Logs:If She Asked
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| RL Date: 23 March, 2009 |
| Who: N'thei, Satiet |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: The last night. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 4, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
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| N'thei's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr(#412RJs) Rank certainly has its privileges; among them are amply appointed apartments. Two chambers connect to form a large weyr, the outer cavern larger and better decorated. Here are impersonal furnishings: a seating arrangement of sofa and chairs in front of a large, tiled fireplace with a blue-and-black rug before it; an antique-looking desk, dinged and dented in a few places but polished and well-kept for its obvious age; a tall cupboard with tack-hooks beside it, gear for dragonriding neatly arranged inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendor for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside. The inner weyr, a sleeping cavern and a bathtub, is smaller and cozier and less ostentatious. The furniture is sturdy but plain, bed and wardrobe and nightstand. A folding screen half-shields the sunken bathtub, usually with a towel slung over it and soap and wash rags within reach. The relics of a man's life are found here and there, large boots often kicked off carelessly in front of the smaller inner hearth, a rumpled tunic left where it fell, shaving kit by a washbasin. Life: roll out of bed around ten, bathe, shave, dress, occupy the daylight hours with odds-and-ends, the evening hours with liquor and poker, occasionally take a jaunt out of the Weyr to Tillek or Benden, return home late, fall into bed, repeat indefinitely. Lately, there's been the welcome interruption of a few hours or an overnight in his weyr or hers, but N'thei's routine is fairly-- well, routine. He has not pressed Satiet for what ails her, but he's not hiding that he's noticed, the raised eyebrows that question, the occasional fits of seriousness that affect his expression over simple things-- watching her cross a room, finding her thinner, paler. But he keeps up tremendous aplomb, undampened, undarkened. Tonight, earlier than his typical after-midnight returns home, he comes trotting in from a rainy evening, pulling off gear that left the Weyr with him and is thus damp through, leaving Wyaeth to drip-dry in a puddle on the ledge. Perhaps he anticipated company tonight? For he is home early, and he seems sober, and there's none of the tawdry-perfume smell that often accompanies his evenings abroad. The only constants in her life being her eventual return to the Weyr, her silent acknowledgements but no answers stance to his unvoiced questions, and her usual summons or visits to indulge. Perhaps in lieu of drink and early morning exercise, she's found sex as a more pleasurable addiction and alternative. A study of contrasts: his life so routine, hers becoming less so. Then there's sober and not: though none of the not sober seems to be occurring in N'thei's weyr yet. It's through Teonath that the Weyrleader's earlier-than-norm arrival becomes news to the Weyrwoman, and shortly thereafter, seemingly quite inebriated with a bottle in hand to boot, Satiet darkens the entranceway to N'thei's weyr. Then again, before she even appears, it'd take effort to not hear the lewd dockhands' song she's singing. "Ahoy there, big guy." "Evening, my little alcoholic," is the droll response, said while N'thei catches his view of Satiet in the reflection from his own bottles on the mantle, the quick quirk of his mouth in acknowledgement of that little bit of irony. He's still shaking his head a touch from the bawdy song, one hand on the mantle and the other wielding a poker to coerce the fireplace into putting out. He turns, the mantle-hand loosened to bring her into focus, offered into the space between them-- to beckon, to invite, to request. "Mmn no, my little songbird," over a contained chuckle. Is she really that drunk? Has Satiet ever not been in full command of her senses, even when intoxicated? The glazed shine of her pale eyes might indicate as such and she's certainly not having the easiest time walking in a straight line from the door to N'thei, ending up in a what could be a deliberate fall as she heaps just an arm's stretch away from the fire-tending man. This is all further cemented by her solemn, big-eyed, "I'm /very/ drunk right now and I was going to come later tonight, but I think anything that bouncy might make me sick. I think I'm already a little sick." Which is hardly news, but sick has always meant frail, breakable, pale, not green about the ears. "Your little songbird! That's me." Bright delight is followed by sudden seriousness once more: "Did you know that song? My brothers taught it to me years ago. Do you know I know lots of things about boys and fishing and dirty words to make your toes curl all up? I know lots of things. Do you want some?" The mostly untouched bottle in her hand is lifted towards N'thei as an offering. "I had a sip and then my head spun and it's been a long time since my head's spun from a sip. Or a gulp. I forgot how it felt. Do you want it? It's good." Is she really that drunk? N'thei looks confused about it, shuffles a step like he would catch her, but his fingers curl around nothing and then drop, his head tilting to the side while he watches her sink. Ah well, at least there's a rug to keep her off stone flooring. Listening, jests about her drunkenness flittering away unsaid, he puts away the poker-- a step away, a step to return-- and collects the bottle by the neck with two fingers. "Why don't you tell me all the things you know," he suggests indulgently, dropping his arm so the bottle dangles until it touches the ground as he crouches facing her. Casual tone, but let's not ignore how keenly he studies her. The glazed shine watches him without seeing him, and tracks his movements from the finger curling to find nothing and the way he moves a step away and a step to return. The pale, bright eyes fall to find his fingers as they wrap about her bottle and with the obedience of a child, relinquishes the liquor to his keeping. There's only a half-formed note of protest as the bottle dangles, as if she might urge him to drink because it's /good/ (which it really isn't, it's toxic), but her parted lips close mid-noise as he crouches. Into that crouch she leans smelling of lavender and fresh baths, chin tipped back so that thin, porcelain face might look up as intently as he looks down upon her. Her, "I don't think you want to know everything I know," is suddenly quiet, though not completely aware. Her breath lacks the heavy scent of liquor, so one-shot, cheap-date Satiet; then again, when was the last time she had a drink? But she's game. It's worth a shot. "I know- that you secretly like me lots. Yes." N'thei settles carefully, from crouching to sitting, moves with meticulous slowness, unwilling to break a lightly cast spell. "I think you might be surprised," is just as quiet, said while he draws his arms cautiously around soft-smelling Satiet, his eyes pressed closed hard for just a moment. Then, chuckling, placing a kiss on her temple where silk-hair meets pale skin; "Secretly." The bottle-- he puts that near his knee, where she can reach it if she wants to, and he places that now empty hand beneath the thin-and-thinner chin. Half an accusation-- "You're not drunk." "Secretly," she repeats, though there's the saddest, ironic smile hovering about her lips. If, under the scope of secretly, falls all those looks throughout all those years. Secretly indeed. Her next, "I kno-," is interrupted by his half-accusation and the hand beneath her chin, and her bright eyes startle. "I am. Drunk." She's just drunk enough to be able to act /that/ drunk, but not drunk enough to have relinquished all awareness. "Because I'm coward, and I neede-," unable to continue to speak of her cowardice, her head and chin pulls away from the impression of his lips to her temple and the hand beneath her face. Avoidant; "I know you worry. I know, if I asked, you would, but I won't ask it of you." Her finger rises from where it's balled in front of her knees, climbs to curve along his cheek to his ears and then back behind to rest her palm between his hair and neck. Then she looks up, dark hair about a pale face and eyes abnormally large for the lightweight drinking and her thinness. "Tell me something I don't know about you." Six months ago, he'd have pressed the issue, fought to keep hold of her chin, but now N'thei's fingers open and, instead of arguing over captivity, follows the curve of her arm and flatten across the back of her hand over his neck. A hard swallow, a nod, he worries, but what can he do? "Something like..." Dipping his head, forehead hovering an inch or two from hers, his other hand laid across the lower curve of her spine. "Something like? I still send money home to my family? Or you're scaring the shit out of me acting like this? Which something did you have in mind, love." The big eyes, the little-drink, the talking, the pressure at her back would draw her still toward him in response. Using her hand about his neck and the support of his hand to her spine as leverage, she pulls her slight frame forward to lean all the more into his steady crouch, clinging in a very un-Satiet-like manner. Her face, in all its distracting thinness, ducks away from his dipped head to disappear into his torso as her forehead tips to rest against his chest. Her laughter, muffled, is low-pitched and shakes her slim shoulders. "Being nice scares the shit out of you more than threats or ultimatums. I'll keep that in mind next time." As for news of his family and that N'thei isn't a complete jackass? It's not going to go very far tonight or tomorrow. "Tomorrow. You should go see your family. But tonight? Spend it with me." To her dubious credit? Though there's no tears or quivering in that command, there's no suggestion of happy-fun-times tonight and everything implied of pity and worry-inducing sleeping somewhere not alone. N'thei shakes his head, not at her or at the suggestion, just at-- it. At this. His fingers tighten across hers for a moment, press the narrow bones into the back of his neck, then slide down her arm and hang limply from the crease of her elbow. "Next time." He's not stupid, thanks, and the momentary wryness attests to the fact that he doesn't expect quite so many next-times. A bolstering breath, a resolution: the last thing either of them needs is for him to get soft and sorrowful. "I'm not the sit-on-the-floor-and-sob type, love. Not yet. Get up." Of course he's not stupid. It's only expected he wouldn't be fooled by her loaded 'next time.' Anyone with eyes, ears, and just general knowledge of Satiet would realize that next times? Are probably very very short-lived. But something of his sudden action, a resolute deviation from her planned self-pity party tonight draws all maudlin emotions short, and she looks up, knit brows preceding a ridiculous little laugh. "Wouldn't be here if you were. You get up first." She'll wait to be pulled up by that momentum, thanks. Hands cuffed beneath her forearms, fingers a little harder than they need to be, N'thei unfolds and draws Satiet up with him bodily; his hands stay there even once they're both on their feet, however steadily or unsteadily that may wind up being. Before he lets go, before he straightens the rest of the way from leaning over her comparative slightness, quiet and smiling faintly, "You could have told me." Then his hands relax and move to capture hers, to draw her toward something a little more reasonable than a rug; if they're just going to sit around all night, they might as well do it on some of the Weyrleader's furniture. Talking, sitting, touching: it all leads to any liquid courage that was built up before she came, fading, though the lingering spots are in her unsteadiness on her feet, braced as she is against his side, and the in-and-out brightness of her eyes. "Haven't told you anything." Not that it's not transparent. "This was your big plan?" With the fading liquor haze and his sudden move towards action returns the faintest acidity to her inflection. "You're the sit-on-the-couch-and-sob type." Right. Not that she seems to mind, her hand caught easily and her feet moving forward one at a time, a half step quickened somewhere in between so she might lean, rest her wearied body, part of the way wherever. Incapable of being 'better' herself about this situation, she's still able to note, through a tired, growing small smile, "I expected better of you." Yes, she's smiling. "Don't get your hopes up. Saving all my sobbing for..." The inevitable. Letting her rest, the thin hands folded in N'thei's hard ones, he answers her quip with a glimmer of reminiscent bitterness, "Oh, I know. I'm sure the things you haven't told me are legion, love. Keep them in mind when you think of the one thing I haven't told you." But it's not as effective when it's followed by a sudden, fierce, hard hug, one with both arms wrapped hard around her, with his face turned into her hair again, more hurt than angry-- which is really a weird state of mind for him in particular. Fade to black. The scene got to be too much... of something for both of us. Y'know where you get that mix of embarrassment, morose sadness, and just rolling eyes all put together? They eventually stop talking and just... be. |
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