Xanadu Twister

Disclaimer: Adult language and feelz.


Xanadu Weyr - Weyrsecond and Junior Weyrwomans' Office
Office or study? Perhaps this room is a little of both. It is spacious and airy with the big windows opposite the door looking northwards, a perfect aspect when one is this far south. Those windows are framed by dark forest green drapes, soft ribbons and braid in dark, rich gold sewn along the edges to give them a sumptuous look.

The back wall is covered by shelves that hold a variety of things - mostly records and reference material as well as writing tools and sheets of hide and paper. Tapestries, including several lovely scenes of the terrain around Xanadu Weyr, cover the rest of the wall-space while a soft, plain off-white rug hides the stone floor. A small, low table sits by the door and usually has some refreshment set out on it.

Several broad desks are arranged around the room, each one set so someone sitting at it doesn't look directly at any of the others. Small screens can be set up on each desk to give a little more privacy and each has one comfortable chair that goes with it. There are also several other chairs, which can be used by visitors.

There is a storm coming to break the rhythm of another summer day — not the weather itself, but in a proverbial sense and in a familiar form and face. It has taken him fewer days than he’d ever admit to start breaking; thin fissures first that chip away to cracks. Not enough that he’s completely undone and he has, thus far, operated just fine under autopilot mode. Get up, attend to duties, attend to Zekath, go through the motions. One step, next step. What’s not helped is the troubled, broken sleep. The evidence will be there, for those who can look beyond the static aura of that internal storm that radiates from his too-tense, too-grim exterior.

So it’s not the weather that comes knocking and just K'vir’s (too) quiet appearance at the doorway or wherever he needs to be to announce his presence after either a respectful knock or clearing of his throat (or both, because CONFLICT OR NOT, the man’s got some manners). “Hey.” His gaze will seek out F’yr then, tight expression easing just enough for the smallest of smol vague smiles. If it’s a smile at all, it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “You available later?” In case it wasn’t obvious by then, K’vir’s got something ON HIS MIND and is looking for someone to talk to. He’ll wait for the answer, before confirming where and when and then he’s dismissing himself without any further explanation. SORRY NOT SORRY, F’yr! You’ll just have to worry guess!

K’vir will be punctual at least in arriving at another of F’yr’s doors, this one being far more personal than the office setting. Despite his hand in instigating this, he’ll hesitate, wavering with his hand raised to knock (again, so polite!). There is conflict written all over him, a discordant clash causing him to falter on the very threshold of the help he sought out. It almost wins out, almost sees K’vir lower his hand and turn back, to send his apologies later for bailing. Ahh, but he’s not fully a coward and the dismay of having wasted F’yr’s time by leaving gives just enough ‘shove’ to give him enough grip to follow through. He knocks, then waits and fights that constant unseen battle within his head, while outwardly looking much the same, just ragged on the edges and so very tired.

F'yr isn't a hard man to find within the offices that make up Quasar's domain. The knock is enough to draw his attention since part of his duties frequently involves escorting this person or that to wherever it is within the administrative complex that they need to go (and fetching klah or tea, fetchingly~). He doesn't spare a glance for those others that might be at work in the shared office space, but sets the papers in his hands on one of the broad desks and moves to meet the bronzerider near the small table of refreshments just inside the door. It might be completely unconscious (though probably not totally) that F'yr's smile mirror's K'vir's, though less tense, and then his hands become busy fixing a mug of klah at that refreshment station. It might seem like it's for him, until his hand is reaching for the cream to add just a dash, the way the older bronzerider has been known to like it. All this, while he listens, the motions of fixing the drink routine enough that he barely needs to glance to get it right.

The younger man's, "Sure," amidst a stir keeps things simple at least. The mug is transferred into K'vir's hand, fingers ghosting over fingers so briefly as to be unexceptionable as he offers the time he imagines he'll be home by. It is rather a guessing game some days with how the office hours seem to work, but no doubt F'yr will make an effort to be sure of this one. All days don't go quite as smoothly as this one, but it proves smooth enough to see F'yr there to open the door for K'vir when he arrives and knocks.

Summer sees F'yr in simple cargo shorts and a soft grey shirt, casual, just like his movement to hook his hand around K'vir's wrist after getting one look at him and tug him within. Maybe it's some kind of full-circle for that time F'yr showed up beyond exhausted to literally rest his head on the older man's shoulder when he was renewing his acquaintance with what a big baby demanding lifemate he's been saddled with for all his days~. But now a bare foot moves to nudge the door closed behind K'vir, because hands are busy drawing him into an embrace that asks nothing of the man. There can be silence for some long moments, if that's what K'vir needs— but then, "Upstairs or down?"

By now, K'vir must be familiar to some degree with all of F'yr's homestead, through the admittedly infrequent interactions their schedules allow for. There are basically three options, the couch, here, the tower's second story which serves as office and is still a work in progress, not quite sure what it wants to be for F'yr, and F'yr's bedroom which has the advantage of the opening to the best balcony for a summer evening. Of course, K'vir could pick the fire pit outside, too, or the cliffs a short walk through the trees at the edge of F'yr's domain. Just because the choice was made simpler doesn't mean the younger man wouldn't yield to whatever was needed here, now.

K’vir didn’t even consider that there could be others in the office. He just might not care, in that very moment (he might later), who saw his arrival and drawing F’yr away. The klah is unexpected but accepted with sluggish, distracted movements. Appreciated, once the gesture sinks in a little further. He’ll extend what little energy he has that isn’t committed to just keeping himself together, to actually drink it too. It won’t be entirely finished by the time he leaves, having gained that confirmation and the all important time in which to swing by. Fate is at least kind enough to not throw further wrenches and delay either of them to that point.

He’ll be casually dressed as well, though in light-fabric pants instead of shorts and a shirt that looks a touch rumpled, as though he’d been laying on it from a botched attempt at a power nap. K’vir doesn’t utter a sound or resist when he’s tugged within and past the threshold of the door. It appears to come full circle, doesn’t it? If there is time, he will slip off his shoes (it’s an automatic enough response not to require too much from him) while that door is nudged shut. As he’s gathered into that embrace that asks nothing of him in that moment, he lean heavily into it but not sagging in relief; tension rolls off him, coiled tight to breaking point. It won’t keep him from resting his head by F’yr’s or even on his shoulder — which, perhaps, really does put this in a closely eerie parallel to the past! Silence is necessary, also welcomed and unhurried — lingering in that drawn out space of time where he just holds to F’yr like a man only just aware that he’s drowning just feet from the shore. It takes a few seconds more until he can gather and hold a thread of thought long enough to give an answer:

“Up.” One word to start, while his next words falter and die out as his jaw works and clenches. Gradually, haltingly, the rest comes in starts and stops, with no pause to apologize. “Haven’t slept well. Usually that and this—'' What is this, exactly? Him losing his grip? “—It can be a lot. Too much.” Simple appears to be the choice, even if his explanation is anything but simple to decipher. K’vir will straighten as he steps back from that embrace, but while he resumes his auto-pilot method of existing for the basics of movement, the older bronzerider keeps a hand available to grasp; a lingering anchor, as they head upwards. It will be the balcony he veers for, not so hesitant now by the ease of familiarity. Outdoors always brings a sense of peace to him, but he needs the security of ‘privacy’ — not that the fire pit isn’t (and in a happier visit, he’d choose that in a heartbeat), but the enclosed space of a balcony is a good middle ground.

F'yr doesn't rush anything, to include the habitual pause to slide off shoes. He doesn't rush this embrace that is so much more than simply strong arms pressed around the body within them. This is a rock face to which a drowning man might cling, having found it by dint of will or intention or luck— it's there. The younger bronzerider has been shown by the most implacable of anchors what it is to be one, and though he surely will not do as well as the man, the myth, the legend, that is Ila'den, he will do his damnedest, come what may. One arm stays low around K'vir's waist, while the other comes up to press at the base of his neck, gently but firmly, making the drowning man feel the willingness of this rock to be clung to— even if, perhaps, he'll break in some part through the effort of holding steady. That moment isn't now and may never come.

When K'vir has spoken, F'yr's hands are sliding away with only a little bit of a rub, letting one remain where the older man can keep it, grasp as resolutely kept as his arms in the moments before. "Okay," is all F'yr says, but he means it. Okay to whatever K'vir is half explaining about what this is (or isn't), about where he wants to go, about what he needs. It doesn't take long for them to scale the straight stairs, turn down the hall that overlooks the main rooms below and head up the spiral stair to that top tower room. Once there, F'yr lets K'vir pick the place, probably not the least surprised that it's the balcony because who passes up a balcony on a tower in summer?? Well, not them, apparently, but also because it's a place a person can breathe and that's probably one of the reasons F'yr loves it. There are seats out here now, but F'yr's favored spot has always been to duck beneath the single rail at waist height and settle on its edge to let his long legs dangle over.

… But this is not F'yr's moment, so he leaves it for K'vir to determine. He doesn't drop the man's hand, unless the older man wishes it so. It's natural for F'yr to step into K'vir's back, overlapping only half way, the hand not held finding his shoulder to squeeze slightly, just long enough to murmur, "Anything you need, Kyzen." F'yr is here. He'll give the man space after that — if it's wanted — but whatever is wanted, he's here and will try to meet those needs the best he can.

Not rushing allows a crucial foundation to be set, even as it is that rock face that he’ll grip firmly. He doesn’t have the mental strength yet to haul himself out of the waters — but it’s a start. Picking up on that willingness, some part of K’vir allows that reprieve to lean heavier into F’yr and that closeness offered before the move on to make that climb to the upper balcony.

K’vir’s approach is gradual and distracted, his hand naturally slipping away from F’yr’s as he nears the edge — and seemingly unconcerned by the height or how close he may be. Those seats aren’t even acknowledged and it's F'yr's presence at his back, the touch to his shoulder, that pulls him back from the depths of his thoughts. The murmur of that name acts as the final pull and his breath shudders in a heavy, deep exhale of release and wordless relief. Tilting his head back, his gaze drifts skywards. Is it still too early for the stars to be out? They’ve always been so comforting to him. So easy to get lost among their infinite numbers and for another half-span of heartbeats, K’vir drifts in silence. One breath, two, deeper

“D’lei is back.” Gruff spoken, voice tight and words partially clipped through tense jaw. “I was warned.” He doesn’t feel the need to give the obvious of who informed him. Lowering his head and his gaze, both will turn just enough to glimpse F’yr. “Still didn’t lessen the blow of seeing him. I —“ K’vir blinks his eyes, brows furrowing as he falters, mouth pressing into a grim line when no words follow. “— I can’t stay long, but I needed to — damn it…” Eyes close as his expression turns slightly pained, mouth pressed so tight and grimly. His hands curl and flex at his sides, attempting again to grasp at a shattered piece of himself. Maybe he’s as scattered as those stars and finding the right thread is a frustrating, maddening process of elimination.

“I don’t mean to sound like I’m using you.” He mutters at last. Did it? K’vir is uncertain, lost and adrift in whatever maelstrom discordant thoughts and fractured emotions. His head gives a sharp shake and his expression twists. No, not the thread he wants! “It’s too much at once.” he explains with a rushed exhale, as if hurrying that along before he can overthink change his mind; the look he flashes F’yr is a distantly hopeful one. Does he get it?


No, really, stop. That distantly hopeful glance is one looking for a glimmer but finds a blazing star. F'yr is already stepping into K'vir's space further, coming around so one foot ends up slightly between the older man's own, big body crowding that personal space so he can curl a hand along the bronzerider's jaw, forehead tipping to press against K'vir's, eyes open and as undaunted as his dragon always is. He is here for this. The move, the sudden so-much-F'yr right up in K'vir's space is meant to disrupt the reach for those thoughts that are understood but completely unnecessary here. He doesn't mean to add to the much, but rather to with just one move slash away worries K'vir does not need.

"Sometimes life is like that. It doesn't have to be, here." F'yr's words are considered, understanding, for as little time as it took him to move, to be here. There are many things the former farmer has to mull for days or weeks before he can act on it, but being there for one of his People when they've done so much as glance in his direction in a way that seems to invite it is not one of them. K'vir having initiated all this leaves F'yr with an easy task, reflexive, knit with the nature of his soul. His arms are going to find their way around K'vir again for an embrace that's tight, the kind of tight that doesn't aim to stifle but rather to steady, the kind that in a very physical way makes it hard to ignore that though a person may be alone with their thoughts and struggles, they are not alone. "Just breathe for a minute," he murmurs from where his face presses alongside K'vir's ear.

Then, in a minute, two, moments more, his arms start to loosen, inviting distance if distance is what K'vir needs, but equally allows for them to simply shift to something close, but still keeping that nearness. "What isn't too much to start with?" It's not prodding, nor coaxing, simply a solicitousness born of genuine care, one idea of how to go on here and now, though the tilt of the younger man's head and open, ready expression indicates he'd readily follow K'vir's lead if the man is inclined toward a different approach.

Dimly, K’vir is aware of needing to stop.

Harder to put that in motion, when the spiral kicks in. That’s why he’s here though, isn’t it? Some part of him knew he needed something, someone, to stabilize him. Not immediately piece back together, but bring him back and away from that edge. By the time F’yr’s crowding into his personal space, he doesn’t withdraw or try to evade the hand curling along his jaw, moving with stiffness brought on by his autopilot mode. That is, until their foreheads meet and its meaning gradually sinks in. His eyes will close and only because there is relief in that expression; disruption is sought and created and so far the only disruption that has brought good in its wake.

Can it be overlooked that his verbal response to the first prompt is nothing more than an acknowledging grunt of incoherent noise? At least it registered! F’yr’s arms finding their way around him again also pierces through and while his response is delayed, there is a slow burning intensity as he returns the embrace. It starts off ponderous and unsure, then firmer, and then equally as tight in steadying hold. No, they’re not alone and **he* is not alone here, in this place.

K’vir will breathe. It will take moments more before they’re calmer and steady, but he gets to that point when given the chance to. The invitation for distance is taken by a small margin. He remains very close, just glancing that invisible line of personal space. Closeness is definitely desired, but right now he is in overdrive and even that can tip into Too Much if pressed too quickly. It takes K’vir a longer stretch of time to untangle himself from the mess of his thoughts, but he manages it with the continued proximity of F'yr close by and within reach. Where to start? Plenty is grasped and dismissed, until at last, tentatively: “D’lei is back and he doesn’t remember. That illness did something to his head, to his memories—“

Shaky ground. K’vir hesitates, falters, already feeling the tremors threatening to undo the calmness built. He waits for the ebb, taking a breath, then another. “How—” he begins normally, until his voice roughens to a gruffer, pained note. “—the fuck am I supposed to react to that, F’yr? And not feel cruel or in any way wrong for my own feelings?” Which he doesn’t elaborate on, yet. Maybe that’s far enough or as far as K’vir can go for now. He may not even be expecting answers from the younger bronzerider; it could be just cathartic enough to air it out where the words won’t impact as hard or damage as badly.

Disruption accomplished, F'yr isn't about to press, not for things that might be too much too fast nor for information or even direction. All he offers is that starting place, then he lets K'vir set the terms of what he needs, responding by mirroring what seems to be wanted. Hopefully, his read of the situation will hold. There is enough of a tip of his head that F'yr's making an acknowledgement of the fact. Had he been informed intentionally or was it simply rumor that reached him? Who can say. Having worked in that office prior to his candidacy, D'lei's face isn't one he's likely to have forgotten in the intervening turns. The rest might be news to him, but this isn't about F'yr, and so his reactions are not here, not made available in a way that will hinder K'vir's need to reach for— whatever it is K'vir is reaching for.

The younger man's body language remains open, engaged, alert— and more than that, caring. His listening is always intense, but now it's perhaps some of the greatest K'vir has seen since the night of the explosion so long ago now. He waits those breaths, watches that face, head tilting slightly at the quality of the voice. Probably, left to his own devices, F'yr would reach for K'vir again — his hand, his arm, just some part of him that would connect him but to the older man, but something stops him for the moment from initiation that; maybe he suspects it would be distracting in not a helpful way just this moment, but he doesn't back off on the still relative closeness that K'vir chose when the embrace ended.

There is silence only for one beat, then two, but F'yr's lips are only gently pressed together. He's not looking for the words — that's a tighter control there, he's holding them for the moments it takes to be sure that the older man is open to words from the rock (after all, sometimes only the echo is all that'sought, and there's nothing wrong with that). Then the words come simply, with care, but not as certainties, just as an idea presented to apply to the stir of thoughts, perhaps in hopes that they will be some part balance for all that makes up the inner squall.

"Maybe there is no 'supposed to.' Maybe you just feel what you feel." Then, slowly, in case it's not the right moment, F'yr lifts a hand to splay it across K'vir's heart. "What you feel—" he searches, because the words are not ready to hand but he finds: "It matters. Whatever he's been through, what you've been through matters. You can feel cruel for what you feel, but you can't be cruel for what you feel unless you're acting on it in a way that is cruel." Maybe he's managed to confuse himself now, because he stops. Maybe it's less confusion than uncertainty if he's somehow said too much— if the rock that might be rescue was supposed to just be rock after all.

K’vir’s brows knit together as he begins to process those words — and it becomes all too clear when interference collides. One thought caught and snared by some fractured shard and old wounded memories that have no place here — but he cannot parse the difference, in that instance. His mood shifts, mouth pressing into a tense line along with his jaw and tension coils to the line of his shoulders and straightening of his posture as temper ripples to the surface like a distant ember.

For a fleeting second, his overwhelmed self misunderstands, taking F’yr’s words as a riddle he’s too dense to solve. He doesn’t even register that the younger bronzerider may have even confused himself. Hasn’t that always been K’vir’s flaw, being too ’dense’ to grasp anything until it was too late? Self-deprecating spirals are just as dangerous depths to slip into. It’s the hand splaying over his heart, along with everything else, that has him snapping out of it with a harsh drag of air through his teeth. Tension releases on the exhale, his hand reaching up to grasp F’yr’s hand firmly. Not to push away, but to press tightly and hold in place as his gaze seeks his.

“I don’t understand.” K’vir grinds out the words in a voice that is half choked with relief and wavering sadness. “That’s what I don’t understand! How are you supposed to know what is cruel or being unreasonable? How the hell am I supposed to draw lines and boundaries without hurting someone?” Maybe D’lei isn’t the only one he’s reflecting on here. “Especially when I’m not alone in this. What I say, what I do, can be right for me but wrong for everyone else.” And, in case it wasn’t abundantly clear by now? K’vir adds in a gruff sigh: “I hate this, F’yr.” And it’s then that he crosses back into that threshold of personal space, abandoning F’yr’s hand in favour of circling his arms around him in another embrace if welcomed.

It may be muddied, but he IS receiving what he needs from F’yr, from that patient and unhurried understanding, and in everything the younger man is offering thus far. He’s still not expecting answers from F’yr. It’s stability he’s reaching for: a trustworthy landmark among the star-scattered void of his thoughts, something to hone in on when everything else seems wrong. It’s an extension of the level of trust he’s built with him, to be able to fall this much apart without expectations put on either of them.

If it's a puzzle, it's not of F'yr's making and he shouldn't be held responsible for the mysteries of the universe. Blue eyes meet when they're sought, all that mess of unhappy emotion meets calm, not untroubled, but not that which will contribute to the chaos. This, too, is a skill brought with him from his other life; even in chaos or emergency, behaving that way doesn't do the panicked animals any good. As K'vir moves, F'yr's arms move enough to have anticipated him if only just. He wraps the older man tight. "Do you really think any of them—" What might have become an abrupt cut-off is, instead, only a beat's pause when he adjusts, adding with self-deprecating wryness, "Any of us," not even just the people involved in this particular snarl of emotion, but humans in general, he probably means, "—do?" Spoiler alert: precious few are those that do. Though perhaps more commonly on Pern than elsewhere. Evolution. Or something. Just like they're all so pretty~

"You're taking on the world," the words are gentle, "your world," gentler. "I can see you want to, to know just what to do or say to navigate— a mess." What other word could he use for it, even likely not knowing the play-by-play details. F'yr is not always bright, but he is empathetic and his life happens alongside, and intermixed, with many this affects deeply. He may not have been needed yet, but Uncle F'yr's place is ready to receive any of the brood that just need to get away, or to get an adult ear to listen to problems bigger than their small worlds have known (maybe not ever — look at their parents — but in a new dimension, perhaps). "You know she needs to find her way." Doesn't he? F'yr does. But that's all he's going to say about her directly. What he will also say is, "And the two of you will choose what you can choose that's best for the kids." He's sure of that too, to the best of their abilities, to the furthest dimensions of the love they can offer their family. "And you can't balance everything your arms hold if your own feet aren't under you."

F'yr doesn't say these things like they're news to K'vir, but rather is trying to conjure two points of clarity in what he's certain the man already knows but is losing sight of in the midst of his storm. Anchors. F'yr bodily tries to be a third, by giving K'vir time, by holding him in a resting place where he must deal with only what he brings with him. "Once things start going a way, I think the best any of us can really do is do as little damage as we can while getting through." That sounds touched by personal experience, and his expression is briefly sober in the worst of ways, but that's alright, because he still has K'vir right there and it just means when he tips his head to press forehead to forehead, they can exchange comfort making the whole affair however minutely less one-sided; F'yr's experiences that have any link to the current conversation are distant and old pain, not new.

As the words sink in, there’s a mildly self-deprecating scoff for ‘us’ as his head rests by F’yr’s shoulder. No, he doesn’t think many understand much of the world, but that doesn’t stop those thoughts. Ones where they insist that he should know more, have that knowledge at his fingertips, be the best soldier everything expected of him. Once again, F’yr has hit that mark on what K’vir is trying to seek: the obvious path, something, anything, to give him instructions he understands to the letter. None of this grey area that confuses him as equally as it does Zekath. The brood may have need of Uncle F’yr in the coming days. Is he truly ready for such an undertaking? K’vir will trust him with them (which says a lot) and would not protest if that comes to pass.

“Yes.” It’s a lone word, given without hesitation on the crest of a wavering sigh. K’vir knows that about her — or enough, anyways. There’s a grim press of his mouth and a grunted sound that acknowledges the rest. If F’yr is sure of it, then so is he while his thoughts are redirected to focus on those little elements; another shard grasped, gathered, and while not pieced together quite yet, there’s a semblance of whole — one more narrow inch of stability. It’s not news to K’vir and this time there’s an appreciative note to the way he exhales and his grip on F’yr increases in one last renewed hug before he’s leaning back; not away, but his proverbial feet are more solidly on the ground, even if a shaky surface.

“That…” Goes against everything? K’vir lapses into thoughtful, troubled, silence as he takes that time to turn it over. Another heavy sigh, steadier, as their foreheads come together in all too familiar gestures (and oh-so welcomed even in the midst of this maelstrom). “… is what I hope I can do, in the end. Little damage.” A man can hope, right? Another tiny sliver to grab, slightly sharp and biting but he’ll keep that tenebrous hold. “Thank you.” he breathes in the next breath, eyes closing as he just holds them unmoving in that moment. He’s not okay. Far from it. But that’s expected, isn't it?

There's a reason F'yr is trustworthy when it comes to the broods: not only does he genuinely enjoy kids, he also has had plenty of experience with them from every age from diapers to complicated puberty. Really, a nanny would do better, of course, but short of that, the expansive sprawl of siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews really did give the blond plenty of practice. He has far less experience dealing with adults in crisis like this, but he does know about panic, and about being in a bad way and just needing a steady person to hold onto. So he's here for K'vir, paying forward services done for him, acts of love and care that he can readily give to the older bronzerider who is family, even if much of the particulars of just how and how deeply they relate to one another is yet to be discovered.

The renewed hug receives pressure in kind, and when K'vir starts to lean back, the younger man's arms loosen, prepared to release him. When he doesn't move away, the arms resume a bit of their there-ness, loosely encircling the older man's torso, comfortably close. The way his lips quirk at the last two words is briefly amused, as if he finally understands just why others, when thanked for similar service, smiled and figuratively shrugged it off. He remains in that place, forehead to forehead for moments, long moments, then he shifts enough to tip his head and catch K'vir's forehead with his lips, pressing before shifting to become close again, to wrap arms around and hug him for moments more. "You'll do all you can do. That's the most anyone can ask of you, if not the most you can ask of yourself." The wry self-deprecating tone indicates without going into any kind of detail about what he's asked of himself that others never would.

When K'vir is ready, F'yr releases him, shifting to put his hands on K'vir's upper arm, scrubbing palms over the outsides. "Somehow, someway, you'll find a way, even if it has to be one foot in front of the other." That seems to be all the younger man feels he can offer without more direction from the older man as to what else he might do for him, what else he needs, except for the quiet addition, "You can always come here." Surely by now K'vir knows about the lantern system and the exception for true need. Hopefully he also knows that F'yr means 'here' as in himself as much as his home.

That moment of comfortable and close is not one K’vir seeks to escape, unhurried now that he has pulled himself back. Back from that edge of crisis, that yawning chasm that threatened to send him spiralling and Faranth knows how deep he’d have gone this time if he had. He won’t draw back when F’yr’s lips touch his forehead, the gesture bringing a twitched ghost of a smile in existence for it. The hug is returned, genuine and not as fraught as before, when he’d felt as though he were drowning; not that it has receded entirely but enough that he can keep firm footing in the now.

“It’s hard to keep myself convinced that doing all I can do? Is a good thing.” K’vir admits, his expression becoming tight and grim in another exhausted form, despite his voice carrying a faint edge of dry humor. “Always part of the plan, though.” He might have only grasped the tail edge of what F’yr was telling him. It could be he needs time to process that, too. Who knows? It could be helpful later, if his thoughts don’t break and scatter so terribly that he cannot recall anything in the heat of the moment. they could be bound to repeat moments like these

K’vir’s features relax to a brief appreciative glance when F’yr’s hands move to his upper arms; allowing him in turn to withdraw from the embrace but find an excuse for touch to linger as he reaches to clasp the younger bronzerider’s shoulder. “One foot in front of the other has been my life for Turns, F’yr.” Now there is a bit more humor here, even if still inclined towards dry and sarcastic. He knows of the lantern system and the exception for true need but the offer itself is a Big One for a man like K’vir and not something he takes lightly. “I’ll remember that.” Or try to — he’s not offering a solid promise, as he’s aware of his flaws and sometimes regrettable stupidity. The relationship between them has grown into something more concrete and it is no fault of F’yr’s if the older bronzerider may take a grand detour before recalling that he is always welcomed.

“I can’t stay much longer,” K’vir already noted that once, but it naturally bares repeating now. His hand will drop back to his side, but there is a subtle note of ease in which it happens. Tension still visibly marks his posture, but from outer sources and not between them. “But if it doesn’t—“ He stops himself, mid semi-apology, jaw working as he frowns, then sighs. Try again. “I want to just be here, with you.” For that ‘little longer’. Trusted companionship and company, whether they engage in further conversation or simply settle somewhere — all K’vir needs now is as close to peace as he can get. A moment to recollect, to regroup, to potentially share a lingering wayward shard of thought … or just shoot the shit, as though all was right with the world. The look he offers F’yr says as much, as he waits on the younger bronzerider to answer.

There is no additional disturbance to the flow of K'vir's return thoughts in response to F'yr's, but the lack of new words is not anything more or less than continued support. Despite his intermittent silence, F'yr's there, still in that comfortable close in the safe space they've created between them. His lips tug a little, not quite a smile, but warmth and understanding in those lips, empathy even, despite the stark differences between the scenarios surrounding the similar feelings. The twist of his lips at the touch of humor for K'vir over the steps taken promise bemused words to follow, but not until the man has expressed his wants.

F'yr's arms flex slightly just to give a reassuring pressure, without becoming an embrace. That's his non-verbal 'yes' to what K'vir needs, but before they can get to that he must feel he needs to touch on what's been said. "Xanadu-" maybe adult life - but seeing as how this is the only place F'yr has lived other than his home farm, he lacks the scope to know, "-seems to inspire the need for footwork with finesse, sometimes much bigger or more awkward than we're prepared for." But at least K'vir isn't alone in taking life that way and figuring out how to play Xanadu Twister to get through his life?

They need not linger on it though, because F'yr suggests, "I brought some things from the kitchen for dinner." Because he expects the older man this distraught to be hungry?? No, but, "I'd thought to cook up a skillet of filling and make some flat bread to put it in. Some of the vegetables are chopped, but other things still need it. We could cook?" Not he could cook for them, but rather, as they've surely done before, they can share the space, relaxing into the meditative actions of knife making edible what was only questionably so before. "Or we can just get a beer." That's always an option if the older man doesn't want something that sometimes resembles work, even if it doesn't often do that when it's the two of them at it (if they're fixing something to feed the brood— well, that's a full-scale production and F'yr is only to happy to let K'vir take the lead in those moments; they're, conveniently, his, after all).

“One way of putting it.” K’vir’s tone is as dry as ever, but the sarcasm carries less of a harsh edge and none of the earlier self-deprecation. It’s a warmer kind of humor, though it does not completely erase the tumultuous mess of emotions lurking beneath.It’s possible that it took the bronzerider until not that long ago to realize he was even playing Xanadu Twister!

They do not need to linger on it. With enough left in him to eagerly grasp that offered thread, K’vir does relax a fraction at the thought of something to do between them; something that will see time spent with busy hands (DO NOT read into that!). “We could cook,” he agrees, tone and mannerisms tipping back into a sense of normalcy. Cooking, as F’yr may have likely discovered, is a rarely-spoken enjoyment of K’vir’s. He’s far from any secret hidden talent, but his skills see him capable and reliable in a kitchen setting. More importantly? He enjoys it and it makes him as close to ‘happy’ as one such as himself can be.

It will be more of a distraction tonight, necessary and needed, among trusted and comfortable company. “Why not both?” WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG? “Just one beer.” For him, anyways. “It’ll take what’s left to chop. Leave the bread to your skill.” Deal, F’yr? K’vir is already taking another half step back, though he doesn’t immediately put distance between them, hovering close and blurring the lines of personal space. He’ll follow the younger bronzerider, should he choose then to lead them back inside, where conversation may dwindle to the minimum or sparse moments of neutral topics (or a fleeting moment of relaxed teasing on technique or skill once set to cooking).

The sense that things are still very much unstable within the older bronzerider never dissipates, lurking there forever just under the surface; but it helps, for that stretch of time, to just be with F’yr and go through the motions and semblance of everyday things. Eventually, K’vir will excuse himself but not without a long and lingering tight embrace. With it, another unspoken thanks and gratitude he wouldn’t dare ever try putting to words. He’ll leave not long afterwards, turning to the paths that will bring him ‘home’ and only marginally prepared to face what (or who) is waiting there; he is, at least, a little more whole going in.

Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 License