Sprinkles

“That wouldn’t make for much of a surprise,” Richeh’s voice comes, her back pointed towards him as she slides chunks of cured meat into the cast iron pan. 

Tetia’s bright curls bounce in his peripherals as he glances down. “By the looks of you, I’d say you should’ve slept in more.”

“Oh no, no.” He takes a step back, waving his hands dismissively. Did he look that bad? Usually she saved such comments for Olruggio. “I’m more than rested.”

If only his body could be so convinced. Agott slides a plate in front of him. 

Neither the steady intake of honeytree laden tea nor ginger he’d self-imposed the day prior had been enough to nip Qifrey’s cold in the bud—he’d realized as much when he’d awoken plastered to a tangle of linens by his own cold sweat. Panic from the uncomfortably familiar sensations of being cold and wet threatens him from the other side of his carefully crafted wall. In a sense, it’s a blessing to not have to search for such a thing.

Ever festering stress makes for a fine breeding ground for these viruses and try as he might, he’s never seemed to be able to get away with a simple sore throat or sniffle. He can handle being sick. He’s used to it all—the distinctive searing pressure that crosses his sinuses to his temples, the deep-seated chills that make him wonder if his bones themselves had frozen over, the shards of broken glass encrusted into the lining of his throat, the endless shifting between a runny nose and a blocked one. All of that is easy. Everything else, comparatively, well, the implications he’d rather not consider. 

“Master Qifrey,” Coco starts, “Does it taste alright?”

He jolts when he realizes he’s only eaten half of the prepared egg melt. Now four pairs of eyes are upon him. “It’s perfect,” he assures her with a pleasant smile. Each swallow of his breakfast raises his discomfort, but he lets out a satisfied hum as they watch. In the warmest voice he can manage, he affirms, “And the fact that all of you worked so well together only adds to it. Excuse me for taking my time partaking.”

His next bite is deliberately larger. If only he could really appreciate the taste, though perhaps it’s for the best that he can’t.

Tetia comes to his rescue in carrying the morning conversation and manages to rope Coco into her latest idea for a spell. All of the chatter allows coverage for him to sniffle and occasionally swipe at his nose with the cloth napkin.

“Tell you what,” he says, rising to collect their plates once they’ve all finished. “Since you’ve been so kind as to do all of this fine cooking, I’ll handle the cleaning so you can return to your primers.”

“Are you sure?” Coco asks, cocking her head like she’s nervous about something. “Shouldn’t we—” 

“Go on.”

It’s then he sees how much of a mess they’d made in the process. 

***

“Mornin’, Qifrey.” 

He nearly fumbles the bowl he’d been cleaning. It would’ve been a shame if he’d dropped it, especially given that it would be the last thing he needed to put away. His hands are shaking so terribly that he’s sure drawing a decent spell would take tenfold its required concentration. And he’d need all of that to get through this brief exchange. 

“Olly,” he greets warmly as if even speaking his name hadn’t wreaked havoc on his throat. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

Does he ever? Olruggio gives him a guilty look. “Was up late. Did you save any for—“

Qifrey points at the plate that’d been set aside. 

“Courtesy of our dear apprentices.”

“Looks delicious.” He rubs his hands together.

“It is.”

Olruggio takes another bite of egg melt and gives a smile unfettered by fatigue. “You’ve taught ‘em well.”

Always so achingly sweet. Something twists painfully in his chest and he can’t help but cough. He quickly tries to pass it off as a chuckle, though it’d been so resonantly ugly he supposes it’s all for naught.

“You alright?”

“Hm? Ah.” He nods. “It was just nice to see them all working together. Even Agott was helping out.”

Now’s the time to make his retreat. Of course now his nose has chosen another path. He’d managed to keep this under control, but in Olruggio’s presence something always seems to have to give.

The next inhale he takes breaks into three distinctive parts “hih-hih-hehh—” and then— “nkxt’shh!” 

“Bless.”

Perhaps pinching his nose was stupid; Olruggio was looking right at him, after all. All he’s done is prolonged the fit. His pulse quickens.

“Thank you. hHih-! Oh, deeh-dear me—hh’IHshh’oo!—”

“And again.” 

“Excu-hhse me,” he manages, sniffling behind his sleeve as he searches for a handkerchief, fingers finding nothing as he gears up for another. “heh’CHSHhiu!”

His vision is bleary once again, his hand rests on the countertop for balance.

“Comin’ down with a cold, are you?” The accusation comes with a handkerchief hand-delivered by Olruggio of the torch himself. 

He’d hoped to avoid this entire situation altogether, but of course he couldn’t manage that. Qifrey accepts the cloth with thanks and dabs at his nose with it, ignoring that it, too, carries traces of his scent. Harder to overlook by many strides is the calloused palm that greets his forehead, warm-tipped at the fingers, but ultimately a distinct cold feeling at the hollow of his hand, revealing the fever he’d suspected. How he wants to lean into it, to put his hands on those shoulders. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he says, arching his back away from Olruggio, and averting his gaze from the concern pinching his brow. With nowhere to back into, he steps to the side. “Could I ask you to mind the girls?”

“I’m meant to…ah, well, it shouldn’t be any trouble, but Qifrey, shouldn’t you—”

“Olly, please, back up a bit. I’d hate for you to become ill too,” he chides. Even in this state, his words flow naturally. Years of practice, he supposes. “I’m sure it’s catching. I'll manage much better knowing they’re in your care.” 

“You’re burnin’ up.” 

“I’ll manage.”

The throbbing behind his eye is getting worse. Faster. More domineering. Is that his pulse? The headache that never seems to fully leave him? Both, probably. How awful.

Olruggio supports his weight from the side without his permission and begins guiding him to his room. Instead of fighting it, he falls in line, matching his careful pace, all the while, berating himself. It’s all he can do to not lose consciousness, to not give into the warmth only he could provide. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness this time, just lets himself be led to bed and thinks of the snugstone on his bedside table that’s never seen use. 

All it takes is an offhand mention at the start of the welcome banquet, an offhanded apology to one of his patrons and a warning not to get too close, and everyone he’s ever met is suddenly very interested in how Olruggio is feeling and how hard he must be working and whether they can get him anything for his throat or sinuses. They’d love that, wouldn’t they, thinks Qifrey each time Olruggio declines. Residents of the Hall are always trying their damndest to take a bite out of him.

It’s hard to watch even on a good day. Olruggio can’t seem to help engaging patiently, which means his trips and conversations take forever unless someone gives him an out. He’s lucky to take a few steps before some client or admirer approaches him to talk about some non-urgent personal trivia. Qifrey would go insane. He’s already going insane from his spot on the periphery, extenuating circumstances aside. 

“Just a few days,” Olruggio is telling somebody who asks how long he’s been sick. He bows his head to cough into his fist, looking tired from so much of everyone patting and pulling and making him shout against his sore throat just to hear him shrink from their compliments and make small talk. “Somethin’ going around, I think. Assumed I could fight it off ’til after all this, but…”

Olruggio pauses. From too far away, Qifrey braces himself and watches Olruggio squint against the most devastating symptom of all. 

“RGXZSHHHhuh…”

Because despite all of his suffering, Olruggio sounds so, so lovely when he does that.

As the stranger at the table begins to dote on Olruggio with concern and commentary, Qifrey struggles with forbidden arousal and the sad sympathetic fondness he’s used to feeling whenever Olruggio has to work through a cold. It’s all too much for him to feel at once, in public, out of his element when he can’t do a thing to help either of them.

“HGZTSHU!”

While Qifrey has contended with knowing he wouldn’t be able to interact with Olruggio’s sneezing every time, he’s still taken by the sight of him nearby: Olruggio with his arm bent and posture twisted, bashfully unable to control the means of which his cold displays itself. Nobody around him seems to mind at all; in fact, the person he’s talking to only moves closer to touch his arm and bless him again.

“You poor thing,” they’re saying as Olruggio, still bent away to the side, sniffles against his wrist. Did he even bring a handkerchief? Or has he already run out of clean ones? “Sounds like you could do with a good night’s sleep. And a hot drink made with… with, oh, what’s it called? The medical spire has those little herbs on hand sometimes, the white and green ones…?”

It’s millflower, and Qifrey has been serving its tea to Olruggio all week.

“Dunno. I’ll give it a mention if I stop by,” is Olruggio’s hoarse response, comparatively mellow and polite. “You’d do well to pick some up for yourself.”

“Oh, no, I have plenty! You know, we wouldn’t mind bringing some down to your rooms. You’re staying at the castle with your apprentices tonight, aren’t you?”

“They aren’t technically my apprentices. My friend, Qifrey…”

Qifrey takes his cue to tune the conversation out. He can’t handle hearing Olruggio talk about him while sounding stuffy and sweet like that, especially not to one of the many witches in the vicinity who would just love to devour him whole. It’s too much for Qifrey to think about, even privately, so it’s best he hears as little as possible.

He surfs through the blurry clusters of his peers standing in his path to the nearest open doorway, placidly excusing himself with an occasional modest wave at those he does remember. Only a moment goes by before he’s nearly escaped, and Qifrey is one step away before he receives an irresistible summons.

“Oi! Qifrey!” Olruggio is using what must be the last of his voice, just to call out to him. “Quit avoiding us, will you?”

How ridiculous to think he’d ever be able to sneak away from Olruggio.

Once Qifrey makes eye contact and smiles to confirm he’ll make his way back, Olruggio returns a satisfied nod and then bends down to cough. Even drained and subdued, his commanding friendliness manages to soar right into Qifrey’s center.

Olruggio is still getting his voice back when Qifrey gets there, not because it’s gone on for long but because he’d only been a couple tables away. Strange how even a pinch of despair can make such little space seem like treacherous expanses of land.

“Here, Olly.” The handkerchief Qifrey pulls from his pocket is still warm from his own body heat. He passes it to Olruggio before greeting his not-companion. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, but I’ve heard plenty about you!” Unlike Olruggio, this person’s friendliness is shrill. Qifrey is careful not to wince as he takes a seat. “You live somewhere in the countryside, don’t you? You’re a teacher?”

An easy question that prompts a natural smile. “For a few years now. I’ve got four apprentices at the moment.”

“Yes, yes, Olruggio was telling me you’re very good with them.”

It’s not easy to concentrate with Olruggio making these little squeaky snuffling sounds and breathing through his mouth between them. Qifrey is about to fluster him in return with a comment about his kind words, but he devolves from distracted to speechless when Olruggio turns his way and sneezes clumsily beneath his sleeve.

“HAH’GZSHHiU!”

“Bless you,” Qifrey says with an immediate hand on Olruggio’s shoulder, steadying and reassuring, smoothing out a shiver as he recovers. “My goodness, Olly, your poor throat.”

The handkerchief is belatedly put to use as a shield and then as a mop, with Olruggio only straightening up once the thing has nearly gone translucent.

“I know, I know,” he mutters with a gruff swipe of cloth against the skin under his nose. “’S fine. Scuse me.”

“Cold’s got you good, hasn’t it, dear?” says his acquaintance, as though they’re stuck on the topic. How embarrassing, how sexy, how awful, terrible, delightful. Against Qifrey’s recommendation, Olruggio evades having to keep talking about it by calling over a server to top off his chalice with wine.

As the evening continues, Qifrey watches Olruggio’s symptoms progress upward in an inevitable quest to settle right in the middle of his face. That’s how it always goes for him, with chills and a sore throat leading to the congestion setting in for a day or so, and then all of the sneezing starts and compromises them both.

It looks like he’ll be in the thick of it tomorrow, when everything overlaps miserably. Qifrey won’t have a choice but to ride through it with him, collapsing within himself over and over, unable to desensitise himself to Olruggio no matter how much of him he experiences. He’s not sure if it’s worse that they’re together this time, or if he’d be better off not having to watch the swarm of strangers putting their hands all over Olruggio and asking him for a dance.

At Olruggio’s request, the two of them leave early. He never finishes his second glass of wine, complaining about it being a waste when he’s unable to taste it, but Qifrey sees it already starting to make his bright eyes heavy and his clever mind slow. It still takes quite a while for the two of them to escape the ballroom as he apologetically says his hellos and goodbyes.

They take the long way through the corridors to their rooms, and the comparatively fresh air, humid and salty as it is, perks Olruggio up enough to keep pace as he sobers up.

His company helps, but Qifrey can’t keep the dread from building in his chest as the reality of the week starts to set. He’d rather spend the night anywhere but the Great Hall, but there’s no getting around the schedule this time. Dust will gather and chores will pile up at home while he grits through the loneliness and lack of privacy that comes with an unpredictable environment full of people he vaguely knows and doesn’t particularly care for. From the first step through the windowway, he itches to turn right back around to the quiet of his own home, where he’s not surrounded by things that don’t make sense.

At least the girls don’t mind it here, so long as they’re together. Solace finds him when he and Olruggio step into the far end of the guest wing and pass by the set of rooms they’d dropped them off in earlier that afternoon.

“Pretty sure this is me,” Olruggio says with his thumb jutting toward the door just across from Coco and Agott’s. He points at the corner room next to it, then tosses a smooth, heavy key for Qifrey to catch. “And that one’s you, if you’d like it.”

“Oh.” Usually they keep those suites reserved, even when nobody’s staying in them. “Did you arrange this?”

“Yup. Nice ’n private.”

I love you, thinks Qifrey, but out loud he says, “That’s very thoughtful, Olly, thank you.”

“Yeah well,” replies Olruggio in a hurry, bristling, hand on his neck, “figured it’d be easier to sync up if we shared a wall.”

Qifrey doesn’t ask him how he managed it. More than likely, he had some sort of connection through work.

“The girls have a key too, just in case.” Olruggio busies himself with unlocking his own door, then freezes in place just before he turns the key. Qifrey tenses along with him, watching as Olruggio twists and leans away from him with a tremendous shudder. “HAHDTSHHiU!”

His body language is so urgent that it reads as protective, like he’s trying with all his might to keep his suffering to himself. But Olruggio’s heart radiates from his sleeve, always earnest whether he likes it or not.

“haAH’YZSHHHhhuh…! Ah, geez…”

How?

How on earth could anyone not fall in love with him?

“Bless you,” Qifrey says with a tempered smile, voice hushed, touching Olruggio only though his robes to guide him inside. “I’d like to get a look at your room, too, if you don’t mind.”

Qifrey finishes up with the lock and opens the door. Heat branches from his ear in a diagonal line downward toward his middle as he listens to Olruggio sniffling behind him.

Someone has already brought their things in for them. A bag of miscellaneous supplies, likely for demonstration, has been set up near the desk by Olruggio’s window, across from the wardrobe and bed. Qifrey notices a petite, rounded gift box sitting atop the bedside table, displayed neatly without its top to showcase the assortment of sweets and remedies inside.

“How nice,” says Qifrey as he picks up a bottle and turns it over in his hand. “Someone’s left you a get-well basket, Olly.”

“Hm?” Even the little hum sounds sore as it resonates through his nose. Olruggio hangs up his cloak and looks to see what’s the matter. “Ah. No use lyin’ to me, Qifrey, I know it creeps you out.” 

“You say that as though I’m the one reacting strangely.”

“Just leave everything where it is. I’ll donate it or somethin’ when I get a chance.”

“Are you sure? This one is meant to help with sleep.” Qifrey sets another tincture aside, just herbs and water, nothing medicinal in a way that could get someone in trouble. “Could be worth a try, don’t you think?”

“Sounds more like you could use it, then. I’ve got a couple of things to touch up before tomorrow, so…”

“You’re joking.”

“Besides,” Olruggio adds, “the guy who sent it will probably ask how I liked his gifts, and it’s best if he thinks I was too busy working to take a look through them.”

Jealousy prickles in Qifrey’s hands as they search through the basket for any sort of card or label. “How do you know who it came from?”

“There’s this one guy who always sends stuff like that. Tries to personalise it by askin’ around.” Olruggio begins to unpack the nightclothes he’s brought, voice weary and sighing with the effort of moving about. “He sends things up to get me to thank him and then talks my ear off ’til I volunteer some advice, then he tries to put my name on his work like we collaborated. Rather he’d just send a letter, to be honest.”

“I see.” Qifrey only witnesses parts of Olruggio’s job from home, the parts that make sense for someone being paid to use his hands and mind to solve puzzles. He forgets how much of Olruggio’s work is social, figuring out games and having to dodge them without causing offense. “That sounds a bit sinister, trying to trick you like that.”

“Nah, just got a bit of a head on him is all. He means well.” Olruggio hangs up his cloak, then unloads a couple of handkerchiefs into the miniature washing barrel by the door. “Works mostly for a noble family up north, but he was an apprentice himself barely two years ago. Hey, I’m keepin’ this, by the way. I’ll wash it again after.”

“Oh. Right.” Qifrey sees Olruggio holding the handkerchief he lent him earlier. It strikes him at the core, numb and hot, pleasant and paralysing, reminding him to stay on his toes and hold his mask in place. “I’d assumed you would. You’re going to need it much more than I will.”

Heavens forbid Olruggio runs out of them and ends up a mess, inadvertently inviting someone else to help him out so intimately in a way that they wouldn’t even appreciate.

“For now, maybe.” He folds up Qifrey’s handkerchief and sets it on the table next to the manipulator’s set of gifts. “None of you lot’ve got any inkling of self-preservation.”

“No need for you to worry about me,” Qifrey says as a reminder to them both, then he sets the tincture back after all. “Please do get some sleep if you can, though. I’d feel a lot better seeing to it that you won’t be up at your desk all night.”

“What’s that?” Olruggio grins. “Gonna tuck me in, Qifrey?”

“Yes,” Qifrey answers, satisfied by the pink in Olruggio’s cheeks, “if I must.”

“Go,” grumbles Olruggio. “Get to your own quarters already, costin’ me a fortune…”

I love you, thinks Qifrey again, and he says nothing else this time. Like a tendril of smoke escaping the vent of a furnace, he peacefully waves himself out.

✵☆✧ ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚  ᯓ★

The first thing Qifrey learns when he finds Olruggio the next morning is that the walls had been soundproofed. He really does despise the Great Hall.

“Oh, Olly…” he says when they meet at the staircase near their breakfast spot, unable to sound anything but dismal as he soaks up the sight of his friend. “Did you even make it to bed at all?”

Olruggio hangs his head and rubs at the spot above his eyes, letting Qifrey stare at him as though he deserves to. The signs are all there; one glance at him would tell anyone he’s unwell, but the most miserable part is how put-together he looks otherwise. Neat hair, crisp clothes, clean skin, smelling like fancy soap and leather. It means he’s had to sacrifice even more rest for appearances alone. It also means he looks very classically and immediately handsome and sounds very terribly sick.

“I did try,” Olruggio promises, and then he says something unbelievable. “I even took out that sleep dropper you found, but it had me sneezing up a storm for a good hour afterward. You try to lie down properly after that.”

It takes all Qifrey has in him to keep from tumbling down the stairs. “It what?”

“I think it was some sort of aromatherapy,” complains Olruggio. “Point is, I had to give up eventually and take a head start on gettin’ ready instead. Good thing, too. Started up again when I was in the baths, but it was so early, nobody else’d even come down yet.”

What is Qifrey supposed to say to that? Where has his bloody head gone? That’s right, down south is where, and he needs to pick it back up fast.

Olruggio sighs because the conversation is normal to him, and then he gestures at his own face. “One to ten, Qifrey, how bad is it?”

Oh, don’t make me answer that…

They stop at a landing between floors. It’ll be a while before they have this much quiet, empty space again. 

“You look like you’ve been working very hard,” Qifrey answers automatically, numbly, as he comes back to himself. He feels his mouth smiling gently and decides it’s fine. This would be easier if Olruggio wasn’t so cute. “And like you might have a fever coming on.”

Olruggio grabs Qifrey’s wrist when he’s halfway to checking his forehead. Qifrey feels Olruggio’s grip tighten as he wrenches to the side without letting go. “hhAH’EZSHuh!”

At least there’s nobody else around to hear him out in the open like this.

“And there’s…” Olruggio relaxes his grip, takes his own hand back and bends deeper at the waist as he turns away fully. “GZZXSHhhuh! …haATZSHHhhuh! …And there’s that, still. Doubt it’ll be stopping soon.”

“I know.” Qifrey pours the intensity of arousal into the natural sympathy in his voice as he watches Olruggio tend to himself with a handkerchief. “You sound awful, Olly, bless you.”

“Damn it. Maybe it’ll give some of the others more incentive to go easy on me,” says Olruggio quickly. Apparently he’s reached his sincerity threshold for the time being. That, or Qifrey’s attention is already making him shy. “I’m sure it’ll be fine after some tea. Think the girls’re up yet?”

They certainly are, and all four of them are waiting in the cafeteria with breakfast already gathered and arranged at a table large enough for six. No; a grouping of three smaller, circular tables pushed together into a triangle so they can all sit facing each other, just like at home. They’ve even arranged the tableware in their usual spots.

Meetings and classes start soon, so they rush through an exchange of plans and commentary. Qifrey’s dear apprentices embarrass Olruggio by setting his place at the table with an entire pot of tea made only for him, and he thanks them before drinking most of it while it's still too hot. Tetia insults him compassionately, comparing the parts of him that look particularly terrible to the parts that are polished for the event. According to Richeh, it’s worse than if he’d let himself go entirely, and according to Coco, that isn’t a very nice thing to say to a sick person. Agott asks to borrow whatever product he’s used in his hair.

Some of them share food, or they trade based on how they feel about the new recipes on their plates. Qifrey focused on cataloguing their preferences as they discover them, and the commotion of traveling witches bustling around them doesn’t seem so noisy.

The meal ends too soon because it ends at all, and then it’s off to meeting number one.

Only witches who have passed test number four and reached a high volume of public service acts were called to attend. The reasoning behind its qualifiers could be anything from proof that one could be trusted with confidential information to a focus on high achievement and good standing. The room is small and in a high tower, lined with multi-seated desks all facing a drawing board up front. 

Of course, someone calls to Olruggio as soon as he steps through the door, eager to invite him to sit at their table. Olruggio gets to decline because of his cold, promising that this person will thank him for it when they wake up tomorrow still able to breathe through their nose. Hearing that from him is so erotic that it borders on overstimulating, and Qifrey follows him to a section in the back, where he can sit with the wall on his right side and Olruggio on his left.

“I’m his Watchful Eye,” Olruggio tells whoever it was, as soon as they ask why he’s not as concerned about passing any illness onto Qifrey. “Dunno if he’s got a choice in avoidin’ it like you do. Consider yourself lucky.”

Not everyone is so deterred by Olruggio’s warnings, unfortunately, or perhaps those who choose the seats surrounding him anyway have got perversions similar to Qifrey’s. It’s not so implausible when the state of him is so obvious and obscene.

Stop looking at him like that, Qifrey demands of the other guests silently, ridiculously, just as much as he demands it of himself despite finding it impossible not to stare. He doubts he’ll retain a thing from this morning’s session. Something about volcanic towns he’ll never get to see, and the types of contraptions their villagers are requesting to keep one another comfortable and safe in the case of eruption. It’s the kind of assignment Olruggio could design on his own, likely after talking to the villagers themselves as opposed to a third party team of witches with rewards on their minds.

But instead Olruggio is here, playing nice with them anyway, breathing through his mouth and making cute little clicking sounds by accident when he tries to swallow or clear his throat. His eyelids droop as he tries to stay awake, and every once in a while, he blinks particularly hard like something’s startled him. Soon enough he’s got a half-opened handkerchief in his lap, waiting as he squints forward with his expression vacant.

Like last night at the banquet, he doesn’t have anywhere safe to turn. Unlike last night at the banquet, there’s no real ambiance to decenter any of the noise he’s about to make. All he can do with the sneeze is try his best to smother it.

“MMPXTgh…!” Back up for air, then down again. “AAH’MMPTshhih!”

“Bless you,” murmurs Qifrey amidst the others doing the same. Olruggio doesn’t look at any of them, just ducks his head and waves a hand up to dismiss the attention.

He presses on his septum with the handkerchief, nostrils twitching dampness onto the fabric each time he sniffles, then he pinches and tugs downward as though he’s trying to drain out the irritation instead of blowing his nose in a quiet, well-mannered room.

It would make sense if it worked, but all of his fussing with it is only making the situation harder on him. Olruggio isn’t usually so careful about tempering himself.

“ha’EHZSHhhiu!”

He’s no good at it, either.

Just about everyone in the room is excited to say bless you to him this time, so Qifrey waits for them to have their fun before passing a new handkerchief over and receiving Olruggio’s thanks in the form of a brief, twitchy smile. 

Olruggio waits until the moment has passed and the presenter has recaptured the spotlight, then slides an empty page from his notebook to the space on the table between them. He uses his left hand to write while keeping his eyes centered forward.

Let’s leave early

Qifrey makes eye contact to communicate his understanding, then writes his own message.

Would you prefer to step out first, or shall I take the lead? he writes back. As soon as Qifrey withdraws his hand, Olruggio hastily jots his response.

Me

They share another look to confirm. It’s brief; pressure builds behind Olruggio’s eyes before they snap shut for another sneeze.

“EHJZSHhhu!”

Even the speaker up front interrupts their own presentation to throw a prompt, pleasant bless you to him all the way in the back.

bless you! :) writes Qifrey as he watches Olruggio go pink. Beneath it, Olruggio doodles a caricature of himself, looks Qifrey in the eye once more, then scribbles on top of the middle of its face and writes Thanks

When he excuses himself from the room, Olruggio doesn’t bother making a show of it. He leaves all of his things on the table for an impression that he’s planning on coming back, and he holds off on making any significant noise on the other side of the door. Qifrey gathers Olruggio’s pen and notebook as the presentation shifts to a new section, holds still until a guest begins asking a question, then slips away on his own.

They used the same trick when cutting class back in the day, at least before their teachers caught on and began separating them. Whoever follows the other out of the lesson would wait a rough quarter mark first, then find his friend by taking two lefts through the hallway. The logistics worked regardless of the building they were stationed in, and they work now just the same.

Their meeting spot ends up being somewhere dark and empty. Olruggio is leaned up against a wall, easy to find by sound alone as he blows his nose. Qifrey is grateful at least one of them knows their way around, especially so because it doesn’t have to be him.

“Qifrey,” calls Olruggio hoarsely. The echo of his cough is starting to squeak a little in his chest.

“Olly. Seems you’ve forgotten a few things,” Qifrey says as he hands them over.

“Awful nice of you to bring them to me.” Olruggio takes his pages back, playing along. “Sorry for the trouble.”

I love you, Olly, thinks Qifrey, so much I can barely stand it.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asks out loud, because it’s the most he can manage.

“Well, no. That meeting pissed me off plenty.” Olruggio taps Qifrey on the arm and starts walking. “I know that island they were talkin’ about.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Or I guess I know of it, because nobody lives there.”

“Nobody lives there,” repeats Qifrey. That can’t be right, can it? “That meeting was focused on commission requests from the villagers.”

“Right, but they don’t exist. Some nobles are interested in buildin’ a village for themselves to holiday out there, but nobody nearby will help with it because of the volcano. It’s too dangerous.”

“They left out that first part, didn’t they,” agrees Qifrey sourly. “And do you think it would be possible to accomplish with magic?”

“Maybe. But I’ve got a feeling they’re using the village names to pose their project as a public service for witches, and if nobody bites, to get away with underpaying someone for work they didn’t consent to doin’ in the first place.”

“Sounds like something that happens often.”

“Yeah, plenty. Been tricked a few times myself, but some of my own clients are wise to it.”

“Of course.” It’s much easier for people on the surface to talk about goings on that actually matter, after all. “Do you think you’ll say anything this time?”

“If I do, it won’t be down here,” sighs Olruggio. They reach a point where the hallway splits, and he stretches his neck toward Qifrey. “Anyway, enough with that for now. You up for a snack?”

The cafeteria is much less crowded mid-morning, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. Qifrey thinks for a foolish moment that they may get away with taking their food and sitting down unbothered. They’re halfway across when some irritating gentleman offers Olruggio a free set of sweet dumplings, which he ends up paying for and sharing with Qifrey anyway. 

“Suppose I should say hi to Sinocia,” Olruggio says as he tucks himself into a chair near the back.

“Check the Medical Spire off your list, you mean?” Qifrey divides the plate in half and sets Olruggio’s portion down in front of him.

“Maybe get an exam so people stop askin’ about it,” Olruggio adds before taking a bite of his food. “Return that thing of medicine, too.”

“Already worn out by your admirers, Olly?”

Olruggio scoffs, rolls his eyes and ignores him. “Come with me. You could use some quiet, yourself.”

“At the Medical Spire...?” 

“Got somewhere else to be?”

He doesn’t. Retreating to one’s own dwellings with a full schedule would raise questions and criticisms, which is the last thing their atelier needs.

Qifrey watches Olruggio wince as he swallows, and he takes the opportunity to move the spotlight. “How do you like those?”

Before answering, Olruggio holds his hand out flat, then tilts it side to side like a see-saw. “Fine. Nothin’ like I’m used to at home, though.”

“No?”

“Not even close.” Olruggio nods toward Qifrey’s plate. “Try some.”

Mid-bite, Qifrey realises Olruggio’s sense of taste has got to be gone completely, he’s so stopped up. The thought counts for something, so Qifrey doesn’t bother to mention it.

✵ ☆⋆｡⋆˚꩜｡‧ ᯓ★

The medical spire isn’t far, but certain parts of the Hall are full of staircases that take them up and down for no good reason other than to confuse everybody at best. Today it means even a short distance gives Olruggio trouble catching his breath by the time he’s knocking at the door. 

The one who lets them in is Emile, the strapping doctor Sinocia likes. Good. She steps aside into an empty foyer, pats Olruggio on the back when he starts coughing, then takes them to the benches behind the curtain so they’ll have a place to sit.

Sinocia is there setting towels into a basin. She looks over her shoulder and sets her eyes on them, then smiles brightly and spins around. 

“I was wondering when I’d see you two!” she says with a wink, tilting her head playfully. “Business or pleasure?”

Olruggio clears his throat. “How’ve you been, Sinocia?”

Qifrey recognises the joke. Witches aren’t allowed social visits with doctors. 

“Oh, just fine over here. Busy, though,” Sinocia says. She brings him a glass of water, then hands one to Qifrey as well.

“Thank you,” Qifrey says, making conversation so Olruggio can drink. “You’ve had a lot of visitors, then.”

“Yes, mostly strangers coming in for… Well, for whatever it is happening out there this week. I won’t ask.” She starts to gather something from a cabinet. “Shame we really can’t see each other unless somebody is sick or hurt, isn’t it?”

Someone is supposed to reply in defence of the Pact, something along the lines of Perhaps, but it’s necessary, usually followed by a threatening silence to keep anyone from complaining about it again.

“Yeah,” Olruggio says, still a little breathless. He pulls a satchel from his robe. “If you’ve got some time now, I wanted to check if you might have any use for these.”

“Oh! Let me take a look. I’ll trade you.” Sinocia takes the satchel from him and hands over a tiny metal cup. “Drink that, please. You sound even worse than everybody has been saying.”

“What is it for?” asks Qifrey as Olruggio downs the medicine without so much as inspecting it.

“Just standard cold medicine. Cough, headache, fever, that sort of thing.” Sinocia takes the cup from Olruggio as he cringes with a dry little cough. “Sorry, dear. I know it’s bitter.”

Smoothly, she transitions their interaction into a quick physical exam, palpating the areas Olruggio has been struggling with before he’s even disclosed them. Throat, sinuses, forehead, and right beneath his ears. She takes a look at his eyes, checks his pulse, listens to him breathe. Every once in a while, she’ll hum something to herself or say “that’s not good!” or call him a sweet name out of sympathy. It’s clear she’s familiar with him, and it’s just as clear that he trusts her to treat him properly.

Qifrey likes Sinocia. Her disposition is cheerful and tranquil and her presence is steady; she’s always been kind and professional. It takes a special type of doctor to treat witches, not only in competence but in personality, too. They have to be okay with not knowing, with the relative isolation to their peers on the surface, and with the restrictions on communication between themselves and their patients. Sinocia has managed to be respectful of that without detaching herself, and she’s able to take care of Olruggio in all the ways Qifrey is locked away from.

At least somebody is doing it. And Sinocia hasn’t got an ulterior motive, no reason to care for titles or status. She hardly cares about anything aside from his company and his health. It would be nice for Olruggio to have someone like her for a friend, instead of someone like Qifrey who…

“IHGXSshu!”

…who cares about those things too, but can’t help the rest of his circumstances around Olruggio. Including his own body’s responses to something so… so…

“IHGXZSHHhu! ha–AEZSSHhiu!”

“Aw! Bless you. Oh, don’t worry about— here, honey, just use one of these.”

…so attractive. Sexy. Natural, naive, beyond his control. You’re terrible, Qifrey reassures himself, unable to look at anything but Olruggio, the breath building in his chest, brow taut and mouth open, moisture sparkling at the edges of his features.

“MPHZSHHhhih!”

“All right, you, enough with that,” Sinocia says warmly. “I know you don’t feel good, you don’t have to try and prove it to me. Can I take your temperature, or do you have to sneeze again?”

“Best hang on a few,” is Olruggio’s muggy answer.

“Blow your nose then, dear.” Sinocia gives Olruggio some privacy by looking to Qifrey next. “Usually he staves these things off until after all the work is over, right? I’m curious about what the deal is this time.”

Qifrey crosses his legs. “Afraid I couldn’t say.”

“Have you been well, Qifrey? And the girls? They were in great shape last time they came in. You must be taking good care of them.”

“Think it’s just the season,” interrupts Olruggio. He sniffs and beckons Sinocia back before she can ask how Qifrey has been taking care of him. “Go ahead, Sinocia, give me your worst.”

“Okay!”

Olruggio looks so darling with a thermometer in his mouth, pouting like he does, nose flushed pink from the influx of activity.

“Now, what do we have here…” While she waits, Sinocia has decided to look into the supplies Olruggio brought in. She begins to rifle through the bag without pouring anything onto the counter, holding up and then putting back its contents one by one. “Marktea, pastilles, fancy water, some aromatherapy…? Olruggio, where did these come from?”

“One of Olly’s clients,” answers Qifrey. “He’s supposedly well-meaning.”

Olruggio shifts like he wants to say something, so Qifrey holds his index finger vertically against his own lips.

“The brands in here are really expensive,” Sinocia says. “Ooh, and this one’s been opened already. You didn’t like it?”

The thermometer bounces as Olruggio makes a sound through the corner of his mouth.

“Laceweed oil!” Sinocia laughs. “No wonder you’ve been sneezing like that.”

What in the world does that mean? Is Qifrey even allowed to ask? The reminder of what he missed is going to make him dizzy all over again if he isn’t careful. He keeps his gaze off of Olruggio, just to be safe.

Sinocia closes the drawstrings on the satchel and sets it aside, then takes the thermometer from Olruggio and inspects the number with a frown. “You’re a little warm, but not too bad yet. I’ll give you some tranquileaf to take as needed, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“And this syrup in case your cough gets worse. And a poultice to help you breathe better; apply it before you to go bed.”

“Okay. Sure. Thanks.”

“And… I’ll have to give this back, too. I’m really sorry, I don’t think a hospital can accept something that costs so much.”

“So,” sighs Olruggio, “just take it home with you, then.”

“What?”

“Consider it a gift.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not against the rules, is it,” says Olruggio dryly as he stands up. “It’d be a big help, you know. Keeps me from havin’ to deal with the guy when he thinks I never received it. Probably wanted me to try returnin’ it to him so he’d get a chance to— …Ah. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” echoes Sinocia.

“Forgot where I was.” Olruggio rubs his neck and looks away. “You’d be doin’ me a favor takin’ it off my hands is all.”

Qifrey shrugs when Sinocia looks to him for explanation, so she shrugs easily and brightens right back up. 

“If you insist! Thank you, Olruggio, that’s very generous.”

“Like I said. It’s mostly a favor to me. Share it with someone if you’d like, put the bounty to use.”

“Hmmm…” Sinocia’s eyes dart to Qifrey and then up at the ceiling as she taps her chin with one hand and places the other on her hip. “I know! I’ll accept your gift so you can do a favor for me too, and be a less troublesome patient.”

“Much easier said than done,” Qifrey reminds her.

“He’s one to talk,” Olruggio says. “At least I see a doctor when the time comes. I have to drag this guy by the scruff to get him to go at all. Lucky he’s usually too weak to fight me by then.”

I love you, thinks Qifrey. He watches Olruggio gather his prescriptions and tuck them away neatly, like a good patient does.

“Yes, I know,” Sinocia says. “So since I’ve got you both here already, I’m not letting you leave until you’ve slept a clockmark or two. It’ll be much worse on you, Qifrey, when you catch this cold because you haven’t been sleeping either, and then I’ll really have my hands full.”

“Whether that’s true or not,” Qifrey says, as though he wouldn’t love anything more, “I’m not sure we can get away with skipping just to have a nap.”

“Sure you can! Doctor’s orders,” declares Sinocia. “I’m sure whoever you’re standing up would be happy to meet in private later or relay necessary information to you some other way, right?”

“Up to you,” Olruggio adds. “I’m takin’ a cot either way.”

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

"AET'SCHue!"

Finally, Jenny halted in her tracks. The steady crunch of frozen earth underfoot went on without her.

“Ivan!” she barked at his back, admonishing.

“Yes?” he replied, hotly. Jenny tipped her head back with a huff so exasperated it ruffled her bangs. Although he strode on ahead with a steady, driving cadence, she could feel the bristling undercurrent wash over her as she stood there, falling farther and farther behind. Unarmored as he foolishly always was, she could already tell that any scolding was about to bounce right off his back like a pebble striking plate armor.

“You’ve sneezed eight times since we left town!” she called after him.

He scuffed the back of his wrist against his nose with a watery sniffle. “And?”

She caught up quickly—trotting ahead a little just to properly confront him. When he still stared straight ahead at the trees, marching forward like a dauntless automaton, she danced in close, fingers darting for the gap in his sleeveless tunic, prodding at any exposed vitals she could find—finally getting a rise out of him when she plucked at his bare shoulder, close enough to the sensitive hollow under his arm to make him flinch and shrug her off with an irritable hiss.

"And I don’t want you sleeping outside if you’re catching a cold!"

At that, he slowed. The trail felt blisteringly silent without their footsteps grinding through the tender frost. His foul temper seemed to break suddenly, as if it were a fever, and he turned to face her. “I can’t go back there, Jen,” he said softly.

She shifted on her feet and glanced back the way they came. The sun was setting over the valley, bedding into the first pillowy plumes of hearth smoke rising to meet it. It looked peaceful enough from up here, but she knew better.

“Why not, though? It’s not like we burned the whole fuckin’ village down…” she grumbled.

“If you wanna go back into town for a rest, then I will see you on the other side of the circuit.” He'd outlined these words carefully, spoken with a measured finality that he didn’t use on her very often these days.

She hesitated, brow lined with anxiety when she turned back and found him looking so tired, hollowed out, already pinkening at the nostrils from whatever he'd been trying to do to beat back the inevitable. “You said the next one was three days from here…” she murmured.

Ivan sniffled against the heel of his hand again. “If you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, I’m all ears.”

A gentle flurry of snow had begun to flutter down around them.

“Yeah, here’s one:” Jenny declared with a fangs-out smirk. “We should turn around.” She squinted again at the buildings scattered at the bottom of the hillside, now looking warm and illuminated in a soup of gathering shadows. “We can just find a room and hide out for a few days while you–hey!”

Ivan had already rolled his eyes and started off briskly down the path again with the same taut swagger, coughing dryly to one side without breaking stride. Again, she scurried to match his pace.

“What's your problem? We’ve hid out in worse and you know it!” she balked. While struggling to catch his evasive and increasingly bleary gaze, she watched a single, downy snowflake alight on the peak of his bare shoulder and dissolve into nothing. “I don’t understand why you're being so–”

This time, he stopped so suddenly that she found herself a few paces ahead, blinking, before she whipped around. For a moment, she thought his moodiness had reached an unprecedented boiling point and felt her hackles raise for the sort of squabble both of them were far too old for and neither had ever backed down from yet– Until she found him, face in hands, doubled over by another punishing sneeze.

“ahdt—JSHHHuu!"

He stayed there for a moment, sniffling behind cupped hands. When his eyes refocused, he glanced up at Jenny. She shrugged pointedly in reply.

“Nine.”

Slowly, almost mechanically, the boy’s hand moves to point first at Dashiell’s photo, then Detective Sutherland’s. Claire makes a mental note of the order, but without any additional context or insight its meaning, if there is any, is opaque.

“You’re sure?” The A.D.A. asks and when Trevor nods mutely he sweeps the rest of the photos back off the table and into his manila folder, re-centering Dashiell and Sutherland’s photos in front of the teenager.

Who shot you?” He asks.

The boy’s jaw clenches and slowly, shakily, his hand moves to point at Detective Sutherland. Claire registers the hesitation, but also the expression on the boy’s face - horror, not obfuscation.

“Who shot your mother?” The A.D.A. asks.

Again, the boy‘s trembling hand points at Sutherland.

“Who shot your father?”

Jerkily, he taps the photo of Sutherland.

“Who shot your sister?”

Face contorting with barely restrained tears, Trevor shoves the photo of Sutherland towards the A.D.A., then looks away, shoulders hunched, breathing uneven.

“Did anyone else fire any shots in your house on the afternoon of November twelfth?” The A.D.A. asks.

Trevor shakes his head, tears trickling slowly down onto his cheeks now despite his apparent efforts to hold them back.

“Had you ever seen either of these two men before that afternoon? Please look at the photos carefully,” The A.D.A. presses.

There’s a subtle, yet to Claire at least, palpable shift in the air, though she would be hard pressed to explain what exactly it is that she notices — A slight change in the set of the boy’s shoulders perhaps, a sudden tightening of his jaw, an all around stiffening… It’s hard to say, but Claire is suddenly on high alert.

Slowly, reluctantly, the boy drags his head around to look again at the photos of Dashiell and Sutherland. He shakes his head, a short, jerky movement, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows convulsively. And now Claire does see obfuscation in his eyes, dark and closed off, shutters drawn.

“Are you sure?” She asks softly.

He nods, eyes flickering to her then away again. Maybe it’s her imagination, but she thinks his expression looks suddenly hunted.

And the A.D.A. has evidently caught a whiff of the same thing Claire has, or has at least caught the fact that Claire has caught a whiff of something…

“I’m going to ask you again, did you know, or had you seen, either of these two men before the afternoon of November eighth?” He asks, taking a step towards the boy’s bed.

“I told you I don’t know them...” Trevor moans, half choked, burying his face in his hands and beginning to rock slowly back and forth.

The A.D.A. takes another step towards the bed and Claire reaches out and grabs his elbow, shakes her head warningly when he turns to look at her, and silently mouths ‘not now’. He glares at her for a moment, then turns back to the still rocking teenager.

“Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch,” He says shortly, then turns on his heel and marches out the door with a significant look at Claire, who follows resignedly behind him.

In the hall he takes her by the arm and steers her into the nearest unoccupied room, closing the door behind them with a sharp snap.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Ivan re-wrapped his forearm as he traipsed down the hall, tucking the loose ends under his leather vambrace just in time to bump the next door open with his hip.

The dim corridor burst open into a riot of glass and jewels and living things. He found himself standing on the low balcony of a vast, crystal atrium, hemmed by pillars of quartz thick as ancient trees and wreathed in climbing ivy. The smooth stone flooring of the palace proper gave way to an intricate mosaic underfoot; he followed its winding pattern all the way to the very edge of a mezzanine overlooking this grand cathedral to natural light. Far, far overhead hung a clear, faceted skylight, held aloft by soaring arches, high enough to kiss the cosmos (for all he could tell–puny, craning his neck to admire it from the first-and-a-half floor).

The hall was lit on all sides, sort of, by what passed for daylight here. Even cast in the cold pallor of a relentless drizzle just outside its semi-translucent walls, the geometry of this place glittered prismatic in Ivan’s periphery with every step he took, framing everything in a dreamlike opalescence that moved as he did. Every column, every tile, every image worked into the stone around him held every color he could imagine and some he may have never spared a single thought for until now. It was easy to envision this room dazzling in true daylight: flooded with rainbows, sun pouring in from all angles and igniting every smooth surface it could touch. Sunless as it was now, the hall did not fail to impress, but it was a hazy sort of wonder–a precious gem cocooned in cobwebs, weary in its beauty. Elegant, but asleep.

Ivan leaned over the railing.

Rooted at the center of the expanse sat a polished sundial of mottled stone, twice his height or more in diameter–inert, but brilliant. Its face was carved with orbits of elaborate glyphs and rich veins of malachite, etched in every mode of demarcating time or fortune that its architect could have possibly learned before their own ran out. With only the endless, unbroken grey overhead and all around, its stiff arm failed to cast any meaningful shadow. It could not tell him the time and, frankly, he could not blame it. It simply sat, portentous, pointing its static gnomon accusatorily at the heavens, holding the tension of an entire citadel in its burnished splendor.

Ivan heard the gentle rattle of a latch and watched one of many ornate doors swing open half a floor below. A hooded figure slipped through, closing the door carefully behind with a soft click before drifting across the room in the direction of the sleeping clock’s midnight. The soaked hem of a dark cloak trailed along the floor behind–rain-blackened in most places, gradienting to a deep violet at the shoulders where it had begun to dry just enough for little whorls of embroidered acanthus to stand out on the surface again.

Ivan felt a rush of sparks course through him.

The only sight he would have welcomed standing in a hall of precious stones.

He planted his boots between the rungs of the balustrade and stepped up, easily, onto the railing. Balanced there, he felt the world turn under his feet and forgot ever having been at-odds with its machinations. Rain began to pluck at the glass ceiling, and a well of sunlight filled the emptiness in his chest.

“Hail, sorcerer!” his voice rang out in the high arch of the hall. Light as a ghost, he drifted over the railing and dropped the short distance to the sunken tiles below. “Your reputation preceded me,” he said, straightening up with a crooked grin. “Else I’d’ve gotten here much sooner.”

Amaranth did not flinch, but turned to face him, slowly.

In the instant the sorcerer’s gaze fell upon him, Ivan caught a glimpse of something that forced his brazen gait to falter. He could feel the push of some unearthly veil between them, radiating in the residual gleam of uncanny light emanating from somewhere behind Amaranth’s eyes. They had been apart for days, but never more than in this moment. Something in the fathomless distance held in the tension around his eyes, the rain-slicked hair still clinging to his brow, or whatever burned inside of him now that Ivan was not supposed to see–even just for one suspended second, it hollowed him out with a terror unknown. How easy it was to imagine him like this, holding a storm in the palm of his hand, features hardened with fury and indifference, his attention lit from within by waves of boundless destruction that took more effort to restrain than to unleash. Ivan felt something he could not know settle between his lungs and squeeze. He had never had to stare it down like this, had never seen him this way, but knew, for a moment, that he was seeing through the eyes of all who had, and who had seen nothing more after that.

Worst of all, it wasn’t enough to stop him. This cruel engine drove him forward still, no glimpse of fear enough to unseal his fate.

Amaranth’s expression softened immediately. Recognition dawned, and the warm dark returned to his eyes. “Ivan…” he breathed, voice heavy with relief, awash with such devotion that it could have split Ivan in two. By the time he was within reach, his eyes reflected no afterimage of carnage, no window to any hellish magicks that he carried within him always–only the waning light from the hall and an utter adoration.

Wasting no more time, Ivan pulled him into an aching embrace–clapped him on the back and felt himself exhale. In spite of himself, his grip tightened, clutching a fistful of the back of Amaranth’s cloak, hard enough to make himself wince as the friction seared his hastily-bandaged hand. Still, he only sunk into it deeper, leaned against him, full-bodied, and was lost. Allowed himself to be held for just a moment. How long didn’t matter. Time wasn’t welcome in this doomed space.

Eventually, Ivan laid both hands on Amaranth’s chest and eased himself up so that they may speak face-to-face. He looked down to find his own chest now damp with rain and shook his head, making a show of brushing it off with a cheerful scoff.

“Where have you been?” he admonished teasingly, reaching back down to pinch the hem of Amaranth’s cloak, squeezing until water ran down the heel of his hand before he released.

He felt a quiet chuckle rumble through Amaranth’s chest more than he heard it. “Nowhere nice,” he replied with a coy half-grin. He pivoted a half-step away and pressed the back of his wrist to his nose, looking off absently for a moment, before he continued with a sniff. “Catastrophe can never seem to strike twice somewhere warm, can it?”

He committed to detaching and, in a half-shrug or less, a subtle shiver ran through him, scattering raindrops from the surface of his cloak in every direction, evaporating before they hit the floor. Ivan laid a hand on the damp patch transferred to his own clothes and found it dry, as well. Amaranth swept the cascade of dark hair out of his eyes with one hand. His gaze alighted on the sliver of white poking out from beneath Ivan’s dark leathers. He let his hand hover over it, without touching, looking it over with curious solemnity.

“What happened here?” he asked, softly. Ivan felt a hot stinger of shame shoot through him. His jaw tightened defensively. “Nevermind,” he grumbled with an evasive smile. “I’ve gotten too used to fighting with you by my side is what happened. Sometimes it’s healthy for me to remember how to do it without the boost.”

Amaranth was quiet for a moment. Feeling pinned to a shadowbox by the look of amused skepticism on his face, Ivan decided to look anywhere else.

“A fight broke out on the ferry from Citrine,” Amaranth said calmly, as though delivering unrelated news, courtly and detached, but the corners of his eyes sharpened with oblique mischief. “--I heard.”

Eyes averted, Ivan still blinked a few times at the impact, glaring resentfully across the hall at the useless gnomon. “Oh, you heard that,” he mumbled, unable to smooth the wrinkle of defiant pride from his voice as his gaze flicked back to Amaranth, reverently looking him over.

It was unclear exactly what was off about him.

Something missing, or something weighing him down. There was nothing new in Amaranth’s posture, in the way he held himself, sharp and striking as ever. Unfair, Ivan thought, to stand before him after all these days in such unbearable, agonizing beauty. What, then? Ivan could study every contour of his face, find poetry in every muscle and bone, and never learn to read him in moments like this. But he could almost see the storm clouds that had followed him inside, watch them circling his head now. Even in all this warmth and attentiveness, he seemed somber. Worn out. Desaturated in a way that transcended the pervasive gloom of the cloud-covered hall. It was as if all these days spent standing in the rain had washed some of his colors out.

Ivan sighed, any rising mirth buttoned back up by confronting this. “Amaranth,” he said quietly, “I am not optimistic.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the formless swell of movement somewhere past the foggy, crystalline walls. Watching the shifting grey of the distant sea through this clouded prism didn’t help. It felt like standing on his toes and peeking out the windows of purgatory.

“I haven’t been to this part of the world in awhile, so maybe the local folk have gotten a little cagier, a little less trusting of strangers…” Ivan raised his eyebrows at the grumble of distant thunder. “But I think this really did come out of nowhere for them, too. Either way, it must be serious if the best answer the council could come up with was collecting every wizard who fancies themselves the greatest who ever lived at a long table and expecting them to problem-solve.” He realized he was pressing his fingers into the palm of his hand until it burned anew and hastily uncurled them. “Of all the greatest-alives I saw on that ship, none of them had the answer. And they were all full of themselves enough that they wouldn't have kept it quiet if they did. They cannot work together. Cannot set aside their egos long enough to even try. So, what’s the point of all this? They will eat each other alive before any curse gets the chance–”

He cut himself off there, feeling a prickle of self-awareness, and glanced back to Amaranth with eyes wide and apologetic, sucking in an anxious breath to delay any further flogging of his peers.

Amaranth simply looked back at him, fondly, the ghost of a rueful smile flickering across his lips as he cleared the creak from his voice. “If this is the end, they have ensured an entertaining one.”

Ivan looked up at him.

“How are you feeling?”

Amaranth frowned, puzzled. “Why do you ask me this?”

“Because I am looking into your eyes and I can tell you don’t feel well at all.”

Amaranth stared back at him, steady, unmoved, then wilted with a guilty smile. “I have not slept quite the same without you."

A heavy door beside the one through which he'd entered swung open with a sudden groan. Both of them turned.

Standing on the threshold, an angular attendant–veiled to the eyes, a set of matte horns curling from the top of their head–peered in at them with empty curiosity. Still holding the door open with one hand, they addressed Amaranth in a sibilant tongue Ivan did not understand. They were brief about it–one steady string of syllables, followed by a practiced pause. Amaranth nodded politely in response. The visitor hovered in the doorway a moment longer, but seemed satisfied with this reply. They offered a few more words, loosely, over their shoulder, with more air and thought between, before they disappeared behind the door again, shutting it without a sound.

Amaranth turned back to Ivan and, finding himself unfreed from his scrutiny, lowered his voice to a hush. “... and I will be happier when this day is done and I can return to our room,” he confessed with a disarming flash of handsome canines. He reached into his cloak and produced a silver key whose bow was bent into a sigil for the sun and offered it to Ivan in an upturned palm.

Ivan barely looked at it as he stepped forward. He reached up to stroke his hair instead--overturned the little streak of silver at his temple, then let it fall back into place. “Go now,” he murmured, running his thumb along Amaranth’s cheekbone. “I can keep my eyes and ears open.”

Amaranth sighed and blinked slowly under the tender touch, as if the rejection both of them knew he was nocking was about to wound him, too. “O, to be invisible to everyone but you…” he said in a quiet, plaintive hum–one that anyone who had ever gotten close to getting close to him might still hear in the back of their minds on a still night. One that Ivan had not passed a single one of the last thirty without imagining in his ear as he drifted off to sleep.

His hand closed around the key, lingering for a moment when he felt the chill still clinging to the surface of Amaranth’s skin. “Have it your way,” Ivan said with a smirk, making quick work of tucking the key away into his pocket.