a super sneaky side blog

this is basically a rewrite of the events in E9 following quifrey’s run-in with the brimmed-cap only if like. That happened but then i made everything else up like he Fell Ill and then what if he cried like a baby!  :////// references to episode(/manga) events, doomed orufrey but they love each other so baddddd, implied lore stuff but no explicit references to their whole.. Deal (i’m not myself fully up to date on the manga myself but heh.. Reddit spoilers ://///)  Note : thank you wha for allowing me to suspend reality for the briefest of moments as i haven’t really written anything like this in quite some time, thank you everyone for the wonderful wha content, ive been lurking.. and come bearing an offering of my own! then back into hiding mwahaha

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It’s minutes, maybe hours, before Qifrey is able to lift himself from the grass that glitters around him, shrouded in moonlight and covered in a fine dusting of dew. When he sits up he’s still spluttering, soaked to the bone and coughing out the breath and the water caught in the back of his throat. It’s minutes, maybe hours, before he summons the wherewithal to retract the wall of stone he conjured to close off the tower from the rest of the atelier. It’s minutes, maybe hours, before he’s able to drag himself to his quarters, quietly dripping all the way in stupefied refusal to resolve the mess with the matter of a spell or contraption. And it’s certainly minutes, maybe hours, before he’s stripped off his robes - tight, damp fabric scraping his skin as it comes off, stiffened hard and chilled by the residual moisture. 

His movements all feel delayed by half-seconds, as if he’s still immobilized, lifted up and twisted over by the Brimcap’s oppressive current. Intermittent aftershocks run through his body, down to the very tips of his fingers. There’s no fire lit, there’s no candle burning at his bedside table; the atelier is warmed from the embers burning out in the central hearth, but it hardly reaches his chambers. Qifrey makes no effort to remedy this and doesn’t need to work very hard to convince himself he deserves it. He frets about putting on an - uncharacteristic - loose set of linen sleep clothes - Olly’s- holding his breath most of the while, jaw hard set to ward off the whimpers that threaten to dissolve him and his entire precarious balancing act. 

He goes through all of these motions as if he were performing individual acts of contrition, as if suffering the ordeal without magical intervention could somehow absolve him of his prior actions, of all he’s putting at risk. The guilt is heavier than all of the damp and it constricts his chest, it’s so tight - Olruggio could lift the water drop by drop with his rainflinger rings, make everything warm, his bed, his robes, his hands - he couldn’t even get the words out to ask. Qifrey shuts his eyes and clenches his teeth so hard he feels grit to stop the lump from bubbling up but it comes out anyways, a choked-out, dampened little sob. Qifrey knows that, were he to knock on Olly’s door, were he to ask the other man for help, it would shatter him instantly. His lies would spill out onto the floor like a vase knocked clean over before Olruggio even had the chance to root them out. No secret of his would be safe, and well. That’s enough to keep Qifrey confined to his own quarters for the evening.   

Qifrey is unsure of the hour, he only knows it’s late. Time, certainly, that one ought to be tucked into bed, were the circumstances leveled in the direction of his apprentices. It seems that they’ve taken to his penchant of working into the hours of the next day’s morning. Were his vision not swimming, his extremities not numbed static with residual electricity, he might take a seat at his table and light a candle to pore over his books, take notes from this evening’s encounter with the Brimcap. There’s so much he still doesn’t know, so much he has to lose. But Qifrey feels like a corpse; a form with little function, a flame flickering out, a branch withering and dying. 

He edges slowly to the bed and crawls onto it, but he doesn’t lie down, not all the way, doesn’t go underneath the blankets. His head is pounding with an unbelievable pressure and his sinuses feel waterlogged and full. Damn the water, damn the brimcaps, damn the cold, damn everything. His body resists a fully reclined posture so he half sits instead, propped against two pillows. 

Qifrey recalls being wrenched in half as a flood flashes into form around him, recalls inhaling a mouthful of water on an accidental mid-breath. He coughs, an unconscious response to reliving the memory of it, resulting in a damp sniffle into the wrist he brings to his nose. The sniffle turns into an itch that starts to burn, and Qifrey presses his wrist hard against his septum to fight off a sneeze that is most certainly inevitable. His head shakes like an animal out of the water, his own wet hair shedding droplets with the expulsion as he leans forward into the tight cover of one frilled cuff, sneezing with something like abandon, or something like bone-deep exhaustion.  

“hhiH’IHH’D’jshh..hhh!”

The damp spot on the cuff clings to his wrist from the wetness it’s inflicted with, but Qifrey hardly notices this. As he reaches to set his spectacles on the bedside table, he is overtaken by the feeling that his sinus cavities are filling up with water again, choking and breathless like he’ll never make it above the surface for air. It’s some while yet before he is able to fall asleep, staring at the vaulted ceiling above him, grasping at smoke. 

===========================

Qifrey wakes with a violent start to midday sunlight streaming through his bedroom window and a vicious pounding in his head. He is lifting a ginger hand to his temple when he hears a soft knock beckoning at the door - likely not the first, likely the cause of his waking.

It’s disorienting, waking against one’s own accord, and he feels sluggish, like his bones and bedclothes are weighted with the same damp from the night before. 

A prickle flares across his sinuses as he rasps a quiet, come in, to whoever waits behind the door. One of the girls he suspects, worrying after him. They’d be right to be concerned, or confused at best, if Qifrey’s gauge of how much of the day has been lost is correct. 

He hurries to right himself, palming his bedside table wildly for his glasses at the same time that he’s swinging his legs out of bed to plant his feet firmly on the ground. As the door creaks open gently, several things seem to shift in his head at once - a wave of dizziness screws his eyes shut and a wall of congestion seems to break. Thumb and forefinger flash up to pinch the bridge of his nose where he’s just placed his spectacles, a gesture made in hopes of abating the pressure that is concentrating there, but seems to be more useful in catching the sneeze that follows with little warning. 

“hh! hHnGXDshhhh!”

“Ahh… Bless, Qifrey. I suppose that explains it.” 

Qifrey jolts around in shock, the sudden movement flip-flopping his headful of congestion like tea sloshing out of a cup. What’s that supposed to mean? Olruggio was (unfairly, he thinks) the last resident of the atelier that he’d expected to see standing in his doorway. 

He feels a swell of guilt rising in his chest again- always so thoughtful, Olly. Qifrey prepares to offer an excuse but is struck with yet another dratted tickle- he feels his chest expand and his cheeks burn as he swivels back around into steepled hands and sneezes as tightly as possible, fighting yet again against the damp that he can’t seem to shake. It seems cruel almost, to the both of them, that Olruggio is the one bearing witness to his plight. He’s hardly had the chance to wake up (and if he knows his friend, Olly likely hasn’t either). 

“...hhHRR-Xxsht!”

“Bless..” Olruggio’s blessing is clipped by another sneeze from Qifrey. Whatever he came to say must wait a minute more. 

“iH!hhHGGShtt! h.hIH’KgnXXt!”

Qifrey hears a shuffling, the quiet clatter of something being placed at his bedside table, footsteps sweeping around the side of the bed. 

“Bless, Qifrey…” Olruggio’s voice sounds closer this time, seemingly softening in polar tandem with the increasing desperation of each sneeze; a counterbalancing spell. 

Another sneeze. Qifrey feels the bed dip beside and Olly’s warm hand finds its way in between his shoulder blades. Reason demands he flinch away from the touch of the other man, but his will is as solid as the inside of a carapace yam, and he finds himself instinctively sinking beneath the weight and the warmth of the connection. His head throbs. Olruggio - gingerly, cautiously, begins to rub small circles into Qifrey’s loose undershirt, working slowly at the knot that lies beneath it. Qifrey feels him palm at the linen and pinch the material between his fingers, tracking Olruggio’s eyes to the corner of the room where his robes and undergarments are draped over the chairs, his workbench. 

“Are y’alright, Qifrey? You feel a bit warm.” he asks quietly, though already well aware of the answer. “It’s quarter-past one. Not like you to sleep so late.” As he whispers, he moves closer to the nape of Qifrey’s neck, a gesture as affectionate as it is concerned of the fevered heat radiating off him. 

This seems to startle Qifrey back to his grim reality and he jerks away like a hunted creature of prey; Olruggio retracts his hand like he’s been burned. Qifrey drops the hands he’s still holding to his face, attempting to stand at the same time as he makes to clear his throat and wipe his palms- damp - where is his dratted handkerchief? - against the legs of his pants. He sways with the effort of it all and steadies himself against the post of his bed before Olruggio can take the chance to offer him help. His cheeks haven’t stopped burning and he feels a strange sense of shame soak up all of his self-loathing and pool hot in the bottom of his belly - he’s not even properly dressed - 

“Oh dear, Olly, forgive me,” Qifrey exclaims breathlessly. “It seems I’ve overslept!” He forces out a chuckle and manages a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but Olruggio finds nothing amusing. 

Qifrey proceeds to sneeze once more, in a timely manner, bringing one free fist up to cover his mouth, balance shifting. 

“h.hIH’GGNXshht!”

“Yes, Qifrey, it seems.” His tone is deadpan, but Qifrey knows him well enough to hear the endearment that shores up his words. Olruggio fights against an eye roll and settles into a deep sigh instead, standing from Qifrey’s wrinkled, unturned bedcovers and taking one step to close the gap between himself and the man hanging onto his bedpost for dear life. 

And Qifrey feels cornered- by virtue of all his miserable guilt rather than any wrongdoing of Olruggio - Olly, so wonderful and kind. Every movement that brings the dark-haired man closer alights Qifrey’s urge to run, to hide, to lie, to say it’s all okay and he doesn’t need any help and he can manage all by himself, thank you. But foolishly, he lets Olly approach with his hand outstretched; he stands, rigid, as the hand slides under his snow white fringe. Qifrey sags forward almost instantaneously, and Olruggio catches him with his free hand, guiding it around his shoulders and pulling him tight into his chest, hand still pressed to his forehead. 

“Some fever you’ve managed,” Olruggio whispers. 

“Are the girls quite alright? I wasn’t able to prepare anything for breakfast before going to sleep, I’m worri-” He’s fretting listlessly into the space between them, hair still mussed against the taller man’s chest - Olruggio quickly cuts him off. Qifrey’s voice sounds hoarse, hollow to his own ears as it breaks over his last words. There’s a lump, rising hotly in the back of his throat and he winces as he swallows against it. 

“Ahhh, they’re quite alright, Qifrey. They were up before me makin’ breakfast. Something Agott said about you bein’ outta bed late last night..?” 

Qifrey is glad that he is not looking Olruggio in his eyes as he says this. He wants so badly to relinquish the weight. The guilt is a hot snake curling and twisting through his abdomen and he writhes against it. The vase is spinning on its axis, bumped by a careless elbow, tipping…. But he cannot, he cannot. He’s making everyone worry, the girls, Olly - they’re all so kind, so thoughtful, so eager to give of every bit of themselves... He takes a breath to try to steady his breathing, to reign in the tears threatening once again to fall, but he manages to set off a fresh bout of coughing instead. 

“There, now.. She asked me to bring this up to you,” Olruggio gestures, having resumed rubbing circles into his back to ward off the coughing fit. Qifrey lifts his head in the direction of his bedside table, where Olly points to a wooden tray that boasts a steaming bowl of something brothy, creamy. Qifrey doesn’t.. normally take meals in his chambers.. 

“I thought’cha might enjoy the tea,” he grins shyly, the edges of his lips crooking up into a smile. A thin ribbon of vapor wafts from the cooling cup of erbe tea that sits alongside the soup, and Qifrey can’t contain the sob that suddenly wrangles its way out of him. 

Olruggio pulls him back into his chest, wrapping both arms around him, then guides him back by the shoulders to look him in the eyes. Olruggio’s are laden with tenderness, a tad bit wet from the vulnerability of their current situation, and Qifrey feels another hard knot winding his stomach round. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to stem the flowing tears. The vase spins one final time, then it falls to the floor and shatters. 

“I’m so sorry, Olly,” Qifrey croaks out, amidst a quiet, shaking sob. 

Olruggio would have no reason to think - no reason at all- that the whimpered apology is anything other than fevered overkill - for sleeping in, for failing to prepare the morning’s breakfast? Who should be sorry for that, when they’re ill, no less?

“Oh, Qifrey…” Olruggio’s voice is stilted, worried. Full. He brushes his thumb gently against Qifrey’s cheek, warm and wet. “What’ve you got to be sorry for?” 

If only he knew- another wrenching sob breaks its way through his clenched teeth. Qifrey can’t catch his breath, he’s below the surface again, his head is full of water, his secrets will be the ruin of everything he loves. His head is still pounding, swimming; the current flashes bright and hot through his sinuses, and he’s bent forward with a grating sneeze.

“hh!..hHND’XTshhiew!” Qifrey makes a noble effort to turn his head to shield Olruggio from the brunt of the release; the action is a mixed success. The next one follows close, but not so close that Qifrey hasn’t already managed to turn himself round again; this one is - to his fright and horror and abject embarrassment- instead directed, wetly, uncovered into the space between himself and his oldest friend. 

“hHD’JSHhhiew- hh! Oh my - I beg your pardon, Olly! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean t- hNN’XTshhuh!”

His stomach is twisting again, he feels the color leaving his face - oh, dear heavens, is he still crying? There is a substantial part of Qifrey that longs for Olruggio to goad him like he would on a normal day, to tease him for not using a handkerchief, for his decided lack of decorum, to keep the distance and to keep it light and keep it far, lest….

But Olruggio doesn’t do this. In fact, his voice is so riddled with affection and worry that Qifrey’s tongue takes on an acrid taste. He’s so gentle - The lump has settled itself at the back of his throat, going nowhere, only clenching harder with each act of care and kindness and emphasized blessing proffered by his companion. The guilt is a hot snake curling and twisting… 

“Bless.. Don’t you fret. Come, Qifrey. You’re ill.. Why don’t you lay back down? I’ll keep watch on the girls for the rest of the evening. They’ve already started their independent studies for the afternoon..."

Olruggio guides him gently to the bed, still steering him by his shoulders. "It's a bit chilly in here, Qifrey. You haven't got a fire going? I can start one for you...”

Qifrey wants to resist this, but his body moves in opposite accordance to his mind, and he finds himself plied gently back into bed, back under the bedcovers. He feels a little drunk: hot-cheeked, restless. He sneezes openly, harshly, over the opposite side of the bed. 

“hHN’DJSHhiew..! hh- I - .. I’m terribly sorry, Olly.. I - iH-HH’NGgshhiew! .. I don’t quite know what’s gotten into me..” his tears have begun to dry up, but his voice is nothing but a thin, rattled whisper.

“Bless, Qifrey.. It’ll be alright, jus’ need to bring the fever down. Be back in a jiff.” Olruggio is definitive - an actionable tone replaces the worried pitch in his voice. He vacates Qifrey’s bedside and slips out of the room quickly and quietly. As the door eases closed behind him, Qifrey deflates with a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. The last dregs of his sobbing, an anticlimactic finale of sorts. The other man will be quick; he won’t want to lose all the ground he’s gained. 

Pathetic. Feverish? Since when? He’s never been closer to answers, and there is only everything to lose. Could it be the malaise of perpetual anxiety and anguish catching up to him? Hardly a time for rest, and yet he can’t seem to find the strength to set himself back into motion. Is he rendered so weak so easily? Not that he was in any sense expecting it to be, but the search will hardly be a swift one if these are the setbacks he’s bound to face. 

Olruggio is back, slipping through the doorway before Qifrey can draw any sort of definitive conclusions.

“Alrighty, now.. Let’s see what we’ve got.” Olruggio rearranges the bedside table, sliding the tray over slightly to make room for a small basin of water. Taking a place again on the edge of the mattress, he wordlessly slides a handkerchief into Qifrey’s hands (that he makes quick and immediate and productive use of) before dipping a dry rag into the basin, wringing it out until it no longer drips. 

Qifrey gasps as Olruggio wipes his forehead with the cooled cloth, so overwhelmed by the feeling of relief that it’s startling. He wonders how high his temperature really is. Olruggio blanches, on edge, as Qifrey grabs his wrist, halting his ministrations before they can begin in earnest - 

“No, that’s.. quite alright, Olly.. I- I think I'll be okay.” Qifrey’s voice trails off and he averts his eyes from Olruggio’s intense eye contact. The pain cascading from his optical nerves to the base of his neck is nauseating, excruciating- it's hard not to retch. He's getting too comfortable -

"Please, I-" his voice gives out, he's so weak, so foolish, so selfish. "I can manage on my own."

As if this heat wave wasn't miserable enough, Ophelia was just getting over a lengthy summer cold. Most of the symptoms were finally abating after what seemed like an eternity, but her naturally sensitive nose was still in overdrive. Every little thing set her off, from the occasional whiff of garbage outside to the sweat rolling down her nose. This time it was the breeze from the fan that did it. Scrunching her nose, she buried her face in the old shirt she was using as a sweat rag and tissue and drew a deep breath.

“Hey.” Carly nudged her in excitement with her foot, knocking the urge right out of her body. “Check it out.”

Ophelia groaned. She hated losing a sneeze more than act of sneezing itself. Engrossed in her phone, Carly was oblivious to the frustration she caused. At this point all of the almost-sneezes and the endless, itchy build-ups to nothing were probably no more than background noise to her. Ophelia wasn't offended; in fact, it was she who requested the blessings and fussing stop hours ago.

She peered over as Carly tilted the phone screen to show her a cartoon cloud spewing pixelated raindrops. Ophelia smiled, already feeling cooler.

“We're getting rain,” Carly sang, getting up to waltz over to the window. “That should help with this heat spell.”

Ophelia watched her girlfriend obliquely, still too shy after all these months to ogle her openly. Her ass had such a lovely shape to it; her whole body was composed of appealing curves that moved and flowed with effortless grace, even as she wrenched the window open to glance at the sky, an action so abrupt it caused the rest of the broken pane to fall out.

Okay, so she wasn't that graceful.

“I've never been so happy to see clouds,” she said, leaning her half-naked body shamelessly out the window.

Another itching, burning sensation, this time seemingly triggered by nothing at all, kept Ophelia from replying. She felt around for that old t-shirt, securing it just as her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting with a soft intake of breath. This virus refused to vacate the premises; she had no choice but to evict it by force. Nosing into the soft, worn fabric, she let the sneeze build steadily, each exhale warming her palms through the cotton blend.

“hehh… hehhh... hihh-EISHHHH’ahh!”

“Salud.”

She gasped before pitching forward with another pair of sneezes, brow furrowing. “ISHHhhuew! hehh--ISHHhhuhh!”

“Salud, mi cariño,” Carly crooned, sounding closer now. “I can't believe you still have that cold.”

Ophelia felt her hand on her shoulder and was surprised to find Carly standing right beside her again. She stooped down so she was eye level with Ophelia, smiling as she gave her nose a playful tap. “I know you've got another one in there,” she said, touching it twice more in the same manner, each brief, light contact exacerbating the sensitive nerves there and making her squint. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Hahh-hiih? - hihh! - heh’kTSCHhh’ah!”

Carly laughed, ducking as Ophelia swatted at her with the hand that wasn't holding the shirt to her nose. They both stopped their play fighting when the rain began pattering against the windows. Ophelia glanced over, the lower half of her face hidden behind the shirt, to watch the rain splatter the windowsill and floor beneath the broken window. Carly didn't seem to mind. It was obvious from the look in her eyes that she was scheming.

“Let's get you cleaned up,” she said, scooping her shocked girlfriend into her arms.

She began carrying her towards the window, but Ophelia was too hot and tired to protest. Instead she simply closed her eyes as Carly delivered her into the small storm spilling through the window. Thousands of droplets hit their bodies, soaking their hair and making their skin glisten in the fading sunlight. Ophelia could hear Carly’s laughter vibrating in her ear through her chest. She burrowed into the pleasant waves of sound and emotion, not expecting to sneeze again so soon. “hig’tCHH! heh-CHSHH’ahh!”

The paroxysms were quick and convulsive, almost causing Carly to lose her hold on her, as if body were a wet bar of soap. Sneeze and rain droplets mingled together, indistinguishable.

“Easy,” Carly warned, securing her to her chest as best she could. “You’re very slippery.”

Turning from the window, the glanced at her relatively dry living room, then down at herself and her dripping wet girlfriend. Ophelia snuffled, wiping her nose against the back of her hand with some hesitation.

“Your floor is soaked,” she observed.

In theory, S/antos should have begun to recognize the pattern in her immune response that as soon as the adrenaline of fast paced shifts, skipped meals, and little sleep finally wore off during a few days of real rest, her body had the tendency to fail her.

Really, she thought as she laid in her bed the morning of her second day off in a row, she should have seen this coming. The cold going around the ER had forced many of her coworkers on the day shift to slow their rapid fire pace of work that they were normally so comfortable existing in. It was only a matter of time before she was also taken down by this cold from hell.

Unfortunately, she had convinced herself that she might have escaped it as she left her last shift with her four days off as a beacon glowing ahead of her. The fact that she was wrong only made her grumpier. Her throat started with a telling roughness the previous morning, and by the evening of her first day of rest, she was a sniffling, sneezing mess.

Now, she groaned as she rolled over and checked the time.

6:14am. Perfect.

She sniffled and adjusted her pillow behind her to sit up slightly, hoping to find a way to be able to breathe more easily out of her nose. Her head felt like a cinder block and she coughed lightly at the tickle buzzing deep in her sinuses.

She wondered absently if Huckleberry had come home from his farm widow’s house last night. She hadn’t heard him come in, but he could be very quiet when he wanted to be. She smirked lightly at a memory of her stumbling, bleary eyed, into their shared kitchen for a glass of water in the middle of the night and turning the light on only to find him sitting in the dark, eating crackers straight out of the box, scaring the shit out of her. He apologized like hell and she didn’t let him live it down for weeks.

An odd sense of melancholy settled in her chest as she listened to the quiet of the house around her. He probably spent the night with Amy again. Santos hadn’t seen him since he left the shift they worked together the last day before she was taken out by this cold.

“-hhiih -hiHH’ngxt-chiew…uhgh,” she stifled a sneeze that left her head pounding. She sniffled as the tickled reared again, unrelieved by her restrained release. “-hihh…-hIH -itscHIW- haaTCSIIEW -hiiihCHIEW! *snrfff*.” She groaned again and closed her eyes. Maybe she could sleep a bit more. Despite her fit of sneezes, she still felt a tickle lingering under her congestion. She grabbed a tissue off of her nightstand and blew to try and relieve it.

Closing her eyes once more, she wrapped her duvet closer around herself as a chill swept down her body. She wished she had grabbed some cold meds from the break room in the ER. She didn’t think there were any around…maybe in the back of the kitchen cabinet if she could just find the energy to get herself up to look.

If Huckleberry caught this he’d probably die. She thought to herself. But a part of her hoped he did catch it, and maybe he would come home from Amy’s to get some sleep in his own bed.

“Oh jeez, you don’t look so good…” he would probably say when he saw her. “Did you get that cold too??”

“Damn Dr. Whitaker how did you deduce that one??” She would snap back and roll her eyes.

And then they would probably sit together on the couch watching trash reality tv together, order soup and make fun of the dumb contestants and their silly little scripted problems all afternoon.

“haTSHEW! itchIEW! -hihhH -hiH” she waited for the last sneeze to come with her head tipped back, mouth open and pink nostrils flaring slightly. She took a shaky inhale and hitched and hitched, “hiiHhh…hihHH…HITCHIEW!” Finally.

Maybe she should text Huckleberry and check to see if he did catch this too. But no…she would let him be. If he did catch it Amy would probably love to coo over him for a few days.

And I’ll just stay here, sick as a dog, by myself. She thought bitterly. She was used to it. Despite the last few months of unlikely friendship with Whitaker, she was used to relying on herself. But she couldn’t help but feel a sense of longing to have his annoying ass around when she felt so terrible, even just to go get her some cold meds from the drugstore.

Another shiver wracked her. She definitely had a fever.

Despite herself, she let out a little whimper as she sniffled and another tickle wound its way through her nose. “hATChiew! -hiiHH-chIEW! -hiHH! itcHU!” she sighed and snuggled deeper into the bed.

Slowly, sleep blissfully started to take her.

**** She woke again later with a pounding head.

9:47am. Although she was still wrapped in her blankets and hoodie, her teeth chattered and rounds of shivers felt like they were running through her bones. Okay, really time to go find some meds now. Pulling a soft throw blanket from the end of her bed and wrapping it around her shoulders, she dragged herself into a seated position.

Her nose twitched in protest and she breathed a shaky inhale “hiiHdshIEW! -schIEW! hih…hitchIEw..uhhh.”

Santos sniffled and got to her feet, wobbling slightly on her way out of her room and through the small apartment to the kitchen.

Dialed in on the cabinet she suspected had some cold meds lurking in the back, and wanting to get herself back to bed as quickly as possible, she jumped when she heard a voice from behind her.

”Uhh hey, you good?” She whirled around, and regretted it instantly as a wave of dizziness clouded the corners of her vision and she wobbled slightly.

Whitaker jumped forward and gently steadied her by her arms. “Woahhh there. I see…not so good” he took in her appearance in with a grim look and a wince. “Bad cold eh?”

“N’do gendius, I’mb feeling fandtastic” she replied, but her rasp and heavy congestion took away some of the bite of her words. She coughed lightly into her fist, sniffled, and moved away from her roommate to go back to searching for meds.

“Looking for these?” Huckleberry asked and she looked back to see him holding a new pack of cold and flu meds out to her.

She nodded and took them from him, actually looking at his face and noticing slightly more darkness bagging under his usually tired eyes, and a redness to the edges of his nose.

“Ahh so Am’by didn’dt wan’dt you sticking around to spread the plague?” She asked him as wryly as her current state could allow.

“Ah no, I just thought I’d get out of their hair in case I passed it along…I don’t think it’s hit me as hard as you though” he sniffed lightly and looked at her with an edge of concern around his eyes. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Santos rolled her eyes again and cringed as she swallowed down a dose of cold medicine. Was she really missing him earlier? Of course he would come home and immediately start mother-henning her.

“Im’b a Doctor, Huckleberry, I don’dt need you t-hiihh-“ she was cut off as her nostrils flared. “hiihH- hiT’ngxt! Ngtxh! hitNGXT-CHIEW!” The sneezes sounded painful and she and Huckleberry both winced.

“Hey…okay, why don’t you go sit on the couch and I’ll order some soup for us?” Whitaker took out his phone and gazed over at her expectantly.

Santos grumbled but didn’t argue as she made her way over to the couch and curled up with her blanket.

“Chicken noodle or hot and sour?” Huckleberry called from the kitchen.

Santos felt a smile tug on her lips and though she still felt like crap, her heart felt a little lighter.

“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. 

As is his usual luck, it's one of the few days Olruggio is awake before noon. While Qifrey struggles not to slump against the wall of their kitchen as his apprentices eat their breakfast in the other room, easily entertained by their own ideas, thank goodness, because Qifrey’s throat feels thick and the vibration of his own voice echoes through his head in sharp pains, Olruggio staggers downstairs and into the room, likely in search of coffee. His hair is mussed, and he's still blinking away sleep, but when his eyes lock with Qifrey’s they hesitate for a moment too long. 

Qifrey tries to smile, but it makes Olruggio’s brows furrow, so he just turns away to gently wipe his nose against his wrist. He’s been caught like always. It’d be easier to hold up the facade if Olruggio didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, because he just feels guilty lying to him. He sighs with defeat when Olruggio leans against the counter and levels him with a stern look. 

“You look awful.” Olruggio says, voice still rough. Qifrey sniffles again, nose irritated by the steam wafting off the bowls of oatmeal in front of him, feeling all too much like he's advertising his symptoms. “I’m quite alright.” He says, and his voice is just as congested as he feared it would be. How embarrassing he is. “Just a cold.” 

Olruggio huffs, leaning over to gruffly force a hand against Qifrey’s forehead that he's a bit too unsteady to dodge. “Jus’ a cold.” He murmurs. “You’re awfully warm for that.” Qifrey smiles again, suddenly finding his nose itchy. He pushes olruggio’s hand away, not unkindly, and steps back a bit to create space, waving a halfhearted hand in front of his face. “Not at all,” He can’t help the wince that comes across his face, the feeling aggravating both his sinus’ and his headache. “I’m merely warm from bearing near the stove. I’m in a fine state to-” has to pause to press a knuckle against his nose, which ends up having the opposite effect. The itch crescendos, so he has to whip around in an attempt to protect Olruggio from the worst of his symptoms.

“ ‘chT-!" he has to pause for a moment, curled over into his wrist, until his vision returns from static and he can feel anything but the thundering pulsing of his own skull. After a few deep breaths, he manages to straighten up and almost-look Olruggio in the eye. He looks annoyed, but not in the way he does when dealing with frustrating clients or mental blocks. He looks, frustrated, almost, closer to when their girls stubbornly refuse rest, or even Qifrey, sometimes. It's not a look he likes very much when it's placed onto himself. 

“Go to bed.” Never one to mince his words, Olruggio tells him flat out. “You’re going to fall over.” Qifrey was perfectly able to come to that conclusion himself, because there is still grey towards the corners of his vision, and his legs are starting to get suspiciously shaky. It's not something his lovely Olruggio should be seeing, though. Having his own weakness thrown back at him sparks an age-old defensiveness every time, like a cat backed into a corner. He sort of wants to snarl. 

“The girls need a master present.” He grits out instead between clenched teeth. Olurggio sighs, looking worn already, drags a hand down his face. “I’ll watch ‘em. I’m basically their master already.” He makes a shoo-ing motion. “Go off to bed before they start worryin’.” It's a bit lowbrow to bring them into this, but Qifrey can’t argue it, no matter how much his skin is prickling with desire to fight back. He sniffles against the back of his hand again instead of replying, starting to stumble his way upstairs to his chambers. Olruggio’s shoulders are tense as he passes, and his eyes look even more tired than normal, even though he doesn’t have any upcoming deadlines that he’s heard about. Not that he's been a good listener these past few days.

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

His room is dark when he wakes up. Intentionally, surely, because he had been too tired to bother closing his own blinds when he collapsed against his bed, had fallen asleep with his head buried into the pillow to try to drown the light out. There’s only one person that would be in here, so he squints against the dark shapes, ignoring the way it makes him ache, and can vaguely make out a dark robe. 

Olruggio must be focused, or else he would’ve noticed. Qifrey takes his time getting up, for no reason relating to the way the world spins and heady pressure shifts in his face, tries to study Olruggio. There's the faint scratching of a quill, and Oruggio's posture seems stiffer than usual, like he's focused. Once Olruggio sniffles a few times, unconsciously, because his nose has started running since he lifted his head up, Olruggio looks up at him.

“Mornin’.” He says, voice soft like he knows. “Want a light on?”  Qifrey feels his face pull into a frown. “Why not just open the blinds? Natural light is always better.” According to Beldaruit, anyway, who liked to preach on the importance of nature at random turns. Olruggio opens his mouth, then shakes his head like he’s thinking better of something. “It’s the middle of the night, Qifrey.” Is all he says, quill taping an anxious rhythm against his paper. 

Qifrey sits up in a frantic motion, almost tipping over in the process. He has to grip the sheets hard and pant for a second, the whole world consisting of spinning shapes and his heartbeat in his skull. He sniffles again, uselessly, and Olruggio shifts around for a moment before handing him a grey handkerchief.

The gentle touch of fabric against his nose sets him off almost immediately. He barely has time to take in a breath before twitching. “ ‘dszhh-!” The shifting of congestion in his nose makes the itch reignite before he manages to catch his breath. He watches Oruggio's gaze as his breath wavers, on the edge, until he's finally set free. “ ‘dSZh - eH’dTZh!” thick and so unlike his usual sneezes, they hurt his throat. 

“Bless you.” Qifrey hums. He doesn’t trust his ability to talk. He's sick of this song and dance with Olruggio. Tired of pretending, tired of everything. He's exhausted, aching, and feels trapped in this room. 

“You’ve got a fever.” Oruggio says, startling him out of his fervor. His hands are gripped in the sheets, handkerchief still in hand. He avoids Olruggio’s eyes. “Nothin’ bad, you’re not too warm.” Qifrey sniffles again, pathetically, clears his throat into his shoulder. He’s so foggy-minded. “Okay.” he murmurs. “Thank you, Olruggio.” 

Olruggio doesn’t say anything, for a few minutes. Long enough that Qifrey nearly starts nodding off, lulled to sleep by rhythmic noises of anxiety. His quill never stops its tapping, probably bleeding through the paper and onto his sheets. Neither of them mention it. 

“Can I just take care of you, for once?” Qifrey finally meets his eyes, through his half closed eyes. He looks more ragged than usual, accentuated by the dark shadows of his room. Qifrey wants to ask him when he last got a good night's rest, when his next commissions are due, when the last time he checked up on the girls is. Wants to ask if Richeh ate much dinner, if Tetia is too hyper without enough to do today, if Aggott even looked up from her studies once. He does none of this. 

Instead, he sighs. “Will you take no for an answer?” he tries, to Olruggio's scoff. “Do you ever?” Qifrey can’t help but feel a little guilty at that, sinking back into the bed sheets with flushed cheeks. Olruggio stands, groaning, like he had been sitting there for a while. He shuffles across Qifrey’s room to his desk, full of books and scattered sheets of paper. There’s a bowl on it, and Olruggio takes it before returning to his chair heavily. He reaches out the bowl, full of cool oatmeal, until Qifrey begrudgingly takes it, is slow to release it like he is worried Qifrey will drop it. It lays heavy in his lap. He sets it aside, despite Olruggio's look, and neither of them mention it. 

  Olruggio shuffles around a little more and pulls a few snugstones out of his pocket. He sets them around Qifery’s form in the blanket, and they’re too warm, but he doesn’t have the heart to say anything with Olruggio’s thoughtfulness. He closes his eyes, too tired to keep whatever it is they have going, and lifts a corner of the blanket. “Come in here, then. You look tired.” 

Olruggio gives him a long look, and Qifrey’s worried the fever got to him for a second. But then he stands from his chair, slides into bed without complaint. Their bodies are so close, and wife's aflame. He falls asleep burning. 

••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••

Qifrey feels disoriented when he wakes up. He can’t find anything that could have startled him awake, and he hadn’t had a nightmare. He stares at the dark ceiling for a few moments, trying to get his bearings, until he’s startled by a sudden  “ ‘rSZCHh!”, and the previous hours start to drift back to him. 

“Bless you..” Qifrey murmurs, voice surprisingly present. He must have passed the worst of it, finally. “Are you okay?” 

Olruggio makes a thick, snuffling sound somewhere to his left. The bed is still warm, so he must have just gotten up. “Yeah,” he says, and then it’s quiet for a few moments until the floor creaks with his return. “I didn’t mean to wake ya.” He says, voice more rasped then it usually is when he wakes up, nuzzling back into Qifrey. He falls back asleep quickly, but he tosses and turns uncharacteristically. It eats at Qifrey, keeps him awake. 

It’s likely sometime after sunrise when Olruggio starts to stir again. He never really settled, and at some point Qifrey stopped trying to help him for fear of waking him up, so his limbs are knotted in the quilts. He doesn’t seem to notice, blinking slowly at Qifrey. “Good morning,” he tries, with a smile. Olruggio doesn’t say anything, just buries his head back against Qifrey’s chest and takes a slow, congested breath through his nose. Qifrey’s heart hurts. 

They stay like that for a while. Qifrey doesn’t want to move him, but his nose starts to itch at some point, and despite his fight he ends up jostling him with a sharp movement. “h’TShh-! ‘tSZhih!” 

Olly startles up, probably having been half asleep. Qifrey wants to apologize, but his nose isn’t satisfied, so he holds a placating hand and shields his mouth against his other one as he sneezes once again. Finally, he falls back against the pillow, pushing Olruggio back against his chest with a gentle hand. Olruggio doesn’t say anything for a long while, and when he does speak it's rough and painful sounding. 

“I think we’ll both be stuck in here for awhile,” he says, and there’s nothing saying he’s mad at Qifrey for it but he can’t help but feel so guilty, especially when Olruggio’s so busy. “Somebody’s got to tell the girls.” Qifrey hums, allows himself the pleasure of running one brief hand through Olruggio’s messed up hair. 

“I’ll do it.” He says, without making any move to get up. “I think I may be better off than you are, now.” Olruggio huffs at that. He doesn’t want to move, feeling kind of like Olruggio is a cat that won’t come back if he moves even the slightest bit. But he can hear birds, faintly, and the floor above him is starting to creak with life as his girls start to stir. No matter what he wants, he can’t leave them entirely alone. 

So he gets up, and Olruggio watches him leave with droopy eyes, and he smiles at the girls as they trickle in, passing off his own stuffiness as just a bit of allergies. When he serves their bowls, he finds himself suddenly famished, so he ends up scarfing down a bowl in the kitchen while they eat in the other room. Their quiet chatter is so warm, but the light in the kitchen spills out from the windows. His head aches. He has to bid his girls farewell, instructing them to learn on their own for a second day, and return to his room with an orange and paring knife. 

Olruggio makes no move to sit up from where he’s sprawled out in his absence, so he sits himself at the edge of the bed. “Are they doing alright?” He mumbles into the bedsheets. “Of course,” he replies, choosing not to tease him for his worrying this time. “They’re a bit concerned, though.” Olruggio hums. “Too smart for their own good.” 

Qifrey has to stifle his laugh. “I brought you food,” he says, holding up the orange even though Olruggio can’t see it. Fruit doesn’t count as a meal, really, but Olruggio tends to get upset stomachs when he doesn’t feel well, so he’s hoping it's good enough. Olly groans into the mattress, but he eventually shifts around until he’s sort of sitting up. His face looks pinched, and it isn’t long before he’s muffling a heavy sneeze into his elbow. “ h’rRSZhh-iuh!” 

 “Bless you,” Qifrey says, and Olruggio makes a lazy flapping motion with his free hand before gasping again. “ ‘rRSCHhh’iuh!” 

if he is caught he'll get a little red and excuse himself

snzing in general tends to aggravate his headaches but stifling makes it worse.. but he'd rather die than let people see him snz naturally i think

tends to stifle even when hes alone out of habit, but sometimes they sneak past him. natural sneeze is kind of, like sharp and itchy. "hH'tsch - 'tSCh!"

his sneeze is so soft and unassuming he really doesn't need to hold it in at all

usually blesses others. esp olruggio because he thinks its cute. also makes comments on him like My goodness i've been hearing you all morning ^_^"....

i don't think hes very prone to illness aside from headaches, but i think that he's very good at working through it when he is + usually hides it

hmm.... dander allergy. very mild but he can't put the brushbuddy too close to his face

also very sensitive physically, esp when about to / having a bad headache. sometimes the feeling of his glasses on his nose set him off

Olruggio

natural snz!!! doesn't really get the point of stifling i think and also he is terrible at it

tries to stifle sometimes with clients to seem formal and it just ends up soo much more desperate at the end

harsh + vocal but not overly so. very tired sounding especiallyyy when its spring and hes been doing it all day. kind of like a. "hH - 'rRSHh'uhh!"

sorry im a little rusty.. he gets very drawn out fits that drive him crazy because hes constantly stopping his work to snz and he cant focus

sneezes either into his elbow or shoulder. usually does the thing where he'll like take a full step back to sneeze. if hes alone he still does it out of habit ^_^ cute..

apologizes if he startles qif or the girls but generally doesn't acknowledge it. gets embarrassed when anybody says anything

awful awful pollen allergy. especially to tree pollen. walk with me. tends to hide away during the spring because hes a bit embarrassed so qif will be like oh don't mind him hes just a bit sensitive ^_^ and get smacked upside the head

his allergy sneezes are a bit more frequent and itchy than his general ones, but still spaced out and typically singles. a double or more is rare and a full on fit would leave him pantinggg..

paws at his noise alottt so its very red. gets those wrinkle lines along the bridge.