Massage Time
Click. Click. Click.
Francis typed away at his laptop as he wrote a rather large essay for his science class. This was the problem with American schools; you had to take classes that wouldn’t even effect your career. He in no way saw how learning more science was going to help his fashion career, unless of course it was the science of fashion, which it wasn’t.
He was seated on his living room couch as he worked. He thought if he was seated in a comfortable place he wouldn’t get as stiff as he would if were seated in those school seats, but that proved to be wrong as his body ached from the hours of staring at his computer. It might have been the way he was seated: He had his legs pulled up on the couch and his laptop resting on it, bringing it closer to his face. He had his head down as he was typing, resulting in a stiff neck.
He should have known such a position would hurt his body (not to mention his eyes), but it was comfortable! At first anyway.
He sighed as he shut his laptop (not before saving his work in case something happened). He needed a break. Maybe a hot bath to cease the pai--
Click. Click. Click.
He looked to his side and saw his roommate/boyfriend typing away at his own laptop, no doubt writing an essay like Francis had done. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about his boyfriend. Did he love him? Just like him as friends? He had avoided romantic encounters so he wouldn’t lead his friend on (except for the occasional cheek kiss, or scratch under the chin) but maybe now was a good time.
“Arthur,” he purred, his french accent slightly changing Arthur’s name, “you still haven’t given me that massage you promised.” Awhile ago Arthur had asked for his friend, Erzebeth’s phone number. In exchange Francis wanted a massage and for Arthur to clean our Pierre’s cage. He had done the latter--which ended with him covered in scratches and spouting curse words like a sailor--but the former had yet to be delivered.
He crawled across the couch to get closer to Arthur. He lightly closed the other’s laptop and moved it to the coffee table, where Francis’s laptop sat, “take a break to massage my poor, achy--yet still sexy--muscles.” He pouted. If his sex appeal didn’t work (which was impossible) then surely his pout would melt the Brit’s heart.
@eloquentlypunk
