There's All Kinds of Ways to Be a Jerk to the Proddy

Xanadu Weyr - Store Room
The storerooms here are carved into the stone, stretching back deep underground beneath the upper hallways that serve for residences and work areas. There is, after all, little need for natural light here; a series of electric lights are more than sufficient to illuminate smoothly cut walls and the assortment of supplies kept until they are needed once more.

For some of the things here, that time will be long in coming. Broken furniture and torn clothing awaits the opportunity for someone to repair it - or else the kindling and rag piles. Other items are more immediately useful; gently worn clothing and boots are neatly arranged in rows and on racks, especially in the quickly outgrown children's sizes, and an assortment of furniture and small appliances in functional condition await new homes.

A series of side rooms connected to the kitchen are the larder which feeds the Weyr through the winter. Sacks of grain lean against barrels of salted meat and wheels of hard cheeses stacked high. Refrigeration and dragonflight make for a more flexible winter diet, but it still takes a great deal of food to provide for this many people. The food is a tempting target for tunnelsnakes, and the occasional scuttle can be heard in the otherwise quiet depths of these caves.

Toward the southern edge, near the path leading down to the hot springs, there's the laundry rooms, a set of steam-filled chambers where water and soap are scrubbed into fabric of various sorts and the dirt and grime is scrubbed right back out.

Much of the stores are easily accessed, requiring only the appropriate permissions to be borrowed from. These supplies are, after all, here for the good of the Weyr and the people living here. A few rooms - those containing particularly valuable or dangerous items - are kept locked.

Senior Weyrlinghood is a change from the particulars of junior weyrlinghood, doing less intensive instructions on basic riderly duties and rather doing the round-robin of one month with each wing. This month, and just one additional month shy of real graduation, Pulsar's senior group is with Galaxy, to explore the physically rigorous work that Search and Rescue does. Though they're temporary members of this wing, F'yr and Glorioth do seem to be taking their time with Galaxy quit seriously. They've been there nearly half a month now, and (SORRY ZHE) Glorioth loves it. What's worse is that while he doesn't ascribe to any notion that those in need should be helped for their good, he loves all the opportunities to be HEROIC(-looking). It's really unfair that such a selfish, awful bronze looks that sharding good, even being one of the smallest of his color. All the physical requirements enliven the bronze and make him less tolerable to those who have to deal directly with his BOOMING SELF, although, fairly, he does (occasionally) tone that down. F'yr, for his part, doesn't struggle with the physical requirements, of course, but he does look tired. He looks no less so now at the end of a long shift as he hauls the last of some of the wing's supplies into the storage cavern, dropping the coiled rope from over broad shoulders onto the correct stacks. What a day.

What a day, indeed. Generally, work with Galaxy is not as dramatic as some might imagine. Some days are downright boring, and N'on in particular approaches the work with a kind of studious single-mindedness that makes the boring days even worse, if one was hoping for excitement. But today… is not one of those days. Zhelinath has been looking a bit shinier these last few days, and today was downright unique in that N'on showed up without his ubiquitous turtleneck undershirt. Are his pants a little tighter today, too? Maybe! The full members of the wing let it pass unremarked, but he's been noticeably distractable throughout the shift. And when it comes to clean-up, well. He's downright lazy. As he drops a last piece of equipment onto a rack, he sighs heavily, then sprawls back on a pile of discarded blankets. He tucks his hands behind his head, making himself comfortable, and just sort of…watches F'yr. Weirdo.

Stalking-from-in-the-same-vicinity is rather how F'yr and N'on didn't-quite-really-meet-properly that time in the garden ages ago when F'yr stopped being one of the background figures and began to be known by the people of Xanadu. It's possible the bronzerider is oblivious to this watchfulness as he nudges a tail of rope into place with a foot and turns, drawing his shoulders up into a shrug that turns into a roll and then a second. It's only halfway through that second that blue eyes fall on N'on and he still a moment before completing the gesture. It can't have escaped the bronzerider's notice that Zhelinath is a little shinier, given the recent advent of Glorioth's interest in girls. Well, less in the girls and more in the opportunities they present for him to best other males in grand shows of his VIRILITY. He has made no particular comment to N'on before now, but seeing as how they're alone here and the work is done, F'yr is moving to where he can lean on a framework for some of the equipment, head canting slightly to one side, smile small but a recipe for trouble, despite how he looks tired around the eyes. "Alright there, N'on?"

N'on keeps right on watching F'yr, /because/. Hey, if he's going to do things like haul ropes around and roll his shoulders, he should expect to get watched. Thus goes N'on logic. The question is met with a vague smirk, and oddly he doesn't seem all that tired. He lifts a shoulder slightly, winks, and then stretches luxuriously. He lifts both hands and twists them, one brow lifted quizzically. "Finished?"

Fairly, there's probably many people who would follow N'on's logic perfectly. F'yr might not be one of them, but then again… he might, since he shifts out of his lean to stretch his arms over head and lean a little one way and then the other, letting his shirt stretch where it's tucked into trousers and semi obscured under the open-fronted riding jacket until the shirt just barely starts to free itself from the confines of that waistline. A tease in anyone's book really, but then, here is F'yr, faced with a proddy greenrider. Awful, awful F'yr, the youngest of twelve with fifteen cousins and a lot of life experience being just obnoxious enough to get under one's skin without getting stomped. That's probably all in reaction to the wink from the silent watcher. "Yeah, pretty much," the bronzerider replies only after he's finished. "Unless you had something else for me-" Beat. "-sir?" He manages to keep his smile in the realm of charming and innocent. Ass.

/Is/ F'yr getting under N'on's skin? Possibly. If so, the greenrider doesn't really seem to mind. He looks a bit amused as he watches F'yr putting on this show, drifting off into an odd sort of dreamy expression. Possibly talking to Zhelinath, knowing how riders tend to be. Abruptly, he blinks out of it and gives F'yr a slightly sharper, thoughtful look. With a sudden smirk, he beckons the bronzerider over, then shifts to make room. In case the invitation wasn't clear, he pats the makeshift seat next to him, then leans back and waits.

If F'yr pauses to lick his lips and press them together and give N'on, an amused but thoughtful look that lasts a handful of moments before the bronzerider pulls from where he was standing toward the blanket pile and then down onto the offered seat, maybe it just means he's planning his next nefarious move. Proximity might be it. His legs slide one over the other at the knee, hands folding neatly (demurely?) in his lap as though this were nothing unusual. And really, besides the shine to Zhelinath's hide, it's not really. Except… F'yr doesn't make any move toward continued conversation, just leans his head back against the wall and lets his blue gaze rove the room. Finally, his eyes slide toward N'on, slight smile playing across his lips and brows lifting in silent inquiry.

While F'yr watches the room, N'on is watching him. There's definitely an odd glint in his eye, and the combination of that smirk and the very-visible keloid scar traversing this throat is /almost/ unsettling. He waits, patiently, until F'yr looks at him with that brow lift, and that's all it takes. Without warning, he rests one hand on F'yr's knee, leans over, and tries to kiss him. It may be that 'try' is the key word there.

Try? Succeed. Perhaps it's not wholly unexpected, and perhaps F'yr meant to dodge at the last possible moment, and truly, he doesn't let lips stay touched to lips for more than half a breath before he's tilting his head so his forehead presses to N'on's, given that the back of his skull is against the wall there and he doesn't have room to move back, though theoretically he could to the side. "You," he says quietly, "are going to blush at me when Zhelianth stops glowing. You might even stop talking to me." A beat, "But you'll definitely avoid me." These may be perfectly valid points, really. How well does F'yr's logic penetrate the proddy haze?

N'on lets F'yr break the contact, though there's clear disappointment there. A touch of wry amusement twists his lips, and he retreats only just far enough to sign a decidedly snarky reply: "I already don't talk to you." Very funny, N'on. But he sighs and shifts so he can lean his head against the wall, allowing F'yr to escape if that's what he /really/ wants. Not that he looks happy about it, exactly.

F'yr's hand comes up, not to make move to do any awkward hair-pushing or face rubbing, but rather toward N'on's face, aiming to brush his thumb across the greenrider's cheek. He shifts in his seat in order to do so, torso twisting, but drawing one leg up and folding it so he's facing the greenrider's side. His eyes might still be holding some measure of amusement, but there's something shaded more serious in his expression. "That's just because you don't like to talk." In this case, F'yr's remark doesn't have much to do with the joke N'on made. "It's easier to kiss than to talk any day, but not less complicated in the end." This is F'yr being a different kind of awful. This if F'yr probably harshing someone's great proddy vibe.

N'on catches F'yr's hand and holds it there for a moment, closing his eyes with an odd little smile. Once the bronzerider has his say, N'on gives a little sigh, then kisses that hand and pointedly gives it back. He looks at F'yr with an expression that suggests he has some complicated thoughts about all of that… But then he just smirks and winks, climbing to his feet with another lazy stretch. He doesn't even look back as he wanders toward the exit.

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