In which our heroine shows what she has learned.
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
Where: Guess. Go on. Dare you!
When: The day after the party at which Yevide dies. Later in the evening.
What: G'thon's public display over Yevide sends Miniyal away. But eventually she returns. There is, perhaps, not much worked out, but in the end she manages to get the upper hand.
9/25/2006
The time: The day after the death of Yevide. Later in the evening.
Then a whole day goes by. Almost an entire day since the last time they saw each other. Miniyal wandered along after their night was interrupted by death. She witnessed what happened, but did so unseen. As unseen as when she turned and left the living cavern and went off to sit in the dark. There was no sleeping that night, oh, no. Not for her at least. Because, the Little Voice wouldn't shut up. Oh, not at all. Every moment of happiness was paraded out and every little thing that might have been seen as off would be pointed out in detail. Hours and hours of this, alone in the dark with just that damned voice.
Eventually, however, it died down. Only because she was too tired and beat up to listen anymore. Work done, Little Voice retreated to gloat. And while it did so she crept out of her spot and went back to her cot to change out of the now dusty and dirty party dress. She managed to avoid most people in the process and those she could not she simply ignored. Clad again in something more. . .her, she brushed out her hair and steeled herself for a quick familiar walk. Have to get there before Little Voice wakes up once more. Have to. . .explain. No. Can't tell the truth. Will just see how much he hates me now and try to move on with my life. Unfortunately, thoughts like that lure that voice back to the front of her brain. This will not be good, but she knocks anyway. Softly, hesitant, fearful upon his door.
There has been grieving to do here. Some of it's evident - Gans never goes through more than a handkerchief in a day, and never has his laundry anywhere visible, but this afternoon there's a basket waiting near his bedchamber's door and while most of what's in it are the funerary colors of the fine clothes he wore last night, four neatly folded white squares rest atop those clothes, the newest one still a little damp-looking. And there has been visiting to do here, too; persons to have quick and furtive talks with, persons dropping by to express their sympathies. He opens the door for every knock, and at every knock looks first a little crestfallen at whatever party has come to convey condolences or to help him decide who should be implicated in his prior lover's death. Only a couple of these visitors have been invited in. For the most part, Gans has spent the sleepless night and drag-on dreary day in solitude, and except for a few quick trips out to check on certain places around the Weyr, he has been -here.-
The time has not been wasted. Of course, mourning is itself no waste. But he does more than mourn: he creates. Bereft of the woman who gave them to him, he treated the pens and inks more carefully than delicately worked gold; obedient even in her absence he spent the evening writing. Now the book and its accompaniments lie restful on the table, which is itself pushed aside by a wall so the main of the room is free for pacing. But Gans is a bad pacer; he keeps stopping to look at things, to trace them with his fingers. The bookcase. The box of tea, untouched, from E'sere. The new cups that came with his new teaset from his mother. A strange leathery scarf from a wingleader long since gone from High Reaches. Anyone who knew all his history would know he mourns more deaths than just Yevide's.
He opens the door to any knock. That includes this one. The disappointed look is ready, and it's all he can do to hold it back when he sees her; instead Gans blinks, and blinks again, and breathes, "Miniyal," as if she's not real. And then with the hand not busy with holding back the door, he reaches out to her. The black sleeve pulls back and there on his wrist, awkwardly tied and too loose for his thinness, is that white and four-color bracelet. His palm, open and upward-facing, beckons. Begs.
Oh. He's not. . .gone. Mad. Slamming the door in her face. Which are all possibilities handed to her by that Little Voice. Miniyal stares at him and there's a soft choking noise as she lets her eyes drop down and she sees the bracelet. It's the sort of noise made when you are not, dammit, just not going to cry. No matter what is being said inside your head. Or what might be said outside of it. A fraction of an upwards tilt of her chin, just enough he might see her open her mouth to speak. But no sound comes out. Instead she looks away, down the hall. But her hand reaches out to take his so he might lead her in if that is what he truly wants. It's not something she can do on her own.
His fingers, desperate, curl around hers. His arm muscles, desperate, contract and bend his elbow, pulling her in. And he doesn't step in the least bit out of the way; nor does he push closed the door. In fact the hand upon the doorknob seems to be bearing some small part of Gans' weight, just enough to keep him steady. He is, for all of his grace, not as strong as he once was; he has eaten poorly, slept rarely, and been landbound so long. If she resists, he will lose his hold on her. If she doesn't - well, then, she might just find herself drawn clear in against him. If that happens, she will find him trembling, a shiver so shy it's invisible - but not intangible.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers and those are the only words she can say. Instead she lets him pull, not stopping until they are close and then her arms go around him to hold him close. Another step forward meant to propel him backwards just enough she can reach for the door and let it close behind them. Because none of the people wandering by to snoop need to see anything. Which leaves them, for now, alone and taking a deep breath she continues to just stand there, holding him. This way, this position, it makes it so easy to avoid looking at him. To not have to see the grief for another woman that forced her to run when he needed her. Is it that her words were meant to mean? Or is she sorry for what he's lost?
Without the doorknob to support him, Gans finds his stability in her: his arm curves around her and presses her hard to him, so their hands, entangled, must beware being crushed. He bends his head and breathes into her hair, indifferent to the tightness with which he holds her. He draws breath, shuddering, and breathes again, and again his breath shapes the silhouette of her name. Only then, now convinced she -is- real, does his grip loosen. At last he leans back and looks down upon her, managing this pathetic little twitch of his one-sided smile. "I missed you," he says, then smiles a little more as if he's just said the stupidest thing ever invented. "Don't be sorry."
It might have been better had he yelled. Even if it would have fed that voice, made it louder. This is. . .worse. Because she's left with only silence from the Voice who is content to let her fill in her own blanks. Smugly silent. Her eyes meet his purely by accident and there's a moment where he might see the glimmer of tears unshed and the pain of so many types but then she pushes them back. Miniyal just can't do this, show how vulnerable yesterday left her. Not when he needs her. So much easier to push aside what she feels. Just like she was told she would do all night. Continue to not think enough of herself to even say /why/ she left. "I am," she whispers as she looks away, unable to speak and look at him. "I'm so sorry. I. . .left. You needed me. You trusted me and I let you down and I'm a horrible partner and it's alright if you hate me. I hate me too."
His hand in hers tightens a little, an effort at comfort from the comfortless, as she looks away. The rest of what she's said leaves him silent and stunned, however, and it's a shame she's looked elsewhere because the wide-eyed, vaguely horrified, inhumanly confused expressions are rare on this aged and graceful countenance, indeed. "I don't," he says, after a shuttered beat, somewhat abrupt, as if the idea is absurd. It gives him a moment to regather his expression into something more compassionate. "And I don't feel let down. Just - I missed you, Miniyal. I worried - " There's a little catch here, something his throat wants to close around. Certainly it would be the fact of his prior lover's death, something to which he cannot quite yet put real words. So instead he says this, to explain why he worried: "They said it wasn't natural. And I couldn't find you." Too bereaved or simply too underslept to draw it out for her, he leaves her to connect the dots.
Her eyes are guarded, worried still as she looks back at him. Her own expression is confused. How can he not hate her when it's simply. . .right. If she hates herself so much he should as well. "You. . .don't?" she asks, puzzled. "I. . .it said, I mean, I thought. . .it was. . ." Yes, she is trying to speak and then discarding her words before giving them voice. Confusion, internal mockery, more confusion. Min stares, blinking, uncomprehending before it slowly sinks in and then she lets out a soft gasp and shakes her head as she tightens her arm around him. "I am so sorry. I. . .I was. . ." Something. She just can't finish a sentence.
"Afraid?" That this is his first assumption may be telling about his own emotions at the time. Gans at last untangles his hand from hers, only so he can curl both arms now around her and hold her a moment like so, as if trying to press out from between them the doubts and fears. "Hurt," he guesses next, and unwraps her just enough so he can look down at her, compassionate. "I'm sorry, Miniyal. I shouldn't have just - " Bolted. He smiles a little more, hesitant, as if he would ask her permission to even smile. At last he lets go of her enough to step a little back, to offer her again his chambers, still shaky. "Will you forgive me?"
"I don't know," are the first words said, meant to answer how she feels. But, it come after he finishes which might confuse him. Not that Min seems to notice this at first. She blinks and tries to argue with that evil bastard of a voice. The voice who gleefully points out that he still loves the other woman. And you can't love more than one person at a time, after all, her parents certainly loved each other beyond what they felt for their daughter. And through all this it finally settles into her brain that he asked a question and she seemed to answer. Cheeks a bright red she looks up at him and quickly shakes her head. "No, I didn't mean! I mean, I do. . .I don't." Biting her lip she drops her head, one cheek pressing against his chest. "There is nothing to forgive. You love her. It. . .I understand." Or not, but she will say the words. When she straightens up, stepping back, there might be a spot, ever so small, that is now damp where her cheek lay a moment ago. "You should. . .can we sit?"
As one might expect, Gans is a little taken aback by her apparent answer - but not so much so that he won't keep on half-holding her, looking down at her, and paying her his utmost attention. Unfortunately, the rest of what she says doesn't seem to help much; at least 'I don't know' was a clear answer. All he can do at first is let out a little 'shh' as she drops her head against him. But when she straightens he has on an expression of sudden understanding, and after a moment has words to match. "No." A simple beginning, emphasized by a singular shake of his head. "If I had - well - " He stops, helpless. "Please, let's sit." And he untangles the other arm from her, too, so she can precede him to the divan or chairs or whatever part of the room she'll have.
This conversation is very amusing. Coming in fits and starts. So much misunderstanding because no one seems to be able to /finish a sentence/. But, there is a reprieve for a moment as she grasps his hand and squeezes it tightly. "It doesn't matter," she offers softly as she heads for the divan, not willing to sit where she can't cling it would seem. She stays a half step ahead so she doesn't have to look at him as she marshals her thoughts. Sitting down she looks at her hand in his and shrugs. "It doesn't matter if you do," she repeats softly without looking up. "I'll still love you, Gans. It's alright if you don't." Head tipping up she smiles tremulously and then looks away as he either sits or not. Oh, yes, sound pathetic that voice whispers. Really. That's what all men want to hear. Desperation. Although she sounds more. . .resigned than desperate.
He follows her, as unwilling to let her go as she is to leave him, and then stands before her with her hand in his, bending a bit to make that connection easier, while she sits and addresses him. That she confesses she loves him causes him to wince - here, little voice, have some ammunition - but he gazes with solemn compassion upon her tremulous smile and then descends into the space beside her. "Miniyal." His voice is solemn too, but gently so, warmly so. "I cared very much for her, but the fact remains we fell apart." Not something Gans really explains to most people, this bit. "I care very much for you, and I have no intention of letting us fall apart. Will you listen to me a bit?" And here he reaches over with his free hand to clasp hers, so her hand is cradled in both of his.
Here is where that non-existent self-esteem comes into play. The wince doesn't even make her do the same. It is merely accepted. When he sits she shifts some so she might turn a bit and look at him. For all she has trouble meeting his eyes she can't keep herself from looking at him. As if they were separated for longer than hours and she cannot remember every little thing about him. With her hand tucked between his she settles just a fraction. The wary, hesitant manner she's carried in here is slowly, ever so slowly, dissipating. Hard to let it go, but she takes to counting in her head. Loudly to drown out the voice. Just focus on the numbers and let the words be drowned. The ones outside her head she gives more attention to although she might look a bit. . .distracted? Still, when he asks she nods before ducking her head.
That he has a drown-out backdrop of counting to speak against is unknown to Gans; he just accepts her distraction, perhaps in understanding that she's hurt or jealous or whatever he's come to understand about her state, and speaks while he has the floor. "Miniyal, I trust you. You'll know everything I know, and anything you ask of me I'll answer true." Someone somewhere should marvel at how fast he works, how swiftly he knits together these words that sound so watertight and yet let so much through, seives of language. But his eyes are so honest (of course, because he's managed not to be lying) and his mouth so solemn, and there's real emotion there; Navan would even have to admit it. Gans looks down at her hand in his and strokes her fingers with the pad of one long thumb. "I don't know that I should be telling anyone I love them just yet, Miniyal, but that has nothing to do with Yevide. I think that's actually part of why we fell apart - and I hope it can be different, with you." He pauses a moment, grim. And honest. Grimly honest. "Because you're not a rider."
Miniyal's head lifts and she watches him and then it drops to look at his hand once more. She can't seem to decide quite where to place her gaze. With his words, few as they are, she edges closer. Her knee bumps his and she stops before leaning back and then pulling her legs up under her so she can lean closer to him. All of this without having to remove her hand from his because that would be unthinkable at this point. "I never expected you to love me," she admits with one of those shrugs. The sort that could mean so many things and here seems to mean, well, that she accepts this lot in her life. "I, well, never. . .you know." You know, thought anyone would be allowed to break my heart again. At his last words she lets out a wry laugh, no humor at all in it. "That's one thing you can be sure will never change at least," she says as she looks at him.
Her leaning closer has Gans lifting one hand from hers, leaning away from her so he can shift his elbow back and up, then in again so she can lean back into him, now embraced by the loose curve of his arm across the back of the divan. "Then you are more patient than I think I deserve." His voice is gently wry, eyes sadly twinkling, even thuogh they remain fixed on her hand in the palm he still has reached over to cradle her fingers in. Her laugh draws up his regard, however, and after a moment the twinkle seems more dry, less sad. His brows arch. "Why is that, exactly?"
A quiet sigh at the rearranging and for a few moments she can even pretend that the last day hasn't happened. See? Just the. . .happy couple. Together. A slight adjustment once more and she can use her free hand to reach up and over to stroke his cheek, just once before she pulls her hand back. "I think you deserve more than I can give you, Gans," she says quietly. "But I'm quite loathe to let someone else try to give it to you so think you must resign yourself to me for a bit." A pause here and more quietly, nearly silent and infused with every single doubt and hope she has right now, "I hope." Those words and then she blinks and looks at him, surprised. "It's just. . .I've lived in a weyr all my life, Gans. I think it's safe to say that I'm safe of that concern. Besides, it'd take a damned poor dragon to want me. Besides. . .I mean, /you/ need me."
Gans laughs softly, first, at this resignation he must make - and makes it gracefully with a bow of his head, putting his slender cheek better into the stroke of her fingertips. Her surprise and the withdrawal of her hand bring his gaze back toward her, brows settling back into place. "Ah," he replies, apparently no longer concerned - her answer does not, at least, worry him as much as perhaps he expected it to - and laughs again, just as softly as before. "I do," he agrees, simply, and lets go her hand so that he may now stroke her face in turn, overturning his hand to brush back her hair with soft sweeps of his knuckles. "I started the memoir," he notes, and allows a droll note in his voice to infuse those words with affection, with something a little warmer than affection. "I wanted to thank you for insisting upon it."
Unable, or unwilling, to suppress the quiet, oh so content, sigh when he touches her hair, Min very nearly snuggles up against him. But, really. There is no way she /will/. She will scoot that much closer and lay her head against his chest again. Not that she likes when he plays with her hair at all. Nope. It's not as if since they've settled together she's not worn her hair back or up or even bothered with a ribbon anymore. Much of a pain as it can be at work she leaves it down, loose, for him. "I'm glad," she says with a smile in her voice. "That you are doing it. It's. . .good. And they say that writing things down can help you, you know, deal with them. Or something. I look forward to reading it. I promise not to peek until you say it is fine for me to do so."
Gans lets her get closer first, lest he tangle her locks too much, and once she's settled he begins stroking her chestnut hair, watching the play of the rich color - he, of course, would never consider it plain - as it falls through his fingers. "That's - what I started with. Her, I mean. To get it out." His mouth bends up, wry; she'll know without looking, because she knows by now the sound of his smile around his words. "I'm afraid it's a poor start for a memoir. Someone dying, and then the author going on about how he's trying to write the way his beloved wants him to." So casual, his hand upon her hair. So thoughtlessly gentle, like his words.
Little Voice. Oh, come on, that comment's /not/ going to cause it to rear up and whisper dark, bad things into Miniyal's ear. Words that can't be brushed away by the touch of hand on hair no matter how much she wishes and tries to make it so. "I'm glad you are doing this," she repeats without stirring from her spot against him. One might almost think she would fall asleep like this, but that. . .no, no. Even though she's been up all night there's still something missing. Some small shred of comfort. Some tiny thing that leaves her almost unnoticeably tense. Certainly she's relaxed from when she arrives, but there's. . .something missing. And she doesn't have a clue what it is so carries that tenseness even where there should be none. Where there hasn't been any for some time now.
"So am I." Anyone else would say, 'me too,' but where Miniyal has her little voice, Gans has his attachment to formality in language and in tea, and it persists through even the most domestic of moments. Still his fingers comb through her locks, his other arm loose across her back, palm curled in relaxation against her waist. Perhaps it's there that he feels, after a little while in contented silence, the tension that still keeps some muscles hung up against him, against his touch. Through those still fingers, he feels her resistance. And of course Gans can't bear it, so asks, stopping the stroking of her hair so he can bend and whisper the question: "What's on your mind, my dear?"
"Nothing," is mumbled quietly as Miniyal closes her eyes to hide some truth within them. Time to change things, switch them, make it so there's no intrusive questions. "Have you eaten? I could send for something. Or tea? Do you want some tea." Her gaze lifts for a moment to look at him and she sighs. "You should be trying to sleep. If you wish to lie down I will fend off anyone who comes here looking for you." How calm she sounds. How normal. How big a liar is she? Big enough it sounds nearly convincing. Anyone else would easily buy her act.
"Miniyal." He is affectionate, warm, and touched - but stern, too. His eyes dance a bit, just for her. He knows. He strokes her hair. "I'm not sleeping unless you're sleeping with me. And I've had enough tea for a day." The hand on the curve of her waist slides up, stroking her along the side now, up over the ribcage and then back down around into the small of her back. As long as she rests there, Gans will pet her, all too glad to have his hands upon her. They treasure her shape, however padded it may be, and worship the sensation of touch. "I asked you a question." A pause, for petulance. "Will you answer me?"
If he wants her to answer questions he needs to not be so distracting. Or give her a chance to change the subject. "Were we to lie down, Gans, I don't think I would be in the mood to sleep any longer," she tells him oh so softly. They were, after all, interrupted last night before things got beyond coat removal. And so she draws on this knowledge to shift and stretch beside him and against him. Min looks at him then, eyes half-lidded, and lower lip moistened by the tip of her tongue. "I forgot the question," she tells him with a warm, sly smile. "Refresh my memory?" The question, it lies. There is no hint at all in the words, the phrasing, the look that accompanies them that indicates she wishes to hear him repeat himself. Instead she asks for something else.
Something like a chuckle starts up in his throat, and stops as she stretches. The hand in her hair smoothes the locks troubled by his touch, then slips away to put fingertips beneath her chin - but he does not make good on the promise of that touch, not yet. "Ah, the question," Gans murmurs. He extends one arm fully so his hand can describe the curve of her hip, rippling the dull-hued fabric beneath his fingers as they move. His eyes follow the movement, as they are so often wont to do when he touches her; then he finds her sultry look with his bemused - bemused, but wholly taken in - one. "I have forgotten," he confesses, a lie for which he expects to be forgiven, and puts a little neckstrain into bending his head so he might claim, fully, her mouth with his.
Where: Guess. Go on. Dare you!
When: The day after the party at which Yevide dies. Later in the evening.
What: G'thon's public display over Yevide sends Miniyal away. But eventually she returns. There is, perhaps, not much worked out, but in the end she manages to get the upper hand.
9/25/2006
The time: The day after the death of Yevide. Later in the evening.
Then a whole day goes by. Almost an entire day since the last time they saw each other. Miniyal wandered along after their night was interrupted by death. She witnessed what happened, but did so unseen. As unseen as when she turned and left the living cavern and went off to sit in the dark. There was no sleeping that night, oh, no. Not for her at least. Because, the Little Voice wouldn't shut up. Oh, not at all. Every moment of happiness was paraded out and every little thing that might have been seen as off would be pointed out in detail. Hours and hours of this, alone in the dark with just that damned voice.
Eventually, however, it died down. Only because she was too tired and beat up to listen anymore. Work done, Little Voice retreated to gloat. And while it did so she crept out of her spot and went back to her cot to change out of the now dusty and dirty party dress. She managed to avoid most people in the process and those she could not she simply ignored. Clad again in something more. . .her, she brushed out her hair and steeled herself for a quick familiar walk. Have to get there before Little Voice wakes up once more. Have to. . .explain. No. Can't tell the truth. Will just see how much he hates me now and try to move on with my life. Unfortunately, thoughts like that lure that voice back to the front of her brain. This will not be good, but she knocks anyway. Softly, hesitant, fearful upon his door.
There has been grieving to do here. Some of it's evident - Gans never goes through more than a handkerchief in a day, and never has his laundry anywhere visible, but this afternoon there's a basket waiting near his bedchamber's door and while most of what's in it are the funerary colors of the fine clothes he wore last night, four neatly folded white squares rest atop those clothes, the newest one still a little damp-looking. And there has been visiting to do here, too; persons to have quick and furtive talks with, persons dropping by to express their sympathies. He opens the door for every knock, and at every knock looks first a little crestfallen at whatever party has come to convey condolences or to help him decide who should be implicated in his prior lover's death. Only a couple of these visitors have been invited in. For the most part, Gans has spent the sleepless night and drag-on dreary day in solitude, and except for a few quick trips out to check on certain places around the Weyr, he has been -here.-
The time has not been wasted. Of course, mourning is itself no waste. But he does more than mourn: he creates. Bereft of the woman who gave them to him, he treated the pens and inks more carefully than delicately worked gold; obedient even in her absence he spent the evening writing. Now the book and its accompaniments lie restful on the table, which is itself pushed aside by a wall so the main of the room is free for pacing. But Gans is a bad pacer; he keeps stopping to look at things, to trace them with his fingers. The bookcase. The box of tea, untouched, from E'sere. The new cups that came with his new teaset from his mother. A strange leathery scarf from a wingleader long since gone from High Reaches. Anyone who knew all his history would know he mourns more deaths than just Yevide's.
He opens the door to any knock. That includes this one. The disappointed look is ready, and it's all he can do to hold it back when he sees her; instead Gans blinks, and blinks again, and breathes, "Miniyal," as if she's not real. And then with the hand not busy with holding back the door, he reaches out to her. The black sleeve pulls back and there on his wrist, awkwardly tied and too loose for his thinness, is that white and four-color bracelet. His palm, open and upward-facing, beckons. Begs.
Oh. He's not. . .gone. Mad. Slamming the door in her face. Which are all possibilities handed to her by that Little Voice. Miniyal stares at him and there's a soft choking noise as she lets her eyes drop down and she sees the bracelet. It's the sort of noise made when you are not, dammit, just not going to cry. No matter what is being said inside your head. Or what might be said outside of it. A fraction of an upwards tilt of her chin, just enough he might see her open her mouth to speak. But no sound comes out. Instead she looks away, down the hall. But her hand reaches out to take his so he might lead her in if that is what he truly wants. It's not something she can do on her own.
His fingers, desperate, curl around hers. His arm muscles, desperate, contract and bend his elbow, pulling her in. And he doesn't step in the least bit out of the way; nor does he push closed the door. In fact the hand upon the doorknob seems to be bearing some small part of Gans' weight, just enough to keep him steady. He is, for all of his grace, not as strong as he once was; he has eaten poorly, slept rarely, and been landbound so long. If she resists, he will lose his hold on her. If she doesn't - well, then, she might just find herself drawn clear in against him. If that happens, she will find him trembling, a shiver so shy it's invisible - but not intangible.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers and those are the only words she can say. Instead she lets him pull, not stopping until they are close and then her arms go around him to hold him close. Another step forward meant to propel him backwards just enough she can reach for the door and let it close behind them. Because none of the people wandering by to snoop need to see anything. Which leaves them, for now, alone and taking a deep breath she continues to just stand there, holding him. This way, this position, it makes it so easy to avoid looking at him. To not have to see the grief for another woman that forced her to run when he needed her. Is it that her words were meant to mean? Or is she sorry for what he's lost?
Without the doorknob to support him, Gans finds his stability in her: his arm curves around her and presses her hard to him, so their hands, entangled, must beware being crushed. He bends his head and breathes into her hair, indifferent to the tightness with which he holds her. He draws breath, shuddering, and breathes again, and again his breath shapes the silhouette of her name. Only then, now convinced she -is- real, does his grip loosen. At last he leans back and looks down upon her, managing this pathetic little twitch of his one-sided smile. "I missed you," he says, then smiles a little more as if he's just said the stupidest thing ever invented. "Don't be sorry."
It might have been better had he yelled. Even if it would have fed that voice, made it louder. This is. . .worse. Because she's left with only silence from the Voice who is content to let her fill in her own blanks. Smugly silent. Her eyes meet his purely by accident and there's a moment where he might see the glimmer of tears unshed and the pain of so many types but then she pushes them back. Miniyal just can't do this, show how vulnerable yesterday left her. Not when he needs her. So much easier to push aside what she feels. Just like she was told she would do all night. Continue to not think enough of herself to even say /why/ she left. "I am," she whispers as she looks away, unable to speak and look at him. "I'm so sorry. I. . .left. You needed me. You trusted me and I let you down and I'm a horrible partner and it's alright if you hate me. I hate me too."
His hand in hers tightens a little, an effort at comfort from the comfortless, as she looks away. The rest of what she's said leaves him silent and stunned, however, and it's a shame she's looked elsewhere because the wide-eyed, vaguely horrified, inhumanly confused expressions are rare on this aged and graceful countenance, indeed. "I don't," he says, after a shuttered beat, somewhat abrupt, as if the idea is absurd. It gives him a moment to regather his expression into something more compassionate. "And I don't feel let down. Just - I missed you, Miniyal. I worried - " There's a little catch here, something his throat wants to close around. Certainly it would be the fact of his prior lover's death, something to which he cannot quite yet put real words. So instead he says this, to explain why he worried: "They said it wasn't natural. And I couldn't find you." Too bereaved or simply too underslept to draw it out for her, he leaves her to connect the dots.
Her eyes are guarded, worried still as she looks back at him. Her own expression is confused. How can he not hate her when it's simply. . .right. If she hates herself so much he should as well. "You. . .don't?" she asks, puzzled. "I. . .it said, I mean, I thought. . .it was. . ." Yes, she is trying to speak and then discarding her words before giving them voice. Confusion, internal mockery, more confusion. Min stares, blinking, uncomprehending before it slowly sinks in and then she lets out a soft gasp and shakes her head as she tightens her arm around him. "I am so sorry. I. . .I was. . ." Something. She just can't finish a sentence.
"Afraid?" That this is his first assumption may be telling about his own emotions at the time. Gans at last untangles his hand from hers, only so he can curl both arms now around her and hold her a moment like so, as if trying to press out from between them the doubts and fears. "Hurt," he guesses next, and unwraps her just enough so he can look down at her, compassionate. "I'm sorry, Miniyal. I shouldn't have just - " Bolted. He smiles a little more, hesitant, as if he would ask her permission to even smile. At last he lets go of her enough to step a little back, to offer her again his chambers, still shaky. "Will you forgive me?"
"I don't know," are the first words said, meant to answer how she feels. But, it come after he finishes which might confuse him. Not that Min seems to notice this at first. She blinks and tries to argue with that evil bastard of a voice. The voice who gleefully points out that he still loves the other woman. And you can't love more than one person at a time, after all, her parents certainly loved each other beyond what they felt for their daughter. And through all this it finally settles into her brain that he asked a question and she seemed to answer. Cheeks a bright red she looks up at him and quickly shakes her head. "No, I didn't mean! I mean, I do. . .I don't." Biting her lip she drops her head, one cheek pressing against his chest. "There is nothing to forgive. You love her. It. . .I understand." Or not, but she will say the words. When she straightens up, stepping back, there might be a spot, ever so small, that is now damp where her cheek lay a moment ago. "You should. . .can we sit?"
As one might expect, Gans is a little taken aback by her apparent answer - but not so much so that he won't keep on half-holding her, looking down at her, and paying her his utmost attention. Unfortunately, the rest of what she says doesn't seem to help much; at least 'I don't know' was a clear answer. All he can do at first is let out a little 'shh' as she drops her head against him. But when she straightens he has on an expression of sudden understanding, and after a moment has words to match. "No." A simple beginning, emphasized by a singular shake of his head. "If I had - well - " He stops, helpless. "Please, let's sit." And he untangles the other arm from her, too, so she can precede him to the divan or chairs or whatever part of the room she'll have.
This conversation is very amusing. Coming in fits and starts. So much misunderstanding because no one seems to be able to /finish a sentence/. But, there is a reprieve for a moment as she grasps his hand and squeezes it tightly. "It doesn't matter," she offers softly as she heads for the divan, not willing to sit where she can't cling it would seem. She stays a half step ahead so she doesn't have to look at him as she marshals her thoughts. Sitting down she looks at her hand in his and shrugs. "It doesn't matter if you do," she repeats softly without looking up. "I'll still love you, Gans. It's alright if you don't." Head tipping up she smiles tremulously and then looks away as he either sits or not. Oh, yes, sound pathetic that voice whispers. Really. That's what all men want to hear. Desperation. Although she sounds more. . .resigned than desperate.
He follows her, as unwilling to let her go as she is to leave him, and then stands before her with her hand in his, bending a bit to make that connection easier, while she sits and addresses him. That she confesses she loves him causes him to wince - here, little voice, have some ammunition - but he gazes with solemn compassion upon her tremulous smile and then descends into the space beside her. "Miniyal." His voice is solemn too, but gently so, warmly so. "I cared very much for her, but the fact remains we fell apart." Not something Gans really explains to most people, this bit. "I care very much for you, and I have no intention of letting us fall apart. Will you listen to me a bit?" And here he reaches over with his free hand to clasp hers, so her hand is cradled in both of his.
Here is where that non-existent self-esteem comes into play. The wince doesn't even make her do the same. It is merely accepted. When he sits she shifts some so she might turn a bit and look at him. For all she has trouble meeting his eyes she can't keep herself from looking at him. As if they were separated for longer than hours and she cannot remember every little thing about him. With her hand tucked between his she settles just a fraction. The wary, hesitant manner she's carried in here is slowly, ever so slowly, dissipating. Hard to let it go, but she takes to counting in her head. Loudly to drown out the voice. Just focus on the numbers and let the words be drowned. The ones outside her head she gives more attention to although she might look a bit. . .distracted? Still, when he asks she nods before ducking her head.
That he has a drown-out backdrop of counting to speak against is unknown to Gans; he just accepts her distraction, perhaps in understanding that she's hurt or jealous or whatever he's come to understand about her state, and speaks while he has the floor. "Miniyal, I trust you. You'll know everything I know, and anything you ask of me I'll answer true." Someone somewhere should marvel at how fast he works, how swiftly he knits together these words that sound so watertight and yet let so much through, seives of language. But his eyes are so honest (of course, because he's managed not to be lying) and his mouth so solemn, and there's real emotion there; Navan would even have to admit it. Gans looks down at her hand in his and strokes her fingers with the pad of one long thumb. "I don't know that I should be telling anyone I love them just yet, Miniyal, but that has nothing to do with Yevide. I think that's actually part of why we fell apart - and I hope it can be different, with you." He pauses a moment, grim. And honest. Grimly honest. "Because you're not a rider."
Miniyal's head lifts and she watches him and then it drops to look at his hand once more. She can't seem to decide quite where to place her gaze. With his words, few as they are, she edges closer. Her knee bumps his and she stops before leaning back and then pulling her legs up under her so she can lean closer to him. All of this without having to remove her hand from his because that would be unthinkable at this point. "I never expected you to love me," she admits with one of those shrugs. The sort that could mean so many things and here seems to mean, well, that she accepts this lot in her life. "I, well, never. . .you know." You know, thought anyone would be allowed to break my heart again. At his last words she lets out a wry laugh, no humor at all in it. "That's one thing you can be sure will never change at least," she says as she looks at him.
Her leaning closer has Gans lifting one hand from hers, leaning away from her so he can shift his elbow back and up, then in again so she can lean back into him, now embraced by the loose curve of his arm across the back of the divan. "Then you are more patient than I think I deserve." His voice is gently wry, eyes sadly twinkling, even thuogh they remain fixed on her hand in the palm he still has reached over to cradle her fingers in. Her laugh draws up his regard, however, and after a moment the twinkle seems more dry, less sad. His brows arch. "Why is that, exactly?"
A quiet sigh at the rearranging and for a few moments she can even pretend that the last day hasn't happened. See? Just the. . .happy couple. Together. A slight adjustment once more and she can use her free hand to reach up and over to stroke his cheek, just once before she pulls her hand back. "I think you deserve more than I can give you, Gans," she says quietly. "But I'm quite loathe to let someone else try to give it to you so think you must resign yourself to me for a bit." A pause here and more quietly, nearly silent and infused with every single doubt and hope she has right now, "I hope." Those words and then she blinks and looks at him, surprised. "It's just. . .I've lived in a weyr all my life, Gans. I think it's safe to say that I'm safe of that concern. Besides, it'd take a damned poor dragon to want me. Besides. . .I mean, /you/ need me."
Gans laughs softly, first, at this resignation he must make - and makes it gracefully with a bow of his head, putting his slender cheek better into the stroke of her fingertips. Her surprise and the withdrawal of her hand bring his gaze back toward her, brows settling back into place. "Ah," he replies, apparently no longer concerned - her answer does not, at least, worry him as much as perhaps he expected it to - and laughs again, just as softly as before. "I do," he agrees, simply, and lets go her hand so that he may now stroke her face in turn, overturning his hand to brush back her hair with soft sweeps of his knuckles. "I started the memoir," he notes, and allows a droll note in his voice to infuse those words with affection, with something a little warmer than affection. "I wanted to thank you for insisting upon it."
Unable, or unwilling, to suppress the quiet, oh so content, sigh when he touches her hair, Min very nearly snuggles up against him. But, really. There is no way she /will/. She will scoot that much closer and lay her head against his chest again. Not that she likes when he plays with her hair at all. Nope. It's not as if since they've settled together she's not worn her hair back or up or even bothered with a ribbon anymore. Much of a pain as it can be at work she leaves it down, loose, for him. "I'm glad," she says with a smile in her voice. "That you are doing it. It's. . .good. And they say that writing things down can help you, you know, deal with them. Or something. I look forward to reading it. I promise not to peek until you say it is fine for me to do so."
Gans lets her get closer first, lest he tangle her locks too much, and once she's settled he begins stroking her chestnut hair, watching the play of the rich color - he, of course, would never consider it plain - as it falls through his fingers. "That's - what I started with. Her, I mean. To get it out." His mouth bends up, wry; she'll know without looking, because she knows by now the sound of his smile around his words. "I'm afraid it's a poor start for a memoir. Someone dying, and then the author going on about how he's trying to write the way his beloved wants him to." So casual, his hand upon her hair. So thoughtlessly gentle, like his words.
Little Voice. Oh, come on, that comment's /not/ going to cause it to rear up and whisper dark, bad things into Miniyal's ear. Words that can't be brushed away by the touch of hand on hair no matter how much she wishes and tries to make it so. "I'm glad you are doing this," she repeats without stirring from her spot against him. One might almost think she would fall asleep like this, but that. . .no, no. Even though she's been up all night there's still something missing. Some small shred of comfort. Some tiny thing that leaves her almost unnoticeably tense. Certainly she's relaxed from when she arrives, but there's. . .something missing. And she doesn't have a clue what it is so carries that tenseness even where there should be none. Where there hasn't been any for some time now.
"So am I." Anyone else would say, 'me too,' but where Miniyal has her little voice, Gans has his attachment to formality in language and in tea, and it persists through even the most domestic of moments. Still his fingers comb through her locks, his other arm loose across her back, palm curled in relaxation against her waist. Perhaps it's there that he feels, after a little while in contented silence, the tension that still keeps some muscles hung up against him, against his touch. Through those still fingers, he feels her resistance. And of course Gans can't bear it, so asks, stopping the stroking of her hair so he can bend and whisper the question: "What's on your mind, my dear?"
"Nothing," is mumbled quietly as Miniyal closes her eyes to hide some truth within them. Time to change things, switch them, make it so there's no intrusive questions. "Have you eaten? I could send for something. Or tea? Do you want some tea." Her gaze lifts for a moment to look at him and she sighs. "You should be trying to sleep. If you wish to lie down I will fend off anyone who comes here looking for you." How calm she sounds. How normal. How big a liar is she? Big enough it sounds nearly convincing. Anyone else would easily buy her act.
"Miniyal." He is affectionate, warm, and touched - but stern, too. His eyes dance a bit, just for her. He knows. He strokes her hair. "I'm not sleeping unless you're sleeping with me. And I've had enough tea for a day." The hand on the curve of her waist slides up, stroking her along the side now, up over the ribcage and then back down around into the small of her back. As long as she rests there, Gans will pet her, all too glad to have his hands upon her. They treasure her shape, however padded it may be, and worship the sensation of touch. "I asked you a question." A pause, for petulance. "Will you answer me?"
If he wants her to answer questions he needs to not be so distracting. Or give her a chance to change the subject. "Were we to lie down, Gans, I don't think I would be in the mood to sleep any longer," she tells him oh so softly. They were, after all, interrupted last night before things got beyond coat removal. And so she draws on this knowledge to shift and stretch beside him and against him. Min looks at him then, eyes half-lidded, and lower lip moistened by the tip of her tongue. "I forgot the question," she tells him with a warm, sly smile. "Refresh my memory?" The question, it lies. There is no hint at all in the words, the phrasing, the look that accompanies them that indicates she wishes to hear him repeat himself. Instead she asks for something else.
Something like a chuckle starts up in his throat, and stops as she stretches. The hand in her hair smoothes the locks troubled by his touch, then slips away to put fingertips beneath her chin - but he does not make good on the promise of that touch, not yet. "Ah, the question," Gans murmurs. He extends one arm fully so his hand can describe the curve of her hip, rippling the dull-hued fabric beneath his fingers as they move. His eyes follow the movement, as they are so often wont to do when he touches her; then he finds her sultry look with his bemused - bemused, but wholly taken in - one. "I have forgotten," he confesses, a lie for which he expects to be forgiven, and puts a little neckstrain into bending his head so he might claim, fully, her mouth with his.