Logs:Alcohol and Awkward Conversation
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| RL Date: 12 September, 2015 |
| Who: Drex, Faryn |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Awkward conversation with Drex and Faryn, with beer on the assist. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, H'vier/Mentions, T'mic/Mentions, X'vin/Mentions |
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| It's just on dinner hour for those that keep a normal schedule. That's probably why the Snowasis isn't packed -- not yet anyway -- other than a handful of early starters and group of older women who have taken over one of the booths and are talking about the best tips for crochet (although on listening this might be a euphemism for something else!) It's perhaps why Drex has ended up at the bar, rather than staking a claim on one of the booths, a single glass of beer and no pitcher in sight. Not that he needs one -- as soon as he downs the contents of his glass, he's waving over the bored-looking-bartender for a refill. Early starters, crochet connoisseurs, Drex, and apparently Faryn, who has been something of an aloof presence for weeks and taking one or two dinners a week in liquid form. She's not, at least, drinking like a pirate, but it might be her fault that the bored-looking bartender doesn't make it to Drex without interruption, coming from the side of the bar closest to the entrance and hailed by the ex-crafter with a lift of the fingers and a quick - forced - smile. "Just a pint," is her order, with a sidelong and perfunctory glance down the bar at who else might be there. Having ostensibly spent the week not noticing Drex with deliberate purpose, it makes perfect sense that her hands become terribly interesting when she notices him several seats down, tapping a staccato rhythm on while she waits for her own drink. The bruising and swelling that marked Drex's face after Roszadyth's flight appears to have all but vanished, other than darker marks under his eyes. That could just as well be lack of sleep, however. He grimaces, mostly at having his resupply so callously interrupted, and the expression deepens momentarily when he sees who it is. "Two," he amends her order, forcefully, pushing up from his seat and deliberately moving up onto the one right next to Faryn. He doesn't talk, not yet -- while the bartender is busy pouring their drinks. Faryn's brows sink in consternation, her jaw tightens just a little, but she has the courtesy to wait where she is without skittering like a flighty cat, and she is silent until Drex is right beside her. It's a moment or three before she remarks, dry, digging through her pockets for payment, "I'm not paying for you," and then, a little more kindly, "I assume since you're sleeping in her weyr, you're...intact." "Aint asking you to," Drex replies, affronted. "Was going to pay for you," with Farideh's marks, granted, "But now..." he gives her a sidelong look, snorting -- then immediately grimacing in pain. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, gaze back on the bartender as if he can make the man fill his glass all the faster. "Aye. And you're still coming in to help her out, so..." he assumes the same, presumably. When the bartender finally brings their drinks, Drex looks relieved, gulping down a few mouthfuls, waiting until the bartender has wandered off before he says, "Told her there was someone. Not who." "Where'd you get..." she starts, but curtails it with her own swallow of beer, setting it back in front of her to curl her fingers around the glass in full, possessive. "You can pay; I'll get it next time." That it suggests they might make this a habit, by any stretch of the imagination, doesn't seem to terribly concern Faryn. She rests her chin on the rim of her glass, considering the wall of bottles and looking at Drex in her peripheries. "Mmmm. Thanks," she guesses, tilting the glass onto an edge expertly, then sighing. "I'm glad she didn't kick you out. You got the dirty end of it all. Twice." "Deal," Drex seems more than happy with that solution, and even goes so far as to spit on his palm and hold it out to Faryn, like she might actually accept. His brow furrows, at her comment about him getting kicked out, though it fades at her latter words. "Aint... good, for either of us. The whole thing. Only every two or three Turns, she says. Aint sure..." his voice trails off, and he shakes his head, taking another drink in favor of finishing the sentence. "So," awkward pause, "How are y'know, you?" Faryn doesn't shake it. She eyes his hand like it's filled with writhing plague and shakes her head very slowly at him. "Gross." She lifts her drink instead, and even toasts him briefly before it touches her lips. When she brings the glass down again, back to her chin propping, those lips are in a thin line that seems to be resisting a frown. "Only every two or three turns," she agrees readily, "maybe more, now that the Interval is in full swing, really. Might be as many as four, five, depending. It can change a lot, I've read. Ain't sure what?" she presses, but not hard. Just curious, like she's content to keep the conversation thataway, rather than on her, though of course it's inevitable. She has a cynic's smile. "Fine, I guess. Busy, now the queens are waiting to clutch." A furrowing of brows. "My...partner?" Maybe? "Not as forgiving. It's good to still have work to distract." Drex, while frowning, doesn't seem overly vexed at the refusal of his handshake. "You weyrfolk are weird," he asserts instead, wiping his hand on his pants before slumping. He doesn't appear that cheered by depending, but gives one of his not-quite-completed shrugs instead. He's thinking, maybe, about answering, about completing what's unsaid -- but when she goes on, eventually, he lets it slide instead, with some gratitude. "Didn't know you were with anyone." A beat. "Sorry." And then, after a pause, "He aint weyrfolk, then?" with some level of sympathy for the adjustment, perhaps. "Do you go into people's homes and tell them they're weird all the time, or is it just us?" Faryn wants to know, archly. But she's smiling yet, and is at least willing to answer with her own half-shrug to dismiss his apology. "He is now, so he's going to have to get used to it. Same way Farideh's apparently done." "Don't feel bad. Holders are weird, too," Drex confesses, with a grin. That fades, soon enough, and he's rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. "Aint the same, not really. Fari and me... we both slept with other people. Hurt each other." He seems to realize this isn't exactly helpful, and with a gesture, indicates she should finish her drink, as he does so with his own. "Next round," he says, firmly. Then, in a kind of buck-up-buddy tone, "Plenty more fish in the sea." "When you're part of the minority," Faryn says, trying for sage and falling a little short, "it's probably you who's the weird one. Just for reference. Basic math, really." And she's compliant in finishing her own drink, if only because it gives her a buffer against immediately responding to his analysis of the situation, because when she puts her glass down to wipe that foam mustache off with her sleeve, she's decided, "And that makes all the difference. I hurt him. It's what I get, messing around with a nice guy. All those feelings. Pretty sure I'm done with fishing." Now Drex gives her a look like she's the weird one. "Weyrs aint a majority. Holders outnumber them by..." he has no idea, really, and so he settles for some sort of grand gesture in place of an actual fact or figure. Soon as Faryn's set down her now-empty glass, he's gesturing at the bartender, before there's an awkward silence. He's not one for providing helpful advice, and especially not on things like this. Finally: "Aint about nice. He loves you enough, he'll drink and fuck his misery away and come back for you, eventually." Oh, except for that oh-so-helpful advice. "And if he doesn't, fuck him. You're a good... you're good," he finishes kind of awkward, with a touch to her arm. "Math," Faryn corrects again. "More holders and weyrfolk than sailors," obviously. She's content to watch their refills come along, though the process isn't really as fascinating as the dues she's giving it. "You don't know him, I think. It's about nice. He's not a...drink and fuck-er. He's holdbred, was all about wives and kids and white fences and a small plot of land to keep. He traded it for a blue dragon and a girl like me." Her nose does a little wrinkling twist of distaste. "He'll come back anyways," she says with some morose certainty, "but I think it's better if he doesn't." Her eyes flick down when Drex touches her - and some people have recently been threatened for doing that - but she huffs a small breath and a dubious, "I try." Equally awkward, if appreciative in lieu of an actual thank you. "Thank all the fucking fish in the sea for that," Drex says, of her first. "Can you imagine some of these landlubbers on the sea?" He nudges her, indicating first the crochet-talking-women, and then a skinny looking young apprentice loitering near the entrance. If he's aware of the narrow fate he's escaped as his hand drops away, it isn't apparent at all in his expression, which is somewhat bemused at the idea she portrays. "He can't blame you for being saddled with a dragon and fucking when a gold goes up, not unless they forced him onto the sands or somethin'. Gotta accept what comes with it. It's why I aint ever standing. Don't rightly belong. Fish out of water, couldn't return to water." He shrugs, like that should be an obvious, and acceptable stance. Faryn turns to evaluate those he's referencing, and while the crafter gets slightly more than glance to take in his knot and unsure expression, the biddies elicit a giggle that she muffles with her beer, shaking her head as she swallows a quarter of it down. "They could probably waterproof their knitting." She's not a yarn worker, okay? "He didn't--" she starts, but doesn't finish in that way they seem to have. Better, anyways, is her genuine surprise. "No? Not at all? Not even with Farideh being...?" She makes a strange, curious sound in the back of her throat. "You came all the way back to the weyr for her already." Drex is grinning, too, watching the older women. "Maybe I should ask them to make a hat or two. Make it a punishment. Before walking the plank, you have to walk around the ship wearing a god-awful, itchy, bright hat for a seven. That'd straighten 'em up." Her surprise surprises him, too. He nods, but clarifies: "Came back for her. Not to stay here. Certainly not for a dragon. Aint ought but a sailor." "What a waste of craftsmanship," Faryn mourns of the hats. "Unless sharks wear hats and can take them afterwards." The absurdity of it makes her giggle again, but soon enough she sets her chin back on her glass again. "You love her?" It's barely a question, and perhaps a tiny bit protective for all she complains about the young weyrwoman. Drex isn't one for disassembling. "Aye," is all he says, simply. "Good," Faryn decides briskly, smirking. "I figure you must, if you really decided to punch a bunch of bronzeriders during Roszadyth's flight. Which is stupid, by the way, but they probably deserved it." It's apparent that Drex disagrees with the stupid assessment, visibly bristling. "I wouldn't have to if they weren't being dicks. I mean, I don't know whether it's really the gold that turns them all like that, or they're just, dicks period." Apparently he's seeking Faryn's judgement on that, eyeing her sidelong. "I mean, the one I punched at least acknowledged, if in a 'I still would've fucked your girl, but I'll only do it when she's going to fly' way. Which is..." his crude gesture indicates he's not entirely at peace with it. If he's looking for anything concrete, Faryn can't provide it. "I figure if a gold can make us," vague handwaving gesture, "then she can probably do it to a bunch of bronze dragons she wants to mate with. But in my experience, a dick is a dick with or without a dragon. If they're thinking with the wrong head, there's going to be a problem, somewhere. With someone. Every time." Drex grunts a little, as if it's not entirely the support he was looking for. But then, she's a girl, and it's a bro thing. Gulping down another mouthful of beer, he says, "Was wondering, if they were dicks before, or it's the dragon." "I only knew one of them before he Impressed," admits Faryn, "and he seems to have come out unscathed. Even took his dragon out of the weyr. But on the whole? Of the ones I know?" She grins. "Total assholes, with some exceptions." Drex seems to consider his half-empty glass for a moment. "So," he concludes, "It probably wouldn't be amiss if I pre-emptively punch any new bronzerider I meet, because chances are they're a dick and everyone knows it?" Faryn makes an 'mmm' sound behind her next drink, one that brings her near to empty. "You could, I suppose. But you might get kicked out of the weyr, and," most importantly, "it wouldn't look good, for Farideh. I'd say a vicious glare might suffice, unless they start it. Or unless they're being...untoward." The sailor makes a plaintively unsatisfied noise, as he drains his glass. "You'd tell me, right?" Drex looks at the once-herder, sharply, all of a sudden. "If anyone was being... untoward, with you?" Faryn is silent a little too long, letting her gaze list off back to the bottles behind the bar. She finishes the dregs of her own glass, because they're drinking on him and she has to keep up. "I'd tell you if anyone was being untoward to Farideh." Drex seems to take that as a given, since he makes an impatient noise. "Like to think we've friends. Aint letting anyone hurt my friends." Faryn's surprised again, both those slender eyebrows darting up towards her bangs to hide. "I guess we are," she concedes. "I can handle myself. Last bronzerider got handsy with me nearly got himself stabbed with a fork. But if you're around, sure. Saves me the trouble of breaking my ladylike reputation if you punch them." It makes Drex choke, for a moment, on one of the last mouthfuls of his glass. After succeeding at swallowing, he's grinning at her. "Always happy to help out a lady. Or even you, for that matter." Faryn looks exceptionally smug, even through that tease. "And here I thought pirates weren't gallant at all. Sorry. Sailors." She regards her empty glass, ponderous, then wonders, "Are you eating dinner tonight, or just going to drink it?" His brow draws down into an unconvincing growl. "Aint a pirate," Drex asserts. "If I were, I'd be stealing all your valuables. I mean, if you had any." Her latter question earns a frown of thought. "Fari's in a bit of a mood. Hadn't decided. You?" he eyes her, contemplatively, like he might be swayed. "You could just be cleverly biding your time," Faryn points out, but she pokes her tongue out at him. "Can't help it if I collect experiences and bad decisions, not anything you'd want." She shrugs, poking her glass. "I should probably have something to soak it up with, at least. And," bonus points, "she's easier to handle when you're not half-starved and whole-drunk." Both valid points, which nonetheless earn a roll of eyes from the pirate-come-sailor. "Fine. I'll eat with you." See all the sacrifices Drex makes for his lady-love? He pushes up after polishing off the last of his beer, already moving, only belatedly remembering it's considered polite to wait for one's companion. Faryn's not lingering, since she doesn't have to pay. There's just a quick signal to that bored bartender that maybe he should close out the tab, and she's quick on his heels after that, hands shoved in her pockets in anticipation of the weather. "Dinner and drinks. You're so nice, Drex," she mocks as she falls into step. "I'm going to slander you and tell everyone." It seems the issue of Drex and the source of his tab is well settled, since the bartender doesn't seem concerned by his departure. His, "Better fucking not," seems vehement enough. "Everyone'll expect it." If she's lucky, he'll only be cranky for about half the meal -- which is about on par with his normal. |
Comments
Squishy (00:27, 13 September 2015 (PDT)) said...
Faryn, Totally qualifies as a bro. Just saying.
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