sᴇʀ ᴢᴇᴘʜɪʀɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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gurabad2018-08-23 10:49 pm
valhourdin) wrote in gurabad2018-08-23 10:49 pm
Entry tags:
048 » but miles don't make your image fade
[ 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. ]
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. ]
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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. ]
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[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!"]
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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. ]
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— 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!
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[ 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. ]
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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...]
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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. ]
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[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.
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[ 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.
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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?
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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?" ]
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[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.]
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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?
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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...]
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"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." ]
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I... b-but I always drive safely?
[bewildered, the young blond looks over his shoulder at his student, eyes pleading — zephiriiiin, heeeelp.]