[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
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. ]