Chapter Text
Somewhere in the back of Olruggio’s mind, there’s a blank space.
Several, actually, scattered about. As far as he can tell, they don’t really exist. Or rather— Olruggio shouldn’t know they exist. How can you tell something is missing if you don’t remember there was anything to miss?
Once, when they were boys, he had asked Qifrey what it felt like; all that he was missing. Looking back, it was awfully tactless of him, but Qifrey had just given him a long look, dark as the waters enclosing the Assembly, and replied that it felt like an open wound. He was a dour little creature, back then.
These gaps of Olruggio’s don’t feel like open wounds. There are no torn edges, no blood, no viscera. They feel more like…carvings. Intricate, precise things, taking only what’s necessary and leaving the rest in sharp relief. Beautiful erosion, like a great river has rushed through him, dragging the sediment of his memory along with it. Most of the time he hardly notices the absence, but if he concentrates, if he doesn’t think too hard about it— there it is, an obvious edge his fingers can catch.
He’s tempted to dig his fingers in, assess all the ridges and ripples, and try to piece together the chunks of him that have been swept away. Every time he tries, though, there’s always something that stops him short, and then just like that the edge has blinked out of existence, slipped away into the blackness, and he can’t find it again.
Olruggio’s no fool. This has got Qifrey’s fingerprints all over it.
It’s not a coincidence, the delicate handiwork. The Knights aren’t delicate. They don’t carve, they gouge. It’s not a coincidence, who he always seems to be with where the gaps begin and end. A clear start, a hazy middle, and a puzzling close. A tightness around Qifrey’s eye Olruggio pretends he doesn’t notice.
He asks Qifrey about it sometimes, as casually as he can manage; all the things that don’t quite add up. Every time, there’s a split second where Qifrey’s eye goes dark again, his grim little face from all those years ago overlaid, before the water recedes and a pleasant laugh bubbles up. Oh Oru, you really are such a lightweight. Or maybe, Oh Oru, you get so distracted. Perhaps, Oh Oru, you mustn’t stay up so late.
Always, I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Lighthearted. Flippant.
Olruggio listens, and thinks, liar , and lets it go. For the time being anyway. He has a sinking feeling that he’s confronted Qifrey about his behavior less casually before, and it hasn’t worked in his favor. Maybe a subtler approach is in order this time around.
Perhaps he’s a bit less concerned about all this than he ought to be. He should be angry, he’s got all the kindling for it. There’s a great, aching cavern in his chest where a fire should burn. In the end, though, he just can’t bring himself to light it yet. The smoke would only poison him. Despite everything, he still trusts Qifrey.
Well. He wants to trust Qifrey. The alternative fills him with a dread so potent it could strip the flesh from his bones. Surely, surely , for Qifrey of all people to go to such lengths— Qifrey the unknowing, Qifrey the stolen, the boy with no past— there must be a good reason.
Olruggio’d like to hear it.
_
Qifrey’s head has been bothering him. He’s awfully good at hiding it, but Olruggio is an expert study when it comes to Qifrey, so the tells are obvious. The uncomfortable stretch of his smile. The way he presses his fingers to his temple, quick enough to pass as a thoughtless gesture. The little flinch that runs through him when he steps out into harsh sunlight. He goes to bed earlier, wakes up later to prepare breakfast for the girls, and doesn’t seem more rested for it.
Olruggio has a terrible suspicion that the scar Qifrey harbors on the right side of his face is the sort that never truly heals. Sure, the flesh knits itself back together, but the ache lingers, deeply embedded, a permanent line of barbs lying in wait. He has enough remaining memories of Qifrey slipping away to lay in the darkness of the medical spire, cringing at even the soft tap of Olruggio’s careful footsteps, to solidify the theory. Qifrey hadn’t been so intent on hiding it, back then. Not from Olruggio, at least.
So it’s not exactly surprising when, one day, Coco bypasses the sign on his door to tug anxiously at his sleeve, fretting that there’s something wrong with Professor Qifrey. That doesn’t stop his heart from leaping into his throat as he drops everything to follow.
Coco ends up leading him to the main living area of the atelier, where the witch in question is out cold on the couch. The starting time for their daily lessons has come and gone. Before his prone form, the rest of the girls form a nervous, chittering semicircle. Their little heads swivel toward Olruggio as soon as he’s pulled into the room, frantic ducklings in a row.
“We- we weren’t sure if it was alright to wake him,” Tetia blurts out immediately, though she’s thoughtful enough to keep her volume somewhere at a stage whisper. Agott and Richeh just stare at him, eyes huge and solemn. “He looked so tired this morning…”
Damnit , Qifrey , Olruggio thinks. You’re even worrying your students. He must truly be doing poorly, for it to show.
“Thanks for getting me,” he says aloud, gently pulling his sleeve from Coco’s grip. He keeps his voice low. “He’ll be alright. Why don’t you four go outside and practice the new sigils you learned yesterday for now? I’ll join you in a bit.”
He does his best to mimic the reassuring teacher tone he always hears Qifrey use with the girls, with perhaps mixed results if their dubious expressions are any indication. Every day, he is reminded why he has never and will never take the 5th test. When Agott opens her mouth like she’s going to protest, he has to think fast.
“Agott, you’re in charge until then,” he says. Instantly, she halts, looking vaguely pleased. Olruggio’s brain catches up with him, considering the consequences of loosing the girls on the countryside to wreak havoc. “And- and no fire magic without adult supervision. Don’t do anything stupid.”
When they still hesitate, he softens. “I’ll take good care of him. Don’t worry. Off you get.”
The girls share a few meaningful glances he doesn’t quite track, and appear to come to an agreement. They reluctantly file off, Coco lingering just a second too long in the doorway before Tetia drags her along. Once they’re gone, Olruggio lets out a long, exhausted sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He steps up to Qifrey’s side to get a better look at him.
He’s curled his tall frame up tightly on his side, face tucked into the back of the couch. A hand rests splayed across his remaining eye, as if to shield it. Even in sleep, what’s visible of his expression is twisted. The sight twists something in Olruggio’s chest along with it, and he can’t help but reach out to smooth a hand over his hair, fluffed up like rumpled feathers. Waking him up means subjecting him to more of whatever pain he’s in, but if this is a bad day, the middle of the atelier isn’t the best place to have it.
There’s no room for Olruggio to sit on the edge of the couch, so instead he crouches down and begins to rub soothing circles in Qifrey’s back. He’s done this before, has learned how not to startle.
“Qifrey,” he calls gently. “Come on, wake up. Let's get you somewhere more comfortable.”
Qifrey’s a relatively light sleeper, so it doesn’t take more than a few tries to rouse him. He uncurls stiffly, keeping his hand where it is over his eye even as he turns his head hazily towards the disturbance.
“Oru…?” he mumbles, disoriented. Olruggio rubs a few more circles between his shoulder blades, before gently starting to prop him up. “What…?”
“You fell asleep,” Olruggio fills in, trying to keep his face neutral. Qifrey tends to shy away from open concern like a skittish deer. “You’re hurting, aren’t you? I’ll make you some tea once you’re settled in your room. Work with me here.”
“Ah…” Qifrey finally lets his hand fall from his eye, squinting painfully up at him. All at once, he seems to realize when and where he is, and bolts upright the rest of the way. “The girls— their lesson—“
Olruggio grips his shoulder to steady him. “It’s alright. I took care of it. I’ll cover for you,” he soothes. Qifrey only relaxes marginally, blue eye wide and deeply troubled. And unobstructed, too; Olruggio realizes his glasses are missing. After a short stint searching, he finds them lying on the floor, as if Qifrey had carelessly thrown them aside. He plucks them up, giving them a cursory inspection in case the bastard’s gone and ruined his handiwork again.
It’s then that he notices it— the faint glimmer of a hidden seal, curiously on the left lens. What could that possibly be for? He doesn’t remember putting one there last time he fixed up Qifrey’s glasses. He leans forward slightly for a closer look, and there it is, the uncanny sensation of an edge at the back of his mind—
“Olruggio,” Qifrey says abruptly. Something about his tone freezes Olruggio down to the marrow. For a second— for a second, inexplicably, he’s scared . He shakes his head a bit to snap out of it, stomach roiling in dread, and resolves to investigate this further later. He passes the glasses back over, trying to play it off. Qifrey takes them, face guarded, hackles subtly raising. He expects Olruggio to notice. He expects a confrontation. As if they’ve been here before.
“What? Good grief, you let these things get so smudged. How can you see a damn thing?” Olruggio scolds instead, and thinks, two can play at this game. Qifrey’s always been more adept, but Olruggio‘s learning. His own heartbeat booms in his ears, the queasy rush of telling a lie.
Whether it’s Qifrey’s sorry state or Olruggio’s blossoming acting skills, it works. Qifrey relaxes, huffing out a weak laugh, though there’s still something oddly haunted about his expression.
“I don’t,” he says lightly. Before Olruggio can reply, Qifrey flinches suddenly, hand spasming back up to cover his eye. He hunches over miserably, and Olruggio follows the movement with his hands instinctively, poised to catch him. “I’ll admit, I do have a bit of a headache. Perhaps it would be best for me to return to my room for a while. I’m sorry…”
Olruggio resists a somewhat hysterical urge to laugh. A bit? Qifrey’s capacity for understatement would be funny if it didn’t give Olruggio heartburn. “Qifrey, it’s fine . I’ll finish the girls’ lesson, make sure they get dinner,” he says, helping Qifrey push himself off the couch. “You just get some rest, okay? The girls are worried about you.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Qifrey says, with a lightheartedness so forced it could snap in two. Olruggio lets it go, because his friend’s face has gone exceptionally pale and pinched now that he’s upright. He leans a significant portion of his weight into Olruggio’s offered arm, and it’s a little awkward given their significant height difference, but they make it work. Always have. They hobble in subdued silence down the hall to Qifrey’s bedroom.
The silence persists as Olruggio gets Qifrey settled in his bed, only breaking once he returns from a short trip to the kitchen with the promised tea. There’s room here, so he sits down on the edge of the bed as he passes it over.
“Thank you, Oru. You’re too good to me,” Qifrey says quietly, smiling faintly at the little liquid dragon sleeping soundly in his teacup. The smile wobbles there on his face, before dissipating as easily as steam in the air. He sounds just a bit too raw, a bit too honest. “Truly.”
Olruggio clicks his tongue, rubbing uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He’s never sure what it is Qifrey expects him to do when he says things like that— agree? Like he would ever do such a thing. It’s obvious what this really is: an expression of self loathing, and a bid for reassurance, whether he realizes it or not.
Usually, Olruggio is happy to oblige, but there’s a sharpness to that discomfort now that didn’t used to be there. He’ll forgive Qifrey for just about any transgression against him, but that doesn’t mean he wants to sit here and play audience to Qifrey’s guilty conscience about it. Not when he’d just as easily lie to Olruggio’s face.
“I’m as good to you as I ought to be,” he says, but it comes out harsh, and not in the begrudgingly fond way he means it to. Alright, maybe he is, in fact, a little angry.
Of course, Qifrey picks up on it. He stills. “Olruggio…” he trails off, clearly puzzling over whether to respond to the warmth of the words themselves, or the frosty cut of the tone.
There’s a lot they need to talk about. Qifrey’s health, the seal on his glasses, the memories Qifrey has stolen from him, just to name a few. But right now…Qifrey looks so small. Small and wane, folded up pathetically against his headboard. Pain is written into the stiff line of his shoulders, the way he’s clutching his teacup for dear life. It’s not the time for this, Olruggio decides at once. He looks away, feeling a sudden rush of deja vu.
“Drink your tea. You’ll feel better,” he says, interrupting before Qifrey can say anything else. He reaches out, resting his hand on Qifrey’s knee and brushing a reassuring rhythm across it with his thumb. “I’ll be back later, okay? I’m gonna go supervise the girls before they set fire to the hills.”
“A wise idea,” Qifrey replies, though he sounds subdued. “Please tell them I’m sorry for worrying them.”
Olruggio nods his acknowledgment, giving him one last pat on the knee before pushing himself up. He leaves Qifrey staring into his teacup, watching the dragon slumber on.