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After approximately 18 years of being by his best friend’s side and living with him for the majority of that time, it goes without saying that Qifrey is used to seeing every side of Olruggio, whether it’s when he’s half asleep and grumpy, polished up to deliver a commission, covered in soot from a failed contraption, affectionately putting the girls to sleep, or drenched in cold sweat after another life-endangering event, Qifrey's seen him through everything.
But the one thing he can never seen to get used to is his scruffy attractiveness and his puppy-like, endearing charm. To the extent that when he turned around to greet the person who was hissing a curse word as he banged his foot on the wall and stumbling into the kitchen at two am, he almost dropped the ceramic bowls he’d been holding.
Because seriously, WHO gave this man the right to look that good sleep-deprived and dressed in nightclothes??
At present, Olruggio was rubbing his sharply lined eyes, having not taken off his makeup from his outing the day before. The way it smudged slightly only made him look more tired, which somehow added to his appeal. His hair was perfectly mussed and stuck up in soft tufts, no doubt from nodding off in the middle of drawing or running his hands through it in frustration. Unlike what he wore during the day, his loose nightshirt didn’t even tease at his chest; it lay completely open. Qifrey could swear that he was being mocked by the universe, or something.
He turned around to mutter a greeting, but before he could, Qifrey's limp wrists caused the bowls to tip precariously. Olruggio’s eyes widened and he quickly reached out, but he was only able to make it a few steps before Qifrey snapped out of his daze and the ceramic crashed to the ground. His mind still short circuiting, Qifrey had to look down and process what he was seeing for a full second before gasping.
“Oh dear,” said Qifrey. He bent down, the guilt rushing into his expression. “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry, I really didn’t mean to…”
He tried to pick up the shards, but as soon as his hand came close, he winced and pulled away. A bead of blood formed on his fingertip.
“Stop apologizin’,” said Olruggio. In no time, he’d drawn a Counterclock seal on his palm quire, and the shards flew together, temporarily resuming their original shapes. He picked the bowls up, placed them on the dining table, and crouched next to Qifrey and cupped his hand in his. “You all right?”
“Yes,” Qifrey replied, though his nerves still felt fried and were only becoming more fried the more Olruggio held his hand. “Yes, I’m all right…”
“You sure?”
“A hundred percent.”
Olruggio didn’t seem entirely convinced. He helped his partner up. “I’ll go get you a bandage.”
“No, it’s fi–”
But he was already gone. When he returned, he produced a thin strip of cloth from his pocket.
“I can do it myself,” said Qifrey quickly, but Olruggio just shushed him and wrapped the cloth around his finger. His movements were quick but gentle.
“Not my best work,” he muttered, pulling away to look at the little bow he’d tied, “But it should do for a little.”
Qifrey took his hands and turned them around. “...Thank you.”
“‘Course.” Olruggio patted him on the head (This had to be illegal) and moved toward the kitchen. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”
“That’s my line to you.” Qifrey dusted himself off, trying to keep the blush out of his face. The warmth of touch lingered in his palm. “I keep telling you that sleep deprivation will only get in the way of inspiration. Tetia would agree with me.”
“I’m sure she would,” muttered Olruggio. He chuckled fondly anyways. Qifrey tried to ignore how much he liked that laugh. Why was he thinking that NOW of all times?
“You should sit,” he said to distract himself, hurrying back to his pot. “I’ll go finish up with that stew I was making…”
Olruggio scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, let me help you! Ya almost just killed yourself!”
“I didn’t almost kill myself…”
Still, Qifrey appreciated the help; his wrapped finger made it a little harder to hold tools. But what he appreciated most of all was their shoulders brushing in passing as they navigated the kitchen, familiar in each other’s air. As soon as he recovered from his little flustered episode and regained their usual rhythm, the two of them moved around each other like liquid, sliding past each other as easy as breath. The creation of a midnight snack became an intimate dance, one whose intimacy could only be found in the subtle moments. When their hands hovered near each other. When their eyes met. This time was what Qifrey cherished.
I wish you were my midnight snack, he thought, in a moment of complete abandon. He started choking on his own spit and Olruggio had to pat his back for a full minute before he calmed down. Sometimes, he hated his brain.
“Yer a lifesaver,” sighed Olruggio as they sat down, bowl in hand. He looked at it as though it were his paycheck, which, considering he’d skipped dinner again in favor of getting work done, Qifrey supposed it was. Olruggio slowly spooned the thick broth into his mouth. He shouldn’t have looked so adorable as he ate, but he did.
“Where would you be without me?” teased Qifrey, twirling his spoon.
Olruggio shrugged. “Rotting in m’ room, probably.”
Qifrey didn’t bother to mention that Olruggio had been the first one to save his life, and the one to rescue him many times after that. And he DEFINITELY didn’t mention how many times he’s almost lost his life thanks to his Watchful Eye, either.
I definitely haven’t gotten used to that, he thought, sipping. But if that means taking something for granted…
He looked up at the person sitting across from him, who cradled his hand when he cut it, ate soup with him in the middle of the night, and knew him in ways that nobody else did.
I hope I never get used to it.
“Seconds!” Olruggio announced, pushing back his stool.
Qifrey laughed. He chastised, “No, it’s not good for you.”
“What?! But it’s so good!”
18 years was nothing. Qifrey prayed that this would go on forever.