Logs:Partying Every Night
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| RL Date: 7 September, 2013 |
| Who: I'zech, Telavi |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: I'zech and Telavi catch up between things. Or something. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
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| Oh, autumn. The chill in the night air, the scent of dead leaves on the wind, the crisp dawning of winter constellations. And a light on in the barracks. Maybe it's our intrepid Weyrlingmaster, burning the midnight oil in preparation for her next class of promising young... Yeah, no, that's not it. It's just I'zech. He's lit a glow on his way in, but then he's flopped himself on that sad raggedy couch, still in his jacket, a leg strewn over the arm and his head on the misshapen cushion. Somewhere outside, lurking in the shadows, Rojeth's pale eyes gleam faintly, watchful. And here in the barracks, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed, I'zech laughs to himself. Or probably not himself, but what, really, is the difference? Telavi doesn't hide from prying eyes, might not even if she noticed them, if she didn't swan on into the barracks like someone who belongs here-- "Oh, it's you." After a glance at the sole of his boot, she aims to rap her knuckles against his ankle instead. "Still enjoying the vacation?" At her voice, his brows go up, even though his eyes don't open. The rap at his ankle comes, and then her question, and then I'zech heavy exhale that might want to be a complain but doesn't quite seem to have the energy. "Sure," he replies, a hand coming up to rub the the side of his nose before folding on his chest again, fingers just tucked beneath the open edge of his jacket. "What are you after?" He cracks an eye, just enough to peer through at her. "Beating you up." Tela says offhandedly, helping herself to a seat on that same arm of the couch, nudging at his leg only if she has to make room. It's just, when he looks at her, he might catch her glance towards the weyrlingmasters'-- weyrlingmaster's office, now. "You'll have so many fewer of us, whatever will you do." "Was that all you've got?" That knock on his ankle? I'zech lets out a sigh through his nose to know that he's failed so thoroughly at teaching his weyrling anything of value. But he does shift his leg toward the back of the couch so she can steal a bit of a seat there on the arm. His eyes have closed again, looking, for all appearances, to be resting comfortably. "Don't remind me. Promise not to search anyone who is too much of a useless shithead, yeah?" His bent leg stretches out so his boot can rest heavily in her lap. It's probably a bit dirty. "It's the element of surprise. If you're expecting it, it's no good," Tela says blithely, quite as though she's not giving away a game of any sort-- or, at least, as if it doesn't matter. What does turn out to matter: "I'zech!" she yelps, immediately shoving away his foot even as she slides away from that perch she'd just chosen. "Shithead." Because dirt. "It's like you want me to go get the worst of the worst." His foot goes down again, but this time I'zech opens both eyes to stare over at her, his expression somewhere between long-suffering and dully amused. "What, you're done calling me sir already?" She must have called him 'sir' at some point. Even if just by accident. "You followed me in here," he points out with a sneering smirk tugging at his mouth, showing a slice of teeth. But she can go on being all outraged if she wants. Telavi does want, apparently. "Not you," she says with a toss of her blonde head, her three plaited-together plaits swaying before she angles to try and get a better look at what had been her lap in the glowlight, brushing it off with one hand: which is to say, quite possibly as easy to bait as when she did indeed call him 'sir.' "I should get you a lied-that-he-was-thirteen zitty-faced bed-wetting stank-smelling whiner who throws up at the smell of muck." Not that, at that last, he'd have been the only one. "Aww," I'zech croons. "You want to remind me of you?" His chest starts to bounce, entertained by his own teasing, head lolling to the side so he can watch her brushing at herself. I'zech is not looking at her face. "Make sure you find a good bloody one, too." Because no, he has not forgotten her kind offer to show him her bucket. A brow lifts, already expecting a good reaction for bringing that memory up again. And he jerks his head, which could mean she's supposed to come closer. Or maybe it means she should head out and fetch him some awful prospective weyrlings in the middle of the night. But Tela's already laughing at that whole reminder crack, even as she takes a neat step back, outrage lost in bright humor: as if. Even when he follows up with the bloodiness, it's too late. "Nice try," she says, leaving her lap alone with one last long stroke. "I'm pretty sure kids go for the 'Like you!' deal when they're six. Or five, maybe." No step forward, no more steps back. "What's it like without Meara around? Are you partying every night without Mommy?" "And I'd always hoped to impress you with how mature I am," I'zech answers dryly. And if she's not going to attend to the instruction of his jutted chin, then he'll just go back to laying with his eyes closed. "She may have been your mommy, but she wasn't mine," he exhales. "How long has it been since you graduated? And you can't get enough of the barracks." He blows out with a purse of lips. Neveryoumind that he's in the barracks too, for no apparent reason. "So that's what that was," Telavi says, just as blithely as before. If she should, while his eyes are closed-- and she is watching his eyes being closed-- ease the slightest bit nearer, she doesn't do it while she's talking, and when she does talk she drops the volume down that little bit more: a six-Turn-old's game of Statues. And she allegedly can't get enough, but she gives, "And what, you're leashed to them?" a nice little edge. "Didn't feel like going home," comes I'zech's answer, perfectly unaware that she's nearing, or at least doing a fine job of not caring. Could go either way. "There's a couch. And no one to bother me." He puts a point on those words, stretches those eyebrows again without opening his eyes. And just how close is she now? Arm's reach? Or does she still linger near his feet? Does she secretly have a bottle of something to dump over his head? Oh god, it's not the bucket, is it? In other words, the suspense, it builds. He can imagine the bucket, if he likes. He can imagine the smell of it, invading the barracks along with the ghosts of fewmets and teenaged sweat. She might be reachable, were he to suffer himself to stretch, though it's true she's closer to his knees than any other joints. "It's good to know it's not a bother." But then of course Tela has to add, "And your home, it isn't better than this." Thankfully, I'zech does not imagine the bucket, nor the bucket's smell. Remember, he's totally unaware that she's creeping in, careful with her voice. Or at least it appears that way. "Not what I meant," he grumbles about the bothering, making a face for her intentional misunderstanding. "And why are you here?" After all, she presumably has a home too, yes? This time when he lifts his hand, it's to rub at one closed eye. "Or did you finally get tired of the whining." "I wouldn't say," Telavi says judiciously, "that my wing whines." Another intentional misunderstanding? "Oh, it's just too stressful being in the Weyrleader's wing, and being all ambitious and everything. I just want to crawl right back inside the womb." Speaking of buckets. And intentional maybe-misleadings. "Wasn't talking about your wing," I'zech answers flatly, cracking an eye again and with no surprise that she's nearer his knee than his foot. "Is that your slant now? Looking for a womb to hide in?" Again, the brows flick, a momentary 'well sure' frown taking his mouth. "I suppose I'm not surprised," he says with a shrug. And then there's a resettling of his shoulders against the cushions. "Can't knock it." He snorts out a laugh, either at his own silent jest or someone else's. "Weren't you," Telavi says flatly, if not quite as flatly, cracking a smile if not anyone's eye. She doesn't ask. She can knock at I'zech's knee if not his ankle this time, unless he dodges just that well, right before, "Speaking of," and starting off toward Quinlys' office with the intent to try the door. I'zech doesn't dodge, and he even swings his leg a bit when she goes knock knocking on his knee. But at least he's watching her again, just in time to see her head off toward the office. He tracks her for a few paces, and then, without much of the usual 'oh, my life is so hard' fanfare, pushes himself up to sit, both boots on the floor as he pitches over his knees. He doesn't ask her what she's on about, poking at the office in the dead of night. He just looks out toward the bowl and makes a face, mouth twisted to one side and eyes squinted. A hand rubs over his unruly hair before he stares after Telavi again. What Telavi knocks this time is the door. It echoes. There's no voice from within, so she tries the handle, gingerly. It moves, so she keeps at it, slowly, until the door glides open beneath her seeking hand. She glances back over her shoulder at I'zech, once... and then steals inside. I'zech sucks in a nice long breath, chin drawn close to wrinkle at his neck, forehead creasing too as his brows reach high. But she's in the office now and so little point in the visuals, just the audible deflation of his exhale and then the creak of the couch as he stands. The sound of his bootfalls grows quieter instead of louder, and he heads out to the bowl without another word. Or any evident concern about what she might be doing in the weyrlingmaster's office. If Quinlys doesn't want anyone in there, she should lock the door.
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