[PRP] Talk About Daddy Issues [Falienn/K'ienn]

[ShinosBee]

BANG BANG BANG! The knocks to K'ienn's weyr's door were not soft, not especially patient in tone. BANG BANG BANG! Again they were hammered out, the tsk of the person in the hallway audible through the door.Funny how nearly a turn ago Falienn had stood outside this same door, knocking much more politely, a shy if eager look fixed on his face, determined to hide his revulsion from the man who lived within. Things had changed so much since then.

Now it was an angrier Falienn who stood ready to push his way into his father's weyr. A scarred and broken Falienn, who wanted to scream that this was all K'ienn's fardling fault, but couldn't even summon the voice for that much. How unfair that K'ienn would surely be able to shout at him for banging so loudly, when it was Falienn who had the real cause to complain. But in truth, Falienn was unsure if he'd come to rail against his father, or to beg for advice. It was the very last thing he'd wanted to do, but the thought that, as part of the combination that had made him, K'ienn of anyone should know what made Falienn tick, and would be able to determine the right thing to do or say to just...to fix this Farath-flamed mess!

BANG! "Dad!" BANG BANG! "I know you're in there K'ienn, open the fardling door!" BANG! "I know there was a gold flight yesterday, I don't give a tailfork what kind of company you've got, just open up!" And really, he was done playing the nice son. Been done with it since that sharding green'd come for him at Western, and all his father'd had to offer was a lecture.

Teiha

 

[Teiha]

At the first obnoxious thump, K'ienn blinked out of an unusually peaceful sleep. It seemed that only goldflights could knock him out so completely these days. He sighed and dragged a palm over his eyes, wishing it could have been quiet for just a little longer. He glanced at the woman who sat up beside him, a sharp glint of violence in her eyes as she glared at the door. She was not hard on the eyes and her company had certainly been enjoyable. But she was only here because of Rhianth's flightlust, not because she really wanted... he didn't even know her name, for Faranth's sake. In fact, he couldn't recall ever seeing her before. He suddenly ached for the days when he'd roll over and see the same face every morning. A face that belonged to someone who wanted to be with him.

Another violent bang on the door yanked him out of his reverie. "All RIGHT, I'm coming!" he snarled.

"Either make it shut up, or I will," his bedmate growled, slumping back underneath the furs.

K'ienn fought the urge to sigh again. "It's my son. I apologize for his behavior. He's been through a lot lately." At her wary nod, he gestured toward the exit to the ledge. "You don't have to meet him. You can take off from the ledge, if you like."

"Spiriting me out like some whore in Nabol. You must be the classisest bronzerider in the Weyr." In one smooth motion, she got out of bed, flinging the furs that had covered her into K'ienn's face. She dressed leisurely amongst the repeated pounding at the door, clearly not spooked in the least by Falienn's anger. Outside, she scoffed at Yisketh and mounted her own dragon -- a brown.

As soon as they took off, K'ienn got up, pulled on some pants, and opened the door. Slowly, calmly... though his knuckles were white on the knob. "Yes, Falienn?"  

[ShinosBee]

Falienn could hear the sounds of people talking, and of steps getting closer. That didn't matter, and he kept right on knocking, determined and glaring into the wood grain of the door, all the way up to the moment K'ienn wrenched the door open. Then the offending, rapping knuckles shifted to brace on the young man's hip, fist curled in clear agitation. Over his father's shoulder he spotted a large, dark (a brown??) dragon ducking over the ledge, and he scoffed. "Bringing the Wingseconds into bed to help keep them in line and loyal?" Acting as if he owned the weyr, he pushed inwards, nudging past K'ienn. He probably wouldn't want to have this conversation out in the hallway, especially when he'd only bothered to tug trousers on anyway. "It's one way to keep friends close, I'll admit," he rasped, a chuckle chasing his quip.

He made himself at home in the front chamber of K'ienn's weyr, eyes flicking around to assess the mess. Bed unmade, furs nearly on the floor from having been tossed, scattered clothing...seemed about right. "I'm surprised Yisketh didn't give chase." He scanned the tiny bronze across the way. "A shame to miss a chance. Never know when the next will be, after all." His words ended with a rumbling throat-clear, making the young man's brows furrow at the feel of his throat already growing irate and raw. "No interest in having your dragon sire an egg for the son you sired, huh? Or's he just gone and given up on me too? That's fine. I guess I already knew you were a quitter." There was a pause. "Like father like son after all, huh?"

The boy let himself flop back into one of K'ienn's chairs, staring his father down with the raw uncaring lack of intimidation of those who've really and truly given up on...just about everything. "I gave Gr'del back my knots," he tossed out there, shrugging his blatantly knot-free shoulder.

Teiha

 

[Teiha]

The entrance of his disfigured son was a bit jarring, for Falienn instantly ceased the ridiculous noise and walked into the room, shifting into his usual snide attitude—complete with rude, uncalled for remarks. K’ienn had, frankly, been expecting more of a confrontation than that. For Faranth’s sake, that first insult was so puerile that it didn’t even merit a response. He shut the door, crossed his arms, and turned to watch as the boy walked in like he owned the place. Typical Falienn. Though, K’ienn had to admit, that particular brand of confidence seemed to be a common trait in their bloodline.

That next comment, though... that did sting. Falienn might not have been close enough to see it, but his father’s dark eyes hardened, a subtle tightening of the corners. He would never tell that little p***k that he’d had no choice, being away doing Zheria’s work when Fianth went up. Nor would he try to describe how hard he’d had to fight Yisketh, while wanting nothing more than to drop everything and let the bronze take them back home. Even now, he was at odds with his dragon, and at odds with himself, their conflicting desires creating nothing but turmoil. Yet he couldn’t afford to show weakness, pressing forward without a chance to stop for breath. He had a job to do. But not a word would he say about it. Not one. All of it would just sound like excuses to the son who had resolved to hate him long before ever even meeting him.

But now there was something new, something troubling, in the way that Falienn looked at him as the boy sat down. He recognized that look. He’d seen it on the faces of raiders many times. Desolation. Resignation. Emptiness.

Then came the big reveal, which K’ienn knew was expected to throw him into a rage. And oh, what an urge he had to give Falienn what he obviously wanted. He could have pointed out that the boy had quit before even adding one string to his first knot, while K’ienn held a Wingleader’s knot and was working toward further promotion. He could have pointed out that Falienn never trained in a craft, essentially quitting before he’d even started. He could have punched that familiar-featured face, as he’d wanted to since their very first encounter. But he couldn’t bring himself to do any of that.

...Because Falienn’s eyes seemed dead.

Like a flash in his mind, he pictured K’voran standing in his own place, and a younger version of himself sitting in that chair. He sensed his response would somehow be critical to Falienn, whether the boy respected him or not. Adding wood to the fire was certainly not going to help. So... K’ienn took a deep breath and sat down in the chair across from his son.

“Let’s talk.”

ShinosBee

 

[ShinosBee]

Falienn watched the not-so-subtle play of emotions in his father's eyes. It was easy enough to read someone's face when it was your own, really (though with brown eyes and a crooked nose, courtesy of a certain bluerider), and he could tell which words stung and which deflected. The interesting thing was that, usually, Falienn would have made keen note of it for use later. Distantly he realized that he genuinely didn't care, this time. He couldn't break the pattern of attacking his father, but seeing that he'd spurred a reaction made him feel...nothing.

And perhaps more worryingly, more telling, if he'd stopped to notice, was that his own lack of reaction didn't raise any red flags to himself.

He was somewhat surprised to see his father repress that blatant urge to fight back, grab a chair, and settle in. "Talk?" He echoed, nearly toneless, as if he simply meant to confirm what his father'd said. He wanted to talk? Now? Once upon a time Falienn would have latched onto that and drove in for all he was worth. Oh, so now that I really might shame you, you want to talk? What about all the times I wished I could talk to you as a child? What about when I was laying there at Western, unable to do more than try to breathe, and all you had for me was a lecture? What about every other moment of my life? Now you want to talk? He would have denied the man the chance, just to try to hurt him.

But he was just so tired. So empty behind the facade he kept up out of habit. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to not talk. He wanted...he wanted to leap between times to stop himself from ever going to Western. Barring that, he simply wanted to stop having to worry about it, to stop having to decide to press on in one direction or another, every minute of every day. He wanted to stop, in the fullest sense of the word, because nothing was making him happy any more, because nothing mattered, nothing at all.

"I hate you, you know that, right? For what you did to my mother, and me. I hated dragons before the green even. I wanted one just to rub it in your face, to piss you off if it was small, 'unworthy', or to show you that I was just as good as you, better, even, if it was some sharding bronze like yours." The words came spilling out, as casual as if he was talking about the weather, dispassionate and bland, and free. Perhaps it was the thought that nothing did matter, that even if he were truthful, that nothing K'ienn could say or do would bring him lower than he was. Or perhaps it was some small, unknown part of him, a part that had once been so very determined, trying to reach out and latch on and claw itself just a bit of the way back into the boy's mind by making him reach out.

"I hate all dragons, I think. The Weyrs. The whole way of things with them. I'm only worth anything if I impress, did you know that? They'll tell you it's an honor to even try, that you should be proud, that you're better than anyone not even picked, but even the best of us isn't worth a drop of ichor when it comes down to it." His arms crossed in front of him, squeezing tight to his chest. "D'you have any idea what that's like? To know that everyone around you either would accept your death as 'sad but acceptable' or put the blame on you for it, for doing nothing but standing still too long, or moving the wrong way, or being sharding afraid when something wanting to kill you charges you?" His volume was rising, and his cheeks felt hot, wet, but he didn't remember starting to cry. "Faranth but I hated you then, when you came to me after. I knew by then the Weyr didn't care if I lived or died, as long as the green'd lived, but some little stupid part of me'd hoped that then at least you'd care, that you'd—" His tirade cut off with a wet gurgling hack, and the boy was forced to bend forward, nearly in half, heaving against the ragged coughs.

Teiha

 

[Teiha]

K’ienn waited for the boy’s response to his terse invitation, unsure how he might react. He half expected the chair his son was sitting on to come flying toward his face. But Falienn went away into his thoughts for a long moment. K’ienn shifted a bit as the moment stretched out so uncomfortably long that he almost asked the boy if he was all right. He wasn’t keeping tabs on his son like he used to, and had no idea if he was still receiving pain management from the healers. There was a fleeting thought that Falienn might be using fellis inappropriately, but surely he had more sense than that…?

"I hate you, you know that, right?” Falienn suddenly said.

He bit back the reflexive, snide reply. That was… kind of obvious. Falienn had given up on pretending niceties with K’ienn quite some time ago. Any verbal communication they’d had since Western was short and sharp, with an explosion thrown in here and there for good measure. They’d learned well how to push each others’ buttons in the mere turn or so since they’d met.

The boy continued, saying things that were, again, fairly obvious. He hated his father and wanted to make him mad. The fact that he’d possibly been aspiring to bronze was new to K’ienn, however. But to be “better” than his father for riding bronze? He doubted Falienn ever had the gumption or self-control to climb the necessary ranks. The effort required to reach that lofty goal would be… intimidating, at best. But that aside, Falienn’s detached tone was raising all sorts of alarms. K’ienn stayed silent, letting the boy speak his piece. An interruption at the wrong time could make things even worse.

As his son spoke of honor and worth, he couldn’t help but hear the words in K’voran’s voice. How many times had that man drilled the same into a certain young boy’s head? It had been normal, the natural way of the world for K’ienn. He always knew he would ride bronze, knew he would climb to a place where he could actually make a difference in the world. The question was… did K’voran ever care what happened to his son, his child, if that future never came?

The stark, brutal truth was… no.

K’ienn watched his son as he spilled out his thoughts, Falienn’s expression detached as if he were speaking about someone else as he recounted their argument in Western’s infirmary. The man’s chest tightened as he recalled every harsh word that had come out of his own mouth then. Every callous statement, so flawlessly drawn from the days of his own innocence, when he absorbed them like sustenance, craving his father’s approval. But, that day in the infirmary, there had been an undercurrent in K’ienn’s voice, in the flashing of his dark eyes, that hadn’t been the anger Falienn so clearly perceived.

The boy’s face was already streaked with tears long before he abruptly bent over, wracked with ugly coughs. K'ienn stared, feeling pressed to act, but dreading the outcome. This would have to be it. If he didn’t speak now, if he waited too long and Falienn walked out, there might never be another chance.

“…I did care.”

The words surprised K’ienn as they left his lips.

“I thought for sure you were dead. That that was it. But you lived. You shaffing lived. I… I just… lost it, when I saw you up close. It was impossible, that you were still even breathing.”

ShinosBee

 

[ShinosBee]

Some snide, quiet, hysterical part of Falienn wanted to snap back that he clearly wasn't still breathing all that well at all, but the thought was smothered by the increasing pain and almost cloying wetness to his coughing. His throat felt like it'd been scoured raw inside by a kitchen scrub brush, flesh and cords all left flaming and raw. It'd become harder and harder to catch his breath when he talked for any length of time these days, and the occasional flub where, meaning to say one sound, another came out when his throat spasmed—but the coughing was the worst of it. It was like the boy'd never fully recovered from the rampant sickness of the past turn.

Of course, none of that really mattered just then. What did matter, apparently, was that K'ienn had not been quite so indifferent as he'd seemed to his son's plight. Up through tousled, dull dark hair Falienn stared, eyes squinted, glaring—at the man or because of his own continued spasms?—at him as he grappled his coughing into a near-silent, wrenching hunches of the shoulders. For a moment it seemed the coughs were beginning to abate; he pulled his hand from over his mouth, sat a bit straighter...only for another round to set in, a wet splatter of something suspiciously tinged with pink just missing his own foot onto the stone weyr floor. "S-sorry..." Had he ever apologized for anything to K'ienn before? The hand clapped over his mouth again to forestall any more mess, but thankfully this was a last bout before things began to settle.

When at last the boy was able to sit back, almost reclining into the chair with a drawn, haggard look, he tugged a small flask from his side. they were still giving him fellis, but he only sipped at it now. K'ienn's fears could be set aside on that point—sure, the boy'd debated it, but he'd also seen the wrecks of the addicted before, and despite his darker yearnings had yet to consider the precious medicine as a way out. Not recently, at least.

"Well," A long, slow, careful breath. "I did live. And that's half the shaffing problem." More slow, almost exaggerated breathing. A distant look glazed his expression, nearly like that of a rider reaching out to their dragon. Indeed it was a dragon he was thinking about, though not his own, thank Faranth. I hope you die on the sands. The entire world will be so much better without a rotten shell like you in it. Those tired, tear-reddened eyes slid closed. "Sorry to disappoint you there, too, I guess. You and all the rest." Because surely K'ienn had cared not that he'd lived, but that he'd not died.

"...I don't think I can do this." A half smile. The glint of another tear streaking down to hang from the not-quite-man's jaw. The increase in breath, a rising heart rate. Panic? "I, I don't think I can do this, dad."

Teiha

 

[Teiha]

The boy coughed… and coughed… and coughed. It was gut-wrenching to watch, and sounded worse. K’ienn blinked as something splattered on the floor, traces of blood coloring it. His eyes trailed back up to his son’s haggard face. How long had he been this bad? “It’s fine,” he said about the accidental mess. But it wasn’t fine.

"I did live. And that's half the shaffing problem," Falienn said. He had that faraway look again, just after taking a pull from that flask. Fellis, most likely, but the look wasn’t because of the medicine. He was thinking about something that had hurt him. "Sorry to disappoint you there, too, I guess.” But Falienn had it wrong again. It wasn’t that K’ienn was disappointed that he’d lived. Those things he had been disappointed in? Those were… K’ienn visibly startled as he realized they were K’voran’s conditions for what only pretended to be love. And very… very superficially, at that. What in the sharding filth of the first dragons had he been thinking?

"I, I don't think I can do this, dad."

K’ienn’s hand shot out, snatching up his son’s shirt collar in his clenched fist. So many times he’d ached to grab that son of a wher, to yank him off his feet and shake the daylights out of him. To slam him into a wall and pin him there for the browbeating of his life. But he did nothing of the sort now. It was a strangely gentle gesture, for all its suddenness; his bent arm was a brace, supporting the boy with its strength, a silent encouragement to lift his head and hold it high. He hadn’t been able to help it. It was a primal reaction to a word his son had never used before, unless it was to mock him.

Dad.

He looked directly into the boy’s eyes for a long moment, unwavering and intense. “Then don’t. Don’t do it, Falienn. You can rest. You don’t have to do anything else.”

ShinosBee

Grabby-grabby done with Shinos' permission.