Who F'inn, R'sner
What R'sner makes good on a promise, and has a very difficult conversation with F'inn.
When Winter - Month 2 of Turn 2719
Where Elysion Garden Weyr, Fort Weyr


Fort Weyr - Elysion Garden Weyr
The well-worn pathway leading from the ledge opens onto a cavern that is nearly as massive in scope as the one before. To the left of the entrance, a hearth adorned with ornate stonework affords glimpses of the dragon hollow beyond. The hearth, itself, is massive in scope, more then large enough for two full grown men to stand side by side, arms akimbo. To either side of the hearth towering shelves have been carved into the wall, the upper portions reachable only by narrow ladders affixed to the wall. The exterior edge of the mantel has been carved with a depiction of a pair of dragons in flight, the intricately crafted dragons depicted in perpetual pursuit of the full moon resting dead center. From the hearth, the room sweeps out in wide half circle, the cavernous space more then large enough to comfortably house a modest-sized dragon (although there is no way a dragon could navigate the pathway). It is immediately noticable that this weyr is not equipped with electric lighting, although there are numerous nooks for glows and fixtures for candles and torches adorning the walls.

To the right of the entrance, the room sweeps into a gentler arc, an ancient hearth for cooking dug directly into the stone. To either side of the hearth shelves have been carved into the walls, a taller opening leading to long narrow room that is clearly meant for storage. At the far end of this area, almost directly opposite of the entrance, an opening leads to spiral staircase— carved directly into the stone— that descends deeper into the weyr.

Before the hearth a plethora of soft, lush furs have been added, massive pillows in bronze trimmed green and green trimmed bronze added for additional comfort. A pair of sturdy, comfortable chairs in dark wood are arranged before the hearth, a small table bearing a glass sconced candle resting between them. Each of the chairs is complete with comfortable, dark green cushions and matching footrest. Upon the hearth graceful candlabras are arranged, a massive beveled glass vase in the shape of a crescent moon, with two small crescents dangling by bronze links, and filled with lush red roses, settled dead center. Not to far from the 'kitchen' area, a long wooden table with four sturdy chairs has been arranged. Near the western most wall, a sturdy dark wood couch and coffee table have been arranged atop a plush carpet in forest hues. Opposite it, tucked out of the way, along the eastern wall, a potters wheel, kiln and a pair of easels have been arranged. Settled along the wall within easy reach are canvas, barrels of clay and a set of shelves containing numerous paints, glazes, brushes and dyes.

F'inn has been trying to shake the funk. He has. And while he is pretty darned good about being upbeat, it's gotten harder and harder and harder to even pretend for K'zre's benefit. Everything is NOT alright. F'inn knows it. K'zre knows it. No one is talking about it. With K'zre being called to the living cavern, F'inn has forced himself to stay in the weyr. It is probably one of the hardest things that he has ever done. Every. Single. Part. of him wants to go hover outside the infirmary, to make sure K'zre is wearing a mask, to chase off anyone who might be to sick. >.> It's not a good thing and he knows it. That being the case, he's working out, determined to physically exhaust himself to the point that even worrying requires to much energy. Dressed in a raggedy pair of loose fitting sweat pants and nothing else, he has arranged a bench to do hanging sit-ups. It works well. It works better with a weight clutched against his chest to make it harder. Unfortunately, he's still thinking about K'zre and disease and sickness and getting more and more worked up despite the strain and stress.

K'zre is definitely wearing a mask. As well as any other personal protective equipment available to him (like gloves!) to keep himself as safe as possible. But even if F'inn might have wanted to come down and hover… there's no way he'd be *able* to. The infirmary is full of patients and healers, and has no room for looming, over-protective weyrmates. But Yasminath has his back and has parked herself in the dragon infirmary (which is not nearly as full. And besides, she's tiny!) and is keeping tabs, and happy to provide communication back to Nymionth, if just to assure the bronzerider that he does not need to storm down there and steal his weyrmate back.

Of course, F'inn is about to get a whole lot more distracted (hopefully) when Toith announces to Nymionth that they are here. They, meaning her and R'sner. It is hard coming to Fort Weyr. Not as hard as Res might have anticipated, not nearly as hard as it was the last time they came back for the weyrling's graduation. But still hard enough that R'sner took a very 'get it over with fast' approach, leaving as soon as it was practical, so that he didn't have time to dwell on what he was about to do. And now they are here, the green announcing herself with a sharp trumpet to the watch dragon, and then clattering to a landing on the ledge. « We are here. » Unnecessary. Very clearly, they are here. And R'sner is dismounting. And deliberately NOT looking toward the weyrbowl because he doesn't need to think about that right now. Even if… thinking about that is exactly why they are here. It's what sets his jaw, and has his expression drawn and tight, eyes hard, shoulders tight. He's not at all happy to be here. But he's making a concerted effort not to look pissed off (and probably failing).

Nymionth is impossibly grateful to Yasminath for keeping them updated. He is also impossibly startled at Toith's appearance in the sky. « You are….. » Here. The message is passed along to F'inn who nearly falls off his suspended bench before tightening his arms around the weight. « F'inn says to tell you that K'zre is in the infirmary and welcome. » In the wake the words, the bronzerider sets the weights on the floor, bracing his hands before dropping down to snag a towel. It is in the midst of wiping sweat off his face that he steps out to the ledge, clearly confused and not particularly keen on the thought of company. That is company that CLEARLY wants to punch him in the face? All the more thrilling. "Fort's greetings," he offers in tones that more then a little wary as he watches the weyrlingmaster dismounting. The look on R'sner's face, immediately inspires his jaw to tensing, his hands knuckling on the edges of the towel to the point that the joints turn white.

« We know. We're not here for him, » declares Toith, who is looking eager enough to just make herself at home on the ledge. She's not at all bothered by the cold (and there's definitely still snow in the air), happy to let R'sner head further in while she turns her attention toward the bowl. And R'sner is trying. He really is. He's forced his arms to hang at his sides rather than cross, forced himself to take a few deep breaths, and while he's currently failing at it, he's trying not to look like he's here to skin F'inn alive. Because he's not. The formal greeting throws him off, and for a moment the weyrlingmaster just stares at him, as if trying to decide how, exactly, he's supposed to respond to that. Or maybe trying to decide how best to explain why he is here. A flick of his gaze takes in the bronzerider, briefly settling on that white-knuckled grip before lifting back to his face. "I'm not here to fight." Because he's not. But that just begs the question, 'what is he here for?'. "I'm here—" But maybe explaining that isn't so easy, either. "I'm here to talk."

F'inn stares back, his own mood not helped by the lack of sleep and constant fear. At the first, his lips press in a thinline, blue eyes narrowing mildly before he forces himself to relax. "Well that's good. I doubt anyone would be happy with us fighting." Of course, he's not dense and he is under no delusion concerning R'sner's lack of affection for him. It's the mention of talking that has him arching one brow, clearly not at catching on. It is only after a moment that he exhales a sigh. "Dammit, K'zre…" In the wake of the words, he glances at Nymionth, clearly disgruntled before turning to head back into the weyr. He doesn't invite R'sner in, cause he's certain the man is going to come in regardless. Instead, he tosses the towel aside, cracks his neck and steps over to fill the kettle and set it on the hearth.

Damn right, R'sner's coming in regardless. He came all the way to FORT, there's no way he's going to let a little something like a lack of invitation stop him. So he follows, fingers working at the fastenings of his coat because, despite having lived in tropical (or desert) locations for the past nearly ten turns, he's a northern creature at heart, and is already feeling a bit overly warm in all his gear. Of course, following F'inn into the weyr sort of necessitates that he'll do some sort of talking. But actually getting to the speaking part is taking some time. It's hard. R'sner does not talk much normally. Does not talk about this at all, not even with N'sir. And here he is, back in Fort, to talk specifically about the reason why he left it in the first place. So forgive him if he takes a while before he'll find the courage to do so. Instead, he takes a few minutes to glance around the space, feigning curiosity when what he's really feeling is trepidation and a bit of regret. Until he's looked at everything at least twice and still doesn't remember, and finally settles on watching F'inn. There is nothing relaxed about him, but there' definitely no open hostility. So… that's something, right? It's a long study; a focused assessment of the bronzerider at the hearth, and a few more awkward moments of silence while R'sner figures out what he wants to say, and then pointedly works himself up to about of being able to say it without as much emotion as might usually come for the words. "Seven turns ago, my weyrmate died."

F'inn is focusing on getting cups and saucers and sugar and milk. He might not be thrilled with the company— R'sner intimdates the hell out of him and has made no bones about the fact that he does not care for him— but he is still a good host, particularly to K'zre's father. It's the unexpected announcement that has him going very still and inspires his face to shuttering tightly. "I am s-" He wants to say the polite thing, he really does. Even as tense as he is, he's not a rude person. He just cannot force the words out and immediately scrubs a hand over his face before sitting stiffly in one of the chairs. Rather then speak, he turns his attention the hearth, staring blankly at the flames while trying not to think about why R'sner would make that statement. It is only after an uncomfortably lengthy pause that he sighs. "I am sorry for your loss."

It is the wrong thing to say. And if F'inn were looking at R'sner, it would be immediately apparent. There's a flash of anger, of bitter resentment, aimed at the bronzerider before Res can stop himself. There's a reason he doesn't talk about this, and that? That is a prime example of why. But while a dozen scathing comments might come to mind, to answer that typical platitude offered by people who want to be nice but ultimately know nothing about what he's going through… he doesn't. Because maybe of all people, F'inn actually *does* know what R'sner went through. Still, it takes him a bit longer before he trusts himself to speak, and maybe that fire holds all the answers in the universe because R'sner is staring at it too, unwilling or unable to tear his eyes away from it. "We lived here at Fort," he continues. "Not in this part of the bowl. Closer to the lake. Further down. Facing the other way," which is at least a small blessing, that he does not have to go near that place. "I left when he died. Your graduation was the first time I came back since." Which… might explain a lot about how he reacted when F'inn suggested he come in the first place. "When… when he died, it was like someone had reached in and ripped my heart out. I thought I was going to die, too. Only I didn't." And even now. Even here, so many turns removed, he feels it again. That tightness in his throat, the pressure in his chest, the hollow, empty ache.

F'inn is listening, despite the fact that he is not looking at R'sner. He is listening, despite the fact that he does not want to be listening. He does not want to talk about /any/ of this. The platitude? Entirely uttered in the hopes that it would shut R'sner up. As the weyrlingmaster speaks, however, F'inn's breathing turns shallow, his jaw tensing, hands moving to tightly grip the arms of his chair. He does not.. "I do not want to talk about this." The words are uttered in tones that are shockingly cold. Not unfeeling, but rather feeling entirely to much, and wanting none of it. "I do not want to…" Sucking in a sharp breath, blue eyes, suddenly very close to the color of ice, snap to R'sner's face, the expression on his face stricken. "I can already feel it," he whispers. "I can feel it swirling around you like a shroud." And it is stealing his breath, leeching the color from his flesh and… Trailing off, he shakes his head, his hands coming up to rub the heels against his eyes. And immediately, he jerks his head up, his gaze snapping toward the ledge as he instructs Nym to check on K'zre for the thousandth time.

K'zre is fine. Busy as hell, but in his element. And yes, still wearing those gloves, and that mask, and making sure to do all the things that Healers are supposed to do to keep themselves safe, like washing with redwort about a thousand times an hour. He is also entirely oblivious to what is happening in his weyr. And R'sner does not want to talk about this /either/. He really does not. "And when I go away, you won't feel it anymore," he points out. "But I will." Because it's part of him now. "not all the time. Not nearly as much…" as he used to feel it. Dulled. Distant. No longer a constant thing. But it's still there. Because even if he might be breathing, and his heart might be beating, part of him did die that day. And he will never, ever be the same person he was before. But that's OK. Because that person did not have N'sir. And R'sner would never, ever give him up. As much as it killed him to lose Ben, he wouldn't change things. Not now. But in this moment, talking at (because he's not really talking TO) F'inn, that pain is so very real again. Crushingly real, and really… it's minor sort of miracle that R'sner is still on his feet and not collapsed in on himself. "You know what the worst part was? Sleeping. Dreaming. Not because I saw him die… but because I'd dream he was alive." Only to wake up to the truth. "You don't want to talk about this? Then what /do/ you want to talk about?" Because the point is: They will be talking.

F'inn scowls up at R'sner, his eyes flashing with an anger that is completely out of character for him. "K'zre is /alive/," he points out with no small measure of venom. "He's alive. And it doesn't change the fact that I felt him die. I /felt/ it, like my world had ended, like there was nothing left to do but to mount Nymionth and follow him and Yasminath between." In the wake of the words, he is barely breathing, tears welling in his eyes as he turns in the chair to stare at the fire. "And then he's there laughing, smiling, happy… So very concerned about me and trying to pretend that he's not. And all I can think is that I'm going to wake up and he's going to be gone and I can't…." Trailing off, he scrubs one arm across his eyes, his head giving a tight shake. "You felt that, for real, and I truly am sorry. I KNOW what that is. I know what it is to just want to curl up and die… And I know I have no right to know that." And he's desperately trying to convince himself he is not going insane.

"He is." And there's no anger for it; no resentment that F'inn has what R'sner had wanted for a very, very long time: to wake up and realize that it wasn't true. "And it doesn't," change anything about what the bronzerider feels. And R'sner is trying very hard not to feel it. To keep himself focused on the present rather than get sucked into the past. "I don't understand," he decides at last. "I don't understand what you mean, that I feel it 'for real'." As if F'inn somehow doesn't feel it. "K'zre is alive," he repeats, because it is a fact. But it's not an attempt to convince the bronzerider that he ought to, somehow, NOT feel what he's feeling. "K'zre is alive, but that… that doesn't mean you didn't feel him die. If you felt it, you felt it." A deep, measured breath. A willful pushing down of all that pain that wants to just crush him again. "I'm not here to tell you to get over it. I'm…" But R'sner doesn't really know why he's here. Except that K'zre is worried, and N'sir thought it would help if he went. "I don't know how to make it better," he admits.

F'inn hadn't expected that, that much is clear when he slants a level look up to R'sner's face. For a long moment, he just stares at the weyrlingmaster, heedless of the tears on his face. After a long moment, he draws in a slow breath, his head giving a slow shake as he slumps back in the chair. "I don't know what to do," he admits. "I know I am being overprotective, probably smothering him… It's killing me to not go rushing down to the infirmary and yank him out of there. But, I know I can't do that. How… How do you deal with that? You have N'sir," he points out as he looks back at R'sner. "How can you stand having him out of your sight?"

There's a world of pain in R'sner's expression, but definitely no accusation. No hostility. Not disapproval. Just a deep, weary sort of hurt that he tries to keep to himself. He could almost laugh for that question. Almost. Not out of amusement, but out of irony. Because, "what makes you think that I can?" Because he can't. Because there is a part of R'sner that would like to keep N'sir snug at his side at all times. But as F'inn pointed out… that's not practical. That's not realistic. That's not OK. "Because the alternative would have him lost to me forever. It would drive him away. But that does not mean that there aren't times…" And there; a shuddering breath, a hard swallow. "My first weyrmate… he got sick. Nothing the healers did helped…" And oh, there is still bitterness there. Still a deep resentment and distrust of healers in general, because of it. "When Elianneth goes proddy, N'sir gets a fever." Just imagine the sort of thoughts that plague him. "That's when it's hardest. But I deal with it, because…" Because there's no alternative.

F'inn winces visibly as he listens, one hand scrubbing over his face. "I can't even imagine," he admits in hoarse tones. Falling silent, he looks back at the flames dancing on the hearth as he leans back in the chair, clearly thinking. "He's in the infirmary right now," he whispers. "Surrounded by sickness. It's killing me." Literally, it is taking everything that he has to remain where he is. "I've been working out for the past four hours just to keep myself from going down there." Trailing off, a lengthy measure of silence follows before sweeps his gaze back to R'sner's face. "I love him you know? There is nothing about him that I do not find charming. Nothing I wouldn't do for him. I know.. I know you don't like me very much.. I don't know why… But you should, at least, know that. I can't live without him, R'sner. I can't."

R'sner is silent. Falling back into old habits, or perhaps just having nothing worthwhile to add. Because he won't /lie/ to him. He won't say that everything will be fine. That nothing will happen to K'zre. Because Res knows better than most how it doesn't matter what he wants, or what he feels, or how he'd die without him. Life didn't give a shit about that. Good people died. Bad people lived. But for the last, for the assertion that F'inn loves him? There at least comes an acknowledged, "I know." Because R'sner at least believes him on that, now. "I don't /know/ you," comes to counter that assertion that the weyrlingmaster does not like F'inn. "There's a difference." Admittedly, it is a very slight difference. "I'm not asking you to." To live without him. "K'zre is alive. He *is* still here. And he is healthy. And he loves you." Because that is also apparent to the weyrlingmaster, and ought to be apparent to the bronzerider as well. "And very worried about you. Have you told him any of this?"

F'inn is silent as he listens, his gaze sweeping back to the flames. "Some of it," he murmurs in the wake of the last. "It's hard to talk about. *I* feel foolish being so affected by it. I can't imagine how it has to sound to people who don't.. " Trailing off, he shakes his head, one hand raising to scrub over his face. "I was shielding," he sighs. "I keep my shields up, but that was so…" So strong. "He was with me when it happened. Faranth.. I woke him up screaming like a madman. I can't imagine how he has to feel. I try to keep it to myself, you know?" He adds as he glances back at R'sner's face. "But he knows. I don't know how he knows, but he knows."

A snort. "Don't." Feel foolish. But it works just as well as an admonishment against keep things to himself. For the first R'sner decides, "You felt it. Whether or not he actually died, you felt it. And anyone else who has…" like him. "It's…" But whatever he was going to say, it doesn't come. Instead, there's a press of his lips, a thin line formed as anger briefly resurfaces; resentment briefly tightens his jaw. It is not toward F'inn. And in fact, Res makes it a point to cast his gaze elsewhere. "The second worst part," he decides, after he's spent a moment collecting his thoughts, "Is hearing people who have no idea what it felt like, telling me how sorry they are." Hollow, empty words that mean nothing. "Ridiculous." There's still bitterness. There will always be bitterness for it. "I don't talk about it, because I can't stand the look on people's faces, the sound of their voices…" It feels fake. They're sad that he's sad, but they have no fucking clue what it feels like. And it's enough to inspire anger once more, before R'sner's got a hold of himself. "But you know." Because he does. "He knows because he loves you." He's making an assumption, of course. But he's feeling pretty confident about it. "You should talk to him. Don't hide it, or it will get worse. He's stronger than you think." It's another assumption, but then again… K'zre is his son, and he's pretty sure he's tough.

F'inn looks up from the flames as he listens to R'sner, his expression serious. "I can see that," he admits. "It being annoying. I mean, they mean well, but…" Shaking his head, he leans forward, bracing his head in his hands. "I'll talk to him," he promises. "I don't know what to say," he admits. "It's just all so fresh and raw and hits me without warning. I don't.." Trailing off, he lightly clears his throat. "How did you talk to N'sir about it? I mean… Did he take it well?" Granted, it's a different situation, but still. "Does it pass? This feeling like I'm going to barf if I don't check on him right now?"

"I didn't." Because R'sner is a freakin' hypocrite. "Not for a long time." Because he didn't want to see that look on his face. Didn't want to hear those words from his lips. Didn't want to scare him off, and didn't want to hurt him. "How do you tell someone that loves you, that you mourn for someone else?" But more seriously, after a sigh and a rake of his hands over his face and through his hair, he admits, "He asked. Not at first. He never pushed. But he knew something… He knew enough. I told him /enough/. And then it wasn't enough anymore, and he deserved to know everything. And I told him what I could." Because there are some things that choked him up, that he just could not repeat. "But it took me turns before I could even say his name. And I think… N'sir took it well." But really, it cannot be easy; knowing the person you love most hurts for someone else. Even if R'sner loves N'sir more than life. "I don't know," he decides, for that feeling passing. "There are days where I am fine. Where we can be apart, and I don't…" freak out. "But there are times when I'm not. And those are the days we stay home."

"He… He's a very understanding person," F'inn murmurs. "N'sir. I don't think he'd even consider begrudging you your mourning him." As for the rest, he nods as he rolls to his feet, his expression grim as pours two cups of tea and passes one to the weyrlingmaster. "Course, I also don't think he would mind being kept with you at all times, either." With his own cup in hand, he returns to his chair, taking a small sip as he leans against it. "Right now, it's all so fresh. And any day now, we'll be called out with Search and rescue to search the cotholds…. I'm worried.. I can't.. I KNOW he's strong and capable. I do. I do. I just…" Drawing in a slow breath, he takes a swallow of the tea and shrugs.

The tea is accepted, as are the observations about N'sir, though R'sner offers no commentary. Certainly, there are things he could say, agreements that could be made, observations given… but he does not offer any. But the attachment, the love that R'sner has for his weyrmate is evident enough in his expression, and he makes no attempt to hide it. But a sip of tea later, and that stoicism is returned; tight around the edges because there's no way the weyrlingmaster will be able to relax while in Fort Weyr — even the chill in the air is a constant reminder of where he is, of a time long gone and events so recently relived. He listens, but there's no judgement in it. He just… listens. "Would it make you feel better if he didn't go? If he stayed in the weyr? Or would you spend all day worried about him, being alone here?"

F'inn exhales a sigh, shooting a /look/ at R'sner in response to the question. "I'd worry about him being alone here," he admits. "Not that I could keep him here if I wanted to. He's very stubborn, your son." Frowning, he takes a swallow of his tea, a hint of a smile touching the corners of his lips. "Is it awful that I kind of enjoy it when he gets all mad and digs his heels in?" He can't help it, it's adorable. "Okay. So. It's unfair to lock him away, I get that. But how do you deal with when you are scared but you have to let them do what they need to do? I'm not this guy, R'sner. I'm not an angry, sullen, withdrawn person. I hate feeling like this." But he does. Even now, he's worrying about K'zre in the infirmary.

"I don't have an answer for that." Because he doesn't. Because he's not F'inn. And because R'sner's response to a very similar situation was to lock himself away. And there's a briefly sullen, withdrawn look about him because that's who *he* is. As for how he deals with it? "I focus on the job at hand. I focus on what needs to be done. Because to do otherwise would be a disaster. Other people would suffer. I work with Weyrlings. I cannot be distracted." So he puts his needs aside, and he focuses entirely on someone else. A shift, and he lifts the mug for a sip before deciding, "For you… I would start by tell him how you feel. Figure out what would make you feel better. Is that being in line of sight? Is that having Yasminath and Nymionth in constant communication…" He doesn't know.

F'inn exhales a sigh, pale eyes flicking toward the flames. "Nymionth being in contact with Yasminath helps," he admits. "It would be better if I could I see him. You know? So if something happens, I am there to stop it." Falling silent, he gives another slow shake of his head, leaning over to set his cup down. "How did you survive," he asks quietly. "I still feel like I am going to die when he's out of my sight. I mean, you have N'sir, and that's… that's great. But at the time…?" And he KNOWS it's a painful question. He knows it. But he has to ask. "I'm sorry that you were asked to come here and deal with this. Neither of them should have done that."

"I didn't." Survive? R'sner might have been breathing. His heart beating. Technically alive in all those ways that professional healers deem as criteria for establishing whether someone was 'living' or 'dead'. But to say he survived is… wrong. "I am not who I was. I will never be that person again." A part of him died, never to come back. A shudder, and his grasp tightens just that much more on the mug in his hand. "But if you mean… if you mean to ask how it is that I am still here,"and not lost Between. "That…" Is a difficult question. A painful one, yes. And the answer is slow in coming and involves a lot of study into the fire, or perhaps that mug of tea that he's stopped drinking. "Because I made a promise. He made me promise…" And Res was not going to break it. "He knew he was dying. I couldn't accept it, but he knew. And he made me promise not to…" Not to go after him. As for that apology? For the declaration that neither of their weyrmates should have asked him to come? R'sner does not deign to answer that, whether to agree or disagree. It may be that he chooses not to. Or it may be that he didn't hear it in the first place.

F'inn doesn't know what to say to that. He gets it. He does. But, he's not so sure that that is a promise he would be able to keep. Rather then speak, F'inn gives the moment the silent respect it deserves, his own gaze trailing back to stare into the flames. It is after lengthy silence, with only the crackling of flames to break the stillness that he sighs and folds his arms over the top of his chair. That he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what R'sner felt? It's a hollow comfort. Truth be told, he'd much rather that niether of them had ever felt it, at all. "I must have worried him a lot more then I thought," he admits. "I thought I was keeping it in."

It was not an easy promise. And while R'sner is immensely grateful that he made it, and kept it, because it eventually brought him N'sir… it is not a promise he will ever make again. A lengthy silence is welcome. Probably necessary. And when F'inn speaks again, there's the smallest of jerks to the weyrlingmaster's frame as to suggest he might have forgotten entirely where he was, or who he was with, or that they were talking about anything at all. There's a shift, though the tightness, the strain in his frame, is apparent enough. F'inn's words are heard, but there's little acknowledgement for them aside from a slide of his gaze and the silent study from the weyrlingmaster. There are a few false starts before R'sner finally decides, "Don't do that." For keeping it in. "Unless you want to push him away, don't do that anymore."

"I don't," F'inn admits in quiet tones. "I won't." Is promised more firmly. Brushing his hand over his face, he exhales a sigh, his head giving a slow shake. "Thank you for coming here." He knows it was niether easy, nor pleasant. "It means a lot." It does. He's not even going to pretend otherwise. "I.. um.. I need to get cleaned up. And you are probably eager to want to get home." Which, given everything that has been said? It's a wonder that R'sner could bring himself to come here, at all. "I'm… grateful," he adds in tones that are utterly sincere.

He does (want to get home). And it is (a wonder that R'sner came). It was both easier and harder than he had anticipated. But R'sner still pauses for a moment, studies F'inn a bit longer with an unreadable expression. But he can't answer him. Not in any way that would be appropriate. To say 'your welcome' would be wrong. For while he does not take that gratitude lightly, and will be glad that he came, eventually, the emotional toil is enough that R'sner just… cannot. He just can't. So there's just a look, and then a subtle dip of his head in acknowledgement. And then he's setting the mug down and standing, heading for the ledge without another word. Because he can't trust himself to speak anymore. Fingers fasten the buttons of his jacket, wind the scarf around his neck, pull the gloves from his pockets and slip them on his hands. But even climbing Toith's neck is on autopilot, done with methodical motions and muscle memory rather than conscious thought. At least Toith offers a quick « Bye, » before she takes off.

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