dpscheck | stuck meme

[ Turned over onto his front, Zephirin's head rests atop his folded arms, and he must rely on touch and hearing as Francel leans over him, moving out of his line of sight. Normally, sleep is the one reason to relinquish full awareness of his surroundings by choice, but Zephirin lets his eyes close. He focuses on the sound of Francel's voice coming from above, and on the movement of Francel's hands.

Francel's tone shows another new side to the boy. His hands travel across Zephirin's back at a measured pace. He is less a schoolboy then, conducting a first-time experiment; there is nothing of an uncertain learner in his ministrations.

Francel's fingers take the tension from Zephirin's muscles — tension there without his realizing it, holding his strength together against stubborn tendrils of fatigue, until its absence makes itself felt. He breathes deeper, relaxing as bid. Any pain is bearable. It loses to the soothing pressure of Francel's touch. ]

You must have good posture. Everything seems to be in proper alignment.

[francel begins to rub circles into zephirin's back — but neither zephirin's back nor francel's hands are particularly oily or sweaty, and as a result, francel encounters slight friction. he will simply have to remedy that. since the knight expressed no desire for any particular type of oil, francel chooses lavender for its scent; he pours some into his hands and rubs slowly, warming the liquid between his palms.]

Deeper now...

[with hands that now glide more smoothly over zephirin's skin, again francel comes to the knight's neck, rubbing deeper, more insistently, at a tension between zephirin's shoulders so stubborn that francel wonders if the man has ever been without it.]

This might hurt... but pleasantly, I hope.

Edited 2017-05-17 15:52 (UTC)

[ This time, Francel's remark elicits a chuckle, hummed softly, more gentle vibration than sound. Zephirin's posture is not consciously alike that of a knightly statue, ever vigilant and never weary, but it serves him well, for sloppy posture in Temple Knights on duty would be frowned upon.

The oil's fragrance and its sensation upon Zephirin's skin evoke nothing sensual, no fantasies of massage-house workers, scantily clad or otherwise. Rather, it calls forth the immediately familiar, images of fallen knights anointed for their final journey.

Francel speaks true.

Zephirin's awareness catches hold of the pinch of pain between his shoulder blades — it melts away into pleasurable warmth. No reply seems necessary, and so he leaves his acknowledgement at another hummed sound. ]

[he laughs? he laughs! zephirin's half-hum, half-chuckle seems to lift a great weight off the pit of francel's stomach; with his patient at ease, he, too, giggles back, feeling emboldened enough to lower his professional mask just a little more. his hands rub their way down zephirin's back one more time, and then slip toward his sides, tracing the lines of zephirin's waist on the way up. francel leans forward as he speaks, that he might whisper into zephirin's ear.]

Your waist is so slender... [fingers moving slowly upward, ever ever upward...] ...but your shoulders are so broad.

[with that, he pulls back, humming. he continues his path upward, kneading zephirin's arms, his biceps. his forearms, however, francel leaves well enough alone — they are pinned beneath him on the pillow anyway.]

I confess, I am envious. I never could build a... a knightly body. Nor was I ever skilled with a blade.

[ Francel's whisper is breathed fascination, brushing against Zephirin's ear. A shiver trickles not unpleasantly down Zephirin's spine; the knight's eyelids flutter. His eyes open, and he turns his head to watch Francel, cat-like.

Chirurgeons do not say such things. They invoke the Fury's grace to aid the potency of their remedies. ]

... Ishgard has need not only of knights. [ Breaking his silence, Zephirin speaks in a low, even tone. ] But you yet have time to train, should it be your wish to change your path.

[ The seminarian's cassock hid Francel's form — his white coat does the same, preventing an accurate assessment of his physique. Nevertheless, what Francel terms a knightly body was shaped by Zephirin's dedication to his goal, as was his swordsmanship. As a youth Francel's age, his naturally slender frame led others to doubt his ability to withstand the rigors of a knight's training, and the demands of the duty that lay ahead. ]

[francel shakes his head, although he is not entirely aware of zephirin's eyes on him — it is an automatic response, one born more of self-consciousness than of modesty.]

I like this.

...At least, I like it now.

[implicitly, he acknowledges his fickle heart, his playfulness. but suddenly his chirurgeon persona resurfaces, and his voice dips into its lower register. he removes his hands from zephirin's arms.]

If you will allow me, I will now massage your feet. Do I have your leave to remove your shoes?

[it is an... odd... thing, to see the youngest son of a high house so eager to remove shoes like a common squire. assuming a positive response to his question, he deftly undoes the buckles of zephirin's boots and his laces, sliding the loosened leather off the knight's legs with little trouble.]

[ "This". A seminarian's life? Or does Francel refer to the moment, this deviation from the routine?

Zephirin does not ask. He continues to watch the young lord, inclining his head after a heartbeat's thought to grant Francel his requested permission, until Francel moves beyond his field of vision once more.

It is an odd thing, this eagerness, but Zephirin has begun to anticipate odd things in Francel's company. ]

[once zephirin's feet are satisfactorily bared, francel...

...well. francel plays games with zephirin's toes, tapping his finger lightly against the plush, vulnerable pads of said toes while humming to himself. this chocobo went to the market, this chocobo stayed home... after a few seconds of this, though, he stops, laughing to himself.]

I'm sorry — I couldn't help it! Let's see, let's see...

[again, francel pours more oil into his hands. he presses his thumbs firmly on the ball beneath the knight's toes, taking long strokes down the length of zephirin's foot, rounder strokes around his heel, gentler strokes into the arch of his foot. francel massages even zephirin's ankles; he gives careful attention to every toe, happily and generously.

the room is still. nothing stirs beyond the door, or beyond the curtains: there is only zephirin, breathing quietly on the mattress, and francel, humming merrily, eager to love and be loved.]

How are you feeling?

[ At first, reflexively upon contact with the tip of Francel's finger, Zephirin's toes curl away from Francel's playfulness reawakened. There is a stutter in his breathing, a sharper intake of air, though he does not laugh, and he does not pull his feet out of reach. Zephirin pushes himself up onto his elbows, lifting his torso from the mattress to look over his shoulder.

He has his doubts that Saint Mocianne's pupil recommended playing with a patient's toes.

But, while he turns himself over to sit up as Francel applies another coating of oil to his hands, he dismisses the apology, shaking his head, and resumes his quiet watching the lordling work. Francel is thorough, neglecting no ilm of Zephirin's feet.

The boy seems to find pleasure in it himself.

The room's stillness is undisturbed; Zephirin gives Francel's question some thought, shifting his focus to his own body. Finally, one word begins his answer: ]

Enlightened.

[ His gaze seeks Francel's desk and the tome there. ]

As you say, there may be some merit to these teachings.

Good! Most excellent.

[much as he could continue giving the pretty temple knight foot rubs for the rest of the evening, all good things must come to their end, so francel shifts — first, from one foot to the other, and then to zephirin's calves. he uses gentle kneading, lifting motions, slowly working his way up his fellow elezen's long legs, past firm calves and knees to tender thighs...

the boy chuckles, fingers working steadily. there is something devilish in his angelic manner.]

You had best tell me when you would like me to advance no further...

[ Zephirin's hand covers Francel's as it wanders higher, pinning it against his thigh. They stand before a line not to cross, whether or not Francel permits access to impure fancies even jokingly.

The knight's response is calm: ]

I believe there are no aches left needing treatment.

Good.

[francel's response is equally calm, but his hand twitches uncomfortably below zephirin's, and he sounds just slightly nervous. nevertheless, his smile does not waver, and he remains, apparently, in high spirits.]

...Well, then — am I to discharge you from my ward?

Edited 2017-05-18 11:53 (UTC)

[ However subtle an undercurrent slips beneath Francel's smile, Zephirin detects his sudden unease. He takes his hand from Francel's. He studies the boy's expression.

Francel smiles, but there is something amiss. ]

Is that decision not yours to make?

[francel is holding himself oddly still; his smile falters ever so slightly. he seems to be afraid to move; though zephirin has released his hand, he does not withdraw it from the knight's thigh.]

I —

[i do not mean to keep you prisoner here, is what almost comes out of his mouth, but that is making an assumption of something zephirin has yet to state.]

...Have I offended you?

[ If Zephirin took issue with Francel's behaviour, he could draw away. He could get up, get dressed, and take his leave. Their paths would cross rarely.

Zephirin's hands rest beside him on the mattress, palm to cloth, and they make no move to forcibly place distance between himself and Francel. ]

Why do you ask?

[ Francel is a schoolboy again, but one far less mischievous than mere moments ago. ]

I... thought perhaps...

[slowly, francel draws his hands back to his sides, but — feeling caught in the middle of a crime — he continues to withdraw, wrapping his hands around his elbows in an unconscious display of discomfort. he does not like the sense that he is being seen through.]

...I-I'm sorry...

[ Francel's reply comes in disconnected fragments, revealing little of his mind. Slowly, too, Zephirin shifts on the bed until his feet touch the floor. He stands, and performs a half bow, with minimal difficulty and despite wearing only his undergarments. ]

No.

[ The Fury's teachings do not forbid tapping noses and playing with toes. Aught else never took place. ]

Full glad am I that we chanced to meet.

I...

[on the one hand, it is reassuring to know that he has not, in fact, offended zephirin. on the other, this is, somehow, even more embarrassing, and only exacerbates his feeling that he has some frightened animal coiled in his belly, desperate for safety.

his cheeks are extraordinarily pink.]

I'm sorry...

[with a very soft wailing sound (sort of like a deflating balloon, if ever zephirin has had the chance to spy ixali airships punctured) francel floats his way onto the bed and collapses into the sheets, face-first.]

[ It is as if Francel's very confidence has been punctured like an Ixali airship, dwindling to nothing, Francel's wail its dirge. Humiliation radiates from the boy — there is no cause for such distress, in Zephirin's view.

The knight takes a seat near Francel's elbow. His hand finds Francel's shoulder, settling there. ]

Have you done me some wrong?

[face-first in the blankets, francel makes a small, muffled sound; he shakes his head so vehemently that a little lock of hair sticking up at the back of his head wags like a tail in zephirin's direction. his embarrassment has nothing to do with anything anymore; it is totally irrational, and will not be eased merely by explaining himself.

at the touch to his shoulder, francel turns his head, just enough that one blue eye blinks at zephirin from beneath layers of golden hair. he makes a timid, curious sound, half-hum, half-squeak.]

[ Zephirin's odd day began with a lordling's rolling apple. He wonders, now, how it will end.

He feels somewhat as though he has not a boy, but a skittish mouse beside him.

With nothing to say, Zephirin moves his hand to the trembling lock of hair at the back of Francel's head, smoothing it into place using his thumb. His wrist brushes the tip of Francel's ear. ]

[even that brief contact against his ear, momentary electricity, is enough for francel to react. a shiver runs down his spine; the rest of his body follows the motion, and he squirms, shoulders cringing, knees bending, toes curling. his one visible eye closes firmly shut.]

Nnn...

[there is something plaintive, however, about the way he looks at zephirin when his eyes open again.]

[ The intensity of Francel's abrupt reaction makes the skittish mouse a wounded mouse, shuddering in what appears to be pain — but not quite. His skin must be exceptionally sensitive, for the lightest touch to affect him so.

Zephirin's fingers hover above Francel's head. Descending, his thumb and index gently take the pointed end of Francel's ear between them. ]

... What is it? An injury?

[ He leans closer. ]

Pray allow me...

[ But Francel's ear is unblemished, and no trace of any swelling or gash lies hidden beneath his fine fair hair. ]

[the wounded mouse squirms again, playfully; francel rolls and reveals more of his face, showing, at last, a dreamy, blissful expression. his eyes are clouded with a haziness that seems dangerously close to love. with one ear seized he cannot move his head much, but he bares his delicate neck, as if to make himself more vulnerable, more open to touch.]

N-No...

[he turns halfway onto his side.]

But I... I like... having my ears touched...

[ A touch barely a touch, yet Francel's embarrassment has disappeared. His confession may be explanation and invitation in one, the shifts in his body language a request. It is effortlessly granted. ]

Then, if I may...

[ Francel's ears are not short, not long. Zephirin's thumb traces the visible ear's shape from Francel's temple along its upper edge to his ear's point, and down the curve leading to his earlobe — petting a mouse. ]

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