solosection | O P E N P O S T .

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O P E N P O S T .

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[ He ends his masterclass early. Mainly because the girl at the piano was pliant and easy to work with, but also because surely they’ve heard him gush enough about Beethoven at this point to not need further notes. He already has ten PowerPoint shows uploaded to their drive. They can afford to go back in the archives. So can Elio, apparently. He doesn’t revisit one night stands that often, especially not when they’re actually good at sneaking out before he wakes up, but this seems to be an exception.

Jean Louis, the politician from Luxembourg. Elio never got his last name. Jean Louis never got his.

The car is waiting for him by the curb and Elio has only just had time to discard his suit jacket, showing up in his white teacher’s shirt and a pair of anonymous black pants, slightly disheveled hair that he’s run his hand through too many times, before opening the door and slipping into the back seat. Where Jean Louis (no surname) is sitting, checking his phone.

Elio slams the door shut, feeling the car pull away and out into Parisian traffic. ]

I don’t usually see people again, you know. Once I’ve seen them off.

[ He doesn't look up right away as the car door opens and Elio seats himself next to him, slamming the door shut and leaving the driver to take them to their destination. It's a good long drive away, fortunately. Jean Louis types out of a reply for Jacques who's been up for twenty hours, reading through a proposition from CDP that they have to find some way, any fucking way, to back. Hard work, that. Conservatives.

He speaks to Elio, still without looking at him, his voice dry: ]

Guess that makes me special.

[ A half-smile as he finally makes eye contact. Elio's got brown eyes, very brown and warm, even in icy, artificial club lightening. One of the first things Jean Louis had noticed about him, other than those curls of his. Something wild about those. Fun to grab, as it turned out.

He gives the other man an appraising look. It doesn't particularly surprise him, having to pick him up at the conservatory - his frankly gigantic piano combined with the extra insulation on the walls of the living room gave his profession away. All the same, it's not really his specialty, fucking people who like art or culture or what have you. In Luxembourg, they usually stay clear of him simply by virtue of absolutely abhorring his politics and everywhere else, well, the cards have simply fallen differently.

Until now. ]

I can't say I usually attract musicians, however. Perhaps I'm not the special one.

[ Elio waits. And waits and waits while Jean Louis finishes texting whoever’s on the other end of the line. And while he waits, he feels a little bit more insignificant, his palms getting a bit sweaty and his eyes tracking the cars outside, a Renault, a Cooper... City cars. City living. Guess that makes me special, Jean Louis replies, still without looking up. What kind of special, Elio wants to counter with but doesn’t. He swallows hard instead. He feels like he’s doing something wrong and he should feel worse about it than he does.

He’s at least one third hard.

Perhaps I’m not the special one, the other man finally says, saying more with his eyes and Elio manages a small smile, shifting in the car seat. A part of him, an old part, very old, loves the thought of being special to someone. Even for the half hour the drive’s going to take.

Licking his lips, he slides a bit closer across the seats, trying to meet the very subtle bumping of the car and not be jostled around too much. It almost works, too. ]

My guess is that most musicians have better survival instincts than me.

[ They don’t fuck people who slaughter their field.

Up close, Jean Louis looks like Elio remembers him from the night before. Coolly attractive, slick hair, a memorable profile. Nice mouth. Kissable. ]

[ He watches as Elio edges closer, the car bumping him about only very slightly - great balancing skills, there. Though the absorbers are actually quite decent in this car, driving through inner Paris can be an irregular experience. Though the shadows in the car are relatively profound, he has no trouble making out the contours of the other man's cock, hardening gradually between his legs.

It's a contagious sight, too.

Shifting a little, Jean Louis reaches out with his right arm, curling it around Elio's shoulders and supporting him with his own weight. He looks him over again, notes the way he's staring at his face. Jean Louis, in turn, looks right back and takes him in, his delicate features, very unlike his own. Pretty, you might say. He's not really in the habit of finding men pretty, however, and Elio is definitely more than his looks. Voice low, mostly a rumble, he replies: ]

Or they're just harder to notice.

[ Then, he leans in the rest of the way and catches Elio's mouth in a kiss, the contours of his lips familiar, seeing as the night's events have yet to slip from his memory. His taste feels different now, closer to noon on a regular day. He angles his chin a little, parts his lips and invites the other man in, seeing as he can be polite when he wants to.

Survival, he said.

Weighty words, when you think about it. ]

[ The flatter, again.

Elio's about to shake his head to dismiss it, inelegantly, the way he does, but Jean Louis leans in then and catches his mouth in a kiss, their lips brushing over each other, slightly moist, slightly slick and warm and the heat of the other man's mouth is burning furnace-hot against him as he opens up and invites him in, Elio parting his own lips, too. Slipping his tongue inside, over the slope of prominent bottom lip, in along the soft muscle of Jean Louis' tongue. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes, a working day, that's what he tastes like and Elio kind of likes that. They both have normal or at least semi-normal lives.

This, what they share, is the anomaly.

They're each other's exceptions. That's what it means, they're just harder to notice, implied: than you. Jean Louis the Politician isn't Elio's usual type, not that he has one of those, though, does he? He has people he runs from in the middle of the night, that's his type.

He breathes in hard through his nose and leans in closer, balancing himself against the other man's chest with one hand, the other grabbing the backrest with slightly desperate fingers. The car bumps along the roads of inner Paris. If he were to look out, he'd see the well-known city pass by his eyes, darkened by tinted windows.

That's not what he wants to see, though. Not really.

Slowly sliding his hand on Jean Louis' chest downwards, he slips it into his lap and curves his palm, warm and still a little bit sweaty, over the slowly growing bulge in the other man's pants. Feels out the shape of his cock with fingers that aren't demanding anything, only asking. Can I? Do you want me to? ]

[ Elio takes the invitation because he's well-behaved like that and Jean Louis gives him a few seconds to explore, his tongue warm and firm in his mouth. Breathing out slowly as Elio balances himself against his chest, he tightens his hold around his shoulders a little, the car trembling now and again as it runs over uneven ground.

When Elio curves his hand over the outline of his cock, his breathing halts for a second, two at most. The heat in his groin intensifies forcefully, his cock hardening further under the other man's palm, once he starts feeling it out a little. There's no presumption there, just an offer, sweet and simple. It suits him. Smiling slightly against his lips, Jean Louis tilts his head and reverses the kiss, pushing his tongue past Elio's lips and feeling him out, tasting him properly. His cock jerks a little in his trousers and he reaches down with his free hand, shifting very slightly to give himself enough space to undo the top-button and unzip.

He leaves Elio to proceed as he wishes. You can, it means. You should. He breaks the kiss, panting against the other man's lips. Outside the tinted windows, Paris passes by at a snail's pace. They're stuck in traffic, a car honking impatiently somewhere further behind them.

At right this moment, then, they have all the time and none, simultaneously. ]

[ It all happens so quietly. The low sounds of their mingled breathing as Jean Louis kisses him back, firm tongue, assertive push and Elio’s cock really likes that, he’s already completely hard. Outside, cars honk and tires screech and the Audi has drawn to a halt, no more bumping for the time being. Dangerous, Elio thinks, remembering Oliver’s red bathing suit. Dangerous, he thinks and wants it all the more. It’s something else than long days teaching Gen Z’s that are better at playing the piano than him anyway. This is adventure. Elio hasn’t has adventure in a decade.

When Jean Louis shifts to unbotton and unzip, Elio removes his hand, slipping it down his thigh, feeling out the firmness of him. As the other man draws out of the kiss, too, both of them panting, Elio repositions himself, turning more towards him, glancing up at his face. Masculine features, big nose, strong jaw, striking. With nimble fingers he opens his fly and unceremoniously pushes his underwear down, nice satin-like black boxers, freeing his cock gently. It goes with the rest of him. Broad, medium length, hard and hot. It was exactly like that in the shadows of his bedroom last night, before Jean Louis slipped out and left. Elio lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his palm before curling his fingers around the base, stroking upwards, stroking down, up.

Licking his lips, he meets the other man’s eyes again. ]

I don’t make a habit of bringing condoms to work. Do you have any?

[ Hand or blow, it means. He’d love to suck him off, just like this, but he doesn’t do it without. ]

[ He looks down between them as Elio bares his cock, his skin prickling slightly from the sudden shift in temperature. Car's warm enough, of course, but there's a difference all the same, from the fabric of his boxers to the flow of air circulating the cabin. A distinctive lack of confinement, too. Another slow, almost even exhalation as Elio strokes his cock, his spit-slicked palm warm and just slightly damp against the sensitive skin. He spreads his legs a little. Blinks at Elio's question before he simply nods, freeing his other hand to search his trouser pocket for - yes. Well, obviously.

Elio did make him something of a promise when they arranged this meeting, after all.

He holds the wrapper up between them, catching Elio's gaze and holding it, his own eyes dark from arousal. His cock is definitely fully hard and so is Elio's, judging by the way his trousers are tenting. Can't be altogether nice, can it, not with all this balancing against car seats and whatnot. He smiles, the expression sharper now, a glimmer of teeth: ]

Get your cock out first. Don't jerk off - [ He moves his free hand into Elio's curls, cradling them without actively pulling. ] - just let me see.

[ You, it means. Your arousal, your self-control, your desperation. Pick one, any of them, he's just here to take what makes sense to him and provided it makes sense to Elio - otherwise, what's the point? - he'll accept whatever he's granted without hesitation. That's how sex works for him, contrary to pretty much everything else in life.

Between two naked bodies, in one, locked moment, what you see truly is what you get. ]

[ And just like the night before, Jean Louis doesn’t make a problem of the whole safe sex issue. Rather, he just shifts again, pulling a condom wrapper out of his pocket, because what politician doesn’t come fully equipped with those, breathing a bit too evenly, like he’s straining for it. Elio likes that little clue, knowing his hand on his cock makes him react and he doesn’t want to show it too evidently. He likes it the same way the car keeps pulling to little jerky stops, other cars outside honking, people yelling. They’re outside this world, Jean Louis and him.

Taking the wrapper and balancing it between two fingers on one hand, resting against Jean Louis’ thigh, he still pauses at the other man’s order, because an order it is. A part of him is reminded of Oliver sucking him off before disappearing downstairs for work, leaving him to his hard-on, look, you’re hard again. To his hard-on and his desperation. Except, Jean Louis wants to see him, not to run (yet, maybe never, does someone like Jean Louis run, is the question), but just to see. His hand is in Elio’s curls.

Like he... likes them.

Elio nods, letting go of the other man’s cock before sitting up and working his pants open one-handedly, fingers slick, slippery. He pushes them open around his thighs, crotch, briefs down, hooked behind his balls. The sudden lack of restrictions makes him breathe faster, shallowly. He shifts the condom between his fingers nervously, hand now resting against his own thigh demurely.

Both hard. They both want. He can see that. ]

What do you see?

[ Elio complies and Jean Louis watches, eyes narrowing slightly, as he pushes his own trousers down and hooks his underwear behind his balls, his hard cock coming to a rest against his abdomen. Unlike Jean Louis, Elio is cut - good thing his parents weren't Jews, he would've likely ended up without a cock at all - and it makes the shape of his cock pretty appealing. He sucked it last night.

The memory makes him lick his lips.

What do you see asks Elio who's breathing shallowly, shifting the condom between his fingers and looking smaller than he ought to, really, with his long limbs. Contrary to popular belief amongst his colleagues and acquaintances alike, Jean Louis isn't actually less capable of reading other people than most. It's quite the other way around - you don't grow up in a household with Eric without learning how to read emotions through walls and floors and ceilings alike. No, but he seldom bothers which is a very different problem altogether.

Problem, he should say, for others. For him, not so much. Peace and quiet and such.

Right now, though, he sees Elio's body language - his voice, his expression, his words - with complete clarity. It talks to him, in a way that he can't quite explain. Watching him carefully for another moment, he finally plucks the condom from between his fingers and puts it back in his pocket, to be thrown away once the bubble's burst and they're back to their own, individual normals.

Then, he urges Elio closer, closing his hand around his upper arm, the other still buried in his hair. ]

I see something that I want. To touch.

[ He releases Elio and spits in his hand, shifting a little himself. Good thing this car is spacious. ]

[ Something that I want to touch, answers Jean Louis and plucks the condom from between Elio’s fingers, pocketing it again, saying, wordlessly, we don’t need this, we don’t need more layers, there are enough. Elio releases his breath, long and hard, watching as the other man slips his arm around him, pulling him closer by his upper arm and spits in his other hand, the saliva catching the faint light from outside. His cock jerks and he automatically spreads his legs, showing himself off, giving Jean Louis room to move. On his thighs, his now empty hands flex, fingers curling, uncurling. Finally, he looks up into the other man’s face and inhales. ]

Please. [ It comes out like a whisper, though his voice is low, hoarse, rough. Not breathy and soft. Elio’s good at breathy and soft, however, he doesn’t quite know what this is. ] Touch me. I’m so hard...

[ He thinks about Oliver, briefly, then he narrows his eyes and promptly doesn’t anymore. Some themes repeat themselves, sure, but with variations. This is a variation.

Licking his lips and leaning in a little, he presses his half-open mouth against the side of Jean Louis’ lips, corner, plump bottom lip, biteable, he catches it carefully between his teeth without tugging too much, before coaxing the other man’s tongue inside with the tip of his own. Oh. With one hand he reaches out and catches Jean Louis’s arm between his fingers, wrist, the ball of his hand, slick. Oh. He pushes his hand down between his legs.

Please it means. ]

[ It goes with the mood, the way the other man bares the rest of himself so beautifully, legs spread and voice curiously breathy, like it might just turn ragged a lot faster than you'd expect. Jean Louis tilts his head into the soft kisses against the corner of his mouth, one eyebrow quirking slightly and his cock giving a very interested jerk when Elio bits his lower lip carefully, telling him touch me in words and physical gestures both, complete and total coherency.

When Elio pushes his hand down between his legs, Jean Louis smiles into his mouth, his own breathing quickening a fraction. He curls his hand around Elio's cock, then, feeling the heat of him, the desperate hardness. His own balls ache at the mere idea of it, in recognition as well as in response. He likes that about sex. How things go back and forth so effortlessly once you leave your body to do most of the talking.

Less complicated that way, you might say. ]

Don't worry.

[ He breathes against Elio's lips, open-mouthed and uneven now, his body screaming for more stimulation. All the same, he simply keeps one hand on Elio's cock, the other against the back of his head. He runs his fingers mindlessly through his curls, marveling a little at the softness of them. Now and again, his fingertips brush over Elio's scalp. Strong bone, yes, stronger than most realise, hiding your most vulnerable parts well away from the world. ]

You can stand it.

[ He starts stroking Elio's cock, his fingers sliding up and down his shaft in even movements, not quite slow, nor overly fast. He can feel the other man's arousal sticking to his fingers and if he weren't so attached to Elio's hair at the moment, he would take care of himself as well.

Like Elio, however, he, too, can stand it. ]

[ It’s an embrace without being an actual embrace.

With one arm Jean Louis draws him nearer by the back of his head while they breathe into each other more than kiss, their exhalations shaky and fast. Trembling out of them. With his other hand, he closes his spit-slick fingers around Elio’s cock and starts stroking him, movements even and unhurried, telling him the same thing that Jean Louis then says in words: you can stand it. Elio actually whimpers into the other man’s mouth, his cock jerking and his hips pushing up into the other man’s palm greedily. It’s hot and firm and slick. It’s hot and firm and slick. He can’t stand it, he can’t, it’s too much.

Suddenly he’s seventeen again and he’s home and Paris isn’t bumping away beneath the wheels of the car, but the peach trees are sighing in the wind. Except it’s Elio sighing. Elio calling. He breaks the kiss that isn’t a kiss, pressing his forehead against the side of the other man’s face. ]

I can’t stand not touching you, I need to, please...

[ And shifting a little, without dislodging Jean Louis’ hand in his hair, so soothing and soft, Elio reaches up and presses his sweaty, cock-scented palm against the other man’s lips, slipping his fingers along the soft curves of them, begging for him to open up, suck, lick, he wants to be wet for him.

He wants to be wet for him.

He wants. ]

Slick me up?

[ Elio whimpers into his mouth, against his lips, and Jean Louis actually shudders slightly in response, like the sound travels straight down the line of his spine and into his lower body. He groans and shifts again, his cock hopelessly hard and aching, though he manages not to break the rhythm of his hand over Elio's. No need for that kind of failure.

There's something preciously desperate about the way Elio presses his forehead against the side of his face, about how he begs to be included, to be active and giving and equal. It's not a hard feeling to understand, at a basic level. But he does wonder, albeit briefly, how he's come to feel so devoid of it.

Jean Louis, for one, isn't interested in rendering his bed partners powerless or actionless. Why would he? It's the back and forth that he likes, the notion of togetherness. So when Elio pushes his fingers along his lips, carrying traces of his scent mixed with Elio's own, Jean Louis simply gives him a long, heavy look, tightening his grip a little around his cock. One long, heavy stroke and then, pause, his fingers gripping just beneath the head of Elio's cock. ]

All right.

[ He sucks the other man's fingers into his mouth, then, letting them glide along the width of his tongue, his eyes dropping shut at the sudden sensation of fullness. That's always different, somehow. As he takes care to get them nicely wet and sloppy, he rubs the head of Elio's cock with his thumb lazily, slow circles, spreading the wetness there as well. ]

[ He gets a twofold response. Jean Louis just looks at him for a long moment, long enough that Elio has plenty of time to double guess his actions, shouldn’t he have been that forward, is it weird to ask, too much? But then the other man opens his mouth, sucking Elio’s fingers inside, slicking them up with his tongue, with his spit and Elio feels wonderfully soiled like that. Like he’s carrying traces of things that aren’t really his and won’t be his any longer once they’re done. Breathing raggedly, doubly so because Jean Louis works the bared head of his cock with his thumb, smearing out precum and saliva, Elio stares into the other man’s face, his closed eyes, pleasure, so much pleasure.

Another long moment, and he pulls his fingers from his mouth with a wet popping noise and shifts minimally to reach down and close his fingers around his cock. A light grip, palm stroking upwards and following the underside, the sensitive veins, pressing in and supporting the weight of the shaft as he goes up, down again, up, down. The other man has a very pleasant cock, the weight of it feels good, even better like this than the night before on his tongue. The ridge of foreskin, when he follows it with his thumb, is always a curiosity. Strange for him, even if he’s slept with plenty of uncut men before. Always a little bit foreign.

He thinks about Oliver again.

Then he doesn’t.

The slow pace, the even, rounded movements of Jean Louis’ thumb is making him tremble and he allows himself to. Allows himself to show how much he’s lost to it. Not just his chest, but his whole body. He’s probably blushing, too. He’s probably the color of a lobster. Elio strikes the same pace with Jean Louis’ cock, the shaft, ridge, thumb brushing over the glans on every downstroke. He pushes his hips up a bit, makes a keening noise. ]

[ He licks his lips again when Elio pulls his fingers out, catching the remnants of the other man's taste by the tip of his tongue. Eyes fluttering open again, he watches as Elio reaches down and takes him in hand. He's got long, slender fingers and pale skin, paler than Jean Louis', and the contrast is interesting enough to hold his attention for longer than he'd really imagine, seeing as he's got a cock in his hand and a fist around his own. He exhales roughly, shifting a little in his seat, pushing himself into Elio's grip just once, twice. That's fucking good, isn't it. He sighs and leans back slightly against the seat with his left shoulder, muscles relaxing further all the way down his back and into his buttocks and thighs.

Immediately, the sense of pleasure registers more clearly and he gasps, breath catching between his teeth. Elio's gone bright red, blushing all over, pushing into his grip as he works Jean Louis' cock, trying to match their paces and that's such a good idea, makes it easier to focus on - yes, ah, the build-up.

Almost gently, he runs his fingers through Elio's hair again, then down, over the nape of his neck. He takes hold, then, a light grip without force. ]

There, yes, that's good.

[ His voice has definitely gone throaty, too. Slowly, he leans sideways enough to press his forehead against Elio's, keeping them both like that, their breaths mingling and Elio's proximity going into his blood in a way that even his hand can't challenge. He works his hips into Elio's grip, driving himself towards orgasm and Elio, too, stroking his cock wetly, releasing him for a handful of seconds to spit in his palm again before resuming.

The slick sounds of the two of them, jerking off in the backseat of his official car are loud and obscene; it's entirely sexy, that edge of absurdity, of Paris gliding by beyond the windows with the two of them hidden from view whilst they fuck, sharing breaths and spit and something less easily defined. It's got to do with that look in Elio's eyes, though, he's quite certain. With the way he blushes, begs, with desperation.

A personal moment, shared in secret. ]

Don’t stop...

[ But even when Jean Louis draws his hand away, it’s only for a second, only for a moment, to spit in his palm once more, slicking Elio’s cock up all over again and Elio makes little, desperate noises, angling his hips up into the other man’s grip, fucking into his fist, the sounds loud and absurd in the quiet. The car’s moving, making regular car noises, outside Paris is alive and they’re fucking each other’s hands, they’re taking all the pleasure they can from it.

He doesn’t envy the driver. Neither does he care much about him right now.

The driver doesn’t belong in this world they’re inhabiting. With their cocks out and breaths heavy and everything smelling like sex. Jean Louis sounding like it, too.

Elio whimpers as he feels his climax building up, balls drawing up and his shaft growing harder, his whole body screaming for it, his mind... Jean Louis has leaned his forehead against Elio’s forehead and they’re breathing each other in, both of them running, the edge, the fall, come, come. Keeping his hand steady on the other man’s cock, he strokes him faster now, evenly but with tempo. Urgency. Come, come. His fingers tighten around the shaft of Jean Louis’ cock, right beneath the head, then he runs his whole, slick palm over the head, ending the motion with a slight rubbing of his thumb over the slit, feeling the way precum is leaving his fingers dripping. Oh.

Come, come. (Don’t go, don’t go). He moans, then, feels his whole lower body tightening up as it breaks on him, wave-like. Oh. There. There. ]

Please, please, don’t stop...

[ Whimpering some more, his hips push into Jean Louis’ fist hard, fast, taking, taking while he gasps and groans and breaks a little. Comes. He doesn’t think. Not about anything. Not about Oliver either. ]

[ Even if Elio hadn't spoken, pleading into the tiny sliver of space between their faces, the urgency of his movements give him away along with the heaviness of his breath. Jean Louis is right behind him, the pressure in his groin and balls increasing as Elio works his cock, deft hands, very deft (musician, a pianist, that's a great coincidence). He keeps his hold against the back of Elio's neck light, still, keeps his strokes even and his hand moving and then, yes, he's coming, spilling cum all over Jean Louis' fingers and he strokes him through it, too, because he'll take what he can and so should Elio, so he should.

Elio's thrusts, as he comes, are forceful and it's that, on top of the building pleasure from Elio's fingers running over the naked head of his cock, that does him in - eyes falling shut and hips working upwards roughly, he comes only seconds after the other man, lips parted and breath loud, heavy, erratic. It doesn't even once occur to him that his driver might find this situation uncomfortable. He's not on the official payroll, this particular man, and his safety clearance is fabricated. If he's got a problem, he can fucking well swallow it down.

Groaning, he works his cock up into Elio's slick grip another couple of times before he stops, completely, his lower body sinking back into the seat. His fingers against Elio's neck have tightened a bit, just a little, though he can't quite remember when. He brushes the skin there with his fingertips as a way of apology and releases him, giving his cock another couple of light strokes before releasing that, too. ]

Sorry to disappoint.

[ To stop, he thinks, though they both know that everything's got starts and ends, it's clear to him that Elio's had some particular experience with that, even. With the nature of meetings and fucks, with relationships too, no matter how carefully you cultivate them. Jean Louis, in contrast, simply believes in the logic. He's never chosen to get burned by it. ]

Then again, if we don't stop, we'd never get to start afresh.

[ Said with a rare, genuine smile - which is quite small and thin, really, on his face, but it's there. He releases Elio then, to pack his cock away. It's slick and sticky but he's got a spare change or five so who really cares. ]

[ He’s half-dazed from his orgasm, but Jean Louis comes right after him, that he does sense, feels it, sticky against his hand.

Jean Louis’ hand, in turn, tightens against the nape of his neck, holds him still, close and Elio treasures it, the way he’s treasured being embraced closely before, only to be let go of, pushed away, left behind and forgotten. Jean Louis, too, lets go of him, brushing his fingers over his skin gently first. Like an apology and do politicians do those? Do they do them sincerely?

Then, he releases Elio’s cock, spent and mostly flaccid now. Elio does the same, once Jean Louis has gone still. His fingers are covered in semen and he doesn’t know what to do with them, no sheets to dry off in. Seeing Jean Louis just tuck himself away, uncaring, Elio does the same. A bit less uncaring, but he can change his pants once they get to his apartment. No harm done.

If we don’t stop, we’d never get to start afresh, the other man tells him. Is that some PR speak? Elio frowns. ]

Sometimes there’s no point to start from.

[ Oliver, again. Always Oliver.

Elio unceremoniously dries off his fingers in his trouser leg, then looks out the window, feeling weirdly unsettled. Maybe it’s the fact that no one is escaping, tiptoeing out back doors or climbing out windows. They’re just sitting here. Waiting to pull up, waiting to collect. Jean Louis’ watch. Paris is busy today. Always busy. They’re only a couple of streets from his place. Just in time, then, before time’s up. Gone. ]

I liked this, though. All goodbyes should be like this.

[ He leans back, looking over his fingers briefly before simply drying them off in his trouser leg, mirroring Elio who's reached the same inescapable conclusion - your skin, you're forced to stay in, whether or not a shower gets it clean but clothes can be changed, again and again. Thrown out, discarded. All goodbyes should be like this says the pianist as he looks out of the window, his stance visibly closing up, something distant in his voice, very much unlike the man who stripped himself naked only minutes prior.

Jean Louis watches him curiously, head tilted slightly. There's something about the other man that wakes him up in a way he can't describe - he can't remember this sensation, either. With Marcel back in Amsterdam, slowly but surely pushing the King out of his none-too-designated seat, he gets a similar feeling but different, too, maybe because Elio and Marcel couldn't be more different themselves. Maybe he, too, differs in their company. Like some sort of twisted sea creature or insect - one empty shell, exchanged for another.

He blinks. Pushes the thought from his mind immediately before it drives off his post-orgasmic bliss for something a lot less satisfying.

Instead, he shakes his head and rights his hair with his hand, the one not previously covered in cum. He tears his eyes away from Elio's profile and looks out of the windscreen. Lips thinning, he notes their surroundings - they're close, now, to the ending destination. The silence between them has stretched for at least half a minute by now and he could easily bear to prolong it even further, to make it last until Elio leaves, returns with his watch, and leaves again.

He could but he won't. Tempering down his frustration with habitual ease, he answers, voice calm, seemingly undisturbed: ]

We'll remember for next time, Elio. And then, we'll see.

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