[ He hangs up, feeling something in his very foundation slipping a little and trying, but probably failing not to show it on his face.
By the way, Elio, Oliver will be here to celebrate Hanukkah with us. His wife and kids, too! What do you say?
Yes, what does he say?
Pocketing his phone slowly, just sort of slipping it down his front pocket and having to shift about in the cream-colored car seat to manage, Elio stares straight ahead. Jean Louis picked him up in Paris with two bodyguards earlier in the day, two bodyguards and a seriously sweet Aston Martin and they've moved steadily down through Southern France ever since, the lavender fields barren and brown in late November - early December. It hasn't snowed yet, Hanukkah's early this year and they might not quite manage snow. Which is fine, isn't it? It snowed the year Oliver told him he was getting married. That she came before.
That there would be no ever after, no after at all, actually.
Elio frowns. Swallows hard and rests his hands in his lap, fingers twitching nervously as he glances out the window, they're passing through some nondescript little French village, the kind of place that probably sells goat cheese, freshly made. They could make a stop somewhere like this, buy some for his parents. Though, with Oliver joining the party, there's going to be presents enough, right? Oh, but for fuck's sake... Oliver doesn't matter anymore, so why does it matter that he'll be there?
After almost fifteen years, this Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Fuck. ]
[ They've had a relatively uneventful drive thus far, quiet, easy traffic glide for the most part. He's taken a few calls now and then in the car and they've been quiet together, too, him and Elio, in that particular way they've seemed to cultivate without him knowing exactly how or why. It's nice, though. There's something almost self-evident about it.
Elio's been speaking with his father for a little while, now. Apparently, the old man had something to tell him and judging from his expression as he hangs up, it's problematic. Some sort of news that the other man didn't necessarily want. Jean Louis glances sideways at him a couple of times as they proceed, the silence between them no longer comfortable but strained, tense, Elio's fingers twitching nervously in his lap. He isn't saying anything, however, which is almost proof in itself. It's atypical, he thinks, of how they usually seem to be together - it's new, granted, still and very much unknown ground to him so he doesn't know enough to draw any certain conclusions from the other man's behaviour.
He can guess, though. He's a decent guesser.
Besides, he's seen Elio uncomfortable before but rarely unnerved.
Re-focusing on the road, he gives him another moment, then asks, voice a little brusque: ]
[ Of course Jean Louis asks. Even if Elio hadn’t wanted him to, which he does, even if he hadn’t felt ready to share Oliver with him, which he isn’t, he knows how Jean Louis reacts to tension, that need to fix and stabilize and re-establish a bearable status quo. He’s seen it happen more than once now, he can draw his own conclusions, when thinking about his tattoos, the scarring underneath. The huge fish tank, like a built-in sleep mode right in the middle of his bedroom. So he doesn’t try to lie about it, he doesn’t say, it’s nothing or it’s not important. He honors Jean Louis’ rare trust in him. He honors both their nervous systems. ]
An old acquaintance of our family will be joining us for Hanukkah with his family, wife, two boys.
[ That’s the first part of the story, seemingly innocent, but Jean Louis won’t be fooled, Elio knows. If Elio is upset about that, then there’s more to it, right? Than just a family friend. Old doctoral student returning to where it all started, fourteen years ago. Where it all started... Elio licks his lips and breathes out harshly, jaw clenched. This Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Couldn’t he get this occasion to himself, at least. Him and Jean Louis. They’re both so new to all of this. Family introductions. Committed relationships. Moving on, moving on, moving on.
Where will he go in that house, when Oliver’s actually there, not to be reminded of him? ]
We were together. Years ago.
[ A bit apologetically, he feels his face fall, glancing sideways at the other man driving the car, trying to convey wordlessly that he is really laying it all out now, bare, naked, because doing anything else would be wrong. Having done that, however, he needs Jean Louis to either connect the dots himself or ask, because Elio has no idea where to start. On the story that should by all accounts be finished, half a lifetime earlier. ]
[ Elio tells him - first the easy part, the introduction that doesn't truly mean much and then, after a moment's pause, the rest. Jean Louis' keeps his eyes on the road as he listens, first to Elio's harsh exhalation (unusual) and then, the main story. A much larger one, at that, than Elio's five words but not too large that his few, select sentences can't carry the underlying sentiment through.
What happened, then, years ago?
He's not a stranger to past events that are best forgotten, obviously, and he typically wouldn't pry, seeing as the past is past and you bury it to keep it from bothering you, to keep the ache dulled to a minimum. But now, they're driving straight for it, aren't they, if that man and his family will be there for the duration of their stay. It's like all sorts of violations, this - if you have to re-visit them, you can't do so blindly or at random.
So he simply takes the car through the village and gets them back on the A7. They're only passed Lyon now. They have plenty of time. ]
And what did he do?
[ To you is very much implied - everything in this car right now reeks of tension, the kind that he knows intimately; it's a stench, in a way, and if you know it once in your life by heart, you'll know it forever. He wrinkles his nose a little and leans back in his seat, the engine rumbling. ]
[ Breakfast is nearing its completion, supposedly - excusing himself after about ten minutes to take a call that he's honestly initiated himself by sending Vincent a rather urgent text, Jean Louis' drifting about beneath one of the naked peach trees in the orchard behind the house. He's finished talking to Vincent, seeing as they're both efficient people who'd just as soon waste words as money. Same shit, in their business. Consequently, he should now be returning to the table, except he really is in need of a break from all that family festivitas and he's been here for, what, less than twenty-four hours? Fuck, that bedroom is...
The way the house creaks. The doors that can be locked only symbolically. Elio's ex-lover or whatever, rooming right next to them with his wife. Elio's fucking parents, the homeliness of this place... He shakes his head, his movements fast and erratic. Inhales his second cigarette of the day, smoke pulsing out from between his lips and into the cold winter air.
At least he'd managed to pay Elio back for that comment of his in the car by sucking him off and fingering him throughout for at least fifteen minutes, pulling him back from the edge and prolonging his pleasure for as long as they could both reasonably stand it. Good times. He'd even managed to sleep for a couple of hours afterwards, spending the remaining night awake by Elio's side, watching that fucking door to the hall with narrowed eyes, his chest feeling hollow and strange.
[ Mafalda is cooking latkes in the kitchen, the smell of them wafting up through the rest of the house. At the breakfast table, his mother is trying to convince his stepfather to eat his oranges, like a child, Miranda cutting in and telling her to let the man take grownup decisions on his own. Oliver's wife, Micol, is focusing all her attention on their two kids, also refusing their oranges, one of them demanding it being made into juice before he'll ingest it, those exact words, Ollie endlessly fascinated by the two older boys and saying the same to their father who just waves him off. Him and Oliver are busy discussing the development of Roman Jewish liturgy in a late post-Republican setting. Elio, for his part, is finishing his soft-boiled egg. It's an only slightly controlled chaos. He doesn't blame Jean Louis for his narrow escape.
Egg finished, he eventually casts a long look out the window, trying to catch sight of the other man somewhere in the gardens, but he's currently out of view. Elio frowns, Ollie yelling across the table for him. Make me juice, El, he says, while Elio gets to his feet slowly, dropping his napkin next to his plate. Three seats over, Oliver follows him with his gaze, his animated debate with Elio's father continuing only at half-speed. Ask your mother, Elio tells the boy and then, excuse me, leaving the table without a backwards glance.
He finds him beneath one of the naked peach trees, heavily smoking and the sheer quietness of the scene is such a contrast to inside that Elio actually breathes a sigh of relief, unsure whether it's due to being away from his family or being together with Jean Louis. He halts next to the other man, watching his lips close tightly around the filter of the smoke, thinking faintly of last night, Jean Louis blowing him in the dark of his old bedroom, fingering him until he literally thought he might die from it and gradually losing any inhibitions he might have had in regards to Oliver lodging right next door. They'd been loud, he knows. Oliver's eyes have been saying as much all morning.
Running one hand slowly up Jean Louis' arm, he greets him by reaching for his cigarette with the other, gently taking it from him and bumming a long inhale, before holding it out to him again and looking around. The garden's a sad sight at this time of year. For some reason, he isn't even eager to show Jean Louis the place during summer. This is fine.
[ Elio joins him after a moment, his footsteps muted in the sandy ground but his presence unmistakable regardless. His system's attuned to him - it's like something starts prickling along his arms, down the length of his spine, something a little softer than usual and no one else has that particular effect on him. Though he never really thinks about Aly anymore, these days he's sometimes reminded of her. It wasn't the same but maybe it could've been, under different circumstances.
Maybe it couldn't.
He shifts only marginally to the side when Elio drifts into his personal space, eyes falling shut as he runs his hand up his arm. The cigarette disappears and he looks up, catching the other man's gaze lazily. Elio's lips look soft around a cigarette, relaxed. They get beautifully wet when they kiss. He takes it from him when he offers it back, propping it back between his own lips, trying to make out what little remnants of Elio's taste might've stuck to it.
At his words, he huffs, smoke trailing out through his nostrils. ]
Your family is interesting.
[ He slips his arm around Elio's waist and pulls him closer, spreading his fingers out a little against his side and hip. Taking up space. His next question isn't posed with any sort of anger or irritation - he might've just as easily asked about the weather: ]
[ The cigarette passes between them like an external kiss and Elio likes that mental image, the same way he liked it when he was seventeen, maybe he hasn’t matured all that much in the meantime. Maybe he’s still a lot.
Though, maybe he isn’t too much for Jean Louis to handle. That’s the question, supposedly.
And like an answer, Jean Louis pulls him close, up against his body, arm around his waist, fingers spread out over hip and side. A hold. He’s being held. He’s being handled in the most physical sense possible, which is how Jean Louis prefers to do it anyway. Elio smiles at his your family is interesting, because that’s one way to put it, right? Very politician-like and diplomatic. Then follows, are they always so loud which is probably a bit more honest and definitely a bit less diplomatic, even if Jean Louis doesn’t sound annoyed by it. Casual. Neutral.
Elio laughs. ]
They’re many right now. When it was just my parents and me, things were quieter. [ Relatively. A little bit. They had their dinner drudgeries, sure, but just the three of them, they weren’t loud at all.
A moment’s pause as he thinks this observation over. There’s something to be said for that, isn’t there - like a truth has been revealed somehow. ] I think both my parents are loud people, but they couldn’t be loud with each other. After they found other partners, they’ve also found themselves.
[ It's close to 3 in the morning. The house woke him up, he thinks, about an hour ago - someone crossing between rooms, possibly, the floors creaking in response because they're wooden and old. His first, initial sense of panic has melted quickly into restlessness and that, unfortunately, tends to stick a little better. Consequently, he's still awake. He's had a text exchange with Marcel concerning an African shipment going into Rotterdam in a couple of hours from now - Interpol's been sniffing around at the docks, he's been told from other sources, and the Italians are worried. For no reason, obviously. Whomever's stalking their business had better know how to escape the pull of a working ship engine.
In any case, that's taken care of. So now, he's simply seated by the headboard of the bed, watching the door to the bedroom, the hallway beyond silent and still. Next to him, Elio's still asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his nose buried in his pillow. There's something fragile about the slope of his neck, his curls in disarray around it, his collarbone looking long and thin beneath his skin.
He shifts a little, the sheet pooling in his lap. He'll probably wake him up if he touches him and that would be ridiculous. It's enough by far that he's awake - he's got a gun beneath his pillow, he's well-equipped to handle the shadows around them. All the same, there's a small part of him that he can't quite control around Elio, a persistent urge to be with, to share conscience and to be linked. It's new, still. Dangerous.
He reaches out anyway, tracing two fingertips lightly along Elio's collarbone and across his naked shoulder, feeling the warmth of him. Present, isn't he. Very much so. ]
[ He was sleeping. He might even have been dreaming, though the details are fuzzy, hard to grasp. Anyway, he's awake now, though Elio can't quite place what woke him up. A feeling. A feeling of not being alone. He remembers being a little kid and fearing that his grandfather's ghost, the man whose name he's bearing, resided in this very room, his old one. He's outgrown any lasting fear of ghosts at this point, but he still searches for some explanation. Why am I awake? What happened? Shifting a bit underneath the weight of his duvet, into the softness of his pillow, Elio blinks, once, twice, then cracks one eye open lazily.
There are fingers stroking along his collarbone, his shoulder. Soft fingers, trying not to disturb while definitely disturbing. Oh. Both eyes open now. It's Jean Louis. Jean Louis is awake, sitting propped up against the headboard and caressing Elio's naked skin, whatever he can reach. Elio slowly frees his arms from the covers, lifts it to Jean Louis' wrist and grabs it, not hard, gently. Holds him. Gently. ]
Don't want to be awake alone?
[ More of a conclusion than a question, really. Groggy-sounding. Elio strokes his thumb over Jean Louis' pulse point, where the skin is thin and easily breakable. Let's him feel the tenderness of his touch, the warmth of him with nothing to subdue it, no other layers, just the two of them.
Suddenly he remembers his dream. It was because Jean Louis was quite literally playing him, mind. He smiles up at the other man, a bit awkwardly. ]
[ Elio comes awake and Jean Louis follows the stages leading up to it - the rhythm of his breathing, losing some of its depth, the way he shifts beneath the duvet before his eyes open. There's something vulnerable about that as well, that moment before wakefulness. Jean Louis comes awake faster, from one moment to the next. He meets Elio's eyes when he looks up, watching as the other man frees his arms and takes his wrist, holding it gently between his fingers. His movements, in turn, pause.
The question is almost a statement in itself and he doesn't answer, knowing that it isn't necessary. Instead, he shuts his eyes for a moment and breathes slowly, evenly, in time with Elio's thumb stroking over his pulse point. It's... nice. It makes him stop listening to everything else, his focus narrowing down to the two of them once more, on the bed, the outline of Elio's body visible in fragments through the shadows.
When Elio smiles up at him, his heart actually skips a fucking beat. ]
A violin?
[ He frowns, earnestly puzzled. He never remembers his own dreams, though sometimes he wakes up with the feel of them still lodged in his muscles. It feels like he sleeps too little, really, to have dreams of any interesting magnitude.
But Elio would dream something like this. His brain is like that. ]
[ A strange experience, says Jean Louis and Elio releases his wrist, not to say, no, wrong, but to be able to roll onto his side and look at his profile, disappear a little in it. The characteristic nose, the soft lips, strong jaw that could lift moons and heavenly ceilings. Atlas-like. Elio rests his head in his turned-up palm. His other arm lies parallel to his upper body, fingers flexing lazily against the mattress. The linen is fresh and a little stiff, still, Mafalda changes it every day, four couples worth of it. She’s dedicated if anything, Mafalda.
Jean Louis is dedicated, too. Why else would he ask about violin dreams, it’s such a silly thing, it doesn’t have to mean anything.
But it could.
Elio looks up at him, inclines his head to get a view of all his favorite parts of the other man’s features. It could mean something, it could. ]
It was nice. Someone was playing me.
[ And inching closer, he throws his unoccupied arm over the other man’s midriff, just over the cut of duvet, pulling himself all the way up to him, until he’s kind of wrapped around his body with his own body, Elio’s one leg thrown over his two, arm, side of face pressing in against Jean Louis’ hip, that in itself isn’t the most comfortable spot, but he smells so strongly of himself there. A little bit like crotch and sweat and a whole lot like man.
[ They've walked for about an hour and half through the town of Bordighera to get to the Portico area of the beach. It's a long way past midnight but they couldn't quite sleep, neither of them, Elio's sleeplessness mostly courtesy of Jean Louis because that house just doesn't work for him at night. If they go here again, he thinks, he'll take some sort of description shit with him - or better yet, see what Marcel has in stock, grab a handful of the homebrew. Either way. He'll be better prepared if... well. In case.
Either way, they're at the beach now, the winter wind around them cool enough that he feels chilled to the bone. That might also have something to do with his complete lack of clothes, though - he's dropped it all for the sake of a quick dip in the ocean. It's dark at night, of course, not the usual bright blue you associate with Italian waters. But the surface looks calm, too, and whilst the air is cold, the water's had months to absorb the heat of summer.
He's left Elio on the shore. Scared of freezing, isn't he? It's probably because he's a musician or something.
Either way, out he goes. He wades in to the knees without even pausing once, the shock of the water not as great as one might expect at this time of the year. He can't see the bottom very well and he does manage to cut his foot once or twice on rocks - other than that, though, it's fucking brilliant. Straightening up, he turns towards the beach briefly, just to get his eye on Elio, on his position in the darkness. Then, he dives. ]
[ He’s celebrated Hanukkah in Bordighera since he was ten, but he’s never walked through the town at night during winter. It’s dead enough during the day, at night it’s like walking through a stored-away film set. Abandoned and backdrop-like. The last time he walked through the town at night at all was that summer with Oliver, though back then it was Marzia by his side, wasn’t it? Now it’s Jean Louis, Jean Louis who can’t sleep in Elio’s mother’s summer house, because it speaks its own language, right? And Elio wakes when he does, not with a start, but with a stir. Like his body doesn’t want to be as far away from him as sleep would require.
So they walked the hour and a half to Bordighera, in the dark, in the cold, and now Jean Louis has undressed on the beach, wanting to go for a swim and Elio definitely not wanting to go for a swim, are you crazy, instead keeping his eyes on the other man as he wades into the water, all the way out, waist-height, before he turns around towards Elio, their eyes meeting through the dusk. Then, he dives.
Elio thinks he’s going to break waves like a Venus, born of the ocean. He’s going to look exactly like that and Elio has never fucked another man on the beach, only girls, actually only Marzia, and it’s probably twice as impractical, but who cares.
Venus Anadyomene. ]
Did you know the Roman goddess of love was born, fully-fledged, of the sea?
[ He yells it, hands cupping his mouth to let the sound travel, only few people inhabit the town during the winter months, so no one but Jean Louis will hear. At least no one important. Finally, Elio’s arms drop to his sides and he just waits for the inevitable rise. ]
[ Fortunately, when Elio calls out to him from across the waves, he breaks the surface for air and get at least enough of the message to infer an overall meaning to the words. Venus, he's talking about Venus. He's not not well-versed in Roman mythology - the history of the Romans (and the Empire, to be exact) has always held a certain fascination to him. All the same, he only gets this particular reference because Lucretia happens to have a painting of Venus in her bedroom.
Because what else would she have, really?
Shaking his head, he goes for another dive, faster this time, before he swims back to shore. He's cold, freezing probably, but it doesn't feel like much at all and he could've stayed in the water for another ten minutes at the least if he'd been here by himself. As it is, though, Elio's on the shore. His gun is also on the shore, incidentally.
So, he finds purchase with his feet and stands up, smoothly, water clinging to him, running down his shoulders and front in rivulets. He wipes his face with his hand and runs his fingers through his hair, the strands long like this, devoid of gel, some of it reaching well past his chin. He rolls his left shoulder out of habit, loosening the damaged muscles there, the bone clicking.
Oh, but cold or not, that felt fucking refreshing. His gaze is bright and alert as he seeks out Elio amongst the shadows, smiling widely and breathing hard, his circulation racing. The waves are lapping at his ankles. ]
[ And he breaks the waves, does Jean Louis. After his second dive, he stands up, water trickling down his front, making the dark patches of ink in his skin shine, looking more like silk than ever. He’s divine. Elio doesn’t care about Botticelli or any of the other Aphrodite depictions, this is art. On this beach, cold as fuck and devoid of life, except Elio’s own hard breathing in the night, Jean Louis is more Venus than Venus herself. Maybe that says a lot about him, about the both of them, really.
When Jean Louis begins moving back towards the beach, his thighs rising out of the water, the rest of his legs, his crotch squarely in the middle, Elio just lets his eyes sweep down over his body, following the little droplet-sized rivers, start to finish. Greedily. Oh. He doesn’t try to hide it either and as the other man gets closer, he looks up to meet his eyes, the sweeping movement of one hand that is pushing his hair back, Elio’s pupils blown wide in response.
His voice sounds a little bit hoarse. It could be the cold. It could also not be the cold. ]
You’re outshining some very grudging deities.
[ Once Jean Louis is a couple of meters away, still to his ankles in water, Elio is done waiting. With a harsh exhalation, he kicks his shoes off, out to the side, toes out of his socks and uncaringly wades out into the water as well, only halfway realizing his trouser legs are going to get wet. But! Almost there, almost there, and he links both arms around Jean Louis’ neck, catching him front to front, getting even more wet. Oh. The strong, firm frame of him. Dripping. Moonlight. Beethoven wouldn’t know what to do with all this. Maybe it’s the cold... Fuck, it’s cold.
Still, Elio manages to add, playfully and only shivering a little bit: ]
[ It's been a long fucking day - traveling to Rome early in the morning to meet up with Ezio and his men, only to be stuck in the old man's company all throughout the day. He rarely visits Italy, says Ezio, so it's only natural that they got a bit of business done, now that he was finally here. As if everything isn't already being handled online, through phone calls on burner phones and encrypted chat connections. He'd resisted pointing that out, though. With the mafia, when in Rome really does apply in every single way you can imagine.
So he'd played along and then, he'd flown back to Nice, thinking about his text exchange with Elio, about that creepy bastard running around after him, trying to get his attention, trying to get him alone. The fact that Elio didn't even know where to go in his own fucking house had been particularly galling. So though he heads straight for their shared bedroom to drop off his bag, he doesn't linger there. It's empty, of course, for Elio's downstairs. You can hear the piano quite clearly through the thin walls and floors.
He heads downstairs, managing to dodge everyone but Elio's mother whom he greets quickly but politely - she's on her way in the opposite direction, too, no doubt dinner prep. Deliberate things, dinners, during Hanukkah. He finds Elio in the living room, pausing in the doorway only for a split second (Elio, clearly on his way out and Oliver, grabbing his arm and standing much, much too close) before he strides right on over, his gaze deadly cold, his gun feeling suddenly quite heavy and present where it's strapped to his side.
[ One moment they’re alone, Oliver’s fingers burning where they’re holding him, like a promise of something that never could be and definitely can’t be now, all those things the other man is saying like this, I would leave her for you, I would leave them for you, and the next Jean Louis is striding into the room, looking like thunderclouds and Zeus with his bolts of lightning, divine again. He looks divine again. As well as deadly. Sometimes those two can’t be separated.
Elio steps back, feels Oliver’s fingers tightening around his forearm for a moment before he lets go, stepping back a little bit, in that pointed way that both says, look, I’m doing as I’m told and you’re not the boss of me, mocking. The same way his later mocks you. Keeps you ensnared, but at an arm’s length. Elio keeps moving, keeps putting one foot in front of the other until he’s standing next to Jean Louis. Jean Louis is his shield.
Again. ]
“Do you want to add something, Minister -“ [ That’s what Oliver has called Jean Louis ever since he landed in, Elio by his side. Just that, a job description, like he calls Elio’s father Pro still, but much less affectionate, of course. Mocking, mocking. ] “- to our private conversation?”
[ And as he stands there, with his haughty look and his ever-present tan, his sun spots and his blond hair, Elio thinks, maybe Oliver isn’t even his brother anymore. More importantly and more terribly, maybe he never was. Swallowing hard, he looks at Jean Louis, Zeus-like Jean Louis, and puts his hand carefully on his shoulder. ]
[ Oliver releases Elio which is a lucky thing indeed - it makes the red haze in front of his eyes dissipate slightly, though the anger remains, harsh and sharp-edged. Elio draws up next to him carefully, placing his arm on his shoulder and telling him that he's fine but he isn't, obviously, he's just unharmed. Jean Louis stares at Oliver who's talking about private conversations like he's got any rights to them, looking stupidly haughty and arrogant.
The tension in his shoulder doesn't lessen under Elio's hand which is probably telling. ]
Conversation, no. This is merely a simple instruction.
[ He doesn't step forward because that would mean stepping out of Elio's touch and for some reason, he can't quite... bear it, though he'd be in no position to explain why. It feels as if Elio's slung a tiny little thread around his wrist, tugging at it gently, asking him not to break it and he's not about to humiliate him in front of that freak, there's no way in Hell.
So, he reaches up with his free hand and gives Elio's fingers a light squeeze right above the first knuckles. ]
Go be with your own family, Monsieur Abrams. I'm sure they can find a use for you.
[ And if not, well, who can really blame them? Empty air, that man. Pitiful. ]
[ It's getting late and he's on the bed on top of the covers, legs stretched out in front of him. He checks his phone because he can't be bothered to check his watch (Rolex, but not the one he forgot back in Elio's apartment in France all those months ago) - the display reads 21:19. He's texted both Lucretia and Marcel tonight, as well as answered a handful of e-mails, nothing overly critical. He's not being productive - he's simply passing time because there's nothing else to do right now. His burst knuckles smart a little every time he moves his fingers in a particular way.
By the desk, Elio's seated with his back to him, earplugs in, his hand moving erratically across the paper. Transcribing, presumably, though Jean Louis wouldn't have a clue as to the nature of that. To his eyes, it might as well be doodling. He can hear the music, though, faintly. Whenever Elio moves, the lines in his shoulders shift and change, his curls bobbing a little.
There's a numbness to his mood that he can't quite place. It feels achingly familiar, so much so that he knows enough to dislike it, vehemently. It's not the feeling itself, probably, but what tends to come after. It's very typical for him, of course, to be destructive - beating up Oliver was fair, as far as he can see, but it was also mindless and chaotic and honestly, quite humiliating for Elio who had to simply stand there and watch it happen. They've eaten next to nothing, in total, and they've spoken even less since they came to the room. He doesn't know what that means.
His body, at least, doesn't hurt anymore. Nothing really does.
He watches Elio's turned back through the shadows, his own gaze blank, without emotion. ]
[ He told Oliver there’s ice in the kitchen, and presumably there was, because when he came down to grab dinner for Jean Louis and him an hour later, the other man looked somewhat cooler, eye black, sure, but not too swollen anymore, nose in its natural non-bleeding state. There had been an awkward silence as Elio picked out a few pieces of roasted chicken for them, two plates, one in each hand, and when he had been about to leave, Mafalda had bursted in from the kitchen with a bowl of lemon sorbet, for the Minister, she’d said and it sounded completely different from how Oliver had pronounced Jean Louis’ title. Elio had accepted it, balancing it on his lower arm like a waiter.
They haven’t eaten much of anything, either of them. Jean Louis hasn’t as much as touched the sorbet which is melting into liquid sun in its bowl, shiny bright in the relative darkness of the room. Elio has been transcribing the adagio from Beethoven’s fifth piano concerto, though what he’s actually managed to do about those violins isn’t impressive. Mostly he listens to Lisiecki’s rendition over and over, feeling the music pull at something inside him. He doesn’t know what. Just something. It’s almost half past nine now, the Menorah has been lit hours ago, the sixth light tonight, and he wasn’t there to do it. Idly he wonders if his parents missed him, they always have this house full. After almost fifteen years, they have Oliver back, too.
The thought makes something in his back tense the wrong way and he winces, straightening up in his seat and stretching to try and get the tension out, but no use. The other side, still nothing, but his earphone falls out and suddenly the room isn’t small and circular and limited to his immediate private sphere. He can hear Jean Louis’ breathing. He can feel his eyes on him. Without turning around, he runs his right hand down his neck, trying to rub out the pain between his shoulder blades, but he can’t reach.
Oliver rubbed his shoulders. Possibly the wrong way.
Tiredly, he says, voice neutral and careful, not even the swear getting any real stress: ]
Are you working? I’m not working. I can’t work, the violins are so fucking stubborn.
[ He sees the change in Elio's focus - from the paper with his notes and away - seconds before it actually manifests itself in physical form. It's something to do with the way he breathes, with the way the atmosphere in the room subtly shifts along the axis from passive to active. Then, Elio stretches, looking pained by something in his back, shoulders, neck, who knows, and then his earphone falls out and the wall between them breaks, properly. Jean Louis watches his long, elegant fingers as he tries to get to something between his shoulder blades - not possible at any angle, unfortunately, that particular spot.
Theoretically, he could help him with that.
He sounds exhausted, too. Colourless. ]
I've finished.
[ In a way, at least, he has in that he can't be bothered to deal with what's left. He sits up a little, eyes narrowing. ]
You look rather stiff.
[ He didn't look harmed or hurt when they'd left Oliver behind downstairs so presumably, this isn't a physical problem. It could as well be the kind of tension that you get from straining your mind and your thoughts - not unlike the pain he's been having since he boarded the plane from Rome to Nice. Naturally, when you aren't hurt, the pain is different. For instance, it comes and goes according to no obvious, logical rules - a punch to the face, you feel. You feel it and then, at some point, it fades away and in general, doesn't return.
This is different.
Doesn't mean it can't hurt.
He picks at his bad little finger absent-mindedly, scraping over the skin there, the place where the nail failed to grow out. Right now, it feels like nothing much. ]
[ He's slept well. Body relaxed, no nightmares. Still, he wakes up with an ache in his chest, not his back, Jean Louis fixed his back yesterday, like he fixed so many things. Elio showers, gets dressed with this weight at the bottom of his lungs, making it a little hard to breathe right and he struggles as he shrugs into his sweater, dark blue, white stripes, jeans that feel too tight around the waist. Socks that are too warm. Everything restricts him, basically. He runs his fingers through his hair to comb it, tame it and it works halfway, good enough for breakfast which they all eat together around ten or so. Plenty of soft-boiled eggs. Latkes. Presents for Ollie. Oliver's kids, too. Festive spirits.
He feels sick from the thought of it. The weight quadrupling, making his movements slower, hesitant, unsure.
Stopping in front of the mirror next to the door, catching a glimpse of Jean Louis behind him who's dressed for battle, too, Elio purses his lips, runs his hands through his hair again, a bit frantically, once, twice, three times. There are two days of Hanukkah left, two new candles to light, but they're so many, they're enough, his family. They're enough.
They don't really need him, do they?
What does he need?
With an awkward roll of one shoulder, Elio catches Jean Louis' eyes in the mirror, finally just turning around to look at him directly. What does Elio need? It's such a new question. Jean Louis hasn't slept with him, he woke up alone in bed, but the other man seems more relaxed now, so Elio's best guess is that he's either slept somewhere else or found another way. Jean Louis is the way-finder. Jean Louis has been the way-finder since the beginning. Elio simply wants to follow him. ]
I'm not hungry.
[ He hasn't eaten anything substantial since lunch the day before. Of course his body's craving food, that isn't what he's saying. ]
[ He hasn't really slept tonight but he feels relaxed and calm, all the same, probably due to the three joints he had himself, once Elio had fallen asleep and he'd had the chance to get away. He took a long walk between the peach trees in the orchard with the moon above and the house in the background, smoke billowing around him in lazy silver twirls. He rarely indulges, of course, but sometimes...
Well. He'd had a long day.
Now, they're both finished getting dressed for breakfast and Elio looks queasy as he dresses, like he's severely hungover, on the verge of either throwing up or falling over or possibly, both. Jean Louis watches him carefully, the numbness from last night replaced with something that feels like worry, perhaps. Unease. As he never worries about himself, he can only assume he's worried for Elio, though he doesn't quite understand the whats and the whys of it. It was a bad day for him too, yesterday.
The kind of day that can make you feel hungover, too, without even a drop of alcohol being involved. ]
Alright.
[ He gets his phone out, checks the time. Before 10, still. ]
What would you like, then?
[ There's something about the other man's body language that makes him think about escape routes, something almost painfully tense, like a finger hovering too close to a flame, the muscles trembling to pull back and away. Jean Louis has never truly been the type to run away, not even when - in retrospect - he should have but he's made other people do it more than once and he recognises the mood. ]
What he sees when he looks at himself is his fragile features, his long, slender limbs, his hair, curls everywhere, pale skin, he hasn’t had an Italian complexion for years now. What would you like, then? Jean Louis asks all the tough questions, says all the things Elio can’t quite articulate, that’s where you can tell that the other man is the public speaker between them, however bad he insists he is, while Elio talks with his fingers and with notes and chords and lines on paper. Music, music is a grand language, but limited. Music can’t say, Oliver makes me sick or I feel homeless now. Bach was a master composer, but all he could say was farewell to his brother.
There are things even an octave can’t convey.
Elio blinks, blinks again and shakes his head. Then, he turns back around, gesturing vaguely with both hands, Italian gestures Frenched down a bit. He belongs between nations now. Here he is, in Italy, speaking French with Jean Louis, neither of them managing a proper Parisian dialect. ]
I would like... not to be in this house.
[ It feels like treason to say. Not just a betrayal of his family who will leave him this place when they die, but a betrayal of his old dreams, conceptions, general understanding of the world. But Elio has escaped through higher-up windows, run naked through the Latin Quarters in the middle of the night in search of his bike and the fastest way home, he’s left so many things behind.
To come this far, and now he has woken up with that same urge to remove himself. Goodbye, no goodbye, never goodbye. He thinks, like this? Like this he’s more ready than he’s ever been, to move on.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
no subject
By the way, Elio, Oliver will be here to celebrate Hanukkah with us. His wife and kids, too! What do you say?
Yes, what does he say?
Pocketing his phone slowly, just sort of slipping it down his front pocket and having to shift about in the cream-colored car seat to manage, Elio stares straight ahead. Jean Louis picked him up in Paris with two bodyguards earlier in the day, two bodyguards and a seriously sweet Aston Martin and they've moved steadily down through Southern France ever since, the lavender fields barren and brown in late November - early December. It hasn't snowed yet, Hanukkah's early this year and they might not quite manage snow. Which is fine, isn't it? It snowed the year Oliver told him he was getting married. That she came before.
That there would be no ever after, no after at all, actually.
Elio frowns. Swallows hard and rests his hands in his lap, fingers twitching nervously as he glances out the window, they're passing through some nondescript little French village, the kind of place that probably sells goat cheese, freshly made. They could make a stop somewhere like this, buy some for his parents. Though, with Oliver joining the party, there's going to be presents enough, right? Oh, but for fuck's sake... Oliver doesn't matter anymore, so why does it matter that he'll be there?
After almost fifteen years, this Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Fuck. ]
no subject
Elio's been speaking with his father for a little while, now. Apparently, the old man had something to tell him and judging from his expression as he hangs up, it's problematic. Some sort of news that the other man didn't necessarily want. Jean Louis glances sideways at him a couple of times as they proceed, the silence between them no longer comfortable but strained, tense, Elio's fingers twitching nervously in his lap. He isn't saying anything, however, which is almost proof in itself. It's atypical, he thinks, of how they usually seem to be together - it's new, granted, still and very much unknown ground to him so he doesn't know enough to draw any certain conclusions from the other man's behaviour.
He can guess, though. He's a decent guesser.
Besides, he's seen Elio uncomfortable before but rarely unnerved.
Re-focusing on the road, he gives him another moment, then asks, voice a little brusque: ]
What is it?
no subject
An old acquaintance of our family will be joining us for Hanukkah with his family, wife, two boys.
[ That’s the first part of the story, seemingly innocent, but Jean Louis won’t be fooled, Elio knows. If Elio is upset about that, then there’s more to it, right? Than just a family friend. Old doctoral student returning to where it all started, fourteen years ago. Where it all started... Elio licks his lips and breathes out harshly, jaw clenched. This Hanukkah of all Hanukkahs? Couldn’t he get this occasion to himself, at least. Him and Jean Louis. They’re both so new to all of this. Family introductions. Committed relationships. Moving on, moving on, moving on.
Where will he go in that house, when Oliver’s actually there, not to be reminded of him? ]
We were together. Years ago.
[ A bit apologetically, he feels his face fall, glancing sideways at the other man driving the car, trying to convey wordlessly that he is really laying it all out now, bare, naked, because doing anything else would be wrong. Having done that, however, he needs Jean Louis to either connect the dots himself or ask, because Elio has no idea where to start. On the story that should by all accounts be finished, half a lifetime earlier. ]
no subject
What happened, then, years ago?
He's not a stranger to past events that are best forgotten, obviously, and he typically wouldn't pry, seeing as the past is past and you bury it to keep it from bothering you, to keep the ache dulled to a minimum. But now, they're driving straight for it, aren't they, if that man and his family will be there for the duration of their stay. It's like all sorts of violations, this - if you have to re-visit them, you can't do so blindly or at random.
So he simply takes the car through the village and gets them back on the A7. They're only passed Lyon now. They have plenty of time. ]
And what did he do?
[ To you is very much implied - everything in this car right now reeks of tension, the kind that he knows intimately; it's a stench, in a way, and if you know it once in your life by heart, you'll know it forever. He wrinkles his nose a little and leans back in his seat, the engine rumbling. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
The way the house creaks. The doors that can be locked only symbolically. Elio's ex-lover or whatever, rooming right next to them with his wife. Elio's fucking parents, the homeliness of this place... He shakes his head, his movements fast and erratic. Inhales his second cigarette of the day, smoke pulsing out from between his lips and into the cold winter air.
At least he'd managed to pay Elio back for that comment of his in the car by sucking him off and fingering him throughout for at least fifteen minutes, pulling him back from the edge and prolonging his pleasure for as long as they could both reasonably stand it. Good times. He'd even managed to sleep for a couple of hours afterwards, spending the remaining night awake by Elio's side, watching that fucking door to the hall with narrowed eyes, his chest feeling hollow and strange.
That's why I love you, said Elio yesterday.
It's echoing still, in his mind. ]
no subject
Egg finished, he eventually casts a long look out the window, trying to catch sight of the other man somewhere in the gardens, but he's currently out of view. Elio frowns, Ollie yelling across the table for him. Make me juice, El, he says, while Elio gets to his feet slowly, dropping his napkin next to his plate. Three seats over, Oliver follows him with his gaze, his animated debate with Elio's father continuing only at half-speed. Ask your mother, Elio tells the boy and then, excuse me, leaving the table without a backwards glance.
He finds him beneath one of the naked peach trees, heavily smoking and the sheer quietness of the scene is such a contrast to inside that Elio actually breathes a sigh of relief, unsure whether it's due to being away from his family or being together with Jean Louis. He halts next to the other man, watching his lips close tightly around the filter of the smoke, thinking faintly of last night, Jean Louis blowing him in the dark of his old bedroom, fingering him until he literally thought he might die from it and gradually losing any inhibitions he might have had in regards to Oliver lodging right next door. They'd been loud, he knows. Oliver's eyes have been saying as much all morning.
Running one hand slowly up Jean Louis' arm, he greets him by reaching for his cigarette with the other, gently taking it from him and bumming a long inhale, before holding it out to him again and looking around. The garden's a sad sight at this time of year. For some reason, he isn't even eager to show Jean Louis the place during summer. This is fine.
This is enough. ]
You're doing really well.
no subject
Maybe it couldn't.
He shifts only marginally to the side when Elio drifts into his personal space, eyes falling shut as he runs his hand up his arm. The cigarette disappears and he looks up, catching the other man's gaze lazily. Elio's lips look soft around a cigarette, relaxed. They get beautifully wet when they kiss. He takes it from him when he offers it back, propping it back between his own lips, trying to make out what little remnants of Elio's taste might've stuck to it.
At his words, he huffs, smoke trailing out through his nostrils. ]
Your family is interesting.
[ He slips his arm around Elio's waist and pulls him closer, spreading his fingers out a little against his side and hip. Taking up space. His next question isn't posed with any sort of anger or irritation - he might've just as easily asked about the weather: ]
Are they always so loud?
no subject
Though, maybe he isn’t too much for Jean Louis to handle. That’s the question, supposedly.
And like an answer, Jean Louis pulls him close, up against his body, arm around his waist, fingers spread out over hip and side. A hold. He’s being held. He’s being handled in the most physical sense possible, which is how Jean Louis prefers to do it anyway. Elio smiles at his your family is interesting, because that’s one way to put it, right? Very politician-like and diplomatic. Then follows, are they always so loud which is probably a bit more honest and definitely a bit less diplomatic, even if Jean Louis doesn’t sound annoyed by it. Casual. Neutral.
Elio laughs. ]
They’re many right now. When it was just my parents and me, things were quieter. [ Relatively. A little bit. They had their dinner drudgeries, sure, but just the three of them, they weren’t loud at all.
A moment’s pause as he thinks this observation over. There’s something to be said for that, isn’t there - like a truth has been revealed somehow. ] I think both my parents are loud people, but they couldn’t be loud with each other. After they found other partners, they’ve also found themselves.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
In any case, that's taken care of. So now, he's simply seated by the headboard of the bed, watching the door to the bedroom, the hallway beyond silent and still. Next to him, Elio's still asleep, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his nose buried in his pillow. There's something fragile about the slope of his neck, his curls in disarray around it, his collarbone looking long and thin beneath his skin.
He shifts a little, the sheet pooling in his lap. He'll probably wake him up if he touches him and that would be ridiculous. It's enough by far that he's awake - he's got a gun beneath his pillow, he's well-equipped to handle the shadows around them. All the same, there's a small part of him that he can't quite control around Elio, a persistent urge to be with, to share conscience and to be linked. It's new, still. Dangerous.
He reaches out anyway, tracing two fingertips lightly along Elio's collarbone and across his naked shoulder, feeling the warmth of him. Present, isn't he. Very much so. ]
no subject
There are fingers stroking along his collarbone, his shoulder. Soft fingers, trying not to disturb while definitely disturbing. Oh. Both eyes open now. It's Jean Louis. Jean Louis is awake, sitting propped up against the headboard and caressing Elio's naked skin, whatever he can reach. Elio slowly frees his arms from the covers, lifts it to Jean Louis' wrist and grabs it, not hard, gently. Holds him. Gently. ]
Don't want to be awake alone?
[ More of a conclusion than a question, really. Groggy-sounding. Elio strokes his thumb over Jean Louis' pulse point, where the skin is thin and easily breakable. Let's him feel the tenderness of his touch, the warmth of him with nothing to subdue it, no other layers, just the two of them.
Suddenly he remembers his dream. It was because Jean Louis was quite literally playing him, mind. He smiles up at the other man, a bit awkwardly. ]
You woke me up from a dream where I was a violin.
no subject
The question is almost a statement in itself and he doesn't answer, knowing that it isn't necessary. Instead, he shuts his eyes for a moment and breathes slowly, evenly, in time with Elio's thumb stroking over his pulse point. It's... nice. It makes him stop listening to everything else, his focus narrowing down to the two of them once more, on the bed, the outline of Elio's body visible in fragments through the shadows.
When Elio smiles up at him, his heart actually skips a fucking beat. ]
A violin?
[ He frowns, earnestly puzzled. He never remembers his own dreams, though sometimes he wakes up with the feel of them still lodged in his muscles. It feels like he sleeps too little, really, to have dreams of any interesting magnitude.
But Elio would dream something like this. His brain is like that. ]
That must have been a strange experience.
no subject
Jean Louis is dedicated, too. Why else would he ask about violin dreams, it’s such a silly thing, it doesn’t have to mean anything.
But it could.
Elio looks up at him, inclines his head to get a view of all his favorite parts of the other man’s features. It could mean something, it could. ]
It was nice. Someone was playing me.
[ And inching closer, he throws his unoccupied arm over the other man’s midriff, just over the cut of duvet, pulling himself all the way up to him, until he’s kind of wrapped around his body with his own body, Elio’s one leg thrown over his two, arm, side of face pressing in against Jean Louis’ hip, that in itself isn’t the most comfortable spot, but he smells so strongly of himself there. A little bit like crotch and sweat and a whole lot like man.
Elio makes a small noise of contentment. ]
I think it was you.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
Either way, they're at the beach now, the winter wind around them cool enough that he feels chilled to the bone. That might also have something to do with his complete lack of clothes, though - he's dropped it all for the sake of a quick dip in the ocean. It's dark at night, of course, not the usual bright blue you associate with Italian waters. But the surface looks calm, too, and whilst the air is cold, the water's had months to absorb the heat of summer.
He's left Elio on the shore. Scared of freezing, isn't he? It's probably because he's a musician or something.
Either way, out he goes. He wades in to the knees without even pausing once, the shock of the water not as great as one might expect at this time of the year. He can't see the bottom very well and he does manage to cut his foot once or twice on rocks - other than that, though, it's fucking brilliant. Straightening up, he turns towards the beach briefly, just to get his eye on Elio, on his position in the darkness. Then, he dives. ]
no subject
So they walked the hour and a half to Bordighera, in the dark, in the cold, and now Jean Louis has undressed on the beach, wanting to go for a swim and Elio definitely not wanting to go for a swim, are you crazy, instead keeping his eyes on the other man as he wades into the water, all the way out, waist-height, before he turns around towards Elio, their eyes meeting through the dusk. Then, he dives.
Elio thinks he’s going to break waves like a Venus, born of the ocean. He’s going to look exactly like that and Elio has never fucked another man on the beach, only girls, actually only Marzia, and it’s probably twice as impractical, but who cares.
Venus Anadyomene. ]
Did you know the Roman goddess of love was born, fully-fledged, of the sea?
[ He yells it, hands cupping his mouth to let the sound travel, only few people inhabit the town during the winter months, so no one but Jean Louis will hear. At least no one important. Finally, Elio’s arms drop to his sides and he just waits for the inevitable rise. ]
no subject
Because what else would she have, really?
Shaking his head, he goes for another dive, faster this time, before he swims back to shore. He's cold, freezing probably, but it doesn't feel like much at all and he could've stayed in the water for another ten minutes at the least if he'd been here by himself. As it is, though, Elio's on the shore. His gun is also on the shore, incidentally.
So, he finds purchase with his feet and stands up, smoothly, water clinging to him, running down his shoulders and front in rivulets. He wipes his face with his hand and runs his fingers through his hair, the strands long like this, devoid of gel, some of it reaching well past his chin. He rolls his left shoulder out of habit, loosening the damaged muscles there, the bone clicking.
Oh, but cold or not, that felt fucking refreshing. His gaze is bright and alert as he seeks out Elio amongst the shadows, smiling widely and breathing hard, his circulation racing. The waves are lapping at his ankles. ]
Did I measure up?
no subject
When Jean Louis begins moving back towards the beach, his thighs rising out of the water, the rest of his legs, his crotch squarely in the middle, Elio just lets his eyes sweep down over his body, following the little droplet-sized rivers, start to finish. Greedily. Oh. He doesn’t try to hide it either and as the other man gets closer, he looks up to meet his eyes, the sweeping movement of one hand that is pushing his hair back, Elio’s pupils blown wide in response.
His voice sounds a little bit hoarse. It could be the cold. It could also not be the cold. ]
You’re outshining some very grudging deities.
[ Once Jean Louis is a couple of meters away, still to his ankles in water, Elio is done waiting. With a harsh exhalation, he kicks his shoes off, out to the side, toes out of his socks and uncaringly wades out into the water as well, only halfway realizing his trouser legs are going to get wet. But! Almost there, almost there, and he links both arms around Jean Louis’ neck, catching him front to front, getting even more wet. Oh. The strong, firm frame of him. Dripping. Moonlight. Beethoven wouldn’t know what to do with all this. Maybe it’s the cold... Fuck, it’s cold.
Still, Elio manages to add, playfully and only shivering a little bit: ]
Beware.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
So he'd played along and then, he'd flown back to Nice, thinking about his text exchange with Elio, about that creepy bastard running around after him, trying to get his attention, trying to get him alone. The fact that Elio didn't even know where to go in his own fucking house had been particularly galling. So though he heads straight for their shared bedroom to drop off his bag, he doesn't linger there. It's empty, of course, for Elio's downstairs. You can hear the piano quite clearly through the thin walls and floors.
He heads downstairs, managing to dodge everyone but Elio's mother whom he greets quickly but politely - she's on her way in the opposite direction, too, no doubt dinner prep. Deliberate things, dinners, during Hanukkah. He finds Elio in the living room, pausing in the doorway only for a split second (Elio, clearly on his way out and Oliver, grabbing his arm and standing much, much too close) before he strides right on over, his gaze deadly cold, his gun feeling suddenly quite heavy and present where it's strapped to his side.
Speaks, as he approaches: ]
Get away from him.
no subject
Elio steps back, feels Oliver’s fingers tightening around his forearm for a moment before he lets go, stepping back a little bit, in that pointed way that both says, look, I’m doing as I’m told and you’re not the boss of me, mocking. The same way his later mocks you. Keeps you ensnared, but at an arm’s length. Elio keeps moving, keeps putting one foot in front of the other until he’s standing next to Jean Louis. Jean Louis is his shield.
Again. ]
“Do you want to add something, Minister -“ [ That’s what Oliver has called Jean Louis ever since he landed in, Elio by his side. Just that, a job description, like he calls Elio’s father Pro still, but much less affectionate, of course. Mocking, mocking. ] “- to our private conversation?”
[ And as he stands there, with his haughty look and his ever-present tan, his sun spots and his blond hair, Elio thinks, maybe Oliver isn’t even his brother anymore. More importantly and more terribly, maybe he never was. Swallowing hard, he looks at Jean Louis, Zeus-like Jean Louis, and puts his hand carefully on his shoulder. ]
I’m fine.
no subject
The tension in his shoulder doesn't lessen under Elio's hand which is probably telling. ]
Conversation, no. This is merely a simple instruction.
[ He doesn't step forward because that would mean stepping out of Elio's touch and for some reason, he can't quite... bear it, though he'd be in no position to explain why. It feels as if Elio's slung a tiny little thread around his wrist, tugging at it gently, asking him not to break it and he's not about to humiliate him in front of that freak, there's no way in Hell.
So, he reaches up with his free hand and gives Elio's fingers a light squeeze right above the first knuckles. ]
Go be with your own family, Monsieur Abrams. I'm sure they can find a use for you.
[ And if not, well, who can really blame them? Empty air, that man. Pitiful. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
By the desk, Elio's seated with his back to him, earplugs in, his hand moving erratically across the paper. Transcribing, presumably, though Jean Louis wouldn't have a clue as to the nature of that. To his eyes, it might as well be doodling. He can hear the music, though, faintly. Whenever Elio moves, the lines in his shoulders shift and change, his curls bobbing a little.
There's a numbness to his mood that he can't quite place. It feels achingly familiar, so much so that he knows enough to dislike it, vehemently. It's not the feeling itself, probably, but what tends to come after. It's very typical for him, of course, to be destructive - beating up Oliver was fair, as far as he can see, but it was also mindless and chaotic and honestly, quite humiliating for Elio who had to simply stand there and watch it happen. They've eaten next to nothing, in total, and they've spoken even less since they came to the room. He doesn't know what that means.
His body, at least, doesn't hurt anymore. Nothing really does.
He watches Elio's turned back through the shadows, his own gaze blank, without emotion. ]
no subject
They haven’t eaten much of anything, either of them. Jean Louis hasn’t as much as touched the sorbet which is melting into liquid sun in its bowl, shiny bright in the relative darkness of the room. Elio has been transcribing the adagio from Beethoven’s fifth piano concerto, though what he’s actually managed to do about those violins isn’t impressive. Mostly he listens to Lisiecki’s rendition over and over, feeling the music pull at something inside him. He doesn’t know what. Just something. It’s almost half past nine now, the Menorah has been lit hours ago, the sixth light tonight, and he wasn’t there to do it. Idly he wonders if his parents missed him, they always have this house full. After almost fifteen years, they have Oliver back, too.
The thought makes something in his back tense the wrong way and he winces, straightening up in his seat and stretching to try and get the tension out, but no use. The other side, still nothing, but his earphone falls out and suddenly the room isn’t small and circular and limited to his immediate private sphere. He can hear Jean Louis’ breathing. He can feel his eyes on him. Without turning around, he runs his right hand down his neck, trying to rub out the pain between his shoulder blades, but he can’t reach.
Oliver rubbed his shoulders. Possibly the wrong way.
Tiredly, he says, voice neutral and careful, not even the swear getting any real stress: ]
Are you working? I’m not working. I can’t work, the violins are so fucking stubborn.
no subject
Theoretically, he could help him with that.
He sounds exhausted, too. Colourless. ]
I've finished.
[ In a way, at least, he has in that he can't be bothered to deal with what's left. He sits up a little, eyes narrowing. ]
You look rather stiff.
[ He didn't look harmed or hurt when they'd left Oliver behind downstairs so presumably, this isn't a physical problem. It could as well be the kind of tension that you get from straining your mind and your thoughts - not unlike the pain he's been having since he boarded the plane from Rome to Nice. Naturally, when you aren't hurt, the pain is different. For instance, it comes and goes according to no obvious, logical rules - a punch to the face, you feel. You feel it and then, at some point, it fades away and in general, doesn't return.
This is different.
Doesn't mean it can't hurt.
He picks at his bad little finger absent-mindedly, scraping over the skin there, the place where the nail failed to grow out. Right now, it feels like nothing much. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
He feels sick from the thought of it. The weight quadrupling, making his movements slower, hesitant, unsure.
Stopping in front of the mirror next to the door, catching a glimpse of Jean Louis behind him who's dressed for battle, too, Elio purses his lips, runs his hands through his hair again, a bit frantically, once, twice, three times. There are two days of Hanukkah left, two new candles to light, but they're so many, they're enough, his family. They're enough.
They don't really need him, do they?
What does he need?
With an awkward roll of one shoulder, Elio catches Jean Louis' eyes in the mirror, finally just turning around to look at him directly. What does Elio need? It's such a new question. Jean Louis hasn't slept with him, he woke up alone in bed, but the other man seems more relaxed now, so Elio's best guess is that he's either slept somewhere else or found another way. Jean Louis is the way-finder. Jean Louis has been the way-finder since the beginning. Elio simply wants to follow him. ]
I'm not hungry.
[ He hasn't eaten anything substantial since lunch the day before. Of course his body's craving food, that isn't what he's saying. ]
no subject
Well. He'd had a long day.
Now, they're both finished getting dressed for breakfast and Elio looks queasy as he dresses, like he's severely hungover, on the verge of either throwing up or falling over or possibly, both. Jean Louis watches him carefully, the numbness from last night replaced with something that feels like worry, perhaps. Unease. As he never worries about himself, he can only assume he's worried for Elio, though he doesn't quite understand the whats and the whys of it. It was a bad day for him too, yesterday.
The kind of day that can make you feel hungover, too, without even a drop of alcohol being involved. ]
Alright.
[ He gets his phone out, checks the time. Before 10, still. ]
What would you like, then?
[ There's something about the other man's body language that makes him think about escape routes, something almost painfully tense, like a finger hovering too close to a flame, the muscles trembling to pull back and away. Jean Louis has never truly been the type to run away, not even when - in retrospect - he should have but he's made other people do it more than once and he recognises the mood. ]
no subject
What he sees when he looks at himself is his fragile features, his long, slender limbs, his hair, curls everywhere, pale skin, he hasn’t had an Italian complexion for years now. What would you like, then? Jean Louis asks all the tough questions, says all the things Elio can’t quite articulate, that’s where you can tell that the other man is the public speaker between them, however bad he insists he is, while Elio talks with his fingers and with notes and chords and lines on paper. Music, music is a grand language, but limited. Music can’t say, Oliver makes me sick or I feel homeless now. Bach was a master composer, but all he could say was farewell to his brother.
There are things even an octave can’t convey.
Elio blinks, blinks again and shakes his head. Then, he turns back around, gesturing vaguely with both hands, Italian gestures Frenched down a bit. He belongs between nations now. Here he is, in Italy, speaking French with Jean Louis, neither of them managing a proper Parisian dialect. ]
I would like... not to be in this house.
[ It feels like treason to say. Not just a betrayal of his family who will leave him this place when they die, but a betrayal of his old dreams, conceptions, general understanding of the world. But Elio has escaped through higher-up windows, run naked through the Latin Quarters in the middle of the night in search of his bike and the fastest way home, he’s left so many things behind.
To come this far, and now he has woken up with that same urge to remove himself. Goodbye, no goodbye, never goodbye. He thinks, like this? Like this he’s more ready than he’s ever been, to move on.
So he clarifies: ]
Maybe never again.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)