[ 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
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]