gurabad | 037 » on and on we carry through the fear

[ Nothing suggests that the barrage of messages came from Aucheforne, whose number Francel has most likely blocked by now, but Zephirin holds himself oddly on his guard as the boy taps out his reply. Although he can't read the exchange, and has no intention of doing so, his gaze rests on Francel, watchful. ]

Do you need to make a call? If so, I'll leave the room.

[ After Francel sends his message, its recipient only seems spurred on to fill up his inbox with renewed urgency; Emmanellain believes himself on the trail of something decidedly wrong.

well, that's what i told aucheforne, but he's sure there's more to it
i mean, i for one thought zephirin seemed ok, quiet but upstanding and all
still, didn't you just meet the guy? ]

No... no, it's fine, I...

[whatever is happening, it is clearly not fine, as francel trails off without finishing his sentence and starts in on a fresh flurry of texts. his small mouth curls into a frown as he leans on the back of a nearby chair.]

what is aucheforne saying?
don't believe anything he tells you
he's not who i thought he was

[ Francel has his hands full with his conversation, and a second conversation to carry on aloud puts him on the spot, even to the point of trapping him in an interrogation on all sides while the incoming texts show no sign of stopping. Seemingly turning back to the closet, Zephirin says nothing more. He listens for the sound of Francel's fingers tapping against his phone's screen, a slight frown on his own features.

Emmanellain's reply follows Francel's before long. ]

really? he sounded pretty worried, old boy
about you vanishing with zephirin all of a sudden, that is
he said he was getting some stalker vibes from zeph, plus you were drunk
and you know there are all those stories about teachers and professors etc getting caught with students

how could he be a stalker when you yourself said that i just met him?
i did leave with him but i wasn't that drunk
nothing happened

[frustrated, francel tosses his phone on the bed, where it bounces lightly against the mattress and continues to light up with emmanellain's replies. he directs his attentions towards zephirin once more.]

...Sorry. Emmanellain's just... being himself. He said... Aucheforne's been saying things.

[ The phone lands quietly, but Zephirin turns his head over his shoulder as if on cue, his task postponed in favour of addressing Aucheforne's relentless presence in Francel's life. For a moment, Zephirin's eyes narrow, though his tone betrays only a fraction of his distaste for Francel's ex-boyfriend. ]

About you? I assume he had no luck with Civerege, but sees Emmanellain as open to giving him the benefit of the doubt.

[ Slipping his hand inside his pocket, Zephirin retrieves his phone. ]

If need be, we have yesterday's recording.

[looking fairly distraught in spite of his attempt to maintain an indifferent, even angry tone, francel shakes his head and takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, hunched over with his elbows on his knees.]

I didn't think he would go this far... Emmanellain is one thing, but if he starts pestering Aurvael or Laniaitte...

[he shakes his head.]

It's... it's not about me. He's been... slandering you. Like he told Emm he thinks you're some kind of stalker or something...

[frustrated, francel runs a hand through his hair, staring resolutely at his feet. miserably, his voice trembling, he mumbles:]

...I didn't mean to get you involved in this...

[ Zephirin's brows twitch upward ever so slightly before they lower, and his mouth thins. At this rate, Aucheforne himself might take his pestering still further until it turns dangerous, stalking Francel, cornering him as he did outside the Fortemps home. His slandering Zephirin in petty revenge will quickly hit a dead end, but Francel could come to harm.

Approaching the bed, Zephirin sits down beside the boy, his phone held in his lap. ]

It was my decision to get involved, [ he reminds Francel, calmly enough. ] I'm not concerned — he has no proof and no one to support his claims. That said, with your consent, I'll speak with your family and show them the recording.

...I...

[now zephirin has hit upon it — the thing francel is truly afraid of. all talk of closets has never been the issue; he isn't afraid of his parents or his siblings finding out about his sexual preferences. even the fact that he loved haurchefant is no big secret.

what francel is truly afraid of is that his family will finally know what kind of man he is — weak, fragile, abused. a stupid boy who got himself into in a stupid relationship, and let it go on for far longer than he should have. an idiot who let aucheforne slap him around and do whatever he wanted, all because he was too afraid that no one would ever love him again.

sometimes that still seems like it might be true.

tensed on the edge of the bed, francel cannot stop his voice from shaking — nor can he suppress the sob that rises to his chest as it slowly starts to sink in that he isn't going to be able to get out of this situation by running away.]

...I don't want... them to know that I — that I l-let him hurt me or that — that he was... he was...!

[ Last night's recording is an insight into Aucheforne's behaviour, reflecting poorly on him alone, but it's too soon to reason with Francel, when Zephirin knows too little of the boy's family to reassure him out of his feelings of shame. The phone disappears from view, pocketed once more. Nearby atop the mattress, Francel's is no longer inundated with Emmanellain's messages — nor do Francel's siblings take over the well-meaning interrogation and urge Francel to come home.

One gesture seems a temporary remedy for Francel's mounting distress, a way to ground him: Zephirin's hand reaches out, palm passing across the crown of Francel's head. In a sense, the boy is in bed, and Zephirin has fulfilled the promise he made, albeit jokingly, to pet him again. ]

...I won't approach them on your behalf unless I have your permission, but should Aucheforne's "pestering" continue, I ask that you tell me or bring it to Civerege's attention.

[at the touch to his head, francel looks up. his eyes are full with tears; they catch the light, clear and glossy, threatening to spill over his round cheeks. his shoulders quiver as he suppresses another sob.]

...I don't want anyone to know...

[hiccuping, the boy lowers his gaze; when his tears start to roll down his face at last, he brings his sleeve to his eyes, gently wiping his sorrows away.]

...I didn't even want you to know.

[ Francel's woolen sweater, though thick and soft, wasn't designed to substitute for a handkerchief, but Zephirin has no tissues on hand to offer this time. Silent for the moment, he moves to intercept Francel's arm instead, before the boy's sleeve grows damp with his tears. His fingertips touch Francel's wrist, and then Francel's cheek. His thumb swipes across the tracks glistening on the boy's skin. ]

[the forgiving touch of zephirin's hands, of his patient thumb — all this is too much, and this loving treatment too good for francel. he doesn't deserve this. he has done nothing to deserve this — he has made problems for his family — he has taken advantage, again and again, of the infinite kindness of the man before him. and he cannot stop himself from crying, now that he has started, and all of this is so absurd, and he should have never been in this situation from the start, but he doesn't deserve to be happy, he doesn't deserve to have anyone be so gentle with him, not zephirin, not civerege, not haurchefant, not anybody —]

I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry...

[shaking and sniffling, the boy seems to believe himself somehow irredeemable, broken beyond repair.]

[ Once more, Zephirin elects not to hush Francel by talking over him, not even with words meant to comfort the boy. Francel will calm down to hear other opinions when his crying has run its course — until then, he can barely muster his broken apologies, and Zephirin's fingers can't stem the flow of his tears.

Someone like Janlenoux might have chosen a different, warmer approach. Zephirin keeps his eyes fixed on Francel's tear-streaked features, but ceases his efforts to dry them, far less absorbent than a handkerchief himself. Slowly, he smooths his hand over the boy's hair a second time. ]

[this infinite patience, this silent touch, is nearly too much for francel's already-fragile heart. he hates this, he knows he is unworthy — or at least, aucheforne has convinced him of his unworthiness — but even so, he longs for zephirin's touch, longs to be held and comforted and told that it wasn't his fault...]

...Zephirin...

[through thick, throaty sobs, francel leans forward, resting his wet cheek tentatively upon zephirin's shoulder. the bedframe creaks beneath him, but the university professor smells faintly sweet, like laundered clothing. slowly, francel's sobs begin to subside.]

I'm sorry... I'm really sorry. I'll make it up to you. Anything you want, I...

[ Again and again, Francel is too quick to promise anything in repayment for every inconvenience that the boy imagines he has inflicted upon his tutor — to Francel's mind, no doubt, he himself is the root problem, at fault for angering Aucheforne. Perhaps he would benefit from seeing a therapist, someone better equipped to help him break free of Aucheforne's lingering influence, but that conversation is one for another day. While the boy seeks comfort, tears trickling onto Zephirin's shirt, Zephirin takes care not to give him any reason to misinterpret the suggestion as a hint to stop being a so-called bother. Unlike his fingers, his shirt makes a passable handkerchief.

The professor's hand stays atop Francel's head, cradling it as though they are father and son, despite the negligible age difference between them. Finally, as Francel's sobbing gradually quiets, Zephirin breaks his silence: ]

Then, above all, I'd like to ask you not to blame yourself.

[cradled in zephirin's embrace, in his freshly laundered shirt, francel eventually stills; the weight of his body grows heavier. he takes several deep breaths.]

...Okay. [the boy whispers, pulling himself into a more or less upright position.] I'll try.

[i'll try, he says, which is at least a promise of some effort, and suddenly, francel's tangled emotions seem pulled into a relatively straight — if still somewhat knotted — length of cord. he feels ashamed of himself. that was stupid. a college undergrad and a full-grown man, crying into his professor's shoulder. that was absurd.

he has to bite his tongue to keep from saying i'm sorry again.

despite the fact that he switched it off, francel's cellphone buzzes violently against the mattress only a moment later. reflexively, and with a touch of alarm, francel reaches for it — but zephirin's phone is buzzing too. it's only an emergency alert from the temple knights, something about a missing child, but the alert is for a different neighborhood, and neither francel nor zephirin have seen any young girls matching this description. he puts his phone away.]

...I'll try to sort things out with Emmanellain and the others on my own... on my own time.

Edited 2018-06-26 01:51 (UTC)

Very well.

[ Now that Francel is calmer, placing some distance between himself and his professor, Zephirin draws back in kind to stand, returning to the closet. He has his misgivings about Francel's decision — self-blame still drives it, he suspects — but the boy has made it of his own will. ]

While I would prefer that you permit my involvement, you're free to refuse.

[ Closet space cleared, Zephirin turns to leave the bedroom for the kitchen, though he pauses in the doorway, casting Francel a final glance. ]

...Take your time settling in. [ Presumably the boy would like a shower, time to himself to recover from his bout of crying. ] When you've finished, we'll see to preparing lunch.

[thus zephirin leaves francel alone for a time, in the bedroom with his guilt and his shame, and if he could simply wash aucheforne's malignance from his skin, he would. as it is, francel knows full well that no shower will wash away his memories, no soap can give him back his firsts, and in the end, he simply washes his face in the sink before he heads out to the kitchen where zephirin has presumably begun making lunch.]

...Zephirin? I... I'm fine now. What do you want for lunch?

[ Francel enters the kitchen not long after Zephirin has taken up position at the counter, where he stands leafing through Janlenoux's collection of recipes to find one that makes use of the kitchen's new selection of ingredients. The professor straightens up; his eyes flick toward Francel once more.

The boy's I'm fine is a lie, his question another effort to please, stifling any wants of his own.

Withholding his answer, Zephirin indicates the opened pages in front of him. ]

Look through these, and choose a recipe that appeals to you.

[this is not the response that francel anticipated. nevertheless, the boy timidly shuffles over from beneath the doorway, approaching the three-ring binder where janlenoux prepared a collection of his recipes — presumably a holdover from when he lived in zephirin's apartment. the book appears to have been pre-loved, to a certain degree: here and there, the hole-punched printouts bear janlenoux's loopy scrawl, notes like he ate all of this? and he said it was passable! evidently, adelphel is a difficult man to please.

curious to investigate the development of janlenoux's and adelphel's relationship above all else (like francel, adelphel appears to be more partial to sweets, and janlenoux has marked his recipe for pink macaroons with an excited constellation of stars), francel leafs past recipes for sautéed mushrooms and ishgardian muffins, for marron glace and royal eggs, until at last he settles on something that satisfies his lust for a substantial lunch.]

...How about this? [he points to the page.] Boscaiola.

[the word is foreign to him. it sounds exciting, inviting — even a little bit sexy. going off janlenoux's typed recipe, it is a noodle dish served in a creamy mushroom and tomato sauce.]

...Um, maybe it's a little too involved for lunch. Better for dinner? But reconstituting the mushrooms in white wine and using it later in the sauce... that sounds really good.

[ Zephirin's instructions are a test, and as soon as Francel reaches the counter, the professor steps aside, leaving him to peruse Janlenoux's recipes at his leisure, without the pressure of being watched. In the meantime, Zephirin busies himself with another task, not quite lunch — he readies two mugs of hot cocoa, both in hand and steaming when he returns to Francel's side.

The boy has passed the test, volunteering his suggestion entirely without another's input. He isn't preoccupied with some attempt to guess at dishes that would please his tutor.

In truth, as Francel turned page after page after page, the kitchen quiet for a time, Zephirin prepared for a different outcome. ]

I agree. [ Setting the mugs of cocoa down side by side on the countertop, he leans closer and over the recipe to skim, making his approval plain: ] Boscaiola happens to be a dish that I would have chosen myself — let's aim to have it for dinner, then. As for lunch, we could make do with pancakes to tide us over.

[ Leaving the recipe, Zephirin's gaze pauses on Francel's features, on the boy's somewhat tousled hair. Unprompted by any request or obvious distress this time, he stretches out his hand, and brushes a few of the wayward strands into place.

Francel may not be fine, but he responds well to making himself at home here, at least. For now, perhaps it's enough that he has a safe place to stay. ]

[francel was not motivated by any particular desire to please, was not thinking specifically about zephirin’s approval, but the fingers teasing his hair into place feel like a victory. he leans into zephirin’s touch, pushing his head up against the professor’s palm, like some sort of puppy, or else perhaps the droopy-eared rabbit from zephirin’s sketchbook. the movement appears to be an unconscious one; francel’s eyes do not leave the page of boscaiola instructions, even though his gaze seems slightly distant, his heart focused on what scant affection he can get from zephirin. even the barest whisper of love secures his compliance.

it must have been easy for a man like aucheforne to ruin him.]

Mm... okay. Pancakes, then.

[ Lunch and dinner restore something of the pleasant morning, the visit to the park, and a second night of sharing Zephirin's bed seems a given, an unspoken agreement when Zephirin leaves enough space on the mattress for Francel to lie down beside him. On the surface, Aucheforne is a closed topic.

Waking to the start of the week, their second morning together is less leisurely; at six o'clock, Zephirin gives up the bed's warmth to have a simple breakfast waiting by the time Francel rises. When the previous day's misgivings rear their head anew, Zephirin only reminds the boy that they've exchanged numbers, that Francel has a ride home after class.

He can't appoint himself the boy's bodyguard, ever-present in case Aucheforne knows his ex-boyfriend's schedule. He has no grounds yet — thankfully — to take his intervention further. ]

I'll see you later, [ Zephirin says in parting, just outside campus. ] Let me know if you have new material to go over for Professor de Leusignac's course.

[francel has eaten good food before. growing up, he and his family took meals at fancy restaurants whenever there was any sort of special occasion; his mother liked to cook, but the haillenarte family nevertheless employed a professional chef for those meals its matriarch could not be bothered to make.

francel knows what luxury tastes like, and it tastes nothing like the meals he and zephirin make together — but the warm and flavorful boscaiola fills his belly, and at night, as he takes his place beside zephirin, francel thinks that this could last forever.

alas, the lovely timelessness to their days is shattered by the inevitable march of time. in the morning, both francel and zephirin need to attend their respective classes (though francel moves with a sluggishness that suggests he would rather not go to class at all), and social customs — as well as the fact that zephirin should really not put his job aside, regardless of how his houseguest feels — dictate that they must spend a day apart.

just outside campus, francel nods, affirming their implicit promise to go home with each other.]

I will. I'll — [and for a moment he hesitates, but he plows on] — I'll call you if anything happens.

[they part.

at the end of the day, francel is nowhere to be found.]

[ At the end of the day, Zephirin packs together his belongings, and makes his way to his car, sending Francel a brief message announcing his whereabouts.

At the end of the day, meanwhile, when Francel's last class draws to a close, Aucheforne stands waiting outside the lecture hall, Emmanellain beside him. "I'm positive he's here," the latter insists, gesturing toward the building. "But, er, isn't this basically us stalking Francel now? Like I told you, it really didn't sound like he was locked up in a tower against his will, in need of rescuing from an evil dragon disguised as a college professor, or anything of the sort!"

Aucheforne, leaning against the wall, crosses his arms. "No offense, Emm, but I'm pretty sure you're not his first pick to talk to if something's wrong. I used to be, until we had our falling-out..." He sighs, eyes fixed on the building's entrance, its only set of doors. "Mind texting him for me? Just ask him to come meet you."

Though he takes out his phone with visible reluctance, Emmanellain complies.

got a moment or two after class, old boy? ]

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