Its Exactly What It Sounds Like

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.”

The opera house had a fairly large backstage area, and Qifrey had gotten lost back here before, but today it was easy to find his friend.

"hh'IRRHShieu!"

Qifrey frowned. When Olruggio had admitted over text earlier that he was going to have to perform tonight while sick with a cold, Qifrey hadn't known what to expect. But here was Olruggio standing in the wings, a blue-trimmed black handkerchief clutched one-handed to his face, eyes half-shut with anticipation as his breathing began to hitch, began to swell…

…and then, when the irritation should have tipped over into a sneeze, nothing. He sighed, cursing, and gave his nose a firm rub through the handkerchief before dropping his hand with a sniffle.

Qifrey stepped forward, making sure his wingtips made a soft patter against the floor so he didn't startle his friend. "Olly?"

Olruggio was thumbing at the corners of his eyes, but he turned at the sound of Qifrey's voice. "Qifrey."

His voice was a gravelly rasp, and Qifrey winced.

"Oh, you sound terrible."

Olruggio sniffled again, but by the sound of it, he was growing congested and losing the ability to deal with his irritated nose in that manner. He was squinting faintly behind his glasses, like he was working on a headache too. "Can't say I feel great," he admitted. "But I'll be all right."

"Will you?"

Olruggio shrugged. "'Ave to be. There are goin' to be people in those seats."

He was right, and Qifrey knew it — there was probably no cancelling the concert this close to its start. Qifrey bit his lip.

"I did bring you some medicine." He reached into the pockets of his long coat and produced a blister pack of Dayquil, a bag of cough drops, and a pack of travel tissues. "I didn't have time to pick up much, but I suppose it's better than nothing."

Olruggio looked faintly startled, and he seemed to be stumbling over what to say when his body made the decision for him, and he took a hurried step back from Qifrey to grasp his handkerchief securely in both hands and sneeze into it. "hhr'ESHHieu!"

"Bless you!"

"Snf. Thank you." Olruggio sniffled thickly, palming his handkerchief with something that looked like hesitation, then he turned his back to Qifrey and blew his nose quietly. There was something a bit ironic about the juxtaposition, of Olruggio dressed in formal wear and clearly trying to maintain some composure while also suffering through the complete indignity of a head cold. He wiped at his nose with another sniffle, his head sounding a little clearer this time. "An' thank you for bringin' me things."

"Of course." Qifrey's eye was sharp with concern. "I was worried about you. Am worried about you."

That seemed to fluster Olruggio, who ducked his head and dabbed the handkerchief beneath his nose again. Qifrey hoped he had several on hand; that one was certainly taking its fair share of abuse. "Don't need to be," Olruggio mumbled. "'S just a cold."

"You said you've had it for almost a week, though," Qifrey pressed. "Because you're not taking care of yourself. Will you promise me you'll try and get some rest after this? No late night practicing."

Olruggio barked a laugh, then folded over into his handkerchief as it turned into a coughing fit. Qifrey felt a flash of aching empathy.

"Get out of 'ere, Professor," Olruggio croaked fondly once he could breathe again. "Doors'll be openin' soon."

"Will they?" Qifrey checked his own watch, then made a face. "I'm sorry, I've kept you for too long."

"Not at all." Olruggio moved to the table where Qifrey had set the cold medicine and began to inspect the goods. "Just figured you might be wantin' to get to your seat. It's a good one."

A good one that Olruggio had specifically set aside for Qifrey as a comp ticket. They both smiled at that, gazes meeting in something soft and affectionate. But then Olruggio gave a sharp, irritated inhale, and he quickly turned away from Qifrey before lurching forward into his handkerchief with a powerful "hhHrIISHHoo!"

"Bless you." Qifrey's hand hovered, unsure, in the air between them. He wanted to touch Olruggio's shoulder in sympathy, to touch his cheek and to feel for fever, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. He withdrew his hand and sighed instead. "Break a leg, old friend."

—

Olruggio was doing excellently, Qifrey thought from the audience an hour later, especially for someone who was as ill as he was. The first half of the performance was drawing to a close, and he'd only seen Olruggio turn towards his shoulder to sneeze once and cough twice. Most impressively, it hadn't interrupted his playing. He'd clearly practiced this piece enough times that it had sunk deep into his muscle memory, with sheet music hardly required anymore.

It was a beautiful performance. Qifrey was unfamiliar with the concerto, but the rich, full sound of the assembled orchestra was the perfect backing to Olruggio's nimble piano. He played with great éclat, with sparkling flair, and he was hypnotizing to watch as he bowed his head beneath the lights and his fingers flitted and danced across the keys. Qifrey's seat really was perfect, too; he made a mental note to treat Olruggio to breakfast or coffee in thanks the next time they went out.

He was back in his seat before the end of the intermission, and he pulled out his phone to send Olly a quick congratulatory text, though he knew he likely would not see it until after the show.

The intermission was supposed to be fifteen minutes, so when it dragged past twenty, Qifrey began to grow concerned. Who or what was holding up the show? What if Olruggio was too ill to perform the rest of the concert?

But then the lights flickered and began to dim, and he put aside his worries as the orchestra returned to the stage. Olruggio was the last out, and the audience gave him a warm welcome of applause as he took a bow and returned to the piano bench.

Qifrey frowned. Olruggio looked…well, he still looked great — he was stunningly handsome in formal wear, and it always warmed Qifrey's heart to see him wearing the golden lapel chain that Qifrey had gifted him — but to Qifrey's expert eye, he looked tired. His nose had also acquired a faint pink cast around the base of his nostrils, like he'd been blowing it repeatedly during the intermission. He was starting to look unmistakably ill, and it made Qifrey's heart tighten in his chest.

While he was thoroughly enjoying the performance, the end of the show could not come soon enough.

Olruggio only seemed to continue to fade as the concerto progressed; whatever fortitude he had stubbornly clung to during the first set seemed to have deserted him. There were even a few times where Qifrey could tell Olruggio had erred, when the backing of the orchestra grated against the melody coming from the piano, when the conductor glanced over with something like faint surprise. But Qifrey was a professional musician himself, and he knew the rest of the audience was not likely to have picked up on it, just as they were also unlikely to have picked up on how sick Olruggio was.

At long last, the concert drew to a close, and Olruggio took a weary final bow to cheers and a standing ovation from the audience. Qifrey too was applauding uproariously, though concern lurked heavy in his chest, and he was already counting the moments until he could slip backstage and check on his friend.

Olruggio's gaze was flitting across the audience, and as he straightened, it found Qifrey's, and the lines around his eyes seemed to soften.

"Excellent," Qifrey mouthed, beaming, and Olruggio gave him the tiniest of relieved nods before taking his leave from the stage.

—

It wasn't more than ten minutes later that Qifrey had successfully fought through the crowds leaving the opera house and then presented his ID to the venue security, who inspected it closely before letting him pass, but when he found Olruggio backstage in the green room, slumped over his knees with his head in his hands, the other man looked like he'd been there for hours.

"Oh, Olly," Qifrey fretted, one hand already drifting up to touch Olruggio's shoulder, then his forehead. He was definitely feverish now, with sweat beading on his brow, and he was beginning to look sallow beneath his olive skin.

Olruggio's fingers latched gently around his wrist, but instead of pulling Qifrey's hand away, he simply sat like that for a moment, holding onto him like an anchor in a storm. "Fucked that last bit up," he said after a breath, his wrecked voice grating against an obviously sore throat. He couldn't seem to look at Qifrey. "Can't believe it."

"I guarantee no one noticed," Qifrey tried to soothe him, his brows furrowing deeply in concern. "You played beautifully."

Olruggio released Qifrey's hand and turned away from him to direct a hoarse cough into his shoulder. His eyes were glassy and distant. "You're just sayin' that."

"I'm not," Qifrey said truthfully. "I swear it. But you are so ill, my friend. Did you take any of that medicine?"

"Couldn't be drugged up for the show," Olruggio murmured. "I'll take some later."

He wouldn't, Qifrey knew, unless there was someone there to remind him to. Olruggio was terrible at taking care of himself, and always had been; back in grad school when they had lived together, Qifrey had been absolutely astonished that the man had made it this far in life with the complete and utter disregard he showed for his own health and wellbeing.

"Come back to my place," Qifrey said instead, coaxing. "Just for the night. You're in no state to drive home, or to be alone. You can take a hot bath and some cold medicine and then sleep as long as you'd like."

Olruggio turned away from him to sneeze heavily into the crook of his arm. "HIHZZHshuu!" It looked like it dazed him, like he had to wait for his surroundings to settle, but after a moment he felt in his pocket for his handkerchief and wiped it beneath his nose. "I don't want to be a burden," he said finally, but he sounded like he was wavering. He was too tired and sick to be able to turn down an ask like this one.

"Bless you. And I swear you wouldn't be." Qifrey tried another angle. "You know I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it."

Olruggio's expression took on the faint, distant cast that meant another sneeze was incoming, and Qifrey waited until after he had folded forward into his handkerchief again — "hh'IESHZHieu!" "Bless you." — to kneel in front of him so they were on the same level.

"Olly," he breathed. Olruggio still wouldn't meet his gaze, so Qifrey reached out and touched him gently beneath his chin, lifting his face so their eyes met. It was unexpected enough that Olruggio couldn't deflect. "Please let me take care of you."

There was a beat as Olruggio fought with himself, while his pride and his yearning for comfort seemed to war within, until he deflated with a sigh that rattled in his chest and made him cough again. "…Fine. Let me go 'nd change."

—

"I'm goin' to get you sick," Olruggio groused from the passenger seat of Qifrey's car. He had just had yet another sneeze and was stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. Qifrey thought wryly that it would be better for him to keep it in hand with the rate things were going.

"I've already had what's been going around, thanks to my students," Qifrey said. He only lived fifteen minutes from the opera house, but Olruggio seemed moments away from falling asleep where he was huddled in the seat.

Something about that statement got Olruggio's attention, however. "When?"

Qifrey shrugged. "Two weeks ago?"

Olruggio shifted. "Sorry. I would've brought you some soup or somethin', 'ad I known."

The words prickled across Qifrey's skin like a sunburn, and he forced himself to smile, though his hands tightened on the steering wheel. "There was no need. You seem to have it far worse than I did."

"Still."

Qifrey let that remark go and tried to focus on the road, though his attention remained half on monitoring Olruggio's rasping, whistling breaths on his right. It just sounded like congestion, he decided, though if Olruggio wasn't careful, he'd give himself bronchitis, which had happened a handful of times in the years they'd known each other. Olly's colds tended to linger in his head most of the time, but the occasional winter bug would settle in his lungs and leave him coughing for weeks.

This one could almost be a mix of both, though the coughing was likely more post-nasal drip than true chest congestion. Qifrey had been plagued by a rough and scratchy throat of his own when he'd had this cold, as well as the heavy, extended fits of sneezes that Olruggio was in the thick of.

Speaking of which.

"God hhhdamn it," Olruggio said breathily, and Qifrey's attention flicked to the right to see him rush, and fail, to pull his handkerchief from his pocket in time for the sneeze that appeared to have snuck up on him. He caught it instead in the shirtsleeve of his oxford. "hrR'ISCHZhuu! hhh — hih — IESCHHoo!"

"Bless you, and bless you," Qifrey said.

Olruggio sniffled. "Thank you," he said quietly, wearily, like each sneeze was taking more and more out of him. "You know you don't 'ave to keep doin' that."

"Would you prefer that I stop?"

"…No, 's fine."

—

Qifrey's flat was more humble than Olruggio's, as he was working with salary of a music teacher instead of a concert pianist, but he liked to think that it was cozy and welcoming. Olruggio, at least, seemed to always feel at home here; they spent enough time at each others' places too that they both comfortably knew their ways around.

"Medicine, then bath and bed," Qifrey reminded Olruggio once they'd climbed the stairs and let themselves in to the front hall. The single flight of stairs had left Olruggio coughing into the crook of his arm, and Qifrey wincing. "There should still be plenty left over from when I was ill, it's all in the bathroom cabinet." They had left Qifrey's purchases at the opera house - minus the tissues, which Olruggio had snagged - since Olruggio had another performance there tomorrow night. Qifrey hoped that 24 solid hours of rest and TLC would be enough for Olruggio to start to shake his cold, or if not, that he would cancel the show.

"Yes, Professor," Olruggio said dryly, but the sarcasm was tempered by the hoarse and thready quality of his voice.

Qifrey rolled his eye with the start of a smile. "Get out of here." Olruggio obeyed.

Qifrey's bathtub was the crown jewel of his place: a beautiful, deep, claw-footed tub that was his savior whenever he got his migraines. He swore at times that it had healing powers, which hopefully it would produce for his friend.

Meanwhile, he went to his refrigerator to see what sort of soup ingredients he had on hand. The kitchen was generally well-stocked, but it had been a busy week of catching back up with students after his own illness, and he wasn't quite sure where his stocks of certain items stood. Thankfully, it looked like he had enough to make some chicken-lemon-vegetable soup, so he got out the celery and began to dice it.

He could hear Olruggio moving around in the other room, could hear the cabinets opening and closing, and moreso could hear the other man coughing and sneezing. "HR'IESCH'ieu! HPPTcxhhu!"

The sneezes seemed to be coming in pairs now, like a single one alone wasn't enough to scratch the itch that had settled into Olruggio's sinuses. Olruggio had begun to try and stifle the second one too, which Qifrey knew couldn't be helping his headache.

Bless you, he thought in his direction, then returned to peeling carrots.

Caring for Olruggio was as easy and natural as breathing. Qifrey was only glad that in recent years the other man had begun to let him. Olruggio had spent the entirety of his life pouring his heart and soul into providing for others, to make himself worthy of love by being "useful," but having the vulnerability and trust in another to let the favor be repaid in kind was something that had taken time, even though they'd known each other for fifteen years at this point.

But Qifrey…well, he still felt deeply uncomfortable receiving much targeted affection or positive attention from Olruggio. It made him nauseous, like there was a hole somewhere deep in his chest that would forever lie empty, a missing space that made him unworthy of that warmth from the sky's kindest, most radiant star.

He nicked the side of his finger with the paring knife, breaking his focus on the maudlin fog beginning to settle over him, and he swore under his breath, then immediately put his finger to his mouth. Ouch. That would teach him to brood while he was cutting vegetables.

"IESCHHoo! hh'czchhuu!

A productive nose-blow and a watery sniffle from the other room, then the sound of running water. Qifrey hoped Olruggio could finally relax for a bit; he'd likely been tense and wound up about his performance all week. The bathtub would work its magic, and there would be a hot bowl of soup waiting for him, and then he could crash for ten to twelve hours and hopefully wake up less miserably ill. It was a winning combination that Qifrey had used many times, both on Olruggio when they'd lived together and on himself. He had half a mind to check after a while to be sure Olruggio didn't doze off in the bath, in his current state.

But about half an hour later, by the time the soup was simmering, Qifrey heard the water begin to drain. He moved to the cabinet and got out some dishes, then filled his tea kettle with water and set it to boil. Having some tea on hand couldn't hurt either.

He was ladling the soup into the bowls when the bathroom door opened again with a rush of humid air, and also one Olruggio. He was pink-cheeked from the warm bath, and his dark hair was damp and stringy at the edges.

"Soup's ready," Qifrey said cheerfully, and Olruggio rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes with a squint and a series of blinks.

"You made soup," he said blankly, like his mind was still catching up with his vision. To be fair, Qifrey noticed, he also wasn't wearing his glasses.

"I did. Tea should be ready soon too."

"Y'didn't 'ave to," Olruggio said roughly. He was clutching the box of tissues that Qifrey had bought (now at least half-empty) like it was a beloved possession, which appeared to be for the best when his nose gave a distinct twitch and he had to hurriedly grasp for a sheet. "hhHrIISHHoo!"

"Bless you! How are you feeling?" Qifrey settled in one of his kitchen chairs and gestured for Olruggio to do the same. Olruggio did so, sniffling.

"All right," he said vaguely, then gave his nose another irritated wriggle. "I can breathe now, 't least. Headache's gone too."

"That tub works miracles on headaches," Qifrey said. "I'm so glad. The soup," he added when Olruggio took a spoonful, "is chicken with lemon and vegetables. Another quality cure for a cold."

Olruggio tasted the first bit, and his eyes widened. "It's very good."

Qifrey preened. He'd spent the bulk of their graduate student years trying new recipes on Olruggio, but it was always a delight to get him to make that face. "I'm glad you think so."

They chatted for a bit over dinner, mostly Qifrey telling Olruggio about the upcoming recital his students were preparing for, as well as updating him on their progress.

"I'm still workin' on that duet for Agott and Coco," Olruggio said. He took another tissue from the box in his lap and blew his nose delicately. The steam from the soup and tea also seemed to be helping him breathe better, though his nose appeared to be running now instead. "I know Coco isn't quite up to Agott's skill level yet, but she plays so cleverly, I'm goin' to see what it's like if I give 'er the melody."

"Wonderful." Qifrey rested his chin on his folded hands. "They'll be delighted to hear an update. Thank you again for doing that."

Olruggio shrugged. "'f course. I'm lookin' forward to hearin' the others at the recital too."

Olruggio had never taken students of his own, but he'd shown great interest in Qifrey's current roster, particularly the three girls he'd been working with the longest and Coco, the newest of his students. It had been a surprise to all of them when he'd offered to compose some pieces on their behalf.

"It will be a great honor for them to get to debut your work," Qifrey said. "They're really quite excited about it."

Olruggio coughed into his fist. "It's nothin'," he said. "Any time."

He was starting to look exhausted again, rubbing at his eyes and drooping like a plant in need of water, and Qifrey decided to take pity on him. He stood and took the two bowls away, leaving the mugs with tea.

"Give me a moment and I'll have the couch set up for you."

Olruggio pulled yet another tissue from the box — it was running quite low; Qifrey wasn't sure if he had others on hand or if he'd need to run to the pharmacy again while Olruggio was sleeping — and held it between tented hands as he bent forward to sneeze into it. "hh'IRHShieu! R'ISCHZhuu!"

"Bless you."

"Thank you." Olruggio scrubbed at his nose through the tissue and sniffled roughly. "An' thank you again for…ya know. Lettin' me crash 'ere."

"Any time. Truly," Qifrey said seriously, making sure Olruggio met his eye. "My home is yours, as well."

It didn't take Olruggio long to fall asleep once he'd nestled into the blankets Qifrey had laid out on his couch. Qifrey could hear him snoring congestedly, and he smiled.

Can't believe he's not waking himself up with all that racket, he thought, trying to clean up the kitchen as quietly as possible. Thankfully it seemed that Olruggio in this state could sleep through just about anything. He snored on while Qifrey put away the leftovers, then retreated to his bedroom to start his own nightly routine.

Qifrey did not sleep well, as a rule; it had always been a struggle. Things had been better when he'd lived with Olruggio, but in the years since, he'd grown used to lying awake for hours or waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, or on some nights not sleeping at all.

He felt tonight might be another one of those nights, with Olruggio snoring and occasionally coughing, but for whatever reason, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He slept deeply, unburdened by nightmares, and when he woke the next morning, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so well-rested.