dpscheck | stuck meme

...Full glad am I to meet with your approval.

[ Zephirin musters the words, his voice yet even, but he suddenly feels mildly perturbed, as though he stands removed from the scene, watching it transpire. His lips shape a pensive line as he regards Francel's hand laid atop his palm.

At length, Zephirin's fingers curl around Francel's, squeezing lightly. ]

Oh — o-of course. Forgive me. I lost myself a moment...

[that squeeze to francel's hand brings him back to his senses, back to his own reality. he has no need to wander the halls of his mind when zephirin is here right in front of him!

but fantasy and reality blend together — and in his confusion, francel blurs the lines between his imagined romance and the actual nature of his friendship with zephirin. oddly, distractedly, he bends his head and turns their wrists, pressing a kiss to the back of zephirin's hand.

as with the kiss to zephirin's bare neck, so many days ago, the young lord seems to think nothing of this gesture.]

Forgive me — [he says this a second time...]

Shall we, then? I imagine you will give the maidservants quite the start.

[ How many kisses does this make? One for Zephirin's cheek, one for his neck, now this one for his hand. Each one was a fleeting, chaste touch. Each time, Francel acted out of joy, brimming with it.

Zephirin bows his head, pardoning Francel's distraction and agreeing to move to their next destination in one gesture, but he pauses over their still-connected hands, seemingly in deliberation, or preparing to raise Francel's knuckles to his lips in kind.

He loosens his grip instead, letting go. ]

[as the two exit stephanivien's chambers, they chance upon young marianne again. this time, the maidservant makes her attraction quite clear — she carries a basket of laundry from one part of the manor to another, but she cannot help but stop in her tracks as she lays eyes upon zephirin in her lord's regal clothing. "oh!" she squeaks, barely audible; her almond eyes flick down, then up again. "h-hello again, lord francel!" marianne adds, belatedly.

this time, at least, francel seems neither disgruntled nor surly. he smiles in return, making a point to slip his hand into the crook of zephirin's elbow. "hello again, marianne," he says, courteously, but he guides their steps away from the young maid, towards the music-room down the hall.]

...It's just this way.

[ And so Francel's prediction comes true. The exchange lasts only long enough to allow for polite greetings and a nod from Zephirin, but Marianne seems unable to tear her gaze away, rooted in place until her lord and his guest disappear past the doorway to the music-room.

The girl's reaction turns the memory of Francel's over-bright.

Zephirin is too aware of the boy walking beside him, of the fingers resting upon his arm — but these things are the norm by now.

Neutrally, he breaks his silence at last as they cross the threshold. The room itself provides a distraction from such thoughts. ]

...Which instrument do you favour?

Oh — I play many instruments!

[it is the closest thing to a boast that will ever escape francel's lips. the young lord is not fond of bragging, but music is the one area in which he can claim any kind of forte. he withdraws his hand from zephirin's elbow, scurrying toward a large harpsichord that is covered with a heavy, haillenarte-green cloth.]

For you, however, I wrote your piece for the harpsichord — I wanted it to be complex, you see, with more than just one voice. Would you like to hear it now?

[ Raised brows appear to be the closest thing to awe that Zephirin's expression offers. He settles where he stands to one side of the harpsichord, at an angle that permits a full view of Francel's hands. ]

You would show me mercy. I can contain my curiosity no longer.

[ Even if it manifests as nothing to affect his behaviour. ]

[zephirin's expressionlessness would make his comments seem sarcastic if not for the fact that francel likes to think he knows the knight by now. smiling, he pulls the cloth back along the harpsichord's smooth wooden surface — then he lifts the cover of the keys. he takes his seat upon the bench; he flexes his fingers. then, at long last, he begins to play.

the piece he has composed isn't terribly long, but it is an unusual one, by ishgardian standards. it eschews traditional notions of form, but it carries a melancholy, vaguely triumphant melody, one that gives way to a kind of tenuous softness before coming together once more for the finale.

this is francel's image of zephirin, it seems — unconventional, yet hauntingly beautiful, all the same.]

[ Francel's slender fingers dance across the keys, visibly in their element. The melody he plays flows smoothly from his fingertips; perhaps it becomes his soul's conduit, its voice. Perhaps he pours a part of himself into each note.

As rays of light streaming through the windows and into the room illuminate the boy's hair, he appears ethereal, a being no less hauntingly beautiful than his music.

Silence follows the final note played. As if lost in thought, Zephirin does not lift his eyes from Francel's hands.

Eventually, in lieu of words or applause to thank and praise the artist, his hand reaches for Francel's nearest, and once more he bows his head. It is unusual, unconventional, but this time, he touches his lips to the back of the boy's hand in a barely-there kiss. ]

[the performance was perfect.

francel basks in that triumph for what seems like ages. he might be satisfied with that alone. but then a movement from zephirin grabs his attention — and then zephirin leans in, and kisses his hand, and suddenly francel thinks — this too, this now is perfect.

he is afraid to ruin the moment, his real fantasy. but it is francel who commands the sound in the room, so it is he who shatters the silence with his trembling voice.]

...Zephirin? Did... did you like it?

[ Zephirin withdraws his hand, draws back, once he has expressed his appreciation for Francel's gift. If music is a language, words alone cannot do justice to such a melody arranged in his image. He intends to do nothing to mar it, treating it as something incomparably precious entrusted to his care.

Not wholly lost in the moment, his gesture was a conscious choice, and when Francel speaks, he responds without hesitation. ]

I did. I shall remember it.

[ The tune will fade from memory, but this day will not. ]

...Good. That is good.

[francel smiles. he watches zephirin a moment longer, wanting to preserve this, too, in his memories. he has memorized so many things about zephirin now — the curve of his subtle smile, the gentle inflection of joy in his voice, the lines of his body, the way he likes to be touched — but this, too; he wants this, too.

francel wants too many things, when it comes to zephirin.

there is one more thing that he would have, if zephirin would give it. after what seems like a long moment, francel leans forward. he rests the weight of his body upon his arms, his hands upon the bench. he leans forward until his face is very, very close to zephirin's — and then he leans still further.

francel kisses zephirin, sweetly and chastely, upon the lips — but this time it is not a thoughtless joy that motivates him, and this time, he lingers upon zephirin's mouth.]

[ There was time enough to move apart; this kiss was foreseeable, announced in Francel's body language. This kiss, though chaste and one-sided, crosses another line.

To end it, Zephirin needs but pull away.

His lips part slightly against Francel's soft, warm mouth. Reflexively, it is almost a kiss in return. More than this, he cannot permit himself, will not claim from Francel, even freely offered.

And yet the act gives rise to some foreign, traitorous thrill. They still sit close. ]

[francel goes on smiling. he asks for nothing more. as he sits, illuminated by the window light, he is more beautiful than he will ever know. he lowers his eyes for a moment, and then raises them again, meeting zephirin's gaze once more. he seems to be searching for words to say.]

...I am truly blessed to have met you, Zephirin.

[it sounds strangely like a farewell.]

[ It is as if Francel himself radiates that light, and although the harpsichord is silent, the sight of the smiling boy framed against the window is arresting, hauntingly beautiful even now. His words serve to heighten the effect, lending the moment an odd, lingering melancholy.

It may indeed be their farewell — for a time. Zephirin is prepared to keep this excessive fondness in check, but he cannot be the one to cease all contact, he knows. If Francel chooses to write to him, he will respond. If Francel requests his company, he will come.

The alternative is to deal the boy's heart a grievous wound, and that does far greater harm than it does to care for him.

Upon the bench, their fingers brush. Zephirin replies as though unaffected. ]

...As am I to have met you, Joacin. [ Solemnly, he crosses one arm over his chest. ] To have had fun together.

[those magic words — had fun — are all it takes to tip the goblet of francel's barely-contained heart over. he bubbles forth, overflowing — pleasantly fizzy.]

Zephirin...

[suddenly — and quite without warning — francel throws himself forward, wrapping his long arms around zephirin's waist. he buries his head in zephirin's chest; the crown of his golden head tickles zephirin's chin. if the temple knight turns his head to peek at the boy's face, he will see that francel is still smiling.]

Zephirin, you are my dearest — dearest — !

Edited 2017-09-06 01:20 (UTC)

[ Francel's sweet, radiant, fragile joy weaves its own spell; now-familiar warmth seeps into Zephirin's heart, suffuses it. This is enough. It is enough to taste the triumph of safeguarding such joy. It is power to wield with care.

The knight's hand nears the crown of Francel's head, comes to rest there, passing across his hair once. A heartbeat later, it repeats the motion. Zephirin closes his eyes.

This is enough. ]

[for francel, too, this should be enough. being in zephirin's arms should be enough. being stroked by his warm hands should be enough. he knows the way zephirin's slender waist gives way to broad, broad shoulders, and it should be enough.

this should be enough.

this should be enough.

but it isn't enough. it isn't enough. francel is used to being denied things, but zephirin never denies him anything. it makes francel greedy. it makes him want to push for more, push and take until, at last, zephirin says no...

he wonders what will happen if he says he loves zephirin.

he wonders what will happen if he asks zephirin to love him, too.

but he doesn't — he doesn't have the courage for that — so in the end, francel pulls away, sick and aching for the elusive heart of the temple knight for whom he would do anything.]

...You... you will return to active duty soon, will you not?

Edited 2017-09-08 03:12 (UTC)

[ The embrace is broken all too soon, or so it seems — but it must end, and it is enough. It is enough.

Zephirin's eyes are open when Francel asks his question. His hands are placed upon his knees. ]

And I will keep my promise. [ A nod accompanies his reply. ] I would be glad to know you fare well.

[francel's expression is sorrowful, or at least conflicted. he is happy, to have laid his heart bare before zephirin like this — or at least as bare as he can make it, without saying those fragile words, saying that he loves zephirin.

his fingers drum a beat against the harpsichord bench.]

Then... then I shall write every day. Or at least every week. And you can write back whenever — whensoever you can.

[ Francel's expression tempts Zephirin to swear an oath, one in the same manner of another sworn many weeks ago, and his right hand twitches ever so slightly with the sudden urge, but self-restraint keeps the tip of his forefinger away from Francel's nose. Left unsaid, what each feels for the other needs no name put to it but friendship. It is for the best.

Later, when they part ways and this day is their farewell, Francel's expression comes to haunt Zephirin alongside the boy's smile. It was, somehow, a bittersweet parting, and they do not see each other again before he is to leave the capital for western Coerthas, returning to active duty perhaps sooner than anticipated, assigned to a unit of reinforcements in the wake of several Dravanian attacks upon Riversmeet. Duty yet grants Zephirin a small window of time to visit the Last Vigil and request the delivery of a note and a parcel to Lord Francel — the note informs the young lord of his temporary whereabouts and includes Ser Guerrique's regards, while the parcel contains one more apple. Lord Stephanivien's garments, washed and neatly folded, wait placed aside among Zephirin's belongings at the Congregation.

A knight cannot know with any certainty that his next campaign will not be his last, but Zephirin intends to return.

He does not ask to speak with Francel. The following morn, his unit departs for the western highlands. Out in the wilds, malms from Ishgard proper, it becomes easier to believe that Francel will outgrow his attachment to a friend made but recently, yet it becomes difficult to find the thought a relief. ]

[zephirin's letter is terse and professional and polite, as expected. still, francel sees the warmth behind his words, and even though he knows it is silly — zephirin writes no declarations of love, no flowery praise — the young lord finds himself pressing a kiss beneath zephirin's signature all the same.

the apple goes with all the other apples zephirin has sent him — not eaten, no, but perfectly preserved, with the help of an alchemist's concoction that is fairly cheap but renders the fruit inedible. the trade-off is worth it, in francel's mind. he cannot bear to eat the apples, and has instead built himself a collection of lovely, ruby-red paperweights.

francel has many letters to write, in the coming weeks. a short, hastily scrawled missive comes from camp dragonhead; it is a letter from haurchefant, expressing his thoughts, his challenges, an affirmation of their friendship. another letter comes, one that francel has been waiting for — lord chlodebaimt has written his youngest brother a masterwork for all his troubles, detailing the vigil commander's every interesting interaction of every day.

francel writes replies for the both of them. he mentions zephirin to chlodebaimt, but not to haurchefant.

it is more difficult to send a response to zephirin, and so francel is forced to wait several days to compose a reply. he writes that he has returned to classes, that it has been cold, that his most excellent bay window has been kept firmly shut. he says he will pray for zephirin's success, and his safe return.

he thinks of how to best end the letter for a long time before he finally writes with all my love —]

[ Francel's letter arrives when the encampment receives a delivery of supplies. Although Zephirin waits until nightfall to read it and pen his response, disregarding a damning sense of anticipation and his lingering upon the very last words written in Francel's hand, once again teasing greets him the next day. Guerrique, alone in learning the truth, insists that his feats be mentioned for young Lord Francel's peace of mind, specifically a clash between his axe and a wyvern's head, which rent the latter asunder. Zephirin is persuaded to add the knight's request in a final line, after his well wishes for Francel and his family — and the lordling's toy rabbit. The result is a letter that reads like a report in places, a social courtesy in others, but here and there are hints of Zephirin's brand of humour, of fondness.

When he writes again, some weeks later, he does not write of the meteors that rained down upon Coerthas, nor the casualties of a recent skirmish, nor the pervasive unease that hangs over the camp as the lesser moon, blood-tinged, swells ever larger. Preoccupied with the threat of a fiery rain to Ishgard, he simply asks how Francel fares.

Then comes chaos as Eorzea burns, and all correspondence ceases.

Then come Ishgard's enemies, seizing their chance, and her retreating defenders are overwhelmed.

Yet Francel's prayers were heard, for Zephirin returns among the wounded, not the fallen, not unharmed, but not deemed beyond saving. For now, he is left to the chirurgeons, oblivious to the funerals held to farewell scores of his comrades with traditions observed even as the world outside Ishgard's walls is altered.

One more note is delivered to Haillenarte Manor, signed Guerrique de Montrohain, assuring Francel that his friend has made it home. ]

[in the chaos of dalamud's fall, francel has had no time to write letters.

the scholasticate deacons ask their students to pray — for the safety of their loved ones, for the salvation of all ishgard — but every new turn is worse than the last. the meteor is fallen; a fragment of it shattered in boulder downs, narrowly missing monument tower on the way down, and its bitter cold sets in before anyone has time to prepare. francel hears harrowing reports of the near-total destruction of falcon's nest, of the frost that has claimed clearwater lake. he hears stories of stampedes, desperate evacuations, loved ones torn asunder by avalanches of snow.

it is difficult, waiting in safety to hear the news. and yet, it must be worse on the frontlines.

the frost isn't the end of it. after the cold comes the dragons — fangs and claws, fire and flame against the ice and snow — and francel is at haillenarte manor when he first hears the bone-chilling news that the stone vigil has fallen.

(but chlodebaimt is alive. praise the fury, in her infinite mercy, for chlodebaimt is alive — he and his soldiers have evacuated to camp dragonhead, where their wounds will be tended ere they head toward skyfire locks.)

they have lost much. they have all lost much, and nothing will ever be the way it was, ever again. but chlodebaimt is alive, haurchefant is alive, and — and zephirin, surely zephirin —

of all the men that francel cares about, zephirin is the only one who is in reach. as soon as he receives guerrique's note, the young lord rushes out the door, heedless of his safety, intent only on running to the congregation or perhaps the gates of judgment, where scores of priests recite rites over hundreds of dead. he cares only about finding zephirin, wherever he may be.]

[ The relentless snows cover all Coerthas in a burial shroud as the bereaved mourn their lost loved ones, no matter the priests' promises. Ishgard is rendered bleak. A subdued Guerrique, sporting a helm of bandages, hobbles away from a finished procession honouring those knights whose time to depart had come, exchanges words with a dark-haired Temple Knight nearing the Congregation's doors, and starts upon catching sight of Francel once more rushing through the streets.

"Lord Francel!" He beckons to the boy. ]

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