Xanadu Weyr - The Temple of All Dooms
This is at F'yr's place, shortly before senior weyrlinghood starts.
There are advantages to having friendships with other strapping 6'3" men when you're a gimp. The one featured in this set pose is the fact that after taking advantage of R'hyn's must-mostly-sit state to get help unboxing items packed by the stores assistants from his trips there earlier in the sevenday, the younger bronzerider was able to Ila-carry (YOU HEARD ME, HE'S HAD TRAINING NOW) the older man up the spiral stair inside the homestead to the second level and across to the tower where there is yet one more spiral stair to get them all the way up to the third level and the ultimate destination: the balcony out the door from what will be F'yr's bedroom, where there's already a built in bed frame just waiting for a new mattress to be delivered. Once on that balcony, F'yr heartlessly abandons his help to get settled on the lip wherever her wants to be while F'yr goes to fetch beers and dinner, returning with the boxes and bottles and settling himself beside R'hyn. It's been a turn of tremendous change for F'yr, that included great gains and sweeping losses; his world has changed at its core more times than anyone should endure, and yet, the man is here, and some things haven't changed: R'hyn remains one of the most important people in the young bronzerider's world. The friendship that was just blossoming before Glorioth broke his shell has been maintained through the long slogging months of weyrlinghood, even through the worrisome past eight months when something was wrong, but F'yr was tight lipped even with the people closest to him. He still came to R'hyn when his world fell apart. He still wept against his shoulder, used his hand as lifeline from time to time when a new ravaging storm would reach his mental shore. That the older bronzerider could be trusted with that pain only cements those early impressions and strengthened the ties of friendship, though there's still much room to grow. Now, two months after the initial news came, the need for comfort is no longer the expectation of the brief collection of stolen moments that have comprised the thread of friendship over the last turn, and it's easier to think of other things like… "Thanks for the tip off about this place," since the weyrling still hasn't thanked his friend for that properly yet. "It really is everything I wanted." The smile that comes from that is genuine and content even, as blue eyes look out over the clearing and the bronze(s) hanging out in the wide cleared space adjacent to the tower (nevermind that they both can absolutely look right into the bedroom if they want to, being all ENORMOUS and stuff, even if Glori is markedly smaller than his sire).
"This is ridiculous. You fuckers fret too much. I have crutches for a reason, you know. I've earned my right to use them, you can't take that from — ow, that was my head. You did that on purpose!" Such are F'yr's adventures in carrying R'hyn up those stairs, for despite any layer of friendship, if one thought the bronzerider would go quietly into that good night just because he's had a decade to get used to Ila'den doing it, they were DEAD WRONG. It's a rumpled, pressed-lipped, and very squinty-eyed R'hyn that F'yr abandons to his own designs on the tower's upper tier, fluffed perturbation in his every line as he very defiantly settles himself as far away from his drop point as possible just to prove a point. Whatever point that was, it's had enough time to soften by the time the bronzer-to-be makes it back up the stairs, movements less jerky and more jokingly brisk as he reaches out and claims his items with a 'gimme that' aire and a huffed breath, playful rebuke in the look he flickers Stefyr's way before that food and drink is indulged and it fades as though this were the key to mollifying the beast. If it is, he comments no further on it. There's little need to fill the quietude, the weyrleader's posture comfortable despite the heavy bracing of his knee, mutual existence more than enough to carry them through great, quiet gaps. It likely isn't the first time shared silence has been indulged, each bound up in their own thoughts, or their own tasks, companionship combined if little else, and it's far enough from the last time that R'hyn is more than willing to let it break on the shores of F'yr's words. "Of course," takes its time in coming along, food sat aside, weight shifted behind him onto the palms of his hands as his eyes trail upwards, tracing the warm gleam of treated wood. "I'm glad you like it. Well. I'm sure a number of people would like this place, but it takes a particular person to appreciate it, I think," is a lazy drawl as his eyes finally drop to follow the sweep of F'yr's gaze in reverse, letting his chin tip and roll until he can fix the weyrling with a droll look. "Besides. I needed to be sure I'd get a neighbor that I liked." Teeth bare in a shit-eating grin, because he knows and F'yr knows that was far from his motivation behind the change of hands, but it's easy to joke, easy to chase dark thoughts with light, if only for just a moment. "You deserve it," comes raw, after all, concern flickering in blue-grey eyes before they dart away, catching on the biggest and most obvious change of topic from one that is perhaps too truthful for such an exciting day. "Glori seems to have taken to it, too, though I don't trust him not to attempt some clever forms of redecorating the yard. Carcasses aren't proper ornamentation." HE'S JOKING, SURELY. That pitch-browed look is one of jest anyways, lips tugging up at their corners in impish amusement. Listen. At least he was smart enough not to shout that at Glorioth himself. He has at least one sense in that brain of his.
Did R'hyn really expect that F'yr, of all big dumb friends, wouldn't know the truth? That R'hyn ain't got no diginities left to be genuinely indignant about? It is, perhaps, the knowledge of this great truth that keeps the weyrling bronzerider blithely unconcerned about the older man's blather of discontent. Surely, he, likewise, feels no need to respond to the accusation of intent. Why? Because F'yr 100% did that on purpose. Rumpled, pressed-lipped, squinty-eyed R'hyn is met with the younger man's most oblivious, beatific smile (and being the youngest of 12, you can bet it's as honed an attack as Ila'den's ambush-shoulder-lift as enacted by the master himself). It's really good for everyone that R'hyn can unruffle his own feathers because F'yr wasn't going to be any help in that department beyond making the appeasements of food and drink. The younger man can't seem to help joining in the group delusion of just how F'yr came to be in possession of this prime piece of forest, grinning back at the Weyrleader before he wipes his hand across his mouth to clear the expression and let his brows dip dubiously. "Are you sure I qualify? Because, just a minute ago-" more than a minute, "-there were some… words." The blonde stresses it so there can be little doubt that he means 'fuckers' not 'crutches.' But he doesn't need to linger on this jest if R'hyn doesn't. He grins again on the heels of it, leaning to bump his shoulder into R'hyn's in that companionable gesture that says so much among a select group of people. He sets his box aside, shoving it so it isn't likely to accidentally become a bomb and incite excitement from below. He just got the homestead, he'd like to keep it a while before Glorioth inevitably demolishes it. Glorioth does seem content in the space though, more or less. There aren't crowds to sing his praises, but that's a disappointment of most places, really. Why should this one be any different. "No, of course not," F'yr agrees of carcass-as-decoration, his eyes roving casually over the ready distractions. He doesn't bat a lash as he lifts his bottle toward his lips and says, deadpan, "They're bait." For entertainment.
Is R'hyn sure? He sketches a dubious look the bronzeling's way, lips pressing tight all over again, reliving ire that was likely feigned to begin with. "Mmm, fair point," comes sotto voce, taking that shoulder-knocking with a sway of his body away from the point of contact, as though in slow motion reaction to an actual blow. Tilt-tilt-tilt, and then he ricochets back, coming in for a gentle thunk against F'yr's shoulder, applying slight pressure that doesn't quite leave. "I guess you'll do," is pitched in droll tones as he casually glances back out over the grounds, "but if you try to pick me up again, I'll decorate your yard myself." DOES F'YR DARE TEST THE BREADTH OF R'HYN'S CREATIVITY? So inquires the stabby little gaze he flicks over, challenge belied by the hard quirk of dimples in his cheeks. They press harder for the weyrling's too-casual answer, nose wrinkling over a grin as he himself dares to ask, "I feel like I'm gonna regret asking, but bait for what? Has Glori advanced to hunting more dangerous prey?" Xermiltoth's yawning stretch drags his gaze away, eyes tracing the glittering crackles of gold that burst out of the bronze's blackened hide. Something in the way the dragon's toes tense, whirling gaze riveted on Glorioth's tailtips earns a nasal snicker from the rider, all the hallmarks of felinic temptation to pounce coming and going from Xermi's body before the elder bronze looks away with a snort. Maybe next time. "This is convenient, though," noted as he takes a swig from his own bottle. "The kids are leaving again soon, and I don't rightly know if we'll get Heri and Ibsy back before they're old enough to…" A hand wave encompasses a 'do their thing' attitude, crafting age coming up fast - too fast for his liking, judging by the light that fades from his eyes, wattage no longer matching the smile he tilts in F'yr's direction. "I know you'll be busy wing-shadowing soon, but you're welcome to visit, if you have free time," should be a given, all things considered, but is offered up nevertheless.
"Is that what you'll put on my graduation sign off?" The weyrling wonders, tilting his head at R'hyn even as he lightly returns that pressure that doesn't leave. He gestures in the air to make the quotes, "'F'yr will do.' A glowing recommendation. I'll have wingleaders fighting over me to snatch me up." He grins at the Weyrleader, but something too serious in his eyes belies the look as casual jest. He may be just about to transition from junior weyrlinghood to senior, but he must already be thinking far forward to the eventual end of all this practice and the actual doing of the job. Still, this seriousness does not stop F'yr-the-braveidiot from YES, DARING TO TEST, at least a little, by commenting, "I'm not sure you can do worse than the what I was forced to turn into a table leg down in the mud room." That bottom level of the tower that F'yr must have pointed out to him, with its many places for dragon-things to go that's more shielded than the outdoor awning that gives Glori a place to get out of the worst weather should he wish it. Probably, R'hyn didn't notice, but F'yr does go on to explain, "You see… my dragon once went on a quest. It was a dangerous quest. Fraught with peril and yielded great success snatched from the jaws of defeat," to hear Glorioth tell it. Notice the slightly booming edge to F'yr's still conversationally volumed voice - he's quoting here, "and thus our treasure has been put to good use. But if that runner is not the ugliest statue I've ever seen, I'll babysit for free for a turn." THEMS HIGH STAKES, R'HYN, WHATCHU GONNA DO ABOUT THE MAN WHO JUST ADMITTED THAT HE HAS Y'ALL'S RUNNER STATUE STILL AND DONE TURNED IT INTO THE BASE FOR A TABLE DOWNSTAIRS? RIP clearing; F'yr hardly knew ye without some R'hyn-creativity all up on it. Perhaps a salve to that sting of pride, the reminder of the great quest into the land of the humies, and all the indignities some people suffered as a result, the bronzerider adds, "I'd love to see Heri and Ibsy a little more before they go. And the rest. I do believe I'm owed a new brain." This may account for some of the brainlessness of what has just transpired. None of that challenge laid before the gimp nor the balm of promised visitation to R'hyn's happy-chaotic household stops F'yr from taking another sip from his bottle and then as he's about to take a second, saying just before the mouth of it, "If you want to know what the bait is for, you'll have to ask Glori. I don't exactly have any sanity left to lose, but if I've got any, it's probably more likely to keep hanging around if I don't know these things." See? Even the bronze's rider needs to know when ignorance is bliss. Sometimes F'yr just nods along; it works with everyone in his life, including his dragon. What could possibly go wrong? He probably isn't questioning Xermi's not-pounce, although at least the clearing is large enough if the two were to tussle that the worst they'll do is take out more trees on that side of the clearing, enlarging it and possibly goring themselves on pointy tree bits, but hey, who's worried about consequences here? That's probably a zero out of four in this moment?
Scoff. Puff. Hfft. "Give me some credit," R'hyn blusters right back, mirth run rampant over his features as he adopts tones much more lofty and serious than he ever used in the office, a parody of himself. "It'll be much more like. 'Ah, what can one say about F'yr. Such an adequate young man. He is a marvelous example of human existence. He occupies no more but no less space than he did yesterday, and no more or less than he will tomorrow. He has a lifemate, who is very dragon-shaped, and as a rider he has shown a general aptitude for breathing, sleeping, and eating. Special talents include being able to do one or more of those things while talking at the same time." Jazz hands. "They'll be clamoring at your door." Full confidence accompanies a too-wide grin as he takes a draw from his beer, but while R'hyn might be basking in his fun-making, he's not so caught up that he misses that brief flicker of seriousness that passes through his friend's eyes. "Any wing in particular that you're excited to shadow?," is a gentle pitch, one that could easily be turned into discussion of something else were it a topic the weyrling did not want to directly pursue. He's easily distracted, at any rate, low-simmering amusement fast becoming a disbelieving tilt of brows, a wary squint of eyes, a press of lips that would be dangerous if only they weren't trying so hard to twist up into a smile. "Tell me you didn't turn that damn thing into a table leg." TELL HIM, F'YR. A deep breath is sucked in and then blown out, shedding amusement (and maybe also a little long-forgotten but well-paid-for ire for his dragon's lack of propriety) on the exhale as he says, "But I'll take that bet. You've never met Voidcat." That twisty little grin finally hikes up one side of his face, expression parked somewhere truly terrible, leaning back on his palms to explain. "He's a viciously hideous piece of taxidermy that gets left outside of bedroom doors when activities get particularly… boisterous." If you get his drift, says the bounce of his eyebrows, huffing nasal laughter at the idiocy of their own tradition. "Cita got him in Ierne in this place called - I shit you not - Horni's Emporium, and he's been a proud, shame-filled member of the family ever since. You learn to love them." The ugly things? The stupid ones? The grand tales that go along with? Maybe all of the above. He certainly doesn't clarify in that moment, casting F'yr a supremely dubious look that echoes the bronzeling's very same thoughts: he likes his sanity right where it is, thanks. "If he starts something, Xermiltoth will surely follow, and then where will we be?" Certainly not here, enjoying a quiet moment, or so implies the very pointed settling back into companionable - if temporary - silence.
Credit where credit's due. F'yr will give it to R'hyn, and R'hyn should give it to F'yr for the way the younger bronzerider listens to this honest rendition of his exceptional talents with solemnity not broken by the amusement in blue eyes. "I think that frames Glorioth in the best possible light, if we're being honest," the blonde replies after a moment of thought for all that abundant praise. "Go with that." And yet, when F'yr looks down to the bronze that is his very own, there's still that dopey, lovesick look in his face, for only fractions of moments. As much as the older big dumb idiot loves his diamond dazzle, does the younger big dumb idiot also sickeningly adore his booming blunderhead. "I want to come home," F'yr says quite simply, shrugging. "I'm not sure it's the best thing for me, but it's what I want." Which is to say Quasar4Lyfe. "I'm not sure I told you but…" The bronzerider takes a slow breath because this is going to be heavy, one thumb coming up to scratch above one eyebrow before he launches into it. "Back before everything happened to my brother, I had this revelation of sorts. I'm glad you're sitting down for this," he adds, casting a glance askance to the Weyrleader, "I'm a bronzerider." SHOCK. HORROR. WHO KNEW? "Which means, as unlikely as it is, that Glorioth could one day put me in the position you're in. Understandably, the revelation… well. I didn't want to bother you, for once, with my panic. You had… a lot of other things going on." When don't they? But, also, "I didn't want to ask you about things you might not want to talk about. I didn't want to make you feel obliged to do so because I was asking." He's talking about Half-Moon. He's talking about here. He's talking about a lot of things and giving room. "So I asked K'vir some questions. About what a bronzerider who isn't the Weyrleader can do to feel more prepared, just in case. He recommended getting to know the wings. Inside and out, backwards and forwards. That's part of why I want to go through the whole of senior weyrlinghood." That and putting off adulthood that much longer. When he looks back to R'hyn, F'yr's expression is sober. "So I want to come home to Quasar, but if you think I'm better off somewhere else, for whatever reason, I'll respect that. I'll work hard wherever I end up. I hope you know that." He does, doesn't he? It isn't in F'yr to be any other way about things. For all the serious nature of these statements, there needs to be levity to balance it all out. Fortunately, the topic is at hand. "It was a table or an urn to collect the ashes of Glorioth's kills. An honor urn." So at least F'yr saved the ugly runner statue from that fate? "I wouldn't bring Voidcat around if you expect it not to be labeled a foe-villain and smushed on the spot. Though…" F'yr contemplates a moment, "No, that'll never really work. He'll be disappointed by the lack of blood." Whatever thought he'd had for Glorioth is let go quickly. "Does Voidcat work to produce better behavior in those it visits?" This question has to be asked, even if F'yr has no questions for the validity of the statement about the dragons. That only gets a rueful shrug and a long swallow of his beer. Thank Faranth for small silences!
R'hyn can't quite help it - he snorts for the implication that this is the best that can be done by Glorioth, lips pressing back at the corners in a way that implies he's in agreement, but very tactfully not going to comment on the matter - not even in jest. Not when F'yr is making soft bond-eyes at his dragon, seeing past the zane and mania to that ineffable, indescribable something that was the reason those two souls were bound together in the first place. It is, in truth, not at all unlike the look he allows to sweep across Xermiltoth's hide as the bronze rolls to his back, colorful undersails bared to the sun as they stretch casually wide (and perhaps straight into Glori's personal space). It doesn't linger. F'yr expresses his desire to come home, and R'hyn's attention hones in on the weyrling, big body shifting to draw his good knee up under his arm, the better to face him. He doesn't interject, not for the shocking revelation sure to be splattered across the weyr's headlines the next day (though it does earn a crook of lips and a spark of amusement in thundercloud eyes), nor the contents of his discussion with K'vir and the feelings leading up to it. Instead he just listens in that endless way that's always defined him, gaze finally spinning away at the end to squint contemplatively at the sway of nearby branches, the fluttering of their leaves. "Mmm. He makes a good point. Weyrleaders and weyrseconds can be called on to fill in as leadership of any wing in an emergency. It's one of those countless things I wish I'd really understood," is a bridge to that path that F'yr feared to tread. "Weyrlinghood will teach you everything you need to know, except that you should immediately replace your brain with a chip from the computercraft in order to best remember everything you've ever learned, that diplomacy is a beautiful word for fighting for every belief you've ever held knowing that half the time you'll lose in the name of compromise, and the single most important thing you can do is surround yourself with people you trust to do as much for you as you would for them." There's a dead-on meeting of eyes as finger-counted quips take a turn for the serious, R'hyn's catching and holding on the weyrling's features for as long as it takes for their gazes to meet. "I told you once that you would always be welcome back, no matter how the hatching went. I meant it." Because F'yr is one of the ones that he trusts to give it his all. "If you want to learn more, we'll teach you. If you have questions," even uncomfortable ones, "ask them. And if you just want to come home… come home." The short beat that follows is poignant, the minute quirk of lips even more so, a mood he disperses with an easy roll of his shoulders and a distant, playfully lofty look aimed towards some point in the sky "But if you visit the other wings and decide you like one of them more, well… I'll do my very best to pretend I'm not offended, and will certainly not tell Risali it's because you think she smells like stinksap." Double the levity, then, the impish wrinkling of his nose spreading into a full-on grin for the very idea of an honor-urn, eyes still squinting into that middle-distance as he pictures it. "Faranth, how big would that have to be, to encompass the charred bits of herdbeast he doesn't somehow choke down his gullet? You'd practically need a ship," jested in don't-get-any-ideas fashion, eyes swiveling down to peg F'yr with a look for the topic of Voidcat and his success and/or demise. "No. If anything, it seems to make matters worse." Which is perhaps an argument for its survival, for it to be labeled a 'bringer of mischief' rather than an outright foe-villain. "Though perhaps it will be different for you." Which means it - or one much like it, pocked and sagging and ugly - is bound to show up on F'yr's doorstep in the near-but-not-too-near future. Listen. These things can't be made, they must be found, curated, and only the best and most ridiculous of beasts will do.
AHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHAHAH. It's hilarious that anyone thinks Glorioth has something called 'personal space.' THE WORLD IS GLORIOTH'S PERSONAL SPACE. Everyone else is just existing in it. Weird, right? It means when suddenly Xermiltoth is right there, Glorioth's head shifts to observe, and it's possible to watch the internal gears working their way through things… and he reaches a conclusion. And that is how Xermiltoth ended up with his son pounced on top of him. This was an invitation to wrestle, no? F'yr manages to only just not actually facepalm as he watches it happen and is helpless to stop it. RIP nearest trees in the clearing. It's fine. F'yr probably needed some firewood. They needed a bigger landing area. They're just helping. He stares down at the dragons a long moment, shockingly no longer looking quite so sappy at his before turning his head to R'hyn and saying, completely deadpan, "Definitely go with that." Otherwise, no one will take them. Then he's laughing because he has to laugh, or he might cry instead and that would just be sad. Besides, this is his life now. Laugh or cry, it's just how things are going to go from here on out. When he's done laughing (which this time isn't forever, unless R'hyn's going to start pulling faces), the bridge is one he wants to take. "I'd like to hear more about… well, probably starting with the things you wished you'd known, or the things you knew and were glad to know in hindsight. And… well, whatever else you might want to share with me." There's a helpless one shouldered shrug. It is possible that, professional interest aside, F'yr can't quite account even to himself why it is that hearing about R'hyn's life, R'hyn's experiences has a particular, unique interest to him, but there it is. He'll take what R'hyn will give him. "Does your daughter do chip replacements or just brains?" He inquires as he stares down at the ENORMOUS BRONZE IDIOTS PROBABLY STILL AT IT, IF THEY EVER GOT PROPERLY STARTED. It's really no wonder that a beat later he adds, "Does she do dragons?" Nevermind that Glorioth might actually bestir himself to feel besmirched if he heard his lifemate speaking this way. He's distracted now. He will meet R'hyn's eyes then, for those serious moments. The smile that comes is soft. It's sunlight peeking out from behind a cloud. It's the win he needs, the words he needs. It's just what he needs, now. At odds with the weight of that look is his lighter, "I always want to learn. Someone offered me this job I had to learn things to do and then someone gave me a dictionary and now… well, I mean, I'm hopeless." THAT'S NOT A JOKE, HE REALLY IS HOPELESS. In more ways than one. "I'll keep an open mind, but I wouldn't want to be that day's excuse for more strife when I'm not even there to pass the notes back and forth or delivered whispered messages." Because things like 'Tell Risa that — ' and 'Tell R'hyn that — ' is just how things work sometimes, RIGHT? "Don't try the size argument. I did. He proposed we go get the other one." F'yr gives R'hyn the dead-eye stare. THIS IS ALSO NOT A JOKE. Does R'hyn want to be able to keep his remaining ONE ugly runner statue or not? "And if I end up with a ship and Voidcat, I'm just going to have to come up with a few suitable gifts to show my gratitude." Let it be known that R'hyn has been warned. Not that any of this is going to stop BIG DUMB IDIOTS from being as idiotic as their lifemates below. (Watch them.) It doesn't actually sound like F'yr is objecting to the not-suggestion R'hyn made about the ship-as-urn, nor about the addition to F'yr's household, but the consequences are laid out now. Will it stop anyone? (SPOILER ALERT: IT WILL NOT.)
It wasn't not an invitation, to be fair; there is certainly a sort of stillness about Xermiltoth despite his repose, a waiting sort of tension that implies that maybe the casual droop of his wings was not so casual at all. By the time one could stop to consider it fully, it ceases to matter - the younger bronze has pounced upon his sire and the rest is, as they say, splinter-ridden history. R'hyn sighs from his position on the high tower, gaze returning to the sky as though it should hold answers, or illumination, or divinity as to why his dragon is how he is, and what to do about him, the, "Listen, they know where he came from, it's bound to earn you sympathy points," delivered in sotto voce at best. "Sorry about your trees." He'd offer to plant new ones, but they'd probably meet the same fate, so he huffs through his nose in return amusement for F'yr's laugh, eyes flicking sideways to meet the bronzerider's before he shrugs. "I wish I'd known the first time around that not everybody that gets drafted into this is cut out for it, and that's okay, but some of those people want it anyways, and they can drive you into the ground under the weight of their good intentions. There are also more people than you think that are willing to take advantage of a green weyrleader, especially one known to fraternize with renegades, or anyone else deemed to be something south of savory." A telling beat follows those words, the look in his eyes shifting towards vulnerable, as though this were one of those slivers of R'hyn's life F'yr is suddenly privy to, one whose reaction he will await before delving further, judging by the swift tear of his gaze away, focusing on the dragons in the yard before he continues. "You might be blackmailed because of who you are, and who you know. You might be asked to make deals that sound too good to be true, and they often are. So like I said. Find out who your friends are. Pick a weyrsecond that knows the weyr, knows the job, or knows you, depending on which of those you think is more important to accomplish your goals." An inquisitive glint enters R'hyn's eyes, asking without actually asking if F'yr has - in the course of his explorations of the topic - put any consideration into just what those might be. "I also wish I'd known that there's a difference between reason and dissidence, and just because someone's opinions are loud doesn't necessarily mean that they're right. We didn't play games this second time around. I fired every single person on the weyr's staff that had a hand in stymying progress because they didn't particularly care for Risali as their weyrwoman. There were a few mistakes in that," comes a little quieter than the rest, "and I own it. But. At the end of the day it is my preference to work with people that care more about Xanadu than they do about their own personal comfort, who will voice opposition because we're wrong and it needs saying, and not because they've decided that a square peg should fit in a circular hole." But that's enough seriousness for one moment. F'yr's silver-lining glance is met with a soft smile of his own, one that flickers and widens into a ridiculous grin for brain chips and hopelessness and blame games, feigned innocence coming in the form of a press of fingers to his own chest and a lofty, "I've never once blamed you for something when you weren't there to defend yourself. You must be talking about Risa." And if you believe that, he's got a bridge in Nerat to sell you. "Though I have to admit, it's been quiet without you, and with Rhody back in the office too, well. It wouldn't be the same if you weren't there," is as close as he'll come to truly influencing his friend's wide-open future. "But fine. I keep my statue, you don't suddenly have a ship hanging out in your yard, and you can owe me future mischief when shiny new taxidermy scares the piss out of you in the middle of the night. I feel like that's fair." Shake on it?
It's testament to how ridiculous F'yr's life has become on a routine basis that he simply clears his throat and says, deadpan, "I wanted a bigger lot anyway." Nevermind that the bronzerider is going to have to find a way to wrangle the hero into clearing stumps and is probably sitting here with his heart in his throat that neither bronze will accidentally IMPALE THEMSELVES (in the bad, ichor-gushing way) on a shattered stump or trunk in the process of this NEW LEVEL of stupidity. "At least when you see them together, it's very obvious we deserve every bit of sympathy that comes our way." He adds, leaning over with his bottle to clink it with R'hyn's in solidarity before finishing it and setting it to the side while the older man speaks. More than once, F'yr's serious, intense expression of listening meets those side glances. He's no less listening after R'hyn's eyes turn toward the more vulnerable and look away, but if the dragons were paying attention to the men, and were normal sorts of dragons instead of the dragons they are, they might be amused at the way once R'hyn has looked away, F'yr is subtly awkward-scooching to the side. Closer. (Glance.) Closer. (Glance.) Clos— oh, look. There's F'yr, right up against R'hyn's side, shoulder to shoulder, a distinct pressure, silent ally against the ghosts of memories that still have enough sway to make a man like this, whom F'yr does more than simply admire, feel open to judgment. If there's judgment, it's that F'yr is with him and no little thing like renegades, like blackmail like- well, anything, probably, if anyone's been paying attention to just who F'yr seems to be, is going to move him from his place in this alliance. Has F'yr considered any of these things? NO, R'hyn, because as far as F'yr is concerned, R'hyn's going to be Weyrleader FOREVERANDEVERANDEVERANDEVER and F'yr will never have to worry about these things — at Xanadu, anyway. At least, not as Weyrleader. He does seem to be giving some thought to things as R'hyn puts them forth, but given his propensity to not process most things well in the moment, there's a very good chance that the Weyrleader will not be hearing any opinions back from the weyrling just this moment. In point of fact, the younger man doesn't actually speak about any of these big issues except to finally say, "Well, I think you know you can count on me." Beat. "I'll always tell you when you're wrong." LIES. Or if not lies, a problem with his vision since he goes along with everything (so far). His hand moves, touching R'hyn's thigh near the knee but not where it would be painful (if that's even the injured knee that's nearest). He leaves it there just a few breaths, because all it is is an expression of things that can't find words but finish with an open look at R'hyn that's… just too much. It's promises that could be easily abused, it's feeling that is painfully sincere, it's a complete lack of expectation, it's just F'yr, sorrynotsorry. And then he looks away and his hand comes back to his lap, interlacing his fingers between his thighs. His eyes go back down to the bronze blockheads in need of brain replacements. "Oh, yes," the words might sound like they're harkening back to these things that were too much, too deep. But then he nods slowly and glances back toward R'hyn, too serious. "That's it. It must have been Risa." Don't try for the bridge sell, R'hyn, there's a lot that everything behind that earlier look could be twisted to, but not a bridge to Nerat, nor OFFICE INNOCENCE. "I can't really think what you mean about it being quiet though. It's not as though Rhody and I were ever the root of uproar." Never. Would R'hyn be interested in a summer home in the mountains of High Reaches with its plentiful beaches to work on his tan? "But I suppose if you want me back, I'll have to think of something…" Or, you know, pull something off his EVER-GROWING LIST OF WAYS TO ENTERTAIN IN THE OFFICE. He's only had a turn and a half to work on it, right? Can't be too long… right? Only now does he flash a smile. If R'hyn wants F'yr's hand, he can have it, but the smile might be enough. Quasar will always be home to F'yr, and there's more than a little relief that he'll be welcomed back, list in hand.
R'hyn will drink to that. He tilts the butt of his bottle out to meet F'yr's, the grin flashing in his face belied by the shaking of his head because who can believe that this is their lives and how they've chosen to live them, forever on the edge of glory or certain doom? Certainly not him. "I don't think there are very many doubts even when they are apart," he counters, tone dry as bone, but there's always, as ever, that underlying hint of it being something he wouldn't trade for all the marks on Pern. They're on to bigger (though perhaps not better) things besides, the constant sideways scooch of his companion riddling all those sober topics with ghosts of amusement, small flickers at the corners of lips, twitches of eyelids, a gratefulness that is - for the moment - unspoken, but which registers in the depths of blue-grey eyes. "I hope so," is quieter than he means it to be, taking the joke implied in that beat drop and making it something serious with his tone. He leans into the pressure of F'yr's shoulder against his, letting the weyrling's hand rest where it may, his own head leaning gently bump against the younger bronzer's, needing the steady presence of one of his closest friends in that moment. Inhale. Exhale. Retreat, not because F'yr's touch is unwelcome, but because there are bigger bombs to drop, ones that have the very real potential to rattle that foundation of trust and understanding. "I ended a life trying to recover my nieces, trying to recover Ila. The weyr locked down, but I knew of a pair of renegades, knew they had vested interest in finding them after they'd been kidnapped, and I used them to sneak out of the weyr. He wasn't much older than Glorioth is now," he says with a tilt of his chin out towards Xermiltoth, who is, at the moment, chomping on Glori's toes with no real intent to cause them damage, "He was young, and bold, and radiant, and I gagged him, and I left him behind. I made him be less for months, for me. For us." And he still carries the guilt of all of it, still sees faces in the night, wakes in a cold sweat when the weyr is too empty, feels the sharp stab of regret each time he has to pull Xermiltoth's punches, make him anything less than what he is. It haunts him even now, eyes dim and distant, fixed on some distant point F'yr could never hope to see before he snaps back into himself with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry. That was… a lot. As I was saying, I hope you do. Faranth knows I need reminding." Reminding that he's often wrong, that he's often in need of correcting, something he tries to make light of even though his smile is thin, wan, a shadow of itself because maybe it's just a little too real. "I would never accuse you of such a thing. My weyrlings? Rabble-rousers? Pff." Ludicrous. "And I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, so if something were to happen, I will be just as surprised as everyone else. Shocked, really." He'd be the very picture of innocence, if only he hadn't ruined that very image himself only moments before. The thought seems to occur to him, wry smile dimming, hesitation reading in his form before his eyes cast about, looking for something - anything - else to focus on and coming up short. Excuses it is. "But listen. I've taken up a lot of your time today. Thank you for the food, and the beer, and… and everything else." And he means it, previous gratitude mingled with further apology in his gaze.
The smile that turns into a smirk and a slightly choked laugh says F'yr agrees with R'hyn's assessment on individual doubts though he declines to observe any further. WHAT MORE IS THERE TO SAY?! The silence that was light becomes weighted under the words as they come from R'hyn. Maybe it's because F'yr's face is in it's open and listening hard look that the man beside him gets through all he does. He's there. There when R'hyn needs the connection of head to head, arm to arm, there even when there's distance put between them. His expression is solemn in its attention to what the bronzerider who once gave him open heart surgery reveals. At some point, F'yr should be lacing his fingers through R'hyn's, or leaning, or something that reinforces that thereness, right? But it doesn't come… at least, not right away. It was a lot. No one can contest that. It might even be why all those lighter words about the office and the weyrlings don't seem to meet with the sort of levity they might have in the moments before. It's probably the worst moment (today), that when R'hyn makes his excuses, F'yr silently shifts backwards and frees up his hands, rising. Maybe it was too much? Maybe this bond that has been growing and strengthening is broken by the heavy shit R'hyn has faced in his life. Some things are unthinkable to some people. Maybe this friendship just wasn't to be. … And then F'yr sits back down, right behind R'hyn, where his legs end up on either side of the older man, where F'yr's arms go wrapping around the older man's torso and his cheek comes to rest on the back of R'hyn's shoulder. It's probably as awkward as the sideways scoot, but complete support of the gesture can be felt in the sturdiness of the frame that now comes as close to enveloping his friend as a man of similar size can get. And he just stays. If there's a sniff that's perhaps a touch emotional… well, R'hyn did just share a lot of heavy. As with so many gestures of support shared among a small circle of family (no matter how they're all actually related or not), the newest (minus the recently born) member of this greater whole still learning his place just. stays. After a time, his arms ease off that embrace and he slides himself back, drawing up one leg and shifting to the side so R'hyn can see his face again, the drawn up knee ending up kind of a little behind the other man while F'yr ends up facing his side. "Sometimes," he finally says, "it can't help being a lot." One hand comes up, curling into a fist and pressing to R'hyn's shoulder. "I'm sorry you faced moments like those. I'm…" TEARING UP. IT'S FINE. Blue eyes cast skyward. "Grateful," he decides is the right word, "that you survived it all and are here now." Does he need to explain all the reasons why? They'll both just cry. So he just presses his lips together and brings his eyes back down to R'hyn's face, a few tears escaping to be quickly brushed away, and he manages just the smallest smile through the tears. That is, if he hasn't made everything just the WEIRDEST. And R'hyn thought he could just up and leave. Hfffhhhffhfhhf. Gimp.
It speaks to the kind of person he is that R'hyn doesn't stop him, doesn't move from his shoulder-slumped position, eyes carefully averted, allowing F'yr to depart quietly with both of their dignities intact. There will be time for upset later, at home, in the privacy of his own weyr; time to grieve a friendship lost, another sacrifice made at the altar of truth - his truth. There are already contingencies forming, plans unmade in futures near and far; Xermiltoth is already lifting from where he's rolled, shaking splinters and leaves and grass from his massive form as though readying to come to his lofted rider's rescue when— When warmth settles against his back, and though he does not - will not - let emotion well up and over, will not let that silvered sheen in blue-grey eyes become anything other than what it is, he sinks back into that touch with no small amount of relief. He's content to hold that silence for a long, long time, enough for both bronzeriders to process feelings, handle their emotions, and reach as much of an equilibrium as can be managed after such complicated divulgences. F'yr shifts sideways, and though R'hyn's body doesn't follow, his eyes do, soft and somber, appreciative despite the disbelief that he's deserving of such understanding, such clemency. Instead he watches, and listens, and issues breath in a soft huff that might have been a laugh if only it weren't so quiet, so singular. It marks the dropping of his head, fringed locks swooping down to the level of his eyes even as his hand lifts, coming up to touch whatever part of F'yr is closest - knee, shoulder, that fisted hand, it doesn't matter because the touch is brief, over the second gripped pressure ends, message hopefully clear: thank you. "I never had family before Ila and Cita. I never really knew what it was like to… belong to something, and for it to be as simple as that," might seem like another burden for F'yr to bear, but R'hyn is quick to alleviate, quick to move on with a low, "No questions. No needs. It just was. So it always surprises me when it happens again. I don't… I don't know what I did to deserve having people like them - people like you - in my life, but I want you to know that I am no less grateful." NOW WHO'S MAKIN' IT WEIRD. But listen. Some things just need to be said aloud.
L O O K. THERE IS NOTHING TO SEE HERE. NOT TWO BIG DUMB BRONZERIDERS WITH THEIR BIG DUMB FEELZ. MOVE ALONG. There are a few more tears, but paired with a smile. No doubt, F'yr is grateful for the reassuring touch that lets him know he didn't make it that weird, or the wrong kind of weird, anyway. "I've… never had anything like this." He murmurs after a moment. "I wouldn't trade it. For anything different." Not for something better (is there such a thing?), not for anything more straightforward or more traditional. He doesn't, formally, take up the mantle of family, but he's wearing it anyway, even if labels aren't strictly his style. He takes to that label "Uncle" ready enough with all those children at any rate. "I think…" He adds after a moment, starting to shift around so he can just sit next to R'hyn again, closer now, but in a way that's both companionable and evocative of support without being overt. "I think there's no ledge of balances, not really. There's who we are, and how things are, but if we tried to account for the good things with our good deeds and the bad with the bad… then I'm not sure we can even begin to explain them, or anything else." Yes, that's his hand throwing the conversational hook back down to the dragons. The dragons who… well, SORRYNOTSORRY, DAD, but Glori was WHOLLY UNAWARE of the effeminate sharing of sentimentalities and thus uses Xermiltoth's bid to disengage as an excuse to tackle him anew. F'yr winces slightly as a few more trees go in the name of DISTRACTION. He shifts, twists, places a forearm along R'hyn's back to curl fingers around the back of his skull to encourage a moment of head-to-head conference. From a man as mild as F'yr typically presents himself, the words are fierce. "I've got you." Three words whose implications are ingrained in his heart. The younger man isn't even looking for any kind of return, he's just needs R'hyn to know, to hear it from him: his truth.
It might not be formal - there might not be other labels for whatever there is between F'yr and his family - but the sense of brotherhood between the two bronzeriders is clear. "Neither would I," R'hyn admits of the concept of trade, as though there were any possible better things to aspire to than adopted kinship, the only kinship he once knew. "Well," amended with a gentle quirk of his lips, the thought lingering unshed for a long moment as though the humor is taking its time to passing from mind to mouth, "I might trade it for one of the Sandwiches." You know the one. The elusive, blue moon monstrosities that, quite possibly, have not revisited the weyr since the first day they (properly) met. "But since those seem few and far between, I guess I'll keep you." It's a tease, nervous energy still limning words, the edges of his eyes, but his grin presses wide to show he doesn't mean it, lingering until words are spoken, and truths are exposed, and though his eyes have fallen shut with the touch of F'yr's forehead to his own, it's clear he's taken it all in, absorbed it, made meaning as he is always wont to do. "When did you get so wise?," is quiet as blue-grey eyes lift, solemn but touched with a little pride as his hand lifts to hook over the arm around his shoulder, thumb brushing back and forth once before stilling. "You're right. And… thank you. That means more to me than you'll ever know," said with a slight tap of his forehead back against F'yr's, as though the gentle bonk might somehow underline his words, how much he means them. "Now," breathed out as he draws back, the hand on bicep used to pull himself to one knee if F'yr will allow, "help an old man up. We should stop those idiots before our homes are adjoined by a field rather than a forest. Ila does not wear underpants to bed and you will not enjoy the view." Clawing towards normality by way of rude humor, that's R'hyn, though despite any jokes that might be cracked - now, during the lurch down the stairs, during the forcible separation of their big, dumb bronzes - there will linger a certain softness around the older bronzerider, an easiness that, while perhaps not previously lacking, is suddenly different, changed, present nonetheless.