dpscheck | stuck meme

[ It occurs to Zephirin that Francel plays an assortment of roles, as if he acts out some private narrative. Now they are friends, not chirurgeon and patient — Francel chides his friend, and tucks his head beneath his friend's chin with the air of someone fondly exasperated, accepting his lot.

Cast as the friend who drives Francel to mild despair, Zephirin permits the boy to lean against him, recasting himself as a wall, though he brings his hands to Francel's shoulders. They stand unmoving, until Francel breaks their odd almost-embrace.

Zephirin takes his hands from Francel's shoulders. He points out the boy's attire with a glance. ]

What of yourself? Do you have time?

[francel blinks; he smiles.] Of course I have time.

[with no further explanation, the young lord marches over to his roommate's bed. he grabs the pillow left on the mattress there, then turns around, making his way to his own bed, where he props his own pillow against the headboard. he hops into bed, looking quite at home in his sleeping-gown, but instead of pulling the sheets over himself, he places his roommate's pillow in his lap, and then pats it lovingly, with an almost maternal patience.]

Come here and lie down.

[upon... the pillow in his lap? that appears to be his meaning, but this is all rather sudden.]

[ His preparations complete, Francel seems ready to sleep, not to entertain visitors. The invitation he extends now prompts a questioning tilt of Zephirin's head. The knight does not approach the bed. He eyes the pillow, looking up from it at last to meet Francel's gaze. ]

I fear I cannot shrink to a pillow's size.

[the young seminarian has the grace to laugh.]

I mean your head upon the pillow, and the rest of you upon the bed!

Edited 2017-05-22 14:52 (UTC)

[ If Francel's laughter was Zephirin's aim, his expression betrays but the faintest satisfaction.

The pillow rests atop Francel's thighs, and Zephirin, acquiescing to a degree, takes a seat on the mattress near the boy's legs, where he holds his hands out for the pillow. He can lie down with his head in Francel's lap no more than he can shrink in size, albeit for reasons not determined by nature. ]

[with just the faintest trace of disappointment, francel holds the pillow out for zephirin to take. he fidgets with his hands in his lap as he watches the knight make himself comfortable. after a moment, he folds his legs beneath his body to allow zephirin more room on the mattress.

one the knight is settled, francel leans over him as best he can, gently sweeping the fringe of zephirin's hair away from his forehead.]

You did not even ask me what it is I plan to do. Suppose I were to lure you into a cooking-pot?

[ Zephirin merely transfers the pillow to his own lap, his hands placed on top. Remaining seated, he shrugs, unperturbed. ]

I apologize. Do you plan to lure me into a cooking-pot?

[ Francel's plans will soon become clear — only then will Zephirin act. ]

[francel cannot help but smile a second time, shaking his head.]

Without other ingredients? That would be a waste of a perfectly good cut of Ishgardian knight.

[with popotoes and gravy, francel thinks, and perhaps a sprinkling of cheese — that would be a lovely way to serve zephirin, but he pushes his thoughts to the side after a moment. thus seated, zephirin vaguely resembles a little ladies' day doll: stiff and regal and perfectly perched upon his cushion. it sparks a kind of covetousness in francel, a possessiveness.

he needs to continue making up pretenses to keep zephirin in his company.]

...The later writings of Saint Mocianne's pupil get into Thavnarian theories of health, from the Near East. Which, ah, may explain the tome's location at the very back of the library, but... well, I checked, and it is not on any lists of banned books! At any rate, the Thavnairians have a concept they call pressure points — interestingly enough, it seems somewhat like what the Ala Mhigan monks refer to as chakra points... essentially, the theory is that there exist certain points in the body that, when manipulated, can control and shift the aether in one's body towards a more harmonious balance.

I suppose such theories might seem... dubious. However — nothing ventured, nothing gained, no? So I thought... in situations, like yours, where it might not be best to handle the body's muscles directly, a facial and scalp massage focusing on the pressure points located in those areas might have some effect...

[ How Francel would prepare a cut of Ishgardian knight, speaking as though many a knight was lured into his imaginary cooking-pot, is left his secret recipe. Zephirin takes in the boy's newest proposition, and responds by unbuckling his boots, removing them ere he draws his legs up onto the bed. Where Francel has made room, Zephirin arranges first the pillow, then himself. On his back, he turns his head toward Francel.

Perhaps these Thavnairian theories are dubious, but there is no harm in Francel's fun. They lose nothing.

Zephirin has a suggestion of his own to make, after a pause: ]

We knights may pair well with basil.

[the young seminarian smiles broadly, reaching out once more to brush the rest of zephirin's hair from his face. he is remarkably gentle; he is beginning to like zephirin's brand of humor.]

Basil, hmm? Yes, basil, and pepper, and just a hint of cider...

[there is a towel soaking in a basin of lukewarm water by the bedside; originally, francel had meant to use it for himself, but he takes up the towel and begins wiping gently at zephirin's brow.]

You have very clean skin already, but as a matter of procedure, I would clean your face before all else, you see. Is the water too cold?

[ Arms at his sides, Zephirin allows his eyes to close, thinking it best to keep still while Francel works. To answer, he moves his head only slightly: no, he has no complaints regarding the water's temperature. Its gentle warmth is pleasant, as was the brush of Francel's fingers trailing across his brow, as is the towel against his skin.

Zephirin's expression carries no tension, but there is a curve to his lips, lingering for Francel's jests. ]

[at length francel finishes his mopping of zephirin's face, and transfers the towel to the bowl of water once more. his fingers find the middle of zephirin's forehead, and press gently there; they move to the middle of his brow, and press gently there. francel's thumbs spiral slowly outward, towards zephirin's temples, where he rubs in soothing circles.]

Do you suppose that knights come pre-seasoned? I've only one other friend who is a knight, and he is always so... well, he is a hard worker, to be sure, but he marinates in sweat. Hmm, yes, a salty brine...

[ As he did the first night, Francel seems to find spots where invisible tension gathers, accumulated over the days, and rub it away. Perhaps it is a shift of aether towards a more harmonious balance. Soothing, it lends the theory support.

Zephirin keeps his eyes closed. His breaths are even. ]

There are knights such as your friend, I imagine, who need no added salt. But you might prefer to let them soak with sage leaves for a time.

Sage leaves? [he chuckles.] Now why did I not think of that? Sage... with parsley and rosemary and thyme...

[with his thumbs, francel presses soothing strokes along the lines of zephirin's brows, relieving tension in the forehead with the added bonus of smoothing out the hairs. he leans closer, his voice a whisper:]

Keep your eyes closed, please.

[careful to avoid any undue pressure, francel massages below the browbone, just above the eyelids, and then along the nose bridge, between the eyes. he thinks vaguely that he should avoid giving too much attention to any one area of the face. the young lord moves his hands to zephirin's jaw, placing his thumbs on a point below the mouth — then he rubs circles along zephirin's cheeks, towards the sloping lines of his cheekbones.]

...Are you highborn or low, Zephirin? [with his middle, ring, and pinky fingers, francel traces a path along zephirin's jawline, again and again.] I never caught your family name.

[ The attention that Francel bestows upon each area he touches is in fact so soothing that Zephirin's eyelids obey readily, reluctant to lift at all. His other senses compensate; at the forefront of his awareness are Francel's fingers, then Francel's voice, then the scent of Francel's soap. Again Francel's ministrations slip into a remarkable surety.

But the question pushes through to the front, and Zephirin's eyes open to regard Francel, though he closes them once more as he replies. ]

I neglected to mention it at the time: my full name is Zephirin de Valhourdin. My father was a knight.

[ Is aught else of true relevance? Whether the blood of King Thordan and his knights twelve runs in his veins, a man is defined by his deeds. ]

[the name does not ring any bells of recollection in francel's mind, but the knight's status as a noble or commoner is less important to francel than the sound of the knight's surname. he smiles as he repeats it, tasting it in his mouth.]

Valhourdin... A lovely name.

[he makes wild guesses as to the name's meaning in the ancient elezen tongue, whispering softly as he rubs outwards from zephirin's cheek to his temples and jaw. once he finishes there, he begins rubbing zephirin's neck, in long strokes with his knuckles and in small circles with his thumbs; the young lord is careful to avoid zephirin's injured shoulders.]

The valorous... the victorious... the valiant... the gallant...

[seized by a momentary flight of whimsy, francel pauses the neck massage to gently touch his finger to the tip of zephirin's nose, adding music to the motion in the form of a softly hummed vibrato note.]

You have such a small nose, Zephirin! I am fond of it.

Edited 2017-05-23 22:41 (UTC)

[ Curiosity stirs anew. It is intriguing that Francel is so enamoured with a name for its sound and meaning before any status it denotes — Zephirin's surname seems to kindle his artist's soul. Francel's tongue takes the syllables and composes a melody, each one a softly appreciative, even reverent note.

Eyes open, Zephirin silently watches the boy bent over him.

Abruptly, Francel's composition turns humorous. He is the first to utter Zephirin's name with such fascination, and the first to comment upon Zephirin's nose, of all things.

The boy's own features are delicate. ]

Will it garnish your stew?

Ah, I think your ears would make for better nibbling.

[humming softly, francel switches gears. his hands slip from zephirin's forehead into his scalp, readying the knight for prolonged contact. francel rakes his fingers over the crown of his head and in slow spirals. the motion tousles zephirin's hair.]

Do you have sensitive ears, Zephirin? I can avoid them if you so wish it.

[ Zephirin hums a soft sound in turn, solemn acknowledgement, close to a sigh in appreciation as Francel's fingers slide into his hair and move gently across his scalp. The sensation is perhaps sinfully pleasurable, spreading downward from its source and throughout his body.

The knight's fingertips twitch against the mattress. ]

...They are not like to rival yours.

[francel does not miss that little twitch of zephirin's fingertips. for some reason he feels a sudden pang of salivation, the need to sink his teeth into something with resistance — perhaps it is the theoretical zephirin-flavored stew they have been discussing. he wants to see more of zephirin's reactions; he hungers for them.]

No, I suppose not...

[using the pads of his fingers, francel swirls down zephirin's head, again in circular motions, toward the base of his neck and the back of his skull. according to saint mocianne's pupil, tension builds in this area; francel applies light pressure, deeper, lighter, deeper. from there, he moves upward, toward the crown of the head once — and then back down. he wonders if zephirin prefers having his head scratched or massaged; for variety, he uses his nails again, just for a few strokes.

in this endeavor, the backs of his hands periodically brush past zephirin's long ears.]

From time to time, the winds in Ishgard are so fierce that my ears ache with pain. I wonder if I should not invest in one of those large, fluffy hoods — the sort they wear in the highlands, during winter...

[ Each touch reignites that pleasant shiver; it radiates from every point where Francel's fingers focus their efforts, enveloping Zephirin's skin. It meets Francel's inadvertent stroking of Zephirin's ears, and although the knight does not squirm, does not wriggle, his eyelids lower to half-mast, then all the way. His lips press together into a thinner line, part soon after, and seal again, not tightly.

He is engulfed in an unfamiliar state of relaxation, a warmth cradling his limbs that invites slumber.

It muffles Francel's voice. There is a response to give, but it travels slowly from Zephirin's mind to his tongue, implausibly crossing malms ere the thought becomes speech.

Zephirin prises his eyelids open. ]

None would think you less devout.

[francel is slightly confused by the response. so long as zephirin's eyes are open to see it, he quirks a bemused brow.]

Less devout? Oh, I suppose they would think me a fool... or a boy yet to mature.

[zephirin seems to be enjoying the scalp massage well enough. it is tempting to linger there forever, to keep him suspended in sleepy tranquility — but it is tempting, also, to investigate just how sensitive his ears must be. curious to see the knight's reaction, francel uses both hands to trace the triangular shape of zephirin's outer ears; he pauses only briefly to roll his thumbs across the tips before coming down to the earlobes.]

I endeavor to be devout... though perhaps not in all ways.

[ This comfortable warmth retains its grip on Zephirin, and its haze thickens with the shift of Francel's attention to his ears, but he cannot succumb. Once more his fingertips twitch, briefly, toward furling into his palms. It would be wise to sit up.

Teasing Francel for the suffering that the boy's ears are forced to endure is set aside as Zephirin gives him a look which mirrors Francel's curiosity. ]

Even men twice your age and older may falter, from time to time.

[francel stops touching zephirin's ears, if only because it seems far more appealing to stroke the knight's cheek with a mixture of adoration and patience instead.]

Full glad am I to hear that. Life would be quite boring if all the Fury's faithful were creatures of virtue.

[he returns his attentions to zephirin's ears, rubbing them between his fingers as one might test the texture of parchment.]

...How now, Ser Zephirin! How old do you think me?

Edited 2017-05-24 16:07 (UTC)

[ There is a marked difference between Francel's massage and this interlude wherein his fingers brush across Zephirin's cheek in a tender caress. It is... distracting, and his interest in Zephirin's ears is no less so.

The knight blinks, languidly, but his eyes continue to rest on Francel's face, examining it not for revelations as to the extent of the boy's straying from a virtuous path. He sifts through what he knows of young Lord Francel de Haillenarte. The lordling, for all his skill in playing the learned scholar, is a boy yet to mature. He has seen fewer than twenty summers, though not so few, despite his child's face, that his lessons are held within the halls of his family's manor.

Zephirin answers, not truthfully: ]

I would place you at... fourteen summers, my lord.

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