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“Qifrey, there you are. Look.” Olruggio holds up a piece of fluffy cloth, white and about the size of a handkerchief. “A client in town gave it to me as a small gift. Said it was made of silk brushbug fur. Sucks up about anythin’. I only have to wipe once to dry the sweat off my hands and I can get right back to work. Incredible, huh? It’s no wonder they cost a fortune.” He marvels at the item with an intrigue and excitement Qifrey seldom sees amidst his more common state of sleep-deprived and distressed, or grumpy and hangry. (Or all of the above.)
“Brushbug silk? Like this one?” Qifrey pulls out a long towel of the same expensive material from the stack of clothes his arms carry. It makes the cloth he had just proudly shown off pale in comparison—looking like a mere sample from the fabric store.
Olruggio’s eyes dart back and forth between his and Qifrey’s bearings. “Where’d you get that from?”
“There was a flea market by one of the villages I visited. The stall owner sold it to me at a quarter price after he needed some help.” Qifrey throws it over his shoulder. “I use it when I bathe from time to time. He told me it was good for ridding dead skin without the irritation.”
“I see…” Olruggio bashfully scratches the back of his neck, pocketing his measly-sized rag back into his skirt. “Well, go on ahead, then. I won’t keep you any longer.” He makes it a few steps away, but a flash of white runs by his feet in a blink of an eye, nearly toppling him over. He loses his footing with an embarrassing yelp escaping his throat. Gods have mercy for Olruggio’s poor old heart that nearly gives out on him.
Qifrey scruffs the atelier’s resident brushbug by the neck, effectively thwarting its plans to dart into the bathroom. “You’re excited,” Qifrey teases, bringing it up to eye level. Olruggio snatches the little bugger away and mutters empty threats at it in complete contrast to the cradling and his finger scratching its head.
“Did you do something new inside?” Qifrey tilts his head.
“I added the Snugstone spell onto the tiles after you left with the girls. I shrunk the size of the keystones so it wouldn’t burn too hot under direct contact with skin.” Olruggio places the Brushbug around his neck, who wilts in unceremonious defeat, squealing a little nbiii. He considers it its apology and accepts it as one.
“Since we left? That must have been a lot of work with all those tiles. How is it with your back?”
“I finished the rest of my deadlines so it’s nothin’ a good night’s rest can’t fix.” He’s more than ready to reunite with his mattress and hibernate until the day after tomorrow. Maybe after a little stretching, though. His lower back deserves it.
The corners of Qifrey’s lips meet his cheeks, expression all soft and honeytree nectar sweet—the kind of sincere smile not even the girls have the privilege to witness as often. “Thank you, Olly. You really are a brilliant inventor.” Olruggio overheard Beldaruit tell his Professor once, how he didn’t know Qifrey could smile so wide until he met Olruggio.
A flush of pink tints Olruggio’s ears and cheeks. “It’s nothing special.” Olruggio says, batting his wrist brusquely, modestly shaking his head. “Tip-toeing to avoid cold feet was gettin’ tiring, ‘s all... Have a good bath.” He walks off before the pink on his features can turn red and envelop his whole face. The inventor witch loves to hear his contraptions get the appreciation they deserve, but Qifrey always makes it a point to compliment its inventor, instead.
“I definitely will!” Qifrey shouts towards his back. The shutting of the bathroom door echoes down the hallway.
When Qifrey and Olruggio first moved into their Atelier, they were younger, broke, and desperate to get out of the Great Hall. They bought the place without much thought— we’re witches, we can just make the renovations on our own , was their flawless reasoning. A few broken wood panels, some mossy walls, perhaps a broken window or a squeaky door. Nothing a pair of graduated and fully-fledged witches couldn’t handle. They toured the dingy, barren place once, skimming its dusty inside without looking into each room, and signed the ownership contract just like that.
Finally, their life was going to start on their own terms. Well, after the paperwork that is. And the packing. Qifrey couldn’t have been more impatient. If they started as soon as possible, then all they would have to do is settle in by the time they got approved, and Qifrey could become a Professor in peace with Olruggio as his rightful Watchful Eye.
It was a standard Atelier: Two structures—one for the Professor and students, and one for the Watchful Eye. One building to house the students, one for the living room and kitchen, one for the Professor’s lodging, and one across for the Watchful Eye. Students were to have a separate bathroom in their building, while the adults had one for themselves.
This Atelier in particular was sold to them by a witch who had retired from his teachings and left the place on its own for a number of years. He sold the furniture to nearby villagers before putting it up for sale at the Great Hall. Its isolated location and dilapidated state meant it went for much lower than a newly built Atelier would have; so as long as it had its basic requirements to be considered an Atelier, Qifrey and Olruggio couldn’t have cared less. Again, what couldn’t the Great Hall’s child prodigy and first student of Lord Beldariut do, no less when they were together?
With the keys handed over, exhilaration wrote itself across their faces in thick bold ink. They ventured in to inspect the rooms individually with renewed vigour, now that they could officially call this place their Atelier. Qifrey was in charge of collecting dust and casting water spells while Olruggio was tasked with drying up right after.
Upon entrance, the two fixed up the small kinks they noticed on their first visit and cleaned up the soot that littered the kitchen. Next, the student’s quarters were overall in proper order, only a spell or two necessary to put it back in perfect shape. Qifrey’s room had a weird smell to it, but a thorough flooding and drying with a special kind of ink and enlarged magic circles purged the curious odour swiftly. Qifrey left the window open, allowing fresh air to circulate and completely clear out any unwanted remaining scents. Things were looking great for the two enthusiastic witches—amazing even.
That was, until they got to the bathroom designated especially for them.
An absolute mess would have been an understatement. Nightmarish was a more suitable descriptor, but even that didn’t fully capture how gruesome it attacked all their senses at the first crack of its door. They slammed it shut within three seconds—three seconds too long, mind you—and sprinted in a panic across the bridge, finding shelter in Olruggio’s room, noses pinched with all the strength of their witchly hands.
“I figure that’s why the place was so cheap,” Qifrey says after they’ve reached inside and locked the door, as if the scent could break in like some burglar intruder at any given moment.
“I knew it felt too good to be true,” Olruggio waves his hand in front of his nose rapidly.
The best friends lock eyes in silence, and burst out into laughter moments later.
“How’s that level of monstrosity even possible!?” Olruggio musters between his bouts of laughter.
“A spell gone wrong, perhaps. Maybe that’s why the student rooms were so clean—the kids couldn’t risk another yelling.” Qifrey has one hand on his mouth and the other on the door.
Their cackling doesn’t stop until both their chests ache and tears have drenched their cheeks, repeating iterations of Enough, we have to clean or Stop, we’re wasting time. It’s approximately one minute of peace before they make eye contact again and resume to nearly bursting their lungs wide open.
When they’ve actually calmed down, Olruggio found himself pleased to see the elevated space near the window—perfect to work at while he stores his items below. His robes catch splashes of water when Qifrey floods the place again, which may or may not have been an accident, but Olruggio doesn’t mind because he accidentally draws a keystone that’s just a bit crooked so Qifrey’s skirt folds right over his head when it’s his turn to dry up his room. They’re still those two mischievous teenagers they once were nearly two decades ago. They suppress their giggles because the soreness from earlier hasn’t really gone away, and it’s true—they do have to finish cleaning up. What truly waits for them down the hallway needs to be handled, whether they want to or not.
“What if it stinks up the whole Atelier? I don’t think coverin’ our noses with our robes is gonna be enough.” Olruggio already has his folded and layered over the bottom half of his face anyway.
“Any other suggestions? We’ve been fine so far. I’ll redirect all the water down into the toilet and repeat three more times. That should do the trick. Olly, you open the door.”
Robes wrapped dizzyingly tight over his ears, outer glyph one stroke away from being closed, Qifrey counts to three and masterfully maneuvers his wave of water as quickly as he can.
The problem is, the water was supposed to flow into the void. Not flood back at them.
Olruggio acted faster, shielding himself with the door at his disposal. Qifrey on the other hand, now stood soaked and horrified at the defiance of his own magic. Yes, Olruggio feels bad because he knows how much Qifrey despises water, and Qifrey is his best friend. However, it is also precisely why he can double over and subject his ribs to even more cramping and laugh uncontrollably over his best friend’s unfortunate misery. Normally steady hands tremble a drying spell is attempted, but the usually reliable lines aren’t quite right and inevitably add fuel to the flame: blasting Qifrey off his feet and right on his ass. Olruggio’s stomach burns, but fight-or-flight dictates him to dash outside as his only escape, because Oh my gosh, Qifrey is going to kill me.
Qifrey tackles him out the door (which, in hindsight, is probably why they woke up the next day with pulled muscles here and there), and now they’re both wet and reek of… whatever it was Qifrey’s water mixed with in that rotten bathroom. They both decide they’re better off not finding out. At least the student bathroom is still functional.
“So it’s the toilet. Maybe the glyph cracked and prevented accessibility to the void.” Qifrey wrings his drenched clothes onto the grass. “How about you take a turn? You’re the inventor here.”
Qifrey is—rather unfortunately—right. Olruggio will have to inspect the putrid thing, and up close at that so he can fix the toilet and lay down this chapter of their new-not-new, Atelier to rest. Karma works faster than the Knights Moralis does, he supposes. Qifrey even faster than either of them, since he proposed the Olruggio-damning solution.
Olruggio knows saying No funny business! will be pointless because fine, he was being kind of a jerk to Qifrey, so he keeps his guard up and treads wearily as he looks over the defects in case Qifrey pulls a prank on him. He patches it up in a manner of minutes, and sighs in relief—more so because he made it out unscathed, rather than from his success in fixing the faulty spell. They flood the bathroom about 7 more times before it reaches a usable degree, but the two best friends agree to peruse the student bathroom in the meanwhile.
By the time they’ve finished washing themselves up alongside their clothes (they note to bring a laundry barrel for tomorrow), the sky paints their skin with hues of purple and orange as they step outside. They use their Sylph Shoes to sit on the hill beside Olruggio’s hut and indulge themselves in a hard-earned nap.
This is the life they dreamed of when they were kids, and knew nothing of the real world. The life they discussed as teenagers, when spite became their driving factor to study harder to graduate sooner. The life they envisioned and prepared for when Qifrey took his fifth and final test. It was perfect, and it had barely even begun; because it’s the end of the day, and neither of them were hurried to let the day end, reassured by the steady presence of their best friend by their side in whatever it was they would decide to do next. Including, but not limited to, getting soiled by a malfunctioning toilet.
Over the course of the following week, Qifrey and Olruggio dedicate themselves to the finer details of cleaning and budgeting with the funds they’ve set aside for furnishing. They visit different villages, help out where help is needed, and browse through their markets and stores looking for chairs, shelves, tables, as well as everything else of the likes. They argue over a sofa priced completely out of our budget, Qifrey. We should get the other one, until they end it with It’ll be good for both of our backs. It’s an investment, Olly . Then they regret buying the sofa because Oh, this one’s better and cheaper. I’ll get it for my room- No fair! I spotted it first! In the end, they buy three sofas. One for each of their rooms, and the most expensive one for the living room.
Their Atelier comes together nicely with each completed cycle of the sun and moon. The cupboards have Qifrey’s collection of teacups from Beldarut, and Olruggio’s room already looks properly lived in; pillows strewn around and his hammock already hung up since yesterday despite Qifrey’s disapproval citing his back and terrible posture. But it’s whatever, because Qifrey is his best friend and not his parent. Plus Olruggio has contractual ownership of this room, anyway.
They start making the switch over to their bathroom instead of the student one on the other end of the Atelier, and for as much as he hated the Great Hall, it was still bad enough Qifrey started missing the grand bathing halls. Olruggio seconded him. The smell never quite fully disappeared, and the uneven flooring had water pooling where they weren’t supposed to. Qifrey’s specialty in magic is water, but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to bring his equipment to the bath every time he wants to wash himself up. The air circulation was terrible, the layout awkward, the lock broken, and it was so so cold that they ended up evacuating back to the student bathroom.
Their approval for an independent Atelier came in on a Tuesday. They finished moving out their things on Monday. It was Thursday and they were still figuring out what to do with their bathroom, and only until Sunday did they finish devising a renovation plan. They started that very afternoon, pulling off tiles, levelling the ground, breaking down walls, building them back up, repainting, replacing the door and its knob. The bathroom was in service by next Tuesday—a whole week later than when they planned to have fully settled down.
“Hey, Qifrey. What if we added a larger bathtub?”
“I was also thinking we could add more lights.”
The question as to what the Great Hall’s child prodigy and student of Sage Beldarut can’t do, doesn’t include accidentally building a luxury bathroom. It’s more work, which means more time, but Qifrey and Olruggio are already one week past their superficial deadline and they’re still alive, they’re still on the right path to where they want to be—no, they already are where they want to be.
There’s a large wooden bathtub the next day, and Olruggio carves in magic circles so the water Qifrey’s spells will conjure won’t lose its warmth. The day after, there’s a simple mechanism that enables a magic circle to keep the bathroom’s temperature constant. The day after that, a modified water buoy hangs on one side of the walls, big enough to enable one to shower. Then there’s the extra wall they put up for a steam-free area to keep their clothes dry and damp-free. They have candles, too—scented. It’s a lot more amenities for a bathroom compared to any average Atelier.
The worst part of a shower in the colder seasons is the coldness you’re engulfed in after you’ve finished the bath or shower itself. For Qifrey, it’s especially loathsome when he’s stepped out of his warm bath, and his body is shivering from the air even after he’s toweled himself down and dressed up. Sometimes he has to fight the urge to cross the bridge and barge into Olruggio’s wing to warm up under all his blankets. To this, Olruggio decided to put together an enlarged variant of the spell that powered his Link Rings. Three big circles of the spell on the wall, connected by a line, and enabled by a simple turn of a stone to blast toasty warm air all over its user. Qifrey told him it’s his favourite addition to the room thus far.
Fond are these memories that flood Olruggio as he settles back in his room after a long day of etching perhaps over a hundred tiles worth of Snugstone-flooring. Snugflooring. Snugtiles. He’s working on it. His failed renditions will be reshaped into regular ones to sell off at a lower price or given away to villagers. Olruggio lies down on his back next to the window, eyes fixated on the easy glow from the sky. The moon was crescent on their first night in the Atelier, too. He reaches his hands out to blindly search for Brushbug, but doesn’t feel anything but normal fabric under his fingers. He lifts his head up and doesn’t see the rascal anywhere. He grumbles as he gets up again, because dammit, I just got comfortable.
The entrance to his room is open, and Olruggio wonders when the little guy learned how to open doors with locks as he trails back to the bathroom which, to Olruggio’s dismay, also has its door ajar. Next on his personal to-do list is brushbug-proofing every door in the Atelier. Through the slight crack, Olruggio’s heart stutters at the unobstructed view of Qifrey’s bare shoulders and the slim of his back. He’s sat on one of the two stools Olruggio bought from a festival invited by his client. He should carve the Snugstone-spell onto it too.
“Olly! Our little friend here snuck in.” Qifrey says over his shoulder, pointing at the Brushbug sniffing the tile by his foot. “Quite the clever one, isn’t it?”
“I’ll grab ‘em and keep ‘em out of your hair.” Olruggio says fluently, composed, and mentally thanking the forces of the universe for gracefully allowing his voice to uphold his dignity.
“It’s alright. Could you come here and help me scrub my back?”
“Is that really okay? I mean, you’re…” He averts his eyes to the suddenly very interesting ceiling they also repainted back then. Bathing together wasn't uncommon for them as children. On particularly hot days too, during their teenage years. Olruggio shouldn’t be as embarrassed as he is at the request.
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen. I overdid my arms today while teaching the girls, so I haven’t the strength to fully reach my back.”
“Ah, I’ll assist you then. What were you all doin’ anyway?” Olruggio takes the unbelievably soft cloth into his hands, dipping it into the bucket and wringing it before starting with Qifrey’s neck.
Falling into conversation is as easy as breathing, for this pair of life-long friends. They talk about their days, which turns into talks about their childhood, which then somehow shifts into the mention of a book Qifrey read that he found very promising, but the execution was terrible! Then why’d you read it? I bought it, so I had to see it through. They leeway into a discussion about the ethics and threshold of plagiarism (it’s not plagiarism if it’s inspired, Olly.), and by the end of it they’ve situated themselves in an unrelated, yet heated debate about whether a plate of rhinocerox steak should or shouldn’t be eaten with a cup of tea on the side. They agree to disagree.
Olruggio scrubs Qifrey’s skin with as much care and precision he puts into making his small and concealed spells on certain contraptions. It’s delicate work—the pressure he applies, the area he covers, and the speed at which he proceeds. He finds a balance he assumes Qifrey is satisfied with, and continues all the way down to his lower back, making comments of Wow, it really snatches off all the gunk. To which Qifrey will respond with Right, right! and go back to their meaningless back-and-forth seamlessly. At least until they remember to finish Qifrey’s story about his outing with the girls.
“I feel some nasty knots on your shoulders. I’ll massage them out. You sure those robes aren’t too heavy?”
Qifrey dismisses his worries with a wave, and the ‘thank you’ he lets out turns into a yawn. Olruggio kneads the bumps on Qifrey’s muscles firmly, but just enough so that it won’t hurt his friend. Qifrey squirms a bit, but doesn’t voice any further protest.
“And then Agott jumped in to help Coco with some of her keystones, thankfully. My arms were indisposed after we got down, and I wouldn’t have been able to show her the proper revisions even if I tried.”
“Agott has taken quite a liking to Coco, huh? Ahh, childhood crushes.” Olruggio sighs reminiscently.
“You know, I never really understood why romantic relationships were always put on such a high pedestal even from a young age.” Qifrey comments genuinely.
“Really? How so? Did you not have crushes back then?”
“Not really. I mean, there’s this notion that friendships aren’t as special as romantic ones, but I think our friendship is special.”
“We’re best friends. Of course it’s special.”
“What I meant to say is, the things couples do, a lot of them we do too, don’t we? We live together, we cook for each other, we’ve switched our tassels. We spent most of our time together, despite learning under different Professors, and even now I still enjoy most of my free time with you. So what’s the difference? The intimacy? You’re also giving me a massage at this very moment.”
The teasing he endured from his cohort over his closeness with Qifrey makes it difficult for Olruggio to fully side with his argument, but his reasoning does shine a new light on the matter. “I see your point. I suppose it isn’t all that different. We even have our tax write-offs handled together.”
Qifrey nods with his head and answers with an agreeing hum. The silence does as much to warm him as the meticulously carved circles hidden around the room do.
Inspecting the carved tile below him, Qifrey concludes that Olruggio is so… considerate. He cares with unfaltering genuinity, which is why Qifrey always marvels at his works. Tenacity and a penchant for perfection rooted in selflessness. These tiny warming spells are cold-hard proof of it. Every line and every curve imbued not only with ink, but perhaps more profoundly: intention.
He’s willing to step down and meet anyone eye to eye, never the arrogant one. He listens. He’s receptive. He doesn’t belittle and he meets everyone halfway—he meets Qifrey halfway or pulls him back to his two feet when Qifrey gets a bit (very) reckless. The embodiment of a true witch comes in the form of a 30-something year old, alcohol-loving, geriatric, genius of a man named Olruggio, who also suffers from tenosynovitis, carpal tunnel, and the sleeping schedule of an owl. He’s the person Qifrey adores the most, second to none.
Olruggio glazes over the expanse of Qifrey’s back with the towel one more time for good measure.
“A very comprehensive service,” Qifrey notes, wholly impressed at the lightness of his shoulders and the ease that comes with rolling them backwards. “Thank you. I can do yours if you’d like? You’re already here anyway, I think you deserve to enjoy the fruits of your labour. Look, our little Brushbug loves it, too.” The fluffy creature sleeps sprawled on the dry patches of the ground.
“No need to worry about me. I’d like to wash up quickly and sleep as soon as I can.”
Olruggio moves to stand from the stool, both hands on his knees to push himself up, but a number of joints across his body briskly crack in succession at a volume one could… should consider concerning. It’s incriminating evidence that backs Qifrey’s suggestion and works entirely against Olruggio’s favour. Qifrey quirks an eyebrow at his best friend, pointed sky-blue eye pinning him down like a specimen under a magnifying glass.
“I’ll… take up your offer.” Olruggio undresses by the barrels to have his clothes cleaned then dips into the warm bathtub which loosens his tense muscles in mere minutes. He practically melts into the body of water. Qifrey pulls on the water buoy to rinse the residual dead skin still stuck onto his body.
“Did you have crushes?” Qifrey asks out of the blue.
A rather awkward situation, because Olruggio’s childhood crush was- is the very same man posing the question. Although the affection he harbours for him has only gotten stronger, Olruggio wouldn’t have his friendship with Qifrey any other way. Truthfully.
“One or two. Though I’d call ‘em hallway crushes.”
“Really? How come I’ve never heard of this?”
Qifrey and Olruggio swapped their tassels after an especially risky pursuit for the Brimhats. The kind where they couldn’t think of sneaking out again until a few months later. The one where they got separated and realised how lacking their grasp on magic was—the one where they realised how far away they were from being real, fully-fledged, adult witches. It was the one where they fled back to the Great Hall not letting go of each other’s hands upon reunion, shaky hands gripping onto each other for dear life.
We oughta bring a Guidance Orb, next time.
With what? A handkerchief?
No, that won’t work.
Qifrey took the long black ribbon that hung from Olruggio’s cap in his hand and rubbed the smooth fabric beneath his fingers.
What about our tassels? Our caps were made with them, so they should suffice, right?
Olruggio agreed without a second thought. He doesn’t want to relive the terror of losing Qifrey ever again.
You trip on it a lot anyway. I’d be doing you a favour, right Olly?
Ha ha. Very funny. Damn his best friend’s growth spurt.
What he failed to consider, however, was the possibility of his fellow apprentices taunting him for the new accessory. He had never seen Qifrey as anything other than his best friend, but the jabs and accusations of them dating triggered the idea to implant itself right into the centre of 17 year-old Olruggio’s mind, leaving him to toss and turn at night plagued by hypotheticals of his best friend as someone… more. He falls asleep mashing his face into his pillow, chest pressed uncomfortably onto the mattress and back to the ceiling. (This might have been the start of his bad sleeping habits.)
“You don’t need to know everything goin’ on in my life.”
“Are you embarrassed, Olly?”
Olruggio looks askance at his dear friend for the teasing nature of his inquisition. “Qifrey, we’re 34.”
“And you’re changing the subject,” is the retort he’s met with.
In response, Olruggio submerges his entire head into the bathtub. He’ll blame the heat for the redness on his face. When he’s resurfaced, Qifrey’s hand is still covering his mouth to suppress the volume of his laughter. Olruggio inhales deeply under the guise of catching his breath after being underwater for too long.
“Come on, then. Your turn to get scrubbed. It is getting late.” Qifrey beckons Olruggio over by patting the stool’s surface.
It’s Olruggio’s turn to yawn after he’s settled back onto his seat, slouched with his arms resting on his knees until Qifrey berates him, stating Posture. Olruggio corrects his spine and pulls back his shoulders immediately.
“You really think Agott has a crush on Coco? She seems indifferent as always.” Qifrey’s a little rougher with his motions, the heels of his palms digging deep on every push upwards followed by the press of his sharp knuckles back downwards. It’s exactly what Olruggio needs to relieve his agonised muscles.
“Agott doesn’t get flustered the way she does when Tetia compliments her magic. Or Richeh for that matter, and we both know Richeh isn’t as charitable with her praise.”
“Hmm… What really constitutes a crush?” Being his only friend at the Great Hall, Olruggio can’t blame him for posing such a question.
“To me? A crush is… Well…” Olruggio’s eyes wander around to the ceiling, then he spots the modified string of Link Ring seals before his gaze finally lands on the tiles below his feet. His train of thought settles on Qifrey, as it always does. It’s instinctual; second nature. He’s relieved Qifrey can’t see his face soften around the edges and warp into a smile thanks to their current positioning. “It’s when you’re unusually enamoured by a certain someone-”
“The crush,” Qifrey very helpfully supplies.
“Exactly. And you want all of their attention. Okay, maybe not all, but most of it. You do that by tryna impress them, and sometimes you even try learnin’ new things to achieve just that. You become acutely aware of their actions, you’re overly embarrassed of yourself around them, and gettin’ them outta your head almost seems impossible.”
“That sounds horrible. Why would anyone want to have a crush?”
“Because one look at them is enough to make your whole day. It’s giddiness in your gut and a heightened sense of accomplishment like never before when they notice ya. Then you continue to chase that high and end up becomin’ a better person trying.”
Olruggio feels the cloth on his back slow to a halt. He turns his head to check on the abrupt pause. “What?” Worry whispers between the drumming of his heart in the core of his ears. Qifrey must have figured me out.
“For hallway crushes, that seemed very detailed. Are you sure Agott’s been like that?”
Ah, right. They were talking about the girls.
“No doubt about it. I’ve read my fair share of good books. Better than that one book you read, that’s for sure.”
The lighthearted jab becomes banter, which becomes complai- criticism , which becomes their cue to continue ‘planning’ their very theoretical attempt at how one would go about reworking a published story without breaking the law. As Qifrey wipes off the collected pills of dead skin off Olruggio’s back, the calming motions of the silky fabric lull Olruggio into a state of half-slumber. If it weren’t for their conversation, he’d have fallen over and dozed off the moment he landed on the stool.
“We’ve done worse and gotten away with it,” Qifrey argues, to Olruggio’s Watchful Eye horror.
“What if it’s the plagiarism that leads the Knights Moralis straight to verifyin’ the rumours? We’ll end up in Adanlee over your impossible standards for fiction.” Olruggio’s eyes have been long shut, zoning out to the pushes of Qifrey’s thumbs into his shoulder blades.
“At least we’ll end up in Adanlee together, right?”
It’s not a bad idea. As long as ‘together’ was in the picture, nothing could be. Not when together meant this quiet undisturbed night in their atelier’s bathroom, Brushbug asleep by their feet, massaging the load of today’s work off each other’s shoulders, and flowing brainless conversations that serve nothing besides to fill the air . It’s a life better than anything the two witches could have wished for.
“We’ll have to make sure we get arrested at the same time, then,” Olruggio declares, the stretch of his wide grin can’t help but seep into his syllables this time.
“Do you think we would still be best friends? Even without our memories?” Qifrey’s tone is still playful, but he’s gone a few decibels quieter. There’s that edge of timidity Olruggio has become accustomed to reading through the thick of his polished facade.
Yes. Olruggio doesn’t doubt it even for a heartbeat. Yes. A million times yes. He’ll uproot all of Qifrey’s inner qualms claiming otherwise with his bare hands and teeth until he’s convinced so. There shouldn’t be room for anything else in Qifrey’s very being other than assurance when it comes to Olruggio.
“Of course. You think you can get away that easily from me?”
From behind, beside Olruggio’s head, Qifrey plants his forehead on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Olruggio tenses at the intimate touch, but more than anything, he’s 11, 17, 28, and 34 all at once with a school of jellyfish swimming around in his stomach that only the water witch behind him could masterfully conjure. He’s frozen still in a way you would be when a brushbug has crawled into your lap and you want to avoid jostling it off. Speaking of, their Atelier’s fluffy friend had woken up and stretched its little feet forward with a pronounced arch of its back, tail raised and elongated towards the sky. It must have been quite a while since they started.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
It doesn’t take long to finish up their bath after that, both witches properly exhausted. Clothes freshly rewinded, water drained and dried, bathroom aired out, the pair had finished changing into their nightwear. They close the door only after Brushbug has joined them in the hallway.
“Wanna open up that new bottle of silvernectar wine? It’s your day off tomorrow, right?” Olruggio forwards a proposition he’s sure will be met with a bit of resistance.
“You should get some proper sleep. Passing out drinking doesn’t count.” Qifrey rushes the latter half of his sentiment before Olruggio can interject. He snaps his mouth shut, one part annoyed and most parts endeared at Qifrey’s familiarity of his ways.
“Who says I’m finishin’ the bottle? Come on, just one glass won’t hurt. I’ll sleep like a baby.”
“You get drunk from three glasses, first of all.”
“Two glasses for me, and three for you. That way we’ll be the perfect amount of tipsy to sleep through the night. Like rocks.”
Qifrey raises an eyebrow. “I’ll join you, but just so you won’t drink more than that.”
“Loosen up, Qifrey. You deserve to indulge once in a while too, y’know. You’re always taking care of the girls and lookin’ out for me. When’s the last time you actually sat down and relaxed? And I mean sittin’ down for the sake of relaxing and not to clear a headache.”
“The time Alaria came over to deliver some sweets and teas from her trip. That counts, right?”
“We hadn’t even taken in Coco.”
“Oh alright. If you say so.” Olruggio cheers internally at Qifrey’s concession.
It’s quite the ruckus, digging through their stocked up pantry to find the bottle. They make the responsible decision of taking their drink to Olruggio’s atelier so as to not wake the girls.
They nestle themselves on Olruggio’s bed, talking and laughing about gods knows what. If you were to ask any one of the two, neither one would have been able to recall what exactly their conversation revolved around during this time. When you’re more than a glass into some of the stronger types of wine, there’s a level of tipsy you’ll reach where everything becomes unnecessarily funny. For Olruggio and Qifrey, this was exactly two and three glasses respectively.
At some point in time where neither of them can be bothered to check the arms of the clock standing beside Olruggio’s desk, Qifrey excuses himself to the bathroom. He stumbles a bit on his way, but he nonetheless still retains enough sense to navigate hushedly and not fall over himself when using the lavatory. When he returns, Olruggio’s fallen fast asleep on his side.
He pulls the fleece lined blanket haphazardly draped across the bed to cover him up to his chin. It’s not for nothing— he knows when Olruggio accidentally sleeps with his shoulders exposed, they end up sore and stiff in the morning and his sniffle won’t go away until the day after tomorrow. His hand moves on its own accord to brush a stray strand of hair covering his best friend’s eyes, carefully tucking it behind his ear. For this however, he can’t make up a feasible excuse as to why; the motion done more for himself than for the slumbering witch.
Professor Beldarut had a habit of dragging Qifrey to events and ceremonies despite his stubborn reluctance. Now that he’s three times the age than he was then, however, he understands his Professor’s intentions. In fact, Qifrey can’t and won’t begrudge him for any of it.
You’ll love it! Can sum up what he said, which in turn made Qifrey want to hate the show all the more so as to set his foot down and be free to stay in his room and read all the storybooks he wanted. It’s a funny memory. He was a child and he sure behaved like one.
Despite his Professor being adept in all kinds of flashy magic and illusions, they weren’t particularly interesting. If anything, they were annoying. Sure, they were impressive, but if Qifrey wanted to see a pegasus or scalewolf sculpted to indiscernible perfection, he’d rather open one of the encyclopedias readily available to him or be brought to the surface to see real ones himself. And ones that wouldn’t talk to him in his Professor’s eccentric voice and grandiose way of speech.
The crowds are what really drive Qifrey up the wall; they always had him fidgeting under his robes, vision nowhere safe but tunneled to the ground. The people always gather around Professor Beldarut, which means they would start gathering around Qifrey, and then start muttering things that Qifrey can say for sure were indications that he wasn’t someone welcomed. He did everything he could do to draw as little attention as possible—the least he could, being the first and only student of the Wise in Teachings. He still does when he has to visit the Great Hall all these years later. If there was a spell to completely stop time and run away, Qifrey would have been its most avid user.
Light forming the shape of a large mythical dragon is the memory that presented most clearly to him. Breaths of flashy, glittery smoke made to look like fire adorning the ceiling, no eyes could separate themselves from the sight even if they tried. It was giant yet sought not to strike fear, movements slow and languid, an elegant recreation—nothing like the replications his Professor would make, although he knew Beldaruit’s required more technical ability.
This is magic, 11 year-old Qifrey thought simply.
Qifrey blindly tugged on the robes of his teacher, vision still glued onto the breath-taking display coming more and more alive in front of him. “Professor, how do I do that?”
Beldaruit’s face was one of pure surprise. His student who was indifferent to magic, who considered drawing magic more of a chore than anything. His dear student who he longingly hoped all this time would come to love magic as much as he does—finally curious, for once. Intrigued. An idea manifested in Beldaruit’s head; a clever and efficient solution that deserved him a mini Beldaruit patting his shoulder.
“Why don’t you ask the witch who conjured it? He’s your age, you know?”
So this is how Qifrey ended up behind the stage met with a black haired-blue eyed boy while Beldaruit made small talk with the other boy’s Professor.
“Go on.” Beldaruit budges encouragingly. “Introduce yourself.”
Ugh. To the Qifrey of this age, this might have been the worst thing his Professor’s ever done, if you don’t count the time he snuck up on Qifrey in the form of a Brush-daruit-bug one unsuspecting morning to greet him.
“My name is Qifrey. How did you draw that dragon?” Qifrey doesn’t understand why his heart is beating so thunderously fast, nor why his ears are so heated from the question.
The boy gasps, hands balled into fists by his chest. “Did ya like it? I worked really hard on it!” His eyes practically sparkled as he approached Qifrey closer and closer. Despite the discomfort, Qifrey only took one step back compared to the five the boy took forward. He shyly nods his head in response.
“I’ll show you how to draw it! Name’s Olruggio,” he shared cheerfully.
Qifrey knew about the name Olruggio. Of course he did. It was inevitable, word about the star child who was a prodigy before his age had even reached the double digits. Like everything else that happened in the Great Hall however, Qifrey didn’t care about it. So this was him. He kind of expected a… pompous jerk, like most the other witches here in the Great Hall. Not a boy his height who was more than eager to share about his creation.
He doesn’t really know how it happened, just that it sort of did. They would be in the library, or by Argentgard when Beldaruit wasn’t there, and Olruggio would try to teach him the intricate spell he produced that one fateful day.
One could chalk it off to childishness, or his naivety given his lack of friends, but Qifrey found himself making more mistakes than necessary to drag out their little sessions together, diligently finishing his work so classes and homework could end faster, even agreeing to eat at the crowded dining hall together because:
What do you mean you haven’t gone to the cafeteria? The pointed hat pastries are to die for!
…To die for?
It’s like, a saying.
When he did conjure the dragon perfectly, Olruggio’s own excitement was enough for both of them twice over. His heart caved in with a strange fullness, an alien fuzziness that would have scared him if not for the uncontrollable grin his new friend mirrored.
Yes—giddiness and accomplishment. Qifrey agrees.
“Sleep well, Olly,” he whispers before quietly making his way back to his room.
“Coco? I hate to ask this of you, but do you have any experience in cutting fabric made of brushbug silk?”
Sometimes Olruggio had trips lasting nearly a week; work that warranted day-long travel and a few nights of etching spells across various locations. It was after trips like these that he would come home with a renewed appreciation and fondness for his cozy room and wonderfully curated bed arrangement.
He returned rather late, this time. All the lights in the Atelier were off, save for the glow of an artificial candle hung on their entrance. Olruggio tacitly sets down the bags of goods he had gathered from the townspeople on the dining table, knowing how the four apprentices love to unpack these and inspect the products themselves. On the front of his feet, he heads back to his wing as quietly as he can. Qifrey’s room light is off, too, he notes as he passes by it.
His own bag he carelessly drops onto a random spot of his floor, ready to take a quick shower and retire for the night, body already quick to grab a fresh set of nightwear. His eyes catch sight of the white cloth neatly folded on his desk. He pauses his routine to inspect the new item that he doesn’t ever remember placing before he left.
It’s just as wide as the one Qifrey has. Not as long, however. Halved actually. He can see the hand-sewn stitching on one of its sides—a bit sloppy, some spaces wider than others, but the cut across is perfectly straight.
Olruggio opts for a bath tonight.