me how to write my name easily enough,” Olruggio smiled.
He huffed, crossing his arms. “That’s because you’re my friend, Olly. I could kill someone and you would be complimenting my methods before even considering turning me into the authorities. Besides, you’re a very fast learner, so that doesn’t count.”
Olruggio laughed loudly. “I suppose so, yeah. Though, it is not my fault you’re so good at everything.”
“Olruggio,” Qifrey warned, the tips of his ears now red. “The pens?”
“Sorry, sorry,” snickered Olruggio, turning toward the shelf once-more and grabbing an 8-set of pristine calligraphy pens. “Here, these should do.”
“Oooh,” breathed Qifrey, turning the package around and inspecting the price tag. “Isn’t this the same brand as my old pens?”
“It is,” said Olruggio, moving back toward the counter with Qifrey in tow. “Do you need ink? We should still have a few cartridges left.”
Qifrey smiled. “That’d be perfect, thank you.”
Olruggio walked over to one end of the counter, opening a small cabinet where they stored most of their ink. “Tell me about the children,” he said conversationally while rooting through the cupboard.
“My students? Sure.” Qifrey stood in quiet contemplation for a moment, occasionally humming, before saying, “It’s three girls, all around the age of 12. So far, I’ve only met two of them, Tetia and Agott, and they’re both lovely. Tetia is a very cheerful kid, though her handwriting is atrocious. I have a hunch that her parents set her up with me so that I can make sure her teachers finally have a shot at understanding what she’s writing.” He laughed awkwardly, then gladdened, exclaiming brightly, “And Agott! Oh, Agott; she’s a wonderful artist. I’ve seen some of her work already, and goodness. She still has a ways to go, but if she finds a good teacher and works diligently, I’m certain she’ll become one of the greatest in her generation. If it turns out she’s interested, I may just offer to assist her myself, assuming I have some additional spare time on my hands.”
“Agott? As in, Adina’s daughter, Agott?” Olruggio had only once had the displeasure of working with the Zozah Museum of Arts, when he had been asked to contribute one of his necklaces, the Glowstone Pendant, to an exhibit. He’d only briefly interacted with Adina Arkrome, a ruthlessly effective woman who ran the entire museum with such potency that he swore to never meet her outside of work.
“The very same! One of my paintings was briefly presented at their ‘ Magician’s World’ exhibit last month and Adina introduced me to her daughter during the opening night. Apparently, Agott had seen me writing in my journal and was interested in learning how to write like I did. She was the one who gave me the idea to teach classes, actually.”
“I see,” hummed Olruggio. He’d found the ink bottles a while ago, but stayed crouched behind the counter so as to not halt Qifrey in his speech, cutting the conversation short. He didn’t want it to stop. “What about the last one?”
“Ah, yes! Her name is Riché. According to Beldaruit—one of his students happens to be her older brother, you see—she collects precious stones and trinkets, and keeps mostly to herself. She’s got a history of struggling with authority figures, as well as having a tough time at school. I thought I’d help her out some, see if I can do better than her regular teachers.”
Olruggio stood up from behind the counter, gently setting down 6 ink cartridges on the counter. “Very honourable of you,” he jokes, smiling slightly.
He smiled back. “I think so too. How much for it all?”
“350,” he lied, leaning his elbows against the counter.
Qifrey eyed him suspiciously. “350?” he asked.
“Yop.”
He sighed and nodded. “Alright then,” he said, opening his wallet and depositing a single 400 bill on the counter. “Keep the change.” He grinned.
“Qifrey,” Olruggio groaned.
“Olruggio,” he said, with an innocent purr. He began packing the supplies into his pockets. Once they were all safely tucked inside his coat, he straightened up and said, “Now, what do I owe you for helping me out so late?”
Olruggio waved him off. “I’ll think of something later,” he said dismissively, already tossing the promise of a favour into the imaginary trash pyre in the far recess of his mind. “Good luck with the teaching.”
Qifrey bowed his head. “Good luck with the shop. I’ll see you later, yeah?”
Olruggio gave him a single thumbs up before Qifrey returned out into the wind.
***
A month later, Qifrey stumbled into the shop again , looking more haggard than Olruggio had ever seen him.
The pair of earrings he’d been repairing lay forgotten on his workbench as he hastily stood up and made his way over to Qifrey, who was leaning against the door, an exhausted hand on the wall.
“What’s wrong?” He said, awkwardly hovering by Qifrey’s side. He weighed the option of holding onto Qifrey and helping him over to a chair; however, touching him was always a dangerous gamble. On the plus side, he got to touch Qifrey, which was always nice; on the negative side, all intelligent thoughts inside his head would immediately cease, and he’d have no chance of stopping himself from saying anything obscenely idiotic. He settled on crouching slightly, so that he could meet Qifrey’s eye. “Would you like to sit down?”
Qifrey closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry, I—” he mumbled, inhaling deeply before continuing, “My atelier got a new student the other day.” He seemed to collect himself and straightened, making his way over toward the counter.
Olruggio frowned. “That’s all?” He queried, continuing to hover cautiously over Qifrey’s shoulder.
He sighed. “No, she’s— She’s a special case.” He seemed like he wanted to say more, so Olruggio stayed silent. After a few moments, Qifrey dragged a hand over his face and into his hair, briefly revealing the scarred skin over his eye. Olruggio, terribly, wanted to put his thumb over it.
Qifrey continued. “Coco—that’s her name—and her mother were in a very bad accident the other day.” He briefly tugged at his bottom lip. “Coco came out unscathed but her mother… Wasn’t as lucky. —She’s still alive, though! She’s been admitted to the hospital, although… She hasn’t woken up since the accident, I’m afraid. And Coco, she… Apparently, she has no other relatives to stay with, and since the accident was partially my fault…”
“Qifrey,” Olruggio breathed, eyes wide.
He huffed and leaned against the counter. “I mean, you know what the system did to me, I just couldn’t—” He sighed and then said, “Coco’s staying with me until her mother can return home. Neither of us knows when that’s going to be, so… I’ve been quite busy trying to get her settled.” Qifrey raised his head and looked at Olruggio. “Do you have any sketchbooks or notepads?”
Olruggio blanked. “Uh—” he stuttered, “Sure, yes. She’s an artist?”
Qifrey laughed wearily. “No, but I think she’d like to be. She’s been spending a lot of time admiring all the paintings I have hung up in the living room.” He waved his hand. “Anyways. I have enough pens to spare, but I thought she might enjoy a book so that she might practice some.” Then, “ Oh! Do you think I could buy a small bracelet for her? I think she’d like that.”
“Sure. The display is over there, just tell me which one you’d like to buy.” He nodded, and walked to grab a small leather-bound book.
Once he returned, Qifrey had a finger stuck to the glass, pointing at a thin silver bangle. “That one, please.”
Olruggio set the notebook down on the counter and opened the display case, fishing out the bangle and placing it inside of a small box. “If it doesn’t fit her, just come back and I can adjust the size.”
“Alright.” Qifrey nodded. He passed his payment over the counter, then put the notebook and bangle in his white messenger bag.
Olruggio leaned across the counter, head resting on his palm. “How are the lessons going, by the way?”
Qifrey startled and blinked. Then, he smiled, and said warmly, “Really well. All the girls are lovely. Riché is a tough nut to crack, though.” He chuckled. “She doesn’t listen to instructions and gets upset when I try to help her. But, I’d like to think she’s slowly warming up to me; she listened to a single suggestion I made the other week, so, baby steps, I suppose.”
Olruggio couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure she likes you.” Then, with more conviction, he added, “You are hard not to like, Qifrey.”
Immediately, Qifrey brought the side of his hand down onto Olruggio’s forehead. “Stop that,” he huffed, although his face was slightly flushed. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
Olruggio backed away and held his hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright. Tell me what Coco thinks of the bangle.”
Qifrey smiled at him and nodded, before opening the door outside and leaving.
***
Two days later, Qifrey showed up again with a bright-haired girl in tow, who very loudly awed at every sparkling thing in the shop.
The girl was wearing a cyan poncho, with slits cut in it for her arms, and a matching beret. Aside from the colour, she was an almost spitting image of a 15-year-old Qifrey; the same style of dress, and the same type of shoes. Clearly, he had bought those clothes for her himself; which made it stupidly obvious who the girl was.
“Coco, right?” Olruggio asked, leaning across the counter. For once, he hadn’t been working on anything before they’d entered the shop, and was able to meet Qifrey’s eye as he closed the door behind him.
Coco squawked. “Yes, sir!” She stuttered out, much louder than necessary.
Olruggio threw his head back and laughed loudly.
“Olly, hi,” said Qifrey, who had made his way to the counter and was now gently leaning against it, resting his hand on the wooden countertop.
“Hi.” Olruggio lowered his head to stare at Qifrey, then smiled, before straightening and asking, “Let me guess; the bangle was too small?”
Qifrey snapped his finger, hand bouncing slightly. “Precisely! Always so clever, Olly. I thought I’d bring Coco over, to make sure it was adjusted correctly.”
Coco stood by his side, standing so that he was just slightly between her and Olruggio. She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh!” She said, her face suddenly full of wonder. “The bracelet is lovely, Mister Olly. Did you make it?” She stepped out from behind Qifrey, hands up and clenched into fists.
“I did.” Olruggio gave her a thumbs up. “And none of that Mister stuff. My name’s Olruggio. Though, I’m afraid Olly is reserved for the troublemaker over there,” he said and motioned toward Qifrey.
He nodded seriously, brows furrowed and fingers resting on his chin as if he were deep in thought. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m afraid nickname privileges are only allowed for the people who took part in the Great Museum Heist of 2011.”
Coco frowned. “The what—?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” said Olruggio, rolling his chair out from behind the counter. He grabbed a bit of measuring tape from one of the shelves underneath the counter and held it out toward Coco. “Hold out your wrist.”
She did, fist still clenched, palm facing upward. The other hand remained awkwardly at her chest. Olruggio smoothly wrapped the tape around her wrist, noting the measurement down, then said, “open your hand.” She did, and he silently measured the width of her hand, before gently dropping it and sliding back behind the counter. Qifrey had put the bangle on the table, still in its box, and was now quietly observing him as he moved around on his chair.
Distantly, he heard Coco not-so quietly whisper, “Did you rob a museum?” and Qifrey whisper back, equally as loud, “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Olruggio removed the bangle from the box and turned it around in his hands. It was a simple, even silver bracelet, made to be unassuming but precious. “I could have it done by tomorrow,” he said.
Both Qifrey and Coco beamed. “Lovely! I’ll come by in the evening and pick it up,” he said, clapping his hands together and tilting them near his face. “It was nice seeing you, as always,” he said, before leaving the shop.
Coco lingered just briefly, admiring a necklace on display, before following after.
***
Olruggio’s phone rang almost the precise moment he unlocked the door to the shop.
It was storming outside; his umbrella had folded itself inside out after an especially strong gust of wind flew through the streets, and the sky occasionally lit up with lightning. Rain poured loudly outside, drowning the sound of the bell above the door ringing as he slammed the entrance open and closed it. It was only as he stepped inside that he heard the gentle ringtone coming from his phone.
“Olruggio speaking,” he said, placing the phone between his shoulder and head, forgoing to check the caller ID to instead make his way behind the counter.
“Do you happen to know anything about glasses?” Qifrey’s voice came through the other end of the receiver.
Olruggio smiled—something he tended to do a lot nowadays that Qifrey was back with him. “Just, in general? Yeah, sure; mainly, they’re used to improve sight—”
“My glasses broke,” Qifrey said bluntly, interrupting him, “and the girls have a class in 2 hours, and I can’t leave my house, because—” He fell silent, before continuing, “Because. Do you know how to repair glasses?”
Olruggio felt stupid, or mean, or something, because he, of all people, was intimately familiar with Qifrey’s extreme aversion to storms. He should’ve known Qifrey was upset, shouldn’t immediately have started to banter, shouldn’t have—
“Uh, yeah, yes. I do,” he said instead, properly grabbing his phone and standing straight, ignoring the shelf he had been rifling through.
“Can you come over?” The stress in his voice was almost palpable.
“Of course. I can be there in 20 minutes.”
“Thank you.” Qifrey sounded so relieved that Olruggio could have cried.
It took exactly 20 minutes to reach his apartment—ever since he had moved in, Olruggio had made the trip between his own home and the apartment nearly daily. Even though it had been a while since he had last stepped foot inside the complex, he remembered the street, the code and the layout like he knows his own name. Getting in was easy, the code hadn’t changed in the last 5 months, and Qifrey’s apartment is only on the second floor. The door was locked, as usual, but only a single knock summoned him, footsteps loudly clanging through the thin door.
When the door swung open, the faraway whine of a teapot exploded into the hallway, and Olruggio was suddenly face-to-face with the most dishevelled version of Qifrey he’d seen in a long while.
“Are you okay?” He asked before he could stop himself.
Qifrey, who had always disliked being shown any sort of concern, indignantly said, “Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”
They both knew that Qifrey hates storms. Qifrey knew, that he knew, that Qifrey hates storms. They also both knew that Qifrey, as he won't do, was deflecting again.
Immediately, Olruggio chose to drop the potential argument brewing. Arguing with Qifrey about his poor coping habits was one of his less favourite things to do, so instead, he said, “Uh, nevermind. Could I come in?”
Qifrey nodded but stayed silent, sidestepping his door and giving Olruggio ample room to push past.
The apartment looked about the same as he remembered it. The kitchen had always been the highlight of it all, always kept squeaky clean, though never due to disuse, and filled with utensils and ingredients. The living room was still somewhat bare, with only a TV and a green sofa occupying the space. A rug has been added, brown and made up of different patches—it’s nice and makes the room seem more lived in. Qifrey’s room was behind a closed door, and Olruggio felt it unnecessary to peek inside it; it had always been the most unassuming part of Qifrey’s living space, left bare and mostly empty. He also didn’t bother checking the bathroom or spare bedroom, although he didn’t doubt that the former room had changed drastically in the last month. Some new paintings were hung on the wall, although most were still ones Olruggio recognised—some of them he even remembered Qifrey drawing while he’d been spending time over.
What had changed most, however, was his atelier. Before, it had been a rather large workspace for a single artist, filled with unfinished and finished paintings alike, brushes and buckets tossed haphazardly on the floor and the single table occupying the room. It had been a mess; Qifrey hadn’t bothered to clean it since the day he first set up inside of it, and it had shown clearly.
Now, it was almost entirely transformed. Brushes were neatly tucked into jars, placed in rows on one of the new tables that had been added to the atelier. Buckets were stacked, and paintings were properly hung against the wall, or neatly placed on the floor against the walls. The floor was covered meticulously with newspapers, taped together at the ends so as to protect the nice wooden floor. There are five easels in the room—four of them are relatively cheap and small, suited best for children, and one is Qifrey’s classic, nicer one, which he’s had since their early university days.
“I thought you taught calligraphy?” Was all Olruggio could say.
Qifrey awkwardly laughed and came up beside him, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “Yeah. The girls were much more interested in learning how to paint, so I thought I might teach them that too— We do both now, actually. It’s quite fun.”
Olruggio nodded, before turning toward him. “Where are your glasses?”
He perked up, telling him, “In the kitchen,” before walking out of the atelier. Olruggio followed him.
Once they reached the kitchen, which wasn’t far, Qifrey turned around, glasses firmly grasped in his hand. They were the same glasses he had worn since he was sixteen; small, round, one lens completely blacked out to distract from his missing eye, and one lens slightly shaded grey, joined together at the nose by a diamond-shaped bridge.
At least, they were usually joined together—the diamond bridge was roughly snapped near the blackened lens as if someone had forcibly bent them. Olruggio’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, hidden by his bangs, and he let out a low whistle.
Qifrey pointedly looked away.
With his current array of tools, it wasn’t an easy fix. Ideally, Qifrey should get the whole frame replaced. However, knowing that he would rather die than leave his house during a thunderstorm, glueing the glasses back together was an alright temporary solution.
Olruggio searched through his bag. “You’ll need to get the frame replaced later,” he said, removing the glue from his bag and grabbing one pair of the glasses, applying a small bit of glue to the broken bridge.
Qifrey nodded, sullen, teeth grazing against his thumbnail. “Yeah,” he whispered, staring intently at Olruggio’s hands.
He grabbed the other end of the glasses and gently pressed them together at the bridge. “Hold this.” He handed the glasses over to Qifrey, who grabbed both ends of the glasses and pressed them together as well. There was a brief moment of contact as Olruggio handed the glasses over—Qifrey’s fingers are ice cold, and he feels a shiver travel through his entire body.
The sky outside lit up suddenly, followed quickly by a loud cracking noise that travelled through the walls as if they were of thin air. Immediately, Qifrey tensed, the glasses in his grasp snapping apart again. He dropped them, sending the glasses crashing into the floor, before quickly slamming his hands above his ears so hard Olruggio had to momentarily consider whether or not he should pursue learning Japanese sign language.
The noise passed as quickly as it came, and Qifrey came back to himself almost as quickly. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, a hand moving from his ear to clamp over his mouth in horror. “Oh, I didn’t— I’m so sorry, I just—”
Olruggio was quick to put a hand to his wrist and gently pry it from his mouth. “Hey,” he said quietly, worried he might startle him if he spoke any louder. “It’s fine, it’s perfectly fine, don’t worry. I’ll just glue them back together again.” He released his wrist, watching as it fell to Qifrey’s side.
Qifrey crouched down and picked up the glasses. He stayed like that, hunched over, quietly staring at his broken glasses. Olruggio crouched down too—though not as far down, as his knees began screaming in retribution as soon as there was any weight put upon them—and put a single hand on Qifreyu’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?” He asked.
“I’m fine,” Qifrey responded instinctively, before shaking his head. He stayed quiet for a handful of moments, before he said, “No. Ugh, I don’t know. I don’t feel great.”
“Physically, or…?”
Qifrey leaned his forehead against his knees. “Both, I guess. My eye hurts, and my head hurts. I feel like shit.”
Hearing Qifrey swear was strange; he’d mostly stopped once they began nearing the end of their university days, and had completely stopped once they both began working. A far-off siren began blaring inside Olruggio’s head.
“You have a class today, yeah?”
Qifrey nodded.
“Alright.” Olruggio stood, toughening through the flush of blood that passed through his legs, causing a gentle ache. “You should cancel it.”
Qifrey’s head shot up from his knees. “No!” He said loudly, eyes wide. Then, more gently, “No, no. Having them here… helps. They’re good for me— I want them here.”
If Olruggio had been younger, fitter, and his body less hobbled together with loose sticks and stones, he would have crouched down again. Maybe even wrapped his arms around Qifrey and held him tightly, running an arm soothingly across his back. But he knew that if he tried to crouch down again, walking home would be agony that would cause him to curse existence itself—so he didn’t.
He stared at one of the paintings nearest, a small square canvas depicting a field underneath a raging storm. Most of Qifrey’s paintings were of rain and water, just like Olruggio’s were of fire, and his jewellery was warm and bright. It had been a way to cope with the fear of it, water and fire. To Olruggio, it had burned into a soft appreciation. To Qifrey, it had become a way to control his stresses, to feel as if the rain was in his power.
“Alright,” he said after a few moments. He turned his gaze back to the floor, where Qifrey was still crouched. “Alright. Could I—” He began, suddenly overcome with deep uncertainty.
Qifrey's head moved up from where it was planted on his knees and stared up at Olruggio. He tilted his head slightly, curious.
“I could stay, if you’d like?” He finally settled on, fighting to keep his hands from awkwardly massaging each other. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Qifrey looked surprised— really surprised, as if he hadn’t yet realised that Olruggio would break the world for him, if only he asked for it—before breaking into a wide, but careful smile. “I’d love to have you over. I’m sure the girls will appreciate your insight, too.” He stood up, shoulders un-naturally relaxed and face impassive.
To anyone else, he might’ve looked genuinely calm, but to Olruggio, who knew him almost better than he knew himself, the intense effort behind the eased stance was almost laughably obvious.
Qifrey returned the broken glasses to Olruggio, who glued them back together again. This time, instead of handing the glasses back to him to hold, he pressed them together himself, watching as Qifrey searched through his kitchen to make them both two cups of tea.
They settle at the kitchen island, Qifrey leaning against it with Olruggio sitting opposite him on one of two stools. Normally, he would’ve suggested Qifrey sit as well, but that would mean he’d lose the chance of inconspicuously staring at his eye and nose. Or how his hands gently held the cup, and how his mouth thinned into a line right before he would speak.
“Where’s Coco, by the way?” Olruggio asked, taking a long sip from his tea. It was black and slightly burnt, but it was nice anyways. Qifrey had always put an obscene amount of honey in his tea, often almost eclipsing the rest of the taste. Qifrey knew how to make good tea, and he was aware that he always burnt his, and that he put in way too much honey—it had taken almost a year of silently drinking awful tea before Olruggio learned that Qifrey just preferred it like that.
“In the guestroom.” He motioned toward the shut door. “She’s probably drawing and listening to her music,” he explained, then turned toward the clock above the oven. “Ah, I’ll probably have to start lunch.” He stood, downing the last contents of his cup, before grabbing Olruggio’s empty one. “Would you like some? We should have enough food for all three of us, I think.”
Olruggio shrugged. “Sure.”
Qifrey had always been an especially talented cook, finding peace in the process. Olruggio, who had only ever thought of cooking as an awfully necessary chore, had been overjoyed when it turned out that his best friend in the whole world not only liked cooking but was good at it, too.
He floated through the kitchen with ease, the rhythm of cooking causing him to relax slightly, the outside thunderstorm was almost forgotten. He gently eased a pot out of a cupboard, set it down, and then moved across the kitchen to grab different ingredients from other shelves.
Watching Qifrey cook was almost as fascinating as watching him paint. There was a sort of effortless ease he did both with, floating between different stations, cooking three servings of ramen as if he had been born with the ability. He poured ramen into a boiling pot like how he swatched paint onto a palette and stirred like how he painted.
Whilst Qifrey cooked, the door to the guest room swung open and Coco stepped out, wearing a pair of headphones and engrossed in her phone. She looked up almost immediately once she stepped outside her room, and smiled brightly when she saw Olruggio sitting by the kitchen table.
“Mister Olruggio!” She said, walking over beside him and pulling out the other stool to sit, removing the headphones from her ears and letting them rest on her shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
“Qifrey needed help with his glasses. I’m being bribed with lunch.”
From the other side of the kitchen, Qifrey spoke. “He’s also curious about the atelier classes, so he’s staying to watch.”
Coco seemed to become excited over that. “Oh!” She exclaimed, leaning forward on her elbows. “That means you’ll get to see Agott paint! She does really, really pretty landscapes— Have you seen them? They’re in the atelier, I think. Ah! And you’ll get to see Tetia and Riché’s drawings too—! Tetia draws a lot of skies with cute pink clouds, they’re really nice. Riché doesn’t show the rest of us what she draws, but Qifrey says she’s very skilled, so! Yeah!”
Olruggio listened to her talk while Qifrey continued to cook. Eventually, when three bowls full of egg ramen were put in front of them, Qifrey joined in on listening to Coco, occasionally adding his own commentary. Coco talked mostly about the other three girls—Agott, Tetia and Riché. She seemed to like them all well enough, getting on especially well with the latter two and stewing in a budding rivalry against the former. Olruggio sat and listened with an eye on the clock, counting down the minutes until the other three girls would arrive for their lesson.
Agott came first, almost 20 minutes early, which seemed to be common judging by Qifrey’s and Coco’s expressions. Riché came second, precisely on time down to the second, and Tetia entered last, only 5 minutes late but apologising so profusely Olruggio might’ve thought she’d accidentally murdered someone on the way. There were some brief introductions—Qifrey introduced the girls to Olruggio, Olruggio introduced himself to the girls, and the girls, excluding Coco, introduced themselves to him.
Together, they all set up in the atelier room. Qifrey brought an extra chair in and tucked it a few feet away from his canvas, nodding toward Olruggio before walking over to assist Coco. The only one not to set up by an easel was Riché, who instead chose to sit by one of the corner tables with a handful of papers, and a single pen. She sat and furiously sketched away, whilst her classmates walked around, moving paintings onto their easels and filling them up with paint.
Curious, Olruggio walked over to where Riché sat. She almost completely leaned over her drawing, shoulders hunched, making it impossible for him to see what she was working on from behind her or above her. So instead, he pulled out a stool from under the table, and sat down in front of her, so that the table corner sat between them.
Riché, who had noticed him as he’d pulled out the chair, wrinkled her nose but kept drawing, moving her arms protectively around her paper to keep his eyes away.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to show me,” he said, leaning back in the chair, feigning mild disinterest. “Qifrey says your drawings are amazing. I was just curious.”
She didn’t seem to react. Her pen moved quickly across the paper, occasionally doing large swooping motions which would move her hand slightly out of the way, but not enough to get a clear view of the drawing. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper scratching against the table was pleasant; the table must’ve been somewhat hollow, which caused a light, tinny noise. If Olruggio tried hard enough, he could probably punch a hole straight through the top of it.
“Do you like drawing?” He asked, absentmindedly staring at Tetia’s painting. She had her back to their little table, staring thoughtfully at her own painting. Just like Coco had said, it was a simple drawing of a sky filled with pink clouds; it wasn’t half bad, she had a clear talent for someone her age, but it was still clearly unpolished in general. It might’ve just been due to it still only being a work in progress, but Olruggio doubted that.
Riché quietly hummed in response, her eyes never moving away from her drawing. She momentarily bit the inside of her cheek in concentration, right before making several large swooping lines across the paper.
They sat in mostly silence after that. Olruggio kept his ears sharp to listen to whatever Qifrey was saying. He wasn’t being especially quiet; his voice carried through the small atelier clearly, soft and gentle as he guided Agott while she painted her landscapes. At some point, Olruggio must’ve closed his eyes, because he was startled awake by a gentle tapping on the back of his hand.
“You need something?” He asked, straightening in his chair and looking at Riché.
She didn’t respond, only drew her hand back and slowly slid her drawing across the table. Once it was within reach of him, she curled back into herself, furiously boring holes in the wall with only her eyes.
Olruggio raised a single eyebrow in her direction, then leaned over toward the drawing to study it.
She had drawn a handful of sketches of a simple necklace, awkwardly overlapping each other at certain spots. It had the amateur air of a novice artist, though still good—it was rough around the edges, the pen strokes were still unsure and not nearly neat enough to be prodigal, though still showing that Riché was extremely talented for her age.
At first, Olruggio assumed she had drawn a specific necklace, and tried to search her for one, then himself, then the other girls. He already knew every piece Qifrey wore, a necklace he’d made him back in university and a ring he’d made for their graduation, so he saw no reason to check.
Once he looked back at the drawing he noticed small written notes on the paper. “Gold,” one said, with a small arrow pointing to the chain and the pendant. Another said, “Pink— maybe Rose-Q,” and had an arrow pointing to the small rose-shaped gem in the middle of the pendant. Two round leaves were poking out from the pendant, with a small, scratched “Leafs,” with an arrow pointing to both of them.
“Oh,” said Olruggio. “Riché, do you,” he continued, turning the drawing around towards her and pointing to it, “want to make jewellery?”
Riché uncurled slightly, side-eyeing the drawing briefly before turning back to the wall. She nodded hesitantly and quietly hummed.
He mulled it over for a moment. He was uncertain whether or not Qifrey had told the girls what he does for a living. Although he knew that Coco knew, it hadn’t been brought up during their introduction and he was unsure whether or not Qifrey went around telling everyone he met that his best friend created jewellery for a living.
Eventually, he leaned backwards toward Qifrey, who was leaning over Tetia’s shoulder. He reached over and grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly until Qifrey turned toward him.
“What’s wrong?” He said, stepping over toward their table and leaning down, looking slightly concerned. He looked over toward Riché’s drawing, then to Riché herself, then to Olruggio.
Olruggio shook his head, waved dismissively and said, “Nothing’s wrong— Come here,” then reached over toward Qifrey’s neck, gently grabbing the chain around his neck and twisting it so that the clasp was between them.
The necklace was of silver, as was all jewellery he made for Qifrey, with several small raindrop-shaped gems hanging from a thin chain. It was simple, made as practice and thrown onto Qifrey when he had no other place to store it—even so, Qifrey had never once removed it.
Calmly, he fiddled with the mechanism, sighing annoyedly whenever his fingers and the clasp stubbornly slipped out of his grasp. Their faces were close enough to touch, foreheads only a thumbnail away. Olruggio couldn’t see Qifrey’s expression, but the lack of exhales made it clear he was somewhat surprised.
Then, Qifrey let out an amused huff, which might’ve been a laugh. Curious, Olruggio braved a single glance at him. He was smiling kindly, as wide as Qifrey dared, eye crinkled slightly.
“Hi,” he said, smile widening ever so slightly.
Olruggio smiled back briefly. “Hello.” The mechanism awkwardly slipped past his fingers, and he gave out a frustrated groan.
Qifrey laughed, then said quietly, “May I ask why you’re robbing me?”
The clasp released and Olruggio removed the necklace smoothly, hands grazing lightly against Qifrey’s nape, and let the necklace fall into his cupped hand. He turned back toward Riché, ignoring Qifrey, and held it out toward her.
She stared at it curiously for a moment, then brought up her hands, cupping them and staring expectantly. Olruggio tilted his hand, letting the necklace slip out of his palm and fall into Riché’s.
As she brought it up toward her face, grabbing the chain between her thumb and index and letting the pendant fall, supporting it with her hand, Olruggio said;
“I made that, you know.”
Immediately, Riché’s eyes widened, and she studied the necklace with newfound fervour. Her hands travelled across the pendant, turning it between her fingers and watching as the small pendant reflected light.
After several minutes of wonder, she turned slightly toward them both. Quietly, with her hands cupped around the necklace, she said, “Can… Can Riché keep it?”
A flash of uncertainty struck Qifrey’s face—to anyone, it would’ve gone unnoticed, but to Olruggio, who had spent years listing each one of his micro-expressions, it was clear as day. Immediately, he smoothed the expression out, replacing it with practised ease.
“Of course, you can,” he said. “Keep it safe for me, though.”
Riché enthusiastically nodded.
“Would you like help to put it on?”
Again, she nodded, then gently dragged her long hair over her shoulder so that her neck was bare. Qifrey walked over to her, took hold of the necklace, and swung his arms around her neck, fastening the clasp easily and letting the necklace fall onto her shoulders.
“There we go,” he said and backed away, letting Riché toss her hair back over her shoulder and admire the necklace.
She beamed so brightly Olruggio could almost see rays stream off of her face, and he watched as Qifrey grinned at her. Although, while smiling, one of his hands had instinctively travelled to his neck to fiddle with his, now-gone, necklace.
***
By the time Olruggio had managed to finish them, the sun had long since gone down. Foolhardy after two days of uninterrupted consciousness, he shoved the two boxes into his bag and walked all the way to Qifrey’s apartment at God knows what hour, forgetting both the existence of clocks and common decency.
It was only after the fifth knock on his apartment door that he realised that ideally, he should’ve waited till the morning for this; not only for Qifrey’s benefit, but for his own as well. He didn’t have time to stew much as the door swung open, revealing a remarkably put-together Qifrey. He was wearing lounge clothes, a nice white cardigan spotted with what might’ve been fresh paint. There was a single blue streak of paint on his cheek, and his hands were lightly dotted with different shades of grey and green.
“It’s 3 am,” Qifrey said dumbly.
Olruggio, who had just remembered the concept of time for the first time in two days, said only, “Ah. So it is.” There was a dull ache between his eyes, and a faint dryness at the edge of his eyelids.
They stared at each other for a moment, before Qifrey removed his hand from the doorknob and straightened. “Would you like to come in?” He asked and took a step to the side.
Olruggio nodded and took a single step inside the apartment, removing his shoes as Qifrey closed the door behind them and continued further into the apartment.
He was standing by the kettle once Olruggio turned the corner to the kitchen, removing two large tea mugs from one of the overhead cupboards. With his foot, he opened the utensil drawer, and reached over for two spoons with his free hand.
“Where’s Coco?” Said Olruggio as he sat down on one of the stools.
Qifrey picked up a large jar of honey and spooned out enough to fill a bathtub, then dumped the tea-spoon in one of the cups—his own, probably. “Asleep,” he said, then spooned out some more honey and put the spoon in the other mug—Olruggio’s, “So, whatever you’re here to say, say it quietly.”
He squeezed the jar shut and set it back in its place next to a large cup of wooden spoons, then turned around and leaned against the counter. His hands rested on the edge behind him, and he looked at Olruggio curiously.
Before he could speak, Olruggio said hastily, “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”
Qifrey, momentarily surprised, smiled at him. “No, no. You’re fine. I was working on a new painting.” He brought up a hand to nervously fiddle with his necklace—which hadn’t been there for at least a week—and awkwardly let it rest on his collarbone once his hands grasped nothing. “I’d… Lost myself a bit, I suppose. I was supposed to take a break hours ago, but… Well. You know how it is.”
Normally, he would have reprimanded Qifrey for forgoing rest for work, but today it would have felt especially hypocritical. They were both chronic workaholics, and had spent nights together working on unfinished assignments and paintings. Back then, there had been more solidarity between them, and a quiet understanding of the necessary sacrifice of sleep to uphold good grades and a good social life—as soon as they had moved on from school, said solidarity had vanished, and they had slowly begun chiding each other whenever either of them worked through entire days and nights.
Instead of saying anything, Olruggio only hummed and gave a single nod.
The quiet thrum of the kettle quieted slightly, and Qifrey turned around and rested a finger above the stove’s off button. “Is something wrong?” He leaned forward so that his forehead rested against the cupboard.
“No,” said Olruggio immediately. “No, nothings wrong.” He fiddled with his hands briefly above the table, massaging the palm of his hand with his other thumb. “I, uh. I made you something.”
Qifrey’s face stayed hidden, but Olruggio knew him well enough to imagine his expression—eyes wide and mouth pinched into a small little o. It was one of his favourite expressions and the most likely reason as to why so many of his best necklaces are given away to Qifrey instead of sold for five figures—at the least.
“Oh,” he said, hand still hovering above the stove button. “That’s kind of you.” Olruggio can almost audibly hear the pinch of his eyebrows. “You really didn’t have to, though.”
Olruggio shook his head. “I just thought you might miss the necklace you gave to Riché—”
Immediately, he said defensively, “I don’t.”
Olruggio raised a single disbelieving eyebrow, leaning back in the stool as far as he could and crossed his arms.
More calmly, Qifrey repeated, “I don’t. It’s fine.”
He sighed, and dragged a hand through his hair. “That’s too bad. I suppose I could just sell both of them, then—”
Qifrey whipped around, expression nearly identical to the one Olruggio had pictured, and said loudly, “Two?”
The kettle began shouting as soon as he had spoken, which caused Olruggio to clamp both his hands over his ears and Qifrey to fumble for the cap on the spout. As soon as it was off, the noise stopped, and the apartment fell silent. Both of them turned toward the door to the guest room, anxiously listening for any noise that might signify that Coco had woken up. After a good minute of silence, Qifrey let out a relieved sigh.
Quietly, this time, he said, “You made me two necklaces?”
Olruggio grinned. “Nah. Only one of them is for you.”
He frowned. “Wait— Now I’m confused. Who’s the other one for?”
Olruggio leaned over to where his bag sat at the bottom of the stool, grabbing its strap and lifting it into his lap. He opened its outer pocket and removed the two silver boxes, putting them both on the table. Qifrey, who had either forgotten about the tea or decided that he had better things to do now, walked over toward the table and curiously stared at them. After a few moments, he picked up one of the boxes and pulled the lid off.
It’s a remarkably simple necklace—though, only in its appearance. The necklace is made out of gold, with a long chain connected at the two ends of a thin crescent pendant out of gold. A handful of thin, wavy rays extend from the outer edge of the crescent, making it look somewhat like a closed eye.
A sun—
Qifrey removed it completely from the box, holding the chain in one hand and using the other to grip the pendant and turn it around.
“That one’s mine,” said Olruggio, resting his cheek against the palm of his hand.
Somehow, Qifrey’s eyes widened even more and he briefly met Olruggio’s eyes before gently putting the necklace back into his box. Then, he opened the second box and removed the necklace from it.
It was nearly identical to the other necklace—except instead it was in white gold, and the crescent was slightly fuller and lacked outer rays.
—And moon.
“And that one’s for you.”
Qifrey stared it in wonder, turning it around in his hands. “They match,” he stated.
“Yeah,” said Olruggio, scratching the back of his neck. “They’re not as pretty as your old one, but—” he tilted his head slightly and combed his hand through the hair by his ear, “—I hope the sentiment matters more.”
The little o shape of Qifrey’s mouth returned and Olruggio was sure for a moment that he had stopped breathing entirely. Then, he broke into a wide grin—one of the brightest smiles Olruggio had seen in his life—and his entire face flushed pink. His cheeks must’ve hurt from smiling so wide, Olruggio noted absentmindedly.
Qifrey turned toward him and said, with every earnest bone in his body, “Thank you.”
Again, Olruggio crossed his arms. “Yeah, well. Don’t give this one away, too.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he laughed, and held the moon up to his face. “Help me put it on.”
Olruggio stood up from the stool and walked around the table, stopping just a feet or two away from Qifrey. He brought up his hand to the necklace, but halfway through handing it over, Qifrey stopped, then said, “Can I have the sun one?”
Olruggio frowned. “Why? The moon one is yours.”
“Yeah, but…” He hesitated. Then, he sighed, and smiled again. “Maybe having a little sun with me will make the rainy days better.”
There is a sort of playful dishonesty there, a common tone whenever Qifrey decided that making light of giant, complicated things was much funnier than explaining them honestly. Olruggio had somewhat of an idea of why Qifrey would want to wear the necklace intended for himself, and it is just heartfelt and cheesy enough that Qifrey would definitely rather die than say it out loud.
“Alright,” he said, grabbing the moon necklace around the pendant. “That means I get this one.” Then, he placed it back on the table.
Qifrey smiled—he did that a lot, now—and reached for the sun necklace placed neatly in its box. He twisted a finger around the chain and plucked it out from the box, letting it fall into Olruggio’s cupped palm.
He opened the clasp and nodded for Qifrey to turn around, which he quickly did. Then, he slid his arms and the chain around Qifrey’s neck, holding the clasp between himself and Qifrey’s nape. With some trouble he managed to connect the two loops, slipping only once when opening the bigger loop.
Once it was on, Qifrey grabbed the pendant and held it out as far as he could, and stared. He looked quiet and deep in thought; there was a little dip between his eyebrows, and he was gently sucking on the inside of his left cheek. After a few moments though, his expression cleared, and he reached toward the other necklace, grabbing it by the chain and unhooking the clasp.
Before Olruggio even had the chance to turn around, Qifrey’s arms were around his neck and the clasp firmly held between them both. Effortlessly, he locked the clasp, and gently twisted the necklace so that the pendant was placed correctly. He grabbed his own pendant and held the two next to each other.
Olruggio awkwardly hovered his hands at his sides, waiting for Qifrey to say something—which he didn’t, instead exhaling sharply and tracing circles on the pendants with his thumb.
Tired of the silence, Olruggio said, quietly, “What are you thinking about?”
Qifrey snorted, a gross little noise that caught in the back of his throat. He had always been slightly taller than Olruggio, though only by a few centimetres. The way they were standing now, only about a fist’s length between Qifrey’s nose and Olruggio’s brow, was nice. The apartment was somewhat cold, but even that seemed distant now.
“Nothing,” said Qifrey. “Well, nothing important.”
Olruggio was continuously impressed at his body’s capacity for emotions; he didn’t think he’d ever felt more in his life . He couldn’t place anything—it was warm, and nervous, and terrifying and exciting. It was everything. The only way to properly express it all would have been to scream at the top of his lungs, he was sure of it.
Almost unwillingly, he crossed his arms, and tilted his head slightly so that he could barely see the light reflect in Qifrey’s eyes. “Don’t be boring. What’s going on up there?” He asked, and lightly tapped his index finger on Qifrey’s forehead.
He hummed, and let both of the pendants go.
Olruggio stared at the small space between his furrowed brows, debating what to ask that would finally get Qifrey to be completely honest with him.
Before he was able to speak, Qifrey’s hands came up and rested on both sides of his face, one of his thumbs stroking the outside of his cheek as if he were wiping away a tear. For a split second he looked almost sad, though it didn’t last for very long.
Olruggio could feel every little shake of Qifrey’s hands.
He exhaled once, slow and steady, as if he were trying to calm himself down, then tightened his hold on Olruggio’s head—and kissed him.
Olruggio felt his heart give out three times over.
Once they parted, Qifrey removed his hands from his face and he let his forehead rest against Olruggio’s shoulder. He let out a long, long exhale, and closed his eyes.
Olruggio gently grabbed his wrists, which were awkwardly hanging at his sides and shaking furiously, and wrapped Qifrey’s arms around his own waist.
“You’re shaking,” he said once he let go of Qifrey’s hands, moving his own up to Qifrey’s back and dragging a finger across his spine.
He sharply blew air out of his nose, amused. “Yeah. I was really nervous.”
Olruggio toyed with the strands of hair at Qifrey’s nape. “Why?”
“You’re difficult to read, sometimes.”
“Unlike you?”
Qifrey snorted. His shoulders shook a bit when he laughed and he removed his head from Olruggio’s shoulder and straightened. “I’m sorry I was so distant after we graduated.”
That was by far the last thing Olruggio had expected out of his mouth, and he spent several seconds standing still in shock, trying to collect all the emotions tearing through his insides and put them back in the little box he normally kept them in. “Oh,” he eventually managed, hands holding onto Qifrey’s sides a bit too hard. He relaxed after a second, then said, “Same. I should’ve reached out.”
Qifrey’s mouth thinned, and he looked torn for a moment. “I don’t think that would’ve done much, honestly.”
“Did something happen?”
This time, he looked away, instead choosing to stare at a point somewhere behind Olruggio. He frowned again, and brought up his hands to rest on Olruggio’s shoulders. “I suppose you could say that.”
Olruggio was incredibly well versed in Qifrey’s conversational roadblocks. He knew instinctively that this was the end of the line of questioning, though he couldn’t help but attempt to pry a little further. “Will you tell me?”
Qifrey looked back him and smiled sadly. “No.” Then, “I missed you, though.”
Olruggio let the topic drop. “You always miss me.”
“Of course I do. You’re my favourite person.”
Olruggio hummed. “Good.”
“What about me? Am I your favourite person?”
He pretended to mull it over for a moment. “Depends. Will you tell me what happened?”
“You’re fun.” Qifrey grimaced.
“Worth a shot, sorry. Yeah, you’re my favourite person, too.”
The dull ache had slowly grown to encompass most of Olruggio’s senses—his eyes felt so dry he had a hard time keeping them open, and his thoughts were becoming slow and increasingly more unintelligent.
He stared at Qifrey’s face for a moment, then asked, “Can I stay over?”
Qifrey looked surprised for a moment, before donning a more confident smile. “My, my, Olly. So forward.”
Olruggio brought a hand up. “No,” he said, blinking slowly. “I haven’t slept in 48 hours and I think I’m about to pass out.”
Immediately, the smile dropped from Qifrey’s face, instead replaced with alarm and concern. “Oh! Oh dear, yes, of course—! Gosh, Olly, 48 hours?”
Olruggio nodded and noted distantly the edges of his vision fading. He was way too tired to realise that it was out of the ordinary, though. “Wanted to finish the necklaces before sleeping. I—” The darkness spread rapidly, and suddenly everything went dark. “Oh,” he sighed, grabbing Qifrey’s arms. Qifrey grabbed onto him as well, holding him steady as he said, “I can’t see shit.”
He felt Qifrey’s arms encase him completely, almost carrying him off the ground, as the last sliver of awareness left him.