Logs:What It Isn't
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| RL Date: 7 September, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Faryn comes clean with T'mic about what happened during Niahvth's flight. |
| Where: Bosom Buddies Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Raining. Inside. On your face. |
| Mentions: Drex/Mentions, Edyis/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions, Irianke/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Angsty. |
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| Technically Faryn has the day off, because her boss is in bed with a bronzerider and there is nobody else to really issue her orders. Irianke has her own assistant; K'del is stuck in Southern. It would be a good enough reason to stay in, but Faryn doesn't. The same watchrider that dropped her on T'mic's ledge some three hours after Roszadyth and Lythronath have come back down from their flight appears like magic just before noon, like he's been scheduled, and hies Faryn away to work. She gives the explanation that there's still work to be done - proddy Farideh is a messy thing - but it's the same sort of queerly cheerful avoidance that has marked her behavior since Niahvth's flight. It brooks no argument. But she promises to come back, at least. It's a different watchrider that brings her then, well after supper and looking like she's at least pulled herself fully together, and she doesn't announce herself. T'mic's taken a few pages from Jorrth's book, watching Faryn in the quieter moments in that studious way that the blue has. But most of his pages are still his own. Which is why he's kept an arm as long as she'll let him, when they're in bed, or tried to catch at her hand, or give her those broad smiles, when she's not. That he's missed her is obvious, in their time away. The rest... It's Jorrth who sees her when she returns. She doesn't have to announce herself to him; he's been watching firelizards dance, and was out on the ledge anyway. He goes to press a shoulder to her, while his rider's still inside. "Hi," Faryn says absently, but she leans into Jorrth a little bit anyways, because it's basically a wave at this point. She'll even smooth at his muzzle a little bit in passing before she goes in, hovering just past the entrance and not putting her bag down. The greeting must have just been waylaid. "Hi," for T'mic too, with a little less absence and a little more -- something. Hesitation, maybe, even though she crosses the weyr for an uncharacteristic kiss to greet him, still hauling her things. Jorrth can be pleased by things while still wondering why. He is now, which is probably why the firelizards are deprived of his further attentions, in favour of turning to watch Faryn's progress into the weyr. T'mic is sat on the bed, cross-legged, a mountain before a map and a chart of sweeps laid out before him. Because there were no drills today. Because there was no Faryn. Because he still wants to be Quinlys' assistant. It's not an easy study, which might explain the crease in his brow - though that disappears when she comes over. He kisses her back, and has one of those smiles on his face when they break. "Hi." The finger that had held his place on the hide is still on the hide - just in a slightly different place. But he doesn't look back to it. "Got it looking better?" Whatever she was setting to rights. "There were dresses everywhere. Covered in mud and - the bed was. She's a mess." Which is a general consensus Faryn has had of Farideh since they met, so what she's basically saying is nothing new. "She usually has piles for everything." There's a tiny crease above her nose where her eyebrows try to knit together, but it disappears quickly. She looks like she might sit down, but there are those maps, and his finger is still holding some spot, so she is courteous enough to sway where she stands. "No more flights." And there's relief. T'mic makes a little chuff of laughter for that, a bit embarrassed to hear all the personal sides of Farideh's proddiness, but at the same time... well. He can read some of her well enough, yet, to give a quick, "Oh," and look down to the bed. Those big hands spread, his spot fully and earnestly lost now, and purposefully too. He makes room, relegating the hides to a corner, and, pressing his knuckles then into the bed, gorilla-walking himself back enough, legs still mostly crossed, that there's a Faryn-sized space. "Maybe it's good we only have two golds. I don't think the sands would be big enough for three." Jorrth still hasn't blinked, from his spot at the entrance. "I guess." Faryn considers him, the small space he's left her to crawl into, and then she notably doesn't take it. Instead, there's a big show about her carefully setting her things on the ground, the objects inside rustling and clinking fragiley together. "I don't think I can emotionally handle three, whether or not there's space," Faryn says, effectively neutral in her tone. "Especially if they're going to do it so close together." T'mic does that little laugh again, but this time, it's not quite as natural. "Guess there's that." Then it's that smile, that warm smile, that smile that means he's noticed something. Probably that still-empty space next to him. "Missed you, this last one. It's totally worse when you know what you're missing. Niahvth's that made Jorrth? That wasn't this bad." Another of those little laughs, like the one just before it. And, "You hungry or anything?" From his vantage, Faryn's face might be mostly hidden as she digs through the bag, but there are certain lines and angles of her narrow face that are hard to miss. Her jaw, for example, which ratchets tighter suddenly. Her slender shoulders, which are sometimes more readable than her face. "Yeah." Strained. "Sorry. Finding someone to bring me up was...tricky." That's a good word for it, or good enough. She latches instead on his other question, too quickly. "No. I..don't have much of an appetite. Not since Niahvth. You ate, didn't you?" "It's okay," says T'mic. "I'm not mad or anything." The answer might draw into her question, so to whether he ate, he just nods. Just murmurs, "Snowdrift." And then looks a little bit worried, the way the corners of his eyes turn, the way his mouth pulls a little. "It wasn't... Faryn, you know," tentative, because last time he tried to Talk, well. "You know, if there's something, or someone's been bothering you. I'm not saying you need our help, but like, if you want it or anything." "Did you stay here? Alone? The whole time?" He's already answered some of that, more or less, but Faryn asks it anyways, rocking back onto her heels when she can no longer pretend there's something in her satchel she either wants or needs. "Nobody's bothering me," she assures, specific in her phrasing. "Why would you think someone's bothering me?" Except the bronzerider who kidnapped her after the flight. That might count. "I'm -- it's not that." T'mic shakes his head, leaning forward again. "Not the whole time. I mean, we kinda went and looked for you, when you weren't there So we came back." And, you know. Dealt with it. "And waited after that." He leans forward then, face going open, going caring, going listening and sympathetic, with those big brown eyes watching her now as Tomic does, and not as Jorrth. (Though he's still watching, too. Of course.) "Okay?" Faryn sighs heavily, through her nose. "Fine. I'm fine." Which doesn't sound fine at all, really. It sounds resigned. "K'zin took me to his weyr, when I asked him to bring me here. But," an important, important but, "I didn't do anything. With him." Which is a pretty minor confession, a toe in to test the waters. "He didn't mean anything by it. Just Roszadyth. Just golds. Why they both had to do this is beyond me." She may claim to be fine; T'mic becomes less so, with that claim, with that tone. He's brought a hand up to rub along his eyebrow, to his temple. It's almost a distraction from whatever thought is starting there, that has him glancing to her, past his hand. "I didn't... think you did. But he listened to you?" The hand falls away. Slowly. "That's good then. Well, okay." And then, a shrug. "I hear it is what it is." Here, there's a heavier look to Jorrth (who may have blinked, but only once). "It wasn't easy," Faryn notes. "I probably shouldn't have gone with him. Not when he'd just lost. But he's...still K'zin, you know? He was nice, and he tried to convince me it was okay, but I made him go into his room." Like she was his mother. There's a certain hopeful relief in her voice for the rest. "You believe that? That it's just what it is? What happens? No harm?" "Sure," says T'mic, but there's not really understanding there. K'zin is in his wing (sort of), so you know, he must know him, but know him? "Anyway, I'm glad he listened," is stronger, now that T'mic is sure. Then, the scratch to his head, less troubled than the last. This is easier to think about. "Well... yeah. I mean, Jorrth's smarter than me, but- no, that's the wrong example. But for the queens and the greens? There's no control there, I don't think. I think it's bad for them, if they try." And then, almost sheepish, his discontent still temporarily forgotten, "I'd understand more if he'd chased yet, I think." Faryn sits on the edge of the bed, makes that clicking sound with her tongue against the back of her teeth. The one that signals distaste or trouble. She even hears him out, her attentive listening skills not on display as she looks at her hands. She's nodding perfunctorily with his explanation, a low breath of amusement for who is the smarter of the pair. There's no derision; she's just thankful for the moment to not have her jaw clenched so tightly, her fingers twining together. "Niahvth's...not gentle about it. I guess it might be worse -- feel worse -- if you have a dragon. Maybe that's why she wasn't so bad, for Jorrth's clutch." The way she's holding her hands has him attentive. Those hides are slid off the bed, and laid lightly on the floor. T'mic slowly slides around, closer, with a more similar vantage point, but not too close. Perched, so far as a big man like T'mic can perch. There's a look to Jorrth, and then a shrug of those big shoulders, and he is content to leave it open with, "Yeah, maybe." If she's trying to assuage his concern, Faryn probably doesn't help when she straightens a bit, bringing her eyes to his, at this new proximity. It's still apparently too close, for all his careful measuring. She is up on her feet again, her nervous hands sliding into her jacket pockets. "But maybe not. It still felt... If that is true, you might be better off without him chasing anytime soon. I can't really think it might get worse than that was." Too much preamble. She doesn't prattle. "I don't want to upset you, T'mic." She doesn't prattle. And T'mic's expression has solidified, from one shifting here and there, uncertain, to one simply worried. He starts reaching toward her hand, but stops. And says, instead, "Only thing making me upset right now? Is that you are. And I'm..." he shakes his head, and gestures, in an ill-defined way, to the space between the two of them. "Faryn," is either the opening of something, or an invitation. It's followed by a pause. "It was two sevens. We weren't really," starts Faryn, then shakes her head. Not the way to start, and she's too distracted fishing for the right beginning to be terribly worried about if he reaches for her hand. She notes it absently, but it's enough that she doesn't take them out of her pockets. "You can't tell Farideh," is next. Still not a confession. Still worrisome. T'mic's nose wrinkles a little, his eyebrows draw down. Worry. And also the faintest bit of uncertainty, or perhaps apprehension. He lets his hand drop to the bed, palm up, with fingertips just barely brushing at Faryn's leg. "Okay," comes firmly, for all he doesn't understand. She steps away. As it turns out, her first start is the best start, so she chooses it again after a deep breath. "We weren't really...together. You and me. Whatever we were doing, whatever happened." The proper word for what happened is harsher than the one she chooses. "I slept with Farideh's boyfriend. When Niahvth rose." Ten days ago. T'mic heard her. Because that intake of breath, a slow, careful expansion of his chest, is too perfectly timed, and too purposeful, for it to be caused by anything else. He blinks once. And then looks toward the ground, his fingertips twitching faintly toward his palm, away from Faryn. There are a couple more of those breaths, and finally, quietly, comes, "I would have been looking for you then." Faryn winces. She must notice it all, including the way his fingers curl away from her, just a little more distance. Her hands are moving in her pockets, visibly nervous through the leather. "Yeah." Not sorry, though she must be, if she can't look at him. That spot on the ground is terribly interesting. "I -- you found me." Eventually. Later. After. "Don't be mad." Slowly, T'mic slides to his feet. Slowly, he brings his arms to wrap around that bit of a belly that's never gone away, no matter what dragonriding has tried to do to it. Jorrth snorts. "It doesn't matter," he says. His voice has gone low, down into his throat. He hasn't looked at her since the admission. When Faryn moves, it's only so far as to get out of his path; he's bigger than her, not that she expects violence, but something about being too close makes the hair on her arms raise. "T'mic." Testing, tentative. Not proud. "You said it is what it is. What happens, happens. I should have told you, but - my job. Farideh will..." She shuts her mouth with an audible click of teeth. The wrong words. "No." T'mic's teeth have come together, and they aren't looking to separate. It puts a bit of a growl into his voice. He takes a few paces, and turns to, at long last, look at her. His head has started shaking. "Just leave." His face has started to heat. "I don't know why you're here." It could be barbed, but it isn't. There's an element of hurt in that, and of course, it hits his face, too. "I'm here because --" but that clips off too, her hand finally extricating itself to cover her eyes, like not seeing him will make this any better. She drags it down, and it ends up covering her mouth, stifling anything else she might say for at least a few moments. That line appears on her forehead again, brows closing in on one another. Anything else she might say, when she finally drops that hand limply to her side, dies before it reaches her mouth at the look on his face. "I didn't want to hurt you," she says eventually, but she has to step towards him, and the bed, for her bag, to follow his edict. So she stands there instead, looking at her things instead of him. "I didn't. I mean it." There's a moment, when she starts, where T'mic is attentive. His face is red then, but it opens, his eyes widening, his eyebrows starting to lift. And then stopping. Now it's a scowl, angry. It's fast, the type of speed trained up for thread-fighting efficiency, for hand-to-hand combat, when he crouches, grabs the bag, straightens back up. His fist clenches, the muscles in his forearm turned solid. "I don't know why you're here," he repeats, leaning into 'here', not for emphasis, but because it has to come out somewhere, and it's in a cracking raise of volume. His fist tightens still, and his arm shakes a little. "And neither do you." But when that bag is tossed, it's light, to drop before her. He has one thing wrong; she knows why she's here, and now the guilt is really crushing her. "T'mic," she starts again, sounding wretched, but then he moves, quicker than she thinks he might be able to, quicker than someone of his bulk should, and there is a sudden retreat from her, three quick steps backwards like she expects him to advance on her, not her bag. She stares at it, licking her lips nervously as she stares at it, at him after a long moment. Faryn does not often sound very small, but tonight is a night of firsts. When she apologizes, it's barely above a whisper, the force behind her voice missing. She doesn't try a second time; she just reaches down to pick up the bag, a thing she has to put effort behind in contrast with his comparative ease. "I'll wait outside. Can you just - call the elevator rider?" T'mic is uncomfortable under that stare. The anger from moments before is dissipating already, and where muscles were solid, now they tingle, nervous. He can't hold his eyes on her; there's tears starting in the corners, and he turns his head away. "Jorrth can take you," is an entirely different voice, wavering, cracking. It's awkward, trying to move toward the entrance, where the straps are hanging, without looking at Faryn, even making the effort to look away. In the end, he's closer, within a half-step of reach of her, shoulder dropped toward her and head turned to the other side. That big hand gestures limply toward the straps, complete with passenger belt. "I can get him set up," maybe. "Just... just now. Please." At the very least, Faryn doesn't say his name with that piteous sound again. She doesn't, in fact, say his name at all, and she definitely doesn't reach out to stop him reaching for the straps, though her hand extends for a second like it might. Somewhere in the time it took her to adjust her satchel and square her shoulders, she's found that even keel for which she's known, and when she says, "Just call the elevator rider. He'll be a minute, max. I don't want Jorrth." It's not meant to cut, though it might; that's always been some of it, after all. "He needs you." Which is for Jorrth, specifically, for as much as they've managed to make their communication efficient. "Tell them Farideh called; they won't take their time." Jorrth has been watching this whole time. Now, those little feet, those shaggy wings, all move, weight shifting forward, back, up, down. T'mic has finally looked toward Faryn. Sort of. It was the movement, that hand, that's drawn his attention. But it's something, and it has him rubbing both hands over his face, which is all red, all puffy. Red and puffy, but calmed a bit, when he turns it to Faryn once more. Even if there's a side-and-down pull of his mouth. His mouth, which then opens, closes. And he blinks at her. "Call the rider," she repeats, evenly, for both of them. Faryn's movements are purposeful as she steps past them, again, not anticipating either to follow. She is very good at not looking back. She made her bed, as it were. "Just call them and I'll be gone." Jorrth turns, a bit clunkily, with all that bulk. T'mic is obscured for a moment, but he reappears alongside his dragon, with his shoulder against the side of that broad blue head, and his arm absently curled up, so that the backs of his fingers can touch beneath Jorrth's chin. It's a big enough ledge for a couple dragons. They both watch, for a moment. And then, while the Weyr is good enough to hold still, T'mic's voice is able to reach across, a bit choked, but calmer still. "Because why?" "What?" Faryn's looking over the ledge expectantly, her arms crossed over her chest tightly, one hand wrapped around the strap of her bag where it is slung cross-wise. Any minute now, that fancy moving brown that dropped her here can come, backwing for a landing and blow her off the ledge and out of her misery. Jorrth starts to move forward, to the edge of the ledge furthest from Faryn, where he, too, looks down and over. T'mic's arm, rather than falling to his side, goes around his belly again. "Because," he repeats, side-stepping so there isn't a mound of blue muscles and wings in his way, "why?" Those big brown eyes are back. Attentive, though. Searching. "Because...why." She echoes it dumbly at him, like she's lost track of something, but then it dawns on her. If Jorrth gets too close, she'll push him away, for all its ineffectiveness. "Because if you're going to hear about it, I'd rather you heard it from me. Not from when Farideh finds out, and blows her top. Or when Ed slips up and tells someone." Yes, Edyis knows. Before him. "From me. I owe you that much. You're a nice guy, T'mic." Click: tongue on the back of her teeth again, almost a tsk. "You deserve better than that." His face is still puffy. His eyes are still a bit red. But that immediate storm of emotion has passed. Now, he looks tired. He shakes his head, sadly, and tucks his arms a bit closer, more to chest level. "If there's nothing you want here, Faryn? Then you don't owe me anything." A glance to Jorrth, who pauses his survey of the bowl below to glance back. And blinks. "Your ride will be here soon," is a whisper that maybe she can hear. But maybe, the Weyr has stopped holding its breath, just like T'mic. |
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Comments
Squishy (22:50, 7 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
</3 Poor T'mic. T.T FARYN YOU MADE HIM CRY.
Roz (22:58, 7 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
D:
WUT. WHY. NOOO. AHHHHH.
Jo (23:16, 7 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
The feelz~~ I feel for both of them. D:
Alida (02:53, 8 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
- siiiigh* Poor both of them, but especially poor 'Mic.
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