Log: PDA in the Sandbar
Who: P'draig, T'mic
When: It is an autumn afternoon, 12:31 of day 23, month 11, turn 20 of Interval 10.
Where: The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy's got something to tell Mic, and it turns as it inevitably does.
Thiefed from Mic.
The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
As the sun hits its zenith, the Sandbar offers a shady respite from the day's heat. Standing on stilts over the water's edge with a broad ramp leading up from the beach, the thatch-roofed building sits well above the highest tide line. The walls of the structure are nothing but timber frames, open to the cooling sea breezes but equipped with hinged panels of woven grass that can be lowered during inclement weather. Within, supporting pillars are draped in cast-off nets and shells and myriad tables provide seating with spectacular panoramic views of the ocean, beach, and the bustling activity of the docks to the west. A finely polished, sparkling slab of obsidian serves as the bar and it's smooth surface is etched with decorative carvings of shipfish and flowers and other emblems of the tropical location. Shelves behind the bar are lined with bottles and glasses of various shapes and sizes and hanging in prominent view are slates listing the menu, beverages both alcoholic and not as well as a handful of greasy appetizers provided by the kitchen to the rear of the bar.
The wet autumn season oppresses the island with high humidity and sweltering temperatures. At the height of mid-day, a gray blanket of clouds dominates the sky and the air hardly moves more than a whisper.
Even Weyrlingmasters get a day off now and again, while their charges bend assiduously over essays, or visualizations, or long flights meant to build up endurance. This afternoon finds Mic and Paddy in the Sandbar, the greenrider perched on the bar where he can see into the kitchen, and a plethora of tiny plates scattered about as proof of his devotion to his weyrmate's cooking. "I don't know what you did with the spiderclaws, babe, but they were delicious."
"Spices. And butter," P'draig informs as he comes out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel and grins at T'mic. "Dessert?" Brow waggle, obligatory. "Was that your favorite?"
"Spices and butter," Mic scoffs cheerfully, and drags a finger through the remnants of same; considers the upraised finger and turns it to face the brownrider. "That mean anything is better covered in spices and butter? And yeah," though he stops to consider the rest of the empty plates, "I think it was."
"A lot of things are," Paddy says with a bright laugh and leans forward to suck that coating of spices and butter off of Mic's finger. "Mm," letting finger free. "I thought you might like the pork rolls, but hey, spiderclaws are good stuff. So, dessert. Miniature pies? Custard? "
Kip straightens from unloading a crate just in time to see the very public display of affection, but only rolls his eyes. Mic's own crinkle, just the slightest little bit, and waggles his now-clean digit after Paddy's nose. "Oh, they were good too," he cheerfully admits. "And, oh, custard, I guess. But come sit with me a bit first?"
"It's all ready," P'draig notes with a jerk of his thumb towards the kitchen. "How about I get the bowls and we go sit? Pass me those plates to hand off to the washer?"
T'mic's eyebrows jump at the admission, and he leans around Paddy to peer into the kitchen. "Then both!" Why stop at just one, after all? With another bright grin for his weyrmate he collects the itty bitty plates, stacking them on top of each other and passing the whole thing off. "Want to sit here, or over by the windows?"
"Windows," P'draig says as he takes the plates with a smile. "Got some things to tell you," he says simply and heads back into the kitchen to deal with the dishes. He's back shortly after with a plate on which perch two bitty bowls of custard and two pies, artfully arranged and tracks over to wherever Mic's moved to.
Where Mic's moved to is the booth in the corner with a view of both land and sea and farthest from the kitchen - and therefore the most desirable for quiet talks. The greenrider tears his eyes from a trio of young women laid out on the beach to greet Paddy with a smile, half-rising to try and help with those oh-so-heavy desserts. "So what d'you want to talk about? And those look... wow. When you said you wanted to cook this morning, I thought...," and ends with a shrug and another grin.
The plate is set down and Paddy leans in to kiss Mic's cheek. "Just breakfast?" the Weyrlingmaster teases a little and his gaze slides out to the beach, lingers appreciatively on beach bathing beauties, then he sits not across from, but next to Mic, one arm slung loosely across his shoulders. "Paige," he says after a moment, and looks up at the ceiling for a minute or two. "It's -- it's over."
T'mic says, "Well, no," but doesn't explain what he thought, because here's Paddy sitting beside and he has to scooch over a little. He tugs that arm a little more firmly around his shoulder, eyes on the brownrider, and while they're full of sympathy, they're not full of suprise. He puts a quiet, "I'm sorry, babe,"into the silence that follows Paddy's statement and squeezes the taller man's fingers. "Thought something might be up. You want to talk about it?"
"Yeah, a little. There's not really all that much to say," P'draig says quietly and tilts his head towards Mic's. "Just wanted you to know, really. It's -- it's my fault," he continues. "And in the end ... I guess, I really just -- I shouldn't have done the long distance thing again. Even with dragons it just -- she deserves better than me, fly-by-night, you know? Steadier."
The greenrider has a quiet, almost subvocal snort for P'draig's claim but wriggles closer to his 'mate. "Unless you were throwing around ultamit... ulmitat... demands, I hardly think it was only your fault. I know you like to blame yourself for everything that doesn't go perfectly, but you shouldn't." Another glance sidelong and he corrects firmly, "Don't. You're plenty steady, love. Shells, just look at me. At us." Case in point: one greenrider and one brownrider, who live up to the stereotypes.
"I'm steady with you, but I haven't been with her," P'draig says with a shake of his head. "I called it quits. I'm hoping once it stops hurting, we can maybe still be friends at least. She's -- she's a wonderful person," the Weyrlingmaster continues and tilts his head down to Mic's shoulder. "I don't think she could ever really live with things being completely open. That's what I mean by steady."
Tucked under P'draig's arm as he is, there's no way the brownrider will be able to see Mic's fond eye-roll, and all traces of it are out of his voice when he says, "She is a wonderful person, and so are you, and if she doesn't want to talk to you it's because she's a wherry, which she isn't, so she will." Voila, logic ala T'mic. He lets his head fall over to touch Paddy's, hums for the touch of skin on skin. Quieter still, "When are you going to stop feeling guilty for being who you are?"
"Uh -- I didn't say she didn't want to talk me," P'draig notes, confused. "But you know a little space when you end something is always a good idea," the weyrlingmaster continues, then falls silent, fingers seeking to thread through Mic's. "I just wanted to make her happy and be happy. And it's not ... I don't feel guilty, Mic. Just sad. Because I can't really seem to find something that's more than just the odd fling or very, very casual with a woman, no matter how much I care. I have you and I'm happy and you know I /could/ be just us. But I guess -- I keep hoping maybe we'll find a girl." His laugh turns sheepish.
"Talk to, be friends," and Mic brushes off any possible differences between the two with an airy finger flick. "You were happy. And so was she, for a while. The chance that any two people will be perfectly happy with each other for the rest of their lives is pretty slim, babe. Not that it can't happen," he adds around the foot in his mouth, "And not saying that it doesn't hurt like anything when it doesn't, but." He curls his fingers around the invaders, squeezes gently. "Babe, you are who you are. If it happens, it happens. But you know I'd rather see you happy over what you do have instead of pining for what you -think- you should have, right?"
"Yeah, I know, but that's how it always goes. Happy for a little while. With everyone except you," Paddy says with a laugh and a bump of his nose to Mic's hair. "I am happy, Mic. And I'm not pining. It's just ... a little sad. Hey, at least, I've gotten better about not crushing out so much."
"Too bad for me," Mic teases back. "You don't cook as much when you're not miserable. When you're happy, when you're miserable, that's when you cook." He twists about to make kissy-lips: here, now. "Face it, Paddy-m'-love, takes a special woman to keep up with us. Or even one of us."
P'draig snorts softly and opts for meeting kissy-lips straight on for a minute or two before talking again. "Yeah. Just keep striking out," the brownrider says with a wry grin and tugs the dessert plate closer, picks up one of the little pies and offers it over to his weyrmate. "I'll be cooking again more once the weyrlings are done. I could happily be a Baker for the rest of my life."
T'mic hums again, content, but leaves the cuddle to lean forward eagerly for pie. Mmm, pie! "Yeah, but Jekzith would make a rotten... what are they called? The cooks who only get to chop things up. A chopping cook. Thanks." He takes the pie for himself, not going to insist that Paddy feed him. Not just now, anyway. "They're settling down, in the barracks. Well, not the barracks anymore, but you know what I mean. We should see about getting them to Fort in time for the Hatching."
Vague disappointment registers on P'draig's face as Mic takes the bitty pie instead of letting him feed him. Go figure. "Line cook," Paddy gives the position the right title and reaches for the other pie since his hand is free again. "Yeah. They should all make it I think. Except Ianna." Breath out. "Though she's coming along."
Pooooor P'draig, so deprived. In public. "Line cook, right," Mic agrees, and shifts around so they're no longer pressed so close together. "She still stuck on flying? Is it 'cause she doesn't trust Rouseth, or what?"
"Afraid of heights," P'draig explains after he's chewed pie up and swallowed enough to talk. "Working her up to it gradually."
T'mic mmms and licks his fingers clean, making sure the brownrider can see. "We should go see Millie, while I'm thinking about it." Beat. "Don't ask me why I'm thinking about it, though. And your brother, too. Is his weyrmate pregnant again, or am I thinking of someone else?"
Focus. On Mic's fingers. Paddy gives himself a little shake. "Yeah, fear of heights and my sister aren't two things I'd hook together like that," the brownrider says with a lopsided grin, reaches for custard bowl one and passes it to Mic with spoon. "Remi? Sure."
T'mic lights at the spoon - no, the custard, which he promptly begins to eat while doing unspeakable things with the spoon. "It's snowing up there, right?" Whichever 'there' he's talking about. And regretfully, "I should probably behave, and not tease him, shouldn't I." Just flick out the very tip of his tongue to lick up some custard instead.
"Yeah, it's snowing at both Reaches and Telgar," P'draig confirms and just sits there, watching his weyrmate with the spoon. "You know, we should ... really go home. Or somewhere that's not here before I jump you in this booth," the brownrider says with a little wicked edge in his voice. "As for my brother, yeah, let the guy be. He either buries himself in his papers or gets all tense when you tease him."
T'mic is innocent! Really! Except for the knowing, sidelong glances. "What, you aren't going to let me finish my custard?" he wonders, voice all wobbly and sad. Poor, poor T'mic. "I know how to relax him, if he'd let me. He's still going for his Mastery, right? Or did he get that?"
"If you bring it with you, you could ..." and the rest of that is lost to a very very naughty whisper in Mic's ear. "And Mic ... you know better. That won't relax him," Paddy says with a crooked grin. "He's making another try when the exams swing around this winter. Keep your fingers crossed."
Mic stops eating the custard to listen, and somehow never gets back around to his snack. "Mmm," he says again as a placeholder, glancing from brownrider to spoon and back again. And still distracted, "Would, though. If he'd say yes. Relaxes you. Did you make more of this?" Spoon-waggle, but he probably means the custard.
"Mic ... that's what he has a weyrmate for," P'draig says gently and then he beams brightly. "Sure did. Want me to go get the big bowl? I'll meet you back home in five ..."
"You've got a weyrmate," Mic notes, like this makes sense anywhere besides the confines of his head. But all thoughts of Remi fall by the wayside, to be replaced with a tooth-flashing beam and shoving to get out, out, out of the booth. "Shells, yes. I'm going straight there, as soon as you move." Why is P'draig still sitting there, thwarting him? Whyyyyy?
"Yeah, I do," P'draig says, "who relaxes me ve---" laughter. Paddy scoots out of the booth to head back towards the kitchen. "See you up there, lover," he teases and vanishes behind the counter where Kip is just laughing his arse off.
When: It is an autumn afternoon, 12:31 of day 23, month 11, turn 20 of Interval 10.
Where: The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy's got something to tell Mic, and it turns as it inevitably does.
Thiefed from Mic.
The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
As the sun hits its zenith, the Sandbar offers a shady respite from the day's heat. Standing on stilts over the water's edge with a broad ramp leading up from the beach, the thatch-roofed building sits well above the highest tide line. The walls of the structure are nothing but timber frames, open to the cooling sea breezes but equipped with hinged panels of woven grass that can be lowered during inclement weather. Within, supporting pillars are draped in cast-off nets and shells and myriad tables provide seating with spectacular panoramic views of the ocean, beach, and the bustling activity of the docks to the west. A finely polished, sparkling slab of obsidian serves as the bar and it's smooth surface is etched with decorative carvings of shipfish and flowers and other emblems of the tropical location. Shelves behind the bar are lined with bottles and glasses of various shapes and sizes and hanging in prominent view are slates listing the menu, beverages both alcoholic and not as well as a handful of greasy appetizers provided by the kitchen to the rear of the bar.
The wet autumn season oppresses the island with high humidity and sweltering temperatures. At the height of mid-day, a gray blanket of clouds dominates the sky and the air hardly moves more than a whisper.
Even Weyrlingmasters get a day off now and again, while their charges bend assiduously over essays, or visualizations, or long flights meant to build up endurance. This afternoon finds Mic and Paddy in the Sandbar, the greenrider perched on the bar where he can see into the kitchen, and a plethora of tiny plates scattered about as proof of his devotion to his weyrmate's cooking. "I don't know what you did with the spiderclaws, babe, but they were delicious."
"Spices. And butter," P'draig informs as he comes out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel and grins at T'mic. "Dessert?" Brow waggle, obligatory. "Was that your favorite?"
"Spices and butter," Mic scoffs cheerfully, and drags a finger through the remnants of same; considers the upraised finger and turns it to face the brownrider. "That mean anything is better covered in spices and butter? And yeah," though he stops to consider the rest of the empty plates, "I think it was."
"A lot of things are," Paddy says with a bright laugh and leans forward to suck that coating of spices and butter off of Mic's finger. "Mm," letting finger free. "I thought you might like the pork rolls, but hey, spiderclaws are good stuff. So, dessert. Miniature pies? Custard? "
Kip straightens from unloading a crate just in time to see the very public display of affection, but only rolls his eyes. Mic's own crinkle, just the slightest little bit, and waggles his now-clean digit after Paddy's nose. "Oh, they were good too," he cheerfully admits. "And, oh, custard, I guess. But come sit with me a bit first?"
"It's all ready," P'draig notes with a jerk of his thumb towards the kitchen. "How about I get the bowls and we go sit? Pass me those plates to hand off to the washer?"
T'mic's eyebrows jump at the admission, and he leans around Paddy to peer into the kitchen. "Then both!" Why stop at just one, after all? With another bright grin for his weyrmate he collects the itty bitty plates, stacking them on top of each other and passing the whole thing off. "Want to sit here, or over by the windows?"
"Windows," P'draig says as he takes the plates with a smile. "Got some things to tell you," he says simply and heads back into the kitchen to deal with the dishes. He's back shortly after with a plate on which perch two bitty bowls of custard and two pies, artfully arranged and tracks over to wherever Mic's moved to.
Where Mic's moved to is the booth in the corner with a view of both land and sea and farthest from the kitchen - and therefore the most desirable for quiet talks. The greenrider tears his eyes from a trio of young women laid out on the beach to greet Paddy with a smile, half-rising to try and help with those oh-so-heavy desserts. "So what d'you want to talk about? And those look... wow. When you said you wanted to cook this morning, I thought...," and ends with a shrug and another grin.
The plate is set down and Paddy leans in to kiss Mic's cheek. "Just breakfast?" the Weyrlingmaster teases a little and his gaze slides out to the beach, lingers appreciatively on beach bathing beauties, then he sits not across from, but next to Mic, one arm slung loosely across his shoulders. "Paige," he says after a moment, and looks up at the ceiling for a minute or two. "It's -- it's over."
T'mic says, "Well, no," but doesn't explain what he thought, because here's Paddy sitting beside and he has to scooch over a little. He tugs that arm a little more firmly around his shoulder, eyes on the brownrider, and while they're full of sympathy, they're not full of suprise. He puts a quiet, "I'm sorry, babe,"into the silence that follows Paddy's statement and squeezes the taller man's fingers. "Thought something might be up. You want to talk about it?"
"Yeah, a little. There's not really all that much to say," P'draig says quietly and tilts his head towards Mic's. "Just wanted you to know, really. It's -- it's my fault," he continues. "And in the end ... I guess, I really just -- I shouldn't have done the long distance thing again. Even with dragons it just -- she deserves better than me, fly-by-night, you know? Steadier."
The greenrider has a quiet, almost subvocal snort for P'draig's claim but wriggles closer to his 'mate. "Unless you were throwing around ultamit... ulmitat... demands, I hardly think it was only your fault. I know you like to blame yourself for everything that doesn't go perfectly, but you shouldn't." Another glance sidelong and he corrects firmly, "Don't. You're plenty steady, love. Shells, just look at me. At us." Case in point: one greenrider and one brownrider, who live up to the stereotypes.
"I'm steady with you, but I haven't been with her," P'draig says with a shake of his head. "I called it quits. I'm hoping once it stops hurting, we can maybe still be friends at least. She's -- she's a wonderful person," the Weyrlingmaster continues and tilts his head down to Mic's shoulder. "I don't think she could ever really live with things being completely open. That's what I mean by steady."
Tucked under P'draig's arm as he is, there's no way the brownrider will be able to see Mic's fond eye-roll, and all traces of it are out of his voice when he says, "She is a wonderful person, and so are you, and if she doesn't want to talk to you it's because she's a wherry, which she isn't, so she will." Voila, logic ala T'mic. He lets his head fall over to touch Paddy's, hums for the touch of skin on skin. Quieter still, "When are you going to stop feeling guilty for being who you are?"
"Uh -- I didn't say she didn't want to talk me," P'draig notes, confused. "But you know a little space when you end something is always a good idea," the weyrlingmaster continues, then falls silent, fingers seeking to thread through Mic's. "I just wanted to make her happy and be happy. And it's not ... I don't feel guilty, Mic. Just sad. Because I can't really seem to find something that's more than just the odd fling or very, very casual with a woman, no matter how much I care. I have you and I'm happy and you know I /could/ be just us. But I guess -- I keep hoping maybe we'll find a girl." His laugh turns sheepish.
"Talk to, be friends," and Mic brushes off any possible differences between the two with an airy finger flick. "You were happy. And so was she, for a while. The chance that any two people will be perfectly happy with each other for the rest of their lives is pretty slim, babe. Not that it can't happen," he adds around the foot in his mouth, "And not saying that it doesn't hurt like anything when it doesn't, but." He curls his fingers around the invaders, squeezes gently. "Babe, you are who you are. If it happens, it happens. But you know I'd rather see you happy over what you do have instead of pining for what you -think- you should have, right?"
"Yeah, I know, but that's how it always goes. Happy for a little while. With everyone except you," Paddy says with a laugh and a bump of his nose to Mic's hair. "I am happy, Mic. And I'm not pining. It's just ... a little sad. Hey, at least, I've gotten better about not crushing out so much."
"Too bad for me," Mic teases back. "You don't cook as much when you're not miserable. When you're happy, when you're miserable, that's when you cook." He twists about to make kissy-lips: here, now. "Face it, Paddy-m'-love, takes a special woman to keep up with us. Or even one of us."
P'draig snorts softly and opts for meeting kissy-lips straight on for a minute or two before talking again. "Yeah. Just keep striking out," the brownrider says with a wry grin and tugs the dessert plate closer, picks up one of the little pies and offers it over to his weyrmate. "I'll be cooking again more once the weyrlings are done. I could happily be a Baker for the rest of my life."
T'mic hums again, content, but leaves the cuddle to lean forward eagerly for pie. Mmm, pie! "Yeah, but Jekzith would make a rotten... what are they called? The cooks who only get to chop things up. A chopping cook. Thanks." He takes the pie for himself, not going to insist that Paddy feed him. Not just now, anyway. "They're settling down, in the barracks. Well, not the barracks anymore, but you know what I mean. We should see about getting them to Fort in time for the Hatching."
Vague disappointment registers on P'draig's face as Mic takes the bitty pie instead of letting him feed him. Go figure. "Line cook," Paddy gives the position the right title and reaches for the other pie since his hand is free again. "Yeah. They should all make it I think. Except Ianna." Breath out. "Though she's coming along."
Pooooor P'draig, so deprived. In public. "Line cook, right," Mic agrees, and shifts around so they're no longer pressed so close together. "She still stuck on flying? Is it 'cause she doesn't trust Rouseth, or what?"
"Afraid of heights," P'draig explains after he's chewed pie up and swallowed enough to talk. "Working her up to it gradually."
T'mic mmms and licks his fingers clean, making sure the brownrider can see. "We should go see Millie, while I'm thinking about it." Beat. "Don't ask me why I'm thinking about it, though. And your brother, too. Is his weyrmate pregnant again, or am I thinking of someone else?"
Focus. On Mic's fingers. Paddy gives himself a little shake. "Yeah, fear of heights and my sister aren't two things I'd hook together like that," the brownrider says with a lopsided grin, reaches for custard bowl one and passes it to Mic with spoon. "Remi? Sure."
T'mic lights at the spoon - no, the custard, which he promptly begins to eat while doing unspeakable things with the spoon. "It's snowing up there, right?" Whichever 'there' he's talking about. And regretfully, "I should probably behave, and not tease him, shouldn't I." Just flick out the very tip of his tongue to lick up some custard instead.
"Yeah, it's snowing at both Reaches and Telgar," P'draig confirms and just sits there, watching his weyrmate with the spoon. "You know, we should ... really go home. Or somewhere that's not here before I jump you in this booth," the brownrider says with a little wicked edge in his voice. "As for my brother, yeah, let the guy be. He either buries himself in his papers or gets all tense when you tease him."
T'mic is innocent! Really! Except for the knowing, sidelong glances. "What, you aren't going to let me finish my custard?" he wonders, voice all wobbly and sad. Poor, poor T'mic. "I know how to relax him, if he'd let me. He's still going for his Mastery, right? Or did he get that?"
"If you bring it with you, you could ..." and the rest of that is lost to a very very naughty whisper in Mic's ear. "And Mic ... you know better. That won't relax him," Paddy says with a crooked grin. "He's making another try when the exams swing around this winter. Keep your fingers crossed."
Mic stops eating the custard to listen, and somehow never gets back around to his snack. "Mmm," he says again as a placeholder, glancing from brownrider to spoon and back again. And still distracted, "Would, though. If he'd say yes. Relaxes you. Did you make more of this?" Spoon-waggle, but he probably means the custard.
"Mic ... that's what he has a weyrmate for," P'draig says gently and then he beams brightly. "Sure did. Want me to go get the big bowl? I'll meet you back home in five ..."
"You've got a weyrmate," Mic notes, like this makes sense anywhere besides the confines of his head. But all thoughts of Remi fall by the wayside, to be replaced with a tooth-flashing beam and shoving to get out, out, out of the booth. "Shells, yes. I'm going straight there, as soon as you move." Why is P'draig still sitting there, thwarting him? Whyyyyy?
"Yeah, I do," P'draig says, "who relaxes me ve---" laughter. Paddy scoots out of the booth to head back towards the kitchen. "See you up there, lover," he teases and vanishes behind the counter where Kip is just laughing his arse off.