One day, Ar'din decided he had had enough and sat his dragon down for a heart-to-hearts. This was not the first time he had done so, though his attempts were usually not as direct as this. Ar'din, though a fighter, handled discussion and sensitive topics with a yardstick and as obliquely as possible, which suited Alquemieth just fine. Neither were particularly touchy-feely types after all. But more and more, Ar'din had been noticing that Alquemieth's usual steely focus had been wavering, and it was affecting him as well. Noticeably. Ar'din had been content to just find bedmates at random for a time, but when the issue continued, even he couldn't accept that enjoying the rush of a woman's body on a sevenday basis was positive enough to keep letting it happen without comment.

(He chose to believe this was also why his mind kept wandering while he had sex, why it kept picturing Iathe instead. She was, after all, such a prude, which made Ar'din naturally want to fix that.)

He sat before his dragon, checking for cracks between his claws, and began bluntly. Alquemieth, what is sharding going on with you lately?

Alquemieth rumbled softly with displeasure, not at being asked so much as it was the reminder that someone noticed. This particular failing had been haunting him for some days now, more than usual. He had first attributed it to his superior bronze senses alerting him that a gold was rising soon, but as none were, well...He was vexed, to say the least. What could possibly be bothering him if he was healthy and of sound mind? < Have I been underperforming, Mine? Of course not. This is a trifle, nothing more. >

No, it's definitely more than that. I know exactly what I've been feeling from you.

< And that is? >

Ar'din looked him in the eyes. You. Are super. Horny. You haven't chased any greens since graduation, I haven't seen you so much as attempt to flirt, like--you've got to be dying inside. I would be.

Alquemieth's muzzle wrinkled. < Do not ascribe your escapades to me. In fact, I would suggest you tone it down. I cannot have you risking children or other entanglements when your duty is to me and your weyr. >

There was something in the bronze's tone, and the fact that he had tried to turn the conversation back around to his rider, that made Ar'din certain he was on the right topic. Not that Alque could lie: the purple in his eyes had been growing when he wasn't noticing. It was being commented on, even, much to his scorn. Why in Faranth's name he kept denying and avoiding it, though, only Ar'din could begin to guess at.

He reached up to grab at one of Alquemieth's ridges and pulled his head down, looking unimpressed. Cut the beastcrap. I know it's coming from you. YOU know it's coming from you. Let's address it already. Ar'din shook him slightly. If you want to go ******** someone, do it already. Who cares what's said afterwards? You literally just became an adult, of course you're going to want to chase. That's what dragons do all the time.

With another rumble, this time of more overt annoyance, Alquemieth pulled his head away. < What a dragon does, > he replied, annunciating each word sharply and slowly, < is fight Thread. What a bronze does is chase queens. Until such time, I will not be bothered by--

There was the smallest of pauses, as if both knew through an unknown sense to shut up. And then--

A goldflight began, as if summoned by dramatic irony. Or Alquemieth's self-proclaimed sensitivity foreshadowing.

Ar'din had never been exposed to one before, having been too young for the ones close to Bitra and having been mostly far and away fro dragons up until his sudden Search barely a turn and a half prior. The surge of hormones and thoughts were strong; while Ar'din wasn't one that emoted often, his feelings ran surprisingly deep. It was why when he and Alquemieth were of the same mind, they were unstoppable, and why when they weren't, such as right then, it was a war.

I know where I'm going, he said to the bronze as he got to his feet. The thrum of his body led him more than his eyes or mind did, like a rhythm only he could hear. Hope you do too. Seriously. You're at your limit here. Get a green if you're desperate, or blue, or whatever. I don't care, but find someone already.

Alquemieth watched him go before sourly muttering to himself and turning to leap off his ledge. Once he chased Zenobiath--and, were he worthy, win it--this problem would go away, he was certain. Being keyed up? Honestly. He was a grandson of the greatest gold High Reaches had known in centuries. Unlike his clutchsiblings, he was above such petty things. He was in control. He was...hungry.