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Swirling, like the ingredients whirling in the pot on the stove, Qifrey's sense of balance was about to fail. Feeling a bit like he was on his first flight with sylph shoes, ground moving beneath his feet, head pounding something fierce, the atelier's master had only a moment to think to himself (just his luck) before it seemingly gave way one floorboard at a time.
What utensil he had been using to stir their bubbling dinner clattered to the floor as a pair of arms caught him just in time, easing him to sit down. They were murmuring something, voice low and laced with concern, but his sensitive ears could hardly hear them over the sound of his own heartbeat, blood rushing through his veins. Everything was far too loud and not loud enough; the world kept swaying, his head kept pounding deep behind his eye.
Peeking around the corner, peering into the kitchen area, they had expected to follow the spicy aroma straight to their lover. Finding him swaying on his feet and about to collapse into the arms of their mutual partner that he was too out-of-it to notice was not in their original plans, but (and they know this quite thoroughly if for no other reason than the company they keep) plans change.
"Qifrey?"
He only hums shortly in response to any inquiries and eventually they give up on verbal answers. Waiting instead for Olruggio to give directions as to what he needs in the moment. They slowly pick up the lost utensil from the floor, placing it gently on the table nearby. Removing the pot from the stove comes next but the shuffling sounds makes Qifrey's head throb, a frown marring his face each time, and so they do their best to remain silent and careful.
Manuevering him to stand, barely, so that he is leaning on Olruggio with the full weight of a migraine-onset witch (prone to letting himself go limp, deadweight, when he knows he is well and truly taken care of: a novelty that would make him smile if only he could let himself and his lovers shake their heads in exasperstion most days), takes the combined efforts of all three partners. They make their way towards their oft shared bed.
Coaxing him into slipping into someting more comfortable, sleepwear that is lightweight and loose and made of easy texture, they busy themselves with making certain that the curtains are clipped closed. Dimming the room into a pleasant darkness (they suppose this is what he must be afraid of beginning to see in his day-to-day, now, this nothingness with one eye gone and the other well on its way, but the light may still be an irritant and so they continue to pull the blinds), they only return to the shadowed bedside when their task is done.
Olruggio has fussed with the pillows and tangled the blankets that lay atop the bed itself, nested carefully around a very snug, albeit still restless, master witch. He stretches this way and that while trying to get comfortable, sounds of discomfort unconsciously escaping him at each failed attempt. Craning his neck yields no better results (and looks quite painful from where they stand), a soft whimper leaving him as he gives up on stretching out and curls into himself, blankets even more tangled than when he started.
They take pity on him and carefully lower themselves onto the bed, next to him. Waving Olruggio over with one hand to do the same at his other side. Nuzzling into their lap, legs kicked over and twined around Olruggio's, Qifrey breathes easier as he makes himself comfortable in their grounding presence. When their hand graces his forehead in a gentle brush, they startle to find it near feverish. Attempting to untangle themselves from him, in order to fetch a damp cool cloth, is only successful after an entirely appropriate amount of clinging and whining for a successful professional master to display (they don't mind really, pleased he is so open with them for once- Qifrey does not know if they will remember it later).
When they return again, settling back into the cozy comfort of before, they lay a little lower so that Qifrey can curl up closer while still tucked in to Olruggio's side; his migraine still rages, but he thinks it dulls when they ground him with the love and care that seeps from their souls to his. The cool pack on his forehead, soft and only slightly damp and no-doubt the next iteration of Coco's invention, helps minutely; it helps enough to send him in to a light doze, discomfort easy if only for a moment.
Fondly, they run their fingertips ever-so-lightly over his scalp, careful of the tender points that plague him in the midst of his head pain. He subconsciously cranes into their touch, seeking out their comfort even in his fitful slumber. His breath hitching catches their gaze and their fingers stall, contemplating.
Slowly, inch by inch, their fingers make their way closer and closer to the worst of the pain points: his temples. He tenses when they brush over the tension that lays there, a whimper at the back of his throat, but Olruggio carefully soothes him with a warm hand over his back and shoulders and Qifrey soon all but purrs as they tenderly rub soothing circles into the tense tissue. The impromptu massage seems to work. His face relaxes in his sleep, and he sighs deeply; they chuckle to themselves first and then share eye contact and a laugh with Olruggio at the look he gives them from his slumber, all too pleased to have been able to help the one they love the most.
Qifrey wakes much later, unaware of the time (the curtains must be closed tightly and he cannot decipher the height of the sun or moon; he suspects his lovers had something to do with it). One partner on either side of him makes for a perfect place to rest his weary body, now no longer in pain, and he holds one of each of their hands, running his thumbs softly over them, in gratitude. The easy grin he gives their sleeping forms tells them he loves them, thanks them for looking out for him. The upward curl of their lips as they doze repeats it all back.
Maybe the sun rises, or sets, he cannot tell and is not trying to. Their warmth, warmer than a fever and much sweeter, beckons him closer than the sun ever could. He curls back in next to them, entwined as they should be, and finds himself drifting back off to the sleep they both yet cling to. His migraine does not come back. Five more minutes of peace won't hurt.