dpscheck | stuck meme

[for all francel's eccentricities — for all his disrespect of social norms and strange, sudden timidity, he is, at heart, the son of a noble house, and sons of noble houses do not typically have their moments of indulgence cut short so soon. francel whines and worms closer to zephirin; he crawls to where the man is seated, going so far as to rest his head on zephirin's thigh.]

...The other ear, too... please? Please, Zephirin...?

[the mouse becomes a cat — a thoroughly spoiled and demanding cat.]

[ And Zephirin has his answer: this is how his odd day will end, with a lordling's head in his lap, said lordling begging him, unabashedly, not to cease stroking his ears.

It is strange like his involvement in Francel's waking dream, like much of this evening's course. This closeness violates etiquette, disregarding the boundaries it delineates, the norms of chirurgeon and patient, of lord and knight.

Yet when Zephirin replies, his voice is laced with the equivalent of his imperceptible smiles, and on his lips he has no reproach. ]

... As you wish.

[ Zephirin's hands serve the Fury, but now they indulge Francel's plea. As he did with one ear, so he does with the other, mapping its lines from end to end. ]

[once more francel shivers from head to toe. zephirin's touch is delicate — just tantalizing enough to leave francel hungry for more. pleasure buzzes just beneath his scalp, trickling slowly through his veins like warmth. it is heady and intoxicating. he feels as though he is melting into the mattress.]

Mmmmmmmm...

[with that sweetly voiced sigh, francel wriggles, finding a more comfortable stretch of thigh to rest his cheek against. his shoulders quiver again, but this time not because of any touch to his ears. a smile tugs at the corners of his lips; he is laughing to himself, giggling silently in zephirin's lap.]

...You are so kind.

Edited 2017-05-20 04:13 (UTC)

[ Watching Francel leads to odd thoughts, surfacing unbidden, perhaps unsurprisingly. Francel's ears are extraordinarily sensitive — only his ears, or any given ilm of his skin? Touching his nose to the tip of Zephirin's finger had no such effect.

Once both ears have received the same attention, however, Francel's request is fulfilled, and Zephirin returns his hands to the mattress. He is keenly aware of the weight of Francel's head pillowed upon his thigh. Francel's hair brushes against Zephirin's bare skin with the boy's wriggling. His sighs uncover their mark somewhere within Zephirin, embedding themselves there.

And Francel is no mouse, no cat.

Zephirin places his hand to his chest. ]

As are you, my lord.

So formal...

[francel giggles again. he shakes his head to demonstrate his disaproval of zephirin's formality, determined in his efforts to take down the barriers between them; unfortunately, he is so dazed and drowsy that it comes out as a heavy lolling against zephirin's thigh. his half-lidded eyes, however, are firmly fixed upon zephirin's handsome face: his thin lips, his high cheekbones.]

I, too, am glad... the Fury bid our paths cross today. You seem... the best sort of person I could have met.

[ Zephirin's posture grows a trace more rigid as Francel's head rubs against his thigh as it must against Francel's true pillow in sleep. His skin, though his sense of touch is not unusually heightened, feels Francel's every breath. Underneath, the remnants of an ache in his leg twinge.

Formality becomes a shield, discomfort strengthens it.

And yet, to hear Francel's guileless praise... It brings him some undeniable pleasure. ]

It gladdens me, then, to be of service. But as you know, knights forced to lie idle between the battlefield and Halone's halls are not few.

[that remark sobers francel, gives him pause. his eyes turn towards their corners, at the mattress, and then close.]

...I know...

[ It is a statement of fact, nothing more, but perhaps not all idle knights are strange enough themselves to arrange secret meetings with schoolboys, their reasons pure, and to think nothing of stroking a seemingly touch-starved lordling's ears.

Zephirin falls silent. Francel, it appears, has overtaxed himself after all. ]

[for a long time, francel does not open his eyes. he lies quite still upon zephirin's lap, unmoving, breathing slowly, deeper and deeper. his eyes do not even flutter lazily open. but then, just when some observer might think him finally, genuinely asleep —

— he rises, pulling his upper body into place and swinging his legs off the bed in one fluid motion. were it not for some slightly mussed locks of hair at his temple, one would think he had never lay down at all. he keeps his face turned away from zephirin as he speaks.]

...Will you come by again in some days? I would evaluate your condition for myself.

[ The room's temperature is neither too warm nor too cold — until Francel moves. Where his head lay, the air is cool upon Zephirin's skin. They sit side by side, but Francel now seems closed off.

Zephirin is still a moment longer. Then, standing from his seat, he gathers up his clothing, though he pauses to acknowledge Francel's question with a nod. ]

At a quarter bell past seven?

...Yes.

[francel stares resolutely at the floor, trying to will the sudden ache in his chest away. he does not feel well, not in the least. he stares at his hands, slowly bringing them together; he folds his hands in his lap. his words are only barely voiced.]

I would like that.

[ To Zephirin, Francel's moods are mountains and vales. His cheer is fragile, oddly so, dissipating like wisps of smoke meeting a changing breeze.

The knight, tunic and trousers in one hand, boots in the other, kneels at the young lord's feet. Francel's hair shields his eyes from view. ]

... Are you certain?

[francel is quiet, but his nod seems assertive enough. there is no hesitation in the deep bob of his head. he would like to see zephirin again. he would.]

But...

[his fingers twitch in his lap. he makes as if to look zephirin in the eyes, but doesn't quite manage the journey, and lowers his head again.]

But... would you like that?

[ Surprise darts across Zephirin's features in fleetingly lifted brows before his expression smooths out, and he answers evenly: ]

I would.

[ He was not coerced into collaborating with Francel against his will. Does the boy believe otherwise? Had he refused, Guerrique's rehabilitation regimen would have recommended arm wrestling contests... ]

I am honoured to submit myself into your care for a time, Lord Joacin.

...But... beyond honor?

[francel can contain himself no longer; he pulls his legs back up onto the mattress, burying his face in his knees.]

Beyond... this?

[this. some meaningless word, something francel uses to denote so many things: his title, his rank, his position as a seminarian, his status as an unqualified chirurgeon. beyond this. beyond everything. evaluating himself only as a man, and not a lord or student or scholar.]

I... I have been too many times betrayed by those who were not true to me...

[ The carefree lordling of Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral, appeased with apples and with touches to his ears, is not so free of cares. Some secret pain burdens him, but like his embarrassment, he presents it to Zephirin in disjointed pieces.

Beyond this.

Zephirin rises from the floor, leaving his boots behind. Once more, he lays his hand upon Francel's shoulder. ]

Beyond this, you need not fear betrayal. What do you ask of me?

[francel stiffens beneath zephirin's touch. his posture loosens only slightly — he becomes less of a ball, limbs stretching out very slightly, but he still does not lift his head and his voice is still very quiet, very soft. one of his hands reaches up toward the hand resting on his shoulder. his fingers make contact, uncertainly.]

Just...

...tell me... you had fun today.

[ Francel speaks so softly that Zephirin's ears almost strain to catch the sound without his leaning closer. Fresh surprise follows in the wake of this murmured plea. "Fun" was not their goal — nevertheless, this, too, is a request effortlessly granted. ]

I had fun today.

[ It is the truth, for he found enjoyment in Francel's company, in the boy's odd charm. ]

[the words seem to soothe the wounded mouse in francel's heart. he closes his eyes, holding zephirin's hand loosely in his own; he relaxes, just a little bit. at length he looks up and musters a smile, pressing zephirin's palm to his cheek.]

...Thank you.

[but for all the unspoken rules about bringing dormitory guests, he really cannot and should not keep zephirin in his room forever. eventually, francel releases zephirin's hand, nodding toward his clothes and his shoes.]

...Promise you will return?

I will return.

[ So he makes his promise, intending to keep it.

But when the day of their next meeting dawns, Zephirin must greet it from an infirmary bed, sent back by reopened wounds. Evening falls, and a fresh change of bandages sees him discharged with a firm reminder not to exert himself overmuch, to patiently await the Fury's call to return to the battlefield. It is a bell past the time to report at Francel's window.

He had no way to deliver an explanation to the boy, in the interest of involving no one, and guarding their secret.

Another half bell passes before Zephirin, a brief apology penned in hand, reaches the scholasticate dormitory at last. Locating Francel's window, he does not tap on the glass — he examines it from below for a gap through which he might slide his note. ]

[francel, for his part, has been patiently waiting.

anxiety set in after the first few minutes; zephirin had been so punctual their first meeting that even that much seemed unnatural. suppose he changed his mind? suppose francel really was a burden after all? seven in the evening, and francel would have to wake at five in the morning; he makes the resolution to wait at least until the clock struck twelve and the bells were silenced until the dawn.

it is a resolution not easily kept. francel pretends to study at his desk, but he keeps checking the time: half bell past seven, three-quarters, eight. he closes his window at a quarter past eight, fearful of moths and other creatures that might be tempted by the lights in his dormitory. he pulls the curtains closed at half past eight. he changes his mind —

it is pure indecision that prompts francel to pull the curtain open, and find zephirin standing there. warm relief washes over his anxious expression; he has forgotten to wear his doctor's-coat, and is instead clad in a plain white sleeping-gown, like some maiden in a child's bedtime story, a sleeping princess in a tower.]

You came...

[there is nothing in his expression of anger, or impatience.]

[ The curtains are drawn shut, dimming the light behind them, but only spanning the moment it takes Zephirin to arrive at the correct window and begin to inspect its frame, likely bearing some semblance to a burglar then. The window is sturdily built; it has no obvious flaws, each part seamlessly joined. Where it opens, there is no crack to allow passage even to a small piece of parchment.

Suddenly, the window grows brighter. The curtains part, and Francel stands on the other side, dressed for bed.

Zephirin shakes his head. He came, yes, but he came not at the time agreed upon. ]

I endeavour to keep my promises, but I was delayed.

[ Perhaps they should not hold their conversation through the window. Then again, he came only to explain himself, expecting the appointment to keep within a certain time frame. ]

[francel seems to hesitate for a moment, and then opens his mouth to speak — but he changes his mind. an open window is not the place to hold a conversation.]

...Will you come in for a moment?

[he bends, extending his arm for zephirin to take.]

[ Francel's openly displayed relief tells Zephirin that the boy feared he would not come, a betrayal of sorts. He accepts the invitation, clasping Francel's hand and climbing his way through the window. This time, it is with some difficulty, but Zephirin conceals it, keeping his expression even, making no sound.

Inside, he steadies his breathing. His eyes follow Francel. ]

[concern flits across francel's expression — he notices that change in zephirin's breathing — but he bites his lip, willing himself not to comment. he closes the window and draws the curtain.

the room does not smell of flowers, this day. oddly enough, both beds have been perfectly made; perhaps francel has, indeed, been sleeping in the cathedral pews and not his bed. there is no apple on francel's desk, but there is a carefully rendered charcoal sketch of one, lying pinned beneath his bottles of massage oil.]

...If I may ask... what delayed you?

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