Half Moon Bay Weyr - Infirmary
This long, rectangular cavern smells faintly of antiseptic and strongly of pleasant medicinal herbs. The general atmosphere is one of bustling but orderly quiet and strict cleanliness. The back of the room is dominated by a small hearth for heat and medicinal preparations and by swinging double doors that lead to a small DragonHealing bay, an emergency surgery for human patients, the main storage, and the staff area where Healers can eat, shower, change, and the like during their longer shifts. The front of the room is a waiting and reception area where patients and staff can check in to receive treatment and begin work, respectively. The east wall of the room features examination, birthing, recovery and outpatient treatment rooms while the opposite wall is curtained off to provide privacy and bed-space for patients requiring overnight care.
Western can certainly handle most of the routine and sometimes urgent treatment needs of its residents here. It lacks some of the equipment available at the main Healer Hall. Once they are stabilized, patients requiring specialized or ongoing care are surely transferred there.

LOOKIT ILA SET: SET, ILA SET. There is an INFIRMARY, and it is filled with INVALIDS, and one of those invalids just so HAPPENS to be Ila'den; Ila'den who is brushing off recommendations from healers and sitting up in bed, propped up by approximately one million pillows and looking, for all the world, frustrated. His brows are knit together, his SINGLE EYE is narrowed, and he's doing his very best to write a letter with ruined hands and a body that refuses to work. It's an application of shaky pencil to paper sitting on a tray, looping letters ruined by tremors and his inability to keep at it for very long. Faranth. THE WORLD SUCKS. ETC. FIGHT ME.

D'nyl does look better than Ila, but that's where he's heading. One make who can see his sensitive side is Ila. Well, as sensative as he gets, at least… which really ain't much, now that he thinks about it. As it is, he smirks at Ila's stubborn, knowing full-well that no one could tell the man otherwise (and he certainly won't try).

No one, you say?! What about R'hyn; R'hyn who rolls into the infirmary like he owns the place, hand raising towards the desk clerk that tries to stop him with his best loft-browed 'woman, please' and a raised 'just don't' gesture of one hand. Someone has attempted to fix his hair, or at least make stitches and scabbing less jarring, sides newly-shortened, with the ever-persistant flop swooping for his eyes. It swoops further still when he ducks into Ila'den's space, nodding for D'nyl's unexpected but no less welcome presence, offering a low, "Hey, D," in passing. Passing, because he doesn't give a single crap about whether or not the assistant weyrlingmaster is present as he continues along to Ila'den's bedside, pressing a kiss to the man's forehead before glancing down at his work. Beat. Beat. "Hmm." And then his gaze lifts, back to D'nyl with a sideways tug of his mouth, an attempt at a smile as he takes a chair and lowers himself into it with a bone-weary sigh. "Haven't seen you since-" gesture to his head, shrug. That night. He's asking how things are without actually asking.
There comes a singing of gold, shimmering around the edges, voice quiet, a whisper that speaks more to R'hyn's restraint than to Xermiltoth's, diamond-dazzled laughter preceding, « Mine says you have written your letters more adroitly with your tongue. You can do better. »

It's a growl that escapes Ila'den when R'hyn is there, pressing lips to his forehead in a display of generally hushed affection that's made suddenly public in front of D'nyl - though it's not the low-rumbling chastisement of annoyance; no, this is pure, unadulterated enjoyment - appreciation even, as if Ila'den really can't be bothered to remember time, and place, and company adding up to not here, not now, you're broken. That solitary eye lifts from pencil and paper to follow R'hyn's retreat as he pulls up a chair and settles in beside D'nyl. Teimyrth is there suddenly, as if putting the SECRET BRONZERIDER SAUSAGEFEST MAN CLUB into session with the barren landscape of biting winter in his mind, his mindvoice singing through the veins of both R'hyn and D'nyl with a chill that threatens to suffocate even as he sinks metaphorical tooth and claw into flesh and bone and rends. « Mine is curious as to the occasion, » Teimyrth projects, kicking up a blizzard of annoyance that is his alone for having to bespeak when Ila'den himself cannot verbalize his inquiries before he withdraws. There's a sudden quirk of Ila'den's lips though, preceding a wheeze-cough that's half a low rumble of laughter in his chest, eyes going to R'hyn before they settle back on his paperwork and slowly, slowly, Ila'den wills his fingers to curl until there's only one left - his middle, lone and pronounced in the universal and timeless gesture meant to communicate, 'Fuck you'.
But for R'hyn, Teimyrth lingers in the landscape of his mind, hovering at the edges in flecks of whirl winding, furious white that beats against the edges in flickers of glistening colorlessness. « Mine insists you remind him how - with a demonstration. » But of course Ila'den doesn't stop there; he's heated flickers of images picked from Ila'den's memories: a time in the hearth nook, when pants were pulled dangerously low and mouths were implicit in their application of a name to a hip - « Mine insists it would be… therapeutic. For both of you. »

D'nyl actually smiles slightly at the display, one brow arching at the older bronzer's obvious enjoyment of the PDA. He starts to nod to R'hyn, then winces at Teimyrth's… question?… and it takes a moment before the ringing in his head settles enough for him to be able to respond, "'M jus' finally checkin' in, Ila. Took some time ta be sure the littles were okay 'n' all…" And he was a little afraid to face the surly old man, "Startin' ta think we didn' kill nearly enough of 'em." He lets out a breath (he's a horrible friend), then nods to R'hyn, "'Ve been meanin' ta check on ya, too." FAINTING NANCY!

R'hyn is totally unrepentant; he smirks a smug little smirk for Ila'den's growl of what constitutes approval, shifting low in his seat so his head can rest on the chair's edge, feet propped on the edge of the bronzerider's cot, fingers lacing over his stomach and only then does he sigh and let rampant amusement edge into something softer, quieter. A flicker of gold and diamonds rebuffs Teimyrth's rending mind, not kicking him out, but certainly putting a layer of NOPE between the bronze's mental claws and R'hyn's mind - a second too late, perhaps, judging by the younger rider's sharp wince. "And I just finished reorganizing books and scrolls in the library. All of them. Every single one." Which perhaps explains why, body come to rest, he looks like he might straight conk out at any second, holding on by sheer force of will because HE'S NOT A FAINTING NANCY, THANK YOU, D'NYL. The bronzer in question is given a tight-lipped smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, drawling a wry, "Oh don't worry. You're going to have your fill of me all over again as soon as you're back on duty, if Valigath's vengeance doesn't do me in first." His knot - still a weyrling's knot - is thumbed tiredly before finger reclasp, shoulders rolling. "Otherwise I'm fine," he says in the tone of voice that indicates he's not fine, but dealing with it. By provoking Ila'den? Perhaps. That single-digit gesture is met with a slow, unfurling grin, blue-grey gaze positively boring into Ila's single eye before it switches over to D'nyl with a gesture of his chin. "Helped save his happy ass and this is the thanks I get. Ingrate." Yet he scootches his chair closer - scootch, scootch - taking the hand that insults him and uncurling it back to flatness before his thumbs move over it in slow, easy, careful gestures, theraputic in intent judging by the 'comment and I'll kill you' look he shoots D'nyl.
Whirlwinds are rebuffed by sunbright heat, more laughter - this time Rhyn's laughter - spiralling around words that sketch and write and scratch as replies are considered, 'erased,' but still allowing him to see them all. 'You'd like that,' reads one, 'I would too, right in front of D'nyl,' another, and a third reading just: 'No.' But finally there are words, pushed from rider to dragon for the sake of privacy, enjoying the game far too much to give it up now. « Mine's reply is incongruous. He insists he does not need reminding. » But then an image glares in return, strong, held, physical fingers - R'hyn's actual fingers - tracing along with the memory of his tongue tracing the inside of Ila'den's wrist, sliding slick over veins and tendons, the memory-gaze sweeping from task to the bronzerider's face with a rush of remembered desire and heat and adoration tangled up before it fades away with a crackle of firework matter.

Ila'den's grey eye is on D'nyl for a long, lingering moment as the man listens and it's clear that, despite his insufferably stubborn nature, Ila'den is in pain: he's burning up with fever, his chest is working harder than it should be to simply breathe, and despite the fact that he seems quite aware of his surroundings, there's an almost glossy quality to his gaze, as if he's lost to drugs, or pain, or both - and yet here he is, with Teimyrth settled in to cool the blistering heat and be his words in the wake of a jaw that's since been wired shut for healing. It doesn't seem to stop the bronzerider's sense of humor either, if the finger raised in salute (and then subsequently soothed into submission) is anything to go by, or the way he seems to start laughing again - even if it's short lived. Teimyrth is back, in the minds of both men at his lifemate's bedside, a quiet storm in the wake of so much projected humor from his Ila'den. Before he can speak for his rider, Ila'den's hand closes around R'hyn's, to squeeze with lacking strength as that lone grey eye drops to where hands join and an exhale escapes him. « Mine is wanting to hear more of yours and how they are, but he is tired. » The blizzard picks up, the agitation of an overprotective bronze even as Ila'den tries to mentally reign the beast in - the only hint the silence in a white-out of emotion, followed by the slow demise of a storm altogether, leaving only the startling bright of new snow and that hint of cozy fire burning somewhere through a vast landscape of pines. « And he would remind that you are playing a very dangerous game, weyrling. » But despite the chastisement, Ila'den is still slow, easy smiles that maybe don't look quite right because he can't move his jaw - and THEN IT COMES, a senior healer, tutting as she draws back flimsy privacy curtains and points at the two bronzeriders keeping Ila'den company. She hitches one thumb towards the out and raises a brow that's sure to silence any protests. "Out," she breathes, and then she's crossing the space to Ila'den, jerking one pillow out from under him so that he's flopping back with a soft exhale of breath that says maybe that hurt and getting a look from the healer that says maybe you should listen. "Do I have to repeat myself? Out. He's not going to be awake for very much longer anyway." Another tut, as eyes go to R'hyn's hand, and Ila'den's hand, and then hands go on her hips, waiting.
The snow picks up, frigid weather fighting against sunbright heat as Teimyrth's agitation begins anew despite the gentle hint of his rider there, feeling something intangibly important in response to the laughter and glimpses of companionship R'hyn and Xermiltoth deliver, unhindered by Tei. « Mine says another time, then. » And it's the wicked reminder of blindfolds and bound hands, of the discordant notes struck that seemed so insignificant at the time, but so poignant now as fingers and hands, mouth and teeth buried themselves in flesh. « And that he would like it very much. »

D'nyl does squeeze anythign of Ila's for fear of causing him pain, but he does reach to lightly touch the man's shoulder, "We'd better go jus' ta save ya th' screeching. Get some rest, old man. The littles are well, so you can focus on you for a little bit." The screeching healer gets both a gesture similar to Ila's AND a tongue stuck out at her, "Yer jus' jealous we're spendin' time with him 'n' not ya."

R'hyn, too, glances down for joined hands, lips pursing with what might be a grimace, or perhaps a muted smile, as fingers and thumbs continue to make soft, easy circuits over damaged skin. The bronzerider laughs - actually laughs - for Teimyrth's second delivered chiding, head dropping to hang low, chin hitting chest before he glances back up, eyes bright and warm and appreciative despite concern, despite weariness. "You're incorrigible." And now they're in trouble. R'hyn doesn't vacate his seat immediately if only out of sheer obstinance, lingering after that first 'out' and wincing with a flicker of irritation for the pillow jerked out from under Ila'den, but— "You probably deserved that. Stop trying to bite their fingers when they check on your jaw." Blue-grey eyes twinkle with quiet humor even as he finally releases Ila'den's hand, allowing D'nyl to speak his piece and offer the Healer the gesture R'hyn would just love to duplicate. Alas. He'll be good, pick his battles, instead laying Ila'den's hand to rest at the man's side and pushing himself to standing in order to lean over and drop the gentlest of kisses right to the surface of his lips, barely-there pressure coming and going with haste. "I'll be back, if not tonight, then tomorrow." And out he goes without a second backwards glance.
Or so it would seem. The heat might withdraw, but there are still flickers in the corners of vision, not all brought on by fever and drugs. « Soon enough. For now, rest. » And though through quiet threads of amusement there is one last flash of memory, a hitched-breath deliverance of Ila'den's given name, there is instead a focus on the piano, dissonant chords righted, played softly, warmly, quietly, not quite a lullaby, not quite a love song, but somewhere in between, a comfort that will spin on until music's end, whether Ila'den is awake enough to hear or not.

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