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Qifrey hates water. He hates the way rain patters against the roof, sending hollow knocks through the atelier that he and Olruggio built up brick by brick to house them, to home them. He hates the way the cold a storm brings with it seeps through the shutters, crawling up the walls and onto the furniture, reaching where he sits staring at the unlit hearth in a vacant stare. He hates the suffocating feeling that grips at his chest, tight, longing for comfort that he feels unable to ask for—no, he has no right to seek it out, seeing as he's the one who made you cry.
That's the type of water he hates most; The salty and warm blobs of water that first welled up in your pretty eyes after he raised his voice. He barely noticed that you were crying until he'd finally turned back to face you, searing the image of fat tears dripping down your cheeks, staining the skin with trails of moisture that served as pathways for fresh tears to follow into his frazzled mind.
Qifrey didn't mean to shout, it was a rare slip of composure, a panicked defense mechanism that raked its way up his throat in a final act of self preservation, which is ironic considering that's what you'd been squabbling about in the first place.
You'd come to him after his most recent stunt in pursuing the Brimmed Caps. Olly had given him an earful previously, but you came to him with knitted brows and bitten lips, needing to understand why he so quickly discards all reason in pursuit of his revenge. Needing him to understand how worried you were—how worried you are for him. Whenever these topics arise, Qifrey finds it difficult to balance how much to lean into your assistance and comfort with how much he needs to close away from you, lest his roots find a place to start digging.
A sigh rises in his chest before he pushes himself up from the floor. It's obvious in hindsight. Running headfirst into dangerous scenarios, getting hurt, and all for the goal of saving himself. He supposes he's silly, really, thinking about his own juxtaposition as he approaches the bedroom door. What good partner wouldn't be worried when their beloved seemingly doesn't care for what could befall them?
The knock of his knuckle against the wooden door is soft, he doesn't want to startle you. It's late, after all. Everyone should be asleep. Qifrey briefly wonders whether opening the door is selfish, but before the thought can even settle in his mind, he's clearing his throat to the sight of your back. You don't turn around.
A soft click sounds from behind his figure when the door closes, but the witch doesn't move from his place.
“Love,” he rasps, suddenly nervous. “You're working at this hour?” The questions skirts around the edge of the bigger topic. He hopes you'll reply, turn around and take the bait so that he can continue to avoid accountability. Keeping the guilt of raising his voice at you close to his heart with no words of forgiveness uttered would surely keep him anxious for life. Perhaps it would grant a break from the constant hammering of rain, because scaring you feels much more terrifying.
Your pen pauses. The soft ball of light next to your haunched over body illuminates the space around the desk, warming the area with a soft and inviting orange glow. He wants to come closer. He can't. The silence he's greeted with makes his fingers itch and they pick at each other, his nails catching on and pushing his cuticles back into his skin.
“Listen,” he mumbles, eyes downcast. “We don't have to discuss the details, but I need you to know that I am sorry for how I acted. Stay angry with me for as long as you need to, my feelings for you will never change.”
“You're such a hypocrite, Qifrey.” Your voice comes out wobbly. Perhaps you hadn't managed to stop crying in the few hours that had passed.
“I know…”
Putting your pen down, you finally turn to face him with puffy eyes. His soft gaze settles on your form as you shift on the wooden chair. Your figure is closed in, trying to shield yourself from any more hurt and he feels his heart crack at the sight. Tears still cling to your lashes, glinting in the lamps glow with every blink and the man thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful yet full of sorrow. He thinks you're pretty when you cry, but not for this reason, he can't stand it when you're hurting.
Wordlessly, he walks over to you with tentative steps, before taking a knee right in front of you.
“Please, my sweet, don't cry.” One gentle hand rises to your face. His index finger curls, using a knuckle to carefully wipe the tears threatening to drip down from under your eyes before he cups your cheek. His thumb strokes over your skin, while his other hand rests on your knee. Your partner never breaks eye contact, the habit was drilled into him throughout his years as an apprentice and now as an adult he takes great care to shift around and make sure he can always see what's swimming in the hues of your irises.
“Qifrey—”
“I know,” he repeats, voice so soft that he wonders if the words even exited from his mind. His hand drops to your shoulder, the other mirroring the positioning before he runs his palms down your arms, letting his fingers trail over the length of them until his grip envelopes your own. With a tender grasp, he brings your hands up to his lips. A gentle kiss is placed across your knuckles before he breathes out again and bows his head to you. “I'm sorry.”
He looks like he's begging, praying for your forgiveness on his knees in front of your form as he holds the backs of your fingers to his forehead. Inhaling through his nose, his grip tightens almost imperceptively before he speaks again, “I never meant to shout at you, you didn't deserve such a reaction.”
“I was… overwhelmed, but that is no excuse. It will never happen again, my love, I promise.” He doesn't move, just keeps his forehead pressed against your fingers until they move in his grip.
Wiggling your fingers free, you brush your fingers through his fluffy hair, it's always so soft. Qifrey looks up then, with an expression riddled with stress. Guilt pulls his eyebrows together, curving the inner corners upwards. He still keeps your other hand hostage for now, gripping it under his chin while his glossy, baby blue eye watches your expressions. For a man so anxious, he exercises an impressive amount of patience.
“I know you didn't mean to yell,” You whisper, nibbling on your lower lip in contemplation, “I just—your lack of care for yourself scares me…”
Qifrey's stomach churns at your words. He knows, you'd said this earlier but he was so caught up in his own thirst that he couldn't hear it. Perhaps he didn't want to hear it. Perhaps he's reckless because he knows it scares people.
“If something happened to you, what would that mean for the girls? They'd be devastated; What about Olly? What about me?” The words tumble from your lips in desperation as if you're pleading for him to hear you, to reach out and grab onto the words and forever hold them close to his heart.
He can't. That would be too kind, too comforting. He briefly considers telling you the truth, confessing that he can't completely accept how your worry and love has slipped under his skin in a warmth akin to one felt only on a fresh summer evening that leaves you feeling completely at peace. He wishes so badly to agree. Tears well up in his lash line from the turmoil and he has to swallow down a scoff. The more he considers being honest, the worse the pain in his head becomes, so he decides to lie.
“I'll be more careful,” he nods, straightening his posture, “no more acting without thinking. I'll come to you beforehand, Olly as well.”
The headache lessens.
“You promise?” Cupping his cheeks, you brush his tears away this time, trading roles.
“Yes, I promise.”