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

...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? ]

[francel does not respond to emmanellain's texts, nor even aucheforne's call, when the ex-boyfriend dares to try it. he is hiding in one of the lecture hall bathrooms, fretting nervously, picking at his skin. he caught sight of aucheforne with emmanellain from the second-floor window — a fortunate thing as they would have most certainly spotted him were he to have exited the building — and he has been in a state of mild panic ever since. what should he do? what should he say?

locked into a bathroom stall, surrounded by the nauseating scent of bleach, zephirin's text message provides a welcome ring buoy from francel's thoughts. he seizes upon it desperately, as a drowning man to a life raft. with shaky fingers, francel presses the button to call zephirin directly.]

...Zephirin? [he answers in a meek whisper, as though aucheforne might be in the bathroom waiting for him. he cannot hide the tremble of fear in his voice.] Zephirin... please — Aucheforne is here. Can you come to the lecture hall and walk me to your car? Please?

[ Francel's fearful whisper nonetheless fills the quiet of Zephirin's car. Aucheforne is here shatters it altogether, but Zephirin maintains his composure despite the concern that surges through him upon hearing that single sentence, keeping his voice carefully even, free of any urgency that might drive Francel to panic. On his end, the phone picks up the sound of the car door shutting and locking before Zephirin's footsteps resume. ]

I'm on my way. Are you still inside?

[ The walk from the parking lot to Francel's lecture hall takes a handful of minutes at a brisk pace; soon, the building comes into view across the street, and with it, the pair growing impatient near its entrance. Aucheforne, agitated, appears to be in the midst of arguing with Emmanellain.

Neither of the two takes notice of Zephirin as he passes them, slipping through the lecture hall doors unseen. In the elevator to the second floor, the professor updates Francel on his successful arrival. ]

I've reached the building. You have my word that Aucheforne won't bother you.

Edited 2018-07-25 12:23 (UTC)

[though francel would have much preferred that zephirin stayed on the line with him — anxiety and panic claw up his throat, threatening to send him into hysterics — the professor's text comes as a welcome distraction. right. that's right. zephirin is coming. and aucheforne won't bother him, not in front of so many people. surely this will all be fine.

there's nothing to be afraid of.

logically speaking.

but francel is nothing close to logical at the moment, and when he hears the confirmation that zephirin has reached the second floor, the boy comes stumbling out of the bathroom, overcome with nausea, his fingers trembling.]

Zephiri — Zephi — rin.

[suddenly — on some absurd level — francel finds himself worried about how he smells, and whether or not the bathroom bleach has sunk deep into his hair and skin.]

[ Unless Aucheforne decides to search the building for Francel, there is no reason to hurry outside and to the car while the boy is so shaken. Zephirin reaches Francel's side in a few more paces, taking him by the shoulders to steady him, ground him. ]

You've kept your word, too.

[ As promised, Francel called for help — an encouraging sign — and so he earns himself Zephirin's approval again, softly uttered as another lifeline cast his way to haul him to safety. The professor steers him towards a seat near the flight of stairs leading to the next floor up. Here, with someone there to stand guard, Francel can sit awhile and breathe. ]

I... I didn't want to be alone. I...

[rattled, francel breathes shallowly, too quick. zephirin encourages him to sit, but the boy adamantly refuses to do so, and instead clings to the professor's shirt. he is not entirely aware of what he is doing — he knows only that he needs a solid presence to anchor him.

it is a fortunate thing that zephirin still looks young enough to be a fellow student, and further, that this lecture hall is not one that traditionally hosts language courses. passersby would find them a strange couple, particularly if anyone were to recognize zephirin.

gradually, francel's breathing slows.]

...I-I'm sorry.

[ Forcing Francel to sit would be counterproductive when he seeks confirmation that he isn't alone, abandoned to face Aucheforne, and Zephirin changes his plans within moments, leaving the boy be. While Francel's fingers clutch at him, he keeps his hands on the boy's shoulders, wordless reassurance.

The lecture hall has emptied for the most part, but once or twice, the odd student turns their way to stare — Zephirin pays them no mind. Francel's shoulders receive a light squeeze, once the boy seems calmer. ]

You did well to contact me, Francel. We'll go home together.

[ Though Zephirin takes the lead to make for the elevator, he has yet to break Francel's grip on his clothing — implicitly, Francel has his permission to hold on to him as they walk. ]

[you did well. the praise tingles at the top of francel's scalp and slides its way down his neck, like a cracked egg dripping its golden innards down his spine. praise, reassurance, such a delicious thing, when aucheforne would only ever offer platitudes after he had bruised francel raw and aching. the boy shudders; he did well. he's done a good thing. he did well, he did well, he did well...

after a few more breaths of this — of zephirin's scent, his smell, his praise — francel shudders one last time. his chest heaves normally, at a slower pace.]

...Okay. [a beat.] Okay.

[pulling away, he smiles weakly at zephirin, and slowly follows him towards the elevator.]

I... I'm alright now. Let's go home... please.

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