neru

before he could even get a sense of control over his thoughts, he had already intertwined your fingers with each other. his heart pounds against his chest loudly.

the headaches were particularly painful the following days.

no, he had never told you about it.

and so will the love he has for you die along with his hope, silver roots wrapped around his broken heart that's never ever uttered a single word of love for you. it feels like heartbreak, but how can his heart break if there was no beginning in the first place? when there was no confession, no exchange of ‘i love you's.

the word love builds up like vile in his throat.

but he will be damned if he doesn't show you in some kind of way.

“aren't they adorable!?” tettia quietly coos at the two adults, watching qifrey scoop up another serving of dinner for you without your say so.

“i want something like that when i grow up!”

“they're not together like that, though.” richeh trails off, a thought spiraling on her mind. “master qifrey himself said so.”

“and yet his actions don't match his words.” agott watched on as well, noting the particular way qifrey looks at you.

like you are his world, the very magic in his eye.

“wait, are they not… together?” coco tilts her head. “i assumed they were together. they seem to be so close.”

“unfortunately, master qifrey himself said so.” tettia slumps against the table with a pout. “if that's not what love looks like, then what does it look like?”

“aren't you a little too young to think of love?”

startled, the four girls turn to face you. tettia waves her hand in front of her frantically, “n-no! that's not what i meant!”

“oh ho?” qifrey comes from behind you, cheshire smile plastered on his face. “who is the lucky boy, may i ask?”

“there's no boy!” tettia whines, turning to richeh. “help me out here!”

“coco has a boy.” the girl gasped.

“no i do not!”

“who's tartah then?”

dinner was noisy that night with the girls continuing their playful banter. qifrey watched on with a fond smile, his hand unknowingly reaching out for yours. when his fingers touched yours in the slightest did he snap back to his senses, playing it off by scratching the back of his head.

he doesn't know if you felt it too, but if you did, he's relieved you did not say a word about it.

after dinner, the girls went about their rooms, bidding the two adults goodnight.

“oh, you don't have to do that.”

qifrey steps beside you at the sink, watching you cast a water spell to clean up the dishes.

“it's no problem, dear. you had a long afternoon of teaching already and you cooked dinner. at least let me help clean around.”

dear.

it felt so natural to have you call him by that nickname. like he is that word to you, dear. too domestic, no question asked. there was something about the air around you when he's within your proximity. you radiate so much peace that even he can feel it. it's an infectious thing.

and that's the problem itself.

it feels too good, too peaceful with you, that he fears the roots will take its place once again. he says nothing about everything he feels, because he knows you like the back of his hand.

he knows you love him too.

and it was the reciprocal feelings that he cannot speak about. it's risky, it's painful. oh so painful, that even if he wants to have you for himself, then the silverwood will have him in exchange.

if love is peace, why does it hurt him so?

“qifrey?”

his name sounds so sweet coming from your mouth.

“yes?”

it was then that he noticed the sudden proximity between the two of you. he could feel your warmth from this distance. he can sense the way you shudder when his breath fans along your face. he can feel the way your fingers twitch at his touch, though he wonders when had he taken your hand in his to hold? he can see your eyes so clearly, the swirling pool of color within those crystals mesmerizing, almost hypnotic in a way only magic can tell.

love is, in some way, a magical thing.

“you're beautiful.”

he hears the way your breath falters, your eyes dilating in response to his words. he traces the skin on your cheek with a delicate touch, searching your eyes for some form of misgiving towards his affection.

all of the sudden, fear gathers at the back of his throat, like a fish bone stuck to his throat stubbornly refusing to come off.

this shouldn't have happened.

he wasn't supposed to be this close to you. wasn't supposed to touch you so freely and desire to have more of you. to have you whole to himself. it shouldn't be this easy to have you succumb to his warmth, a faux comfort that hides the true horror within his heart and missing eye.

“i'm sorry, my star, i did not–” he frowns, truly questioning his feeble attempt to resist his desire.

you're too close, oh, so close.

perhaps he should erase your memory of this night?

the thought of taking something away from you, your memories, suffocates him so. but before he could lament his predicament, your hand held his palm against your cheek, a smile so sweet and gentle contrasting the swirling storm in him.

“you don't have to say anything.”

your words were final, like a stubborn stone wedge into the soil or a sword struck deep into the ground. only someone with immense strength can challenge you and qifrey was but a man powerless against all that you are.

“you don't have to tell me how you feel about me.”

your nose nuzzles into his palm, and god did his heart almost leap out of his chest and into your hands. you look at him from his palm, your lips pressed against his skin with a smile.

oh, he's about to faint.

“you don't have to say it out loud. i know what you feel about this. about us.”

“you deserve better than this.” he shook his head in denial. “you deserve someone who can proudly call you the object of their affection. not… this silence.”

he tears his gaze away from your probing ones. he can tell that just by looking at you, he's buying himself his own pot of soil.

“you mustn't chain yourself with a man who cannot even proclaim their affection towards you. what i am is a coward.”

“what you are is my qifrey.”

his heart skipped a beat, or perhaps was it the roots of silverwood piercing his heart?

“you can't just say things like that.” it almost sounded like a whine, and you giggle at how precious he looks right now. with his cheeks flushed and restless eye, looking anywhere but you.

why can't you show some mercy on this man's heart?

“you may have your reasons to keep me at arms length.” he grimaces at the intention of your words, “but i'm already at peace that you still share a part of your life with me. that i still get to stand beside you.”

you gently tug him down, pressing your forehead against his in a nuzzle.

“this… what we share between us may take forever to be spoken out loud,” you place a finger right at his lips, watching his breath grow heavier from the touch. “but i am willing to stand by you for a lifetime and more.”

you lean to kiss the finger atop of his lips, fully pulling back to see his bewildered and already reddening face.

“my dear, you look like you're about to explode.”

“you can't just do that and expect me to remain calm!”

your giggle echoes through the quiet kitchen. qifrey might be a little delirious, he could have sworn he heard the chimes of fairies favoring every sound you make with those extremely tempting lips of yours.

what do they taste like?

“fret not.” your hand caresses his cheeks, “no unspoken words can push me away from you.”

“i don't want to hurt you.” he tries to look the other way, but with your hand tilting his gaze back to you has him melting on the spot. his futile attempt to avoid your intense look has him weak on the knees.

what kind of magic did you cast on him?

“no pain exists when i am within your presence.”

“my dear…”

“shh.”

you pull him a little closer, resting your head just above his collarbone. he's trembling, whether from the promising position the two of you are in or from his fears, you don't mind. not when he's this close to you. the closest he's ever been to you. you'd do anything to preserve this moment.

“you don't have to tell me everything.”

you place a hand on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“all that matters is we're here.”

his warm and gentle hands press against the back of your waist, finally letting himself hold you in his arms.

your body fits every crevice, resting against his chest.

“i'd wait for a lifetime for you.” you whisper into his robes. “i'll remember you even in my next life.”

“you think that's possible?”

“everything's possible with magic.”

he hopes so. perhaps then, he wouldn't have to wait for another lifetime to feel this once more. to be at peace in your arms, free from all his fear.

perhaps then, he could hold your hand whenever he wants, feel the warmth of your palm against his.

perhaps then, he can tell you the words he's been dying to say. he won't have to fear the consequences of telling you he loves you, oh, so much. that he wants you to be his and him, yours.

"Yes, you."

"You committed my efforts without first seeking my agreement?"

"It was easy when you weren't there to defend yourself," you reply lightly, leaning in to inspect the vegetables beneath his knife. They're a little limp, colours dulled and beginning to brown at the tops. "Besides, Coco is very excited to hear you do all the voices. You wouldn't say no to her."

"Both that child and you severely overestimate my talent and willingness," Qifrey huffs, though you can see him fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from turning upwards. "Still, as a reward for successfully getting those little terrors to sleep… would you like some dumplings for supper?"

It's almost embarrassing how quickly the fatigue leaves your body. "Dumplings!"

Qifrey laughs quietly at your immediate enthusiasm. "Yes, yes. I'm making some now." He sweeps the chopped vegetables into a bowl with practiced ease, and only then do you notice the rest of the ingredients spread across the counter beside him: minced flying shrimp and meat, a little dish of carefully measured seasonings, and a neat stack of dumpling wrappers lightly dusted with flour. So that's what he'd been doing the entire time you were upstairs battling the girls into bed. "I was taking stock of the kitchen earlier and realised these vegetables needed to be used soon. But I haven't wrapped them yet, so you may have to wa—"

"—do them with you," you finish for him, already reaching for the wrappers before Qifrey can protest. "Double the hands make for half the work, don't they?"

Qifrey just sighs. He knows better than the argue by now. The sound is touched with quiet amusement despite the air of resignation he tries to maintain—helplessly fond, in all of its indulgences.

The two of you stand at the kitchen counter to wrap the dumplings. Quiet nights in are often your favourite—not that you don't enjoy the company of the girls—but moments like these are made all the more precious in their rarity. Little stretches of time where it is only you and Qifrey, where he can simply be himself and not the witch or the master, the two of you sharing in the stillness of the sleeping atelier together.

By the time you finish wrapping the dumplings, the water on the stove has come to a rolling boil. Qifrey lowers a handful carefully into the pot while you gather the rest, sliding them neatly into the cold box to keep for another day.

Your hips bump together every now and then in the cramped space between the counter and kitchen table, and your fingers brush with murmured apologies neither of you truly mean when you reach for the same wrapper more than once. You watch Qifrey's hands while you work; long fingers pleating the dumplings shut with practiced ease, each one cradled lightly in the cup of his palm before being placed in neat rows upon the tray. There is something strangely tender about the motion—careful and familiar in the same way he handles all fragile things.

When you turn back, Qifrey is already holding a single bowl in his hands, waiting for you. Steam curls upward lazily from the broth.

You glance up at him. "You're not having any?"

"Hm?" Qifrey hums lightly as he sets the dumplings down on the table. "I assumed we could just share. It'd be less to clean up."

The easy casualness of his words makes something warm unfurl quietly in your chest.

The two of you eat the dumplings at the kitchen table, shoulders brushing every so often as you pass the spoon between you. The dumpling skins turn almost translucent in the broth, pieces of shrimp glowing a faint pink under the lamplight like small crystals. Qifrey nudges the bowl slightly closer when he notices you slowing down, waiting patiently for you to take the next one before reaching for his own. Between bites, the bowl slowly empties until there is nothing but broth, and then, even that too, is gone.

"I'll do the dishes," you say as you gather the bowl and spoon, already beginning to rise from your seat. The quicker you get it done, the sooner you can return to his side. Qifrey's brow furrows behind his glasses.

"It was my suggestion to cook, so I should—"

"Qifrey." Your hands slip over his shoulders before he can stand, fingers idly combing through the soft hair at his nape as he peers up at you. "You already stayed up late last night preparing snacks for us and Olly's lunchbox. Let me."

He tries, regardless. "But—"

"Qifrey, dear," you interrupt, voice dropping into something unbearably sweet. You can already see the first signs of impending embarrassment creeping across his face. "My love, my moon and stars, the apple of my eye, the keeper of my heart, won't you please let me have the honour of—"

"Oh, stop it." Qifrey pulls away from you halfheartedly, one hand coming up to cover part of his face as though it might hide the warmth gathering there. His voice is exasperated, but weakly so—far too flustered to carry any real force behind it. "Do as you like."

You think you want to kiss him, then. Desperately, a little. But experience has taught you the moment your lips touch his, neither of you will accomplish anything you intend—so instead, you settle for a light peck to his cheek before carrying the bowl over to the basin. Warm water laps softly against your hands as you scrub at the porcelain, the quiet clink of dishes filling the kitchen.

Even so, you can still feel Qifrey's gaze lingering on your back. A few quiet moments later, there's the soft scrape of chair legs against the kitchen floor, and you barely have time to glance over your shoulder before his arms are slipping around your waist from behind, warm and loose. He folds himself against your back with a quiet sigh.

"I missed you," he murmurs into the crook of your neck.

"I was with you the entire day."

"Not like this."

Qifrey's lips find your neck first, trailing warm kisses along your skin unhurriedly in a way that makes your breath catch. Your head tilts back instinctively to give him more room, and you feel the gentle nip of teeth against the sensitive underside of your jaw before he finally turns you just enough to kiss you properly.

It starts off slow—soft, familiar in a way only Qifrey can be around you; careful without restraint, gentle without hesitation. Your breaths mingle warm and wet in the spaces between each kiss as your mouths part and meet again, his glasses nudging lightly against your cheekbone as he leans closer. To your dismay, your hands remain suspended awkwardly over the sink, dripping wet and a little soapy. You want to touch him properly, to turn fully into his arms, card your fingers through his hair, and tug just enough to earn that quiet little sound he always tries and fails to swallow.

Instead, you make a helpless noise against his mouth and Qifrey laughs softly into the kiss, like he already knows what you're thinking. He's leaning in again when—

There's a sudden creak from the staircase. The two of you freeze instantly, Qifrey's fingertips still gently cradling your jaw. A second later, you hear the unmistakable sound of whispering—poorly hushed, at that—followed by the muffled shuffling of feet retreating back up several steps in frantic succession.

You and Qifrey slowly turn to look at each other.

“…Were they spying on us?” you whisper, more amused than anything.

“I am choosing,” Qifrey says with an immense attempt at dignity, despite the lingering flush across his face, “to believe they merely came downstairs for water.”

Another loud whisper drifts from the stairwell.

“I told you they were kissing—”

"—really just like in the book—"

"—can we go back to bed now—"

“Shh!”

The last one is definitely Agott. You bite down hard on your laughter, glancing up at the man behind you. Qifrey closes his eye with the exhaustion of a man enduring profound and arduous trials, one hand coming up to rub briefly at his temple before he leans in to steal one last kiss.