dpscheck | academy of eorzea

[ Zephirin lowers his fork. Whether his friends are cool has never occupied his thoughts — there is an awareness that some of his peers admire him from a distance, and Adelphel is popular and relishes the attention, he knows, but the others don't receive the treatment reserved for a certain group of students in particular. ]

We rarely go to the cafeteria together. [ Guerrique isn't the type to stay still in one place, and so he bounces around between his friends; Adelphel and Janlenoux have their commitments and interests that prevent any regular sitting down in peace, too. ] I'm not opposed to introducing you, but it's likely that it would be just the two of us, at first.

[ In part because the alternative might be too much, all at once. ]

[just the two of us is as a siren song to francel's heart — he plunges into the ocean recklessly, unable to stop himself from getting giddy over the mere thought of it.

just the two of us, he whispers gleefully to himself. just zephirin and i eating lunch together in the cafeteria.

he shouldn't be so excited, he knows — it doesn't mean anything, not for someone like him, and surely zephirin is just being nice. all the same, this offer seems to brighten francel's mood enough that he finally turns his attention to his lunchbox, reminded that he should eat.]

...O-Okay, then. I'd like that... a lot, actually. It'd be a nice change from the usual...

Edited 2019-04-25 23:07 (UTC)

I agree.

[ Zephirin leaves it at that, lapsing into silence while Francel remembers his lunch. Of course, Francel's usual differs from Zephirin's, lonelier — no wonder the student librarian expects to be out of place in a group of friends — and Zephirin perceives the impact of his seemingly small gestures.

It wouldn't surprise him if Francel were to take his remark for nothing more than token, throwaway politeness, but he finds that he means it, honest and earnest, that the prospect of watching the younger boy emerge from his shell like this, little by little, holds genuine appeal.

Halfway through his lunchbox, he takes a break from it, turning to his bag for his study notes and a water bottle. He checks the clock on the wall. ]

If we run out of time today, you can take these home. [ Zephirin lays his hand atop the folder set down on the table between himself and Francel. ] Who teaches your math class this year?

[zephirin has done excellent work coaching francel through his math problems thus far — the boy isn't dull when it comes to maths, but he's not especially bright either, and he tends to get tripped up on problems that require more intense critical thinking. with zephirin's guidance, however, it seems like he's getting the hang of his trigonometry problems well enough.

he answers distractedly, focused on his calculations.]

Um... Mr. Lamberteint. He's sort of weird and theoretical... Why do you ask? Have you had him before?

[ As a tutor, Zephirin isn't the type to dish out undue praise, but he is patient, his explanations concise and straightforward. Where Francel needs a nudge in the right direction, he encourages the younger boy to consider the problems before him until the equations to solve no longer seem to consist of gibberish.

Francel's errant lock of hair catches Zephirin's eye again as he glances up from his page of notes. ]

That would have been my guess. I had him last year, and most of the class found his teaching difficult to follow — but we survived.

[ In other words, despite Mr. Lamberteint's roundabout methods and Francel's resulting math struggles, there is hope.

Finally, nearing the end of Francel's homework, Zephirin lifts his hand to bring the boy's hair to his attention at last, before they wrap up today's session. ]

...Francel?

[francel looks up quickly when his name is called, his stray lock of hair bobbing with the motion for long afterward. he tips his head to one side, reaching ineffectually halfway upward, trying to piece together why zephirin's hand is above his head.]

Yes...?

Your hair — allow me.

[ It's easier that way, quicker, sparing Francel the need to pat his head all over in search of that one lock of hair to smooth down, mussing the rest as he goes — though the mental image isn't unappealing, either. His intentions announced, Zephirin runs the tip of his index finger along the tousled golden strands forming an antenna of sorts at the crown of Francel's head. Gently, the movement brushes them flat. ]

[with a charmingly tensed face, his nose all scrunched up in concentration, francel bows his head when it is petted, as though this time the wild rabbit has deigned to lower its head in submission for a bout of grooming. his mouth is curved in what may be a subtle smile, and when zephirin removes his finger, francel's head tips upward as if chasing the contact.

he opens his eyes, clearly trying to suppress his laughter.]

...W-What was that?

[ Francel, the skittish wild rabbit, has been tamed, it seems, his trust won. Evidently, he was merely focused on holding still for Zephirin's assistance, his look of concentration almost comically intense for that reason.

To explain himself, withdrawing his hand, Zephirin takes a lock of his own hair between his thumb and index finger, pulling it upward into a longer "antenna" than Francel's. Throughout, he keeps a straight face. ]

Wh-What? I've looked like that the whole time?!

[charmingly panicked, as though he means to cry, francel blushes a truly appetizing shade of scarlet — but, mercifully, instead of running away, he melts into an embarrassed giggle, tucking his nose behind one of his notebooks.]

Why didn't you tell me earlier? I would have fixed it...!

[ That most likely looks different on Zephirin, not quite as endearing, for Francel to be so mortified and betrayed. Releasing his hair, Zephirin's fingers briefly rake through it, letting the strands settle as they were. ]

We got a little sidetracked before I could mention it — besides, I wouldn't say that it was urgent, or that it looked bad.

[ Whether or not Francel believes the truth, delivered matter-of-fact. Zephirin's hands move on to the empty lunchbox to seal closed and return, to his notes to gather up after that. ]

Should I have let you take care of it yourself?

No! You should have fixed it earlier!

[playfully sticking his tongue out at zephirin, francel slowly packs his things into his bag, too; they have only precious few minutes until the next period. their study session has been fruitful enough, but now their time of departure seems at hand.

abruptly — unthinking — francel blurts out:]

Um — Zephirin? Will I see you again?

[ This glimpse of Francel's playful side is even more daring than the first, as if his shyness has been vanquished once and for all. Eyes lowered to the tip of the younger boy's tongue, Zephirin pauses with his folder of notes under one arm, and a hint of fresh amusement in his expression.

Francel's hopeful question is just as bold. Curiously, Zephirin lifts his gaze, meeting Francel's.

They've made plans to eat in the cafeteria together, and Mr. Lamberteint's class provides plenty of reasons to keep up these tutoring sessions — but maybe that isn't what Francel means. ]

You have my number. Then I'm already forgiven?

[francel giggles, charmingly, and stares at zephirin with wonder in his eyes as he shakes his head.]

You were already forgiven. I'll... text you tomorrow, then.

[with a shy wave, francel gets up and then darts out of the door, his phone heavy in his pocket, his heart gleeful and full of hope.]

[ They don't see each other at lunch the next day, not in the cafeteria, nor elsewhere. Another student council meeting wraps up just before the end of the break, leaving Zephirin with a handful of minutes to text Francel on his way to class — he asks for an update on trigonometry with Mr. Lamberteint, and invites Francel to get in touch with him after school, when they have more time to talk. If Francel sends an answer, he doesn't see it immediately, forced to wait until the walk from Mr. Lexentale's classroom to the school gym, if not the end of the day.

Streaks of wispy white clouds stretch across the blue sky; the sun shines brightly, no summer storm in sight. Few among the students appreciate the hour ahead of them, spent running around in the heat, even indoors, and the crowded changing rooms buzz with their grumbling. To make matters worse, two classes are to share the facilities, misguided mercy.

Dressed in their gym uniforms, they fill the hall, second-years on one side, upperclassmen on the other, gathering around their waiting teachers. The first ten minutes are easy: as always, the class begins with warm-up laps and stretches, and the usual peppy musical accompaniment.

Zephirin, flanked by his friends, steals a glance across the room, not quite out of idle curiosity. ]

Edited 2019-08-12 03:14 (UTC)

[across the gymnasium, francel is doing mr. slafyrsyn's prescribed exercises with a kind of single-minded diligence. he looks very slightly self-conscious, and perhaps not too skilled with physical activity; he has to wobble on one leg when the gym teacher calls for a standing thigh stretch. nevertheless, he seems serious about exercising his body, unlike many students who merely slack through the day, unaccustomed and uninterested in exercise for the sake of exercise.

inadvertently, he's pulled his gym shorts a bit higher than he would normally wear them; his legs look creamy and soft.

he's grateful, in a way, that they're indoors with their seniors. it was his class that was scheduled to be outside in the heat, but mr. slafyrsyn wisely decided that that would prove to be a liability for the school if any students passed out from heat stroke, and moved them into the gymnasium for a shared class with mr. foulques. on the other hand, this means they all have to deal with mr. foulques.

"fifty push-ups! sixty sit-ups!" the silver-haired elezen shouts above the too-cheerful music being played by an old radio at the front of the room. "only by pushing your body to the brink can you break through your natural limits!"

"aye, well, there's also nothing wrong with letting the children have some water — ach, there's no getting through to him," mr. slafyrsyn mutters. "listen, if you can't bring yourself to do fifty and sixty, ten and twenty will do just fine."

francel sighs. ignoring mr. foulques's utterly unreasonable demands, he, too, steals a glance across the room — though when his eyes meet zephirin's, he stiffens, wobbles off his feet entirely, and hops a short distance before regaining his balance, thoroughly embarrassed.]

[ Francel unwittingly makes himself easy to spot among his less diligent peers, visibly doing his best to meet at least Mr. Slafyrsyn's realistic expectations despite his self-consciousness, and Zephirin's gaze tracks his movements for a moment, curiosity lingering. Inevitably, he witnesses the wobbling, not without dismay when Francel stumbles, narrowly avoiding toppling over.

His question answered — Francel's schedule indeed happened to coincide with his own today — Zephirin raises one hand slightly while the other boy is looking his way, a subtle wave in greeting and an apology for distracting Francel. Then he turns away, drawing up his left leg for a stretch, the right. He moves on to lunges. Beside him, Guerrique has already dropped to the floor, noisily determined to manage Mr. Foulques's fifty push-ups in one go. Adelphel, unimpressed with their teacher's demands, takes his time stretching until Mr. Foulques, making his rounds through the hall, passes their row.

Fifteen minutes into the lesson, much of the class seems pushed to the brink, flushed and breathless, knuckling sweat out of their eyes — Guerrique included. Though he paced himself, there is a touch of colour in Zephirin's cheeks, too, and a break halfway through for some water can't come quickly enough.

For now, they face their next set of instructions, fortunately easier on them as Mr. Slafyrsyn intervenes once more: in pairs, a tennis ball between them, they'll hone their hand-eye coordination. ]

[francel looks hopeful, for a moment, eyes crossing the room towards zephirin once more — but the classes don't seem inclined to mix, and he is quickly accosted by another boy his own age who is looking for a partner. glumly, francel takes his racket and a tennis ball, not without another forlorn look over his shoulder at zephirin...

in time, francel, too, is too warm, his vision swimming as he tries to power through his lightheadedness. his nose and cheeks are flushed a blotchy red — even the very tips of his ears have turned pink — but still, he bounces the ball in his hands against the floor a few times, planning an unusual serve...

bang!

it shoots like a meteor across the gymnasium — guerrique, overly zealous in returning one of zephirin's lobs, has knocked the tennis ball clear out of the upperclassmens' "side" of the room and straight towards francel's head. in his dizzy state, francel didn't even see it coming — it hits him squarely against the side of his skull.

francel sways for a moment, still standing — then he crumples, unceremoniously, to the ground.]

Edited 2019-08-24 17:04 (UTC)

[ 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.

He wonders when Francel will wake. ]

Edited 2019-08-25 06:18 (UTC)

[mr. whitecape needs only a quick look at the red mark on francel's cheek and temple to ascertain that the likelihood of a concussion isn't high — still, he instructs zephirin to help the boy into bed until he wakes and can be properly observed for signs of injury. (a truly responsible school nurse would tell zephirin to go back to class afterward, too, but mr. whitecape is used to having students come into his office feigning sickness to get out of class for short periods of time, and he's always been inclined to look the other way.)

lying on his back on the bed in the nurse's office, francel looks very fragile indeed.

his fingers are the first things to stir — they twitch against the bed, and then his eyes move beneath his eyelids, a soft groan escapes his throat. slowly, francel opens his eyes to find an unfamiliar ceiling, an unfamiliar room. the air feels much cooler than in the gymnasium.]

Where...?

[ Francel isn't the first fellow student Zephirin has accompanied to the nurse's office — second-years themselves at the time, Guerrique once broke a baseball bat, accidentally swinging it down against the ground, and needed splinters extracted from his fingers — and Zephirin himself has been here before, dizzy on that bed. Perhaps, though he sees countless students come and go, Mr. Whitecape remembers enough of them to consider the pair in his office safely left alone until Francel wakes, only pointing out the water cooler in one corner before busying himself behind his desk, rather than watching the two boys closely.

The room, hardly the size to be called an infirmary, is blessedly cool and quiet. Waiting, Zephirin sits in a chair by the wall, between the bed and a window, and sips from a plastic cup filled with water. His eyes rest on Francel, who seems small and delicate as he lies there, silent and still.

When the younger boy's fingers shift upon the mattress beneath him, Zephirin's spine straightens; setting his cup down, exchanging it for another on the shelf beside the chair, he stands from his seat to approach. ]

Mr. Whitecape's office. Let me tell him that you're awake.

[ He doubts that he needs to — the man can hear them — and instead of stepping away, he proffers the cup of water in one hand, holding out his other hand in case Francel has trouble sitting up on his own. ]

[mr. whitecape has, of course, already heard their conversation, and is already pulling back the privacy curtain to check on francel's status.

he asks typical questions: if francel would like zephirin to be dismissed (he does not), if he feels alright (aside from some throbbing, mostly so), if he would like to have his parents called (they won't pick up). the school nurse administers some basic eye exams, a simple hearing test. finally, he pronounces francel in good health — at least for now. "there's still a risk that you might present with concussion symptoms later in the day, or later in the week," mr. whitecape concludes, "but for the moment you seem fine. you were hit pretty hard, no doubt about that, but it looks to me that your cheek absorbed most of the impact, so aside from a nasty bruise there, you should be okay."

the man withdraws, rolling his swivel chair back over to his desk. "why don't you boys cool off here a while longer?" he says, kindly. "it'll give francel another moment to make sure that he feels alright, and i think it's cruel that they still haven't fixed the air conditioning in the gym, besides."

at this, francel nods gratefully, his lips curled at their corners. he sips at the water zephirin gave him.]

Thank you, Mr. Whitecape. [he turns the force of his full smile onto the boy beside him.] And thank you, Zephirin.

[ The curtain rustles softly, sliding back into place, and Mr. Whitecape disappears from view. Given the go-ahead to stay, Zephirin moves closer again, returning Francel's smile as he seats himself on the edge of the bed.

To think that Francel barely looked up at all, at first when they met. ]

It isn't how I expected us to see each other again, but it's the least I could do. [ His eyes flick to the bruise-to-be on Francel's cheek. ] Guerrique will be relieved to hear that you're alright.

[ So will he — even if it was only a tennis ball to the head, a concussion was (and apparently remains) a real possibility. ]

Who's Guerrique...?

[francel would likely know him by description, being one of zephirin's friends, but as guerrique has never taken books out from the school library, francel has no way of knowing who he is.

he's not quite conscious of it, but as zephirin draws closer, francel turns one of his hands palm-up on the bed, as if to indicate that he would like his hand held. his boyish shyness has not yet left him entirely — it suddenly occurs to him that zephirin looks very handsome indeed in their gym uniform, with just the white shirt clinging to his shoulders, and his face erupts in a vivid blush...

...but he is already lying down in bed, so there's no real way for him to duck away in embarrassment. not unless he wants to bury his face in the thin nurse's office pillow, anyway, which isn't very appealing.]

[ 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...

academy of eorzea

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