[ It's been a long fucking day - traveling to Rome early in the morning to meet up with Ezio and his men, only to be stuck in the old man's company all throughout the day. He rarely visits Italy, says Ezio, so it's only natural that they got a bit of business done, now that he was finally here. As if everything isn't already being handled online, through phone calls on burner phones and encrypted chat connections. He'd resisted pointing that out, though. With the mafia, when in Rome really does apply in every single way you can imagine.
So he'd played along and then, he'd flown back to Nice, thinking about his text exchange with Elio, about that creepy bastard running around after him, trying to get his attention, trying to get him alone. The fact that Elio didn't even know where to go in his own fucking house had been particularly galling. So though he heads straight for their shared bedroom to drop off his bag, he doesn't linger there. It's empty, of course, for Elio's downstairs. You can hear the piano quite clearly through the thin walls and floors.
He heads downstairs, managing to dodge everyone but Elio's mother whom he greets quickly but politely - she's on her way in the opposite direction, too, no doubt dinner prep. Deliberate things, dinners, during Hanukkah. He finds Elio in the living room, pausing in the doorway only for a split second (Elio, clearly on his way out and Oliver, grabbing his arm and standing much, much too close) before he strides right on over, his gaze deadly cold, his gun feeling suddenly quite heavy and present where it's strapped to his side.
[ One moment they’re alone, Oliver’s fingers burning where they’re holding him, like a promise of something that never could be and definitely can’t be now, all those things the other man is saying like this, I would leave her for you, I would leave them for you, and the next Jean Louis is striding into the room, looking like thunderclouds and Zeus with his bolts of lightning, divine again. He looks divine again. As well as deadly. Sometimes those two can’t be separated.
Elio steps back, feels Oliver’s fingers tightening around his forearm for a moment before he lets go, stepping back a little bit, in that pointed way that both says, look, I’m doing as I’m told and you’re not the boss of me, mocking. The same way his later mocks you. Keeps you ensnared, but at an arm’s length. Elio keeps moving, keeps putting one foot in front of the other until he’s standing next to Jean Louis. Jean Louis is his shield.
Again. ]
“Do you want to add something, Minister -“ [ That’s what Oliver has called Jean Louis ever since he landed in, Elio by his side. Just that, a job description, like he calls Elio’s father Pro still, but much less affectionate, of course. Mocking, mocking. ] “- to our private conversation?”
[ And as he stands there, with his haughty look and his ever-present tan, his sun spots and his blond hair, Elio thinks, maybe Oliver isn’t even his brother anymore. More importantly and more terribly, maybe he never was. Swallowing hard, he looks at Jean Louis, Zeus-like Jean Louis, and puts his hand carefully on his shoulder. ]
[ Oliver releases Elio which is a lucky thing indeed - it makes the red haze in front of his eyes dissipate slightly, though the anger remains, harsh and sharp-edged. Elio draws up next to him carefully, placing his arm on his shoulder and telling him that he's fine but he isn't, obviously, he's just unharmed. Jean Louis stares at Oliver who's talking about private conversations like he's got any rights to them, looking stupidly haughty and arrogant.
The tension in his shoulder doesn't lessen under Elio's hand which is probably telling. ]
Conversation, no. This is merely a simple instruction.
[ He doesn't step forward because that would mean stepping out of Elio's touch and for some reason, he can't quite... bear it, though he'd be in no position to explain why. It feels as if Elio's slung a tiny little thread around his wrist, tugging at it gently, asking him not to break it and he's not about to humiliate him in front of that freak, there's no way in Hell.
So, he reaches up with his free hand and gives Elio's fingers a light squeeze right above the first knuckles. ]
Go be with your own family, Monsieur Abrams. I'm sure they can find a use for you.
[ And if not, well, who can really blame them? Empty air, that man. Pitiful. ]
[ Jean Louis doesn’t take the bait, although it was clearly designed to sweep him along, into this atmosphere of tension and too much testosterone, really, even for Elio who likes his men as men. Instead he reaches up and touches Elio’s hand where he’s holding him, gently, by the shoulder. The only support he can offer, but it’s enough, says Jean Louis before telling the other man to fuck off, basically. Oliver, in turn, adopts that cold expression with which he always made Elio feel like shit back then. When they were brothers or lovers or both or neither.
Elio doesn’t let go of Jean Louis. Only tightens his grip as Oliver tells him to mind his own family. Elio gasps, almost absurdly loudly in the silence that follows. Until Oliver, tall, broad Oliver, squares his shoulders and steps up to Jean Louis, in his face, poking him in the chest with his index finger and carries on: ] “... Because what does a man who’s grown up in an institution know about that, huh?”
[ Frowning, Elio reaches out and pushes Oliver’s finger out of the way, though Oliver’s hand stays mostly where it is, hanging a few inches out of touching distance, in the air, somehow undecided about what to do. Whether to push, hit, retreat. Dangerous, Elio thinks. ]
Don’t ruin it, Oliver.
[ His voice is soft, though not particularly pleading. Whatever they had, whatever little it really was to either of them, don’t ruin that. ]
[ The temperature in the room drops by what feels like several degrees as Oliver looks right back at him, seemingly unintimidated which is a really fucking stupid stance to take at this very moment. Jean Louis feels Elio next to him, his hand on his shoulder, the tension radiating from him which is shockingly foreign to him, to Jean Louis' knowledge of him. It's wrong. He's not supposed to feel like that.
Oliver, meanwhile, proceeds to blunder his way right into Jean Lous' carefully kept personal space and jabbing him with his finger, are you fucking kidding. Jean Louis stares at him, unblinkingly, at his finger as Elio pushes it out of the way because he's sweet and he knows, too, that this situation is wrong for him. Did the man just... did he seriously go for that old story, of all things?
The institution, as it were, was not a perfect experience. But it didn't make him feel ashamed unlike all those time Eric sent him flying. He leaves that question as it is - unanswered, unwanted. ]
Keep your hands to yourself.
[ Meaning not just with regards to him, obviously. He draws a fraction closer, then, enough to stare up into Oliver's eyes, raising his chin a little to level the odds. His voice is low, a hint of mocking humour creeping in at his next words: ]
[ It peaks, not nicely, no, an ugly peak, Elio looking at Jean Louis looking up and up and up at Oliver and telling him, if you think you can manage to keep your hands to yourself, because he knows. He knows about their fifteen year old affair, those stupid two weeks of wonder and bliss and other terrible things. Elio feels himself blush, crimson probably, visibly under any circumstances, and when Oliver turns his head to look at him directly, Elio gives up, meets his eyes, tired, worn, old. Older than seventeen. Much, much older. ]
“So you told him about us? Did you paint me the villain?”
[ Oliver shakes his head, laughing unamused as he leans forward and pushes Jean Louis square in the chest, hard. Elio is blushing for other reasons now, that horrible sense of dread overtaking him. He reaches out with his other hand as well and grabs the other man by his upper arm. Don’t, he begins, but doesn’t know how to proceed from there. Jean Louis feels strong and tense, all coiled up, between his fingers. Oliver, he continues then, the name sounding like a hard exhalation, maybe a sigh, maybe a hiss.
With a roll of first one shoulder, then the other, Oliver answers: ]
[ Somewhere buried beneath all the anger and tension, he's aware that getting into Oliver's face was the exact opposite of what he should have done, for Elio's sake if not for his own. But the fact remains, Jean Louis isn't very good at taking abuse without returning to sender and when Oliver pushes him backwards whilst throwing accusatory questions at Elio, the heat explodes. Elio's hand closes around his upper arm, holding on tight and under normal circumstances, it would've no doubt punctured his anger and diffused the situation.
Unfortunately, today he's been hanging out with Ezio Salvoca, Ezio who hates his lifestyle and the fact that he couldn't beat it out of him when he tried, Ezio who he can't get back at, not yet, maybe not ever, and he deals with that because it's fucking worth it but Oliver? Oliver's eagerness to drag Elio back to something he doesn't want to touch upon any longer, his complete and utter nerve -- ]
No, I am.
[ With that, he finds his footing against the floor, smiles like a shark and punches Oliver, hard, straight in the face with his free right hand. He pulls it at the very last moment because he doesn't particularly want to pay for the man's corrective plastic surgery - regardless, he gets him in the eye with most of his body weight. ]
I told you to keep your fucking hands to yourself.
[ It explodes, like a volcano, all of Pompeii erupting. Elio clenches his jaw and holds on, while Jean Louis almost elegantly aims a punch right in Oliver’s sight with his free hand. You can’t tell from the looks of it, it looks violent and hard, but Elio feels it in the way Jean Louis’ whole body tenses and then releases and then stops. He hit him, he hit Oliver, but not as badly as he could have, Elio knows, like he knows they’ll eat alone in their bedroom tonight and Oliver will probably tell his father that he walked into a door. Because what else would he say, I was accused of being a child molester?
I am a child molester?
Muttering things like it’s okay, don’t worry about it, Elio drags Jean Louis a couple of steps away, while Oliver yelps and clutches at his face, blood from his busted nose running out between his fingers. Elio faintly remembers the nosebleed he got that summer. The foot rub. Then he turns Jean Louis away, pushing him gently in the general direction of the doorway, saying I’ll take care of it and returning his attention to Oliver. He’s moved his hand. Besides the nose, his left eye is tightly shut. Bruised. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose while leaning his head back.
Elio’s voice is flat, tired, old. ]
There’s ice in the kitchen, just ask Mafalda.
[ With that, he heads the same way he showed Jean Louis. ]
[ He lets himself be dragged away, directing the momentum in his body backwards - still aching to move forward, to hit him again and again and re-arrange the topography of his fucking face. But Elio tells him it's okay which is isn't, but he says it anyway and that's part of why Jean Louis treasures him, because he's so rare. Most people would have escalated the situation, either by getting involved or throwing blame around and while he's well aware he should've controlled himself, he doesn't particularly want to hear about it.
So he drifts backwards a couple of steps, then turns and walks out of the living room, waiting for Elio in the hallway because he needs to see him safely out of there. He knows he should contact Vincent, probably, and alert him to the fact that he's just punched an idiot in the face but everything inside him refuses to reach beyond the bubble he's locked in, the one where Elio's one and he's another, where everything else just doesn't matter.
He's tired. His body hurts.
Gaze hard and eyes narrowed, he stands still, the house echoing around them like a storm, circling its own, silent eye. He hates it. He loves Elio. Clenching his fist, one knuckle bleeding sluggishly, he thinks about Elio's fingers around his upper arm, against his shoulder and a hundred other places on his body, the way they've been for the past days, just the two of them.
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solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
no subject
So he'd played along and then, he'd flown back to Nice, thinking about his text exchange with Elio, about that creepy bastard running around after him, trying to get his attention, trying to get him alone. The fact that Elio didn't even know where to go in his own fucking house had been particularly galling. So though he heads straight for their shared bedroom to drop off his bag, he doesn't linger there. It's empty, of course, for Elio's downstairs. You can hear the piano quite clearly through the thin walls and floors.
He heads downstairs, managing to dodge everyone but Elio's mother whom he greets quickly but politely - she's on her way in the opposite direction, too, no doubt dinner prep. Deliberate things, dinners, during Hanukkah. He finds Elio in the living room, pausing in the doorway only for a split second (Elio, clearly on his way out and Oliver, grabbing his arm and standing much, much too close) before he strides right on over, his gaze deadly cold, his gun feeling suddenly quite heavy and present where it's strapped to his side.
Speaks, as he approaches: ]
Get away from him.
no subject
Elio steps back, feels Oliver’s fingers tightening around his forearm for a moment before he lets go, stepping back a little bit, in that pointed way that both says, look, I’m doing as I’m told and you’re not the boss of me, mocking. The same way his later mocks you. Keeps you ensnared, but at an arm’s length. Elio keeps moving, keeps putting one foot in front of the other until he’s standing next to Jean Louis. Jean Louis is his shield.
Again. ]
“Do you want to add something, Minister -“ [ That’s what Oliver has called Jean Louis ever since he landed in, Elio by his side. Just that, a job description, like he calls Elio’s father Pro still, but much less affectionate, of course. Mocking, mocking. ] “- to our private conversation?”
[ And as he stands there, with his haughty look and his ever-present tan, his sun spots and his blond hair, Elio thinks, maybe Oliver isn’t even his brother anymore. More importantly and more terribly, maybe he never was. Swallowing hard, he looks at Jean Louis, Zeus-like Jean Louis, and puts his hand carefully on his shoulder. ]
I’m fine.
no subject
The tension in his shoulder doesn't lessen under Elio's hand which is probably telling. ]
Conversation, no. This is merely a simple instruction.
[ He doesn't step forward because that would mean stepping out of Elio's touch and for some reason, he can't quite... bear it, though he'd be in no position to explain why. It feels as if Elio's slung a tiny little thread around his wrist, tugging at it gently, asking him not to break it and he's not about to humiliate him in front of that freak, there's no way in Hell.
So, he reaches up with his free hand and gives Elio's fingers a light squeeze right above the first knuckles. ]
Go be with your own family, Monsieur Abrams. I'm sure they can find a use for you.
[ And if not, well, who can really blame them? Empty air, that man. Pitiful. ]
no subject
Elio doesn’t let go of Jean Louis. Only tightens his grip as Oliver tells him to mind his own family. Elio gasps, almost absurdly loudly in the silence that follows. Until Oliver, tall, broad Oliver, squares his shoulders and steps up to Jean Louis, in his face, poking him in the chest with his index finger and carries on: ] “... Because what does a man who’s grown up in an institution know about that, huh?”
[ Frowning, Elio reaches out and pushes Oliver’s finger out of the way, though Oliver’s hand stays mostly where it is, hanging a few inches out of touching distance, in the air, somehow undecided about what to do. Whether to push, hit, retreat. Dangerous, Elio thinks. ]
Don’t ruin it, Oliver.
[ His voice is soft, though not particularly pleading. Whatever they had, whatever little it really was to either of them, don’t ruin that. ]
no subject
Oliver, meanwhile, proceeds to blunder his way right into Jean Lous' carefully kept personal space and jabbing him with his finger, are you fucking kidding. Jean Louis stares at him, unblinkingly, at his finger as Elio pushes it out of the way because he's sweet and he knows, too, that this situation is wrong for him. Did the man just... did he seriously go for that old story, of all things?
The institution, as it were, was not a perfect experience. But it didn't make him feel ashamed unlike all those time Eric sent him flying. He leaves that question as it is - unanswered, unwanted. ]
Keep your hands to yourself.
[ Meaning not just with regards to him, obviously. He draws a fraction closer, then, enough to stare up into Oliver's eyes, raising his chin a little to level the odds. His voice is low, a hint of mocking humour creeping in at his next words: ]
If you think you can manage it.
no subject
“So you told him about us? Did you paint me the villain?”
[ Oliver shakes his head, laughing unamused as he leans forward and pushes Jean Louis square in the chest, hard. Elio is blushing for other reasons now, that horrible sense of dread overtaking him. He reaches out with his other hand as well and grabs the other man by his upper arm. Don’t, he begins, but doesn’t know how to proceed from there. Jean Louis feels strong and tense, all coiled up, between his fingers. Oliver, he continues then, the name sounding like a hard exhalation, maybe a sigh, maybe a hiss.
With a roll of first one shoulder, then the other, Oliver answers: ]
“I’m not the villain here.”
no subject
Unfortunately, today he's been hanging out with Ezio Salvoca, Ezio who hates his lifestyle and the fact that he couldn't beat it out of him when he tried, Ezio who he can't get back at, not yet, maybe not ever, and he deals with that because it's fucking worth it but Oliver? Oliver's eagerness to drag Elio back to something he doesn't want to touch upon any longer, his complete and utter nerve -- ]
No, I am.
[ With that, he finds his footing against the floor, smiles like a shark and punches Oliver, hard, straight in the face with his free right hand. He pulls it at the very last moment because he doesn't particularly want to pay for the man's corrective plastic surgery - regardless, he gets him in the eye with most of his body weight. ]
I told you to keep your fucking hands to yourself.
no subject
I am a child molester?
Muttering things like it’s okay, don’t worry about it, Elio drags Jean Louis a couple of steps away, while Oliver yelps and clutches at his face, blood from his busted nose running out between his fingers. Elio faintly remembers the nosebleed he got that summer. The foot rub. Then he turns Jean Louis away, pushing him gently in the general direction of the doorway, saying I’ll take care of it and returning his attention to Oliver. He’s moved his hand. Besides the nose, his left eye is tightly shut. Bruised. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose while leaning his head back.
Elio’s voice is flat, tired, old. ]
There’s ice in the kitchen, just ask Mafalda.
[ With that, he heads the same way he showed Jean Louis. ]
no subject
So he drifts backwards a couple of steps, then turns and walks out of the living room, waiting for Elio in the hallway because he needs to see him safely out of there. He knows he should contact Vincent, probably, and alert him to the fact that he's just punched an idiot in the face but everything inside him refuses to reach beyond the bubble he's locked in, the one where Elio's one and he's another, where everything else just doesn't matter.
He's tired. His body hurts.
Gaze hard and eyes narrowed, he stands still, the house echoing around them like a storm, circling its own, silent eye. He hates it. He loves Elio. Clenching his fist, one knuckle bleeding sluggishly, he thinks about Elio's fingers around his upper arm, against his shoulder and a hundred other places on his body, the way they've been for the past days, just the two of them.
He holds onto that because he can. ]