[ 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
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. ]