[ 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. ]
He... [ ... got married. Elio hesitates, tastes the words on his tongue before speaking them, deciding they don't taste very nice and rephrasing. A shrug of one shoulder, stiff and hindered halfway by the seatbelt. They're heading back for the A7, the car can get to stretch its legs there, its wheels, whatever. Elio likes when Jean Louis drives fast, he's decided, even without a driver's license he feels that boost to his blood, vroom. Childlike glee.
There's a lot of that around Jean Louis. Unspoiled, innocent things.
He clears his throat. ] When my parents were still together, my father used to invite a select doctoral student every year to write their dissertation while staying with us in the summer house, June through August. The year I was 17, it was Oliver.
[ His eyes are firmly fixed on the road disappearing in stretches beneath the helmet of the car. There are next to no bumps, it's a flat stretch of road, well-maintained. Italian roads are different. A lot of things about Italy are - different. Less orderly. You embrace the chaos or your perish. Elio doesn't know whether he didn't perish, back then. A part of him, maybe. His name. Whatever came attached to that. Elio, Elio, Elio.
Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.
Blinking a couple of times, he finally looks to the side, taking in Jean Louis' profile, his characteristic nose, strong jaw, sensitive lips. ]
He was my first. I gave him everything I was and I thought... [ Pause. His voice has grown a little thick, a little too unsteady, unstable. He swallows again, once, twice. ] When he returned the following Hanukkah, he told me he was getting married. That he'd been on and off with this girl long before me. She's the one he's bringing now. Their two children.
[ Oh. Is he sniffling? He's sniffling. Biting his lip, Elio looks out the passenger window again. Not hiding, protecting. ]
[ The car glides over the road as the pace picks up, overtaking most of the traffic. The advantages of fast acceleration. Jean Louis listens, his head tilting slightly sideways as Elio starts, then stops - and starts again, unfolding the story a little at a time. His voice sounds rough, like it's on the verge of sticking in his throat all throughout, his gaze fixed forward on the road, until he glances sideways quickly at him, telling him he was my first which in itself isn't that interesting, well, not to him. Lots of firsts in a person's life, right? It's just another beginning.
I gave him everything, says Elio, then, his voice thick with it, unsteady. And that, on the other hand, is interesting - interesting, yes and infuriating. Jean Louis' hand tightens around the wheel, knuckles trembling for a second before he forces himself to relax, the car continuing onwards in its trajectory, its course unaffected. He glances sideways at the other man, who sounds like he might just cry.
It doesn't surprise him. Jean Louis' done worse to other people, though none of them were like Elio, none of them were innocent and unassuming because he doesn't find any value in that kind of mindless destruction. Even so, shit like this often happens on accident, like an unfortunate side-product of something else, something typically selfish and thoughtless. He's well aware. These people - they all waste oxygen the same as any other human on the planet, they walk and talk and fuck and die just the same and the problem is, you can't really argue with that. Pull the trigger when the time is right. Goes for people like him and people like the man who took this part of Elio and treated it so recklessly, too.
Breathing out slowly, evenly, he finally replies, eyes once again fixed on the road: ]
What a fucking fool.
[ He shakes his head. Runs one hand through his hair, agitation making his fingers tremble. ]
[ He took advantage of you, Jean Louis says. What a fucking fool.
Elio pauses, sniffling again, once, fingers flexing in his lap, while he considers this analysis of the events of that summer. Taking advantage, that’s a harmful thing, not beautiful and passionate and epic in its scope. Just ugly. Taking advantage, that’s not something you do by cutting a man’s egg open for him or fucking a peach, filling it with your cum or calling someone else by your own name. Those were beautiful things. He thinks he’d die if he found out they weren’t. That they were less than that.
Chewing his lip, childishly, he keeps turning every little thing over in his mind. Kissing Oliver at Monet’s Berm. Signing his copy of Armance, year, no name, thinking he’d remember. They haven’t talked in over a decade, does he still remember? Does it still matter to him? And not knowing that, that’s the harmful, ugly thing. That’s the aspect of it that makes Elio think, maybe Jean Louis is right. Maybe Oliver was a fool, and it shouldn’t have to be a weight on Elio’s shoulders. Maybe, if he had this girl in his life before, nothing of this kind should have followed in the first place.
Would Elio do to someone what Oliver did to him, is the question. The fact that he has, on the regular, escaped through windows and disappeared through back doors without a word in goodbye is the answer, isn’t it? To both Jean Louis’ implicit question and his own.
Yes. ]
I’ve grown up thinking what we had was a beautiful friendship.
[ A small huff, not quite a laugh. Elio looks away from the road to follow the lines of Jean Louis’ arms with his eyes. Strong arms. Tense, angry fingers. No one has ever been angry on his behalf before. He’s hardly ever angry on his own. They end by broad shoulders, those arms, muscular neck, Jean Louis’ drawn features.
Difficult to read, like Oliver, except nothing like Oliver. ]
Do you think something can get too nuanced?
[ He means, what is a friendship, even? Can beauty hurt? In how many ways could this be explained away, if he were to try and he has plenty of practice, more than ten years of it. ]
[ He wonders what this Oliver looks like, whether, once he gets a face to go with the name he'll be less or more inclined to finish him off somewhere amongst the shadows. He understands, of course, vividly, how one might end up thinking that all circumstances come with some sorts of silver linings - people around you want to believe that on your behalf, after all, and ultimately on their own. You got through it, at least you got to have something, at least you're in a better place, et cetera, et cetera, like anyone truly wants to settle like that in any case.
You don't want shit like this to happen to you.
That's basically the crux of the matter. ]
Nuances make others feel better about your circumstances. Doesn't change what he did.
[ He overtakes another couple of cars, then starts rummaging around in his pocket for a smoke before thinking better of it - smoking in car on the highway is a fucking dumb idea, even with the Aston's excellent ventilation systems. He feels restless all over. In general, Jean Louis doesn't really... well. This kind of talk. He doesn't have it. He doesn't partake. There's something about the subject matter that sets him off.
But Elio sounds like there's suddenly too little of him, somehow, and he won't have it. He can fucking well deal with his own irritation, here, it's not like it'll kill him. Taking a deep breath, he adds, gaze dark from anger: ]
If spending eight days with him is enough to make you look like that, I'd say whatever you had wasn't worth it.
[ Has he ever nursed that thought before? That whatever they had, Oliver and him, wasn’t worth it? Has he ever, even in the deepest, darkest secrecy of his own mind, thought like that?
No, he has never thought it, but he’s felt it. Like he feels it now.
What does he look like, then, that gives him away? Elio pulls down the sun visor and checks his reflection in the mirror. In the gray late fall light, he looks paler than usually, eyes a bit red-rimmed and his irises too bright, his gaze big, but heavy-lidded, so no one would ever call him doe eyed. Oliver once kissed his “bedroom eyes, better than lullabies”. Elio knows how much he can say with just a look, it’s a whole skill set. Right now they aren’t saying much of anything, however.
How often, really, does he look this way because of Oliver? Can even the most beautiful two weeks of your life make up for 500 weeks of this insistent, eroding sense of emptiness?
Bodies for currency.
He looks sideways at Jean Louis again. He gives off a highly tense and agitated air and Elio wants there to be a way where they could cancel out each other’s pain, I carry what you feel and you carry what I feel and in return, neither of us feels a thing, because it isn’t our own shit, right? Doesn’t work that way, their shit is their own responsibility, start to finish. Instead, he thinks, they’re like soldiers in enemy territory and there’s nothing to do except carry each other back. An arm and a leg short. Thinking about the monument in Bordighera, to the lost heroes of World War I, he carefully reaches out, covering Jean Louis’ hand on the steering wheel with his own long, slender fingers. A squeeze.
His smile is thin, he can see it in the mirror on the sun visor, but it’s genuine. ]
Let me spend my time with you instead, then. I’ll look different, promise.
[ It takes Elio a while to reply which is fine - even if he hadn't, it would've been no problem. After all, the silence speaks too, between them, the way Elio looks at himself in the sun visor like he can't quite remember what he looks like. Jean Louis can't remember exactly when he realised that the world, as he knew it, was wrong - that to survive, he had to re-learn, to act and to be something very, very different than what he was to begin with. Perhaps it was a gradual transition, really, and not something that just happened.
He glances sideways at Elio and thinks that re-learning is for other people, for people like Jean Louis, like Marcel, like the guys they deal with who've stepped off the grid, willingly and knowingly. Elio, he should've been a perfect fit for the world as it is, the layers that you can perceive without having your eyes gouged out first.
Yet.
His arm shudders at the touch of Elio's fingers, his hand on the steering wheel tightening even further for a fraction of a second before it all just stops, his grip loosening, the tension his muscles falling away. Next to him, Elio, tells him promise, that smile on his face too thin. Warm, but thin.
Frail, he thinks.
Fuck, be careful. ]
I like the way you look.
[ The words are painfully simple, considering the subject matter but he doesn't know what else to say or, more importantly, how to say it. It's too complex for him - not the notion of change, he can deal with that quite well, but the fact that this is Elio, that in his mind, the other man belongs to a simply different class altogether. It shouldn't have happened but it did and that's too odd for his brain to compute so he sticks to simplicity and takes what he's offered in return, his body relaxing markedly. ]
[ When Jean Louis replies, Elio is about to withdraw his hand, just one more pat against his knuckles and there we go, but the other man's words make him halt, go into a complete freeze, fingers hanging in the air a few inches from the steering wheel. Jean Louis' hand on it, grabbing it, holding it. I like the way you look, says the other man. Which means...
Elio doesn't have to change for him. He doesn't have to be less, like he should've been with Oliver to make him stay. He doesn't have to be more either, Jean Louis perfectly content with providing for him. A grand piano here, red carpet events there, mind-blowing sex in a back alley on the way from one thing to the other. Elio isn't too little for all that. And he isn't too much either. He loves that, this particular balance he's never been able to strike before. Not with anyone. Not even Oliver. Least of all Oliver.
Slowly letting his hand sink back into his lap, he stares at himself in the mirror in the sun visor for a moment, then flops it back into place, staring at the road where they're always overtaking, always overtaking with Jean Louis, right? He smiles, bigger now, brighter, truer somehow. I'm happy, he wants to say, so simply, no one's made me this happy in years. Or ever, ever, ever.
Instead, without as much as blinking, Elio says, voice soft, warm, borderline casual, but not nonchalant: ]
That's why I love you.
[ Hands resting in his lap for another couple of seconds, Elio doesn't quite know what to do with these words. He knows it's what he wants to say, but can't tell whether it's what Jean Louis wants to hear right now. It's been months, but are months enough? Two weeks weren't. Two weeks were never enough. It feels like they ought to come with an accompaniment of some sort, I love you, trumpets and French horns. Bach, to his brother.
Shaking his head once, Elio leans to the side suddenly, over gearbox and Aston Martin interior, beige hues, and places his left hand on Jean Louis' right shoulder, balancing himself against him, knowing the other man can take his weight. He leans in all the way, pressing a soft, unassuming kiss against the other man's cheek. Cheekbone. Nose pressing against bridge of bigger nose. The exchange takes all of three seconds, probably, then he returns to his seat.
[ Elio's hand disappears from his, though he leaves it hanging for a moment in the air between them, like he isn't quite certain what to do with it or how to take it back. Jean Louis, meanwhile, watches the road and thinks about ways he'd kill this so-called Oliver if the chance ever presents itself - it's hard to imagine anything like that, though, for Elio is tied to the other man's circumstances and to Jean Louis', as well. All he gets are cartoonish mental images, like dropping a fucking rock on the bastard from a hundred feet above ground. Probably not feasible. Probably.
It's hard to understand how he went from simply fucking Elio, this man, once for the sake of a quick and dirty one-night-stand to sitting here, sharing breathing space, hating that anyone in the world would hurt him and thinking about how to prevent them from doing so ever again. Lips thinning, he's about to turn on the radio, just to give his mind something to latch onto except the silence between them but then, Elio says...
He blinks.
Blinks.
Stares, unseeingly, at the road whilst the other man just lets that hang there, like it's something you say, like it's something you might even... Breath catching in his throat, he tries desperately to come up with a proper reply that isn't thanks or love you too, both of which would sound absurd, coming from him, like someone trying to speak without a tongue in their mouth. Changing lanes, he doesn't look at Elio, doesn't say anything because he doesn't know -- and then, Elio's in his personal space, leaning in to kiss him briefly on his cheek before sitting back. It's sweet. Unassuming, again.
That's why.
That's.
Clearing his throat, he finally looks at the other man, briefly, before he looks right back out of the window, onto the road. His eyes flicker sideways another three (3) times before he finally just. Shifts. Bends his neck a little and diverts his gaze, something a little like a smile creeping onto his face before he manages to straighten up in his seat again. ]
[ You get used to it, the way nothing much happens on Jean Louis’ face. Still waters, hiding depths underneath and while Elio imagines no you’s actually ever did get used to it and that’s why the other man has such a hard time with taking in any sign of understanding, he kind of likes the way it makes him special. The way it makes their bond special. As he leans back in his seat, the heat of Jean Louis’ skin still clinging to his lips, he simply accepts the silence that follows, how the other man doesn’t tell him love you back, how the notion doesn’t even seem to cross his features. That’s all right. Elio knows it hit home, exactly like he wanted it to, it’s all over the space between them. It’s in the air he breathes, inhaling, exhaling. He’s told someone he loves them. When did that last happen?
Did it ever?
After a second, though, despite himself, Elio still glances aside, catching sight of Jean Louis sort of humbly looking away, inclining his head and smiling, just a small, subtle smile, but happy. He looks happy. Elio had never thought...
They’re both happy.
Feeling his own features light up, his lips curve in a wide smile, almost a laugh and he kind of thumps his head back against the headrest, once, twice, looking out the window where the road and the cars on it are just backdrop, this feeling is front and center. This feeling of loving and being happy loving and it goes both ways, because Jean Louis’ face says it, too. He says it, too, just not in words.
Isn’t he a politician? Don’t they speak in action, anyway?
And they do, because after a moment, Jean Louis straightens up and returns to a mode a little closer to normal, although some things you can’t undo or unsay and neither does any of them try. Elio bites his lip, still smiling and finally leans in to turn the radio on. Some electronic-sounding dance number blares out.
The next fifty kilometers, they don’t speak, no. Not in words. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
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
There's a lot of that around Jean Louis. Unspoiled, innocent things.
He clears his throat. ] When my parents were still together, my father used to invite a select doctoral student every year to write their dissertation while staying with us in the summer house, June through August. The year I was 17, it was Oliver.
[ His eyes are firmly fixed on the road disappearing in stretches beneath the helmet of the car. There are next to no bumps, it's a flat stretch of road, well-maintained. Italian roads are different. A lot of things about Italy are - different. Less orderly. You embrace the chaos or your perish. Elio doesn't know whether he didn't perish, back then. A part of him, maybe. His name. Whatever came attached to that. Elio, Elio, Elio.
Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.
Blinking a couple of times, he finally looks to the side, taking in Jean Louis' profile, his characteristic nose, strong jaw, sensitive lips. ]
He was my first. I gave him everything I was and I thought... [ Pause. His voice has grown a little thick, a little too unsteady, unstable. He swallows again, once, twice. ] When he returned the following Hanukkah, he told me he was getting married. That he'd been on and off with this girl long before me. She's the one he's bringing now. Their two children.
[ Oh. Is he sniffling? He's sniffling. Biting his lip, Elio looks out the passenger window again. Not hiding, protecting. ]
no subject
I gave him everything, says Elio, then, his voice thick with it, unsteady. And that, on the other hand, is interesting - interesting, yes and infuriating. Jean Louis' hand tightens around the wheel, knuckles trembling for a second before he forces himself to relax, the car continuing onwards in its trajectory, its course unaffected. He glances sideways at the other man, who sounds like he might just cry.
It doesn't surprise him. Jean Louis' done worse to other people, though none of them were like Elio, none of them were innocent and unassuming because he doesn't find any value in that kind of mindless destruction. Even so, shit like this often happens on accident, like an unfortunate side-product of something else, something typically selfish and thoughtless. He's well aware. These people - they all waste oxygen the same as any other human on the planet, they walk and talk and fuck and die just the same and the problem is, you can't really argue with that. Pull the trigger when the time is right. Goes for people like him and people like the man who took this part of Elio and treated it so recklessly, too.
Breathing out slowly, evenly, he finally replies, eyes once again fixed on the road: ]
What a fucking fool.
[ He shakes his head. Runs one hand through his hair, agitation making his fingers tremble. ]
He took advantage of you.
no subject
Elio pauses, sniffling again, once, fingers flexing in his lap, while he considers this analysis of the events of that summer. Taking advantage, that’s a harmful thing, not beautiful and passionate and epic in its scope. Just ugly. Taking advantage, that’s not something you do by cutting a man’s egg open for him or fucking a peach, filling it with your cum or calling someone else by your own name. Those were beautiful things. He thinks he’d die if he found out they weren’t. That they were less than that.
Chewing his lip, childishly, he keeps turning every little thing over in his mind. Kissing Oliver at Monet’s Berm. Signing his copy of Armance, year, no name, thinking he’d remember. They haven’t talked in over a decade, does he still remember? Does it still matter to him? And not knowing that, that’s the harmful, ugly thing. That’s the aspect of it that makes Elio think, maybe Jean Louis is right. Maybe Oliver was a fool, and it shouldn’t have to be a weight on Elio’s shoulders. Maybe, if he had this girl in his life before, nothing of this kind should have followed in the first place.
Would Elio do to someone what Oliver did to him, is the question. The fact that he has, on the regular, escaped through windows and disappeared through back doors without a word in goodbye is the answer, isn’t it? To both Jean Louis’ implicit question and his own.
Yes. ]
I’ve grown up thinking what we had was a beautiful friendship.
[ A small huff, not quite a laugh. Elio looks away from the road to follow the lines of Jean Louis’ arms with his eyes. Strong arms. Tense, angry fingers. No one has ever been angry on his behalf before. He’s hardly ever angry on his own. They end by broad shoulders, those arms, muscular neck, Jean Louis’ drawn features.
Difficult to read, like Oliver, except nothing like Oliver. ]
Do you think something can get too nuanced?
[ He means, what is a friendship, even? Can beauty hurt? In how many ways could this be explained away, if he were to try and he has plenty of practice, more than ten years of it. ]
no subject
You don't want shit like this to happen to you.
That's basically the crux of the matter. ]
Nuances make others feel better about your circumstances. Doesn't change what he did.
[ He overtakes another couple of cars, then starts rummaging around in his pocket for a smoke before thinking better of it - smoking in car on the highway is a fucking dumb idea, even with the Aston's excellent ventilation systems. He feels restless all over. In general, Jean Louis doesn't really... well. This kind of talk. He doesn't have it. He doesn't partake. There's something about the subject matter that sets him off.
But Elio sounds like there's suddenly too little of him, somehow, and he won't have it. He can fucking well deal with his own irritation, here, it's not like it'll kill him. Taking a deep breath, he adds, gaze dark from anger: ]
If spending eight days with him is enough to make you look like that, I'd say whatever you had wasn't worth it.
no subject
No, he has never thought it, but he’s felt it. Like he feels it now.
What does he look like, then, that gives him away? Elio pulls down the sun visor and checks his reflection in the mirror. In the gray late fall light, he looks paler than usually, eyes a bit red-rimmed and his irises too bright, his gaze big, but heavy-lidded, so no one would ever call him doe eyed. Oliver once kissed his “bedroom eyes, better than lullabies”. Elio knows how much he can say with just a look, it’s a whole skill set. Right now they aren’t saying much of anything, however.
How often, really, does he look this way because of Oliver? Can even the most beautiful two weeks of your life make up for 500 weeks of this insistent, eroding sense of emptiness?
Bodies for currency.
He looks sideways at Jean Louis again. He gives off a highly tense and agitated air and Elio wants there to be a way where they could cancel out each other’s pain, I carry what you feel and you carry what I feel and in return, neither of us feels a thing, because it isn’t our own shit, right? Doesn’t work that way, their shit is their own responsibility, start to finish. Instead, he thinks, they’re like soldiers in enemy territory and there’s nothing to do except carry each other back. An arm and a leg short. Thinking about the monument in Bordighera, to the lost heroes of World War I, he carefully reaches out, covering Jean Louis’ hand on the steering wheel with his own long, slender fingers. A squeeze.
His smile is thin, he can see it in the mirror on the sun visor, but it’s genuine. ]
Let me spend my time with you instead, then. I’ll look different, promise.
no subject
He glances sideways at Elio and thinks that re-learning is for other people, for people like Jean Louis, like Marcel, like the guys they deal with who've stepped off the grid, willingly and knowingly. Elio, he should've been a perfect fit for the world as it is, the layers that you can perceive without having your eyes gouged out first.
Yet.
His arm shudders at the touch of Elio's fingers, his hand on the steering wheel tightening even further for a fraction of a second before it all just stops, his grip loosening, the tension his muscles falling away. Next to him, Elio, tells him promise, that smile on his face too thin. Warm, but thin.
Frail, he thinks.
Fuck, be careful. ]
I like the way you look.
[ The words are painfully simple, considering the subject matter but he doesn't know what else to say or, more importantly, how to say it. It's too complex for him - not the notion of change, he can deal with that quite well, but the fact that this is Elio, that in his mind, the other man belongs to a simply different class altogether. It shouldn't have happened but it did and that's too odd for his brain to compute so he sticks to simplicity and takes what he's offered in return, his body relaxing markedly. ]
no subject
Elio doesn't have to change for him. He doesn't have to be less, like he should've been with Oliver to make him stay. He doesn't have to be more either, Jean Louis perfectly content with providing for him. A grand piano here, red carpet events there, mind-blowing sex in a back alley on the way from one thing to the other. Elio isn't too little for all that. And he isn't too much either. He loves that, this particular balance he's never been able to strike before. Not with anyone. Not even Oliver. Least of all Oliver.
Slowly letting his hand sink back into his lap, he stares at himself in the mirror in the sun visor for a moment, then flops it back into place, staring at the road where they're always overtaking, always overtaking with Jean Louis, right? He smiles, bigger now, brighter, truer somehow. I'm happy, he wants to say, so simply, no one's made me this happy in years. Or ever, ever, ever.
Instead, without as much as blinking, Elio says, voice soft, warm, borderline casual, but not nonchalant: ]
That's why I love you.
[ Hands resting in his lap for another couple of seconds, Elio doesn't quite know what to do with these words. He knows it's what he wants to say, but can't tell whether it's what Jean Louis wants to hear right now. It's been months, but are months enough? Two weeks weren't. Two weeks were never enough. It feels like they ought to come with an accompaniment of some sort, I love you, trumpets and French horns. Bach, to his brother.
Shaking his head once, Elio leans to the side suddenly, over gearbox and Aston Martin interior, beige hues, and places his left hand on Jean Louis' right shoulder, balancing himself against him, knowing the other man can take his weight. He leans in all the way, pressing a soft, unassuming kiss against the other man's cheek. Cheekbone. Nose pressing against bridge of bigger nose. The exchange takes all of three seconds, probably, then he returns to his seat.
Don't, it means. Don't go. ]
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It's hard to understand how he went from simply fucking Elio, this man, once for the sake of a quick and dirty one-night-stand to sitting here, sharing breathing space, hating that anyone in the world would hurt him and thinking about how to prevent them from doing so ever again. Lips thinning, he's about to turn on the radio, just to give his mind something to latch onto except the silence between them but then, Elio says...
He blinks.
Blinks.
Stares, unseeingly, at the road whilst the other man just lets that hang there, like it's something you say, like it's something you might even... Breath catching in his throat, he tries desperately to come up with a proper reply that isn't thanks or love you too, both of which would sound absurd, coming from him, like someone trying to speak without a tongue in their mouth. Changing lanes, he doesn't look at Elio, doesn't say anything because he doesn't know -- and then, Elio's in his personal space, leaning in to kiss him briefly on his cheek before sitting back. It's sweet. Unassuming, again.
That's why.
That's.
Clearing his throat, he finally looks at the other man, briefly, before he looks right back out of the window, onto the road. His eyes flicker sideways another three (3) times before he finally just. Shifts. Bends his neck a little and diverts his gaze, something a little like a smile creeping onto his face before he manages to straighten up in his seat again. ]
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Did it ever?
After a second, though, despite himself, Elio still glances aside, catching sight of Jean Louis sort of humbly looking away, inclining his head and smiling, just a small, subtle smile, but happy. He looks happy. Elio had never thought...
They’re both happy.
Feeling his own features light up, his lips curve in a wide smile, almost a laugh and he kind of thumps his head back against the headrest, once, twice, looking out the window where the road and the cars on it are just backdrop, this feeling is front and center. This feeling of loving and being happy loving and it goes both ways, because Jean Louis’ face says it, too. He says it, too, just not in words.
Isn’t he a politician? Don’t they speak in action, anyway?
And they do, because after a moment, Jean Louis straightens up and returns to a mode a little closer to normal, although some things you can’t undo or unsay and neither does any of them try. Elio bites his lip, still smiling and finally leans in to turn the radio on. Some electronic-sounding dance number blares out.
The next fifty kilometers, they don’t speak, no. Not in words. ]