Work Text:
So lay compress to the aching
Of your body made for breaking
When we've got a lot of breaking left to do
Winters like to wreak havoc on Qifrey's body.
He could swear it's when the silverwood fights the most to stay alive, like a tree trying to survive until the spring, dormancy walking a fine line between sleeping until the cold has receeded or slipping into deadly oblivion.
It also seems to be when, by the inevitable nature of being stuck indoors so close together for so many weeks and months, that Qifrey struggles to keep his guard up the most.
Thus when the snugstone comes sailing at Qifrey's head one morning after breakfast, when he is nursing a cup of tea in the quiet of the kitchen, the distant laughter and chatter of the girls all outside in the snow, he has to duck before it smacks him in the face, too zoned out to have been fully paying attention, the stone hitting the floor somewhere behind him.
"I swear, Qifrey-"
The stone is retrieved before he can move fast enough, body slow and stubborn to flex. It's subsequently slapped into his hand and his fingers forced shut around it, Olruggio stomping towards the doorway in that irritated-but-I'm-concerned-about-you way of his.
"You were walking like an old man this morning," Olruggio calls over his shoulder. "Keep that on you, it should help!"
Every winter is like this. It has been since the atelier was inhabited by him and Olruggio, since Agott first came, since that first winter all four of the girls were under his roof.
There is no changing it. No remedy, no cure, nothing that will save Qifrey from the silverwood resting inside of him, lurking and watching for the perfect moment.
His best defense is being his own watchful eye. Because if he isn't, he will destroy many lives and probably the entire atelier itself from the foundation to the roof.
For now, he clutches the snugstone tight in his grasp, relishing in the warmth that spreads through his fingers, loosening the stiff joints of his fingers.
Qifrey hisses when Olruggio applies the warm compresses to his elbows and wrists. They're in the privacy of Olruggio's room, the girls are fast asleep in their beds, and the night is late enough the only thing that will be keeping the witches company is the stars and the moon…
…and the brushbuddy currently curled up next to Qifrey in Olruggio's hammock where he's sitting.
"You should've told me sooner," Olruggio scolds, pulling up a stool to sit on while they wait for the compresses to cool before he reapplies them. There is a kettle of water with some soaking salts in it to help soothe Qifrey's joints, a small fire spell going underneath it to keep the water warm.
"It was fine until today," Qifrey mumbles. "I was okay."
Olruggio gives a long-suffering sigh, propping his elbow on his knee and dropping his face onto his hand. "I know you've been stiff since the first snow fell. I swear, Qifrey, you have the body of an-"
"An old man, yes, I know."
Olruggio squints at the sharp tone that slips out of Qifrey's mouth. "Have you been sleeping?"
Qifrey doesn't want to do this tonight. Oh, stars above, not tonight. It's been several months since he's had to wipe Olruggio's memories and that has been a win all on its own, even if it has been at the detriment of his own health.
But he is tired. In pain. And so sick of it all.
"I really don't want to fight," is what comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. Not quite a whisper, not quite a mumble. Just…there.
Olruggio sighs again, but relents. "Okay. I don't want to fight either. Just…please don't go this long again? You don't need to suffer needlessly like this."
Qifrey nods, a corner of his brain laughing like an unhinged old crone at the words. No, he shouldn't need to suffer like this, yet here he is.
Even now, the privacy of Olruggio's bedroom really feels like the only safe place that he can do the compresses. The black undershirt and pants he wears is not for style, though he wish it was so. Scars, long and white, crawl across every inch of his skin, like the thin lines of young branches. Some of them are straighter than others, like a knife had been taken to his body, fewer still have a faint black line that runs just underneath the surface, like the lines of a botched seal with no sigils or signs to complete it.
He looks like a failed science experiment if he starts thinking about it too hard. Tossed and discarded once his use had run out.
"Qifrey?"
Qifrey blinks, slowly coming back to the present. "What?"
He has to look away from Olruggio's concerned face, lest he begin to spill secrets he doesn't want to tonight.
"I asked if you were okay with me putting compresses on your ankles? They're really swollen."
Qifrey shudders at the idea of his feet being damp, his wrists and elbows already pushing it enough, and Olruggio immediately moves onto a different suggestion at his reaction.
"Okay, we'll just do warm towels, then."
Some hours later, Qifrey is bundled up in Olruggio's hammock, sound asleep, his mused shock of white hair the only thing visible from the mound of blankets. It had taken a ridiculous amount of convincing (and maybe a tiny bit of manipulation on the brushbuddy's part) to get Qifrey to stay, but eventually he had, and he had fallen asleep far too quickly for someone claiming they "weren't that tired".
Olruggio, meanwhile, is sketching away aimlessly at his desk, bits and bobs of different spells scattered about, something he can't quite put his finger on about Qifrey and his condition niggling in the back of his mind.
He turns around eventually to look at his oldest friend, a deep frown on his face.
"What aren't you telling me, Qifrey?"