Log: T'mic Bearing Gifts
Who: T'mic, Giremi
When: day 1, month 7, turn 15 of the 10th Interval
Where: Weyrharper's Quarters, Telgar Weyr
What: T'mic comes to try to bury the hatchet with Giremi. Things get tense for a bit then resolve.
Weyrharper's Quarters (Giremi)(#10721RJh)
Comfortable quarters boasting an anteroom and a sleeping area at the back have been decorated and arranged tastefully by the occupant. Writing implements are neatly arranged on the desk along with stacks of freshly scraped hides and a precious bundle of paper. The chair drawn up to the desk is sturdy wickerwork with a plump cushion on the seat for comfort. Another chair of similar design is turned towards the stone hearth and a matching wicker work table with a board top stands on a warm-hued carpet that takes the chill out of the stone floor.
The small hearth is built into the right side of the room, the mantle a long shelf above it carved right out of the wall holds a few bound tomes, the titles pressed into the bindings declaring them to be volumes of stories and poetry. On the walls are hung several paintings and tapestries, among them one that seems to be a family portrait (+view 'portrait').
The evening is clear, with a few small clouds crossing the twinkling stars. Through the whispy clouds you can see the stars. The smaller Belior is a nearly full waning gibbous while Timor shines in half moon. It is completely still, no winds blow and the summer air is warm enough, with only a slight chill.
It's a quiet summer night, perfectly suited for whatever might strike one's fancy. Swimming, walking under the stars, talking with friends... or knocking on the door of another Weyr's Harper. The knocking pauses for a slow count of ten and then there's another triple rap, this time accompanied by a semi-familiar voice. "Journeyman? You there?"
Chair scraping back precedes the door opening and Giremi, clearly dressed for bed in buttoned-down pajamas blinks at the greenrider uncomprehendingly. "Good evening, T'mic," he manages after a few startled seconds. He does not invite the rider in. "How may I help you?" Polite. Very polite. But not exactly welcoming.
The greenrider grins up at Remi as brightly as if he were just given a handful of marks, and as wide-awake as if it were noon. "I found you, good. Here." From behind his back he draws a bottle of dark amber fluid and offers it, straight-armed, to the other man. "I thought we may not've gotten off on the right foot the other day, so I just wanted to make sure there's no hard feelings."
Giremi stares blankly at the bottle for a moment, then reaches out one long arm to take it, reads the label, looks up at the greenrider, brow slightly furrowed. "Do come in," he says quietly after a moment, and swings the door open wider to allow the rider to enter.
Mic says, "Thanks," with another flash of his teeth. "Nice room," he adds as he enters, hands swinging behind his back. He doesn't take a seat but finds a spot to stand and unabashedly ogle the other man's quarters. "I see you didn't learn how to clean from Paddy - or he from you, huh?"
The tall harper closes the door once the greenrider's entered and pads over to put the bottle of whiskey up on a shelf that holds others of its ilk. "I learned from our mother," he replies evenly and tilts a curious look over at the greenrider. "Thank you. Please excuse me for a moment." He vanishes behind the curtain into his sleeping area and returns with a robe on over his jammies, securely belted and shod now with slippers. "May I offer you a drink? Some of what you brought or perhaps something lighter? I have some white wine."
T'mic, with no sense of shame, merely says, "Then Paddy should've paid more attention to her. Yeah, 'course." When Remi comes back Mic's drifted over to the family portrait to study it, hands still politely behind his back. Did someone's knuckles got rapped once upon a time? "Huh? Oh, if you're having anything. I didn't realize you were heading for bed." In stripy pajamas. He gives the picture a nod, saying, "This your family? That's Paddy, so that must be you. And... lemme see if I remember. Emilly, E'lan, and... G-something. Which one's your sister whose still at the Reaches?"
A framed painting shows two solid men with dark hair, standing behind a red-haired woman, all three wearing rider knots from the Reaches. At the woman's feet, sit six young people ranging in age from about age eight to twenty. There's a strong resemblance amongst all of the children to at least one of the adults, two of the girls have dark, curling hair, one blonde, one auburn, of the two boys, one is dark and the other also auburn and can likely be recognized as Giremi.
"He takes more after our father," Giremi notes lightly and moves to take down glasses and after a moment's thought pours brandy into each of them, carrying one back to T'mic and joining him by the portrait. "G'rad. Da." He points to the very broad-shouldered, dark-haired, blue-eyed man. Even in the portrait, it's a very clear family resemblance, Paddy a better proportioned, taller, version of his biological father. "Milani," Remi indicates the button-cute strawberry-blonde. "The older dark-haired girl is Theona, E'lan's flight-born daughter the younger is Ilyandra and the blonde is Bella, E'lan's daughter by his former weyrmate. Both Ilyandra and Milani are our mother's by E'lan, but we don't much quibble about the blood. We're all brothers and sisters to each other."
"Nice," Mic says generally, offering the taller man a slightly less intense smile for the drink. "Thanks. Nice names, nice family. I know my mum but not my da - probably a flight baby myself." He turns from the portrait toward Remi, swirling his drink a little and giving it a sniff. "Whew - strong stuff, Ha... Giremi."
"Nightcap," Giremi notes of the drinks and his stiff demeanor melts a little, a nod following at T'mic's words about his family. "Yes. Very." He takes a little sip from his glass and looks back over at the rider. "You should meet my mother. She's the heart of it. Holds us all together. She's an amazingly kind, generous and patient person."
T'mic says "Some nightcap," before he has a sip. "I'd like to - little scared to, though." He explains before Remi can ask, "You know - meeting the parents, very, what's the word, portentious? Something like that. Feels... more permanent, you know?" He can't eye Remi over the top of his glass - Remi's too close and too tall - but gives it a try anyway. "You ever do that? Meet the parents?"
"Yes. It means you're serious," Giremi says a little dryly. "Paddy brought Piper home to meet my parents, my mother went to meet Illya at Fort. I think he expected to stay with Piper for the rest of his life actually. Turns out, life had other ideas for my brother." There's a faint note of sourness in the harper's voice and his spine stiffens somewhat as T'mic asks that question. "I haven't had the opportunity to do so." He takes another sip from his glass and perhaps in a concession to getting things on the right foot, adds: "I have not been particularly lucky in love."
The Istan echoes, "Serious," and nods. Seriously. "Yeah. --Yeah, I know. I saw Piper at Southern, a little. She doesn't know me, couldn't pick me out of a crowd, but..." He shrugs easily and dares another swallow of brandy. "Hey, can't be that bad. You're... what? Younger'n Paddy, so you've got about... uh, twenty-three turns, right? Twenty-four? You'll find somebody. You looking for a girl or a guy?"
"So if you're serious, you've nothing to fear," Giremi says over the rim of his glass before he swallows again, head down-tilted and blue eyes sharp on the slight Istan. "Have you then. Well. I hope that she's happy, certainly. For as long as they were together, I always thought she and Paddy were a good match." Beat. "I'll be twenty-five in a few weeks." Another slight pause. "A woman."
"That's what -you- say; they're -your- family!" Mic laughs, looking toward the painting again as if to make sure everyone's still smiling. "I haven't had the best of luck with parents. Fathers." Another small sip of brandy clears the taste of that confession, and a moment later he says, "Well, happy turnday if I don't see you before. And good luck finding a g- your woman. Have anybody in mind?"
"Truly nothing to worry about there," says Giremi with a slight note of old pain in his voice. "My father cheated on my mother Turns ago. He's of your sort. Loose. For once you might actually find that you have something in common with a male parent." The rest of the sentence comes out matter-of-factly, not bitterly. "It's my mother you don't want to hurt by hurting her baby." Dry again and he chases that down with brandy. "And er ... thank you." The harper's face blanks out and he turns away, crossing to cover the hides he was working on at his desk with a blotter. "Not anymore."
"...Hey!" Mic says, more than slightly insulted as he pulls himself to his full, foot-shorter-than-Remi height and loosens a finger from his glass to poke it at the Harper. "Watch it. I don't cheat, all right? Yeah, I'm loose. But I don't go in promising anyone -anything- like I'll be faithful. If your Da -did-, and he slept around, he got whatever was coming to him and more. All right? But don't go lumping me in there with him just because you don't like how much my trous come off." Lips pressed together, he watches Remi stalk off to fuss with the hides and grunt an, "I'm sorry," that has more manners than sincerity.
"It works out to about the same," muses Giremi quietly. "When you can't keep your trousers buttoned, you can't promise to truly be with a person." His jaw tightens faintly and he picks his glass up again, downs a large swallow this time. "He hadn't promised strict faithfulness. It was more complicated than that. But he broke the terms, because he couldn't resist indulging himself. My father is a very weak, vain and silly man." No really, Remi, how /do/ you feel about G'rad? "He broke my mother's heart and ruined our family. And that is what I fear for P'draig with you. That you will eventually tire of whatever arrangement it is the two of you have made and without meaning to, you /will/ hurt him and ruin his family too." It's not coldly said, but rather harsh just by content alone.
Jaw jutting, Mic hears him out, hand clutched tight around his glass and the other arm folded just as tight across his belly. "--Well." He has another sip and then stalks over to deposit the glass on the wide-open desk. "That's... I'm glad you got that out of your system. If you're done accusing me of breaking up every family on Pern, including your own? I think maybe you should either stop worrying about your brother's personal life, or else tell -him- all of this and then listen to what he tells you. Because really? My sex life, P'draig's sex life, none of your business. You get to say 'no' -once-, and then you're done. I don't know what I did to make you dislike me, Harper, other than exist, but I didn't come here tonight so you could flame me to ash over things -your father- did to -your mother-. A'right?"
"I didn't invite you to come," replies Giremi, dead calm. "Frankly, I've heard plenty from P'draig himself and I've already aired my concerns with him." He falls silent for a moment then sighs deeply. "I'm sorry. I just ... he's so happy right now. You make him that happy. I don't want him to lose that." Beat. "Again. One of us deserves to be happy and /stay/ happy." The harper looks up and over at the Istan, eyes awash with inner turmoil. "I know you said you never leave your lovers. But please, T'mic, if you really have a heart, think about this long and hard. Really think about it: can you love my brother enough to really make him happy? Don't play at meaning it." And there's something vulnerable and delicate about Giremi as he says this, though his posture remains ramrod straight and his gaze direct.
T'mic softens, unable to stay angry for long. "Yeah, well, I came here to try and make friends, not..." He doesn't finish, flicks off the last few words like he's shaking water droplets. "I don't want him to lose that either, Giremi. I don't want to lose -him-." Remi's eyes soften him further; wisely or not, Mic approaches with his hands offered for holding. "I don't know, but I'll try. Am trying. I'm trying hard enough that I want to know his family. His daughter. He doesn't know I'm here. But I... shells. I want to know the rest of you too. Let you know me."
There's a very long time on Giremi's side of things spent staring and listening. He turns away again, blinking rapidly and takes a deep breath. When he turns back, T'mic's got his hands held out and the harper eyes them puzzled then after a moment, covers a single one of them with his palm and closes long, freckled fingers over it briefly before retreating again. "All right," he says simply. "I'll try not to let my own fears and issues stand in the way of that." He takes another deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I am often envious of my brother, T'mic. But I love him very much."
Mic covers Remi's hand with his other for a quick squeeze and an equally quick grin. "Thanks. I love him too. I'd even consider moving to Fort for him, where it sharding -snows- half of the year." And there's another lightning-fast grin. "Call me Mic, if you want. S'shorter. Faster. Are we all right, now? Don't have to worry about you writing songs about me - at least until /after/ I've screwed up?"
Giremi smiles faintly and shrugs. "What's so bad about Fort? It's nothing compared to here or the Reaches." The harper looks mildly taken aback by this supposed great sacrifice T'mic is willing to make. "Mic." He tries it out and clears his throat, lifts his brandy up again to drink. "I can't really say until we get to know each other better. Suffice it to say, that no I will not be writing anything insalubrious about you until such time as you trip over that grin of yours and plant it in the dirt." There another wry little grin curls Remi's mouth and he drinks again. "Have you actually sorted out who is moving where? Last I spoke to Paddy he was saying he'd be going to Ista most likely."
T'mic shivers at the mere mention of the northern-most Weyrs. Southerners. So thin-blooded. With no glass to toast with, he has to settle for a nod, but those big words have him looking up and blinking incomprehension. "Insa-what? Lubrious? --Yeah, no. Paddy doesn't want to leave Fort without a weyrlingmaster when they don't even have a proper Weyrwoman. But since there's no way of knowing when a gold'll rise next... we're just sort of letting things sit. I'd love to have him at Ista, but if I'm gonna have to wait five turns I'd just as soon be with him at Fort." A beat, and he adds, "I'm trying to keep up on my weyrling stuff too, in case he wants me to help."
"Bad for your health, or rather your reputation in this instance," explains Giremi gravely though there's a hint of humor sparking in his eyes. "Ah. Well no, no way to tell," he murmurs and looks over at the greenrider thoughtfully. "You really love him that much, don't you?" One long-fingered hand descends to the surface of the desk to drum there lightly. After a moment, he lifts his glass towards the greenrider and clears his throat. "I'll wish you both happiness then, wherever you wind up."
T'mic's eyes say, "Well -duh-," but his mouth is far more polite. "Yeah. I do. We do. Trust me, Giremi, I don't want to hurt him. Don't want to hurt -anyone-." Including one particular Harper. "It'd be pretty sharding hard for my reputation to get worse'n it already is, but..." He shrugs again, lifts an invisible glass. "Thanks. S'all we're looking for." After another glance around he adds, "And I should get going, let you get to bed. Sorry for keeping you up this late."
"You could have a terribly catching disease, the sort ancient healers wrote about. Passed along only by having sex with you." Giremi nods wisely and scratches at the end of his nose. "Very unhealthy for your reputation as a tireless lover." The humor's dry but present. "And I jest with you, please forgive me. I do want to see P'draig happy. And you strike me, for all of my pre-conceptions as an honest man. So I'll take this all at face value." The harper drains the rest of his glass down and sets it on the desk, empty. "I was working, actually." A gesture for the hides. "But I was not expecting company, so I took the liberty of getting ready for bed so I could turn in when I was finished. No apology necessary."
T'mic snickers at the very idea. "Well, if it were true, there'd be plenty of people passing it along right with me." Which, hey, whoops, a little too much information. "Well then, I'll apologize for interrupting your work. Gotta let me say sorry for -something-, right?" He gives the hidework a disinterested glance before turning his attention - and yet another beam - back on the Harper. "I'll tell Tam you're looking for her so she'll know to keep an eye out. Long drink of water like you, though, you're easy to see coming."
Wisely perhaps, Giremi lets that pass with no comment. "Actually, no, I don't, but I'll accept it nontheless." His head shakes firmly though. "Thank you but that won't be necessary." His lips press together tightly at the tease and he walks towards the door, letting that go too. "Also thank you for the whiskey, it's much appreciated." As he opens the door: "Clear skies, T'mic. I'm sure I'll see you again at Ista, or perhaps at the Reaches when you come to meet the rest of the family."
The greenrider follows along behind, a courteous guest in behavior if not words. "All right, I'll let Tam be pleasantly surprised instead." Just outside the door he stops, turns around with his mouth screwed up thoughtfully. "I hope you like it." A beat passes, another, and then the whatever the dark-haired man was thinking about passes, leaving his face free from any troublesome expressions. "Clear skies, Giremi, and thanks. Sleep well." With a last, sharp nod he turns to go, tossing a pleased look back over his shoulders a few steps on.
For that, Giremi only has a polite incline of his head. That beat lifts his brows, but it passes and so he only murmurs a quiet: "Good night," and his door closes so that the view of it is what would meet T'mic's gaze when he turns back.
When: day 1, month 7, turn 15 of the 10th Interval
Where: Weyrharper's Quarters, Telgar Weyr
What: T'mic comes to try to bury the hatchet with Giremi. Things get tense for a bit then resolve.
Weyrharper's Quarters (Giremi)(#10721RJh)
Comfortable quarters boasting an anteroom and a sleeping area at the back have been decorated and arranged tastefully by the occupant. Writing implements are neatly arranged on the desk along with stacks of freshly scraped hides and a precious bundle of paper. The chair drawn up to the desk is sturdy wickerwork with a plump cushion on the seat for comfort. Another chair of similar design is turned towards the stone hearth and a matching wicker work table with a board top stands on a warm-hued carpet that takes the chill out of the stone floor.
The small hearth is built into the right side of the room, the mantle a long shelf above it carved right out of the wall holds a few bound tomes, the titles pressed into the bindings declaring them to be volumes of stories and poetry. On the walls are hung several paintings and tapestries, among them one that seems to be a family portrait (+view 'portrait').
The evening is clear, with a few small clouds crossing the twinkling stars. Through the whispy clouds you can see the stars. The smaller Belior is a nearly full waning gibbous while Timor shines in half moon. It is completely still, no winds blow and the summer air is warm enough, with only a slight chill.
It's a quiet summer night, perfectly suited for whatever might strike one's fancy. Swimming, walking under the stars, talking with friends... or knocking on the door of another Weyr's Harper. The knocking pauses for a slow count of ten and then there's another triple rap, this time accompanied by a semi-familiar voice. "Journeyman? You there?"
Chair scraping back precedes the door opening and Giremi, clearly dressed for bed in buttoned-down pajamas blinks at the greenrider uncomprehendingly. "Good evening, T'mic," he manages after a few startled seconds. He does not invite the rider in. "How may I help you?" Polite. Very polite. But not exactly welcoming.
The greenrider grins up at Remi as brightly as if he were just given a handful of marks, and as wide-awake as if it were noon. "I found you, good. Here." From behind his back he draws a bottle of dark amber fluid and offers it, straight-armed, to the other man. "I thought we may not've gotten off on the right foot the other day, so I just wanted to make sure there's no hard feelings."
Giremi stares blankly at the bottle for a moment, then reaches out one long arm to take it, reads the label, looks up at the greenrider, brow slightly furrowed. "Do come in," he says quietly after a moment, and swings the door open wider to allow the rider to enter.
Mic says, "Thanks," with another flash of his teeth. "Nice room," he adds as he enters, hands swinging behind his back. He doesn't take a seat but finds a spot to stand and unabashedly ogle the other man's quarters. "I see you didn't learn how to clean from Paddy - or he from you, huh?"
The tall harper closes the door once the greenrider's entered and pads over to put the bottle of whiskey up on a shelf that holds others of its ilk. "I learned from our mother," he replies evenly and tilts a curious look over at the greenrider. "Thank you. Please excuse me for a moment." He vanishes behind the curtain into his sleeping area and returns with a robe on over his jammies, securely belted and shod now with slippers. "May I offer you a drink? Some of what you brought or perhaps something lighter? I have some white wine."
T'mic, with no sense of shame, merely says, "Then Paddy should've paid more attention to her. Yeah, 'course." When Remi comes back Mic's drifted over to the family portrait to study it, hands still politely behind his back. Did someone's knuckles got rapped once upon a time? "Huh? Oh, if you're having anything. I didn't realize you were heading for bed." In stripy pajamas. He gives the picture a nod, saying, "This your family? That's Paddy, so that must be you. And... lemme see if I remember. Emilly, E'lan, and... G-something. Which one's your sister whose still at the Reaches?"
A framed painting shows two solid men with dark hair, standing behind a red-haired woman, all three wearing rider knots from the Reaches. At the woman's feet, sit six young people ranging in age from about age eight to twenty. There's a strong resemblance amongst all of the children to at least one of the adults, two of the girls have dark, curling hair, one blonde, one auburn, of the two boys, one is dark and the other also auburn and can likely be recognized as Giremi.
"He takes more after our father," Giremi notes lightly and moves to take down glasses and after a moment's thought pours brandy into each of them, carrying one back to T'mic and joining him by the portrait. "G'rad. Da." He points to the very broad-shouldered, dark-haired, blue-eyed man. Even in the portrait, it's a very clear family resemblance, Paddy a better proportioned, taller, version of his biological father. "Milani," Remi indicates the button-cute strawberry-blonde. "The older dark-haired girl is Theona, E'lan's flight-born daughter the younger is Ilyandra and the blonde is Bella, E'lan's daughter by his former weyrmate. Both Ilyandra and Milani are our mother's by E'lan, but we don't much quibble about the blood. We're all brothers and sisters to each other."
"Nice," Mic says generally, offering the taller man a slightly less intense smile for the drink. "Thanks. Nice names, nice family. I know my mum but not my da - probably a flight baby myself." He turns from the portrait toward Remi, swirling his drink a little and giving it a sniff. "Whew - strong stuff, Ha... Giremi."
"Nightcap," Giremi notes of the drinks and his stiff demeanor melts a little, a nod following at T'mic's words about his family. "Yes. Very." He takes a little sip from his glass and looks back over at the rider. "You should meet my mother. She's the heart of it. Holds us all together. She's an amazingly kind, generous and patient person."
T'mic says "Some nightcap," before he has a sip. "I'd like to - little scared to, though." He explains before Remi can ask, "You know - meeting the parents, very, what's the word, portentious? Something like that. Feels... more permanent, you know?" He can't eye Remi over the top of his glass - Remi's too close and too tall - but gives it a try anyway. "You ever do that? Meet the parents?"
"Yes. It means you're serious," Giremi says a little dryly. "Paddy brought Piper home to meet my parents, my mother went to meet Illya at Fort. I think he expected to stay with Piper for the rest of his life actually. Turns out, life had other ideas for my brother." There's a faint note of sourness in the harper's voice and his spine stiffens somewhat as T'mic asks that question. "I haven't had the opportunity to do so." He takes another sip from his glass and perhaps in a concession to getting things on the right foot, adds: "I have not been particularly lucky in love."
The Istan echoes, "Serious," and nods. Seriously. "Yeah. --Yeah, I know. I saw Piper at Southern, a little. She doesn't know me, couldn't pick me out of a crowd, but..." He shrugs easily and dares another swallow of brandy. "Hey, can't be that bad. You're... what? Younger'n Paddy, so you've got about... uh, twenty-three turns, right? Twenty-four? You'll find somebody. You looking for a girl or a guy?"
"So if you're serious, you've nothing to fear," Giremi says over the rim of his glass before he swallows again, head down-tilted and blue eyes sharp on the slight Istan. "Have you then. Well. I hope that she's happy, certainly. For as long as they were together, I always thought she and Paddy were a good match." Beat. "I'll be twenty-five in a few weeks." Another slight pause. "A woman."
"That's what -you- say; they're -your- family!" Mic laughs, looking toward the painting again as if to make sure everyone's still smiling. "I haven't had the best of luck with parents. Fathers." Another small sip of brandy clears the taste of that confession, and a moment later he says, "Well, happy turnday if I don't see you before. And good luck finding a g- your woman. Have anybody in mind?"
"Truly nothing to worry about there," says Giremi with a slight note of old pain in his voice. "My father cheated on my mother Turns ago. He's of your sort. Loose. For once you might actually find that you have something in common with a male parent." The rest of the sentence comes out matter-of-factly, not bitterly. "It's my mother you don't want to hurt by hurting her baby." Dry again and he chases that down with brandy. "And er ... thank you." The harper's face blanks out and he turns away, crossing to cover the hides he was working on at his desk with a blotter. "Not anymore."
"...Hey!" Mic says, more than slightly insulted as he pulls himself to his full, foot-shorter-than-Remi height and loosens a finger from his glass to poke it at the Harper. "Watch it. I don't cheat, all right? Yeah, I'm loose. But I don't go in promising anyone -anything- like I'll be faithful. If your Da -did-, and he slept around, he got whatever was coming to him and more. All right? But don't go lumping me in there with him just because you don't like how much my trous come off." Lips pressed together, he watches Remi stalk off to fuss with the hides and grunt an, "I'm sorry," that has more manners than sincerity.
"It works out to about the same," muses Giremi quietly. "When you can't keep your trousers buttoned, you can't promise to truly be with a person." His jaw tightens faintly and he picks his glass up again, downs a large swallow this time. "He hadn't promised strict faithfulness. It was more complicated than that. But he broke the terms, because he couldn't resist indulging himself. My father is a very weak, vain and silly man." No really, Remi, how /do/ you feel about G'rad? "He broke my mother's heart and ruined our family. And that is what I fear for P'draig with you. That you will eventually tire of whatever arrangement it is the two of you have made and without meaning to, you /will/ hurt him and ruin his family too." It's not coldly said, but rather harsh just by content alone.
Jaw jutting, Mic hears him out, hand clutched tight around his glass and the other arm folded just as tight across his belly. "--Well." He has another sip and then stalks over to deposit the glass on the wide-open desk. "That's... I'm glad you got that out of your system. If you're done accusing me of breaking up every family on Pern, including your own? I think maybe you should either stop worrying about your brother's personal life, or else tell -him- all of this and then listen to what he tells you. Because really? My sex life, P'draig's sex life, none of your business. You get to say 'no' -once-, and then you're done. I don't know what I did to make you dislike me, Harper, other than exist, but I didn't come here tonight so you could flame me to ash over things -your father- did to -your mother-. A'right?"
"I didn't invite you to come," replies Giremi, dead calm. "Frankly, I've heard plenty from P'draig himself and I've already aired my concerns with him." He falls silent for a moment then sighs deeply. "I'm sorry. I just ... he's so happy right now. You make him that happy. I don't want him to lose that." Beat. "Again. One of us deserves to be happy and /stay/ happy." The harper looks up and over at the Istan, eyes awash with inner turmoil. "I know you said you never leave your lovers. But please, T'mic, if you really have a heart, think about this long and hard. Really think about it: can you love my brother enough to really make him happy? Don't play at meaning it." And there's something vulnerable and delicate about Giremi as he says this, though his posture remains ramrod straight and his gaze direct.
T'mic softens, unable to stay angry for long. "Yeah, well, I came here to try and make friends, not..." He doesn't finish, flicks off the last few words like he's shaking water droplets. "I don't want him to lose that either, Giremi. I don't want to lose -him-." Remi's eyes soften him further; wisely or not, Mic approaches with his hands offered for holding. "I don't know, but I'll try. Am trying. I'm trying hard enough that I want to know his family. His daughter. He doesn't know I'm here. But I... shells. I want to know the rest of you too. Let you know me."
There's a very long time on Giremi's side of things spent staring and listening. He turns away again, blinking rapidly and takes a deep breath. When he turns back, T'mic's got his hands held out and the harper eyes them puzzled then after a moment, covers a single one of them with his palm and closes long, freckled fingers over it briefly before retreating again. "All right," he says simply. "I'll try not to let my own fears and issues stand in the way of that." He takes another deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I am often envious of my brother, T'mic. But I love him very much."
Mic covers Remi's hand with his other for a quick squeeze and an equally quick grin. "Thanks. I love him too. I'd even consider moving to Fort for him, where it sharding -snows- half of the year." And there's another lightning-fast grin. "Call me Mic, if you want. S'shorter. Faster. Are we all right, now? Don't have to worry about you writing songs about me - at least until /after/ I've screwed up?"
Giremi smiles faintly and shrugs. "What's so bad about Fort? It's nothing compared to here or the Reaches." The harper looks mildly taken aback by this supposed great sacrifice T'mic is willing to make. "Mic." He tries it out and clears his throat, lifts his brandy up again to drink. "I can't really say until we get to know each other better. Suffice it to say, that no I will not be writing anything insalubrious about you until such time as you trip over that grin of yours and plant it in the dirt." There another wry little grin curls Remi's mouth and he drinks again. "Have you actually sorted out who is moving where? Last I spoke to Paddy he was saying he'd be going to Ista most likely."
T'mic shivers at the mere mention of the northern-most Weyrs. Southerners. So thin-blooded. With no glass to toast with, he has to settle for a nod, but those big words have him looking up and blinking incomprehension. "Insa-what? Lubrious? --Yeah, no. Paddy doesn't want to leave Fort without a weyrlingmaster when they don't even have a proper Weyrwoman. But since there's no way of knowing when a gold'll rise next... we're just sort of letting things sit. I'd love to have him at Ista, but if I'm gonna have to wait five turns I'd just as soon be with him at Fort." A beat, and he adds, "I'm trying to keep up on my weyrling stuff too, in case he wants me to help."
"Bad for your health, or rather your reputation in this instance," explains Giremi gravely though there's a hint of humor sparking in his eyes. "Ah. Well no, no way to tell," he murmurs and looks over at the greenrider thoughtfully. "You really love him that much, don't you?" One long-fingered hand descends to the surface of the desk to drum there lightly. After a moment, he lifts his glass towards the greenrider and clears his throat. "I'll wish you both happiness then, wherever you wind up."
T'mic's eyes say, "Well -duh-," but his mouth is far more polite. "Yeah. I do. We do. Trust me, Giremi, I don't want to hurt him. Don't want to hurt -anyone-." Including one particular Harper. "It'd be pretty sharding hard for my reputation to get worse'n it already is, but..." He shrugs again, lifts an invisible glass. "Thanks. S'all we're looking for." After another glance around he adds, "And I should get going, let you get to bed. Sorry for keeping you up this late."
"You could have a terribly catching disease, the sort ancient healers wrote about. Passed along only by having sex with you." Giremi nods wisely and scratches at the end of his nose. "Very unhealthy for your reputation as a tireless lover." The humor's dry but present. "And I jest with you, please forgive me. I do want to see P'draig happy. And you strike me, for all of my pre-conceptions as an honest man. So I'll take this all at face value." The harper drains the rest of his glass down and sets it on the desk, empty. "I was working, actually." A gesture for the hides. "But I was not expecting company, so I took the liberty of getting ready for bed so I could turn in when I was finished. No apology necessary."
T'mic snickers at the very idea. "Well, if it were true, there'd be plenty of people passing it along right with me." Which, hey, whoops, a little too much information. "Well then, I'll apologize for interrupting your work. Gotta let me say sorry for -something-, right?" He gives the hidework a disinterested glance before turning his attention - and yet another beam - back on the Harper. "I'll tell Tam you're looking for her so she'll know to keep an eye out. Long drink of water like you, though, you're easy to see coming."
Wisely perhaps, Giremi lets that pass with no comment. "Actually, no, I don't, but I'll accept it nontheless." His head shakes firmly though. "Thank you but that won't be necessary." His lips press together tightly at the tease and he walks towards the door, letting that go too. "Also thank you for the whiskey, it's much appreciated." As he opens the door: "Clear skies, T'mic. I'm sure I'll see you again at Ista, or perhaps at the Reaches when you come to meet the rest of the family."
The greenrider follows along behind, a courteous guest in behavior if not words. "All right, I'll let Tam be pleasantly surprised instead." Just outside the door he stops, turns around with his mouth screwed up thoughtfully. "I hope you like it." A beat passes, another, and then the whatever the dark-haired man was thinking about passes, leaving his face free from any troublesome expressions. "Clear skies, Giremi, and thanks. Sleep well." With a last, sharp nod he turns to go, tossing a pleased look back over his shoulders a few steps on.
For that, Giremi only has a polite incline of his head. That beat lifts his brows, but it passes and so he only murmurs a quiet: "Good night," and his door closes so that the view of it is what would meet T'mic's gaze when he turns back.