Autumn - Month 9 of Turn 2715
Half Moon Bay Weyr - Industrial Loft Weyr
Immediately upon entering the space opens up into a small living space which comfortably contains an enormous four cushioned couch, and two armchairs to match. There are two glass tables, one tall and thin situated between the chairs, and the other short and squat nestled in the middle of the setting complete with a blood red shaggy looking carpet beneath. Along the back wall is a fully stocked bar with a black stone slab counter and four tall chrome stools which seamlessly blends into a matching kitchen type area, with all cabinets for storage recessed to save on space. An island serves as both food prep and an intimate dining area with two more of those stools, a refrigerator tucked into a nook where it will not be in the way. To the right, a long row of bookshelves leading to a reading area, a strange looking machine set up on a desk across the way which occasionally makes a mechanical whirring sound, but the single chair pushed up against it says that it probably not as intimidating as it appears. The lighting in the main area is all recessed up into the ceiling, with a panel beside the entryway to control them.
To the left is complex bit of construction carved out of the very rock itself. On the bottom level is a private bathroom with latrine and a glass encased shower, as well as a workbench laid out with various tools of a computer crafter's trade, a single rolling stool the only place to perch. To access the upper level, one will have to climb. A set of stairs depicted by industrial steps affixed into stone lead up to a loft of sorts. A railing prevents accidental falls, and is just wide enough to support the low set king sized bed with its black and red bedding and two small nightstands on either side. Atop them are small electric lights which turn off and on with but a single touch. An upright piano has been tucked against the wall across from the stairs, the stool before it small enough to fit beneath, and a storage space for clothing is hidden behind a silky red curtain just there to the left.

WARNING: Language and stuff.

Just because it was autumn, doesn't mean that it's cooling down much. It was hot. It was hotter than hot. It was miserable, actually. A very good excuse to stay in where stone at least takes the edge off enough that you don't want to hurl yourself off the ledge and just end it all. Oh, and showers. Cold ones. Repeatedly. J'en is down to his leather pants, low slung on his hips. He'd probably be naked, considering the sweat saturating his naked upper body, but he was grunting and moving things recently delivered from the ledge to inside. Despite the heat, his hair sticking to the sides of his face annoyingly, and the flinch each and every time he stepped outside, he was being industrious and productive. Mostly because there wasn't much else to do other than lay on the bed in the loft and melt. Boring. So, he's moving boxes and crates, and dropping them all off either in the room behind the bookcase or the general proximity there of. His cheeks were flushed, his muscles tensing as they glistened. He was a man. A manly man. A man of moving things from one place to another, growing increasingly more irritated as time went on. Growling under his breath, heavily cursing, looking like he wanted nothing more than to kick things or send them to their gravity-assured demise. But, crate. Picking one up, carrying it inside, dropping it off.

One might wonder why a certain weyrmate is not ALSO doing manly things, and helping to move boxes from outside to inside, sweating his ass off and looking HOT doing it? At least he's not currently doing Option B: slowly melting into a puddle up in the loft. Nope. He's just… not there at all. Where is he? Hopefully doing something industrious like washing Aedeluth out in the lagoon. Let's go with that. Or he was, at least. Now, there is a distinctly dragon-shaped shadow passing over the ledge, blocking out that Faranth-forsaken sun as the young bronze heads for home. There is the characteristic landing, not so much a wobble or a lurch as simply… a little off-kilter from "normal" dragons, but both beast and human are accustomed to it, the former sliding down the latter to land on the stone with a soft 'whump'. Apparently, he's managed to arrive at a time when Jae is on the 'dropping it off' portion of the pattern, and so it is the boxes that catch Sev's attention, rather than the sinfully sexy wingleader. "Jae?" which is definitely 'what the heck is this stuff?', and not so much 'are you home' question.

Oh, J'en heard the arrival, it was hard to miss something that large landing on stone, even if all it was doing was dropping off and leaving. Which was the usual with Aedeluth and so wasn't out of character. That sinfully sexy wingleader does appear shortly there after, all rugged and sweat drenched, panting still from the exertion of moving things in this heat. "Yeah?" he asks, pausing only so long as it took from him to shift his weight to one hip where one hand had come to rest and arch a brow expectantly. It was the weather honestly, the hazy unrelenting yuck, that had shortened Jae's temper to rice-paper wafer thin. So he doesn't linger longer than that before he mutters poison and plucks up yet another crate, crouching with a protesting creak of leather and hefts it up off the ground pushing up with his legs and disappearing into the relatively cooler interior of the weyr which at this point, was no relief. And off he goes, grunting anew, and carried his burden to the many others that seemed to spill out of the spare room. Down he goes, into a crouch, and drops it off. This time, however, he wobbles on ascent and has to lean against the open doorway with one hand until the disorientation passes. Just, needs a minute. To breathe, to get his heart rate back under control, to glare at the many many crates of varying size and question his life choices. There weren't many left, just three or four, out there on the ledge. But the ones inside were numerous and it appeared as if Jae had been on his own for transport.

Clearly, S'van was not expecting boxes to be littered across the ledge. He's navigating around one, peering down at it curiously, when Jae makes his appearance. A glance and the boxes are instantly forgotten as grey eyes find him, drifting quickly and unabashedly across exposed skin. Disheveled hair, flushed face, sweat-slicked skin, defined muscles, low-slung pants… Boxes? What boxes? *THWACK* "FUCK!" Oh. Those boxes. The ones S'van has just completely stumbled over because he had the audacity to be attempting movement at the same time he's ogling his weyrmate. His bare toe (because who wears shoes when bathing a dragon?) catches the crate midstep, and he definitely trips. There's no if-ands-or-buts about it. It's a little hop-skip-stumble sort of thing that he, thankfully, manages to correct in time to save himself from face planting into the stone ledge. That… would not have been good. There's a disgruntled noise, and a fierce glare toward the offending crate and a distinct desire to kick it (which would not help the situation; he may have just broken one toe, let's not break any more) before he glances up in time to watch the source of his distraction vanish into the not-any-cooler weyr. There's a few more hissed explatives, and a one-legged hobbling that happens for a few steps before he sucks it up and grabs a box to "help". But really? It's an excuse to follow Jae so he can drag his eyes over him from behind (and hopefully not kill himself in the process, stupid box).

J'en is not a monster, really. When S'van bangs his toe, he totally pauses and looks over at his poor distracted mate, dark lashes lowering as sweat simply drips down seemingly everywhere. Not in that gross way, not that anything about the wingleader was gross. Well, maybe some of the things he said out loud sometimes. Some of that was questionable. "Ya all right there?" he asks, flatly. He cared. He did, but he was irritated and hot, and definitely questioning why on Pern he had brought all these crates into his life. There's a pause, a moment spared to make sure S'van wasn't about to careen into the ledge or lose a limb, before he sighs and gets back to work. But there he is, back to weyrmate, in his illegal pants that did nothing at all to disguise just how well formed that body of his was. Dat ass, tho. He had half a mind to make his newly arrived companion do the last of the crate moving, surveying them all with a darkening look, and pondering making Sev assemble it as well. But no, none of those things, and assholish thoughts are shoved back down inside of himself before he pushes off the doorjamb and turn back around in time to see S'van carrying a crate. It causes his hardened expression to soften minutely, even as he exhales heavily and golden eyes drop to the crate being carted. "Ya ain't gutta do that, Sev. All this shit ain't yers yet, not till I put it together." His gaze to cast to the many, many, many crates. "…IF…I managed to put it together…" This time, grumbled. Harsher. Irritation rising, swelling, along with thoughts of homicide or at very least revenge.

"Yup! I'm good." He's so not good. He's not about to fall off the ledge, or tumble into a wall, but there's definitely a tightness through his body that wasn't there before and each limping step is punctuated by a matching wince that Sev does a really good job of trying to hide; the corner of his mouth twisted upwards in that characteristic smile even if it looks a bit strained. He's just gonna… walk it off or something. Or at least hobble along and put on a brave face. Because there are crates to move, and weyrmates to eyeball, and he'd prefer to do both of those things over wallowing in pain. So he follows, arms full of a crate whose contents are still a mystery to him, taking Jae's lead as to where he ought to go with it once he's inside the weyr. Despite the pain in his toe (99% chance it's broken, cause that's life), he's definitely got his eyes on the waist band of those illegally-slung pants, head cant just slightly to the side as his gaze drifts a bit, along with his imagination. Slowly up. Slowly down. And then up again as Jae turns and addresses him, this time catching his gaze and offering a genuine, pain-free smile. "I don't even know what it is. And what do you mean, 'it's not mine yet'?" Said carted crate is carefully deposited near all of the others, well away from that throbbing toe (is it starting to turn purple? Hm) and he turns to follow back out for another crate. "I don't mind," followed shortly by, "what is it?" Curiosity (and sexy weyrmates) are definitely winning over the pain, and are the motivating factors behind S'van heading for the ledge rather than the couch.

Now those golden eyes were looking at S'van all funny like, up and down, and concern was taking over the place where irritation had tried to seemingly take up permanent residence. "No, ya ain't." He sees you limping, limpy. Not to mention the wincing, the stiffened posture and retrained facial grimace. Then he notes where those greys were trained and his chin lifts as he turns completely around and attempts to melt Sev's face off with a look of death. That smile wasn't fooling anyone buddy, not from the way his own gaze narrows some, before dropping to that questionably shifting towards purple toe. "Sit yer ass down," That there, was his wingleader voice, a very special tone he used only during drills and those not so drilly times. "Now." His head is jerked towards the couch, the opposite place that the younger bronzerider was headed. If that was what was actually happening. Regardless! Even if S'van was merely thinking about carrying more crates, he makes sure to put that right out of his head. J'en was not messing around and only when his command is obeyed does he finish moving those last couple of crates all by him lonesome. A little bit more wobbling and that last one was a bitch, but he accomplishes it before there is any attempts to try and help again. Should S'van try? Oh, the promise of something worse than death there. Sev might not know exactly what it was, but it might be the sort of thing that eventually makes him wish for it. "I was 'opin' to surprise ya, weren't expectin' this thin' in a fuckin' million pieces." J'en stretches himself out, arms above his head in that way of his that makes his impossibly long torso look even longer, before he winces and drops his hands to his sides. First to the fridge for water and ice, and then off to the bathroom for silk tape. He wasn't a healer, but, he knew some triage. Had to, considering his job. Heading over to the couch, where S'van better be (or else), he drops onto the coffee table and crooks a finger at the hurt foot, then pointing to the place between his spread legs as a place for it to go.

Protests will be made! In the form of deep breaths, taken in preparation for vocalizations, and a working of his jaw as he attempts to form words… but no. Sev is lost before he starts when Jae starts using that voice. He knew that voice, and isn't about to argue with it. But that doesn't stop a myriad of facial expressions in response, mostly disgruntled and somewhat pouty. "It's not that bad…" is more of a mutter under his breath than a true complaint, but it is made as S'van heads where he is told. Straight to the couch (limping, despite his best attempts not to), where he drops down to sprawl out. His head at one end, foot propped up on the arm opposite it, gaze turned to watch Jae. There is definitely a tightness to his jaw as the last of the crates are toted in while he lays on the couch like a lazy bum. And there is almost definitely a moment in which he gives serious, serious contemplation to getting up in defiance of clear directives, but no. He remains right where he is because he knows that any attempt to do otherwise would result in worse than watching his weyrmate hustle around while he sits uselessly on the couch. Doing nothing. It definitely grates on him, so that by the time the final crate has been moved, he's staring hard at the ceiling with an arm flung over his forehead. Grump. Growl. And then a glance, for the words. There's no malice toward Jae, just an apologetic look and then curiosity once again. "Surprise me with what?" because he still doesn't know what those one million (approximate) crates contain. Ooooh, that stretch tho. EVIL. MEAN. Considering Sev can't do anything but stare because he's been quarantined to the couch. It makes that grumpy expression return for a moment or two. There's definitely movement as J'en heads off, though no attempt to actually stand. Just a shove of his hands against the couch as he sits up, the sound of leather creaking and skin peeling away from it because icky heat plus leather couch equals delightfully sweaty and sticking skin. He's more or less upright (sitting) when J'en returns and claims the coffee table. A grimace, but that foot goes where it's bidden. It's a mark of the actual pain he's experiencing that he doesn't attempt anything more with that-there foot between spread legs. "I'm sure it's fine." Because he is stubborn.

Unsurprisingly really, J'en isn't listening, nope. He simply sits there and waits, completely ignoring all of the oggling that he'd been offered pretty much since S'van got back to the weyr. At first, due the heat and his irritation with all those crates, and then because his foolish weyrmate was trying to carry heavy crates with something so very, "Broken…" he says as the foot arrives, tilting his head a little because the thing was crooked a bit. At least it was a clean break, rather than bone sticking out the side or anything. That would have meant a trip to the infirmary and all sorts of nonsense. Neither was J'en answering those repeated questions as to what was in those crates, busy rummaging around in the bag that held the tape and soon leaning over towards his lover's mouth with that bottle of fellis. "Open yer mouth." The commanding tone was gone, and in its place growing concern. Not that he thought a broken toe was the end of the world, but this just so happened to be the love of his life and he was in pain. Simple as that. He was allowed to fuss if he wanted to. If S'van is a good lad and does as he's told, three drops of that stuff under his tongue and then the drug is put it away. Potent stuff fellis, given a few moments to work its magic and the pain just melts away into a cloud of fluffy bliss. Well enough that Sev might not care that Jae was picking up his foot, but a second later he'd probably be all about the fact that he quickly yanks and pulls that toe back into alignment, tapping it to the toe next to it with that silk tape. Wincing and chewing on his bottom lip the entire time, and certainly not talking much throughout. Then its all slathered with a numbweed ointment that at least brings the sharp, stabbing, the 'dear Faranth make it stop' of it all down to a dull throb. "There's a fine line between brave and stupid," he says, soft and muttering, not looking at S'van but rather putting ice into a washcloth and very gingerly applying it to the now patched up toe. "With it broke like that, it sends the bits between into yer bloodstream and that shit can fuck ya up pretty bad. Ain't meant to be there, or in yer heart, yer lungs, or yer fuckin' head." Yep, all the worry, probably so much that he's completely forgotten about the crates. Other than the fact that them being there is the reason S'van got hurt in the first place. So yes, there is guilt mixing in with the other emotions interplaying across his features.

"Broken?" because despite the fact that it hurts, and is certainly not feeling any better any sooner, S'van hasn't actually bothered to look down at his foot. But yeah. No doubt. It's broke. He hit that sucker hard, with nothing to cushion the blow. So there is resignation but no debate over the pronouncement, a hand lifted to rub fingers at his temple. A sigh, and then an acknowledgement and obedience to the request to open his mouth. Three drops. A snap of his jaw, and a look of 'ugh' because that stuff cannot taste good. A reach of his hand, a gentle touch of fingers to J'en's arm, and then he sinks back to let the drugs to their thing. And work it does, until the tightness that had been predominant begins to slip away with the pain, and a much more languid expression takes its place. For a moment, Sev's all sprawling and relaxed bronzerider, head lolled back so that he can stare at the ceiling and drift away on the pleasant carelessness that comes rolling like waves. Until that yank and rearrangement has him shooting upwards, stiff as a board as every muscle seizes with the pain of. "Fuck that hurts!" As though he's surprised by it; as though pain was something that had not, until that very moment, existed. A squint, grey eyes peering down at the offending toe as it's wrapped, then trailing lazily along the lines of strong arms to sculpted shoulders, to neck and face. The drug-addled ogling is much less lewd than the sober ogling had been, and he spends a rather lengthy amount of time just staring at his face as Jae fusses over his foot. The debate of brave versus stupid goes right over his brown-haired head; Sev doesn't even hear it beyond the understanding that they were words, and they do have meaning, and intellectually he understands that meaning and could translate it into thought. But he's not focused on that right now, and it's a fair bet that he doesn't even remember his toe is broken. Oh sure, it hurts still; a dull throb beneath all that numbweed there. It's simply not where his attention is at. Boxes? Crates? Mystery presents? Forgotten. J'en is talking, and Sev is watching him talk without putting much focus on the actual words. Made all the more apparent when his answer to all that explanation of bone-fragments is a blunt but sincere, "You're really beautiful, did you know that?" because that is the only thought in his sky-high mind right now. Well. That and, "It'll be OK," because while he can't really make those braincells understand the reason behind the expression, he certainly caught and recognized that guilt as something requiring comfort and reassurance.

J'en was not behind the mask, promise, but he wasn't doing a whole lot of anything other than looking worried, guilty and mildly annoyed still about the gift he'd bought for S'van being in twenty (that's how many for real) crates of varying size and weight. He might have forgotten about the reason for that irritation, but it was there nonetheless. Instead he gets to experience all that is his weyrmate high as a kite. He had no one but himself to blame for that, both for the reason the toe was broken and what means he used to try and bring the pain of a broken bone back under control. He does not look happy about having to set the thing, or tape it, or chide at S'van for his brave stupidity or stupid bravery. Whichever. Only a brief glance for the fingers that brush long his still very sweaty arm, which was quivering now, because he was dehydrated and he'd overused all of his muscle power. He was going to be one very sorry young man come tomorrow. J'en had more to say about all the bad things that might have happened should S'van decided to leave his broken toe broken, or if he had dismissed it and given in to the kind of looks that would have resulted in Jae being tossed over one of those crates and out of his illegal pants. So as Sev starts getting that tell-tale drug face that people get when they are just not there (at least not enough present to understand a single word being spoken), he sighs heavily and gives up trying to chastise. What's done was done, it was as fixed as it could be, and now there was the matter of cleaning up and drinking that water there. For now all the supplies are tucked away in their bag, zipped up, and J'en picks up the glass he'd brought over. He lets the ice filled washcloth sit on top of that tape job and drinks deeply of the lifesaving water within. He's just about halfway through when he decides all at once would be bad and moves it away, swallowing, and a second later nearly choking on the last few drops. This is because S'van just said a thing, not something that he hadn't heard before, mostly in the throes but a few times outside of the bedroom. However, this time around, he'd been caught off guard. Golden eyes slide towards that stupidly handsome drug-idled face beneath lowered lashes and then quickly away again before his cheeks flush, darkly. "Yeah, whatever. Sleep it off, 'ero." He says, grumbled under his breath as he pushes himself to his feet, leaning over and kissing S'van softly on the mouth. It'll be okay? "I know, sleep." Pulling away and collecting all the things that do not belong on that table, J'en returns them to wear they belong, drinking the rest of the water along the way, before he heads back to those crates to pull them open and try and assemble their contents before sleeping beauty awoke.

Stupidly brave? That sounds about right. But although he did try to 'walk it off', sooner rather than later, S'van would have recognized that the pain in his foot went beyond that of a normal stubbed-toe. Attention would have been sought, probably in the form of a quick trip to the infirmary, and the end result would have been the same: rearranged and splinted toe. Though, something can definitely be said for having your weyrmate fuss over you, and S'van would certainly appreciate the convenience (and not having to explain how he broke his toe in the first place) if his mind was coherent enough to think complex thoughts. Alas, it is not. So the best he can do is watch the fussing, vaguely listen to the chastisement, and toss out totally earnest and uncensored comments. If he were in his right mind (aka not currently tripping on fellis), there would have been some return fussing in the form of making sure proper food and water intake was happening, and probably a very similar request (demand?) to sit. And rest. And relax. But no. Right now, complex thoughts are so out the window. Foot returned to him, cloth of ice balanced carefully atop it, he wiggles himself a little further down on the couch, leather creaking and sticking to bare skin, as he attempts to get comfortable. "It's true," he argues, though his mind is already on to the next thing, rendered as useless as a firelizard's brain. The kiss at least, gets a wide, bright smile; thorough delight in the way that only the truly and thoroughly inebriated can manage. "…'Kay…" and then a rather slurred and drowsy "…love you…," that is only kinda understandable before an arm is flung over his eyes. There's a brief attempt at hanging on to consciousness, a little peek beneath his arm as he tries to follow J'en's movements with eyes that are having difficulty focusing, but eventually he gives it up and drifts off. Thoroughly relaxed; completely gone. A deep sleep that only drugs or alcohol or sheer exhaustion seem to ever produce.

Annnnnnnd he's out ladies and gents. For the count, for the evening, for as long as it takes for Jae to assemble the many many pieces of a very annoyed craftsman whom he had irked in his myriad of unreasonable demands for perfection. Why? Because only the best for S'van, that's why. J'en had stood just out of drug-abled ability to see and watched his weyrmate lose the struggle, getting himself more water as soon as there was no more truth being slurred on the way to unconsciousness. Irritated again, this time with himself briefly, because he was blushing terribly and the more that S'van slurred those sorts of things, the darker and hotter his face felt. "I love ya too, now shut up and sleep," he tosses back that way sounding much more soft than he wanted it to, already turning his back and heading toward the crates. Crates that are all forced open with a crowbar and unpacked. Sure enough twenty pieces, all in their own crate. Fortunately, the man who'd passive aggressively done this in retaliation of the commissioner's less than warm demeanor, had included instructions. It's actually several hours before J'en is stepping back from that beautiful and ornate pool table he ordered, finally exactly as it should have been delivered but he possessed a short temper and a big mouth sometimes. Another sigh heaved, he sets about mounting the cue rack, all the little bits and bobs, the rack and the balls that went into the rack. By the end of it all, Jae was starting to hope he never had to see another pool table for as long as he lived, carrying the much lighter crates back out to the ledge to be broken down later and burned in effigy. Then, a shower, food, more water and he somehow manages to crawl onto the couch with S'van. Legs over his lap, head resting on one arm. Sleep is not far off, no, it steals him away almost the instant that he relaxes. For how long, depended on S'van.

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