whoran2

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 him, Olly’s warm hand finding 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 him and 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, but Olruggio’s still-outstretched arm renders the action 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, no wonder you’ve taken cold! You haven't got a fire going? I can start one for you...”

Qifrey wants to resist, remain upright, 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, dizzied. 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, thick with congestion.

“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, never had more at stake. 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? Has the malaise of perpetual anxiety finally caught up to him? 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) Qifrey isn’t quite prone- half sitting as he did the night before, and he follows the movements of Olruggio’s hands as they dip a dry rag into the basin, wringing it out until it no longer drips.

Though he’s afforded plenty of forewarning, 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..” Qifrey’s voice breaks immediately, urgently - “I- I think I'll be okay.” - before petering into a hushed murmur. He’s forced to look away, diverting his eyes from the scalding intensity of Olruggio’s 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 almost completely, he's so weak, so foolish, so selfish. "I can manage on my own."

Qifrey watches the disbelief, confusion, and hurt play out over Olruggio's face as he stands abruptly, unceremoniously clearing his throat as he uncrowds Qifrey's bedside table. He opens his mouth as if to protest, but evidently thinks better of it, instead turning on his heel and striding to the door. Olruggio pauses in the threshold and turns back to Qifrey, gaze downturned, avoiding his eyes.

“Try’t eat a little somethin’… Y’need to keep your strength up.” Gruff, somber, sickly sweet.

Yes, Olly..

The door shuts softly, and he’s gone. And again, Qifrey doesn't have to work very hard to convince himself that he deserves this. Olruggio left the tray on his bedside table, but it only sickens Qifrey to think of eating it, the care it was prepared with.