Who Carellos Reksler
What Reksler's recent nightmares are clearly Carellos' fault
When Winter
Where Living Cavern, Fort Weyr


Fort Weyr - Living Cavern
This cavern, having been created by bubbles in the volcanic flow of this extinct volcano, has a breathtaking ceiling — a vast dome that arches high above the heads of the weyrfolk that scurry around beneath it. A hollow echo can be heard from loud enough noises, and the chatterings of various firelizards are consequently multiplied into a chaotic babble. All in all, the living cavern is a loud place.

Tables are scattered around the room, apparently in no particular order. Over to one side near the kitchens, two medium sized serving tables are constantly spread with snacks, klah, and other goodies. The tables look worn, yet perfectly fitted to the atmosphere of the caverns. In the 'corners' of the cavern, smaller two and four place tables are set up for more private talks or just a less chaotic atmosphere in which to eat.

It's late enough that the dinner rush has come and gone but not soo late that the serving tables aren't being replenished. The relative roar of the living caverns has settled down into a comfortable hum along with the spring rain that could be heard as people come in and out from the Central Bowl. Carellos reemerges from the lower caverns, changed out of his work attire, but that doesn't stop the Journeyman from walking over to the food laid out to eye it with much scrutiny as a tray is assembled. He chews on his lower lip in thought, giving one platter an ominous look, but the man shrugs and takes his tray into his customary corner where a table is thankfully empty.

It was ungodly late when Reks wakes up from a dream that was more nightmare to his unsettled thoughts, the contents of which he would never repeat to another living breathing soul but required quite a bit of self-control to ignore the after effects. His ire renewed towards Carellos as a result, he flings his bedding aside and hastily gets himself dressed. Wherever that smug bastard who helped himself to things uninvited and smiled that smile on his ridiculously attractive face was, the harper was now determined to seek him out and put him in his place. It did not matter that it had been days since he’d seen the baker the first time, or that he wasn’t thinking things through to glean their inevitable conclusion. No, what mattered would be wiping that lopsided grin right off his stupid perfect lips and maybe put the fear of his craft into him or something. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Down the twisting tunnels, up to the living cavern, he goes. It was almost satisfying in itself, just the sensation of his feet being applied heavily to the stone beneath them, but it does little to dissuade the intention put forth into each and every one. Rounding the corner, he was betting that somewhere in the kitchens he would find what he was looking for, ignoring completely the squeals of protest that immediately rise to disrupt the relative peace and silence of kitchens at this time. “You’re not supposed to be back here!” one plump older woman tosses his way, lifting a rolling pin upwards and brandishing it like a medieval mace. Reksler ignores her completely, much like he did with the bartender from the other day, because Reksler does what he wants and doesn’t give a fuck. “Where are you Ridiculously Attractive Guy…” he grumbles to himself, forcing himself deeper within, unable to call out Carellos’ name because he hadn’t asked for it and it had not been given. He might need to push past one or two more offended kitchen people, but he was on a mission, and would not be denied. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

A small room is at the far end of the kitchens and the door just slightly ajar. Here, there isn't a lot of people traffic, no one rushing in and out. From within the room, the sounds of grunting and pounding on tables could be heard, and the occasional flicker of shadows from the movements come into view. An increased sensation of heat permeates from the opening. Carellos has both of his fists pushed into a large ball of dough, working in smooth and almost mechanical movements as he kneads it into submission. He's wearing a thin and snug tunic, tucked into his pants with the sleeves short. It's visibly damp with sweat in the heat of the room while he works. Glistening beads begin to form on his brow, shimmering in the work light before they ever so slowly trace the strong lines of his jaw. The look of sheer concentration is set into those emerald hues, his chest heaving in a steady rhythm as he rolls the dough, pounding it with fists and rolling it upon itself once more. At one point, he pauses, reaching over to take a small handful of flour from a crock and he sprinkles his work surface, smoothing it across the butcher board with powdered hands. The dough is lifted up, and he continues working on it a little longer before he finally stops, dusting his hands off while shifting his weight from one foot to the next. He turns, glancing over his shoulder and reaches out with muscular arms to secure a large wooden bowl from the rack behind him. The dough is gathered up, lifted and placed down into the bowl. It's shaped and a cloth is draped over it. With that done, he turns and leans back against the counter, palms bracing him on either side while he takes a breather. His apron and stomach are powdered with the flour, built up from hours of prepping for the dough to rise.

Apparently set on doing exactly as he wants, when he wants to do it, Reks flings the door open at the back of the kitchens with perhaps a louder slam than he intended. It actually startles him out of his negativity for a second, glancing at it with wide blue eyes before he flicks them into the bakery which makes them narrow as he sets his sights on Carellos. Found you Ridiculously Attractive Guy, found you. You thought you could hide. Oh ho ho. How you were SO wrong. Reksler might even have smirked at his own cleverness if he wasn’t busy glaring and trying to stab at the baker with the steel of his gaze. “YOU!” the harper points, hissing at the gaggle of kitchen workers that were growing more and more irate behind him in their efforts to express their displeasure for his invasion. “Silence woman!” he barks over his shoulder at the rolling pin wielding dough warrior from before, shutting her up long enough so that he can once more focus his irritation upon Carellos. “Outside. Now.” Outside where? Reksler does not give direction, location, or even bother to sketch a map in the flour spread out on the kneading table. No, he turns and huffs his way right back out again through the mass of enraged kitchen staffers with not a single shred of apology in any of his nearly robotic movements.

The front door is for entertaining, the back door for business purposes and with a quick grab, Carellos reaches out and quickly redirects that harper rage in another direction of the kitchens. Right to the supply doors leading outdoors. The literal outdoors. Thankfully, the path into the stores has been cleared of snow and there's only a chill in the air since winter is starting to die down. The baker glances over his shoulder to the bay doors and when it doesn't open again, he turns back to Reksler with a look. The kind where he's waiting, and waiting. A brow is raised in question and the baker merely stands there with arms crossed over his chest. The sweat from his face and body contributes to the steam enveloping his body out in the cool air. It doesn't bother him, though. He'd venture out in summer clothes with this chill back home. "Sorry I couldn't be dressed properly for the occasion. I wasn't expecting company." Smirk.

Reksler is being, redirected? Yes, yes he is. Not that he doesn’t struggle against the man and all that, because that is exactly the kind of guy he is. Reks will not go quietly into that good night, or rather the chilly of the afternoon as the case happens to be. It takes him a few moments to collect himself enough to his new surroundings, thankfully well dressed enough that it may be some time before he was too chilled to continue this conversation outside in the cold of Fortian winter. Bristling, because this is Reks response to just about everything, the harper jabs a bony fingers into poor Carellos’ sternum. He doesn’t say anything though while he does it, he just, does it. He doesn’t seem able to put together any actual language and unless the baker was fluent in grunts and growls, it wouldn’t make any sense anyway. “You….you….” Words, he finds them, even if they are on repeat. “…smug…arrogant…” Was there a point here, other than that of his digit? “Stay the fuck out of my nightmares!” There we go, good boy. Growling and bristling, because those things go hand in hand, he turns away from Carellos and begins to huff off. Apparently he was done? Guess so.

Carellos just stands there silently, taking in the heated face, poking finger and angry voice coming from the Harper. There's also a plume of steam radiating from Reksler and it's clear enough it's not from exertion. The baker glances around, the yard is empty and there's not a pair of prying eyes in sight. It happened so quickly, he didn't know when he started moving. When his hand reached out and gripped the very materials of Reksler's shirt and spinning him around on the floor with perhaps what could be viewed as a little more force than necessary. As soon as those haunting cornflower hues meet his emerald own, he looks as deep into him as his courage allows. "You were dreaming about me?" he murmurs, those stupidly handsome brows raising in question as he patiently awaits for an answer… Still holding on.

No, all that steam rising off Reks was not just from exertion. The longer he looks at Carellos the darker his skin turns along the spectrum of red, though it might be because he was so angry seemingly out of the blue as it is. Something had happened, clearly, and none of it the baker’s actual fault. Sorta. In Reksler’s mind though, everything right now was Care’s fault so the exact reason didn’t really matter. He’s only able to get a few feet away before he’s grabbed and spun around, almost losing his balance in the process and so he has to reach out and grab the front of the other guy’s tunic in order to stop himself from becoming one with the snow covered ground. Eyes wide, lips parted, he breathlessly clamps down on the surge of adrenaline he’d just gotten and in the meantime clings desperately to the baker. A few second later he seems to realize this and actually flails, relinquishing his grasp in one reflexive gesture and the slapping away the retraining fingers clutched upon the front of his own tunic in the next. It takes him a couple more slivers of time to get over the effects of that before he takes a step back and away from those stupidly handsome eyebrows. “Yes. No. NO! It was a NIGHTMARE!” It was very important that Carellos understand how horrible the experience was, and nightmare seemed to fit so much better than dream.

He can call it a nightmare all he wants but he did say yes first and that wasn’t lost on Carellos one bit. When his hands are knocked away, he was a little surprised since he was still recovering from feeling those fingers grip onto his own clothing. “Okay?” he hazards, rubbing the back of his head as he cautiously watches Reksler damn near lose his shit outside. “Why… don’t you tell me about it?” Because talking about things that make you get all sorts of crazy at the sights of people you barely know could be cause for concern. The baker glances around, then abruptly stops, walking briskly towards the wall and he reaches for a bench stood up on it’s side. After a quick test to see if it’s sturdy, it’s placed under an awning. Mainly because the clouds overhead are beginning to look as ominous as the look on the Harper’s face.

Reksler loses his shit quite often, which Carellos will learn, very quickly. Still bristling and growly, the harper breathes a little raggedly past the open space between his lips, probably killing the poor guy currently experiencing the full wrath of his ire a million times over in a million different ways given the way he was being glared at. However, when Carellos suggest that he tell him about his ‘nightmare’ well, this was clearly not what was expected. The harper’s raging expression falters giving way to first surprise, then embarrassment as he goes from slightly flushed to redfruit red. Blue eyes wide, mouth agape and completely lost for words. He’s unable to recover in time to be put out by the fact that the baker then walks off, but given a few he gets there eventually. He’s so thrown off that he actually stomps towards the baker rather than away as he had originally intended. “No. No! I don’t want to talk to you about it!” he hisses, trying to keep his voice down now as he’s come to realize that they were outside and shouting all the horrors outloud might not only clue people in as to their location and presence, but what they were talking about in the first place. More pokey-finger to baker chest there, before words are selected and used which makes communication a lot easier. “Just…just keep your…your lips and your…your….” Gesturing then to all of Carellos, but his eyes are clearly affixed to one particular location far longer than he really should considering all the protesting, “…YOU…away from me.” Caught himself, too late of course, but he whips his eyes up and stabs them at the poor guy right in the face. Growling, he turns AGAIN and starts to stomp off, the long way around.

Fingertips reach out, and Reksler is roughly spun back around once more, back into the shelter and shadows under the awning. The area is still and quiet, no one is there but the Harper and a pair of very close narrowed emerald eyes peering into his cornflower own. So close, their vision might be fogged by the clouds of heaving breathing coming from the baker. His knuckles are bathed in white, not from the flour he was working with moments earlier, but from sheer pressure as he grips onto Reksler's clothes. He moves in slowly, pressing his lips ever so softly to Reks and there he holds it, then hesitantly, he pulls away from those warm lips. Carellos licks his lips delicately, and his fingers ever so slowly release their grasp and let the material fall away. “That… wasn’t part of the nightmare, was it?”

Being grabbed and flung into the shadows was not part of the plan, Carellos. Reksler is taken aback by this sudden change of events, finding his back suddenly pressed against something that makes him feel cold on one side, and then something else on the other which was very very warm. Breathlessly he lifts his gaze, meeting those impossibly green eyes head on, and actually manages to snarl in the face of all that handsome. This new venue was doing nothing for the ragged uneven breathing that was only adding to the rise of steam that was their combined breath. Tightening his jaw, Reks gives struggling a try, but the baker’s surprisingly steely grasp thwarts all attempts. Who knew that a baker could be so strong? Maybe if the harper had time to work it out, he’d have come to the conclusion that lifting heavy trays and whatnot would inevitably lead to muscle mass, but he doesn’t. Not with lips being pressed so softly against his own, lingering there just long enough to effectively wipe his mind of all thoughts, and then it was over. Reks does, well, nothing at first. He just stands there, not breathing. Luckily, his body forces him to take a very sharp intake of much needed oxygen, unwilling to let him just die right then and there. The surprise that had frozen him in place initially, subsides immediately into a burning inferno of rage, which burns out quickly to the smoldering ashes of his irritation. “Yes, as a matter of fact it did.” he growls, smoothing out the front of his tunic which was now crumpled and wrinkled from where it had been grabbed. So what if he was quite flushed, unable to look the baker in the eye and was suddenly no longer in a rush to skedaddle. Give him a minute, he’ll remember.

"Oh," Carellos says softly, nodding his head as he takes a step back to give Reksler some room. Resigned, he swallows hard and murmurs, "Well, now I know. We can't have that now, do we?" He shoves his hands into his pockets and side steps away from the harper, just wandering away from the bay doors. He still has a little bit of time yet before he needs to work on the next batch of dough. He takes in a deep breath, and slowly exhales, glancing over to the horizon. The day is just creeping on, his shift will be over soon… "You should be sleeping better tonight," he speaks aloud, not sure if Reksler is even around still. Maybe he left with a quickness. Maybe he made a mistake. The wind begins to pick up just a little, small flurries of snow are blown across the way. Nothing too heavy, just enough to send tiny tendrils of white across the ground. It'll melt, it never sticks. Nothing good ever sticks.

Another unexpected turn of events. Reksler once again freezes in place when Carellos reacts like that, all of his unsavory attitude just dissolving away like so much bath salts. “Wha…” he starts with, but the rest is lost to the baker’s feelings being battered and bruised, which Reks just doesn’t know what to do with. Completely lost now, all he can do is stare wide eyed as the Ridiculously Attractive Guy just sort of wanders off. Blink. Blink. “Whoa. Wait…” The words come out of his mouth, but he can’t really believe it, desperately grasping for the fuel for his anger and coming up dry. Now he was only left empty handed with a bit of awkward and maybe even a sliver of guilt. He opens his mouth a few more times, but he’s got nothing, so instead he takes some tentative steps out from beneath the awning but can’t bring himself to bridge the distance. “Listen…Uh…” ARGH! Why is this so awkward?! Licking his lips and opening his mouth a few more times, the harper is clearly without the ability to rationalize his behavior in light of the reaction that it had elicited and so now he’s left to stand there in snow without a coat to rub at the back of his neck while staring at his own boots. “…I…” Nope, no apology comes as much as he may struggle to work it out of his head and onto his tongue, which only serves to start building up the amount of frustration he could feel growing inside of himself. “I mean…” This is said softer, even as his brows furrow and his jaw once again set. A growl replaces intelligent thought and all his harper training goes right out the fucking window. Harpers were supposed to be GOOD with words, why was this so fucking hard?

Carellos can hear him, he can hear the harper grope for words but he doesn’t respond. His hands remain in his pockets. His hands are tucked into his pockets, whether or not they're in there to protect them from the chill or to prevent them from doing any behavioral quirks will remain a mystery. The day is creeping on, the clouds are creeping in and the chill is still very much there, tiny and turbulent to those poor, weak flurries caught in it’s winter grasp. Listen? He’s listening, he can hear the distant clattering of wood from shutters no longer frozen solid as the day did manage to warm enough for them to be forced open. The baker sighs, looking down at his boots, then across the ground to the loading area. The fine powder covers everything. There’s no signs of dragon talons on stone or the scraping of wheels. They should be due for a delivery soon. With the fresh supplies, he can continue to bake for the weyr. His head is tilted back, now that his curiosity for what’s been going down outside of the bay lately while Reksler composes himself has been satisfied… He turns, standing tall with his chest puffed out just a little bit. Afterall, it’s a nice casual way to stand. Especially when your hands are still in your pockets. He glances up into those passionate (we’ll call them passionate) cornflower hues and he just gives Reksler the biggest, proud grin he could ever manage with teeth as brilliant as the snow. He raises his brow, tilting his head so he can hear the harpers words properly.

Reks was still struggling to get his thoughts together in such a way as his pride and mouth would allow. He starts a few more times, hands clenched so hard at his sides so tightly that the knuckles have blanched white. Then, with another sharp inhale that was perhaps even more purposeful than the one he had taken so as not to pass out, he lifts his chin upwards in order to speak. “I…” Here it comes, his features youthful and smooth, lacking a single crease other than that of his knitted brows, combining seamlessly with an honest and open expression…that is until he sees that grin. The rest of what he had managed to arrange successfully, dies, upon impact. Brows smooth out into a neutral position, eyes grow heavily lidded, and his mouth turns down just slightly at the corners. “You were fucking with me, weren’t you?” DUH, harper boy! DUH! Now the bristle and the irritation returns in full force, twisting his face into something that accurately describes just how much he loved being duped like that, and now he was stomping off. AGAIN. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Grumbling and growling the entire way.

Carellos smirks, nodding his head as Reksler stalks off like a Fortian blizzard. So cold. The baker just sighs heavily, turning around and taking a few steps back to the bench where they once stood. He takes a seat, leaning against the stone wall and he crosses his arms over his chest, a heavy yawn suddenly erupting from within. Well, considering when the start of his shift was, it is late for the man by comparison. “Not… Not entirely,” he says, though he doesn’t make an effort to shout it back at the harper. If he wants to leave just now, he won’t chase him. Not when it’s clearly upsetting him so much and perhaps there’s a tiny bit of guilt at how he’d let things carry on. “Maybe… Maybe I was. Hoping. I don’t know. I couldn’t help it. I’ve been thinking about you since the day we met and I was… Just so infatuated that I couldn’t let go a moment to get under your skin. I just had to see you and I knew if you were angry, you’d be more direct and honest. Otherwise you’d probably just make some smart ass comment and go about your business. I needed you to look back. All I wanted was for you to look back.” Even if nothing came from it, it was a chance worth taking. He crosses his legs, slowly tapping the toes of his boots against one another. Carellos reaches up, running his fingers through his hair and then draping his arms across the backrest of the bench. His head is tilted back, resting with eyes closed. This time, there’s no joking, no egging on. If Reksler wants to go, he can. Carellos spoke his mind and if no one but the wind carried it, so be it.

Just how much of that did Reksler hear? Who knows. The second that the baker is grinning and nodding his head, he isn’t sticking around. He continues to stomp his way around a corner and out of sight. Although, unbeknownst to the baker man, those fading footsteps come to a stop well within earshot. All pretension and barriers down, just, listening. This time as a furrow works its way into the harper’s brow, it stays, looking back over his shoulder with hurt and something perhaps even he doesn’t understand washing over his neatly kept features. He doesn’t head back that direction though, flumping against the wall of the weyr and staring at his shoes. He was lost again, confused, and completely unequipped to handle what was being thrown up into the air right now. Ridiculously attractive people do not make confessions to Reks, especially not males ones. What does Carellos expect from him? A slow motion, arm outstretched, devoted run into each other’s arms just because he was so infatuated with him he wanted to manipulate a favorable response? No. Fuck that. Growling to himself softly enough not to carry back the same way the perhaps not as sweetly received as intended words were delivered, the blue eyed teen continues his return to the living cavern, albeit with a lot less enthusiasm.

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