[ Easier said than done, Elio wants to tell Jean Louis when he says, relax then, once more without the air of ordering him, but instead advising him. Because he knows.
Elio’s shoulders slump, also as he feels the other man sitting down on his knees next to him, leaning in and kneading the exact spot Elio couldn’t reach earlier, moments ago, moments that feel like forever. Like there’s a wall between then and now. Maybe there is, maybe they will never go back to that. He has big hands, Jean Louis, if he hadn’t been completely tone deaf, he might have made a decent pianist. Or violinist, though Elio doesn’t think the other man would see the appeal of the shriller instrument. The way his features sometimes tighten when listening to Elio play the Steinway in his apartment is bad enough. A violin would drive him insane. His hands are beautiful things, though, even the pinky without its nail and sporadic cramps to remind them both of what he’s been through. For a moment, Elio just lies there, feeling the way he touches him, with so much intent, but not on his behalf, Elio is still in control, wondering what part of him will remind Jean Louis of Elio’s past, going forward. Will he look at his - Elio doesn’t know, there’s no part Oliver hasn’t touched. His everything isn’t an answer.
He tenses as the other man runs his palms up over his shoulder blades, via his ribs, feeling little and bony and fragile beneath his touch. Like he could break, not even Elio the Tree, but Elio the Twig. Elio. Elio. Elio. He stares into the wall, across an expanse of duvet and sheet. ]
Do you still think I can stand it?
[ He doesn’t know if Jean Louis even still remembers. That time in the car, but Elio does. ]
[ He works slowly, feeling out Elio's shape as he goes, sensing that the tension seems to stem from the shoulders and neck, in particular, and wondering if he's currently retracing the other man's dirty fingerprints. If so, he'd better be careful about it. There's nothing worse than people stomping all over shit that's still on the mend. Eyes narrowing in anger - oh, and it's still there, is it, the anger, right beneath the layer of nothing that's currently making him forget himself - he takes care not to tighten his grip, running his hands up over Elio's shoulder blades and sliding them outwards, towards his upperarms. He folds his hands over them and massages them, being gentle about it because Elio feels so small in his grip still. ]
Of course I do.
[ He remembers. He remembers Elio whimpering against him in the back of his Audi, the other man's cock hard and aching in his grip. Just the other day, they went to the beach in the freezing cold and Elio went to his knees in the sand all the same and sucked him off, took him all the way down his throat and swallowed him up. How could he think any differently? It's not even a matter of subjective opinion, it's a fucking fact.
That he's strong, Elio, even when he's at his weakest. ]
It's not something that changes.
[ Slowly, carefully, he runs his hands inwards, following the slope of Elio's shoulders on either side up to the nape of his neck. There, he pauses. Breathes in, exhales. Then, he presses down, kneading the muscle there, feeling the knots of tension and thinking, it's been there for years because he knows, obviously, he knows how that goes, too. It's never just one, single night.
[ Even as Jean Louis tells him, it's not something that changes, implying thereby that Elio is no less strong now than he was, thrusting into the other man's grip in his car and he was whimpering then as he feels like crying out now, maybe just uglier, all Elio can think is that everything changes and if his world can't stay the same, how is he supposed to? But Jean Louis massages his upper arms gently, showing him that he will hold him so he doesn't break in the process, even now, and Elio feels a little bit of himself relaxing into it, his shoulders coming down as the other man's hands run up the sides of his neck, like Jean Louis can take up all space inside of him, yet not force anything. Is that something you learn as a politician? Or is it his own personal gift?
Is it pretend?
The nape of his neck feels burning hot where Jean Louis is kneading it. He sighs and turns his head to the other side, looking at another wall, the door, his bookshelf full of old books that were never needed in either Rome or Paris. Things belonging to this place particularly, like summer romances and fresh apricot juice. Heraclitus. Oliver. When they leave the summer house behind, they'll leave all that behind, too.
Where to go from there?
He hopes it's a place Jean Louis will be. ]
Then, don't stop.
[ He says it softly, voice still a little bit thick. He means the massage, of course, it's nice. It's nice being touched by those big, otherwise very matter of fact hands. Are they matter of fact now? Is Elio the matter or the fact?
Slowly, slowly, slowly his neck muscles go soft beneath the other man's fingertips, but it's a lengthy process and Elio fears they'll be here for a long time yet. He'd understand if Jean Louis ran out of patience, fucks to give. It's not that he wants to go home, mind, he doesn't know what home is from here either, Paris is another life dictated by Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, by Elio waiting and hoping and dreaming to be found, but this place hasn't been home since he was seventeen, has it? What lies beyond? Beyond being found, because you were abandoned first.
Elio doesn't know. But he wants Jean Louis to be there, he wants that to be another thing which doesn't change. ]
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solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
no subject
Elio’s shoulders slump, also as he feels the other man sitting down on his knees next to him, leaning in and kneading the exact spot Elio couldn’t reach earlier, moments ago, moments that feel like forever. Like there’s a wall between then and now. Maybe there is, maybe they will never go back to that. He has big hands, Jean Louis, if he hadn’t been completely tone deaf, he might have made a decent pianist. Or violinist, though Elio doesn’t think the other man would see the appeal of the shriller instrument. The way his features sometimes tighten when listening to Elio play the Steinway in his apartment is bad enough. A violin would drive him insane. His hands are beautiful things, though, even the pinky without its nail and sporadic cramps to remind them both of what he’s been through. For a moment, Elio just lies there, feeling the way he touches him, with so much intent, but not on his behalf, Elio is still in control, wondering what part of him will remind Jean Louis of Elio’s past, going forward. Will he look at his - Elio doesn’t know, there’s no part Oliver hasn’t touched. His everything isn’t an answer.
He tenses as the other man runs his palms up over his shoulder blades, via his ribs, feeling little and bony and fragile beneath his touch. Like he could break, not even Elio the Tree, but Elio the Twig. Elio. Elio. Elio. He stares into the wall, across an expanse of duvet and sheet. ]
Do you still think I can stand it?
[ He doesn’t know if Jean Louis even still remembers. That time in the car, but Elio does. ]
no subject
Of course I do.
[ He remembers. He remembers Elio whimpering against him in the back of his Audi, the other man's cock hard and aching in his grip. Just the other day, they went to the beach in the freezing cold and Elio went to his knees in the sand all the same and sucked him off, took him all the way down his throat and swallowed him up. How could he think any differently? It's not even a matter of subjective opinion, it's a fucking fact.
That he's strong, Elio, even when he's at his weakest. ]
It's not something that changes.
[ Slowly, carefully, he runs his hands inwards, following the slope of Elio's shoulders on either side up to the nape of his neck. There, he pauses. Breathes in, exhales. Then, he presses down, kneading the muscle there, feeling the knots of tension and thinking, it's been there for years because he knows, obviously, he knows how that goes, too. It's never just one, single night.
Single nights, after all, end. ]
no subject
Is it pretend?
The nape of his neck feels burning hot where Jean Louis is kneading it. He sighs and turns his head to the other side, looking at another wall, the door, his bookshelf full of old books that were never needed in either Rome or Paris. Things belonging to this place particularly, like summer romances and fresh apricot juice. Heraclitus. Oliver. When they leave the summer house behind, they'll leave all that behind, too.
Where to go from there?
He hopes it's a place Jean Louis will be. ]
Then, don't stop.
[ He says it softly, voice still a little bit thick. He means the massage, of course, it's nice. It's nice being touched by those big, otherwise very matter of fact hands. Are they matter of fact now? Is Elio the matter or the fact?
Slowly, slowly, slowly his neck muscles go soft beneath the other man's fingertips, but it's a lengthy process and Elio fears they'll be here for a long time yet. He'd understand if Jean Louis ran out of patience, fucks to give. It's not that he wants to go home, mind, he doesn't know what home is from here either, Paris is another life dictated by Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, by Elio waiting and hoping and dreaming to be found, but this place hasn't been home since he was seventeen, has it? What lies beyond? Beyond being found, because you were abandoned first.
Elio doesn't know. But he wants Jean Louis to be there, he wants that to be another thing which doesn't change. ]