Caution tossed to the wind
Who: G'thon and Miniyal
When: Day 22, month 5, turn two of the seventh Pass
(immediately after the hatching, of which a galleries log may be found at E'sere's journal here.)
Where: G'thon's quarters
What: Ostensibly, dinner for two.
"I had hoped to have good reason to avoid the feast," G'thon is musing by the time he and Miniyal arrive at his door. He lays a pale palm on the doorknob and pauses a moment there, turning to offer the recordskeeper (harm-preventer) a sly little half-grin. "Nothing against the food, of course, but I know most of the people I might like to keep see with will be too busy to see me. I can't recall many hatchings after which I was able to properly relax and enjoy good company. This one, I believe, will be better." This said, he turns the knob and presses open the door.
The senses are assualted immediately by one undefeatable fact: the former weyrleader planned ahead. A table, likely his usual table, has been dressed up a little by a cloth. Plates and platters and wine await there, the latter a bottle a bucket filled with ice water. Everything but it steams warm and inviting, smelling of roast meat and sweet tubers and savory gravies and a great deal smelling of sweet, spicy dessert: a small cake adds color to G'thon's tea-cart beside the table, shining with candied fruits and sweetener glaze.
The man just holds the door open. The hallway is quiet, save for the distant murmur of celebrants far away. She has every opportunity to flee. But G'thon says: "Won't you come in?"
It's no surprise Miniyal would rather not attend the feast. Besides, she doesn't even eat at night. Well, she might sneak a bite here and there, but she tries not to. Normally she would have retreated swiftly and not worried about a thing. Since she had a chance to get away from it all she took it. Even if it meant being social on a lesser scale. Head tilting to the side she looks inside and then nearly smiles. "Well, I am happy to be able to provide a service to you then," she says as she steps inside. "It's the least I can do for the man who has helped me to find my new career. I shall no longer be cast adrift on a sea of. . .unknowing. Of things." Blinking she walks towards the table to see what lays atop it.
At last, in this much privacy, G'thon laughs. It's a little hollow, suffering somewhat from his gaunt state, but it could be worse and in the past, has been. "As I've been told, obviously Lexine's guards haven't done their job well enough. The time is high," he pauses here for both dramatic effect and to press shut the door behind him; it seals with a softspoken 'snick' of bolt and latch. "For a harm-preventer, official. We'll be on the front edge of progress, appointing one; soon all the Weyrs will want one. Please have a seat, Miniyal?" Another pause, this one less dramatic, but subtly and slightly coy. "May I call you Miniyal?" As if he's ever asked before.
Looking up from the food there is a faint smile that lingers and then disappears. "Well, I suppose being a trendsetter will pull me out of the shadows," Miniyal answers as she sits down at the table. "Although I am not convinced I want to be there yet." Shaking her head she blinks and peers at G'thon. "Oh, umm. You have. I mean, haven't you? Of course. There's not really anything else to call me." Puzzled she peers at G'thon a moment longer and then asks, carefully, "Why have you been in such a good mood? You're not. . .I mean, I know you had it. You didn't take it?" You're not a duggie are you? Well, she can't /say/ that.
"Well, there are ways to make a difference from the darkness, too." G'thon strolls around toward the table, around Miniyal's seat to the other side of the tea-cart. He nudges the pot far enough aside that he can reach over and take up the wine, which he uncorks to pour, a glass already at the table for each of two diners. "Had what?" The bottle lifts a little, pausing between the first glass being filled and the second, and the former weyrleader looks at Miniyal with what can only seem to be an honestly nonplussed expression. Then he fits a little smile back on and pours the second glass, shaking his head. "I guess I'm just -in- a good mood, Miniyal. I'll blame it on your little jest about the holder if you like." He puts the bottle back into the ice, then offers with a wave of his hand all the dishes on the table for his company before sinking into his chair. The more one looks at it, the more the spread looks like a very specialized 'mini feast' for two.
"I suppose. Although generally not very good ones," is the reply about darkness. Not that Niya is not a darkness fan, but still, even she realises its capability for evil. Looking over the food, so much food, she finally takes a little of everything onto her plate. Manners dictate if someone goes to the trouble to feed you that you eat, after all. Ignoring the drug question, either convinced or just not in the mood to push. . .get it, push. Hahahaha. Ahem. Taking up her glass she tries a sip. "This is good. And, well, I'm glad you are in a good mood. I imagine things, well, I mean, you've not had an easy time lately and all so, umm. Yea." The good thing about dinner is you can stop talking to eat. So, that is what she does. Rather than stumble around any other words she begins to sample the food on her plate.
"They make it by leaving the grapes on the vine until they - ah, let's say until they sugar. It's a more pleasant term." Than 'rot,' that is. G'thon flicks a brow up - it could almost be a waggle - and reaches out to lift his own drink. Condensation already beads upon the thin blown glass, and a few drops run chill down between his fingers, poised at the bends of his knuckles. He raises the wine and says, "I suppose I should toast to twenty-eight new pairs, but you'll forgive me if I say 'to good company?'" She'll have to; after that he draws back his glass for a sip, sealing the toast by imbibing. "Other than poor Leyron it has not been so bad. It's hard for everyone, just now," muses G'thon after that.
Far be it from Miniyal to object to whatever toast he wishes to make. Instead she tilts her head to the side and takes another small sip of her wine. "Well, rot or not, it's still good," she says and then looks to her food again. The toast then is ducked away from because that's more polite than asking him where his good company is currently residing. Certainly it is not her. At the mention of Leyron her eyes cannot help but drift towards the bookshelves again. A quietly murmured, "That must have been awful," is added because that is polite. Not having expected this dinner she has no prepared canned conversation. So, there is more dinner picked at carefully in silence for some time. When she does speak again it's a casually mentioned, "Issa found me the other night. She believes Diya will return." This is followed by a sip of her wine and a peek over at her companion to see what he does.
"Does she." It is rhetorical. G'thon lowers his glass, apparently untroubled by making his toast in solitary, and tends to his own meal in a manner not too unlike Miniyal's; his involves a lot of use of knife and fork to make meat, tubers, vegetables and such into incrementally smaller portions, from large bites to tiny bites to infinitesimally small bites, and very little eating of any of them. "I've had the opportunity to speak with Issa a little bit. I had a suspicion at the time that she might be looking for a route west." The old man spears a bit of roast redfruit and dredges it through a puddle of the sweetener-enriched goo it was cooked in. "So I suppose she must have found one, or else Nenuith's not as difficult to get a bead on as the bronzeriders and queens have led me to believe."
With a roll of her eyes, Miniyal says, "It's not as if it should be /hard/ to figure out where she would go. I mean, come on. No one says they have her. She wouldn't just vanish. Of course she'd go. . .well, where she did." Shaking her head there is another taste of wine to stop her mouth from running off more. The break is long enough that she finishes her wine and looks across the table. "That's /not/ eating," she chides gently. "No wonder you look as if a tiny breath will knock you over. G'thon? Eat. Because until you do I am not leaving this table." So, there. Another change of subject when she speaks next. Or back to the old one anyway. "I don't see, if Diya did not want to work with Yevide as senior she will want to work with Sinopa as such. But, what do I know. As I was so recently informed I learned nothing at all when I worked for Diya and seem to desperately need her tutelage still."
"Correct," replies G'thon, only, regarding Diya's whereabouts, but is startled by the fact that the woman across the table dares to chastise him for what he does with his food. The fork pauses, the little bit of fruit sagging on the tines, dripping syrup, and by way of reply the old man arches both brows, stares simply across the table, and puts the redfruit into his mouth: pop. 'So there,' he chews, staring at her, defiant. 'I am eating. Take that.' The fork goes back to the plate, collecting one of those incredibly small bits of meat, and sluices it, too, through the syrup-- well, at least he might eat it that way. "I do not believe Diya particularly wishes to work -with- any of our goldriders, or many others on Pern," observes G'thon after swallowing, intonation mild, even impassive. Curiousity quirks into the question that follows, however: "Did I tell you that? I should hope not." He eats the bit of meat then, too. A veritable meal by teaspoonfuls.
"No," Miniyal replies as she takes a bite of her own food, but she now seems more interested in making sure he eats than eating herself. His gaze is met, for once, with her own. It seems she is not going to back down on this at least. Her own fork is set down, half her food sitting there going cold as she folds her hands in her lap. "No, that was not you," she admits with a faint smile. "That was Issa again. She suggested I find work in the kitchens I believe." Shrugging her shoulders she lets out a sigh. "And I do not even know her really so it shouldn't matter much but I am just so very tired of people right now. Everyone assumes that. . .that. . .well, I do not know. But I'm just very tired of people I do not even know scolding me. As if I have done anything wrong. I have not."
"Then you mustn't let me scold you," replies G'thon in a good-natured, even self-depreciating tone, dry and bemused. He does a little more eating, here and there, mostly of fruit and rarely of meat so soaked in the fruit's syrup that it might as well be fruit too. He shuns the tubers and bread, starches not sweet apparently unsuited to his palate, but one cannot have everything. "If you catch me at it, tell me so. At least then I'll know to decide whether it's so important that I simply must make you suffer through it." He glances up from a tidbit of something on his fork about which he does not look entirely excited about eating. A little of that sparkle lights his eyes; it should serve as warning. "The kitchens would be a poor place to avoid people, anyway."
As the eating continues, Miniyal takes up her fork and tries a bite or two more of her dinner, but her attention remains on what is being eaten by him rather than on her own food. She takes a break to reach for the bottle of wine to refill her glass and then take a sip. "I can try," she says with a shrug. Likely in reply to his first statements rather than the last. "It's so easy as all that." Without explaining further she takes small drinks of wine as she makes sure he doesn't use conversation as an excuse to stop eating. So long as he keeps eating she will keep talking. After all, if she is suffering conversation he can suffer food. "They wouldn't let me in. The kitchens I mean. Anyway, I'm in no hurry to figure anything out. I've got a few projects in records I am finishing up. It's not as if I am useless and doing nothing right now. I just have to, well, figure it out. You know? What I am now."
"Trying is all any of us can ask." G'thon smiles mildly and, having eaten all of the fruit and some small portion of the meat on his plate, lifts the plate in one hand and with the other helps himself up out of his seat. "Shall we start on the cake?" He lifts his chin and with a glance sidelong at the tea-cart and the little delicacy waiting there with the tea explains the object of his remark, as if she might not have noticed it before. "I thought the eiswein might go well with it." Without waiting to hear if she's interested he moves around and puts his plate away on a lower shelf of the cart, then takes up a broad-bladed knife to portion out parts of the cake onto little plates. Sweetener-sparkling bits of fruit crumble out of the moist center as he slices it. "I could suggest any number of things you might be, Miniyal, but I must confess after my last two efforts I'm hesitant to expect you want to hear any professional advice from me. Would you like tea as well?"
"That's cheating," Miniyal points out as she watches the dinner plate disappear. "You know it's cheating." Tilting her head to the side she lets out a sigh. "Wasting away serves no purpose. You wanted to live before and now you're not." Looking at the cake she bites on her lip. "I shouldn't," is finally said as she shakes her head. And then back to what she was saying. "You're doing no one any good least of all yourself floating through life like you're not here. I've done the research. I know what people go through when they lose, well, I don't /know/ but I've done the research." For whatever reason. Not out of any sympathy or sense of like for the former weyrleader. Nope. None. Zero! "No tea, thank you. And, ,well. . .I'm sorry if, well, you know. If I was ever rude. Or stuff."
"I am not wasting away." G'thon gives her a severe but warm stare from behind the tea-cart, a not-quite-paternal expression he has had turns to perfect, tough love. Also, denial, but that's his problem. "And I do want to live. I just don't have much of an appetite." Except for sweet. He takes, perhaps, her 'I shouldn't' as some sort of personal problem with tea, because he comes around with a little plate of cake to her shoulder and bends with all the grace of a Lord's servant - well, he does have that training - to offer a hand to take away her supper plate and replace it with dessert. "I believe," he says then, there by her ear, and softer-spoken in deference to her eardrum - no other reason, naturally - "that you have never been rude except with good cause, and I would call that sort of rudeness 'frankness,' Miniyal. The tea is made from Nabolese berry leaves; are you sure you won't have a sip?"
A quiet snort and Miniyal gives him a 'look'. He's not fooling anyone. No one in this room anyway. The woman who invented denial is seated at the table. "Maybe not at first. But too long without proper nutrition and you /will/ waste away. I can tell you what happens to your body if you want. I've read the texts." Of course she has. She's read /everything/ or so she will say. The words spoken closer cause her to pull her hands into her lap where fingers twist together. It appears she's unnerved by such closeness. "A small bit then. If it's something I've not tried I may as well." Pausing she glances at him as he stands there. "Suppose one new thing in my life can't hurt. But trust me, I /will/ be watching you and if I think you are not taking care of yourself I am so going to sic every healer who owes me a favor on you. And plenty of people owe me favors." So, there.
"I eat an egg and some cress at lunch," G'thon informs her with warm, faux haughtiness, while he straightens and leaves her side to return to the tea-cart. His long, pale fingers slide over the back of her chair as he goes around behind her; they might just graze her back, too. "Whether I need them or not." He takes up his own cake-plate and goes clear on around to his side of the table and resettles there. "Still, I appreciate your concern and will keep in mind that you are watching me." He takes up his fork, but looks at Miniyal instead of at his dessert, and the lopsided, wry smile he wears is all for her. "I believe I owe you some, do I not?"
"Yes, well, just so we're clear," Miniyal mumbles about the food watching trying to sound as if she's indifferent to it all now that she's forced the issue. A pause and she lets out a breath she's holding when he sits back down. Reaching for her wine she empties the glass in one smooth motion, setting it back down and looking at her cake still without eating it. "I am not /watching/ you," she corrects. "Just. . .well." Now she takes up her fork to try the cake. Whatever she was going to add is lost in this new task. Her head stays down and she seems to be intent on consuming the cake now. Nothing to be said anymore. After four small bites or so her head shakes. "Never thought you did. Owe me anything I mean."
G'thon, witnessing the glass' emptying, puts out a slender hand to take up the bottle and reach across to refill, offering her only the time it takes him to arch an eyebrow in question to deny the wine. "Ah, but I think I do," replies the former weyrleader, and after the issue of wine is settled and he's replaced the bottle in the ice he tends to dissecting his cake, pulling out from it a candied cherry on the little dessert fork. "I obliged you to me twice, and you twice served well, but you have not found contentment in the service. I don't feel that I would be in the right to offer you another sort of employ after this, but I certainly do owe you something, Miniyal, whether it just be my time or some other consideration. I - " He pauses, only enough to make it obvious there is in fact a hesitation. "I do enjoy seeing you."
"Thank you," is mumbled as the wine is refilled. There's no reason /not/ to take a refill at this point. Miniyal looks at her glass and then takes a careful sip. Then she goes to her cake once more, but once G'thon begins his dissection she takes to watching him. Well, his dissection as her eyes don't drift but once up to his face. She's more interested in making sure he eats for whatever reason she has. "I don't think you owe me," she offers again quietly, stressing each word gently. "I think I might owe you. It feels as if I do." What she was going to say after this flows right from her brain at his last sentence. Blinking rapidly she looks up swiftly to peer at the man across the table from her. The response to that? Nothing at all. Down goes the head once more and she sees to her cake and liberal sips of wine. There is perhaps a mumble somewhere in there, but if so it's quite unintelligible and therefore unimportant.
"Then consider your company my repayment." G'thon offers this as though he had not heard her mumble, then pops that candied cherry into his mouth. Another little bite of cake, the actual cake portion, before he reaches for his wine and leans back into his chair, taking up his characteristic repose: elbows upon the seat's arms, legs crossed at the knee. It's a long time after she actually made that little unintelligible noise that he very kindly adds, "I'm sorry - what was that? Did I mishear...?"
Miniyal looks up again and perhaps it's that pose. His whole casual demeanor about the evening that finally has her narrowing her eyes and sitting up straight. Cake and wine are forgotten as she focuses on G'thon instead. Hands rest in her lap as she tilts her chin upwards and gives her head a soft shake. "No," she says firmly and then follows it up with a deep, if a tad shaky breath. "You're doing it again." Doing /it/ again. "I'm not going to let you charm and cajole your way through me again." Well, ok, she will. "I won't let you take what I-well, I just won't. So, just. . ." A pause as she searches for the proper thing to say and not finding it she instead finishes off her wine and ends with a less than satisfactory, "So, just, watch it." Yea! Take that!
"No?" But he needs to ask no further questions; she explains it all with the rest of what she says, thoughts described in completion and partially alike. When she seems through, he tests a sip of his wine, his first and only glass albeit half-emptied by his occasional drinking. "Very well," he says, after that, with a single nod of his head. "I shall take care not to abuse your faith. But what is it that I am not to be allowed to take? Have I suggested I will take anything from you, Miniyal? If so I have done so in error. Please - " He lifts the glass a bit, a gesture. "Correct me."
This will be amusing now as Niya gets to try to explain something. Articulate? Not so much. Fingers wrap around her empty wine glass although there's no protection there. It being empty as she well knows. Perhaps next time she'll insist there be no wine. It only seems to get her trouble if she consumes it around others. "I just, I mean, well." Mental confusion such as this requires exercise and so she rises from her chair, still clutching the empty wine glass, and begins to pace on her side of the table. Back and forth she goes trying to figure out what to say. The truth? Not likely. "I just mean there will be no taking advantage of my good will again," she finally settles on, stopping to look him in the eyes. "Just so we are clear. On that. If I decide to we might be friends. And all. So. . .just. Yes. Exactly."
He watches her pace with an attentiveness not quite avid; she has privacy even, here and there, as he looks down into his wine. Now and again he sips from it, but eventually the glass is empty and he releases it onto the table, lifting his regard just in time to be met by hers. His brows slide up as he leans back into the chair, folding his hands across the space before him, elbows propped on the chair-arms. "I have a great deal of goodwill for you, Miniyal; would you never take advantage of it? Even if I offered? I think I might be a little offended." G'thon affords the least of twitchy little one-sided smiles. "No; I cannot swear I will not take advantage of your good will. But Miniyal, I hope not to take advantage of -you-. And if I have done, in the past, I beg you forgive me."
"It's not," she begins and then stops. Trying again she looks away and around the room. "I just mean-" No, that doesn't work either. With a frustrated little noise she stalks to her chair and flops into it. "You're impossible to talk to," she finally says with a frown before releasing her own glass onto the table and then with a quiet thump her head rests on the table. Luckily she pushed her plate out of the way. If it were at all seemly she'd be banging her head against the table, but that sort of behavior would make her mother cringe and so she does not indulge in it. However much she wishes to. "And don't apologise," she mutters without looking up. "Because you would and I would feel horrid-er and then. . .and then you would try to apologise again and it's not your fault." Finally lifting her head she looks miserably down at her hands. "I've no idea at all why you would want my company. I can't even have dinner without making a mess of things."
At first it seems very much that G'thon is just going to watch this display, just going to allow it - but when it goes as far as her head hitting the table he pushes himself swiftly up from his chair, moving with the smooth and unhindered grace he rarely exhibits in full public spectacle, such as at the hatching not long ago. Soft-footed in his too-soft-for-dragonriding boots, he strides easily around the table. Unless she takes note - or moves as a result of taking note - by the time she's miserably staring at her hands, he's at her shoulder again, a little bit bent, as if to try to see her face. And then his hand, slim, pale and too long for even his height, seeks out her shoulder. "Why wouldn't I? We have delightful conversations, and I find your insights - challenging. Miniyal." The last, her name, is a plea: look at me.
Wrapped up in her own shortcomings there is no notice of movement from anything. Even as she wrings her hands together, Miniyal seems unaware of the action. The words piece partway through the whole miserable existence part of her and she shakes her head softly. "I'm horrid at being friends," she says without looking up. "I try so hard to think of what to say that I take so long I just say anything and sound like an idiot and I'm just, just not." Her words come out in a jumbled rush and it's only when they still that she finally looks up. There is, thankfully, at least no indication she is going to burst into tears. She just adds, soft enough to be almost unheard even from where he stands, "I don't know what to do around people. They don't make sense. They scare me." And then she just blinks owlishly.
"I have not asked that you be friends with me. Only good company, and that you are." His hand on her shoulder is cool, as though his circulation suffers for any number of his self-destructive behaviours. He is quiet for some time after she has said that people scare her, however, and he manages for her another of those little smiles. It is so weak there seems little possibility it could be faked. The voice that was so authoritative in telling her she's good company just a second ago is suddenly soft, as soft as hers, and little more confident for all its grace. "I - don't want to scare you, Miniyal," he says, and certainly that must be why he bends to kiss her, just then.
"You wouldn't want to be friends?" Oh. Well, that makes sense. Over the increasingly loud little mocking voice in her head, Miniyal tries to find some sense in her brain. All that is left is to listen to what is being said and try to find out what is going on behind the words. She cannot, however, answer because before the words can be shaped she is being kissed. Which is, it need be said, /so/ not what she was expecting to come out of this night. For that first second there's, well, shock. A mere few seconds after there is, perhaps, a hint of reciprocation in the act and then she is pulling away. Not quickly or in anger, but just a gentle withdrawal from something unexpected. "I would like to be friends," she whispers with wide eyes as she stares at him, confused. "Should I go?" You know, did you make a horrid mistake? Are you standing there going 'what was I thinking?' Or do you just want her out of your hair? Really. What was that?
"I would want to be. But I can't ask for a friendship. I can only try to create one." Slightly, mildly, G'thon smiles. 'Friends' is a dangerous word; it has a way of destroying kisses, and moments that could turn into kisses. So he says, instead of something else, "Don't go," and overturns his hand from her shoulder to put two fingertips lightly beneath her chin. That touch is hardly firm enough to hold her; she could turn away, she could avert her eyes. She would have to, not to be kissed again.
The last time someone kissed her, well, other than the immediate last time, it was a pity kiss. That is, she felt sorry for someone. Which is is quite capable of doing. Therefore, Miniyal is, to say the least uncertain at this point. It's possible this is what that is with her on the other side. Or, perhaps, he's desperate and has decided to pick the one person probably lonely enough to be receptive to such advances. These thoughts and more swirl through her brain as she listens to those few words. Along with, as she feels fingers on her chin 'oh, dear, he's going to do it again.' Now would be the time to pull away, gently, and insist that she wishes to be /friends/ and that friends do not do this sort of thing. At least, none of her friends ever did. However, rather than doing that she continues to remain as she is and when kissed this time she doesn't pull back.
It is better done this time, with her permission complicit from the start; better done, and done longer. He draws back when breath or the bend of his back demand it, and his fingertips draw up the side of her face, describing the curve of her cheek. "What can I say," he murmurs, voice warm but somehow sad; his eyes search her face, but search as though what they want is to be lost. "What can I say after that?" The smile, too, is a bit sorrowful - G'thon takes care, here, to be sure she sees these glimpses into him, sees more than what he might otherwise show. He lowers his hand, not to leave her untouched, but to trace fingertips over her fingers, to ask for them in his. The hand, the lips are bold; the words, a little more sacrificial, a little wise. "You must think me incredibly foolish."
This makes twice then that she is completely at a loss for words in the past few minutes. Perhaps not so much from the kiss although her cheeks are flushed from it and she looks away for a moment. Just a second when his fingers touch her cheek. Her eyes go back to his and she offers the faintest of smiles, not because she is unsure of if she should, but because she is unsure of just what sort of smile would be right. A glance away again, this time at her fingers and Miniyal turns her hand over so fingers can entwine. "I think you are lonely," she answers quietly. "I think after so long with no chance of being such you are unsure how to handle such a thing. So, you reach for what companionship you can." There is a pause here as she chooses her next words carefully, eyes searching his face now but unable to find what she needs to know. "I have little to do with my time these days, G'thon. Day or night, if wish my company it is yours. I am a poor replacement for all those you have lost, but I'd not see someone suffer I could bring solace too." And there is a smile there, warm and somewhat affectionate, all for him.
He bends his head and laughs a very little bit, voicelessly, a shuddering little rasp of his breath, when she says he's lonely. But for all of that self-depreciating, so-dry-it-hurts humor, G'thon does not deny her measure of him. He just lifts his chin again, enough to convey some mild but defiant pride, enough to meet her eyes and gently plead with her. "You are probably right. But many people - so many people - are lonely, Miniyal, and for harder reasons even than mine. Don't spend your pity on me." He lifts her hand a little bit, then bends to breathe a kiss across the knuckles. When he straightens, he lifts her hand a little more, thumb gliding across the skin he just kissed, comforting and solicitous - she might, to follow that hand, stand up. Certainly that is his intent. "But if you have time - I would be glad to let you spend that."
"You mistake me, sir," Miniyal answers quietly with a shake of her head. "I do not pity you." Not really. Much. Well, it's not the defining emotion she carries for him. As he seems to want she stands, hip bumping the table in the process, but not enough at least to do more than cause a few things to wobble. She spares it no glance, focused now on getting her point across clearly which can be hard for her no doubt. "I respect you. To continue to live when you could have died. To choose what you did. I respect that. I think no one can understand your days. I'll never lose what you did, but I understand emptiness. There is no pity in the time I share with you." There is a flicker of a smile, so shy it flees the moment it appears, but the light touch on his cheek as she raises her free hand to touch him carries the same message. She'll put aside her old grievances with him and start over. Poor deluded little girl.
G'thon curls his hand, bends his arm, little shifts that tuck her hand close to his waist, that will - if she follows them - tuck her, bodily, close to him. That way he may curve his other arm around her, loosely at first, and untwine his fingers from hers so that hand's free to lift and to stroke at the fingers upon his cheek. "Very well," he says, softly, and leans in - plainly, it is to be another kiss - only to stop and blink once at her. A little twinkle alights in his eyes, brightening the blues and greens in the mix of their hazel. "You should call me Gans," he advises. After that, there is time enough for kissing.
In for one mark, in for a dozen it seems tonight. Rudeness would be now to pull away after such closeness as has gone by already. Miniyal will learn forward and allow herself to be held. When her fingers are released she moves that hand to rest atop the arm that encircles her. After that there is nothing to do but lift her chin so she can look once more at him. "Gans," she acknowledges shyly. There is a little more boldness in her actions, but her voice remains, if not unsure, than cautious perhaps. Although it does seem as if caution has long since been tossed to the wind.
When: Day 22, month 5, turn two of the seventh Pass
(immediately after the hatching, of which a galleries log may be found at E'sere's journal here.)
Where: G'thon's quarters
What: Ostensibly, dinner for two.
"I had hoped to have good reason to avoid the feast," G'thon is musing by the time he and Miniyal arrive at his door. He lays a pale palm on the doorknob and pauses a moment there, turning to offer the recordskeeper (harm-preventer) a sly little half-grin. "Nothing against the food, of course, but I know most of the people I might like to keep see with will be too busy to see me. I can't recall many hatchings after which I was able to properly relax and enjoy good company. This one, I believe, will be better." This said, he turns the knob and presses open the door.
The senses are assualted immediately by one undefeatable fact: the former weyrleader planned ahead. A table, likely his usual table, has been dressed up a little by a cloth. Plates and platters and wine await there, the latter a bottle a bucket filled with ice water. Everything but it steams warm and inviting, smelling of roast meat and sweet tubers and savory gravies and a great deal smelling of sweet, spicy dessert: a small cake adds color to G'thon's tea-cart beside the table, shining with candied fruits and sweetener glaze.
The man just holds the door open. The hallway is quiet, save for the distant murmur of celebrants far away. She has every opportunity to flee. But G'thon says: "Won't you come in?"
It's no surprise Miniyal would rather not attend the feast. Besides, she doesn't even eat at night. Well, she might sneak a bite here and there, but she tries not to. Normally she would have retreated swiftly and not worried about a thing. Since she had a chance to get away from it all she took it. Even if it meant being social on a lesser scale. Head tilting to the side she looks inside and then nearly smiles. "Well, I am happy to be able to provide a service to you then," she says as she steps inside. "It's the least I can do for the man who has helped me to find my new career. I shall no longer be cast adrift on a sea of. . .unknowing. Of things." Blinking she walks towards the table to see what lays atop it.
At last, in this much privacy, G'thon laughs. It's a little hollow, suffering somewhat from his gaunt state, but it could be worse and in the past, has been. "As I've been told, obviously Lexine's guards haven't done their job well enough. The time is high," he pauses here for both dramatic effect and to press shut the door behind him; it seals with a softspoken 'snick' of bolt and latch. "For a harm-preventer, official. We'll be on the front edge of progress, appointing one; soon all the Weyrs will want one. Please have a seat, Miniyal?" Another pause, this one less dramatic, but subtly and slightly coy. "May I call you Miniyal?" As if he's ever asked before.
Looking up from the food there is a faint smile that lingers and then disappears. "Well, I suppose being a trendsetter will pull me out of the shadows," Miniyal answers as she sits down at the table. "Although I am not convinced I want to be there yet." Shaking her head she blinks and peers at G'thon. "Oh, umm. You have. I mean, haven't you? Of course. There's not really anything else to call me." Puzzled she peers at G'thon a moment longer and then asks, carefully, "Why have you been in such a good mood? You're not. . .I mean, I know you had it. You didn't take it?" You're not a duggie are you? Well, she can't /say/ that.
"Well, there are ways to make a difference from the darkness, too." G'thon strolls around toward the table, around Miniyal's seat to the other side of the tea-cart. He nudges the pot far enough aside that he can reach over and take up the wine, which he uncorks to pour, a glass already at the table for each of two diners. "Had what?" The bottle lifts a little, pausing between the first glass being filled and the second, and the former weyrleader looks at Miniyal with what can only seem to be an honestly nonplussed expression. Then he fits a little smile back on and pours the second glass, shaking his head. "I guess I'm just -in- a good mood, Miniyal. I'll blame it on your little jest about the holder if you like." He puts the bottle back into the ice, then offers with a wave of his hand all the dishes on the table for his company before sinking into his chair. The more one looks at it, the more the spread looks like a very specialized 'mini feast' for two.
"I suppose. Although generally not very good ones," is the reply about darkness. Not that Niya is not a darkness fan, but still, even she realises its capability for evil. Looking over the food, so much food, she finally takes a little of everything onto her plate. Manners dictate if someone goes to the trouble to feed you that you eat, after all. Ignoring the drug question, either convinced or just not in the mood to push. . .get it, push. Hahahaha. Ahem. Taking up her glass she tries a sip. "This is good. And, well, I'm glad you are in a good mood. I imagine things, well, I mean, you've not had an easy time lately and all so, umm. Yea." The good thing about dinner is you can stop talking to eat. So, that is what she does. Rather than stumble around any other words she begins to sample the food on her plate.
"They make it by leaving the grapes on the vine until they - ah, let's say until they sugar. It's a more pleasant term." Than 'rot,' that is. G'thon flicks a brow up - it could almost be a waggle - and reaches out to lift his own drink. Condensation already beads upon the thin blown glass, and a few drops run chill down between his fingers, poised at the bends of his knuckles. He raises the wine and says, "I suppose I should toast to twenty-eight new pairs, but you'll forgive me if I say 'to good company?'" She'll have to; after that he draws back his glass for a sip, sealing the toast by imbibing. "Other than poor Leyron it has not been so bad. It's hard for everyone, just now," muses G'thon after that.
Far be it from Miniyal to object to whatever toast he wishes to make. Instead she tilts her head to the side and takes another small sip of her wine. "Well, rot or not, it's still good," she says and then looks to her food again. The toast then is ducked away from because that's more polite than asking him where his good company is currently residing. Certainly it is not her. At the mention of Leyron her eyes cannot help but drift towards the bookshelves again. A quietly murmured, "That must have been awful," is added because that is polite. Not having expected this dinner she has no prepared canned conversation. So, there is more dinner picked at carefully in silence for some time. When she does speak again it's a casually mentioned, "Issa found me the other night. She believes Diya will return." This is followed by a sip of her wine and a peek over at her companion to see what he does.
"Does she." It is rhetorical. G'thon lowers his glass, apparently untroubled by making his toast in solitary, and tends to his own meal in a manner not too unlike Miniyal's; his involves a lot of use of knife and fork to make meat, tubers, vegetables and such into incrementally smaller portions, from large bites to tiny bites to infinitesimally small bites, and very little eating of any of them. "I've had the opportunity to speak with Issa a little bit. I had a suspicion at the time that she might be looking for a route west." The old man spears a bit of roast redfruit and dredges it through a puddle of the sweetener-enriched goo it was cooked in. "So I suppose she must have found one, or else Nenuith's not as difficult to get a bead on as the bronzeriders and queens have led me to believe."
With a roll of her eyes, Miniyal says, "It's not as if it should be /hard/ to figure out where she would go. I mean, come on. No one says they have her. She wouldn't just vanish. Of course she'd go. . .well, where she did." Shaking her head there is another taste of wine to stop her mouth from running off more. The break is long enough that she finishes her wine and looks across the table. "That's /not/ eating," she chides gently. "No wonder you look as if a tiny breath will knock you over. G'thon? Eat. Because until you do I am not leaving this table." So, there. Another change of subject when she speaks next. Or back to the old one anyway. "I don't see, if Diya did not want to work with Yevide as senior she will want to work with Sinopa as such. But, what do I know. As I was so recently informed I learned nothing at all when I worked for Diya and seem to desperately need her tutelage still."
"Correct," replies G'thon, only, regarding Diya's whereabouts, but is startled by the fact that the woman across the table dares to chastise him for what he does with his food. The fork pauses, the little bit of fruit sagging on the tines, dripping syrup, and by way of reply the old man arches both brows, stares simply across the table, and puts the redfruit into his mouth: pop. 'So there,' he chews, staring at her, defiant. 'I am eating. Take that.' The fork goes back to the plate, collecting one of those incredibly small bits of meat, and sluices it, too, through the syrup-- well, at least he might eat it that way. "I do not believe Diya particularly wishes to work -with- any of our goldriders, or many others on Pern," observes G'thon after swallowing, intonation mild, even impassive. Curiousity quirks into the question that follows, however: "Did I tell you that? I should hope not." He eats the bit of meat then, too. A veritable meal by teaspoonfuls.
"No," Miniyal replies as she takes a bite of her own food, but she now seems more interested in making sure he eats than eating herself. His gaze is met, for once, with her own. It seems she is not going to back down on this at least. Her own fork is set down, half her food sitting there going cold as she folds her hands in her lap. "No, that was not you," she admits with a faint smile. "That was Issa again. She suggested I find work in the kitchens I believe." Shrugging her shoulders she lets out a sigh. "And I do not even know her really so it shouldn't matter much but I am just so very tired of people right now. Everyone assumes that. . .that. . .well, I do not know. But I'm just very tired of people I do not even know scolding me. As if I have done anything wrong. I have not."
"Then you mustn't let me scold you," replies G'thon in a good-natured, even self-depreciating tone, dry and bemused. He does a little more eating, here and there, mostly of fruit and rarely of meat so soaked in the fruit's syrup that it might as well be fruit too. He shuns the tubers and bread, starches not sweet apparently unsuited to his palate, but one cannot have everything. "If you catch me at it, tell me so. At least then I'll know to decide whether it's so important that I simply must make you suffer through it." He glances up from a tidbit of something on his fork about which he does not look entirely excited about eating. A little of that sparkle lights his eyes; it should serve as warning. "The kitchens would be a poor place to avoid people, anyway."
As the eating continues, Miniyal takes up her fork and tries a bite or two more of her dinner, but her attention remains on what is being eaten by him rather than on her own food. She takes a break to reach for the bottle of wine to refill her glass and then take a sip. "I can try," she says with a shrug. Likely in reply to his first statements rather than the last. "It's so easy as all that." Without explaining further she takes small drinks of wine as she makes sure he doesn't use conversation as an excuse to stop eating. So long as he keeps eating she will keep talking. After all, if she is suffering conversation he can suffer food. "They wouldn't let me in. The kitchens I mean. Anyway, I'm in no hurry to figure anything out. I've got a few projects in records I am finishing up. It's not as if I am useless and doing nothing right now. I just have to, well, figure it out. You know? What I am now."
"Trying is all any of us can ask." G'thon smiles mildly and, having eaten all of the fruit and some small portion of the meat on his plate, lifts the plate in one hand and with the other helps himself up out of his seat. "Shall we start on the cake?" He lifts his chin and with a glance sidelong at the tea-cart and the little delicacy waiting there with the tea explains the object of his remark, as if she might not have noticed it before. "I thought the eiswein might go well with it." Without waiting to hear if she's interested he moves around and puts his plate away on a lower shelf of the cart, then takes up a broad-bladed knife to portion out parts of the cake onto little plates. Sweetener-sparkling bits of fruit crumble out of the moist center as he slices it. "I could suggest any number of things you might be, Miniyal, but I must confess after my last two efforts I'm hesitant to expect you want to hear any professional advice from me. Would you like tea as well?"
"That's cheating," Miniyal points out as she watches the dinner plate disappear. "You know it's cheating." Tilting her head to the side she lets out a sigh. "Wasting away serves no purpose. You wanted to live before and now you're not." Looking at the cake she bites on her lip. "I shouldn't," is finally said as she shakes her head. And then back to what she was saying. "You're doing no one any good least of all yourself floating through life like you're not here. I've done the research. I know what people go through when they lose, well, I don't /know/ but I've done the research." For whatever reason. Not out of any sympathy or sense of like for the former weyrleader. Nope. None. Zero! "No tea, thank you. And, ,well. . .I'm sorry if, well, you know. If I was ever rude. Or stuff."
"I am not wasting away." G'thon gives her a severe but warm stare from behind the tea-cart, a not-quite-paternal expression he has had turns to perfect, tough love. Also, denial, but that's his problem. "And I do want to live. I just don't have much of an appetite." Except for sweet. He takes, perhaps, her 'I shouldn't' as some sort of personal problem with tea, because he comes around with a little plate of cake to her shoulder and bends with all the grace of a Lord's servant - well, he does have that training - to offer a hand to take away her supper plate and replace it with dessert. "I believe," he says then, there by her ear, and softer-spoken in deference to her eardrum - no other reason, naturally - "that you have never been rude except with good cause, and I would call that sort of rudeness 'frankness,' Miniyal. The tea is made from Nabolese berry leaves; are you sure you won't have a sip?"
A quiet snort and Miniyal gives him a 'look'. He's not fooling anyone. No one in this room anyway. The woman who invented denial is seated at the table. "Maybe not at first. But too long without proper nutrition and you /will/ waste away. I can tell you what happens to your body if you want. I've read the texts." Of course she has. She's read /everything/ or so she will say. The words spoken closer cause her to pull her hands into her lap where fingers twist together. It appears she's unnerved by such closeness. "A small bit then. If it's something I've not tried I may as well." Pausing she glances at him as he stands there. "Suppose one new thing in my life can't hurt. But trust me, I /will/ be watching you and if I think you are not taking care of yourself I am so going to sic every healer who owes me a favor on you. And plenty of people owe me favors." So, there.
"I eat an egg and some cress at lunch," G'thon informs her with warm, faux haughtiness, while he straightens and leaves her side to return to the tea-cart. His long, pale fingers slide over the back of her chair as he goes around behind her; they might just graze her back, too. "Whether I need them or not." He takes up his own cake-plate and goes clear on around to his side of the table and resettles there. "Still, I appreciate your concern and will keep in mind that you are watching me." He takes up his fork, but looks at Miniyal instead of at his dessert, and the lopsided, wry smile he wears is all for her. "I believe I owe you some, do I not?"
"Yes, well, just so we're clear," Miniyal mumbles about the food watching trying to sound as if she's indifferent to it all now that she's forced the issue. A pause and she lets out a breath she's holding when he sits back down. Reaching for her wine she empties the glass in one smooth motion, setting it back down and looking at her cake still without eating it. "I am not /watching/ you," she corrects. "Just. . .well." Now she takes up her fork to try the cake. Whatever she was going to add is lost in this new task. Her head stays down and she seems to be intent on consuming the cake now. Nothing to be said anymore. After four small bites or so her head shakes. "Never thought you did. Owe me anything I mean."
G'thon, witnessing the glass' emptying, puts out a slender hand to take up the bottle and reach across to refill, offering her only the time it takes him to arch an eyebrow in question to deny the wine. "Ah, but I think I do," replies the former weyrleader, and after the issue of wine is settled and he's replaced the bottle in the ice he tends to dissecting his cake, pulling out from it a candied cherry on the little dessert fork. "I obliged you to me twice, and you twice served well, but you have not found contentment in the service. I don't feel that I would be in the right to offer you another sort of employ after this, but I certainly do owe you something, Miniyal, whether it just be my time or some other consideration. I - " He pauses, only enough to make it obvious there is in fact a hesitation. "I do enjoy seeing you."
"Thank you," is mumbled as the wine is refilled. There's no reason /not/ to take a refill at this point. Miniyal looks at her glass and then takes a careful sip. Then she goes to her cake once more, but once G'thon begins his dissection she takes to watching him. Well, his dissection as her eyes don't drift but once up to his face. She's more interested in making sure he eats for whatever reason she has. "I don't think you owe me," she offers again quietly, stressing each word gently. "I think I might owe you. It feels as if I do." What she was going to say after this flows right from her brain at his last sentence. Blinking rapidly she looks up swiftly to peer at the man across the table from her. The response to that? Nothing at all. Down goes the head once more and she sees to her cake and liberal sips of wine. There is perhaps a mumble somewhere in there, but if so it's quite unintelligible and therefore unimportant.
"Then consider your company my repayment." G'thon offers this as though he had not heard her mumble, then pops that candied cherry into his mouth. Another little bite of cake, the actual cake portion, before he reaches for his wine and leans back into his chair, taking up his characteristic repose: elbows upon the seat's arms, legs crossed at the knee. It's a long time after she actually made that little unintelligible noise that he very kindly adds, "I'm sorry - what was that? Did I mishear...?"
Miniyal looks up again and perhaps it's that pose. His whole casual demeanor about the evening that finally has her narrowing her eyes and sitting up straight. Cake and wine are forgotten as she focuses on G'thon instead. Hands rest in her lap as she tilts her chin upwards and gives her head a soft shake. "No," she says firmly and then follows it up with a deep, if a tad shaky breath. "You're doing it again." Doing /it/ again. "I'm not going to let you charm and cajole your way through me again." Well, ok, she will. "I won't let you take what I-well, I just won't. So, just. . ." A pause as she searches for the proper thing to say and not finding it she instead finishes off her wine and ends with a less than satisfactory, "So, just, watch it." Yea! Take that!
"No?" But he needs to ask no further questions; she explains it all with the rest of what she says, thoughts described in completion and partially alike. When she seems through, he tests a sip of his wine, his first and only glass albeit half-emptied by his occasional drinking. "Very well," he says, after that, with a single nod of his head. "I shall take care not to abuse your faith. But what is it that I am not to be allowed to take? Have I suggested I will take anything from you, Miniyal? If so I have done so in error. Please - " He lifts the glass a bit, a gesture. "Correct me."
This will be amusing now as Niya gets to try to explain something. Articulate? Not so much. Fingers wrap around her empty wine glass although there's no protection there. It being empty as she well knows. Perhaps next time she'll insist there be no wine. It only seems to get her trouble if she consumes it around others. "I just, I mean, well." Mental confusion such as this requires exercise and so she rises from her chair, still clutching the empty wine glass, and begins to pace on her side of the table. Back and forth she goes trying to figure out what to say. The truth? Not likely. "I just mean there will be no taking advantage of my good will again," she finally settles on, stopping to look him in the eyes. "Just so we are clear. On that. If I decide to we might be friends. And all. So. . .just. Yes. Exactly."
He watches her pace with an attentiveness not quite avid; she has privacy even, here and there, as he looks down into his wine. Now and again he sips from it, but eventually the glass is empty and he releases it onto the table, lifting his regard just in time to be met by hers. His brows slide up as he leans back into the chair, folding his hands across the space before him, elbows propped on the chair-arms. "I have a great deal of goodwill for you, Miniyal; would you never take advantage of it? Even if I offered? I think I might be a little offended." G'thon affords the least of twitchy little one-sided smiles. "No; I cannot swear I will not take advantage of your good will. But Miniyal, I hope not to take advantage of -you-. And if I have done, in the past, I beg you forgive me."
"It's not," she begins and then stops. Trying again she looks away and around the room. "I just mean-" No, that doesn't work either. With a frustrated little noise she stalks to her chair and flops into it. "You're impossible to talk to," she finally says with a frown before releasing her own glass onto the table and then with a quiet thump her head rests on the table. Luckily she pushed her plate out of the way. If it were at all seemly she'd be banging her head against the table, but that sort of behavior would make her mother cringe and so she does not indulge in it. However much she wishes to. "And don't apologise," she mutters without looking up. "Because you would and I would feel horrid-er and then. . .and then you would try to apologise again and it's not your fault." Finally lifting her head she looks miserably down at her hands. "I've no idea at all why you would want my company. I can't even have dinner without making a mess of things."
At first it seems very much that G'thon is just going to watch this display, just going to allow it - but when it goes as far as her head hitting the table he pushes himself swiftly up from his chair, moving with the smooth and unhindered grace he rarely exhibits in full public spectacle, such as at the hatching not long ago. Soft-footed in his too-soft-for-dragonriding boots, he strides easily around the table. Unless she takes note - or moves as a result of taking note - by the time she's miserably staring at her hands, he's at her shoulder again, a little bit bent, as if to try to see her face. And then his hand, slim, pale and too long for even his height, seeks out her shoulder. "Why wouldn't I? We have delightful conversations, and I find your insights - challenging. Miniyal." The last, her name, is a plea: look at me.
Wrapped up in her own shortcomings there is no notice of movement from anything. Even as she wrings her hands together, Miniyal seems unaware of the action. The words piece partway through the whole miserable existence part of her and she shakes her head softly. "I'm horrid at being friends," she says without looking up. "I try so hard to think of what to say that I take so long I just say anything and sound like an idiot and I'm just, just not." Her words come out in a jumbled rush and it's only when they still that she finally looks up. There is, thankfully, at least no indication she is going to burst into tears. She just adds, soft enough to be almost unheard even from where he stands, "I don't know what to do around people. They don't make sense. They scare me." And then she just blinks owlishly.
"I have not asked that you be friends with me. Only good company, and that you are." His hand on her shoulder is cool, as though his circulation suffers for any number of his self-destructive behaviours. He is quiet for some time after she has said that people scare her, however, and he manages for her another of those little smiles. It is so weak there seems little possibility it could be faked. The voice that was so authoritative in telling her she's good company just a second ago is suddenly soft, as soft as hers, and little more confident for all its grace. "I - don't want to scare you, Miniyal," he says, and certainly that must be why he bends to kiss her, just then.
"You wouldn't want to be friends?" Oh. Well, that makes sense. Over the increasingly loud little mocking voice in her head, Miniyal tries to find some sense in her brain. All that is left is to listen to what is being said and try to find out what is going on behind the words. She cannot, however, answer because before the words can be shaped she is being kissed. Which is, it need be said, /so/ not what she was expecting to come out of this night. For that first second there's, well, shock. A mere few seconds after there is, perhaps, a hint of reciprocation in the act and then she is pulling away. Not quickly or in anger, but just a gentle withdrawal from something unexpected. "I would like to be friends," she whispers with wide eyes as she stares at him, confused. "Should I go?" You know, did you make a horrid mistake? Are you standing there going 'what was I thinking?' Or do you just want her out of your hair? Really. What was that?
"I would want to be. But I can't ask for a friendship. I can only try to create one." Slightly, mildly, G'thon smiles. 'Friends' is a dangerous word; it has a way of destroying kisses, and moments that could turn into kisses. So he says, instead of something else, "Don't go," and overturns his hand from her shoulder to put two fingertips lightly beneath her chin. That touch is hardly firm enough to hold her; she could turn away, she could avert her eyes. She would have to, not to be kissed again.
The last time someone kissed her, well, other than the immediate last time, it was a pity kiss. That is, she felt sorry for someone. Which is is quite capable of doing. Therefore, Miniyal is, to say the least uncertain at this point. It's possible this is what that is with her on the other side. Or, perhaps, he's desperate and has decided to pick the one person probably lonely enough to be receptive to such advances. These thoughts and more swirl through her brain as she listens to those few words. Along with, as she feels fingers on her chin 'oh, dear, he's going to do it again.' Now would be the time to pull away, gently, and insist that she wishes to be /friends/ and that friends do not do this sort of thing. At least, none of her friends ever did. However, rather than doing that she continues to remain as she is and when kissed this time she doesn't pull back.
It is better done this time, with her permission complicit from the start; better done, and done longer. He draws back when breath or the bend of his back demand it, and his fingertips draw up the side of her face, describing the curve of her cheek. "What can I say," he murmurs, voice warm but somehow sad; his eyes search her face, but search as though what they want is to be lost. "What can I say after that?" The smile, too, is a bit sorrowful - G'thon takes care, here, to be sure she sees these glimpses into him, sees more than what he might otherwise show. He lowers his hand, not to leave her untouched, but to trace fingertips over her fingers, to ask for them in his. The hand, the lips are bold; the words, a little more sacrificial, a little wise. "You must think me incredibly foolish."
This makes twice then that she is completely at a loss for words in the past few minutes. Perhaps not so much from the kiss although her cheeks are flushed from it and she looks away for a moment. Just a second when his fingers touch her cheek. Her eyes go back to his and she offers the faintest of smiles, not because she is unsure of if she should, but because she is unsure of just what sort of smile would be right. A glance away again, this time at her fingers and Miniyal turns her hand over so fingers can entwine. "I think you are lonely," she answers quietly. "I think after so long with no chance of being such you are unsure how to handle such a thing. So, you reach for what companionship you can." There is a pause here as she chooses her next words carefully, eyes searching his face now but unable to find what she needs to know. "I have little to do with my time these days, G'thon. Day or night, if wish my company it is yours. I am a poor replacement for all those you have lost, but I'd not see someone suffer I could bring solace too." And there is a smile there, warm and somewhat affectionate, all for him.
He bends his head and laughs a very little bit, voicelessly, a shuddering little rasp of his breath, when she says he's lonely. But for all of that self-depreciating, so-dry-it-hurts humor, G'thon does not deny her measure of him. He just lifts his chin again, enough to convey some mild but defiant pride, enough to meet her eyes and gently plead with her. "You are probably right. But many people - so many people - are lonely, Miniyal, and for harder reasons even than mine. Don't spend your pity on me." He lifts her hand a little bit, then bends to breathe a kiss across the knuckles. When he straightens, he lifts her hand a little more, thumb gliding across the skin he just kissed, comforting and solicitous - she might, to follow that hand, stand up. Certainly that is his intent. "But if you have time - I would be glad to let you spend that."
"You mistake me, sir," Miniyal answers quietly with a shake of her head. "I do not pity you." Not really. Much. Well, it's not the defining emotion she carries for him. As he seems to want she stands, hip bumping the table in the process, but not enough at least to do more than cause a few things to wobble. She spares it no glance, focused now on getting her point across clearly which can be hard for her no doubt. "I respect you. To continue to live when you could have died. To choose what you did. I respect that. I think no one can understand your days. I'll never lose what you did, but I understand emptiness. There is no pity in the time I share with you." There is a flicker of a smile, so shy it flees the moment it appears, but the light touch on his cheek as she raises her free hand to touch him carries the same message. She'll put aside her old grievances with him and start over. Poor deluded little girl.
G'thon curls his hand, bends his arm, little shifts that tuck her hand close to his waist, that will - if she follows them - tuck her, bodily, close to him. That way he may curve his other arm around her, loosely at first, and untwine his fingers from hers so that hand's free to lift and to stroke at the fingers upon his cheek. "Very well," he says, softly, and leans in - plainly, it is to be another kiss - only to stop and blink once at her. A little twinkle alights in his eyes, brightening the blues and greens in the mix of their hazel. "You should call me Gans," he advises. After that, there is time enough for kissing.
In for one mark, in for a dozen it seems tonight. Rudeness would be now to pull away after such closeness as has gone by already. Miniyal will learn forward and allow herself to be held. When her fingers are released she moves that hand to rest atop the arm that encircles her. After that there is nothing to do but lift her chin so she can look once more at him. "Gans," she acknowledges shyly. There is a little more boldness in her actions, but her voice remains, if not unsure, than cautious perhaps. Although it does seem as if caution has long since been tossed to the wind.