A natural talent for rubdowns, hmnh? Ienzo's brow contorted itself into wry twist of a shape, both arch and shrewd and insufferably pleased.
"Oh, do I?" he tittered mildly, the soft pads of his fingers pulling away as tautness curled his knuckles, edge of his nails pressing ever-so-slightly to scalp and scritching at the roots of Edmund's dark hair. The fuller press of his thumbs met against the tendons of his neck, petting one long, deliberate stroke upon another until it was near-impossible to roll his shoulders back or wobble the head on its fulcrum without hearing a few satisfying, crunchy echoes of shifting, tiny bones. Ienzo encouraged this loosening with palms that threatened to cradle the ears and skull and offer a little support, where release ventured in.
"Well," the young scholar exhaled, dipping his chin and intimating easy flattery in a coy manner, "it's good to know I haven't lost a gentle touch among all these sodding bullies in-house? (Even the prefect's a bit wary, I think, to test my handling on more than his boots.)" He confided with all the smugness of cat too aloof to be snared.
"But I'm glad you might observe it as a compliment," Ienzo added, softening sobered, letting his eyes skirt away under heavy lidded and poorly-feigned indifference, "rather than a stain upon my character."
Edmund's hands, after all, were getting to him, along with the potency of those few pilfered swigs. Was it the alcohol warming his gullet and sinking quickly through his veins, that made his skin feel strangely tingled and fuzzed wherever fingers slid against it? A pleasantness, both familiar and not, immediately falling back on old habits and craving some deeper breed of satiation?
Or was it his new companion's words, too elegantly measured and matured for schoolage, too full with nostalgia, a secretive element of loss and longing? Ienzo sensed it, and his lungs swelled over into a sigh. The folds of his clothes, where they'd been tucked-into, tickled against his sides. His ribs stretched upwards in response, navel retreating, as if he were the slightest bit shy about hands encountering too much belly fat... particularly among boys his age who remembered the rationing years too well.
As Edmund spoke of ships docking in the dark, Ienzo's breath was becoming just a little uneven, with weight in its addled awe.
"I must confess, Pevensie," A slight pause to swallow, tongue feeling unusually thickened in his mouth. Maybe it was the drink drying out his gums, or the awareness of his lower body, the urge to rearrange his limbs until their tangle better suited his restlessness. "I much prefer your private prose-poems to that Iambic sledgehammer Branburn's been drilling into your recitations all term."
The schoolboy bit at his lower lip and then bravely bowed his head closer, nose near enough to Edmund's neck and the lead of his jawline to catch proper whiff of him, all skin-scent and breath and more intimacy than he'd anticipated stealing, so soon. He shut his eyes and knew that the slightest flinch or leaning might bump their faces together- but some instinct assured him this wasn't an altogether bad risk to take- no sounds of footfalls down the hallways and their office hideaway was secured, for now, unlikely to be intruded upon.
So that just left the question of Edmund's welcome reception... how far would that extend? How lonely was he, truly? And what sensational shift in the air could rousing up memories elicit?
"So.... pride, you felt keenly in your breast, upon seeing her sails? And what else, what more, that the moment fixes so easily to your heart? Wonder, in witnessing the ends of a voyage and a homecoming, perhaps? What foreign riches, do you think, filled her hull?"
no subject
"Oh, do I?" he tittered mildly, the soft pads of his fingers pulling away as tautness curled his knuckles, edge of his nails pressing ever-so-slightly to scalp and scritching at the roots of Edmund's dark hair. The fuller press of his thumbs met against the tendons of his neck, petting one long, deliberate stroke upon another until it was near-impossible to roll his shoulders back or wobble the head on its fulcrum without hearing a few satisfying, crunchy echoes of shifting, tiny bones. Ienzo encouraged this loosening with palms that threatened to cradle the ears and skull and offer a little support, where release ventured in.
"Well," the young scholar exhaled, dipping his chin and intimating easy flattery in a coy manner, "it's good to know I haven't lost a gentle touch among all these sodding bullies in-house? (Even the prefect's a bit wary, I think, to test my handling on more than his boots.)" He confided with all the smugness of cat too aloof to be snared.
"But I'm glad you might observe it as a compliment," Ienzo added, softening sobered, letting his eyes skirt away under heavy lidded and poorly-feigned indifference, "rather than a stain upon my character."
Edmund's hands, after all, were getting to him, along with the potency of those few pilfered swigs. Was it the alcohol warming his gullet and sinking quickly through his veins, that made his skin feel strangely tingled and fuzzed wherever fingers slid against it? A pleasantness, both familiar and not, immediately falling back on old habits and craving some deeper breed of satiation?
Or was it his new companion's words, too elegantly measured and matured for schoolage, too full with nostalgia, a secretive element of loss and longing? Ienzo sensed it, and his lungs swelled over into a sigh. The folds of his clothes, where they'd been tucked-into, tickled against his sides. His ribs stretched upwards in response, navel retreating, as if he were the slightest bit shy about hands encountering too much belly fat... particularly among boys his age who remembered the rationing years too well.
As Edmund spoke of ships docking in the dark, Ienzo's breath was becoming just a little uneven, with weight in its addled awe.
"I must confess, Pevensie," A slight pause to swallow, tongue feeling unusually thickened in his mouth. Maybe it was the drink drying out his gums, or the awareness of his lower body, the urge to rearrange his limbs until their tangle better suited his restlessness. "I much prefer your private prose-poems to that Iambic sledgehammer Branburn's been drilling into your recitations all term."
The schoolboy bit at his lower lip and then bravely bowed his head closer, nose near enough to Edmund's neck and the lead of his jawline to catch proper whiff of him, all skin-scent and breath and more intimacy than he'd anticipated stealing, so soon. He shut his eyes and knew that the slightest flinch or leaning might bump their faces together- but some instinct assured him this wasn't an altogether bad risk to take- no sounds of footfalls down the hallways and their office hideaway was secured, for now, unlikely to be intruded upon.
So that just left the question of Edmund's welcome reception... how far would that extend? How lonely was he, truly? And what sensational shift in the air could rousing up memories elicit?
"So.... pride, you felt keenly in your breast, upon seeing her sails? And what else, what more, that the moment fixes so easily to your heart? Wonder, in witnessing the ends of a voyage and a homecoming, perhaps? What foreign riches, do you think, filled her hull?"