048 » but miles don't make your image fade

[valhourdin]

[ For Ms. Caulignont's literature class, Mr. Haillenarte is a novelty.

Arriving to replace his predecessor after his students have endured a string of hit-and-miss substitutes, the young teacher's appearance immediately sets him apart — predicted was a bespectacled, balding scholar, but Francel de Haillenarte looks youthful enough to be fresh out of his teens, if even that. Some see an inexperienced pushover sure to let them coast through the year, while others doubt their newly appointed teacher's ability to teach the class at all. Others again already feel sorry for the man.

Zephirin finds Mr. Haillenarte promising.

He's noticed a few things by now, a couple of days into these new developments, and he's certain that they're not the product of his imagination. Mr. Haillenarte blushes easily — the consensus is that it's cute. More specifically, all Zephirin needs to do is to make eye contact perhaps slightly too long when the man takes attendance or calls on him to read aloud and answer questions in class. Mr. Haillenarte, the boy thinks, enjoys the sound of his voice.

It's turned into something of a private game, nothing that would fuel gossip and cost his teacher not only his position at Ishgard High, but his entire reputation. Maybe a private game is all it should stay, but Mr. Haillenarte seems the sort to perceive it as bullying, and so Zephirin takes it upon himself to set the record straight.

After class at the end of the day, when his classmates rush out into the halls towards the evening's freedom soon cut short by homework, he declines walking with his friends to linger in the classroom, leisurely gathering up his books. His bag slung over his shoulder, he stops beside the teacher's desk at the front of the room. ]

Mr. Haillenarte? Do you have a moment?

[ Casually, Zephirin's fingers adjust his open collar, toying with his shirt's uppermost button — the air conditioning hasn't done much against the classroom's stuffy heat. ]

Comments

[valhourdin]

[ They were enjoying themselves, before, focused on the pages of products to leaf through — Francel admitted it himself — and returning to that sense of easy companionship is appealing, but there are other things that Zephirin wants, for all that he means to respect his teacher's concerns. Though Francel's heartbeat gradually grows calmer, Zephirin's hand stays placed upon the front of his shirt, as if the boy hopes that his touch possesses the power to influence how long Francel's heart will go on beating.

Instead of answering the young teacher's question, he murmurs one of his own: ]

Forever, then?

[ An impossible wish, and Zephirin does in fact have realistic expectations for the future in store. He isn't young or innocent enough for his question to be endearing, most likely, but the sentiment behind it is sincere, his tone solemn. ]

[haillenarte]

[all at once, francel's pulse quickens again, but this time he feels comfortable enough to swat lightly at the boy's hand, flopping backward, his face buried in a sofa cushion.

he doesn't seem displeased, at least, despite his runaway reaction — just embarrassed and bashful, and apparently still wrestling with his attraction to the stoic seventeen-year-old who has pursued him in such a wholesome and sweetly romantic way.]

Oh, you... You're going to kill me with how cute you are!

[valhourdin]

[ Francel, the so-called old man, still looks young and criminally cute himself, hiding his flustered expression, if not his equally flustered body language. Zephirin's hands land on the sofa, one near Francel's elbow, palms flat; the boy leans over his teacher, gratified by this particular reaction to witness. ]

Even though we have a pact to keep your heart beating forever? You might kill me first, anyway.

[ They should finish looking through the catalog before his parents come home, but he lingers as he is, gazing down at Francel, temptation at his fingertips. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel's breath catches in his throat.

he has withdrawn, and zephirin has advanced; now the boy is leaning over him, practically pinning him against the couch. of course, francel is not trapped — he knows that zephirin is respectful, that he could push zephirin away if he wanted to — but he likes this. his pulse quickens. zephirin looks keenly beautiful, gazing down at his teacher from above, and francel feels like an altar boy at a house of worship, unprepared to meet his god.]

...No killing. [he almost whimpers this, in a childish and vulnerable tone.] Only kissing.

[valhourdin]

May I?

[ Half beneath Zephirin, his face no longer hidden from view, Francel seems as vulnerable as he sounds, but his invitation gives Zephirin permission to act, to lean in all the way until their lips meet. Angling his head, he kisses his teacher slowly, chastely. They probably won't do this again for a while, after today, and so he decides to take his time exploring the shape of Francel's plush mouth, pressing each kiss along its curve from one corner to the other.

This is no dream, no vivid fantasy. ]

[haillenarte]

[zephirin's movements sounds a sweet high note in francel's throat as his student claims his very first kiss — he, too, angles his head to one side so that their noses do not brush. zephirin smells clean and fresh and sweet, and the kiss itself is warm, delicate. it feels right.

francel's self-restraint crumbles. he wraps his arms around zephirin's shoulders, rubbing a lazy arc up and down his spine as he kisses back, more or less chastely, nothing too wild in the world of tongue and teeth, but zephirin's soft, thin lips are strangely addictive against his own.]

...Mmmmmm.

[valhourdin]

[ Francel has never been kissed, Zephirin thinks distantly, which makes it all the more important that this moment between them is special. It has to end soon, but while it lasts, while Francel is pliant and welcoming, Zephirin's fingers drift to his teacher's hair, running through the strands. They find the blade of Francel's ear, tracing its outer edge.

Deliciously suffused in sensation — the warmth of Francel's lips, the touch trailing along his spine — Zephirin hums his appreciation into their kisses, shifting upon the sofa to accommodate Francel's embrace, one knee pressed against Francel's thigh. ]

[haillenarte]

Mmmn — aaah...

[that simple touch to his ear makes francel shiver and jerk in clear pleasure, and then suddenly the chasteness of their kiss does not seem quite so chaste after all. zephirin's hum resonates against his lips, and it seems to tickle the inside of his mouth; the boy's knee, pressed against his thigh, stokes a burning need, low in his belly, which francel has thus far tried to repress. when they part, the young teacher looks strangely debauched, his shirt slightly rumpled, his hair tousled —

— and a key turns in a distant lock.

the deadbolt rumbles, and then the door squeaks open, with the practiced force of someone who is very used to opening his front door. a heavy footfall indicates, to both young men on the couch, that perhaps zephirin's father has come home early; his mother, surely, would have lighter steps.

"zephirin?" a deep voice calls. "i'm home!"]

[valhourdin]

[ Zephirin is granted no more than a fleeting second to admire how beautiful Francel looks, pressed into the sofa cushions, faintly flushed, golden hair mussed. His father's return acts not unlike stepping under a cold shower, snatching him out of the pleasurable haze of paying attention only to the sight immediately in front of him. Though he doesn't jolt and jerk away, he tenses palpably, raising his head and drawing away to place at least a few ilms of respectable distance between himself and his teacher. Almost imperceptibly, his brow furrows; he glances at the doorway to the lounge, and wills his senses to calm down even as his mind races to prepare an explanation.

Turning back to Francel, Zephirin moves to help him up, to smooth his hair into place. There is no hope of sneaking upstairs, let alone out of the house, but the both of them can do their best to concentrate on the catalog, appearing presentable. ]

[haillenarte]

[zephirin's father has been a police captain for many years; while he is aware that zephirin is the quiet sort, and a failure to respond is not necessarily indicative of something wrong, the man's footsteps turn quieter as he creeps toward the living room, hand close to his weapon just in case, only to find —

— zephirin, and a boy who appears to be a friend from school, bent over the coffee-table, looking at a... pamphlet? no, a magazine of some kind. a catalog; nothing inappropriate. he stops in the doorway, staring.

francel's hair has been brushed into place, though nothing could be done about his flyaways, and his collar is disheveled. he is clutching a couch cushion to his chest under the pretense of comfort, though in reality he is hiding the telltale wrinkles in his shirt. he looks up at the elder valhourdin and smiles, his nervousness evident only in the way that his voice slightly more high-pitched than it usually is.]

O-Oh! Hello, sir!

[valhourdin]

Welcome home... Sorry we didn't answer just now.

[ Zephirin takes mostly after his mother in appearance, but in his reserved manner, he resembles his father, whose expression is unreadable when he comes into view. Stony-faced, Mr. Valhourdin could be thinking anything from that's not Guerrique to somewhat more alarming thoughts, or maybe the man is simply relieved to find his son alive and well, if uncharacteristically distracted. His gaze sweeps over Francel, traveling from his collar to the cushion clasped to his chest.

"I'm sure you had your reasons," he says at last. "Hi there, I don't believe we've been introduced — I'm Zephirin's father, as you may have guessed." At his side, his hand relaxes. After a pause, choosing one course of action over another, he adds, "Carry on, boys. We can talk over dinner."

And he turns to go, as if the fate of Zephirin's mystery guest is decided. His footfalls fade down the corridor.

Sitting back against the couch, Zephirin lets go of a breath, and casts Francel a searching look. He offers an apology: ]

...That wasn't supposed to happen. You are welcome to stay, but I can tell my parents that you had to go home.

[ While it's too abrupt for his liking, Francel shouldn't have to lie, all because of today — not only because Zephirin suspects that the man is terrible at it. ]

[haillenarte]

[visibly relieved as soon as mr. de valhourdin is out of the room, francel tosses the cushion aside and straightens out his clothing, pulling his shirt flat across his body, his jeans up over his hips. inwardly, he thinks to himself that it’s a relief that zephirin doesn’t take after his father in appearance; he wouldn’t be able to handle an older zephirin staring down at him with judgmental disdain.]

B-But won’t it be more strange if I disappear so suddenly? Even if we tell him I have a curfew... It’s only going to look suspicious if I just leave...

[the ease with which francel has accepted that his cover story must be that he is a friend from school is somewhat humorous...]

[valhourdin]

[ It surprises Zephirin that Francel declines his opening to escape, but he has a point — and Zephirin himself would prefer not to usher his teacher out like this, least of all right after their first kiss. It is an excuse to fulfill that seemingly impossible fantasy of inviting Francel over for dinner and introducing the man to his parents, though they won't be anything to each other but friends, classmates.

His main concern is that they may be forced to improvise, put on the spot. Covering for Francel alone seemed easier. ]

You're right. [ Zephirin nods after another moment's deliberation. ] As long as you're comfortable having dinner with my parents.

[ Comfortable is probably too much to ask. ]

[haillenarte]

I’m not comfortable, but I think you’ll wind up having to answer more questions if I just suddenly leave. And if they see us together again, it’s better for us to have our stories straight rather than improvise without telling each other... right?

[francel’s voice dips to a whisper as he speaks, looking nervously around the unremarkably pretty sitting room as though he expects zephirin’s father to resurface from behind a shelf of glassware souvenirs from ul’dah. he tugs bashfully at the denim covering his thighs.]

Maybe I’m overthinking this. If you need me to leave, I’ll... say there was a family emergency or something.

[valhourdin]

I don't need you to leave. [ Zephirin's reply comes without hesitation, this time; firmly, the boy shakes his head. ] I was worried about you. Personally, I'd like you to stay longer, but I know you weren't expecting any of this, and I've asked for a lot today.

[ Francel's nervousness jabs at him with a fresh twinge of guilt. Averting his gaze, Zephirin starts for the hallway to the kitchen, only to look back at his teacher over his shoulder. ]

...That being said, do you want to help us get dinner ready? Unless you have work for tomorrow, in which case you're free to use my desk upstairs in the meantime.

[haillenarte]

[this suggestion seems to brighten francel's mood — the idea of cooking alongside zephirin's father might be a tad intimidating, but he will have vegetables and cutlery to hide behind if the conversation takes a wild turn. he rises from his seat to follow his student — now his "friend" — to the kitchen.]

Oh, that's alright — I've already worked out my lesson plan for tomorrow. I can help you all make dinner. Does your dad normally do the cooking?

[valhourdin]

[ As Francel's unease dissipates enough for him to venture into the kitchen with Zephirin, the boy allows himself to entertain the possibility of a pleasant evening. Minutely, his posture shifts, relaxing. He smiles at Francel. ]

My parents take turns together with me, depending on when they get home. Admittedly, I didn't expect my father to be back so early...

[ Maybe they lost track of the time, just a little. ]

But your cooking is better than mine.

[ In the kitchen, they're alone while Zephirin's father has to change out of his uniform, and Zephirin retrieves a binder of recipes from a cabinet, opening it on the counter to a page marked for the current day of the week. Stepping away, he hands Francel a green apron, and sets a cutting board and a knife down before them, three red capsicums placed on top of the board.

His father reappears in the doorway just as Zephirin moves to select a pan for their use; the man's gaze travels across the kitchen, landing on Francel again. His steps soon take him closer. "So, Zephirin enlisted your help... Do you cook at home?" ]

[haillenarte]

O-Oh! Hello, sir!

[startled, francel looks up in the middle of reading the recipe’s instructions. he has just gotten past the long expository paragraph precluding the recipe proper – the author isn’t too wordy, fortunately, but there is something to be said for the thought that good cookbooks do not necessarily require good writers. hastily, he throws on his borrowed green apron as if it is an afterthought.]

I suppose I do? I’ve never really thought about it. My parents have to travel for work most of the time, so if my brothers and sister don’t feel like buying something for dinner, I usually wind up making it.

[all of this is true, of course – or at least it was true, once; it is an accurate testimonial of francel’s time in high school, before university.]

[valhourdin]

[ "I see," Zephirin's father remarks, rolling up his sleeves halfway to his elbows. "It's good of you to take care of your siblings." Regarding Francel a moment longer, he seems to scrutinize the young teacher until he is satisfied with his silent assessment. "Will you need a ride home later? Alciaume will do, by the way. No need to call me sir."

It's then that Zephirin, two packets of pasta in hand, decides to step in to rescue his hapless teacher from his father's well-meaning interrogation. ]

Francel drove us back from school — his car is parked close by. [ Of Francel, now portrayed as impressively self-sufficient, he asks a truly pressing question: ] Would you prefer linguine or penne?

[haillenarte]

[alciaume de valhourdin might have some cause for concern, as francel doesn't look like the sort of teenage boy who should be trusted behind the wheel, and he seems several years younger as he points shyly at the linguine, giggling for no particular reason.]

Oh, um... I like the long kind!

[perhaps he doesn't cook pasta particularly often, or more likely, he doesn't have anyone at home with whom he can discuss the finer points of cooking and ingredients; the vocabulary of an epicure is lost on him.]

It still seems weird to call someone's parent by their first name, though...

[admittedly, francel doesn't do it even during parent-teacher conferences...]

[valhourdin]

So do I, [ Zephirin voices his approval of Francel's choice, setting the packet of penne aside before opening the linguine, shaking the dried long pasta into a bowl, to be cooked after the sauce. His father, meanwhile, indeed appears concerned, a crease upon his brow; for another moment more, Alciaume de Valhourdin resumes sizing Francel up.

"Very well," the man finishes adjusting his sleeves, "I'll make an exception for you, and accept sir. On one condition—"

His tone is grave, earning him a glance from Zephirin, but what follows asks something completely reasonable of Francel, albeit unrelated to his options to choose from when addressing his student's father.

"Drive safely." ]

[haillenarte]

[for a moment, francel is completely tensed, his ears perked in what seems to be a combination of nervousness and fear as alciaume de valhourdin keeps him in suspense. the condition that follows, however, is completely reasonable — francel's brow creases in confusion as he slowly comes to the conclusion that he's been had.]

I... b-but I always drive safely?

[bewildered, the young blond looks over his shoulder at his student, eyes pleading — zephiriiiin, heeeelp.]