(Or just plain thieves, if their raiding of Wilkes' liquor cabinet is any indication.)
Edmund kept holding him, touching him, petting in ways that made him yearn in ways he hadn't bothered to over the past few monastic months of rote latin memorization, dourly and dilligently. The adolescent aches and pains that once had a suitor to rub out its misery nightly began to stir again under a wandering hand, his spine stretching and twisting, body wriggling closer to better accomodate a stroking hand beneath his blazer. Boys more concerned with their propriety would have something to say, about a hand that strayed near the top of their buttocks for too long.
Instead, Ienzo nestled in quite cozily beside him, drowsy-eyed. Edmund's lap was looking more and more inviting.
"My heart is sick." The boy said softly, the kind of self-diagnosis that was a little bit ashamed for letting himself become so attached, and to openly pine with such abandon after just a few swigs. There was no correcting himself now. No cure.
"And the bunks are like sleeping on rocks, in our hall." He grumbled, in a voice so flat and low that it croaked past his lips. "It's true, I'm not the only one who has trouble getting some shut eye?" If a witness to his insomnia is any indication.
He's less sure what to make of Edmund's continued insinuation, but '...better than one' tiredly echoes past his lips anyway, bowing his head against the consoling hand. Having his scalp rubbed had always comforted him.
"When I go home for Winter Holiday, I can bring back copies of the journals that printed them, if you're really that curious?" He offers. Strangely enough, as if to distance themselves from it, the school hadn't kept that publication shelved for student access. But Ansem certainly had it hardbacked in his study. That could be pinched easily enough.
"Thanks." Ienzo added, after a longer pause. "I really thought I'd lost myself completely, this term."
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Date: 2017-02-02 05:27 am (UTC)Edmund kept holding him, touching him, petting in ways that made him yearn in ways he hadn't bothered to over the past few monastic months of rote latin memorization, dourly and dilligently. The adolescent aches and pains that once had a suitor to rub out its misery nightly began to stir again under a wandering hand, his spine stretching and twisting, body wriggling closer to better accomodate a stroking hand beneath his blazer. Boys more concerned with their propriety would have something to say, about a hand that strayed near the top of their buttocks for too long.
Instead, Ienzo nestled in quite cozily beside him, drowsy-eyed. Edmund's lap was looking more and more inviting.
"My heart is sick." The boy said softly, the kind of self-diagnosis that was a little bit ashamed for letting himself become so attached, and to openly pine with such abandon after just a few swigs. There was no correcting himself now. No cure.
"And the bunks are like sleeping on rocks, in our hall." He grumbled, in a voice so flat and low that it croaked past his lips. "It's true, I'm not the only one who has trouble getting some shut eye?" If a witness to his insomnia is any indication.
He's less sure what to make of Edmund's continued insinuation, but '...better than one' tiredly echoes past his lips anyway, bowing his head against the consoling hand. Having his scalp rubbed had always comforted him.
"When I go home for Winter Holiday, I can bring back copies of the journals that printed them, if you're really that curious?" He offers. Strangely enough, as if to distance themselves from it, the school hadn't kept that publication shelved for student access. But Ansem certainly had it hardbacked in his study. That could be pinched easily enough.
"Thanks." Ienzo added, after a longer pause. "I really thought I'd lost myself completely, this term."