F I C : to and from .

To: esp@colburn.com
From: o.abrams@columbia.com
__________



Dear Elio,

After our last meet and greet, I've followed your career as it has continued to surge. First Paris Conservatory, now Colburn? They're not just elitist with their students, from what I've heard, but definitely with their educators, too. And you're one of the youngest professors there, right? It speaks in your favor. Not that I'm surprised.

I've always known you'd take it far.

The reason I'm writing you out of the blue like this is because I'll be attending a two-week seminar on the word and monument of the Pre-Socratic thinkers in L.A. I don't know why we're assembling there, but I imagine it's a West Coast decision and L.A. is considered neutral ground or something along those lines. University politics, I'm still trying not to get invested.

As such, I'll be in your hood from start-December till the holiday season. Let me know if you want to meet up, have a cup of coffee or anything. I'll be accommodated at a conference hotel along with everyone else, so please don't worry about offering me a place to stay, I'm good.

I'm really hoping to see you, Elio.

Later!
Oliver

PS. If rumor hasn't reached you yet, Micol and I have separated and are working through the paperwork to effectuate our divorce. It should all be in order by the time I hit Tinsel Town.





To: o.abrams@columbia.com
From: esp@colburn.com
__________



Dear Oliver,

I'll always be worrying about offering you a place to stay, but you already knew that or you wouldn't have told me not to think about it, right? Has so little really changed since then? I'm a professor of music now, a piano teacher, a concert pianist, but as soon as you write me, I'm back to playing Bach in the style of Liszt or Busoni with the bulletproof confidence of any 17 year old. Because in your usual, roundabout way, you're telling me that you remember. That you want to.

So much has changed since. I'm teaching, you're teaching, you're getting divorced. Neither of us is in Italy, except in our memories. Maybe in our dreams.

Since I can't tell whether you're asking me to carve out time in my calendar for a cup of coffee or a fuck, I'll reserve a couple of evenings and we'll start with coffee. If you're too tired to go bar crawling, I have a very nice apartment where you're welcome, as long as you don't stay the night.

I'm waiting for someone, you see. I'm keeping certain parts of my life reserved for them these days. We're alike in many ways, but in this one aspect, I think, we might be different, Oliver.

Still, I look forward to seeing you again.

Elio.





To: esp@colburn.com
From: o.abrams@columbia.com
__________



Dear Elio,

I do remember. I remember everything. I just want to talk, really. I've lost too many years to another life, where i am now, I just want to know you again.

When you say we're different in that regard, however, I think it's our estrangement talking, not facts. Because fact is, I've kept certain parts of my life reserved for someone too, Elio. For more than fifteen years at this point.

But I'm aware some things need to be seen to be believed and felt to be understood. Thank you for your willingness to indulge me. Let's meet for a bar crawl the first night and see where it takes us.

Oliver

F I C : the last time .

They meet in East Hollywood a Tuesday night, 10 PM when the crowds are still thin and spotty and there are corner tables free at the first four out of sixteen bars they hop between. Oliver is waiting for him in front of Bar Flores, clad in a pair of suit pants and a snuck white shirt that emphasizes his shoulders, his broad back, his tall frame, his pale-blond hair marred by only a few grays. Elio stops around the corner, out of sight and has to catch his breath at the sight of him. He thinks maybe his therapist was wrong after all, maybe he doesn't have to accept this missing piece as a condition of life, maybe, maybe, maybe he can have it back. Maybe, maybe, maybe Oliver will return it to him this time.

Himself, he hasn't dressed up, not really, not much, nothing more than he'd do for a night at Lux or another low-key recital. Meaning a linen suit, a shirt in an interesting shade of not-white (red, tonight, dangerous) and his Star of David hanging in plain view around his neck. Oliver catches sight of him as he approaches, straightening up to his full six feet three and towering over Elio as they come to a halt in front of each other, the lights of Flores throwing shades of red and blue and green on their faces.

"You haven't changed at all," Oliver says.

"Since last time or since the first time," Elio replies, "and if it's the latter, I really hope that's a lie."

"Since any time," is Oliver's response, slightly out of breath and yet, audibly amused. "You never took my bullshit, Elio."

"Didn't I?" Elio looks up at him, chin tilted slightly upwards, lips dry. Oliver doesn't look away, he doesn't even look the least shamed by Elio's words, instead smiling and shaking his head.

"No."

"Let's go inside, they serve the best Aperol Spritz here, it'll bring you right back to Italy."

"This looks as far from Italy as you could get," Oliver replies and follows him, just two steps behind, letting one hand rest lightly against the small of Elio's back. His skin prickles, his muscles tensing, straightening his posture to a fault. Don't touch me, he thinks to himself while simultaneously hoping, please don't stop.

"Rome doesn't hold a candle to Hollywood, trust me," he tells the other man. "There's no saying what kind of night we might have here."

_________

Bar number six, which they hit a bucket load of Aperol Spritz, Scotch and Dirty Martinis later, features a baby grand on the small podium stage and Oliver talks the owner into letting Elio play a few numbers, Elio playing upbeat interpretations of Britney and Rihanna, the two o'clock crowd going wild and the owner trying to talk him into making a regular appearance afterwards. Oliver is laughing, hanging around Elio's neck and running a big, strong hand through his curls. "Why not say yes, you rock popular music, Elio," he says.

"I'm already elsewhere engaged," Elio tells him, words only slightly slurred, "you know how it is."

"Ouch," Oliver says, though he's still laughing. His hand, however, falls away from Elio's hair, from his shoulder. "Is this about the person you're reserving yourself for?"

"It might be. I don't want to talk about it."

"He isn't going to tell me about it," Oliver complains to a beautiful blonde who saunters past them on her way to her own table. She giggles and is gone. Elio pushes away from Oliver, then, and heads for the bathrooms, feeling a bit nauseous. Not a good mix of wine, whisky and vodka. His stomach's feeling upset.

_________

There's a street or two between bar thirteen and fourteen and they walk the distance in companionable silence, each watching little details of the surrounding buildings, the bright lights, the chatter of strangers amongst whom they're walking. A gay couple is walking hand in hand up front, unafraid and unapologetic and Elio, for the first time tonight, can't help thinking of Lucifer.

Suddenly he feels a big, warm hand close around his own, fingers interlacing slowly, stiffly and when he looks down and follows the hand up to its arm to its shoulder to its neck to its face, it's Oliver looking down at him. "Is this okay," he asks.

"Of course," he says, feeling frozen over from an anxiety he can't explain. Don't let go, he thinks, don't leave me with nothing, don't touch me, don't touch me.

They just hold hands, the rest of the way to Harvard and Stone.

_________

On the way up in the elevator, Elio hurls himself at Oliver, kisses him aggressively and hard, licking into him and eating his breath, the way he tastes of too much alcohol and too few inhibitions. They're gasping at each other, hands mapping out each other's bodies for the first time in more than fifteen years, pushing up beneath shirts, down the waistband of pants, belts coming undone. Off, off, off, Oliver mutters and Elio wants to cry.

__________

Once they're in his huge living room with the grand grand piano from Steinway and the view of Los Angeles, Oliver stops briefly, shirt halfway off, and looks around, eyes wide.

"Holy Hell, Elio, how do you afford this place," he asks and Elio wants him to either suck his cock or shut up.

"I know the owner, he sponsors me," Elio replies, pulling his shirt carelessly over his head, a couple of buttons flying. His suit jacket's already come off by the door. He isn't going to explain the intricate, delicate, fragile nature of his relationship with Lucifer to Oliver who wouldn't understand anyway. He doesn't owe him any explanations.

Oliver, however, owes him a piece.

So, Elio throws himself at him with a small sob and kisses him again, clinging to his shoulders, hoisting himself up into the other man's face, biting his lips and his tongue and taking his spit. Oliver groans, says his own name and it's in that moment, Elio realizes that he's started crying, feeling only emptier by the second. Nothing Oliver can give him, not even his own name, will make him feel whole again. Whatever he lost when he was seventeen, it's irrevocably gone and he must live like the Venus de Milo now, hoping to be admired and loved with no arms to hold.

How many more times is he going to lose the people he cares about?

He pulls back, Oliver reaching down to unzip his black pants, but Elio grabs his wrist, stops him. "Don't, please."

Oliver stops.

"You're crying, Elio."

"I think you should leave."

"But -"

"You know the way out." You've walked it before, it means.

"Okay. Sure, okay. I'm sorry."

"For what you did to me or that I'm still holding it against you," Elio wants to know, voice thick, hoarse, croaky.

Looking at him for a long time, Oliver doesn't reply. Instead he fixes himself up, shirt back on, belt fastened. They don't say goodbye and they both know they won't be meeting again. This was the last time. Like any time between them has been.