O P E N P O S T .

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[nowheretowns]

[ Elio returns from the bedroom sans trolly, taking the wine glasses from him and bringing them to the living room. There's the sound of glass clinking against the table surface, of Elio's clothes rustling as he seats himself. I don't want he says, which is a funny way to put it. It's sweet, in a way, in its simplicity. Not much of that in his regular life, sweetness; in politics, sweetness gets you eaten alive, bottom-up. If he makes an effort, though, he remembers thinking it from time to time about his sister, too. She'd had very fine features, perhaps a little pointed - the depths behind her eyes never quite seemed to match. They'd been a little strange. He blinks.

Such a long time ago, that.

He picks up the decanter and joins Elio, seating himself on the couch next to him because it's really very fucking large and also, what is this situation calling for? Do any of them know? He pours two glasses, Elio's first, his own second. Then, he shrugs and leans back, taking a sip before replying in words: ]

That's fine.

[ He doesn't attempt to convince Elio that he won't have to pay, that this isn't a trade. Everything is - what changes is value and value is quite dependent on, what? Demand. Supply. So hard to define those things in terms of human relations, of transactions between people, particularly once they occur merely for sake of the transaction more so than anything else. It's just fundamentally odd to him. Unknown.

It's been more than a year since they had their little cab ride. The Rolex has since been replaced by... a newer Rolex. He's struck a deal with the company, or well, Vincent has. Jean Louis just has to put shit on, it really doesn't matter to him.

His gaze glides away from Elio, towards the windows. ]

I never asked - Elio. Spanish or Italian, isn't it. Where are you from?

[solosection]

[ The deep red of the wine in the decanter only dilutes minimally as Jean Louis pours it into the two glasses on the table, where Elio has placed them, like he knows where anything belongs in this home and the life led inside it. Jean Louis allows him to pretend for a moment and for some reason, Elio's ridiculously grateful for that. Neither does the other man object to Elio's offer of compensation, they've already talked about bodies as currency, haven't they? Elio might not agree, but he does recognize it, this mentality deeply imbedded in the clubbing milieu, too - gay, straight, either, both. He runs with it, not into it and certainly not from it either. No, that's not what he runs from, when he runs, because run he does, he knows.

He licks his lips, reaches for the glass and takes a sip of the wine. It's heavy, full and definitely Italian. Incidentally, Jean Louis then asks where he's from, recognizing his name as having a southern European root, most likely. Spanish? Elio has been mistaken for many nationalities during his life, but he thinks that's a first, Spanish. Good guess, though. Elio, Elio, Elio. He can almost hear Oliver's voice.

Swallowing, he clings to the glass, glancing at Jean Louis sideways for a moment, thinking about his professor father, his professor father's love for Antiquity, Ancient Greek culture, language, Helios meaning the sun, Latinized, losing its H, its S. You can lose a lot of shit that way.

So he raises his glass a little in the other man's direction, almost a toast, but not quite that sarcastic. ]

I'm as Italian as this wine. Or maybe less, when you think about it, my father's American, I live and work in France... [ Trailing off, he purses his lips, then bites the bottom one, releases it. He looks over at Jean Louis directly. ] We're both exports, I think that's what we've got in common. We both came from Italy.

[ A small, awkward shrug and he takes another, longer sip of his wine which is really, really good and tastes like home and safety on several levels. Elio licks his lips again, blinks, smiles. Small gestures, all of them. ]

The question is where we end up, though.

[nowheretowns]

[ Elio tells him and yet, he doesn't. Jean Louis frowns. Export, he says, because yes, he's from Italy but in a way, it's hard to truly claim a nationality in this time and age. Lots of people feel that way, though Jean Louis doesn't. Luxembourg is his place of origin and his mind inevitably returns here, to the dirt and grime of Grund and the sprawling towers of glass and chrome in the newer domains of City. He'll agree, though, that it doesn't truly matter all that much - the question is, says Elio, and that's exactly it.

The journey and then, the goal. ]

Perhaps, that's the question I should've asked? Where'd you like to end up.

[ He doesn't ask. There's a point to that, too. Shifting a little, he sips his wine again and catches Elio's gaze, eyes straying to his mouth - soft-looking lips, warmer than they seem - before he returns the smile, a fleeting expression but genuine enough all the same. He smiles more around Elio, evidently, and the thought nags him slightly, like an itch you can't quite get to. ]

The wine is produced only in Sicily. It's a gift from friends.

[ He takes another sip, more like a mouthful. There's something about this wine that's incredibly drinkable, to the point where even he doesn't mind indulging. It's sweet with gentle edges, rounder than most. Elegant, you might say. Well, well. So, Elio and the wine have more things in common than the other man might acknowledge.

Jean Louis knows his Italians quite well, however, and he's fairly certain they hail from opposite ends of the country. There's something about Elio that says lake-side, though he'd be hard-pressed to explain what, exactly. Something a little too bright and crisp for the heavy, southern air. ]

[solosection]

[ The question both is and isn't. Jean Louis repeats, perhaps that's the question he should've asked, but still doesn't ask it. Elio likes that, Elio likes how it's left up to the winds, where he's going, where he'll end up. He's lived that way for years now, maybe he doesn't even want it to change.

Maybe he does.

As the other man tells him about the wine, produced only in Sicily and you can almost taste that, can't you, he drinks more of it, it's surprisingly easy on the tongue, heavy, but silken. Nothing like the wines he usually drinks at the seaside, in the gardens of his mother's summer house. Elio's only traveled as far south as Naples on his own, but he's visited Palermo with his father when he was little, digging site, old Roman statues, that sort of thing. He doesn't remember it that well, what was he, six-seven years old? The sun was scorching, that he remembers. The colors. Not much else.

Though, of course the one thing all Italians know about Sicily, it's mafia country. Almost without thinking and meaning nothing by it, really, he says: ]

You have friends in dangerous places.

[ Another smile, wider this time, to soften the implications. Sicily is full of ordinary people, too, of course, and archaeologists and professors and politicians, probably. Jean Louis strikes him as someone who befriends easily and not so easily likes those whom he befriends. Elio's the same, huge network, few people close.

Once more, he thinks about the two of them. Oliver, not Oliver, he puts the glass down. Somehow it's already half-empty. His nerves have settled a little, and he turns towards Jean Louis slightly, their knees bumping. ]

You're a politician, so I guess that's a given. Are you important?

[ It's just... straight-forward. What was he supposed to ask? Do you head a ministry? Have I seen you somewhere before? The latter sounds like a bad pickup line. So Elio doesn't hold back. ]

[nowheretowns]

[ Elio's initial comment gets him little response, mostly because there's nothing to say - yes, he does. Export or not, Elio's certainly Italian enough to catch the underlying implications and in this case, he's really just stating the facts. Jean Louis has twenty crates of this wine stowed away - Ezio frequently sends him too many, first and foremost as a sign of friendliness but also, he's aware, with just a tint of mocking humour. After all, Jean Louis generally doesn't drink anything but various types of whiskey and Ezio Salvoca knows. He knows why, too, because he's a nosy old man.

So the wine simply takes up its own share of Jean Louis' vast, multiple spaces and that's the overall message, summarized.

Elio puts the glass down with a soft clink, looks over at him and bumps their knees lightly. Jean Louis doesn't move, except to shift a little towards him in response, making that slight point of contact just a little bigger, a little more constant. ]

Are law makers ever?

[ This time, it's a schooled expression - happens completely by habit - the sort of calm, undeterred smile specific to a man speaking to a potential voter, to someone who doesn't hold the same kind of power. Though he's actually quite good at fighting for his causes in parliament, he never altogether wanted to be a politician. It just happened to be the most appropriate road towards achieving all the other things he wanted.

Point is, certain aspects of the profession had to be learned and learned well. And now, they're stuck. ]

I head our foreign ministry as well as my party, Tous la Liberté. I think the party's important. People are just people.

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You're Foreign Minister?

[ Elio feels the way Jean Louis pushes back against him, deliberately, nothing accidental about it, like he's taking Elio's own clumsy initiative and doubling it, enlarging their point of contact, decreasing the distance between them. He opens his mouth to say something else, something along the lines of explains Sicily and Paris, I suppose, but honestly, he's more interested in people. How people are just people. What kind of man who sits in a position of power would ever really think that? He's there for a reason. Elio wonders as to Jean Louis'. ]

Do you like it?

[ It could mean a lot of things, do you like the work, your position, do you like the money and the influence it gives you, but for that matter, it could also mean, are you in reality a power-hungry psychopath, presumably, and he leaves the other man to decide for himself which one he wants to deign with an answer. Elio will take whatever he gives. Their thighs are pressing together like this and Jean Louis has the most delicious five o'clock shadow ghosting along his jawline and whatever he says, even if it's to say, yes, I do, yes, I am, Elio thinks he'd still like to kiss him. He'd still like to sleep in his bed and pay him back with interest.

Even if it proves to be dangerous, maybe the most dangerous thing he's ever done. Surviving one crash is luck, going into another knowingly is just reckless.

Stupid.

He cocks his head a little, follows the shadows near Jean Louis' ear where they spread down over his neck and then pushes himself closer, slowly, one hand on the cool leather of the couch, the other arm on the backrest for balance. ]

Some people I'd be able to say, they'd never do anything they weren't passionate about, but I can't tell with you. Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn't.

[nowheretowns]

[ Do you like it asks Elio, like that's a qualifier worth anything at all but Jean Louis gets it, regardless, and they might even be putting the same meaning to it. There's a chance. His eyes narrow a little as the other man slips closer, one hand on the couch, the other on the backrest. Like that, he actually keeps himself quite open - his whole front, bared and vulnerable in its own right. Jean Louis watches him for a moment, watches his lips, noting the way Elio's gaze glides over his features, taking him and finding him, what? Attractive? Acceptable? More importantly, does it matter?

Doesn't it? ]

Maybe I wouldn't.

[ He sets down his wine glass, then, all calm movements, unhurried. Then, he reaches for Elio with his left hand, fingertips sliding over the length of his neck and back. He slips them into his curls, then, his frankly enticing curls, and leans closer, close enough that he can almost taste the wine on the other man's breath. He doesn't pull his hair, though he takes hold, feeling the strands bend and twist in his grip, soft, pliant, maybe a little bit wild. ]

I do a lot of things that I find boring or uninspiring, Elio. That's just conditional.

[ Their lips slide together on his next words: ]

I don't enjoy them.

[ The kiss is slow and warm and Jean Louis leans into it, angles his head a little to take his larger-than-average nose out of the equation and draws the tip of his tongue over Elio's bottom lip. ]

[solosection]

[ But do you enjoy this, Elio wants to ask, desperately, desperately, as the other man puts his wine glass down and leans in, burying his fingers in Elio's curls, more or less speaking against his lips, letting him feel the soft movements of his mouth, forming words, telling him he does a lot of things he doesn't enjoy. But this, Elio wants to ask, staring into Jean Louis' face, half-shadow, lots of skin, darker than Elio's own, bronze-like, Mediterranean. Friends, he said, in Sicily. Family in other places? Do you enjoy this?

He doesn't even know why it matters, why it's so important, why he would die to be enjoyed by Jean Louis Surname Redacted, Elio will have to look him up. Luxembourg's cabinet of ministers isn't on the tip of his tongue. Though, obviously, one of its ministers is.

Why does he need to look him up? Why's he so important? Like he said himself, people aren't, generally. Not to Elio either. Maybe especially not to Elio.

Oh.

The other man angles his face so their noses aren't in the way, dragging the tip of his tongue over Elio's bottom lip and Elio feels himself shuddering, actually trembling, goosebumps rising and his cock growing very hard very fast in his pants. He's physically seventeen again, pretty much. Mentally, he's running in circles like always and emotionally... emotionally...

Oh.

Parting his lips just enough to catch Jean Louis' tongue between them, he pushes down over the length of it, giving him the slight sensation of penetration, of sinking into, slipping his own tongue along the length of it. Then, after a brief moment, he breaks away, though only far enough to stick out his own tongue, teasing the tip of it over first the curve of the other man's bottom lip, the slight jut of his upper one, breathing hard and heavy against his mouth. ]

[nowheretowns]

[ Elio parts his lips and takes his tongue in, just sort of sinking down over it which is really quite impressive and it makes his cock harden in response, a quick spark of heat spreading quickly in his lower body. With a groan, he takes Elio's mouth for a long, outdrawn moment before the other man pulls back a little, just enough to slip the tip of his tongue against Jean Louis' lips in turn. He allows it for a couple of seconds before he quirks an eyebrow, licks a fat strip over Elio's tongue and goes right past it, into his mouth once more, mostly because he wasn't quite done and Elio might as well get it on emphasis here - when Jean Louis wants something, he pretty much just takes it.

Within reason, naturally, when it comes to people and the nature of sexual transactions.

But all the same.

He pulls back after another second and parts his lips, now, their breaths mingling, heavy and heated. He clears his throat to speak, to offer some type of explanation, because for one reason or another, he feels as if he ought to and there it is again, that peculiar inclination to give the other man... what? What does it mean to other people, being shown some small measure of carefulness? He's aware that it means something, obviously, because people will act accordingly and that, in his job, can be a clear advantage.

It doesn't matter.

Or rather, it matters, but not right now. ]

It's not that you can't. [ That he can't ask to be let in, that he can't demand. ] It's that you have to keep doing it.

[ There's a handful of implications to his words that he won't be bothered to analyse or dig out any further than this. It's just that he's very well aware of how people tend to react with him; inevitably, if they stay too long, they feel dejected or attacked or out-maneuvered which is honestly how it's been since he learned to speak and it usually doesn't bother him much, usually he doesn't go for seconds or thirds or fourths, usually he just takes what he's offered and leaves the rest to others.

People have never flourished around him. Yes, he's well aware.

But Elio, he thinks, already does. ]

[solosection]

[ He's allowed for a sliver of time, a second, then Jean Louis takes his mouth right back, sinking into him, filling him out and Elio's losing his breath to it, to him. He runs both hands over the other man's shoulders, balancing himself against him rather than the couch and for some reason it feels easier, stronger, like more familiar ground than anything the rest of the world can offer. Elio exhales harshly when Jean Louis draws back, for that same reason, almost whimpering after him, but contains himself, because he's learned to do that by now, not grab crotches and cling to because he himself can't stand increasing distances. He's a grownup now. He's grown up.

He doesn't know what he is with Jean Louis, though. He doesn't know that yet.

It's that you have to keep doing it, Jean Louis tells him, then, in response to his playful tongue and his demanding things for himself. Elio just looks at him wordlessly for a long time, blinking slowly, watching him, his prominent nose and his strong features, his soft lips, his five o'clock shadow, little, rough hairs like sandpaper.

Rug burn risk.

Maybe Elio does have friends in dangerous places, too.

Finally, he just shakes his head, not to say no, not to say he won't, that he's going to stop, but to wave away the implicit doubt, will you, it means when Jean Louis says that, and please do. It's like that for some people, Elio included, they can't be sure that the ones they started out on their journey with are going to stay beside them the whole way. Who knows why. Who cares, really, when the only outcome you know is goodbye. Elio never truly got it either, with Oliver, with any of his former partners, lovers, old friends not friends anymore and just because he doesn't hold a grudge doesn't mean he couldn't have, that there's no reason to. Goodbyes erode, it's the body you've given away and won't get back. You're the currency.

He's the currency.

He wants to pay the other man back.

So Elio shakes his head and leans in again, teasing his tongue tip over Jean Louis' bottom lip, catching it gently between his front teeth and tugging at it once, hard, just to let him feel it. Just to let him feel that he's here and he wants and he gives and he won't stop, because Elio hasn't stopped for fifteen years and that's the priceless joke.

How he holds on, haha, what a joke!

Releasing the other man, he slips both hands, flat palms, down over his back, shoulder blades, spine. Muscle and bone. ]

Okay, but don't get sick of me just yet. I want to suck you off.

[nowheretowns]

[ Elio shakes his head multiple times and it doesn't mean no in any way that makes sense because seconds later, he dives back into the kiss, catching Jean Louis' bottom lip with his teeth and giving it a hard tug that goes straight to his cock, already fully hard. He exhales harshly at the feel of it, eyes falling shut as Elio runs both hands down his back and shoulder blades. Sensitive places, places with history. He likes it, the idea of re-tracing - he's already done it once, with ink, but Elio does something that feels oddly more permanent and he should really be worried about the implications, about how these things differ from his usual status quo.

Don't get sick of me just yet says Elio because he knows, too, that this is different. Otherwise, they'd both agree to get sick of each other as fast as fucking possible. It's how this unspoken contract goes, with regards to one-night-stands and falling together between the shadows for as long as it takes to hit some surface or another once again. But don't says Elio and Jean Louis, spine tingling and hairs actually standing on end along his shoulders and arms, doesn't.

Instead, he chuckles and pulls away, not harshly, running one hand down Elio's upper arm. He gets to his feet, then, eyeing the decanter for all of two seconds before deciding to let Ezio's wine oxidate right here on his table, it'll be useless in the morning and then, he can pour it down the drain. Done.

Shifting a little, his trousers visibly tenting, he nods towards the bedroom. ]

I've had - [ He glances at his watch, uncaringly. ] - 27 hours at work and only one change of clothes. Make yourself comfortable and I'll be right out.

[ Pause. He points down the opposite end of the apartment space, towards a door by the end left half-ajar. ]

Guest facilities, if you'd like your privacy.

[ Implying, I don't care either way because he doesn't and that's frankly alarming. Face expressionless, he turns away and heads towards the bedroom and the bathroom, undoing his tie as he walks with brisk, sharp movements. He leaves Elio behind, then, to do as he pleases and within Jean Louis' personal spaces, that's probably - certainly - another first. ]