Logs:Two Minutes
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| RL Date: 13 September, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two minutes to talk about feelings. |
| Where: Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 21, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: "Poor T'mic." There I said it for you. Also, yes, their icons were strategically selected. |
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| The weather has been kind today, and the result is the Nighthearth has been slow despite the aromatic stew that has been voted by the weyr, since lunchtime, flawless. It's a hearty thing, tubers and rice and plenty of big chunks of beast with black beans. It made the caverns smell amazing earlier, and now it makes the Nighthearth and the halls beyond smell amazing too. Even so, the Nighthearth is empty, save one person curled in the puffy chair near the fire. Faryn's got half-written letter in her lap, and chews on the end of her pen while she thinks in the dim firelight, but ultimatey doesn't make progress just now. She just sighs, and rolls her head against the back of the chair in annoyance so her eyes are on the ceiling. T'mic's got a bowl. Soon, he will have stew. At least, that's the plan. But even a man like T'mic can multitask some of the time, so approaching the hearth finds him not just holding a bowl and spoon (why this one will go unexplained), but also scanning for seating. And he finds the one taken seat. And he slows, pauses, that all-showing face settling, after a moment's consternation, into something... decided. A bit sympathetic or sad at the corners of his eyes, but decided. The decision becomes an impulse to move, marked off by the slight shift of metal against pottery as the spoon shifts where his grip tightens. And he moves forward. To the chair that holds Faryn. "Hey," gently announces him, in case his bulk doesn't. Faryn's looking just the right way to catch his entrance and shift, not out of recognition so much as out of a desire to not be caught with her guard so down. She takes the pen from her mouth, and it makes the little pinch of a suppressed frown slightly more evident, before the corners of her mouth actually succumb to it. "Hi," she murmurs back, uncurling from the ball she's in, plucking her letter up and creasing it into neat thirds. That look probably won't entirely leave his eyes, but it won't get worse. More, T'mic is looking at her thoughtfully, the bowl coming in to rest against his belly, where the other hand goes to help cradle it. Just in case it should get heavier. "Haven't," a flash of a smile that's more nerves than anything, "seen you in a bit, huh." "I've been busy," Faryn acknowledges, very evenly. She doesn't keep eye contact very long, certainly not long enough to really track any changes. She ends up leaning over the arm of her chair, groping with short arms for the strap of her bag, like she might be gathering up to go. "Roszadyth isn't going anywhere anytime soon. I get to. It doesn't matter." "Right," says T'mic softly, though he doesn't offer anything up on his end. He doesn't look away from her, not really, except when he glances toward whatever she's reaching for. It's that reach, that restlessness, more than her words, that prompt, "Faryn," spoken as a request. A request from the earnest boy with his empty bowl clutched in his hands before him. "Right," the ex-crafter echoes in affirmation, and her fingertips snag up just the edge of her shoulder strap, enough to wiggle it into her palm and grab a bag that today is much lighter than normal. Her answer lacks in feeling, and it certainly lacks in eye contact. She's been busy, it has been business, as usual, and so is this: "Did you need something?" "Two minutes?" asks T'mic, still staying just as he is. Faryn considers it for half a second, but that's about right for her to gather her things up. There's more than just the pen and letter, several envelopes tucked in the cushion at her hip. They need to be arranged, painstakingly, apparently. "Two minutes." Two minutes, at least three seconds of which T'mic decides he can spare for tugging a chair with his ankle, and sitting in it. That bowl remains clutched. Three more seconds to see if she will look at him, before he decides it unimportant, and proceeds. "I'm not mad. About any of it, not anymore," says T'mic. "I was. And I lost my temper. And maybe I shouldn't have. But I'm not mad, now." Tick tick tick. "Okay," seems to be it, all that she's going to say, and Faryn's letting the seconds tick away too, always wasting his time. She isn't going to look, save one sidelong look at him that she cuts without thinking. "You have every right to be, and I wouldn't expect anyone but you to not be mad a month later. It was just a flight." "I don't think the flight was really why I got mad," says T'mic. It's tempting, to dwell on that. Two more seconds tempting. But he's on a limit, and he knows it. So he hurries with, "My grandma says that it's hard to hear the whispers on the wind if your head's under the water. I'm pretty sure the head is me. And I don't know for sure what you are. But if you're not the water..." Two more seconds. T'mic's eyes start to go wide, feeling the pressure. "I just wanted to say that you know where we are. Not to like... just go back. Just you know where we are, if you-" tick tick tick tick, "need," he finishes, face red, but no sweat beading on his brow just yet. "Good, because you're a dragonrider now. You'll blow a blood vessel if you worry about that." Two more seconds, wherein Faryn pauses, digs down into the cushion of her seat one more time, and comes up with a band she can use to tie them together. "I don't even know what that means," she says of T'mic's grandmother and her esoteric phrase, but she hesitates slightly before she stuffs them into her bag, with displaced violence. "I know," Faryn says, dubious. "We aren't going back. I know where I am. Where are you? You have a minute." "More worried about Jorrth not chasing," admits T'mic with what almost becomes a smile like he was talking to an old friend. But then, there are questions. And a time limit. "I don't want us to go back. Not like that, I don't think." Even if it makes him sad, saying it. Even if it shows so clearly, even when he wrinkles up his nose and looks away from Faryn, and to his bowl. "I'm just... here? Me and Jorrth are always going to be here. I don't know, what do you want to know?" Even if it cuts into his minute. He looks up, concerned but ready to please. Once he understands. "If he doesn't, you'll be able to get your pretty weyrmate and all those kids you always wanted, without having to worry about any of the messy side things," Faryn suggests, and her quick fingers are working the buckles closed. A minute isn't long. "I know where I am. I know where I need to go, and you can't be there anyways." She sighs, her fingers pausing in her nimble fastening of the buckles of her bag. "Are you okay, with where we are? Can it not be...?" Weird, presumably. Though really, the mistress of the time limit is the one doing that right now. "I don't think I want-" starts T'mic, but then he's watching her fingers, while his brow knits, presumably not over the fact that she's fastening buckles. "It's okay," he says, then. "I don't think I want to ask what you can't yet. And I didn't mean we were going to just wait. Me and Jorrth, we're going to be weyrlingmasters." That last sentence, whispered, for all it's probably not a great mystery, at least not to Faryn. He's relaxed enough that the spoon can slide, making noise against the bowl, until its handle pokes T'mic in the belly. "Here." "If you don't know what you want, you can't try to get it." It bites, because he's frustrated her, but what's new except this, where there isn't an option for making up if she leaves the room mad. "If the only thing you know you want is to be a weyrlingmaster, then do that. I want to Stand, and I'm going to." There are other implications there, that Faryn doesn't venture to adress. "You'll be a fine weyrlingmaster. You want it so badly. More than I think I've ever wanted anything." "Doing weyrlingmaster's not the only thing I want, Faryn," says T'mic softly, and there can't help but be a bit more emotion around his eyes. "You know, maybe it is the only thing I've ever really tried at like that, but... it's not all I want." He shrugs, then nudges at that spoon gently with his thumb. It moves readily enough, a bit around the lip of the bowl. "I really think you should Stand," comes next, and there's a nod, and honesty written all over him. "What do you want then?" Faryn insists, dogged. She sounds exhausted. "Don't tell me. I don't want -- you have to know, and if it's me, you have to know why, because even I don't want to put up with me right now. Even you're not that patient." His suggestion is probably taken the way she wants it, because she does stand right about then, slinging the bag crosswise over her chest. "I plan on it, as soon as Niahvth touches the sands. Quinlys promised me." T'mic starts to open his mouth. Then closes it. Then blinks at her, confused. And suddenly, instead, responsible. "I know why. It's never been about why." He shrugs, and eventually stands as well, though carefully not right after her, not reactionary like that. "I want you to be okay, anyway," comes as he's scratching at his head, comes as a change of subject, his tone different, to some extent. "I hope you are." And then, with a little bit of an uncertain smile, and never the full departure of whatever's in the corners of his eyes, "Thanks for the minutes." Faryn's eyes drift closed. "Well, I sure as hell don't," she says honestly of the why, looking at him directly for the first time. Her smile twitches. "I'm fine," like it's a mantra between them. "I'm always okay, T'mic. And I want you to be more than okay. I want you to be happy." She sighs so hard she sways with it, and it's not a far leap to her conclusion. "You're not happy right now, and it's my fault." It's a little unfair, then, that she says, "Next time, ask for more," and starts around the other side of the chair for the caverns. It is unfair. But who has time for that, when she's leaving? T'mic leans on that perhaps underestimated patience of his, and tilts his head as she takes her leave. "I will," he says, and there's a strange note in it, almost like satisfaction or optimism, or something in between. He's left there, then, with his bowl. And when the spoon shifts, as he shifts his weight, he remembers it, and goes to get stew. Meanwhile, Jorrth has taken up position at the caverns exit. He is waiting for Faryn. With his tongue at the ready. When T'mic leans on patience, Faryn leans on that oddly latant frustration, so of course she's beng cruel when she points her compass to her next destination. Unlucky for her, it takes her to the bowl, where she'll more-or-less run into Jorrth's disgusting mouth. "Fuck," she growls at him, and it's really probably stupid the way she shoves at him, like she might force him to move his bulk anywhere he doesn't want it. "You've got to stop, that's disgusting. Go away." And if he doesn't, she does, to cut across the bowl at a brisk pace, towards the weyrleader's complex, ostensibly to take care of those letters. Which she is free to do. Once Jorrth has given her just enough of a nudge to upset her route a little bit, and then shaken out his wings, and snorted contentedly. |
Comments
Jo (08:41, 14 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
I thought Faryn had let him off easier than I expected. I don't really feel all that bad for him. She gave him good reasoning, and he did seem a little more optimistic at the end this time. XD
Alida (02:04, 15 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
I heart Jorrth!
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