Xanadu Weyr - Training Grounds
A wide, grassy expanse, nestled into the gentle bowl shape where something's taken a bite out of the mountain. It's high above the level of the beach, and there's a good eastern view of the lake and a long path leading down to that sandy shore. Granite cliffs surround it on the other sides.
While much of the grounds are left in their natural state, one area has been trampled and trodden by enough feet that the grass struggles to grow. A running track circles a set of equipment - straw dummies with wooden frames, obstacles of various sizes and shapes, and targets for flaming, archery, and whatever else.
There's a dragon-sized opening to the south that leads to the cavernous weyrling barracks, and a smaller tunnel to the northeast - large enough for dragons newly emerged from the sands, but quickly outgrown by hatchlings who are then forced to take the long way around - at least, until they learn to spread their wings and fly. Between them in both position and size, a jagged crack in the stone leads to a dim cave with the sound of water.
Chores mean getting sweaty, gross and disgusting. At least you'd think so given how Khavro manages to wash away every day with a bath in the closest pool to the barracks, whether he was doing manual labor or academic labor. Tonight is no different, the curly-haired candidate padding off to the dragon pools, and then, eventually, making his way back as close to bedtime as he can manage.
Stefyr is a master of observation. OKAY, HE'S NOT, but you'd never know it on this particular night because happening to catch markedly rare sight of a certain curly-haired candidate heading out of the barracks to the baths, it's not beyond the blond's occasionally questionable intellect to work out that per force Khavro must come back at some point, and possibly even by the same route. And so it is that one hulking blond steps out of the darkness and into step beside Khavro, maybe not even realizing that enormous people shouldn't be able to be that silent for the good of all the hearts they might nearly stop, maybe he doesn't even know that suddenly appearing out of the shadows is scary at all. Or maybe he does. Asshole. "Do you have to avoid me?" It's a mild complaint that turns more serious as he asks, "Or is it that I crossed a line and my apology and word isn't enough?"
"Sharding, fuck, Stefyr," hisses Khavro, swinging an arm to thump the bigger candidate's torso with the back of his hand before he can even think to not. In the next moment he's nearly stopped and his hand is clutching his own chest as though to make sure his heart is still there. "Don't fucking scare me like that." He sounds a little mad about it, even. "What does it even matter if I avoid you when you're off kissing anyone who'll kiss you, anyway!" That didn't take long.
If life were fair, there'd be more than a token flinch from Stefyr when that hand collides with his torso. But life, she's a cruel mistress. No such luck. He does stop when Khavro nearly does, and either turns to face him or angles toward him as the other young man keeps walking - whichever. "Is our friendship dependent on kissing? And you said it didn't matter." He had at least asked when it came up.
Khavro does fully stop when Stefyr angles toward him, looking up at the blond with an exasperated and slightly baffled, "Isn't it?" As for it mattering? "It's complicated."
"I didn't think it was." Though that Khavro apparently does has Stefyr re-thinking, perhaps. He reaches up a hand to scratch at his chin. He's a little awkward now, but that's fine, just ignore it. It might go away. The big blond is ignoring it, after all. "I didn't really think I had any friendships that mattered so little that kissing would be more important." He lets the complication rest, for the moment.
"Don't," is Khavro's quick response to Stefyr's last. His voice wavers on that one word and he suddenly looks a lot more upset. "Look, just go back to the barracks and go to bed." That's not the way he goes when he turns to leave, though. Instead he's heading back in the direction he'd been coming from when Stefyr nearly startled him to death.
Stefyr swears softly, but with feeling. "Shit. I'm sorry, Khavro." Fucking it up worse, is he? Well done, Stefyr. He moves as if he wants to pursue the curly-haired candidate, but he stops himself after only two steps. He'll watch, expression pained really, but what can you do. In Stefyr's case? Nothing, apparently. Or nothing right anyway.