[ He's slept well. Body relaxed, no nightmares. Still, he wakes up with an ache in his chest, not his back, Jean Louis fixed his back yesterday, like he fixed so many things. Elio showers, gets dressed with this weight at the bottom of his lungs, making it a little hard to breathe right and he struggles as he shrugs into his sweater, dark blue, white stripes, jeans that feel too tight around the waist. Socks that are too warm. Everything restricts him, basically. He runs his fingers through his hair to comb it, tame it and it works halfway, good enough for breakfast which they all eat together around ten or so. Plenty of soft-boiled eggs. Latkes. Presents for Ollie. Oliver's kids, too. Festive spirits.
He feels sick from the thought of it. The weight quadrupling, making his movements slower, hesitant, unsure.
Stopping in front of the mirror next to the door, catching a glimpse of Jean Louis behind him who's dressed for battle, too, Elio purses his lips, runs his hands through his hair again, a bit frantically, once, twice, three times. There are two days of Hanukkah left, two new candles to light, but they're so many, they're enough, his family. They're enough.
They don't really need him, do they?
What does he need?
With an awkward roll of one shoulder, Elio catches Jean Louis' eyes in the mirror, finally just turning around to look at him directly. What does Elio need? It's such a new question. Jean Louis hasn't slept with him, he woke up alone in bed, but the other man seems more relaxed now, so Elio's best guess is that he's either slept somewhere else or found another way. Jean Louis is the way-finder. Jean Louis has been the way-finder since the beginning. Elio simply wants to follow him. ]
I'm not hungry.
[ He hasn't eaten anything substantial since lunch the day before. Of course his body's craving food, that isn't what he's saying. ]
[ He hasn't really slept tonight but he feels relaxed and calm, all the same, probably due to the three joints he had himself, once Elio had fallen asleep and he'd had the chance to get away. He took a long walk between the peach trees in the orchard with the moon above and the house in the background, smoke billowing around him in lazy silver twirls. He rarely indulges, of course, but sometimes...
Well. He'd had a long day.
Now, they're both finished getting dressed for breakfast and Elio looks queasy as he dresses, like he's severely hungover, on the verge of either throwing up or falling over or possibly, both. Jean Louis watches him carefully, the numbness from last night replaced with something that feels like worry, perhaps. Unease. As he never worries about himself, he can only assume he's worried for Elio, though he doesn't quite understand the whats and the whys of it. It was a bad day for him too, yesterday.
The kind of day that can make you feel hungover, too, without even a drop of alcohol being involved. ]
Alright.
[ He gets his phone out, checks the time. Before 10, still. ]
What would you like, then?
[ There's something about the other man's body language that makes him think about escape routes, something almost painfully tense, like a finger hovering too close to a flame, the muscles trembling to pull back and away. Jean Louis has never truly been the type to run away, not even when - in retrospect - he should have but he's made other people do it more than once and he recognises the mood. ]
What he sees when he looks at himself is his fragile features, his long, slender limbs, his hair, curls everywhere, pale skin, he hasn’t had an Italian complexion for years now. What would you like, then? Jean Louis asks all the tough questions, says all the things Elio can’t quite articulate, that’s where you can tell that the other man is the public speaker between them, however bad he insists he is, while Elio talks with his fingers and with notes and chords and lines on paper. Music, music is a grand language, but limited. Music can’t say, Oliver makes me sick or I feel homeless now. Bach was a master composer, but all he could say was farewell to his brother.
There are things even an octave can’t convey.
Elio blinks, blinks again and shakes his head. Then, he turns back around, gesturing vaguely with both hands, Italian gestures Frenched down a bit. He belongs between nations now. Here he is, in Italy, speaking French with Jean Louis, neither of them managing a proper Parisian dialect. ]
I would like... not to be in this house.
[ It feels like treason to say. Not just a betrayal of his family who will leave him this place when they die, but a betrayal of his old dreams, conceptions, general understanding of the world. But Elio has escaped through higher-up windows, run naked through the Latin Quarters in the middle of the night in search of his bike and the fastest way home, he’s left so many things behind.
To come this far, and now he has woken up with that same urge to remove himself. Goodbye, no goodbye, never goodbye. He thinks, like this? Like this he’s more ready than he’s ever been, to move on.
[ When Elio looks in the mirror, something about his expression makes him look like a stranger to himself. There's something distinctively eerie about it, like the type of homelessness that you carry around within you when you've led that type of life or been in certain situations. He thinks maybe he looked a little bit like that, too, first night away from his family home. Like you've been stolen, except you've done the main work yourself and there's no one around from whom you can re-claim what's been lost in the process.
He sees all of that and it resonates within him, though he isn't certain what it means or how it feels.
At Elio's answers, though, he simply nods. ]
Then we should leave.
[ And go where? Out of Italy, preferably, they've both had enough by far. Then, he thinks about dropping Elio off in Paris by himself, about the thinness of his body beneath his palms when he rubbed his back last night. About the look in his eyes now, more than thin, see-through. Frowning, he runs one hand through his hair, strands settling along his scalp obediently because his gel is pretty great before he adds, meeting Elio's gaze without hesitation or doubt: ]
Come with me back. [ Pause. Head-tilt. Then, almost impulsively and definitely less self-assured: ] Don't you think?
[ Verbally, it's a bit of a mess but he remembers what it was like, being told where to go and how to live, this is your future now and these are your options and he'd tossed them all aside because what you need is choice.
[ Jean Louis makes everything easy. It’s not difficult saying yes to him and rarely necessary to say no. Maybe that’s Elio’s luck, maybe Jean Louis would be harder to refuse than most. He swallows hard and looks down, then up again, down, knowing he’s all brown eyes and brown curls like that. Soft hues. It’s also easy being soft for Jean Louis and in this moment, Elio is grateful for it. He can’t be less than himself, he won’t. He’s been less than himself since he was a teenager. Finally, he raises his gaze and meets Jean Louis’s eyes straight-on, taking in the way he commands everything, even his hair. Elio’s opposite, his bounces and dances and can’t be ruled. Don’t you think, he asks. Because Elio has a choice to make now. Where to go from here.
Elio may not know where home is anymore, but he can decide his own steps towards the next, the new. He licks his lips for a moment, looks down again, up, then he hears himself speak in a voice that sounds foreign to him. Calm and collected, but there’s a tremor underneath. Not tension, but fear. Fear of distance. Of more waiting. Of never being close again, never close enough.
Stepping forward one small step, he shows his willingness more than his hesitation. ]
I don’t belong anywhere else. Don’t make me return to that, please.
[ That means Paris, of course. But it also means Elio’s empty life, fucking strangers, skin in the way of intimacy, tedious lectures (his own, right) and students about seven years younger than him, corruptable and easily influenced, easily destroyed. What power a piano teacher has. His hands drop to his sides and he flexes his fingers, waiting another moment, another, his heart beating hard inside the cavity of his chest.
Be patient, Elio. Fingers trembling, he aimlessly reaches up to run them all through his hair, one last time. He must look desperate and it’s okay, isn’t it? If Jean Louis sees that. ]
[ It takes Elio a long moment this time, looking down and up, brown curls shading his brown eyes and everything about him has always seemed so warm and gentle, easily traded and easily taken. Maybe that's what the other man's starting to realise now, that he's sold himself too cheaply despite all his best intentions and that's what happens, of course, when somebody else puts a value on you before you've managed to form your own opinions on the matter. Jean Louis suddenly wishes he'd punched Oliver's stupid eye all the way into its fucking socket. Would've suited him. Would've made him look a lot cheaper.
Don't make me return to that he says and Jean Louis wants to ask, to what because he suddenly can't tell - to this place, to his job in Paris? To his job? His life? Don't make me. If he'd been out to play Elio, if he'd wanted to pull his strings like a marionette the way he sometimes does with people because he likes to know that they can't tell, this would've made him feel powerful. This small card - don't make me - is worth all of Elio's self-control, all of his pride and his hopes and his dreams.
If you give people power, under most circumstances they will take it.
He exhales, slowly and evenly. ]
Don't say that.
[ He crosses over to him, quiet steps, unhurried, and folds his arms around the other man's shoulders, pulling him in against his chest a little and running one hand slowly up between his shoulder blades. Retracing his own steps, this time. ]
Make yourself do what you want, Elio. [ He kisses his forehead, curls bouncing around his lips. ] I've put out my hand, haven't I? Take it if you like.
[ It bursts out of him, no pause, nothing. Not even an inhalation, exhale, nothing. Just his voice, whispering, shaking. He leans in against Jean Louis when the other man folds his arms around him, tracing his old patterns on Elio’s back, the lines of comfort he’s lain there. Foundation, Elio thinks and smiles, tiredly, but true. This is his foundation now. Jean Louis kissing his forehead amidst all those unruly curls that his government can’t govern in their wildness, Elio has to take responsibility for that.
Feels nice. Kiss. And responsibility.
Slowly reaching up, he slips his arms around the other man’s waist and steps closer to him, so close their chests are touching, pressing up against each other and something about this intimacy makes the weight on his chest lessen, the ache in his heart shrink. And as those factors turn little, Elio becomes big, grows back into his skin, into the holster of his body. I’m taking myself back, he wants to tell Jean Louis, because it’s something Jean Louis has taught him to do. Maybe not the how’s, but the why’s.
Not the mechanics, but the laws of physics that turn the wheels. Because he’s ever the lawmaker, his foreign minister.
Suddenly feeling daring, he tips his face upwards and catches Jean Louis’s mouth with his own, it’s a chaste kiss, but the pressure of lips on lips feels familiar and wonderful, just wonderful. Homely. Elio draws back, without releasing him, just enough that they can look at each other freely. A minimum of distance. ]
There’s a piano just for me. I really like, Jean Louis.
[ Finally, something changes - no, it doesn't change, exactly, but it seems to revert. As Elio reaches up and slips his arms around his waist, he suddenly looks a little taller, a little broader and his gaze has deepened again, a different weight behind it. He stares at the other man, fascinated, completely dumbfounded as to what just happened here. He accepted his proffered hand, obviously, but since when has anyone grown taller from taking Jean Louis up on one of his offers? Since when? Since when has it ever helped anyone?
But Elio leans in and kisses him, just a soft kiss, not terribly erotic but very sweet and warm and he kisses him back, trying to mirror that feeling through it's still foreign to him. Kissing has always been for the sake of, well, sex. To start something or to end it. If he's ever been truly intimate about it, then he can't remember when or with whom - he's completely certain that Elio, on the other hand, has settled within his memories like a tree, taking root. He likes it.
It feels... nice. Someone taking root in you. ]
Then it's yours.
[ The piano, the choice, the offer. He'd thought it the other night too - he wants to give this man everything, anything he wants, though he doesn't know how to do so or how to do it well. Judging by Elio's reaction now, however, this was a decent attempt.
So he runs his hand through Elio's hair and gives him a small smile, fleeting but genuine.
They've come past yesterday, then, and this is the other side. ]
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solosection) wrote2021-12-31 09:25 am
no subject
He feels sick from the thought of it. The weight quadrupling, making his movements slower, hesitant, unsure.
Stopping in front of the mirror next to the door, catching a glimpse of Jean Louis behind him who's dressed for battle, too, Elio purses his lips, runs his hands through his hair again, a bit frantically, once, twice, three times. There are two days of Hanukkah left, two new candles to light, but they're so many, they're enough, his family. They're enough.
They don't really need him, do they?
What does he need?
With an awkward roll of one shoulder, Elio catches Jean Louis' eyes in the mirror, finally just turning around to look at him directly. What does Elio need? It's such a new question. Jean Louis hasn't slept with him, he woke up alone in bed, but the other man seems more relaxed now, so Elio's best guess is that he's either slept somewhere else or found another way. Jean Louis is the way-finder. Jean Louis has been the way-finder since the beginning. Elio simply wants to follow him. ]
I'm not hungry.
[ He hasn't eaten anything substantial since lunch the day before. Of course his body's craving food, that isn't what he's saying. ]
no subject
Well. He'd had a long day.
Now, they're both finished getting dressed for breakfast and Elio looks queasy as he dresses, like he's severely hungover, on the verge of either throwing up or falling over or possibly, both. Jean Louis watches him carefully, the numbness from last night replaced with something that feels like worry, perhaps. Unease. As he never worries about himself, he can only assume he's worried for Elio, though he doesn't quite understand the whats and the whys of it. It was a bad day for him too, yesterday.
The kind of day that can make you feel hungover, too, without even a drop of alcohol being involved. ]
Alright.
[ He gets his phone out, checks the time. Before 10, still. ]
What would you like, then?
[ There's something about the other man's body language that makes him think about escape routes, something almost painfully tense, like a finger hovering too close to a flame, the muscles trembling to pull back and away. Jean Louis has never truly been the type to run away, not even when - in retrospect - he should have but he's made other people do it more than once and he recognises the mood. ]
no subject
What he sees when he looks at himself is his fragile features, his long, slender limbs, his hair, curls everywhere, pale skin, he hasn’t had an Italian complexion for years now. What would you like, then? Jean Louis asks all the tough questions, says all the things Elio can’t quite articulate, that’s where you can tell that the other man is the public speaker between them, however bad he insists he is, while Elio talks with his fingers and with notes and chords and lines on paper. Music, music is a grand language, but limited. Music can’t say, Oliver makes me sick or I feel homeless now. Bach was a master composer, but all he could say was farewell to his brother.
There are things even an octave can’t convey.
Elio blinks, blinks again and shakes his head. Then, he turns back around, gesturing vaguely with both hands, Italian gestures Frenched down a bit. He belongs between nations now. Here he is, in Italy, speaking French with Jean Louis, neither of them managing a proper Parisian dialect. ]
I would like... not to be in this house.
[ It feels like treason to say. Not just a betrayal of his family who will leave him this place when they die, but a betrayal of his old dreams, conceptions, general understanding of the world. But Elio has escaped through higher-up windows, run naked through the Latin Quarters in the middle of the night in search of his bike and the fastest way home, he’s left so many things behind.
To come this far, and now he has woken up with that same urge to remove himself. Goodbye, no goodbye, never goodbye. He thinks, like this? Like this he’s more ready than he’s ever been, to move on.
So he clarifies: ]
Maybe never again.
no subject
He sees all of that and it resonates within him, though he isn't certain what it means or how it feels.
At Elio's answers, though, he simply nods. ]
Then we should leave.
[ And go where? Out of Italy, preferably, they've both had enough by far. Then, he thinks about dropping Elio off in Paris by himself, about the thinness of his body beneath his palms when he rubbed his back last night. About the look in his eyes now, more than thin, see-through. Frowning, he runs one hand through his hair, strands settling along his scalp obediently because his gel is pretty great before he adds, meeting Elio's gaze without hesitation or doubt: ]
Come with me back. [ Pause. Head-tilt. Then, almost impulsively and definitely less self-assured: ] Don't you think?
[ Verbally, it's a bit of a mess but he remembers what it was like, being told where to go and how to live, this is your future now and these are your options and he'd tossed them all aside because what you need is choice.
Power.
Yes, this will always be true. ]
no subject
Elio may not know where home is anymore, but he can decide his own steps towards the next, the new. He licks his lips for a moment, looks down again, up, then he hears himself speak in a voice that sounds foreign to him. Calm and collected, but there’s a tremor underneath. Not tension, but fear. Fear of distance. Of more waiting. Of never being close again, never close enough.
Stepping forward one small step, he shows his willingness more than his hesitation. ]
I don’t belong anywhere else. Don’t make me return to that, please.
[ That means Paris, of course. But it also means Elio’s empty life, fucking strangers, skin in the way of intimacy, tedious lectures (his own, right) and students about seven years younger than him, corruptable and easily influenced, easily destroyed. What power a piano teacher has. His hands drop to his sides and he flexes his fingers, waiting another moment, another, his heart beating hard inside the cavity of his chest.
Be patient, Elio. Fingers trembling, he aimlessly reaches up to run them all through his hair, one last time. He must look desperate and it’s okay, isn’t it? If Jean Louis sees that. ]
no subject
Don't make me return to that he says and Jean Louis wants to ask, to what because he suddenly can't tell - to this place, to his job in Paris? To his job? His life? Don't make me. If he'd been out to play Elio, if he'd wanted to pull his strings like a marionette the way he sometimes does with people because he likes to know that they can't tell, this would've made him feel powerful. This small card - don't make me - is worth all of Elio's self-control, all of his pride and his hopes and his dreams.
If you give people power, under most circumstances they will take it.
He exhales, slowly and evenly. ]
Don't say that.
[ He crosses over to him, quiet steps, unhurried, and folds his arms around the other man's shoulders, pulling him in against his chest a little and running one hand slowly up between his shoulder blades. Retracing his own steps, this time. ]
Make yourself do what you want, Elio. [ He kisses his forehead, curls bouncing around his lips. ] I've put out my hand, haven't I? Take it if you like.
no subject
[ It bursts out of him, no pause, nothing. Not even an inhalation, exhale, nothing. Just his voice, whispering, shaking. He leans in against Jean Louis when the other man folds his arms around him, tracing his old patterns on Elio’s back, the lines of comfort he’s lain there. Foundation, Elio thinks and smiles, tiredly, but true. This is his foundation now. Jean Louis kissing his forehead amidst all those unruly curls that his government can’t govern in their wildness, Elio has to take responsibility for that.
Feels nice. Kiss. And responsibility.
Slowly reaching up, he slips his arms around the other man’s waist and steps closer to him, so close their chests are touching, pressing up against each other and something about this intimacy makes the weight on his chest lessen, the ache in his heart shrink. And as those factors turn little, Elio becomes big, grows back into his skin, into the holster of his body. I’m taking myself back, he wants to tell Jean Louis, because it’s something Jean Louis has taught him to do. Maybe not the how’s, but the why’s.
Not the mechanics, but the laws of physics that turn the wheels. Because he’s ever the lawmaker, his foreign minister.
Suddenly feeling daring, he tips his face upwards and catches Jean Louis’s mouth with his own, it’s a chaste kiss, but the pressure of lips on lips feels familiar and wonderful, just wonderful. Homely. Elio draws back, without releasing him, just enough that they can look at each other freely. A minimum of distance. ]
There’s a piano just for me. I really like, Jean Louis.
no subject
But Elio leans in and kisses him, just a soft kiss, not terribly erotic but very sweet and warm and he kisses him back, trying to mirror that feeling through it's still foreign to him. Kissing has always been for the sake of, well, sex. To start something or to end it. If he's ever been truly intimate about it, then he can't remember when or with whom - he's completely certain that Elio, on the other hand, has settled within his memories like a tree, taking root. He likes it.
It feels... nice. Someone taking root in you. ]
Then it's yours.
[ The piano, the choice, the offer. He'd thought it the other night too - he wants to give this man everything, anything he wants, though he doesn't know how to do so or how to do it well. Judging by Elio's reaction now, however, this was a decent attempt.
So he runs his hand through Elio's hair and gives him a small smile, fleeting but genuine.
They've come past yesterday, then, and this is the other side. ]