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There were very few things that would have Qifrey returning to the Great Hall for longer than a mere moment.
His most recent trips were out of necessity. This trip was simply for leisure. The Pegasus Carriage was mostly silent as they trotted along through the air. Olruggio sat across from him, Agott and Richeh flanking either side, while Coco and Tetia next to him.
He pulled the shawl on his shoulders further around him to hide the tension in them, little good that it did. A creeping chill nested in his limbs the further they got from the atelier and the closer to the Great Hall. He moved the drapery to the side, the greenery of the Downs beginning to blur into a puddle of colour. He exhaled, closing his eye to rest against the hardwood of the carriage behind him, before staring down at his hands. Unfortunately, he could not find it in himself to refuse such an earnest request from two pairs of young eyes, staring up at him with hope and wonder.
The invitation arrived in the same way it always does.
Every year, without fail, an ivory envelope, decorated with blue ribbons at its corners, would appear at the doorstep of his atelier. He would retrieve it from the ground after it announced itself by dropping itself with a soft yet dramatic thud on the floor. The inside would be more intricate than its envelope, lines of golden lace lining the sides, ending at its corners, as his named stared up at him in calligraphic black. At the times he was awake, Olruggio would slip behind him, his warmth like a fire on a cool winter’s day.
“Another one?” He would ask, lingering behind Qifrey slightly.
“He sends one every year,” Qifrey would reply —
— and then that same invitation would find itself ignored. Cast aside in the atelier somewhere, only to be found in some abandoned crevice once they deep cleaned the atelier that month. The invitation would be set aside for another year, used as kindling when nothing else would suffice, watching as that large, sloping Q disappeared against the flames, the ribbons fading sadly as the flames licked up the length of them. Eventually, he would look away, down at his hands, ash-laden fingertips resting against his wrists.
However, this time was different. Careless hands disposed of the invitation somewhere it could be seen, sliding out of hands like a ripple of water, left unattended for the eyes of eager children to see — and eager children saw it they did, their eyes sparkling with wonder at the promise of being invited to attend such finery. Coco had asked if they were going to attend, and when Tetia informed her they had no idea about it themselves, she was quick to inquire for such a reason. Two pairs of inquisitive eyes stared up at him, filled with a hope Qifrey could not find it in himself to crush; not when they devoted their time and energy to improving each day. Wasn’t he selfish enough with them already? How could he deny them, watch as their faces crumbled in disappointment, eventually finding myriad excuses as to why it was for the best?
Richeh denied the wish to go. Agott maintained indifference — until Coco voiced how she was looking forward to Agott teaching her how witches danced. Agott’s hair hid her blush, though nothing could hide the way she stammered, even though she only responded with a short, “Right. Well. That’s that, then.”
As soon as it was confirmed they were to attend, there was much fuss over what they were wear. Eventually, Coco insisted on altering what scraps of fabric they had lying around, therefore, Qifrey found himself in a Pegasus Carriage, evening beginning its slow ascent overhead, clothed in a dress with the shoulders removed, with nothing but a grey, rather thin transluscent shawl around them to keep warm. He drew it further around himself again.
Once the hills disappeared from the horizon, Qifrey inhaled slowly, watching as the ground flattened into something more even. A sign they were fast approaching. Another hour or two, perhaps, until they were standing outside the doors of the Great Hall, waiting to be welcomed in, presenting the invitation like it were their ticket to an exclusive club.
He had only ever attended this specific ball once, with Beldaruit at his side. The witch in charge of handling the invitations had looked at him as though he possessed something unnatural; an interloper in their narrow world where only those deemed worthy by a select few who reserved little right to pass such judgement could join freely. He remembered looking up at Beldaruit’s face; cheerfully impassive, though his eyes challenged them to say anything.
They were eventually escorted through, but Qifrey had decided then not to return. It was easier to avoid such social gatherings than to justify his existence.
“Everything alright?” Olruggio asked.
Qifrey blinked. Distracted by his journey through his memories, he hadn’t realised how tightly he began to clutch the shawl, the knuckles of his hands whitening. It began to cut into his neck slightly. Thankfully, the girls had not noticed. Olruggio waited for an answer.
“Yes, it’s nothing,” Qifrey replied, sending his dear friend a bright smile as he rested in his hands in his lap, resisting the urge to clutch the fabric of his skirt.
Olruggio studied his face, as though he were unconvinced, yet said nothing. Silence fell between them again.
“Been a while since you’ve been to one of these, ‘asn’t it?” Olruggio continued, after a few seconds.
Qifrey deflated, then. Many times has Olruggio stayed behind, by his side, refusing his own attendance. His own invitations were piling high in his workshop somewhere. Eventually, with a lack of response, and a lack of presence from either of them, the invitation was whittled down to one; both of their names etched on the white paper, a large, sloping Q next to a large, slopping O that dwarfed all the other letters of their names. Qifrey tried not to think too much about it, though his thoughts tended to wander when he watched those flames engulf everything, to what-ifs and maybes. Self-indulgent thoughts that would only burn for as long as the fire did… until he picked himself up from where he was sitting to handle the ash, his runaway thoughts disposed along with them.
“You could have attended yourself,” Qifrey replied, “if you wanted to.”
“Nah, not much point,” Olruggio reassured, his hand scratching the back of his head as he peered out of the window, “dancing’s not really my thing,” he turned his head to face Qifrey again, a bright, toothy smile that always caused his heart to quicken, “besides, who’d keep you and these four out of trouble?”
Thankfully, the Pegasus Carriage stopped then. Olruggio stepped out first, helping each of the girls place their feet on the ground. Coco and Tetia beamed at each other, eager to sample their first taste of a lucrative event at the Great Hall. Richeh and Agott lingered slightly behind. Agott toyed with the hem of her shirt — a long-sleeved white fabric, ruffled at the cuffs and collar, accompanied by a pair of black pants. Another one of Coco’s creations. She had been rather silent when revealing the attire.
Qifrey sat back a little, until the Great Hall was out of view, the only immediate thing in his line of vision being the wooden interior of the Carriage. He breathed deeply, calming his racing mind, his racing heart — he heard Olruggio’s muffled, soft voice telling the girls to give him a little time. He picked himself up gradually, letting his skirt fall over his legs, opening the Carriage door wider to duck his head underneath, one foot on the step down… only to lift his head to find Olruggio’s hand raised towards him in invitation.
Qifrey froze. He stared down at the proffered limb, wondering if accepting such simple warmth was allowed. A small gesture, to be sure, but nonetheless, one with consequences large enough to block out the heat of sunlight and cast their entire world in shadow — but his hesitance had already ignited enough suspicion, his four apprentices peering up at him as they waited.
Clutching the shawl around his shoulders with one hand, the fabric tightening around his neck slightly, weakly trembling fingers stretch themselves out slowly, Olruggio’s warm palm closing gently over his cool hand. Qifrey’s descent from the carriage felt as though it took longer than mere seconds. The world appeared to slow around him as he exhaled, his body feeling leaden; bricks tied around his ankles, dragging them along with the two steps it took to alight.
Once his feet meet the ground, he retracts his hand immediately, drawing it back into the confines of his cloak, relieving the shawl of his grip. The Pegasus Carriage leaves. The world resumes its normal shape. Olruggio clears his throat as Qifrey breathes, reclaiming that practiced smile as his racing heart beats thunderously against his chest. Olruggio lingers slightly behind him.
“Shall we?” He asks the four girls waiting his lead, beaming brightly down at them.
Eventually, he sends the girls and Olruggio ahead of him. Mostly to keep an eye on them, and because he still can’t make heads or tails of the Great Hall with its twisting hallways and spiralling staircases that only ever really made him feel dizzy and light-headed rather than instil any true appreciation for its dedication to the upkeep of aesthetically ancient architecture.
He plays with the invitation in his hands, the ribbons curled and uncurled over his fingers, as each of his steps echos off the walls. People pass by them on the stairs, in the hallways, and when they finally reach the doors leading to the opulently large ballroom, each of them with their own barely hushed whispers, hurrying past him as they cast sideways glances towards him. As with the last time, the door supervisor peered at the girls first, then to Olruggio, then at Qifrey himself, his expression shifting a little. He tried to feign impassivity, a neutral expression, but Qifrey was well-practiced in that particular art.
Saying nothing, he uncurled the ribbon from around his fingers, presenting it to the supervisor in front of him. With a tight grip that indicated unease, the supervisor retrieved it from Qifrey’s significantly looser one, then dropping his hand by his side as he glanced up at Qifrey with some expression of incredulity as he reached the sender’s name. Eventually, the letter was placed back inside the envelope as he reached for the door handle to allow them inside. Olruggio ushered the girls inside first, stepping in shortly after them, as Qifrey lingers behind to retrieve his invitation from the supervisor.
“Thank you,” he says coolly, tucking the invitation away, before the door shuts behind him with a soft click.
They’re immediately with the busyness of conversation, music, and dancing.
Coco stands frozen in awe as she observes the interior of the ballroom, her eyes staring up at the ornate ceiling, decorated in gold and silver, the lacquered windows positioned in such a way that the sliver of moonlight, when it eventually rose, would be cast was drawn on to the wooden floor. Tetia watched as the participants of this evening’s current dance swayed to the music, meanwhile Richeh and Agott stuck to the margins of the ballroom, though both of their eyes were drawn to the sigils on the ceiling, where silver crystal in the shape of butterflies flew around the chandelier.
“Qifrey!” Beldaruit’s familiar voice exclaimed in delight. “You came!”
As quick as he could, his former teacher arrived at his side, countenance bearing a mirthful smile that reached his eyes, his visage eventually landing on Coco and Agott as Coco pointed at something on the walls, holding on to Agott’s wrist — though she seemed unbothered by the contact, making no move to pull away. “Oh, and you brought my grand-apprentices! How lovely!”
Beldaruit peered behind him to see Olruggio’s slouching form approaching from behind.
Beldaruit beamed and clapped his hands together. “Oh, and my apprentice-in-law? This is exciting.”
There was silence for a moment as Qifrey and Olruggio pointedly refused to look at each other, their faces burning a bright enough red that they could feel the heat emanating from the other person as the pair donned matching deep red blushes.
“I - I’ve told you before, it’s not like that!” Qifrey almost exclaimed.
Beldaruit glanced between them, noting that the two’s gaze drifted around the room, Olruggio scratching the skin of his neck while Qifrey clutched at the shawl draped around his shoulders like an anchor; a line with which to ground himself somewhere he could not possibly drift away from for a moment.
“Well,” Beldaruit continued, grasping Qifrey’s hand in his own to squeeze it gently, “I’m glad you’re here. Enjoy yourself, hm?”
Qifrey sighed, looking down at where Beldaruit had quickly withdrawn his hand. A complicated frown finds its way on to his lips.
“Don’t give me that look,” he said, though not unkindly, before he ventured off to greet the girls, whose astonishment at who else could be addressing them turned to warmth upon seeing who it was.
Despite Beldaruit’s wish, Qifrey mainly clung to the sides, sitting at an empty, round table by himself while Olruggio was often accosted by other witches dragging him to their sides to sing his praises, often with the offering of a drink, the only real reason Olruggio let himself be approached, ignorant of Qifrey’s drifting plea to drink water due the distance made between them in a matter of seconds.
His fingernails tapped lightly against the table as he sighed, shaking his head slightly for the shawl to slip slightly, watching as the sun began to end its descent, drawing evening upon them. The moon’s shining light would soon be upon them, the room glittering in silver and gold as people swayed in it, currently illuminated by the last sliver of gold from the sun. His attention was brought to the middle of the dancefloor, where Agott held Coco’s hands a little tighter than necessary, taking her through the steps of the dance slowly.
Coco accidentally stepped on her foot, inspiring a slew of apologies. Agott rested her hands on her shoulders, insisting that it was fine through gritted teeth, clearly trying to hide the pain; that they simply needed to try again before Coco mastered the steps. Exhaling deeply, Agott took Coco’s hands in her own once more, leading her through the dance a little slower this time.
Qifrey allowed himself to smile as he watched the two of them, Coco brightening as she managed to get through the steps without a mistake. Agott cleared her throat, offering a short “well done” before Coco insisted upon performing the dance again, dragging Agott along with her back to the dancefloor. Qifrey rested his hand against the table now, lowering his other hand on to his thigh to rest there gently — though his reprieve was short-lived when those hushed tones started again.
People never needed alcohol to speak about him as though he were not present before, but the intoxicating substance seemed to loosen their lips further, tongues weaving invective rumours about his very existence. He closed his eye, taking a small sip of the drink in his hand, inhaling deeply before swallowing. There was a reason he did not come back here. This place made him feel itchy, unwelcome eyes crawling along his skin, hushed words swaying in his ears… he opened his eye again and everything was the same as it had been before, except the familiar hand in front of him, outstretched; inviting.
Qifrey blinked at it, then up at who it belonged to, whose neck seemed to be strangely itchy.
Olruggio stood before him, offering him an exit, for everyone else to see. The words died, carried away like the water of a river flowing into the ocean, as Qifrey blinked again, suddenly aware of all the eyes drawn to them, burning into the back of his neck. Olruggio cleared his throat, dragging his eyes to Qifrey with some effort, whose breath caught in his throat as he smiled at him; a familiar smile, gentle and soft, one that reminded him too much of times passed, now bittersweet —
“Will you dance with me?” Olruggio asked.
Qifrey opened his mouth to respond, though found the words stuck in his throat. Reminiscent of the Pegasus Carriage, Qifrey’s hand slowly drifted towards his, clasped tenderly as he stood.
“I thought you said dancing wasn’t your thing,” Qifrey teased once he found his voice, following Olruggio to the dancefloor, trying to keep his trembling limbs under control, blaming it on the chill of his exposed shoulders, every step like ringing his own death knell; following the executioner to the gallows where he was blindfolded and unaware, the condemned man the only one enlightened on the truth.
“‘S not,” Olruggio replied, yet somehow his hands find the exact position, warm in his own cold ones. “I just thought… since we’re ‘ere… might as well…”
Qifrey tugged the shawl around his shoulders a little tighter with his free hand. Olruggio placed a hand on his waist, causing Qifrey to inhale sharply. Being this close was surely a death sentence, if not for the amount of eyes on them, his body taut from the anxiety the only avoidance offered. Olruggio squeezes his hand in reassurance, and Qifrey knows he simply believes it to be because of the obvious stares people are sending their way — and not for the truth that he wishes his greatest friend could know, if not for what it would do to him; if not for the promise he would inevitably break. There is a hollowness that carves itself in his chest every time, cracking open his ribcage to make space for itself to rest, there for only a few seconds before Qifrey can hide it behind a deep inhale and a faux contented smile.
The music began slowly, the sound of a cello feeling as though it encompassed the entire room, loud in his ears. The other instruments accompanied eventually, the romantic violins providing their own harmony. It had been so long since he danced for any reason that he was having difficulty following the steps, staring down at his feet. Olruggio’s hand at his waist slid around his back to pull him in a little closer, a sharp gasp escaping him. The shawl slipped down across his back slightly.
“Just follow my lead,” Olruggio murmured.
Qifrey allows himself to be led around the dancefloor. The moon eventually sits at its perfect position to illuminate the room in captivating silver; the shadows of their bodies dancing along with them. Olruggio’s hands are warm when they rest against his waist once more, Qifrey turning to face him, their hands joining once more. Each touch feels like being electrified; like danger warning him to stay away, but there’s nowhere to run.
“For someone who doesn’t like this very much,” Qifrey began, following Olruggio around the dancefloor in a spin, “you’re quite good at it.”
“I said it’s not my thing,” Olruggio responded, rejoining their hands; two steps forward, two steps back, around, “not that I didn’t know how.”
Eventually, the music reaches its crescendo as the violins become louder. The shawl slips completely from Qifrey’s shoulders to rest at the crooks of his elbows as his eye fixates on Olruggio, his focus so intense, yet almost effortless if one did not know where and how to look. Kind, talented, handsome Olruggio — Qifrey almost let himself be lost in the sway of the dance, the sound of the music, the depths of Olruggio’s eyes… until the familiar sound of a crack in his skin pierced his flesh, stepping away from Olruggio like he’d been burned, drawing his hands into himself.
Fortunately, the dance had already ended, only saved from drawing more attention to himself, but not from the shock on Olruggio’s face, blinking rapidly as his raised hand lingered in the air.
Before he could say anything, Qifrey quickly drew the shawl that had fallen around his shoulders once more, clutching tightly to the fabric. “Please excuse me.”
The sound of his footsteps resound along the floor, drumming in his head as his heart races, walking quickly until he is outside, rushing as quickly as he can to find something, anything, to keep his curse from rearing its head. There is nothing in the immediate vicinity, and finding his way to the bathroom would take far too long, so he disappears behind a wall instead, ignoring the looks sent his way by those who decided to take a reprieve from the night’s festivities. There’s nothing else for it, after all. The bathrooms would take too long to find, therefore, he did the only thing he could think to do in the moment, teeth biting into the skin of his thumb until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Drawing his hand back, saliva mixed with blood created an ugly picture on his thumb, but its intended effect had been achieved. Resting the back of his head against the wall, Qifrey sunk down to his ankles, steadying his breathing, briefly wondering if he still felt strongly enough to cry over this particular situation, or if he had simply gotten used to it; become numb to the sensation, getting his answer when that hollow ache found its way to his ribcage again, dancing on his heart for much longer than before, followed by a short but mournful sigh. He looked down at his thumb again, the broken skin beginning to throb.
“Qifrey?”
He hadn’t known how long he was there when the sound of his name travelled through the space between them, Olruggio stopping just ahead of him as soon as he caught sight of him, his tense shoulders visibly deflating when his eyes landed on Qifrey. A short pang of guilt accompanied the ache as he noticed it immediately, his eye momentarily drawn to the ground, curling his hand into a fist as he leaned against the wall to stand.
Upon rising to his feet, Olruggio was by his side in a matter of seconds, his gaze quickly drawn to the angry teeth marks on Qifrey’s thumb. He takes his hand, stretches it out over his palm, inspecting the wound — fresh, knowing he did it to himself. Qifrey swallows, resisting the urge to draw his hand back.
“You should wash this…” Olruggio simply states, eyes flickering up to Qifrey who sends him an apologetic smile. “Come with me.”
The journey to the bathroom gives him time to think of an excuse; his hand being itchy the only one he could come up with, and even then, it was terribly weak, because if that was the case, why didn’t he just use his other hand to scratch it? Was it so itchy that not even his other hand could possibly have done the job? So, when Olruggio eventually asks, while running his hand under warm water, and just before dabbing the wound gently with what he can find —
“Why would you do this to yourself?”
Qifrey doesn’t have an answer.
“It…” Qifrey began, trailing off until he could settle on a believable excuse, staring down at his now healing wound, inhaling sharply as Olruggio pulls a soothing tincture from his robes, unknown to him he carried that on hand. Always full of surprises, always full of gentle caring that makes Qifrey wish to retract his hand.
“Was it the dance?” Olruggio continued. “Was it too much?”
“No,” Qifrey replied quickly. “No, of course not, it…”
The perfect excuse had fallen at his feet, though the nausea it made him feel was palpable, the sweat beginning to form on the back of his neck having him pulling at his shawl, shivers beginning to make him tremble slightly. Swallowing it all down, Qifrey breathed a long inhale before opening his mouth.
“Everyone was staring,” he finished, letting the sentence rest between them.
Olruggio’s eyes flickered up towards him. Qifrey pressed his lips together, hoping — praying, to whoever would listen — that it would be plausible enough. That he could pass off his nausea and pallid complexion for anxiety rather than necessary self-destruction.
The seconds pass like hours. Olruggio finally drops his hand, letting him draw the wrist of it into his other one, rubbing at the skin underneath to soothe the anxiety he did feel; to soothe the guilt he felt over lying — again, again, and again, to the one person he wished, more than anything, he would never have to lie to. Another reminder of a bitter time, a burden placed on both of them, yet only he felt the weight of it every day.
“If that’s the case,” Olruggio began, causing relief to flood Qifrey’s entire being, a cheerful grin that promised some improvement on the deceptive reason for his spontaneous fleeing, “you should have just said so.”
The two of them found themselves at a secluded corner of the Great Hall, tucked away inside a room with only each other for company, laughter filling it as he accidentally stepped on Olruggio’s toes, unused to this difficult dance, almost tripping over themselves. For a moment, for one dreamlike moment, it felt like they were both boys again, finding hidden corners only the other knew about, treating the maze of the Great Hall like an adventure waiting to be discovered, the sound of those bygone years now held by the walls of this empty room.
Wine glasses sit at the egde of a round, glass table, their contents emptied as the liquid lowers the inhibitions of the two participants in the room, giggles erupting from the man whose hair glimmered in the moonlight, the blue of the other’s eyes drawn to it as he reached up to brush it away from his blushing cheek, before a hazardous dip in their erratic dancing has him almost falling over, instead pulling back to fall on the sofa behind him, pulling Qifrey on to his lap, his thighs straddling either side.
Qifrey tucks his head into Olruggio’s neck, unable to contain his laughter, before pulling himself away to wipe away at a tear that threatens to fall from his eye.
The dim light of the moon casts the room in a silver glow, the rays filtering through the window, highlighting every piece of precious metal that resides around them. The sound of instruments began to fade, the pleasant hum of the alcohol creating a haze that thrummed through his bloodstream to his erratic heartbeat — and, for the sake of his sanity, that’s what he’ll choose to blame it on this time, instead of his own pathetic weakness, unable to resist for too long before his knees begin to shake, tumbling to the ground before the weight of his own desires.
Olruggio’s arm slips around his waist as he sinks down further and further before their bodies are flush against each other, their twin unsteady breath mixing in the air, neither one of them finding the courage to close the gap between them. The quiet shift of fabric interrupts Qifrey’s thoughts, only for the sound of Olruggio’s fingers carefully removing his glasses from the bridge of his nose to replace it. He blinked once, twice — a third time as they’re settled securely away, where there’s no risk of them breaking. His gaze followed to the point he never noticed Olruggio switched arms, his left hand silently rising to brush the hair from Qifrey’s face.
His thumb there brushes his cheek. Despite himself, Qifrey leaned into it, almost instinctual — like a cat curling up by the cosy, warm fire after a long winter’s day out in the frigid snow. He wondered if he had it in him to lift his gaze from where it landed on his hands on Olruggio’s shoulders, watching the rise and fall of his chest, his knuckles whitening from where his fingers slowly started to curl into the fabric. It’s unfair — it’s all terribly unfair, and it’s not the first time Qirey has had this thought, nor will it be the last, yet each time carves that hateful, hollow emptiness in his chest that drops into his heart, poisoning his stomach with a bitter illness.
“You’re so beautiful, Qifrey,” Olruggio whispered, like a secret; words only meant for him, the oblivous nocturnal birds, captivated by the sight of the silver moonlight hiding clandestine trysts in shadows, outside of the window continued to sing.
His eye snapped back to Olruggio’s fascinated countenance; he was drunk — a faint blush rested on his cheeks, his eyes just a little bit unfocused… and Qifrey would convince himself it was true, because he could not allow it to be anything else. The tips of his fingers trembled against him as the bitterness of his wretched and terrible existence climbed into his throat, higher and higher, until it felt like he might be sick, afraid to open his mouth. He would not be so beautiful if Olruggio knew —
— or would he? Every time followed by every undeserved forgiveness etched a brand new scar on his already ribbon-like heart where he wondered if dying in that coffin might have been a kinder fate than knowing the love and kindness and compassion that this beautiful soul shining with effortless iridescence had given him… and each and every time made him wish to take Olruggio by the shoulders and shake him as if the answer to all his whys would fall out of his skin. Why are you so nice to me? Why are you willing to go so far? Why are you so forgiving? I can’t take it.
“I —” Olruggio continued, and maybe in some other life, somewhere those words may have lifted his heart soaring to hear, Qifrey would have let him finish that sentence. As it stands now, his hand cups his chin, the hairs there caressing his hand like a leaf brushes the wet earth after rain, thumb pressed against his bottom lip to prevent him from speaking further.
“Don’t say it,” he whispered, into the space between their breaths, always there, an everpresent barrier. “Please.”
The thumb brushes his cheek once more.
“Qifrey —”
“Please.”
Olruggio presses his lips together. Qifrey clutches on to the fabric of his cloak, his eye closed as the darkness of the shadows he lives in hide his pained expression, lowering his head to rest against Olruggio’s shoulder. In another life, he could stay here forever; bask in the warmth and comfort offered. In another life, he would have kissed him, again and again — there would have been countless opportunities that he would have taken, all passed; all stolen.
With some effort, Qifrey pulls himself away from Olruggio, leaving his hand to linger in the air, slowly drawn to rest against the fabric of the sofa behind him. Qifrey looks away from the surprise in his expression, from the hurt that overpowers it. The shawl had fallen somewhere, slipped from him when they had fallen. He picks it up from behind him, pulling it over himself tightly, almost as though it were more of a scarf.
“I shall… find the girls,” he announces, turning to face Olruggio.
Olruggio nods. “Right. Aye.”
They say nothing else to each other for the remainder of the evening. The Pegasus Carriage is full of the voices of the girls, laughing with each other audibly, chatting away about their night, now with Richeh and Agott full and present participants, until they inevitably fall asleep. They catch each other’s eye every now and then, quickly glancing away each time.
The sight of the atelier offers some relief. This evening would pass, like all the others, drifting into that ocean of almost — whether remembered or not. The silence of the Carriage follows them as they put the girls to bed, each softly sleeping in their arms, dead to the world, their uninterrupted slumber providing its own reprieve from the night.
Once the girls are tucked safely away in bed, they meet just before the stairs. Qifrey steps back first, allowing Olruggio to begin his languid ascent.
“Goodnight, Olly,” he says softly.
Olruggio stops on the steps, his shoulders dropping as he exhaled shortly. “Goodnight, Qifrey.”
He waits until he hears the door to Olruggio’s workshop shut, wishing he wouldn’t stay up so late, but knowing he’s in no position to admonish him now. Instead, he climbs the steps to his own room.
The door clicks softly behind him as he enters his lonely chamber, full of nothing but the chill of early morning and the river of tears he keeps under lock and key. If things were to continue this way, he would never run out of such bottled torture. One more vial, and one more sin waiting to drop like a sword hovering above his head.
“Damn it,” he mutters to himself through gritted teeth, sinking to his knees as he gripped the sheets on the mattress, biting his lip to muffle the sound of his weeping.
If there existed such a thing as a god, then they must only know cruelty in their boredom.