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He had been doing the same repetitive outline for hours, abusing hundreds of pieces of paper, when a faint scent of sweetness slipped under the cracks of his door. It slowly came to tickle his nostrils as he scratched the hundred and oneth page on his desk. Inked paper was lying everywhere, at his feet, under the table, too close to the oil lamp on his left, messy black lines mocking the knot in his head.
It tore a sigh out of him, making the flame of the lamp wiggle curiously. Some days were like this, utterly and devastatingly unproductive. The only result he gained from a hard fifteen hours of work was a sore back and a headache that threatened to knock him out the second he would stand from his chair.
His nose twitched unconsciously to inhale that sweet new smell. It felt warm against his skin, a gentle caress of ginger easing his thoughts and a pinch of citrus hugging his fingers. An exquisite call to let go of his tired quill and follow the invisible mist behind the door of his room.
Olruggio sighed again, groaned, ruffled his tangled hair.
To hell with it. A stroll around the house would perhaps strike him with inspiration. And he would also see what new recipe Qifrey was trying this time, out of curiosity. Professional habits and all.
The squeaking of his door was almost embarrassing when he stepped foot in the warmth of the atelier’s corridor. It reminded him that he had forgotten to revive the fire in his own room. Olruggio tugged at the cape he had kept on his shoulders, suddenly too heavy in the pleasant heat of the house.
A head of silver entered his line of sight as he rounded the corner to the kitchen. Qifrey was standing above a comically large pot from which emanated the sweet perfume.
“Isn’t it a bit late to be cooking?” he found himself saying, voice hoarse from being unused all day.
“Isn’t it a bit late to be working?” Qifrey retorted without turning his head, stirring the mysterious mixture in a comfortable silence.
Olruggio scoffed quietly and walked to the counter.
“Dear me, are you trying to bribe me with, what-” he smiled as he sneaked a peek past Qifrey’s shoulders, catching a glimpse of a dark reddish liquid in which freshly cut oranges were bathing.
The previous banter died on his tongue and his eyes widened. That was not lemonade, and it sure was no soup.
“-is it wine that you’re making?” he asked, genuinely surprised.
“A merchant from the east was presenting this traditional recipe from his hometown. A sweet winter drink made to warm the hearts and redden your cheeks, he said,” The corner of Qifrey’s mouth tugged at the words. “I simply could not deny such heartfelt advice from a jolly man.”
Olruggio raised one eyebrow. “I really should be the one in charge of the groceries. Your compassion will be the end of our savings, whatever tempting recipe you’re making this time.”
A glinting blue eye twinkled under the orange lamp of the kitchen, turning to him at last, knowing. “Is it tempting enough for the beast to come out of its burrow and drink with an old friend?”
An invitation, smelling of gentle spices and cinnamon anise. How could an honest man ever decline? Olruggio sniffed, tearing his eyes away from that pull of the sea to avoid drowning in it.
“Perhaps so. My lower back could use the comfort of these horrendous cushions of yours.”
Qifrey let out a soft laugh as he brought the wooden spoon to his lips. “I truly wonder why you still battle with them. They are lovely. Reminded me of you.”
“I’ll try to take it as a compliment.”
The spoon was carried to his own mouth, waiting.
“Tell me what you think,” Qifrey demanded as he held the spoon closer to Olruggio’s lips. The smell was stronger, invading his insides from the tip of his nose to the pit of his empty stomach.
Olruggio let the warm liquid glide on his tongue, with an exaggerated loud slurp that widened the smile on the other witch’s face.
He had guessed it right, there was indeed the lingering taste of cinnamon that gave the wine a particular generosity only found in the sugary delicacies they sometimes bought in town for the girls. But it was balanced with the sourness of oranges, lemons and ginger, a constellation of ingredients that were all sweetened by a drop of honey and a pinch of clove.
Olruggio licked his lips with an appreciative hum, meeting Qifrey’s expectant gaze.
“Tremendous, I’ll fetch the glasses.”
He shrugged the cape off his shoulders, muscles popping as he reached for the cupboard. Such a wine required special cutlery, he thought. Something to show Qifrey his gratitude, to thank him for his late night cooking experiences that delighted Olruggio more than he let it show.
Affection through small gestures, as they always did.
He chose the finest pair of glasses from their collection, so little used they had a line of dust covering their rims. They were made of a fine chrystal from the carriers in the west, only found in the depth of the earth. Once extracted from the stone and brought to daylight, it coloured with a faint shade of deep blue, mirroring the starry night sky he knew Qifrey was fond of.
He had bought them some years ago now, in a street market of a town he had been called in for a commission. They had reflected the sunlight across every stall, like callices forged from stardust. Their intricate design of intertwined vines and flowers was far too gaudy for his liking, and yet, he had them in his purse in a breath, relieving himself from an outrageously high sum of money.
And here he was blaming Qifrey for wasting their savings.
Qifrey, ever quiet as he was most of the time, had seen them among their small number of glasses at the time, four to be exact, plain transparent white, and had simply moved them from an inch to where they had been stored by Olruggio, so that when the sun hit the glass door of the cupboard in the particularly early hour of the morning, it cast a blue reflection on the adjacent wall.
Even now, with the eight additional glasses that painted a canvas of colours inside the cupboard; they remained at that same spot that displayed their own waves of blue at dawn, a spectacle Olruggio still marvelled at everytime he woke up with the birds’ chants to work.
The chrystal warmed at the touch of his hand while he cleared the dust from it with a clean cloth. Once polished, he walked to where Qifrey stood, stifling a yawn.
“I begin to wonder if I should have prepared a nightly herbal tea instead,” he heard Qifrey say softly, and Olruggio nudged his arm as he settled the glasses next to the pot. He ignored the warmth crawling up his spine when the other's eyes fell on them before smiling fondly.
“Wouldn’t be as effective as whatever this is.”
Glasses filled with puffing warm wine, they sat in front of the hearth that still glowed ambers in the late hours. Well, Olruggio more specifically sunk to the cushions on the floor, extending his aching limbs with a sigh. Ugly as they were, they had a heavenly plushiness that compared to no other.
He watched Qifrey settle from the corner of his eye, watched as his white robes were turning the colour of the sunset as he faced the fireplace, watched it pour on the carpet as he brought his knees under him, as if he were surrounded by a cloud, or a bed of daisies.
“Feels like it's our first time drinking together in ages,” Olruggio said. I’ve missed this, he omitted.
“Well,” Qifrey’s glass clinked against his. “It is quite challenging to find a moment to drink alone when there are four pairs of young ears lingering in the doorways.”
Olruggio sipped his drink slowly, letting spices and the sweet taste of alcohol warm his throat. “I guess we’re not the only ones craving a late night snack from time to time.”
He sunk more into the cushions, back resting comfortably against the couch. His head naturally rolled to his right, finding Qifrey’s shoulder like a starved man. It welcomed him like before, like always, and soon after he felt a cheek nestled in his messy hair, breathing in the smell of ink and paper in which Olruggio had buried himself all day.
“How are you, my friend?” Qifrey’s voice rang between them, round and already slightly tinted with wine. It curled in Olruggio’s beating heart effortlessly.
“Better now,” he laughed and raised his glass to gulp its entire content, earning a quiet laugh from the lips above him. “I don’t know what you put in there, but it’s definitely working wonders. Can’t feel the tip of my fingers already.”
“I hope you don’t think I am purposely getting you drunk to make you rest against your will.”
“I am thinking that you’re purposely getting me drunk to make me rest against my will. That being said, may I have more?” Olruggio smiled lazily and presented his empty glass to the other.
Qifrey had an apologetic look on his face, brows lightly furrowed in shy embarrassment.
“Are you quite certain, dearest?”
The last word rolled off Qifrey’s tongue so easily, had been for years. It made Olruggio’s chest tighten in a comfortable squeeze, as if his heart was cradled by a thousand warm hands each time.
He exhaled, breath trembling for a tiny half second before settling back, unnoticed. The wine was really strong.
“Yes, quite so.”
A curtain of cold fell on him the moment Qifrey detached his body from his to go back to the kitchen. The sudden absence made him shiver from head to toe, forcing him to extend a hand towards the fireplace. Olruggio was weak like that. Once settled in a comfortable place, he found it simply impossible to let go.
So, like the weak man he was, he guided his body back the crook of Qifrey’s neck when the other returned with refilled glasses. They sat closer, fabric of their robes overlaying the floor of cushions, arms pressing against each other, hair brushing, shades of black and white dancing.
Intertwined, always.
Olruggio placed his glass untouched next to him and turned sufficiently enough to lay a kiss where neck and shoulder met under Qifrey’s collar. He felt the skin under it quiver, before he pressed his forehead against it, fingers finding the hand that rested on his knee and looping themselves around Qifrey’s palm.
“Olly,” was almost whispered, swallowed by the crackle of the fireplace. He could only answer with a quiet groan, tipsy on cinnamon and human warmth. “Perhaps would it be wiser to go to sleep.”
“Surely,” he said at last, voice muffled.
They stayed unmoving until the fire reduced twice in size.
Qifrey had begun to play with Olruggio’s hair, second glass of sweet wine also forgotten next to him. He was brushing the strands away from Olruggio’s temple, untangling some here and there, then pressing the tip of his fingers to massage the skin gently. He let them slide against a cheekbone where a small wrinkle had begun to appear some months ago, then traveled to Olruggio’s beard, left uncut for a week, to caress the hair there with utmost care.
The thousand warm hands that cradled his heart were hot like the bleeding sun, making him tilt his head rightly so, until he could catch Qifrey’s lips in his.
It was perhaps rash of him, he thought, a decision fueled by tipsiness. But he knew kissing Qifrey could never be the result of a fluttering impulse. It was a desire he carried deep inside, nestled with the want of things to never change, the wish for their lives to remain quiet behind the safe walls of their atelier, the wish to grow there, caring for four bright minds and see them bloom joyfully.
He tasted orange and cinnamon on Qifrey’s lips, basking in it, savouring the light press of skin against skin, before moving away slowly.
He met his friend’s glinting blue eye. Qifrey’s hand hadn’t left his cheek, thumbing his chin still quietly.
Olruggio was granted a small smile and watched Qifrey lean in close again, until his eyes couldn’t see him properly and their breaths tangled once more.
He almost fell back from relief, arching to regain balance as his hands trailed the shape of Qifrey’s arms. He anchored his palms on the side of his neck, feeling the pulse there, trembling like leaves jumping with the wind.
No wine, sweetest as it could be, could rival Qifrey's scent, his touch, that left Olruggio’s skin blazing where it lingered, behind his ear, along his wrist, dancing on the bumps of his phalanxes.
He pressed a firm kiss on the corner of Qifrey’s mouth, on his chin, craving the sensation like a blessing, like the warmest magic.
It wasn’t the first time they did this, and yet it felt like he rediscovered every pull, every tug, every breath that murmured his name like a secret spell. And he suddenly wondered why he didn’t kiss Qifrey more.
He was abruptly met with emptiness, and as he gazed at his friend, still drunk on the taste of his lips, he remembered why.
Like each time, for the rare times they had fallen into each other’s arms, Qifrey’s features were painted in an indescribable melancholy, turning the sea in his eye into abysses. It stirred uneasily at Olruggio’s pulsing heart, pouring liquid ice that burned hard and reduced the comforting cradle to ashes.
His hands fell from Qifrey’s shoulders to rest on his knees instead.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, cringing at the dejected tone of his voice.
“No”, Qifrey cut him immediately, ever so quiet. He let his head fall to Olruggio’s neck limply. “Never apologize for that, my friend.”
The last of the fire died out, plunging them in the sole moonlight that crept through the window.
They stayed like that some more, silent, intertwined, always.