Work Text:
And Qifrey calls out to him, “Olly.” A whisper in the space between them, only distinguishable from the cool wind whirling around them because it was begging to be heard.
And Olruggio stops.
He always stops.
When Qifrey says ‘Olly’, he means- “please don’t go” and “I’m sorry” and “I don’t mean to hurt you, I never mean to hurt you” and a million more apologies and pleas hidden and held with loving hands into one simple childhood nickname that when Olruggio stops, feet landing softly on dirt and grass and memories and forgiveness, it’s with the certainty that wild geese return home after the winter.
He stops and Qifrey can exhale, somehow it never ceases to amaze him how the air always is easier to breathe with him by his side, always by his side.
Qifrey loves him (they both know this), love’s him so much that some days it grips him by the throat, leaves him sickly and quiet with the guilt. Those days Olruggio wonders when it got so hard for the other to look him in the eye, when space grew between them when once, not so long ago, there was none.
And Qifrey fears him (this Olruggio doesn’t know).
He’d sooner erase his memories than kiss him. Hoping the soft press of his hat over ink-black hair serves enough to show his affection.
“Olly,” Qifrey repeats, imploring at the other's raised shoulders, those broad shoulders that have held up so much throughout his life, always too much. What’s one more worry? One more responsibility? One more piece of himself that Qifey could give and trust on them? They’ve always seemed so strong but could they truly hold up this? Stay steady and benevolent for him?
Olruggio doesn’t turn around when he speaks, one look at Qifrey (friend, his only friend, his best friend, his everything) and he’d agree to anything, heart weak for that selfish man.
“Qif,” Olruggio starts, heart for heart. Qifrey loves him for it and envies him and there's just so much fear, why is he always so afraid? “I think there are some things we need to discuss.” His voice cuts deep, cold, so unlike the comforting warmth Qifrey knows so well.
“I think we do.” How could he argue, Olruggio’s only cruel when he has to be, this Qifrey knows well. When it's dire and he has no other choice but to harden his too often soft heart.
Now Olruggio turns and finally, finally looks at him, a chasm between them, two men, two witches, two friends.
He takes the first few steps to shorten the distance, as he always does, and Qifrey follows the strength in that unshakable love (he's done it before) and they meet in the middle, eyes to eye, selfish to selfless, heart to heart, again and again in this repetitive game Qifrey plays.
When they sit down against the coarse grass, falling onto the surface with the same inevitability as raindrops in the desert, knees knocking against one another, breathing in synch.
And Qifrey opens his mouth and begins to tell his tale, heart setting a rhythm against chest. And while he talks, Olruggio stuck apprehensive to the calming timber of his voice, Qifrey reaches up with steady hands, dislodging his cap from his head and setting it in his lap.
As he's done, many times before.