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It's late at night, certainly past a healthy time to be heading to bed. The kitchen still smells divine, even though the stew they had prepared was devoured hours ago. Exhausting as the long day was, having all of their former apprentices visit at once has become a rather rare and thus special occasion, and deserved to be celebrated accordingly. Now, the house feels a little empty without their animated chatter filling the air, but Olruggio's heart is full after witnessing once again what splendid witches all four of them grew up to be.
Only a little more cleaning up to do; then he is going to go sleep until noon, and nothing can stop him. The image is already clear in his tired mind: his cozy, heavy blanket, a bunch of pillows, a snugstone or two, and in the middle of it all, Olruggio, all warm and toasty and—
A warm, slender hand settles on the back of his own, which is in the middle of robotically dragging a rag across the kitchen counter. He keeps wiping with the other hand in tow, now much more conscious of his movements, while a pleasant wave of prickly heat washes through his body.
Olruggio still hasn’t gotten used to it. It's been years—decades, even—since Qifrey's condition was cured and Qifrey turned from someone reserved with their affections to the touchiest person known to man, and to this day it makes Olruggio's heart skip a beat in delighted surprise whenever Qifrey's hand finds his in the most inconvenient moments. Holding hands while wiping down the counter isn't exactly practical, is it? Olruggio wouldn't mind if he never got to have his hand to himself again, though. A lifetime of this, and it still does not feel like enough to make up for the years they missed.
“Are you done yet?” Qifrey hums into his ear, using his free hand to squeeze Olruggio's shoulder, and Olruggio has to fight hard to suppress a shiver. Clean up kitchen. Then sleep. That was the plan.
“You can clearly tell that I am not.” There is not even a hint of bite to his words. There never is, when it comes to Qifrey. For a moment longer, he pretends to be set on dutifully finishing the cleaning. Then, Qifrey's fingers slide in between Olruggio's, while his other hand moves from Olruggio's shoulder to firmly snake around his waist.
With a sigh that was supposed to sound at least a little annoyed, but comes out embarrassingly needy, Olruggio lets go of the cleaning rag, gives Qifrey's hand a squeeze, then turns in his embrace to press a soft, gentle kiss against waiting lips. The little pleased hum it earns him is enough to make Olruggio smile so hard his cheeks start aching. He really is growing old and sentimental, isn't he?
When he eventually breaks away, Olruggio takes a moment to admire his beloved’s face. A cloudy-blue eye—closer to blind than seeing nowadays, but no less beautiful for it—fair skin with only the most endearing kinds of wrinkles, the ones indicating decades of smiles and laughter. White hair, a little longer than it used to be, curling around and framing his face. He still is the most ethereal being Olruggio has ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on.
So full of love he feels he might burst, Olruggio proceeds to wrap his arms around Qifrey and rest his cheek against his bony shoulder. Qifrey tightening his embrace in return is about the best feeling in the world.
“It's your fault if we wake up to a dirty kitchen tomorrow,” Olruggio mumbles against the fabric of Qifrey's shirt, smiling.
“That's quite alright with me,” Qifrey assures him, voice a little too casual to be really just that. “I reckon I have committed much worse sins in this life.”
Olruggio instinctively wants to tell him that it wasn't sins at all, that Qifrey is the last person to blame in this gruesome story, that he has never once thought less of Qifrey for what he was forced to do in order to stay alive. But of course, Qifrey is more than aware of Olruggio's perspective. Half-jokingly bringing up the horrors of their past without further elaboration is some kind of coping strategy to him, something Olruggio doesn't fully understand but has long come to learn to handle.
Thus, instead of dwelling on the heavy implications, Olruggio only quietly chuckles while he starts dragging Qifrey in the direction of their sleeping quarters.
“Well then, off to bed with us; I'd rather not fall asleep in a dirty kitchen.”
They actually made it. Growing old together. Ever since he was made aware of how much he readily agreed to forget over the years, Olruggio has wondered when he first started envisioning this. A far away future in which he and Qifrey still live under the same roof. Old, and happy, and together, finding joy in the most mundane tasks because they mean spending time with each other. It was probably long before they even moved to the atelier. Truth be told, Olruggio can't remember a time after getting to know Qifrey that he didn't see him as an essential part of his life.
From partners in pain—Olruggio wouldn't admit it out loud, but he still quite likes how utterly dramatic his younger self decided to be in an impossible situation like the one he and Qifrey found themselves in—to partners in every sense. What an upgrade.
It's closer to morning than midnight when Olruggio finally makes it to bed.
Just like he envisioned earlier, there's his cozy, heavy blanket, a bunch of pillows, a total of four snugstones (because why settle for one or two when you can have as many as you like?), and in the middle of it all, Olruggio, all warm and toasty and cuddled up to Qifrey whose head is pillowed on Olruggio's chest. He can't exactly see much of his face, what with the angle and the darkness of the night, but it's easy to tell from the slow and steady breathing that Qifrey is already fast asleep. Olruggio lazily cards his fingers through his curls, dead tired but too enchanted to not savor the moment a little bit longer.
Life has never been better.