Work Text:
What's true is like a sickle
It'll cut you to the middle
Your rose is without a thorn
But no, my mouth don't taste of metal
From the pot here to the kettle
I think we got a lot we gotta learn
No matter how many times he erases the memories, no matter how many times the truth is reached and brought out into the light, Qifrey will never get used to stealing bits and pieces of Olruggio's mind and making them vanish, leaving him the only one to remember.
(Even if it is for the sake of his own life, the result of an experiment so evil Qifrey truly cannot be, that to live is to die)
Qifrey is sitting out in the garden underneath one of the older trees that sit at the edge of the perimiter, legs pulled up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees. He hadn't been able to sleep, too entangled in his own dark thoughts, finally deciding sitting out in the open would be better than twisting around in bed restlessly.
It is, of course, just his luck that Olruggio comes up the back garden path that runs parallel to where Qifrey is sitting watching the night sky, drooping from the late hour and another commission completed.
"You're up late," Olruggio mutters when he gets close enough, sitting down next to Qifrey with a grunt and knees suspiciously popping.
(The silverwood whispers. It knows Qifrey's greatest weakness, from the time before when him and Olruggio were children, where he had almost succumbed to tree and its roots, that Olruggio is a way out if he lets him see behind the curtain too much-)
"You didn't stay in the village overnight?" Qifrey asks, sidestepping the unspoken question.
"No. I wanted to get home."
Home.
Such a funny phrase for witches, who spend their entire lives under such strict rules, that the concepts of home and family are almost stripped away in the name of keeping peace and order.
"Plus, I have that stupid monthly report due to the Great Hall tomorrow," Olruggio stretches tall, arms reaching for the sky, letting out a satisfied noise when his back pops. "I don't even know why we have to submit those, they're so boring. 'Coco set the bread on fire on the morning of the 14th trying to help with breakfast. This is the 20th reported incident this month of bread being set on fire. Richeh reported a bat infestation in the attic. Turns out it was only a nest of cat owls. Tetia convinced Richeh to help her cut her hair. A minor international incident was narrowly avoided. Agott continues to perfect her studies.' It's all so ancedotal."
"Agott learned your bad habits," Qifrey offers, a kernel of humour colouring his voice. "I think she learned a specific fire spell from you so that she could study late without using up extra candles."
Olruggio snorts, rolling his eyes. "Please, they're your apprentices, not mine. Any bad habits they pick up are solely your fault as their master."
It's a lie, as blatant as either of them have ever heard. While Olruggio denies it and Qifrey is legally and on paper the girls' teaching master, it's doubtful that Olruggio would have been able to strictly be the watchful eye he's supposed to be. The girls love him, Agott especially, and Qifrey doesn't know what he would do if he didn't have Olruggio nearby if he was being honest. Undoubtedly, they're learning from both masters, and Qifrey knows that if something ever happened to him, Olruggio would take the girls under his wing in a heartbeat.
Olruggio flops backwards onto the grass. "This makes me think of when we were kids, sneaking out to see the sky outside of the Great Hall."
Qifrey takes a deep breath, words he shouldn't speak suddenly so close to the surface, closer than they were a brief second ago, the silverwood murmuring, twisting, his back stiffening-
"Qifrey?"
He lets out a pained wheeze, lungs constricting from the pressure of fighting back the silverwood, and Olruggio's lurching upright, grasping his arm, his shoulder, asking what's wrong, what hurts-
Qifrey doesn't have it in himself to erase Olruggio's memories. Not tonight, it's too much, especially after having spent so many hours unable to sleep, haunted by the last time.
So he keeps his mouth shut, despite the pain winding up his throat and tearing at his limbs. Olruggio stops asking questions when Qifrey doesn't answer and instead passes a warm hand up and down Qifrey's back, murmuring something about strain, until the moment passes after several long, aching minutes, and silverwood stops trying to break out of its fleshy prison.
When Qifrey is a little more aware, the pain having loosened to a dull ache, he realizes he is entirely slumped against Olruggio, and utterly exhausted.
"Sorry," he mumbles, making to push away and sit up. "Didn't mean for that to happen."
But he's stopped by Olruggio not letting him go.
"Didn't mean for that to happen?" Olruggio asks indignantly. "Qifrey, what did you do while I was gone? Your back feels like you tried to lift something too heavy and with the way you were spasming-"
Qifrey forces a chuckle out of his throat, but even to him it sounds strained and hoarse. "It was laundry day, yesterday, maybe I did something then…"
The lie slips off his lips easily, after years of pushing and pulling, weaving the tangled web ever tighter.
Olruggio lets out a heavy, long sigh. His hand is moving up and down again along Quifrey's back, the warmth aided by a snugstone. "You need to take better care of yourself, Qifrey. No one should be in that much pain at your age from laundry."
"You're one to talk," Qifrey parries back. "I can hear your knees cracking from a mile off in any direction."
He feels cruel doing this to Olruggio, but slumped against the other, the heat of the snugstone soothing his aching muscles, it's difficult to not feel threatened, like a knife is being held against his throat.
Olruggio lets out a long-suffering sigh and drops the argument. "Do you think you can stand?"
It takes a few stumbling steps, Qifrey leaning more of his weight on Olruggio than he really wants to or would care to admit to, and they're back in the atelier.
"How do stairs sound?"
"Awful. I think I'll be okay on the couch."
The couch, well-loved and well-worn from the years, folds Qifrey into its soft embrace as Olruggio helps him get settled. It's much more comfortable than his bed (at least in the current state he's in) and he can see why Olruggio likes falling asleep on it.
Perhaps the combination of pain, exhaustion, and warm is what makes Qifrey drop off to sleep before Olruggio can even find a blanket for him, the darkness claiming him almost as soon as his head hits the cushions.
At least his sleep is dreamless this time.