dpscheck | stuck meme

[instead of eating the fruit, francel touches it to his cheek, giggling softly at the coolness of the apple's skin. he handles it as though it is made of gold; rather than bite into it, or thrust it into his bag, francel holds it between both hands as a maiden might hold a bouquet. his eyelids are still reddened from crying — but he is red-cheeked and red-nosed too, and most importantly, he is smiling.]

If... If you would not mind my recommendation, there is a bakery in the Crozier whose cakes I have long admired. Shall we?

[francel is the first to step out of the alleyway and towards the pillars, but he pauses as soon as he steps into the sunlight, waiting for zephirin to fall into place beside him.]

Edited 2017-05-30 00:36 (UTC)

I would be honoured.

[ And Zephirin, too, leaves the quiet of the alleyway for Ishgard's main streets. He spares Francel's companion a final thought, but Lord Emmanellain de Fortemps counts among the Forgotten Knight's regulars, and Gibrillont will see to it that the lordling returns home with nary a scratch on him.

The Crozier is as Zephirin left it, the usual sights and sounds. The bakery, if the one he recalls matches Francel's recommendation, is situated past the bookseller's.

He casts Francel a glance for confirmation. Their walk from Foundation, he notes, has given the boy some time for the aftermath of his tears shed to begin fading. ]

[francel walks as if on clouds. thankfully, the heavy apple in his hands — and zephirin's intoxicating presence — help to keep him anchored to the firmament, and not floating in the air. his dour mood from earlier has clearly dissipated; a thought or two strays toward emmanellain, and emmanellain's hurt expression, but petty spite keeps francel gloom-free.

he looks over his shoulder at zephirin, smiling.]

...How have you been, Ser Zephirin? Have your injuries healed? I'm afraid I have not had cause to leave the scholasticate for several weeks now...

[ Zephirin's hand lifts; he touches the tips of his fingers to one shoulder. At times, he feels an ache on that side, from collarbone to ribcage, but he is on the mend. All that remains is to acclimate his body to his blade anew. It will remember its training. ]

I am in your debt, my lord — my injuries are all but gone. [ He took care not to make the same mistake twice, resting. In that time, his thoughts turned to Francel on occasion even in the absence of any comment from his fellow knights. ] Doubtless your wider studies required your attention.

[with theatrical flair — the same flair that graced his movements when he woke up on that cathedral pew so many weeks ago — francel clasps a hand over his heart in a solemn salute, and then offers a respectful prayer to the air. the purpose of his prayer is far more benign:]

Ah, yes. But with the Fury's blessing, and Her infinite guidance, I have passed my classes and escaped remedial courses yet again!

[laughing, he skips ahead several steps, bag swinging at his hip, and then slows to match zephirin's pace again. the young lord finally tucks the apple into his bag, though not without an affectionate pat; one wonders if he will ever bring himself to eat it. moreover, what did he do with the last apple zephirin gave him (besides preserve it as a sketch)...?

francel looks up at zephirin and smiles.]

Nevertheless, you... you will continue to stop by, won't you? I have grown so very fond of your visits.

Edited 2017-05-30 03:20 (UTC)

[ The blithe schoolboy of their first meeting makes another appearance. Zephirin's gaze tracks Francel's cheerful skipping, and then the fond goodbye that Francel bids his apple for the time being, slipping it into his bag's secure hold after carrying it cradled like a precious gift. Apples must rank beside rolanberries after all.

Zephirin's steps are unhurried, keeping an even pace, but his long strides soon align him with Francel again. His eyes flick from the path to Francel's smiling face.

In slow recovery, his visits could be justified. They cannot continue indefinitely.

And yet—

Zephirin thinks of Francel's radiant joy. ]

...I remain stationed in Ishgard. Will you ready your cooking-pot?

[that elicits a laugh from francel, another little spark of radiant joy. he is a boy on the cusp of manhood — indeed by most standards already a man — and yet he makes a game of stepping only on cobblestones, avoiding the lines between.]

Not for tender Temple Knight — unless perhaps you would enjoy a hot bath in some spices and herbs?

[in a way that does sound soothing, but francel's mind lights upon a second possibility.]

...If you wish it, I could, indeed, fix you a meal — though in Haillenarte Manor, mayhap, and not Saint Endalim's Scholasticate. Is there any sort of dish you enjoy best of all, Zephirin? Are you fond of poultry, or fish, or else more exotic meats?

[ A hot bath, if not in a cooking-pot, has its appeal, but Zephirin moves on from the thought to Francel's other questions. The boy is at heart musically inclined, yet he dons a chirurgeon's robes, and now he appears a confident budding culinarian. Francel busying himself with an assortment of ingredients, with the same ease of his massage experiments, is an image readily conjured.

Quiet as he indulges Francel's curiosity, Zephirin contemplates his preferences. Taking meals for sustenance is a basic necessity. Enjoyment is secondary. Both are luxuries not afforded equally to all.

In the end, he answers: ]

Again your offer is generous. If I am to climb your balcony, may I request your own preferred dish?

Edited 2017-05-30 11:51 (UTC)

[again francel laughs airily, waving an ungloved hand to dispel zephirin's concerns. he seems to have forgotten about the stain on his sleeve.]

Never you fear — you needn't climb my balcony! I enjoy your presence, and I am sure House Haillenarte will adore you in turn, so you may enter through the manor doors.

[he raises a brow, conspiratorial.]

Unless you would prefer to keep yourself shrouded in secrecy? That too has its charms...

[ Adore seems a strong word, but Francel speaks with cheery conviction. Zephirin's amusement is a soft chuckle, no laughter like Francel's, lasting seconds. ]

I would prefer to give House Haillenarte no cause to fear a burglary.

[ Or another abduction. ]

Then you may enter through our most excellent front door, with all the manor guards to spy your handsome face.

[house haillenarte will adore zephirin, but perhaps only in the sense that a temple knight, even lowborn, makes less shameful company than does count fortemps's bastard son. of course, attitudes have changed in the years since francel's kidnapping — haurchefant is a knight now, an accomplished one, soon to be head of his own garrison — but his name is still greystone, and deep down, francel knows that his father never relinquished certain biases.

they near the bakery's storefront.]

Have you time tomorrow night?

[ Now and again, Francel's remarks turn mildly flirtatious, in such a manner that it could be unconsciously done. Best for Francel is that he voices innocent observations, and Zephirin chooses to treat it so. ]

At the usual hour? [ He inclines his head. ] I gratefully accept your invitation, Lord Joacin, and will remove my mask ere I announce myself at your front door.

[ As they approach the bakery, Zephirin turns his face away from Francel, briefly, to acknowledge their destination reached. This visit is his first. ]

[fortunately for zephirin (and to the detriment of any gossipmongers in their vicinity), francel says no more of handsome faces or iron masks. it is not an especially warm day, but not an especially cold one either, and the bakery has set up a small sitting-area for their staying customers.]

Shall we take a seat?

[francel speaks briefly to a waitress, who leads the two elezen men to a table. "and what will ye be havin' today, milords?" the girl asks, with a charming smile.

francel merely smiles at zephirin — apparently, he would like part of his nameday gift to involve zephirin ordering the cake for him.]

[ Though they are both men, no knight and his lady, Zephirin attends to Francel's chair first, pulling it out some ilms from the table and waiting until Francel has taken a seat before he does so himself. The waitress receives a nod, a polite smile. Francel's smile is expectant, and Zephirin discerns its meaning.

Without further ado, without pomp, he places their orders. ]

A slice of your rolanberry cake each, please.

["of course, milords," the girl replies, without missing a beat. she bows and excuses herself. perhaps she has seen stranger and worse in her years of waitressing; so long as neither francel nor zephirin are scolding her for poor service, she doubtless holds no opinions on what two men should or should not be doing.

francel, for his part, stretches in his seat, spoiled and elated — and elated to be spoiled. he has the strange urge to reach across the table and hold zephirin's hands, or his face, or else muss his carefully parted hair; it occurs to him that he wishes they were in the privacy of his scholasticate dormitory, that he might give a massage or otherwise poke and prod at zephirin. essentially, francel wants to play, which is an absurd sentiment for any man once-seventeen-now-eighteen, but he chases fleeting moments of happiness all the same.]

Mmm, I can't wait... I can already taste the cream!

[ A gentle breeze caresses Zephirin's hair, pushing a few strands out of their placement. Zephirin's hands lie folded atop the table near its edge. His face is calm, the expression he wears still faintly amused. ]

Once more, I shall find myself enlightened. I look forward to it.

[ The few tables set up around the bakery are occupied, ahead of them to be served, but they are not overly noisy or placed too close. Francel's patience is rewarded when the waitress returns, bringing their plates, each of which bears a generously sized slice of cake, topped with bright crimson rolanberries, and with fluffy clouds of cream. "Your order, milords," she announces, gracefully setting Francel's plate down before him, turning next to deliver Zephirin's. ]

[if francel had a tail, it would no doubt be thumping the edge of his seat. he takes up his fork and sits poised to bite into his cake, eager greed written all over his expression — but his greed, it seems, is not for the cake, but for zephirin's reaction to it. francel's eyes are fixed upon zephirin's handsome face; he is waiting for the knight to take a bite.

there are some hunting-dogs that are trained to do this — to eat only once their masters do.]

It looks delicious, does it not? I would hang a portrait of this cake in my room...

[ Had Francel his charcoals, perhaps he would capture the cake's likeness to take back with him to his room. Zephirin takes his fork between his fingers, but its tines only touch the side of his plate; the cake yet enjoys its unmarred beauty. The knight lifts his gaze until it meets Francel's. ]

One almost regrets its fate.

[ As Francel's slice is likewise untouched, as if the boy awaits a signal granting him leave to take his first bite, Zephirin bows his head, closes his eyes, and gives his thanks. Then, raising his fork, he brings it to a corner of his slice of cake. It catches a swirl of cream, a piece of rolanberry, pierces the delicate sponge layer beneath, and carries one dainty forkful to Zephirin's lips. ]

Mmm...

[francel's chin rests lightly on his palm; his pinky and ring fingers rest upon his slightly curved lips. his eyes, half-lidded, rest dreamily upon zephirin's mouth; he watches the cake quiver upon zephirin's fork, transfixed.]

Well? Your thoughts?

[ Zephirin's eyes are lowered as his lips part for his bite of cake. He chews it carefully, slowly, noting its mingling flavours: the cream's smoothness complements the sweet, yet subtly tart taste of fresh rolanberries.

Swallowing, Zephirin picks up his serviette, seeing to any traces of cake around his mouth before he replies. ]

I understand your fondness for this cake, Lord Joacin.

[ Yet surprisingly, Francel seems more interested in watching Zephirin eat than tasting even the cream he anticipated with such eagerness. ]

I am glad to hear it!

[his suspense thus satisfied — the image of zephirin delicately wiping cream from his mouth thus burned into his memory — francel smiles, and at last begins to demolish his own slice of cake. his fork claims a generous corner piece, more cream than rolanberry. francel licks his lips in anticipation before bringing it to his mouth.

cream, swirling, decadent; the cake, perfectly fluffy, just mildly sweet. fresh rolanberries, a hint of tartness, spark salivation at the backof the mouth. if halone's icy heaven has a banquet-hall, she most definitely serves this cake to her fallen warriors.]

I have loved rolanberries and cream ever since I was a boy. From time to time, I think I enjoy it even more than I love egg pudding. Have you ever had pudding, Zephirin?

[ The tip of Francel's tongue darts out between his lips, much like a cat's tongue, small and pink, as it cleans its whiskers. On cue, the fate of his cake slice is sealed.

The boy paints a vivid picture of himself in childhood summers past, savouring his beloved rolanberries and cream, or a serving of egg pudding, with immense relish.

Zephirin takes another forkful of cake from his own slice. ]

A handful of times. Would that I could recreate the recipe.

[ Though he has no great personal craving for pudding. ]

[sweet surprise claims francel's features at zephirin's statement. it is not that he is surprised that zephirin has tasted of pudding — he is surprised merely because the desire to make pudding is one of few desires zephirin has ever expressed, even when pressed for wants and needs.]

...I could prepare some pudding for you tomorrow, if you will have some! I loved it so much as a child that the House patissier deigned to give me his very own recipe — but alas, I approach it with less flair than he, and my platefuls of pudding always come out... rather less comely than those of my youth.

[the young lord smiles. he speaks of a charmed childhood, one filled with books and desserts and older siblings who loved him — a childhood featuring handsome boys next door to sneak in through his balcony window and whisk him away on grand adventures. like as not francel has never seen the worst of ishgard. he lives far removed from the war with the dravanians, from stealing and killing over dry loaves of bread, from peerless spearwomen forced to prostitution for survival. he will become a priest that does not serve the poor, a priest merely in name: a clerical worker for the holy see, in charge of forms, and budget proposals, and all those other things that keep an impossibly unbesmirched noble's hands clean and free of blood.

and yet, all the things that make francel pure would not survive long on the frontlands of central coerthas, with only the wind to keep him company, and silence and melancholy sinking deeper into his soul every day.]

But even if mine are a bit... lopsided, they taste no less heavenly! This I can promise you.

Edited 2017-05-31 14:39 (UTC)

[ Surprise crosses Zephirin's features in kind. Desserts, sweetmeats, preferred dishes, such things are never at the forefront of his thoughts — he cannot recall a time when they were, even though he was a boy before he was a knight. Clearer are his memories of training blades, of calluses and the sharp scent of soothing salves. He remembers the worn pages of the Fury's word, and his father's hand laid atop the crown of his head, and his mother's grief.

But there were faerie apples. There were festivals and wreaths of saint's breath.

Perhaps he desired pudding then.

Zephirin blinks, raises his brows. His remark had no purpose, none beyond contributing to the conversation, and certainly no motive behind it to invite himself to Haillenarte Manor for dinner and dessert, but Francel's enthusiasm is, once again, a joyful dog's wagging tail. The boy serving his lopsided pudding is an oddly charming notion.

Zephirin's fork lowers, clinking gently against his plate. ]

...You spoil your patients, my lord.

I...

[francel smiles, and takes another bite of cake. he allows the cream to coat his tongue fully before swallowing. something about zephirin's statement seems to trouble him; it shows in the way he keeps his eyes lowered to his plate.]

...Do I?

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