View source for Logs:Fists Don't Fly

{{Log
|who=M'vyn, N'rov
|what=N'rov and M'vyn hang out and do manly things
|where=M'vyn's Cosy For Keeps Weyr, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Area
|day=22
|month=9
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.09.04
|quote=I could give a shit if he does
|mentions=Aislara, Cece, N'muir, Nala
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon M'vyn Main.jpg, Icon n'rov drink.png,
|log=Evening. He knew why, and he didn't know why, he dropped a few short words by M'vyn over dinner. It wasn't a real commitment, except he'd made it, so it was. By the time Vhaeryth flew him to Elsyth's ledge, it was getting dark. His shoulder was a dull ache that went deeper than the numbweed; he paid no more attention to it than the others. Nor to the ''look'' the green gave him, who'd made room in her wallow for his bronze, and especially not to the small, almost inaudible croon that was soon echoed by Vhaeryth's rumble. In the large main room, the mats were already out, the furniture pushed aside; N'rov stripped off outerwear and overshirt into the usual pile by his boots. He met the other man with a grin, and then moved to warm up, the last thing he'd have to do before making the rest hurt too.

The rest would not take long to hurt as M’vyn seems set on pushing the limits with the bronzerider.  
There is the usual grappling, the grunting, the shouldering, the flipping and pinning.  M’vyn and N’rov are evenly matched so as typical, M’vyn slaps a hand on the ground and calls, “Let’s break.”
The greenrider hefts himself off of the mats and pads barefoot over to the pitcher of water he’s got out for the occasion.  He pours each of them a glass and then slides into a dining chair to drink.  He doesn’t slouch but he reaches for a towel to wipe at his sweat with a smirk directed towards N’rov.  “You’re in a mood tonight,” he drawls, lifting a brow as he gulps more than sips from his glass of water.

He gulps, N'rov glugs, towel about his shoulders; the bronzerider splashes another palmful over his head. "That kind of night," he says, leaning forward now with the glass between his knees. Then he gives M'vyn an assessing look, a thoughtful look: ''debating''.

“Mind the rugs,” M’vyn says critically as he watches N’rov splash his head.  The bronzerider isn’t ‘’near’’ the throw rugs that linger further from the wrestling mats but ‘’still’’.  He finishes his glass of water and pours more.  He indicates the pitcher by hefting it up.  “You need more?” he queries, not rising from his chair.  If N’rov does he’ll have to walk over and then M’vyn will pour.

Rugs. N'rov looks around and hey, there really are some. He grunts, and then shifts forward, swinging to his feet with his glass to go get it topped off. No, refilled, because he finishes draining it first. And then a second, if M'vyn's hospitality will go that far.  The latest he takes more slowly, stepping back to lean against the table. Finally, "What's with Nala?"

M’vyn pours the rest of the pitcher’s water into N’rov’s glass and then sets the pitcher back on the table with a rattly-clang of sound.  He lowers his own glass to the table, clearing his hands of any encumbrance.  He asks slowly, looking beneath lowered brows at N’rov.  “What do you mean by ‘what’s with Nala’?  I assume you ‘’know’’ she’s a bluerider and is in ‘’your’’ wing,” he doesn’t bother hiding the sarcasm there.

"No, really?" but N'rov doesn't smirk; instead, there's a lurking not-yet-frown that's half uncertainty. "We were helping out N'muir today, ''harvesting''," only for N'muir, "and she just lost it." He doesn't say it like it's out of the blue, only like he hasn't gotten to the rest of it yet.

M’vyn’s features fall into neutral lines as he leans back in his chair.  He folds his arms in front of his chest.  He may be keeping his face relatively inexpressive but there’s steel in his gaze.  “Why do you assume I may know her motivations?”  

"I assume you ''know'' you have two kids." N'rov's tone is dry, but not an exact mimicry of M'vyn's from earlier, letting the troubled quality show. "I figure there's got to be an insight knocking around somewhere in there."

M’vyn’s irritation shows in the twitch of a shoulder and a lift of a brow.  “Yes, I’ve two children by Nala.  It doesn’t make me her keeper nor do I claim to understand her.”  He considers N’rov for a moment and then looks away.  “Is there something in particular you’d think I’d understand?  You claim she ‘’lost’’ it.  What?  She cried?”  He looks back at N’rov.

"Yeah. Well." In that moment, and the next one. Crying, though, that gets a quick frown. "No. We were harvesting, like I said." N'rov has another swallow. He rubs his cheekbone with his knuckles. "And talking, some, and she went and took a swing at me. Sound familiar?" Beat. "With the ''scythe''."

M’vyn’s watching N’rov carefully as he speaks, his eyes sharpening as he listens.  “What did you say that made her swing at you?”  Because, in the greenrider’s mind, there’d have to be a reason for such behavior.  “And a scythe?  Shards, she wanted to kill you.”  There shouldn’t be but suddenly there is a wolfish grin directed at the bronzerider.  “Did she win?”

That grin, that's better. N'rov doesn't quite grin back, but it's a near thing. "With the handle," he does have to admit. Beat. "The first time." He rubs his cheekbone with his knuckles. "Took me off guard, bursting out like that. And yeah, I wasn't giving her peace, but I was ''bored''." 

"She doesn't handle being picked at very well," M'vyn notes with a one shouldered shrug.  "And," he pauses, considering the bronzerider with lowered brows.  "She is not fond of Cece," this is shared slowly, as he gauges N'rov's reaction.  "Because I sleep with her.  Yet she's with Aislara."  The next is delivered more quickly, "Are you sleeping with Aislara as well?"

"Yeah," starts to have a ''but'' attached, but then N'rov's just eyeing the other man back. His brows don't lower; one goes up. And then there's the last, a heartfelt, "''No''." Except then he has to pause. "Vhaeryth did fly her a few times, but that was Turns ago."

"I am not sure why she," M'vyn pauses, reaching for his water to drain fully.  "Hates you.  We do not.. Outside of flights."  He pauses and swings his head in the direction of their dragons.  "Though she may assume our wrestling isn't..," he throat-clears, "the sort ''we'' do."  He hefts himself from the chair and makes his way towards a cabinet to grab something stiffer than water.

Stiffer is good. To drink, when alcohol's involved. Which is to say that that the cabinet's promising, so N'rov leans back with a brief, "What would she know anyway?" While he's at it, "If it would help," only that deadpan tone promises anything but, "I could announce at some wing gathering that no, we've been ''terribly'' chaste. Cee might like that too. In the interest of preserving your modesty."

"I don't need anyone discussing where and who and how I may sleep with someone," M'vyn drawls as he returns with two smaller tumblers and a flask of something amber colored.  He pours them each a hearty serving and then settles back in his chair.  He rubs a finger briefly against his sternum, his bare chest no longer gleamed with sweat.  "Nala and I are," he sips the whiskey, "not on speaking terms.  Maybe it's your looks that set her off."  He smirks, "or did you mention Cece?"

Smaller is ''wise'', but N'rov has another swallow of water from the bigger glass anyway before setting it down in favor of the smaller. "What, that my nose doesn't actually show where it got broken?" he inquires with interest. "No, no Cece. Who skipped ''out'' of the extra work, I'll have you know, else I might not have been working next to her to begin with. No, I take that back; I might have gotten stuck between them," clearly worse.

"If Nala went I assume Cece wouldn't if she could avoid it," M'vyn answers after another sip.  "Well, she hates you and made it clear.  Is it bothering you that much?"  He shifts back in his chair, flicking his hand back to smooth loose strands of hair back against his head.  

"Eh, I could have done without holders over there," so not ''right'' there," to witness," N'rov says somewhat dourly. "And I didn't want to hit her, but she wouldn't ''stop''."

It is a good thing M'vyn has downed the rest of his drink and set it on the table when N'rov admits to hitting Nala.  The look the bronzerider gets is savage as his lip twitches near a snarl, "You hit her?" He reaches to pour more of the whiskey for himself.  Anything to keep from rising to hit N'rov ''now''.

If reactive tension's readying N'rov's lean frame, he doesn't stand, he keeps ''that'' lean. "Meant to knock the wind out of her," he's all too plain about agreeing. "Like I said, she got me off guard," which he sounds distinctly disgruntled about, "hit me and kept coming. Scythes, remember?"

M'vyn is not easily mollified but he's downed that second glass of whiskey in an attempt to settle his anger.  He flattens his lips together as he eyes N'rov.  "She likes to brawl," he says more civilly.  

There's more than one reason why N'rov didn't lead with it right when he walked in. Still barely into his first glass, he swallows his first through third responses instead. "Better when it's not in front of the holders."

"That's not my concern," M'vyn reminds N'rov, "though the Weyrleader may hide you both for it."  He does seem more settled after his whiskey.  He shakes his head and lifts his hands to undo his hair tie and redo his hair back into a knot against his neck.  

"No, it's not," the bronzerider would agree. "I'm expecting he will." But, "I'd as soon not provoke her ''that'' much by accident." 

"You can't tell what will provoke her," M'vyn doesn't seem bothered about that admission.  "That's how she operates.  One thing will be fine, like her bedding someone regularly other than her husband," he pauses at that admission and then carries on, "yet when I sleep with someone she becomes so enraged she breaks it off ''again'' and doesn't visit her children."

"Great." Not great. N'rov's long look, though, that has everything to do with the 'husband.'

"So, avoid her.  Because you're fucked if she hates you that much that she'll try and cut you down in public." M'vyn shrugs and rises.  "Any greater insight you may want to ask of Aislara.  Nala and I aren't...," he trails off and shrugs again as he trails off.

"''Great''." N'rov pushes away, pacing alongside the length of the table. "Yeah, no, I don't want to go talking about her. 'Hey, how about that Nala!'"

M’vyn stretches an arm across his chest.  “Then don’t.  I clearly have never talked to that woman since we graduated.”  The way he says ‘that woman’ he might as well have used a more profane word - yet, he’s tempered enough not to.  He switches arms to stretch the other.  

"Does E'dre know you were married?" N'rov asks over his glass.

“I could give a shit if he does,” M’vyn replies with a cutting gesture that is meant to end any further questions.  “C’mon,” he jerks his chin towards the mats.  “I don’t feel like playing forty questions.  Unless you want me to start asking you some tough ones?”  His eyes glitter.  “I’ve got enough dirt on you to ask the ones that’ll make you want to hit ‘’me’’,” he promises.

That invitation's enough that N'rov's quick with the rest of the whiskey, quicker than it might deserve. For the glitter, there's a smirk; "I'd have to think you ''want'' to get hit." Which doesn't stop him any. He sets down the now-clear glass, ''done''. Back to work.

M’vyn stretches his arms over head, in doing so flexing his abdominal muscles and giving a ‘show’ of his other firmer muscles.  “C’mon.  No hitting.  I’m going to win this match and then we can have more of my whiskey.”  He heads towards the mats, prepared to finish what they’d started earlier.  After, whiskey will be had and so long as no further comments are brought up about the bluerider, no fists will fly.
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