Archive of Our Own

ִֶָ⸙࿐.°𖥔

Gossip has a tendency to echo about the Great Hall. At the bottom of the ocean, where witches are isolated from the rest of humanity, information and rumors may well be a second type of currency.

So when two particular witches, one with hair dark as night and the other light as snow, enter Alaira's field of vision among the crowds of colorful partygoers, she considers herself lucky to be in the right place at the right time. Fortunate, one, because none of the other recent graduates of The Fourth Pentacle of Proving had actually expected the duo to grace the post-ceremony ballroom gala with their presence; two, because from where she stood, she could fully appreciate the lengths they went through to dress to the nines for this occasion.

The man that all of witchkind knew to be Olruggio of the Torch had properly trimmed that beard of his, which was finally growing in properly after years of medical treatment began bestowing upon him the type of coarse body and facial hair so common in the men of Ghodrey. Two shining golden triangles adorn his ears at the helix and the lobe, a small bit of metal dangling from them that sway whenever his head swivels to-and-fro in conversation. He hadn't strayed from the main palette of his standard cloak—black on the outside with deep blue fabric inside—though the multiple golden tassels lining the collar of this formal top was a welcome touch of pomp and splendor. Meanwhile, the lapis lazuli threaded upon the hood accentuate the deep sapphire of his eyes. The witch must have had assistance applying concealer beneath his eyes to give the impression of being well-rested.

No doubt that the help came from none other than Qifrey—one of the few people, if not the only person that Olruggio would allow so near to him for delicate work like that. It is always a rare sight to behold the man outside of that black skin-tight top of his, though the muted blue of the ankle-length tunic he'd opted for tonight still covers up as much of his body as his usual attire. Intricate gold lace weaves itself around the collar, metal buttons at the front leading down to a V of white tassels that wrap around his shoulders. Draped over it is a sheer smoke-gray cloak unsuited for casting magic in front of the Unknowing, though that is of no concern down below these watery depths. Above it is a black and gold ribbon, reminiscent of Olruggio's original cap ornament, tied around Qifrey's head with the tapered ends falling behind the nape of his neck. It calls attention to the single rhomboid ornament hanging from the left of his glasses and those thin gold earrings he wore, mimicking the witch's lanky build granted by the same medicine as his companion.

Alaira allows herself a bit of pride at having played a hand in that growth, years ago when they were but children at the onset of a puberty that would have stretched their very flesh into uncomfortable shapes. Olruggio and Qifrey both had bloomed well into manhood, wearing their masculinity quite handsomely, and while Alaira's romantic inclinations oft swung towards witches of the more feminine persuasion, she could appreciate beauty in all bodies.

The ears of an expert in wind magic can pick out specific sounds if she concentrates, and she's bored enough of the conversations around her to attempt eavesdropping on the two. She gives a brief nod to signal her departure before stepping to the side of the social crescent she's found herself in, eyes focused across the room to read the lips of her two friends.

"Dance with me a while, won't you? You wouldn't have dragged yourself out here on my account if you weren't goin' to humor me."

"Oh, Olly... this is an important networking event for you. I shouldn't keep you too long."

"Nonsense. I'll always make time for you."

"I insist. I can busy myself with refreshments."

"You're not here for the fancy food and drinks. And if you were, it can't be worth subjectin' yourself to this, can it?"

"I simply thought that someone should be ready to carry you back to your room after you've had too much to drink."

Alaira catches the wry smile that crinkles the corners of Qifrey's eye, available to witness by all but meant only for the one now entwining fingers with his.

⭑✦☆✧★ △▲ ★✧☆✦⭑

Qifrey thinks that, perhaps, he should have stayed back in his room after all. The moment they stepped onto the dance floor, Olruggio had pressed himself far too close to him as they waltzed to the enchanted instruments around them.

"Your pulse is high," Olruggio quietly states, more for himself than anyone else. "Do we need to stop?"

"No," Qifrey answers, possibly a bit too quickly. "You wanted to dance Olly, and I'll not deprive you of this moment."

"Then relax. Your movements are too stiff."

Qifrey's hand trails down and finds a dip in Olruggio's waist to grip onto, and he worries about the fact that it feels far too natural there. He swallows thickly, tuning out the melody floating in the air to dwell on the harsh whispers around them—being the subject of baseless rumors was nothing new, but if he were to stumble here and now with The Star of Ghodrey in his arms, he'd surely tarnish the precious reputation Olruggio had built up over the years. The both of them would need to work hard to save up enough kain in order to refurbish their future home away from this wretched place, and one faux pas at the center of all of witch society would be all it'd take to—

"Qifrey, look only at me." Qifrey's eye snaps back to attention in time to bear witness to Olruggio's shimmering gaze. It steals his breath away as the black-haired witch closes the distance between their bodies and hums reassuringly. "Follow my lead, alright? I've got you."

Maybe just for this single night, Qifrey can allow himself the delusion of deserving the sky's kindest, most radiant star.

ִֶָ⸙࿐.°𖥔

Alaira has half a mind to conjure up a gust of wind to spill bottled willowgrape over those witches foolish enough to let her hear sharp and unkind phrases like "he must be dancing with him out of pity" and "shame that one follows him around like a lost dogtail," but the fact that neither Olruggio nor Qifrey seem to be paying much mind to the naysayers convinces her to stay her hand.

So instead, she slowly nibbles a toasted sweetened bread roll with noki generously spread across it, studying the way that the tension in Qifrey's shoulders fall slack the moment Olruggio begins to lead their steps. It's cute, she thinks, how easy their smiles look now: Olruggio guides Qifrey around in a spin turn that showcases the full elegance of their flowing garments, followed by a swing out, a free twirl, a pivot loop. This ritual repeats in time with the tune, the bounce of tassels and sway of jewelry a sight so marvelous. If the Great Hall had the wherewithal to commission Olruggio for a set of glowstone tiles at the center of the ballroom, then it truly would have made their dance.

An idea pops into her head there and then: Alaira is a perfectly capable witch with magic at her disposal. She stuffs the rest of the half-eaten roll into her mouth before pulling out the palm quire beneath her cloak, carefully penning several spells of light: quadryphons and fairy grass, crystal foxes and roses. Once the pages are filled, she closes the rings on them in rapid succession and watches her creations surge forward and swirl about the room. She'll let the other couples believe that this display is a gift to them all if only to spare Qifrey his poor nerves, but the airy laughter that carries to her ears brings a smug smirk to her face.

Alaira weaves her way through the crowd to the other side of the room to bring herself closer still. She can see the soft flush dusting their cheeks, deep and sky blue eyes reflecting the petals of light surrounding them. Qifrey grows bold and takes back command of their last steps, confidently lifting and guiding Olruggio in several wide spinning flourishes to the swell of the music, before pulling him back in by the waist and dipping him low. Their foreheads are so close to one another that she is so sure that they'll finally just kiss already, but alas, nothing happens.

The two witches shortly break step to exit the dance floor as the current song ebbs away, so Alaira takes this chance to approach them in earnest. Olruggio is the first to acknowledge her as his partner holds a hand to his chest, catching his breath.

"My my, what a pleasant surprise it is to run into you two~" she starts, voice jovial. "Enjoying yourselves during this first night of our true collective freedom?"

Olruggio gives a little huff. "Don't think I didn't notice you eyein' us like a baldcrow circlin' in the distance, Alaira. Were you waiting for us?"

"Perhaps! The both of you were, quite literally, fashionably late to the party after all."

"You'll have to forgive Olly for turning his 'quick nap' into a full slumber," Qifrey chuckles dryly. "He was hardly awake during Lord Beldaruit's speech this morning."

"Oi," Olruggio growls, no real malice behind it. "You're the one who didn't fetch any thornbark marktea slips from the market after we ran out. You were the last one to use it all."

"So you didn't enjoy the cookies I made to sate your sweet tooth last weekend?"

"I didn't bloody say that."

"Boys!" laughs Alaira, standing on the tips of her toes to throw her arms around their shoulders. "Come now, there's plenty of tea and wine to go around, and all the appetizers and treats you could ever desire. I say, you simply must try that Flying Shrimp and Bacon Tart."

The three of them head towards one of many refreshments tables towards the edge of the ballroom, and Alaira takes it upon herself to recommend appetizers she knows that they'll enjoy: Smoked Buffashoal Cheese and Mountain Apple Handpies, Chrysanthonion Erbe Pinwheels, Grilled Fuzzbergine with Whirlfuzz Tomato and Liongoat Cheese. They load up plates that are far too small with as much food as they can reasonably balance, take a goblet each of bottled willowgrape, and begin walking the perimeter to eat and catch up.

There's a shy upwards curl of Qifrey's lips. "Thank you for the light show earlier. That was your magic, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, it was," Alaira preens, holding her head high. "The chandeliers here don't light up the place well enough on their own. I'm surprised that no one else is casting more magic to brighten things up."

"Guessin' no one wants to risk ink gettin' on their robes right now if they don't have'ta." Olruggio attempts a small bite of some pastry that ends up getting crumbs all over his beard and cloak. "Leapin' liongoats, we just bought these robes."

"Here," Qifrey offers in a quiet, gentle voice, balancing his plate on his other arm before gently shaking bits of shattered pastry shell from the fabric. He moves onto fussing over each of Olruggio's tassels. "Are there any open tables we could sit at, Alaira? Might be wise not to multitask too much."

Alaira jerks her head in the opposite. "Outside, follow me."

She clears a path for Olruggio and Qifrey through the sea of murmuring bodies so they can sit down next the curtain of salt water, waving off other witches who try to approach the trio in order to offer up compliments to Olruggio's attire. Against all odds, they manage to find a small round table with exactly three chairs right beneath the edge of the balcony and set their plates down.

"You know, I really am surprised that you two chose such extravagant outfits." Alaira taps her chin with her index finger. "Especially you, Qifrey—you're not one to draw attention to yourself."

Olruggio idly plays with one of his earrings. "I'm the one who asked to play a little dress-up 'ere. Qifrey met this one tailor living south of the Nakiwaan Downs, so I figured with my work as a craftsman gettin' so popular, I ought to get somethin' more suitable for all the parties those nobles are always hostin'."

"And I also thought that perhaps I might assist Olly in negotiating with his more... difficult clients," Qifrey says with a hint of mirth, lifting his goblet up. "Here now, shouldn't we toast to his growing success?"

A clinking of cups proceeds, to which they all drink heartily and fall into relaxed chatter concerning their future. Alaira learns that the two men intend to move out to some dilapidated hut in the middle of nowhere as soon as they've made sure it's livable, while she herself divulges her plans to take a few scattered trips across the entire Zozah Peninsula by sylph shoe to get her three acts of service for the season done in due time. She will, ultimately, stay in the Great Hall however. The conversation continues as their plates and goblets gradually empty.

"You'll have to invite me sometime, once your little dream hut is inhabitable," Alaira giggles. "You must be looking forward to seeing those wyrmherders when they fly past."

"I maintain that they are fascinating creatures." Qifrey gestures into the air, as if running his hands along the wingspan of a dragon. "How could anyone not be enamored with—"

"PREDIS OLRUGGIO!!!"

A mass of blue, white, and orange suddenly crashes down from the balcony, landing mere meters away from the table—two chairs clatter to the ground as Qifrey catches Olruggio's arm before he falls on the floor while the third screeches on the stone tile, Alaira rising to her feet quickly. The witch whose impact disturbed them unfurls himself to be none other than one of the more infamously boisterous members of the craftsmen guild.

"Oh, Predis Olruggio!" the intruder exclaims again, as though the entire crowd around them had not heard him the first time. "How blessed we are to have you join us tonight at this grand ball! And looking so very dashing at that! Why, if I did not know better, I would assume that these festivities were held in your honor—"

"And who might you be?" Qifrey asks coolly, voice devoid of its earlier warmth. He knows well enough of the fact that this other man exists. There's a slow rise and fall of his chest, the thin line of his mouth masking what could only be indignant annoyance as he hoists Olruggio up by the armpits.

The daggers of Qifrey's glare, unfortunately, do nothing to dissuade their target from relenting. "Excuse my manners! My name is Hiehart, and I am at your service! I am here to see Predis—"

"I told you to stop callin' me that." Olruggio pinches the bridge of his nose. "What did you want now? Is it really that important?"

"Yes! Come quickly, the guild is discussing the possibility of raising our rates for commissions and we need your expert opinion!"

Alaira steps between the two men. "Hiehart, I'm sure that—"

It's futile. Hiehart deftly reaches around her and practically wrenches Olruggio's wrist out from Qifrey's hold, dragging the fire witch up the stairs without regard for the look of sheer distress so plainly written on his face. Neither Alaira nor Qifrey can do anything to stop this turn of events as the crowd swallows them whole.

After a few moments pass, she sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Well, we could still go fetch him if you'd like."

⭑✦☆✧★ ▲△ ★✧☆✦⭑

Olruggio's brain is struggling to keep up with everything that's transpired in the last few clock marks, or since the beginning of the day if he's being completely honest. He's adamantly sure he didn't pull that much of an all-nighter yesterday, and he could remember the majority of Lord Beldaruit's speech for all who passed The Goodwill of Her Grace. After that, he went with Qifrey to his room and... passed out from exhaustion? He's not too sure why or how. At the very least, Qifrey had been sitting on the edge of the bed when Olruggio awoke, the fire witch himself lovingly tucked into the sheets as though to invite a peaceful slumber.

He'll never claim to have had good health habits, what with Sinocia being one of few people who's familiar enough with him not to treat him like some celebrity, but his patchy memory was beginning to be a bit of a concern. It's something he's not told anyone about exactly because if anyone knew he had the beginnings of a cognitive impairment, it'd change the way they would treat him. And truthfully, it really wasn't all that serious! Whenever he felt like there was a gap in his memory, he'd always wake up to Qifrey by his side like so, waiting patiently for him to regain his bearings. There was nothing for him to be scared of if he was simply prone to the occasional nap in the presence of his most precious, trusted friend.

"Here we are!" Hiehart announces after manhandling Olruggio up the balcony, presenting his catch to the rest of their colleagues. "I have returned with Predis Olruggio, as promised!"

"Aye, that y'did," the aforementioned witch mumbles, rubbing his wrist. "Now what's this all about that you had to escort me here?"

ִֶָ⸙࿐.°𖥔

"What do you mean, neither of you have confessed yet?" Alaira hisses, pacing in front of a Qifrey whose deflated body is sat back in one of the chairs. She witnesses the bob of a thick, silent swallow as tension spreads through his limbs again.

"... I haven't the slightest clue as to what you might be referring to," he enunciates slowly, cautiously.

"You are an infuriating witch, Qifrey." Alaira hovers over him now, wine-tinged breath tickling his ear. "I'm going to take dear Olly away from you if you're not careful."

The other witch gives a quiet snort through his nostrils. "You're welcome to try."

"Oh? And here I expected you to be a much more possessive man." She steps back to retrieve two goblets of silvernectar wine from a passing butler, offering one to Qifrey before taking a swig of her own. "Olruggio of the Torch could have any witch he desires."

He casts his gaze sideways, regarding her with a pinched look she can't quite parse. "I'm aware. And if Olruggio could find happiness in another, I would be glad for it." He takes a sip himself, then quietly adds, "But he'll always choose me in the end."

"You make his loyalty to you sound like a miserable affair."

Qifrey elects to keep his goblet raised to his lips to avoid replying further. It's clear that he intends to let this argument die, so Alaira chooses to down the contents of her drinking vessel before she gives in to the growing urge to dump the sticky-sweet mead over his head as retaliation for leading poor Olruggio along. She deposits herself into the other chair with an exasperated huff, too much sudden liquor in her system muddling any civilized coherent string of thoughts, while Qifrey remains unmoving where he is. His knuckles are white where he grips the stem of the glass.

"You know," she starts after half a clock mark of observing the inaudible turmoil roiling under his skin. "I never understood why you would switch your cap ornaments with him if you were so embarrassed of the truth."

"And what truth is that?" Qifrey responds this time, voice flat, feigning something between disinterest and ignorance.

"That the both of you are inseparable. Just hopeless. Absolutely pathetic without the other."

"Where are you finding these words?"

"You're in denial about your own feelings."

A beat passes, too much gossip and chatter around them. Qifrey slowly tips the wine to his lips once more and drinks deeply. When he sets the vessel down, the quiet noise is swept away by the ambiance.

"Alaira." His brows furrow as he turns towards the wind witch at last, expression an inscrutable cocktail of swirling emotions. "You've done Olly and I a great many favors throughout our years in the Great Hall, and I must ask you for another this evening."

She meets his icy gaze, equal parts unfazed and unimpressed. "And what favor would that be?"

"Leave the matter be."

"I won't."

"I know."

"I worry about you two."

"Indeed you do, though I question your manner of conveying it thus."

"So," Alaira sighs, "we are once again at an impasse regarding our friend's affections for you, and you'll do nothing to address the fact that you could easily reciprocate it."

Qifrey's mouth twists with a polite but tight-lipped smile that doesn't quite reach his remaining eye. "I'm not entertaining this conversation any longer."

"You're a stubborn fool, problem child of the Great Hall." Alaira intends to glare at him, but her eyes drift past his shoulder and she gasps at the flash of crimson fabric in the near distance. "Never mind that now. Up you go, we're dancing together."

"W—wait, what for?" Qifrey catches himself as the other witch pulls him up by the elbow, though he willingly goes along with her.

"You might not like me very much right now, but I think you prefer my company over Easthies' any time."

⭑✦☆✧★ △▲ ★✧☆✦⭑

Alaira is correct, as per usual; Qifrey isn't very fond of her at the moment, but he is thankful that she has his best interests in mind. She simply has a queer way of going about it.

He scoffs internally. So does he, he supposes.

"Olly was right, you're a horrible dance partner," she giggles. "The wine hasn't loosened your limbs whatsoever?"

"Two glasses are hardly enough to affect my motor skills," chirps Qifrey, airy tone a stark contrast to his gloominess not long ago.

"That's not the self-praise you think it is."

"I didn't intend it to be."

They go through the motions of the dance, not dispassionately, but more so to maintain appearances: box turn, pivot loop, underarm turn, change step. Alaira allows him to keep her at arms length, never closer, and that is another thing that he's grateful for; that she understands that he's not a witch whose secrets are to be pried too deeply into. But to poke and prod at the edges? By all means. It's one of her favorite pastimes with him.

The corners of Alaira's mouth curve down in displeasure as his hand settles on her shoulder once more. "Don't look, Easthies is behind you."

"Noted."

Qifrey guides them both across the dance floor in a sweeping motion. The bodies of other couples quickly fills in the gap made by their distancing, disappearing the unwelcome visage of the vice captain of the Knights Moralis, and so they resume their measured steps.

"I swear that man is offended by your very existence," Alaira breathes out. "Though, I suppose he wouldn't be the only one to have ever antagonized you."

Qifrey's fingertips ghost hers in a twirl. "Many such cases. I've found it best not to engage if at all possible."

"And yet, you allow me to insult you to your face!"

"Your insults have no teeth to them, Alaira dear. I know you mean me no harm."

"You never did let me try biting you."

"Would you have if I let you?"

"What?!" She nearly trips into Qifrey's arms, laughter racking her entire frame as they perform a lifted spiral. "No, of course not! I couldn't possibly take that away from Olly!"

⭑✦☆✧★ ▲△ ★✧☆✦⭑

Olruggio grumbles at the sheer amount of silvernectar wine still sloshing around in his loop chalice. He hadn't had the time to mentally steel himself for this impromptu meeting and, frankly speaking, he should have dumped the liquor back out on the fool who decided to pour him this much—but one poor decision led to another as he let himself to be pressured into chugging far too much of it all at once, again, in hopes that the pleasant buzz would make the company bearable.

"We can cite an increase in costs for materials perhaps, the production of woodcruor is limited after all."

"You fool, that won't work! Outsiders don't know anything about conjuring ink!"

Why is Olruggio even here again? This discussion is entirely unproductive and would ultimately lead to nothing but frustration for all the involved parties. There are simply too many pieces in play here: the Wise in Friendships, Engendale, would have to approve any changes for matters between the craftsmen guild and Unknowing noble clients, seeing as to how their work is heavily tied into the economy of the entire Zozah Peninsula. His own clients already complain of the exorbitant prices they pay for private commissions! Add the fact that Olruggio could not fathom anyone needing nearly this much kain if they chose to remain within the walls of Deepwater Castle after becoming an independent witch. Greed is no reason to disturb the careful balance between witches and the rest of humanity—if not for the fact that he and Qifrey would need to purchase construction materials to repair their future home together, he would balk at the sheer amount of wealth passing through his hands at any given moment.

He sighs and peers over the railing, looking for anything to take him away from this dreary situation he's found himself in. Forget the concept of networking; he already recognizes all of the other witches present, already works with them on a near-daily basis, already tires of them flirting with him at any given opportunity. All he wants is to flee to the Naakiwan Downs and live the rest of his days in peace with his childhood friend at his side. It is not that large of an ask. He's sure it can't be.

Speak of the devil: Olruggio spies the head of elegantly ruffled white hair he's all too familiar with gliding across the dance floor, Alaira in tow. They're too far away for him to make out their expressions, but he's grateful that she's keeping Qifrey preoccupied instead of letting the man slip into one of his melancholy moods. For as eloquent a vocabulary Qifrey had developed in their late teenage years, the ambient distaste the grand majority of people residing here had held towards him did not make for pleasant conversation, and that was through no fault of his own. No amount of skill or kindness towards younger witches Qifrey could display would sway the unjustified prejudice their peers held for him.

"Predis Olruggio would never stand for that!" Hiehart gasps sharply, pulling the fire witch out of his reverie. "You insult all of the craftsmen guild with such a proposal!"

Olruggio takes another quick swig of his wine before focusing back to the meeting at hand. "What's it this time?"

"W—well," another witch timidly stutters, "I—I just thought that, maybe if the contraptions we create are a little more fragile, more prone to breaking—"

"No," he quickly barks back. "We are not to damage our reputation with the Outsiders by providin' 'em shoddy work. Witches live to serve, not profit like shrewd misers."

"Well said, Predis Olruggio! We must take pride in our services so that we can spread the blessings of magic!" Hiehart slaps Olruggio's back hard enough to cause him to stagger and nearly spill his drink on himself.

"Oi, watch the robes," he growls, his patience for the situation wearing thin.

And thinner his patience yet grows. The other artisans do not hide their disappointment regarding the fact that their Star of Ghodrey didn't approve of their schemes, while others begin to talk among themselves of other topics. Olruggio takes a long, slow quaff from the loop chalice, eager for the moment he can excuse himself from this gathering.

"Say, Olruggio of the Torch," a lady witch calls out from the opposite end of the wall. "Will you move into the guild's chambers? We recently renovated one of the ateliers with new furnishings and it's quite a gorgeous area. Spacious with plenty of tables and shelves, close to our suppliers too."

He shrugs nonchalantly. "I don't see much reason to waste the effort on me. I'm sure someone else would appreciate it, though."

"A waste?! But you're one of the greatest inventors of our time! What do you mean—"

"I've already got a place in mind to move out to," Olruggio says firmly, narrowly missing the threshold of snapping. "I'll be able to serve the people better if I'm not at the bottom of the ocean. I need to be close by to know what they really need."

Another craftsman nods sagely, ignorant of the sharp edge to his voice. "I see! Very noble indeed. Are you perhaps planning to move to Kalhn, or maybe back to Ghodrey to be back with your family?"

"Speaking of," one more chimes in. "I spoke to one of your cousins the other day. They say that they're expecting a son in the coming months! Are you excited to become an uncle?"

"Oh, how wonderful! With how prestigious you are, Olruggio, perhaps you could elevate your family name to be spoken of in the same breath as House Arklaum and House Roenton!"

A sick, twisting feeling settles into Olruggio's gut at the combined mention of his hometown, family, and the prestige he's earned as a result of all his feats. It isn't as though he despises his heritage or doesn't keep in touch with his family, but the insinuation that he'd return to the harsh climates of the northern parts of the peninsula of his own volition affects him more than he anticipates.

"You're such a bright young witch with a promising future," he recalls his mother's melodious praise. "So smart, considerate, and eager to help! My sweet child, how I love you. I know that one day you'll make me a proud grandmother also."

Sentiments like that had bothered him as a child, but he couldn't articulate as to why they did at the time. These were kind words, were they not? Olruggio thrived on praise, basked in its warmth when the world around him was so cold. He cast spells just as easily as he breathed—a prodigy, he'd been hailed as. It must have been true if all of the older kids and grown witches said as such. He had been so excited at the fact that the adults in his life let him tag along on their work outings at such a young age.

If only he had been clever enough to realize that they were molding him into the perfect service witch before he'd even had the chance to take the First Pentacle of Proving, only a few days after the tragedy at Nauz and a few days before he'd be exiled beneath the churning ocean waves.

"—you know, I heard that Adina Aklaum has chosen among her suitors who she wants as her husband. I think she'll try for a child soon."

"Ah, we are at the age where we ought to start thinking about such things, aren't we?"

"Maybe I'll get lucky tonight and go home with someone special~"

The wine on Olruggio's tongue suddenly tastes sour. There are eyes on him now. Flushed gazes and shy, hopeful, but dangerous looks from witches who only desire of him what services he can provide, desire him to martyr himself further for their sakes. But they desire the concept of Olruggio of the Torch, not the mortal man before them. None of them cared to know the battered and scarred shape of his soul.

None, besides Qifrey.

The very same Qifrey, who he knew had dated Alaira on-and-off in the past, and who is now currently dancing with her on the lower floor.

"Predis Olruggio?" A hand settles on his forearm. "Is something the matter?"

Oh, everything is the matter. The liquor is bad, the company is dull, and the man he loves with every fiber of his being is neither rejecting his advances nor acknowledging them to begin with. Wordlessly, he downs the rest of the lukewarm silvernectar wine left in his loop chalice and tosses the damnable thing at the nearest surface, not bothering to apologize for startling some of the other craftsmen. He doesn't care if his footsteps are too loud as he takes his leave.

The Star of Ghodrey is retiring for the night.

ִֶָ⸙࿐.°𖥔

The looming specter of Easthies eventually vanishes from the crowd entirely, which is a blessing for Alaira. Both she and Qifrey are exhausted and can't take much more of this charade.

"Holding up alright?" she asks, one foot on the first step of the stairs while tossing a glance behind her. "Let's find your Olly and go, we've left him be long enough."

Qifrey uselessly fans himself with a hand, trying to cool off after all that dancing. "Yes, let's. I can't imagine he's enjoying himself up there too much."

The cascading waterfall of bodies, unfortunately, makes their journey to the second floor an utter slog. Alaira is all but ready to start shoving people aside to cleave her way through while Qifrey himself seems very, very tempted to toss any unlucky passerby over the railing if they so much as brush past him. Why are humans such frustrating creatures? He draws his arms tight around himself and trudges forward. Despite the setbacks, the two of them finally make it to the final landing when Qifrey catches sight of the witch they're looking for, who is all but grasping onto the railing to steady his stumbling steps. There are still other partygoers attempting to accost Olruggio even in his drunken state, and that is what breaks Alaira's restraint.

"Olruggio!" she shouts, her small frame forcefully pushing through the remaining crowd to reach him. "There you are! Are you—how much did you drink?!"

"Didn't mean ta 'ave so much," he slurs, eyes unfocused. "They damn near poured me an entire bottle's worth o' aged."

"And you drank it all."

"I 'ad ta." Olruggio presses the pads of his thumb and index finger together and raises it to his mouth in an unintentionally obscene gesture. "Loop chalice."

Alaira nearly screeches, slapping his arm down. "You fool, we're leaving!" She frantically swivels her head behind her. "Qifrey! Get over here!"

"Q—Qifrey... where's he at? I need... I need ta..."

"Here I am," the white-haired witch says not a second later, suddenly manifesting by the man's side to loop an arm around his shoulder. "Steady now. I've got you, Olly."

Whatever quiet conversation her friends might be having between themselves, Alaira can't hear it above the absolute din of this poor excuse for a party. She glowers at oncoming witches as she clears the path down for the two men trailing behind her, and by some miracle, they drag one very inebriated Olruggio out of the gala.

The noticeably chill air in hallways outside the ballroom is a welcome change, with whatever sparse lanterns left hanging between stately archways casting flickering islands of light amidst the sea of shadows. It's silent, save for their footsteps and heavy panting. Alaira pops her head around the corner to check for any stragglers and when she's sure that the coast is clear, she signals for Qifrey to follow. The trio slumps backwards against a quiet wall to gather their bearings at last.

"'m sorry," Olruggio hiccups. "You two 'ad to leave early 'cause o' me, didn'tcha?"

"We were on our way out, so don't fret on our account," Qifrey reassures him. "Here, drink some water." He pulls out a miniature vapor bubble and tips it to Olruggio's lips, who accepts it graciously. When he senses that Olruggio needs to swallow, Qifrey pulls the lower dish back and waits until his friend is ready again before offering more.

Alaira watches them as she smooths the wrinkles out from her cloak. "What did Hiehart even want from you? You didn't look too happy coming down."

"Jus' some rubbish 'bout chargin' Outsiders more." Olruggio puts a hand up to signal that he's done with the water. "Some were tryin' ta sell trash contraptions so they'd get customers buyin' more often. Told 'em that I wouldn't stand for it."

"Ugh, what are those idiots thinking...? And I'll have a word with Hiehart later about his lack of manners. What else did they make you sit through?"

A dark look briefly passes over his features. "Nowt I wanna talk ta you 'bout, Alaira. 'm sure ya got better things ta do besides babysit me an' Qif."

Qifrey throws an apologetic look her way. "Forgive his rudeness, he's not usually like this when he's drunk."

"'m soberin' up."

"Then you're sober enough to apologize to her for getting us out of that miserable situation unscathed."

"... Right. Sorry. I jus'... need a word with ya, Qifrey."

Alaira stands up, dusting herself off. "No need to feel sorry for me. I'll be taking my leave, long as you boys promise to get back to your rooms safe and sound."

"Of course."

"Aye."

⭑✦☆✧★ △▲ ★✧☆✦⭑

They are very nearly to Olruggio's quarters when Qifrey finds both his wrists pinned against the wall of a hidden alcove. He doesn't struggle, no, because in the greedy depths of his unspoken desires, he'd like this very much.

But he can't have this. Shouldn't have this. Would never be allowed to have this.

"Olruggio, you're drunk," Qifrey begins, tone as level as he can muster given the circumstances. He doesn't let himself look at his best friend, too much of a coward to bear witness to the heartbreak wrought by his own words. "I strongly urge you to reconsider whatever it is you plan on doing, for both our sakes."

"Then push me away if ya can't stand the thought o' me." When the other man doesn't react, doesn't move, Olruggio releases his grip on one of Qifrey's hands and slides calloused but gentle fingers beneath his chin to guide him towards himself. "Look at me. Please."

Qifrey is almost certain that the silent shatter of Olruggio's heart ought to be enough guilt to keep his parasite at bay for the rest of eternity, because instead of the fires of frustration like Qifrey expected, there's hurt and confusion and the start of tears welling up at the corners of Olruggio's eyes. "Oh, Olly... I... we can't..."

"You say 'we' as if you've already decided for me what I want! Why do you keep pullin' away, Qifrey?" Olruggio whispers furiously, trembling despite the fact that he's the one currently looming over the other. "... What am I doing wrong?"

"You can do no wrong to me, Olly. You're incapable of it. I just..."

"You just what?"

Qifrey slides his free hand over Olruggio's, where it tenderly cradles his face. "You deserve better than me."

A deafening hush shrouds the two witches as they stare at each other, the words sucking the very oxygen from the corridor.

Then, there's a shift in weight and the frantic rustling of fabric that follows as Olruggio bears down on Qifrey.

In all honesty, it's a terrible first kiss, all clattering teeth and pulsing pain where the back of Qifrey's head hits the stone tile beneath him. And that's disregarding the sheer panic seizing his mind as he tries to think of a way to untangle himself from this situation before it adds yet more kindling to the ever-growing mountain of mistakes he's made involving Olly, his dearest Olly, the singular witch whose kindness is Qifrey's only salvation yet cruelest torture. He shouldn't be permitted to taste the aged silvernectar wine clinging to Olly's lips, should push him off and run and hide and never show his hideous face with the missing eye to anyone ever again. Alas, if only The Star of Ghodrey were merciful enough to have immolated him from the very beginning!

But that fool promise they made all those years ago keeps Qifrey obediently writhing below as he wraps the chains of regret around his fractured psyche. He must make this parody of life useful to the man above him, because Qifrey can erase suspicion but he cannot delay the inevitability of Olly's reckless affections towards himself. Better to accept it and be consumed whole by wanton desire, a twisted devotion that goes beyond that of mere lovers. Qifrey decides in his hubris that this ill-fated love is cut from the same cloth as divinity, that Olruggio fell from the heavens solely to bless his cursed Silverwood form with this magic.

A firm squeeze on Qifrey's breast through layers of fabric rips him from his thoughts, now forced to acknowledge the clouded look of desperate lust in Olly's dark eyes. A moan escapes him also, and Qifrey takes Olly's face into his hands and kisses him proper on the lips to smother his own voice. When he pulls away, the fire witch takes this as his cue to undo the buttons on Qifrey's tunic with a terrible sense of urgency that would be frightening if Qifrey did not want this too. Take from me whatever you want, whatever you need, he wants to say. Claim me, taste me, strip me bare to indulge in my flesh. Know all there is of me and the rotten depths of my soul. The life you've gifted this empty vessel belongs to you, and only you.

The knee that finds its way between Qifrey's thighs draws out a shuddering gasp, and he ruts pathetically against Olly to chase a pleasure he should forbid himself from having. Then, Qifrey's nipples stiffen as Olly releases them from the confines of cloth and exposes them to the chill. Olly's palms slide over the soft slopes of his chest til he fills his hands with him.

"Olly," Qifrey rasps out, still grinding himself on the other's thigh. "Olly, please...! I—"

His begging is cut short when Olruggio withdraws suddenly and the fire witch scrambles backwards on his heels, as if disgusted at the sight of Qifrey laying ravished on the tiles of the Great Hall by his own doing. Qifrey is too stunned to reach out as his kindest star fades into the oppressive darkness beyond his blurring sight.

⭑✦☆✧★ ▲△ ★✧☆✦⭑

The bitter bile clinging to Olruggio's tongue is not nearly enough punishment for his sins tonight.

Of course Qifrey did not refuse him, could not refuse him. The only path out was one fashioned by an impulsive cruelty that he did not think himself capable of, an impossible mockery of choice that could only leave casualties in its wake.

How could Olruggio do that to his best friend? How could he ever face Qifrey ever again?

A sick combination of mead and spittle is all that comes up now as he retches into the toilet for the nth time this past clock mark. He watches with despair as it disappears into the nothingness of the void below, and he sobs into himself like an inconsolable child convinced of his incompetence as a witch who can actually help people.

Because despite all of his outward altruism, Olruggio is a selfish man, for he wants a clear confession of love from the witch whose life he saved all those years ago, and who in turn saved him from falling into a spiral of self-hatred and grief at his most vulnerable moment.

But it is too large of an ask. He is sure of it.