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Their newly renovated atelier in the middle of the Naakiwan Downs is a nice change of pace from the Great Hall, and for a few months, both Olruggio and Qifrey get to enjoy it alone together. The air lacks the distinct taste of salt on the wind, the fields just outside their walls can be fertilized and tilled to one day bear fresh produce of their own, and the sky above still takes their breath away on a dark, cloudless night, just like it did all those years ago when they were but boys dreaming of this shared future.
It is nice, Olruggio thinks, to be able to work on his commissions away from the prying eyes of his peers, always vying for his attentions and affections alike no matter how much polite disinterest he expresses. But the witch is free to spread his work out on the dining table here, and he welcomes Qifrey as the other chimes in with helpful suggestions to alter his sigils to make them more efficient. He's much better at sprucing up the more decorative orders than himself, and the words of encouragement and praise he leaves are sincere, laden with the unspoken yet mutual emotions neither of them will say again, or even utter to begin with for that matter.
Fresh pots of thornbark tea and meals seasoned to his exact tastes are also not unwelcome. Qifrey's cooking skills surpass Olruggio's at this point just due to the fact that the other witch has that much more time on his hands. He doesn't mind. Evenings spent together next to the hearth, exchanging soft words and even touches when the mood strikes... This life is the beginning of everything they always wanted.
So when the daughter of House Arklaum is rejected by her own family, and Lord Beldaruit summons Qifrey down to the Argentgard, he follows. The gaze of the little girl standing beside the smoke sculpture is intense and piercing. Still, Olruggio can plainly see the way her little fists, balled up beneath her cloak, tremble with a rage he knows not the source of. He makes an educated guess to himself.
"Qifrey," Beldaruit ventures, eyes soft upon the too-young child beside him. "I hope I did well in my role as your Master, but considering the circumstances..."
"I understand. I wouldn't want to subject her to the same treatment I received at her age." Qifrey kneels down on one knee and extends his hand forward. "But, the choice ultimately remains with you, Agott. If you would have me, I would be honored to have you as my first apprentice."
The next few clock marks stretch into an infinity as the girl's eyes burn holes through Qifrey, though it soon drifts to Olruggio. If he had to describe her expression, it wasn't one of curiosity, relief, or personal recognition, but rather that of a patron appraising wares at a store.
"Qifrey, former apprentice to Lord Beldaruit, the Wise in Teachings. And Olruggio of the Torch, his Watchful Eye." Agott nods to herself, seemingly satisfied. "Very well. I accept you as my Master."
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Life at the atelier is different, now that Qifrey is a proper master with an apprentice to teach. Olruggio doesn't mind. The man is capable of completing the designs to his contraptions well enough on his own. A few more vegetables and fruits in his diet certainly won't kill him. The topics they discuss in the evening change too, since they don't spend all their days side by side anymore.
But oh, the peace and quiet. That is something Olruggio does mind losing.
"I don't need to go through the primer again! I've already memorized those spells!"
"Agott, I just want to be sure that your foundations are—"
"You're wasting my time!" the young girl yells, ink-stained fingers no doubt digging crescents into her palms. "Just give me the next set of tomes so I can study something new!"
Qifrey glances towards the catwalk, eye catching his old friend's. "... Very well, I'll make arrangements to pick up new materials from the Great Hall tomorrow. Can I ask for your patience until then?"
"Fine," Agott mumbles, turning towards her room. "I'll practice by myself for now if you can't teach me properly."
The child storms off, and after the two men hear the distant slamming of a door, Olruggio steps out of his own with a sigh. "Quite precocious, isn't she?"
Qifrey inhales, exhales. Allows the gentle smile adorning his face so often these days to drop momentarily. "I thought I knew what to expect with the daughter of Adina Arklaum, but I must admit that I'm beginning to doubt all the lesson plans I've prepared."
Olruggio drags his gaze over his friend, noting how the stress currently marring Qifrey's features is still nothing compared to the pained expressions he wears as he slips out of bed at night, thinking that Olruggio will only discover his absence the next morning.
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There's less yelling in the atelier for the next few days, now replaced by the familiar scratch of pen on paper. Olruggio prefers this, he thinks, though he worries about how quickly Agott inhales her food so she can bury her nose into the next set of books. He also worries about Qifrey and the way his eye stays downcast in the ember glow of the living room at night. The Master of the Atelier assures him that it's nothing to fuss over, but Olruggio remains fully unconvinced.
Maybe he should have fought harder to press the issue, because the patter of feet on the glowstone path to his alcove wakes him up too early one morning.
"Master Olruggio! Wake up!" Agott pleads, now shaking him. "Please, get up! It's Master Qifrey!"
"What?!" At the sound of his old friend's name, Olruggio rolls out of bed ungracefully and slides his shoes on.
The young girl takes his hand and flies down with him in tow, pulling him towards the stairwell of the common area. Curled up on the wood and clutching his head, face angled away from the rays of the rising sun, is none other than Qifrey himself. There's a twisting feeling in his chest at the sight.
"Qifrey!" Olruggio rushes over and kneels beside him, placing his hands on the other's shoulders. "Talk to me. What happened?"
"Hah... I'm sorry... you have to see me like this..." Qifrey croaks, throat parched. "... hurts..."
"Does he need to go to the Medical Spire?" Agott asks, voice shaking. When Olruggio looks at her, her pupils are wide with uncertainty. "I um, I don't—"
"Just need... to lay down..." the white-haired witch manages. "My room... will be fine."
Olruggio sweeps one arm under Qifrey's legs and the other around his back. "Agott, have you had breakfast yet?"
"A mountain apple was enough," she answers quickly.
"I see. I hate to ask you this, but if you could—"
"Study in my room," Agott steals the rest of the sentence hanging off his tongue. "I can do that."
"Thank you."
The Watchful Eye nods as she slips back into her room before turning his attention back to Qifrey. He grunts as he stands up, doing his best not to drop his charge on his way to the bedroom at the far end or when he needs to turn the doorknob. Olruggio makes a beeline for the bed at the center of the room and swiftly deposits its owner on it.
"Heh, seems like I'm a bit more out of shape than I thought I'd be," Olruggio wheezes, chest heaving from exertion. "That, or you're heavier than you were when we were younger."
Qifrey, eye still screwed shut in pain, laughs despite himself. "You wound us both, Olly."
"Well, did you fall or trip over something? Do I need to get the bandages out?"
"No... just a migraine." The witch tries to open his eye but winces once more. "Could you close the curtains, please?"
Olruggio does as he's told, but not without taking in his surroundings now that the most pressing need has been addressed. It dawns on him that this is actually the first time he's been inside Qifrey's room since they finished repairing the atelier, appearing just as bare as it did months ago. While the room is furnished so as to be livable, it's devoid of comfort or personality.
But now isn't the time to comment on it. Olruggio elects instead to pick up the vapor bubble and goblet on the desk to pour his friend some water. "Here, drink. I'll make you a pot of willowgrape tea later."
"... Thank you," Qifrey says weakly. He sits up and drinks slowly.
A tense silence pulls itself taut over the room as Olruggio pulls a chair over to sit and observe Qifrey, who can do nothing but wither under his scrutiny. He wordlessly offers more water once the goblet is emptied, eyes never meeting. They do this one more time until the white-haired witch hands back the vessel.
"Can we talk?" pleads Olruggio, almost inaudibly. "I... am sorry I've neglected you this whole time. I shouldn't have taken on so many orders from those damn nobles. My place is here, with you. I should be helping—"
"Don't, Olly," Qifrey half-hisses, half-groans in pain. "You have nothing to apologize for. You've done so much for me... for us. I am forever in your debt."
"At least let me handle lunch today." The dark-haired witch waits for a response, and when he receives none, he exhales through his nose and drags a hand through his hair. "I'll head to Kalhn to shop for supplies after I make your tea. Is there anythin' you'd like in particular?"
The Master of the Atelier lays back down, closing his eye, and says with a firm tone, "Blushing bride scales. I think we're both running low."
"That wasn't what I meant, but I can do that. Anything else?"
"Nothing else."
"... Understood."
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Qifrey isn't asleep yet, and not for lack of trying. The man genuinely does want to sleep the pain away. The fact that mere sunlight was enough to send him crumpling to the ground for the second time in three weeks meant that his time was running out faster than he'd like. He was never long for the Great Hall or the world beyond it, after all.
He releases a shuddering gasp. The thin blanket he allows himself does little to stave off the cold. If he weren't afraid if scaring poor Agott again, he might have considered getting up and padding over to the living room to rest in front of the fireplace.
But he doesn't. Instead, he stills as footsteps approach and the door creaks open. He keeps his breaths shallow as the footsteps resume and soft, plush warmth envelops him.
"Stubborn idiot," comes Olruggio's chiding voice, dripping concern. A gentle hand lifts Qifrey's head briefly before letting it fall on a pillow much more firm than its predecessor. "You know I don't mind sharin' a bed with you, especially if this is the sorry excuse you're runnin' off to."
Qifrey elects to not respond. Tries not to breathe in that familiar scent of smoke and stone and wine weaved into the fibers of the blanket.
But it's futile when he feels those calloused, loving hands remove his spectacles and brush his hair away from his right eye.
"... No fever. That's good."
A pause.
Then, the fleeting brush of lips upon the old scars.
It's gone just as quickly as it came.
Olruggio's footsteps lead away from him after several clock marks, and the click of the door finally tells Qifrey that it's okay for him to let out a single, strangled sob.