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Pylades: I’ll take care of you.
Orestes: It’s rotten work.
Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.
- Euripides, from “Orestes,” An Oresteia (translation by Anne Carson)
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A note slipped under his door in the morning—or at least, he assumes morning, given that by the time he gets up it’s early afternoon—is all the indication he gets Qifrey will be abed for the foreseeable future. Scrawled messily across paper ripped from a quire, like he hadn’t had any other paper to hand, is the reassurance the girls have breakfasted and will be studying for the rest of the day. They shouldn’t need much minding, but keep an eye on them anyway.
Translation into Qifrese: don’t spare a thought to me.
As if he’ll listen.
Of course, he tries Qifrey’s door first thing upon getting up. Of course it’s locked tight, and of course when he leans his ear against it he hears nothing. Qifrey, ill, often reminds him of a dying animal, keeping itself away from loved ones.
Though if he thinks about it hard enough, isolation is more characteristic of Qifrey, as is.
Knocking is pointless, both because Qifrey won’t accept any help offered and because he doesn’t wish to wake him if by chance he’s found peaceful slumber. Olruggio sighs, and trudges downstairs to the stewpot where the breakfast left for him is warming. He’ll deal with Qifrey and all his delusions of self-sacrifice later.
The day is full, as it always is when it comes to looking after the children. Much as he has no inclination to take on apprentices himself, he’s fond of the girls and their charms and exasperations alike. He spares an extra few thanks for Tetia whenever she gives him a hand in the kitchen or afield, observes Richeh’s meticulous small seals with an eye for how to improve his own detail work, tries as he always does to prise a smile or laugh out of Agott. Even with a portion of his thoughts back in his workshop and yet a larger one in Qifrey’s darkened bedroom, the girls’ cares fill the many clock marks between breakfast and dinner and when he excuses himself in the evening to slip back upstairs, he leaves their warm chatter behind him.
His timing, at least, doesn’t need improvement. No sooner has he palmed the knob of Qifrey’s door and found it unlocked does he pull it open and get met with Qifrey, bereft of his spectacles, stumbling forward and into him, both of them yelping in pain and surprise, Olruggio’s from his shoulder blades hitting the railing behind him but Qifrey’s somewhat louder. He finds, when he gathers himself, Qifrey has thrown his arm across his face as if to block the light of the hall; a tear is tracking down his left cheek, when Olruggio looks hard enough.
Frowning, he straightens and reaches out to grasp the other man’s shoulders, to hold him upright. He feels Qifrey relax into his grip, feels him stay standing but let some of his weight sink into Olruggio’s steadier hands. "Explain," he orders, and Qifrey sighs, recalictrant.
"You opened the door as I was making for the bathroom. I stumbled."
"And this?" He loosens his grip on one of Qifrey’s shoulders and skims his fingers along his forearm, then his tear-stained cheek. Qifrey flinches.
"Brighter out here than I expected, for evening," he says simply, tersely. "That’s all."
He sees no sense in pointing out the hall is as bright as it always is. He tightens his grip on Qifrey’s shoulder and guides him down the hall to the bathroom.
In the cooler, darker environ of the bathroom, some of Qifrey’s tension eases. Olruggio wets a washcloth as Qifrey tends to his needs and hands it to him before they brave the hall again, to hold to his eye and block the light. Even briefly touching Qifrey’s skin had shown him it was warmer than he’d like, perhaps not from fever but from staying abed all day in a hot, still room. Qifrey concedes, but not without a twitch of unease he knows too well.
He guides him back to the bedroom and shuts the door behind them, ignoring the protest Qifrey makes at that. By now the sky has darkened enough, sun sinking lower, he at least doesn’t object to Olruggio opening a window to let in cooler air, as he seats himself on the bed.
"Will you go?" Qifrey still asks, pathetically, when he turns back to face him. Olruggio takes a step forward and then another, grasping his chin in his fingers.
"What do you think?"
Qifrey breathes out a frustrated sigh and finally pulls the washcloth away from his eye. "I don’t need minding."
"I don’t agree."
There’s enough about today that concerns him—Qifrey without his spectacles, for one thing; often he finds the man asleep half-sitting up so as not to remove them—for him to want to strike at least one off the list. "Have you eaten?"
Distaste creases Qifrey’s face at the suggestion. "Not since last night. It took all I had just to make breakfast for the girls."
"Broth, then. Tea. At least that much." He fixes Qifrey with a forbidding look he hopes will forestall any argument. "I’ll find herbs for the pain. Headache, nausea? Both?"
He’s often marveled at the reproachful stare Qifrey can manage even with just the one eye. "When have you ever known me to offer up the details of any ailment?"
"Not a once, but it isn’t as though there’s any value to be found in undue suffering, so tell me, won’t you?"
By now, evening has faded into night, and taken the scant sunlight in the room with it. Moon and stars aren’t nearly enough to see by and Olruggio reaches for the contraption on the nightstand, a candleless lantern of his own devising that lights only when set on the dish beneath. Time was Qifrey’s palm dragon teacup had given him the idea. He’s often felt honored Qifrey kept it with him, even when others have doubtless improved on the concept.
Now, in the light afforded by the lantern, does he see Qifrey’s hands gripping the edge of the mattress—and squeezing, his knuckles gone white, veins faintly visible beneath the skin. He recognizes only belatedly what’s behind it and opens his mouth to speak, even as Qifrey admits, "The pain—it’s the eye. Bright light. Any light, today. I needed the room dark. Even this is—only just bearable."
He moves to do something—see if he can alter the spell on the lantern, or something of the sort, but Qifrey catches his hand and breathes, "Don’t bother." He stays, for a moment, holding the hand, then brushes his lips along Olruggio’s knuckles and lays back, closing the eye Olruggio notices now has been starting to tear again.
An admission of weakness from Qifrey, hard won, is enough to stay him, even if he still wants to get something in his stomach, moreso now he knows the details of the pain. Slight as Qifrey is, he doesn’t take up much space on the mattress; Olruggio settles at his side. A breath shudders out of Qifrey as Olruggio cards his free hand in the man’s curls, letting his other hand stay fast in Qifrey’s warm grip.
"How long?" he asks, even knowing he might have to fight for the answer. Another breath out, and Qifrey answers.
"At least a year. Perhaps two." Qifrey’s fingers twitch around his hand. "Time passes fast, with the girls. I don’t recall precisely how long."
Perhaps two. The words are like a knife between the ribs. How oblivious has he been to Qifrey’s pain? What has he given attention to that hadn’t deserved it, in all this time, while not noticing the one thing that had?
"It isn’t constant. Please don’t torment yourself with it." In the lanternlight he sees Qifrey’s lips twitch faintly at the edges. "Just think about it. You’ve never seen me like this before, have you?"
Not this badly, he’ll concede. His mind eases, barely, at that, but he strokes his fingers through Qifrey’s disheveled curls in penance anyway.
"It’s an ache," Qifrey murmurs, his words slurred for the moment. At least the hand in his hair is having the intended effect. "Searing. Deep. There isn’t any logic to when it begins or abates. … I’ve worked through it a time or two. Not easily, but I managed. Only today was—overwhelming. … But sunlight has been feeling harsher overall. I suppose I’ll need to figure out a way to deal with that. The girls need to be outside."
"I’ll take them," he volunteers without thinking, thoughts of his commissions or other duties already set aside. "Until we figure out a solution. But there must be something we can do for your spectacles. A seal on the other lens, maybe, to filter the light. I’ll think about it."
Of course, Qifrey squeezes his hand. "Precisely what I didn’t want, you know. You being consumed by worry. Fixated on how to help."
Maybe, if it weren’t for the pain, it would be more an argument and less a discussion; he’s grateful Qifrey is staying calm, even if he senses the unease behind it. He shifts their grip so he’s grasping Qifrey’s hand now, rather than the other way around. "You could have spared me a great deal of the worry just by coming to me about it in the first place. If you haven’t before now, who’s to say you will in the future?"
He hadn’t meant to sound accusatory, but the strained Ol, don’t he gets in response tells him he has. Even with his eye shut against the light, Qifrey’s face is drawn with pain, so unlike the easy expression he wears around the girls or in town. Olruggio lets out a breath and squeezes his hand in turn, in apology. A further discussion will come. He’ll make sure of that.
He brushes his fingers down through Qifrey’s hair and lightly across his brow, to smooth the lines still there. "I won’t be long. I’ll get the soup and broth together. Rest."
The herbs in their stores are fortunately sufficient for his needs. If he has to guess, Qifrey has gone to the trouble, when well, of stockpiling for when the pain is worse. While his hands are full with making a compress and heating water for the tea, his thoughts are likewise full with the ruminations Qifrey hadn’t wanted him snared in. Can he trust Qifrey’s word on how long the pain has troubled him? What if this pain is simply a harbinger of worse, and what will come of them, of the atelier, if his sight were to fail entirely?
He knows already, of course, some of his answer to that; of course he does. It’s evident to him in the simple fact of their having made a life together since they were boys. The notion of that life continuing in another shape, more quietly, doesn’t trouble him in the least.
He tries not to dwell on the thought that it perhaps troubles Qifrey more than he knows.
He creeps slowly back up the stairs, both so he won’t wake any of the girls and because his hands are full with the tray. Qifrey is thankfully still lying in bed where he left him, though he opens his eye at the creak of the door and pulls in a pained breath for his trouble.
He sets the tray on Qifrey’s nightstand and presses the herbal compress into his hand, listens to Qifrey’s breathing easing back into a semblance of calm after he applies it. "It isn’t enough," he says instinctually, by way of apology. "I did what I could with what we had, but a trip to the apothecary would be better. Tomorrow—"
"Stop, stop." Qifrey’s exhale, even with the strain, turns into a faint chuckle. Bemusement. "I don’t expect miracles this late at night. This is perfectly sufficient. Thank you."
At least at that reassurance—at the thanks, however difficult he knows Qifrey must have found it to give—he can relax enough to keep going. He resumes his seat on the bed and guides Qifrey gently into settling against him, most of his weight slumped back against Olruggio’s broader torso. He reaches for the bowl with the broth and moves it to Qifrey’s lips, gratified when the other man takes a few sips without needing to be coaxed into it, earlier’s protests be damned.
Most of the hour passes in silence, despite all he wants to say. He alternates Qifrey between the broth and the tea and tries for his sake not to let his thoughts catch on tomorrow’s problems, numerous as they are. Even then, he can’t let one thing pass.
"It doesn’t change anything," he says first, even knowing as he does it’s only true by half. The fact of Qifrey’s body, set in stone as they’ve been for as long as they’ve known each other, shifting might change quite a bit, but not the most important thing.
"For me. Whatever might be happening, now or in the future, it doesn’t change how I see you."
"Doesn’t it?" Qifrey’s hand, before idly tracing patterns on his pants leg, tenses, balls into a fist and tugs at the fabric. "You’re here to be a Watchful Eye. Not a nursemaid."
"I’m here to be your partner." Apparently that doesn’t go quite as without saying as he’d imagined. "You think very little of me if you assume this could break an entire life made together."
"It isn’t you I think very little of." The hand shifts now, his fingers leaving Olruggio’s side to gesture instead at the compress still held to his eye. "I’ve done as much for myself as I could bear, and more. More than I ever would have thought possible back then. The thought of having to depend on anyone—even you—" A breath in, then out, then a laugh, soft, sardonic. "It’s bitter."
He can’t say he imagines it would be, simply because to him, there’s joy to be had in a future together, however it would come about. He supposes he shouldn’t say that aloud, if the thought, to Qifrey, is so horrible.
"I understand." He doesn’t, but he’ll offer the false words if there’s a chance they’ll change anything. "I only ask that you remember… it isn’t just your decision. Mine is to stay with you. Whatever that entails, however long you need."
He senses that, were his eye open, Qifrey would be looking away. As it is, he tips his face against Olruggio’s abdomen, away from his gaze. "I wish you wouldn’t," he says faintly, and Olruggio sighs and rests a hand in his hair. "I know you do."
He’s ready, once night has well and truly fallen—once the clock moves past midnight and into the small hours—to take his leave. He’s lingered long enough, longer than he truly should have; they never share a bed with the girls about, so as not to confuse things, and with all that’s passed, all Qifrey’s feelings writ plain on his face, he isn’t expecting Qifrey to grab at him and hold him fast, for him to whisper, "Stay. Please."
"The children—" he starts, and Qifrey shakes his head, even when Olruggio tries to continue, "You—"
"I’m asking." Qifrey tips his face up to hold his gaze, that alone even more of an entreaty than his words. Olruggio lets out a breath, then another, and shifts his weight to lie beside him. Qifrey wraps an arm around his waist—possessive, in his own way—and kisses his chest in thanks, silent but sure.
He sleeps, of course, after so long a day. He sleeps deep and soundly and without the cares of the day slipping into his dreams—a relief, when he’d prefer to focus on the life ahead, and not the pain that might bring them there. He sleeps, and Qifrey doesn’t, not at first.
He lies for some time in the dark, with only the moon and stars to see by; Olruggio had taken care to slip the lantern back off the dish. He listens to Olruggio’s breathing, steady, not a sound he gets to savor often given their years-before promise about their sleeping arrangements.
Qifrey fingers the edges of the quire in his pocket, reluctant to take hold of it, to commit. There isn’t another choice; he knows that. He should never have allowed himself the admission at all, let alone everything after. He could have pushed Olruggio away; he’s done it before, and knows he will again. Knows he’ll have to, now.
He’d drawn the spell at least a month before, the first time he’d admitted to himself the pain was going to become more of an issue than he’d wanted to allow. At his core he’d maybe always known who it was for, simply because no one else has cause to observe him so closely, not even the children. Children’s minds flick so quickly from one care to another an adult’s affairs are simply of no import, he’d told himself. He won’t have to worry about them, not yet.
He pulls the quire from his pocket and rests it at his side, gropes on the nightstand for his pen. That found, he lies still and closes his eye again, just for a moment, just to think.
The future Olruggio had alluded to is one he wants no part of, he’s sure of that. He isn’t even sure it’s one meant for a man like him. Death will find him in the end, at his own hand or another’s, if he keeps pursuing the Brimmed Caps. He’s never wanted Olruggio anywhere near that. He’s too good a man for the sort of man Qifrey knows himself to be—a selfish man, most of all. He should let Olruggio go off to build a workshop somewhere, make a life with his contraptions, the townsfolk asking things of him, perhaps with another person. He should offer him all that.
He won’t, he’s sure of that too, but he should.
His hand finds the pen and the quire again, closes the gap in the seal before he can think more on it. He tears the paper from the quire and slips it beneath Olruggio’s cheek. He lies still once more in the darkness and listens again to the other man’s breathing, deep and slow and the kind of thing he hasn’t allowed himself to indulge in for some time.
Perhaps the future Olruggio wants beside him, caring for him, is one he wants no part of, but it would have been a nice one, in some ways, all the same.
A third thing to be sure of, at a time he can’t lay claim to many of those.
He lets a clock mark pass to be sure the spell has taken hold. He’ll have to think of what to say in the morning; their typical sleeping arrangements make it somewhat more difficult than he wants to come up with an explanation. Maybe saying he’d asked, and no more than that, will be enough.
The lantern, he slips back on to the dish, the warmth and faint light of the fire filling the room once more. The flames dance and he watches them, marveling as ever at the precision of Olruggio’s magic, his mastery over something so dangerous. His water magic often feels trifling by comparison.
He takes the edge of the paper between two of his fingers and tugs it away, dropping it into the flickering flame. A life he’d been promised, offered unconditionally, burnt to ash while he watches. He supposes he deserves that, like so much else in life.
Olruggio sleeps, when he does, soundly, another contrast between the two of them. Qifrey is grateful for that, for reasons other than it letting him achieve his ends. He drapes himself over the other man, as close as he’s ever allowed himself to be, simply because the chance is there and he can’t bear that slipping through his fingers as well.
When he shuts his eye on everything—the pain, the day that’s passed, the world and the man who’s chosen to be his companion in it—he supposes the darkness that rushes in is the recompense he deserves.