Something Hot to Choke On

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Rooftop Patio
This roof patio extends over the part of the living caverns that juts out into the bowl. A set of stairs has been carefully hewn from the rock, leading up to a flat expanse that is covered with normal dirt and topsoil. Trees and flowers grow in this section of the created gardens turn-round, all carefully trimmed and cultivated by the weyr staff. There are several benches scattered about, each secluded and private due to the surrounding foliage. A stone path winds through the expanse, leading to the other parts of the gardens.

It's sometime past sunrise, but not by too much — enough, though, that the Weyr is awake. Dragons come and go, wings line up to head out for morning sweeps, weyrfolk scramble to catch up to a morning already working on passing them by. The patio isn't quite full, possibly on account of all the wind that's come to stay. The occasional piece of paper goes flying, hats, and firelizards just aren't having a great day trying to get purchase on any people currently enjoying their breakfast out-of-doors. Citayla doesn't seem to notice the wind, though. Tucked into an out-of-the-way table back near the berries, Half Moon's Weyrwoman has a mug of something steaming faintly, and a plate absolutely covered in what looks like a mixture of eggs and vegetables. Faranth only knows what the sauce she's covering them in is comprised of, but it smells ferociously spicy, and also…fishy? In both a seafood and suspicious kind of way, actually. Whatever it is, the goldrider digs right in, ignoring the hair flying in her face and the occasional swear from one of the riders and residents around her, trying to protect their food. It's their own damn problem, or at least she can pretend it's Not Her Problem, for now.

And it almost works for her. "Weyrwoman!" It's barked from somewhere far-distant enough to be rendered relatively anonymous, were it not R'hyn doing the shouting. The woman has probably heard enthusiastic expressions in every timbre of his voice by now, so perhaps it is recognizeable even before he appears. And appear he does, in leather pants cut to his form, interrupted mid-calf by boots lazily laced, a loose-fitting tank top rounding out a look of active indolence. There's no knot to be found - where would he even put it on that garment? - but he cuts a clear figure regardless of attempted anonymity. It's possible, judging by damp wind-whipped hair and flushed features, that he's fresh from exercise with one wing or another, activity lending him good humor despite challenges when he adds a sassy, "Do something about this wind." A jagged smile shows he's commanding in jest, brisk gait taking on a particularly easy roll as he closes the last of the distance between them. Hand finds shoulder, lips find forehead and, affection complete, the bronzerider drops into the seat near to her with a sigh. And then a squint at her food, or more particularly, the sauce all over it. "Why." #JUDGINGYOU. Rude, Ryn. Rude.

And where there's a Citayla and a R'hyn, there is surely an Ila'den somewhere nearby. HERE HE COMES NOW, wild and unruly, sporting ever-defiant hair that mocks gravity with angles that should really be outlawed and the kind of scowl that says either the wind has offended him into displeasure, or he just always looks this way (hint: IT'S THE LATTER). It might be the sound of his weyrmate's voice, or the smell of his other weyrmate's questionable choice of food (or rather, sauce in which to douse it), but Ila'den is mere seconds behind R'hyn, watching the give of affection from bronzerider to goldrider before his nose scrunches and that grey eye finds Cita's OFFENSIVE FOOD STUFF. UNLIKE SOMEBODY AT THE TABLE, he doesn't question her choice; no, Ila'den merely repeats R'hyn's earlier ministrations with slightly different alterations: a press of calloused hand to the back of Cita's neck, cradling hair and skull, a kiss pressed to the top of her head instead of anywhere on her face, and then he's moving to grab R'hyn's shoulder and squeeze, easing into a seat beside his weyrmate with another OFFENDED LOOK towards Cita's food. "Cita, is that even good for your health?" he drawls. Okay, so he's also rude, even as he shifts to sit with a wider stance, one booted foot resting against R'hyn's as he takes in his weyrmate with: "You look ridiculous," around a wolfish smile. And of course, by ridiculous, he means that if there were no innocent bystanders and perhaps a door, R'hyn would be SUFFERING.

Citayla's peaceful breakfast's interruption is not unexpected; the Weyrwoman doesn't flinch when she hears R'hyn coming from half a mile off, just glances mildly up from her meal. If it had been anybody but the two currently converging on her meal, well, it would be another thing entirely…but it's not. Thankfully. Affectionate exchanges are bore with a tranquil kind of fondness, a squeeze of elbows and wrists as they move off to their respective seats. Yes, yes, this is her due; doted on, etc, etc. Still: "Stop, wind." The healer tries, droll. The wind does not stop. It picks up a napkin three tables over and smacks it in a rider's face somewhere nearby. "Get on that. Shouldn't I have control over that? Who do you need to talk to about that?" Pitched with a vaguely pugnacious kind of head-cant. As for the offensive and violently spicy-smelling sauce, Cita beams, switching gears in an instant. "Mother sent me it from home! They don't make this sauce here. It's a shame, it's delicious. Of course it's healthy." She doesn't quite shove a fork directly into either of their mouths, here-comes-the-airplane!-style, but the goldrider does do a lot of threatening waving in that general vicinity. Eat! Lose all feeling clear up to your eyeballs! "You say ridiculous, Ila." Cita adds on a sardonic kind of note, raising both eyebrows Judgingly. They aren't the only ones who can #JUDGE. "It's not even noon."

Is R'hyn even surprised his weyrmate is only a step behind? Once upon a time he might have been, in the early days of doubt as to his deservance of such pursuit, or when Ila'den would attempt to conceal his approach until the last possible second. But now? Now R'hyn notes it with the warm welcome borne of expectation, pleased by its occurence, blue-greys brightening despite the bronzerider's scowl. Ila receives no greeting beyond visual acknowledgment, not at first - instead R'hyn too watches as the older man completes his part in their ritualistic greeting of their favorite goldrider, lips twitching sideways fondly for Ila's participation, Citayla's acceptance, basking in the quiet meaningfulness of it all and then: "I don't think you tried hard enough." Sass is back with a vengeance to make up for previous lack, watching that napkin go flying with a snorted laugh that he tries to hide behind his hand because no your weyrleader did not just laugh at your predicament, this is not the bronzerider you are looking for. "One would think it would require more effort, anyways. Ask Ilyscaeth. She's the dreamer." And the one that gave Citayla as much authority as she has to begin with. He patiently endures enthusiasm over her mystery fiery fish sauce, eyes fastening on the pile of it for her explanation, then on the fork gestured their way with the sort of wary tension one usually gives a crouched feline. "No, thank you. If I want to choke on something hot enough to make my eyes water, I'll just take Ila behind that bush over there." THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR SAYING HE LOOKS RIDICULOUS, ILA. HE SEES YOU VILLAIN, YOU AND YOUR VILLAIN MOUSTACHE. "It's five o'clock someweyr," he adds as though Ila were something to be imbibed, which isn't wrong, really, but perhaps he's just pushing boundaries to see how far into space he can make Cita's eyes rocket. "Besides, didn't hear you complaining when Ilyscaeth rose at what time was that again?" Fingers press to the shell of his ear, pushing it forwards to better catch her reply. The gesture doesn't last - Ila's booted foot finds his, and since he's already on one, Heryn doesn't bother with gentle footsie displays of PDA. He reaches out with the toe of that same boot and hooks it beneath Ila'den's knee, pulling his legs just a tad further apart for, seemingly, his own amusement and viewing pleasure. Leather-bound toes skim back down the man's calf in a brisk but no less playful slide, canting a sharp now who looks ridiculous grin his way before leaning forwards to peruse Cita's plate. "Do you have anything not covered in death-gravy? Ah." DON'T MIND HIM. HE'S JUST GONNA ATTEMPT TO JENGA THIS VEGETABLE OUT OF THE PILE.

It is a testament to Ila'den's regard for Citayla that he does not retreat when she touches him, even if old habits die hard and his body goes a little tense. But this is Cita, who is more than welcome into Ila'den's space at any time, and is probably found there more often than not when there are stories to be read, hot cocoa to be drank, blankets to be shared, and murder to be committed. Probably for ear-destroying recorder symphonies that Ila'den and R'hyn seem to find necessary in order to give Cita's already entirely too eventful life a soundtrack. WHATEVER IT HAPPENS FIGHT ME. Cita attempts to give the weather commands, the weather shows its defiance, and R'hyn is not the only one rumbling laughter at the abject FAILURE of that venture. "I believe J'en is in control of that particular permission. You should yell at him, until he surrenders his secrets." RUDE, ILA. STRAIGHT DISRESPECTFUL. But he's unrepentant about it, even as R'hyn goes on a moojestic journey in an attempt to make Cita's eyeballs skyrocket into space, and seems so far to have only managed to make Ila'den's brows head that way. Heryn, you do realize who you're talking to, right? The one man who hears something inappropriate and takes it as a challenge; the man who only isn't standing yet because there's a booted foot jerking his sideways, forcing his legs open and causing leathers to pull tight over - CHOMP. Yep, he is trying Cita's death-sauce, and he manages to go one, two, three seconds before he kind of… chokes. Yep. And he's ducking his head down, and MAKING A FACE, but being a trooper that swallows down MOTHER-SENT PERVERSIONS OF DELICIOUSNESS as he makes a grab for Cita's drink and THAT IS HOT and - listen. The firelizards are not the only ones having a bad day. Or the poor champ getting slapped in the face with napkins. "Citayla, what the fuck." It's the first thing he can think to say once he manages to get his REASON AND DIGNITY BACK. And then he's jerking his leg back so that he can lean forward and kiss R'hyn. YEP. HAVE SOME DEATH-SAUCE ALL UP IN YOUR FACE. ON YOUR PERSON. That's DEFINITELY A TONGUE that's BEING RUDE and NOT TAKING NO FOR AN ANSWER. At least R'hyn's lips will suffer with him, if nothing else. And yes, yes Ila'den is hoarding Cita's drink now, like an overly-large broody dragon. FIGHT HIM. HE'S LEANING AWAY FROM R'HYN AND PUTTING A LEG OUT TO WARD HIM OFF EVEN. JUST SUFFER.

Here's a long, terribly over-acted-ly dramatic sigh from Half Moon's Weyrwoman. "I did try." Cita huffs, put-upon, and inhales. What comes next is really, realistically, R'hyn and Ila'den's fault. "STOP, WIND." She bellows, and the wind doesn't stop, but activity all around them does. For a moment. The goldrider doesn't even have the decency to acknowledge the attention, instead glancing mildly at the sky, which is still perfectly cloudless and also very windy. "Maybe Ily can. Or Jae, hmmm." A long pause, like she's actually debating the merits of summoning J'en to parley with the wind to get it to cool its' shit for two minutes. It passes with a wry grin that is so very damn short-lived, because — "Heryn, I'm eating." Cita grumbles mournfully, like she probably didn't encourage it. She firmly ignores poor napkin-face, too, because he's Not Her Problem before she goes into the office. "Don't remind me." The Weyrwoman further teases, on the subject of her dragon's Flights, like she wasn't actively rooting for her own damn Weyrmates. Those two jackasses? She doesn't even know 'em. Noooope. Not when they're two seconds away from another PDA Briefing. Not even when Ila actually tries the eggs, which gets a brief, bright grin. A brief, bright grin that quickly dissolves into somewhat mean-spirited snickering, eyes scrunching up gleefully. "Aw, Ila," Citayla croons, barely holding back a giggle from her voice. "Don't be a baby." He gets her drink only because she loves him, but the bronzerider does get a slightly narrow-eyed look like she's contemplating taking a hand for the theft anyways. But…no, maybe not this time. "I'm going to go get some milk. That's not permission to go into the bushes, we don't need a repeat of the Mango Tree Incident." What's that? Probably nobody wants to know. MAybe she's being over-dramatic. …not likely, but maybe. Either way, Cita's dumb enough to leave them to their own devices, so whatever happens is probably her fault, right?

R'hyn knows exactly who he's talking to, thank. It's why he laughs at the indication that Cita should yell at Jae until he surrenders his WEATHER-KEEPING WAYS, eyes scrunching up over a shit-eating grin, embracing the joke. "Yes. In my experience, that always helps. Maybe hop up and down a little, too," he drawls, imitating jumping with one finger. "The frenetic noisemaking will definitely work." POOR J'EN, not even here to defend himself from mischief in the Atoll wing. His grin never fades in the face of that slow rocket-launching eyebrow; if anything, it expands long and slow, his own brows bobbing ridiculously between Cita and Ila's faces. YEAH HE SAID IT. GO AHEAD AND SEE IF HE WON'T RISE TO HIS OWN CHALLENGE. HEHE. GET IT. RISE. JUST LIKE CITA'S DRAGON AND ILA'S — "Dumbass," R'hyn sighs when Ila leans in to take the bite he's offered, a single snort for that choke breaking an inner dam that leads to outright laughter for the bronzerider's facial contortions. Horrible, insulting laughter that hiccups only to renew, gasping out a parroted, "Whatthefuck," and "Yeah, baby," that'd be a lot more teasing if he weren't totally out of breath saying it. "I can't." A long sighed 'haaa' precedes an attempt to calm himself down, and it would have succeeded too, if not for that kiss, and for once it's not fiery just because Ila is too hot, hot damn. R'hyn stiffens and then flails, smackitty-smacking every bit of Ila's body that he can get his hands on because there is a reason he didn't try the death gravy, ILA'DEN. "BLEGH," gasped the moment he's released from assault of lips and tongue, hands frantically wiping at his face before predictably lunging for the stolen water, continuing to try despite the boot planted very much in his way. "Give me that, you rat bastard. Give it to me or I'll- Cita that was one time - or I'll unleash the secret weapon." And that is? Pincer-y finger clenches at the corners of Ila's knees, threatening a world of ticklish hurt even as he perks and offers the retreating Citayla a chipper, "BYE CITA. WE LOVE YOU CITA. HAVE OUR BABIES, CITA," because goodbye rituals must also be honored, even if she is, supposedly, going to be coming back."

"And if it doesn't, do a couple of leaps and twirls in the air. That will definitely get his attention." Kind of like how Citayla's yelling FOR THE WEATHER TO BEHAVE draws the attention of EVERY SINGLE BYSTANDER, who is now not only witness to Ila'den's deep-seated shame (SHUT UP), but to his LEATHER-CLAD - "Shut up," to R'hyn, lacking malice but probably serious because Ila'den is now probably also laughing while he's choking and that doesn't bode well for ANYBODY. BUT R'HYN DOESN'T SHUT UP FAST ENOUGH, DOES HE? And Ila'den endures smack-smackity-smack-smacks with husky laughter between strangled sounds as he keeps R'hyn at bay with his foot and chugs down Cita's drink. He stops only long enough to protest with, "It was one time, Cita," when R'hyn does, which just makes him laugh all the harder right up until R'hyn is threatening his BADASSERY with PINCER FINGERS. Ila's eye goes wide in faux shock (BROTRAYAL), and then he's shoving out of his chair and out of his seat, moving around the table with long strides so that he can LOCK EYES WITH R'HYN and keep moving out of his REACH while DRINKING ALL THAT THERE IS TO DRINK. It's not helping, and Ila'den does eventually relent, forfeiting the cup into R'hyn's hands with a salute to Citayla. A beat, as that grey eye watches her retreat while R'hyn yells out obscenities, and there's a suffering look on Ila'den's face when he looks back to R'hyn. Sigh. "She isn't coming back with the milk, is she? She is going to sit in there and read and pretend she is getting milk while we suffer." RUDEST OF THE RUDES. Still, there's mischief in Ila'den's eye when it shifts back to blue-grey, laughter pulling at the corner of his lips even if his nose is running and his eyes are watering and he looks like death has come for him. "Does this mean the bush is fair game, then?" RIP CITA, RIP RYN, RIP HALF MOON BAY WEYR, AND ALL THOSE INNOCENT BYSTANDERS WHO OCCUPY IT.

Hey, don't blame your leather-claddiness on R'hyn! He can't help that Ila's so goddamned hu— "Nng," grunted after a renewed lunge against his weyrmate's foot, bearing the discomfort that comes interent to a BOOT IN THE STOMACH with no dignity whatsoever. Dignity, shmignity. People are already staring. Might as well give them a show. "Why don't you make me," is issued with a challenging grin, one that dissolves into heaving laughter and a whole lot of weight suddenly swaying onto Ila's leg as R'hyn helplessly crumples under the weight of real amusement. Seriously though. One time. The alignment of words is enough that the bronzerider lets Ila off scot-free for now, pincers removed so he can flee and R'hyn can spin his big body around to face him across the table, scrabbling from side to side in crabbish gait to ring the man around the rosey. "Come on, not fair, I'm dying over here," gets complained seconds before that cup hits his hands, and R'hyn is exactly as surprised by its forfeit as he is unamused when he goes to drink it to find next to nothing left. "Have I told you lately that I hate you the most of anyone ever?," R'hyn mutters almost as though he hasn't heard the older bronzerider, staring into the depths of the empty mug before sighing and trailing blue-grey eyes wistfully out towards where Citayla has disappeared. "No," he finally replies, "she's definitely gone. And even if we confront her about it she'll just give us a sanctimonious speech about public displays and why we deserve it, and then she'll accidentally say something perverted and we'll be horrible and we'll be right back here, where we started." All said in gloomy, hollow tones belied by eyes that glitter as they finally roll over to fix on Ila'den's one, meeting him mischief for mischief. "Faranth, you look horrible," he mutters with an edge of affection coiling about the humor, thumbs coming up to brush Ila's face free of evidence of mistakes that were made. It's only when the bronzer looks slightly less like death gravy warmed over that Heryn pegs him with a flirtatious look, all lashes and wayward grins and velvet tones accompanied by rolling shrugs and hands that curl into lapels to pull his weyrmate closer. "Cita did leave us alone. That's as good as permission in my book." Is he really walking Ila'den backwards towards the treeline? He sure is, though whether to follow up threats or simply abscond with the man is up to the ~*imagination*~.

WE ARE NOT BLAMING THE LEATHER OR THE CLADDINESS ON R'HYN. But there is no denying that it's R'hyn's fault that Ila'den's leathers are now showing a suspicious amount of - "Dick should have been your name. Your mother missed an opportunity." LAUGHING AT HIS PLIGHT. RUDE R'HYN. YOU'RE BEING A REAL RICHARD RIGHT NOW. Get it? Because Richards are usually nicknamed Dick? AHA. AHAHA. AHAHAHAHA. WHATEVER IT WAS FUNNY. But it doesn't matter, because there are tables to put between them, confessions of hatred to endure with wolfish smiles that say, 'I don't believe you for a second,' and departing weyrbaes to mourn because they really aren't going to come back, and they certainly aren't going to do it with milk. Not that it matters; not that any of that matters when Heryn is in his space, ridding Ila'den of the evidence left behind by bad life choices and grabbing the lapels of Ila'den's jacket to pull him in closer. A smile breaks over Ila'den's face, preceding low, husky laughter as he allows himself to be walked backwards, and adds on only, "She did know what would happen if she left." THE DEFILEMENT OF HER WEYR. Possibly. Or perhaps it really is just their idea of a poorly executed joke that all those innocent bystanders will have to wonder over. They could just be hiding in the brush, stifling laughter between sounds that speak to bedrooms and dark sheets because they THINK THEY'RE FUNNY, or they could honestly be testing just how concealing that shrubbery is. Who knows? It's a mystery~

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