solosection | F I C : pronto .

Elio has to call her early in the morning, it's close to six, because of the time difference and getting out of bed at that hour when Lucifer's an actual sloth and besides, smelling like sex and himself, is a big sacrifice to make, but he does it, because he doesn't want them to do the cleaning out of the house themselves, does he? Really, would he have to teach Lucifer how to vacuum in that case? You can't make an angel do the vacuuming, that's just wrong. So, he calls Mafalda, who is living with Manfredi in a small flat in B. when the house isn't in use, clad only in Lucifer's discarded shirt from the night before, because she can't see him through the phone, right, and he's long over his girlfriend complexes. He just likes the feeling of it. The implications. This is also mine.

Since he's calling from Lucifer's phone, she won't recognize the number and it shows in her voice when she finally picks up. "Mafalda Esposito, pronto?"

"Mafalda, it's Elio!" His Italian feels rusty. He doesn't break it out enough anymore. Rusty, but homely, like a well-known door that binds.

"Elio, my little angel! What a time to call, are your parents all right?"

Of course he understands why she's asking. After moving out fifteen years ago, Elio has only kept in touch with the couple over the summers he's spent in B. and if something dramatic happened in his family, like the way he was the one to pass on how his parents were getting divorced, Mafalda had spent the night in the church after that. She'd worry now that he's calling out of nowhere, completely out of season. His mother won't have been in the summer house the past month at the least and although Miranda and his father keep talking about going, they have a small child that they need to accommodate, still. A bigger city's got more options in that regard, convenience stores, no fifteen minute bike rides to pick up something they need which is the reality at that place.

Briefly he thinks about Lucifer who has wings and could make any trip around the surrounding area in seconds. It makes him all warm inside. Really, the other man's meant for Elio's old home, when you think about it.

"Everyone's all right, Mafalda, don't worry," he reassures her quickly and looks out over the lake where the morning sun's already shining brightly at this hour. The view really is great here, although the cabin's a stranger's place and doesn't quite feel like anything but an excessively fancy hotel room, Elio likes having had a stopover in these surroundings, though, so far removed from everything and everyone. He likes that this is where their adventure starts. "I'm calling because I'm coming to B. and I need to use the house for a while."

"Mamma mia, we hadn't expected it at all, Elio, at this time? Summer's over, no one's there!" She shouts something for Manfredi over her shoulder in her thick Neapolitan dialect, he can hear him shuffling about, yelling something back. Is Elio coming? Now?

"That's the point, Mafalda. It's a late vacation, just me -" A pause. Elio licks his lips while considering how best to present the idea to her in a way that won't make her wait for Lucifer in the door and banish him to Hell herself, whether or not she knows him to be the Devil. "- and a friend."

"Oh, that's wonderful! She'll be most welcome! Mafalda will get the house ready for you, clean everything out, change the sheets -" Mafalda sounds ecstatic. His mother has often commented on how she complains that he doesn't seem to have a girlfriend. He's getting old, grandchildren don't make themselves, she'll repeat the other woman's admonitions with a laugh, ruffling Elio's hair as he leaves the table with a grimace.

"It's not a she." Elio is almost surprised to hear himself say these words out loud. It's never been a spoken reality in that part of his life, almost implicit, always between the lines, never acknowledged by anyone but him. Slowly, he sits down in one of the armchairs, the leather cool against his naked shins, back of his knees, upper thighs.

"Oh, a friend," Mafalda begins, then, and Elio knows how it's going to be, she'll tell him she'll get two bedrooms ready, your old room for you and your grandfather's room for your friend, all's taken care of, don't worry. He almost can't stand it, the way it was, with Oliver. The way it was with Michel in Paris, too. The way it has never been with Lucifer, they don't hide in the shadows, because there are no shadows around the other man, he shines too brightly. So, Elio cuts her off before she gets that far and says:

"We'll be using Mama's and Papa's old bedroom, we only need one bed."

Silence.

Elio waits, feeling his heart race in his chest, his breathing slightly shallow. Coming out has never been a conscious choice he made before, it's been going to gay bars and being recognized as part of the flock, but it's never been any words that meant we're sleeping together, this man and I. He's 34 years old, what kind of closet has he been hiding in, it must have been huge.

"My angel boy, Elio, I'll make everything ready, don't fear," Mafalda finally says, her voice sounding older all of a sudden, softer, motherly. He wants to cry and his eyelashes feel wet from it, even if there is no actual trickle of tears, just the sensation. Overflowing. "When are you coming?"

"Tomorrow," he replies, voice thick. "Sometime after noon. Thank you, Mafalda."

"Always, luce dei miei occhi."

He remains seated in the chair for a while after hanging up, just staring out across the lake, Lucifer's scent thick in his nostrils and his shirt warm against his body like an actual embrace. There has always been a cleft between his youth and his current life, as if the summer with Oliver came with a force that pushes continents apart. For the first time, Elio's stepping back in time and bridging it, he thinks. For the first time, he may be the same Elio at seventeen that he is now, almost twenty years later. Grown, of course, but not gone.

Wiping his eyes once, just for good measure, Elio finally wanders back into the bedroom, placing Lucifer's phone on his bedside table and slipping out of his shirt, folding it neatly as the other man prefers it, before climbing into bed with him again. This time it's Lucifer who comes up to him, spooning him wordlessly, letting him be little, letting him be tiny and fragile and cared for.

Luce dei miei occhi, Mafalda had said.