Logs:Off the Wagon
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| RL Date: 18 August, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei |
| Type: Vignette |
| When: Day 28, Month 6, Turn 17 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Satiet/Mentions, Persie/Mentions |
| "I want to choke you. So. Badly." But did he? Would it make him feel better? Would anything? This-- this wanting her and wanting to kill her-- this back-and-forth-- always the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong word, the wrong kiss. They couldn't keep doing this to each other, couldn't keep doing this to themselves. He'd sustained himself on despising her for months, since the 'fall, since she never came to him, and it was falling apart again. He put his palms flat to his temples when he walked into his weyr, pressed vice-like with his hands as though he could smash the thoughts of her out of his brains. He couldn't. He felt Wyaeth reach for his mind, a wisp of dirt and smoke and concern, but they'd been through this more times than either of them cared to count. He was fine; he would be fine; Wyaeth knew he would be fine. It was just a nudge, a reminder that the bronze would be there if it came to that, but they were both men at heart, and pride wouldn't tolerate pity. Even from his dragon. Hands tore away from head and cast aimlessly around the dim room, ran over the back of a chair, grazed the top of the sofa, smoothed over a table, glided along the mantle, paused over the bizarre wooden contraption that would later wind up smashed and tested as possible kindling. "Persie." Aloud. His voice sounded weird to his own ears and he knew why. He was mad. Mad enough to hurt someone. Persie. Satiet. Himself. Someone. Ambiguity had been nice at times like these, when he could just show up at Benden or Tillek, nameless and faceless, get piss-drunk and brawl and come home battered and calmed. Now? Now they'd talk about the Reaches Weyrleader getting in a bar-fight, now he'd have to look people in the eye and pretend he didn't give a shit for their opinions. One turn, 28 days. He found the bottle on the mantle, dusty, the permanent test of a man who had made up his mind that he didn't need to drink any more. Hiding in plain sight. Perpetually there to nag at the corner of his mind. Now in hand. Liquor from A'zan, a comical peace. A cork. A glass. A stare. A drink. Another drink. "I hate parties." |
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