gurabad | 066 » won't stop until the angels sing

[and yet — it's not what he expected.

childish fancies, maybe. he thought it would be better. he thought they were agreeing to — not luxury, but some semblance of luxury; he thought they'd be treated like royal servants and not like sheep. but their handlers don't bother with pleasantries.

they're given one night's decent treatment: hot food, just microwaved meals, but delicious after so many days spent starving; warm baths, with inspections to be sure that they look and smell appropriately clean afterward; makeshift lodgings, thin futons that aren't proper mattresses by any means, but which feel infinitely better than hard asphalt or the cold tile of a public restroom.

after that is "the evening." the evening. francel's handler, arliese, doesn't tell him much. she's a hard, stern woman who is probably some unscrupulous billionaire's personal assistant; she wears tight skirts and even tighter shirts, and perhaps once upon a time she was in their position, too. she's mentioned only enough for him to know that he and the other boys and girls his age are headed to a boat, some kind of grand private liner. as far as he knows, all their clients will be wealthy, and most will be wealthy in the criminal enterprise sort of way. one of his roommates whispers that the boat party is cover for a meeting between gangs, that she knows because she was in one of the gangs before, but as an underling and not the kind of top dog that gets to go to places like this. francel's heart sinks. he was prepared for massages, for coerced sex, maybe even for assault. he wasn't prepared for organized crime. if they toss us off the boat, another girl hisses, no one's even going to look for us.

he knows better than to expect stylists, when they're ushered onto the boat and into a walk-in closet that's been repurposed as a changing room, but he still expects to be treated better than they are. arliese briskly walks the girls toward a selection of dresses, barks orders for them to find things in their sizes and make themselves presentable. francel is one of the only boys; some confusion arises as to what to dress him and his compatriots in, but in the end it's agreed that they should just be attired as waiters, that there aren't likely to be that many who want boys anyway. all of the entertainment is asked to wear pink ribbons around their necks to make themselves identifiable. francel, awkwardly, is given a tray with a selection of drinks to balance upon it.

it's strange, once the guests begin to arrive and the party is soon in session. the people around them don't necessarily look like criminals. some seem like perfectly ordinary, placid businessmen; others are hardened, scar-torn, with steely glints in their eyes.

the other boys and girls seem to take to their jobs with more resolve than francel was prepared to give. the roegadyn girl who said she was in a gang once has done this before, francel realizes, as she quickly nestles up to a burly older man her size and sort of passably handsome in the low light; other girls, slower to understand, don't quite have the luxury of choice, and are seized upon by whichever leering men first find them to their liking. the two hyuran boys quickly fall into their duties as waiters, concealing their pink ribbons as much as possible so as to not wind up like their female counterparts.

that leaves francel, standing dazedly in the center of the dining hall, watching men and sometimes women file slowly into the room, making themselves comfortable with food and drink.

arliese soon intervenes, pulling him aside and staring into his eyes with an intensity that reminds him uncomfortably of his father. "what do you think you're doing?" she snaps, seizing his chin between her fingers.

"i — i'm not sure," he stutters awkwardly.

she doesn't have to — he'd be pliant either way — but perhaps she's just frustrated. she slaps him, hard, across his face. "get yourself together," she snarls. "i don't like boys who think too much, but i can see you have questions, so i'll tell you one thing: i'm under orders to keep everyone here happy, drunk, high, or fucking. if you can't make yourself useful like the other two, find a man who'll have you and get to work."

then she releases him, hard heels clicking against the liner's deck.

he pulls himself together soon enough, though he can't hide the pink mark across his cheek. he has to look busy, he knows, but he hasn't the slightest idea how. the first guest that catches his eye is a tall blond elezen dressed neatly in a suit. business or pleasure? francel wonders, but he'd rather not get pinned down by anyone who looks as though they might be violent or cruel, and the man with green eyes seems too outwardly placid to be either. quickly, francel sidles up to him, feeling a desperation that he hopes isn't obvious in the sound of his voice.]

...Excuse me, sir. Would you like a drink?

[his expression is calm, though anxiety flickers in the deep blue of his eyes. the pink ribbon around his neck gleams in the light.]

Edited 2019-09-08 15:27 (UTC)

[ Zephirin arrives supposedly alone, here strictly on business, expected to feign otherwise — he and the others disperse through the gathering crowd. Before long, the dining hall fills with noise, chatter and laughter and music mingling. The venue and the catering lend the party a classy veneer, but come morning, there may be more to mop from the polished floors than crumbs and spilled drinks, and the unofficial menu doesn't stop at innocuous canapés and cocktails.

Zephirin doubts that he will ever warm to any of this the way that some manage it. The thought is only a faint thing, each time, mild distaste to brush aside as irrelevant. It won't interfere.

As usual, he intends to make his rounds, eyes and ears on the goings-on; he'll engage in small-talk, touch upon ventures, meet with their informant. All of it requires keeping a clear head — naturally, he anticipates a degree of sabotage on their host's part.

He notes the exits, first, and moves on to scanning the room, as one would in search of familiar faces, leisurely.

In one corner, a group of Elezen and Hyuran attendees claim two tables between them, talking loudly amongst themselves. One man flags down a waiter, who scrambles to push the tables together before unloading his tray of refreshments. In another corner, a party guest has wrapped his arm around the girl tucked against his side; his hand slips from her waist to the hem of her short dress, her bare thighs.

Halfway across the room, a woman yanks a second waiter from his spot, an Elezen youth, ushering him out of sight.

None of it is new.

Turning his attention elsewhere to find a seat for now, Zephirin weaves through the assembled guests, headed towards the bar and its tall stools. It's then that the young Elezen waiter reappears, approaching and addressing him with a timidity that suggests either inexperience or simply shyness, perhaps both. Perhaps the boy is afraid.

Zephirin's eyes flick to the ribbon tied around the waiter's delicate neck, and then to the imprint on his cheek — he can deduce what took place moments earlier. With a slight tilt of his head, he turns to face the boy fully, glancing down at the filled tray before him.

There are, without a doubt, too many people around who would target someone like this, someone who looks out of place here, for a bit of fun — or worse. ]

Only a drink?

[ Answering evenly, Zephirin reaches out to accept a glass, not overly concerned with the assortment on offer, as long as it allows him to blend in. The ice cubes bobbing in his drink catch the light, clink against the side of the glass.

He wonders, idly, how the young waiter might choose to interpret his question. ]

Edited 2019-09-12 15:36 (UTC)

[the boy turns red at this remark, stuttering faintly, as though he was not at all prepared for this eventuality, though of course he must know he is being offered to his guests as well. his heart hammers too loudly in his chest. gods above, he shouldn't hope —]

I — w-we also have canapés, sir, and other hors d'œuvres —

[the tray clatters a little bit in his shaking hands; he holds it more firmly, both wrists tensed, to steady himself.]

Or... if you'd prefer... I-I could sit with you, if you'd like...

[ The nervousness is not an act. The boy's knuckles have gone white with tension, his grip too tight. At this rate, he has a long, unpleasant evening ahead, possibly a dropped tray and shattered glasses, and likely his handler's displeasure in store afterward, if he fails to do his job.

Zephirin should walk away — intervening, keeping this "waiter" to himself only delays the inevitable. What good is a single night's excuse to avoid punishment or unwanted encounters? It might, at best, let the boy claim that he had no choice but to follow one particularly demanding guest's whims the entire time.

Zephirin should end the exchange there — he knows full well to focus on his tasks, besides — but his conscience disagrees. He regards the waiter as though it takes him a moment longer to deliberate and decide between his options, features betraying nothing of his thoughts. ]

Perhaps I would like the works. Or do you need to finish serving other guests first?

[the boy erupts in a fresh outburst, stuttering:]

N-No! No, I... I'm available.

[why did he say it like that? this isn't going well at all. this man is sure to pass him up for someone else, someone who isn't such a floundering mess. awkwardly, francel sets his tray of drinks on the bar, as if to give them all to zephirin.]

I'll just run and get a snack platter for you, sir. I-I mean, a — an assortment of appetizers! I'll be right back.

[well, he wasn't hired for his grace, presumably. hastily, the young elezen waiter runs off, only to return shortly with — as he promised — a selection of finger foods: sweet crabmeat and alligator pear on crackers, deviled eggs on thin slices of toast, the classic combination of smoked salmon and crème fraîche...]

H-Here you are, sir...

[this, too, francel slides atop the bar, and... and then he doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. he tries to slide into the bar stool beside zephirin's, all slinky hips the way he saw some of the more experienced girls move, but it doesn't come naturally to him, and he has to shift a few times to get his weight comfortable in the seat.

his cheeks are still pink.]

[ True to his word, Zephirin's personal waiter for the evening scurries away and returns within moments, leaving Zephirin unoccupied to watch the crowd only briefly. Zephirin's gaze, drawn back to the boy squirming in his seat, to the appetizers and drinks now arranged on the bar's countertop, remains unreadable. The ice in his own drink has begun to melt; his fingers loosen from around the glass.

He nods once, and picks up the nearest canapé on the platter, holding it over his other palm. ]

Thank you. Will you be having anything?

[ Though hors d'œuvres don't make for a proper meal, something that Zephirin suspects this boy hasn't had in a while, he indicates the spread with another nod. Presumably the boat's waitstaff — the entertainment — were instructed to refrain from it, but invited to join a guest, they're no longer bound by rules consigning them to nothing but service. ]

[francel doesn't even realize that he's hungry until zephirin asks — then, suddenly, he seems to notice the food for the first time, his eyes sparkling with unbridled interest. there's so much on the plate, all of it exquisite, chef-prepared. it's probably more expensive and luxurious than anything else he's ever tasted in his life.

(it's strangely endearing, too, that the man holds his canapé so delicately, so daintily, to prevent crumbs from getting on his suit.)]

If you don't mind...

[a little shyly, francel takes up a little piece of bread with an assortment of delicious caviars perched atop it, popping the whole thing into his mouth as he chews it slowly, as a hamster might.]

...Mm! It's more fishy than I thought it would taste... but it's good!

[ The boy's delight speaks volumes. Most of the guests in attendance at such functions would take little notice of the food and drink served, partaking of something commonplace without comment — this boy, tentatively curious, visibly savours his chosen mouthful. Perhaps, were he granted permission, he might clear the platter entirely.

(And there it is again, a twinge of regret, but when business here is done, they will go their separate ways.)

Smiling faintly in lieu of any remark offered aloud, at first, Zephirin lifts his canapé to his lips, brushes crumbs from his fingers. He washes it down with a sip of his drink, and looks across the room, as if lost in thought. ]

You're new, I take it.

[ If the boy does well tonight, this will be his first assignment of many to come. ]

[the boy stiffens at the remark, suddenly reminded of what he is, what he's supposed to be doing. shame prompts him to lower his eyes, his lashes brushing his cheeks as his shoulders seem to deflate.]

...Yes. It's my first evening here.

[across the room, the roegadyn girl is already pushing her considerable bosom against the arm of the man she's chosen; elsewhere, one of the hyur waiters has been caught by a thickly built highlander woman who seems quite intent on taking him to a back room. cheeks reddening, francel takes another canapé, and crunches away at it.]

I... wasn't sure what to expect. I thought we'd just be shuttled between hotel rooms or something. This is a lot more than I was prepared for...

[ How much does he know, this so-called waiter? Zephirin casts him a sidelong glance, but he sees only the blush colouring the boy's soft cheeks — short-lived excitement has given way to guilt, it seems, and that could be attributed to nothing more than a belief that his potential client finds fault with him for his inexperience.

The venue isn't the issue. Tonight's will have furnished private rooms aplenty, much like a hotel's suites, and nothing expected of the entertainment should come as a surprise.

But they might overhear too much, here. Replaceable, they might go missing, discarded to be silenced and forgotten.

Zephirin sets his glass down, rising from his seat. ]

...Follow me in a moment. You can bring your trays or leave them.

[ A single night, a pointless gesture. Even so, he crosses the dining hall to disappear through one of the exits. Some paces beyond it, a window at his back, he waits in the corridor. ]

Oh — y-yes, sir!

[scrambling to his feet, francel stares longingly at the assortment of bite-sized snacks on the trays before he ultimately decides that it would be best not to keep the man — his client? — waiting for too long.

the boy scurries after him like a mouse. something in his expression brightens when he sees zephirin waiting in the corridor, though he really shouldn't — the man in the suit has yet to prove that he is worthy of trust or idolization.]

[ Together, they pass a few doors, putting a gleaming stairwell behind them before coming to a stop outside one of the guest cabins. This door, Zephirin pushes open, holding it for his companion to enter the spacious room within. After a beat, though he predicts fresh unease, now that they're alone, he locks it.

A cursory sweep of his gaze takes in the cabin's interior: a settee faces the wide ocean-view windows while the bed, sheets untouched, fills the room's far half. Had the still-nameless waiter wished to sneak his snack platter out of the dining hall with him, it could have found a place on the coffee table.

The boy is unlikely to make himself comfortable unprompted, and so Zephirin takes a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him from there, splaying the fingers of his left hand to tap their ends against the mattress beside him in a wordless sit down. ]

Are you required to prove that you've worked tonight?

[ The minutes tick by — he is all too aware of the weight of his watch. ]

H-Huh? I — ah —

[francel stutters. he's not entirely certain. arliese mentioned nothing about inspections or proof — she simply assumed that the fear of her instilled into her charges would be enough to make them do their jobs.

which seems as though it would work, at least in this boy's case. he sits down once zephirin's fingertips demand it, though — just as predicted — he looks more anxious than before.]

...I'm not certain. They didn't mention anything like that... and I don't think they mean to surprise us. I mean, there's nothing you can do if no one wants you, right...?

[the fingers of the hand nearest zephirin's curl into a gentle fist.]

...Though I guess you'd be useless to them then...

Edited 2019-10-22 01:37 (UTC)

[ The boy's hands look small, fragile, soft like the rest of him. He has a pretty face — doe eyes, a dainty nose, a plush mouth — his features unmarred even fraught with anxiety, his skin unblemished. Dressed in his waiter's attire, his clothing hides his figure, but it isn't impossible to imagine that he would catch someone's eye, sooner or later. His shyness could work in his favour.

If he hadn't approached Zephirin, another guest might well have taken him aside by the end of the evening.

Instead, the two of them sit here, creasing the bed linens as the firm mattress dips slightly, and Zephirin mounts a meaningless rescue, piece by piece, as if this chance encounter binds them to each other, the boy made his responsibility, a stray puppy fed a handful of scraps. It would be less cruel, perhaps, to play an interested client's part.

Zephirin's thumb and index finger push up the hem of his sleeve, baring his wrist. He checks the time. ]

They won't search for you, in that case.

[ Lest the boy begin to fear for his safety, he clarifies: ]

You could stay here, kept too busy to return to the party — alone, I'm afraid, but I would be willing to vouch for you.

[ And then? Tomorrow, the days to follow? ]

...And then?

[the boy voices the same question, his eyes flicking to his lap. zephirin offers him meaningless salvation: he would be spared service for one night, perhaps, but one night only, and the man's kindness merely delays the inevitable.]

They'll only make me do this again tomorrow. Some other time, maybe, and in some other place — but even if I hide away in this room tonight, it won't change the situation.

[he shakes his head, his small throat bobbing as he swallows on a sudden lump in his throat. he's not certain why his chest feels like it's aching; he has no words to describe how he feels. he hasn't even had time to process everything that's happened.]

...It's all right, sir. I knew what kind of work this would be. If there's something you want, you may as well tell me now. For someone like you, I... I'd do anything.

Edited 2019-10-23 03:20 (UTC)

[ For someone like you, the boy says, too trusting — and in repayment for what? A fleeting taste of luxury, these paltry attempts at arranging a reprieve from his circumstances?

To his credit, he questions Zephirin despite his misplaced gratitude, evidently not so naive that he fancies him a knight in shining armour come to free him. Downcast, resigned to his fate, his retort jabs at Zephirin's conscience anew.

There are countless other boys and girls just like him, and yet— ]

...For now, I want you to do as I suggest, nothing more.

[ Zephirin's hands settle upon his knees. Steadily, he studies the boy. ]

If you were given the chance to choose, where would you be tomorrow?

Me? I... I don't know. Anywhere is a hard thing to contemplate when you've only been in one place for most of your life.

[the boy is soft-spoken, and surprisingly well-spoken for someone in his current situation — if his handlers plucked him off the streets, perhaps he wasn't homeless for long. there is something exhausted in his youthful face as he looks around the room, at its myriad useless fineries. none of it is particularly useful to him. he shrugs.]

As long as it's somewhere safe... somewhere I can sleep in a warm bed and take hot baths... that's all I need. I don't mind skipping meals or not having any books to read. I just want a bed and a bath...

[ Silence claims the moments in the wake of Francel's answer. Zephirin's eyes track the path that the boy's gaze takes as it wanders wearily from rich upholstery to vintage lamps. Something of his story is written in it, the things he has left unsaid.

If he had somewhere to go, someone to turn to, he wouldn't be here.

Finally, standing almost soundlessly, Zephirin moves across the carpeted floor in a couple of strides. Outside the windows, in the distance past the harbour, city lights glimmer against the night sky, specks of colour.

He could dismiss all of this as none of his concern, no longer naive himself. ]

...I may have a spare room. Should you find another option, you would be free to go.

...Really?

[the word escapes francel's mouth before he can stop himself — too hopeful, though he knows that zephirin is no fairy-tale hero, that the man must be a knight in tarnished armor for him to be at this sick party at all. he knows this, he knows this, and yet...

his heart longs for it. he would consent to being held in chains in zephirin's basement if only it meant he did not have to walk back to the thin futons and sleep side-by-side with other young men and women who are destined to be bought and sold by their captors like chattel.]

But I... I wouldn't be able to pay you. And I can't go back to school anymore because my parents have all my papers. I'd just be dead weight to you...

Edited 2019-10-23 23:55 (UTC)

[ Talk of school and parents sheds more light on the boy's bleak situation, hinting at his age, his home life. Perhaps he was disowned, with no hope of mending broken bridges and stitching together the tatters of his family. He is too eager to let a complete stranger abscond with him to have another option anywhere within his reach.

Turning back towards the bed, Zephirin shakes his head, matter-of-fact to quell the boy's concerns. ]

Can you cook and clean? That would suffice.

[ It would suffice not to look back on this night, haunted by a plaintive whisper of for someone like you, led to dwell on foolish questions. ]

Really?

[again, the boy's whisper speaks of timid eagerness, breathless reverence in every reverberation of his voice. he leans a little closer to zephirin, like a kitten coaxed out of hiding, his frightened face finally breaking into a smile.]

Yes! A-Absolutely! I'll cook and clean anything you want. I don't know if I — if I can meet your standards, but I'll try, I promise. I'll learn.

[a... slightly troubled pout crosses his lips, however, as a little dilemma occurs to him.]

Ah... how do we... Do you mean to speak with Arliese to secure her permission, or...?

[he is property, after all, and zephirin hasn't yet established whether or not he is a man of business or a thief.]

[ Arliese — the woman who scolded her charge, earlier, Zephirin surmises. Seeking something to distract him from the boy's blossoming relief, his eyes lower to his cheek, where the evidence of his handler's ire has faded. ]

I suppose she wouldn't take kindly to an abduction behind her back.

[ The corners of Zephirin's mouth curl upward just slightly before his lips thin into a pensive line. It's doubtful that his stray puppy of a future housemate had to sign an employee's contract, that any rights were promised him, and self-preservation should keep his handler from crossing the wrong people, but money would guarantee it. ]

I'll trust you to introduce us later, then.

[ And if need be, an alias will cover up tonight's tracks. ]

[francel smiles. he does not yet know what to expect, and he knows very well that he might be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, but that is a risk he is willing to take. he wishes he knew how to express his gratitude, wishes he had more to offer than his body or a kiss or an embrace. instead, he lowers his gaze a little, relief evident in his dreamy eyes.]

...You could have helped anyone here, but you chose me. I... Thank you.

[his voice breaks a little on those words, but he swallows the lump in his throat away, trying to suppress the giddy excitement in his chest. francel sighs.]

What should I call you?

[shrewdly, the boy does not ask for a name — merely a form of address.]

[ With his smile, the emotion trembling in his thank you, the boy places Zephirin upon a pedestal, painting him some sort of saint, but his plight might have gone unnoticed, if not for his own decisions. None of his peers stand out, callous though it may be to compare them as if to judge some more deserving than others of help.

The evening would have progressed and concluded without incident.

Zephirin's expression smooths out, deliberately cleared, neutral. He elects not to comment, keeping to the matter of introductions — a name is easy enough to give, any name while nothing is settled just yet. ]

Ansaulme will do. And what should I call you?

Ansaulme...?

[it is a name, and a fine enough name at that, though francel can't help but feel that it doesn't quite suit the hard-eyed man in front of him. it feels somehow too austere; it seems more like the sort of name a fisherman from a cold seaside village up north might have. nevertheless, it is the name that francel was offered, and he fully intends to make use of it.]

...Call me Francel. Everyone does.

[so it is a real name then, after a fashion, or else perhaps merely a nickname. francel draws his legs up onto the mattress, careful to avoid getting his shoes on the sheets, though his leather loafers are brand-new and have never stepped on dirty flooring.

his expression is serene, contented. if he were a stray puppy, it seems his tail would be wagging wildly behind his back.]

Francel.

[ Uttered in acknowledgement, the name smoothly leaves Zephirin's tongue. Everyone does strikes him as another fragment of Francel's story, but the boy volunteers no more than that, nor do they have the time to chat at length. Zephirin asks nothing.

For a moment longer, his eyes rest on Francel, who must have other questions on his mind himself, yet looks at "Ansaulme" without trepidation or mistrust, seeming wholly at ease now. It answers how much the boy knows, Zephirin thinks.

Oddly perturbed, he averts his gaze. ]

I apologize — I'll have to ask you to endure a few hours of boredom, unless a book can be found.

Ah... will you be leaving?

[the boy's pointed ears seem to droop as he stares at zephirin, his expression wilting as he rests both hands atop the mattress. don't leave, he wants to plead, but surely zephirin has other business at the party to attend to, and who is francel to demand that he stay? it's well within the man's rights to just walk away and forget his promises, leaving francel in arliese's custody once more. no binding agreement sits between them.]

But you'll... you'll come back, won't you? Am I to wait for you here?

[ A stranger's word means little, and for all that Francel was quick to declare Zephirin trustworthy, as long as he considers himself dead weight, he has no reason to believe that said stranger would have no second thoughts in a few hours' time. Zephirin's gaze snaps back to the boy, who looks so crestfallen that kicked puppy seems apt to describe the expression he wears. Francel fears abandonment, not boredom.

A slight furrow upon his brow, Zephirin returns to the bed. He offers Francel his hand. ]

I'll come back.

[ A handshake won't cement his promise as unbreakable, but if the boy willingly entrusts his safety to Ansaulme, he may trust him not to be so cruel as to dangle a way out of his situation before him, only to snatch it beyond reach again. ]

I would advise you not to leave this room until then, as I've asked, but I can't force you to stay.

[ Following those instructions simply spares Francel the job awaiting him, and much of the usual likely to unfold — and it makes it easier to find him. ]

[francel looks up at “ansaulme” with wide, hesitantly trusting eyes; flecks of lamplight dance in his irises. you promise? goes unsaid. after a brief pause, he moves to take zephirin’s larger hand into his own, clasping his fingers around the man’s knuckles.]

...Okay. I’ll wait here for you until you return.

[he speaks so solemnly that one would think he planned to wait centuries.]

[ They don't shake hands. Francel's fingers merely hold on to Zephirin's, timidly, the grip of a frightened child trying for a brave front; Zephirin holds still. Absurdly, the boy seems dwarfed by his surroundings, his knuckles fine-boned, white beneath his skin. ]

Lock the door.

[ Sliding his hand free, Zephirin steps away without another look for his newly-acquired housemate-to-be, straight-backed on his way out. The door falls shut, and Francel is alone. An Art Deco clock's ticking marks the passing hours.

Past midnight, footfalls draw closer on the other side of the door, joined by the sounds of someone's insistent efforts to get in.

"Do we have to go in there?" The voice raised above the sudden noise is a sullen drawl. "I mean, aren't there other rooms?" ]

[francel had almost fallen asleep, but at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, he jolts, frightened. the door is locked, but still, it somehow doesn't feel safe.

it's not ansaulme behind the door, and he knows that; the thought of being stumbled upon by a stranger, or worse, arliese, leaves him fear-stricken. at first, francel stays frozen in the bed — but then, when he sees the knob of the door rattle, he slips soundlessly out of the covers, and props a chair up beneath the door's handle.]

[ A second voice grumbles something about the best room, but the door knob's rattling stops. The footsteps move away, growing fainter, and another door opens and shuts. Some time later, gasps and cries carry through the thin walls — the party is still in full swing, plenty of the guests here for business and pleasure alike.

No one stumbles upon Francel, hidden behind his locked door. The clock's hands pass three-thirty.

At last, a new set of steps nears the room, quieter than the first. When their sound subsides, a knock follows: two brief taps against the door's surface. Elsewhere, unintelligible, someone wails.

Zephirin, facing the door, looks impassive, if weary. He waits in patient silence. ]

[ francel does not relax until the intruders are long gone, and even then, he stays on high alert, too tense and wound up to even think of falling asleep any longer. still, staying in such a fearful, flight-ready state takes up precious energy that he doesn't have; the boy soon grows hungry, and very stressed. just as francel is starting to think that he should have snuck out to bring in the snack platter he left at the bar, however, the gentle knocks sound against the door.

ansaulme?

he did not leave francel with a special signal to remember him by, but francel hears something of the man's quiet demeanor in his gentle knocking. shyly, he slips off the mattress and moves the chair from beneath the doorknob, opening though not unbolting the door.

when he sees that it is zephirin after all, relief claims his boyish features before all else. it is quickly followed up by concern, but nevertheless, he undoes the deadbolt. ]

Ansaulme? Is everything all right?

[ The chair, the deadbolt, Francel's cautious response — everything seems an indication that the boy took Zephirin's advice to heart. By the look of it, while he hasn't slept, his night has been uneventful.

Zephirin's gaze roves over Francel's features before it travels past him, around the room, confirming his conclusions: his charge was left in peace. ]

...There was an accident of some sort, I believe, but I don't have the details.

[ As before, Zephirin's voice is even. He turns to Francel again, extending one hand, though it hovers near the boy's shoulder without making contact. Still, he saw the look in Francel's eyes — unmistakable relief that Zephirin kept his promise, returning — and it compels him to offer what reassurances he can.

Good boy, perhaps, thanking Francel for his obedient patience. ]

And you? Are you ready to come with me?

[ francel goes on staring calmly at "ansaulme," though there is something distinctly pleading in his large blue eyes. perhaps, in lieu of a touch to the shoulder and some reassuring words, it would be far more appropriate to pet his glossy golden head and tell him that he's been a good boy.

touch or no touch, however, francel nevertheless nods his head with an earnestness that belies his outward calm. he is ready to go, indeed. he is ready to put this chapter of his life behind him, and hopefully open it up to another one. he knows the risks involved in this proposition, but he wants very badly to believe that zephirin is not just another wolf come to tear him apart and take advantage of his naiveté. ]

I'll go anywhere you want me to. I'll follow you where I must.

[ shyly, he extends one hand, though part of him does not really expect zephirin to take it, and it does not move upward but instead hovers a bit awkwardly near his waist. ]

If you would take the lead...

Edited 2020-10-18 20:37 (UTC)

[ Francel's mannerisms, still too earnestly trusting to be an act, catch hold of Zephirin's attention too long. He reminds himself that the boy must be aware, at least to some extent, that their meeting isn't the start of a fairytale ending — all it means is an escape route tonight, this chapter closed. It's practical, promising Francel relative safety. He will have his warm bed, his hot baths.

That much, he can believe, Zephirin supposes. After all, the boy's new guardian has kept his word so far.

Expression softening slightly, Zephirin gives in, and his raised hand moves higher, coming to rest on the crown of Francel's head. ]

Good. You did well to wait patiently.

[ His other hand takes Francel's, long fingers clasped around it — to provide the comfort that Francel seeks, and to send others a message. ]

First, I'll need directions to find Arliese. Do you have belongings to collect?

[ It's unlikely, given what he has learned of Francel's circumstances. ]

Not in particular, no... I mean, these aren't my clothes, but I don't need them anymore, anyway...

[ the waiter's uniform and the pink ribbon around francel's neck don't resemble the simple dark green hoodie and blue jeans he left his home wearing... but the memories associated with that outfit aren't memories that francel wants to keep, in any case.

shyly, the boy's fingers tense a little around zephirin's, as if not quite believing that the man is real — then, when he is neither reprimanded nor rejected, they squeeze more boldly. he has to remind himself that this isn't a dream — this is already as good as a dream. after all, the simple comforts that "ansaulme" has promised him are all that he dares to hope for. what else could he possibly want? money? fame? an education? those things were never meant for someone like him.

the hand clasping his, though — that is solid and warm. he can't tell himself that he doesn't deserve something that he's holding, something that has chosen him. ]

She's probably back in the lounge, making sure that everyone mingles. A tall Elezen woman, white shirt, pink skirt. The same shade of pink as these ribbons.

Edited 2020-10-30 02:20 (UTC)

Then I briefly saw her, earlier.

[ Though Zephirin merely nods in acknowledgement, calm, he recalls the mark on Francel's cheek, and his gaze pauses there, longer this time, as he glances at the boy's ribbon. Briefly, too, he squeezes Francel's fingers in return. Whether or not Francel will be permitted to keep the evening's uniform remains to be seen.

Without releasing the boy, Zephirin leads him out of the room, back through the corridors, to the lounge. The tables are busy, still, the guests mingling, the entertainment in demand — all as though nothing has happened tonight, accidental or deliberate. No small number of the attendees are undoubtedly focused only on the night's fun, in whatever form, here until the party winds down.

Arliese, despite her white shirt, her pink skirt, has the look of some prison warden as she stalks through the lounge, each step punctuated by the clipped clicking of her heels against the floor.

Approaching the woman from behind, Zephirin slowly draws Francel closer to his side. Now he lets go of the boy's hand, only to circle his arm around Francel's waist. ]

Ms. Arliese? A moment of your time, if I may — preferably somewhere quiet.

[ Arliese looks up with a coldly perfunctory expression on her face — one which melts very slightly when she sees the young man she's just chastised with... another man who might be considered young, considering the general demographics of the expected attendees. It's not that she looks any warmer. It's just that she seems surprised. Her flawless exterior does not break, but she arches one immaculate eyebrow, eyes scanning the faces of the two Elezen men before her.

Her cool grey eyes fall on Francel, and then she smirks. "I see you found yourself a good one," she says matter-of-factly, though what she means by this — whether she means Zephirin's good looks, or merely that she already anticipates the question that is going to be asked of her — is left unsaid.

Sighing, as though she doesn't work in a position that requires her to buy and sell children for the pleasure of internationally renowned criminals, Arliese tucks some of her hair behind her short flat ear, then looks at Zephirin expectantly, once more adopting the attitude that Francel is nothing and no one. Her attentions must, after all, be entirely focused on her client. "Come with me," she says, and then turns on her tall pink heels, clicking away.

She leads Francel and Zephirin to an unoccupied hall of the ship, and then deftly unlocks a door to what seems to be a back office. Not her office necessarily, but some office. Once the keys are back around her neck, she looks at them, and refuses to smile.

"Is there a problem with the merchandise, sir, or are you looking to buy?" ]

Edited 2020-11-09 05:08 (UTC)

[ The borrowed office suits their purpose: here, there is no one about to observe or overhear them. Beyond that, it doesn't matter whether Arliese is in a hurry or plans to talk business seated. Zephirin, once inside, does not sit. He keeps Francel close, holding Arliese's gaze.

Francel, he hopes, is sufficiently assured that "Ansaulme" has no intention of treating him like some object bought to be used. Everything that transpires in this room merely aims to secure his freedom.

The arm curled around Francel's waist gives him a squeeze, meaningful for Arliese's eyes, possessive. Though the woman maintains her cold demeanor, Zephirin's mouth wears a small smile. He looks no less immaculate than Arliese herself, even hours into a long night. ]

The latter. Please set your price — I would like neither of us to walk away disappointed.

[ Francel jolts when his waist is squeezed, cheeks coloring slightly as he stutters faintly; ultimately, however, he says nothing, lowering his eyes demurely while Arliese and "Ansaulme" discuss his price. He leans closer to his would-be buyer, however, indicating plainly that this arrangement is at least to his liking.

Not that it would matter even if it were not.

In any case, Arliese leans against the desk she is standing near, pressing contemplative fingers against her mouth as her gaze scans Francel's face and figure — as well as the potential weight of Zephirin's wallet. This decision is entirely in her court, and she is its judge and jury. There are pros and cons that she must weigh. On the one hand, Francel makes an obedient slave, just as willing to be a sexual plaything as he is a serving-boy, and not too many can do both. On the other hand, he's not of a demographic that is particularly popular or useful in the trafficking sphere... and Arliese, monster though she may be, does have her own values. They are all Elezen, between the three of them. She can make some concessions for her own people, seeing that she's already betrayed everything else that she is or should be.

"You seem a reasonable sort, so I'll level with you," she says at last, folding her arms beneath her chest. "He's obedient. Good-looking. Uncommon, too — we don't often trade in Elezen boys. But that's also because there's not much appetite for them. I don't exactly have buyers lined up out the door for this one, though I do think you have a good eye for quality product."

Arliese tosses her head, fixing a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. "I'd say 150,000 is the going rate for a boy like him. More than fair, no?" ]

[ Arliese, framing the transaction as a mutual favor, tells Zephirin nothing new. Within minutes of meeting Francel, the boy proved desperate to please, eager obedience required of him — and yet, his handler had been angry with him, perhaps over nothing more than the belief that he would be dead weight on her hands. Though hardly unattractive, he is unusual among his peers, and no one rushed forward to snatch him up, whether to break him in or to come to his rescue.

The price named is not an exorbitant sum, even taking into account the costs ahead; still, Zephirin withholds an immediate answer. He may not be interested in acquiring the bargain of a "quality product" at a discount, in drawing out these negotiations, but he has a discerning buyer's role to play, however distasteful it is to discuss the boy beside him like a cut of prime beef.

They are not the first to stand before Arliese. They won't be the last.

At length, he offers the woman a nod in assent. ]

I have no doubt that the arrangement will suit all of us.

[ Privately, he has his judgment to examine — there is no guarantee that he will serve only as a stepping stone for Francel to find another option someday. All the same, his choices made, he does not turn back.

The rest is simple enough, and once Arliese can trust her client's payment to reach her, Zephirin half-turns toward Francel, though his question is meant for the boy's handler: ]

Does the sum include his clothing?

[ Lifting one hand, he brushes his fingertips along Francel's ribbon. ]

[ The question seems to surprise both Francel and the woman curtly negotiating the matter of his price — though where the boy seems rather flustered, Arliese merely seems bemused. Evidently, this is not a question she gets often; most buyers assume that the merchandise comes as-is. "What, is that a kink you have or something?" she asks, in a tone slightly incredulous and which breaks her professional character somewhat: for a moment, she almost looks like she might break into laughter. "Keep it if you want to. There's plenty more where it came from."

Francel knows that he ought to keep quiet, but it seems strange to go on acting as though he isn't a flesh-and-blood person with the ability to speak for himself. Awkwardly, he stumbles over words, not sure how much he's allowed to talk in a situation like this. ]

Um — like I said, I don't really need the clothes I came with, and I don't have any other belongings to collect, if that's what you're worried about...

[ Surprisingly enough, for a woman who coldly slapped the boy not long ago, Arliese actually seems to take this new input from Francel into consideration. "Oh, is that what you want?" she asks, one brow raised. "Sorry to disappoint, but we've already disposed of what he was wearing before. It doesn't do us any good to keep objects that might be on missing posters, you understand."

Her laughter has brought out some creases at the corners of her eyes, wrinkles that give away the fact that she might be older than she looks, but they make her look more real, in a strange way, and for the time being, even the monster that Arliese is seems approachable for a moment. "Any other questions I can answer?" she asks more crisply, recovering some of her composure from earlier. ]

066 » won't stop until the angels sing

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