A Few Self-Indulgent Scenes with Edmund

[illicitresearch]

Who: Zexion & Edmund Pevensie
Where/When: City of Ariel (Pre-Reboot), A Fussy "Prudish" Tearoom on a Chilly Late Afternoon
Warnings: Foodporn, Footsie, All that underaged sex good stuff that comes from a heavily aphro'd game context.


The end of Zexion's nose was still a fierce shade of pink by the time he finally shed his outer layers and unwound his scarf, and it still felt colder than the rest of his face, prompting the habitual rubbing between service as the tea parlous maids bustled about, shooting disapproving looks and tutting and gaping in wide-eyed disapproval at couples fondling each other beneath the twee tables as if that were actually a scandalous offense.

It was all tongue-in-cheek play, of course, and that in itself was marvelous people-watching entertainment, if not for the spoils of his own present company. Upon Edmund's arrival, he held up his own shrunken cup from its saucer with sly guilt playing at the corners of his mouth, along with a rich brown smear that he licked away with far less sublety than was proper, shrugging.

"I know, I know, skipping tea for drinking chocolate's a right punishable offense by your sensibilities,"  He surrendered, easing his shoulderblades back against the parlour chair and setting his cup back down. "But alas, it tempted me, I simply couldn't help myself."

The array of sweets seemed unfairly delectable today too, three tiers of crispy, fudgey and chewy, ganache truffles oozing caramel and delicately half-dipped rolled wafers, rich two-bite black forest cakes and other attractive morsels rolled in crushed nuts and candied peel.

Comments

[illicitresearch]

"You have hobbies more unsavory than this?" He questions keenly, scrutinizing Edmund with lively, gently teasing eyes. Small hands roam the back of his scalp with lazy curiousity, mapping out the cranium and the top of his spine, those tiny but critical muscles supporting the brainstem, as if Ienzo fancied himself an amateur phrenologist, or was simply as dedicated to giving a little head stimulation physically as he was intellectually. Drunkenness could be blamed, perhaps, for his funny whims. Or perhaps he'd been his way with his beloved senior schoolfellow, attentively rubbing temples or massaging shoulders in the breaks between long writing sessions.

Edmund's goals sounded almost disappointingly grounded and practical and terribly nobleminded, cementing in his mind that this was someone a little too altrustic at heart, for him. All the same, it could be a carefully patent answer, feeling out how Ienzo felt about surface values. He tried to seem enthusiastically curious.

"So you'll what- join up with local committees, eventually, wherever home is for you?" The boy prompted. "Join a party and try to politick?"

Damn tough work he has cut out for him, if his school popularity had anything to show for it.

Memories, though, memories were a subject he could carry on at length about, if nudged in the right direction. Ienzo inhaled through his nose, trying not to get carried away by the rub of Edmund's fingers over his trousers. "There's plenty to be said about them, yes.But where shall we begin? How about you tell me an old memory, something perfectly clear and seeingly insignificant, in the larger sea of things "

[just_edmund]

"You forgot boozing it up and dangerous philosophies," Edmund pointed out, tipping back his head minutely. Ienzo was awfully clever with those fingers of his. The subtle investigations seemed to find the long-neglected nooks of his scalp where tension had built during long days bent over books. Very softly, Edmund voiced an appreciative whine. "While you seem to have a natural talent for rubdowns."

There'd seemed little point to him, politicking in a place like this. Maybe if he'd been more like Peter, able to influence the system for the better, and Edmund had done what he'd could, discreetly, for the youngest and most vulnerable of the fellows who came through, but somehow Parliament seemed less daunting than putting himself in the line of fire by openly defying the Bloods. He could make more difference out of this place than in it.

He shrugged at the questions, feeling a little self-conscious about his altruistic goals, which sounded suddenly naive when he put them into words in front of Ienzo. "I intend to go to Oxford and join clubs there, yes. Maybe it's terribly idealistic of me to think I can accomplish any change, but I'd like to try before giving up on the dream." Idly, Edmund wormed his fingers towards the hem of Ienzo's shirt and plucked it free from the trousers, used his new free rein to dive beneath and scritch his fingers along the expanse of belly he found there. "You don't ask for much, do you? Hmm..."

Perfectly clear, seemingly insignificant. Dark eyes grew distant with memory. "The sun had already set in the west," Edmund murmured, deciding. "I stood on the shore of the eastern sea and watched the ship draw into harbor. She was a proud thing, not large, but all good clean lines and trim sails. She rode low in the water from her trading routes, and I was proud to be of her blood."

He did not speak the name that danced on his tongue, but it was there in his heart, Narnia, as proud as the Lion's flag that flapped in the breeze of his memories.

[illicitresearch]

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?"