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Olruggio wakes up with a gasp, one hand reaching out to the air and the other clutching his shirt, right above his heart, as if he were desperate enough, it would be enough to stop the organ from beating so frankly.
It takes him a little while to come to his senses, leaving the darkness that had been pulling him just a few seconds ago. Slowly, but surely, he lowers his hand, takes a deep breath, and brings up his arm to shield his eyes from the sun.
"Not another one of those again," he mutters to no one in particular, voice slightly hoarse from leaving the clutches of sleep so suddenly.
Ever since Silver Eve, he had been having nightmares. There are times he is a child, others where he is older, but most he is just as he is now, slightly more competent but useless to stop horrible things all the same. All of them leave him waking up the same way: clothes clinging to his skin due to sweat, the tips of his fingertips cold with what can be only described as dread, and his heart frantically thumping inside his chest.
Sometimes they stick with him through the day, making his appetite turn to nothing. Sometimes, when they are worse, he needs to throw up, as if he could expel every wrong thing lodged inside him, one heave at a time. It's funny, in a messed-up sort of way, how feelings can manifest physically when they really hurt. How a shattered heart and a churning stomach are never quite enough, because the soul insists on bleeding through the body, insisting that sorrow must be felt in every hollow it can find.
As he takes his arm from the position it's in on top of his eyes, he tiredly looks outside his window, taking in the view, still trying to put himself together.
For a while, when he was little, although it filled him with nothing but bitter guilt now, he had tried to forget. Forget the whole Star of Ghodrey thing, and everything it had ever meant.
But, as it turns out, even to forget he needs to remember, so he didn't have much success with that. So here he is now: nearly thirty, carrying a regret no lighter than the one he'd shouldered at ten, perhaps heavier still. No surprises there, considering growing up does not shrink the things you regret. In fact, it just feeds them, almost as if they were a hungry beast. They grow alongside you, matching you inch for inch, until you are nearly thirty and they are nearly thirty too — and neither of you has learned to let go.
He gazes down at the scenery, taking the blue sky in, the green grass dancing with the wind, the trees and, as he gazes even down, the top of a head full of pink hair.
With a groan, he gets up from his hammock absolutely ignoring the kind of sound his back just made because bones should not sound like that, and makes his way toward the window, as if getting closer would make what he just saw immediately vanish.
Sure enough, Tetia is still there, looking, from so far away, like someone who was absentmindedly picking up grass, clearly lost in thought, if not a little dejected.
The sight alone is not strange per se, because the girls do need their little alone time every once in a while — he knows, for instance, that Richeh has some kind of cave — but what makes him furrow his brow is that the one there is Tetia, as in, their little social butterfly. She had barged into his room uninvited many, many times, just to be beside another person.
He runs through a few possibilities about what could possibly be going on, before sighing and making his way toward the door, deciding that, if he is awake so early, he might as well make use of it.
Olruggio, using a single silencing spell to not disrupt the sleep of any of the other occupants, leaves his room and goes toward the door to the exit of the atelier. As he opens it, he takes a while to appreciate the nice wind caressing his hair, his slightly damp skin, and the sunlight hitting him with enough warmth to be comfortable, but not to be oppressive. After he feels comfortable enough, he makes his way toward the little witch.
When he gets close enough to stop by her side, she only looks up at him in answer.
"Good morning," he points toward an empty patch of grass beside her left side. "Can I sit here?"
Tetia seemed slightly surprised at the request, but nodded anyway.
Immediately after the confirmation, he sits down beside her, cross-legged.
"It's a nice day out, yeah?" He says, scratching his beard with his index finger, looking toward the sky. Trying, and failing, to appear casual.
In the few seconds he waits for Tetia to answer, he already regrets coming down ten times over, mentally swearing at his sleep-induced mind for even thinking this was a good idea. Maybe she needed to be alone, and even if she didn't, Qifrey would soon enough be awake and see her outside, prompting him to come check on her much as Olruggio is doing now. Stars know Qifrey would be way better at talking to her than Olruggio.
Too late to go back now, he supposes. What is done is done.
"It is," she agrees, voice so low he barely hears it, eyes fixed on the few blades of grass she turns between her fingers. "It's nice to have a bit of sunshine after so many days of rain."
Olruggio hums in apparent agreement, before saying, "Is this why you woke up so early?"
Tetia tenses a little, as if mentally trying to see how much of what is going on in her mind she should present before him, before visibly deflating. "...no."
The admission came easier than he expected, still, she didn't seem to be in the mood to expand further.
"Couldn't sleep, then?" He presses on, now turning toward her.
She shakes her head, letting the grass go. Drawing her knees together, she folds her arms around them and settles her chin atop, her gaze drifting out toward the horizon.
"Hey, hey. No need to look so down, I couldn't sleep either," he says, turning his gaze to the same general area she was looking at as well, observing a flock of birds fly with no care in the world. "I had a pretty nasty nightmare."
"Master Olruggio has nightmares too?" She looks at him, her forlorn expression all but forgotten, being replaced by genuine surprise. "I thought adults didn't have those."
"What? Of course we do," he chuckles, "children and adults have more in common than you think."
"...I guess that is true," she nods at herself, before drawing her attention back to him, "What did you dream about?"
Olruggio contains the urge to groan at the inquiry. He knew the question would come, but it still caught him off guard.
"I would rather not talk about it." He gives her a smile, hoping it would be reassuring. Yes, he could lie to her and say something less haunting and far more gentle than death and blood to the point my hands got red, but he didn't want to make a habit of lying if he didn't have to. He turns the question gently back to her. "What about you? What brought you outside?"
"You will think it's silly," she pouts, turning her face away from him once more, cheeks puffed with the indignity of it. It makes her look, he thinks, a little like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter.
"I think that's up to me to decide, no?" Olruggio argues, trying and failing to resist the urge to poke her cheek with a grin.
The poke seems to loosen something in her, at least. The puff of her cheeks deflates, and the stubborn set of her shoulders eases.
"It's weird, I don't know how to describe it really well, but—" She draws herself closer, as if making herself small would, somehow, make the world forget her for a moment and keep moving and moving. "Have you ever felt like you were, uh—that's hard." She chuckles, but it sounds small even to her own ears. "Have you ever thought you were an outsider, sometimes?"
"An outsider?" He repeats, unsure of what to say.
"Mhm. It's just… Agott has been getting closer to Coco these days, you know? And it's good! I'm really happy for them, because Agott really seemed to need someone to talk to, and Coco admires her so much, so it's nice. And I really, really wanted them to be friends! Everyone in the atelier, truly, but—" She bites her lower lip, holding the words there a moment before letting them go. "—it's sad, in a way. Because I noticed they started to share a space I don't think I'm invited into. At least, not anymore."
She says the last part more quietly, so quietly he barely catches it. Her voice wilting like a flower bent under a strong wind, folding in on itself as though the words cost her something to let out.
"I didn't notice before, because—hey, at least I had Richeh to complain about it. But now she's using a great part of her day to send letters to Euni, and it's…" Her voice trembles, catching on something she can't quite swallow down. "…it's so stupid, because I'm happy for them! I am. But—argh." She presses her forehead against her knees for a moment, then lifts it again. "I can't help but feel lonely, sometimes. Like I'm just… on the sidelines."
Tetia winced, as if noticing she had been rambling. She turned her head really fast toward Olruggio.
"Sorry! I know it makes no sense and I must be really mean to even think about—"
He stops her with a hand on top of her head, patting it awkwardly, the way he always does, as though caring for others was a language he learned late and still speaks with an accent. But he means it. He wants to be kind, for her, for all of them, really. Wants to show her that even if the world is cruel sometimes, even if feelings settle on the chest like stones, he will be here to say, it's okay. It's confusing, sometimes. I get it.
"I understand what you mean, Tetia, no worries. It doesn't make you a bad person at all, in fact, it just makes you very human."
"How so?" She asked, her big eyes staring up at him as if he held the answer to all the secrets in the universe.
Stars, this is why he leaves such moments in Qifrey’s hands, in the first place. It terrifies him to know that a single word, casually offered, might tilt a life toward better or worse and never announce which.
This, regrettably, feels far too much like such a moment.
"Well, uh," he suddenly feels himself sweating with the intensity in her gaze, "It's human nature to want to be accepted and included. It's totally normal to feel sad over it."
"Even you feel this way, Master Olruggio? Even when you stay cooped up in your room all day, and rarely leaves?"
He blinks. For a moment, he isn't sure whether to laugh or wince at how brutally honest Tetia can be. While she does occasionally aim where it hurts, in things about himself he didn't even know bothered him, he finds this part of her terribly endearing. If only people could be just as honest as her, maybe life would be less heavy.
"Of course I do."
In fact, while she is none the wiser, while he was at her age, it was all he could think about for days. He had always been good with other kids, but most of the time, it felt a lot like performing an act.
How could it not? He had always been the Star of Ghodrey first and a human last. It was hard to not feel at least a little distant from them, when they could look at him in the eye and see something else, while when he gazed at the mirror, he just saw a terrified kid staring back. It only changed when Qifrey came into his life, he supposes.
"It's a terribly lonely feeling, right? Almost as if you are on an island all alone, seeing all the others around you filled with people, but no way to join in, unless you drown."
She nods, eagerly, "Exactly! It sucks."
Seeing her momentarily shrinking back into herself again, he brings up both of his hands and messes up her hair, which gets an indignant scream from her.
"Say kid, would it help if we share a secret of ourselves then?"
He looks down at her as he asks, a conspiratory smile in place — he could feel his older Master sighing in his mind, saying this was one that only invited trouble — while she looks curiously back at him, her hands still trying to pry his off from her pigtails.
"A secret?"
Finally, he lifts his hand from her hair and rises, groaning theatrically as he goes, one hand pressed to the small of his back. He stretches, puts on the whole performance, and then glances back down at her.
"I may need someone to test my newest invention, and I thought you would be interested. What do you say?"
She immediately gets up, eyes sparkling. He contains the urge to laugh again, because if there is something that always gets the girls excited, it's the prospect of seeing magic. And seeing new magic? Even better.
"Of course I do, Master Olruggio! Gosh, what are you making? Is it small? Big? Is it for some shitty noble again—"
He looks at her, horrified. "Just where did you learn that word!?"
"You say it all the time!"
Shocked, they make their way back inside the little atelier, with Olruggio trying to make Tetia swear to never say that in front of Qifrey, otherwise he will be at his wits' end.
While he doubts the problem is truly resolved, he has at least managed to distract her from it. In due time, he'll have to talk with Qifrey and see what the two of them might do. But for now, he supposes, being someone she feels safe enough to bring her troubles to is enough.
.
Though the exchange with Tetia had been brief — brief enough that he'd assumed it would slip from him in no time at all — it, unfortunately, stuck. Not the way ordinary conversations do, surfacing now and then, but the way a worm festers in an old wound: relentlessly, patiently, spreading. It spun and spun inside his mind relentlessly, until he couldn't think of nothing but a false smile, and a blue eye where the light no longer quite stayed the same as it used to, anymore.
Yes, when he had talked to Tetia about it, two weeks ago now, what had come to mind when he thought of his younger days was how isolated he had felt with the pressure on him, as if he was a mountain that would never crack if you put another rock on top of it, instead of a scarred child with nowhere to go. But, as the thought grew and grew until it consumed everything else, it had diverged from childhood musings to where he and Qifrey stand now.
He gets it now what she said about it being silly. He does feel silly and impossibly childish, thinking about his friendship with the man over and over, when there are definitely more important things to think about, but—
When was the last time he had talked with Qifrey about anything and felt it was sincere?
Olruggio might not be the best Watchful Eye around — not with all the things he lets Qifrey get away with — but he likes to think that, at the very least, he is a good friend. And as it stands, he knows something is up.
More than knowing, he feels, deep, deep inside him, that he is missing something. Something is wrong. Something is deeply wrong, as though a single object in the house had been moved from its place, and he could walk every room, every corner, and still never find out what it was.
He knows that if he adds it all up — the forced smiles, the tension Qifrey carries when he thinks no one is watching the performance of the perfect teacher, the conversations that fall flat — a picture will emerge. He just doesn't know yet of what.
"He doesn't tell me anythiiiiiing," he says, whines really, falling onto his floor with a thud, with his arms flung wide, and eyes fixed on the ceiling of his room, as though the answer might be written up there if he just searches hard enough.
It's easy, when no one is around, to drop the entire Olruggio of The Torch and Qifrey's Watchful Eye act, to just become what he feels inside: eighteen, missing his best friend who suddenly disappeared out of thin air, not even saying a proper goodbye.
Groaning, he twists this way and that across the floor before hauling himself upright, trying and failing, to drag his attention back to the spell he'd been working on. He doesn't want to think about those terrible times at all, because that's the thing about bad memories: dwell on them too long, and they won't let you back out. He knows that once he starts remembering, it will follow him for the rest of the day, and he truly doesn’t need that.
So, he wills on. A circle is drawn, a line is brought to life and the ink drops from his pen. It's a complicated circle but—
Did Qifrey feel as terrible as Olruggio felt, when he left? Did he feel the loss over and over, like a phantom limb that aches for a hand no longer there? Did he see every bit of black hair and every fire magic and every late night alone and thought about Olruggio? Or did he not care at all?
There was a quiet kind of grief in there, one that surfaced every time he finished a new invention and remembered there was no one left to boast about it to. One that appeared when he watched the years pass and understood that a certain white-haired witch would never know what happened in them. Would never have the chance to live through them with him again, no matter how much it bothered him. No matter how much he wished otherwise.
There was a quiet kind of grief in there, that had settled on his shoulder, like a big coat for a kid too small, and he hadn't learned how to remove it since.
He presses the pen with too much strength on the paper, and an entire circle full of black ink grows and grows, until it devours half of the page. Olruggio sighs in frustration or, perhaps, tiredness. It comes out shaky, as if he put more force in it, it would transform into something else.
Would they ever go back to what they were? Or will their relationship stay forever like this, a bunch of what ifs and why nots and whys? Never going anywhere, even if he desperately wants it to, to the point he would drop everything again and again just to be by Qifrey's side?
Come on, Olruggio, he thinks, as he sees the black growing bigger and bigger, swallowing it all, you need to find a way to fix this. That's what you do best.
Would talking to Qifrey change anything? He doubts it. If it were this easy, he would've done this years ago.
There isn't a single imaginary scene deep inside his mind where this goes well. If Qifrey doesn't straight up lie, he will try to divert the subject, and if he doesn't do that, he will try to make it seem as Olruggio is making a bigger deal of things. And if he does none of that, he will just look terribly wounded by all of it, as if merely speaking about his problems would very well cut him right down the middle and leave his corpse to rot.
His thoughts spin and spin, but never go anywhere. He's trapped, he realizes, seeing the light of the moon starting to illuminate his worktable. He's trapped in this cycle of falsehoods and he doesn't know how to get out. He is the serpent forever eating its tail, the mouse in the spinning wheel, the ghost haunting a home where its occupants will never go back to.
"This isn't working," he mutters, looking hopelessly at his own abandoned work, "I need a drink."
Olruggio gets up, fully intending to go to the kitchen and pick up the wine bottle he knows is in there, just to stop when he sees the familiar light from the hearth coming from the main living area.
His body makes the decision for him. Before he can turn around or can talk himself into or out of anything, he stops when he hears the sound of Coco's voice.
"Master Qifrey, are you sure you are alright? You've been looking quite tired lately."
"While I appreciate your concern, Coco, there is no need for you to worry about me."
"You didn't answer my question." He hears more than sees Coco's worried face. Smart kid.
"I'm alright," Qifrey says, and Olruggio can hear the smile in it. "As of late, there are so many things to worry about that it's been quiet."
What has been quiet? Olruggio thinks, pressing himself further into the wall, arms crossed, brows furrowed.
"Are you sure? You don't look like you've been sleeping a lot. You should—"
"Coco." The word is gently chiding, a soft door closing. We do not speak of this further, it says. "It's time to go to bed, alright? It's gotten very late."
"But—"
"Let's go. I'll take you back to your room."
When Olruggio starts to hear footsteps, he welcomes it as his cue to leave. For some reason, he just knows this wasn't a conversation he was meant to hear.
Running — thank the stars for the silencing spell he always uses — back to his room, he closes the door with his chest heaving, a million thoughts crashing and colliding in his brain.
He knew, of course, that Qifrey had been hiding something from him but to think Coco, a child, knew as well?
It might be terribly selfish of him. There are a dozen things he should be worrying about, such as: what Qifrey is hiding, why Coco of all people seems to know, what Qifrey meant by it's been quiet. But what he ends up focusing on is simpler than all of that. Childish, even.
It hurts. Like a sword driven clean through his heart and left there with no hand to pull it free, and nothing to stop the bleeding. Just Olruggio and the slow endless ache of it, knowing, with a terrible certainty, that it will not stop.
In what moment did he become so untrustful Qifrey would rather confide in a child rather than him? All of this while Olruggio was ready and willing to ask him about quite literally anything.
Was it something he had done? If so, he couldn't really remember, no matter how much he tried. He had always been careful with their friendship, as if any wrong thing said would shatter it like fine porcelain. If that was the case, Qifrey could at least tell him what, so he could know how to fix it.
Olruggio sighed once more, but for all the sighing he did, he didn't feel his chest feeling any less heavy. He felt like his lungs had become filled with water the past few days, everything feeling all too tight and sore. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach. Once, it had been excitement — for all the things life had to offer, for the endless possibilities ahead. Now he knew it for what it was: dread.
Ignoring the feeling, he moved back to his worktable once more, but he knew it would be a losing battle even before sitting down. If he couldn't focus before, he certainly won't now, not with betrayal coursing through his veins like something venomous, taking up all of him. Until the only thing he sees when he closes his eyes is a single bright blue eye, and white hair falling across a face as it marvels at some magic brought newly into the world. He wonders if he will ever see such a sight again.
Shaking his head, he decides to go to his hammock instead, opting to lay down and look at the world outside, untouched by all his inner conflicts. Feeling tired, he begins to muse the kind of thoughts that come when you are just beginning to be crushed by it all. Something like: it would have been better to be born a bird. Free. Flying under a bright and open sky. No worries at all except the next meal, and where to build your nest.
Or perhaps even then life would prove cruel, and he would find himself a bird with its wings cut, gazing upward, watching all his kin take flight, knowing he could not follow, no matter how he tried.
What would be better, then, to avoid that particular suffering? The knowing that you can never reach what you desperately want, what was meant for you? To keep looking, hoping, foolishly, that it might one day return to you? Or to avert your gaze? Unlearn how to fly? Stop looking at the vast sky, one that is open, but unreachable all the same?
What is this? Are you becoming a poet now? Olruggio of The Pen? He thinks to himself, an easy laugh escaping from his lips.
Shaking his head at his foolishness, he studies his wooden ceiling for a while, before deciding to close his eyes, hoping his tired body would be enough to grant him the mercy of sleep, except—
Qifrey stares at him, half fury and half disbelief, suddenly wet from head to toe, "Why did you do that?"
Olruggio, a kid then, couldn't stop himself from laughing at the absolutely wet cat appearance Qifrey had.
"It’s not funny," his friend said, coming up from the bath he had been suddenly pushed into, "I could've drowned you know."
"Pshh, you wouldn't." He said, rolling his eyes, but not before offering his hand to Qifrey, who looked at him suspiciously, before accepting, "You should—"
In an instant, the hand on his tugs him backward with surprising force, before he is falling into the water, the familiar burning taste of the liquid filling his mouth and his nostrils, before he gets up from the pool used for bathing and throws Qifrey a nasty glare.
The glare falls flat from his face though, because there Qifrey is, laughing so hard he had to hug his stomach to contain his giggles. For a moment, Olruggio stayed there, eye-struck, seeing his friend bathed by the light, looking as beautiful as ever. He thought he wouldn't mind getting wet a million times over, if it meant seeing him so happy.
Maybe he knew just then, or even before that, that Qifrey had changed his life, and he wouldn't be the same ever again. As if back when Qifrey was drowning, it was him who saved his life, and not the other way around.
Olruggio opens his eyes, coming back to the present where sleep evades him, just to be welcomed by the ceiling once more. He turns to his side, and tries, once more, to rest again.
He was eleven then, presenting Qifrey his first contraption: the Link Rings. He was a bundle of nerves then, trembling with excitement and equally fearful of stepping some unseen boundary. It was all for nothing though, because Qifrey had accepted the rings with visible awe, cradling them into his hands as if they were the most precious things in the world. Olruggio was struck with the realization that it was a wonderful thing to have someone to invent things for. To make love and concern and care into a physical form and offer it to one who would receive it with gratitude and fondness for it.
He was twelve, sick in his bed, whining from boredom and a sore throat, all while Qifrey, who was supposed to not visit, entered his room late at night to offer him some company. Maybe he knew, even when Olruggio had not told him so, that it would be the first time he would be sick without having anyone to care for him around. Or maybe he just had felt just as lonely as Olruggio and had decided that the risk of getting sick was worth the time spent together. Either way, it made Olruggio smile gratefully at him.
He was thirteen and fourteen and fifteen—
Olruggio opened his eyes once more, looking at the ceiling but not really, his mind far away, drifting in the honeyed light of his past, where he could no longer go back to.
He was almost thirty now, and with a feeling that was equal part grief and yearning, the only thing he could think about was: Qifrey flinching from his touch, Qifrey leaning away, Qifrey hiding the truth from him, Qifrey lying, Qifrey smiling if only to hide his gritting teeth.
"Damn it all, Qifrey," he says, to no one in particular. "Damn it all."
.
Olruggio likes to think he is careful with people and the words he uses, if only because he has stood on the pointed edge of that knife one too many times since he was young, and wished, more than once, that people had been a little kinder to him instead.
That's why he tries his best to not meddle with Qifrey too much, because he knows his friend is a rather reserved man. He doesn't like to say what he didn't plan to say and would rather lie or hide his true feelings by omission, and Olruggio, never one to want him to feel uncomfortable, would hate to put him in a difficult position just because he feels selfish (because that is what it is, isn't it?) and wants to be confided in, once in a while.
However, sometimes, you do things and you do them not because you're thinking but because you're feeling. Because you're feeling too much, and the feeling has to go somewhere. And you can't always control what you do when you're feeling too much.
This brings him here, at the kitchen at the early moments of the morning, finally getting a much needed meal after being strangely taciturn and spending the great majority of his week deep inside his room, as if he could just make all his problems disappear if he didn't step out of that threshold any time soon.
Unsurprisingly, he wasn't very lucky with that. He did get his work done at least a few days earlier than he had predicted, but as his emotions stood, he wasn't feeling any better now than when he accidentally eavesdropped on Coco's and Qifrey's conversation a few days ago.
"At this rate you won't be getting that soup done any time soon, my dear friend."
Olruggio's attention is brought back to the living world when he hears Qifrey's voice. He turns to see the man at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed and eye filled with visible amusement. Momentarily, he wonders how long Qifrey has been there, watching him.
He huffs, feeling strangely dejected seeing Qifrey's face, after avoiding him for so long. It's odd how the feelings mix inside him, making him giddy and full of sorrow at once, sweet and aching in the same breath. To have a heart that loves is too much of a heavy burden, sometimes.
Instead of letting those feelings create life in his words, he looks back at his meal, stirring it with the wooden spoon on his grasp.
"You think too little of me, Qifrey. It's almost ready."
Olruggio hears footsteps approaching, and soon enough there is another warm body beside him — close enough to see, but as always, too far to touch. If he were more awake and less tired, he might have noticed the metaphor sitting right there in the space between them. But he isn't, and so he doesn't.
"Here," Qifrey picks up the spoon from his hands, which Olruggio lets go without much of a fight, "Let me."
"You don't have to do this. In fact, it's way too early. You should go back to rest," he argues, even knowing it is futile. He could count on one hand the times he has won an argument against his friend, and, as silly as it sounds, arguments over food are the one thing Qifrey grows strangely stubborn about.
"I would like to help, besides," he looks at him sideways, before focusing back on the meal, "you're the one who has been exhausted these past few days, right? You've barely left your room, not to mention you didn't even touch the food I brought you."
A part of Olruggio was hoping Qifrey wouldn't bring this up. Alas, it was apparently too much to ask for.
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, it seems I've bitten off more than I can chew once more, and taken on far too many commissions at the same time."
Qifrey hums.
"Let me guess. Another noble who doesn't take no for an answer?"
"Something like that," he lies, but not before guiltily averting his gaze to the floor. "I'm done with them now, though. I will just have to deliver them and I'm free."
"Free to take more, if I know you," Qifrey jokes. "I know you take pride in your work, but maybe you should take a week off, at least. To rest properly."
"I rest plenty," he grumbles.
"Your eyebags tell me otherwise. You've gotten thinner, too."
"As if you're one to talk, Qifrey." He argues back, and as much as he tries to make it sound like an offhand commentary, it comes out way more heated than he intends to. "At least you know I'm not sleeping because I'm working. But what about you, hm?"
It is barely there, but Olruggio notices Qifrey's lips turning into a thin line. It vanishes as quickly as it comes, but it's enough for the familiar voice inside his head to come back with full force.
You're not meant to ask him that, it says, deeply afraid, you're making him uncomfortable.
For years, he has been content with nothing from Qifrey. After all, it's always nothing with him — nothing to worry about, nothing wrong, nothing to say. He wonders why it only now begins to bother him so badly that he loses the will to keep his mouth shut. Why now, of all times, he can't seem to let it go, even knowing that speaking will do more harm than good.
"You know how it is, Olly. I start to worry about the girls, about our atelier, and when I see it, the sun is already rising."
Even if he is not taking Qifrey's form entirely, Olruggio knows all of the man's tells, has spent a lifetime learning him really, in the same way a kid would read a beloved book over and over again, hoping to find a new sentence, a new meaning to a phrase, just to come out with nothing new. And so, he doesn't miss the way Qifrey's shoulders tighten.
Suddenly it is obvious, bright as day: he has been lying about something. He has been lying for a while now.
Olruggio wonders if he didn't see it, or if he simply pretended he didn't, because it would be easier that way.
"I don't think I do," he admits, quietly, as if he was eighteen again, seeing his best friend leaving, having no way to know if he would ever come back, "You never tell me anything."
"Oh," Qifrey gasps, and for as much as he tries to look unaffected, his hands still tremble where they hold the spoon. From fear or from anger, Olruggio could only guess. "Oh, Olly. I didn't know it bothered you."
Between one heartbeat and the next, Olruggio is stunned into silence. And then the surprise curdles, slowly, into something much, much uglier.
He can't help but let out a chuckle.
"You are such a liar." He says it to the soup at first, staring down into it, and his insides feel much the same: boiling, feverish, one minute from rising up and spilling over the rim. Then he turns his gaze to Qifrey. "I'm going to ask you only once, Qifrey. What are you hiding from me?"
"I'm afraid you need to be more clear with me."
"Just—what are you doing?" he asks, bewildered that even now, even now, Qifrey tries to evade the question. "What the hell are you doing, Qifrey? What's got you so damn guilty all the time?"
"Olly, I—"
"Stars help me, if you try to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about one more time—"
"But I don't!" Qifrey hisses, barely keeping himself from screaming. He closes the pan with a sharp motion that echoes in the tiny kitchen, turning to look at him. "I don't know what you want from me! It's—the Brimmed Caps are circling us like vultures and I worry, that's all!"
At their mention, Olruggio tries to soften his tone, knowing Qifrey didn't like to be reminded of them much, except he can't. He is angry and tired and so, so sick of this dance they've been doing for years, that, for a moment, as selfish and ugly as it is, he just wants Qifrey to drop the act of the perfect teacher and feel at least an ounce of how miserable he feels.
Or maybe, he just wants to feel angry. As it turns out, feeling angry is much, much better than feeling betrayed.
"You know damn well that's not what's bothering you." He locks his eyes with Qifrey, and it stuns him, for a moment, his reflection there. He looks like all the things he didn't want to see in himself. "If that was the case, you wouldn't have brought Coco in."
Qifrey furrows his brow at him.
"I thought we had this conversation before, and we established she would be an apprentice here. I didn't take you for a man so cruel that you would turn your back on a child, Olruggio."
Olruggio has been called many things in his life, but cruel is the first time. And it lands exactly where it hurts, because for the longest time, all he ever wanted was to be good. Qifrey must see it too, if the way his face falls says as much.
He, however, scoffs, not being particularly fond of the idea of looking like the words thrown at him might as well have been a knife, splitting him open and leaving him to die of a broken heart, right there, in the middle of their kitchen.
"I—" he stutters, at a loss for words. It's not the first time they argued, far from it, but it is the first time he feels so afraid over it. "I—Qifrey. Would it kill you to be honest with me? Just once in your life?"
He gets no answer to that, except for a troubled face. He keeps going.
"Just what is going on? Why were you so adamant about bringing her in? Is it the Brimmed Caps again? I thought you didn't want to go after them anymore!" He drags his hands through his hair, frustration spilling out of him in fits and starts. "Is this why you've been so snappish lately? Why you're avoiding me? You know I wouldn't fault you for that."
Olruggio looks at him, helpless, at his wits' end, really, waiting for anything back. An answer, an excuse, anything, but what he gets, as always, is silence.
"Is this why you left me behind?" He adds, voice small.
That seems to snap Qifrey out of it, because he looks at him with his single eye widening.
"Olly—"
"I know you didn't like the Grand Hall much. I know you wanted to leave but I don't—I just—why didn't you take me?" His voice cracks on the last part, and he hates himself for it. He wants to say it's anger alone, but he knows better. It was never only anger. "I would have gone with you, Qifrey. I would have helped you look for them, or whatever the hell it was you were doing out there alone. I—I would have given you anything, if you'd only asked."
Silence screeches before them. Suddenly, he feels like a criminal walking toward the guillotine.
Say something, he wanted to shout at him. Say anything. Make up an excuse, I won't care even if it's a lie, I'd believe anything.
Qifrey does not. He remains there, back as straight as ever.
"You won't tell me anything again, will you?" He asks, at least, defeated.
The man opens his mouth, then closes it. His gaze slides away, refusing to meet Olruggio's. His hands find each other in front of him, and begin to fidget.
"...I won't."
"Even if I beg you to, you won't ask for my help."
Qifrey's lips turn into a line.
"I won't, no."
Olruggio takes a deep breath — if only to keep himself from shattering into a million pieces — and suddenly he can't bear to look at Qifrey's face anymore. It's funny how these things work. For years, there was nothing he wanted more than to wake to his best friend's face, and to have it be the last thing he saw before closing his eyes at night. And now he can't stand to look at it at all.
"Did you know—," did you know you break my heart, sometimes? "—nevermind, I don't even know why I bother." He finishes it quietly, not even angry anymore, just tired. Bone-tired. He takes a step back, then another, moving toward the door. "You don't need to make lunch or dinner for me. I will be going to deliver my commissions."
"Olly, wait! I—"
Even after everything, Olruggio turns back. He looks at Qifrey helplessly, and doesn't know what his own face is showing, but it surely must be everything he feels. Tell me. It must say tell me.
Qifrey's face falls. Then, slowly, he offers him a small smile.
"Don't come home too late, alright?"
He feels his entire body grow rigid in a way that means he's very tired and trying very hard not to cry.
Olruggio goes back to his room and leaves through a windowway not long after getting his contraptions, not confiding in himself to not just dissolve in a puddle of regret and unshed tears in front of Qifrey if he stayed a minute longer.
When he feels the scent of oncoming rain and the gentle caress of the wind on his hair, however, there is no relief to be found inside of him. After all, how could there be?
"He didn't even run after me. He would have, before."
Olruggio says, to no one in particular.
.
The world surely must hate him. When he wants to go back home, suddenly his clients decide to be very annoying and keep him for another day or two, asking endlessly about modifications here and there, ones they never even voiced wanting before. However, the very first moment he doesn't want to go back, because that means he will have to see Qifrey's face, suddenly everything goes smoothly.
So here he is, sitting on the step of some random stairway in Kalhn's, watching the sun set, pointedly ignoring the stares of passersby gawking at a famous witch, with no will to go home. In another moment, he might have gone for a drink, but he left in such a haste he didn't bring his wallet, and besides, he doesn't much feel like drinking alone.
He hears someone whistle behind him. "Is that the Olruggio of The Torch I see? Moping on the floor?"
"Give it a rest, Utowin," he rolls his eyes, "I'm not moping."
"Sure you aren't," his fellow witch says, sitting down beside him, evidently sighing with contentment at finally being able to relax a little. Olruggio can’t imagine being part of the Knights Moralis to be an easy job.
"What are you doing here?" He raises an eyebrow.
"You know a good knight wouldn't spill anything to you, right? It's confidential."
"But you clearly aren't a good knight," he jokes.
"You wound me." Utowin takes it easily, pressing a hand to his heart in mock offense. "Some witch tried to help a woman drowning on the other side of the city, earlier this day. Things ended up messy, and some people saw what they shouldn't. You know the drill."
"I can't believe you people will choose to erase the memories of someone saving a person from drowning," he says, with no intent of hiding the venom dripping from his words. Sure, he knows those are rules, but he can't help but feel they are stupid every once in a while.
Utowin shrugs to that.
"And I, my fellow Ghodrey friend, sure hope you don't talk in front of the other witches like that," he answers easily enough, with his tone light, but with something serious threaded underneath. "Besides, I'm just doing my job. Don't shoot the messenger and all that."
Olruggio only shakes his head, but says nothing more. Utowin takes that as his cue to continue.
"My turn to ask you a question now. What brought you here in the middle of the town, looking like a kicked brushbug?"
Utowin nudges him with an elbow, light enough to be friendly, hard enough to mean it.
"Why would they kick a brushbug? They are so cute."
"Exactly."
He shakes his head. Whatever goes on inside Utowin's head is a wonder to him, even after all these years.
"I came to deliver some of my newest inventions to one of my clients."
"But that wasn't what brought you here."
Damn. Utowin could be perceptive when he wanted to be.
"But that isn't what brought me here," he admits, not seeing the need to lie about that. "I may or may not have gotten into a fight with Qifrey."
Utowin's brows climb so high Olruggio thinks they might reach the sky. "You two? I was sure the world would end before you disagreed on something."
Olruggio laughs, but there isn’t much happiness behind the action. If only he knew.
"Oh, trust me, we disagree plenty," he says, with a smile on his lips, remembering the silly arguments they had over the years, "But this time was particularly awful—"
He gets interrupted by a sudden hand holding his elbow with a bruising grip. From the corner of his eye, he sees Utowin slightly getting up as well, ready to act if the situation demands it.
"Sir, you are a witch, are you not?"
Olruggio turns, awkwardly, to find a woman standing in front of him. She seemed to be in her late twenties, though the years have not been kind to her. Her hair is disheveled, heavy shadows sit beneath her eyes, and where her hand grips his arm, her sleeve slips back to reveal a wrist thin and frail.
He shoots Utowin a look — one he hopes reads as calm down — before straightening and gently laying a hand over the woman's, trying, as best he can, to reassure her.
"Yes I am, miss," he says, giving her a smile. "What can I help you with?"
"Oh, stars above," she crouches in front of him, both hands moving to grasp the end of his coat now. Then, she proceeds to kneel in front of him, crying and begging, "I'm sure you were sent from the heavens to help me and my child. Please, come with me. I—I need your help."
"Olruggio," Utowin says. It's only his name, but he has heard enough warnings in his life to know one when it's spoken.
"Please, miss, there is no need to do that," he says, gently, ignoring the knight, opting to put both of his hands into her arms, kindly getting her to stand up, "How about you explain to me and my… friend what is happening, while you lead us to where you need our help?"
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she says, crying still, but now gripping his arm as if he would just suddenly run away. She turns, dragging him with her, clearly making her way toward somewhere.
Once again, he shares a look with Utowin, who just looks at him unimpressed. Yes, he knows this is cryptic at worst and weird at best, to the point it could even be a trap of sorts, but he wouldn't be able to sleep at night if he just ignored someone so visibly distressed. One that asked for his help, at that.
"My child, Lara, is very sick," she starts, taking deep breaths as if to try to calm herself down, "I've tried every doctor in and out of the city, but none of them could pinpoint what is wrong with her, except to prepare some medicines to ease her pain."
Oh no.
"For a while it was fine, I was happy to have even that, as selfish as it sounds, but—" she took a shuddering breath, turning to look at him now, face so visibly agonized that he felt his own heart clench in return, "but the last two who visited dared to say she doesn't seem to have much strength in her anymore and I—I—She is my child."
Olruggio bites his lip until it bleeds, and lays his hand over her trembling one once more. But the words do not come. They rise as far as his throat and die there, and he can do nothing but stand in the silence, holding on to her.
Utowin, seemingly seeing his state, sighs, before deciding to be the one to deliver the bad news.
"I'm sorry miss, but us witches cannot help you with that."
"No," she gasps, before looking at Olruggio with nothing but dying hope in her eyes. It was much like—"Please, you have to help me, you are my last chance! I—," she let him go, running her hands through her hair, "Nothing I do helps and the doctors and medics are useless—I—Please, you do not understand—"
"As I said, I'm really sorry, but it is something out of our hands,” Utowin repeats, looking between the two of them.
"Utowin," Olruggio says, suddenly. His voice could only be described as tiny. He looks at him helplessly, at the same time she says, "But you are witches are you not? You tell me you can create water from nothing and fire from ice but you cannot help my child?"
"Miss—"
"Utowin," he interrupts, gently, again. "I'm sure it will not be too much trouble to at least have a look at her, right?"
He looks at him, trying as he might, to transfer what he needed to say, even if he himself didn't know what it was. Whatever Utowin saw must have done the trick, because he sighed before saying, "Right. I guess it wouldn't."
"Oh, thank you! Thank you, kind sirs, thank you, truly." She says, before continuing to lead the way.
As they walk through the streets of the town, she fills them in. Her daughter is named Lara and is eleven years old. She was born sickly, and because of that, her husband left, saying it was too much trouble to earn money for a child who might not survive. For a while, it seemed she was getting better. Then, at ten, she caught a bad case of the flu going around town, and hasn't left her bed since. As it stands, the last doctor doubted the girl would live another month.
That was when she found them.
They walk and walk, and she talks more and more — whether to help them or simply to keep herself upright, he doesn't know. But in no time at all they arrive before her home.
It was a simple building, made of wood and stone. However, even before he steps inside, Olruggio can see it: this is a house that has been loved. Every patched board and worn threshold says so. There is a swingset on the tree nearby, and a few pots of red flowers outside, clearly well taken care of.
"She really likes red," her mother mutters, following his gaze and looking wistfully at the flowers.
Olruggio smiles at the information, even though he only felt heavier and heavier as they approached the building, knowing that try as he might, he would not be able to help this poor woman. "You should show these flowers to her, then. I'm sure she will be very happy."
The woman threw a smile at him, before opening the entrance door and asking them to come inside.
Now that Olruggio is no longer being quite literally dragged toward her home, Utowin falls into step beside him and leans down, lowering his voice so only Olruggio can hear.
"What the hell do you think you are doing, Olruggio? You know we can't help with that."
"Yes, but—she's desperate, Utowin. It won't kill us to take at least one look at her daughter, and tell her there's nothing to be done. You know it will kill her inside if her daughter—" Dies. He can't bring himself to say it. He clears his throat. "—if the worst comes to pass, and she has to live knowing that if only she'd tried harder to bring us here, things might have been different."
"Olruggio you—" he says, clearly frustrated, before straightening up once more, "You're impossible, you know that? This shit will only hurt you."
As if he already doesn't know that.
"It will hurt her more," he says at last. "Please, Utowin."
To that, the knight has no argument ready, because they both know it's true.
The mother leads them to, what he assumes, is the door to her daughter's room.
"Miss," Olruggio starts, feeling, suddenly, like the walls are far too big and he, far too small. "Would you like for me to go inside and take a look at her? You can talk with my friend here in the meantime."
She looks at him gratefully. And for a moment, one that barely exists before it's gone, he wonders if she already knows. If she, too, understands there is nothing to be done.
"Please, do."
He nods at her, and for the last time, shares a glance with Utowin.
"Olruggio," is all he says.
"I know, Utowin," he opens the door, before saying quietly, "Believe me, I know."
Olruggio enters the room and, not surprisingly, it looks as well loved as the rest of their home. There are toys scattered on the floor, painting on the walls and a window slightly open, letting a cool breeze get in, much as the light from the sun setting. It seems like it is a scene belonging to a picture, those he sees in his wealthier clients' houses.
There, lying down on her bed, looking at him curiously, there is a little girl.
"Who are you?" she asks, her voice so low he doubts he'd hear it at all, if not for the silence that fills the house.
"Uh—Lara, right? Nice to meet you. I'm Olruggio." He approaches, lowering himself into the chair beside her bed. He tries not to think about how many nights her mother must have spent in this same chair, praying it wouldn't be the last time she looked at her child. He tries not to think about it, and fails.
She nods, still looking at him all confused. "You don't look like a doctor."
"That's because I'm not one," he leans on the chair, crossing his arms, "I'm a witch."
"Oh," she looks at him with wider eyes now, mouth slightly open in surprise. "Mom must have dragged you here, then."
"Maybe," he offers her a smile, unsure what else to do. He fights the urge to fidget with his own hands, feeling terribly, uselessly inadequate. "But I wanted to visit you, too."
She looks at him like she doesn’t really believe him, so he continues, "Your mom told us about you. And, well, you seemed like a really nice child, so I wanted to come say hi. And maybe, I don't know, show you some magic. Do you, uh, do you like magic?"
Lara still looks at him with visible distrust in her eyes, but nods slowly, clearly more excited from seeing a witch up close.
In a way, she reminds him of the girls. Of Coco, more specifically. He banishes the thought at once. It does him no good to imagine them in Lara's shoes. It would only break his heart.
"I love magic," she says with more strength, before looking outside the window, "But I can't see it up close, since I can't leave the house."
"Would you like to see some now?" He asks, smiling at her.
She looks back at him, eyes widening with barely contained wonder, nodding frantically. And, well, when a kid looks at him so expectantly, who was he to say no?
That's how they pass the afternoon, with Olruggio conjuring spell after spell, small enough to fit her little room — her little world — but showy enough to draw gasp after delighted gasp from her. There, in that room, animals made of light roam and purr in her lap. Fire in every color of the rainbow comes from his hands. Water is made in whatever shape she asks for. He makes leaves sprout from the floor and flowers bloom from her blankets, draws until he feels his paperwire thinning with every spell — and it's almost enough.
Almost enough to fool them both, her especially, that today is all they have. That tomorrow won't come, and she won't have to worry about anything except what new trick he might show her next.
They are only brought to reality when a knock comes from the door, and both of them stop, hearing Utowin's voice calling Olruggio, saying he needs to come out.
"Seems my time here has come to an end, huh," he says, finishing the last spell he was working on, making a piece of paper take the shape of a dragon and roar around her bedroom, earning another little laugh from her.
Olruggio thinks, miserably, that, in another life, her and Coco would've been great friends. Shame this one is all they've got.
"Do you have to go, mister?" He looks down, and finds her looking at him, seemingly nervous. Unfortunately, he nods, which makes her shrink into herself further. "I—," she hesitates, then looks down at her hands, fidgeting with the edge of her blanket. "I—I know I'm very sick. Mother isn't the best at keeping it a secret."
He suddenly feels a lot of words. Surely, for all the words scattered around languages, he doubts anything will ever come close to anything she needs to hear.
"I just wanted to say," she continues, holding her blanket with such force it wrinkles, without quite meeting his eyes, "thank you. For the magic, I mean. It was really pretty. I've never seen anything like it before. I’m glad to have been able to see it before…"
She trails off, not finishing her line of thought.
"I—" He swallows, forcing a smile he doesn't feel onto his face. "I could make you one, if you'd like. A little something to keep with you."
"Really?"
"Of course. Do you have anything in mind? Anything you want?"
She thinks for a moment, biting her lip. "Could you... could you make me a red flower? Like the ones outside? They're mom's favorite."
"I thought they were your favorite?" He asks, already moving through the pages in his quire under his cloak, ready to fulfill her final wish.
She nods. "They are my favorite because they are mom's! I like to see her happy, but I don't see it much anymore."
Olruggio nods, working carefully, pouring more attention into this single spell than he has into any of the others, creating, with all his love, a little red flower, similar to the ones outside.
He hands it to her, and she takes it with trembling fingers, holding it up to examine it from every angle.
"It's beautiful," she whispers, and there's something in her voice that makes Olruggio's vision blur. He blinks rapidly, looking away. "You're really kind, mister."
Kind, she says, as if anything he had done today helped her in any way or form. He could conjure dragons from nothing and make the place a little warmer after he entered inside it, but, in the end, does it really matter at all? Tomorrow, she will wake up, and her life will be much the same.
"I—I'm glad you like it."
"Olruggio," Utowin's voice comes again, a little more urgent this time.
"I have to go now," Olruggio says, standing up. His legs feel unsteady. "But it was wonderful meeting you, Lara. And I, uh—"
He looks at her once more, this little girl in her little room, who won't have much time to see anything beyond these four walls.
"You like magic right?" He asks, already knowing the answer. Nonetheless, she nods. "You don't need to be scared of the future. I'm sure a place filled with magic is waiting for you, you know?"
"You think so?" Lara asks, clearly not looking convinced.
"I know so," he nods at her, smiling, voice coming up more sure than he feels. "Now, goodbye, yeah?"
"Goodbye, mister."
She waves from her bed, and he slips out the door, closing it gently behind him. He takes a shuddering breath, then another, willing all the strength left in him to not cry.
He feels more than he sees Utowin's hands on his shoulder.
Everything after that kind of becomes a blur. Her mother comes and there is a lot of crying and shouting, but he barely registers it until they are outside, the cold wind touching his face and the moon illuminating them all.
"I told you this was a bad idea," Utowin grumbleses behind him, hand on his neck, as if he was unsure what to say, "What did you do, anyway? You spent two clockmarks in there. Don't tell me you actually tried anything."
He laughs, but it comes out just wounded.
"No, I just showed her some little magic tricks."
"You showed her? Are you insane, Olruggio? What if—"
"Utowin, for fuck's sake," he says, almost screams, pressing his fingers against his eyes as if he could will away the headache he feels forming. "She is dying. If you want to use your memory erasure spell on a corpse, be my guest. I'm out of here."
He does not wait for an answer, already heading back toward the center of the city.
"What? Hey, where are you going?" Utowin follows him, shooting him a glance.
"To some tavern, I don't know. I don’t care. I need—" he takes a shuddering breath. "I need a drink."
.
"Cheers to this shitty week we just had," Olruggio says, tossing his fourth cup of beer into the air.
He takes a long sip, welcoming the bitter taste down his throat. Truth be told, he has never much appreciated beer. But tonight he feels he could drink anything, anything at all, if it meant forgetting, just for a little while, the day he just had to live through.
"Cheers," Utowin says, on his second cup. His voice is almost drowned by the ballads drifting through the tavern. "You still didn't tell me what happened before, you know."
"Before we visited a kid who's dying and did nothing about it?" He asks, and suddenly the whole situation strikes him as hilarious. "We can make fire with our pens and water out of nothing, but we can't save a sick kid lying in her own bed. Don't you think that's funny? The way this entire system works?"
"Come on, Olruggio. You know there's a reason for it to be this way."
"A reason," Olruggio repeats, and giggles, swirling his cup. The amber liquid catches the light, and for a moment he loses himself in it. "There's always a reason, isn't there? But does any of this sit right with you? Being here, in this tavern, drinking cheap beer, while an eleven-year-old wonders if she'll wake up tomorrow."
Utowin is quiet for a long moment. Any other night, the silence would have felt oppressive. Tonight, Olruggio barely cares.
"While I appreciate our friendship, Olruggio, it would do you good to remember who you're talking to."
There's a warning there. A line being drawn he shouldn't cross.
He laughs. Isn't there always?
Olruggio ignores him, and takes another deep sip. "Sure, sure. Knight and all that."
They sit in silence after that. The tavern comes to life around them, filled with drunken laughter, the clink of glasses, and music changing every so often. It all feels obscene, like a party thrown on top of a grave.
Utowin breaks the quiet first. "What happened to put you in such a foul mood, anyway? Your shitty week or whatever."
And that, somehow, drags his brain — slowly turning to mush — back into working order. He gasps.
"Qifrey."
"Qifrey?" Utowin repeats, confused.
"Shit, I should've sent him a letter. He must be worried, if I haven't come back by now."
Utowin snorts. "What is he, your nagging wife?"
He sends the other a glare, but it's weak. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, because he suddenly feels very pathetic. Olruggio lets his head drop onto the table.
"Ah, witches are so useless." He says it to the liquid almost spilling from a nearby cup. "Couldn't help anyone back then. Can’t help a kid now. Can't even talk to my best friend. All this magic, for nothing." He giggles, and the giggle starts to turn into sobs. "Really. So useless."
When no answer comes, he adds, quietly, "She called me kind, you know."
Utowin takes a sharp breath, then a big sip of his own beer.
"Man, it's weird to see you so down," Utowin says, and when Olruggio turns to look, he finds him looking back at him with something conflicted in his face. "It sounds silly now, but I used to resent you. Did you know that? I think pretty much every kid from Ghodrey did. Everyone was sick of being compared to you, every single time."
"And now?" Olruggio urges him on.
Utowin smiles at him, but it doesn't look sincere. "Now I just pity you. Stars, I can't imagine how tiring it is, living in your head."
Olruggio, a grown man going into his thirties, pouts.
"That's not a nice thing to say. I have to live in it, you know. But it's not that bad. I guess it could be worse."
He could be Qifrey, his mind supplies, helpfully.
Olruggio doesn't know what goes on inside Qifrey's mind — would love to take a walk there someday, even — but if every touch makes the man flinch away as though struck, he doubts it's very gentle there.
"You can't be serious right now. Ever since we got here, all you've talked about is the little girl and Qifrey and your apprentices—" Utowin ignores the they're not mine— "and asked about my day, but you never once said anything about yours. I mean, what you've gone through must have been pretty shitty, and yet you haven't complained once." Utowin sighs, rests his head on his palm, elbow propped on the table. "You, my friend, are a walking, bleeding heart."
His spinning head can't possibly take all of that, so he ignores the last part and latches onto what feels important.
"I thought you didn't like me talking about my contraptions. You said they were boring."
"That's not what I mean," Utowin groans. "It's just—don't you want to talk about what's been eating away at you? Come on, Olruggio. Come tomorrow morning, I won't even remember it. From one guy from Ghodrey to another—" he looks at him, as if that alone might make him budge, "—come on."
Olruggio groans back at his insistence, all very theatrical. As much as he doesn't feel comfortable suddenly throwing his problems at Utowin, someone he sees so rarely, he does feel a little grateful, being lent a listening ear for once.
"I don't know where to begin," he mumbles, and lifts his head from the table to look at him. He's startled by the attention he's being given, and turns his eyes to the night sky outside. "This will sound stupid, I'd guess, but Qifrey has been acting strange, and it's bothering me."
"Strange how?" Utowin prompts, taking another sip of his drink.
He shrugs. "He's been rather withdrawn these—" years, "—days. Doesn't talk to me as much anymore. Barely smiles for real. Shies away every time I draw close. I don't know. There are days I can't even tell if he considers me his friend anymore, because he treats me no better than a stranger."
Utowin says nothing to that, but Olruggio pays it no mind. Now that he's putting his feelings into words, he finds he can't contain them anymore.
"This has been going on for a while, but it's only now I decided to confront him about it, and well—"
"It didn't go well?"
"You could say that, yeah." He chuckles at how small he makes the problem sound. It is a deprecating tone, strangely out of place in a room full of laughing strangers. "I don't know what came over me, to bring it up now. Because, well, I suppose he's already done worse."
"When he left?" Utowin asks. Olruggio can't even be surprised that he knows. It was no secret how down he'd been back then. Barely standing. Barely eating. A ghost haunting the hall.
"Yes, I—I know he cares. Or I like to think so, anyway, but—" he chokes up, feels the tears welling behind his eyes, and prefers to blame it all on the drinks he just had, "—he didn't even send a letter. If he cared, wouldn't he have sent at least one?"
"Oh," Utowin says, and when no better words come, he adds, "That's shitty of him."
"Yes, it is! Thank you!" He says it a bit too eagerly, glad to know he isn't alone in thinking it was a bad thing to do. "We had all these dreams, you know? So many I could probably spend the whole night telling you, and then one day he just disappeared."
Olruggio's voice cracks, and before he can stop it, a tear slips free. He wipes at it furiously, angry at himself for still being so sad over it when years have passed, but his heart still remembers that day all too well. He lost count of how many times Qifrey went out through the windoway in the atelier, and Olruggio watched his back, half expecting him to not come back.
"And I—Utowin, I—" He gasps, struggling to breathe now that the tears are falling and falling and falling, "—he came back, and we live together, but I'm so alone."
The last part comes almost as a whisper, tiny as if he were ten again, lost in the endless snow, losing everything and everyone he had in a single day, knowing he could never get any of them back.
"I keep thinking he'll leave any day now, and if he leaves, I—I won't have anyone anymore. My best friend will be gone, and I—I'll be alone." He takes a furious, shuddering breath, tries to will the tears back, but they won't go. "And it breaks me. It really does. Because I don't know what I did wrong."
His shoulders sag, and he finally looks up at Utowin, eyes red-rimmed and glassy.
"All I do, every day, is try to map my steps and find where everything went wrong, over and over, but I never find anything. And then I go to work, and I drink, and I go to sleep, just to be visited by nightmares full of everything I've done wrong, again and again and again—and stars above, I swear to you, I'm going insane."
The tears fall freely now, and Olruggio gives up trying to stop them. He lets them come. Lets them trace hot paths down his cheeks, drip off his jaw, darken the wood of the table where they land.
"And it's funny, because when he came back, I thought, This is it. This is my second chance. I can fix this. I can be better. But he's a stranger, Utowin. The person who returned is not the person who left. And I keep hoping that someday I'll wake up and see my friend back, but—" he chokes on his tears, "—but it's not going to happen, is it?"
His voice breaks completely, and he puts his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"It's not going to happen."
"Shit—wait, Olruggio, don't go full-on crying on me," he hears Utowin's panicked voice, and then the man is up and sitting beside him instead of across, a well-meaning hand landing on his shoulder. "Look, I'm not—I'm not good at this sort of thing. But you're a pretty decent guy, as far as I'm concerned, and, uh—shit—I don't know? This seems more like a problem with him than with you? If someone leaves without a word, that's on them. That's not on you."
Olruggio finally lifts his head and looks up with his face blotchy and streaked, eyes so red they look raw. "Then why does it feel this awful? I have so many regrets when it comes to him, Utowin. So many."
"Hey, we all do! Tell me one relationship without regrets in it. You can't, right?" He pats his shoulder once, then twice for good measure. "Maybe… maybe you should talk to him again. I don't know. Ask him what's going on. And if he still won't tell you—" he shrugs helplessly, "—then at least you tried. And you can decide what to do from there. But before that—"
Utowin lets out a long breath and reaches over, sliding Olruggio's empty glass toward himself, ready to fill it.
"I'm buying you another drink. And another after that. And maybe another after that."
Olruggio looks up, confused, tear tracks still glistening on his cheeks, but very much down to drink his sorrows away.
"Utowin, I could kiss you right now. Thank you."
"Ew, no. Keep all of that for your sort-of-but-not-really husband at home."
.
If you'd told Utowin he would end his, frankly speaking, tiring day dragging a drunk-out-of-his-mind Olruggio home, he wouldn't have believed you.
Unfortunately for him, here he is: a barely conscious Olruggio with one arm slung over his shoulder, and what he assumes is a very angry Qifrey standing in the doorway.
He'd been mostly joking with the whole wife thing. But as it stands, Qifrey is playing the part beautifully.
"And what," Qifrey drags his eye from Olruggio back to his face, "exactly is going on?"
"Uh." Utowin begins to sweat despite the cold. It's remarkable how one man can make him feel like he's back in Ghodrey, balls freezing in the snow. "We had a bit too much to drink?"
"I can see that."
Utowin shifts awkwardly, trying to figure out how to hand his friend over and be done with the night already.
"Look, could you just—" he gestures vaguely with his free hand, "—take him? I've been dragging his ass for a while now, and my shoulder is starting to protest."
Qifrey sighs. But he doesn't seem angry anymore. Just tired.
The white-haired witch steps forward and slips an arm around Olruggio's waist, pulling him close.
Utowin watches, slightly stunned, as Olruggio goes limp into the contact at once. His head drops against Qifrey's shoulder, and his hand, which had been limp and useless the entire walk, curls weakly into the fabric of Qifrey's coat. The traitor even has the gall to let out a small, content sound.
For fuck's sake, Utowin thinks, irritation spiking. I spent hours listening to you cry about this man, and this is how you repay me?
He shifts from one foot to the other, almost feeling guilty for witnessing such a scene. He has seen Olruggio confident. Seen him sharp and clever. Seen him broken and crying.
But he has never seen him feel safe.
Worst even, for all the whining he heard from the other man today, and all the crying about Qifrey not caring, the way Qifrey gazes down at the sleeping man, even going so far as to brush the hair from his face, tells him an entire story on its own.
Just what the hell is going on?
"I should—" Utowin starts, stops, thinking better of what he should do.
"Look," he tries again, gathering courage from who knows where, because, yes, Qifrey does freak him out a little. "I don't know what's going on between the two of you, and I won't pretend I do. But take care of him, yeah? He might not look like it, but he's a pretty sensitive guy."
Qifrey's expression softens as he gazes down at his sleeping companion. "I know."
Utowin almost laughs.
"I'll say this in the nicest way possible: he's a bit wrong in the head after what happened in Nauz. Anyone would be, really. He certainly doesn't need anyone else adding to his troubles."
Qifrey looks back at him, confused. "Nauz?"
He blinks, suddenly realizing his mistake. His gaze darts to Olruggio, still blissfully unaware with his face pressed into Qifrey's neck.
"Wait. He didn't tell you about it?"
The silence that follows is confirmation enough.
Oops, Utowin thinks. Followed by, shit, shit, shit.
"Yeah, uh." He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. But who can blame him? He thought the two of them were joined at the hip. He wouldn't have been surprised if they shared a mind, or something. "It wasn't pretty, and I'm sure it still affects him today. But it isn't really my place to talk about it if he didn't tell you, so, uh. Yeah."
Then a dumb, dumb idea surges into his mind. Maybe he's feeling vindictive, after the pain he saw plain as day on Olruggio's face tonight.
"Maybe he doesn't really trust you that much after all, huh." Utowin says it under his breath, as if talking to himself, but purposely loud enough to Qifrey hear the words. He aims it to hurt. Because it isn't fair, is it? Olruggio was drunk and crying and alone, while Qifrey was just standing here, nice and cozy in his little home, as if this entire situation had nothing to do with him.
Qifrey's eye widens just a fraction. Then his expression closes off entirely as he pulls Olruggio closer.
"Thank you for bringing him home."
It's a dismissal. Clear as day.
"It was no problem! Tell him to send me a letter if he wants to share some drinks again," he says, winking because why the hell not.
"I will."
Oh, he absolutely won't, Utowin thinks, turning away, feeling slightly giddy at the mischief he just installed.
He leaves before he can say something he'd regret.
The cold wind hits his face as he walks back into the darkness of the night. His shoulders ache from carrying Olruggio. His head pounds from too much beer. And he is tired.
So, so tired.
Not my problem anymore, he tells himself. Olruggio is home now. Whatever happens next is between them.
.
Olruggio wakes the next day with a killing headache and no memory of how he got home.
There's a hangover soup waiting on his worktable, a cup of water beside it, and some herbs Qifrey has given him, on more than one occasion, for exactly this.
He picks up the note beside the water. I hope you aren't feeling too unwell to join us for lunch (or dinner, depending on when you wake up!). You need to eat properly, Olly :)
Olruggio looks at the letters forlornly, and the message beneath them is clear as day to anyone who cares to read it: we won't talk about yesterday.
Shaking his head, he leaves the note where he found it, picks up the damned herb, and throws it into his mouth, chewing without bothering to hide his disgust.
This is the closest they will ever get to an apology. He knows that.
In the end, as he has done many times before, he gets ready and joins Qifrey in the kitchen, sitting at the table as the girls tell him about their day. When Qifrey gives him a smile, he pretends not to see the pretense hiding there, and accepts the offered food without comment. It breaks his heart, but he does his part, and plays house.
He asks Agott and Coco about their studies, hums at Richeh's newest spells, lets Tetia braid a strand of his hair. Qifrey watches him across the table, and Olruggio lets himself believe, just for lunch, that this is enough. That pretending is the same as forgiving. But it isn't. He stays, either way.
When the day passes and night comes, he prays to no one in particular, there in the silence of his room, that one day Qifrey will let him into his heart once again.
However, try as he might, even in his wildest fantasies, he can't see that happening. But how could he? He has lived more of his life with the other man pretending than being truthful toward him. A part of him is afraid, thinking he's waiting for someone who no longer exists.
It's a lonely feeling, he muses, to wait for someone who will never come back.
Deep down, he knows the truth. He sees it all the time when he looks at his reflection — sometimes in a mirror, sometimes in the water — and sees a younger Olruggio staring back.
As always, that version of him seems to say the same thing: I don't think he is coming back.