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Lazy, slow afternoons, Qifrey had discovered over years of staying in the atelier, were the best to get pent up chores up and done with.
His nose twitched as he wiped the dust off another rack of the bookshelf, before moving on to the books themselves. This also made for a great opportunity to rearrange them properly.
He tapped his foot against the floor as he worked, trying to remember. There was something else he had planned to do, what was it again? The girls he had just sent up to their rooms with all their freshly dried laundry to put away, so that wasn't it.
Something else then. Something definitely related to washing.
The taps of his foot subconsciously synced with the distracted tapping of the nib of Olruggio's pen against paper as the man slaved away over his next commission over the low lying table, having chosen to stay and work here after lunch instead of holing himself up in his side of the atelier again.
Suddenly this spontaneous rhythm was broken by a scuffling sound from the little corner Olruggio was working in, followed by a thud, and then a triumphant declaration of “Hah!”.
Qifrey whirled around to see a very disgruntled Brushbug in Olruggio's hand, held midair by the scruff of its neck. No doubt the little fellow’s latest sneaky struggle for the magic ink had been foiled by the now smug witch.
Right! Qifrey's foot met the floor with a final, decisive thump as he remembered. He had to give the elusive brushbug a bath.
Satisfied at the recollection, he returned his attention to the bookshelves with a hum.
With the shelves clean and the books satisfactorily rearranged (Olruggio had been trying to figure out the pattern behind his arrangements for years, but Qifrey wasn't about to give in any time soon), Qifrey cracked his fingers, preparing for the upcoming struggle as he made his way over to Brushbug (and Oru, of course). Forcing this little menace on legs into a bath was no menial task.
And yet, Qifrey froze in his tracks right in front of Olruggio; the familiar greeting lingering on his tongue died out into an incomprehensible noise.
Brushbug, failing in the attempt at stealing Olruggio's ink, had been deposited over his shoulder instead. There the defeated brushbug vented its bitter frustration by spinning in agitated circles all around the witch's neck and shoulders.
Which meant, considering how low the neck of Olruggio's loose fitting shirt could get, it was just pawing all over bare skin.
In broad daylight too. Really, now?
Brushbug's restless movement pushed it further down still, the man too absorbed in his work to fix his collar.
Round and round the little critter scurried, and-
Qifrey should stop staring. Really.
The brushbug, the brushbug. Remember what you came here for.
-he could see the crook of his exposed neck as Brushbug's paws pattered all over it.
No, Qifrey wasn't jealous of a brushbug, of all things. That would be ridiculous.
Those twig-like feet that got away with skittering all over and across that bare neck more times than all the atrocious thoughts he didn't even dare to think of imagining combined-
No matter how much he longs to-
‘Do not stare at your friend's neck like that.’
Really, he should just take Brushbug, and leave alread-
"..."
Brushbug slipped his curious snout inside Olruggio's shirt.
Qifrey dragged a hand down his face, breathing sharply through his nose.
Don't look. Do not look. Do not.
Obviously Brushbug was just seeking warmth, but that hardly mattered right now-
When Qifrey wanted to be-
No. You are here for the brushbug, remember that-
Not when the shirt’s loose fitting fabric sagged under the weight of the creature, the neckline dipping treacherously, dangerously low, not when he could undeniably see Olruggio's chest through it-
A strange noise escaped from his throat despite all his willpower, low and choked and garbled and entirely indistinct. Entirely indecent. He could only pray in vain that it hadn't reached Olruggio's uninvolved ears.
Don't you even think of it-
But he was, he very clearly was. He couldn't even pretend otherwise now, all thoughts of his original purpose scattered across his mortified, embarrassed mind.
But how could he not? When he could see the collar bones framing that neck, the dark, wiry hair below it, the irresistibly distinct line where his tan ended, revealing skin unexposed to the harshness of the elements-
When this man looked so-
When what Qifrey felt was clearly so-
Olruggio hummed suddenly, acknowledging Qifrey's presence and his continually prolonged silence, making him jump out of his skin.
“What is it that you-” he started to ask as he lifted his head, but his words stopped short, dying out unspoken on his tongue as he tried to comprehend the sight before him without even a shred of the context - the sight of what appeared to be Qifrey randomly staring at his chest.
“Um…”
“Er…” Qifrey licked the back of his teeth, tried to remember how words worked before Olruggio's mute figure expectantly waiting for an explanation, tried to find a way that explained this predicament. “Well… I…”
I came here for Brushbug, not to stare at you. No, I wasn't staring at your extraneously revealed chest.
How would that even sound?
Not to mention, the last part would be a blatant lie. (Not the worst he had ever told, but still.)
Olruggio just stared at him in silence. Qifrey stared back.
Brushbug shifted a little from that enviable position of his, at that very moment, the slightest twitch of the long fluffy tail.
That was enough for Qifrey.
I'll be taking that,” Qifrey said immediately, leaning down, one hand on Olruggio's shoulder for support (out of sheer necessity, of course, he was much too mortified for anything else), the other reaching out and grabbing the brushbug by the tail, pulling it out of Olruggio's shirt.
He defiantly ignored the way the knuckles of his hand brushed over warm, bare skin, over Olruggio's chest.
He swiftly turned and left (fled) the room, Brushbug in hand.
Once outside, Qifrey buried his face in Brushbug’s soft, scruffy fur. “I'll have you know,” he mumbled into it, letting out all the pent up, tangled anxieties, “that this is all your fault.”
"Nibiiiii,” came the darned brushbug's reply, merry and content, a deviant fully aware of and pleased by the chaos he was causing.
“He wanted the brushbug, that's all,” Olruggio whispered to himself, a warning, a stern reminder to his conscience; dragged his hands over his face, leaning all over the table.
Honestly, he was so tired that he didn't even know what face to make.
The redness of his ears was due to his own drastic leap to conclusions, and entirely irrelevant to everything going on, of course.
(He remembered the burning sensation he felt when Qifrey's fingers brushed over his chest.)
“The brushbug, that's all. Of course. Of course.”
No, Olruggio wasn't jealous of a brushbug, of all things. That would be ridiculous.
Right?