[ 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
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. ]