[ The first response he gets is a wholly physical one. With a twist to his features, Jean Louis steps forward and pulls Elio up against him, both hands on his waist, telling him then in words what his body has already said, clearly. I feel closer to you, he says and Elio experiences a rush of happiness unlike anything he's felt before. Like a literal wave of unrestrained joy that pumps through his system with his blood. They feel the same, they feel the same, they feel the same - this overwhelming intimacy that he's searched for his whole life, possibly, but never found, except in fragments and intervals and even then. Even then.
He breathes in hard, breathes out even harder. You always make me feel warmer, Jean Louis carries on and Elio almost wants to tell him to stop, he can't take any more, he can't bear so much emotion at once, but it's a lie, he wants nothing more than this. He always wanted everything, but he thought no one in the world would or could give him that. The moon, sure, power and gold, easy, but everything? And yet - something very peculiar. Jean Louis says.
Letting himself be released, clumsily reaching down to tuck himself away, back in his pants, cum-slick and quickly chilling, Elio watches the other man drying himself off in his shirt, the fabric going see-through and frail-looking from moisture. Then, he starts putting on his clothes, pants first. Elio zips up his own. Licks his lips. They taste like Jean Louis. The essence of him.
That's what Jean Louis is giving him. ]
I want to be so close to you that the skin separating our bodies is more strainer than barrier, Jean Louis. [ A pause. Elio hesitates, he knows he has to go on, but he also knows he's crossing that boundary now, between acceptable and unacceptable. Enough and too much. You have to keep doing it, he was told months ago, though. ] That way, if you're warm, I'll be warm. We'll warm each other, we'll share. Everything.
[ Not really feeling the cold anymore, Elio reaches up and out, letting his hand run up Jean Louis' still naked upper arm, to his bad shoulder, from there down his back, over ink lines he can't see and the marks they hide, an extra layer down. You have to feel for them, your eyes won't be enough.
This is the same thing. This is the same. Feel it. ]
[ He pulls on his trousers, stuffing his underwear away in a pocket - it's all either wet or it will be, there's no way around it, the shirt's absorbed all that it can before it even reaches his face. His limbs feel heavy from orgasm and combined with the lingering aftershocks of the cold water, his nervous system is basically on zero. It's good. It feels like a re-set, even if the foundation itself can't quite be helped.
Next to him, Elio takes a moment to process his words. When he speaks, his voice sounds hoarse, that tell-tale sign of an abused throat and it makes something hot stir in his belly again, the thought of having left himself behind like that, marking him from within. We'll warm each other, says Elio. We'll share everything and does he really want that? Does he? Does he?
Then, Elio reaches out and runs his hand up his upper arm, over his left shoulder and down, trailing over the tattoo lines, his cover-ups, because he prefers to control the narrative and in this case, people tend to tell themselves a better story, really, no matter what they see. When he'd come back from the hospital all those years ago, he'd looked like a gory accident or, alternatively, someone who'd been sick from a very bulbous sort of disease (cigarette burns in huge quantities do not become visually pleasing over time, as it turned out). No true stories, obviously, but not preferable either.
It has to be preferable.
Breathing slowly beneath Elio's hand, he finally turns towards him and catches his wrist between his fingers. He holds him still for a moment, two, before he simply pulls it closer to his face. As gently as he can manage (pretend to be, that's how it'll always feel), he kisses the skin right above the big, blue vein on the underside of his wrist. Then, he releases him, shifts sideways out of reach and puts on his shirt. ]
Thank you.
[ Meaningless words in this context, he's aware, but Elio will know. He'll understand. He finally picks out his phone from his pocket and calls up a number, getting Johan on the line who tells him that the car will be there in five. Been keeping watch, hasn't he? Bet he's been very pleased about the entertainment of the evening. ]
My men will pick us up. Get us back to the house in no time.
[ The thing about Jean Louis that Elio is learning, but has loved since the beginning, maybe from their very first night together, the other man pounding into him, a weight across his back, breath down his neck and willingness to listen to him whimper, is how beneath those still features of his face, there’s depth, there are lagoons and quicksand, natural phenomenons that can swallow you whole, if you don’t know how to work with them. Elio is many things but not stupid, he knows those kinds of forces are dangerous, but he also knows they make room, carve out the earth, creating pockets of space, just in order to exist. And the thing about Jean Louis is that he’s a willing container, he holds and he cares for and he carries. Elio. Elio’s feelings. Elio doesn’t think he’s ever been held like this before. That’s the thing.
Thank you, the other man replies and Elio knows that although the words themselves are brief, brief enough to leave space for all Elio’s excessiveness, they are floating on deep waters. Who does Jean Louis normally thank? Jean Louis expects and wants and demands, takes sometimes. Elio’s voice is bearing the brunt of it now, but who does he thank, if anyone?
Elio.
So Elio smiles when the other man catches his wrist and turns towards him, kissing it where the skin shows veins underneath. Vulnerability. Jean Louis is kissing his vulnerability, Elio was always good with symbolism and obviously, his Foreign Minister is, too. In turn, Elio bites his lip, everything tastes like him still, salt, water, cum, and allows himself to be let go of, it’s not forever, it’s for a while. They’re close enough, like this. It’s okay.
Looking up at the moon, clear and in perfect halves today, he licks his lips absentmindedly. ]
I guess we’ll see who’s faster. Your men or a common cold.
[ He crosses the distance between himself and his abandoned socks, shoes, readies himself to leave this pocket of theirs, enter a new one. ]
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solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
no subject
He breathes in hard, breathes out even harder. You always make me feel warmer, Jean Louis carries on and Elio almost wants to tell him to stop, he can't take any more, he can't bear so much emotion at once, but it's a lie, he wants nothing more than this. He always wanted everything, but he thought no one in the world would or could give him that. The moon, sure, power and gold, easy, but everything? And yet - something very peculiar. Jean Louis says.
Letting himself be released, clumsily reaching down to tuck himself away, back in his pants, cum-slick and quickly chilling, Elio watches the other man drying himself off in his shirt, the fabric going see-through and frail-looking from moisture. Then, he starts putting on his clothes, pants first. Elio zips up his own. Licks his lips. They taste like Jean Louis. The essence of him.
That's what Jean Louis is giving him. ]
I want to be so close to you that the skin separating our bodies is more strainer than barrier, Jean Louis. [ A pause. Elio hesitates, he knows he has to go on, but he also knows he's crossing that boundary now, between acceptable and unacceptable. Enough and too much. You have to keep doing it, he was told months ago, though. ] That way, if you're warm, I'll be warm. We'll warm each other, we'll share. Everything.
[ Not really feeling the cold anymore, Elio reaches up and out, letting his hand run up Jean Louis' still naked upper arm, to his bad shoulder, from there down his back, over ink lines he can't see and the marks they hide, an extra layer down. You have to feel for them, your eyes won't be enough.
This is the same thing. This is the same. Feel it. ]
no subject
Next to him, Elio takes a moment to process his words. When he speaks, his voice sounds hoarse, that tell-tale sign of an abused throat and it makes something hot stir in his belly again, the thought of having left himself behind like that, marking him from within. We'll warm each other, says Elio. We'll share everything and does he really want that? Does he? Does he?
Then, Elio reaches out and runs his hand up his upper arm, over his left shoulder and down, trailing over the tattoo lines, his cover-ups, because he prefers to control the narrative and in this case, people tend to tell themselves a better story, really, no matter what they see. When he'd come back from the hospital all those years ago, he'd looked like a gory accident or, alternatively, someone who'd been sick from a very bulbous sort of disease (cigarette burns in huge quantities do not become visually pleasing over time, as it turned out). No true stories, obviously, but not preferable either.
It has to be preferable.
Breathing slowly beneath Elio's hand, he finally turns towards him and catches his wrist between his fingers. He holds him still for a moment, two, before he simply pulls it closer to his face. As gently as he can manage (pretend to be, that's how it'll always feel), he kisses the skin right above the big, blue vein on the underside of his wrist. Then, he releases him, shifts sideways out of reach and puts on his shirt. ]
Thank you.
[ Meaningless words in this context, he's aware, but Elio will know. He'll understand. He finally picks out his phone from his pocket and calls up a number, getting Johan on the line who tells him that the car will be there in five. Been keeping watch, hasn't he? Bet he's been very pleased about the entertainment of the evening. ]
My men will pick us up. Get us back to the house in no time.
no subject
Thank you, the other man replies and Elio knows that although the words themselves are brief, brief enough to leave space for all Elio’s excessiveness, they are floating on deep waters. Who does Jean Louis normally thank? Jean Louis expects and wants and demands, takes sometimes. Elio’s voice is bearing the brunt of it now, but who does he thank, if anyone?
Elio.
So Elio smiles when the other man catches his wrist and turns towards him, kissing it where the skin shows veins underneath. Vulnerability. Jean Louis is kissing his vulnerability, Elio was always good with symbolism and obviously, his Foreign Minister is, too. In turn, Elio bites his lip, everything tastes like him still, salt, water, cum, and allows himself to be let go of, it’s not forever, it’s for a while. They’re close enough, like this. It’s okay.
Looking up at the moon, clear and in perfect halves today, he licks his lips absentmindedly. ]
I guess we’ll see who’s faster. Your men or a common cold.
[ He crosses the distance between himself and his abandoned socks, shoes, readies himself to leave this pocket of theirs, enter a new one. ]