Logs:Pompoms
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| RL Date: 5 January, 2016 |
| Who: Quinlys, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Quinlys confides in Telavi. |
| Where: Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: C'ris/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Lys/Mentions |
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| The next sweater Telavi holds up has been embroidered with a shining yellow sun over the top left breast; "What do you think, was this a rip they tried to camouflage?" Emphasis on tried! She pets the poor thing's arm, then twitches her hand away-- scratchy!-- then pets it again as though in apology. Quinlys, who sits on the floor mostly poking through the discards from Telavi's burrowings, is a little distracted this afternoon. Still, she gamely glances up and says, "Yes, and I dare you to wear it. Maybe add a few flowers and stars and rainbows to really complete the picture?" Telavi looks pained. Pained. In fact, "Quinlys," and there goes that sun, drifting towards her friend's-- her boss'-- her bluerider's head. Its sleeves even waggle helplessly on the way down. One arm attempts to wrap around Quinlys' neck as it lands, but Quinlys valiantly rescues herself, examining the sweater and then folding it back up. "No? Scaredy-cat. I think it would've looked charming." Telavi looks at her, all big green eyes and widened lashes, "No. No, I don't care how much of a bet you'd win if I showed my face in public." Not that she takes it back; no, she's moving on, if only to its successor on the shelf. "This one's pink," though the pronouncement is ambiguous; so is the color, yellowed to approach orange, dulled to near brown. "It smells," declares Quinlys, without glancing up. "Or something does." Her voice sounds kind of pained; she studies the yellow one, paying it more attention than it deserves. "Like a dead person." It doesn't. "It does?" Telavi's surprised, too, but she must take Quinlys' word for it, because she doesn't even test before thrusting it away. Only... "When did you ever smell a dead person?!" Quinlys makes a little noise, then slides further backwards on the floor, as if she needs to make sure there is physical distance between her and this supposedly-disgusting sweater. "You know what I mean. That... dead smell. Old. And gross. It's really gross." Telavi looks at Quinlys; she looks at the sweater, folded up all rumpled-y though it is; she looks at Quinlys; and, without touching it, she bends her knees and warily tips her face towards the offending wool. Not to touch it, of course, and angled to be ready to jump back: just enough to breathe in a little. Her nose wrinkles up. "...Quinlys?" Quinlys isn't looking at Telavi. Deliberately. "What?" "I... can't really... it just smells musty, the way things here do," and Telavi sounds worried. Telavi, who ordinarily is sensitive to such things. Her fingers slowly rise towards her nose. "Oh," says Quinlys. And, "It's probably just me, then. A lot of things smell weird to me at the moment." This time, she does glance up, and though she's aiming for her expression to be reassuring, it falls rather short of that. "I'm... I think I might be pregnant, Tela." Telavi's been palpitating her nose, checking it for damage, and now her fingers just freeze. She peeks at Quinlys; she peers at Quinlys; "Oh." And then, worriedly, "You don't look pregnant--" Quinlys, dryly: "Give it time." Beat. "That is... if I don't just get rid of it. C'ris would be so sad if I did, though. If he found out." "I won't tell him!" Telavi immediately swears, her eyes huge. "How do you feel? Except for the smells? Has it been a month already? If we could just get rid of the bleeding without that--" "Which is worse? Bleeding, or being fat for ten months and then pushing something the size of a watermelon out of places that are better suited to other things and--" Quinlys exhales with a whoosh of air. "I'm tired, mostly. My boobs hurt. Things taste and smell wrong. I'm not throwing up or anything, but..." Those blue eyes watch Telavi, closely. "I'm not sure how long. I wasn't paying attention." Telavi winces. And she winces again. "Oh no," she says miserably, sinking down among all the things, even that poor discarded sweater who hasn't even gotten its butterflies yet. "It's hard when you lose track. What are you... do you know what you're going to do? Your poor boobs." Quinlys' boobs are clearly the biggest concern here (and, to be fair, the bluerider does give them a very ginger tap: there there). "I have no idea," she admits, with a sigh. "But Niahvth's clutch start betweening next seven, so I need to work it out. Or get you to take them, and give myself more time. It's... it's never been a thing, before. Mostly, I was sleeping with women, or it was when there were no weyrlings so I was betweening a lot. But I know it was C'ris. And I know he'd want it. And I know the Weyr needs people reproducing." Telavi quails when Quinlys makes the attempt, then looks relieved when nothing explodes. Her gaze fully on the redhead's face once more, now that it's safe, "That's soon. That's..." a lot to think about. Tela bites her lip. "Well," she says, "If you decide to keep it, or wait or whatever, I will take them; you know that. I could get K'zin to help me, even, if it came to that. More with the keeping than with the waiting I think, because he'd want to know, and 'not feeling well' only goes so far? Maybe if you were dizzy or something? And... how hasn't he guessed yet, if you feel... that way?" "I didn't really notice it myself until... recently. I mean, I was aware, but I didn't say anything," explains Quinlys, making a face. "And I said the weyrlings were exhausting me, which was why I just wanted to sleep all the time." She draws her knees up, wrapping her arms about them protectively. "I'm sure Risqui would be an adorable child. Quiris. Rislys. But I just... how much of that is hormones. Biological urges?" Telavi draws her knees up, too, instinctively, though she folds her arms atop for a chinrest instead; "Oh," she sighs. "They would be. As long as it doesn't sound like Lys' baby. She'd," or he'd, "have amazing eyes." She presses her lips together for a moment. "I don't like the thought of all that pressure on you, though. And that you couldn't..." and now she bites that lower lip, glancing away momentarily and returning her gaze to Quinlys more slowly, "shouldn't go back." A little grumbly: "'Lys' was part of my name long before it was part of hers." But Telavi is right, and Quinlys is... bewildered, mostly, wrinkling her nose against it all. "I don't know what I want. I didn't want a relationship. I didn't want children. But I like him, Tela. I've probably got a little time to work it out." Beat. "This is so much easier when you don't want to consider what someone else might want." "Isn't it?" Telavi looks wistful for that last, and then she gives a little laugh. "K'zin is so no-kids no-kids no-kids that it makes it easy. C'ris... you know he'll never ever go away then." Quinlys exhales. "Yeah," she says. "He won't." The way she says it, she's not sure if that is a good thing or not. "I should've been more careful. I haven't between outside the Weyr in... well, half a turn, probably. I don't, most of the time, when there are weyrlings." "But not just because of the baby!" Telavi is quick to say, maybe too quick; does that help? "This makes me want to go between right now," she confesses. "I don't see how you stood it, being here that long. I mean, straight flight is fun? But still!" Quinlys fastens her gaze on Telavi, at least one-part amused, and one... conflicted? Not offended, but something, beneath the rest of it. "We should both go," she says, decidedly, abruptly trying to pull herself to her feet. "Let's go have a drink at... Ista. Southern. Somewhere fun." "Let's," Tela agrees, after a rather searching look at Quinlys' expression, and another nibble at her lip. "I'll shout first." She'll even offer a hand if there's difficulty with that getting up, though that might worry her too. It's later, in those pretty lounge-y chairs over her own drink and its fruity tangy heady goodness, when she says, "Q?" with that questing gaze. "Whatever... you just let me know what you need, how I can help, when we get there and you know or even just think you know. If it's betweening, or getting out my little knife, or saying how awful it is or how wonderful, absolutely wonderful it is... anything, really. I'd even make pompoms for you." If Quinlys was hoping that an oh-so-brief trip between would magically solve her problem, make her decision for her... she's out of luck. If she was hoping for that, though, it doesn't show in her expression, not in all the time that follows, not even when Telavi says what she says. "I think," she says, very quietly, "that I'd better avoid between after this. And probably alcohol. And whatever else the healers tell me." Because, she swallows thick and hard, "I want those pompoms." Telavi's eyes are round and then her mouth is round and only happy experience means she doesn't spill her drink when she so impulsively hugs her friend. And seals her fate. Because pompoms it is. |
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