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Immobilizing, searing pain races through the right side of his body, the sensation peaking in the socket of his right eye. Qifrey grits his teeth against the yelp that threatens to strangle its way through his teeth, roughly breathing until the pain subsides enough for him to sit up in bed. Sweat now lines his body, sticking to the nightshirt he dressed himself in a couple of hours before.
It has been some time since his last nightmare roused his body and mind from the fitful sleep he was accustomed to. The nightmares became infrequent enough that he believed himself to be in the clear, now able to focus on helping the girls with their lessons more often, rather than having to lie down in the afternoons with the consistent reason of stiff joints and sore muscles as the source of his discomfort.
The girls fretted over him, taking turns in bringing him tea and warm compresses during the day, while Olruggio took the nighttime shift of worrying over him. As grateful as he is to live around people who choose to take the time to care for him, it's still a struggle not to feel like a burden in his own home. He'd rather be the one concerned with the welfare of his apprentices and of his best friend, not the other way around.
He prefers it to be that way, having lived his whole life needing to worry and fret over anything and everything.
How hypocritical his lifestyle can be.
So here, in the middle of the night and in his own room, he decides he can take care of himself. He can. He's a grown man who knows his own body more than anyone else, so he lies back in bed, blanket aside as he waits for his sweat to cool off.
Qifrey tosses and turns, thinking he's found a comfortable position to once again fall asleep in, when it starts to feel like his skin is pulsing, vibrating like it's fit to burst. The sensation is so appalling that it sends his heart racing, his breathing escaping him in rapid puffs.
Wrong. He feels wrong. In this bed. Beneath the cloth that dares to touch this moist skin, beneath the skin that is trapping a parasite. All wrong!
Gasping, he throttles himself out of bed.
He paces around his room for a bit, thinking that if he made his body do something that gives reason for the acceleration of his heart rate, it could calm him down. After the nth circle he's paced, he walks to the wash basin to refresh his face instead, letting the water run over his hands, waiting for the shakiness to run down the drain.
Gathering a cupful of water, he drinks it, but chokes as it makes its way down his throat.
He digs his fingers into the porcelain, squeezing his eye shut. It's not working. He tried. But he can't. He can't get over this alone. His heart is still thrumming with anxiety, and he feels like he might throw up what they ate for dinner.
Familiar and routine comforts come to mind for nights like these, his feet moving softly across the wood floor and through the atelier halls in pursuit of them.
Olruggio is exactly where Qifrey thought him to be, and doing exactly what he pictured him to be doing. The consistency in how Olruggio spends his nights already seems to calm him, feeling himself breathe a little easier as he watches his friend hard at work at his workbench.
"Do you have any more midnight oil to be burning through? Or should I consider you a creature of the night from now on?" Qifrey asks from the threshold that are the stairs leading up to his room, wrapped in a fleece blanket to stave off the cold that comes with the approaching winter. He swallows past the pain in his eye, ignoring the residual fear still lingering from the nightmare that woke him. He doesn't want to stress Olruggio out even more when he's already been stretched thin from all of his deadlines.
"I'll have you know that I have an infinite supply of midnight oil." Olruggio doesn't bother lifting his head from where he scrawls ideas into a notepad, crumpled sheets of failed spells scattered on the floor around him. The clutter is usual for him—the desk of a genius—even if he vehemently denies the claim; Qifrey can still spot the small smile he wears whenever he compliments him.
"Does the midnight oil sponsor those eyebags?"
That finally gets Olruggio to look up, though Qifrey can hardly stifle his own laughter at the death glare he earns. He's glad Olruggio's room is located far enough away from the girls', cringing slightly at the echo from the laugh that cracked out of him.
"Thought you'd still be up. Brought some mountain apple slices for you."
Olruggio's shoulders fall from their tense perch, gratitude and thanks all in the noise he hums when he bites into a slice. "What's keeping you up late? Don't you have to go into town with the girls early in the morning?"
Qifrey breathes through the flashes of his nightmare, the same one that likes to plague him whenever he gets too comfortable, too content with what he has in this life. "Couldn't sleep is all, so I came to give you some company."
Olruggio looks at him, seeing past the lie but still ceding to it. Qifrey only manages to stand there, nervously running his fingertips over the edges of his primly cut nails, waiting for permission to stay. It's a futile thing to be anxious over, never recalling a time when Olruggio dismissed him in a time of need.
Tonight proves no different; nodding, Olruggio pats the cushion next to him. "Good thing this seat is always open."
Crouching to sit on the floor cushion, Qifrey readjusts himself until he's able to lean the side of his head against Olruggio's back. Even as kids, Qifrey would find himself in this same spot often, listening to the sound of his friend's heartbeat and breathing to stifle the crippling dread and fright that threatened to overwhelm him at times. Olruggio was more than used to it, reciprocating the press of Qifrey's body with a press of his own, leaning his back gently to provide him with a more comfortable angle.
Back then, if Qifrey didn't show up on time for Beldaruit's lessons in the morning, the second place his teacher would search would be Olruggio's room, finding the two collapsed atop his floor cushions, never quite making it to an actual bed to go to sleep for the night. At that point, he and Olruggio had created a reputation for never being found alone without the other. Once they were let out of their lessons, they were practically opposite ends of a magnet, seeking the other out for a meal, for study hall, or—neither ever admitted it—just to be in the other's presence.
"Want one?" Olruggio's hand comes into view, offering a crisp slice.
"No I'm ok, thank you. Those are for you."
"If you say so." He pushes the plate to the edge of the bench, just within reach for Qifrey if he changed his mind. "Let me know if you want me to light some more fires around the room if it gets too cold in here."
There's understanding and patience in the silence that follows, undisturbed for who knows how long. Qifrey doesn't bother wandering about the time. Focusing past the dull throb of his eye, all he cares to sense is the crackling of the log fire in the corner of the room, the hush of wind skirting the atelier, and the steady thrum and beat of Olruggio's heart beneath his ear, offering the peace he always finds in his friend's company.
Qifrey takes a backseat in his own mind, head blissfully empty of any trifling thoughts of his future—what it held, and what it…didn't.
He's close to tipping into unconsciousness when a pyreball comes into view.
"You're shaking."
Once Qifrey is firmly situated back in his body, he realizes his hands and feet are icy, a byproduct of accidentally leaving them outside his blanket cocoon. He inches his limbs closer to the flame, fingers playing with the heat emanating from it.
"Thank you for the gift." He nods at the small floating ball of fire, fluttering and wavering as steadily as the heart he hears beneath his ear.
"I knew you weren't gonna say anything." Olruggio chastises him, arching his back to jostle him. "You suck at that."
"Like I'm the only one that never asks for what they need. Anytime you start getting into your work, you forget to take breaks to eat until you're practically fainting at this bench."
Olruggio huffs. "I don't forget, I'm just trying to find a good stopping point. Which is…hardly ever with my work…fine. You got me there. But it's like you know when I'm hungry, even in your sleep." He grabs another slice. "So thank you for the gift."
"What would you do without me?" Qifrey pinches at his shoulder.
"I'd be a shriveled, hungry husk right now, crawling my way to the kitchen. But what would you do without me? Without all my little pyreballs to keep you warm?"
Qifrey remembers all the times he tried to avoid Olruggio as a kid, trying to skirt all the kids his age and remain the most mysterious student in the Great Hall, but somehow still never deterring one particularly stubborn black-haired boy. Now, he couldn't fathom a life without Olruggio by his side, all his light and warmth stolen from him. The gaping hole that would leave. It's grotesque that the thought also comforts him, how it keeps what's inside of him at bay.
"Pointless to think of thoughts that will never be true," Qifrey whispers.
With that, Qifrey tucks himself closer to Olruggio, allowing his body to be comforted by the mundanity of the present moment. Qifrey prefers this room to his own; what his room lacks can be found in abundance in Olruggio's. In here, it feels lived in, ashed parchment left by frequently cast pyreballs, cushions strewn across the room, stacks of books and notes in places odd enough that, to his mind, they make no sense, but to Olruggio, are placed there for a reason. Qifrey sees his own room as a means to an end, a bed and space to be used only for the necessity to rest his haggard body. He hates how the total darkness makes his room feel all the more suffocating, the walls reminiscent of a cold, dark coffin-
He yanks his train of thought from going down that route, inching himself back closer to the pyreball.
Their rooms reflect them well, but on especially chilly, eerie nights like this, he obviously prefers the warmth offered by Olruggio's room and company.
Olruggio's hand musses his hair, salt and pepper strands thrown this way and that by nimble fingers, while the other hand scribbles at the parchment before him. A blast of heat frustrates him; his friend crumples the paper and throws it to the side with a huff.
Qifrey hooks his chin over Olruggio's shoulder, peering down to where his scribbles start anew, quick and confident to the untrained eye, but to Qifrey, he can see the hesitation and doubt plaguing his grip over the pen.
"What's the trouble with this one?"
"It shouldn't be troubling me, that's the case! Such a menial request, but I've been fretting over the smallest of details." Olruggio grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, the skin over the bump of it wrinkling under the pressure. Qifrey feels sorry for the poor thing, his nose a constant stress ball whenever Olruggio feels particularly overworked. "A family requested a contraption to keep the food at their party warm, but not burnt. For hours on end. So I thought to tweak that phantasmal pyreball spell of mine, but that flame doesn't give off any heat, as you already know. So it would have the food go cold in no time-"
Olruggio's mumbling tapers off at Qifrey's tittering. "You bring me apple slices, and you're of the belief that this will absolve you of any repercussions from laughing at my miserable state?"
"Oh no, not at all. I know you have no mercy for a poor, tired soul such as me, especially when you're this high-strung." Olruggio's face morphs into one of aghastness, blinking at Qifrey's audacity to insult him during a low time. "Olly, this spell is not life or death. So why not take a break, eat the rest of your apple slices, and have a chat with me?"
Olruggio narrows his eyes. "You fiend. This was your plan all along."
Qifrey starts tugging on his sleeve, dragging him away from his workbench. "And yet you fall for it every time. Come now, let's relax."
Qifrey can see the fight in Olruggio's eyes flicker, then die out. With a sigh, he turns in his seat, Qifrey's head falling into his lap. Idly, Olruggio's fingers pet over his hair, switching between smoothing over it to twirling it between two fingertips. Looking up from his lap and seeing the pensive stare still sitting on his face, Qifrey thinks Olruggio doesn't even realize what he's doing.
"When I said you should relax, I meant taking your brain away from your work, too." He raises an arm to press his finger into the wrinkle between Olruggio's brows, smoothing it out.
Olruggio looks down at him. "Sorry, didn't realize my mind went somewhere else so quickly." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, Qifrey's hair now left unpet.
Quickly, Qifrey thinks of the one topic that'll catch Olruggio's attention.
"Do you think we should have continued living in the Great Hall?" Qifrey feels Olruggio still beneath him. "I mean, I know I was itching to get out of there, but to have my own atelier to call home? And four wonderful apprentices? It feels like I was given too much." Qifrey watches the shadows cast by the pyreball dance on the wall, though he can now feel Olruggio's eyes on him. "So surreal, Olly. And you're here living with me. Yes, as my Watchful Eye," Qifrey trails off, waving his hand in the air. Olly understands what he means. To share a home with your closest friend. "It all just feels like…a dream I'll wake up from."
"Or more like a dream come true, no?" Olruggio continues petting his hair. Success. Qifrey leans more into the touch, Olruggio noticing and indulging him with a few scratches to his scalp. If Qifrey didn't have his wits about him, he would have let a rather embarrassing noise slip out. "Don't you remember all those times we were excited to be adults? To be able to do things without the supervision of our masters? To travel outside the Great Hall? The freedom of it all?"
Qifrey chuckles. "I specifically remember Beldaruit finding our plan written in one of our journals. That was mortifying. 'You're going to leave me, my dear Qifrey? I thought you were to stay in the Great Hall with me!'" Olruggio laughs at his impression of his meddling master. "Ugh, no thank you. I couldn't wait to rid myself of that place. All that water." He shudders.
"Don't have to remind me of your relationship with water."
Qifrey takes a second to elbow him, but continues. "But anyway, I thought you liked the Great Hall? It is convenient to have everything there instead of having to travel for anything. I thought it would take a lot more persuading to get you to leave."
Olruggio hums. "The Great Hall does have many things, but it doesn't have this. You, the girls. This home we made together. I made too many promises with you as a kid to get cold feet when it could actually happen." Memories of their small hands linked between their foreheads come to mind, all the secrets and wishes they made together. "Trust me Qifrey, I am exactly where I want to be."
He knows Olruggio would never leave everything they've ever built and dreamt about behind just because it's too much, but it's still comforting to hear him say he has no regrets. Sometimes he needs the reassurance.
Qifrey looks up at Olruggio, reaching a hand up to twirl a piece of his black and silver hair. "How time flies. We were once the girls' age, stressed over lessons and exams, and now look at where we're at. So much has changed."
Olruggio whines, mouth deepening into a frown. "Please don't remind me of the passage of time. I swear I see a new silver hair every morning."
"That's not your age showing, Olly, that's your stress." Qifrey quips, tugging at his hair. Olruggio yelps and guides his hand away from his hair, holding it in his own to smooth over the calluses on his fingertips.
"Geez, you are cold. I should have lit more pyreballs earlier." He folds both his hands over Qifrey's, rubbing them together.
At times, Qifrey swears Olruggio is fire incarnate; his very skin carries the warmth of it itself, so very pleasant and heavenly against his own cold skin. Qifrey smiles, blushing slightly from Olruggio meticulously taking the time to feel over his hands, sensing any cold spots he may have missed. He glances at the pyreball still blazing strongly on the bench, both of them knowing that Qifrey could just as easily warm himself by getting closer to it, maybe even cover himself thoroughly with the blanket he brought in.
But no. He much prefers the heat of Olruggio's touch to that of a little fire.
Olruggio hums. "You know, sometimes I get a little jealous of your hair. You don't have to worry at all about a stray silver hair coming in. You wouldn't even be able to tell."
"Oh, I'm sure I have a few by now. Comes with having to maintain a full atelier."
Olruggio rolls his eyes. "Are you saying I'm a handful?"
"Very much so. But it's to be expected when I have the best fire witch of this generation as my best friend." Qifrey rejoices at the flush he sees spread over Olruggio's cheeks. Compliments are always a sure-fire way to disarm Olruggio from any further arguments. He squeezes Olruggio's hands to bring him back to the moment. "And don't be so mean to your hair. I think it suits you. Besides, all you need is more sleep."
His body decides then, at the worst time, that he has to yawn. Yeah. He can truly be such a hypocrite in this life.
"Uh huh. Look who's talking. Qifrey, please. You have plans early in the morning, and I'm used to staying up late and sleeping in, but it's quite the opposite for you. Why don't you go back to bed? Rest."
How wrong his dear friend is. For him to worry and stress is a blessing, his literal lifeline that tethers him to this human body.
He feels his eye closing, helpless to the weight settling over his eyelid. There are no other thoughts left in his head, nothing to torment him to bed besides the few comforting words Olruggio just spoke to him. It repeats like a mantra, floating him off into sleep.
"I'd like to stay here with you Olly. I am exactly where I want to be."
When he awoke in the morning, Qifrey opened his eye to see Olruggio resting on the next cushion over, blanket drawn over the both of them. Just like when they were kids.
Well, some things never change.