Log: Drinks with Mic
Who: T'mic, Giremi
When: day 31, month 6, turn 15 of the 10th Interval
Where: The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
What: Remi comes in search of Tam and finds T'mic instead. Meeting his brother's lover and would-be weyrmate does not necessarily go well.
The Sandbar -- Ista Weyr(#4182RJMs)
This dockside tavern stretches over the water, accessible from beach, docks or harbour itself. The light sound of slapping waves can be heard beneath the floorboards, and there are no walls, allowing tropical breezes to waft through and indulging patrons in panoramic ocean views. The carved wooden bar takes up the north end of the room, covered with a wood and reed roof that protects it from impromptu showers. The rest of the booths rest along the outside of the floor, all situated to be oceanside and set with brightly coloured cushions. The thatched wood roof continues along those booths leaving the center of the area open-air, though a metal canopy rests along the outside of one wall, ready to be drawn atop for rain or Threadfall. Further to the north and south the beach continues on for kilometers, black sand tinged a ruddy red with the blazing light of a fading sunset. Waves wash upon the beach with a steady roar, sending spray flying into the air at the furthest end of the beach to the south where a collection of rocks litter the shoreline.
The wet summer season oppresses the island with high humidity and sweltering temperatures. As the sun sets, the sun shines from a clear, blue sky and the air hardly moves more than a whisper.
Morning has just flipped over into afternoon, and the Sandbar is - as one might expect - fairly busy. Riders and residents alike ensure that no table remains empty, though several have empty chairs or spots where chairs used to be. One such is where a curly-haired greenrider sits, midway between the bar and the door, hides spread over the table. This must be why he's been left alone. A glass of something pink, frothy, and half-full waits on one of the hides, a trickle slowly edging down the side.
Giremi pushes back the wide-brimmed straw hat he's wearing with one hand as he steps into the shade of the bar and huffs out a long breath. The very very very tall redhead scans the bar as if looking for someone in particular and frowns a little at not finding the expected face. A moment later he walks on past T'mic's table on his way to the bar, smoothing down the not-wrinkled-at-all front of his short-sleeved shirt, sandals slapping a bit on the floor as he goes.
T'mic looks up quickly at the movement - one might get the impression that he's looking for an excuse (any excuse) to not do what he's currently doing. So he watches the Harper with interest as the other man approaches, snags up his chair to lick the drip off his glass and turns to watch the Harper retreat. "Hey Long Drink - Journeyman. Looking for someone?"
The initial part of T'mic's hail fails to make an impression upon Giremi. He's very focused on the bar, though the word "Journeyman" arrests his forward progress and he turns, blinking towards the source of the address. Very clear, very intent blue eyes scan T'mic and one brow lifts but the harper inclines his head. Politely: "Harper's duties, greenrider. Indeed, might you have seen the girl, Tam who sometimes serves drinks here?"
"Ista's duties to Harper Hall," T'mic replies promptly, showing off his manners. "Yeah, not today. Today it's Brianka and Kip. Think Tam's got the day off. She said something like that last night, anyway." He studies his glass a second longer, gives the rim another lick, then plops it back onto the hidework and pulls out the only other chair invitingly. "Have a seat? Need to get her a message?"
A flash of dissapointment crosses Giremi's face and he eyes the bar for a moment longer then sighs and slides his hands into his pockets. "Waste of a trip then," he murmurs and then settles his gaze on the offered chair. "A message? No. Not the sort that could be passed through a stranger, if you don't mind my saying so. I suppose I'll just have to see about arranging some time to return tomorrow." He considers the chair for a moment longer. "Is it clean? You haven't been putting your feet up on it?"
"So leave a note with Kip," Mic suggests with a shrug. "Or shells, with me. I'm strange, but no stranger." He brightens the offer with a tooth-flashing grin which dims only slightly at the question. "Clean? Yeah, I gue- no, I haven't. I don't put my feet on chairs, as a rule." Which doesn't prevent him from eyeing the other man sidelong. "Mic," he adds, "T'mic. Aath's my green. Welcome to Ista."
"Actually, that won't be possible either. This is not the sort of business that one leaves in a note," Giremi says mildly and fixes T'mic with another intent look. "I don't know you, therefore, you're a stranger," he points out matter-of-factly, then shifts his gaze to the chair, approaches it and pulls his handkerchief out, wipes it down, apparently intending to take the offered seat. The greenrider's name halts his hand mid-swipe and he looks up and over slowly, still half-bent over the chair. "T'mic." And he blinks at the rider a couple of times and unaccountably, blushes bright red.
T'mic continues to eye the Harper during this little cleaning-spell, but keeps his mouth shut by drowning it with whatever's in his glass. The hides are in reasonably good shape despite the wet rings he's inflicting on them, and full of cheerfully boring things like formations and hatching records. "Shells - you -have- heard of me," he says in response to that blush, which only causes him to grin brighter. "See? Not a stranger. So what do they call you?" Which then disputes his claim of not-strangerness.
Giremi swallows a couple of times and this time he looks T'mic over even more closely. "You ah ... hm. Paddy's ... T'mic?" The harper straightens, not sitting yet, one hand bidding fair to crush the handkerchief, the other trying its best to crack the chair-back. "Giremi," he finally offers, and stuffs that hanky into his pocket, holds a palm out with stiff-mannered formality, still polite.
Mic's eyebrows go up; after a second, so does the rider himself, and covers Remi's with a proper palm of greeting. "Paddy's T'mic. Yeah, I guess you could say that. Or Mic's P'draig, whichever. You know Paddy? Well met, Journeyman Giremi." There's no further spark of recognition in the short greenrider's eyes.
There's more throat-clearing on Giremi's part and he keeps shooting these weird little furtive looks at the greenrider. "I uh -- yes, P'draig is my older brother. Full-blooded, even." He blathers a little, chews on his lip then finally sits down. "I ah ... yes well, a pleasure to meet you as well, T'mic, since I suppose we're about to become family of a sort." Nervous fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt and he looks around the full bar a couple of times, then back at the greenrider.
"Oh," the greenrider says, understanding finally dawning. "You're the one posted to... uh, High Reaches, right?" He swings back into his chair, shoving the hides away to give Giremi a bit of uncluttered table. "I've been meaning to try and meet Paddy's family, now that it's warm. Guess this is just a lucky coincidence, huh? You want something to drink? S'on me."
"Telgar," corrects the Journeyman promptly. "I'm posted to Telgar." And he sits very straight in that chair, hands resting atop knees. He looks over to the bar and shrugs. "Yes, I suppose it is a coincidence at that. Though P'draig does meet me here for drinks at times and I know Tam, from the Hall of course." He falls silent, regarding T'mic for a long few seconds and finally: "My thanks T'mic. Whiskey. Straight up." Because clearly, right now, he needs it.
T'mic repeats, "Telgar," with a nod that's probably meant to cement the information into place. "Paddy brings you here and he's never...? Shells." Though his head shakes disparagingly his smile never dims; after a moment he manages to catch a woman's - Brianka's - attention and order a whiskey for Remi and another one of whatever he's having. "Good thing I didn't get to the Reaches, huh? Wouldn't've met you no matter how hard I asked." To which he adds a friendly little once-over, down to Remi's shoulders and back.
"Occasionally," Giremi emphasizes. "It's a bit of a tradition for the two of us. We meet for drinks. We talk." His brows lift at T'mic's next. "I beg your pardon?" he looks back at the rider blankly and ignores the once-over entirely.
T'mic isn't so fancy: he says, "Huh?" and catches up his glass again so he can slouch with it. Maybe if it says it again, using short sentences? "I was going to go to High Reaches. Because I thought you were posted there. But you aren't. You're at Telgar. So I wouldn't've met you if I'd gone to the Reaches."
"Ah. Well, that's not necessarily true. My parents still live there and my sister, so if you'd asked the right person I'm sure they'd have let you know where to find me, if you were looking for me." Giremi continues to fidget a little and takes a few deliberate breaths. "So. Ah ... how did you meet P'draig?" Awkwardly.
"--Huh," the Istan says after a minute or two, eyes gone momentarily vague. "Parents, sister. Right." Then he's back with another grin; his next sally is interrupted by the dark-haired woman who places a whiskey in front of Remi and - pointedly - another pink glass and two coasters in front of T'mic. Unabashed, he only grins at her, and obediently puts both glasses on their respective protections. "Thanks, Bri. --How'd I meet Paddy? You mean when's the first time I saw him, or first time I really talked to him?"
"Emilly, rider of green Sionath, G'rad, rider of bronze Behemoth, also, E'lan, rider of brown Lazryth, who is as much a father to both of us as our blood father." Giremi says all this in a very even tone of voice, as if it's all stuff he thinks T'mic should know already. "Milani, the youngest, assistant headwoman. We've also other sisters who no longer reside at the Weyr." The drinks arrive, distracting the Harper momentarily and he smiles a little at Brianka. "Thank you very much," is followed by a curling of his hand around the glass of liquor and half its contents upended into his mouth. Just like that. He stares at T'mic over the rim of his glass. "I uh ... ahem. I suppose I mean when did you meet him and ah ... form an interest in him."
T'mic stares intently, nodding after every name - dragon and human alike. "Right. Thanks. I know he said he's got family, just... I forgot where you all were." When Remi drinks he takes the chance to do the same, tilting back a large swallow of his slushy pink stuff. "Oh shells, you mean when'd I get, uh." The greenrider blinks at the other man, tries again. "When I was a weyrling. I had some messages to deliver to Fort, and I saw him and, uh... Zahava? I think? Yeah. She was a weyrling too. But I didn't start -talking- to him until Jekzith'd caught Nalaieth. Not that he liked me all that much then."
Looking more and more unimpressed by the minute, Giremi's struggling to keep a polite facade on at this point. "You forgot where we all were. I see." Down the hatch goes more whiskey and the harper rolls the mouthful around before swallowing it. "Ah. So. Some time now." And the journeyman's mouth moves sideways, wry. "No I should imagine not. He was recovering from splitting from his very long-term weyrmate then." His jaw shifts a little and long fingers turn the glass this way and that. "You're not going to break his heart too, are you?" Voice very low.
"Well," Mic retorts, "You remember where all -my- family is?" Let's just gloss over the fact that Mic hasn't even mentioned where he's from, much less the composition and number of his blood relatives. "You want another?" That's with a nod for the rapidly disappearing whiskey, which looks rather a lot like Mic's own rapidly disappearing drink. He signals for another without waiting for an answer. "Yeah, something like that. I'd heard." That low-voiced question pushes the greenrider back into his seat and folds him over the table, elbows propped as he leans into the other man. "I sure as sharding shells hope not." Voice just as low, blue eyes fixed straight on Remi's. "I don't like hurting anybody, much less the people I love."
Giremi's head rocks back a little. "I've only just found out recently that ... that ... the two of you," and his hand does the back and forth thing between Mic and an invisible P'draig. "However, clearly, Paddy has actually told you about us and you don't remember. Not terribly reassuring." The harper actually finishes off that first glass just as Mic asks about the refill and he nods assent, pushing the glass forward a little. The lean in makes the harper stiffen a little, but the words, make his ears turn pink. "Ah." And then his eyes drop to the table top and the empty glass. "You ... really love him then?" And the question is a little stuttered, the younger man clearly uneasy.
T'mic resettles his elbows with a th-thump, sends a sloppy grin toward the redhead. "I don't think about Paddy's -family- when we're," The last word is drowned out by a shriek of laughter from another nearby greenrider who thinks her tablemates are the funniest thing -ever-. "Sure do. On Aath's egg - on whatever you want me to swear. Me'n him... we're gonna try and weyrmate. Soon. I hope."
"I should sharding well /hope not/" is Giremi's startled reply and his blush has gone back to scarlet. Shriek or no shriek, Remi heard that. His lips press together tightly and he nods politely again as Brianka returns with yet another round of drinks. The harper's as quick on the trigger to slug down more whiskey as he was before and bears no signs of any drunkenness so far. "He did mention that." He swallows hard and looks back up at the greenrider. "Hard to imagine him with you. With a man, at all. But if you love him and he loves you ..." Remi's shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. "I suppose I'll drink to your happiness." Beat. "However, if you break his heart, I will find it in me to compose a song that will make it so that no one will ever want to grace you with their favors ever again." He says this very steadily and looks the shorter man right in the eye, a certin ridiculous fierceness to him.
"Giremi." Mic flops a hand toward the other man, palm up invitingly. "I'm not gonna... Look. I don't. Leave my lovers, a'ight? I'm with him long as he wants me. I heard about the others, 'n I'm not gonna, if he wants to sleep around, he can. He makes me happy. Jekz'th's nice to Aath. I'm even trying to get used to the idea of a baby." Toddler. Whatever. "So, so, so you don' have to worry about c'mposing any songs, a'ight?"
All of that brings a rather wrinkly frown to Giremi's face and his hands stay firmly where they are. "We'll see," he replies rather lugubriously. "I just don't want to be picking my brother up off the floor again." And his nostrils pinch a little, the harper looking away and swallowing hard. "Being hurt by someone you love is perhaps the worst feeling in the world."
"He wriggles," T'mic confides with a nod. "But yeah, it is. Me'n - I used t' be weyrmated t' this girl. Seliene. Eileyth's now, only she wasn't then. 'N she was, I was, we were having trouble, only I didn't know it. Didn't tell me. Told Paddy. So he'n T'rien picked me up'n threw me inna water." He nods toward the shoreline just past the bar pointedly, then picks up his new drink and starts in on it.
"I did not need to /know/ that," Giremi says wide-eyed and tosses back more whiskey. Death-grip on the glass. He follows the unstrung string of words from T'mic with a slightly perplexed expression. "Somehow, I seriously doubt that that is why P'draig threw you in the water if he really did that at all. However, if I were at all able too, I'd toss you in the drink too if you step on my brother's heart." Beat. "It sounds though as if you mean to really make a go of it. You've both been there before and had troubles and bounced back. So perhaps you'll be wise enough to avoid the problems you've both had in the past."
T'mic plants both of his elbows on the table again and uses the points to push himself upright again. Well, upright-ish. "Oh, you could," he says cheerfully. "Y'r plenty tall. Paddy picks me up alla time, 'n you're taller." Which is probably another one of those things Remi didn't want to know. "W're gonna try, yeah. Me'n him. 'N maybe 'Liene. 'N R'us, if he changes his mind."
"I assure you that I am in no way strong enough to do so. Height has nothing to do with it." Giremi's quite certain on this point and he's lifted his glass and is drinking deep again when the rest of that comes out and he starts coughing and spluttering from swallowing the wrong way.
From afar, T'mic just laughs and laughs and laughs.
For which the greenrider has the perfect answer: "You wanna try?" He's sincere, too, even going so far as to shove back his chair (on the second attempt) and spread his arms. But then Remi's coughing and Mic lunges to his feet, hesitates before coming over to helpfully pound on the redhead's back. "You a'ight? C'n you breathe?"
Cough. Cough. Hack. Hack. And Remi's all red in the face and his hand waves a little. Shoulders tense beneath Mic's thwacking and he eventually gets his airway clear. "I'm fine thank you and no I would not. Please do sit down." Polite and yet edged with a certain 'get your hands off me' desperation.
T'mic thumps once more, just for luck, but retreats back to his chair. Hey, look! Two glasses! He blinks between the two - one mostly full, the other mostly empty - before attempting to pour the latter into the former. Most of the slush makes it into the other glass. Go him! "Yeah, well. 'F you ever wanna try. Or anything else. So." He beams at Remi again, well-pleased. "Now you know me, you want me't tell Tam anything?"
Giremi lifts his fingers to pinch at the bridge of his nose, like T'mic is giving him a headache. Now that he can breathe again, he reaches for his whiskey glass again, notes the coughed up liquid on its surface and takes out his hanky to fastidiously wipe it down. "No thank you." Primly. And his eyes lift to the rider somewhat askance. "No, thank you." Again. "My business with Tam is personal."
"A'right," says Mic again with a careless shrug. "I'll... uh. Let you know when she's working again? I c'n, uh... come get you at Telgar and bring you here?" Which is a plan he has to think through and review before nodding once, satisfied. "Yeah, that'd work." Or be unnecessarily convoluted.
Giremi finishes wiping down his glass, lifts it and empties it, then fixes T'mic with another one of those intent looks. "That won't be necessary. Thank you kindly for the drinks, but I do believe I should be getting back, and by the sound of things, you should likely be having a glass of water or two." Beat. "Have your Aath bespeak Jekzith. I'm sure my brother will come take care of you." That's offered more kindly than other words the harper has spoken up until now. He rises. Not intentionally looming, but with almost a full foot of height difference, it happens. "Clear skies, T'mic. I'm sure we'll speak again." With that, Remi strides on out, seemingly totally unaffected by the two whiskies to go meet up with a distantly seen bluerider out on the beach to ride home.
"He's with Izzy t'day," Mic offers, yet more information that the Harper didn't want to know. "But yeah, maybe. I've got these, uh...," Remi stands and Mic's train of thought jumps the tracks to go careening through the fields, his head tipped back to that face atop the great gangly height. "Yeah. Yeah. Clear skies, J'rneyman." Should Remi look back, it'd be to see Brianka fussing over him, clearing away the empty glass and replacing it with one of - as suggested - water.
That last remark merely lifts Giremi's hand back up to his face. Definitely a headache. And he's gone.
When: day 31, month 6, turn 15 of the 10th Interval
Where: The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
What: Remi comes in search of Tam and finds T'mic instead. Meeting his brother's lover and would-be weyrmate does not necessarily go well.
The Sandbar -- Ista Weyr(#4182RJMs)
This dockside tavern stretches over the water, accessible from beach, docks or harbour itself. The light sound of slapping waves can be heard beneath the floorboards, and there are no walls, allowing tropical breezes to waft through and indulging patrons in panoramic ocean views. The carved wooden bar takes up the north end of the room, covered with a wood and reed roof that protects it from impromptu showers. The rest of the booths rest along the outside of the floor, all situated to be oceanside and set with brightly coloured cushions. The thatched wood roof continues along those booths leaving the center of the area open-air, though a metal canopy rests along the outside of one wall, ready to be drawn atop for rain or Threadfall. Further to the north and south the beach continues on for kilometers, black sand tinged a ruddy red with the blazing light of a fading sunset. Waves wash upon the beach with a steady roar, sending spray flying into the air at the furthest end of the beach to the south where a collection of rocks litter the shoreline.
The wet summer season oppresses the island with high humidity and sweltering temperatures. As the sun sets, the sun shines from a clear, blue sky and the air hardly moves more than a whisper.
Morning has just flipped over into afternoon, and the Sandbar is - as one might expect - fairly busy. Riders and residents alike ensure that no table remains empty, though several have empty chairs or spots where chairs used to be. One such is where a curly-haired greenrider sits, midway between the bar and the door, hides spread over the table. This must be why he's been left alone. A glass of something pink, frothy, and half-full waits on one of the hides, a trickle slowly edging down the side.
Giremi pushes back the wide-brimmed straw hat he's wearing with one hand as he steps into the shade of the bar and huffs out a long breath. The very very very tall redhead scans the bar as if looking for someone in particular and frowns a little at not finding the expected face. A moment later he walks on past T'mic's table on his way to the bar, smoothing down the not-wrinkled-at-all front of his short-sleeved shirt, sandals slapping a bit on the floor as he goes.
T'mic looks up quickly at the movement - one might get the impression that he's looking for an excuse (any excuse) to not do what he's currently doing. So he watches the Harper with interest as the other man approaches, snags up his chair to lick the drip off his glass and turns to watch the Harper retreat. "Hey Long Drink - Journeyman. Looking for someone?"
The initial part of T'mic's hail fails to make an impression upon Giremi. He's very focused on the bar, though the word "Journeyman" arrests his forward progress and he turns, blinking towards the source of the address. Very clear, very intent blue eyes scan T'mic and one brow lifts but the harper inclines his head. Politely: "Harper's duties, greenrider. Indeed, might you have seen the girl, Tam who sometimes serves drinks here?"
"Ista's duties to Harper Hall," T'mic replies promptly, showing off his manners. "Yeah, not today. Today it's Brianka and Kip. Think Tam's got the day off. She said something like that last night, anyway." He studies his glass a second longer, gives the rim another lick, then plops it back onto the hidework and pulls out the only other chair invitingly. "Have a seat? Need to get her a message?"
A flash of dissapointment crosses Giremi's face and he eyes the bar for a moment longer then sighs and slides his hands into his pockets. "Waste of a trip then," he murmurs and then settles his gaze on the offered chair. "A message? No. Not the sort that could be passed through a stranger, if you don't mind my saying so. I suppose I'll just have to see about arranging some time to return tomorrow." He considers the chair for a moment longer. "Is it clean? You haven't been putting your feet up on it?"
"So leave a note with Kip," Mic suggests with a shrug. "Or shells, with me. I'm strange, but no stranger." He brightens the offer with a tooth-flashing grin which dims only slightly at the question. "Clean? Yeah, I gue- no, I haven't. I don't put my feet on chairs, as a rule." Which doesn't prevent him from eyeing the other man sidelong. "Mic," he adds, "T'mic. Aath's my green. Welcome to Ista."
"Actually, that won't be possible either. This is not the sort of business that one leaves in a note," Giremi says mildly and fixes T'mic with another intent look. "I don't know you, therefore, you're a stranger," he points out matter-of-factly, then shifts his gaze to the chair, approaches it and pulls his handkerchief out, wipes it down, apparently intending to take the offered seat. The greenrider's name halts his hand mid-swipe and he looks up and over slowly, still half-bent over the chair. "T'mic." And he blinks at the rider a couple of times and unaccountably, blushes bright red.
T'mic continues to eye the Harper during this little cleaning-spell, but keeps his mouth shut by drowning it with whatever's in his glass. The hides are in reasonably good shape despite the wet rings he's inflicting on them, and full of cheerfully boring things like formations and hatching records. "Shells - you -have- heard of me," he says in response to that blush, which only causes him to grin brighter. "See? Not a stranger. So what do they call you?" Which then disputes his claim of not-strangerness.
Giremi swallows a couple of times and this time he looks T'mic over even more closely. "You ah ... hm. Paddy's ... T'mic?" The harper straightens, not sitting yet, one hand bidding fair to crush the handkerchief, the other trying its best to crack the chair-back. "Giremi," he finally offers, and stuffs that hanky into his pocket, holds a palm out with stiff-mannered formality, still polite.
Mic's eyebrows go up; after a second, so does the rider himself, and covers Remi's with a proper palm of greeting. "Paddy's T'mic. Yeah, I guess you could say that. Or Mic's P'draig, whichever. You know Paddy? Well met, Journeyman Giremi." There's no further spark of recognition in the short greenrider's eyes.
There's more throat-clearing on Giremi's part and he keeps shooting these weird little furtive looks at the greenrider. "I uh -- yes, P'draig is my older brother. Full-blooded, even." He blathers a little, chews on his lip then finally sits down. "I ah ... yes well, a pleasure to meet you as well, T'mic, since I suppose we're about to become family of a sort." Nervous fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt and he looks around the full bar a couple of times, then back at the greenrider.
"Oh," the greenrider says, understanding finally dawning. "You're the one posted to... uh, High Reaches, right?" He swings back into his chair, shoving the hides away to give Giremi a bit of uncluttered table. "I've been meaning to try and meet Paddy's family, now that it's warm. Guess this is just a lucky coincidence, huh? You want something to drink? S'on me."
"Telgar," corrects the Journeyman promptly. "I'm posted to Telgar." And he sits very straight in that chair, hands resting atop knees. He looks over to the bar and shrugs. "Yes, I suppose it is a coincidence at that. Though P'draig does meet me here for drinks at times and I know Tam, from the Hall of course." He falls silent, regarding T'mic for a long few seconds and finally: "My thanks T'mic. Whiskey. Straight up." Because clearly, right now, he needs it.
T'mic repeats, "Telgar," with a nod that's probably meant to cement the information into place. "Paddy brings you here and he's never...? Shells." Though his head shakes disparagingly his smile never dims; after a moment he manages to catch a woman's - Brianka's - attention and order a whiskey for Remi and another one of whatever he's having. "Good thing I didn't get to the Reaches, huh? Wouldn't've met you no matter how hard I asked." To which he adds a friendly little once-over, down to Remi's shoulders and back.
"Occasionally," Giremi emphasizes. "It's a bit of a tradition for the two of us. We meet for drinks. We talk." His brows lift at T'mic's next. "I beg your pardon?" he looks back at the rider blankly and ignores the once-over entirely.
T'mic isn't so fancy: he says, "Huh?" and catches up his glass again so he can slouch with it. Maybe if it says it again, using short sentences? "I was going to go to High Reaches. Because I thought you were posted there. But you aren't. You're at Telgar. So I wouldn't've met you if I'd gone to the Reaches."
"Ah. Well, that's not necessarily true. My parents still live there and my sister, so if you'd asked the right person I'm sure they'd have let you know where to find me, if you were looking for me." Giremi continues to fidget a little and takes a few deliberate breaths. "So. Ah ... how did you meet P'draig?" Awkwardly.
"--Huh," the Istan says after a minute or two, eyes gone momentarily vague. "Parents, sister. Right." Then he's back with another grin; his next sally is interrupted by the dark-haired woman who places a whiskey in front of Remi and - pointedly - another pink glass and two coasters in front of T'mic. Unabashed, he only grins at her, and obediently puts both glasses on their respective protections. "Thanks, Bri. --How'd I meet Paddy? You mean when's the first time I saw him, or first time I really talked to him?"
"Emilly, rider of green Sionath, G'rad, rider of bronze Behemoth, also, E'lan, rider of brown Lazryth, who is as much a father to both of us as our blood father." Giremi says all this in a very even tone of voice, as if it's all stuff he thinks T'mic should know already. "Milani, the youngest, assistant headwoman. We've also other sisters who no longer reside at the Weyr." The drinks arrive, distracting the Harper momentarily and he smiles a little at Brianka. "Thank you very much," is followed by a curling of his hand around the glass of liquor and half its contents upended into his mouth. Just like that. He stares at T'mic over the rim of his glass. "I uh ... ahem. I suppose I mean when did you meet him and ah ... form an interest in him."
T'mic stares intently, nodding after every name - dragon and human alike. "Right. Thanks. I know he said he's got family, just... I forgot where you all were." When Remi drinks he takes the chance to do the same, tilting back a large swallow of his slushy pink stuff. "Oh shells, you mean when'd I get, uh." The greenrider blinks at the other man, tries again. "When I was a weyrling. I had some messages to deliver to Fort, and I saw him and, uh... Zahava? I think? Yeah. She was a weyrling too. But I didn't start -talking- to him until Jekzith'd caught Nalaieth. Not that he liked me all that much then."
Looking more and more unimpressed by the minute, Giremi's struggling to keep a polite facade on at this point. "You forgot where we all were. I see." Down the hatch goes more whiskey and the harper rolls the mouthful around before swallowing it. "Ah. So. Some time now." And the journeyman's mouth moves sideways, wry. "No I should imagine not. He was recovering from splitting from his very long-term weyrmate then." His jaw shifts a little and long fingers turn the glass this way and that. "You're not going to break his heart too, are you?" Voice very low.
"Well," Mic retorts, "You remember where all -my- family is?" Let's just gloss over the fact that Mic hasn't even mentioned where he's from, much less the composition and number of his blood relatives. "You want another?" That's with a nod for the rapidly disappearing whiskey, which looks rather a lot like Mic's own rapidly disappearing drink. He signals for another without waiting for an answer. "Yeah, something like that. I'd heard." That low-voiced question pushes the greenrider back into his seat and folds him over the table, elbows propped as he leans into the other man. "I sure as sharding shells hope not." Voice just as low, blue eyes fixed straight on Remi's. "I don't like hurting anybody, much less the people I love."
Giremi's head rocks back a little. "I've only just found out recently that ... that ... the two of you," and his hand does the back and forth thing between Mic and an invisible P'draig. "However, clearly, Paddy has actually told you about us and you don't remember. Not terribly reassuring." The harper actually finishes off that first glass just as Mic asks about the refill and he nods assent, pushing the glass forward a little. The lean in makes the harper stiffen a little, but the words, make his ears turn pink. "Ah." And then his eyes drop to the table top and the empty glass. "You ... really love him then?" And the question is a little stuttered, the younger man clearly uneasy.
T'mic resettles his elbows with a th-thump, sends a sloppy grin toward the redhead. "I don't think about Paddy's -family- when we're," The last word is drowned out by a shriek of laughter from another nearby greenrider who thinks her tablemates are the funniest thing -ever-. "Sure do. On Aath's egg - on whatever you want me to swear. Me'n him... we're gonna try and weyrmate. Soon. I hope."
"I should sharding well /hope not/" is Giremi's startled reply and his blush has gone back to scarlet. Shriek or no shriek, Remi heard that. His lips press together tightly and he nods politely again as Brianka returns with yet another round of drinks. The harper's as quick on the trigger to slug down more whiskey as he was before and bears no signs of any drunkenness so far. "He did mention that." He swallows hard and looks back up at the greenrider. "Hard to imagine him with you. With a man, at all. But if you love him and he loves you ..." Remi's shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. "I suppose I'll drink to your happiness." Beat. "However, if you break his heart, I will find it in me to compose a song that will make it so that no one will ever want to grace you with their favors ever again." He says this very steadily and looks the shorter man right in the eye, a certin ridiculous fierceness to him.
"Giremi." Mic flops a hand toward the other man, palm up invitingly. "I'm not gonna... Look. I don't. Leave my lovers, a'ight? I'm with him long as he wants me. I heard about the others, 'n I'm not gonna, if he wants to sleep around, he can. He makes me happy. Jekz'th's nice to Aath. I'm even trying to get used to the idea of a baby." Toddler. Whatever. "So, so, so you don' have to worry about c'mposing any songs, a'ight?"
All of that brings a rather wrinkly frown to Giremi's face and his hands stay firmly where they are. "We'll see," he replies rather lugubriously. "I just don't want to be picking my brother up off the floor again." And his nostrils pinch a little, the harper looking away and swallowing hard. "Being hurt by someone you love is perhaps the worst feeling in the world."
"He wriggles," T'mic confides with a nod. "But yeah, it is. Me'n - I used t' be weyrmated t' this girl. Seliene. Eileyth's now, only she wasn't then. 'N she was, I was, we were having trouble, only I didn't know it. Didn't tell me. Told Paddy. So he'n T'rien picked me up'n threw me inna water." He nods toward the shoreline just past the bar pointedly, then picks up his new drink and starts in on it.
"I did not need to /know/ that," Giremi says wide-eyed and tosses back more whiskey. Death-grip on the glass. He follows the unstrung string of words from T'mic with a slightly perplexed expression. "Somehow, I seriously doubt that that is why P'draig threw you in the water if he really did that at all. However, if I were at all able too, I'd toss you in the drink too if you step on my brother's heart." Beat. "It sounds though as if you mean to really make a go of it. You've both been there before and had troubles and bounced back. So perhaps you'll be wise enough to avoid the problems you've both had in the past."
T'mic plants both of his elbows on the table again and uses the points to push himself upright again. Well, upright-ish. "Oh, you could," he says cheerfully. "Y'r plenty tall. Paddy picks me up alla time, 'n you're taller." Which is probably another one of those things Remi didn't want to know. "W're gonna try, yeah. Me'n him. 'N maybe 'Liene. 'N R'us, if he changes his mind."
"I assure you that I am in no way strong enough to do so. Height has nothing to do with it." Giremi's quite certain on this point and he's lifted his glass and is drinking deep again when the rest of that comes out and he starts coughing and spluttering from swallowing the wrong way.
From afar, T'mic just laughs and laughs and laughs.
For which the greenrider has the perfect answer: "You wanna try?" He's sincere, too, even going so far as to shove back his chair (on the second attempt) and spread his arms. But then Remi's coughing and Mic lunges to his feet, hesitates before coming over to helpfully pound on the redhead's back. "You a'ight? C'n you breathe?"
Cough. Cough. Hack. Hack. And Remi's all red in the face and his hand waves a little. Shoulders tense beneath Mic's thwacking and he eventually gets his airway clear. "I'm fine thank you and no I would not. Please do sit down." Polite and yet edged with a certain 'get your hands off me' desperation.
T'mic thumps once more, just for luck, but retreats back to his chair. Hey, look! Two glasses! He blinks between the two - one mostly full, the other mostly empty - before attempting to pour the latter into the former. Most of the slush makes it into the other glass. Go him! "Yeah, well. 'F you ever wanna try. Or anything else. So." He beams at Remi again, well-pleased. "Now you know me, you want me't tell Tam anything?"
Giremi lifts his fingers to pinch at the bridge of his nose, like T'mic is giving him a headache. Now that he can breathe again, he reaches for his whiskey glass again, notes the coughed up liquid on its surface and takes out his hanky to fastidiously wipe it down. "No thank you." Primly. And his eyes lift to the rider somewhat askance. "No, thank you." Again. "My business with Tam is personal."
"A'right," says Mic again with a careless shrug. "I'll... uh. Let you know when she's working again? I c'n, uh... come get you at Telgar and bring you here?" Which is a plan he has to think through and review before nodding once, satisfied. "Yeah, that'd work." Or be unnecessarily convoluted.
Giremi finishes wiping down his glass, lifts it and empties it, then fixes T'mic with another one of those intent looks. "That won't be necessary. Thank you kindly for the drinks, but I do believe I should be getting back, and by the sound of things, you should likely be having a glass of water or two." Beat. "Have your Aath bespeak Jekzith. I'm sure my brother will come take care of you." That's offered more kindly than other words the harper has spoken up until now. He rises. Not intentionally looming, but with almost a full foot of height difference, it happens. "Clear skies, T'mic. I'm sure we'll speak again." With that, Remi strides on out, seemingly totally unaffected by the two whiskies to go meet up with a distantly seen bluerider out on the beach to ride home.
"He's with Izzy t'day," Mic offers, yet more information that the Harper didn't want to know. "But yeah, maybe. I've got these, uh...," Remi stands and Mic's train of thought jumps the tracks to go careening through the fields, his head tipped back to that face atop the great gangly height. "Yeah. Yeah. Clear skies, J'rneyman." Should Remi look back, it'd be to see Brianka fussing over him, clearing away the empty glass and replacing it with one of - as suggested - water.
That last remark merely lifts Giremi's hand back up to his face. Definitely a headache. And he's gone.