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tryingtimi · 1 day ago

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The Line Between Disregard and Abandonment - a short story

I decided I want to write some short stories taking place within the canon that won't make it onto the page :)) both to get a better feel for some of the characters and to explore some ideas I don't necessarily have the space for in the actual book. this one is from Florin's POV, who is the 'love interest' (and I say this very dubiously (you will see what I mean)) of the story. somewhat of a character/character dynamic study

Short summary: after another fight with Quil, Florin gives in and leaves him alone for once. Quil doesn't take it well.

CWs: toxic behavior, non-explicit sexual content

Word count: 4.5k

Florin had stopped trying to assign blame to their fights a long while ago. Perhaps he’d said something wrong, perhaps he hadn’t said enough, perhaps Quil once again willfully misinterpreted his actions for the fun of it, or perhaps he would have gotten upset no matter what Florin had done.

Because, amongst the plethora of all his personality flaws, this one stood out in particular—Quil’s inherent need to fight. To bite, to argue, to test the limits of all who’d let him. He’d get some sort of sick thrill out of it, seeing how deep he could sink his teeth without drawing that last drop of blood. Florin would see it sometimes, that flash of delight amongst all his ire. That bitter disappointment when Florin, once again, tried to wind them down.

All this rendered Florin rather unstable. One moment, Quil would smile in that dazzling way of his, capable of arresting Florin’s heart without thought, and the next, he’d catch onto some stupid detail, a memory long forgotten, and his face would shift, his lips would curl, his voice would chill. And Florin would stumble, the world turning on a new, unexpected axis.

And yet, and yet, only with him did Florin ever feel stable. He was acutely aware of the juxtaposition, but such was the human psyche.

This time, too, the fight had been incredibly stupid. Quil had complained how his Advanced Venemagiknesis professor was clearly favoring a groupmate of his because of how sickly sweet she was, and Florin had been too distracted with his sketch to filter his words, so, very stupidly, he’d said, “Even you can’t be every lecturer’s favorite pet.”

Immediately he realized his mistake, but by then it was too late. Quil leveled him with a glare cold enough to leave frostbite. He ignored Florin’s attempt at an apology as he wordlessly stormed out of Florin’s dorm. Florin flinched from the loud thud of the door, sighing deeply.

This was how Florin knew Quil had genuinely gotten upset—if he wanted to fight for the sake of it, he would. Other times, however, he would simply ignore Florin until he deemed the punishment satisfactory.

Quil was, unequivocally, a teacher’s pet—it was all but written into his genetic code. Yet, Florin continued to find stray pieces of broken glass from the plate Quil had accidentally (or not—debatable) shattered the other day as he all but screamed about being called such by the researchers in his new project. Why the insult cut him so deeply, Florin couldn’t understand, but the fact remained it did.

It wasn’t what Florin had meant, but it was what Quil had heard anyway. Tiring was what all this was, but, well.

Quil also had a nasty tendency to avoid Florin when he knew Florin wanted to apologize for something.

By the time he found Quil in his underground lab a couple days later, he was beyond ready to end this stupid game Quil insisted on playing. Quil didn’t acknowledge his presence—he pretended to be too focused on separating some kind of organelle from the Balvorea’s cells for his thesis. Everyone else in this sector had already left for the day, but that was when Quil liked working best. It was when Florin liked him best, too. The effortless confidence with which he constructed his theories, the unyielding perseverance when experiments failed again and again, the razor-sharp focus on whatever caught his attention this time. He didn’t need to play for an audience of less talented yet more influential researchers—he could, for once, be.

And, sometimes, he allowed Florin to leave the audience, too. To stand beside him, to see behind the curtains. He wouldn’t play, then, and Florin never yearned for something as much as he did for capturing those moments in time. When he felt that perhaps Quil loved him a little, too.

Now, however, Quil wouldn’t look up from his petri dishes. His resentment stuck to Florin’s skin like wet cloth, pervasive and undeniable. Too familiar. Sometimes, it seemed hatred simply came to him easier than love.

“What is it that you’re working on this time?” Florin asked as he approached Quil’s desk, trying to sound casual. Trying, and most certainly failing.

“Don’t ask questions you know the answers to,” Quil muttered, still focused on maneuvering the impossibly thin needle through a microscope.

Florin bit down on his tongue to keep it leashed. The words ‘stop being so fucking difficult all the time’ singed his mouth, but he didn’t come here to argue again. So, instead, he breathed slowly, wringing back the rising annoyance.

“Quil, let’s not fight,” he said, trying not to sound dejected. Trying, and, well. “Tonight’s the gathering at Marcelle’s. Let’s go, relax some.”

“I’m busy.”

“Those cells won’t disappear. Come on, it’s been so long since we’d gone out.”

Quil didn’t answer. Back to ignoring him, then. Florin dragged his fingers through his hair with a long sigh.

Normally, this would have been the end. Florin would linger in the lab for a few hours as Quil’s icy disposition slowly thawed, and, if he was lucky, they might leave for the dorms together. A tiring routine, but predictable. Safe.

Sometimes, however, Florin would be struck with a need to bite back.

“Well, I’m going,” he proclaimed, and as he spoke the words, he was acutely aware this, too, was a mistake. Barely perceptibly, Quil stiffened. Normally, normally, Florin would pull back, but now, seeing the hint of disapproval served as a strange sort of vindication.

He couldn’t help tugging at it like a cat at a loose string.

“Unless you don’t want me to?”

Because for once, Florin wanted to hear him admit his carefully constructed act of nonchalance was just that—a construction. He wasn’t cold, he wasn’t cruel, and for once, Florin just wanted him to show that—

“I don’t care,” Quil said, not missing a beat.

But when did he ever stoop down to everyone else’s level?

“Right,” Florin murmured. “Good luck, then.”

He turned around and left without another word. At the exit, he glanced back in the vain hope Quil would be looking at him, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but the familiar disappointment nonetheless stung.

Florin couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever attended a social gathering without Quil. Clearly, neither could anyone else. When greeting, their eyes flickered around him, intuitively searching for the more attractive presence. Florin, of course, was fully aware how much Quil’s popularity surpassed his own, but he’d never cared for it to begin with. He could socialize with most people just fine, and that was enough.

Those expectant gazes did very much dig into his empty side like a particularly nasty stitch.

Marcelle frequently hosted these gatherings at her parents’ villa just outside the city’s inner ring. By the time Florin arrived, a whole swarm of guests had already gathered, filling the vast marbled halls. Lively piano music played somewhere in the villa and expertly hidden enchantments carried the sound through the whole first floor. At first, he lingered amongst the moving, chattering bodies rather awkwardly, unsure of how he was supposed to fit in the picture all on his lonesome. In truth, he found these gatherings far too bothersome. Only because of Quil did he ever attend any, and only with Quil did he ever actually talk.

All of this felt incredibly stupid, then. He could have just gone home, and Quil would have been none the wiser. He could still just go home.

A part of him, the sizzling with frustration one, wanted to prove something, though. To himself, to Quil—as if either would believe him. Still, still. The effort had to count for something, right? Had to reflect some of his supposed agency, right?

So, he drifted through the glittering crowd towards the different kind of entertainment, one far more familiar. If nothing else, intoxication would surely help finding the prettier colors in this blinding mosaic.

The bar tended to attract people he could more easily talk to, on the account of everyone being dizzy with a lazy delight. A few smokes and drinks in, he, too, could find the company tolerable. The drugs dulled the pervasive unrest, although the itching under his skin compelling him to leave this stupid place and go back to Quil didn’t cease. As cold and mean as he could be, still no one else’s company could hold a candle to his. Still Florin would rather cut himself on Quil’s sharp edges and bleed to death instead of broiling in this depressing sort of apathy towards everyone and everything.

Because that was the cruelty of it all. Florin could not choose which parts of Quil to love.

At some point into the night, as Florin lounged on one of the sofas, vaguely engaged in some conversation with other equally intoxicated students, he thought his never-ending fixation on Quil had begun manifesting as visual hallucinations. Only belatedly did he realize, no, Quil really was here. Florin, his heart climbing, caught glimpses of him in the mingling crowd as some tried to pull into their midst. Despite the sourness of their last conversation, a jittery sort of happiness fluttered in Florin’s chest. Quil could spew whatever acid he wished—still Florin would always grin in delight at the sight of him.

Florin didn’t bother excusing himself from his impromptu company. He staggered to his feet, the room swaying a bit too much, and chased Quil’s trail. Some of their coursemates had lured him into their nest, although his eyes wandered, his expression not quite as pleasant as he usually liked to wear. One of the guys, whose name Florin could not be bothered to remember, leaned in closer to murmur something into Quil’s ear, prompting Quil to laugh in a polite sort of way. Florin knew Quil wasn’t interested in anybody else, he knew, yet still violent images flashed in his hazy mind (which was not becoming of him at all. He thought, distantly, that one time with Jacryn had flipped some sort of switch).

“Thought you were busy,” Florin quipped as he captured Quil in his arms from behind. If Quil startled, he didn’t show. Others around him did, though.

“I’m allowed to change my mind,” Quil muttered, as if the appearance of Florin soured his already foul mood. Notably, however, he did nothing to break free from Florin’s hold. If anything, despite his tone, the taut lines marring his body relaxed.

Florin hummed dubiously. “Well, I’m stealing you away,” he informed the somewhat piqued group of students whose conversation he’d so rudely barged into.

Quil didn’t protest as Florin dragged him through the crowd towards its splintered edges. He hadn’t held Quil in far too long (and three days was, indeed, far too long), and the acute yearning now sharpened to a needle-point. Uncaring for any onlookers, Florin’s hands roamed over Quil’s chest and sides as he kissed down his temple, cheek, jaw. No, correction—do let them all look. Do let them all see Quil wasn’t as unreachable as he tended to appear, but only to Florin. He’d gotten here first, and everyone else could cry about it.

Quil allowed him the reprieve for a few moments before he, the bastard that he was, twisted out of his hold. His face remained pinched, eyes unyielding, as if remaining upset was some kind of point of pride for him.

“You’re drunk,” he accused.

“Oh, absolutely,” Florin giggled, even though he didn’t feel particularly drunk. “How else was I supposed to tolerate anyone here?”

Somehow, Quil’s expression soured further. It was almost impressive. “Don’t let me distract you, then.”

Quil turned to leave, which was exactly the point of him coming, but Florin was far too glad to have him within reach again for any annoyance to take root. He only followed Quil, still grinning.

“Awh, don’t be like that,” he cooed. “Do you want to play? Is that it?”

Quil huffed without looking back. Before he could slip into the crowd, Florin caught him by his wrist and pulled him back into himself.

“No, you’re not leaving me again,” Florin said, wounding his arms tight around him.

“You’re the one who left me.”

Florin laughed against Quil’s neck, both giddy and weirdly forlorn. “Is that why you came? You couldn’t stand the thought of me being around other people without you?”

“Perhaps I wanted to see who you decided to exchange me for.”

And although Quil spoke with his usual coolness, he couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from permeating his voice.

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t trust me,” Florin giggled a little hysterically. “Who, pray tell, could I ever exchange you for?”

Quil didn’t answer. He twisted around in Florin’s arms so they’d face each other. For once, the raw look in his eyes caught Florin off-guard.

“You’re not supposed to abandon me,” Quil murmured. He laid his head on Florin’s shoulder, hands moving up to clutch at his jacket. “Not for anything.”

Florin’s voice momentarily caught in his throat. This was how Quil’s apologies sounded—shrouded in misdirected accusations and the barest hints of self-hatred. He hid the latter well, so much so Florin often forgot the shape of the violent void eating him from the inside out. Sometimes, though, through the seams of his unyielding confidence and practiced nonchalance the black would seep.

“And you’re not supposed to ask me to,” Florin said belatedly.

“I didn’t.”

Florin kissed his hair as he ran a hand up and down Quil’s back. “Okay, I’m sorry,” he said, the words rising with barely a thought, so familiar they’d become. “You know I only ever think of you. I can’t even imagine considering anyone else.”

“I know,” Quil muttered. “You’re not brave enough to.”

Florin laughed in surprise. “Wow, alright. You think I don’t ever look at anyone else because I’m scared of you?”

When Quil pulled back, Florin wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but the torn look in Quil’s eyes wasn’t it.

“No,” Quil said, and he sounded so terribly sad. “That’s not why.”

Although Florin couldn’t quite grasp his meaning—or, rather refused to—his chest knotted in instinctual protest to anything and everything that would ever made Quil wear such an expression. And if Florin himself was the reason, well.

“Don’t be like that,” Florin repeated, combing through Quil’s hair. “Why do you insist on making yourself sad? You know I want you terribly all the time, and I think sometimes you want me, too, so just don’t push me away and I won’t go.”

Despite his attempts at soothing, his words appeared to have the opposite effect. Quil bit into his lip as he looked away, his eyes welling up, and Florin began panicking.

“No, okay, never,” he rushed, peppering Quil’s hair and face with kisses. “I’ll never go.”

Quil may not have wanted Florin in the same obsessive manner, but he needed Florin. No one else could coax him back from that edge he’d balance on so precariously, no one else could convince him of value of his body. For as much as he’d tear at it, Florin would soothe and caress and love, until the screams trapped in Quil’s chest would quiet back down.

Like this, they could almost be happy, Florin tried to convince himself.

In need of privacy, Florin pulled Quil away from the onlookers, keeping Quil close to himself. The fight had drained from Quil, leaving behind a melancholic sort of exhaustion, and Florin was intent on bleeding that away, too. The villa was vast, and many of its corners were already occupied by people seeking out the more intimate. Nevertheless, the first empty room he found, he locked them inside with a swift manipulation of the lock.

Still he didn’t let Quil go, and now he held him against the door as he cradled his face, as if beholding a precious art piece. Quil looked at him from under his lashes, and the low lighting of the room (Florin couldn’t be bothered to find all the switches) only accentuates his sharp and terribly alluring features. He’d always thought Quil beautiful, even at the start, when all Quil had done at him was scowl and bite. Not that much has changed, per se, but at least now his looks varied.

Not for the first—nor last—time Florin was overcome with a devastating need to kiss him.

“Is this so difficult?” he murmured, instead pecking at the corner of Quil’s lips. “Why must you always play your games instead?”

Quil huffed, although without any force. “If you say you’d rather I didn’t, I won’t believe you.”

“You think I enjoy chasing you all the time?”

“I think you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself otherwise.”

“You,” Florin muttered, trailing kisses down Quil’s jaw, “are so self-important.”

Quil wound his arms around Florin’s neck, pulling him closer. He whispered, “And whose fault is that?”

Florin could protest all he wanted, but neither would believe him.

“Well, then,” he said, moving his hands to Quil’s thighs. “Let me take responsibility.”

Quil gasped in surprise as Florin hoisted him up. He didn’t struggle, though, and instead held onto Florin as he carried him farther into the room. Florin hadn’t noticed at first, but they’d barged into someone’s study, which, although not an ideal environment, wasn’t something they didn’t have experience with.

Apologies to whoever owned this place, but Florin’s priorities laid elsewhere.

He sat Quil down on the lone desk by the large oval window overlooking the garden below. Quil leaned back on his hands and watched Florin work on unbuttoning his vest, then his blouse, all whilst wearing that somewhat strained expression.

“You’re not still angry with me, are you?” Florin teased.

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.” A pause. “You haven’t technically apologized yet.”

“Please, oh merciful one, forgive me for all my indiscretions.”

Quil pulled a disgusted face, and Florin couldn’t help laughing a little. This Quil didn’t like, either, and he kicked Florin, although their position was too awkward for anything particularly forceful. Florin laughed harder, amused at Quil’s growing irritation. When Quil tried hitting him instead, Florin caught him by his wrists.

“Tone down the violence,” he said, “or I’ll have to employ other means to keep you still.”

This effectively brought back Quil’s fury tenfold, but anything was better than the quiet, forlorn look in his eyes. Anything than the melancholy.

Quil bared his teeth at him, leaning in closer. “Try it.”

“You think you could overpower me?”

“I think you’re ridiculous for even asking.”

Florin hummed, grinning. He forced Quil down onto the desk and held his wrists above his head. Quil, as per usual, continued scowling without any struggle, entirely confident he could counter whatever Florin may try.

“Let’s see…” Florin murmured in thought. “How about…”

Any restraints in the physical realm would crumble under Quil’s will. Mental ones, too. So, instead, Florin smiled down at him and made use of the most raw form of magic.

When Florin pulled away, Quil blinked in confusion, but when he tried to move his hands, they remained firmly in place. He strained to look up, but, of course, could see nothing holding him down.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

“Oh, come on, now. You’re smart enough to figure it out.”

Quil’s face pinched. A second’s worth of consideration later, he said, slow, “Are you… using abjuration?”

Florin giggled, “Very astute! You’re famously quite shit at it, aren’t you?” He leaned down to peck his cheek. “And I famously am not.”

This, frankly, was a little unfair of Florin. Abjuration required a flawless constitution, which Quil, notably, did not possess. Quil’s strength laid in the precise, where he could wield magia as a needle. Inversely, wielding it as a club caused him a lot of issues, which was exactly how abjuration worked.

Still, with how little he dealt with this branch, even he couldn’t have predicted the field known for warding could be used in such a manner.

“Creative, isn’t it?” Florin said.

Quil pulled on his hands again, frowning in concentration as he tried to untie the invisible force holding him in place, to no avail. A needle could hardly split apart a club.

“A little,” he muttered. “This is annoying.”

“No more running away, hm?” Florin carded through Quil’s hair, catching and twirling the curls between his fingers. “Finally, I’ve caught you.”

Quil shot him a smile which was all teeth. “Only until I break free.”

“Alright, let’s play that game,” Florin laughed. “So, I can have you until you undo my spell, is that right?”

Quil lifted himself up however much his restraints allowed to bring their faces closer. He said lowly, all sharp edges, “And if you fail to satisfy me before then, I will not let you near me for the remainder of the month.”

“It’s a bet, then.”

A less confident man might have rushed, then. Faced against Quil’s self-assurance, anyone would yield. But, above everything, Florin desperately wanted to prove to Quil he didn’t need to run. He didn’t need to fight all the time, he didn’t need to deny his desires. Florin would love him still. He would always and forever give Quil whatever he wanted; all Quil had to do was let him.

So, Florin slowly trailed his hands down Quil’s exposed chest, taking his sweet time in mapping every inch of his skin. He caressed all the criss-crossing scars, kissed the no longer visible puncture wounds which, he knew, continued to haunt Quil. For as much as his body would be taken apart, Florin would love every seam and stitch a hundredfold. Quil sighed under him, not quite able to keep up his cold pretense. He never could, not when Florin drenched him in his unyielding affection.

Quil lived for attention, and every day Florin fought to satiate him.

“Don’t tease me,” Quil muttered still. “I haven’t the patience for it.”

Florin laughed airily against his abdomen. “Well, I do.”

Nonetheless he worked on unbuttoning Quil's slacks. Although already he strained in his trousers, he refused to rush. Instead, once he freed Quil’s thighs, he spread them apart and knelt down to pepper them in kisses, too. This, he knew, never failed to work Quil up—he’d strain, his breathing quickening with every kiss and bite. By the time Florin reached between his legs, Quil was all but panting.

“You’re going to lose horribly,” Florin whispered.

To Quil’s credit, Florin did have to put in the effort to keep his binds in place. Somehow, amongst all the squirming, Quil found the focus necessary for working through them.

Not that, in the end, it amounted to much. Florin knew Quil's body better than he did his own, and he molded his every touch precisely for him. For all his disinterest in everything and everyone, he was nothing if not studious when it came to Quil. Nothing if not attentive. Sometimes, Quil would accuse him of being overbearing, but in times like these, it was not complaints that fell from his lips.

When Florin finally stood up to grin down at Quil, wiping at his mouth, his delight at Quil's labored breathing couldn't be overstated. He looked up at Florin through half-lidded eyes, and still he managed to roll them.

“Great,” Quil muttered. “Now what?”

Florin pointedly looked at Quil’s hands still very much secured to the table. “Well, I’m obviously not done with you yet.”

“Right. Good luck with that.”

“I do sometimes wonder what would it take for you to lose that cockiness,” Florin said as he unbuttoned his own trousers. “It’s borderline pathological, I swear.”

“Some believe everything about me is pathological.”

“Some may be right.”

Quil threw him a mocking grimace, which lasted all but two seconds before Florin pushed inside of him.

This, too, was when Florin liked Quil best. His pretenses would crack away, his reservations would momentarily cease to exist. For all of Quil’s games and fights, he’d hardly ever hesitate in giving his body up to Florin. And, in these moments, by extension his soul as well. He’d allow Florin to adore him wholeheartedly, and, in these moments, Florin convinced himself this, too, had to be a form of love.

Quil couldn’t be apathetic. He couldn’t be cruel. He wouldn’t care so much otherwise.

Like this, he couldn’t hide. For once, Florin wouldn’t let him.

Unable to bear the distance, Florin gripped Quil’s sides and leaned in to pant into his neck. He caught the skin there between his teeth, and he could feel Quil’s arms strain against the restraints. He almost pulled the spell apart, then. To not have Quil’s hands on him, in his hair, pulling and scratching, was borderline torture. Florin keened like a wounded dog from the self-inflicted lack of touch, but his stupid pride didn’t allow him to yield.

So, Florin kept to his word and continued bringing Quil to and over the edge. When both were too sensitive for direct engagement, Florin would instead wind him back down and up by convincing him every inch of his abused body deserved worship. He’d kiss and soothe, and he’d bite and fuck—

and he’d do everything and anything to ensure Quil never felt inclined to abandon him.

When, exhausted and barely coherent, Florin laid atop him, his flushed face nestled in the crook of Quil’s neck, it took him embarrassingly long to register the fingers carding through his hair.

“You’re ridiculous,” Quil murmured, his voice hoarse.

Florin, in truth, struggled to understand what he was referring to and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

He lifted himself just enough to look at Quil. He’d gotten intimately familiar with Quil’s face post-sex, but the sight still never failed to make his heart stutter. That thoughtful sort of softness, when his edges would temporarily smooth, when his eyes would warm, and Florin would get a sense for what Quil could be without all his violence.

“I really want to kiss you,” Florin confessed quietly.

Quil hummed in acknowledgment, which wasn’t necessarily an agreement. Still, he slowly brought two of his fingers to his mouth and planted on them a kiss. Then, he pressed them against Florin’s lips.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t left,” he said, “something so irresponsible could have been justified.”

Even through the thickness in his head Florin recalled Quil’s anger at his drinking. At first, he’d thought Quil was only looking for another excuse to throw his vitriol at him. Now, though, with a crushing sense of regret he realized it’d been born from a sense of betrayal.

Florin took hold of Quil’s hand by his mouth and covered it in kisses instead. He trailed his lips over the tips of his fingers, over every knuckle, down his palm. Quil watched him wordlessly, and he almost appeared amused.

“I’m sorry,” Florin whispered. “I love you.”

Quil closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

“I know.”

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