In the blur of days, of training and learning and sleeping and tasking, it became easy to fall into a pattern. A numbness broken briefly in anger at the actions of certain weyrlings when a wave of sickness swept through the weyr, but a numbness nonetheless. It had let Arcadin cope for turns and turns before, and even in the supposed safety of High Reaches, it wasn’t an instinct he could simply turn off.

Alquemieth, however, was not as comfortable with the feeling. With an unknown.

In the eve of a break day, the bronze stood from his wallow, crawled onto the bed, and all but pinned his rider against the bedpost, forcing his attention away from what he had been reading. They locked eyes.

Aggression wasn’t in his intent, but he saw the subtle flare in Ar’din’s gaze at being challenged and simply met it with the quiet, brazen attitude that bronzes were so noted for. This dragonet and rider pair came from very different circumstances, and on a superficial level looked incompatible: a scrappy yet stoic young man, who had never seen beyond his narrow scope for survival and had for most of his life not had a sense of moral code or even believed they were real; a young up and comer bronze who was law incarnate, absolute in his every motion and thought, who even despite his age thought himself a future leader in steering the weyr away from insurgents. Ar’din was the only one he did not think of as a tool, and yet his rider seemed proud to be one in every sense of the word.

And so there came private moments like this when Alquemieth burrowed his claws into cloth and flesh, pressed his weight with the inevitability of an iceberg, and waited. He was patient. Most might not think as much, given how opinionated he was, but the quality was there. Buried, like so many of his better parts. And so too were there things buried within HisAr’din that no-one else would ever know or care to know. Good, bad, trivial, it didn’t matter. Alquemieth was patient, and hungry, and undeniable in his wordless questions, in his determined, ever blazing eyes.

If that was love, Ar’din admitted, then maybe, just maybe, he had been missing out just a little.

- - - - -

Sharing was like rote memorization for him. As if he had been asked to look at a page and then recall its contents, over and over and over again. It was bone deep and yet without feeling. It was an old wound which stretched and stiffened when tugged at but nothing more. And yet it was also like digging at the soil as he was wont to do in candidacy, breaking ground for something new to flourish. It didn’t hurt, and yet it left something in him all the same: Alquemieth simply was where previously he wasn’t. A scar without scar tissue. A space planted in to grow.

I am no blemish, the bronze stated, leaning until his snout touched Ar’din’s nose. The opposite. As are you.

The ******** the opposite of a scar? Peach fuzz? You got a big bronze baby bottom?

Alquemieth considered him for a moment, and then he pressed his paws down harder on the weyrling’s legs in retaliation, feigning offense.

Joke’s on you, they fell asleep ages ago, you fatass.

- - - - -

Ar’din did it reflexively. He stayed quiet for the most part, but being a weyrling meant socialization. Socialization meant dealing with people. And people ******** sucked for the most part. Being snarky made things easier, even though paradoxically that often meant making things harder for others. Snark was better than actual agitation. Getting riled up just meant stupid s**t happened. At least being sarcastic dulled the edge he apparently kept cutting himself on when he wasn’t careful.

In that way at least, he and Alquemieth were much too alike. (Though Ar’din wouldn’t know the extent until much later.)

But the six month mark was coming. And while Ar’din was no stranger to encounters that ended in someone’s bed, this period of abstinence had in a way made the heart grow fonder for it, despite of and perhaps IN spite of his usual disregard for others.

Well, maybe not his heart.

It had been hard to deflect when Alquemieth prodded at these thoughts in the past, but Ar’din figured five-ish months was more than enough time to avoid having “the talk.” The bronze reacted about as much as expected when Ar’din explained some past incidents.

Thank Faranth we do not carry that burden. The dragon wrinkled his nose at the thought of being pregnant. A pity humans have no means of connoting what woman is worth the time as we dragons do.

Ar’din had an inkling he knew where this was going but still prompted with a, Yeah?

Coy is not a word to describe you, Mine. You know what I speak of, Alquemieth chided. Between a ‘green’ woman and a ‘gold’ one, the answer is obvious. Why waste your time if you could spot the difference?

Ar’din shrugged. Because sex is sex.

The bronze snorted. Is that all.

Yeah, actually. Not everything has to be complicated. And once the chastity belts could be taken off, well...They had a large class, with women who—

ArcadinMine! The scandal-reproval mix rising in his tone made the young man bark a laugh. It reminded him a little of Gregor and the way he tried to play at overbearing parent, except it was much funnier when the sentiments were genuine. You could not possibly be considering any of those degenerates! We have established you have actual worth, and if you absolutely must have a partner, then surely the weyr has better stock to choose from. Or if you need to select from our classmates...

Arc eyed him, biting his lip to keep from grinning. Are you seriously implying you’re going to “help me make a decision on who to have sex with”? Is this for real?

That is not an implication, that is a suggestion that I believe is the best course of action, as to be frank there are only a handful of—What? Why is that so funny? Mine!