Roland's eyes are impossibly wide. The beautiful green of them that Olivier loves so much has given way to dark pupils filled with terror. Instinctively, Olivier tightens his grip, but Roland's wrist slips free as easily as silk through his fingers. Sees his mouth open, but the sound of his scream is whisked away before it even reaches Olivier's ears. Without thinking, without hesitation, spurred on only by the sheer panic at the thought of Roland disappearing from his life just as he is disappearing from his view. Olivier releases the railing and plummets after him.

The fall is a sickening swoop of his stomach, all his concentration narrowed to a single point as his fingers curl around his necklace. Clings to it, words tumbling from his mouth in a string of near-incoherent Latin, and pain erupts along his back. Too much, not enough, desperation courses through him, but the magic has already been released, and there is little he can do. Flaps his newly formed wings, four more than he would normally craft, and is sent tumbling from their weight. As he's spinning, he sees Roland still falling. Reaches for him and like a magnet drawn to metal the body is yanked to him. Slams into him with all the force of a wrecking ball, and they tumble again, but Olivier grabs ahold of him and holds on. Doesn't let go as the distressed flaying of his too many wings disorients him further.

The impact against the ground comes almost as a surprise. Roland's head rebounds painfully against his shoulder causing tears to spring to Olivier's eyes. He blinks desperately, swallowing back the instinctive whimpers of pain that are seeking to escape. This is unknown territory; who knows what horrors are lurking around them. Lays there for several more moments, winded and dazed, his pulse pounding in his ears. Roland's hair tickles his nose; it smells like apples, and he presses his face against it, and breathes it in until the urge to cry fades.

"Oli?"

"Present," Olivier whispers, inhales dust in response and gags, coughs wrenching their way out of his chest. The shape in his arms squirms its way free, and then warm hands are on his face, his shoulders. They tremble faintly. "You alright?" Olivier manages between coughs.

"Mmh," Roland answers, "it's so dark. I can't see you." Unnaturally so, Olivier thinks, and gets his arms under himself. Pushes himself upright, as his head pounds and then gets to his knees. Roland's hands brush his shoulders again, before his warmth solidifies into one long line. Instinctively Olivier leans into him, feeling his heart slow its rapid pounding. "You're feathery?" Fingers brush inquisitively along a wing and Olivier shudders, and jerks away with a sound that he will deny emitting for the rest of his natural life. Roland laughs, sudden joy in a dire situation, and Olivier feels his hand affectionately tousle his hair. It irritates him that Roland is so Roland despite the situation, perfectly unflappable at the most inconvenient of times. Personally, Olivier would rather he be crying because that would give him the incentive to swallow his own fear and get his shit together.

"Shut up," he says uncharitably. Dispels the wings with another word and then closes his eyes, concentrating more carefully this time. Gathers the words needed to cast the spell sunlight and has them on the tip of his tongue when Roland jostles him.

"What are you doing?" Roland asks, his hands somehow finding Olivier's in the dark and squeezing them gently. There's a pause, and then a surprised huff, "are you praying? It's okay Oli, we'll be fine. It's only a church basement."

"Crypt more likely," Olivier replies, contrary nature rising to the surface, "and no. I don't pray, you idiot." He jerks his hands free, ignoring Roland's squawk of dismay and says with all the confidence he can muster. "Lux splendida!" Light erupts around them with such ferocity that his vision whites out. Hears Roland cry out and ends the spell just as quickly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Shit, sorry, that — sorry, fuck." If his head had been hurting before, it throbs now, the backlash from the casting rippling through his brain in painful lances. His hands burn as well, the unintended victim of his magic. The scent of burnt flesh fills the air. Idiot, Olivier thinks furiously, fucking idiot.

"Oli."

"I'm fine," Olivier snaps pre-emptively, "just give me a second. I need to focus." Painfully, he clasps his hands together again, ignoring the uncomfortable tingling as the skin rubs together. Squeezing his eyes shut, he calls the spell to the forefront of his mind but once again Roland's shoulder jostles him.

"Olivier."

"What did I just say?" Turns towards him, ready to rip him a new one, but such a task is impossible when he can't even see Roland. Can discern his presence only through the sound of his loud breathing and the warm line of his leg pressed against Olivier's own.

"Peace Olivier," Roland replies, though he doesn't try to touch him again. "I read —"

"You read? Ludicrous," Olivier interrupts. Doesn't need sight to know that Roland is rolling his eyes; can tell from the slightly heavier exhale he releases.

"I read that light-sourced magics need some sort of container, or focus to be collected in," Roland continues, in the same patient tone he employs whenever he thinks Olivier is the one being an idiot. "Rather than your hands, is there anything else you can use?"

Olivier glares at him, pissed and unable to do anything about it because Roland is correct for once; he has been a bit of a moron. "Close your eyes," he says rather than admit his failings, "and don't touch me." Gathers the cross from where it rests against his chest and focuses on it, channeling his magic so that it emerges as a trickle rather than a torrent. "Fiat Lux," he says softly, carefully, and feels the cross warm in response. When he dares to open an eye and peer at it, a soft white glow emanates between his fingers. Opens his hands and sees that the cross has become a shining beacon of illumination. "Oh."

"There we go," Roland says, all but collapsing against his side, "good job." Olivier casts him an annoyed look, but Roland's voice contains so much warm pride that he can't gather up the anger. Drops a kiss on the crown of his head instead. Roland makes a pleased noise. Olivier lets him rest there for a moment longer before elbowing him upright and scanning him for injuries. There's an absurd amount of dust and the telltale coloration of bruising, but Roland shrugs off his worried questions with a grin. "I had the best landing pad," he chirps, and skitters away from Olivier's answering kick.

Olivier lets him go, if only because it gives him a discrete moment to check his own body for injuries. His hands are sore, the skin sensitive to the touch but it's nothing that won't heal on its own. The throbbing in his head is a bit more concerning, but there's no blood when he carefully touches it so he figures it's safe enough to ignore. "It really wasn't that far of a fall after all," he says thoughtfully, and chooses to ignore the fact that even his pseudo flashlight cannot pierce the darkness above their heads. He turns his attention elsewhere, holding the light up high to cast a glow on their surroundings.

Disturbed dust swirls slowly in the beam, thick enough that it almost resembles snow. There is an air of eerie calm, a silence so profound that it sinks claws into Olivier's spine and hooks there, dampening even the sound of his heartbeat. Roland appears oblivious to such things, excited exclamations emitting as he bounds from one discovery to another. Crouches before a stone statue, twisted into an odd shape. Olivier approaches more carefully and relaxes slightly when he realizes that it only depicts a snarling animal. A cat, he thinks and puts the thought from his mind. Trails after Roland as his friend inspects the crypt, for there's nothing else that it can be when there are graves on almost every available surface, each marked with a snarling cat-like creature. The sense of unease continues to lurk at the back of Olivier's mind, and when they've completed a circuit of the space, he calls out to Roland.

"I haven't found an exit," Roland replies when asked; he drags a hand through his hair, eyes exhausted despite his smile. "Do you think you could fly us out?"

Given the present state of his head, Olivier thinks that's a terrible idea, but he shrugs anyway. "As a last resort, maybe." Sees Roland's eyes narrow and continues hastily, "You're the churchgoer; you got any ideas as to why there's so many damn cat statues?"

"Cat graves?"

Olivier gives him a look, and Roland laughs again, so easily entertained. It makes something flutter softly inside of Olivier's chest, but he ignores it, and looks away to inspect the walls instead. As before they are made of thick stone blocks, chill to the touch and covered in what might passably be mud. He can discern no entrance or exit, a frustration that he relieves with a few muttered curse words. Is considering creating one himself when there's a yelp and a crash.

Turns in time to see the darkness briefly light up in a colorful flash. It's far brighter than his meager flashlight and leaves Olivier's eyes watering. When it clears Roland is sitting on the ground, next to a shattered cat statuette, guilt painted across his face in broad strokes.

"Oops?" He offers, but Olivier cannot gather the wherewithal to respond, as his eyes alight on a sight so confusing as to be utterly impossible. Two orange cat ears are emerging from Roland's golden locks, twitching every which way.

"What the fuck did you do," Olivier says flatly. Roland blinks back at him. "You —" at a loss, Olivier simply gestures helplessly. "Cat ears. How the fuck." Roland reaches up and gingerly touches the new addition, confusion on his face at first but then to Olivier's horror, it blooms into unmitigated delight.

"What the fudge?!" Roland exclaims, except his variation, lacks the appropriate concern in Olivier's opinion. He scrambles up, both hands now stroking his ears, and that's when Olivier sees the fluffy tail protruding from his rump. Stares at it, fingers twitching, and then gives in to the urge. It's terribly soft to the touch, thick and well formed, and when he grabs it, Roland makes a delightful squeaky noise. "Oh wow," he whispers, twisting around with his usual flexibility to admire that addition as well. "That's so cool."

Logically, Olivier knows that he should be concerned, that this was likely a bout of uncontrolled magic. People don't usually sprout tails, but the fur is soft in his hand, and Roland gives a full-body shiver when he strokes along it. It is perhaps more appealing than Olivier would care to admit. Roland steps closer, batting at his own tail with glittering eyes and says brightly, "do you think it's because I knocked over that grave?"

"State the obvious why don't you," Olivier replies, but there is no heat in his words, merely resignation. He approaches the remnants of the stone statue, eyeing the broken shards with distrust. However, they appear to be nothing more than broken pieces of pottery, and he can discern no magical essence lingering on them. Whatever had cursed Roland is long gone, apparently. He sighs and stands again, dragging a hand through his hair. "Come here; I'll get rid of them for you."

There is a disturbing lack of response.

Olivier turns fully, eyes sweeping around him for that familiar head of curly golden hair but it's absent. "Roland?" Panic begins to take root in his chest for the third time that day, and Olivier is very tired of this sensation. The worry, the helpless fear, a sickening miasma of emotions that send his magic spiraling out of control in ways it hasn't done since he was a child. "Roland!" His voice cracks halfway through the word, but Roland does not emerge to tease him for it. It's as if he has never been in the crypt at all, as if his entire existence was nothing more than a figment — Olivier puts an end to that thought with a firm mental slap. He's been down that road before, caught in the tangled web of a demon, and he will not be tempted again. Roland is here, somewhere, he has to be.

Stalks over to where he last saw him, and though there is no Roland there is a sight far worse. A pile of clothing left unattended. The eye-searing pink jeans that Roland had been wearing, his white shirt with the silly anime character and his pink puffer vest. Even his shoes, as if he'd merely vanished straight out of them. Some magics can do such things, but they require long chants and many components, but Olivier heard nothing; one moment Roland had been excitedly spinning, and the next he'd disappeared. Olivier crouches and touches the clothing gingerly with a finger. The vest moves. Olivier jolts, backpedals so soft he winds up on his ass as the vest continues to wriggle like a giant worm. From within its depths a plaintive cry emerges, far too squeaky to have come from a human throat.

Perhaps a monster had gotten Roland after all, Olivier thinks, clutching at his cross. Eaten him bones and all and now it was coming back for round two. The cry happens again, increasingly loud, but Olivier is no fool and he will not fall for this obvious trap. He scrambles up and as if sensing his movements, the pile of clothing moves more desperately, trashing about as if possessed by a demon. Given that they are in a church, Olivier doubts that an actual devil is present but then again, it's the church. Holding the light source higher, he backs further away, giving himself room to cast. Another plaintive cry emerges from the pile of clothes, vaguely cat-like in nature; it's probably how the creature got Roland. Silly fool has always been fond of cute critters. The clothes stop moving as whatever is hiding within, begins to rise. Before it can unveil a no doubt deadly attack, Olivier yells "Vades —"

Something large, orange, and fluffy slams into his chest, knocking him right back onto the ground. His head slams against a hard surface, vision going blindingly white, and then everything goes dark.