WhimZee

“It’s not like I didn’t think about it, I just can’t figure it out. The physical mechanisms won’t line up right with the magic. Fix one thing and another thing breaks. Agh, I’ve got to have this done,” he growls. He slumps down with his head in his arms, groaning pitifully. “Why is this happening to me…”

“This always happens to you, dearest.”

“Well, why?”

“Hm. Let’s see now. For the first two days, you used the nights to sleep. Once you stopped doing that, and spent all night worrying instead of sleeping, your brilliant brain started to slow down until it came entirely to a halt.” He smiles fondly over his shoulder. “The first all-nighter is a slippery slope.”

“Keep lecturing, maybe it’ll put me to sleep.”

“That would be the solution, though.”

Olruggio’s forehead hits the table. “I knowwww.”

“You can’t, hm?” He pours hot water through a bookmark of lavender. “That’s because you’re thinking of ’resting’ as another commission on your list. Don’t just make it into a task to get done.”

“Well, which is it? Do you want me to sleep or not, pick one,” he snaps, sharp enough to make Qifrey recoil. Clearly Olly isn’t just a bit tired; he’s miserable. Sometimes it gets rather bad when he pushes himself much harder than usual. A period of several days of crash will follow, where his mind and body desperately tries to catch all the sleep it lost.

Qifrey watches Olly regret his foul mood immediately. He sighs and sinks his head down onto the cradle made of his linked hands. Neither say anything. Between them, there is not often the need for apologies. He only brings two cups of tea to the table and sits down across from him.

“I have been trying,” Olruggio grumbles, sullen. He takes the tea, eyelids heavy as he stares into the cup. “I just can’t…turn off. Agh. I dunno. When there’s a problem to work out, it’s like the, the gears won’t wind down.”

“Mm, that’s very like you,” says Qifrey. “It’s difficult to make yourself stop when you constantly feel as though you’re just about to find your solution.” That isn’t quite it, though, not entirely. The core of it is that Olruggio can’t allow himself a reprieve while a request made of him has not been fulfilled. He can’t rest knowing that someone has asked him for help, and that they are still waiting for him to do so.

“Yeah.” Olruggio inhales the steam from the tea before drinking, eyes closed. “Hn. This honey’s got a different taste than before.”

“It’s from local clover,” chirps Qifrey. “It will bolster you against hay fever.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve taken up beekeeping.”

“Well, why not? The bees will make honey whether I put out a house for them or not. The only difference is that I get honey.”

Olruggio laughs like it’s been pried out of him. “And stung.”

“Oh, not if I charm them.”

“Smoke isn’t charm.”

Qifrey shrugs. Olly chuckles wearily and drains his mug. He rests his head on his hand, his eyelids drooping, but doesn’t manage to nod off. His eyes are far-off again, staring down at the table as though he can still see whatever schematics he’d spent the past week with.

It’s nothing new for Olruggio to overwork himself, to take on far too much work for one person. Qifrey was right about him from the start: that he was too kind for his own good. But he has never begrudged that about him. It’s the purest form of motivation he has ever seen in a human being, and if he had never met Olruggio, he would have never believed it possible for a person to be driven so fiercely by nothing but the need to help others.

Olruggio began his career as a witch with eagerness and the brightest light in his young eyes, determined and excited to help as many people as he passed on the street. And more. Then, they entered reality. And soon it became frighteningly clear that Olruggio did not possess the ability to say no to any genuine request for help, of which there were many. All those pleas which got overlooked by the lofty world of witches for being “not dire enough to warrant magical intervention” were tossed to the floor where Olruggio’s hands picked them up. If there is a farmer who needs a way to track down his lost livestock, or a grandson who asks if there is a way to stave off the cold for his granny’s arthritis in winter, those are tasks Olruggio considers worth doing. Over the years of overwork and growing disillusion with the system they serve, Qifrey watched the light of his star gradually shrink from a blazing sun into a flickering torch. Brave and determined. It’s a lot smaller now, but it never goes out.

He has done what he could to shelter that flame from the weather of the world, or to give him fuel, however he could. He learned to cook because Olruggio would possibly shrivel up from malnutrition if left to his own devices. He always kept the atelier well-stocked with remedies for sleep and relief of headaches. He even tried once to learn some manner of soothing instrument, but that route didn’t pan out. Qifrey does need to keep these relaxation techniques limited to ones that he himself cannot participate in.

To that end, and while staring at Olruggio’s scruffy mop of hair that has not seen water in a week’s time, he has a new idea now. “Olly…” he says, and the soft sly tone makes Olruggio’s brow lift.

“What.”

“Are you already suspicious of me?”

“What is it, Qifrey.”

“Wait here.” He rises, refilling Olly’s teacup once more. “I’ll be right back.”

From a linen closet Qifrey retrieves a washbucket and a few towels. He selects the softest ones. By the fireplace in the central living room, he sets up his workstation. A small tray holds soap and oils, pillows are arranged on the floor, and a folded towel makes the rim of the laundry bucket more comfortable. Into a smaller bucket, he pours water, into which he drops a warming stone. After surveying his work and thinking of finishing touches, he adds one more idea. A little creative, hastily-composed spellwork fills the room with the ambiance of a gentle spring night: frogs and crickets and soft breeze. He dims the lanterns far down.

He returns to Olruggio with a satisfied smile that elicits a wary glare. But when he holds out his hand, Olrugio does take it. He always does.

“Come.” Qifrey slides a hand around his back, just between his shoulderblades. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll figure out how to like it.”

“Well don’t make it sound too lovely.”

When he sees what has been arranged, Olruggio stands still and stares at the room, trying to put the pieces together. He rubs his temples and quickly gives up. “Right. What’s this for.”

Qifrey steers him by his shoulders to stand in front of the washbasin, with his back to it. “Just about here. Yes. Kneel down.”

“Are we doing laundry by the fireplace, or do you mean to drown me?”

Qifrey doesn’t laugh at that joke. He kneels down beside him. “Here. Give me your cloak.”

“What for?”

The smile returns. “To keep the collar dry.”

He slowly shuffles Olruggio out of his cloak and folds it neatly on the couch. Olruggio shivers a bit with it gone. Qifrey’s eyes linger on the loose collar, white linen slipping down the span of honeyed skin that travels from neck to shoulder. He smells of sweat and thornbark.

It appears he’s paused for too long. Olruggio turns his head. His eyes flick toward Qifrey like a cat who wasn’t quite decided if there is danger enough to run off. Qifrey places his hand on the back of his neck. That works to calm cats down, doesn’t it?

“What—?” Olruggio’s breath shudders. Qifrey’s other hand presses down on his chest until he is lying down with his head hanging over the basin, the folded towel beneath his neck. Though nestled in a cradle of pillows, he is far from at ease. His eyes are wide now, no trace of grogginess.

Qifrey laughs quietly. "Are you incapable of relaxing?"

"Yes!"

"Just settle in. Whatever is comfortable."

Olruggio tries, squirming down into the pillows. Qifrey sits next to Olruggio's head with his legs folded to the side. The warming stone he placed into the water has done its job by now, so he picks up a bowl and scoops some out. "Hold still," he murmurs. A shiver runs through Olruggio when the warm water hits his scalp. His eyelids flutter.

Qifrey repeats the process. No magic, no hurry. He sinks his fingers into Olruggio's soaked hair, one hand massaging, the other in charge of pouring water.

“Qifrey.” Olruggio’s voice is hushed now, as if they’re in some quiet place they shouldn’t disturb. "What ya doin?"

"Washing your hair for you."

"With your hands?"

"Yes."

Qifrey smiles at the involuntary, pleased grunt he draws from Olruggio upon scratching his scalp with his nails.

"Mmn… But. Why?"

He does it again, and Olruggio's forthcoming sigh is shivering. Qifrey leans in close to his ear. "Because it feels nice."

Olruggio quickly closes his eyes, perhaps to hide. Qifrey smiles down at his flushed face.

"Keep your eyes closed. I'm about to add soap." It's a lie. He only wants to keep staring without being scolded.

Easily flustered and overwhelmed by attention, Olruggio never lets Qifrey look at him for very long. He must catch him unaware. When he's distracted. When he is working, perhaps, too focused on the elegant movement of filigreed gears spinning within his brilliant mind. When he is drunk, pink-flushed and giggling, free with his affection and contagious in his joy. Or when he is sleeping, on such precious and transient nights as when soft grace had allowed Qifrey to share his bed.

He hadn't realized that his hands had stopped moving until Olruggio cracks one eye. The other follows. He's been caught, but offers no explanation, and neither does Olruggio ask. They don’t say a word.

Qifrey's hands move from his hair down to his face, one on either side. The moment hangs in the air like a drop of ink reluctant to fall from the pen.

Olruggio turns his face into his touch. Pain spikes in Qifrey's chest as though he's been lanced through. The light press of lips against his palm is merciful. Restrained. It's so subtle that it could reasonably pass as nothing at all, if Qifrey would find it easier to ignore. He does. He turns the motion into that of brushing back Olruggio's hair from his face and resumes washing.

He knows he won't be asked, tomorrow. They will both leave it here. They will pretend it doesn't exist while they go about life's pleasant routine, and they will enjoy making breakfast and eating it in the breeze, and they will each hold these nighttimes tightly to his chest in doorless chambers, cherished and precious and locked in the dark.

That, like always, will be enough.

When Qifrey has rinsed the last of the suds away, and he softly works a towel through his hair, Olruggio breathes, "It did feel nice."

Qifrey can't answer past the ache in his lungs, the rope around his throat. He's grateful that Olruggio is keeping his eyes closed. Because he, now, is the one who needs to hide. His dear, merciful friend can tell as much, and is giving him privacy.

Don't be greedy, he reminds himself. Having just this much is a miracle. This much is more than he was ever supposed to have. Perhaps later he will fall apart. Right now, he wants a way to enjoy this time for what it can be, without mourning what it cannot.

"I’m glad." He lifts Olruggio by the back of the head, draping the towel around his shoulders. "Would you like to try for a nap now?"

Olruggio glances at him over his shoulder. "…I think so," he tests, like knocking on a door with one knuckle.

“Then please,” Qifrey murmurs, “allow me to assist.”

They choose Qifrey’s room for the benefit of a bed with enough space and four feet on the floor. When they get inside, Olruggio stands still, waiting to be lead. Qifrey crosses to a wardrobe. Olruggio’s pupils dilate.

“Put these on,” he instructs, handing him the softest bedclothes. It matches the set Qifrey keeps for himself, which he takes into the bathroom with him. Olruggio undresses in silence, trying not to think about Qifrey doing just the same on the other side of an inch-thick door. Or the fact he’s wearing his clothes now. He slides his hand across the white cotton, until his hand forms a fist above his chest.

A knock comes from the bathroom. “Ready,” he says, and doesn’t know what for, but it’s very true.

Qifrey steps softly. He stands in front of him and takes his forearms in his hands, sliding up toward his hands as he pulls back gently. Olruggio is lead to the bed like that. His face feels feverish and his head light. And he hasn’t even lain down yet.

Qifrey walks backward until he crawls up onto the bed, taking Olly along. They both kneel there while Qifrey pulls the bedspread back. Then he reaches for him. He wraps Olruggio’s arms around himself and pulls them both down into the downy blankets.

Qifrey nestles up against his heartbeat. Olruggio fits his face into the crook of his neck and sighs; he feels a shudder run all through Qifrey’s body. Qifrey threads his fingers through his hair, stroking through it and then down his shoulders, his back.

“Qifrey.”

“Yes?”

“Where can I touch you tonight?”

A beat of silence makes him afraid he’s asked for too much. In answer, Qifrey takes his hand and guides it into place, resting at his waist.

“I’d like to…” Qifrey’s voice trembles. “…find out. Together. If that’s alright.”

Olruggio hums into his neck, low tones. “Gladly.” His body surges forward to mold itself against Qifrey’s. He props himself on his elbow and shifts himself atop him.

“We’re meant to be helping you relax,” Qifrey half-heartedly scolds.

Olruggio takes him by the chin, eyes grinning. “You don’t think this is relaxing?”

Qifrey’s hands twist into fists at his back, wound into the bedclothes he gave him. Olruggio brings his lips forward, but waits, their breaths mixing in the air. Qifrey’s is quick, short. But he moves forward.

The whimper that Qifrey produces is so soft that anyone else would have missed it, anyone else who doesn’t pay such close attention to every miniscule thing that Qifrey does. It sears him, but Olruggio doesn’t burn—he melts. All tension leaves his body as the kiss flows. He slides his hand up and down Qifrey’s side. Slow. Everything between them slow and savored and cherished.

When he opens his mouth wider and bears down a bit, he feels tension build in Qifrey’s muscles, feels him twitch beneath his hand. Olurggio relents. A carefully maintained measure of pressure, a flow that he can loose or taper according to any changes that arise. He is good at regulation. At balance. This is tricky work, but Olruggio is skilled with fine machinations.

Allowed more space, Qifrey loosens back up and sighs into his mouth. His hand begins to travel, down Olruggio’s neck, his chest, across the softness of his stomach.

He is quite relaxed when next he opens his eyes. It takes him a moment to come back from the dead. He'd fallen asleep. He doesn't know for how long.

He rolls over to face Qifrey, who is staring with nothing but fondness at him, head pillowed on his hand. Olruggio wraps an arm around his waist and pulls himself closer. They rest their foreheads together. He feels heavy and languid. He kisses Qifrey’s knuckles and they both grin at each other.

“Taken care of me well, this evening,” Olruggio rumbles. “Did I do something right?”

“I thought you deserved to unwind.”

“Was tonight my reward for a long week of work, then?”

Qifrey laughs. “It was…because we wanted to.”

A slight ripple of unrest in his euphoria. “We,” he repeats. “You never let me repay the favor.”

Qifrey’s eye goes glassy. He’s somewhere else. Olly runs his hand over his cheek, until Qifrey closes his eye and turns into his palm. “Come back, love. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Olruggio tilts his head in a way that asks for a kiss again. Qifrey seems to have an easier time with it, now. It’s easier when he’s worried. That seems…unhealthy. They might be unhealthy. He can’t think it through just now. Not with his ears still ringing. He slips up in the haze, and his hand wanders a bit too far down. He mistakes the positive response from Qifrey as a sign of encouragement, a temptation to proceed.

Qifrey flinches violently. Olruggio releases him at once, and Qifrey sits up, curling over as his lungs lock up.

“Carried away,” Olly says. “Sorry.”

It takes Qifrey a moment to stop twitching, to regulate his breath again and dispel the tension in his spine. Olly strokes the back of his index finger very gently along Qifrey’s back. “I like this fragrance you doused my head with. But I kind of smell like one of the girls now. What am I gonna tell them when they accuse me of stealing their hair oil or whatever it was?”

Qifrey turns himself away, but reaches back to clench his hand. It’s tight enough to bruise. “Keep talking.” Halting, choked.

“It was Tetia’s, wasn’t it. She’s already angry with me for eating her bon-bons. Which she shouldn’t have left alone in the icebox, if you ask me. In this house? With no note? That’s just poor foresight.”

It takes a few moments of rambling chatter and counting breaths until Qifrey eventually seems alright again. When he does, he collapses into his pillow, a hand over his eyes. His face is drawn and his lips pulled back in a grimace. He’s always had a prideful streak, even since they were children. He’s especially sensitive about these spells he takes.

“Forgive me.”

“No, it’s alright. We said we’d find out. It’s nothing so terrible, love, don’t think of it. We’re alright.”

Qifrey mumbles sullenly, “You deserve more than this.”

Olruggio kisses his ear. “What fool would need more?”

“Really, Olly.” He sighs, a weak reprimand. “What will we do?”

“We’ll go on like this,” he says. “Won’t we?”

“Unless you don’t want to. My…limitations… I’d understand.”

Olruggio shifts himself closer, his arm curled above where Qifrey’s head rests on his pillow. Like a ring on a casting seal, encircling without touching. “I’m here, love. And I want to be.”

“You don’t know…” Qifrey stops himself short. Then he starts over. “There are many things that you deserve, and…things that I cannot be.”

“I want you. Not things.”

Qifrey’s breath hitches, a brokenhearted scoff. “I can’t even guarantee that much, dearest.”

Olruggio goes quiet. It’s a moment before he speaks again. "Are we bad for each other, do you think?"

Qifrey’s gaze softens with sympathy. "Does that matter to you?"

"Be nice to know what we're in for is all."

A soft laugh in the dark. "No it wouldn't. Don't be silly."

"Good lord. You can't be calling me that…"

Qifrey laughs again. He always did enjoy flustering him.

"It doesn't matter to you then?" Olruggio asks.

Qifrey’s hand reaches up to curve around his cheek. Olly shivers and leans into the deadly, addictive touch. Soft, dry skin, smooth and warm over his rough face. Gentle and cherishing.