Logs:Heavy Sh*t
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| RL Date: 7 November, 2015 |
| Who: K'zin, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Pretty boy bros on a beach. |
| Where: Beach, Monaco Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 3, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Aishani/Mentions, E'dre/Mentions, Ebeny/Mentions, Kyouri/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions, Telavi/Mentions |
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| Physical exertion is first. Running, swimming, then finally collapsing on the blanket. After a few minutes of just taking in the sun, K'zin manages to roll onto his stomach and drag himself far enough to reach out a hand to snag the pack of lunch food tucked safely beneath the beach umbrella. "Wherry and cheese?" The younger bronzerider offers the older over a sandwich. N'rov takes it first, but looks it over second; "Nah, I want the cheese and wherry. Let's swap." But it's with a smirk, and with that sandwich kept out of reach. He's staying in the sun for now, flopped over so it can bake his back. "Every now and again," he says, "I get this nightmare where I've lived long enough at Fort that I can't take the heat anymore." "You already touched that one," K'zin points out, deadpan. Cooties, people need to pay attention to such matters. Nevermind that K'zin touched it first. "We've got citrus too," he digs in the basket. "That's better than the nightmare I get where I suddenly start feeling the cold in 'Reaches' winter." He finds the citrus and idly tosses it at N'rov. "Still not tired of Fort, huh?" "So I did," N'rov says in tones of realization, holding the sandwich up enough that he can not only squint at it one-eyed, but be seen to do so. Which means that the citrus smacks him on the forehead, and now he's cross-eyed. Laughing under his breath, too. "Some days more than others. You? Never gonna give those 'Reaches up?" The result of his haphazard aim makes K'zin grin. "I think I just won the orange game," is noted without explanation. Then more seriously, "Probably not. Not now that there's Tundra. I mean, crafting... it's what I love. And there's Tela. Asked her to weyrmate me," K'zin has to laugh at himself reaching to scrub across his face before he sits up to bite into his own sandwich. "You could stand to transfer, join Tundra, be my assistant." That warrants another grin, since apprentice-level crafters totally get assistants. N'rov eyes his citrus some more, which certainly is orange; while he's still figuring out whether he's too lazy to ask, though, K'zin's got his attention all over again. "Yeah? Congratulations," he assumes. "And tell me about this assistant job. Is it cushy? No constipated brownriders?" "She didn't say yes," is sheepishly admitted between bites. "Tela didn't much like that I didn't tell her I asked for a transfer to Tundra a couple sevens before the eggs hatched. Neither did Quinlys. Still not sure it's safe to deliver apology whiskey. She might pour it out." K'zin's eyes flare a little to see if N'rov appreciates the abuse that would be. "It's long hours, lots of muscle flexing while you bring tools here and there, polish things, work the bellows, et cetera. No constipat-- do you have to deal with constipated brownriders now?" It must be asked with a quirked brow. Surprise turns into a dry look, if a look can look dry amid chewing, and a laugh. "You don't look too broken up about it," N'rov says. "Except for the whiskey part. Who'd pour out whiskey? Would they let a whiskey-pourer teach weyrlings? That's the sort of thing the Red Star likes." Speaking of, "And yes, yes I do." He gives his sandwich a more disgruntled bite this time, and chews. "The one whose weyrmate moved out." Had he mentioned? The laugh that answers is a little awkward. "Well, it's not like anything was really going to change if she'd said yes, and I didn't really expect her to say yes, we've always held to not being the types, but then I said that about relationships in general once. And we're still together, so that's what matters," which might mean he missed the point of the lesson someone was trying to drive home by not saying yes, but such is life with a bronzerider beau of very little brain. "I don't know. You could deliver it for me and find out for yourself." K'zin offers selflessly. "Or maybe I'll let you buy it off me to give to that brownrider. Does whiskey help with constipation?" He has no idea. "Sucks about the weyrmate moving out. Sucks you're dealing with it. A friend of yours?" "Did you want her to say yes?" N'rov has to ask before he gets started on the rest. Not that he's stalling, witness his afterthought of, "Why not, I'll deliver it. As long as it's still the hot redhead." "As long as she doesn't leave me, I think I'll be content," K'zin answers as he polishes off the first sandwich and goes fishing for an orange of his own. "It is still the hot redhead. If you can, avoid saying my name until the very end, otherwise she'll be hot in a whole different way." Then K'zin seems to need to add, "Not the good kind." Then he waits. N'rov accepts this, saluting with a section of orange. "So I'll just be this random stranger, plying her with alcohol out of the goodness of my heart," he drawls. "I can do this." For the rest... there's a moment where his hand flexes, like he'd rub the back of his neck, only both hands are full; so, "Right. Did I mention Vhaeryth flew my wingleader's," that would be Fort's acting weyrleader's, "weyrmate's green? The one who used to be my weyrlingmaster? Months ago?" "Well, out of the goodness of your heart and then at the last moment you can mention it's from me and I'm really sorry." K'zin qualifies. "Just-- as your leaving, or whenever seems appropriate." He suggests helpfully. "Uh--" The younger bronzerider tries to remember. "I wasn't there for that one, was I?" It's not like he shows up for many flights at Fort, just when timing isn't so good. "Right, right, really sorry," N'rov goes with this, not that he practices looking penitent to go with it, which lets him qualify based on weyrling visits, "Semi-stranger." Moving on, where 'moving on' is in slow motion what with finishing off his sandwich first, "Don't think you were," but then it's been months, so he's more dubious than not. Also, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "Well, she fell pregnant. And they'd been having problems, or something, so they knew whose it was. Whiskey hasn't helped him so far." But maybe the assiduous application of more would yield a final determination, for science. K'zin's nod is approving. The process of peeling his own orange take his attention as the other man goes on. There's a distinct pause on the word 'pregnant', brows rising enough to wrinkle his expressive forehead. He looks over to N'rov as he continues with the orange peel. "That's some heavy shit, man," tells it exactly as it is. "You alright? Is this the first time?" 'That you know of' is implicit for given the nature of flights, it simply is a part of life. Implicit yet N'rov has to say it anyway. "That I know of. Yeah." He exhales heavily. "She didn't want it, but she was too far along." He pushes up to where he's sitting, curly head bent, the remains of his fruit in one hand. "That's-- rough. Really rough. The constipated brownrider is your-wingleader-her-weyrmate?" K'zin asks as to just put the whole thing together smoothly. "What-- I mean, did you want kids? Or--?" Have they ever talked about this? Probably not. "Yeah." Him. N'rov's shrug is jerky. "Not really. I mean, not not, but even Shani and me, we never got to the point where we were hoping. Though she was starting to sound... A lot would have been different if we lived together. Before then, it's not like I'm a Lord's kid, it's what you do when you get married." K'zin's nod is slow. "Guess she doesn't know if she'll keep it? If they will? It sounds-- just-- so awkward and hard from every angle." That's why N'rov gets a (slightly sticky) hand to his shoulder for a brief supportive squeeze before K'zin is back to peeling his orange. "Moving to 'Reaches where there's a hot redhead and booze sounding better?" is probably an attempt to lighten the mood. "She said she didn't want it, he says he wants it, the healer said to give them space." N'rov grimaces, though it does lighten some at the squeeze, stickiness and all. At the escape too, of course; "I thought the point was to only visit the hot redheads?" "Man," is said in a sympathetic way. "I mean, I know it can't be easy. I don't even know what I'd do if Tela wound up knocked up at all, let alone by someone else, but I don't know, you'd think we'd all be somehow more prepared for this kind of thing, given the givens." It's K'zin's turn to grimace. "If you need anything-" he offers. "Even if it's just to get sloshed or something. Seems like the kind of thing where you'd need to get sloshed." At least once. Or a dozen times. "Classes," N'rov says darkly, if not entirely without humor. "Yeah, thanks. I'd say now," no time like the present! "except I already took a lot of time seeing my folks. And my nephews, running around." But enough about kids; "I'll cope. The caverns are good for something, right? And try not to think about my ma won't want him around, him or her or whatever, what with being a bastard and all." No, really, enough about kids. "What else is new with you? Glad to be able to drop by this place again." What with Torith, to Vhaeryth's less than gladness, safely flown. "No," is flat rejection. No classes. K'zin wants not to sit in lecture on this topic. "Who would even teach it?" Not that he really wants an answer to that. "Well, we'll just have to do it another time then. The next time you need to escape." It's his broly duty to offer. "Just Tundra stuff keeping me busy. The rest is pretty much the same old. Nothing near so exciting as you. High Reaches is starting to look downright stable, if you ignore the most recent--" his glance takes in the proximity of other on the beach who mightn't like the topic, "upset," he concludes without naming the tragedy. Not that N'rov wants an answer either, given that next grimace. "Great," he says to the rest, genuinely; it precedes a wry half-laugh for the upset. "Let's see if it holds. What project are you working on these days? Or projects, maybe I should ask." "You're starting down a dangerous road," K'zin warns, "getting a man to talk about his craft." He finishes off his orange and digs in the basket again. "If we're going to talk shop, we're going to need beer," which he was evidently keeping squirreled away for when things got serious. (Not til now, apparently.) "Beer." N'rov, all for that; the better to listen, the better to drink, he even gets up enough to cross back into the shade. This will take a while. |
Comments
Aleudre (07:51, 8 November 2015 (PST)) said...
Constipated brownriders; assidious. I shouldn't have laughed as hard as I did.
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