Naturally, this meant Ar’din spent half the time in his room sleeping and the other half sleeping. Not every other break hour or anything, but this bronzerider had been more than ready to toss the chastity belt for a while. Alquemieth might have his opinions on the quality of women he got with, but since when had Ar’din been a man of quality himself?
(< Always, > the dragon had said, fervent especially when ignored.)
Today he decided to invite Iathe down from what he could only assume was a cramped closet room, if the bitching he’d heard was any indication, and graciously opened his door to a friend. The space was still lacking a lived in feeling, but Ar’din hadn’t had many possessions when he arrived, and they had only been in their new places for a sevenday. The weyr had supplied his thick blankets for the winter, a few extra pairs of clothes and shoes, and a pillow, and he hadn’t really deviated from that yet. Not that he didn’t want to add some decorations, but they hadn’t exactly been on the top of his list of things to do. Namely because the list was of people to do right now.
Speaking of.
“Never had my own place before,” he admitted, arms behind his head as he gazed about the room. “Not sure what to do with it all.” Was he flaunting the big space in Iathe’s face? Maybe a little. But he was also open to suggestions.
If he had partnered with a chromatic, Ar’din would have done everything in his power to scare off any roommate from what he called his space. The barracks had been skating on the edge of his tolerance towards the last month, especially with Alquemieth growing increasingly judgmental of his peers, a feat he didn’t know could happen. Luckily the bronze wasn’t there, happy to be away from the weyr when His was being hormonal and to do something more worthy of his time than standing and glaring at human women.
While Alque had grown like a beanstalk, Ar’din had physically stayed mostly the same, though both had gained muscle mass through training. It wasn’t so obvious on his wiry frame to begin with, but he could feel a difference. His dark hair had grown out, though he was looking to cut it back again, adding to what feral charm he sometimes remembered he had. He had the same scars and avian tattoo, was more social (to the detriment of anyone who had to listen to him even in passing), and was less quick to the draw when it came to aggression. When Ar’din thought about it, however, he didn’t think of it as polishing a gem, as the bronze had put it. It felt more like he was letting himself get rusty. Less alert. It made him itch and chafe against some thing he couldn’t describe.
The urge to fight wasn’t unreasonable, Alque had said once. He too wanted to burn down the Enemy with a ferocity that couldn’t be limited by his capacity to show it. Imagine how they might pour their anger to destroy Thread. But it wasn’t the same.
Tsunake
