One drink, two drink, three drink, floor.
Who: Miniyal and R'vain
Where: Somewhere in the realm of desperate. Or, a mostly unused part of the weyr by the laundry.
When: 13:47 on day 26, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: R'vain is on a bender. Miniyal is still upset. So. . .they drink. Together. Please don't even think this would go well.
12/19/2006 & 12/20/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 13:47 on day 26, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
R'vain is starting to run out of drinking buddies. There's some little part of the back of his brain that keeps a checklist. Some of them (D'ven) he can go to more than once and some of them he can't, but the list is getting thin-- and that same little part of him that keeps track also is the part that knows it's better to keep looking for someone to drink with than to move on to doing it alone.
At the end of the list there are some long shots. It's any of a number of those that the Weyrlingmaster's stalking-- or, more acurately, slumped in a chair at the end of the hallway where a little bend in the passageway offers room for the chair he's in, another like it, and an endtable with a basket of glows between them. A tiny sitting space that no one ever sits in unless they're waiting for someone to go to or from somewhere, and catch them along the way.
So that's what R'vain is doing, slouching deep in the upholstery, knees wide, boots out almost in the way of passing traffic, one paw raised and resting inside his jacket over his heart, the other lazy-curled over the end of the chair-arm. From time to time he licks his teeth, and waits.
These days she has a lot of time on her hands. Without any real work Miniyal has put a lot of focus into her assorted projects, but even those she might be careful with. Too much time with any one and she will grow bored with it and drop it. Right now she can't afford to drop anything else. It's only these projects that really keep her going. That and the man she lives with and sometimes that's just too much. Sometimes, being the sort of person she is, she just needs to get away.
Today that is her intent. Rather than risk the weather and yet another scolding for refusing to wear her coat, she sticks to the inside. There are dozens of little spots she could go hide in and that would be her intent. What has happened in the last few days needs thinking on. Mulling over. Yelling at least in her head over. Her intent is to reach one of those spaces and so she finds herself in this hall, walking along with her head down.
With her head down she notices feet first. Not fast enough to turn around and go the other way. Instead she stops and lifts her head to see who is going to be responsible for her not getting to where she is going. "This I need." Mumbled more than said as she takes a step backwards.
"Min'yal." Again R'vain licks his teeth and otherwise doesn't move, but his gaze comes up, eyes rolling high against the ruddy lids and lashes above them, brows drawing down to shade contracted pupils. *Tschk.* "'m'I in y'way?" It's a good thing he doesn't say much, if that's how he's going to talk; it'd be a trial to interpret the blend of slur and brogue he's mumbling around. "C'n move." He licks his lips now; they're chapped-- and the hand in his jacket shifts, but does not withdraw.
Tilting her head, Miniyal lets out a quiet sigh. "You're always in my way." There is a touch of sharpness in her tone. She is not in the mood to be friendly to people she likes and he is certainly not on that very short list. "However, far be it from me to move you. I'll just go another way." There is always another way after all. Another half step is taken back. "You might want to sleep it off sometime soon."
"Naw." A grin splits his fresh-licked mouth and shows teeth. Perfect, beautiful teeth, a testament to quality dentistry that Pern doesn't even have. "Ain't tired," he tells her through that smirk, and then-- surprise, surprise-- shoves himself with a bending of knees and shuffling of boots upright a bit, sitting more properly in the chair. Well, slumping more properly in it. There's something about the sag of his enormous shoulders and the drape of his paw over the arm of the chair that behave as if he's discovered, just today, how much his big body actually weighs, and is no longer up to the task of carrying it all around. "Y'sound kinda cranky. I gotta, um. Berry brandy. An', y'know, wine and stuff. Went t'Tillek." Meander meander meander. He'll find a topic eventually. Or not, because R'vain falls silent after that and just grins up at her.
Shaking her head, Miniyal remains where she is although there is a leaning back that occurs. As if her body knows better than to linger. As if it's telling her leave now before she winds up in one of those weird conversations they have that end in her storming off and being pissed for days about it. Unfortunately? Her body is not in charge. And her mind is such a mess that she almost wants just that to happen. To have someone to explode at that will leave her with. . .if not entirely no guilt than very little over the incident. So she remains, arms folding over her chest. She should know better. "Brandy?" She should know better, but she's not in a good enough place to listen to what she better know.
R'vain's slumped shoulders roll with a slow, ponderous shrug. The paw inside his jacket shifts again and comes out this time with the flask, leather-wrapped glass, old and worn and familiar. He bends forward sparingly to hold it up, an offer in reply to her question. "'Ave some, got more, y'look like y'need it more'n'I do." Of course, a newborn baby looks like he needs it more than the Weyrlingmaster does, but that can't be helped. "S'pretty good." Tempt tempt.
She lingers, but doesn't move closer. Which means the war is over. But Miniyal will not make it that easy or at least appear to be that easy. Biting her lip she unwraps her arms from around her and takes a step closer. "I don't think I need to drink after you. I'm not that badly off." Lies to maintain one's dignity in front of your sworn enemy are allowed. It's not even really a lie. Not one that will stand up since she lets out a sigh and closes the distance between where she sits and he stands so she might reach what she doesn't need.
"Suit'ch'self." But he doesn't withdraw the flask and prepare it for his own mouth, either; R'vain sets it instead aside on the endtable between the two chairs, watching with some care as if it takes coordination he hasn't quite got mastered to put a flask down on a flat surface. When he hauls his gaze back up it's by way of the empty chair, but there's no signal in it, certainly. "Y'like sweet stuff, yeah? Gotta, um, whatsit. Rotten grapes on th'vine after th'frost comes. Y'want t'go set somewhere'n try it I could bring it'long. Few other things too. Sometime, y'want." Lolling shrug, slowly executed, and he starts to slump back into the chair all over again.
Miniyal's eyes narrow a moment as she watches him as he speaks. "Haven't seen you like this in awhile. What are you? Hours away from attacking some poor girl who can't get you to hear no?" It's the first time she's ever indicated she knows anything directly. She follows it by snatching up the flask, opening it and trying a sip. Just one, if a decent sized one. Closing it again she sets it back on the table. "You wouldn't like the places I go to drink, R'vain. You'd pass out." She only smiles when she wants to smirk. "Ice wine?" Interest in her tone. More than a hint of it at the thought of the syrupy sweet wine.
The Weyrlingmaster's ruddy brows draw low over his eyes, shading those contracted pupils again. "Ain't attacked anyone," he defends sloppily. "Don't think I ever been unconvinced of a no." Frown. It's a strain to think this hard just now, to try to remember-- in a completely unbothered, academic way, mind you, like the idea of having had a girl against her will is an interesting notion to which he must apply a little focus-- and in a moment he lets another shrug send its little throes through his shoulders and gives up. "Don't think." No big deal. "Passed out a few places. Y'oughta take me, I don't mind. Yeah, ice. Ice wine. Got other stuff too, might be sweet. If y'want." Pause. Oh, has he not offered this before? How rude of him: "Brandy?"
"I've had a really lousy few days. Part of it is indirectly your fault, you know." Said as she looks down at the brandy in the flask back on the table. "Yes, thank you." Again with the flask and she'll have another drink, holding on to it this time. Her eyes narrow again, more thoughts. "You're pretty drunk already. And I may be able to keep you from falling out a chair when you've fainted like a girl, but I can't roll your sorry behind anywhere if you pass out somewhere I don't want you remembering." Still, look. Wounded animal. Person. He's a person. Miniyal has to remind herself of that. "I'm going to regret this. I can feel regret already." But she's caved. The lure of wine is a bit too much right now.
"S'good, ain't it?" R'vain is not particularly good at being sly in this state. Well, check that. He's excellent at being sly. He's horrible at being subtle about it. So he grins widely to have her drink a second time, and asks his question about the quality of the stuff (which is, admittedly, good, if a bit strange for its berry origin) with a distinctly leading and loaded tone. "So s'go somewhere y'don't mind me 'memb'rin'. Don't matter t'me. Glad t'meet a new barkeep." He pushes himself upright a bit again, undoing the level of slump he'd started to do, and blinks ruddy lashes up at her while running his tongue again over those fierce teeth. "I'go'n get stuff, meetcha somewhere? Y'c'n'old ont'that f'me." Little nod at the flask in her hands. Blah blah regret doesn't even seem to register with him.
A wise woman would agree to anything to get him to leave. Well, most anything. Just so he'd wander off and likely forget all of this. The she could go on to where she wants to go and be alone. Peaceful. Unfortunately, Miniyal doesn't really, deep down, want to be peaceful. Not when there's someone available she can be rude to without worry. "Like there's any place like that? Look, don't get any ideas that you can. . .touch me. /No/ touching. At all. I don't care if I'm getting ready to fall onto a knife and die. No touching." As if what she says will make any difference if he gets ideas in his head. Holding onto the flask she sighs. "Just come back here. I know a place."
Furrowing of brows again. "I think y'd f'give me if it was like that, w'th'knife an'all." He's too soused to put on a proper protest or any kind of lasting grumpiness, however, and shoves himself up out of the chair with nary a wobble-- just a thick and alcoholic sigh of malcontent for having to hold himself up. Capable of doing it. Just unwilling. "I'be back," he assures her, and turns his back, and swaggers off.
More's the pity he's true to his word. When those heavy, thudding bootfalls announce his return way off down the passageway, less than a quarter-hour later, R'vain's carrying a leather satchel on one shoulder and another flask-- this one tin with brass cap and mouth and stamped with some sort of crest or symbol on one side-- in his hand.
Is it more pitiful he's sunk to a willingness to drink with Miniyal or that she remains to do just that? She could have emptied the flask and left it on the table. Instead she's seated in a chair, mumbling to herself. Berating herself near silently for sitting there waiting. But that is just what she does and when she hears his steps her head lifts and for a moment she considers fleeing again. It would not be so hard. In his state she could get away.
Unfortunately for the pair she just rises to her feet, the flask emptied of its contents before she nods her head. "I wouldn't. Forgive you. Come on. There's a room just down here. Packed full of furniture too big and unwanted to go anywhere else. Have to squeeze through to get to the good spot. No one really knows about it." But the might. So she may as well share.
"Uh uh." R'vain stops bolt short before her, and now those black spots in his eyes grow large and lightless, even as his lashes spread wide and his brows push up the tiny increment they're allowed. "You g'wan'head, but I ain't." He crosses his arms over his chest, tucking the flask into the crook of an elbow, and jaunts his weight into a hip. Flat refusal.
"Afraid?" Taunting the drunk man is never wise. But that is just what Miniyal does. Because it's fun. In a cruel way. "I suppose if you don't want to. I mean, if you're willing to be a drunk /and/ a coward for the rest of your life. I'd invite you back to my room, but I do still live with someone." Dig, dig, dig. "But if you know someplace I'm willing to go then name it right now. Otherwise I'll go on to the bottle of whiskey I have waiting for me." Hands on her hips she watches him, silently taunting.
"Yeah," he retorts, simply. Which is not to say he's so comfortable with the fear that 'coward' doesn't strike him, nor that her remark about living with someone can go by without a horror widening his eyes. Horror, not hurt. And R'vain even takes, on that, a step back, the hand not clasping the flask clasping instead the strap of his satchel where it crosses his chest. "Uh. Couple bars. Ruvoth-- " For some reason this is not the best solution and even the drunk gets that, nose wrinkling all along its crooked bridge, nostrils flaring. His focus slips off of Miniyal and searches down past her shoulder, like the clammy closeness of this horrible furniture-stuffed room might approach from down the hall. "Room back of th'laundry there's a'lil' office, more like uh, workroom. Th'girls what work f'th'assistant, eh, anyway, could hole up there y'like." Pause. He gets his gaze back on her, and grunts softly from the effort. "Smells nice. Fresh laundry."
Her shoulders shrug as if his words don't mean a thing to her. They don't, of course. When he offers a room her head tilts to the side. Wrinkling her nose up, Miniyal finally gives a slight nod of her head. "I know the room you mean I think. And I know how to get there without being seen with you." Because she may be all sorts of messed up right now, but she's just /not/ inviting that rumor at all. Holding out his, now empty, flask she nods again. "I'll meet you there." He gets a moment to take the flask and then she will see about making her own way.
R'vain stands there stunned, managing only to take the flask. It's only after she's turned and left that he mutters, "Sure know how t'make a fella happy." It might be that he actually sounds a little hurt. That sort of fades after he shakes the flask and snorts at its emptiness, however, so he turns and goes off his own way, grumbling.
The room in question was an office once, yes. But the assistant headwoman who oversees laundry has long since moved into better quarters farther from the 'nice' smells of fresh (and other sorts of) washing. Now the room's a place where the two youngest of /her/ assistants spot-treat, brush, and fold some of the weyr's more important stuff: table linens for feasts in the main cavern, tapestries, council chamber rugs, whatever. It's rarely used otherwise except as a retreat for the two young women who chiefly work here, or as a place for them to talk to their subordinates, or-- well, how R'vain knows the place so well, and figures it'll be empty today, and lets himself in like he owns it? Let's not think so much about that part.
But that's how it is. The Weyrlingmaster swaggers in, swinging the satchel off his shoulder, looking for one of the chairs to plunk it down in before looking much of anywhere else. The flasks have disappeared, probably into the jacket.
He just has to ask his little girlfriend how poorly Miniyal does at making a man happy. She seems to think she knows after all. Besides, it's not as if she's ever cared about making him happy. So she does make her own way and has a pretty good idea why he knows the room. The thought comes briefly and it only makes her reconsider what she's doing. In the end, with the choice to drink alone, her own bottle, or drink someone else's alcohol? She lets out a weary sigh and slips into the room. Closing the door behind her she frowns. "I didn't kick you anywhere. That's as close as you get to me making you happy. You're the one who had to come here because you wouldn't go somewhere reasonable." Reasonable is hiding out of the way. She knows this. Leaning against the door she lets out a sigh.
This room, unlike one stuffed with furniture is in his mind, is spacious (for two people, or even three); uncluttered (when there's no folding going on, or when it's being ignored); and high-ceilinged. It suits him well. He grumbles at Miniyal's voice, bending with a knee leant for steadiness against the chair's seat so he can paw through the satchel and, in a moment, come out with the bottle most promised-- ice wine. "You're th'one who came'long an' looked at me like I's standing in y'way just sittin' there in a chair. What th'fuck I ever do t'you anyway?" He has /glasses/ in there, too, wrapped in torn velvet. These he unwraps and amicably straightens, amicably uncorking the bottle with his bare paws, amicably grinning at nothing particular, more or less at odds with his grumpy words. "Siddown, get a load off, girl, y'sound like y'been landed on."
People know about this room. That makes it unsuitable in Miniyal's mind and her mind is better. In her own mind anyway. "You were in my way." Stated as fact. Still, she shuffles to a chair and seats herself in it, hands folding proper in her lap because she just can't, won't, break the training given by her mother. "You have no clue what you've done. You wouldn't even understand it if I told you so I'm not going to waste my breath trying." Getting back to his question and all. "If I'd wanted to talk I would have gone to my room to drink. Since that is where I was not headed when I ran into you please consider I don't want to talk." She wants to drink. Which she cannot do until he has poured her a glass and handed it to her.
"Then what--" But she gets into the whole part about not wanting to talk, and to that R'vain can only grin and shrug, eyes down to watch and take care while he sends wine splashing into the glasses, barely lifting the neck between them, sloppy-suave. He overfills them, gloriously full bowls, improper, indulgent, degenerate. "Can't fault a girl f'that," he slurs, glancing up as he gets up the glasses in his hands and comes over to hand one out to her, grin saucy. "Thanks." For...?
Confusion is, all things considered, not a new emotion for her. People endlessly confuse her no matter how she tries to make it not so. First things first however and before she can try to sort it out she takes the glass from him, careful to not spill. Concern for the wine and not her clothes creating this caution. Once the glass is in her hands she takes a drink. And wants to ask for clarification. Two things stop her: She said she wanted to not talk. She won't seem like she doesn't know what is going on around him. So, she settles into silence with her wine. All of her attention is not on the cup or its contents if only because in order to do that she must trust the man in the room with her and she's just not that dumb. She is quite content to sit in silence and drink her wine.
R'vain turns away and prowls to a chair. He grabs it by the seatback and hauls it across the floor with a bit of scraping and screeching, then whumps it down about three feet from hers, facing at an angle. He /does/ spill wine partway through this process, sloshing a splot onto the floor; noticing, he remedies the situation with a gulp. Then he drops into the chair, soon slumped the way he was when she found him, as if his body falls that way most naturally, and puts the rim of the glass to his lips. It stays there well into the ensuing silence, tilting only to let more fluid into his mouth, and it's mostly through or around the opposite rim of the bowl that he's able to watch Miniyal. Amicably.
Silence is weird. When one is alone in it there's a comfort to find. When one is in it with someone they like, love, trust there is comfort in it. A contentment that can be found when two people share silence together. This? This is not one of those times. Miniyal takes another drink from her glass. And then another. She does enjoy the wine which makes something nice to focus on. "This is not bad." Grudgingly said. Just as grudgingly said as what follows. "Thank you. For sharing." Enough of that. Back to wine drinking. The glass is not near empty, having been so full, but it soon will be if she doesn't stop to talk. Perhaps that is what prompts her next words. "Why were you lurking about then?" In the hall. Not now.
"Don't drink much 's'bad." Not much. Only a little. When there's nothing else within reach. R'vain shrugs and lowers the glass a little farther. It /is/ almost empty, and will be really empty in one swallow, but he moves it away from his mouth so he can answer her a little better. "Lookin' f'someone t'keep company with." Another shrug, this one longer, more languid and rippling. "You?" Gulp, empty. The Weyrlingmaster unslumps, shoving up out of the chair with another heavy sigh, and stalks around to retrieve the bottle.
"I don't drink anything that's bad." She doesn't have to. She has people that owe her things who make sure she gets the good stuff. She's sleeping with someone who only has the good stuff. To his question, Miniyal shrugs her shoulders. "I wasn't looking for someone to keep company with. I was looking to be alone. But, why drink my stuff when I can drink someone else's?" It's a good rule. She punctuates it by draining the glass of its contents. "So what has you drinking so much lately? Just miss the hangovers?"
"S'a whore's sayin', that," grunts R'vain without malevolence. He's just being educational. Rather than worry about their glasses the Weyrlingmaster just grabs up the bottle and starts back toward his chair-- then thinks better of it and veers by the other chair that holds his satchel, and digs out of there /another/ bottle. "I don't get hangovers." Both bottles come back with him; he puts the full one down by the foot of his chair, then slumps into place and gestures with the open one for her to hold out her glass. Gentleman enough to pour hers first. "D'you?"
The first statement she just ignores. Dismisses it without even acknowledging it. Between studying her empty glass she watches him move, always wary when there's not something like a nice big desk between them. Dumb but not stupid about it. Miniyal holds out her glass to be refilled, leaning forward just enough to make it easy. "No. Don't ever drink enough that it's a problem. Don't ever remember having one even when I did drink too much. Wouldn't matter even if I did. Sometimes you just want to see the world through the bottom of a bottle and fuck the rest of it."
"Yeah." Mostly that's a woofy grunt, and R'vain, having agreed that much and having seen to it that Miniyal's glass is just as full as it was before, draws back the bottle and sloshes wine into his own. "But wait. Y'got it kinda made ain'tcha? Y'set." The Weyrlingmaster glances up, leaning back with his glass in one paw and the bottle-- after four full glasses like these there's just a little left in the bottom-- in the other. His turn to be wary now, he looks at her for a moment, turning his head a bit like the angle might be telling, before proceeding. "What's gotcha willin' t'drink w'me?" Pause. "Eh. Y'don't wanna talk, I forget." So he shuts himself up the best way, raising the glass to pour its contents down his throat.
She's careful with her glass. Bringing it to her lips slowly and then drinking down enough to make it holdable without being spilled. Only the holding part doesn't happen quite as soon as it might and when she's done the glass is half empty. Luckily for Miniyal she's got the body weight to support this kind of drinking. Even so she'll be stopping long before him, not having the experience of drinking like he does. "Hate to talk sometimes. Can't sit quiet, you know? Always someone wanting to pry and see what you think or why you did something or what you're going to do or how you're supposed to make things better." Looking up from her glass she studies his face and then shrugs. "Don't much care about you. So I don't feel any requirement to answer if you do ask. And you don't care about me so I don't figure you'll be prying." A pause to take another drink. "Love sucks."
R'vain does quite a bit of drinking even in his best days; at the moment he's just doing it all... at once. When he lowers the glass it matches hers, and over its rim he draws a deep breath, taking in the scent with pleasure that almost brings smile lines to his eyes-- for a moment. 'Love sucks' sort of catches him in the middle of this little moment and he chokes out the breath he'd held on a thick, coughing sigh. "Does it?" The coughing starts to be laughter, then fails to be laughter and just turns into coughing again, and he bends forward to prop elbows on knees, head down until he's got the choke out of his throat. "'M'sorry, I guess, then. Din't think y'd be in such straits." But since she is-- he raises his glass to her, a toast in offering.
For a moment, just a brief one, her posture slips. She slides down in her chair some, slouching or sulking. But just for that moment somewhere in the middle of the laughter and the choking. By the time he is done Miniyal has righted herself and emptied her glass. "I assure you neither did I." Folding her arms over her chest she holds onto her empty glass lightly. "It was only supposed to be about the sex." Blinking a few times she tilts her chin up. "And I am /so/ done talking now, thank you very much." So completely done talking now. Yep. Not saying another word. Nope. Said too much already so she just peers into her empty glass without really seeing it. Well, she mumbles something into it, there's the sound of words, but no sense can be made from them.
"Din't catch th'last bit there," points out R'vain, then draws his glass back for a drink-- a small one, before he leans forward and offers her the bottle and what's left in it, wholesale. "So's th'point y'didn't mean t'feel anythin' f'im? Still don't see how's it s'bad. Izzit?" The bottle wiggles. Stop looking at your glass, woman, and take this bottle.
"If I had wanted anyone to hear I would have enunciated and made clear my words." Said with a shake of her head before Miniyal looks up from her glass. She sees the bottle being offered to her and tilts her head to the side as she considers it. Finally she does reach for it so she might empty the contents into her glass. With anyone else she might have moved faster, but hey, make him wait for her. That's always fun. "When you feel nothing for someone they can't hurt you. It's obvious. It's only when you care for someone and what they think that you open yourself up and allow them all sorts of chances to make you miserable even without meaning to. It's very complicated." The last is said with a sage nod of her head.
R'vain does not appear to mind waiting for her to take the bottle-- /he/ still has wine in /his/ glass, and can entertain himself sufficiently with lifting it to drain back. There is something to be said here about outdrinking the drinker, but the Weyrlingmaster is not the one who's going to say it. He says instead, "Ain't /so/ complicated. Y'try t'live up t'what they thought've you that made'm come t'you in th'first place or else, y'know," and here he finishes what was in his glass so he can swing down the empty hand she relieved of the bottle to pick up the other one from the floor. "Y'don't."
There are people who drink alone and people who drink in the company of others. Miniyal, when she truly wants to drink, does so alone. In the dark with no one but her inner demons to keep her company. So pacing herself is not a skill she has acquired. The contents of her glass are eyed and then she laughs. "Oh, please. Do people buy that line? Especially from you. Give me a break." A couple of sips from her glass before she smirks. "If I wanted advice I'd go to someone I thought could give me some worth taking." Another drink before she tips her head over to the other side. "Always been afraid?"
"Yeah," he says, regarding people buying the line. "Pretty much, ach'ly." R'vain straightens, fitting the new bottle between his thighs so he can wrench out the cork with the one paw he's got free. Who needs screws when you have brute strength? He tosses the cork over to the side; it bounces a couple of times and comes to rest against the bottom of a wall of shelves containing folded table linens in a variety of colors, silver-gray dominant. The Weyrlingmaster pays it no mind, preferring to glance up at Miniyal with a wary look for her latter question, the one she meant in earnest. "Ain't been somethin' happened t'make it so if that's what'cha mean." Then he turns his attention to lifting the uncorked bottle to refill his own glass.
"Well, some people will believe anything from anyone." Tsk. Her attention wanders towards the cork, watching its progress. As if it's telling about something and maybe in her mind it is. Still, when it comes to a stop she pulls her attention back to the conversation. "Some people are born with problems. Some people are not." Such wisdom she offers, drinking or not. "I was serious, you know. When I offered to help you." Here is when she pauses to laugh and empty her glass, the first a little wry, the second a little desperate. "If you're not willing to extend yourself and your principles to those you dislike then you don't truly believe them." Dislike, hate, despise it's all the same thing. . .sort of. Dislike sounds more polite.
"I's born w'problems. S'called havin' parents." R'vain is not subtle enough to carry off wry very well, so he settles for outright bitter. Done pouring his own glass he holds out the bottle, a little tipped; she might choose to take it, or to just hold her glass out for him to fill. "Yeah, yeah, princ'ples. Bull pucky." Those two words are easily clear enough to understand, almost entirely unslurred by benefit of their sharp consonants. "What'd y'do t'me, then, f'I wanted t'take y'elp?"
"Parents are not a problem unless you allow them to be." Wise advice from the woman whose parents are. . .a huge problem. The tip of the bottle draws her arm out so he can refill her glass. Miniyal allows it, yes. "So you don't believe in principles? Or you don't have them yourself? Or you don't believe /I/ have them?" They are not rhetorical questions. They are asked and then she waits for an answer. His question is not answered because first she expects hers to be.
For a while-- though not long-- the subject of problems goes by so that R'vain can, as she wishes, answer her direct questions. "None th'above." There, answered. He sloshes wine from the bottle into her glass, then retracts the bottle to top off his own; now both are again, too full, and he lifts his wine to suck down a swallow so it won't spill when he adjusts back into the chair and pins the bottle again between his thighs. "Ain't seen 'em since b'fore I b'came Weyrlingmaster," he observes after that, though the last word-- his title, sounds as much like 'linlinmassa' as anything else.
Her arm retracts carefully so she doesn't spill any of the wine. There is no talking until she has taken a few drinks to be sure her glass does not spill. "If you want to know how I can help you come see me sometime when you're sober." She offered to help, but didn't say she would make it easy. Miniyal holds her glass in both hands and spares it only a passing glance before she refocuses on the 'linlinmassa'. "There's things that might help. I've read up about other things. The same sort of problem if not the same thing. There's ways to fix it. Well, ways to get it under control. Like I said, we can discuss if you want to sometime. I have all the time in the world these days."
"A'right." What else is he going to say? 'Sure, I'll see you next Thursday?' Predictions of his oncoming sobriety are hard to make, and R'vain is least likely to make them. Instead he buries his upper lip in the wine and tips up the glass, just putting the stuff down-- who cares about tasting it. He gets a taste of the last swallow anyway, the one he holds in his mouth a while after lowering the glass half-empty so he can squint, suddenly thoughtful, over the rim at the woman on the other side. Pause. Gulp. "Y'lookin' f'work?"
Not being the drunkard he is there's no tossing back of alcohol. She drinks fast, but she tastes it. It's a problem when you're just drinking to drink. When you can still believe you're drinking to enjoy /and/ to be drinking then you are ok. Miniyal, therefore, does not pull ahead of him. She just drinks steadily, but her glass is just under half. The question brings another laugh. "Didn't you hear? I'm not good for work. I'm good for letting an old man support me in return for warming his bed. Not that I do that all that well either. Just a big fucking disappointment to the world now. Hurray for me. Cheers." Now she empties her glass.
R'vain just stares at her for her answer. When he answers-- "Cheers" --it's more than a little subdued, maybe a little awed, and he empties his glass also. "Din't know it was s'post t'be like that," he grunts, picking up the bottle for another fill. His voice compresses as he leans forward to offer a fill for her, too. Fourth round, not counting the dregs from the first bottle. She's ahead, counting those. So they must not count. "He tell y'that? Don't sound like th'kind've mumbo-jumbo blah blah blah y'd'ear fr'him."
Since her glass is empty she will lean forward to let her glass be refilled. Miniyal will straighten up when that is done. She won't talk until she has a full glass in front of her. "He didn't say it." It's not defensive, there's no indication she's covering for him. It's fact. "He's right. I shouldn't let the words of one bitter girl bother me. He's always right. It's do damned annoying." Drinking is good so she does that. A third of the glass gone before she says anything else. "So there's no point in trying to get work. Besides, you know how many jobs I've had? How many I've failed it? It's sort of pointless at this point. I am resigned to not doing anything ever again. That or fail."
R'vain woofs a little grunt of thoughtful acceptance, allowing her answer since it did, in a way, address his question. Then he puts the wine up to his mouth and works down the level of the liquid in the glass, eyes half-lidding, pupils small so even what remains to be seen of those eyes seems all green, glittering even through the haze of alcohol that suffuses them. He swallows, and swallows again, and on the third swallow stops drinking to just let the tideline of wine lap against his lips while he murmurs a low, rumbling 'mmmm' against the rim. One eye narrows almost shut, and he untilts the glass away from himself, toward her. "Y'still gotta mind t'try t'cul...make y'self a pet Weyrleader?"
"No. It was a passing thought. I thought it might be entertaining. Something to pass the time." Miniyal shrugs her shoulders before she takes another drink. "Besides, I was only trying to help Roa and I don't get paid for that anymore so she is on her own." Nodding her head at this she smiles ever so briefly. "It was a bad idea. Working for her anyway. I /told/ them that, but no one really listens to me. Not always. And they get their mind set on something and it's like what I want doesn't seem to factor into it. Anyway, I knew I'd be fired. I'm always fired. Or I quit." This makes her frown and then empty her glass. "It's all boring. But I sound like a child saying that. I should be able to commit to something by now. But I can't. In the end it's boring and I want to quit and I have no reason not to so I do."
"So y'quit? S'good. No reason y'should work doin' somethin' y'don't like unless y'need th'marks and y'shouldn't need 'em, eh?" R'vain shrugs fluidly-- everything he does just now except speak the rare punctuative words is fluid, and since his solid-to-fluid ratio keeps decreasing this should not be too surprising. "Question f'y." Fair warning! He swallows a few more gulps before asking it, though, and while asking it gets the bottle back up into his hand to empty the rest of the contents into his glass. "Two ach'ly." A lot of asking to do so he downs the little bit he's just poured, then bends to put down the bottle by his chair. "What 'they' y'mean? Roa'n'Ashwin? And d'y'want a red now or somethin' else? I got-- mm. I'll show y'."
Peering at her glass there is some surprise there. How did it get empty? Wasn't it just too full? To the top, right? Now there's nothing at all. So she focuses, as best she can, on the second question. Her eyes take a moment to focus, but Miniyal eventually makes sense of the question. "I'd say yes show me what you have, but I don't think at all that's the right thing to say. . .So, just, right. Whichever. I have to stop soon. Can only drink so much. Have to get home. . .eventually." The first question then is remembered. Or acknowledged. Head tilting, Miniyal grins. "No. Not her. Wait. Him. Not him. Ashwin. . .you know why I was fired? Timing. He had nothing to do with it. My fault. Fucked up is all. Maybe I wanted to. . .I'm not really sure. I hate being an assistant. I hate being nothing more than someone else's. . .you know. The word. Assistant."
R'vain pushes himself to the edge of his chair's cushion and sits there knees-splayed, propping elbows on his thighs, his glass nearly horizontal in one careless paw. "Y'decide it's th'right thing t'say lemme know." After that he shoves up from the chair and gets around it-- he has to lay a hand on the seatback to keep his path steady over to the satchel, but he walks well enough once that moment of headiness passes-- and then just catches up the bag instead of bothering to bring over another sole bottle. "Fucked up how? How d'y'fuck up bein' an 'sistant? Y'let on y'hate it or somethin'?" Back to the chairs, but rather than slump again into his own he comes to hers and props the satchel on the seat-arm, /right/ beside her, so she can look in herself. Service!
Miniyal laughs at his words, not thinking about it and therefore not stopping it. "Never. There will never be a time that will be the right thing to say. In a hundred turns it will never be the right thing to say." Wrinkling her nose she shakes her head. "No. I think she knew I didn't like it. But she wouldn't let me go. She's not like that, you know? Thinks she can change everyone to be the way she wants. She's so. . .so. . ." Something. "None of your business. What I did. It's not anyone's business." The service is not really appreciated. Wrinkling her nose again she peers into the satchel to see what is left. "Doesn't really matter. What it is anyway. I mean, so long as it's. . .the last one. The last one. Sorry to say, I've had about enough of your company. Or wine. One or the other."
"Lightweight," grins R'vain, pleasant enough, and retreats with the satchel to his chair. He sits, and lands the bag between his feet, bending to fish out from it a third bottle.
The first was ice wine, a small bottle, elite. The second a sweet white, riesling blend, sweet but svelte on the tongue. Not that they noticed a lot. This one's a larger bottle, likely the largest he'd have in something carried so casually overshoulder, dark brown glass telling of its contents. Its cork has to be unwrapped before he can haul it out, and he sets aside his glass on the floor so he can get both paws and both thighs focused on the task.
"So polit'cal," snorts the Weyrlingmaster, belatedly, while he wrenches at the bottle. "So self-centered. So sure of 'erself. So-- so-- " He has trouble with it too, and runs out of words, so wrinkles his nose instead. Finally he gets the bottle uncorked and almost kicks his own glass in the leaning forward to offer to fill hers. "S'whatcha /like/ doin'?"
"I'm only a part time drunk, R'vain. I can't expect to keep up with the professionals." Awww. She complimented him. Complete with a charming smile and a wink. Definitely the last bottle. Miniyal watches the whole selection and opening process with eyes forced to focus. When the bottle is open she leans forward so he can fill her glass. "Exactly." Her head nods once, firmly. Well, it wobbles a bit, but she makes it as firm as she can all things considered. She bonds for a split second over Roa and her something. A split second before she just settles back in her chair with her drink. "No idea. What I like? Nothing. I mean. . .I'm not sure. It doesn't matter. You know it doesn't matter? I'm too old to start doing anything. And I'm not good at anything. And there's no point." Look. A drink. She takes one.
Splash: wine poured. Slosh. R'vain retracts the bottle after making sure she's got all the wine her glass can hold and leans /way/ down over his knees to do the same for his own glass, then plunk the bottle down beside the chair and grab up the glass, straightening. He pauses halfway up for a moment, like he's thinking. Probably not about Roa, or about what Miniyal's saying, either. The thought, thankfully, passes and the Weyrlingmaster gets back into his comfortable slump in the chair, knees out, boots out, head against the seatback. Slouch. "Y'like sneakin' around an'spyin' on people," he says with a bit of a hiccup under 'people,' then puts up his glass to drown further hiccups with wine.
Head up, glaring, Miniyal sniffs before taking a long drink. "I do not do that. Sneak around and spy. I do not do that." Eyes narrowing she shakes her head and it goes on a little longer than it should because she can't stop. She does so by taking a drink. That helps, yes? Of course it does. "I just. . .don't like being around people. You're all horrible. Not him. He's not horrible." Indignant. Annoyed. Then happy, complete with a sigh. "I don't deserve him. And I don't /like/ sneaking around and spying. Just because someone is good at something does not mean they like it. Well, I like some-well. I don't like knowing things about people. It's usually just more proof that I dislike people in general."
"He ain't /that/ great. I'sure y'do'im just fine." He punctuates these words with a bit of a snort. You can tell when R'vain is pretty well down the path because he says things like these and does not recognize in them the potential for salacious content. He just hauls a swig of wine and goes on talking. Not that he has much to say-- just this one little thing, over the rim of his glass. "Y'want t'get paid f'it?" Bottoms up.
"He is too! He's wonderful. He's the best thing that has ever happened to me. Ever. In my life." One foot taps on the ground as she lifts her glass, emptying it with a thoughtful expression. "I don't deserve him. He tries so hard and I just screw up. It's alright though. He loves me. I almost feel sorry for him. I'm not the easiest person in the world to get along with. Probably the worst. Shut the fuck up, R'vain." Blinking Miniyal peers and then asks, "Paid for what? I don't think we're having the same conversation. That's probably good. I don't like talking to you anyway."
R'vain nurses his wine pleasantly enough until 'shut the fuck up' startles him to wide-eyed life and he lowers the glass. When it's clear she has no idea what he's talking about-- on the second tack, anyway-- a grin splits his sloppy mouth and he shakes his head just a bit. "I ain't mean t'say nothin' 'gainst 'im like that. Shit f'pol'tics but I'm sure y'appy w'im, y'act it. Good f'you. Good f'im. Keep 'im outta trouble." Shrug, fluid, liquid, rippling. And grin, and tilt of his head-- a little nod, like, 'I've had my say, I'll do as you please and shut the fuck up now, thank you.' Polite. "Now th'question was: spyin'. Y'want t'git paid f'it." He tips his glass to her just as he did his head, saucy. Sauced. And pulls it back to drink.
Miniyal's forehead wrinkles and she looks quite clearly lost. Lifting her glass she drains it and then peers into it. "People don't get paid to spy. Well, harpers. They do, you know. And then they keep everything they learn to themselves. Locked away where no one can see it. That's wrong. You can't lock up information that everyone should know." Shaking her head she kicks at the floor again. "I don't. . .I have things I have to do. Things I should do. But nothing I want to do. I just need to find what I /want/ to do. What's the problem with that? Not wanting to get stuck doing something for the rest of my life that I hate. There's nothing wrong with that at all. At all."
"G'wan doin' y'spyin' and keep a record then," remarks R'vain, like he hasn't heard her protests at all-- but he can lean over the side of his chair and transfer his glass to the other hand so he's got a paw free to swing down and catch up the bottle, /sure/, no problem, and then he can lean forward to offer her a pour /too/, easy, don't worry about it a bit. "Y'put it in records when y'want to. Charge f'it 'til then. Figure s'got t'ave some value whatever y'know?" He shrugs, grinning widely, teeth-bright, eyes-hazy. "Or don't. Don't matter t'me yet."
"I don't keep records. Of what people do. Why would I do that? I find stuff out accidentally." Miniyal is adamant on this, just as adamant as she is about holding out her glass for another refill. Why, yes. Thank you so very much for yet more wine. That is not needed. "And I do not. . .What do you mean yet? Nothing I do means anything to you. It doesn't matter." If she were not so willing for her glass to be refilled she would sit up straight, indignant about such an idea. Something he said. But it's not important enough for her to give up getting her glass refilled. "Nothing I do is ever any of your damned business." So, there.
"A'right," replies R'vain, just as he did before. She wants to close the conversation; he obliges. She also wants wine. He obliges, then tops off his own glass, too, and puts the bottle down. "Just tryin' t'help y'think up ideas. Y'don't seem happy, whatsit. Bein' kept. I mean, I'wd. If I's you. Spare me lotta trouble." Shrrrrrug, slow and lazy and languid, muscles twitching and joints popping, muscles rippling like some huge cat's in the process of hunkering down to sleep, or pounce. He drinks. "Why's y'hate me?"
The wine gets a thankful nod, the best he can expect at this point. Pulling her glass back she stares at the wine within it before she will raise it for a drink. It's slow, eyes closing as she enjoys the flavor and ignores the company that she keeps. "It's no one business if I am. I mean, if I let him. I mean, it's not like I haven't worked here all my life. It's not like I haven't earned my keep. Like I don't do my part. There's nothing I wouldn't do for my home. This is my home. I'm not hurting it." Whatever outrage she was working towards stops just as suddenly as it started and she takes another drink. "You're a bully. You're self-centered. You act like the world owes you. Take what you want. Don't care if it hurts someone else. Use your position and your size to intimidate and take. I hate that. Hate people like that. Push others around and treat them like they're less. Like we don't mean as much. Not as important."
Drink drink drink. Nothing about her rambling about her work and her life and her entitlement and being kept and all is going to keep R'vain from his pleasures-- he tips back his head and the glass and drinks, again just pouring the stuff down his throat. It's unfortunate that this is the method he's going with right now because it means that the choke he suffers when she comes out with 'self-centered' is deep, throaty and genuine; it obliges him to bend suddenly forward and gag a bit, then hack, then swallow hard to keep the bile back, then draw deep breaths through flaring nostrils. He misses, in this, some of what she says in the middle; by the time he's looking up at her with wide and watering eyes she's got on to 'treat them like they're less' and /that,/ well. The Weyrlingmaster just doesn't breathe for a moment there while she winds up her explanation. And then he's staring at her, eyes wide, mouth sort of downturned. Crestfallen might describe it well. And on that he says, a little gulpily, "I gotta go."
She'd assume, probably, he's going to be sick. If that were the case he might hurry a little more. As it is he takes the time to grab up his satchel before he shoves up out of the chair, and even stops by the door to turn back and say, "Send th'glass back w'Essdara," still-- oblivious to the situation there. Proving, no doubt, her point.
Blink. Miniyal is not drunk enough to be unaware of what is going on. Entirely. She watches him rise and watches him warily when he moves. As if she's worried he'll decide to take a swing or something at her on the way out. She remains in her chair until he's gone, then she empties her glass and rises rather unsteadily to her feet. She'll walk out and back to her room, glass still in her hand. Whatever she's thinking is her own business. She'll have enough trouble walking.
Where: Somewhere in the realm of desperate. Or, a mostly unused part of the weyr by the laundry.
When: 13:47 on day 26, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: R'vain is on a bender. Miniyal is still upset. So. . .they drink. Together. Please don't even think this would go well.
12/19/2006 & 12/20/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 13:47 on day 26, month 12, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
R'vain is starting to run out of drinking buddies. There's some little part of the back of his brain that keeps a checklist. Some of them (D'ven) he can go to more than once and some of them he can't, but the list is getting thin-- and that same little part of him that keeps track also is the part that knows it's better to keep looking for someone to drink with than to move on to doing it alone.
At the end of the list there are some long shots. It's any of a number of those that the Weyrlingmaster's stalking-- or, more acurately, slumped in a chair at the end of the hallway where a little bend in the passageway offers room for the chair he's in, another like it, and an endtable with a basket of glows between them. A tiny sitting space that no one ever sits in unless they're waiting for someone to go to or from somewhere, and catch them along the way.
So that's what R'vain is doing, slouching deep in the upholstery, knees wide, boots out almost in the way of passing traffic, one paw raised and resting inside his jacket over his heart, the other lazy-curled over the end of the chair-arm. From time to time he licks his teeth, and waits.
These days she has a lot of time on her hands. Without any real work Miniyal has put a lot of focus into her assorted projects, but even those she might be careful with. Too much time with any one and she will grow bored with it and drop it. Right now she can't afford to drop anything else. It's only these projects that really keep her going. That and the man she lives with and sometimes that's just too much. Sometimes, being the sort of person she is, she just needs to get away.
Today that is her intent. Rather than risk the weather and yet another scolding for refusing to wear her coat, she sticks to the inside. There are dozens of little spots she could go hide in and that would be her intent. What has happened in the last few days needs thinking on. Mulling over. Yelling at least in her head over. Her intent is to reach one of those spaces and so she finds herself in this hall, walking along with her head down.
With her head down she notices feet first. Not fast enough to turn around and go the other way. Instead she stops and lifts her head to see who is going to be responsible for her not getting to where she is going. "This I need." Mumbled more than said as she takes a step backwards.
"Min'yal." Again R'vain licks his teeth and otherwise doesn't move, but his gaze comes up, eyes rolling high against the ruddy lids and lashes above them, brows drawing down to shade contracted pupils. *Tschk.* "'m'I in y'way?" It's a good thing he doesn't say much, if that's how he's going to talk; it'd be a trial to interpret the blend of slur and brogue he's mumbling around. "C'n move." He licks his lips now; they're chapped-- and the hand in his jacket shifts, but does not withdraw.
Tilting her head, Miniyal lets out a quiet sigh. "You're always in my way." There is a touch of sharpness in her tone. She is not in the mood to be friendly to people she likes and he is certainly not on that very short list. "However, far be it from me to move you. I'll just go another way." There is always another way after all. Another half step is taken back. "You might want to sleep it off sometime soon."
"Naw." A grin splits his fresh-licked mouth and shows teeth. Perfect, beautiful teeth, a testament to quality dentistry that Pern doesn't even have. "Ain't tired," he tells her through that smirk, and then-- surprise, surprise-- shoves himself with a bending of knees and shuffling of boots upright a bit, sitting more properly in the chair. Well, slumping more properly in it. There's something about the sag of his enormous shoulders and the drape of his paw over the arm of the chair that behave as if he's discovered, just today, how much his big body actually weighs, and is no longer up to the task of carrying it all around. "Y'sound kinda cranky. I gotta, um. Berry brandy. An', y'know, wine and stuff. Went t'Tillek." Meander meander meander. He'll find a topic eventually. Or not, because R'vain falls silent after that and just grins up at her.
Shaking her head, Miniyal remains where she is although there is a leaning back that occurs. As if her body knows better than to linger. As if it's telling her leave now before she winds up in one of those weird conversations they have that end in her storming off and being pissed for days about it. Unfortunately? Her body is not in charge. And her mind is such a mess that she almost wants just that to happen. To have someone to explode at that will leave her with. . .if not entirely no guilt than very little over the incident. So she remains, arms folding over her chest. She should know better. "Brandy?" She should know better, but she's not in a good enough place to listen to what she better know.
R'vain's slumped shoulders roll with a slow, ponderous shrug. The paw inside his jacket shifts again and comes out this time with the flask, leather-wrapped glass, old and worn and familiar. He bends forward sparingly to hold it up, an offer in reply to her question. "'Ave some, got more, y'look like y'need it more'n'I do." Of course, a newborn baby looks like he needs it more than the Weyrlingmaster does, but that can't be helped. "S'pretty good." Tempt tempt.
She lingers, but doesn't move closer. Which means the war is over. But Miniyal will not make it that easy or at least appear to be that easy. Biting her lip she unwraps her arms from around her and takes a step closer. "I don't think I need to drink after you. I'm not that badly off." Lies to maintain one's dignity in front of your sworn enemy are allowed. It's not even really a lie. Not one that will stand up since she lets out a sigh and closes the distance between where she sits and he stands so she might reach what she doesn't need.
"Suit'ch'self." But he doesn't withdraw the flask and prepare it for his own mouth, either; R'vain sets it instead aside on the endtable between the two chairs, watching with some care as if it takes coordination he hasn't quite got mastered to put a flask down on a flat surface. When he hauls his gaze back up it's by way of the empty chair, but there's no signal in it, certainly. "Y'like sweet stuff, yeah? Gotta, um, whatsit. Rotten grapes on th'vine after th'frost comes. Y'want t'go set somewhere'n try it I could bring it'long. Few other things too. Sometime, y'want." Lolling shrug, slowly executed, and he starts to slump back into the chair all over again.
Miniyal's eyes narrow a moment as she watches him as he speaks. "Haven't seen you like this in awhile. What are you? Hours away from attacking some poor girl who can't get you to hear no?" It's the first time she's ever indicated she knows anything directly. She follows it by snatching up the flask, opening it and trying a sip. Just one, if a decent sized one. Closing it again she sets it back on the table. "You wouldn't like the places I go to drink, R'vain. You'd pass out." She only smiles when she wants to smirk. "Ice wine?" Interest in her tone. More than a hint of it at the thought of the syrupy sweet wine.
The Weyrlingmaster's ruddy brows draw low over his eyes, shading those contracted pupils again. "Ain't attacked anyone," he defends sloppily. "Don't think I ever been unconvinced of a no." Frown. It's a strain to think this hard just now, to try to remember-- in a completely unbothered, academic way, mind you, like the idea of having had a girl against her will is an interesting notion to which he must apply a little focus-- and in a moment he lets another shrug send its little throes through his shoulders and gives up. "Don't think." No big deal. "Passed out a few places. Y'oughta take me, I don't mind. Yeah, ice. Ice wine. Got other stuff too, might be sweet. If y'want." Pause. Oh, has he not offered this before? How rude of him: "Brandy?"
"I've had a really lousy few days. Part of it is indirectly your fault, you know." Said as she looks down at the brandy in the flask back on the table. "Yes, thank you." Again with the flask and she'll have another drink, holding on to it this time. Her eyes narrow again, more thoughts. "You're pretty drunk already. And I may be able to keep you from falling out a chair when you've fainted like a girl, but I can't roll your sorry behind anywhere if you pass out somewhere I don't want you remembering." Still, look. Wounded animal. Person. He's a person. Miniyal has to remind herself of that. "I'm going to regret this. I can feel regret already." But she's caved. The lure of wine is a bit too much right now.
"S'good, ain't it?" R'vain is not particularly good at being sly in this state. Well, check that. He's excellent at being sly. He's horrible at being subtle about it. So he grins widely to have her drink a second time, and asks his question about the quality of the stuff (which is, admittedly, good, if a bit strange for its berry origin) with a distinctly leading and loaded tone. "So s'go somewhere y'don't mind me 'memb'rin'. Don't matter t'me. Glad t'meet a new barkeep." He pushes himself upright a bit again, undoing the level of slump he'd started to do, and blinks ruddy lashes up at her while running his tongue again over those fierce teeth. "I'go'n get stuff, meetcha somewhere? Y'c'n'old ont'that f'me." Little nod at the flask in her hands. Blah blah regret doesn't even seem to register with him.
A wise woman would agree to anything to get him to leave. Well, most anything. Just so he'd wander off and likely forget all of this. The she could go on to where she wants to go and be alone. Peaceful. Unfortunately, Miniyal doesn't really, deep down, want to be peaceful. Not when there's someone available she can be rude to without worry. "Like there's any place like that? Look, don't get any ideas that you can. . .touch me. /No/ touching. At all. I don't care if I'm getting ready to fall onto a knife and die. No touching." As if what she says will make any difference if he gets ideas in his head. Holding onto the flask she sighs. "Just come back here. I know a place."
Furrowing of brows again. "I think y'd f'give me if it was like that, w'th'knife an'all." He's too soused to put on a proper protest or any kind of lasting grumpiness, however, and shoves himself up out of the chair with nary a wobble-- just a thick and alcoholic sigh of malcontent for having to hold himself up. Capable of doing it. Just unwilling. "I'be back," he assures her, and turns his back, and swaggers off.
More's the pity he's true to his word. When those heavy, thudding bootfalls announce his return way off down the passageway, less than a quarter-hour later, R'vain's carrying a leather satchel on one shoulder and another flask-- this one tin with brass cap and mouth and stamped with some sort of crest or symbol on one side-- in his hand.
Is it more pitiful he's sunk to a willingness to drink with Miniyal or that she remains to do just that? She could have emptied the flask and left it on the table. Instead she's seated in a chair, mumbling to herself. Berating herself near silently for sitting there waiting. But that is just what she does and when she hears his steps her head lifts and for a moment she considers fleeing again. It would not be so hard. In his state she could get away.
Unfortunately for the pair she just rises to her feet, the flask emptied of its contents before she nods her head. "I wouldn't. Forgive you. Come on. There's a room just down here. Packed full of furniture too big and unwanted to go anywhere else. Have to squeeze through to get to the good spot. No one really knows about it." But the might. So she may as well share.
"Uh uh." R'vain stops bolt short before her, and now those black spots in his eyes grow large and lightless, even as his lashes spread wide and his brows push up the tiny increment they're allowed. "You g'wan'head, but I ain't." He crosses his arms over his chest, tucking the flask into the crook of an elbow, and jaunts his weight into a hip. Flat refusal.
"Afraid?" Taunting the drunk man is never wise. But that is just what Miniyal does. Because it's fun. In a cruel way. "I suppose if you don't want to. I mean, if you're willing to be a drunk /and/ a coward for the rest of your life. I'd invite you back to my room, but I do still live with someone." Dig, dig, dig. "But if you know someplace I'm willing to go then name it right now. Otherwise I'll go on to the bottle of whiskey I have waiting for me." Hands on her hips she watches him, silently taunting.
"Yeah," he retorts, simply. Which is not to say he's so comfortable with the fear that 'coward' doesn't strike him, nor that her remark about living with someone can go by without a horror widening his eyes. Horror, not hurt. And R'vain even takes, on that, a step back, the hand not clasping the flask clasping instead the strap of his satchel where it crosses his chest. "Uh. Couple bars. Ruvoth-- " For some reason this is not the best solution and even the drunk gets that, nose wrinkling all along its crooked bridge, nostrils flaring. His focus slips off of Miniyal and searches down past her shoulder, like the clammy closeness of this horrible furniture-stuffed room might approach from down the hall. "Room back of th'laundry there's a'lil' office, more like uh, workroom. Th'girls what work f'th'assistant, eh, anyway, could hole up there y'like." Pause. He gets his gaze back on her, and grunts softly from the effort. "Smells nice. Fresh laundry."
Her shoulders shrug as if his words don't mean a thing to her. They don't, of course. When he offers a room her head tilts to the side. Wrinkling her nose up, Miniyal finally gives a slight nod of her head. "I know the room you mean I think. And I know how to get there without being seen with you." Because she may be all sorts of messed up right now, but she's just /not/ inviting that rumor at all. Holding out his, now empty, flask she nods again. "I'll meet you there." He gets a moment to take the flask and then she will see about making her own way.
R'vain stands there stunned, managing only to take the flask. It's only after she's turned and left that he mutters, "Sure know how t'make a fella happy." It might be that he actually sounds a little hurt. That sort of fades after he shakes the flask and snorts at its emptiness, however, so he turns and goes off his own way, grumbling.
The room in question was an office once, yes. But the assistant headwoman who oversees laundry has long since moved into better quarters farther from the 'nice' smells of fresh (and other sorts of) washing. Now the room's a place where the two youngest of /her/ assistants spot-treat, brush, and fold some of the weyr's more important stuff: table linens for feasts in the main cavern, tapestries, council chamber rugs, whatever. It's rarely used otherwise except as a retreat for the two young women who chiefly work here, or as a place for them to talk to their subordinates, or-- well, how R'vain knows the place so well, and figures it'll be empty today, and lets himself in like he owns it? Let's not think so much about that part.
But that's how it is. The Weyrlingmaster swaggers in, swinging the satchel off his shoulder, looking for one of the chairs to plunk it down in before looking much of anywhere else. The flasks have disappeared, probably into the jacket.
He just has to ask his little girlfriend how poorly Miniyal does at making a man happy. She seems to think she knows after all. Besides, it's not as if she's ever cared about making him happy. So she does make her own way and has a pretty good idea why he knows the room. The thought comes briefly and it only makes her reconsider what she's doing. In the end, with the choice to drink alone, her own bottle, or drink someone else's alcohol? She lets out a weary sigh and slips into the room. Closing the door behind her she frowns. "I didn't kick you anywhere. That's as close as you get to me making you happy. You're the one who had to come here because you wouldn't go somewhere reasonable." Reasonable is hiding out of the way. She knows this. Leaning against the door she lets out a sigh.
This room, unlike one stuffed with furniture is in his mind, is spacious (for two people, or even three); uncluttered (when there's no folding going on, or when it's being ignored); and high-ceilinged. It suits him well. He grumbles at Miniyal's voice, bending with a knee leant for steadiness against the chair's seat so he can paw through the satchel and, in a moment, come out with the bottle most promised-- ice wine. "You're th'one who came'long an' looked at me like I's standing in y'way just sittin' there in a chair. What th'fuck I ever do t'you anyway?" He has /glasses/ in there, too, wrapped in torn velvet. These he unwraps and amicably straightens, amicably uncorking the bottle with his bare paws, amicably grinning at nothing particular, more or less at odds with his grumpy words. "Siddown, get a load off, girl, y'sound like y'been landed on."
People know about this room. That makes it unsuitable in Miniyal's mind and her mind is better. In her own mind anyway. "You were in my way." Stated as fact. Still, she shuffles to a chair and seats herself in it, hands folding proper in her lap because she just can't, won't, break the training given by her mother. "You have no clue what you've done. You wouldn't even understand it if I told you so I'm not going to waste my breath trying." Getting back to his question and all. "If I'd wanted to talk I would have gone to my room to drink. Since that is where I was not headed when I ran into you please consider I don't want to talk." She wants to drink. Which she cannot do until he has poured her a glass and handed it to her.
"Then what--" But she gets into the whole part about not wanting to talk, and to that R'vain can only grin and shrug, eyes down to watch and take care while he sends wine splashing into the glasses, barely lifting the neck between them, sloppy-suave. He overfills them, gloriously full bowls, improper, indulgent, degenerate. "Can't fault a girl f'that," he slurs, glancing up as he gets up the glasses in his hands and comes over to hand one out to her, grin saucy. "Thanks." For...?
Confusion is, all things considered, not a new emotion for her. People endlessly confuse her no matter how she tries to make it not so. First things first however and before she can try to sort it out she takes the glass from him, careful to not spill. Concern for the wine and not her clothes creating this caution. Once the glass is in her hands she takes a drink. And wants to ask for clarification. Two things stop her: She said she wanted to not talk. She won't seem like she doesn't know what is going on around him. So, she settles into silence with her wine. All of her attention is not on the cup or its contents if only because in order to do that she must trust the man in the room with her and she's just not that dumb. She is quite content to sit in silence and drink her wine.
R'vain turns away and prowls to a chair. He grabs it by the seatback and hauls it across the floor with a bit of scraping and screeching, then whumps it down about three feet from hers, facing at an angle. He /does/ spill wine partway through this process, sloshing a splot onto the floor; noticing, he remedies the situation with a gulp. Then he drops into the chair, soon slumped the way he was when she found him, as if his body falls that way most naturally, and puts the rim of the glass to his lips. It stays there well into the ensuing silence, tilting only to let more fluid into his mouth, and it's mostly through or around the opposite rim of the bowl that he's able to watch Miniyal. Amicably.
Silence is weird. When one is alone in it there's a comfort to find. When one is in it with someone they like, love, trust there is comfort in it. A contentment that can be found when two people share silence together. This? This is not one of those times. Miniyal takes another drink from her glass. And then another. She does enjoy the wine which makes something nice to focus on. "This is not bad." Grudgingly said. Just as grudgingly said as what follows. "Thank you. For sharing." Enough of that. Back to wine drinking. The glass is not near empty, having been so full, but it soon will be if she doesn't stop to talk. Perhaps that is what prompts her next words. "Why were you lurking about then?" In the hall. Not now.
"Don't drink much 's'bad." Not much. Only a little. When there's nothing else within reach. R'vain shrugs and lowers the glass a little farther. It /is/ almost empty, and will be really empty in one swallow, but he moves it away from his mouth so he can answer her a little better. "Lookin' f'someone t'keep company with." Another shrug, this one longer, more languid and rippling. "You?" Gulp, empty. The Weyrlingmaster unslumps, shoving up out of the chair with another heavy sigh, and stalks around to retrieve the bottle.
"I don't drink anything that's bad." She doesn't have to. She has people that owe her things who make sure she gets the good stuff. She's sleeping with someone who only has the good stuff. To his question, Miniyal shrugs her shoulders. "I wasn't looking for someone to keep company with. I was looking to be alone. But, why drink my stuff when I can drink someone else's?" It's a good rule. She punctuates it by draining the glass of its contents. "So what has you drinking so much lately? Just miss the hangovers?"
"S'a whore's sayin', that," grunts R'vain without malevolence. He's just being educational. Rather than worry about their glasses the Weyrlingmaster just grabs up the bottle and starts back toward his chair-- then thinks better of it and veers by the other chair that holds his satchel, and digs out of there /another/ bottle. "I don't get hangovers." Both bottles come back with him; he puts the full one down by the foot of his chair, then slumps into place and gestures with the open one for her to hold out her glass. Gentleman enough to pour hers first. "D'you?"
The first statement she just ignores. Dismisses it without even acknowledging it. Between studying her empty glass she watches him move, always wary when there's not something like a nice big desk between them. Dumb but not stupid about it. Miniyal holds out her glass to be refilled, leaning forward just enough to make it easy. "No. Don't ever drink enough that it's a problem. Don't ever remember having one even when I did drink too much. Wouldn't matter even if I did. Sometimes you just want to see the world through the bottom of a bottle and fuck the rest of it."
"Yeah." Mostly that's a woofy grunt, and R'vain, having agreed that much and having seen to it that Miniyal's glass is just as full as it was before, draws back the bottle and sloshes wine into his own. "But wait. Y'got it kinda made ain'tcha? Y'set." The Weyrlingmaster glances up, leaning back with his glass in one paw and the bottle-- after four full glasses like these there's just a little left in the bottom-- in the other. His turn to be wary now, he looks at her for a moment, turning his head a bit like the angle might be telling, before proceeding. "What's gotcha willin' t'drink w'me?" Pause. "Eh. Y'don't wanna talk, I forget." So he shuts himself up the best way, raising the glass to pour its contents down his throat.
She's careful with her glass. Bringing it to her lips slowly and then drinking down enough to make it holdable without being spilled. Only the holding part doesn't happen quite as soon as it might and when she's done the glass is half empty. Luckily for Miniyal she's got the body weight to support this kind of drinking. Even so she'll be stopping long before him, not having the experience of drinking like he does. "Hate to talk sometimes. Can't sit quiet, you know? Always someone wanting to pry and see what you think or why you did something or what you're going to do or how you're supposed to make things better." Looking up from her glass she studies his face and then shrugs. "Don't much care about you. So I don't feel any requirement to answer if you do ask. And you don't care about me so I don't figure you'll be prying." A pause to take another drink. "Love sucks."
R'vain does quite a bit of drinking even in his best days; at the moment he's just doing it all... at once. When he lowers the glass it matches hers, and over its rim he draws a deep breath, taking in the scent with pleasure that almost brings smile lines to his eyes-- for a moment. 'Love sucks' sort of catches him in the middle of this little moment and he chokes out the breath he'd held on a thick, coughing sigh. "Does it?" The coughing starts to be laughter, then fails to be laughter and just turns into coughing again, and he bends forward to prop elbows on knees, head down until he's got the choke out of his throat. "'M'sorry, I guess, then. Din't think y'd be in such straits." But since she is-- he raises his glass to her, a toast in offering.
For a moment, just a brief one, her posture slips. She slides down in her chair some, slouching or sulking. But just for that moment somewhere in the middle of the laughter and the choking. By the time he is done Miniyal has righted herself and emptied her glass. "I assure you neither did I." Folding her arms over her chest she holds onto her empty glass lightly. "It was only supposed to be about the sex." Blinking a few times she tilts her chin up. "And I am /so/ done talking now, thank you very much." So completely done talking now. Yep. Not saying another word. Nope. Said too much already so she just peers into her empty glass without really seeing it. Well, she mumbles something into it, there's the sound of words, but no sense can be made from them.
"Din't catch th'last bit there," points out R'vain, then draws his glass back for a drink-- a small one, before he leans forward and offers her the bottle and what's left in it, wholesale. "So's th'point y'didn't mean t'feel anythin' f'im? Still don't see how's it s'bad. Izzit?" The bottle wiggles. Stop looking at your glass, woman, and take this bottle.
"If I had wanted anyone to hear I would have enunciated and made clear my words." Said with a shake of her head before Miniyal looks up from her glass. She sees the bottle being offered to her and tilts her head to the side as she considers it. Finally she does reach for it so she might empty the contents into her glass. With anyone else she might have moved faster, but hey, make him wait for her. That's always fun. "When you feel nothing for someone they can't hurt you. It's obvious. It's only when you care for someone and what they think that you open yourself up and allow them all sorts of chances to make you miserable even without meaning to. It's very complicated." The last is said with a sage nod of her head.
R'vain does not appear to mind waiting for her to take the bottle-- /he/ still has wine in /his/ glass, and can entertain himself sufficiently with lifting it to drain back. There is something to be said here about outdrinking the drinker, but the Weyrlingmaster is not the one who's going to say it. He says instead, "Ain't /so/ complicated. Y'try t'live up t'what they thought've you that made'm come t'you in th'first place or else, y'know," and here he finishes what was in his glass so he can swing down the empty hand she relieved of the bottle to pick up the other one from the floor. "Y'don't."
There are people who drink alone and people who drink in the company of others. Miniyal, when she truly wants to drink, does so alone. In the dark with no one but her inner demons to keep her company. So pacing herself is not a skill she has acquired. The contents of her glass are eyed and then she laughs. "Oh, please. Do people buy that line? Especially from you. Give me a break." A couple of sips from her glass before she smirks. "If I wanted advice I'd go to someone I thought could give me some worth taking." Another drink before she tips her head over to the other side. "Always been afraid?"
"Yeah," he says, regarding people buying the line. "Pretty much, ach'ly." R'vain straightens, fitting the new bottle between his thighs so he can wrench out the cork with the one paw he's got free. Who needs screws when you have brute strength? He tosses the cork over to the side; it bounces a couple of times and comes to rest against the bottom of a wall of shelves containing folded table linens in a variety of colors, silver-gray dominant. The Weyrlingmaster pays it no mind, preferring to glance up at Miniyal with a wary look for her latter question, the one she meant in earnest. "Ain't been somethin' happened t'make it so if that's what'cha mean." Then he turns his attention to lifting the uncorked bottle to refill his own glass.
"Well, some people will believe anything from anyone." Tsk. Her attention wanders towards the cork, watching its progress. As if it's telling about something and maybe in her mind it is. Still, when it comes to a stop she pulls her attention back to the conversation. "Some people are born with problems. Some people are not." Such wisdom she offers, drinking or not. "I was serious, you know. When I offered to help you." Here is when she pauses to laugh and empty her glass, the first a little wry, the second a little desperate. "If you're not willing to extend yourself and your principles to those you dislike then you don't truly believe them." Dislike, hate, despise it's all the same thing. . .sort of. Dislike sounds more polite.
"I's born w'problems. S'called havin' parents." R'vain is not subtle enough to carry off wry very well, so he settles for outright bitter. Done pouring his own glass he holds out the bottle, a little tipped; she might choose to take it, or to just hold her glass out for him to fill. "Yeah, yeah, princ'ples. Bull pucky." Those two words are easily clear enough to understand, almost entirely unslurred by benefit of their sharp consonants. "What'd y'do t'me, then, f'I wanted t'take y'elp?"
"Parents are not a problem unless you allow them to be." Wise advice from the woman whose parents are. . .a huge problem. The tip of the bottle draws her arm out so he can refill her glass. Miniyal allows it, yes. "So you don't believe in principles? Or you don't have them yourself? Or you don't believe /I/ have them?" They are not rhetorical questions. They are asked and then she waits for an answer. His question is not answered because first she expects hers to be.
For a while-- though not long-- the subject of problems goes by so that R'vain can, as she wishes, answer her direct questions. "None th'above." There, answered. He sloshes wine from the bottle into her glass, then retracts the bottle to top off his own; now both are again, too full, and he lifts his wine to suck down a swallow so it won't spill when he adjusts back into the chair and pins the bottle again between his thighs. "Ain't seen 'em since b'fore I b'came Weyrlingmaster," he observes after that, though the last word-- his title, sounds as much like 'linlinmassa' as anything else.
Her arm retracts carefully so she doesn't spill any of the wine. There is no talking until she has taken a few drinks to be sure her glass does not spill. "If you want to know how I can help you come see me sometime when you're sober." She offered to help, but didn't say she would make it easy. Miniyal holds her glass in both hands and spares it only a passing glance before she refocuses on the 'linlinmassa'. "There's things that might help. I've read up about other things. The same sort of problem if not the same thing. There's ways to fix it. Well, ways to get it under control. Like I said, we can discuss if you want to sometime. I have all the time in the world these days."
"A'right." What else is he going to say? 'Sure, I'll see you next Thursday?' Predictions of his oncoming sobriety are hard to make, and R'vain is least likely to make them. Instead he buries his upper lip in the wine and tips up the glass, just putting the stuff down-- who cares about tasting it. He gets a taste of the last swallow anyway, the one he holds in his mouth a while after lowering the glass half-empty so he can squint, suddenly thoughtful, over the rim at the woman on the other side. Pause. Gulp. "Y'lookin' f'work?"
Not being the drunkard he is there's no tossing back of alcohol. She drinks fast, but she tastes it. It's a problem when you're just drinking to drink. When you can still believe you're drinking to enjoy /and/ to be drinking then you are ok. Miniyal, therefore, does not pull ahead of him. She just drinks steadily, but her glass is just under half. The question brings another laugh. "Didn't you hear? I'm not good for work. I'm good for letting an old man support me in return for warming his bed. Not that I do that all that well either. Just a big fucking disappointment to the world now. Hurray for me. Cheers." Now she empties her glass.
R'vain just stares at her for her answer. When he answers-- "Cheers" --it's more than a little subdued, maybe a little awed, and he empties his glass also. "Din't know it was s'post t'be like that," he grunts, picking up the bottle for another fill. His voice compresses as he leans forward to offer a fill for her, too. Fourth round, not counting the dregs from the first bottle. She's ahead, counting those. So they must not count. "He tell y'that? Don't sound like th'kind've mumbo-jumbo blah blah blah y'd'ear fr'him."
Since her glass is empty she will lean forward to let her glass be refilled. Miniyal will straighten up when that is done. She won't talk until she has a full glass in front of her. "He didn't say it." It's not defensive, there's no indication she's covering for him. It's fact. "He's right. I shouldn't let the words of one bitter girl bother me. He's always right. It's do damned annoying." Drinking is good so she does that. A third of the glass gone before she says anything else. "So there's no point in trying to get work. Besides, you know how many jobs I've had? How many I've failed it? It's sort of pointless at this point. I am resigned to not doing anything ever again. That or fail."
R'vain woofs a little grunt of thoughtful acceptance, allowing her answer since it did, in a way, address his question. Then he puts the wine up to his mouth and works down the level of the liquid in the glass, eyes half-lidding, pupils small so even what remains to be seen of those eyes seems all green, glittering even through the haze of alcohol that suffuses them. He swallows, and swallows again, and on the third swallow stops drinking to just let the tideline of wine lap against his lips while he murmurs a low, rumbling 'mmmm' against the rim. One eye narrows almost shut, and he untilts the glass away from himself, toward her. "Y'still gotta mind t'try t'cul...make y'self a pet Weyrleader?"
"No. It was a passing thought. I thought it might be entertaining. Something to pass the time." Miniyal shrugs her shoulders before she takes another drink. "Besides, I was only trying to help Roa and I don't get paid for that anymore so she is on her own." Nodding her head at this she smiles ever so briefly. "It was a bad idea. Working for her anyway. I /told/ them that, but no one really listens to me. Not always. And they get their mind set on something and it's like what I want doesn't seem to factor into it. Anyway, I knew I'd be fired. I'm always fired. Or I quit." This makes her frown and then empty her glass. "It's all boring. But I sound like a child saying that. I should be able to commit to something by now. But I can't. In the end it's boring and I want to quit and I have no reason not to so I do."
"So y'quit? S'good. No reason y'should work doin' somethin' y'don't like unless y'need th'marks and y'shouldn't need 'em, eh?" R'vain shrugs fluidly-- everything he does just now except speak the rare punctuative words is fluid, and since his solid-to-fluid ratio keeps decreasing this should not be too surprising. "Question f'y." Fair warning! He swallows a few more gulps before asking it, though, and while asking it gets the bottle back up into his hand to empty the rest of the contents into his glass. "Two ach'ly." A lot of asking to do so he downs the little bit he's just poured, then bends to put down the bottle by his chair. "What 'they' y'mean? Roa'n'Ashwin? And d'y'want a red now or somethin' else? I got-- mm. I'll show y'."
Peering at her glass there is some surprise there. How did it get empty? Wasn't it just too full? To the top, right? Now there's nothing at all. So she focuses, as best she can, on the second question. Her eyes take a moment to focus, but Miniyal eventually makes sense of the question. "I'd say yes show me what you have, but I don't think at all that's the right thing to say. . .So, just, right. Whichever. I have to stop soon. Can only drink so much. Have to get home. . .eventually." The first question then is remembered. Or acknowledged. Head tilting, Miniyal grins. "No. Not her. Wait. Him. Not him. Ashwin. . .you know why I was fired? Timing. He had nothing to do with it. My fault. Fucked up is all. Maybe I wanted to. . .I'm not really sure. I hate being an assistant. I hate being nothing more than someone else's. . .you know. The word. Assistant."
R'vain pushes himself to the edge of his chair's cushion and sits there knees-splayed, propping elbows on his thighs, his glass nearly horizontal in one careless paw. "Y'decide it's th'right thing t'say lemme know." After that he shoves up from the chair and gets around it-- he has to lay a hand on the seatback to keep his path steady over to the satchel, but he walks well enough once that moment of headiness passes-- and then just catches up the bag instead of bothering to bring over another sole bottle. "Fucked up how? How d'y'fuck up bein' an 'sistant? Y'let on y'hate it or somethin'?" Back to the chairs, but rather than slump again into his own he comes to hers and props the satchel on the seat-arm, /right/ beside her, so she can look in herself. Service!
Miniyal laughs at his words, not thinking about it and therefore not stopping it. "Never. There will never be a time that will be the right thing to say. In a hundred turns it will never be the right thing to say." Wrinkling her nose she shakes her head. "No. I think she knew I didn't like it. But she wouldn't let me go. She's not like that, you know? Thinks she can change everyone to be the way she wants. She's so. . .so. . ." Something. "None of your business. What I did. It's not anyone's business." The service is not really appreciated. Wrinkling her nose again she peers into the satchel to see what is left. "Doesn't really matter. What it is anyway. I mean, so long as it's. . .the last one. The last one. Sorry to say, I've had about enough of your company. Or wine. One or the other."
"Lightweight," grins R'vain, pleasant enough, and retreats with the satchel to his chair. He sits, and lands the bag between his feet, bending to fish out from it a third bottle.
The first was ice wine, a small bottle, elite. The second a sweet white, riesling blend, sweet but svelte on the tongue. Not that they noticed a lot. This one's a larger bottle, likely the largest he'd have in something carried so casually overshoulder, dark brown glass telling of its contents. Its cork has to be unwrapped before he can haul it out, and he sets aside his glass on the floor so he can get both paws and both thighs focused on the task.
"So polit'cal," snorts the Weyrlingmaster, belatedly, while he wrenches at the bottle. "So self-centered. So sure of 'erself. So-- so-- " He has trouble with it too, and runs out of words, so wrinkles his nose instead. Finally he gets the bottle uncorked and almost kicks his own glass in the leaning forward to offer to fill hers. "S'whatcha /like/ doin'?"
"I'm only a part time drunk, R'vain. I can't expect to keep up with the professionals." Awww. She complimented him. Complete with a charming smile and a wink. Definitely the last bottle. Miniyal watches the whole selection and opening process with eyes forced to focus. When the bottle is open she leans forward so he can fill her glass. "Exactly." Her head nods once, firmly. Well, it wobbles a bit, but she makes it as firm as she can all things considered. She bonds for a split second over Roa and her something. A split second before she just settles back in her chair with her drink. "No idea. What I like? Nothing. I mean. . .I'm not sure. It doesn't matter. You know it doesn't matter? I'm too old to start doing anything. And I'm not good at anything. And there's no point." Look. A drink. She takes one.
Splash: wine poured. Slosh. R'vain retracts the bottle after making sure she's got all the wine her glass can hold and leans /way/ down over his knees to do the same for his own glass, then plunk the bottle down beside the chair and grab up the glass, straightening. He pauses halfway up for a moment, like he's thinking. Probably not about Roa, or about what Miniyal's saying, either. The thought, thankfully, passes and the Weyrlingmaster gets back into his comfortable slump in the chair, knees out, boots out, head against the seatback. Slouch. "Y'like sneakin' around an'spyin' on people," he says with a bit of a hiccup under 'people,' then puts up his glass to drown further hiccups with wine.
Head up, glaring, Miniyal sniffs before taking a long drink. "I do not do that. Sneak around and spy. I do not do that." Eyes narrowing she shakes her head and it goes on a little longer than it should because she can't stop. She does so by taking a drink. That helps, yes? Of course it does. "I just. . .don't like being around people. You're all horrible. Not him. He's not horrible." Indignant. Annoyed. Then happy, complete with a sigh. "I don't deserve him. And I don't /like/ sneaking around and spying. Just because someone is good at something does not mean they like it. Well, I like some-well. I don't like knowing things about people. It's usually just more proof that I dislike people in general."
"He ain't /that/ great. I'sure y'do'im just fine." He punctuates these words with a bit of a snort. You can tell when R'vain is pretty well down the path because he says things like these and does not recognize in them the potential for salacious content. He just hauls a swig of wine and goes on talking. Not that he has much to say-- just this one little thing, over the rim of his glass. "Y'want t'get paid f'it?" Bottoms up.
"He is too! He's wonderful. He's the best thing that has ever happened to me. Ever. In my life." One foot taps on the ground as she lifts her glass, emptying it with a thoughtful expression. "I don't deserve him. He tries so hard and I just screw up. It's alright though. He loves me. I almost feel sorry for him. I'm not the easiest person in the world to get along with. Probably the worst. Shut the fuck up, R'vain." Blinking Miniyal peers and then asks, "Paid for what? I don't think we're having the same conversation. That's probably good. I don't like talking to you anyway."
R'vain nurses his wine pleasantly enough until 'shut the fuck up' startles him to wide-eyed life and he lowers the glass. When it's clear she has no idea what he's talking about-- on the second tack, anyway-- a grin splits his sloppy mouth and he shakes his head just a bit. "I ain't mean t'say nothin' 'gainst 'im like that. Shit f'pol'tics but I'm sure y'appy w'im, y'act it. Good f'you. Good f'im. Keep 'im outta trouble." Shrug, fluid, liquid, rippling. And grin, and tilt of his head-- a little nod, like, 'I've had my say, I'll do as you please and shut the fuck up now, thank you.' Polite. "Now th'question was: spyin'. Y'want t'git paid f'it." He tips his glass to her just as he did his head, saucy. Sauced. And pulls it back to drink.
Miniyal's forehead wrinkles and she looks quite clearly lost. Lifting her glass she drains it and then peers into it. "People don't get paid to spy. Well, harpers. They do, you know. And then they keep everything they learn to themselves. Locked away where no one can see it. That's wrong. You can't lock up information that everyone should know." Shaking her head she kicks at the floor again. "I don't. . .I have things I have to do. Things I should do. But nothing I want to do. I just need to find what I /want/ to do. What's the problem with that? Not wanting to get stuck doing something for the rest of my life that I hate. There's nothing wrong with that at all. At all."
"G'wan doin' y'spyin' and keep a record then," remarks R'vain, like he hasn't heard her protests at all-- but he can lean over the side of his chair and transfer his glass to the other hand so he's got a paw free to swing down and catch up the bottle, /sure/, no problem, and then he can lean forward to offer her a pour /too/, easy, don't worry about it a bit. "Y'put it in records when y'want to. Charge f'it 'til then. Figure s'got t'ave some value whatever y'know?" He shrugs, grinning widely, teeth-bright, eyes-hazy. "Or don't. Don't matter t'me yet."
"I don't keep records. Of what people do. Why would I do that? I find stuff out accidentally." Miniyal is adamant on this, just as adamant as she is about holding out her glass for another refill. Why, yes. Thank you so very much for yet more wine. That is not needed. "And I do not. . .What do you mean yet? Nothing I do means anything to you. It doesn't matter." If she were not so willing for her glass to be refilled she would sit up straight, indignant about such an idea. Something he said. But it's not important enough for her to give up getting her glass refilled. "Nothing I do is ever any of your damned business." So, there.
"A'right," replies R'vain, just as he did before. She wants to close the conversation; he obliges. She also wants wine. He obliges, then tops off his own glass, too, and puts the bottle down. "Just tryin' t'help y'think up ideas. Y'don't seem happy, whatsit. Bein' kept. I mean, I'wd. If I's you. Spare me lotta trouble." Shrrrrrug, slow and lazy and languid, muscles twitching and joints popping, muscles rippling like some huge cat's in the process of hunkering down to sleep, or pounce. He drinks. "Why's y'hate me?"
The wine gets a thankful nod, the best he can expect at this point. Pulling her glass back she stares at the wine within it before she will raise it for a drink. It's slow, eyes closing as she enjoys the flavor and ignores the company that she keeps. "It's no one business if I am. I mean, if I let him. I mean, it's not like I haven't worked here all my life. It's not like I haven't earned my keep. Like I don't do my part. There's nothing I wouldn't do for my home. This is my home. I'm not hurting it." Whatever outrage she was working towards stops just as suddenly as it started and she takes another drink. "You're a bully. You're self-centered. You act like the world owes you. Take what you want. Don't care if it hurts someone else. Use your position and your size to intimidate and take. I hate that. Hate people like that. Push others around and treat them like they're less. Like we don't mean as much. Not as important."
Drink drink drink. Nothing about her rambling about her work and her life and her entitlement and being kept and all is going to keep R'vain from his pleasures-- he tips back his head and the glass and drinks, again just pouring the stuff down his throat. It's unfortunate that this is the method he's going with right now because it means that the choke he suffers when she comes out with 'self-centered' is deep, throaty and genuine; it obliges him to bend suddenly forward and gag a bit, then hack, then swallow hard to keep the bile back, then draw deep breaths through flaring nostrils. He misses, in this, some of what she says in the middle; by the time he's looking up at her with wide and watering eyes she's got on to 'treat them like they're less' and /that,/ well. The Weyrlingmaster just doesn't breathe for a moment there while she winds up her explanation. And then he's staring at her, eyes wide, mouth sort of downturned. Crestfallen might describe it well. And on that he says, a little gulpily, "I gotta go."
She'd assume, probably, he's going to be sick. If that were the case he might hurry a little more. As it is he takes the time to grab up his satchel before he shoves up out of the chair, and even stops by the door to turn back and say, "Send th'glass back w'Essdara," still-- oblivious to the situation there. Proving, no doubt, her point.
Blink. Miniyal is not drunk enough to be unaware of what is going on. Entirely. She watches him rise and watches him warily when he moves. As if she's worried he'll decide to take a swing or something at her on the way out. She remains in her chair until he's gone, then she empties her glass and rises rather unsteadily to her feet. She'll walk out and back to her room, glass still in her hand. Whatever she's thinking is her own business. She'll have enough trouble walking.