[ Calling out when Francel slumps to the floor, his partner draws the attention of the nearest pairs of students to the scene — they stop, stare, whisper. Before long, the disruption ripples through the entire room, all the more for the fact that Guerrique, headed after his stray tennis ball, is sprinting through the crowd at full speed, Zephirin close on his heels. Alarm soon spreads across Guerrique's features as he catches sight of Francel; eyes wide, he slows to a halt while Zephirin kneels beside the younger boy.
"It wasn't me!" Francel's partner exclaims hastily, unnecessarily, backing away from Francel's motionless form. "The ball, like, came flying at him out of nowhere...!"
Deflating, Guerrique looks somehow small then, uncharacteristically subdued. "I know, I'm the one who—"
The commotion has reached their teachers: making his way over to investigate ahead of his colleague, Mr. Slafyrsyn breaks up the cluster of curious and concerned bystanders surrounding Francel. "Give him some room, now." He raises his voice so that it carries, quite possibly addressing not only the students next, but attempting to keep Mr. Foulques in check. "Everyone, take five early, drink some water. One incident is plenty."
His gaze lowers to Francel, to Zephirin now on his feet, as if scrutinizing the latter. Ordinarily, the class could be left to their own devices for a while, letting their teacher handle reporting to the school nurse, but ordinarily, the class is a manageable size, under manageable circumstances. Mr. Slafyrsyn sighs, scrubbing his palm across his chin.
There is a dilemma at hand, Zephirim perceives. ]
...Would you like me to take Francel to the infirmary, sir? We're close friends.
[ They may not be close, and Guerrique glances up in surprise, but it seems to persuade Mr. Slafyrsyn to relent and entrust his unconscious student to Zephirin. Francel is slight, no heavy burden to carry out of the gym and to Mr. Whitecape's office; still, towards the end, Zephirin feels too warm himself, and grateful for their air-conditioned destination.
no subject
"It wasn't me!" Francel's partner exclaims hastily, unnecessarily, backing away from Francel's motionless form. "The ball, like, came flying at him out of nowhere...!"
Deflating, Guerrique looks somehow small then, uncharacteristically subdued. "I know, I'm the one who—"
The commotion has reached their teachers: making his way over to investigate ahead of his colleague, Mr. Slafyrsyn breaks up the cluster of curious and concerned bystanders surrounding Francel. "Give him some room, now." He raises his voice so that it carries, quite possibly addressing not only the students next, but attempting to keep Mr. Foulques in check. "Everyone, take five early, drink some water. One incident is plenty."
His gaze lowers to Francel, to Zephirin now on his feet, as if scrutinizing the latter. Ordinarily, the class could be left to their own devices for a while, letting their teacher handle reporting to the school nurse, but ordinarily, the class is a manageable size, under manageable circumstances. Mr. Slafyrsyn sighs, scrubbing his palm across his chin.
There is a dilemma at hand, Zephirim perceives. ]
...Would you like me to take Francel to the infirmary, sir? We're close friends.
[ They may not be close, and Guerrique glances up in surprise, but it seems to persuade Mr. Slafyrsyn to relent and entrust his unconscious student to Zephirin. Francel is slight, no heavy burden to carry out of the gym and to Mr. Whitecape's office; still, towards the end, Zephirin feels too warm himself, and grateful for their air-conditioned destination.
He wonders when Francel will wake. ]