[ 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.
[ Elio wraps himself around his lower body, one leg thrown over his, the side of his face pressed against his hip and groin. For a moment, just a second or two, Jean Louis' hand hangs in the air above him, uselessly, the sudden weight in his lap making his whole body feel heavy in turn. He licks his lips. I think it was you says Elio, all wrapped up against him, taco-like, and Jean Louis finally just puts his palm in his hair, running his fingers through it idly.
It's too dark in here for him to make out Elio's expression fully but he can imagine. ]
I'm sad to hear that. [ He smiles, faintly, and pulls at one of Elio's curls, then another, then another, feeling it bounce back in that way he likes. ] I wouldn't know how to treat an instrument.
[ Pause. His voice takes on an edge, something lingering beneath it, something that's been there since he woke up. He isn't sure what to think of it or why - under normal circumstances, shit, he'd ignore it and go back to work. He certainly wouldn't even attempt to voice it. But with Elio heavy and warm in his lap, his presence taking up all his focus now, seemingly filling out most of that empty space around them, it just seems... more likely. Like something he could possibly do. ]
I'm not sure how to treat you, either.
[ His hand tightens a fraction between Elio's curls as he raises his chin and looks straight ahead, at all the nothingness surrounding them. He absolutely detests the dark. He hates the way the shadows move when you look at them too long and the way every sound seems magnified by the stillness. Carefully, he slips his hand down to Elio's back, instead, palm resting between his shoulderblades. He can feel every breath he takes like this.
If nothing else he's aware, albeit in an odd, dissociated way, that he'd prefer not to treat him badly. ]
Not that they weren’t always honest, not that they haven’t met each other with honesty since the beginning, but this is deeper, somehow. A few miles down into the sea. The deep sea is dangerous, he knows, but it’s also rich in fish and shipwrecks, so he’s willing to risk it, because Elio is nothing if not greedy, exactly like Jean Louis. Only difference is that he doesn’t count coin, he counts feelings, but both are means to power, right?
Pathos is a political weapon, too. He should know, it’s been so since the Greeks first described democracy, his father’s done speeches on it. While Elio has always found himself in the audience to these things.
Until now.
Jean Louis is holding them out to him, his feelings, vulnerable and fragile little things, but also ravenous and wild. Baby crocodiles. Elio raises his head from the other man’s lap, stretching his neck to look up and up and up his chest. The shadows are thick and impenetrable. They don’t allow for much, but at least there’s nothing they can do as Elio lifts his hand and brushes his fingertips along the other man’s jaw to his lips which he traces, presses against, feeling how the flesh yields.
Then, he pushes in against his front, all his weight, because Jean Louis can take it and will take it and that’s how he’s treating Elio, truth be told. With his arms wide open. The story of Atlas is both the worst and the most inspiring myth to remind someone of, isn’t it? ]
You treat me like a princess, Jean Louis. I love that. [ Letting his head thump in against the other man’s stomach, hard muscle, soft skin, he lets his hand drop, closes his eyes and breathes him in. ] Don’t stop. I want the whole ball.
[ There's a moment of silence but his breathing stays calm, even. His gaze doesn't flicker from one pool of shadow to the next - it does, otherwise, under normal circumstances. Regular circumstances. Instead, he simply looks ahead without truly looking, feeling Elio against him. Whenever he takes a breath, he takes in his scent, too, familiar and soft and just a little bit sharp. He sighs. Leans into the touch of Elio's fingers as he traces his jaw, lips, letting him explore as he pleases.
He'll let this man do whatever he likes. Whatever he wants or needs or craves. It doesn't matter why, honestly, it matters only that what he gets from Elio, he must return in whichever way he can. To make sure that the other man never leaves, feeling poorer for it. Shouldn't be such a fucking mystery, should it, he's used to giving people what they pay for, what they expect.
On all other levels than this.
Whatever this implies.
When Elio leans in further against him, giving him his whole weight, Jean Louis finally just slips his arm down to his back, using his other to balance against the mattress. Then, muscles straining only slightly as he moves, he lifts off the bed a little, Elio rising with the movement, and lies down on his back. Elio ends up with his head on his chest, instead, somewhere close to his heart. That's fitting. ]
You'll have it.
[ He puts his chin in Elio's hair. Strokes his upper arm for a moment before sliding his fingers down to his waist beneath the duvet, folding his hand over the slightly protruding bone there, close to his hip. His skin is so soft and thin right here and when he stretches out his fingers, he's inches away from his cock. He doesn't partake, though. Some other time. Instead, he yawns and pushes his face tiredly against Elio's skull, wriggling a little in place to properly feel the mattress underneath his back and buttocks, Elio's weight on top of his body like a heavy, impenetrable blanket. ]
[ Elio wants to tell him that he already knows, that he doesn’t need to be told at all, Elio trusts his instincts in this, but the other man pushes off the mattress enough to slide down on his back, bringing Elio with him at the same time and the flex of muscle, the tightening and the releasing of limbs makes him lose his breath a little. It’s so inherently sexual. It feels like being taken, hard, but with care. Elio relaxes on top of him, allows himself to be used as a pillow, because he himself is using Jean Louis as a mattress and like that, they use their bodies to exchange. Currency, that’s what the other man said back then. Feels like a long time ago.
Nuzzling in against him, Elio closes his eyes and feels the other man’s hand cup his hipbone, feel for how accessible and vulnerable he is in that one spot, inches from his cock. The whole display of affection has him semi-hard quickly, but Elio ignores it in favor of just holding him, keeping his ear close to where Jean Louis’ heart is beating, gradually slower.
It beats very fast normally. At the same pace that Jean Louis walks. ]
Buona notte - [ Elio says it softly, not intending to disturb him, but instead to lull him further in. He deserves sleep, the same way a very thirsty man deserves his oasis. ] - caro.
[ It feels a bit like he’s speaking directly to Jean Louis’ heart like this. That he’s speaking directly from his own. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
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
It's too dark in here for him to make out Elio's expression fully but he can imagine. ]
I'm sad to hear that. [ He smiles, faintly, and pulls at one of Elio's curls, then another, then another, feeling it bounce back in that way he likes. ] I wouldn't know how to treat an instrument.
[ Pause. His voice takes on an edge, something lingering beneath it, something that's been there since he woke up. He isn't sure what to think of it or why - under normal circumstances, shit, he'd ignore it and go back to work. He certainly wouldn't even attempt to voice it. But with Elio heavy and warm in his lap, his presence taking up all his focus now, seemingly filling out most of that empty space around them, it just seems... more likely. Like something he could possibly do. ]
I'm not sure how to treat you, either.
[ His hand tightens a fraction between Elio's curls as he raises his chin and looks straight ahead, at all the nothingness surrounding them. He absolutely detests the dark. He hates the way the shadows move when you look at them too long and the way every sound seems magnified by the stillness. Carefully, he slips his hand down to Elio's back, instead, palm resting between his shoulderblades. He can feel every breath he takes like this.
If nothing else he's aware, albeit in an odd, dissociated way, that he'd prefer not to treat him badly. ]
no subject
Not that they weren’t always honest, not that they haven’t met each other with honesty since the beginning, but this is deeper, somehow. A few miles down into the sea. The deep sea is dangerous, he knows, but it’s also rich in fish and shipwrecks, so he’s willing to risk it, because Elio is nothing if not greedy, exactly like Jean Louis. Only difference is that he doesn’t count coin, he counts feelings, but both are means to power, right?
Pathos is a political weapon, too. He should know, it’s been so since the Greeks first described democracy, his father’s done speeches on it. While Elio has always found himself in the audience to these things.
Until now.
Jean Louis is holding them out to him, his feelings, vulnerable and fragile little things, but also ravenous and wild. Baby crocodiles. Elio raises his head from the other man’s lap, stretching his neck to look up and up and up his chest. The shadows are thick and impenetrable. They don’t allow for much, but at least there’s nothing they can do as Elio lifts his hand and brushes his fingertips along the other man’s jaw to his lips which he traces, presses against, feeling how the flesh yields.
Then, he pushes in against his front, all his weight, because Jean Louis can take it and will take it and that’s how he’s treating Elio, truth be told. With his arms wide open. The story of Atlas is both the worst and the most inspiring myth to remind someone of, isn’t it? ]
You treat me like a princess, Jean Louis. I love that. [ Letting his head thump in against the other man’s stomach, hard muscle, soft skin, he lets his hand drop, closes his eyes and breathes him in. ] Don’t stop. I want the whole ball.
no subject
He'll let this man do whatever he likes. Whatever he wants or needs or craves. It doesn't matter why, honestly, it matters only that what he gets from Elio, he must return in whichever way he can. To make sure that the other man never leaves, feeling poorer for it. Shouldn't be such a fucking mystery, should it, he's used to giving people what they pay for, what they expect.
On all other levels than this.
Whatever this implies.
When Elio leans in further against him, giving him his whole weight, Jean Louis finally just slips his arm down to his back, using his other to balance against the mattress. Then, muscles straining only slightly as he moves, he lifts off the bed a little, Elio rising with the movement, and lies down on his back. Elio ends up with his head on his chest, instead, somewhere close to his heart. That's fitting. ]
You'll have it.
[ He puts his chin in Elio's hair. Strokes his upper arm for a moment before sliding his fingers down to his waist beneath the duvet, folding his hand over the slightly protruding bone there, close to his hip. His skin is so soft and thin right here and when he stretches out his fingers, he's inches away from his cock. He doesn't partake, though. Some other time. Instead, he yawns and pushes his face tiredly against Elio's skull, wriggling a little in place to properly feel the mattress underneath his back and buttocks, Elio's weight on top of his body like a heavy, impenetrable blanket. ]
Let me know and you'll have it.
no subject
Nuzzling in against him, Elio closes his eyes and feels the other man’s hand cup his hipbone, feel for how accessible and vulnerable he is in that one spot, inches from his cock. The whole display of affection has him semi-hard quickly, but Elio ignores it in favor of just holding him, keeping his ear close to where Jean Louis’ heart is beating, gradually slower.
It beats very fast normally. At the same pace that Jean Louis walks. ]
Buona notte - [ Elio says it softly, not intending to disturb him, but instead to lull him further in. He deserves sleep, the same way a very thirsty man deserves his oasis. ] - caro.
[ It feels a bit like he’s speaking directly to Jean Louis’ heart like this. That he’s speaking directly from his own. ]