Q'fex, Br'er


Q'fex and Br'er discuss their days, current and future.


It is evening of the seventh day of the tenth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Nighthearth, Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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A comfortable nook, this natural extension of the living room is cozily attired with overstuffed chairs and a couple of well-worn loveseats. All have been covered in various shades of green, giving the very incongruous appeal of a miniature forest hidden away inside… a grove of man-made proportion. Fish stews and spicy white-wherry chili are often kept hot on the minor hearths east and west of the main, for those whose hours defy when meals are kept. Ornate, the largest hearth towers high, rich with carving and utilitarian in fashion: it holds court by providing the weyr with rich klah, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon wafting.

Timor: moon6.jpgBelior: moon3.jpg

What does a once-Weyrleader do, presented with a dreary evening and a proverbially doped-up lifemate? Well, if you're Q'fex, you end up at the Nighthearth, morosely nursing a tall glass of milk, half-drank. (HALF-EMPTY. IT IS HALF-EMPTY.) But he is clean, for once, dressed in clothing that generally-speaking adheres with the canon of his clothes-whore past. He's even shaved.

Hopefully he isn't easily spooked, for a brief scruff of a boot on the stone behind him is the only forewarning of a figure suddenly looming behind him, and lips (slightly wind-burnt; Serval flew Thread earlier in the day) angled down to press against the bronzerider's temple. "Hey," rasps Br'er, before sidling around and dropping down next to Q'fex. Pale eyes give the man a narrow-eyed once-over, before a hint of a smile begins to lurk. "You look better."

Q'fex doesn't startle, though his eyes slide over at the grate of words. If a bit of tension melts from his shoulders at the greenrider's proximity, eh, there isn't anyone around to judge him for it. "Hey," he replies, his own voice as deep as it normally is, a little less ragged-sounding. "Well. I had plenty of time to do things to stop myself from worrying, earlier," dry be his tone and dry the little smile he slides over to Br'er. "How was Fall?"

"Don't overdo it." How often has Br'er said that, these last several sevendays? Even he sounds like he's a bit tired of hearing it from his own mouth. Almost on automatic, the greenrider scoots close enough to lean his cheek on Q'fex's shoulder. "It was… fine." Insomuch as Thread is ever fine, adds his tone of voice. "A harder fall, but only a few notable injuries out of it. I'm glad we're not a Northern hold, and can fall back as soon as the Fall is past the habited areas…" There's a pause, before Br'er asks: "What did you do today? I'd missed this shirt."

It could be Br'er's MOTTO. Q'fex probably repeats that mantra to himself when he pauses to actually consider the reprecussions of his actions. (Don't worry, he doesn't actually DO THAT frequently or anything…) "That's good," Fex returns, his voice genuine if a little distracted. No doubt pinging Kraaken for details of those injured, knowing Fex. "What did I do? Well, I mucked until Arianne came to yell at me, and then she sent me home. I think Kraaken likes her more than he likes me, so." He shifts a little and then slides a look down Br'er. "It looks better on you." His voice may be a little tired, but the THOUGHT IS THERE.

"Good for Arianne. As fond as I am of your muscles," Br'er splays a proprietary hand on a pectoral, and his smile has a lot of TEEF, "you can afford to wait until your arm's out of the cast to do physical labor…" Speaking of conversations they have TOTALLY HAD BEFORE. "And everything looks better on me." Smugly delivered, before Br'er curls himself closer, prior to making the delicate inquiry: "How's Kraaken faring today?"

It seems the fog that otherwise laid over Q'fex suddenly dissipates with that teef-laden smile: his eyes lift to Br'er and his whole mien sharpens. "I would say that everything looks better on the ground," shifting his free arm over to hitch Br'er closer. His smile is lopsided and familiar. "Kraaken… The swelling is still there, but at least they aren't talking about taking part of the sail off like they were last seven." His voice is matter-of-fact, for such gruesome subject matter.

"Mm. I think an argument's to be made for hanging off the lamp." Br'er contently snuggles, a hint of sharp interest underlying the oh-so-casual tone of his: "Healers still have you on any… significant… activity restrictions?" Just write your thought patterns in neon for everyone to see, why don't you, Br'er. An ounce of tension leaks from his shoulders at Q'fex's statement. "Thank the egg. That's good. That's very good."

Oh, Br'er. Q'fex ducks his head, smothering his laugh in Br'er's perfect hair. If his breath TOUSLES a few strands, well, he's allowed, isn't he? "I have a follow-up tomorrow with Varden," he replies, his voice contented for the first time in — well, days, at least. "But you know how much I care about that." Unless it's a QUARANTINE(D VACATION), then Fex is all up for that. Voice still muffled against Br'er's hair: "We're going to have to move, soon." Random rambling.

He is what he is. "I should tell you to wait," says Br'er, automatically. And then, more ruefully: "But I think my entire wing would thank you if you broke the rules." Look, he's not GOOD with chastity, okay, he gets grouchy. The hand on Q'fex's chest drifts down to find the bronzerider's hand (of COURSE that would be what he'd reach for, you perverts). He threads their fingers together, the familiar old gesture. "I'll miss having a private bath," the greenrider confesses, but easily enough that he can't regret it TOO much. "But I wouldn't mind something a little cozier. With a better view."

"I could find you someone if you really needed it," Q'fex consoles Br'er, though the comment is issued carelessly a scant breath from the greenrider's nearest ear. What? He plays dirty pool, man. His tangled fingers squeeze once, before the bronzerider just slouches totally against the greenrider, whump. What? Br'er can take it. "We'll be ground-locked for a while yet, so it'll be a ground weyr for me. I figure," he flicks his eyes over, too close to actually see Br'er's face, "I can move some of my things into your old place. Or we could find a new one." He gives an easy shrug, though it's miniscule enough to be felt rather than seen.

"I would be perfectly capable of finding someone on my own," says Br'er, an attempt at a haughty tone somewhat UNDERMINED by the distraction of suddenly having Q'fex muttering in his ear and oozing all over him. Damn the man. "But - much as I hesitate to feed your already overinflated ego - it's not the same if it's not you." Br'er is a man who is quite capable of saying filthy things without a blush, but the tips of his ears are totally turning pink. EMBARRASSING. "My old place won't fit Kraaken's fat ass once he can fly again," no 'ifs' will be spoken, but they hang in the air. "And we really might as well start weyr-hunting…"

Awww, look at that FLUSH of EARS. Q'fex's response is an earthy chuckle, more of himself than he's given since the accident, and a low-rumbled, "Love you too, babe." Maybe his eyes close a minute. He doesn't CARE if people stare. As to the last, "We might as well. If Inly wouldn't mind carting my fat ass around," Q'fex, lightly. There's irony there: he's lost a good amount of weight since the incident, a certain portion of it muscle-mass, leaving him far more rangy than is his norm. There's a moment of stillness, as if he's DEBATING whether or not to say something.

"She'd be delighted." Insomuch as anything ever really can be said to 'delight' Inlayraith, and not simply 'fail to terrorize'. When Q'fex falls silent, Br'er does too. Though there's a side-eyed glance of patient expectation: c'mon, man, out with it.

"They gave me estimates, today." It sounds different, as if it isn't quite what Q'fex set out to say. "Two turns, at the earliest." Not to be a GRIM DAMN BASTARD or anything. Or just vague.

Br'er's cut-off gasp speaks volumes. He manages, with an effort, to keep the bulk of his dismay out of his voice, but it's lurking. "Oh, Fex. I'm sorry." The warm press of his body becomes more determined, a mute expression of comfort, though his brow is furrowed in thought. He's quiet for a long while after, before saying, quietly: "I don't see why we couldn't just… claim one of the ground weyrs for now. It'd be comfortable enough. And Inlayraith would be glad to share a ledge with Kraaken again."

"I'm just…" Q'fex doesn't finish the statement. Instead he clears his throat - only a bastard would point out it is with some small difficulty - and shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry." His voice is rough. "You didn't ask for this." He gently extricates himself from Br'er to reach over for his milk, now gone warm but still soothing. "I think," he comments with some wry asperity, "They can spare us a damned weyr. I'll speak with Renalde."

"Yes, I did." Br'er lets Q'fex detangle them without protest, but he is ever watching. "We both did. It's part of being a Pass rider." Pause. "And being weyrmate to one." A note of fierceness enters the raspy voice (hey, they can be Lung Problem Buddies now!) as he continues. "Don't you dare apologize to me, Q'fex. I'm not here because I feel obligated, I'm here because I want to be here with you." DEEP BREATH. His mouth twitches, the humor only slightly forced. "Even if you are a bit gimpy at the moment."

Q'fex ELBOWS Br'er. "Fucker," he grumbles, but it's half-hearted — light-hearted — at best. There ain't no denying the certain lightness that infiltrates the set of his shoulders and lift of chin. "I'll show you gimpy." He downs the last of his milk and stands, his free hand simply extended to the greenrider. There is amusement aglitter, as dark as his eyes: "Fuck the healers." Or Br'er. He's probably REALLY meaning Br'er.

Br'er rises as well, taking the hand: when does he ever not? Certain things in this life are predictable, and that is one of them. A glinting sort of challenge lurks in his TEEFY smile. "Sure you wouldn't rather go sit with all the other invalid old uncles? We could play checkers." Strip checkers, more likely, judging from the possessive grasp of his fingers on Q'fex's. Something to give the poor oldsters a show.

"You would scandalize them," Q'fex placidly replies to Br'er. His eyes go a little strange and he tosses a Look over his shoulder: "Or scandalize them." Let's think on this. (One word: topiary.) "C'mon, uncle-fucker," the man casually drops. "Let's go." And — is Q'fex WHISTLING as they duck out? He probably is. But hey: one weirdo for another. Life. It works.

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