[ Turned toward Francel, Zephirin leans on one palm laid upon the mattress, and their fingers brush when Francel moves his hand. It seems as likely a reason as any to explain Francel's sudden blushing — more so than the warm weather, for the moment, or the mention of Guerrique's guilty concern — but Zephirin leaves his hand where it is, outwardly taking no notice of its placement. His fingers flex just slightly, as if debating whether to withdraw or to cover Francel's, before going still.

Briefly, he thinks of Francel in his arms. ]

A friend. Maybe you saw him doing push-ups earlier, and we were partners in class today.

[ With his free hand, Zephirin gestures at Francel's head, rueful. ]

Unfortunately, he hit the ball a little too hard...